"glamourous" poems
I'm a little, little teapot, full of secrets.
I'm a girl, all wet eyed and this morning's
careful ministrations are now my
vengeful war paint - dark eyes
like I haven't slept in days.
Slept till noon in a blue T shirt - it's
so much harder to wake up to an empty bed
even with all my sheets exactly where they belong
Me-fucking-ticulous, perfect, all mine, stellar.
I'm a normal girl, a girl, a girl,
a twenty-something brunette who
just doesn't know how to turn off
her ******* attitude. I'm all flesh
and bone and I just spent 30 minutes
ODing on my own adrenaline,
martyring myself secretly like some
glorified, glamourous ******
trying to stick it to the world that
hasn't done me any favors!
But I don't really believe that.
These days I'm dancing like I fight:
all tight fists and closed, wet eyes.
I'm rage and *** and I'm ****** as ****
and you don't know anything about me.
I'm a girl, a ****** ***** a
twenty-something brunette with
no excuses. I'm sad and I'm angry
and I'm so sick of having absolutely
no reasons why.
Oct 21, 2010
Oct 21, 2010 at 12:11 AM UTC
glamourous indie rock n' roll
orbited our tiny kitchen as i kissed
the nape of her neck.
lauren sliced the avocados.
i prepped the pasta.
our neat little domestic life.
her eyes would ignite mine,
as she spoke of reinventing
the world with her love.
every word rang with perfect truth,
for she had dissolved my callused heart,
and focused my idiot head.
and that night i lied in blankets of her
mercy.
as she licked the wicked wounds
of complacent cruelty.
i've never missed her more.
May 22, 2010
May 22, 2010 at 8:43 PM UTC
There’s an Indian restaurant down the road,
And the owners have a beautiful daughter,
But she’s the apple of her daddy’s eye,
So I really don’t think I oughta.
There was a Chinese takeaway next door,
That did the best fried-rice,
But the authorities came and shut ‘em down,
For infestation of rats and lice.
There’s a newsagents further along,
But it doesn’t do much to dazzle,
Unless you want overpriced cigarettes,
And back issues of Razzle.
The Arab café across the road,
Does the best cappuccinos around,
The sound of Algerian pensioners laughing
Is such a beautiful sound.
There’s a Working Men’s around the corner,
Where the Guinness is dirt cheap,
And in it I’ve had drunken nights,
And memories I’d fight to keep.
There’s a chicken shop on the way back home,
Which I must say is pretty useful,
When I’m staggering home, ****** as a ****
The chicken burgers taste ******* beautiful.
There’s also a chippy down the way,
That does an excellent saveloy,
It got burnt down, and I can’t help but suspect,
It was a sneaky insurance ploy.
There’s an Irish pub next door to that,
Full of drunken, singing Micks,
The Dubliners on the jukebox,
It’s where I get my fix.
But I’m always drawn to the Indian restaurant,
Where the owners have a beautiful daughter,
She’s witty, glamourous, the same age as me,
And I really think that I oughta.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 12:27 AM UTC
We were a beleaguered bard born,
a chief in chatoyant charms charged with
the principle petrichor of passionate paramours;
to drive the dainty dalliances
of incipient ingénues immured in
glamourous gossamer gowns;
lilting, lead lissome lads 'long labyrinthine love;
mischeiviously make mellifluous mondegreens;
sing of such serendipity: surreptitiously susurrous sessions
scintillas of Spring's sempiternal sentiments!
But fetching fugues fade fast, felicity's fated to fly. For
penumbral poets, it portends a pyrrhic pay.
We wander woebegone, waiting wistfully.
Lovers leave lyricists to languish in lonely lassitude.
The halcyon heyday has harbingered
inbroglio in the inured inventor of infatuation.
Why? With what wherewithal?
Often our offerings off us, opposite of, obviously, obtaining, or,
lucidly: lyrical lacers of Love likewise lack its livening lagniappe.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 11:59 AM UTC
stupid boy,
i hope you know what you're getting into
because by uttering those three simple words,
you have managed to own me
you were able to take the guitar from my hands
and make me the one to listen
stupid boy,
I hope you are gentle and careful
because by making me feel secure in your arms,
my world is now situated in your hands
and one wrong twitch of your fingers
may touch a crack
which will break me even more
stupid boy,
i hope you're ready to be awoken from your deep slumbers
and know how to comfort a crying girl
because you'll have to hold me,
as I shake and sob at 2 am
from the nightmares
caused by the monsters in my head
stupid boy,
i hope you're ready to listen
because with the way you can make me sway with your words,
poetry will be flowing out of my mouth
like a waterfall of letters
a whirlpool of emotions in every phrase
stupid boy,
i hope you won't have second thoughts
or just simply run away
because when you strip me of all the glamourous facades
you'll see fresh battle wounds
the body of your beloved is a warzone scattered with bullets
stupid boy,
i hope you're not easily disgusted by grime
because the skin that you want your lips upon is filth
and the cracks on my body may be bleeding
please clean these patches of dirt
and fill the emptiness which is my whole being
stupid boy,
i hope you know that you fell in love with a broken girl
because I'm not like those pretty ones in the movies
my skin is blood-stained and my face is tear-soaked
i have no idea on what love feels like
and to give it back in return
so please give me time to learn
stupid boy,
i hope you're good with words
because every day i am going to ask you
"why me?"
and i need you to make me understand
explain to me in detail
why you settled for a girl like me
when you could have gone for so many others
the ones who don't need fixing
or assurance that they are beautiful
unlike how i am
stupid boy,
i hope you know that this stupid girl loves you too
even though i'll never really understand
why you chose me
or how i can return back the same amount of love that you make me feel,
i want you to know
that if the only reason we're together
is because we're stupid,
then we'll be idiots forever
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 9:54 PM UTC
self harm is not beautiful.
it is not wonderful to be saved
it makes you feel weak
and it makes you feel sick.
carving his name into your skin
is not poetry
and is not romance
mental illness is not glamourous
or fascinating
or graceful
mental illness is sickness
anger, disgust
stop romanticizing something
that destroys life itself
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 8:47 PM UTC
Glamorous night. Dark knight
Knocking on my door. On the floor
I step. Sleepy. Looking for a candle
To light. Still: it’s a glamorous night,
Though it’s a time of the fight...
Another knock on the oaken door.
I shout: “Hey there! Can’t wait anymore?”
Having found a light, I greet the stranger.
Am I in danger? “Enter, good knight!”
-What a glamorous night!
-How can I help you in this hour of late?
-I’ll free Castilla and ***
With destiny this is my date!
...These words! I recognise him:
It’s El Cid.
A man of arms - still man of wit.
-My good Sayid, you’d better
Have some sleep.
-You’re in the right, good master.
It’s very nice to have a friend like you
In times of such disaster...
Morning light - straight in my face.
‘Twas a glamorous night! Warm embrace
Given by my wife... Wait!
I’m married not! I do not know
This lady. She’s not completely
Of my sort!.. This man - Rodrigo Diaz?
I finally wake up - it’s midnight.
Snow now is falling down.
It rarely snows in Spain,
As you might know.
’Twas just a dream...
6.2.2002
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 2:19 AM UTC
Sometime I think this cycle never ends
I binge and purge,
Then binge again
Cookies, ice cream, and chocolate cake
All in one go
Until I have an empty plate
Hugging the toilet,
Tasting bile,
I tells my friends it's just a diet
It's dangerous,
It could ****
It's not glamourous
I knows it's wrong
But it feels so right
I tells myself I'm being strong
This cycle will never end
Emptying my plate,
then my stomach
It's far too late
I keep binging, and purging
Then binging again
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 10:14 AM UTC
- Haiku -
Ariel is my angel.
Kindred spirits.
Escape our cursed fate.
Our future together has been an 8 year courthouse debate.
The kidnapper belongs in a 6 feet underground crate.
A date she need not be late.
When are we supposed to be reunited?
At heaven's gate?
This world I hate.
Our souls it what it ate.
-Model -
Acrylic french tip nails, highlighted streaked hair. Glamourous vanity.
Thin as a rail.
Fabulous flair. New fashion to wear.
In admiration all eyes stare.
Posing for ******* is too transparent & bare.
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 12:01 AM UTC
Peter once asked: which things make you feel something?
And the truth is I’ve been play pretending since quarentine
When I started to believe in a glamourous life
Lillies of the valley, meditation
Behind sunrise filters there’s someone unhappy, black and white
With a dull and wrinkled skin, she hates the sun
She always thought about her vocations
House decorator but she never could do it right
Just like singing, or dancing or even flerting but not like holding a gun
She lives in a small and warm house
Which she always wished the old roof to cave in
No garden, no breath, but death
Never met the green but fell in love with violence
And by that I mean - her mother talks about the path
God, unfriend of mine
Please, let me d-die
I’ve been play pretending since quarentine
When I started to believe in a fitness life
*** with cellulite but not like Jupiter
Curves all over the body but not like the ones on the road
There is hair, but not long enough and strong enough like Rapunzel's - for her men to entrust her with the climb
There are big arms, but not like Anette's because no one would stay in it for that long
There’s no art on her
November 1st 2021, she noticed that she was thinner but she couldn't wear her high waisted pants like she always wanted
Her mother would **** her if she did
So she prayed one more time
God, unfriend of mine
Please, let me d-die
I’ve been play pretending since quarentine
When I started to hide in the night life
‘Don’t trust the moon, she’s always changing’
Peter once asked: which things make you feel something?
So she prayed one more time
God, unfriend of mine
Please, let me d-die
Jan 17, 2023
Jan 17, 2023 at 11:03 PM UTC
I lean to the side of the world where my wound is
burst, this is the surface of madness
called reality.
You ask me what my name is
I answer you with yours.
The last of music drips onto my left arm
Leaves me cold.
A cold I do not remember.
Maybe I have not left the realm of death
where my mother comes from.
Unless today has become tomorrow
Unless your promises have come true
I will not see
I will not taste
My memories
Under the wind that swept by my nostrils
Who are you talking to?
Does he suffer from the same realization as I?
Life has left my fingertips
I no longer decipher the truth behind our words
All I do is dance.
Dance through the alphabet of the human beauty
an eternal misery.
Nothing is worth as much to me as the familiar warmth of your kisses on my eyes
bringing all the colors of life to my sight.
Nothing has the magic your hand has upon my skin
All the wounds from knowing and not knowing are healed.
Just love.
Love is what I have concluded by you.
Find it,
find the way we want to go
through the path of my smile sliding down your face.
Open me to the territory you have never entered yourself.
For me you will not cry.
Every moment gives birth to another.
We are children who fall in love – always at the verge of growing up
and contented with just that – lying on the sea to see
how the clouds have been here always
so we know they have never once come back.
Neither will we, but we laugh and cry, and the days and nights
open into a million stars that light up whenever I look at you,
whenever I turn away to feel you on the back of my neck.
Our tranquil jest
No need to explain any sadness - it is our friend.
Just like happiness of a glamourous day
When you take me to the cliff and we both jump
to fall upon the wide blue sky
Never have I seen anything so blue
Never have I seen anything like you
Cold and smiling and so incredibly beautiful
I think
[we are still falling]
I really do
Love you
Jun 23, 2011
Jun 23, 2011 at 11:20 AM UTC
Finger in holes
they don't belong
mouths sharing space
crevices unexplored.
Glamorous,
but what does it all mean?
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
I wonder if she knows,
that when she speaks
with a voice
low and smooth,
I become ashamed of my own.
I wonder if she knows
I watch her sometimes
and envy each breath.
I admire everything about her...
her poetry is simple but stunning
her laugh infectious
her smile is kind
and her eyes are bright.
I heard about her,
years before,
and had a picture in my mind.
I know her now
and the picture has not changed
if only to make it better.
I envy her confidence
I admire her every movement.
If she were famous I'd own all her movies
and do what I do now,
watch and learn
and try to be as great as she.
Her talent is unwasted
as all who know her love her.
How is it she's so grand?
The boys, they look,
they see,
they know she is the most beautiful girl in the room
they know they want her
they know,
as I know,
that she's worth it.
that she deserves it.
that she should be happy.
I wonder if she knows,
this poem is about her.
I wonder if she knows
I wish I could be even an inch similar to her.
It's not cruel envy and jealousy I hold for her,
but complete admiration for the way she carries herself.
She speaks her mind
and shows emotion
clever and funny,
she walks with regality
and is oh so gorgeous.
How is it she seems so perfect?
So poised and gentle and witty-
in not the most poetic terms
I basically think she's really cool,
and wish I could carry myself
in the profound,
glamourous,
respectable,
admirable way in which she does.
How is it she'd ever care to be my friend?
Oh the way she walks,
the way she speaks,
the way the other girls envy
the way the boys look
the way the teachers admire,
she's unafraid to announce her sorrows and fears,
she enters a room with a fierce glamour
and makes her presence known,
as, for her, it should be.
Oh, she is glorious.
and I admire her so.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
*Fear sleeping for with it my ideas might be gone
By either dying or reverting to where they were born
I hold each piece of memory like slides up a microscope
Nursing them tenderly so that they don't lose hope
And I walk my little fingers over my phone screen
While words from all corners of my mind scream
Can't risk the cacophony in my head turning into a maze
'Cause my mental universe is a cow I must always graze
Sleep tries to have her finger pressing my eyes
I fight back because I can't stand watching my good as it dies
Drowning into hours of foolish immobility
Losing a time I could have maximized my ability
So I keep scribbling a pen when I tire of tapping
Satisfying my ***** obsession so it doesn't think about eloping
I think I'm not a poet but an addict to glamourous words
Probably hoping to come across one that will glue the shards
I'm playing with the hand fate's delt and the cards
Can we blame them for soaring when they were given wings,the birds?*,
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 6:52 PM UTC
To the limits!
And the heaves are harmed, in our lungs
and arms. Tendons flexed on their utmost,
and breath at play in the drowned coast.
To the shores!
And the leaves are left as specks of colour,
from the moors.
and vacations left the hinterlands
of the decayed, breathless holler.
For the greater good we stood as imagined heroes,
Yet for happenstance to lend a chance in our woes,
required a great many motifs
to clamour and climb
In glamourous time
to the raised butte
of a finishing sublime.
Modulate the past and harmonize the future.
Together tapestry'd, akin to patchwork suture.
We weren't raised this way.
To remain forever at play, workhorses neigh.
And sawing brilliance and sawdust eyes,
rapier wit with no equal.
But together a two-parter,
to the shores to see the sea quell.
Wildfire lick like lit flame.
Burn it all down and give me the blame.
It's a carried burden worth the worry.
In mountains some exist as prideful barons.
Barring the loss of their barren,
their smiles turn smirks of heathen carrions.
Which is fine, and the motif licks again.
And the motive is sublime; it's only sin.
Cherish the children and their rue of thresher-born,
Thomas Ligotti and his party of philosophy,
but I'm too caught in histrionics to allow the matter
to matter.
Beyond the kicking feet of the mirthful pitter-patter,
pitted against the coming solstice of time saving;
forward and back and ouroboros we may.
Hold on tight to this singular day.
Ignorant of the causes of our own decay.
Lost during summers covered in spittle and seaspray.
Only to mount a return, a loss,
to the area most unaccepting of the cost.
To the mountaintops!
**** what you see, and reap what you sow.
Push the mountains down into the crow,
and call out for the all the denizens below,
"Here's another landslide." As you call; Heave, and **
Pile them neat and plant a seed,
of a tree that hasn't belonged or had a chirped song
in a placidity.
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 4:24 AM UTC
I have no urge to care
Being pushed off, why should I
I'm cast off to the side,
but I still have feet to walk on
and hands in which to march.
The answer to rejection is apathy
if you don't care for someone
they can't hurt you.
The answer to never finding a soul mate
is to stop searching.
I used to dream of a glamourous wedding
of a love that could not be compared.
I once wanted things that were good
and solid.
Now all that structure I wanted
is just a dream, a fruitless dream
who could ever be with someone so insubstantial as me.
ever evolving.
So no, you can push me
but I won't fall
you can cut me,
but I won't bleed.
I bled enough.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 7:07 PM UTC
I need a cat, a shape shifter
Sleek in the night, stalking my toes
I need to feel in danger of the pounce
Anticipate the fluffy acupuncture assault
Then the soft recompense, the rhythmic purr
Sound of engine running in a furry chassis
Curl of warm belly around my hand,
Snugly trusting.
I want a cat, a ballet dancer
Graceful gymnast, lissome acrobat
How the hell did she get way up there?
And she’s so pleased with herself.
Twinkling cabochon peridot eyes
Ancestral spirit homes, divining the future
Seeing worlds to which my dull human sight
Remains insensible.
I long for the feline trip-me-up
The periscope tail strutting around
The up yours attitude, possessive head ****
Tail in my face, weaving round ankles
**** plonked on the page I’m reading
Voice of a cranky, unmelodic angel
The regal pride at the table trespass
Gifted bug at my feet.
I need a cat with a jealous streak
Wise to my other feline indiscretions
The accusatory looks, and petulant shunning
I need to plead for mercy, to reassure
To bestow the favourite treat as consolation
I want the day long cuddle that follows
Punctuated by tiny acts of punishment
Put in my place.
I miss the chaos and the havoc
The ritual corruption of the Christmas tree
Random bursts of ecstatic craziness
Thunderous houseruns in the wee hours
I need the smooching when I’m melancholy
The comfort of determined, kneading paws
The little upturned face searching mine, in
Uncanny empathy.
I need the kitty litter, and the up chuck
The inelegant realities, however gross
Little things that bond two simpatico souls
Aren’t always so glamourous
I need the mythic vision and the everyday plain
Extraordinary archetype and simply dear kitty
Faerytale heroics, **** In Boots, “Memory”,
Alleycat blues.
I’m a cat lady in the making
A cat lady-in-waiting
I need a cat
I need a cat
I need a cat.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 9:04 PM UTC
Like a chatoyants
So pretty to look at
A colmely and dulcet
A individual you doesn't want to upset
Gives you a felicity
A glamourous beauty
Halcyon person
Is like a lagniappe
To give
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 2:29 AM UTC
from the nest in the eaves
of the great house,
the little bird
could see.
a sky, blue and flannel grey,
a big ball of sun,
the tips of the tree tops,
down through the branches
and trunks
down, down, to the ground.
where they are bound
to the earth,
by knotty rope roots.
she, the little bird,
could watch the people,
hustle and bustle and
sometimes, but not often dawdle, on the street.
all chirupping and chirking
away.
she could see the horses
and the carriages, going
this and that way.
the dogs that, bark as they
play
she could see all,
the neighborhood cats
as the well-fed,
basked away the day
and the mangy old stray,
hunted for rats..
yes, she kept a close eye,
on all those sneaky cats.
but, what she liked
to watch, best,
what piqued her curiousity,
as she sat on her nest.
was the interior of the bedroom, across the way.
for in there, was a fascinating sight, of
a glamourous lady who had all manner of
wonderful things,
gloves of velvet and
lace and calfskin leather,
fans of painted paper
or finely carved wood,
corsets with whalebone stays
and finest linen underwear
buttons and baubles,
trinkets and geegaws...
strings of pearls and
glittering things..
a parasol, peach-pink satin
to shade her face from sunlight.
but for all of this...
the glamourous lady
came often undone
and sat weeping
on the window seat.
the little bird who lived
in the eaves,
did not envy the lady,
who for all her things
so pretty, was unhappy.
and who so often, grieved.
for the little bird,
knew how to be
content with her lot.
with her nest of straw,
her two little eggs.
she needed no more
than that...and a
view of the street....
so she could see
all those sneaky n' sly cats
perhaps there is a lesson
just there, in that.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 5:53 AM UTC
I hate you 'cause you're skinny
and I hate you 'cause you're pretty
and I hate you 'cause you're clever
and you're nothing oh but better
I hate you 'cause you're perfect
in every which way
I hate you 'cause you're magnanimous
and quite simply glamourous.
I hate you 'cause you have it all
and if you don't, you can get it.
I hate you,
cause you are
and you have
everything I've ever wanted
everything I'll never have,
I hate you for being born blessed
and great
and sultry
and fine
and somewhere down the line,
you'll be perfectly content.
I hate you for being happy
I hate you for being you.
I hate you
because I won't say
that it's me I really hate.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 5:46 PM UTC
to recite something
to let it be in your bones
to let it exist outside of yourself
to let it mulch to let it dwindle to let it begin
and to let it roll over
and to let it slip
and to let it die
and to let it roll around in a ditch
and to swim and scream and roundabout
and to control and to gag and to conquer
and to mistake and to make gate and to stand on the top of the curb
to be ahead of the game
to be moxy, merry, maybe just stay the same
imbicile working for a penny a day
while another man in the corner makes marmalade
I’m bouncing, happy, glamourous gratitude
going on around the stratosphere making my own career out of solitude
masked in a gag of reddened retina on display with buddah
large intensinal malfunction on the way towards the retina
the eye, the eye, the eye, the eye
and some may type as quickly as I
and I do dare to challenge them to a duel
as I will take them into the second round
away from it all, away from it all
and down the dark ages crawl, crawl, crawl
and make it work for others to do the draw, to do the draw, to do the draw
and make copies of music on top of another musical entrance music entrance music, entrance, music
make a case out of stereotypes and continue on your own way
inventive and invigorating and invested and afraid
loving and simplifying and hating the mystery
the beauty
the absolute majesty
keep me in check and keep me more for the moon
and I’ll go along to the race track with old hank
and swoon and swoon and swoon
ride the horses
on the way to nowhere
and they will glisten
in the evening sun
and lay out on their own
and lay out on their own
and become what has never been done
and become what has never been done
the ****** is full and perfect
and then the fall is back down
and laughter is part of the question
and it all goes down like that
boom, boom, boom boom
and then peace
easy thought process
a deep breath
growls
beautiful growls
and laughter
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 9:43 PM UTC
Your face feels different when it showcases a swipe of lipstick.
Your hands feel different when they clutch a tube of lipstick.
You are a different woman,
Now a lady, in fact.
Instantly more beautiful, more glamourous;
A classic with added dignity, enhanced elegance.
You become the paragon of femininity,
Join the beauty icons in the lipsticked hall of fame.
You become a force to be reckoned with in the glory of womanly arts.
You become the dream of so many people, young and old, around the world.
You are the symbol of a lady, any era, any nation- you are a queen now.
You have become an artist of the highest, boldest, most powerful caliber.
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 7:43 PM UTC