"infographic" poems - Hello Poetry

Did you notice the crisis going on outside, It’s terrible really they’re trying to hide Atrocities behind a wall of big lies The badness of this is incredibly sized. So get out and help, you useless **** Shout and whisper you absolute schmuck, March and stamp and tiptoe around red tape, Call it ****** harassment, but I wouldn’t call it **** Donate and berate but most of all- **** THE GOVERNMENT, (Tenderly, like a lover, to not upset the way of things of course.) Why aren’t you looking for missing kids Why aren’t you crying at the dead body Why aren’t you saying what Russia forbids Why aren’t you crying at the dead body Why aren’t you aching from every pore Why aren’t you crying at the dead body Why aren’t you saving all of the ****** Why aren’t you crying at the dead bodies Why aren’t you giving your money to us? Why, aren’t you someone the people can trust? Did you notice the crisis going on within, It’s terrible really, a huge massive din Is crashing and smashing alone in your head You can’t ever stop, unless you are dead. Oh wait, you posted a brightly coloured infographic on your instagram story? You’re good, never mind.

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Feb 22, 2022

Feb 22, 2022 at 8:28 PM UTC

Eviemip

Crisis

Did you notice the crisis going on outside, It’s terrible really they’re trying to hide Atrocities behind a wall of big lies The badness of this is incredibly sized. So get out and help, you useless **** Shout and whisper you absolute schmuck, March and stamp and tiptoe around red tape, Call it ****** harassment, but I wouldn’t call it **** Donate and berate but most of all- **** THE GOVERNMENT, (Tenderly, like a lover, to not upset the way of things of course.) Why aren’t you looking for missing kids Why aren’t you crying at the dead body Why aren’t you saying what Russia forbids Why aren’t you crying at the dead body Why aren’t you aching from every pore Why aren’t you crying at the dead body Why aren’t you saving all of the ****** Why aren’t you crying at the dead bodies Why aren’t you giving your money to us? Why, aren’t you someone the people can trust? Did you notice the crisis going on within, It’s terrible really, a huge massive din Is crashing and smashing alone in your head You can’t ever stop, unless you are dead. Oh wait, you posted a brightly coloured infographic on your instagram story? You’re good, never mind.

27

So much to do, my mind is buzzing. My fingers are dancing with perverted excitement as my lips form words with more syllables than letters. I feel as though I were a more capable Atlas. May the world rely on me, I shall hold it higher than an aeroplane as it soars through the sky. Our skies. A testament to the ingenuity of man the turrets, ******** the weak, and credit God; the asexual ****** he is. This is no song for the hipsters to play as their ringtones as they feel for each other through their LCD screens. They search for other brazen articles of humanity trapped within their social networks, a web of faces, **** smiles, faces and words with us wherever we we go. An inextricable mass that haunts like schizophrenic vocals droning out the real life. But there is no real life. We are all just like Him. ***** Not natural. Filthy. Unclean. Today, I grabbed a handful of sand just to see if I could feel it. Ten years ago, I would have felt every grain as it passed through my fingers; crisp, sharp, invigorating. Now, it’s dull. Blunt, rounded, indistinguishable. ***** Not natural. Filthy. Unclean. Nothing for our worshipped deviant to see. My life is pornographic; an infographic of my exquisite taste in infectious lies, in the slaughter of old days, in the times immemorial. A map of things that don’t relate to me. A chart of things I don’t care about. I have too much to do, so much to write about! To write about...me. ***** Not natural. Filthy. Unclean. My mind is buzzing. Until the next day, when my bones fall sluggish and my mind thinks plainly of its singular desire: Sleep…dirty, sleep...filthy, sleep. But I can’t. So now...I work. I am alive, alive, alive a lively beat of my heart as blood runs like an inmate from the bars of confinement. From my body: a testament to the ingenuity of ********** My body. Where my heart is beaten. Beat, beat. Sleep, sleep. Fly high.

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Mar 4, 2012

Mar 4, 2012 at 3:13 AM UTC

brad-lambert

A Testament to the Ingenuity of **********

So much to do, my mind is buzzing. My fingers are dancing with perverted excitement as my lips form words with more syllables than letters. I feel as though I were a more capable Atlas. May the world rely on me, I shall hold it higher than an aeroplane as it soars through the sky. Our skies. A testament to the ingenuity of man the turrets, ******** the weak, and credit God; the asexual ****** he is. This is no song for the hipsters to play as their ringtones as they feel for each other through their LCD screens. They search for other brazen articles of humanity trapped within their social networks, a web of faces, **** smiles, faces and words with us wherever we we go. An inextricable mass that haunts like schizophrenic vocals droning out the real life. But there is no real life. We are all just like Him. ***** Not natural. Filthy. Unclean. Today, I grabbed a handful of sand just to see if I could feel it. Ten years ago, I would have felt every grain as it passed through my fingers; crisp, sharp, invigorating. Now, it’s dull. Blunt, rounded, indistinguishable. ***** Not natural. Filthy. Unclean. Nothing for our worshipped deviant to see. My life is pornographic; an infographic of my exquisite taste in infectious lies, in the slaughter of old days, in the times immemorial. A map of things that don’t relate to me. A chart of things I don’t care about. I have too much to do, so much to write about! To write about...me. ***** Not natural. Filthy. Unclean. My mind is buzzing. Until the next day, when my bones fall sluggish and my mind thinks plainly of its singular desire: Sleep…dirty, sleep...filthy, sleep. But I can’t. So now...I work. I am alive, alive, alive a lively beat of my heart as blood runs like an inmate from the bars of confinement. From my body: a testament to the ingenuity of ********** My body. Where my heart is beaten. Beat, beat. Sleep, sleep. Fly high.

13

I’m… Sitting in my flat, To my couch I am thatched, Kyle’s yelling, He keeps telling, Me to, Get a job, Like walk straight into one, I get slightly indignant, That it’s easier said than done, He points it out, So his main demographic Don’t switch off en-masse, Ending his quasi-infographic Combination of hot air and bad gas Mr. Kyle’s relatable, He makes an effort So unlike certain Eton educated conservative western capitalistic illuminati slaves, He’s not hateable. SO, my now easily distracted mind turns to Mr.C, The way his policies A.K.A BEDROOM TAX negatively impact me The way he forces me into obvious and obnoxious modern day slavery Through way of a work programme How he has decided that I need to experience real life life, Through legislation and universal credit, Credible implication to make the poorest poorer because they have the gall to spend it SO my rhyming thought full of tangents Must now come to end As the tangent I have accomplished Is impossible to defend.

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Dec 16, 2014

Dec 16, 2014 at 8:14 AM UTC

luke-r-e-webster

JSA blues

I’m… Sitting in my flat, To my couch I am thatched, Kyle’s yelling, He keeps telling, Me to, Get a job, Like walk straight into one, I get slightly indignant, That it’s easier said than done, He points it out, So his main demographic Don’t switch off en-masse, Ending his quasi-infographic Combination of hot air and bad gas Mr. Kyle’s relatable, He makes an effort So unlike certain Eton educated conservative western capitalistic illuminati slaves, He’s not hateable. SO, my now easily distracted mind turns to Mr.C, The way his policies A.K.A BEDROOM TAX negatively impact me The way he forces me into obvious and obnoxious modern day slavery Through way of a work programme How he has decided that I need to experience real life life, Through legislation and universal credit, Credible implication to make the poorest poorer because they have the gall to spend it SO my rhyming thought full of tangents Must now come to end As the tangent I have accomplished Is impossible to defend.

30

Regret It's one of those things Get under your skin Splinter-like As ****** off as getting them old-broomstick style Aggravatingly , not Because they're there But rather from how you got them Poor. Life. Decisions. 7pm blackout in the scheme of things. ******* off, or on, maybe. And the worst part always being That You Can Do Everything In your own ********* right mind To forget, or to move on You can change your attitude Your view on life To reflect the "new-and-improved" You. But it will always be there, Regret.

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Jan 23, 2012

Jan 23, 2012 at 1:42 AM UTC

myles-a-roth-1

Reflections- Infographic

Regret It's one of those things Get under your skin Splinter-like As ****** off as getting them old-broomstick style Aggravatingly , not Because they're there But rather from how you got them Poor. Life. Decisions. 7pm blackout in the scheme of things. ******* off, or on, maybe. And the worst part always being That You Can Do Everything In your own ********* right mind To forget, or to move on You can change your attitude Your view on life To reflect the "new-and-improved" You. But it will always be there, Regret.

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