"headshots" poems - Hello Poetry

Oh, how I always wanted to live in an 8-bit world Side-scrolling action Duck hunts galore As much currency as a first-world country It’s hard not to love it From Pokémon to Kid Icarus The nostalgia nearly takes my breath away I won’t let problems stack up like Tetris I’m not being chased by ghosts crying, “Wacka, wacka, wacka, wacka, wacka” This isn’t a video game, it’s real life When you die you don’t respawn like nothing ever happened No, this is it. One life. I’m placing blocks in Minecraft Pwning n00bz in Call of Duty Gaining headshots on Grunts like Master Chief Gathering rings in Sonic the Hedgehog Sneaking around like Ezio Auditore da Firenze And delivering newspapers like Paperboy While escaping the mysterious Slenderman I’m living in this virtual world without danger I don’t want to make it on these streets like Frogger I don’t have big shoes to fill like the plumber or the blue blur This ain’t no sandbox or first-person shooter, it’s reality So, live it to the fullest, don’t rage quit

0

Nov 30, 2012

Nov 30, 2012 at 8:05 PM UTC

carsenault10

8-bit Feeling

Oh, how I always wanted to live in an 8-bit world Side-scrolling action Duck hunts galore As much currency as a first-world country It’s hard not to love it From Pokémon to Kid Icarus The nostalgia nearly takes my breath away I won’t let problems stack up like Tetris I’m not being chased by ghosts crying, “Wacka, wacka, wacka, wacka, wacka” This isn’t a video game, it’s real life When you die you don’t respawn like nothing ever happened No, this is it. One life. I’m placing blocks in Minecraft Pwning n00bz in Call of Duty Gaining headshots on Grunts like Master Chief Gathering rings in Sonic the Hedgehog Sneaking around like Ezio Auditore da Firenze And delivering newspapers like Paperboy While escaping the mysterious Slenderman I’m living in this virtual world without danger I don’t want to make it on these streets like Frogger I don’t have big shoes to fill like the plumber or the blue blur This ain’t no sandbox or first-person shooter, it’s reality So, live it to the fullest, don’t rage quit

25

sweaty forehead, a gory past wildly glowing eyes of oblivion shivering hands, sirens, bars freedom, imprisonment, razor blades peru, coca farmers, chemicals smuggler channels, route 36 franklin's face on crumpled-up paper rattling coins, benjamins, stacks gotta make it or take it gotta sell or abuse it flashing louis, abundant future sweaty forehead, ****** present biker chapters, brothers, funerals tommy hauled jim's coffin rick carried tommy to his grave cut-offs, gats, one call: ****** despair, hatred, vengeance, omerta mortals remain silent, angels don't rain of blood, a puddle of codes turf, plots, streets, blocks, gangs cults **** cultures, weapons replace shelter in a group home; the stabbing "shaun got heart, he a furious one -- can use dat dude, pay him up" black, white, african-american, chechens territories of unspoken laws intimidated witnesses, gay mobsters lured teenagers, deadly magic of power the old ones impress the new ones newbies will turn into soldiers **** or get killed; headshots of fear numbers on the forehead, blueish unwritten are the rules of some bribed politicians, skippers, knockos the one who wets, will be wetted others prefer the clarity of faith organized crime, rats and kingpins multilevel marketing, elevators glass towers, late and secret meetings route 36, the white magic of death it's all in the game "The only thing that burns in hell is the part of you that won't let go of your life. Your memories, your attachments, they burn 'em all away. But they're not punishing you, they say. They freeing yourself. Relax." (Quote from the film "Jacob's Ladder")

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Dec 26, 2020

Dec 26, 2020 at 4:06 AM UTC

maxneumann

Organized Crime

sweaty forehead, a gory past wildly glowing eyes of oblivion shivering hands, sirens, bars freedom, imprisonment, razor blades peru, coca farmers, chemicals smuggler channels, route 36 franklin's face on crumpled-up paper rattling coins, benjamins, stacks gotta make it or take it gotta sell or abuse it flashing louis, abundant future sweaty forehead, ****** present biker chapters, brothers, funerals tommy hauled jim's coffin rick carried tommy to his grave cut-offs, gats, one call: ****** despair, hatred, vengeance, omerta mortals remain silent, angels don't rain of blood, a puddle of codes turf, plots, streets, blocks, gangs cults **** cultures, weapons replace shelter in a group home; the stabbing "shaun got heart, he a furious one -- can use dat dude, pay him up" black, white, african-american, chechens territories of unspoken laws intimidated witnesses, gay mobsters lured teenagers, deadly magic of power the old ones impress the new ones newbies will turn into soldiers **** or get killed; headshots of fear numbers on the forehead, blueish unwritten are the rules of some bribed politicians, skippers, knockos the one who wets, will be wetted others prefer the clarity of faith organized crime, rats and kingpins multilevel marketing, elevators glass towers, late and secret meetings route 36, the white magic of death it's all in the game "The only thing that burns in hell is the part of you that won't let go of your life. Your memories, your attachments, they burn 'em all away. But they're not punishing you, they say. They freeing yourself. Relax." (Quote from the film "Jacob's Ladder")

45

I am tired of series of unfinished poems that scream for my return. I am tired of internal, trenching, desperate calls for pen and paper. I am tired of empty pages, and pens being put down. I am tired of the fragmentary bullshit-business I have with my declaration of expression. I want to write about rough ****** efforts and soft aching feelings. I want to write about Coca Cola freezies (because they don’t even exist, why?). I am tired of looking at everyone else’s work, admiring it, criticising it, admiring it, criticising it, admiring it, crying, loving it. I want to be 60 and look at what I wrote When I was 19, And sob.

0

Aug 19, 2014

Aug 19, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC

sylvia-nguyen

tired of headshots.

I am tired of series of unfinished poems that scream for my return. I am tired of internal, trenching, desperate calls for pen and paper. I am tired of empty pages, and pens being put down. I am tired of the fragmentary bullshit-business I have with my declaration of expression. I want to write about rough ****** efforts and soft aching feelings. I want to write about Coca Cola freezies (because they don’t even exist, why?). I am tired of looking at everyone else’s work, admiring it, criticising it, admiring it, criticising it, admiring it, crying, loving it. I want to be 60 and look at what I wrote When I was 19, And sob.

17

Been there done that check out the scars Obliterated ear Bullet wound swiss cheese old heads die hard Been there done that Fiberoptic cameras phone taps and surefire headshots ensure the survival of the family Gustavo would give you his coat if his brains weren't covering it Heisenbergs head better be on a swivel Mike will be back and he'll be looking for work Need money to buy ice cream for his granddaughter old heads die hard Blue ice calls you back green cotton is addictive Been there done that Coming back to get his.

0

Jun 21, 2012

Jun 21, 2012 at 1:29 PM UTC

saul-makabim

Mike (Breaking Bad)

Been there done that check out the scars Obliterated ear Bullet wound swiss cheese old heads die hard Been there done that Fiberoptic cameras phone taps and surefire headshots ensure the survival of the family Gustavo would give you his coat if his brains weren't covering it Heisenbergs head better be on a swivel Mike will be back and he'll be looking for work Need money to buy ice cream for his granddaughter old heads die hard Blue ice calls you back green cotton is addictive Been there done that Coming back to get his.

27

there were dandelions on the grass dear girl, the smell of an Alcatraz flower is fresh on my linen but sometimes I look back and wonder if this city wears a too thick a coat while it struts pantless over the sidewalks of Macarther Park there is liturgy mumbled, a woman waving her hands in the air– Sunday school prayers being learned in Spanish tri-folded pamphlets on the floor and gum over the pavement blackened by the cooperative march of immigrant workers speaking in all tongues and carrying on their backs, the tower of babel while halted at a red light heavy cargo trucks speeding down Alameda Street wearing down the road and the patience of drivers tents multiplied, and R.V's lining the streets the old buildings being torn down and neighboring apartments getting face-lifts "beautification" costs more than headshots– more than a rhinoplasty– more than the real estate of DTLA– when you see two kids come out of a tent with their school backpacks on –you begin to grasp the price Is this what Keats meant: "A thing of beauty is a joy forever " even while destitute the neon pink on their bags seemed like another gift of spring and their perseverance the paragon of a psalm of life

0

Mar 10, 2020

Mar 10, 2020 at 11:07 PM UTC

GSP

"Beautification" (Every morning at 7:40 am)

there were dandelions on the grass dear girl, the smell of an Alcatraz flower is fresh on my linen but sometimes I look back and wonder if this city wears a too thick a coat while it struts pantless over the sidewalks of Macarther Park there is liturgy mumbled, a woman waving her hands in the air– Sunday school prayers being learned in Spanish tri-folded pamphlets on the floor and gum over the pavement blackened by the cooperative march of immigrant workers speaking in all tongues and carrying on their backs, the tower of babel while halted at a red light heavy cargo trucks speeding down Alameda Street wearing down the road and the patience of drivers tents multiplied, and R.V's lining the streets the old buildings being torn down and neighboring apartments getting face-lifts "beautification" costs more than headshots– more than a rhinoplasty– more than the real estate of DTLA– when you see two kids come out of a tent with their school backpacks on –you begin to grasp the price Is this what Keats meant: "A thing of beauty is a joy forever " even while destitute the neon pink on their bags seemed like another gift of spring and their perseverance the paragon of a psalm of life

27

Hopelessly blinded by the flash of his camera, I could pay no attention to your watercolors, engravings, charcoal sketches, oil pastel portraits. The stark white background of headshots was all I could see; no room for florals and foliage. Preserved by his image, I thought I was permanent. You let me see that I am pastel and charcoal - smudged, with colors distorted, but never quite destroyed, always with original traces in the deepest layers. He was watercolor - he could be washed away, with only watery blotches as remnants. But you are an engraving, on the strongest, most brilliant metal, with your lustrous being etched into every atom of it. You leave your mark on my skin, beneath the bruises and scrapes, beneath the rusted appearance and tarnished memories, down to the fragile ribs, through the recovering heart, immortalized for centuries of admiration.

0

Oct 21, 2015

Oct 21, 2015 at 8:18 PM UTC

emilybridg

Among the Still Lifes

Hopelessly blinded by the flash of his camera, I could pay no attention to your watercolors, engravings, charcoal sketches, oil pastel portraits. The stark white background of headshots was all I could see; no room for florals and foliage. Preserved by his image, I thought I was permanent. You let me see that I am pastel and charcoal - smudged, with colors distorted, but never quite destroyed, always with original traces in the deepest layers. He was watercolor - he could be washed away, with only watery blotches as remnants. But you are an engraving, on the strongest, most brilliant metal, with your lustrous being etched into every atom of it. You leave your mark on my skin, beneath the bruises and scrapes, beneath the rusted appearance and tarnished memories, down to the fragile ribs, through the recovering heart, immortalized for centuries of admiration.

17

You can learn a lot from a Facebook page just from the pictures shown what things a person collects what kinds of things they own their likes and dislikes vacations that they've taken how many kids how many pets even what time they awaken but mostly I like to notice how many "selfies" there are sometimes it's quite amazing you'd think they were some kind of star headshots would be another good name for those poses oh so hammy smiling, grinning, grimacing goofy, questioning, campy those infamous pictures on Facebook shots showing a craving that everyone look!

0

Apr 11, 2018

Apr 11, 2018 at 11:48 AM UTC

WingedPoet

Craving a Shot

You can learn a lot from a Facebook page just from the pictures shown what things a person collects what kinds of things they own their likes and dislikes vacations that they've taken how many kids how many pets even what time they awaken but mostly I like to notice how many "selfies" there are sometimes it's quite amazing you'd think they were some kind of star headshots would be another good name for those poses oh so hammy smiling, grinning, grimacing goofy, questioning, campy those infamous pictures on Facebook shots showing a craving that everyone look!

24

I have come back again hating myself for it and self loathing ******** Clad Maidens Sans the clothing Perplexed by the wall of faces in front of me Smiling at me but never speaking to me Chatting sometimes casually Showing their poses but never really doing Headshots, Pets, babies and cooing Poking me and Calling my name Childishly Inviting me to a silly game generalized statements and proverbs inspirations tags and action verbs Still no talking I peruse photo stalking A wall of faces less familiar Silent a complacent peculiar living yearbook obscure I've become a strange ****** longing for what these Faces share A parody A memory A joke A quote A note A like A laugh Un like A fuss Distrust. Your smiling face is one of us…

0

Dec 2, 2014

Dec 2, 2014 at 11:31 PM UTC

epipen

The Faces

I have come back again hating myself for it and self loathing ******** Clad Maidens Sans the clothing Perplexed by the wall of faces in front of me Smiling at me but never speaking to me Chatting sometimes casually Showing their poses but never really doing Headshots, Pets, babies and cooing Poking me and Calling my name Childishly Inviting me to a silly game generalized statements and proverbs inspirations tags and action verbs Still no talking I peruse photo stalking A wall of faces less familiar Silent a complacent peculiar living yearbook obscure I've become a strange ****** longing for what these Faces share A parody A memory A joke A quote A note A like A laugh Un like A fuss Distrust. Your smiling face is one of us…

30

Inadequacies The self inflicted gunshot wounds From holstered weapons going off When you least expect it Sometimes in the foot Usually in the heart Incurring maximum damage Precisely at the most inopportune Moments, made possible by Years of unconscious conditioning Loading the chamber with Hollow points of self worth From the hip rapid fire assumptions Sudden onset Alzheimer's headshots And ****** marvelous notions That actually is the worst In the History of Bad Ideas Some of you conceal and carry Pistols, others tote around Semi automatic rifles And then there are those of us with Gatlin Guns Still turning the crank As we blast our Happiness into Smithereens straight to Hell

0

Jul 24, 2017

Jul 24, 2017 at 12:36 AM UTC

Abracadabra

The Art of Sabotage

Inadequacies The self inflicted gunshot wounds From holstered weapons going off When you least expect it Sometimes in the foot Usually in the heart Incurring maximum damage Precisely at the most inopportune Moments, made possible by Years of unconscious conditioning Loading the chamber with Hollow points of self worth From the hip rapid fire assumptions Sudden onset Alzheimer's headshots And ****** marvelous notions That actually is the worst In the History of Bad Ideas Some of you conceal and carry Pistols, others tote around Semi automatic rifles And then there are those of us with Gatlin Guns Still turning the crank As we blast our Happiness into Smithereens straight to Hell

25