"imitator" poems
I don't have pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis.
I'll stay away from Yellowstone.
If one's asthmatic in the Eifel region
You don't pronounce the "P."
This won't **** me.
I don't have COPD.
Everyone coughs in blue smoke.
My throaty itch won't **** me.
I won't constrict and choke.
I don't have an infectious disease,
Despite my personality.
I run for shelter in acid rain.
I drink water with ice cubes,
And spray my green out back.
As much as I hate to, I avoid rusty nails.
*** is safe... and at a distance.
Despite being repeatedly told to,
I never eat ****
The great imitator
Is a snivelling mime.
If I'm bitten, I recognize the marks.
The erupting of the ring of fire won't **** me,
but perhaps I was precocious
To drop the "P" in
Pneumonoultramicroscopicscilicovolcanoconiosis.
I haven't succumb to animal flues,
I stay clear from the bars.
I donate to the SPCA,
Bet on ponies or the odds of SARS.
I don't have meningitis.
I like lights and loud music.
If I get the night sweats,
I turn down my electric blanket.
I haven't the minor or greater pox,
I spurn comparisons.
According to the scoop and scope,
I ascend and descent C free.
But the time spent on Referrals
Might be the death of me.
I don't have botulism.
My smile still concaves down.
Curling convex above it,
A condescending frown.
I'm not a *****
I feel every poke and like.
My digits number twenty...
Twenty one.
My glasses are smudge free.
If anything I see too well.
Alcoholism can't **** me.
Alcohol can.
I haven't cardio entropy,
But I'd be remiss
To dismiss
The wise counsel Oz gave me:
"Hearts can never be made practical until they can be made unbreakable."
So true.
So true!
Anyway, none of the above will get me.
But, I do have what you have.
The young and grown.
The able and ill.
A hand.
A sweeping hand.
A second hand
Setting those infectious nonogerms
Like diamonds
In my Time-x.
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 11:51 AM UTC
The poet speaks on anything
thinking their words are fresh as spring,
logical as philosophy,
and tuned to nature’s harmony
Socrates reasoned that the voice
of poets was not one of choice,
but rather was much inspired
by gods touching minds with fire
The audience finds more meaning
in the mad poet's own ramblings
than the epileptic speaker
himself will ever dare ponder
They speak first on others behalf
as if they are the better half;
fancying themselves conqueror,
fisherman, a seer, and doctor
By what means are they qualified
to serve as humanity's guides?
How do the epics of Homer
make you more than imitator?
Cicero, Plato, Lucretius
Davinci, and Heraclitius:
Rare to find artist and scholar
in the wise true philosopher
Be wary of the charms of rhyme
and seduction of meter’s time
As these are well known to allure
common fools to charleton's words
Jun 1, 2019
Jun 1, 2019 at 5:27 PM UTC
*
Awaken refreshed, hush the alarm, time for another caper,
cuddle with the kitty, good morning, my fuzzy lil slayer!
Feed the furballs, cereal for me, start the coffee maker,
may be a good day today, at least it looks good on paper.
Drain the main, check the mirror, what-up my _playa_—
wait a sec, is it my self-hate, or am I a little greyer?
Inhale my morning nicotine with a sugary caffeine chaser,
hazelnut and doubt, mmm, that's my favorite flavor...
Brush and shave, step into the Hypothetical Argument Simulator,
hope follows soap down the drain—oh well—see ya later!
All dressed up, glance to verify the happiness imitator,
hold my chin up high, but only for the cologne sprayer.
Front door locked, start the car, on the lookout for hidden radar,
try to outrun the bitterness, traffic jam, wish this were single-player.
Make it to work in one piece, if just the outer layer,
brain boiling beneath, my good old trusty traitor.
*
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 4:36 PM UTC
Everything feels contrived… There are too many coincidences taking place.
Everything feels contrived. It gets boring very quickly, and feels like an imitator.
Everything feels contrived, as if he was following a recipe for success.
Everything feels contrived and designed to sell.
The bigger issue, however, is that everything feels contrived, maudlin and superficial.
Everything feels contrived and extremely forced in order to get people to play the game.
Everything feels contrived and obvious.
It’s difficult generating your own inspiration if you’re not used to doing it. I think kids have it the easiest. They can pick up and start a game of make-believe with the most complicated rules and ideas on the spot. Me? I have to work at it. Nothing feels natural anymore. Everything feels contrived and I end up walking away feeling old, tired and jaded.
Everything feels contrived and the laughs are forced.
Everything feels contrived, hollow even. Is this what happens when you look at emotions from outside the experience?
Everything feels contrived and artificial.
Everything feels contrived and second-guessed, and in the end, you end up with a relationship with your philosophy of what pleases the other person, not with the person themselves. Whereas if you simply speak your mind, you’ll get to know each other for who you are, not who you picture each other to be.
Everything feels contrived. It is only mildly fun.
Everything feels contrived and artificial. If you aren’t in a relationship, a pink and white army emerges to tell you that you **** at every turn.
Everything feels contrived and there is no incentive to finish the story, as you already know what happens.
It's increasingly difficult to care about what happens, given everything feels contrived.
Everything feels contrived and staged.
Everything feels contrived working towards the inevitable.
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 1:43 AM UTC
Sense of self-worth is something,
yet I don't know who I am
supposed to be,
Say something I could understand
and promise me to leave
me alone,
I don't understand why I have
no money and I am obsessed
with an image of someone
that I can never be,
I really want to write the
things I could never say and
I am affraid to say what I
want to write,
This is out of my dictionary
and the right words never
come and I lose the meaning
of it all,
I am an imitator and a
parrot,
my feelings frustrate me to no
end and precisely everyting
bothers me, to be honest,
what do I need to do when
I smile and grin at the
same time?
Something is horribly wrong
with me and I cannot make
sense of my surroundings,
this... this is what I
wanted to do! Yeah!! Oh, and
ontop of that, I'm somehow
consuming more than I
could chew;
there is nothing wrong with
me in a way and I
care about what happens when
I die,
Yes, I'm angry all the time
and it all starts from one simple
word that I did not understand
and it goes out to show that
I'm scared to be alone and
I do want to say so to someone
who cares,
life itself confuses me so there's
no point to even trying,
I lie and scream all the
time for no reason except when
I want to say something .. then
I keep quiet,
my mind is way too confusing
for people to understand so
there's no point in even trying
to speak,
the end is where I begin and
in the void I shall end!
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 5:54 AM UTC
Original thought is not knocking at my door. It seems there's very little original thought at all any more.
Put my brain back in storage up on the musty shelf. Seems everything I believe in is learned from someone else.
I just simply repeat back the things I've been taught. Year after year repeating thought after thought.
A collection of opinions, words of others that I spout. Seems the easy way, so I open my mouth and they fall out.
The politicians and teachers and experts and the news. Have radically systematically denied my freedom to choose.
Unwitting copycat and imitator who historically repeats himself. Without a genuine idea, put my brain back on the shelf.
Has everything I've learned and believe and everything I know, produced an unauthentic me, God help me if it's so.
A wealth of original ideas, that would be my kind of wealth. If not take what I've got and put my brain back on the shelf.
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 7:45 PM UTC
Some people think
That a poet is just an imitator of the truth
That if one writes of a dancing girl
Or a raindashed forest
Or a landscape bare
They are merely sating their wish to be these things
To be something more than a record keeper
An imitator.
I don't think so, for experience has taught me
That it is much more pleasant to think of being
Than to be.
Thank God I'm a poet.
With a pen in hand.
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC
driving past red
calming hues of blues and greens
nature's imitator, bleakly, but resilient
if I were the ant I would step on me, too
often I am, but disguised
cracks in the sidewalk are cracks in my exterior
I paint myself thin upon tree branches
I drip - drip with gravity's whim
blurry-eyed and sleep-deprived
glutton for existing as such
in my hands, crumbled, dry leaves
relish in the ending of acts
misguided attempts at steeping leaves
harvested during new moon
tranquility is unreached at current times
I am always sure to remind what's forgotten
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
Never cease to be an innovator
be a better thinker and good creator
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 2:55 PM UTC
in ref. to the supposed "unholy" trinity -
i can only clearly identify one member,
antonym of the holy spirit (alias of
a community, rather than a person,
as stated by Žižek - in his words, should
it be different, it would be a profanity) -
if that is the case, then the variation
of holy spirit is ascribed the title zeitgeist -
or: the spirit of the times - the 20th century's
example is filled with zeitgeists -
communist, nazis, hippies, punks, goths,
beats, squares, or 21st century's militant atheists
and Jihadists, Blairites...
as is evident, the zeitgeist is short lived -
it's naive in being easily influenced - but because
of its gullibility it's also brutal in not being
influenced for worth of establishing a religion -
it's "unholiness" is precisely the reason why
it's poly-adaptable - multi-faceted - unruly -
it changes very quickly and is never rock-like -
but because of its gullibility it's also brutal in
not being influenced to the point of permanence -
the fluctuations are numerous, and democratically so,
many people can attach themselves to the "unholy
spirit" at any time they want, without knowing
they're actually part of a congregation - and as soon
as a congregation is established, the zeitgeist
implodes and disappears - the congregation breaks up -
soon overpowered by the forces of imitation -
ah - now the second person of the "unholy" trinity -
the Imitator - the flawed first entry post-zeitgeist -
never reaching the zeitgeist's potential, this tsunami
wave lasts longer than the actual zeitgeist - it's
a variation of nostalgia - not a nostalgia of thinking back
but a nostalgia of trying to revive - resuscitate -
the assortment of vanity projects; now i'm either too
hangover or just know what i have to do today
before the Royal Opera House and Verdi's Nabucco -
a peasant is heading into town, peasant better iron
his shirt and trousers and look respectably urban.
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 8:52 AM UTC
I
Possesion/extension
Nightly woman instinct,
lend your guiding scent
to fierce winds/
combining
into poison,
deliver down
my mercy to the great shining
(seduction poetics,
unrestrained and visible like a crown
of death hanging proud
by my bedside, eager
to martyr oneself for fertility)
Cosmogonic dawn/blinking fire-wheels,
shallow, holy waters
receding as silken tides, awoke from idleness
Discarded silver haloes, thrown into the hallowed dirt to drench in mortal youth
Monarch eyes/careful
heart, sealed/felt lucidly
worried/cavernous and hidden/wild kingdom dancer
A proclaimed Fool.
Imitator, mutilator
clay creator/for pathless ambition
I sink further in sand
which lacks definition, it is careless
like myself
(take a trip to Angel river, where one longs to be freed from skeleton grins
& pagan bathtubs, pollinating one
with wivesblood)
II
Out of the fog to a
marriagebed & lambs head
mounted, awkwardly
backdropped to an altar of Furze &
disorientation-theatres draped in Neon
& excess
(where even the walls are unaware of their own Earthly position)
If I am the stone,
you are the water, carving
me closer to your desired
shape
to become an Outer, a cloud-catcher, liplurker, destined to Saturn worship
III
My zeal is an impatient grave & you assume the feral mother
whose flashflood voice draws me to rest
..Yet, I am willing. Carry my body
to your domain, feast kindly, until
paradise is all that remains of us both
Mar 8, 2018
Mar 8, 2018 at 4:41 AM UTC
Earth, help me
I am but lowly beggar man
And I dont know how to take cover
Not from rain or stinging cold
But from those just like me
Who walk above and right past me
Grounded to the same surface
But none seem to be any closer to me
I am silenced, cries heard only by tree and concrete
Help me, Earth, please
Sky, help me
I am but lowly beggar man
Man needs not the like of me
They chose my fate as such
Fallen and wounded
Prayers for fire in the skies
Drink is what I chose now
Since I can no longer slate my thirst from you
I will die by the cruel darkwood imitator
That men invented to betray you
Help me, Sky, please
Fire, help me
I am but lowly beggar man
And lanterns cant warm me
Scraps are my home and hearth
And that is no comfort for any
I long for your touch
But since outside is no longer my choice
Ill warm my insides with atomized flame
Beaker bottle and batch aid me in feeling and unfeeling you
Help me, Fire, please
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 12:59 AM UTC
Are you the dynamic person you said you are 4,000 years ago? With no intoxication the conversation’s a bore. The stakes aren't high enough. I’m conditioned by the narrative and we’re all pretentiously pedantic, spewing poison at the heroic romantics.
I've lost my coper’s cloak. I remember how I dropped the dry ones at the river bank, I cut off my imitator’s finger, and as I fell into the tiger’s pit, I grasped a strawberry to make me sweeter. I crowned the beast a hero, cause out of perfect tiger dharma he tore off the limb that led him from his prison. Yet, the human dharma is to save all beings from our reckless peering.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
Imitation is NOT
the best form of flattery
when the imitator
gets credit for the idea.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 12:53 PM UTC
I gaze into transparency
and behold is me
from which I cannot turn
In my palm I hold
-temptation-
bestowed to me at birth
I cannot open my hand to let it free
I grasp the imitator that is me
Someone push on the tendon
to release my grasp
or must I suffer to the bottom
my hand then dwell with me
Please take my hand-
make it white by red
Then I shall hold it
only to blacken it again
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 12:15 AM UTC
i
Exquisite animation, the tubes channel of hereafter is dim at first
This foundation of earth was just a passing through to showeth love, as I've met good being's, I've seen material and unearthly things, I've felt the kiss of death, I've seen prison cells of thugs.
ii
I've seen popes, president's, crip's and blood's, I've seen Devil's of hate, I've witnessed lover's and their fate, I've tasted iron in mine mouth, from the health issues to me I've met, I've seen ruler's get greedy, killing children as a bet, I've payed mine dues and rent.
iii
I've shown kindness to other's, I've helped sisters and brother's, I've given all to help another, as the giving of oneself is the ultimate love of ourn creator, I've seen crying and imitator's, I've seen holy and devilish behavior, as minkind hath forgotten bliss.
iv
I've seen war on t.v, I've seen Hope's made to reality, I've seen young one's die of starvation and poisoned, I've seen sanctuary of glee turned poluted, I've seen soldier's suited and booted with the media and secret societies back their war, for lies to thee allured.
v
Though through all this nonsense I've seen, I'm at peace on the water's of the hellion scream's, for tis I feeleth serene in this stepping stone stop, the drab funnel I'll enter, when this heart stops, though I shalt seeith the light, and taketh a flight to God..
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
it's ready to happen
hours count down to launch, but the burners hum already
the structure is taken up
siphons slowly into the bloodstream
the catalyst, the moment
the agonist, the imitator
the perceptual set is set, and it's famished
not even lit, and it's waiting for more-
the stimulant, the ignition
the doctor, the system
like inlets of blood, the freeways carry us to the city
like carcinogens, like poison medication
like aluminum, like exhaust
i too am carried
and when i reach that center
i am deposited, and begin to take effect
while i wait for my own poison to take hold of me
blood within Blood
and
poison in Poison
medication in Medication in MEDICATION
we make sure all of our cancers are medicated
it has happened already
but i am waiting for it to happen again
the freeway now quiets itself in anticipation
a new day to repeat
the city is ready for more
Aug 16, 2019
Aug 16, 2019 at 1:16 PM UTC
P. Why must you waste your time with petty quarrels
just to hold up with hollow pride, your worthless laurels?
Arrogant in faith, and blind in sin.
Virtue without an hatred within.
Your youthfulness is bold, but equally unlearned.
Love you've never possessed, and only ever yearned.
Tell me now, tell me how you are the fix?
Show me that you are more than a sad bag of tricks.
C. Shut it ya ****
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 11:44 AM UTC
In the quitest corner of her bedroom
A woman stares back at the mirror
Wearing the latest dark lipstick on trend
With her near perfection sharp arced eyebrows
And her three inched high heels,
She stood there amazed yet unsatisfied
Not only on her outer being but also for her soul,
Even with all the planned efforts she made;
Regardless the sleepless nights of pure thinking;
Imagining possible outcomes for her definition of beauty
Unsatisfied she started to flip from pages to pages
Of magazines of models and celebrities in their best glamour
She imagined herself in those shoes and glamorous dresses
Gradually she added jewelry unto her bare skin
And painted her pale face with pink blush and mascara
She became a silent imitator, a copycat in other people's dictionary;
An imitation derived from the motivation for beauty
She saw upon the perfect photograph of a photoshopped model on the front page;
She have become so focus to others à la mode fashion
She failed to remember her own creative manners of beauty
This goes on and on and on, it felt like forever;
Then the once creative young lady became just like everyone else
Up to date with the latest beauty trends;
Just like everyone, it inevitably sugar coats her insecurities aside
And progressively concealing her own uniqueness.
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 6:41 AM UTC
My depression lashes out in his rage;
My body wears the scars of my brain.
He grows like ivy round my rib cage
He exists in all I write, every refrain
My body cradles him like a mere child,
Nurturing him 'til he beats me for strength.
I teach him to poison every smile
He tells me that all of my hatred makes sense
He tells me I'm unwanted, unloved
There's a teardrop every time that I blink
And his signature on my arm in blood
I can't be me, he won't let me think
He will taunt me until my dying breath
For the best imitator of life is death
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 4:55 AM UTC
Fire. The devourer. The dictator.
Earth. The cosmic carpet. The shapeshifter.
Water. The liquid of many guises. The Unyielding.
Air. The neighbor. The stranger. The infiltrator.
Space. The habitat of substance. The Ultimate void.
And then poetry, the masterpiece of Thought.
The Great Imitator.
May 28, 2019
May 28, 2019 at 6:35 PM UTC
stick bug hiding
in the tree of life
shaking and
mimicking wind
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC