"idealistic" poems
Bright, cheerful, optimistic
The very picture of idealistic
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 11:39 PM UTC
i am a dreamer
idealistic, optimistic
the one who imagines her life will actually turn out how she wants
i am the ideal girl to marry, apparently
according to these heteronormative results
that are based upon me knowing how to cook
and liking to sleep in and wear t-shirts
that seems like ******** to me
i'm not the ideal girl to marry
who would ever want to marry this?
who could i ever want to marry?
to wake up next the same person for the rest of my existence?
to never get a moment to myself?
sometimes i look at her
and imagine my life working out the way it's supposed to
and waking up next to her every morning
and dancing together in sweatpants
with messy hair and fuzzy breath
maybe
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 8:04 PM UTC
Sometimes I wonder
About all these screens
Reality captured and controlled
Designed and refined
Groomed to an idealistic state of too good to be true
Making it a bit too easy to day dream
Sometimes I wonder
About all those moments
Those times so clearly photographed
With a piercing sting behind the camera
Fantasy proposing the changes that can't be made
For those moments that you can't forget
Sometimes I wonder
About all I haven't seen
Billions upon billions of molecular possibilities
Shown through animals, forests, seas, circumstances
All going on beyond the length of my perceptions
Giving me a yearning for more than before
But...
Sometimes I know
Despite all the anxieties of self perception
The hindsight consumption pressuring pointlessly
And the necessary humility in a world that is small itself
That there's a lot I can do to find contentment in life
And plenty of time to do it
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 9:37 PM UTC
Immigrants, especially those who don't return,
create idealistic homelands.
They imagine that all their
Woes, hurts and indignities
Would not exist
in their imagined homeland.
In their minds, homeland
is in stasis.
The life they left is lingering
waiting for them to return.
They cast winter upon the ponds of their
homelands
And live lives skating over the surface
Each time coming closer to
shattering the illusion
and gasping
in the icy
waters
of change.
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
unravel, untied, our love my love has died
it was yours then mine, but now it rests in pockets of time
pockets of sunshine, rack my memories to re-find
recollect your light, re-experience your mind
maybe if I hold on to it tight enough, the frequency i’ll be riding on
will re-attract you back, to re-tether our hands together again
maybe that's too idealistic, maybe that's against the laws of physics
maybe I am just as stupid as this dream is
maybe I am broken for a reason
I don't know, I just thought it was special
the most saturated jewel tones
I don't know, I just thought it was something
the most beautiful to the most unknown
Mar 27, 2022
Mar 27, 2022 at 8:37 AM UTC
question: do we lose ourselves in the midst of romanticizing or do we unravel our true selves.
response: do we lose who we are in the idealistic view of our romantic quests or do we unveil a trait of ourselves that has been there all along? hiding behind the perfect life you saw yourself having before your heart shattered in little tiny pieces when your utopian view took on another perspective. recognizing yourself in a dark state that was clouded by your 'cherry-kissed' outlook on love, you see who you really are. the good, the bad, and the ugly transformed into the hopeless romantic who has only experienced their first heartbreak to then examine every characteristic of themselves and determine if they were 'in the wrong'. your romantic expectations turning you into someone you're not is the controversial topic. but what if it was just the romanticizing that grounded you and brought you back to reality? what if it was the romanticizing that expressed your honest self? what if it were for all of the childhood fantasies and teenage dreams that helped you realize who you want to be with? what if it were for all of the traumatic experiences and unfulfilled relationships that helped you realize the person you truly are.
-mxy
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 9:45 PM UTC
Elizabeth and God exist in a sunflower grave. Her mother and father slit her stomach open and watched the contents pour out like
spaghetti confetti.
Tommy, Elizabeth's boyfriend, rode his ocean blue Huffy, until the tread on his tires grew bald and until the grips were blanketed by dead skin. Looking for her, panoramic views of the horizon leapt beside him. Silhouettes of his legs, churned and kissed the orange and caramel dusk. With every tear in his hamstrings and calves, the **** in his sky grew and swallowed the memory of Elizabeth Mendenhall, Honor Student.
Margot, Elizabeth's twelve year-old sister, was an idealistic soul. Taking a Sharpie, she wrote on her sister's wall, "Liz, there is no death greater than the loss of self, and no life greater than one where we continuously search for what self is." Margot struggled with concentrating and frying eggs - but focused on the sunflower garden, dangerously and perfectly.
Hilary and Brendan were thirty-five and thirty-six years-old. They stabbed their daughter thirty-seven times. They don't know why they did it, they just couldn't think of a reason not to do it.
She begged for her life. The yellow petals of the sunflowers caught blood-drops and, after enough struggle, floated down to kiss and lay on Elizabeth's slow-twitch body. Hilary looked at Brendan and said, "What does this mean?" Brendan shrugged and said, "This is new to me."
The garden was an oven, and digging her grave was like pulling back on a cheap, plastic latch. Elizabeth had pale, pre-cooked pie crust skin. The slits in her stomach looked like peeks into a cherry stuffed filling. Crinkled lips looked indented by a stainless steel fork, back and forth, side to side. And the soil rained upon her like the reversal of hot vapor, returning home.
Elizabeth and the Sunflower Garden.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 5:37 AM UTC
The Brandon who was sure of a god is deceased,
But his memory is visible in my idealistic wish for one.
Who would not want a loving, personal god
Forgiving their wrongs and guiding them
Towards ever-lasting happiness?
Answer me..
No matter what you want,
In regard to matters of forgiveness and happiness,
You are on your own,
At least that's what I think.
I have to forgive myself,
Even if everyone else will refuse to do so.
Ugly and beautiful both describe me equally,
And these qualities apply to every
Other human being as well,
From the poor to the wealthy,
The atheist to the religious,
The prisoner to the police officer,
The terrorist to the president, and so on.
Failure to acknowledge this
Underscores moral supremacy,
And the over-simplification of humankind.
No war between Good and Evil is being waged,
And as far as happiness goes,
No man or woman can give it to you,
They can only supplement it.
It is not a plateau
To be permanently established,
It waxes and wanes like
The phases of the moon,
Tending to glow whenever you smile.
(c) 2013 Brandon Antonio Smith
9/20/13
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 1:53 PM UTC
20:00 - Dinner
Alone but entertained
I like it that way
21:00 - Skype calls
Not having talked for four days
I've missed her yet the occasional silence is nice
22:00 - Fillers
Scrolling through pictures and sharing thoughts
A pleasant and calm feeling
23:00 - Rethinking
The first hypothetical theories about the day
Laughing at the slip-ups to push them away
00:00 - Reflecting
Doubting choices throughout the week
Faking a small smile
01:00 - Endurance
A familiar feeling spreads
Downcast eyes and a facade of peace
02:00 - Creative
New ideas and thoughts fill up the space
Pick and choosing which ones would hurt the most now
03:00 - Idealistic
Reading stories about happiness, pain and change
Wondering what will become of me
04:00 - Closure
Horrible thoughts tearing down the last walls
Curling up and crying again
05:00 - End
Following a familiar routine before sleep comes
Cradling the broken mind
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 7:00 AM UTC
its new, its foreign
your form I’m adoring
your frown I’m scorning
I just like the way you do you
so unique, so new
so hot and so blue
so me but still you
hand on my thigh as you drive down the avenue
the first one to engrave their name in my heart
the first man to deserve his part in my art
of delusional confusion, idealistic intrusion
with a sprinkle of disillusionment
thought it wasn’t for me, too many days spent in existential worry
wondering how it would work for me or if it would hurt me
but I throw caution to the wind and trust my wings
to maintain my grace on the breeze
love is just as simple as it seems
Nov 30, 2021
Nov 30, 2021 at 12:18 PM UTC
(the tics will talk 'til twelve o'clock)
When we make time,
When we listen:
The theistic preach deistic talk;
The atheistic preach pragmatic talk;
The agnostic preach proleptic talk;
The heretic preach shismatic talk;
The mystic preach prophetic talk.
(the mesianic and satanic never stop)
When we have time;
Then we listen:
The optimistic teach hypnotic talk;
The pessimistic teach sarcastic talk;
The altruistic teach empathetic talk;
The idealistic teach synergistic talk;
The pacifistic teach semantic talk;
The body politic teach charismatic talk;
The technocratic teach robotic talk;
The romantic teach poetic talk;
The critic teach cathartic talk;
The moralistic teach dualistic talk;
The ascetic teach platonic talk.
(the artist would rather not talk)
When we find time,
Do we listen:
The lunatic speak quizzotic talk;
The neurotic speak pathetic talk;
The chauvanistic speak monistic talk;
The nihilistic speak ballistic talk;
The hedonist speak narcissistic talk;
The futuristic speak galactic talk.
(the minimalist hasn't the time to talk)
Just don't.
Look.
Some tic reset the clock.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 12:15 AM UTC
There are those that shine;
To a particular person,
A beacon of light in a sea of darkened faces.
Those shining ones:
Beautiful,
Vivacious,
perfect?
An idealistic attraction
But, spare a thought,
For those who do not shine:
But instead,
Merely glimmer,
flicker,
perhaps even twinkle
Why is it, they are brushed aside?
Forgotten,
Because they aren't as beautiful, vivacious,
They're not perfect.
In attempt to reach the one that shines -
We push past endless possibilities,
Countless glimmers,
Ceaseless flickers,
Abundant twinkles.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 12:31 PM UTC
LOVE? Connotative of so many different things, one conjures up vastly intricate definitions of the word. To what extent their truth reaches is indicative of their author’s own relationships, childhood, future and past. To be asked what love truly is, is to allow another to peer inside of your soul, to reach the depth and breadth of your entity and to relinquish your fears and dreams to them, simultaneously. Asked today for my opinion, I deferred my response, realizing I myself hadn’t considered a solid definition. Seemingly such a simple concept; really a foundational core, underpinning our self worth, self adoration and self identity.
Love is unique, to everyone. It can be explained through the use of analogies. Stereotypes. In some ways, our ‘idealistic love’ is a window for our selfish, impeded selves to climb out of. We expect our lover to propel us into some sort of surreal, unchallenged fairy-tale romance, irregardless of the modern day reality we’re living out. We expect worlds to stop, planets to align and stars to shower upon us in some picturesque dream come true. However, referring to love in stereotypes can be impersonal and superficial. I find love can be best defined by a persons own experiences, dreams, fears and desires.
A lover can help realize and form these definitions.
To me, love is resting my head between the curve of his shoulder and my sheets. Love is watching a summer storm roll in together, dry and safe. Love is observation; of passion, of fear and of delight. Love is acceptance. There’s nothing more beautiful than knowing and being known. Nothing more beautiful than opening yourself up to someone, being with them in complete serenity, complete coexistence and honesty.
Rolling over and looking into their eyes, and silently whispering, “I love you.”
That to me is love.
- c.m
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 12:52 PM UTC
I was used to the abuse, used to the towers
I was used to being used, used to your power
it makes me sad looking back, I was in the present accepting presents
while you were hiding in the black, keeping secrets, turning your back
on me and everything I offered, I thought you were better than you were
guess it's my first mistake to think you wouldn’t put me up at the stake
watch my ivory skin be engulfed in flames
watch your baby burn away
if it means that you can survive by the skin of your teeth
tried to run and run with my tired feet
tried to undo all you have done to me
tried to keep the door open in case you came running back to me
I like broken birds, I like empty words
I like chess pieces, I like idealistic worlds
you fit my trauma like a glove, manipulation to get my love
but you had another, arguably better
older, more secure, not a country over
but in turn, you made me feel insecure
a tragic mess continuing to dismantle
unravel like ribbons, uncovered the truth due to visions
I received, the seeds I reaped
protection is given to me by deities
I am not one for fighting but refuse to wave the white flag
you shot me and now I must burn down your creations in a red flash
every web of lies, web of secrets
I set ablaze and sit back like the grim reaper
Jan 13, 2022
Jan 13, 2022 at 11:49 AM UTC
I'm a fan of Vontaze Burfict
Though he may not be perfect
For he gives players concussions
To continue the daily discussions
Of the power of his percussion
To receive a hall of fame induction
That is where his value is derived
So what do these penalties imply?
That the referees have a preconceived notion of him
And are preemptively looking to treat him grim
Which gives his team a lesser chance to win
Which makes the biased referees grin
We are a country that idolizes quarterbacks
Every other position we're quick to attack
We only care about who has the ball
And laughing at others when they fall
We worship that which is shiny
And view everything else as grimy
Quarterbacks become celebrities incredulously
While everyone else is treated impetuously
The NFL is like America
Politics makes it harder to watch
The Patriots are boring and plain
They win constantly
The Bengals are entertaining and rough around the edges
They show promise and potential that is never realized
In a nation
Of provocation
I'd rather proudly call myself a bengal
I know that seems an idealistic angle
But Cincinnati provides no coziness or protection
You must always avoid discriminate detection
Of those that call themselves patriots
That drive blue and white chariots
And penalize players unnecessarily
For African Americanning
We really fumbled the ball
Because of the ref's call
That treats us unequally
How they have fun evilly
They can arbitrarily treat whoever however
But a concussion will make them less clever
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 5:31 PM UTC
The most luminous example of a fallen angel
An ignored history.. A need for attention..
We define The Humanity Problem globally..
Let me enter the mind of a killer
Let me learn from within the mind of a saint
I will calculate the sociology
The norms killing our psychology
With pad and pen as my everlasting friend..
I want to burn in hells
I seek to bask in heavens
Show me the soul in my eyes
Weathering through a common storm..
People will find the real normal..
If they love themselves and help others..
It should be an oddity to erase normality
And so it exists only as a common standard..
That is how I grew up..
What if we ended expectations?
What if we embraced change?
Compassion could be a global comeback..
There is a nature in duality..
Humans engraved into double-edged swords..
If we could create love and war..
We may be able to end our battles..
We could live with evidence and compassion..
Ending our need to be beautiful, better or rich
As an American.. I am built of guilt
I suffer..
I displayed kindness, love and compassion
I valued evidence over assumption
Pointed out an economy of overconsumption
Only to be labeled as..
'Sheep'
'Idealistic'
So.. to my fellow kinsmen and women..
Open up a dictionary..
If I am a sheep..
We as a whole are not shephards..
Who do you look for to guide you?
Isn't America obviously lost?
We are defined as sheep by a globe called Earth
Currently? Like it or not.. They're right..
I am not powerful
I am weak
Despite the ego of America.. I am no sherpah..
I am no sheep..
I will never be a shephard..
I will only ever be me..
Think of you when at your happiest..
Revel in the lessons of how that was stolen..
It will be Hell..
I'll be blunt with that fact..
Want peace? Face it.
Face you.
Deflate all of your ego.
We need to bring back who we were long ago..
We need to care and foster Hope..
Eradicate foolish hate..
Value intelligence and knowledge..
Divided we are destined to **** and die..
But.. United?
We could be a beacon of hope..
A beacon brighter than God, who we're under
An American Beauty..
That has shed her mistakes..
To let go..
Of her American Ego..
Mar 10, 2021
Mar 10, 2021 at 2:23 AM UTC
I sat across from a man made of millions.
From his shiny black patent shoes to his dolphin patterned socks,
and his slicked back gray blonde hair, a color so elusive
Midas himself would find fault with designating blame,
I saw treachery.
If character were based on dress I would assign worth every time.
But people don't work that way: you must listen to what they say.
When he mentioned God and fate in the same breath as commissions and unlimited potential financially,
I went back to the socks.
Imagining the dolphins desperately trying to find someone else's socks,
someone less driven by green pieces of paper easily set aflame by
a deranged individual, someone like me,
who would not be so ludicrous, but entertained the notion,
would have more idealistic pure thought framing.
While the world runs in bounding strides to freedom from debt, from loans, from taxes, and money....stuff,
so that every "thing" materializes as a personal possession
and retirement happens at the unseemly age of 35,
but who will provide a home for the dolphins?
I would not throw my socks away as soon as the threads began to bare.
I would find some cerulean blue thread and weave in the ocean.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
before existentialism, and nietzsche in mind, philosophy was written
or spoken of accepting the socratic rigidity of words,
the rigidity of words known through
the socratic method of inquiry:
the simplest of questions imposed on
the meaning of words; e.g. what is virtue?
but with existentialism this old method
of inquiry, the poised posing bewilderment
lost its quality, in that the new method of
inquiry was given to stress not a method
of questioning but that of ambiguity,
even though this new method that simply
said the reverse of what is virtue as
the preservation of a narrative: "virtue" concedes
many variations exampled true, e.g. -
this dittoing going against - previously said /
as above - became staged against
a brick wall - since this method, the existential
method of brushing aside inquiry and entering
the realm of ambiguity was already present -
the pluralism of meaning found in certain words;
it isn't a question whether red or blue can
be ambiguous, this allocation of noun
and quality is all too pervasive - so when
an ambiguity is allowed to exercise its stressor
posit - the word in question is allocated
a verb orientation in its exercise of use and example,
further diluted by the quantity and lack of example,
and ascribed contorting
adjectivity due to the dilution of meaning: with lessened
recognition of sought out qualification to sentence
an enzymic perfection of: banker and philanthropist,
priest and maximilian kolbe, poetry and lack of envy.
even though these examples are idealistic,
they provide the obvious ambiguity already apparent,
hence the double ambiguity of opposites, ideal opposites.
in shorthand - if socrates were to come
upon reading existentialism - his questions
regarding the virtues would be bound to free floating
terms in the ditto bubbles of flimsiness of non-inquiry -
bewildered by the number of prompts to question,
there would be no necessary ambiguity to many other
terms of inactivity - such as the previously mentioned
red and blue, dog and glue, but too many, it would seem,
should a strict belief in categorising virtue as a noun
but not a verb be kept - for categorisation of such nature
only provides a linear cascade without due action
or cared for imitation - ending with the only chance of virtue
chanced and seen as an unvirtuous person
doing crossword puzzles in silence - and already
virtue's opposite is engaged in defending itself
and justifying its ills by first forcing many synonyms to
cover it in ambiguity, and asserting itself as an adjective
within a noun framework blunt: virtue v. unvirtuous
will only confiscate siamese phonetic mingling to ease the definition;
i guess that's how rhyming was born, the opposite
of alphabetical ordering: a, aardvark the violet's blue
****** a doughnut with you.
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
One of these days,
I will ask him
What are you so scared of?
It's dawning on me
he's the more
idealistic one
I don't think we'll be
great
because we're
perfect
but because we're
flawed
and still understand
each other
easily
One day.
I will ask him
What else is love?
and the words will
escape my mouth
Why are you so scared of loving me?
One day,
tenacity & timing
will meet
and I'll ask him
Do you want to hear what I think?
You're scared
you'll **** it up
You hide
behind
this teenage
facade
of heartbreak
as the
reason
that romance
and hope
were driven
out of you
replaced by
a darkness
that is engulfed
in fear
But you and I
both know
you're not naive
enough to
believe
it
One day-
I will tell him
I think you saw
your parents
in an unhappy marriage
& an uglier divorce
and that does
something
to a person
to learn so young
that your parents
aren't perfect,
at all
that they are flawed
and so are
you
And that realization
weighs so heavily
on your
shoulders
that you bear the
burden
of being afraid,
of doing the same thing
marred
by the
knowledge that
life & love
can be
both
cruel & kind
One day I'll ask him,
do you see that irony
lies there
waiting with you
instead of me?
The fear-
making your unhappiness
certain
One of these days,
I'll plead to him
Don't you see?
I still love you.
That I'm sitting here
patiently waiting
until you see
yourself
the way
I do
flawed
but perfect
for each other
One day,
I will ask him
Are you ready to hear the truth?
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 5:10 PM UTC
We the Sheeple of the Modern world,
in Order to form a more uniform society,
establish careers,
insure domestic conformity,
destroy the uncommon difference,
demote the idealistic,
and imbed the hatred of abnormality to ourselves and our Posterity,
do ordain and establish this societal law for the Earth and all it's inhabitants.
Jan 12, 2012
Jan 12, 2012 at 11:54 PM UTC
My physics teacher told me;
we never quite touch.
The electrons don’t allow it,
or something of the such.
It would be fun to say a sentence,
idealistic,
enigmatic,
cliché,
and trite.
Perhaps a little something such:
“You touched my heart, you gave it a chill.”
But
you
never
did.
And
you
never
will.
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 7:35 PM UTC
I’m not the same girl
I used to be.
Then again, maybe I am
the same,
and it’s everyone
and everything else
that’s different.
Maybe I’m just not adapting
to the changes in my environment.
Maybe I’m still the
idealistic twelve year old
who read romance novels
and ate ice cream while watching Titanic.
Maybe I’m still the
anorexic fourteen year old
who smiled when the number on the scale dropped
and cried when it didn’t.
Maybe I’m still the
ambitious sixteen year old,
striving to put her life back together
and get laid before prom.
(Without much success, of course.)
Maybe I’m still the
infatuated seventeen year old
who fell madly in love with a geeky college boy,
only to get her heart broken.
Maybe I’m just
an eighteen year old basket case
who drinks too much
and smokes too much
and ***** random boys (and girls)
with all the lights off
because she hates her body just as much when she’s drunk
as she does when she’s sober.
Maybe I have changed.
Maybe I never will.
Maybe in the end,
however soon or far off that may be,
I’ll look back and laugh
at my complete and utter stupidity
and inability
to stop thinking and just start
living.
Maybe I’m already dead inside
and just waiting for my body to follow.
I don't intend to leave you all behind,
but I’m beginning to think I already have.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 3:03 PM UTC
How could I not sit there besides you and stare into your infinite eyes
Realize
Epiphany after epiphany
How could I not want to spend my entire life getting lost in your entity and never wanting to come back
I heard it's only cliche to those who haven't felt it yet
How could I not love every fiber of your being
Every inch of your skin that I have kissed
Every lash on your eye
Every measure of step you take
The pitch of your voice
The twitches when you sleep
Our sweat that drips while we make love
I want to sleep in your ribcage and act as every vital *****
Keeping you sane
Keeping you safe
I never want to come back
I want to be under your possession
Under your skin shelter
Til my very last drunken night
Thinking of ways to make you smile
Thinking of ways to croud the space above your carium with memories
Memories of us under the influence of every bitter taste of alcohol
Under the influence of eachother
Becoming more and more intoxicated with every kiss
Gripping your hand tighter
Feeling the skin on your lower back
Never been more blissful
Kissing your neck with a handful of your hair
Grasping your thighs and Kissing the ground you walk on
I've never been so idealistic in my life
You change every thought I've ever had
And I love it
Tonight I write how much I miss our cells growing within eachother
Our shadow in the inner side of the side walk
Pokeballs and wings
How much I miss everything in between
Everything that represents you
How could I not want to spend the rest of my life intoxicated by your essance
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 3:07 AM UTC