"idiosyncrasies" poems
What is a Legacy
What's the equation that leads to the sum that is
A
Human
Life
The curtain draws as it must and
when it's done...
We spill out of this "Life" a grocery bag of idiosyncrasies, neuroses, hypocrisies, and other I-sees
What are we in the end but broken pieces of a puzzle we leave for others to assemble--who cares if the pieces fit.
Someone found a Kind word here
Another a Generosity
A memory of a Lie
Proof of a Cruelty
Acts of Humanity by a human being acting...
Who knows me well enough to define my Legacy?
Who else but "I"
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 4:26 PM UTC
Love feels like coming home
But I've found homes in many people
Every home I make is different, fit to hold the looks and laughs between us
Love is like taking a hot shower when the cold has seeped in from all of the cracks in your broken armor
After feeling like a dog licking at empty water dishes it's like realizing you have thumbs to turn on the faucet
It cannot be fit in a poem
People are not lists or metaphors but shelves of novels, walls full of paintings, flaws and idiosyncrasies.
Love is warm blood, messy mad hearts, and wild wolf loyalty.
It's faltering footsteps and tears after the moon has risen.
It's campfire pops and crackles, twisted bed sheets, and moments intertwined like fingers
Love isn't finding your way through a hurricane or boots stomping through a garden.
Love is like coming home.
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 10:27 PM UTC
Friendships that go the distance
Make all the difference
Through lines of continuity
Lasting a lifetime.
Acquaintances come and go
They don't really know
Same team
Same office
Same school
All friendly and warm
But when you part ways
You'll never see them again.
Or there is the reminder
everyone is a hero in their own melodrama,
hurt feelings
falling outs
blocked
miscommunication
blame
Let's let'em pass
Friendships that go the distance
Seen you throughout, inside out
ugly and beautiful
Know all the idiosyncrasies
Know what to give for your birthday
Know what your all about
Willing to work it out
Friendships which go the distance
Are friends with benefits
Unconditional accepance.
Acceptance connecting
Both ways.
We can surely say,
It makes it all worthwhile
When you have friendships going the distance.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 10:36 PM UTC
I have forgotten your countenance
The swing in your voice
The blink of your eyes
The smile on your freckles
The scars on your knee
(that I kissed everyday)
I don’t remember a thing
The heart no more sings your name
You seem so trivial and away
The eyes seek another
And yet, I am writing for you
So, I will let our idiosyncrasies talk
Like they always have.
I am leaving this poem unfinished, like us
I cannot find more to write
You see, I don’t remember a thing
Except that, I remember it all.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 6:44 AM UTC
fields of lavender
as far as the eye can see,
in rows of scented purple
growing insatiable idiosyncrasies,
our minds are a rich, deep soil
and the children of our thoughts
run free,
run free
and light,
run free
and careless,
like a river to the sea.
the heart is programmed
to be broken,
to let in the light,
and the earth in us is woken,
our heart will open,
it will open,
when we take in our first
breath of this heaven.
Mar 25, 2025
Mar 25, 2025 at 6:38 PM UTC
Disclaimer: I did this as a creative rewrite for one of my university lit courses, and all the inspiration and quotes belong to Robert Browning the original writer of "My Last Duchess"
HIS LAST DUCHESS
ARRIVEDERCI
_“That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive.”_ (I’m not)
Alas! Me, “a wonder.” He calls.
Now wretchedly refined and pasteurized.
To be consumed, now, for genteel eyes.
Pity! Should you ever see me roll mine.
Behind those curtains, you might have been surprised
To see my countenance whimpering
At you Sir; and seething, at _Him._
Must you not be fooled by that sickly decorum
Upon which his manly pride resides.
The Duke—what rich talent in envy he has,
And of pithy idiosyncrasies! Pardon me now
As I speak of his infamies: Is it not,
Too preposterous of a Duke, to sulk
And take offense, over a blush?
(As if the blush was his to wield and shun.)
Am I not allowed to flush _at all?_
And must I be ashamed of being swooned
By the casual offers of life’s grandiosities?
Each and every, dropping of the daylight,
Ripen cherries in May and chivalrous gentlemen,
my dear white mule; must I then weep
at them all, only to prove my fancy for him.
And when does gracious gratitude itself
become in vain: a finite honour—
deemed excessive elsewhere?
Never had he plucked me out, for censure,
Before he gave commands, I knew he did
To pluck the smile out of my face.
Utterly clueless—he thought I was
To find myself throttled, for immodesty.
A wife, an appendage to a Duke,
Loosely felled, to stroke a green-eyed ego.
My fault it seems, is a mere generosity
Of affection: falsely opined, if not
Misread, to fare a defect of temperament,
A chronic malady, doth be cured by death.
To cement the farce he will, soon, bring you
Downstairs to meet a friend. (a fiend)
A prized possession: Neptune, taming a sea-horse.
His hubris incarnate, cast in bronze.
But you must know the truth, for the sea-horse
Did not perish for naught, she is freed from him
At last.
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 3:26 PM UTC
Last weekend,
one of your friends called me your manic pixie dream girl.
So in the movie that is my life,
I'm not even the main character,
just the quirky sidekick to my male protagonist.
And it's probably my ego speaking,
but I don't think that's right.
And I don't think that I,
of all people,
should be the one showing you the beauty of a world
that I only see in kinetic blurs and swatches,
passing by me in my free fall from this life to the next.
Because I tried once to see the world without a filter,
but its stagnancy sent me in a downward spiral
and somehow I ****** you into it--
into me.
And I don't mean to be your whirlwind woman,
destined to spit you out--disoriented--
somewhere that you've never been before,
somewhere that no map ever cared to acknowledge,
somewhere stained with my essence,
my idiosyncrasies,
and your new found head trauma.
And you're a rational guy
and I'm an on again off again rational girl
who needs a little help stilling the edges of her narrative,
who longs for a tether or a buoy
to keep her from flying off or sinking down.
So maybe if you held my shoulders to stop me from spinning,
my vision would sober up,
and I'd focus solely on your curves and your angles
as they entered my retinas,
while the rest of the world behind you
faded into blurry suggestions
to be adhered to by someone who gave a **** about them
And after you wiped the puke from your shoes,
maybe you'd see me focused in your eyes
and maybe, just maybe...
...you'd just call me your dream girl.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 2:08 AM UTC
4
10:30
"Knock knock"
Still in my pyjamas.
We drank coffee and smoked cigarettes.
He went to a rap gig the night before.
Fifteen dollars wasted.
3
13:00
An old school friend.
More coffee.
We spoke of art, travel and vegetable gardens.
In Japan they don't eat or show affection in public she told me.
Aokigahara finally makes sense.
2
22:00
Lucky Coq.
Girls would ****** for his hair.
He told me of his grandfathers poetry recitals every Christmas.
Idiosyncrasies are the ventriloquists of my heart.
1
23:00
We smoked under vine-entwined lanterns.
He fell in love with a French girl once and lived with her in Versailles.
He was young and went back home.
Regret at the fork in the road.
0
23:30
Left to find a 24/7 bottle shop and go home.
Crossed paths with old friends.
"Come have a drink with us"
-1
-2
-3
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 11:04 PM UTC
Blush!
The blush of pinkish,
As flamingo fandangos,
In rhythmic tangos,
Long legs centrally bent as she stands,
Flamingo masquerades as delicate swan!
Sort of strutting,
Elegant,
Thought not!
Woman masked as flaming flamingo.
Lady tall in height,
Wistfully wishes on starlight night, bright,
Clear eyes sparkle,
A tint of mystery's mystique,
No teardrops,
He fed her fire with touch of love,
As if were both sent from above,
Two strange birds can only tell,
If love will grow or tears well!
Passion kissed her on her cheek,
Left her blushing scarlet,
Jesus wept and cried out loud,
'This woman,
She's no harlot,'
Both dangling suspended in ether clouds ,
Dozy as hell,
These two dreamy birds are two of a kind,
No similar creatures will you ever find,
He struts peacock feathers glory.
She blushes,
Escaped from love story!
Eccentricity,
Idiosyncrasies,
Rule the day,
Hurry up,
Bring him back my way!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 5:33 AM UTC
There comes a time when tyranny of numbers,
Evaporates into tyranny of idiosyncrasies,
Especially when the ethnic tyranny tyrannizes
Voice of reason the matrix of humane inclusivity,
When the malice in the enormity of clan numbers
Worships brutality of foolishness that purtains
In the group of the over sized ethnicity
To cement the tyrannical tomfoolery.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 5:26 AM UTC
today i learnt that 3am is witching hour
i think back to the 3ams we spent together
our thoughts growing louder
as the world grew silent
witches would have had nothing on me
with you, my fears remained shrunken
a rock, a stone, a gem
my rock, my stone, my gem
remember how i picked at your mind
remember how you learnt my idiosyncrasies
remembering intimacies and depth
remembering limits and being apart
‘patience is a virtue’
i never understood that till i saw it reflected in you
but then again, patience. . .
the very thing that made me tear us apart
we used to fit ourselves into each other’s schedules, like puzzle pieces
now remote acquaintances at the very least
strangers and driftwood
torn apart, all on my part
consider this a shout to an endless void
a scream into an abyss
a plea to your heart
all that you will never witness
but if i ever cross your mind even for a millisecond
do accept my last selfish request
promise they’ll be good thoughts
or maybe, at the very most, promise you’ll call
after all 3am was always ours
two of us fending against the dark
an incessant, hopeful memory (yet one of my favourites)
3am will always be ours
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 8:54 AM UTC
I am tired of being an empty shell that you find beautiful & eccentric.
I am tired of being a trope made by authors and directors.
I am like war and peace and not like a tissue paper you made me out to be.
I am tired of being your favourite shade of red.
I am tired of being a brush stroke, when I am the entire painting.
I am tired of being pinned to a pedestal.
I am tired of my existence and my name being relative.
I am tired of being a zany sidekick to the male protagonist in the movie that is my life.
I am tired of you thinking that I need help stilling the edges of my narrative, who longs for a tether or a buoy to keep her from flying off or sinking down.
I am tired of being told – unconventional, different and other such synonyms by boys, that I am not like other girls as if they are a disease and I am magic.
I am tired to be known as someone with wacky quirks and idiosyncrasies.
I am tired of being Alaska Young.
I am tired of being Sam from The Perks of Being a Wallflower.
I am tired of being Tiffany from The Silver Linings Playbook.
I am tired of being tagged as Sam from Garden State.
Or even Marla Singer from Fight Club.
Or even an Amelie or Penny from Almost Famous.
And every Zooey Deschanel character.
I am a Clementine.
I’m a Sylvia Plath.
I’m a Dorothy Parker.
A Maya and a Margaret.
You see, I am well versed
in death and in silence.
I have my interests and I am like all of the above. But I am “like” them. I am not them.
I am me.
I am scared now.
Scared of boys claiming to be wrapped in barbed wire
but is really a caged petting animal in the zoo.
I am tired of boys who thinks romance is a Hemingway novel.
But, most importantly I am tired.
Tired of men not falling in love with me
but instead falling in love with the idea of me.
Nomoreokaythankyouplease.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 3:22 AM UTC
I want to write a bad poem
A cringe worthy, generic, forgettable poem
Maybe something along the lines of...
...your bruised arms around me
left a hole where my heart should have been....
That was a good first attempt at bad, I reckon.
I shall litter said poem with words I found in a thesaurus,
(iridescent, luminous, diabolical, sacrilegious, egregious etc.)
and elements of nature,
(infinite blue skies, bubbling starfish pond, burnt autumn leaves)
and vague ****** references,
(satin bedsheets, steamy phone booths, glistening skin)
and unremarkable idiosyncrasies of past lovers
(you always filled your pockets with loose change;
you always peeled the apple bottom-up;
you always blahd the blooh blah with your blah-like personality)
and lastly,
but most importantly,
the stray allusions to a life of tortuous heartache and unfulfilled dreams.
Zzzzzzzzzzz
Sep 10, 2010
Sep 10, 2010 at 5:18 PM UTC
my ***** Little Secret, symbolized
by ***** words and little idiosyncrasies and
secret secret liaisons;
je c'adore,
laying Control alongside
cast off clothing and kicked off wet *******
heartbeat aflutter beneath your
oh so deliberate ministrations and
thighs aquiver beneath your
oh so deliberate teeth.
my wrists chafe; bound by bitter steel to demure wood,
powerless
or rather
entirely in your power.
you've always loved it,
the thrill of exploration, of
Newfoundland, of
conquer and subjugation and ravishment;
your tongue flickering against my
**** like eiderdown,
fingertips tracing spirals and Möbius
Strips upon my *******
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
i fell in love with you
once
long ago
with my eyes closed
and the dream-screen drawn
we danced
like music notes across their barred landscape
we danced
the loveliest late-night lullaby
you became my hiding place
lilac and lace linens
stretched over a lumpy matress
my indiana jones
waiting patently and poetically
in a long-lost temple of slumber
you come back to me in waves
softly and subtly
while i'm half awake
you're kissing the broken down shorelines of an insomniacs holiday
i wish i could keep you
like an empty bottle in the window-sill
or a heart arrhythmia
this lonely romantics cardiovascular waltz
let me snag you up from my dream-dust
and stitch you to my sole like a lost boys shadow
let me find you in my reality
tip-toeing over an underlined paragraph
of a beer stained paper-back
i'll find you
someday
after a long-over-due nights sleep
perhaps in the guitar strings
or type-writer keys
or at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey in the ever-humming freezer
be mine
evasive valentine
i'll even let you hide in the curls of my hair
or under my fingernails
i'll keep you
if you'll let me
just don't forget me
come sun-up
when you gallup away
from my sub-conscious escape
take my heart-rate with you
tucked into your breast-pocket
like a floral handkercheif
or a photogaraph taped to the dash
come back
to the grey matter kingdom
tucked behind my eyelashes
i'll meet you in the idiosyncrasies of my synapses
writing love stories that never once happened
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 12:56 PM UTC
When the world will come to a halt
And words will be frozen within
Feelings halted in dark corridors
Emotions buried in piles of debris
World will be shocked to react
Humanity will be jolted to numbness
These idiosyncrasies’ will have no effect
No philosophy will be able to decipher
World will be shown the truth and futility
So much hurt, pain, wars and bloodshed
World will be scarred beyond recognition
As we hide behind political correctness
We have already marginalized humanity
From the deepest cosmic philosophies
We may have erred many times and still do
Lest we find ourselves orphaned one day
This abode will not be our shelter anymore
Left deserted, emptiness will reverberate
Opportunity lost, we have plundered it
Not much of a path is left for tired limbs
Our journey of futility and exasperation
Disconnected from the cosmic bonds
World will be a standstill, and time frozen
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC
See you in the synchronicities
...That's wishful thinking
Get to know my idiosyncrasies
There's something about the unexpected
That we always anticipate
Or how you always introduce yourself
Like I could forget your presence
It stuck with me
like the taste of your perfume
A savorous ghost
after you left the room
...Then my senses brought me back
To just a moment ago
Laced in your pheromones
When you left me trembling
Meet me on the astral plane
After we strip down to vibrations tonight
We'll build a world outside of our minds
A happenstance rendezvous
Your subconscious or mine?
We'll wake up on the shores
of Black Sandy Beaches
Where I vicariously hunted you my dear
through songs of another
Do you hear me in your headphones?
Passed the music
A subliminal soul
Telepathically delivering you the words
I cannot say to your face
...To the one that I write about.
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 4:51 PM UTC
It is in those broken moments we find ourselves,
Torn to pieces, with no explanation –
A dark crevasse molded to fit our shape,
Holding our deepest thoughts, encasing our forgotten spirit,
We tend to allow ourselves to be encompassed by this abyss –
Explaining to ourselves the need to dwell on the darkened past,
Swallowed by its projection of memories,
Sprayed upon the walls of our mind like murals –
An endless catacomb of images, seemingly permanent in their manifestation…
It is in those broken moments, that we find ourselves.
Seemingly unbearable days, leading to sleepless nights,
Dreading the thoughts that creep their way to our dreams –
Resting in an endless adaptation of our subconscious,
Playing out their roles, as if upon a Shakespearian stage…
Each thought, acting its part with tragic precision,
Layer upon layer, scene upon scene…
Reaching back to grasp our inception of reality –
Griping its contents, and strangling the ideas to exhaustion; gasping…
It was in those broken moments, that we found ourselves,
With a weighted world pressed firmly upon our chest,
The ebbing soil began to crumble –
Giving light to the somber path traversed…
Filling the now hollow crevasse with purpose and meaning,
Each memory defined by the silver lining expressed in love –
The fleeting darkness, swallowed by the over-whelming feeling of home…
Finding it in the simplicity of a kiss, and the certainty of an embrace,
It is here that we find ourselves,
In the intricate details and delicate idiosyncrasies –
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 7:21 AM UTC
'you're such a good girl'
beep beep beep
unfamiliar breathing, followed by
silence. my naked body is
alone on my bed sheets.
loneliness breaks my own hand and
morals for a way to get
off but i don't. i sit there and
conjure up sweet whisperings
of how i want you. tied up,
deep and hard and cold.
if i'm such a good girl, then
tell me. why do i wish my flesh
will melt away like the leaves?
masochistic idiosyncrasies
wrap my vanilla heart up in
a pretty little bow. your fingers
beg to scratch off my humanity;
they have to wait their turn.
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 1:34 PM UTC
Isn’t it strange
how in this brief exchange
of the creative impulse
we gain
a certain kind of intimacy
with each other
yet we never
smell each other
shake hands
breathe the same air
put up with personal idiosyncrasies
and off-putting voice inflections –
all the things our friends and loved ones have to.
Yet here we occupy hearts and minds
many of our friends and loves do not know
with such closeness, interiority, and connectedness.
What a strange and magnificent gift!
Oct 9, 2021
Oct 9, 2021 at 12:32 PM UTC
Crazy as a box of frogs they say
working hard night and day
drinking fast talking fast
idiosyncrasies his way
Where intellect meets madness
you will see there he resides
with his technology abound
that never leaves his side
He's a poet musician and killer
all wrapped up in one
crazy as a box of frogs
is that son of a gun
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 4:49 AM UTC
There is no better way
to do heavy lifting
than with a machine
or perform countless repetitive tasks
or manufacture microscopic objects
or handle toxic substances
or fly across an ocean
or accomplish a variety of
actions that humans
can't or won't do
And we rely on machines
to do what we tell them
when and where
and how and why
we decide
without fail
and without error
Machines outperform
humans for such purposes
and are more reliable,
consistent and
cost-effective as well
They do require maintenance
and spare parts
but nothing like health care
and benefits that humans demand
And they can be upgraded
or replaced without fear
of lawsuits or labor unions
or semiautomatic rifles and
sacks full of magazines
They are almost perfect
and better than humans
in many ways
But they can't laugh
or cry or sing
the way we do
they can't get angry
or sad or happy
or feel emotion
the way we do
they can't love
or break your heart
the way we do
and they can't
make you feel
the way you do
when you come home
from work and your
daughter comes
running to the door
shouting, "Daddy's home!!!!!!"
Not in a million years
So humans are actually
far better than machines
in the ways that matter
and the imperfections,
shortcomings, idiosyncrasies,
flaws in our character, mistakes
we make and an endless list
all prove that we are human
and capable of all these
things that machines
can't or won't do
And I am thankful
that I am not some
perfect, error free
switch-on-switch-off
low maintenance
obedient, emotionless
and highly repetitive
tool that strives
to be a machine
because I would rather
take pride in mistakes
I make and be human
especially when
I come home
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 1:03 PM UTC
mother problems
chicken pox
asked my aunt
she replied
shower my mother with love and care
after many tries
chicken pox
appointment to the end
of chicken pox
sent my mother a message that she wasn’t okay
drowsy drowsy
medicines
drowsy
shouts and screams
a clueless father
a I-dont-give-two-fucking-shits sister
exams over
results out
failed my favourite subject
HOW DID I FAIL LITERATURE
chicken pox doctor
misdiagnosis
then gave me wrong number of weeks to rest
choreography for bollywood
tamil folk
parents were showering ill concealed parental
concern
went to support
ran ran ran
confused and nervous
of the entire world hating me
i ran. ran. i ******* ran
wash the dishes
cooked **** - got scolded for not cooking
extremely pms-y father
why the ******* hell did that happen
cooked
messed up dishes
ate dinner outside
whole family sick
syf prac horrendous
out of breath
trying to run
dinner outside everyday
people who didnt listen
people who didnt care about the dance
time limit
one week before kanal
havent finished choreography
CHICKEN ****** POX
came back to school
parents being ***
whole family down with chicken pox
mother working her *** off
she doesnt want any help
dancing dancing dancing
mother’s talk about me trying to get away from dance
raffles diploma
performance
november performance
i couldnt dance
kicked out ruthlessly
kanal
five minutes before
a message no more such activities next year
marche dinner
screamed and screamed
out of breath
******* hole in my throat
ran ran ran ran ran
away from idiosyncrasies
raffles diploma
career choices
out of money
where did all the money go
where did all the money go
goals
fashion designer
parents : banker, scientist
work backwards from the goal
dance i want to dance
outings
2 days before
go on to khan academy
father only listens to himself
crushed bones
crushed ribcages
i cant breathe
still running
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 3:48 AM UTC
It's so terribly astonishing
How your every inch remains to me
(or at least the "you" you used to be),
When the more obvious idiosyncrasies
Of lovers lost more recently
Were forgotten almost immediately...
I can't recall my last love's fingers,
But yours? A perfect image.
I can't recall my last love's kiss,
Although yours was more timid.
I can't relive my last love's sighs,
But yours, still, how they sear!
An ever-widening distance between us lies,
Yet somehow you still feel near.
Is that distance, always our curséd blessing,
Why I still find myself my love confessing?
Or is there truth in the adage that made us wander-
Absence truly makes the heart grow fonder?
I'll seek not, nor deliver, an apology,
But how did you ever become so much a part of me?
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 4:22 PM UTC
Bohemian heart
Wanderlust and happy
Knows no boundaries
Idiosyncrasies that wins hearts
Spreading love and happiness
This world’s an oyster
For the wanderlust heart
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 7:46 AM UTC