Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
Words
"inelegant" poems
Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence, Toast to stolen prayers with rarer player’s hands; Soft in defiant laughter, when drinking their wine from the bowels of brines Sing along the Ballads of Heritage with Melodies of Exception; Boast, not a breathe, though sullen heirs ghost to fairer wearer’s air(s) of land— A settlement of Rapture and Resurrection, arid, amid dirt and sand and King and thy Kingdom sprout flowering tomb, and rosebud temple reach to the sky during the showers of spring Devours the crescent Moon in big pink petals of bloom; A garden so fertile it could look pretty in wartime— with Gardeners of Courage and Laborers of Excellence; (Lapse, not into digressions of Being and Essence but hands in the soil and planting the actions of kingdom come,        patient building of Spring Reign sure as the flame, the architect of rising Sun is (Daughters and Sons of kingdom came,       the soldier in a land been conquered and named; abandoned for the greenness of hope. )May it never come, Be All The Same; ( be gentle, though whispering wind) Seeds of Nextyear and the spores of Awhile, carried by the Wasps and the Clouds To the Gentlemen of Excellence and Ladies of Courage, illuminated, eyes from the flora of stars faraway forest floor of foreign       fears,       as the hungry Owls of Time prepare a final feast—       Consume the years between Here and Now;       Watching from blank perch, among       the Trees of Afterall; a place beyond expectance.       Sing the branches of experience, to wake       in Siren’s cipher; inelegant forms       of waking, ugly sleep on rocks of seabed; once was aboard a marooned skyline— Those Who Are Will Be again, again a serf in a wave of Time’s refraction. Neverending neverbeginning;                           Those Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence, on the Day That Is, arrays of seers sayers doers displayers optimists and pessimists, toast to them         and their rarer player’s hands, Boast they, not a breathe, though sullen heirs ghost to fairer wearer’s air and land; Laugh and howl and dine, they drink their wine from disemboweled gourds         of their own divine— Warped, in jowls of hungry fix, no feast they fear, for they prey to the Owls of Time.
0
Apr 30, 2018
Apr 30, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC
Sid_Lollan
Gentleman of Courage and Ladies of Excellence
Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence, Toast to stolen prayers with rarer player’s hands; Soft in defiant laughter, when drinking their wine from the bowels of brines Sing along the Ballads of Heritage with Melodies of Exception; Boast, not a breathe, though sullen heirs ghost to fairer wearer’s air(s) of land— A settlement of Rapture and Resurrection, arid, amid dirt and sand and King and thy Kingdom sprout flowering tomb, and rosebud temple reach to the sky during the showers of spring Devours the crescent Moon in big pink petals of bloom; A garden so fertile it could look pretty in wartime— with Gardeners of Courage and Laborers of Excellence; (Lapse, not into digressions of Being and Essence but hands in the soil and planting the actions of kingdom come,        patient building of Spring Reign sure as the flame, the architect of rising Sun is (Daughters and Sons of kingdom came,       the soldier in a land been conquered and named; abandoned for the greenness of hope. )May it never come, Be All The Same; ( be gentle, though whispering wind) Seeds of Nextyear and the spores of Awhile, carried by the Wasps and the Clouds To the Gentlemen of Excellence and Ladies of Courage, illuminated, eyes from the flora of stars faraway forest floor of foreign       fears,       as the hungry Owls of Time prepare a final feast—       Consume the years between Here and Now;       Watching from blank perch, among       the Trees of Afterall; a place beyond expectance.       Sing the branches of experience, to wake       in Siren’s cipher; inelegant forms       of waking, ugly sleep on rocks of seabed; once was aboard a marooned skyline— Those Who Are Will Be again, again a serf in a wave of Time’s refraction. Neverending neverbeginning;                           Those Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence, on the Day That Is, arrays of seers sayers doers displayers optimists and pessimists, toast to them         and their rarer player’s hands, Boast they, not a breathe, though sullen heirs ghost to fairer wearer’s air and land; Laugh and howl and dine, they drink their wine from disemboweled gourds         of their own divine— Warped, in jowls of hungry fix, no feast they fear, for they prey to the Owls of Time.
Continue reading...
49
the rude gesture when one seeks the inelegant simplicity of no words; no words suffice to say, magnitude of some offenses requires physicality; a physicality that injures nothing but the surrounding atmosphere of its pride for it’s pride that goeth before the fall, the pursuit of dishonor and dishonoring, given that, it shames the giver as much if not more so dishonor for words are our truest masters I'd rather you gave a round shout out of **** you, for as the parents say these days use your words rather than show me your nail chewed runty midfielder ah, words...I do so love them beasties
0
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 1:00 PM UTC
city-of-flips
flipping the bird
the rude gesture when one seeks the inelegant simplicity of no words; no words suffice to say, magnitude of some offenses requires physicality; a physicality that injures nothing but the surrounding atmosphere of its pride for it’s pride that goeth before the fall, the pursuit of dishonor and dishonoring, given that, it shames the giver as much if not more so dishonor for words are our truest masters I'd rather you gave a round shout out of **** you, for as the parents say these days use your words rather than show me your nail chewed runty midfielder ah, words...I do so love them beasties
Continue reading...
22
What She Look Like?    …Like one tenderly hushing water in her lap Elemental peace No place to go No more to be …Like the ocean in the background of a photo on a warm spring day belying rage and the random possible thrash-- out! at all guilty ******** in her path Toss in the next sentient soul who should happen to pass within range who should have seen who should have known what a storm could do…. Moody in the aftermath and sorrier than rain With the tide in retreat grumbling excuses Hiding out waist-deep in dusk’s Merlot Waiting for night to sleep it off to heal the rifts cleanse the shame Rising yellow, bright— and “What the hell happened, here?!” _______________ Her hair a winter’s tragedy of trees upside down— No wait— the wind has put her right to ragged random branches swaying, wet with intermittent hues of dark and silver caught in collar, flying inelegant and free at the shoulders of the levee tossed and softening shyly sagging jaw and nose a stump of tree All perspective changes… if you watch a while— She’ll raise her eyes into the sunset to catch an eagle entering flight …and then you might… ______________ She looks like— a pudgy robin querying grass mud soaked that hides the fire of her breast tugging at a worm more than half her length “I will feed them, **** you! Give it up, you son of a snake!” _______________ ...Don’t miss her hour of music though for anything Encroaching darkness from the rooftops she listens to the hearts she breaks Remember this in winter she can give but she will take it out on February when you’re longing for her
0
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 7:57 PM UTC
elizabeth-balise
What She Looks Like
What She Look Like?    …Like one tenderly hushing water in her lap Elemental peace No place to go No more to be …Like the ocean in the background of a photo on a warm spring day belying rage and the random possible thrash-- out! at all guilty ******** in her path Toss in the next sentient soul who should happen to pass within range who should have seen who should have known what a storm could do…. Moody in the aftermath and sorrier than rain With the tide in retreat grumbling excuses Hiding out waist-deep in dusk’s Merlot Waiting for night to sleep it off to heal the rifts cleanse the shame Rising yellow, bright— and “What the hell happened, here?!” _______________ Her hair a winter’s tragedy of trees upside down— No wait— the wind has put her right to ragged random branches swaying, wet with intermittent hues of dark and silver caught in collar, flying inelegant and free at the shoulders of the levee tossed and softening shyly sagging jaw and nose a stump of tree All perspective changes… if you watch a while— She’ll raise her eyes into the sunset to catch an eagle entering flight …and then you might… ______________ She looks like— a pudgy robin querying grass mud soaked that hides the fire of her breast tugging at a worm more than half her length “I will feed them, **** you! Give it up, you son of a snake!” _______________ ...Don’t miss her hour of music though for anything Encroaching darkness from the rooftops she listens to the hearts she breaks Remember this in winter she can give but she will take it out on February when you’re longing for her
Continue reading...
74
No. It's an impudent falsehood. Men did not Invariably think the newer way Prosaic mad, inelegant, or what not. Was the first pointed arch esteemed a blot Upon the church? Did anybody say How modern and how ugly? They did not. Plate-armour, or windows glazed, or verse fire-hot With rhymes from France, or spices from Cathay, Were these at first a horror? They were not. If, then, our present arts, laws, houses, food All set us hankering after yesterday, Need this be only an archaising mood? Why, any man whose purse has been let blood By sharpers, when he finds all drained away Must compare how he stands with how he stood. If a quack doctor's breezy ineptitude Has cost me a leg, must I forget straightway All that I can't do now, all that I could? So, when our guides unanimously decry The backward glance, I think we can guess why.
0
5.6k
C. S. Lewis
On a ****** Error
No. It's an impudent falsehood. Men did not Invariably think the newer way Prosaic mad, inelegant, or what not. Was the first pointed arch esteemed a blot Upon the church? Did anybody say How modern and how ugly? They did not. Plate-armour, or windows glazed, or verse fire-hot With rhymes from France, or spices from Cathay, Were these at first a horror? They were not. If, then, our present arts, laws, houses, food All set us hankering after yesterday, Need this be only an archaising mood? Why, any man whose purse has been let blood By sharpers, when he finds all drained away Must compare how he stands with how he stood. If a quack doctor's breezy ineptitude Has cost me a leg, must I forget straightway All that I can't do now, all that I could? So, when our guides unanimously decry The backward glance, I think we can guess why.
Continue reading...
20
He's found himself in the closet After he lost to himself in a game of tic-tac-toe And tied his lobster bib tightly Then hid his cheat sheet, for the pop quiz he knew was soon to come It's curtains for her She let the cat out of the bag And now she's up **** creek with ****** for paddles to go **** herself with Right in the birth canal Then we'll auction off the ****** We'll pass them off as European defibrillators Maybe some extremist will want them If we spew out enough mindless dribble The All Time Shit-Show is about to begin We have The Chronic Masturbater The Hypochondriac And The Pathological Liar It was either sometime yesterday Or sometime tomorrow Or was it sometime today? That you were all going to make fun of the boy with the cleft lip down at the laundromat? Out of the three of you The Pathological Lair sticks out like a sore thumb I can tell he was the runt of the litter Who always bites off more than he can chew I see the Hypochondriac has convinced himself he has eczema   He rattles off all his symptoms Inordinate filibustering   Now there's the Chronic Masturbater He looks like he's over the hill He's only twenty one But the blue circles under his eyes and the deep defined lines on his forehead denote his inelegant aging I sign all your lives away in my horrible cursive And now you belong to the ragtag trigger-happy posse of gun-jumpers My billfold his happily filled So I must go do some reconnaissance Spy on those who have quit their day jobs The fish out of water You must find that thing that really rolls off the tongue with a nice ring to it ****** ******* ******* ******* No... Go hang youself with dental flossed you home-schooled fool Indentured servants we're just an after thought
0
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
tommy-johnson
Smitten
He's found himself in the closet After he lost to himself in a game of tic-tac-toe And tied his lobster bib tightly Then hid his cheat sheet, for the pop quiz he knew was soon to come It's curtains for her She let the cat out of the bag And now she's up **** creek with ****** for paddles to go **** herself with Right in the birth canal Then we'll auction off the ****** We'll pass them off as European defibrillators Maybe some extremist will want them If we spew out enough mindless dribble The All Time Shit-Show is about to begin We have The Chronic Masturbater The Hypochondriac And The Pathological Liar It was either sometime yesterday Or sometime tomorrow Or was it sometime today? That you were all going to make fun of the boy with the cleft lip down at the laundromat? Out of the three of you The Pathological Lair sticks out like a sore thumb I can tell he was the runt of the litter Who always bites off more than he can chew I see the Hypochondriac has convinced himself he has eczema   He rattles off all his symptoms Inordinate filibustering   Now there's the Chronic Masturbater He looks like he's over the hill He's only twenty one But the blue circles under his eyes and the deep defined lines on his forehead denote his inelegant aging I sign all your lives away in my horrible cursive And now you belong to the ragtag trigger-happy posse of gun-jumpers My billfold his happily filled So I must go do some reconnaissance Spy on those who have quit their day jobs The fish out of water You must find that thing that really rolls off the tongue with a nice ring to it ****** ******* ******* ******* No... Go hang youself with dental flossed you home-schooled fool Indentured servants we're just an after thought
Continue reading...
45
From her lessons in independence we learnt that everyone leaves, Abandonment as sure a fact of life                                                                                                             as death. We learnt that love was transactional, A currency, A receipted tit-for-tat tete-a-tete. At the altar we were shown lies, In the white dress a million yes’s but the question was never till death. I could walk through darkness without worry, I’d never been shown the danger, Been encouraged to see an enemy in calories but not strangers. We learnt to lie to avoid bruises, Wooden spoons used for more than stirring soup, The salt burning streaks down our faces when the *** boiled over the stove top. Truths ignored and lies inelegant We learnt to wield fists with tongues   Sparring for our lives. Cautiously awaiting the whistle pop truth drop wished unsaid upon impact.
0
Aug 5, 2022
Aug 5, 2022 at 3:01 PM UTC
indiajade
Lessons
From her lessons in independence we learnt that everyone leaves, Abandonment as sure a fact of life                                                                                                             as death. We learnt that love was transactional, A currency, A receipted tit-for-tat tete-a-tete. At the altar we were shown lies, In the white dress a million yes’s but the question was never till death. I could walk through darkness without worry, I’d never been shown the danger, Been encouraged to see an enemy in calories but not strangers. We learnt to lie to avoid bruises, Wooden spoons used for more than stirring soup, The salt burning streaks down our faces when the *** boiled over the stove top. Truths ignored and lies inelegant We learnt to wield fists with tongues   Sparring for our lives. Cautiously awaiting the whistle pop truth drop wished unsaid upon impact.
Continue reading...
23
Such a classic mortal blunder to lay my spine as it erodes, graceless, inelegant on Galatea’s cold, ivory arms; such delicate carvings can never be human, look human, feel human under my lonesome bones. I long to see you flinch and break into fine, liquid, rain of dust blinding me, covering the walls of this room in a blameless shade of white: a new asylum ward for my kind of insanity, you say. It envelopes like light around my awe and my forlorn limbs, tangled with Galatea’s unmoving ones. I look for comfort within brittle carcasses scraped of everything they could ever give. The quiet persists eerily. But here, Pygmalion’s gifts remain untainted: the apex of auger shells, the beak of a songbird the blunted ceriths, the rusty chisels all impaling my spinal bones. Yet the sculptor’s kisses, long erased, the careful carvings, long defaced, long reduced into a Grecian ruin. I bury my body on your arms yet they find no rest against the ghostly pleas of mammalian tusks. How many for your fingers? How many for your hair? Tell me, Galatea, were you carved to bear the weight of all the sea salt I swallowed as I drowned? Soften under my meandering thoughts; I long to see you flinch and break — like all the dead elephants — any reminder that you yield pliantly to the voice of the love goddess, that you were once turned human. Break now, your solid arms, under my own collapse over the sea foam caught on fire. I am no longer bending and weeping to pick myself up. Here it all goes down and ends: my bones, and yours, burning, snapping. Nothing — nothing less glorious will last after us. — Fray Narte
0
Dec 5, 2022
Dec 5, 2022 at 10:05 PM UTC
femininedeath
Galatea
Such a classic mortal blunder to lay my spine as it erodes, graceless, inelegant on Galatea’s cold, ivory arms; such delicate carvings can never be human, look human, feel human under my lonesome bones. I long to see you flinch and break into fine, liquid, rain of dust blinding me, covering the walls of this room in a blameless shade of white: a new asylum ward for my kind of insanity, you say. It envelopes like light around my awe and my forlorn limbs, tangled with Galatea’s unmoving ones. I look for comfort within brittle carcasses scraped of everything they could ever give. The quiet persists eerily. But here, Pygmalion’s gifts remain untainted: the apex of auger shells, the beak of a songbird the blunted ceriths, the rusty chisels all impaling my spinal bones. Yet the sculptor’s kisses, long erased, the careful carvings, long defaced, long reduced into a Grecian ruin. I bury my body on your arms yet they find no rest against the ghostly pleas of mammalian tusks. How many for your fingers? How many for your hair? Tell me, Galatea, were you carved to bear the weight of all the sea salt I swallowed as I drowned? Soften under my meandering thoughts; I long to see you flinch and break — like all the dead elephants — any reminder that you yield pliantly to the voice of the love goddess, that you were once turned human. Break now, your solid arms, under my own collapse over the sea foam caught on fire. I am no longer bending and weeping to pick myself up. Here it all goes down and ends: my bones, and yours, burning, snapping. Nothing — nothing less glorious will last after us. — Fray Narte
Continue reading...
45
Pleat, pleat, pleat, Fix that drape, Cantankerous petticoat, Is all bent out of shape, The mirror jeers, That's a singularly inelegant drape, What are you gawping at, It's time to undrape, Watch those ankles, Stop dancing like an ape, How hard could it be, To simply undrape, In walked Mum, Her mouth agape, Laughing uproariously, Got me shipshape
0
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 5:48 AM UTC
indianmagpie
Six Yards of Elegance
Pleat, pleat, pleat, Fix that drape, Cantankerous petticoat, Is all bent out of shape, The mirror jeers, That's a singularly inelegant drape, What are you gawping at, It's time to undrape, Watch those ankles, Stop dancing like an ape, How hard could it be, To simply undrape, In walked Mum, Her mouth agape, Laughing uproariously, Got me shipshape
Continue reading...
16
The baker's wife is neither surprised nor impressed when he brings her cakes and pastries. The child of a joiner can take or leave a treehouse. But since I am not a poet, I hope you can take these inelegant lines, their lack of rhyme or rhythm and their false humility and read this in them: After all this time you still make me think and see in new and unusual ways and for that, and all else besides, I thank you.
0
Nov 29, 2010
Nov 29, 2010 at 4:36 AM UTC
alan-mcclure
I am Not a Poet
The baker's wife is neither surprised nor impressed when he brings her cakes and pastries. The child of a joiner can take or leave a treehouse. But since I am not a poet, I hope you can take these inelegant lines, their lack of rhyme or rhythm and their false humility and read this in them: After all this time you still make me think and see in new and unusual ways and for that, and all else besides, I thank you.
Continue reading...
15
There were no last words between us- but you whispered "I love you." Not acknowledging- instead feigning prior pains (acute metaphysical backache or similar; poignantly posed silence construing that I'd been wounded), I told you goodbye. Of course, it was a train and a girl scenario- her off-white handkerchief trailing out the window, itself saying an extra goodbye (saying surrender). I punched the dirt after, because love felt false- especially coming from me, an unkempt young actor. You're a newly colored kaleidoscopic green, an old film repainted (it was still relevant; strong cast- a beautiful female lead needing submission, to be tamed). I am solipsistic graphite smudges forming a halo around the ordinary providence of bold characters erased from an inelegant diner napkin- I wrote I love you I wrote I love you I wrote I love you.
0
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
michael-shepherd
33
There were no last words between us- but you whispered "I love you." Not acknowledging- instead feigning prior pains (acute metaphysical backache or similar; poignantly posed silence construing that I'd been wounded), I told you goodbye. Of course, it was a train and a girl scenario- her off-white handkerchief trailing out the window, itself saying an extra goodbye (saying surrender). I punched the dirt after, because love felt false- especially coming from me, an unkempt young actor. You're a newly colored kaleidoscopic green, an old film repainted (it was still relevant; strong cast- a beautiful female lead needing submission, to be tamed). I am solipsistic graphite smudges forming a halo around the ordinary providence of bold characters erased from an inelegant diner napkin- I wrote I love you I wrote I love you I wrote I love you.
Continue reading...
32
Once upon a time in the Great Hall of the Metropolitan Museum, my woman wan~pale, doozy, woozy, about to grace the floor marble, with an undesirably inelegant fall. Steadied her, a quick diagnose, Low Blood Sugar + Dehydration, her condition I pronounced. The antidote in my possession! From my pocket left, withdrew my emergency tangerine. She looked, quizzically, upon me, even a bit weirdly, marveling and marvelous, as I fed her bite-sized orange curvatures. *Who walks around with a tangerine in their coat pocket?* I replied, doesn't everyone? besides, that juicy tangerine looked mighty good, so I took from pocket right, another one, laughingly, which we shared. Henceforth she has called me, a partial mocking homage to a former actor, who should have stayed that way, the one who was thinking you can always start over, The Anticipator. If you ask me what is the secret to keeping love alive, my answer permanent. Get thee a coat of many pockets, like the one Joseph had, fill them up with with the things that will shelter her from the storm...^ No longer the season of the tangerine, In my pocket in the fall, a Fuji apple and a box of raisin~poems
0
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 2:54 AM UTC
nat-lipstadt
True Story#4: The Anticipator
Once upon a time in the Great Hall of the Metropolitan Museum, my woman wan~pale, doozy, woozy, about to grace the floor marble, with an undesirably inelegant fall. Steadied her, a quick diagnose, Low Blood Sugar + Dehydration, her condition I pronounced. The antidote in my possession! From my pocket left, withdrew my emergency tangerine. She looked, quizzically, upon me, even a bit weirdly, marveling and marvelous, as I fed her bite-sized orange curvatures. *Who walks around with a tangerine in their coat pocket?* I replied, doesn't everyone? besides, that juicy tangerine looked mighty good, so I took from pocket right, another one, laughingly, which we shared. Henceforth she has called me, a partial mocking homage to a former actor, who should have stayed that way, the one who was thinking you can always start over, The Anticipator. If you ask me what is the secret to keeping love alive, my answer permanent. Get thee a coat of many pockets, like the one Joseph had, fill them up with with the things that will shelter her from the storm...^ No longer the season of the tangerine, In my pocket in the fall, a Fuji apple and a box of raisin~poems
Continue reading...
39
We danced in your room on a weekday evening To that song by that band that we liked Graceless and inelegant on my part Stepped-on toes and laughter in unity You held my waist and I hid the tears that beaded in the corners of my eyes In your shoulder so you wouldn't ask what was wrong Because I was so happy Not like the clichés you might see in a film There was no orchestral soundtrack, no montage of our time together Angel choirs didn't sing of the best coupling in history Nor did they lament our separation The world went on And I got used to it But to this day I can't listen to that song without crying
0
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 4:21 PM UTC
a-9
Weekday Nights
We danced in your room on a weekday evening To that song by that band that we liked Graceless and inelegant on my part Stepped-on toes and laughter in unity You held my waist and I hid the tears that beaded in the corners of my eyes In your shoulder so you wouldn't ask what was wrong Because I was so happy Not like the clichés you might see in a film There was no orchestral soundtrack, no montage of our time together Angel choirs didn't sing of the best coupling in history Nor did they lament our separation The world went on And I got used to it But to this day I can't listen to that song without crying
Continue reading...
15
Lance-Lot by Michael R. Burch Preposterous bird! Inelegant! Absurd! Until the great & mighty heron brandishes his fearsome sword. I wrote this poem for a great blue heron who visits a pond that I pass on my daily walks — a truly majestic bird and the ultimate spear-fisher.
0
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 7:40 PM UTC
michael-r-burch
Lance-Lot
Lance-Lot by Michael R. Burch Preposterous bird! Inelegant! Absurd! Until the great & mighty heron brandishes his fearsome sword. I wrote this poem for a great blue heron who visits a pond that I pass on my daily walks — a truly majestic bird and the ultimate spear-fisher.
Continue reading...
7
Unbeautifully she undresses, unraveling my understanding. Unceremoniously she grabs me, undoing me to madness. Unbuttoning my pants and tearing at my sleeves, inelegant her moans and undainty are her screams. Unbelievable the *** underlying all the sweat, undenying is the passion on the bed sheets that we wet. Unconventional, uncontrollable, unforgettable the night. unacceptable, uncontainable, the thought of mornings light.
0
Jan 20, 2010
Jan 20, 2010 at 5:54 AM UTC
cry-sebastian
The Un Sonnet
Unbeautifully she undresses, unraveling my understanding. Unceremoniously she grabs me, undoing me to madness. Unbuttoning my pants and tearing at my sleeves, inelegant her moans and undainty are her screams. Unbelievable the *** underlying all the sweat, undenying is the passion on the bed sheets that we wet. Unconventional, uncontrollable, unforgettable the night. unacceptable, uncontainable, the thought of mornings light.
Continue reading...
18
I feel beautiful but only when I'm hungry Only when I can hear my stomach begging me to eat something Only when I can feel myself losing weight Only when they say, "you're getting to thin, you're doing great!" Only when I'm drinking a bottle of water in the span of a minute so that I can be full Only when I'm starving but I push the plate away. I feel beautiful But only when I'm counting calories Only when I'm running that extra mile to stay slim I feel beautiful Until I'm looking down at my thighs and I see that they touch Until a girl says how curvy I am when I'd just like to be flat and slim Until I step on the scale and it laughs and says I've gains a few pounds I feel beautiful until I look at myself in a fullbody mirror and think, "GROSS" I feel beautiful when I haven't eaten for 3 days and no one notices When I'm popping a rubber band to my wrist saying, "you're not hungry your just bored" over and over again And my stomach replys, "I'm dying, why are you doing this, feed me" I feel beautiful Until the girl next to me is thinner than I am Until daddy tells me I'm getting fat Until I hear the boys in the distance say that they'd never, ever, ever date big girl I feel beautiful But only when I'm dying of starvation Only when I'm literally empty on the inside I felt beautiful Until I realized that fat is an insult And i wondered why Do we not glide the same why? Do our stretch marks make us inelegant? Are we unladylike because we eat? I feel beautiful until I don't anymore Until beauty is too much in the eye of the beholder Until I am not allowed to be the beholder Until beauty is a category of waist size double zero I feel beautiful Because I'm allowed to Because the number on the scale does not define Me Because I Define me
0
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 3:03 AM UTC
AngelicaPerkins
Laughing Scale
I feel beautiful but only when I'm hungry Only when I can hear my stomach begging me to eat something Only when I can feel myself losing weight Only when they say, "you're getting to thin, you're doing great!" Only when I'm drinking a bottle of water in the span of a minute so that I can be full Only when I'm starving but I push the plate away. I feel beautiful But only when I'm counting calories Only when I'm running that extra mile to stay slim I feel beautiful Until I'm looking down at my thighs and I see that they touch Until a girl says how curvy I am when I'd just like to be flat and slim Until I step on the scale and it laughs and says I've gains a few pounds I feel beautiful until I look at myself in a fullbody mirror and think, "GROSS" I feel beautiful when I haven't eaten for 3 days and no one notices When I'm popping a rubber band to my wrist saying, "you're not hungry your just bored" over and over again And my stomach replys, "I'm dying, why are you doing this, feed me" I feel beautiful Until the girl next to me is thinner than I am Until daddy tells me I'm getting fat Until I hear the boys in the distance say that they'd never, ever, ever date big girl I feel beautiful But only when I'm dying of starvation Only when I'm literally empty on the inside I felt beautiful Until I realized that fat is an insult And i wondered why Do we not glide the same why? Do our stretch marks make us inelegant? Are we unladylike because we eat? I feel beautiful until I don't anymore Until beauty is too much in the eye of the beholder Until I am not allowed to be the beholder Until beauty is a category of waist size double zero I feel beautiful Because I'm allowed to Because the number on the scale does not define Me Because I Define me
Continue reading...
41
my heart beats faster for you my heart and mind ache simply for you is this love or fear i feel for my thoughts are solely on you you confuse me so much i fear you so as such you bring out the worst in me gawky inelegant maladroit i am around you it's nauseating that i am, also without you it's upsetting, i am revolted at this is this love or fear i feel about this my heart beats faster for you my heart and mind seems to ache just thinking about you is this love or fear i feel for you stranger at day, thief at night you are to me for my thoughts are solely on you you see my heartaches specially for you is this love or fear i feel about you
0
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 1:53 PM UTC
mary-rose
love or fear
my heart beats faster for you my heart and mind ache simply for you is this love or fear i feel for my thoughts are solely on you you confuse me so much i fear you so as such you bring out the worst in me gawky inelegant maladroit i am around you it's nauseating that i am, also without you it's upsetting, i am revolted at this is this love or fear i feel about this my heart beats faster for you my heart and mind seems to ache just thinking about you is this love or fear i feel for you stranger at day, thief at night you are to me for my thoughts are solely on you you see my heartaches specially for you is this love or fear i feel about you
Continue reading...
20
An announcement, dear spoons, it has come to my attention, That knives are in fact the superior invention, They cut and they dice, and they bring us sliced bread, While for spoons, I'm afraid there's not much to be said, They're good for the stirring and sipping of soup, They can help you eat anything; well, as long as its goop, They can't even manage to show a proper reflection, Try gazing at one, it upends your direction, Oh spoons, you buffoons, you round-bellied fools, Try slicing, not scooping, you inelegant tools, Knives dress to **** while you spoons are such slouches, And knives are quite charming; you lot are all grouches, It's clear that knives are the superior race, They'll put you dumb spoons back into your place, At the bottom of the drawer, way down with the forks, Alongside the can opener, and a screwer of corks, You're the **** of the table, I despise your skullduggery, That's why I declare knives the finest of cutlery.
0
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 12:41 AM UTC
rowan-darcy
Spoons
An announcement, dear spoons, it has come to my attention, That knives are in fact the superior invention, They cut and they dice, and they bring us sliced bread, While for spoons, I'm afraid there's not much to be said, They're good for the stirring and sipping of soup, They can help you eat anything; well, as long as its goop, They can't even manage to show a proper reflection, Try gazing at one, it upends your direction, Oh spoons, you buffoons, you round-bellied fools, Try slicing, not scooping, you inelegant tools, Knives dress to **** while you spoons are such slouches, And knives are quite charming; you lot are all grouches, It's clear that knives are the superior race, They'll put you dumb spoons back into your place, At the bottom of the drawer, way down with the forks, Alongside the can opener, and a screwer of corks, You're the **** of the table, I despise your skullduggery, That's why I declare knives the finest of cutlery.
Continue reading...
18
I caught her eye Through her heart-shaped Gucci sunglasses Cherry red lips And just as sweet-smelling, She smiled With scarlet nails, Upon a slender and soft hand She beckoned me I was nervous She was gorgeous One hand on a wiry steering wheel Belonging to a pastel coloured Chevrolet I leaned in through the lowered window She smiled Her other hand carded through A magenta mop of messy hair She laughed She was a woman Wet and wild With a mischievous smile And a lilt in her voice, She asked me for my name and number I gave her a lot more than that The ocean’s roar Against a dodgy seaside town She took me for a ride And what a ride it was Seeing the sights Rolling on a road Through places neither of us know The engine purrs And so, does she As she laces one arm across my shoulders From the driver’s seat My heart skips a beat We holed up in a motel She had bought the room Days ago With her Daddy’s credit card Her Chevrolet parked out front Our room Her room Amid plasticky ferns And stinking asphalt Under a hazy summer cloud Vintage dresses in her closet Perfume bottles Glistening on her drawers Elegant scents In an inelegant room Out the window Encased in nautical décor I could glimpse the sea and sand I ran my fingers On the edge of her bedside table She ran her fingers Along the edge of my spine The bed bounced Beneath our weight Touching, whispering Clothes on the floor I couldn’t have wanted more For she was All for me A first like none other She was gorgeous A dreamy goddess I did see go In a pastel pink Chevrolet Wearing Gucci glasses And an impish smile On cherry cola flavoured lips Above eyes Which were bright Like swirling, burning stars A vivacious light To count my blessings And amorous bruising by
0
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 6:22 PM UTC
bibliomancie
Untitled 58
I caught her eye Through her heart-shaped Gucci sunglasses Cherry red lips And just as sweet-smelling, She smiled With scarlet nails, Upon a slender and soft hand She beckoned me I was nervous She was gorgeous One hand on a wiry steering wheel Belonging to a pastel coloured Chevrolet I leaned in through the lowered window She smiled Her other hand carded through A magenta mop of messy hair She laughed She was a woman Wet and wild With a mischievous smile And a lilt in her voice, She asked me for my name and number I gave her a lot more than that The ocean’s roar Against a dodgy seaside town She took me for a ride And what a ride it was Seeing the sights Rolling on a road Through places neither of us know The engine purrs And so, does she As she laces one arm across my shoulders From the driver’s seat My heart skips a beat We holed up in a motel She had bought the room Days ago With her Daddy’s credit card Her Chevrolet parked out front Our room Her room Amid plasticky ferns And stinking asphalt Under a hazy summer cloud Vintage dresses in her closet Perfume bottles Glistening on her drawers Elegant scents In an inelegant room Out the window Encased in nautical décor I could glimpse the sea and sand I ran my fingers On the edge of her bedside table She ran her fingers Along the edge of my spine The bed bounced Beneath our weight Touching, whispering Clothes on the floor I couldn’t have wanted more For she was All for me A first like none other She was gorgeous A dreamy goddess I did see go In a pastel pink Chevrolet Wearing Gucci glasses And an impish smile On cherry cola flavoured lips Above eyes Which were bright Like swirling, burning stars A vivacious light To count my blessings And amorous bruising by
Continue reading...
78
The twisting and turning, grumbling, churning, elation, desperation and more. Reflexive minds compacting semiotics until an inevitable meaninglessness rears up in smugness. *"There is Nothing here. Nothing for you Nothing Of you. Nothing."* The mind begins again, fumbling, stumbling, eureka-ing, ambling, grasping and more. Reflexive minds compacting semiotics until an inevitable meaninglessness rears up in smugness. *"There is Nothing here. Nothing for you, Nothing Of you, Nothing."* The mind will not accept, that it, in it's biological supremacy, is simultaneously, Nothing. A joke. Some vapid expression of consciousness. The mind will only protect, that which it most values; Esteem. Reverence of it's own structure. The Marvel. A human, student, sales-assistant, a sister... ...Something? ...Anything?... *"There is Nothing here. Nothing for you, Nothing Of you, Nothing."* The mind is a tool, one of the most primitive. Natural selection adding accessories like some distasteful outfit. The mind means well. Aching to Justify, with inelegant adjectives, it's fondness of itself. Petrified of it's "Nothingness";   The wordlessness that conveys meaning no mind can ascribe to language. *"There is Nothing here. Nothing for you, Nothing Of you, Nothing."* please Stop mind. The thrashing and the squirming, stop flexing your Precocious Verbiage. just stop. . . allow Me to quell your convolution, using your own Pig English; you are unequivocally a  Thing. And, there IS Nothing here. And it is NOT For you. And it is not OF you. //It//Is//Nothing// you, Are a possession, I, the possessor. Therefore you, My most precious of things, Will never fathom Me. . *Because you are Something, and so, you are not.* But I am Nothing. For, I - am.
0
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 12:39 AM UTC
felixuniverse
You're Nothing.
The twisting and turning, grumbling, churning, elation, desperation and more. Reflexive minds compacting semiotics until an inevitable meaninglessness rears up in smugness. *"There is Nothing here. Nothing for you Nothing Of you. Nothing."* The mind begins again, fumbling, stumbling, eureka-ing, ambling, grasping and more. Reflexive minds compacting semiotics until an inevitable meaninglessness rears up in smugness. *"There is Nothing here. Nothing for you, Nothing Of you, Nothing."* The mind will not accept, that it, in it's biological supremacy, is simultaneously, Nothing. A joke. Some vapid expression of consciousness. The mind will only protect, that which it most values; Esteem. Reverence of it's own structure. The Marvel. A human, student, sales-assistant, a sister... ...Something? ...Anything?... *"There is Nothing here. Nothing for you, Nothing Of you, Nothing."* The mind is a tool, one of the most primitive. Natural selection adding accessories like some distasteful outfit. The mind means well. Aching to Justify, with inelegant adjectives, it's fondness of itself. Petrified of it's "Nothingness";   The wordlessness that conveys meaning no mind can ascribe to language. *"There is Nothing here. Nothing for you, Nothing Of you, Nothing."* please Stop mind. The thrashing and the squirming, stop flexing your Precocious Verbiage. just stop. . . allow Me to quell your convolution, using your own Pig English; you are unequivocally a  Thing. And, there IS Nothing here. And it is NOT For you. And it is not OF you. //It//Is//Nothing// you, Are a possession, I, the possessor. Therefore you, My most precious of things, Will never fathom Me. . *Because you are Something, and so, you are not.* But I am Nothing. For, I - am.
Continue reading...
56
Musing, thinking aloud, of Taking a little line for a walk, down my spine, down curves of flesh Over pale creamy rises and falls Interrupted by the gathering storm of you Declaring tattoos for others, not me No story of me in black ink on white, no tale in twisted vine and script, no Desecration of your terrain, Alteration in rhythmic refrain and ouch, red everywhere. I would argue with you but I must please Your gravity has me riveted, taken aback by the venom Vehement and pure, spat in their direction The canvas people walking around Illustrated versions of lifelong perspectives Their jewels of ink shimmering in trapped caresses, Gathered in unison images binding intent to design... My wont, this desire to be amongst them Magick workers unleashing heaven as they pass through their days Eating lunch with their besties in an act of casual sorcery A beauty never intended For me. Sulking, quiet mouthed, you Taking a little hand for a walk, down my spine, down curve of limb Over pale milky hills and valleys You would stop short at the first letter advance Touch me not, touch me not Simmering anger at the craven trespass, inelegant in your eyes, crass Decoration of your domain Knives in your eyes makes me think twice, cut by ice I drop the question, keep the peace, yet I remain An open page to the world’s eyes And wear my secret inkings on the inside.
0
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 3:03 AM UTC
deidre-lockyer
Secret Inkings
Musing, thinking aloud, of Taking a little line for a walk, down my spine, down curves of flesh Over pale creamy rises and falls Interrupted by the gathering storm of you Declaring tattoos for others, not me No story of me in black ink on white, no tale in twisted vine and script, no Desecration of your terrain, Alteration in rhythmic refrain and ouch, red everywhere. I would argue with you but I must please Your gravity has me riveted, taken aback by the venom Vehement and pure, spat in their direction The canvas people walking around Illustrated versions of lifelong perspectives Their jewels of ink shimmering in trapped caresses, Gathered in unison images binding intent to design... My wont, this desire to be amongst them Magick workers unleashing heaven as they pass through their days Eating lunch with their besties in an act of casual sorcery A beauty never intended For me. Sulking, quiet mouthed, you Taking a little hand for a walk, down my spine, down curve of limb Over pale milky hills and valleys You would stop short at the first letter advance Touch me not, touch me not Simmering anger at the craven trespass, inelegant in your eyes, crass Decoration of your domain Knives in your eyes makes me think twice, cut by ice I drop the question, keep the peace, yet I remain An open page to the world’s eyes And wear my secret inkings on the inside.
Continue reading...
32
I tell tales all the time, though I can never seem to mutter enough about the future. Though times I believe miles are put behind me, the constellations fall into line. And we'll lay stanced in parallel form, though my mind is bent in perpendiculars. The tips of our fingers placed on another, magnetizing like palms to a mirror. And when your teeth gnaw on the same places my inelegant tongue follows along my lips, the flesh that shares with the blood between my bones will warm. And I'll feel the swelter burn while it sears all control to keep from trembling. And it's still unclear if I'm gasping or grasping too hard. And though I have no pastor or god to look up to, your touch feels like finding faith. Will these sheets wrinkle or will they tear? - l.b.
0
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 4:35 AM UTC
lisa-benson
one of many untitled's.
I tell tales all the time, though I can never seem to mutter enough about the future. Though times I believe miles are put behind me, the constellations fall into line. And we'll lay stanced in parallel form, though my mind is bent in perpendiculars. The tips of our fingers placed on another, magnetizing like palms to a mirror. And when your teeth gnaw on the same places my inelegant tongue follows along my lips, the flesh that shares with the blood between my bones will warm. And I'll feel the swelter burn while it sears all control to keep from trembling. And it's still unclear if I'm gasping or grasping too hard. And though I have no pastor or god to look up to, your touch feels like finding faith. Will these sheets wrinkle or will they tear? - l.b.
Continue reading...
13
Inelegant spawn spew from the mouth trading words at the post a barter gone south hard to express words that feel without tripping over heels The mixed message lost amongst layers to peel
0
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
dwayne-richardson
Tongue Tied
Inelegant spawn spew from the mouth trading words at the post a barter gone south hard to express words that feel without tripping over heels The mixed message lost amongst layers to peel
Continue reading...
8
In loving memory of Kurtz's last disciple: Welcome to the circus, A three-ringed show in The center of the dark. In our multifoliate arrogance, We seek out a familiar face And forget to turn on the light. Fumbling by touch, Grasping at straws, When faced with the truth, We crave the lie instead. Each and every one of us The architects of our own catastrophe.
0
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 3:48 PM UTC
mica-kluge
Inelegant Hearts
In loving memory of Kurtz's last disciple: Welcome to the circus, A three-ringed show in The center of the dark. In our multifoliate arrogance, We seek out a familiar face And forget to turn on the light. Fumbling by touch, Grasping at straws, When faced with the truth, We crave the lie instead. Each and every one of us The architects of our own catastrophe.
Continue reading...
13
I invited the wolves at the door in for tea. We calmly discussed my circumstances: No money to pay rent, No fulfillment in waiting tables, No way to silence the noise catapulting through my brain. Their crash-and-burn solutions were inelegant, but held a certain visceral appeal. I could drop it all and drive through the dizzying heat in my old, un-air conditioned Ford. I could drop out of college--why not? I've flunked three semesters in a row. I could balance just enough caliber under the ceiling of my mouth, and pull a trigger. The Pollock-esque spatter of blood would be my crowning artistic achievement. "You're not getting any better," the wolves explained. They were right. The sinister beauty of depression is in its ups and downs, the way it coaxes you into believing, just maybe, you're finally getting better, you've finally escaped the labyrinth, but the wolves always come knocking again. They always seem to know where to find me.
0
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 1:08 PM UTC
taylor-webb
Wolves
I invited the wolves at the door in for tea. We calmly discussed my circumstances: No money to pay rent, No fulfillment in waiting tables, No way to silence the noise catapulting through my brain. Their crash-and-burn solutions were inelegant, but held a certain visceral appeal. I could drop it all and drive through the dizzying heat in my old, un-air conditioned Ford. I could drop out of college--why not? I've flunked three semesters in a row. I could balance just enough caliber under the ceiling of my mouth, and pull a trigger. The Pollock-esque spatter of blood would be my crowning artistic achievement. "You're not getting any better," the wolves explained. They were right. The sinister beauty of depression is in its ups and downs, the way it coaxes you into believing, just maybe, you're finally getting better, you've finally escaped the labyrinth, but the wolves always come knocking again. They always seem to know where to find me.
Continue reading...
23
I have an incoherent proposal for you. It is incoherent because I lack both the courage and clarity. Anyway, as you know this world is riddled with brailles and imaginary synaesthesic hints over all that seems to be what it is. Yes, all that ******** So here I stand before you. Punctured and drawn, pulpy and inelegant. Wry, silly and dire. Cultivated and ridiculous. It’s. Scratch that. In the mind you have said emotions we are not lines. nope. Sky wire. Erm If None of what I say is true. Look past me and see what’s real. And that. I’m hoping you want that, to touch the electric, liquid-ish paths and vector strings. If. I’m a non-bundle of emotions lately—not sleep though— and it’s not you. Just desperate for not someone. Just desperate to get past selfhood with somebody else to keep it interesting and it makes as much sense as anything so I don’t want to talk ******** but would you, as a complicated instrument, like to get outside ourselves and not play but be wildly serious?
0
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 4:50 AM UTC
sn-mrax
We are ready for unimaginable alternate realities
I have an incoherent proposal for you. It is incoherent because I lack both the courage and clarity. Anyway, as you know this world is riddled with brailles and imaginary synaesthesic hints over all that seems to be what it is. Yes, all that ******** So here I stand before you. Punctured and drawn, pulpy and inelegant. Wry, silly and dire. Cultivated and ridiculous. It’s. Scratch that. In the mind you have said emotions we are not lines. nope. Sky wire. Erm If None of what I say is true. Look past me and see what’s real. And that. I’m hoping you want that, to touch the electric, liquid-ish paths and vector strings. If. I’m a non-bundle of emotions lately—not sleep though— and it’s not you. Just desperate for not someone. Just desperate to get past selfhood with somebody else to keep it interesting and it makes as much sense as anything so I don’t want to talk ******** but would you, as a complicated instrument, like to get outside ourselves and not play but be wildly serious?
Continue reading...
41