"hyperboles" poems
Most likely to joke
Most likely to balk
Most likely to start
a bar-fight.
Most likely to laugh
Most likely to pass
Most likely to
hold you high.
Most likely to croon
Most likely to croak
Most likely to hear
your heart.
Most likely to hinder
Most likely to leave
Most likely to
run too far.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 8:58 PM UTC
The days have blended into a poetic haze
of mismatched syllables, hanging participles
accented with a hint of discourage.
My purpose use to be therapeutic.
Each rhyme I wrote was a comma in my run-on sentences.
And for awhile, I could breathe. Each breath became less wheezy, uneven and strained.
After I gathered enough air, I dared to speak.
Me? How could I even have the audacity to think!?
To my disbelief, my words didn't fall on deaf ears.
The anxiety, shame, depression and fear woven
into every poem made me familiar in the minds of strangers.
These strangers made me feel human.
With quickness that's comparable to the slickness of a parable
I was ****** from a catapult into the essence of prose.
However, the latency between the beginning of my literary journey
and the discovery of my gift for poetry was afflicting my sensibility.
I succumbed to the bullying from hyperboles
and the taunting of iambic pentameter.
At times I was afraid to talk to neighbors
for fear of narrative structure overhearing.
Now, I am wandering in a fog
though the hills of unpublished work,
echoed only by the crunch of "not good enough" beneath my feet.
This was therapeutic. Now I use it to influence my movements.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 6:52 PM UTC
I must write a poem
symphony of synonyms
hurricane of hyperboles
mobocracy of metaphors
floodgates in my fingers
obstruct my insanity.
No monsoon of carefully selected
adjectives, nouns, verbs
storming blank parchment
running ink stores dry.
Instead I simply gawk
at the word-worthy world.
Write poems on the seams of my skin
and under my eyelids.
Engrave the secrets of my crux
in the stem of my brain.
Cut out my own tongue.
Useless in formation of my phrases,
they are inconceivable
to modern man.
You'll never see my madness untill you examine my insides
cut me open, unravel the mystery in my cold blood,
Find me dead and read my lips.
they will be stuck in a
morbid smile
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 11:58 PM UTC
snap goes the bones and the
self esteem watch it's disintegrating soul
the lies and truth it holds
and the physicality unfolds
snap
the bruises remain bold
whether you can see em or not
black and blue- the color purple
is my camouflage
snap
snap goes the crackle and pop
it's got the veins running on adrenaline
pretending it lacks what I can do is save other people in the struggle
or change the planet
but I can't even help myself god ******
snap
snap goes the heart
**** the insults
**** the compliments
i just want some common sense
I tried to stay strong but I wanted it all
I guess just watch these London bridges
f a l l
snap
snap goes your fingers to rhythm and flow
slap goes your palms to something other than countertops at bar spots
not so fast- it isn't the Beat Generation
I'm convinced you live in the past
snap
I'll be ****** if this is forever
because I have a head full of poetry
yeah. **** me. I can't stop these
similes and hyperboles
literary insomniac
snap
and I'm going to open a map to
snap back into reality
where fear and pain reside here
but one day they won't find my tracks
relax and forget
because Im never coming back
snap.
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 7:39 PM UTC
Let me write you a poem
Between blue lines and red crosses and silly hairstyles
A poem that will eloquently tell
How you shone like dim stars on a pitch black beach
Figuratively
Full of HYPERBOLES! and synecdoches
About your misaligned teeth and your roaring, cackling laugh
It will drown you in allusions,
In perfectly crafted hybrid adjectives
That will tell
How you got caught in revolving doors
And how I laughed.
I hope you have seen the Spolarium
Because the poem will use it to denote
How I knew you were fine
But I never knew you'd be so huge
If you haven't,
We can see it together
The poem will trump Poe and O'Hara and Bukowski and Neruda
They will call it God's gift to Poetry
Studied and deconstructed
For the next few centuries
It was found taped under a desk they will say
And they will scour the world to find
That lovely mysterious beautiful person in the poem
Let me write you that poem
So that when they find you
Only the greatest people on this planet
Will read it to you.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 5:30 AM UTC
Verbosity
A patchwork quilt that I roll roll up in
Stitched with syllables
Like a little phonetic sausage
So deep inside you can't hear me go
Dur dur dur.
(insert self-deprecating quip about being a wiener)
laughing track
But it's cozy and neat.
And if you do
I'll rubix cube your dearest mind
Til I'm tucked deep inside once again.
And I'll softly pontificate about the genetic code
and how it made your irises not quite hazel
But still able to illuminate spontaneously
teal, laurel, cyan, the sea
And if you'll pardon my hyperboles
They draw me strong as an Atlantic tide
This ocean that ***** me the deepest inside
Aesthetically, the contrast is startling to your skin
An artist would capture the portrait therein
But really, all you need to know
Is they're the prettiest
prettiest ******* eyes
I've ever seen.
And I'm sorry
That when I get nervous
My heart is a little effervescent
My words become too efflorescent
(I seek not to strangle you with King's English Shrubberies!)
As you stand before me, incandescent
My dread is that you're
Evanescent.
...
But that thing about your eyes.
All you need to know.
That thing about your eyes,
Not to mince words
But I think
I'll feel that way always.
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 8:27 PM UTC
To be at the highest pinnacle,
mount on the pyramids of desolation,
seek for sunlight until it burns you,
reach for clouds, until the storm comes.
To be the royalty of your universe,
embrace death like a ghostly friend,
provide a funeral for your own end,
put six feet under, the afterlife of your qualms.
To break away from dishonor,
cage the angels within your borderlands,
free the demon inside your core,
let them out, let them die.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 2:14 AM UTC
I am sick of poetry—
its useless, meaningless strings
of words
elegantly dressed in profound tailored suits
of gaudy fabric.
Who is this who speaks against the soul—
ignorant and foolish, deriding the gem
of thoughts vibrantly propounded into motley lines of literary art?
Ha! Literary art?
Similes are like a bad joke,
alliterations are agitating,
personification ***** and,
hyperboles are more horrid than death
Poems are not simply stanzas of well-contrived writing
Of fanciful sentences stretching the mind.
Each letter spells purpose,
Then in the right lighting
Reads entirely different
Yet still masterfully designed
It is simplicity secreted beneath heaps of perplexity
and effortless rhyme,
bombastic diction contorting
the most puerile of deliberations into virtuosity—
two-dimensional make-up of verbiage—
flinging arbitrary words and
lines left
and
right
Christmas
The entire concept is ludicrous.
A
rhyme
goes deeper
than its sound,
and
a single word
normally goes deeper
than its context suggests.
A random
notion may not be
as arbitrary an idea as one
primarily
assumes
it to be.
Nothing is simple about it.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Just like I said
It’s easy to do.
******
Hypocrite
Misled
Piece of ****
Ignorant
Foolish fiend
Virulent
Philistine
Infantile
Aberrant
Juvenile
Miscreant!
True poetry at last!
Stripped down to pure emotion
A lovely middle finger manicured just right
The quintessence of feeling etched with furious care
Thought and emotion woven together to make an unlikely masterpiece
And so it is discovered: the marriage of two conflicting entities can and will engender beauty.
Dec 3, 2011
Dec 3, 2011 at 2:40 AM UTC
Belligerent- at war, designating or of a state recognized under international law as being engaged in a war.
Decadence- A process, condition, or period of decline, as in morals, art, literature; deterioration, decay.
Belligerent decadence,
may I reproach your horrible
agenda?
Fore-score wasn't a play on
words. These years have passed
as unwillingly as we've
accepted your rule.
Hyperboles creating a sense
of dissidence, because judging
anomalies is a task better left
to the proficient.
Maybe now their decadent
dissidence may materialize.
Belligerent decadence,
is it for you that sympathy
now grows sour?
Sour enough to please a pigs
trough. A malignant canopy
erected for weary heads,
yet finding relief means
resolution is what's being fed
to hungry bureaucratic slave
hands obsessing on getting more
for nothing.
Obsolete, ritualism has become
more copied than read. Is one
agonizing grin of disgruntled
workers creating the back drop,
for proud men raising a trophy,
the emblem of monetary
perplexity.
Not enough make enough.
So belief can die it's painful
reminder,
"Faith cast as dice, when no
one believes there's a chance."
Belligerent decadence,
remind me to remind them,
the people you so rally to scourge;
that interpretation is not
better left for your eyes,
but theirs.
Remind me to speak in
rag tag metaphor so as to
dispel the wrench clogging
their system.
Remind me to encourage
them to explore further;
beyond their machinations,
so they again can see this
machines engine.
Maybe the clog is yours,
but like every circulatory
system may fall victim to
stroke like conditions so
shall yours.
Belligerent decadence
rise up fallen brethren,
falling faster than the
history of Columbus.
How long till we see
the incredible hyperbole
being played out so
deliberately? How long till
we seethe for proof,
the products of ignorant
disease.
How long till we find
life's anathema like genius
executed upon every casted
ballot?
The forsaken taking heed
making up the norm for the
moment.
Empty rants, mind slowing
products infect our once proud
carriers with poverty, and
disease.
Creative incentive tossed
upon the coals of cold furnaces,
define all eyes and see all
ears believe.
Then again if you haven't
given interpretive thought a
chance, belligerent decadence
will never vanish, but upon
this battlefield, your soul
will be brandished.
"Belligerent Decadence!"
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 8:44 AM UTC
An unintelligible verse,
Is worse than a curse.
A badly worded rhyme,
is a literary crime.
Instead of rhyming ‘bird',
With a word like curd,
Some people are plain absurd,
And will use lacquered.
Poetry is emotion,
Expressed through lines,
Not word commotion,
Going off like mines.
The rules of grammar,
Have to be in place.
So please don't anger,
The grammarian populace,
By confusing their and there,
And misusing you're and your,
And using any word anywhere,
And thinking your poetry is pure.
Big words make not a poet,
Hyperboles won't add to the meaning,
So when you poeticise please know it,
Short stanzas are more appealing.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 5:18 AM UTC
a concept:
you in a tux and me in a red dress that reaches my toes. we sit on the hood of your 50’s beat up chevy, drinking cheap wine straight from the bottle, speaking in metaphors and hyperboles. we kiss ‘til our senses burn and no sooner would it be one of those nights we try to stuff in the back of our heads even when we both know better than keeping cool in our own state of denial;
“for without blinking an eye the moon has seen it all.”
Jun 20, 2021
Jun 20, 2021 at 3:02 AM UTC
there is an i and a you in this story
and both are quite scared.
this makes for an interesting
plot line as the directors
have been saying// just listen to them *******
rave. and the audience
the !!audience!! can't wait
to see what'll happen
next. they have a stake in it. too.
>,/,/../
the i (being me of course)
is more nervous than she has ever been
(the silly girl)
because for the first time (in as long as
she
can
remember)
she is being treated
with respect
and the way she
deserves to be treated.
on the other side of things is the you (and
of course that is the other protagonist
of this lovely story
the king,
my
frightening ******
my scary sweet
my terrifying tease~
you who is stable in your beliefs yet
so unsure at the same
time
and that worries the i in this relationship
to no end.
-trust-
my darling is the last thing
i thought i could feel for
someone again (yes i understand
that this might be hard to believe
since the whole process
of me handing over my trust
to you has seemed
completely flawless--
but i assure you, my sweet, that
i make things look much
easier than they are
yet here i am
trusting you
…….?????!!?
carefully and willingly cutting open
my chest,
pushing my hand through
the imperfect incision,
and pulling out my
bruised and beaten
beating heart.
would you like a side of fries with that
i don't deserve a sticker anymore.
my tears flow too freely. they know no
discipline. they need to be trained.
hold back. hold back. hold back *************
-restraint-
hasn't that been the key
word in our discussions
hasn't it been the key the k e y
sassy ************
i just don't understand
i'm not like that i can't do it
i don't understand
trick question
help me understand
i want a ************* sticker
you're irreplaceable
i got emotional
………….
--i miss you a lot--
she says this and the i
shuts up
stares
tears start flowing
goodbye to the ************* sticker
will the i tell me what's really
going on in her *************
head >>?>>
or
will she continue
trading her eyes in for metaphors
and her mouth
for hyperboles.
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 3:06 AM UTC
Some people live in fantasies,
Feed others non-issues and hyperboles,
Like politicians in government,
Phony fear campaigns, not what's meant,
Target disenfranchised, that's the way,
Who writes this drivel in our days?
Why worry about such hyperboles?
We all get ****** into fantasies....
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 4:59 AM UTC
11/13/12
I don't know what I would do if I lost her
I think I would start by retracing the steps she took to find herself
Get to revisit all the places that she's visited to build her character
Find myself in each place she found her calling
Calling back memories to the rims of her eyes
I want to see all the places she's seen
And try to outline them with my corneas
And dilate her thoughts with my pupils
Try to recollect every tear that was fallen and for what reason
In her palms, I want to find my self in the things she found in her palms
What psalms she grazed with her fingertips
Find out what fire sparked sparks in between her snapping fingertips
That tipped her closer to insanity
Find out who she found herself in hands held, but hearts closer than her fingertips
That tipped her closer to be sane
All to the first hand she ever held
Her mother’s.
If I ever lost her, I would find her mother.
And thank her for also giving me a life
Ask her what it feels like to have a daughter that’s the barren of
Laughter, sanctuary, and comfort.
Ask her what it feels like to have a daughter
Whose made so many connections
That brings strangers together with just her smile
Thank her mother for building a home for me too,
*** I never asked her too.
“I found myself in you.”
If I ever lost her…
I would lastly lose myself in her poetry.
Bury myself six feet deep in her journals
And cover myself with her words
Decipher her metaphors line by line
Be engulfed in her personifications
Allude myself to her smiles
Become caved in her hyperboles
And pump my veins with the ink she used to flood pages
I want to lose myself in her notebooks and become stranded in her
Poetry.
Her poetry is something to remember
To be retraced to find again and again.
If I ever lost her, I would find her again and again
In her poetry
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 7:15 PM UTC
I’m locking away all my metaphors
Packing up all these stupid similes.
My rhymes and I are
Out.
No doubt can bail me out
From this decision.
Blinded by illusions
Of sincerity
Happy hyperboles of fidelity
Reality
Rips my pages
To shreds.
My personifications are
Dead.
Like my underfed heart.
Part
of me
will remain
As lifeless as this page.
Don’t let my pentameters
Hold you back.
Let my lyrics liberate you.
Revel in this
drop
Our rhyme was only ever an end stop.
Here is your conclusion.
Your last allusion
True
Because
No matter what you do,
No girl will ever again write poems for you.
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 12:33 PM UTC
Yet with no other doubt
You look further
Till you are down and out
But to see the same order.
Time will resemble
History and future,
The same preamble
The same feature.
Time with his hyperboles,
His everlasting soon
His walls and holes,
His appetite to tune.
Time takes a long time
A novel to understand,
A story to rhythm and to rhyme
A poem to contend.
Time is the now
Time will last
And if you ask how
You will be passed.
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 12:34 AM UTC
tell me something about you,
but don't talk in metaphors.
don't tell me how your eyes shine in similes,
don't use hyperboles to describe the depth of your words.
talk to me like a ******* ******* person.
tell me you love me and hug me so tight till I beg you to stop.
just be with me, please
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 8:20 PM UTC
Colour now with an
extra “oh!” as if it needs
more exclamation
Does it rain more, here?
Do I just notice because
my umbrella broke?
All I brought from home
was the blanket from my bed,
and it doesn’t match.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 11:59 AM UTC
Moth ***** and rag dolls and
nothing left to talk about except for how much
time we spent idly and carelessly
Hyperboles of how we never knew what was coming
Never pondered the road ahead
Just slept instead
Never took the time to think
Just let the facts
sink right through our souls
But I remember when we actually lived
The memories, how they last
and I remember when
You held my hand and said
You'd carry me through any storm
Broken shards and rusty darts and
nothing left to think about except for how much
cash we spent idly and carelessly
No remedies exist for feeling empty and alone
Raised our glasses to someone we
didn't care about
Never took the time to hope
But never thought this road
would end here
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 5:32 PM UTC
I didn’t know that I could feel this much. Sugar rush, I start to blush, my mouth is stuck in smile. My hands are shaking and if I’m not mistaken you’re feeling it too. Tried and true, through and through cliché upon cliché none of them will do. Love is love and I’m in love with you. Hyperboles are not beyond me, but reality is just as good. Sure I would walk a thousand miles for you and set you free, but what’s the point in saying things that will never be. Forget the would's and listen to the will's: I will love you forever and with all I have. I will do everything in my power to keep us together and make the good outweigh the bad. I will hold you when you’re hurt and take care of you the best I can. I will always be proud of you. I will hold your hand. I will never regret a single moment we are together. And in my mind your name will remain synonymous with forever.
Oct 16, 2011
Oct 16, 2011 at 6:46 AM UTC
I never did fit very well;
Don't ask me why, it's hard to tell.
Actually, that was a lie.
I could explain the reasons why...
But the story's very long
And I tend to go on and on,
Over explaining everything,
The cause and effect each aspect brings.
And so long will my tale get
That you'd probably miss the point of it.
But at the end of the day, all said and done
I wasn't liked by anyone.
Okay, I have a tendency
To speak in hyperboles:
Perhaps a few didn't mind
My presence from time to time.
But overall, in the grand scheme,
I wasn't a favorite amongst the team.
A little strange. A little odd.
Introversion my great flaw.
Or at least I believed
That the problem laid in me.
But only now that I have gone
Have I thought that, maybe, everyone was wrong.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 6:06 PM UTC
Seventh Grade.
I wrote about a kid..
A troubled kid with memories, memories he did dread.. Of which he seen he grandmother in her deathbed.. He didn't kno he could write, but he did because it was his only Defense in the fight..
Eighth Grade.
My English teacher tried to
“Harness” my talent,
in the raw.. Said in me she seen no flaws..
Never forget that competition I lost to Chris, but this teacher Pushed me into competitions
Of which I had no interest...
Freshman Year..
I got accused of plagiarism. They Didn't believe these were my writings..
After all,
What could I possibly know
About the world's tragedies, poverty, or how the stars were symbolic to my thoughts and tears...
after jus a mere 14 years I've spent living here?
I was told to “stick to something
a 14-year-old could write" because a young man my age knows nothing about how world hunger just isn't right...
Sophomore Year
I wrote about the young girl that had my heart... That is, until she completely ripped it apart..
So I began to change it, grew cold, wrote bout "these hoes" because love was sumthin I just didn't want no mo!
Junior year
I began to mature, so I wrote about life, love things of that nature... Listened in class & found new ways to write, new things like using hyperboles, or changing it up & adding Analogies..
Senior year
I had no fear, at least that's wat they seen. I was focused and my eye was keen..started to learn I didn't have to cry, so I wrote about stages In my life, I learned to say goodbye, bye to the things tht made me cry, held my head high & looked to the skies.. I didn't have to run, I learned I could be Fighter.. I learned by looking bak at the Evolutions of a young writer...
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 5:05 AM UTC
I fell asleep whispering your name
and woke doing the same
Have you choked on the sun?
I am sketching needy hearts into my hands
and rescuing dreams with tea leaves
Hopeful, wanting, hoping, wantful
Mountains converge
and our lips are
so far apart
Perhaps, this time, they are real wounds
disguised as fleshy hyperboles
Written about restlessly, melted candles
with congealed memory resting on the desk
The spinning cups on the table;
that is us, dear, that is us
-c.j.
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 2:33 PM UTC
It's funny. The way I feel when I see fresh line paper. Untouched and calling to me. I love it. So many possiblilities. So many beautiful things to be written. What's funnier is that when I get a new notebook, it sits there for weeks. And so it stays untouched. The funniest thing is I love to write and get things out so I can look at them in proof that these words exist. In some way. Some form. I don't know why it's so difficult. I know enough metaphors and hyperboles. All the contents to make my writing swell. Readable. But I honestly think what throws me off is that no one is reading. No one is connecting with my writings like I do to Chibosky and O'Hara. No one is waiting to love my next chapter because they haven't even seen the first. I am uninspired with endless suroundings of inspiration. And no one falls in love with a bore.
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 5:57 PM UTC