"inappropriately" poems
Long before she was born
The balance, the societal scale,
The ground upon which her wobbly feet
Will learn to stand upright and walk steady
Had been socially disintegrated.
Arms with which her clay mind
Is to be molded and framed
Had been morally fractured.
The ‘responsible majority'
Saddled with the making of serious decisions
Had decided against her-
The minor, with fewer rights
And a body like hers-
Double jeopardy, I will say.
The verdict always the same,
Unanimous more often than not
Guilty!! Is the girl child;
If she grows too fast
Or he touches her inappropriately.
So she learns from her early days
The skill of helplessness
All through the pain and the shame
For it is always her fault
Always has been
Long before she arrived
©Belema .S. Ekine
Oct 13, 2017
Oct 13, 2017 at 7:07 AM UTC
What I'm imagining isn't considered pretty
You don't want to know where you're sitting
What I'm imagining isn't considered pleasant
We're inappropriately using a pheasant
What I'm imagining doesn't go with God
And is laughed at because it's odd
Into my life they peer
Trying to insert fear
My owl head on a swivel
My rabbit ears perked
When people don't act civil
And decency is shirked
I needed answers
For my cancer
I find them in love and pain
They both seem the same
I begin to view the rain
As a type of gain
Everyone knows love's scorn
Which leaves me torn
I can't help but feel my situation differs
Something about the rejection seems stiffer
So I become a shapeshifter
To avoid the hate gifters
To avoid bearing the shame
Of being called names
I know other people have it worse
Sometimes that feels like a curse
I can't gauge the importance of major events
In my life
I don't know whether to think they're intense
Or just right
Maybe I'm just being dramatic
But these instances aren't sporadic
When those that I love
Push and shove
I start to wonder if I'm broken or stained
Until I realize we're all burnt by love's flames
We all have a path to travel
And they're all made of gravel
Our feet become sore
Which affects our core
We find people below us on the totem pole
To know how it feels to treat someone cold
For when our enthusiasm for love has faded
It's easy to become jaded
There are things we're ashamed of
That morph us into something unrecognizable
In which we should be truly ashamed
In the mirror we look the same
But our actions are toxic
We become radioactive
We see where our stock sits
And become merely reactive
And it's hard to find grace
After being punched in the face
But one must remember punches come in all forms
And we must not punch back to survive the storm
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 5:42 AM UTC
Lays of Mystery,
Imagination, and Humor
Number 1
I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls,
And each damp thing that creeps and crawls
Went wobble-wobble on the walls.
Faint odours of departed cheese,
Blown on the dank, unwholesome breeze,
Awoke the never ending sneeze.
Strange pictures decked the arras drear,
Strange characters of woe and fear,
The humbugs of the social sphere.
One showed a vain and noisy ****
That shouted empty words and big
At him that nodded in a wig.
And one, a dotard grim and gray,
Who wasteth childhood's happy day
In work more profitless than play.
Whose icy breast no pity warms,
Whose little victims sit in swarms,
And slowly sob on lower forms.
And one, a green thyme-honoured Bank,
Where flowers are growing wild and rank,
Like weeds that fringe a poisoned tank.
All birds of evil omen there
Flood with rich Notes the tainted air,
The witless wanderer to snare.
The fatal Notes neglected fall,
No creature heeds the treacherous call,
For all those goodly Strawn Baits Pall.
The wandering phantom broke and fled,
Straightway I saw within my head
A vision of a ghostly bed,
Where lay two worn decrepit men,
The fictions of a lawyer's pen,
Who never more might breathe again.
The serving-man of Richard Roe
Wept, inarticulate with woe:
She wept, that waiting on John Doe.
"Oh rouse", I urged, "the waning sense
With tales of tangled evidence,
Of suit, demurrer, and defence."
"Vain", she replied, "such mockeries:
For morbid fancies, such as these,
No suits can suit, no plea can please."
And bending o'er that man of straw,
She cried in grief and sudden awe,
Not inappropriately, "Law!"
The well-remembered voice he knew,
He smiled, he faintly muttered "Sue!"
(Her very name was legal too.)
The night was fled, the dawn was nigh:
A hurricane went raving by,
And swept the Vision from mine eye.
Vanished that dim and ghostly bed,
(The hangings, tape; the tape was red happy
'Tis o'er, and Doe and Roe are dead!
Oh, yet my spirit inly crawls,
What time it shudderingly recalls
That horrid dream of marble halls!
5.5k
you insisted that i write my number down on the blank part of a mix tape...you used to slam down a beer like some kind of super hero...saw myself in your eyes and made sounds only you could hear...you'd press your lips into my forehead so fiercely it hurt; leading us deep into your distortions...
witnessed you spilling your soul into empty barrooms where last call came well before midnight...there wasn't any room in there for me...I made forfeit everything to stand in your arms; and how it lost me all I wanted...
I spread my palms wide across your ribs...curled my fingers tightly toward your spine and believed that you loved me...you turned on me and my wit...so you left me...I wanted to clumsily strew myself on your pillows and press my hand on your thigh, kiss your neck and giggle at your sarcasm...you convinced me that the flood of my insecurities drove you away, that i was the author of our demise...
we collide rarely...your eyes are always tired...you've built the Berlin wall around your heart...you have become a testament to the passage of time because I know I will not remember being the same...
you inappropriately love me but will never trust me...
you stand me in your arms, and it is like coming home after so many years abroad; we never will hold each other this way again...
our Rome became graffiti on my bedroom wall...
this undertow of wordshed always reminding me that I am not lost but I am not home...
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
This was written a few Septembers ago. Walking on the streets of a now deserted beach island, only the leaves, in various states, to keep me company.
September,
walk with me,
under bridges of wedding tree canopies,
still green aplenty,
tho subtle marked for change,
making summer illusions,
environmentally unsustainable.
September,
stroll on pathways
of lesser, off the track, shaded lanes,
the sun blocker trees wear new necklaces,
brown and yellow diamonds,
a coming attraction of
their denouement,
their denudement.
The September trees are:
Ever so slightly stooped,
bent with weight of a surety,
knowing with high certainty,
their future, bleak,
bowed and drooped,
discouraged by the
cold travails soon to arrive.
Living in the recent past,
I am dressed inappropriately,
white tee and shorts,
past pretender,
still dressed in my
Gap issue summer uniform,
summer suspended animation.
Island streets are de-humanized,
gone home are the children,
newly fallen leaves have,
their place, taken.
The leaves are:
magically organized along
the sidelines of empty streets,
quiet stadiums of would be
kid's touch football fields.
browned, crisp and soulless,
first greet this solitary stroller,
like a cheering throng of ghosts,
celebrating a sighting -
man, as a seasonal fossil,
one that still is living
and worth reminding, yet
human too shall pass when
his fall arrives.
the leave's cheers make over
into jeers and mocking laughs:
Oh humans, they say,
your summer songs naive,
mais tres charmant.
On Crescent Beach,
the driftwood sadly forlorn,
looking more adrift than ever,
for no one passes to express
admiration at the past seasons
Nouveau Expressionism,
an objet d'art lonely,
for the beach gallery shuttered,
raising questions existential.
Is driftwood on the beach sans
human admiration,
art, truth or refuse?
I am looking backwards as the
Earth moves forward.
My own axis, my eyes,
conscientious objectors
refuse to be pressed
into service of the seasons.
No, no,
to involuntary servitude,
to rotation and revolution.
Nature's witnesses,
trees and leaves write
their own poem,
of foolish men who:
Bow and droop,
discouraged by the
travails soon to arrive,
Delaying their own fall,
finally shed summer delusions
like leaves upon the ground,
summer poetry silenced,
summer suspended, no more.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 8:06 AM UTC
I leafed through the DSM this morning
diagnosing every ******* person in my life
incessent character flaws,
maladaptive responses
that ache in my mind,
and shatter my "normal"
expectancies of human behavior
In all of the descriptors
"has a strong desire to be the center of attention"
"is often inappropriately provocative or sexually seductive"
"Exhibits odd or eccentrive appearance/behavior"
"Seeks excitement and stiumulation, often acting on impulse"
the only person I could really diagnose
was me your therapist
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 4:29 PM UTC
there will be no love poetry today
Sabbath cancelled
there will be the will to love
and there will be poetry
someplace
but not here, not today
the load bearing suspension
of belief
beyond busted
the mind
no mas
busted
one killing too many
love poetry seems inappropriately fruitless
there will love
and there will be poetry
somewhere
but not here
more than pointless,
sacrilegious,
human sacrifice ruthless,
a ****** sacrilege
the world profaned and the blood spilling
is in everything and everywhere
and has driven the love poetry out of this person
maybe tomorrow
may it be tomorrow, we will pass a twenty four
news cycle
with the bombs gone quiet
the innocents surviving
and the god spark burner inside me will
relight on its own
but not today not here not me
there will be
no love poetry
and this
this not a poem
<>
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 9:06 AM UTC
Controversy started over the images this device receives. Hormones control this impulse, she's making each ***** convulse, and I can tell I'm still in love by the palpitations of my pulse.
Thus, proving that her actions indicate the prequel to her return. Her affection distant but still yearn, expressing sentiments, guess I'll never learn, spoken without biting my tongue
and now it's your turn.
Conquer hearts and take over,
**** her off when I'm not sober,
**** her off when thoughts become somber, **** her off when I say I won't be here much longer, **** her off for many reasons, **** her off once during every season and **** her off the most when in myself I stop believing.
Her perfection an extension of accessible recollection, to the woman who despises the notion of wearing articles of clothing.
Not the best at displaying her emotions, so in combination the words she's chosen seem broken, unable to withhold the growth of sentiments cut at the root, and as they now reproduce, sunflowers inhabit her garden and all the revelations of truth.
Lapse of time passes, lasting longer
than activities that involved
me being on her.
Inappropriately timing events perfectly.
Summer seems to have visited me in the fall, her memories now more than ever I recall and wishing I wasn't missing the woman who had it all.
Concluding it's a blessing, for continuing to have your presence present, writing by only depending on your recollection, and since poetry is my obsession, make new memories with me as I practice the act of ceding back to a former possessor, definition of recession.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 7:10 PM UTC
if you saw him on the street
you wouldn't glance twice
because he does not look extraordinary
and he does not make your heart
skip a beat
but
when you listen to the wonderful, tinkling sound
of his laughter
and his inexcusable, almost inappropriately funny remarks
and when you happen to be lucky enough
to catch him smiling when no one is watching; he makes
your head spin
he is not the most beautiful to the rest of the world
and his eyes do not compare to the brightest of stars, his
hair is not an ocean-type mess and his freckles are not like grains of sand
instead his eyes are like like warm hot chocolate when
you are barely awake and are trying to get through the day, his hair is the
disaster that you can't help but be captivated by and his freckles are like carefully placed light orange dots that seem to connect in a way
I do not see him on the street anymore--
and that is the reason that I no longer
drink hot chocolate and why I hate the color orange
because god, he was not the most beautiful boy in the world
and he wouldn't make a stranger's heart beat twice
but he made mine
and in the end,
that was all that really mattered
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 7:51 PM UTC
*His eyes rivet on the extravagant evening sun,
in frenzied creation, profusely mixing colors,
applying on the canvas of the horizon,
painting her, his lover with astonishing precision,
--portrait of a girl in love
unmindful of what the world thinks about her
and in total dedication to her man.
Love makes larger than life heroes out of weak mortals,
and creates echoes on the far horizons that keep on reverberating!
She sits quietly holding his hands as if it is all she needs
never thinking, it is obvious, whether this is a fallacy or ultimate truth,
that holds good for all the changing seasons.
With her long chiseled fingers she draws
something beautiful, a motif that emerged in her mind,
in front of them, the seascape, was a lively cyclorama
framed by bright ultramarine.
Like eels just out of water, their bodies gleaming,
bikini clad glam girls, beach soldiers spearheading
an undeclared beauty attack,
on the look out for hidden challenges
while walking past the love pair,
each one stands awhile, scrutinizing her thoroughly
measuring with a scale, hidden in those eyes,
as if she was a **** on parade, even women couldn't help covet.
Though inappropriately dressed, for the beachfront appearance,
she invites more attention, she is amused.
But after a tumultuous love, and eventful elopement
she is in bliss, in her love-land with her prince
she is just ecstatic, no thought could make her shake off her composure.*
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 2:15 AM UTC
I am a
plenipotentiary
of your heart
but not your tongue
Which whips
with shout
Inflicting
all this
doubt
--
Try not to see my glaring mistakes
when uncaring I am trumpeting arrogant aches.
--
I became lost in channels of the self and now-
I have smoothed out my spikes,
inverted my aversions, diluted my delusions-
I have incrementally expanded my positive mentality.
I am the Xenolith within the conglomerate
uncomfortable with chafing sand.
Displaying dependability with the straightening of back,
gone is lithe youth's unbecoming stand.
I shall trust inappropriately and love exponentially.
I shall treat you, The Stranger-
even stranger
like family.
Apr 5, 2011
Apr 5, 2011 at 5:51 PM UTC
‘i feel violated’ she said with a laugh
flirting at the boy who just poked her
as I stared from across the table
the words repeating in my brain
like a broken record
he smiled and said “you like it”
She agreed
I wanted so badly to stand up and yell
to stand up and yell until my lungs gave up
until I got my point across
but I knew it would never happen
you don’t know violation until you stand in the shower
for hours, crying
praying, praying to someone you have no faith in
that maybe the pain will stop
you don’t know violation until you scrub what’s left of your self-worth
off of your chafing skin and the inside of your *******
although you know you’ll never wear them again
you don’t know violation until you have to cover up the bruises
with sweaters and long jeans and makeup
in the middle of august
you don’t know violation until you stay up all night
because the feeling of his hands and himself against you
prevents even the slightest hope of sleep
and what rest you get is plagued by the thoughts of his cocky smile
and the cold steel he placed on your neck and on the back of your head
you don’t know violation until you find a new love
yet you’re so **** terrified when he touches you
that you shrink back and start to shake
even if all he wanted was to stroke your cheek
and to tell you how beautiful you are
even if he meant everything he said
it still takes so much time to trust him
and you don’t know violation until you open up to your family
the ones you trust
and all they do is warn you not to dress so inappropriately
don’t you know how a boy’s mind works
don’t be a harlot
you don’t know violation
until your innocence is taken away from you
and in society’s eyes
you’re the only one to blame
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
I wore a light blue dress the day you kissed me and every day after to prove that I was in love. I had floral patters around my waist so I could twirl around for you and show you the life inside of my heart.
You squeezed my hand as if every letter of their vows was your silent message to me. Red. We wore red. It took me six months for me to let that dress go, and I swear to God I never felt as beautiful as when the rain poured around us that day.
I wore a black dress for you with ribbons down my spine but every touch snagged the lace and it's starting to hardly cover me spelling only your name across my hips and my sides. Those dresses were the most appropriate for the days I let you take me. Sheer silk laid across the small of my back. I saw an inviting place for your palms but you only saw the zipper.
How fitting is it that I wore a fitted blue dress to my first real date after we gave up (exactly one year, two months and nine days). The same dress we made love in. The first time you did not tell me you loved me after.
A tan dress just like our skin in the summer. I let a you touch me naked and I've never felt fully clothed ever since. Not even the sleeves and loose skirt of my dress could hide the scars no matter how many times I twirled around for someone new.
I wore a polka-dot dress the first time you touched me inappropriately. I remember it being hot out. I wish I wore something else. November 1st, 2013. You would not even look at me after we became one, never mind talk to me.
On Sundays I wore white dresses to feel innocence again. I never failed to ***** the precious pearls lining the collar of my dress every week, though. I felt the bow across my back untie by your hands and the pure white tulle was ruined by my blood stained skin (though it was not the first a life ******* residue remained).
New Years Eve, 2013 I wore the prettiest dress I had ever owned. Apparently he thought it was pretty, too, because a taken boy kissed me in it. I remember being afraid you were drunk. I remember fighting with you. I remember missing you. I remember telling you that you only talked to me because you missed her. There's not a day I don't miss those drunk texts.
I wore multiple colors and threads fabricating all my good memories into a dress except I can't remember much anymore and this is rather skimpy.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 4:18 PM UTC
I wore a light blue dress the day you kissed me and every day after to prove that I was in love. I had floral patters around my waist so I could twirl around for you and show you the life inside of my heart.
You squeezed my hand as if every letter of their vows was your silent message to me. Red. We wore red. It took me six months for me to let that dress go, and I swear to God I never felt as beautiful as when the rain poured around us that day.
wore a black dress for you with ribbons down my spine but every touch snagged the lace and it's starting to hardly cover me spelling only your name across my hips and my sides. Those dresses were the most appropriate for the days I let you take me. Sheer silk laid across the small of my back. I saw an inviting place for your palms but you only saw the zipper.
How fitting is it that I wore a fitted blue dress to my first real date after we gave up (exactly one year, two months and nine days). The same dress we made love in. The first time you did not tell me you loved me after.
A tan dress just like our skin in the summer. I let a you touch me naked and I've never felt fully clothed ever since. Not even the sleeves and loose skirt of my dress could hide the scars no matter how many times I twirled around for someone new.
I wore a polka-dot dress the first time you touched me inappropriately. I remember it being hot out. I wish I wore something else. November 1st, 2013. You would not even look at me after we became one, never mind talk to me.
On Sundays I wore white dresses to feel innocence again. I never failed to ***** the precious pearls lining the collar of my dress every week, though. I felt the bow across my back untie by your hands and the pure white tulle was ruined by my blood stained skin (though it was not the first a life ******* residue remained).
New Years Eve, 2013 I wore the prettiest dress I had ever owned. Apparently he thought it was pretty, too, because a taken boy kissed me in it. I remember being afraid you were drunk. I remember fighting with you. I remember missing you. I remember telling you that you only talked to me because you missed her. There's not a day I don't miss those drunk texts.
I wore multiple colors and threads fabricating all my good memories into a dress except I can't remember much anymore and this is rather skimpy
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 4:21 PM UTC
Frz have you forgotten me?
I hear your voice, but its me saying do not listen
Anyway I say, how are you?
the court records a divorce, a child, and a republican,
You were once a brooklynite, a beloved chassid gal, so hollow to hide, have you moved upstate?
me? maybe inappropriately concerned
I dreamt we will meet one day.
I see you, you see me, then run away furtively,
I race head long, trying to catch you, to touch you at last.
Mind numb, you duck in the LGBT centre. I stop.
Leaving you to minds damnation and hell, a palace of fears, fool for years, you lead me down some steps, through an alley, open a gate, and smile,
stay here, you say, between two buildings.
I sit next to the garbage cans against a wall with leafless vines, its the first snow, you never said when you'd be back.
It is now a year before I die, cars roll by noisily, far off a lone siren, someone is digging in the garbage for scraps, it seems impossible that inches away you were within my reach
Dec 16, 2018
Dec 16, 2018 at 2:35 AM UTC
sitting in a sea of robots
all facing the same way
vacuuming through bags and bags
of morbidly buttered popcorn
looks of scorn
as i squeeze by to my seat
all of them critics
opinionated inappropriately
entirely unnecessary
crunching and rustling until
the credits roll
paying too too much
for so so little
the smell of age and ignorance
to my left
the energy of youths inattentiveness
to my right
i find myself in the middle
curtains
Aug 2, 2011
Aug 2, 2011 at 3:24 PM UTC
emaciated faces placed hastily in waste filled space
graceless shapes, mass of flesh
lidless eyes scanning endlessly
searching for rest
impoverished waifs piled
on the mentally ill homeless
skin pressed together
inappropriately –
lost child wildly blinded, bound
gagged on diesel rags used to clean tools
torture implements rented on ebay
scented candles transmogrify blank surroundings
and color splashed lashes shine red in the afternoon
glistening –
fake baking ******* easily ballooned
ozone less atmosphere cooks plastic skin
releasing Botox and wheat germ
creating orange clouds engulfing tanning booths
light skinned pretenders swish across foray’s
looking both fabulous and abhorrent
frolicking –
camera angled babies
in thick foundation hide tears
so as to not disappoint
or fail in the eyes of the media sharks
fear and gun-rights send them into a frenzy
seeking to raise and destroy
everyone –
political ridicule in a public tribunal
grandfathered unborn wait to rule
wombs of power hold genes of control
eggs designed to tax
meeting ***** engineered to manipulate
deform –
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC
they abused the children
in a multitude of ways
they weren't following
the good Lord's way
they fondled the innocent children inappropriately
they made them perform acts which did demean
they slapped the little children for the sake of it
they enjoyed every pleasurable bit
stories of the wicked clergy are coming to light
the public are seeing them in a new light
what they've done to the children has been hushed up
by the Bishops and Cardinals those men high up
the vestments of the Lord
which the men of God wear
they have a stained past
which is now getting aired
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 9:18 PM UTC
He sneaks a bold finger into her navel.
She squirms in sudden protest.
He quickly lifts the damp hair from her neck
and kisses little apologies.
Her sigh forgives the intrusion, she rolls to her side
suddenly all hip and pale inner thigh.
He follows swiftly down the valley,
a little boy running home for dinner-
He hums a nothing song.
She quietly hums along.
He waits.
She says it first and means it.
His heart pulses twice at these prophetic murmurs.
Her mood quickly changes, leaps to her feet, flexing naked muscles
and pouting in comic exaggeration.
He laughs and softly adores her unselfconsciousness, this is new.
She bends to kiss him.
He remembers the oven is on.
She remembers the time.
He whistles Last Stand cheerily to the scorched vegetables.
All because she touched him inappropriately in the kitchen
in lieu of uncorking the wine.
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 6:55 PM UTC
Imagine having daughters
Trying to let them know
You trust them
Enough to let them make their own ruinous decisions
While keeping them close enough
So that the world doesn't
Touch them
Inappropriately
Imagine having daughters
Like small incisions in the heart
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 7:07 PM UTC
They guided her,
They were friends since she made their acquaintance,
She didn't know all of them,
But the ones she did, she knew them well,
And guarded them fiercely,
For in the times they lived in,
They were abused, brutally abused,
Stripped off their meaning, bastardized
And she couldn't stand it
To her, they represented so much more than a space filling sound,
And using them inappropriately, would just not do
They were her comrades,
Her support system,
They answered questions,
- She couldn't ask,
They questioned ideas,
- She thought unquestionable,
They fooled her some times,
But never by their intention,
She played with them,
Weaved one of a kind garments out of them,
And gifted them to the ones she really loved, like a specially knit sweater,
They kept her warm,
They kept her content,
They kept her hungry,
~ Words
Only words,
Are all that she had...
To do so much more,
Than take your heart away
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 10:20 AM UTC
at any moment the reality that I have spent my life creating
will collapse into a thousand pieces, blanketing the ground
in fragments (of desires
that have lulled me to sleep at night with the hum of half-formed expectations)
only to be replaced with an undefinable hybrid emotion;
equal parts loss and anticipation.
I find my words inappropriately, overwhelmingly, unequivocally
inadequate
to describe something that could mean
everything &(or) nothing at all.
This is the way that you make me feel.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 9:54 AM UTC