"grossly" poems
Calories.
When I was 6 years old,
my mother told me I would consume
too many calories.
I would consume them by the hundreds,
by the thousands.
I was Godzilla and they were the people I dominated.
When my parents left one another
I had to fill myself with some other source of affection.
And the insulin rushes were tremendous.
When I was 11,
I had to see the doctor to be in fear of getting Diabetes,
and being grossly overweight.
At at age of 15, I was over 280 pounds
of walking disappointments.
I had always believed my stomach carried my happiness
and the fat under my chin kept my head high.
But after being rejected for so long,
I snapped.
I always had an attachment to food,
a sort of inseperable bond.
But I remember looking at myself in the mirror one night,
completely disgusted, tears welling in my eyes,
and I puked from the anger I felt inside of me.
So don't tell me the calories I consume today
don't burn more
than the bleach Amanda Todd drank,
or that the more hollow my stomach becomes,
I am not able to better hide my sorrows.
Do not dare tell me eat something,
because I've craved biting the bullet for the past 8
******* years, and carbohydrates
has caused more sadness in my heart than anything else.
Do not tell me other teenagers do not cut open their arms,
to let calories out,
because they are scared to Christ that someone may judge them,
if they eat an apple.
Because the first woman that ate an apple, ****** humankind.
And by having a sip of your Iced Tea,
or a french fry, might just dissolve the earth from beneath us.
Why we hide from nutrition labels,
and run from anything with a number greater than
ZERO
on it.
I was taught that happiness comes from a nutrition label,
and how many servings one consumes,
not the smile on ones face,
or the good in one's heart.
Calories have ruined my life,
and I will never forgive any nutrition label for that.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 2:57 AM UTC
the rat ******* has been re-purposed
(conscripted in a somewhat fodder task)
brandishing irons
and quarter lines
coiled and unwavering
insidious and cunning
pent up and fired
in his dripping shoes
and peel back skin
wheel bug and hookworm
are stolid in his wake
(all bursting grossly at the buckle!)
the heel on task;
slithering and rogue
merciless and coy
resolute and contemptuous
with his cotton mat
and quick ready quill
pungi and clapper
raise the clever snake
(croker sacks and wicker backs
dot the gasoline rainbow)
carnival barkers and kraken
(lewd in the distance)
taunting and vile
with their red beakers
and deep purple hearts
cicada and louse
high on alert
(ready to wreak havoc in the hog wallows)
the perverse cornered rat
snapping and soiled
foaming and inflamed
lurking and primed
inside his carefully crafted plan
easels and cover alls
suit this jackal well
(keefer’s little helper or so they'd say)
pickers running rough shod
all stirring up the stench
***** and conkeys
poised
and ready
to lime this cornered slug
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 10:57 PM UTC
Collection of characteristics
that the outside world
deems desirable:
empathy,
gentleness,
sensitivity,
the ability to love
deeply, madly.
Yet,
from where I stand,
the view is bleak,
for having a heart that
is big
means that it is
a hundred times more likely
to be punctured.
I wonder
how many times
my soul can
take these blows
before it withers
into
nothingness.
My body aches
of a perceived emptiness
that is
grossly
full of
an echoing,
resounding compilation
of disappointment,
anger,
and despair;
and though I am sad
in the free flowing of
my own bitter words,
I breathe in a jagged breath,
heave a large sigh,
and succumb to my
self-induced
anesthesia
as my big heart
is transplanted
with some smaller,
colder *****
that is not
riddled
with
pain
and
dismay.
I want to be
small,
simple,
average,
for there is nothing
to be desired
in anguish,
and I now
find myself
writhing in
envy of
those who possess
the gift
of
apathy.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 1:45 AM UTC
Truth is naked,
Forbidden.
Grossly unwanted.
Truth is naked,
Beautiful.
Strangely charming.
Truth is naked,
Shy.
Horribly amazing.
Truth is naked,
Blunt.
Strangely compelling.
Truth is naked,
And absolutely wonderful.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 5:05 PM UTC
With red and blue side by side
Who’s to decide my secret ballot
With respect and disparage likely never to divide
Choose or die I feel like pratchett
Natures evil so grossly present
With my eyes blinded by political fluorescents
Alone in a box, with an unchecked sheet
Now I understand... were all obsolete
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 11:44 PM UTC
It is quite interesting
The way in which women can proceed through life,
In such a grossly hypocritical manner.
Scorning love,
And mocking their lovers openly,
As if to say, your feelings don't count,
Only to later on raise their voices in condemnation
Of their slighted partner,
Thereby proving that they are without a doubt
The far more dishonest
And petty, of the sexes.
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 11:55 AM UTC
I am your dark side
A cold wave of destruction
In the night of your soul i hide
Whispering sweet ****** temptation
Your blood feels thin
As i clutch at your heart
To your fear, give in!
Before i torn you apart
You'll pray & hope to resist
Closing your eyes, clenching your fists
For the voices to finally desist
A feeble faith to stand alone amidst
Brain wrapped in chains
Consciousness fades away
You break all restrains
A murderous rage you obey...
Envy, Lust, Wrath, all will begin
As you fall into the abysses of each of these sins
Swallowed in flames, you'll burn from within
Hate oozing from each pores of your skin
While the night reigns
Hunt down your preys
Their blood filled veins
Soon spilled away
You will **** their souls
Invade their bodies & mind
As your ripper within howls
Hellish wrath & lust combined
You will rip them open
Crotch to chin
Tormented in pain
With a cold blade of steel...
Dark blood gushing out on your face
Their screams filling your ears
An ****** of furry you will taste
Crying a liberated flow of tears
On their lungs, you shall carve your name
As they breathe you until their last moment
A death they will meet so inhumane
For your own twisted amusement
Breathe in their fumes
Of their grossly opened guts
Sickening stench inner perfume
Steaming out from a thousand cuts
Life leaving their eyes
As sun rays come to rise
Your inner beast satisfies
By the blood lust of their demise
Your humanity to awake
As your Demon asleep & gone
The horror of your deeds taking shape
Oh tell me, tell me, what have you done?!
Razor claws & fangs that gnash deep
Hold the Bible & grab a crucifix
For the Demon back again as you try to sleep
Night after night reborn as the Phoenix
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 4:28 AM UTC
I'll never forget the first time I saw your cherries
Who'd have thought I would be so attracted to some berries
As I wandered aimlessly from scene to scene
from the weird to the wonderful, to the grossly obscene.
Then I happened upon this beautiful sight
Suddenly all around me was so still and so quiet
Never before had I had such a feeling
from a piece of art that was more than appealing
What seemed like a thousand cherries, here before my eyes
lovingly depicted by an artist more than wise
A painting of fruit had taken on a new dimension
One that could easily remove all tension
Each tiny little sphere, with a life of their own
had come to live in this new little home
some with shadows, some with shine,
once fresh and growing wild, now were mine.
I wanted to dive right in, to be in the midst of all sin
Enveloped in a strange sensation, would bring much elation
To hide beneath all this red, or to lay on top of this bed
and close my eyes and take a deep breath
I would die happy, if this last breath, brought death
Sep 11, 2010
Sep 11, 2010 at 3:17 PM UTC
His hands ring in the upper classes.
There, in the morning light, his will
Is forged, bent, as truth, on ruling
This place, underhand, underfoot.
With shuttered ears divining his voice
The dim pupils see only what is said.
The top hand schools, topples all words
Ringing hands sing the song of fools.
How Headmaster trains on the heel,
A dagger strikes, the paper cuts
Exalted, his close minded hands,
See a Czar in the stony swagger,
And the student body, submissively lies
With his feet. Outside the college
The headmaster is heard. Grossly,
He is their dream and only shepherd.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 9:48 PM UTC
His hands ring in the upper classes.
There, in the morning light, his will
Is forged, bent, as truth, on ruling
This place, underhand, underfoot.
With shuttered ears divining his voice
The dim pupils see only what is said.
The top hand schools, topples all words
Ringing hands sing the song of fools.
How Headmaster trains on the heel,
A dagger strikes, the paper cuts
Exalted, his close minded hands,
See a Czar in the stony swagger,
And the student body, submissively lies
With his feet. Outside the college
The headmaster is heard. Grossly,
He is their dream and only shepherd.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 8:18 PM UTC
the world.
filled with pools of water and washed away regret. but so deep with regrets and fear of the fore coming.
the world. with trees of beautiful green and red roses too dont ever seem to bloom in the eyes of the people for the continuation of constant world war three with our physical appearance.
the world. with trees that stand as high as our worries and grass as sharp as the pain that lingers within, it seems so easy to wake up at the crack at dawn and take our good time to paint a smile and carefully dot our eyes with the plastic of the worlds personality. but the world
is so beautiful-so pure. the water so crisp and clean.
until the touch of fingers contaminates the beauty within, shreds apart the trees and crumbles the structure until there is
nothing
but insecurity.
we paint our face and dot our eyes so carefully to reach that so called perfection
but the definition of perfection in most of our hearts put it perfectly: "Perfection is a disease of a nation"
one that we have all caught and seemed to not find a cure. it goes rapidly through our body spreading so fast and clenching on to the brain until it calls all the shots as if we are the robots and it is now the controller.
you see, there is nothing but insecurity.
you might be able to air brush the blemishes and bumps that creep into our skin and sprout so grossly, but,
you cant air brush personality.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
I would like to hold an Asda Memo pad in Fleet Street
I would like it if, in the process of being a low-priced tomato
I were stepped on
and really assured that the real-estate in which my squishing had occurred in - would grossly swell in value
Seen as my squashing had occurred.
© Copyright David Bosworth March 2014
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 4:23 AM UTC
You began as a dream
Dreamt by leaders with vision
Evolving to surpass
All of man's wildest ambition...
With adventurous men
Like Shepherd and Glenn
You stubbornly strove
To prove, once again
Beyond any doubt
That bounderies could be broken...
Despite mishap and fire
Alas, you did inspire
A generation to dream...
From Mercury to Apollo
The world, it did follow
Your steady pace
To Tranquility Base...
Via Viking and Voyager
Your efforts did prove
That exploration of the universe
Was well on the move...
To Mars, Jupiter, Saturn and Neptune...
You tenaciously endeavored
To, your accomplishments, festoon...
Your progress was sure
As you strove to endure
The incessent chatter
Of the grossly short-sighted
Their nonsense did clatter
Proving they were poorly enlightened...
With untold discoveries
Like non-stick surfaces and airtight seals
Through your numerous breakthroughs
You've shown us how it feels
To live better...
From Columbia to Hubbel
You've saved us great trouble
In our daily lives...
With your Space Station mission
You've shown the same vision
And, continue to lead in gaining cognition
Of our universe...
Lead on, great adventurers
Lead on.
Nov 1, 2010
Nov 1, 2010 at 6:35 PM UTC
I decided I'm goin in.
Yall dun' slipped up and left me with a pen.
It seems lately I been under-drinkin'
Over-sober over-contemplating what's been really happening.
I'm usually a lot more subtle.
I give the benefit of the doubt like I'm a Catholic priest absolving niggas' sins.
Confusing my honesty for reckless abandon-in
To your chagrin, just hecause you're unable to comprehend.
You don't move through this world in the shoes I'm in.
I bet no ones ever called you a sub-human.
Did that election make YOU question all your caucasian friends? Their motives, their thoughts, biases,
Lookin for Microaggressions?
Now those relationships are withered at the ends and it depends on larger hearts and open minds to try and mend and re-begin?
Because someone you love insulted ALL your kin.
Supporting someone who blatantly hates them.
Tunnel vision.Could only see what they wanted Sanctity of life only applies to babies aborted
Christians were thwarted!
How someone with a thumbs up from the Ku Klux have anything to do with what the Lord did?!
Granted, the deed is done and hey the truth is out!
They were wolves in sheep's clothes till the Pres. Came out
in broad daylight
He basically made it awright
to grossly generalize a race AND do so in plain sight
Now ALL the racist crazy folk are poppin at the mouth.
On social media like the 50's in the segregated south,
Spewing hate behind a screename sittin' on they mama's couch
'cept we millenials are rowdy and we'll roll up at yo house.
How's it 2017 and we still schoolin' folk?
Gotta tell you Black lives matter cause you actin like we dont.
In retrospect, it was for the best cause now we ALL woke!
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 1:57 AM UTC
His hands ring in the upper classes.
There, in the morning light, his will
Is forged, bent, as truth, on ruling
This place, underhand, underfoot.
With shuttered ears divining his voice
The dim pupils see only what is said.
The top hand schools, topples all words
Ringing hands sing the song of fools.
How Headmaster trains on the heel,
A dagger strikes, the paper cuts
Exalted, his close minded hands,
See a Czar in the stony swagger,
And the student body, submissively lies
With his feet. Outside the college
The headmaster is heard. Grossly,
He is their dream and only shepherd.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 10:44 AM UTC
His hands ring in the upper classes.
There, in the morning light, his will
Is forged, bent, as truth, on ruling
This place, underhand, underfoot.
With shuttered ears divining his voice
The dim pupils see only what is said.
The top hand schools, topples all words
Ringing hands sing the song of fools.
How Headmaster trains on the heel,
A dagger strikes, the paper cuts
Exalted, his close minded hands,
See a Czar in the stony swagger,
And the student body, submissively lies
With his feet. Outside the college
The headmaster is heard. Grossly,
He is their dream and only shepherd.
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 1:50 PM UTC
The burning hunger of fractured regret
Your blasphemous assumption of my stupidity?
in whose material conundrum of a word?
in what abstract thought on your minimal plane?
An endless valley of craters and breaks
Monosyllabic color in your grossly proportioned mind
With all rotting media disgust and YOU mock me?
You ballooned beast of a drunken horror film nominee
The paint on a pigs face will always burn inward
Scarring the inside craniotomy
Until nothing is left but the repetition of a credo
An incline of standard flat bodies
****** up and deposed All living in a drawl world
Steeped in liquid
Stretched thin to cover the inquiries
To burn over and brand the thinkers and the lots
An Oklahoma city bombing is still carved into your fair-haired breath
Your bigotry is hilarious because my disgust could eat us all
Yes I am leaping off my high horse but **** you I deserve it
We frown upon pride unless it is clothed in metaphors of suppression
And to what do you overcome?
Your perfect quiet suburban upbringing
Exposure blackballing the floor boards filled with lies
Lies that are my foundation
Rocks that rust into marbles rattling
Around my stomach
With every rung the anger in my rib cage calls out to you
The yelping, the sheltered closet and the oriental rugs
Yes I am dumb like you
More happier in this fatal dichotomy
of a trip **** holy **** despotic mess.
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 9:26 AM UTC
I’d like to love again
Days gone by in a
Conceptual state of mind
Realism my best friend
And worst enemy
I’d like to love again
Evenings pass by in a
Manic state of mind
Memories a close treasure
And haunting burden
I’d like to love again
Years pass by in a
Callous state of mind
Ethos my arduous procurement
And grossly arduous to sustain
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 2:28 PM UTC
His hands ring in the upper classes.
There, in the morning light, his will
Is forged, bent, as truth, on ruling
This place, underhand, underfoot.
With shuttered ears divining his voice
The dim pupils see only what is said.
The top hand schools, topples all words
Ringing hands sing the song of fools.
How Headmaster trains on the heel,
A dagger strikes, the paper cuts
Exalted, his close minded hands,
See a Czar in the stony swagger,
And the student body, submissively lies
With his feet. Outside the college
The headmaster is heard. Grossly,
He is their dream and only shepherd.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
Dear Gentlemen,
May I share with you a secret?
Some of you have already known,
some might overlook it.
No matter what your Lady says,
she loves it when you call her.
Her "If you're busy it's ok" is really not ok.
Your "I'm too busy to call" is definitely not ok.
No matter how busy you are,
you can always make time for your beloved.
A phone call, even with no conversational substance,
makes her believe you two are closer.
A phone call, even just a quick "I just miss you that's all",
strengthens her devotion.
A phone call, every now and then,
lets her known she is on your mind,
reminds her of you,
makes the sense of togetherness shine through.
So, Gentlemen,
no matter how much poetry you have written for her,
how much love you dedicate to her,
how many flower bouquets you send her,
every now and then, do yourself a favor,
put everything else aside (no multitasking!)
to call her on the phone.
If you are married,
call from work.
If you share the same place,
call from outside.
If you meet way too often,
call when you do not.
The more frequent your name appears on her little screen,
in her smart, love-coated mind,
The more grossly exaggerated your time of devotion will be.
Dear Ladies,
sorry that I slipped out our secret.
It just ***** not hearing that special ringtone
(you know, the one only his calls make)
a little more often,
doesn't it?
Jul 29, 2010
Jul 29, 2010 at 10:03 AM UTC
First, let’s talk about some of the lies
Uttered by the nefarious and unwise
Of a peculiar type of mindless insanity
Created and backed by the inanity
Of the Madison Avenue careerists
And hordes of conspiracy theorists
Who have taken the issue of a ****
And buried it in misconduct and greed.
It is important not to fall for the joke
That it is quite all right to smoke
Because smoking anything you pass
A dose of something called cyanic gas
Into your lungs, and perhaps minimal,
It’s the gas they use to execute criminals.
But, other uses for this homegrown stuff
Can help people whose lives are tough.
But the whole shooting match is a dodge
Started out by rich men in their fancy lodge
Fueled by ignorance and false piety
Written into law by a strangers to sobriety
That somehow had no problem with drinking
But thought being ****** was stinking thinking.
So they created movies and legends galore.
But repression is all the lies were ever for.
(There’s an old joke about a boss’s decree
About employees drinking ***** daily.
He issued the rule on the smell-free *****
That was drunk at lunch time by his crews,
Because he didn’t want customers hazy
Thinking his employees were going crazy.
He preferred they know they were inebriated
Rather than a staff full of the grossly pixilated.)
It was that kind of thinking that created
A fervor that up until today has not abated,
That named an easily grown garden plant
Into some kind of major anti-opium rant,
While opiates are endorsed by the AMA.
And hundreds of versions are here today
To cure the same ailments as cannabis
Without the side effects that are a nemesis.
Medical science is finally ignoring
A sacred cow that needed goring;
Suggesting to the country as a whole
That this simple plant can play a role
In helping those who need relief
And are being criminalized by a belief
That, accompanied with such sadness,
Was the true definition of ****** madness.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 7:57 PM UTC
Looking for an exit in life, perhaps other option that is rarely available. Time travel, utilitarian way to modify the past and the future.
Trapped in a matrix of flesh and bones controlled by my encephalon, it controls every part of my daily life, from breathing and blinking to helping myself memorize.
A feeling of antipathy in life that could never bring me happiness.
The inculpation for the misapprehension in my past relationship and future.
What does a man like me to do? How can one display their philia when they're not certain of that emotion?
My endurance in this life is on a perpetual edge. I perceive with attention toward happiness.
A deprivation I share with others. An absent of happiness.
A happiness of dominance; a switch that is only controlled.
Today he can be happy; switch ON. Next week he can be unhappy; switch OFF.
I walk on egg shells in this relationship and have to be careful that it won't break. I'm sad and lonely, this is what I get and deserve.
God nor I could change this, but I don't see it happening during my remaining life.
Stifles with silence deploying infantile plots. A day at a time I enunciate as my composer easily is un-maintain.
Hidden arcanum among a number of these unidentified entities lashes out at me discreetly.
Posing no threat I conceal the pass deep in the abyss in an unmarked grave sealing off the hippocampus that only the Creator can breach.
Unannounced the gravestone is turned my past is breached which I assumed that only the Beneficent can release.
Once an inhabitation, but no longer my domicile. Set aside and noted as a lost monument.
Ascendency barbarous with words of articulation fatal to ones self esteem, grossly spoken enslaved. An inclination to the predisposition of my life.
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 5:46 AM UTC
She had heart of darkness.
I couldn't hold my head,
Nor my eyes to the sight.
As she closed the sides down
On the bug canopy,
I took another one away.
As she says to me,
"There are two of you, don't you see?
One that kills and one that loves."
I feel as if I've swallowed
Straight razors and snails.
Napalms and A-bombs.
Palm trees once beloved green
Blown to smithereens.
Wild and over grown
Everything and everyone.
Gardenias equal sweet peace.
Real freedom stings when
It's nothing but the "peoples"
Stark opinions of themselves.
Streaming blank bamboo shoots
Into the night's black iris.
Shadowy figures
Bend triangles into shape:
To straighten you out,
To put you down.
(Don't let them)
Their methods are unsound
Yet, I see no method to be found.
I see only the cauterized remains of
Arms, legs, hands and feet
As they sit and swing
Grossly from the burning palm trees.
There's something happening out here.
The man is clear in his mind, but his soul is mad.
He is dying, I think.
He hates all this.
He hates it!
He reads poetry out loud!
And in a voice. . .
Oh, this man and his forces.
It smelled like slow death in there, malaria, nightmares.
It was the end of the river, all right.
The great stone face of the temple shone out
As we began to fade out
Into the end. . .
Oh,
"The horror, the horror. . ."
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
Remember that
From far away
Acne looks like freckles
And grossly feminine hips
Are just curves
Remember that
To strangers you are nothing
But your looks are everything
And hair is just hair
And twins are just sisters
Remember how
When you were six
The names of different trucks
And dinosaurs
Seemed so very important
Remember how
When you were sixteen
The names you gave yourself
And others
Seemed so very important
Remember
When you are sixty
That to someone else acne
Is no different than freckles
And your name is so very important
Mar 18, 2019
Mar 18, 2019 at 9:24 PM UTC
The forward violet thus did I chide:
“Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,
If not from my love’s breath? The purple pride
Which on thy soft check for complexion dwells
In my love’s veins thou hast too grossly dyed.”
The lily I condemnèd for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stol’n thy hair;
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair;
A third, nor red, nor white, had stol’n of both,
And to his robbery had annexed thy breath,
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,
But sweet or colour it had stol’n from thee.
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