"idiosyncrasy" poems
idiosyncrasy is synonymous with idiotic
while dc is now despotic and chaotic.
personality is peculiar, exotic.
sinful to be ****** or
slip yourself a narcotic.
the world is robotic,
i am astronautic,
i am quixotic,
the smoke is hypnotic,
and i find all of this quite strange.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
If you know low life and royalty
If you know how both of these work
If you have experienced both enough
You are blessed. You are blessed.
If you learn selfishness and also know selflessness
If you know which one to practice
If you know to see everything as an event
You are blessed. You are blessed.
If you can stay with the crowd.
And practice their idiosyncrasy
And if you still be yourself
You are blessed. You are blessed.
If you mingle with the crowd.
At the same time, stand out,
If you know to keep virtue while;
Being non-virtuous then,
You are blessed you are blessed.
If you practice all traits of men
And if that doesn't affect your self
If you still are unaltered
You are blessed, you are blessed.
If you know the fine line
Which separates habit from addiction
If you can manage to he safe
You are blessed you are blessed.
-The Silent Poet
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 8:32 AM UTC
You reasonless hate me in manner devoid of vogue,
Coz you are threatened by my skin color,
Utterly refusing to appreciate my melanin humanity
Your faith lulls you that I am a Tarzan,
Dwindling away from humanity,
My poetry to you is only bombshell
Of dangerously vulpine civilization,
You solace yourself in your miss-audience to me,
Wistful in your hearty that your detest for me
Will become a force enough to counter my being,
You are very wrong my brother,
Goofing in full measure of your idiosyncrasy
In its present grammar of dance banquet,
I only pity you as none will ever be able to heal you
To free you from your silly bug of desperate racism.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 10:22 AM UTC
I'm the black sheep
I'm the outcast
And I'm the reason people don't come over to the house
I kick and I buck
I don't fall in line
Nothing I do is good enough for this family of mine
I once blended in
But then I got rejected
Slowly turning my life
In a different direction
I am the black sheep of my family of seven
I'm unique
Special
Distinctively Distinct
I am the peculiar one
The unusual one
The idiosyncrasy of the group
I am the daughter that can not be accepted
So I live in rejection
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 2:29 PM UTC
she fell in love
with a subterfuge
of a human,
manipulating words
into timely and
recurring emotions.
turning smiles
into idiosyncrasy
and crying into yore.
Act One
he started off easy,
with the tip of a hat
and a sly smile so thin
you'd walk a tight rope across it
Act Two
he had a way with words
that swept you
off your feet
without fail nor hesitation.
twisting love into lust,
and happiness into heartbreak,
and there's nothing
you could do to stop it
Act Three
as the final act prevailed,
he left with a surprise.
playing with her
heart strings like
a talented guitarist.
a song so beautiful
she seemed to dance
little did she know, she was dancing on strings
Prelude
as you see,
that was his trick.
turning a girl into a puppet
helplessly relying on
the strings she was
suspended upon
so if i may, i bid you with this,
never trust a magician
because a magician
never reveals his
secret, nor his
tricks
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 3:18 PM UTC
My god, your beauty is bright
I can see the halo radiating
though the clouds at night
my heart hastily pulsating
whenever we're in the same room
my eyes only gravitate towards you
I recognize that lovely ambrosial perfume
when you glance, my cheeks take a different hue
I have immortalized you through my poems
but I rather spend this mortal life
basking in your lissome arms
a drop of you cures all my strife
I want you in the flesh instead of dreams
but any thought of you is okay by me
look how the moon thinly beams
highlighting my idiosyncrasy
You move my pen, dear
and you don't even know it
to you I owe this writing career
and I am scared that I might blow it
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 2:43 PM UTC
Bare naked ladies and Lenin following an age of Aquarius idiosyncrasy
shitshow
I don't want to know no white album
I'm working my way towards the black album
Cause Alicia Keys can resonate in many keys ...
... Says Dylan in his Chonicles
--> my authenticity lies in the between
620 nm or is it 770 nm
Whatever, it's a sliding scale, a slippery slope, is what I use to shed my skin
Follow the pheromones, or the Ramones, says Bono and the Edge
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC
I want you…
I want you instinctually and primitively.
Spiritually and physically.
I want to give you portions of me that I’ve never shown anybody; that will become distinctively yours - recognizable only to you and you alone.
I want to submerge you in a realm of ******** gentleness that perpetuates an aggressive kindness, that stimulates, and soothes every aching, yearning, desire that flows through your body.
Continuously…
I’m telling you what you already knew, that I will always be there for you, and you will never again feel alone or abandoned.
I want to give you complete and total satisfaction.
I want you and every little idiosyncrasy that makes you unique, that others have critiqued, because they didn’t understand.
I want to show you that I can…
I want to dwell in the depths of your being. I want to unravel your complexity.
I want to give you vibrations in the form of a currant that arouses sensationally, at a frequency that makes you hum melodies of ecstasy uncontrollably as you call out for me.
I want to initiate an explosion of soft convulsions from the warmth of my mouth penetrating every inch of your body rhythmically.
I want the waters from the spring of your masculinity to drown me, and then I want you to save me.
I want to embrace you each night and wrap you in between soft warm thighs, and welcoming arms under moonlight, until your torso is wet, drenched with sweat, until each kiss drips from the tip of your lips, and I caress your back with my fingertips.
I want to make love to you the way an angel would if she could.
I want to show you heaven and ethereal visions without limita-tions or specifications.
I want to give you happiness and pleasure unparallel, unlike any-thing either of us has ever felt, seen, or could create in our dreams.
I want to protect you from harm beneath my wings. I want you to believe in me…
I want you to come into my life.
Sep 1, 2010
Sep 1, 2010 at 7:21 PM UTC
my heart pounds
my butterflies rocket to the sky
my hormones are heightened
my throat constricts
how is it that i feel everything at once
delight.
contentment.
infatuation.
it feels surreal,
and it's all because of him.
the epitome of human art
i'm intrigued by every aspect,
every idiosyncrasy,
every flaw.
i want to be consumed by every part of him, to the brim.
i want to inhale the peace and serenity he brings,
i want to swallow his touch,
and never regurgitate,
i want to believe in the hope he's awakened in me.
i want, i want, i want.
but i fear.
fear the potential heartbreak,
the loss of excitement if he disappears,
i fear the depth of my emotions,
the abyss of "love" i always lurk on the edges of so idly
is it worth it?
to put all this power in his hands.
and in return,
shower him with the love my heart swells, threatening to burst, with,
and for once.
just once,
feel it back.
-v.la
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 1:07 AM UTC
Grandiose and lofty it may seem
Nevertheless it’s a thought that captures
A dream I consider supreme
It triggers a spontaneous feeling of rapture
Whenever it crosses my mind.
It’s that a lawless society is an empowered society
The premise being that life is kind
Lending credence to society imposed piety.
As succinct as it is,
It sums up my simple idiosyncrasy as me
It’ll be a paradigm shift that’ll put my mind at ease
And fill my heart with glee.
The existing realities are grim
Stupefying for lack of a better word.
Andy Bryn.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 2:00 AM UTC
his fluid being mimics that of cigarettes;
death chopped up and rolled
into a curious little thing
i could hold him in my hands
but that is a mere only;
his wonderment insufficient
my soul too mammoth
my lips crave the grim reaper's touch
my skin detests the flawlessness of
staged idiosyncrasy
this world has seen enough
of those
you yell misanthrope,
but you do not understand
i seek
the intertwining of
precariousity
intimacy marked by fluttering thumbs
tracing specks of golden
on his cheeks
galaxies splashed across the
bridge of his nose
he is everything i yearn
yet;
everything i cannot be
he is my exotic morns
and my sunday siesta
fingertips outline
connect-the-dot maps
i could only ever get lost in
freckles.
like a lacklustre silence
the end of sentences pinpointing areas
chipped fingernails have lusted to memorise
you only crave what you know cannot be.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC
I am a poet in love and you are immortal.
I savour how you smile at death,
And slip out of my coffin to please another in the darkness,
Like a child running from his mother’s lies.
I have imagined you next to me every night
That it does feel real.
You come as insomnia
As an old idiosyncrasy
As a drug
As the fire-maker;
Smouldering me till the moon feels weary;
Only to return on another night
To never kiss my scars
But to stone fresh blood spores in them,
To let the pain breathe inside.
You stand at the edge of my bed each night
To run your fingers on my body like a needle,
To ****** me with your carnality,
To drench your teeth in my blood like a digger in sand.
So, each night between the poles of nothing and everything
I unmake my bed
Stained with unfinished songs and pillows burnt
To let you in my heart shaped coffin
Because you are the fuel to this stick that runs between my fingers and writes for you.
So, come again tonight,
I’ll whisper you a death song.
You can laugh at death one more time,
And resurrect me with your rejection.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 11:49 PM UTC
If I could but learn to discard a wounded piece of self
If I could part with the beautiful symmetry
Of the cogs, driving forth the machinations,
Churning with their white noise, that
Turn to shape maiming thoughts
Then I might one night close my eyes,
Not to images of words bound by self-deriding connotation,
Comprised of typos and back-strokes
But to a peaceful blackness
Yes, I might lie down, close my eyes
Out of a will for rest, not contrived
But organic and my own
And so I know this as my waking dream
Relegated to wake for the night has been
Deemed the world of painful perfection
A place where protection is offered
With a backward hand, carefully made
Patron to the lovely polished mental instruments
Used to bludgeon simplicity and idiosyncrasy
Used to leverage pressure on the scales of the heart
So to tip downward the side of known cyclic indifference
And lift upward toward heightened neglect
The side of pleasure, the side of silenced retrospect
I grow, each sleepless evening, more fearful
That the ugly, backward hand might never forgo its leverage
And, if life is a wellspring of knowledge
Feeding into a stream of lessons
Then my strife stems from reading of the
Same page in the same chapter of the same textbook
A book filled with words bound by self-deriding connotation,
Comprised of typos and back-strokes
On this page, one learns a fundamental formula
It derives the relative weights of who we are
And the happiness we might find
Through some convoluted tale of misfortune
My page was written by an ugly, backward man
So, through unsagely studies, I’ve concluded
That the art of well defined reprimanding thought
Does outweigh in its beauty, the unseen hope
Of a future left to whim and bliss, or perhaps
The simple elegance of chance, goodness unsought
So, for the first time in my life, I seek to unlearn
I seek to roll back the defining lines that once flowed
From the pen in a backward hand that yearned to sow structure
But the vaulted walls that hold the scales of one’s will
Are so dauntingly difficult to unbuild or puncture
This, truly, is the weight that each sleepless night
Bares down upon my sleepless heart, so heavy
If I cannot pull exacting, formulaic pages from my sight
I fear the only peaceful blackness I will find
Is one against no patron hand can levy.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 5:14 PM UTC
Organelles, cells, tissues, organs shape my body
My soul, my brain, my heart, my identity
A living mass and a concept ineluctably associated
Without necessarily working adequately together
To build something close to a character
That is, by some, tolerated, by a few, appreciated
Never reaching any sort of unanimity
Leaving the volume of possible interpretations as plenty
Context strictly guides aspects of my behavior
Adding an extra ‘s’ to my idiosyncrasy that primarily seems out of place
When being singular is often what wins the race
Launched by our most ancient ancestor
Am I one or plural?
Do I have one personality or several?
Am I what I think or what I do?
What others see or what I expose?
An ignorant mind with a decent prose
Or a curious man who has no clue?
Asking a question is to get closer to an answer
That might emerge in a distant future
In the meantime, I try to be and do good
To put my loved ones in the best possible mood
Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I fail
But my stubborn intention will always prevail
Aug 22, 2021
Aug 22, 2021 at 6:04 AM UTC
because i always notice
the little changes in
my twos and capital As,
the slant replacing a
deceptive curve in the
final letter of my name,
the necessary angles
and perpendicular
attitude of my things,
seeking control in
unconventional
places, because i
can't seem to get
a firm handle on
anything else.
incomplete people
with little habits
of a partner
to smooth out
their edges and
fill in their flaws
are luckier than
those who have
to do it themselves.
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 3:11 AM UTC
Poets make lousy friends because eventually they’ll skewer you with their poison pen; their insulting writ of relentless invective and opprobrious apoplectic venom. The naked foist of un-allayed aggression as art-form whereby the vitriol of familiarity slices like a knife and digs in like a dagger. The very nature of chumminess turns adversarial. Like acid in the eyes the sneering contemptible retch could cobble out words with a disgustingly exquisite though execrable precision. A quirk, an idiosyncrasy, a malevolent adherence so committed to unmitigated truth that it is as a fist to the face, a shocking starkness of incivility justified by a requisite expedience hastened by the anxious need to blow one off forthwith. He was a veritable torrent of abject invectives.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
You can say you know me
Every little idiosyncrasy, habit and ritual
That you see me do
You can say you know me
Based on the demographic
Of the people I am with
You can say you know me
Because you have watched me cry
And heard me yell in anger
You can say you know me
Because you gave birth to me
Because you created my existence
But until you can say
"I held you rocked you fed you,
sang to you hugged you loved you"
Then you will never know me
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 9:01 PM UTC
I'm trying to speak, with sealed lips.
What rolls off of the tongue, seems to stop at my teeth.
Vibrations in the throat, will never be heard; Only felt.
So I smile.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 2:25 PM UTC
There once was fellow
Of whom I was rather fond,
But there was such an idiosyncrasy,
That he cheerfully donned.
It was adding this boy was drawn to,
But not just numbers,
Such as two plus two,
But syllables, like bill·a·bles.
His lips would murmur
As mine would speak,
But I'd stand attentive,
Tongue in cheek.
Every syllable I would say
Would be counted
In every single way.
"Could I have a glass of water?"
"That one was eight"
"Come on," I said
"You're ruining our date."
I grew weary of having
To deal with
The incessant word adding;
And so I decided the thing to do,
Was to take it up
With my obnoxious beau.
"What is it with the counting and computing of all my confab
It's neither dashing nor is it longer dazzling
In fact, It has turned to be rather drab."
His face contorted to the most cruel of expressions,
As his mouth went to conference one of its many confessions:
"You know babe,
Well first order is first,
That was thirty-six,
And nervously dispersed.
And secondly I must say,
When it comes to alliteration,
You tend to get a bit carried away."
"That's preposterous!" I plustered, providently provoked,
I do not choose clusters of complementary chords,
To do so would make me choke!"
As these words left my mouth as I spoke,
My beloved's face grew rather amused,
And my face flushed a fluorescent fuchsia,
When I realized his reckoned ruse.
And so it may seem that the other
May be wrapped up in some insidious blunder,
Yet please do consider,
That you yourself can be guilty of some other habit,
In which you do plunder.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 11:13 PM UTC
Some poets make lousy friends
they'll eventually skewer you with their poison pen
their insulting writ of relentless nasty venom
like some twisted performance-art-form
naked foist of un-allayed aggression
the dilettante's vitriol of familiarity slices like a knife
the very nature of chumminess segues into adversity
a quirk, an idiosyncrasy, a malevolent adherence
so affixed are poets to the unmitigated truth that it is as a fist to the face
a horrendous starkness of civility
justified by a requisite needy urgency of expedience
contemptuousness brought on by an anxious desire to blow you off -ASAP
they'll turn on you like a feral cat
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 12:17 AM UTC
How Beautiful it is, this Gift of Life!
The Gift To Be!
The Irony is.. it is what you Perceive.
How Vast your Ontology.
Idiosyncrasy shows you,
what you know either Flows you,
or Stills your Will to Grow.
To be Happy is a choice!
To be ignorant in an Age of Information, or to have a Voice?
The Absurdity is--
Our Transcendent Consciousness is within an Immense Majority of Reality.
We are but a small Human Form; a speck in Space and Time.
Each Chain of Action holds many Justifications, and We are the Authority.
If there is no Reason to Believe that Anything Matters.
Then the Opposite must be true.
There is Reason to Believe that Everything Matters.
That is the Irony:
We, as Conscious Beings Knowing!!
- Yet only Knowing that which we want to fit into our Epistemology and Ontology.
Perception: We See and Do only what our Self Allows us.
The Collision of Reality and Perception within us, is like Chains Binding us.
Yet, we hold the Key to our Freedom..
"All of a Sudden I said, 'Could you Believe!?'"
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
It is as if every word I utter
I stutter as I rethink
to avoid their words
of a terrible idiosyncrasy
hollering profanities
and shame towards me
for the wits presented
to them for only glee
Their disproportionate
lines of reality burns them—
like the termites that feed
on the heart of a tree—
How could I fathom
their blatancy
in having such an
aversion towards me?
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 10:11 PM UTC
I only know the ideal idiocracy,
So I am an unrealistic man.
Syncracy is an offensive for me,
So I am an orthodox pig..
I know not what idiosyncrasy is like,
Not in a relationship...
Please read the note before making any comments.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 1:22 AM UTC
Holding hands with my shadow
the source becomes apparent
as subtle nuances conglomerate,
the boundaries between them dissolve
my awareness begins to loosen
its grip on self-inflicted illusions
making room for
-- This Very Moment --
the culmination of pulsating particles
subjectively self-willed . . .
The difficulty becomes
A source of ease as
perspectives adjust
the dust settles
& the inherent perfection
of each idiosyncrasy
dulls the duality of
my self-conception
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 2:37 AM UTC