"indulgent" poems
Here it goes again.
Another poem to describe how useless I am.
How tattered my soul is.
How my brain resembles my hands,
callused, numb, and broken dry skin.
I'm a terrible person.
Self indulgent and full of sin.
And here it goes again.
In the mirror I see nothing.
A big steaming pile of nothing.
Full of wasted dreams, 'what ifs' and 'one days.'
The **** that I write never comes out right.
The **** that I dream is just that:
a big steaming pile of nothing.
Here it goes again.
As if I am something.
But I can't get past how useless I am.
A speck in this cosmic dust cloud.
And here I go again, thinking I am a tornado.
How I will crush your dream home
and leave behind a big steaming pile of debris.
Here I go again,
thinking I am nothing.
When really, I am something.
I am a speck in this cosmic cloud,
without me that tornado wouldn't be.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC
It was golden and splendid,
That City of light;
A vision suspended
In deeps of the night;
A region of wonder and glory, whose temples were marble and white.
I remember the season
It dawn'd on my gaze;
The mad time of unreason,
The brain-numbing days
When Winter, white-sheeted and ghastly, stalks onward to torture and craze.
More lovely than Zion
It shone in the sky
When the beams of Orion
Beclouded my eye,
Bringing sleep that was filled with dim mem'ries of moments obscure and gone by.
Its mansions were stately,
With carvings made fair,
Each rising sedately
On terraces rare,
And the gardens were fragrant and bright with strange miracles blossoming there.
The avenues lur'd me
With vistas sublime;
Tall arches assur'd me
That once on a time
I had wander'd in rapture beneath them, and bask'd in the Halcyon clime.
On the plazas were standing
A sculptur'd array;
Long bearded, commanding,
rave men in their day—
But one stood dismantled and broken, its bearded face battered away.
In that city effulgent
No mortal I saw,
But my fancy, indulgent
To memory's law,
Linger'd long on the forms in the plazas, and eyed their stone features with
awe.
I fann'd the faint ember
That glow'd in my mind,
And strove to remember
The aeons behind; &
21.4k
Yesterday saw us through in a stroll
Unaware of the marathon we've begun.
By day's end we found ourselves bearing future's toll
Realised we were in it to secure today's sun.
Today saw us slightly worn thin
Indulgent naïveté in this marathon we've begun.
Into each other's strengths we lean
Hoping to see the end in tomorrow's sun.
Tomorrow may see us out in the cold
We may not be done with this marathon we've begun.
At opposite poles save for the binds that hold
But still planting hope in future's sun.
The future might see each breath to be drawn
In this marathon we've begun.
Only to be swallowed by each new dawn
Inadvertently still chasing the sun.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 2:46 PM UTC
We are the girls who walk around with little bird bones,
rib cages ready to snap when we spread our wings and
fly away
and for my next act,
I shall disappear little by little until I am ash.
I’m not eating for four days or until
I can feel the ***** that is my stomach start to shrink
I used to refuse food for weeks
it amazes me how self-indulgent I have become
I am ready to eat spoonfuls of air
spin my hair into a models top knot and
know that water is a privilege not a right
a million screaming girls saying
“but im not hungry”
while a tiger flays their insides open at night
Kate Moss said "nothing tastes as good as skinny feels"
and I suppose she is correct
What happens when you learn the tongue is a muscle not to be used
What happens when sustenance is no longer needed
When the mind decides
the very thing that keeps the body alive is a punishment
What happens when you refuse a necessity of being human
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 9:57 AM UTC
My leg hurts
The jaws of this inhumane trap engulf my lower shin
I have the tool to disarm it and free myself
But I muttle in my adolescent egocentric pain
Caught within monotonous routine and self interest I rot like my peers
I've sunk to a level of self loathing, that I enjoy pulling myself down
I
Am
Disgusting.
I
Need
Help.
I cry for things I can give myself but alas I withhold it to feel sorry for myself
Me and my fellow youth
Equally as useful, equally as useless
Although I am free of the crowd I am still blinded by my adolescence
Purpose
Interest
Intellect
Great-fullness
Peacefulness
Generosity
Love
PURPOSE
all I've know is I am here to be a vessel for knowledge and indoctrination
I am here to have an opinion I voice, but does not matter.
I do not matter.
This function is welded to me
However...
The voice of destiny reasons with me again and I hear:
Seek what's within
Garrot it.
Place yourself into the walls of meaning and the murals upon't
Serve others in selflessness. Share with others in selflessness. Learn from others in selflessness. Teach others in selflessness.
Your a pawn in the samsara. Do your duty within its game.
Gain higher consciousness so you can share the path to it. Become a giver, not a taker.
Interest
Intellect
Great-fullness
Peacefulness
Generosity
Love
Six lessons left, define yourself within them. Or perish within your self indulgent pitiful hole.
Feb 15, 2019
Feb 15, 2019 at 5:13 AM UTC
Happenstance to the melancholic gives leave the sin of pride.
Inbound reconnaissance tells not the bearer of influence.
Squeamish at first: a foreshadowing of calamitous bonding.
A space between the mark of corporeal and the ethereal; a stringent hiatus
That which rattles the concrete foundation of morality is scarcely a malleable recourse.
Regret stains the unfounded soul: an enigma of ephemeral perforations.
A separation of the unmitigated humanities; misandry topples the writhing snake.
Impact; a cleansing of the maker's flaws integrated solemnly.
Complacency arrests the administration of the abhorred; unbridled is the autonomy of a guru.
Ambivalent giftedness burdens the reliant and haughty.
A flick of the tongue brings forth the cinema mortem.
Castaway: alone to wade in the sea of obscenities.
A temporal causality allows no mourning to abscond.
Negligence is not the enemy, but indulgent wrath.
Hesitant: a stroke of qualia begets the end of a maiden.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 11:13 AM UTC
I never met a storm I didn't like
I wish I could say the same for people
Though sometimes I think
They have as little control
Of what they destroy
As storms
I think I could love anyone,
that shared a mountain coast with me.
Those rocks and rivers and beachfront caves?
I feel like a pirate.
And I believe not caring what others think,
Is a coward's way to self-esteem.
You can't make everyone happy
That doesn't mean you shouldn't try.
I can seem cold
But what you're hearing
Is precision
It makes sense when you love words
And hate being misunderstood.
I hate when people argue to be right
Instead of understand
It's self-indulgent
And dehumanizing
And so very me.
I'm such a nerd I'd need another poem
to convey how much
But I think it will suffice to say
If you like
Will McAvoy
The Dragonborn
Charles Spurgeon
Vault Dwellers
or the Crystal Gems
We'll probably get along.
And lastly
I only wrote this poem
Because I hate not having an answer
To "tell me about yourself."
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 8:25 AM UTC
It drips, it teases, it moans my name,
A wicked desire I cannot tame.
Its scent seduces, deep and bold,
Luring me closer, my senses unfold.
Each bite lingers, slow and sweet,
Juicy, tender, pure carnal treat.
My lips embrace, my hunger sighs,
A pleasure so deep, it melts, it glides.
No wipes saves me, let it spill,
The taste, the heat, the aching thrill.
Tongue tracing every sinful trace,
Savoring each indulgent embrace.
And as the final drops dissolve,
A fizzy burst, ecstasy evolves.
A feast so perfect, craving no more,
Surrender to passion, give in, explore.
Choose wisely. Choose Wendy’s.
Mar 30, 2025
Mar 30, 2025 at 10:38 PM UTC
Delightful march
breathes in on the sound of the swallows
chirp, and in the pungent scent of lemonade.
Daffodils brave the curtain call
and splash in yellow fountains which
powder the grass canary
and rich caramel.
Boughs of cherry trees burst
once more with indulgent,
fatuous blossoms of sugared coral,
Their marbled paper florets billow
in the gusts rising and falling like
the flocks of starlings.
The future is close, wide and happy.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
i am gloriously indulgent
when left to my own devices
lashings of stylish fulfillment
in a mix of virtues and vices
i have my sense of order
though i am craven to desire
drunk with a sense of beauty
to torch blandness in a fire
poor dear mediocrity
your time is not with me
you are my sworn enemy
find others for company
i burn for what is art
and those, who do it for love
they are my choice of company
together, we'll rise above
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 3:01 AM UTC
And how sweet a story it is
When you hear Charley Parker
tell it,
Either on records or at sessions,
Or at offical bits in clubs,
Shots in the arm for the wallet,
Gleefully he Whistled the
perfect
horn
Anyhow, made no difference.
Charley Parker, forgive me-
Forgive me for not answering your eyes-
For not having made in indication
Of that which you can devise-
Charley Parker, pray for me-
Pray for me and everybody
In the Nirvanas of your brain
Where you hide, indulgent and huge,
No longer Charley Parker
But the secret unsayable name
That carries with it merit
Not to be measured from here
To up, down, east, or west-
-Charley Parker, lay the bane,
off me, and every body
5.4k
For lust is a tightrope,
soldering fickle hearts, sewing passion.
Fade at its end,
or tumble into love.
Some hope woos smother,
contemplates the fall
To stir a velvet landing,
and dances slow.
She in her unbidden trance,
her golden hair littered,
sits in prayer, fidgets;
snuffed from the fall.
Forlorn, for an indulgent sliver.
Now lies a cold lover,
in her morphine bedlam.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
*chaste pecks from the super-sonic youth
numb lips flutter to the hollowed cheeks of normality
no longer the hand-prints on the guide book to hostility
a pamphlet of rudimentary teachings;
the principles of tolerance and rebellion and acceptance of human beings
a concoction of suppressed psychotic behavior, quick wit, and center of satirical tease
constantly moving with heavy footsteps and heavier hearts
their minds and bodies plagued with actions from a deserted youth
soul lusting over the naivety of people before self-actualization; how crude
do they call it an existential crisis or the daily life of a agoraphobic nobody
shouts from the depths of caged fears that scrape the oblivious flesh in their brain; a bit gaudy
mother, sister, brother, father how your words crush the knots of comfort that line my internal organs
bleeding from the pores of my screams; streams of moon-beams shooting out my eyes; oh, not again!
stomping our metaphorically spiked toenails against the idealism of pop culture
oh, my, how adolescence is the worst kind of torture
cherry slushies lined with cigarettes to create a whirl-pool of nostalgia
recreational drugs and ironic situations to ease our instinctual sense of proverbial nausea
loud-mouthed demons spawned out of clothes-hangers and emotional turmoil
show up in our nightmares that we nick-name ‘a good place to contemplate suicide’
repeated imagery stacked like flap-jacks in the mouths of blissed-out sociopaths
too self-indulgent to include us in to their personal stories so we can observe, record, and assess
i don’t perceive doctors to be particularly and predominantly just and true
but i one time met a doctor who told me ‘being a teenager is perhaps the hardest thing you could ever do’*
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
The Luna Moth
The moon does not in fact wax anything,
She does not wane; she simply ever-is;
She rules the softly-sung, soft-summer nights,
A willing queen, and willingly obeyed.
The luna moth, her winged votary,
Clings to indulgent oaks of their kindness,
Their moon-sent goddess from another world,
And strangely robed and crowned in lunar green,
Pheroming softly for some other moth
To come perform with her those rituals
Of love illogical, of sacrifice;
For all a luna moth can do is live
A summer week or so, but in those hours
She loves
In lunar beauty, strangely eternal
Who needs a dying luna moth?
We do.
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 7:12 AM UTC
this game has no rules
wikipedia is full of it
z-list celebrity
remember that nobody cares except you
this statement is a statement
this statement exists
this statement has letters
poets just want to jump in
sighs about the decrepit state of humanity
thanks to those who make it worthwhile
and eternal damnation to those who don't
enjoying my indulgent freedom here
hanging up
pentabarf
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 2:50 PM UTC
#
Sitting here in front of this screen
my Artist Peppino, across my thigh—
(the greater, for the time being,
giving way to the lesser)
One day, I will be able to breathe life
into your strings, my love…
the way I do words onto paper.
And on that fine, glorious day
I will no longer need these cheese-dick,
stupid ******* online poetry sites
to bring forth the music of my soul.
Nor will I continually need to wade through
this never-ending barrage of classic hiders
and their bastardization-like misuse of poetry—
in order to hide behind the very words
that should be given the permission to make them become,
truly known.
There are those who thrive on this..
this currency of curated words,
seduction dressed as scripture,
all twisted into the soft ropes of poetry
to bind the vulnerable,
to rob the soul of its own infusion..
the self from the soul,
the soul from the self..
*--until all that remains
is the quiet, starving shell
of a heart displaced,
an identity diluted,
left wandering inside
the sociopathic intent
to truly bastardize poetry’s
life-giving potentiality
into nothing more than self-indulgent gain--*
always at the cost of the reader,
who, starving for something real,
somehow falls for their twisted game.
****
eh..
There is no alone-ness within the magnificent resonations
of the perfectly plucked string
of the most perfect, of guitars.
Like this one, sitting right here
in my lap.
#
Feb 4, 2020
Feb 4, 2020 at 9:40 PM UTC
Indulgent the body yearning to be teased and touched, feeling the sensations move across the skin, slipping down the shaft of each hair, and stirring yearning deep within the ***
The anticipation rising then embracing that perfect resistance; before letting go... Ecstasy!
Jun 10, 2019
Jun 10, 2019 at 5:01 AM UTC
the mathematical statement in fluid mechanics that, for a fluid passing through a tube in a steady flow, the mass flowing through any section of the tube in a unit of time is constant
instantaneous our love defined,
a fluid mechanic in the realm of ethereal,
where unlimited immeasurable undefinable
mass time flow sweat pulse anger forgive caress kind
quantifiable terms of our equation unique
in this poem
no waxing poetic,
excellent pure licked lips
are quantums and quarks visualized
though invisible the flow constant per unit of time from
initial good morning kiss to intemperate
indulgent good night conclusions
submitted here for your
analytical digression importuned
the square root of the continuity equation's solution
is
.......
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 9:24 AM UTC
Umbrage ultraism infrangible extemporaneous incognito edition
Penumbral platitude platonic proxy photics rendition
Interface fenestration imbroglio pandemonium inducement sedition
Wretched infelicitous extant trajectory sordid intuition
Scandalous scavenger squalid anomalous punitive condition
Panacea chiaroscuro parallax emanate imminent perdition
Equilibrist revision exertion suborn temerity imbues
Indulgent zealous discrepancy apparentness cogitation accrues
Heuristic noumenal psychokinesis extrapolation incursion construes
Aura auspicious primitive prism processional reviews
Obstinate tenacious preeminent edificatory omnipotence eschews
Equivocal gumption ratification constitutional manumission ensues
Delusory apparition extravagance peccavi verity tempestuous
Obtrusive obtusely overt indemnities sagaciously obliquitous
Ephemeral anxiety antonym existential exigency alacritous
Fortuitous emendation phantasm ontological ontogeny acuitous
Indemnify veracious infernal infidel impunities iniquitous
Meritorious fulham presumptive extrication expiation indigenous
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 9:20 PM UTC
I think it’s important to make peace with your long line of perpetually confused and self-indulgent ancestry once grasping at and fumbling through a life at which they, preceding you, assumed they occupied the centre of and sought to prove this to mostly anyone, with rapacious might and puerile visions of their own success story, which no matter how successful would always only occupy the dark corners of their blood-successors’ historical records of themselves, which is to say you, adding them up with other people who were once important to them and stuffing them into some numerical equation on which they occupy the left, and you the right side of the equal-sign, but all of which exists in the vast and endless vicissitude of spinning void, of which you both (and us all) occupy some cosmic equivalence (and importance) of the universes stray skin-cell, somewhere on the foot perhaps, unconsidered and left alone until we all disappear into the casket of an unrecorded history.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 12:11 PM UTC
Would but indulgent Fortune send
To me a kind, and faithful Friend,
One who to Virtue's Laws is true,
And does her nicest Rules pursue;
One Pious, Lib'ral, Just and Brave,
And to his Passions not a Slave;
Who full of Honour, void of Pride,
Will freely praise, and freely chide;
But not indulge the smallest Fault,
Nor entertain one slighting Thought:
Who still the same will ever prove,
Will still instruct ans still will love:
In whom I safely may confide,
And with him all my Cares divide:
Who has a large capacious Mind,
Join'd with a Knowledge unconfin'd:
A Reason bright, a Judgement true,
A Wit both quick, and solid too:
Who can of all things talk with Ease,
And whose Converse will ever please:
Who charm'd with Wit, and inward Graces,
Despises Fools with tempting Faces;
And still a beauteous Mind does prize
Above the most enchanting Eyes:
I would not envy Queens their State,
Nor once desire a happier Fate.
3.6k
I’ve ordered and carried my steaming cup of brown to my table to ignore the falling snow beyond the walls of this box.
My clothes are wrong, my hair as well.
I just cut it, and everyone knows which mistakes I made.
A man sneezes and the song changes.
Better not make eye contact with anyone; I am not in their league, here at the muddy spoon cafe.
Chewing so loudly in the de-creeping silence,
these safe, polite, quiet ones.
I am the creep here. I am different.
My thighs are tense.
Hunching over the paper, arms tense and clutching a gnarled red pen--
It’s probably self-indulgent to even sign my name.
Someone’s shuffling cards.
I almost forgot.
The awkwardness I’m filled with breathes out a short sigh when I realize
--my part’s over.
“Do you know Sanskrit? Do you know what that is?”
A woman asks another.
I want to choke on the pretension
The tenseness, I adjust my leg to relieve pressure on my ankle.
Why can’t I just enjoy the snow? That’s all I really came here for-- well, and the coffee.
I hear a woman cough with an unaffected tenor, which would convey her gender to an interested party but to me carries no intonation.
I wonder if the girl I recognize from class thinks I’m following her.
I came here for coffee, sweetheart!
Is it yet too hot for me to dare a drink?
I can see it, the steam, rising out of the corner of my eye.
I haven’t looked away from my hand in twenty minutes.
“Who am I?” they may be asking myself for me.
I don’t have a clue.
They can think about that problem
for themselves
while they’re lonely
in their forties.
I’m lonely now and I hope not to live
that long.
Here, we pretend not to see each other’s faces
in the gleaming presence of steaming cups.
“I don’t want to wonder about that.”
I realize there’s nothing I even deem worth writing down.
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 4:13 AM UTC
My timeline is filled
With self indulgent selfies
Searching for gratification
And self satisfaction
Need to get an instant reaction
Some social media traction
There's no time for distraction
From this digital attraction
You can't get enough
Of the interaction
1,000 poses in your camera roll
Narcissists are taking control
It doesn't matter
What the time
Come wind, rain
Snow or shine
Just make sure
You look devine
Lick your lips
You're looking fine
Flip the camera
And strike a pose
Making sure
Everybody knows
Here's your next
Digital daily dose
Does it really matter
Which ******* filter you chose?
I feel like I've lost my soul
Narcissists are taking control
The bathroom
Is the perfect spot
Take your picture
Before you Photoshop
Bunny ears
And a rainbow smile
Frogs legs
And a crocodile
Snapping away
Well all the while
You could have been
Down the Curry Mile
Instead you're out there
On your own
Sat at home
On your ******* phone
Sharing pictures
With people you don't know
You'll end up on the ******* dole
Narcissists are taking control
1,000 poses in your camera roll
Mirror selfies
And online trolls
Constantly searching
To find your soul
There's no way out
Of this black hole
Just one more post
On your way home
Narcissists are taking control
Sep 14, 2019
Sep 14, 2019 at 8:34 AM UTC
I wanted to write a poem
for everyone and everything
to say 'I am not
entirely sorry.'
The arguments,
the broken glass,
the women
and their now solemn
ex-boyfriends,
husbands
and fathers.
It has all helped:
Given me the word.
Put me in a place
where I don't have to rhyme
or make over-worded sentimental
metaphorical statements
older than time.
I am fresh.
I present myself -naked,
hiding nothing.
The gut is not ****** in.
No make up.
I present myself
without fear
or falseness.
Just as you should:
the men and women
that became wound up in me,
in one way or another.
It is where you have faltered,
and where you falter
I progress.
Oct 10, 2009
Oct 10, 2009 at 7:29 AM UTC
dissipated and disillusioned worms eating through the last splinters of the rotting universal wood.
the last transmission of regret sent electronically, spluttered,
into a tissue; in a moment of self indulgent **********
live showings of vicious execution, transmitted directly from the electromagnetic waves into the alpha waves of the young and naive. Desensitization, the last drops of humanity into complete disengagement.
endlessly recycled bohemian ideologies whispered into the ear of the eager idealist. spreading like fire, before burning out into the uncatchable reverie up with the stars, with all the other reveries, shining bright, intangible.
Instant dismissal from the old man, as the big curtain draws. Cynicism and fragmented past, falling on apathetic eyes, a proud man treat with a padded hand. faux sympathetic tones, blushing cheeks on old bones.
Begging with your body crumbling to dust with the disinterested doc, looking at the clock counting the milliseconds to the paycheck. Decomposing until you can be swept under the perpetual rug with the rest, Vacuum.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 12:11 PM UTC