"homeliness" poems
Little heaven
Little homeliness
Little money
Little loneliness
Little me
Little you
Little time
Little clue
Little life
Litte sleep
Little love
For me to keep
Little point
Little reason
Little love
But I'm still squeezin
I'm still trying
Don't know why
If its not me
It leaves or dies
Little time
Little place
falling behind
Pick up the pace
Who to have
Who to choose
Little me
Without the You
Little me
Without the you
Little time
Little clue
Little reason
Little place
Life is wheezin
After the race
Life is long
Life is short
Life is wrong
Life will hurt
Life will last
Forever for me
Cause life wont end
A lock with no key
Life won't end
Till I seize to see
Life won't end
Till I end me.
Life won't end
Until life leaves me
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 11:24 PM UTC
Have you ever flown first class to heartbreak island?
As I soar overseas back to loneliness looking at the body of water so emotionless the land was welcoming but this flight through disappointment seem much more homeliness...
...I didn't know that I was just on vacation though
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 2:48 PM UTC
For all of his homeliness,
he walked with an air of majesty and purpose.
A hard and sunken bespectacled face, hollowed out from weight loss
emphasizes knowledgeable grey eyes
He shuffles through papers and runs his fingers through his
long blond hair.
A never ending cycle,
he’s always doing one or the other.
And fidgeting with his head phones- he hands me one.
“What do you hear?”
His eyes are searching mine for my thoughts,
dancing with anticipation as to what I might say.
“Do you hear that?” he asks.
He always looked so hungry, like he wants answers.
I can’t remember the last time I saw him eat.
I touch what was once a cheek.
“You look so thin.”
He doesn’t say anything. His eyes just flash- each one different.
The left says “Shut the **** up.”
The right says “Help me.”
Please don’t be afraid to let someone in.
Please.
He walks hard, every stride like he plans to take over a country.
Oh there is purpose in his steps.
He has the brightest mind.
He’s hard, but he can see beauty where others can’t.
He knows absolutely everything about me.
“Why would something so beautiful want to die?” he asks me.
I’ll remember those words for the rest of my life.
Life is precious.
And despite all of the hardships we have seen, the years that have passed,
I still love him.
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 1:52 AM UTC
I met her one day while sitting on a bus. I was unaware of her until she sat down next to me, pressing down the unknown cushion material of the bus’s seat. Her cold blue eyes looked into mine.
“Hello!” she exclaimed, as if I was an old friend. I gave here a curt “Hi” because I barely recognized her. Her blue fleece was worn and not entirely clean. Her hair was familiar, it was straw colored, half of it pulled into a ponytail.
She had the expression of a smug mouse; exceedingly confident and bossy, with tinges of homeliness and sincerity. I admitted that I had forgotten her name. Once I heard it again, it transported me back to a memory that took place in Mallet school.
It was hot outside, and the dust from the stones had made our hands chalky and hot so that it felt like wasps were stinging them. I saw a kid blowing on their hands, trying to cool their blisters from the monkey bars. The girl with the straw hair was writing down her phone number in marker. She slipped the paper into my hand as the bell rang, signaling the end of recess.
I knew her. Numerous memories came back, only with the help of a name to remind me.
She was the kid who refused to sit up for Mrs.Taylor, the kid who refused to listen to reasonable requests at a young age. The person who pried herself into my life, a person I didn’t understand yet came to know.
I didn’t understand her constant negativity. Not until now, not until she washed away the muddled details and replaced them with clearer visions with her tongue.
“My father won’t be home from jail for another four years,” She said in a husky voice, “and I don’t get to see him often.” I gasped inwardly, and clutched the edge of the seat.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 10:48 AM UTC
The stagnant watch of passerbyers
Penetrated with a needing of closure and a surrounding of homeliness
Words laced together in an order not distinguished
Without a sense of security and faith
It shatters and the phrase is broken
Just like everything else in the world and everything else that is just
But nothing is just
Nothing is certain
Burning. Molding. Changing
Life is not certain but it is meaningful
Only to those who can find meaning
In the pieces left behind by those before them
Who have created havoc
Who have created ********
Who have created falseness
Who are damaged
Who are wanting
Faith has created life
Faith has destroyed life
But get on your knees
Pray. Worship. Lie.
Nothing to save you
Nothing to save you
A bunch of fuckery
Myths all tied together
None is real
Suffering is imminent
Life is imminent
The passerbyer walks
With disappointment
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 4:38 AM UTC
The butterfly and the swan, our
most blessed creatures; for in
natural painful transformation of
crawler to beautiful freedom, of
ugly homeliness to majestic beauty;
what is natural becomes possible and
what is possible becomes hopeful
Upon stormy waters he walked;
but only still waters draw us near
with melancholy determination;
hearing that voice within, but
does it direct you to throw stones
for ripples that soothe or to break
apart the reflective image of what
you cannot understand?
We are anesthetized; for reality
is no basis for happiness and
delusion fuels pretension to be
what we are not; and so we applaud,
loudly, for strangers who wear our
colors; because what they do is
our greatness; but do we cheer
for them or ourselves?
To those who sacrifice, it is a
constant; to those who do not,
it is a moment; but we live with
our fears no matter who dies
for them; fear because of our
children; fear because of war;
fear because of pride; fear
because of ignorance
What was once a child’s kingdom,
narcissism versus intellect, is how
adults now separate themselves;
the victory of a beautiful face over
character is complete; mannequins
who cannot speak enable those
without conscience to ignore the
consciousness of their soul
Silent love, quiet discomfort,
one human becoming God, for
their blessing is salvation on earth;
but blessings are relative; relative
to where we were born and who
loved us as children; we begin without
the knowing of favor; what we learn
of ourselves is where we begin again
Art is not competition but expression
reveals life; revelation of consciousness;
our heroes must only make us feel; we
ignore their flaws but does that prove
we are forgiving or only want vicarious
pleasure no matter the cost or the
rationalization of the conditions of victory?
The fisher of men’s souls spoke to all
men; for it was written from a mount; but
what do we embrace? War or peace?
Riches or charity? Arrogance or humility?
When ripples reach the far shore what is left
is the question that wet living glass asks
about what we see and what we believe;
because calm reflection is the only storm
we can survive
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 8:24 PM UTC
Let it go;
Like sand
From your fingertips
Some sticks; A buildup
Protective coating
Of homeliness accentuating
Loneliness;
Wash your hands in the sea,
Watch the sunset with me;
Let it be.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 11:47 AM UTC
Sharp staccato steps as I made my way downstairs,
Into the white convertible I always hated.
Sailing down the streets of what is, and remembering what kind of was.
Homeliness and homelessness and
brokenness and that messy glue you use in Elementary School.
And all the parts
connected like a quilt
and the holes in it make it ours
and the cold air keeps my toes warm,
as the limbs shiver,
and the bumps rise,
I remember how you were,
and how my heart feels,
and how my hands shook,
and how now they are steady, and stiff,
and how lifelessness comes with life,
hidden under a black cloak,
but you know he’s there,
and so do I.
And that keeps us driving,
wordless as we drive off the cliff,
silent as the waterfalls take us down with them,
quite as the car bomb we built goes off,
and yet we emerge from the ash,
and breathe under the ocean roar,
as we climb back
into another convertible car
and do it again.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 12:15 AM UTC
**The most she will do, is throw occasional glances your way
She may be your dream,
or the element of your worst nightmare**
She may be the blush of your cheeks
Maybe the wetness of the tears
She will never see
She may be the cure or, the pain
The hurricane of trouble,
or a shower of blessings from above.
She Maybe the blanket that keeps you warm,
or the fire that brings you down
She will teach you all about love
The why's and how it is done
But she will never be yours
**The most she will do
Is throw occasional smiles your way
She is the face you may never leave behind
She is always ahead of your time**
She may be the kind of lost that you need
A feeling of homeliness
When you have been estranged all your life
She is both playful and grace
You'll never see more than she intends for you to see
She can either be ruthless truthfulness or casual lies
And she always catches you off guard
She may go left when all go right,
Walk miles to dance under the moon light
And you'll stand their enchanted
Envying the moon light that gets to caress her skin
**The most she will do
Is let her shadows touch you
And you are more than glad
To live your life in her afterglow**
She can take care of herself
She is the beauty you found in wilderness
she refuses to be tamed
That is why you love her
She smiles,
And the angels' sigh
She weeps
And the devil curses
you you'll take all those smiles and tears as souvenirs
And store them in your mind
To always revisit later
**The most she will do
Is let you be her friend
For she won't be
Anyone's fool,
But you are already a fool
And she is the moon you want**
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 2:55 PM UTC
I find comfort in the loneliness
and warmth in the homeliness
of the cave entrapping my heart.
Oh, babe, you played your part.
I drank you in and worshiped your words,
you tied me up, my vision blurred.
I was blinded by your “passion,”
a fatal attraction.
You said, “not right now.”
Well tell me then, how?
How much longer will you make me wait?
You said yourself, you could relate.
You peered into my heart and heard what it had to say,
you know I’ll wait until my persistence does pay.
Growing as friends wasn’t just fate,
I know you could be my true soul mate.
Until you make up your mind,
my feelings will remain unrefined.
This loneliness cannot fade
until the bed in which we lie is made.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 12:15 AM UTC
Even the most beautiful girls
cannot keep our sons at home
....We only know half
....of their dreams, not the other
....half that will not come true
Oh, girls (poor girls)
will they take over there
....Without obligations
....and without resistance
....Struggling bleeds dead
They spit on their worker's hands
look forward to striking fists
....Peace is not their world
....They are no longer children
....and they laugh at our worries
On our ******* we fed them
with peace
....They have grown from it
....developing in homeliness
....but now they want something else
May 18, 2022
May 18, 2022 at 2:41 AM UTC
You dust the cobwebs
Dawn the attic
Wear the house like a flared dress
So that I can see the not so bitter end
How our world would end
And I’ll pull the nails of our old lives out
One by one until all around
Fall the remnants of these former towns
Building homes amidst adventures is not how
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 9:28 AM UTC