"insipid" poems
You looked much prettier with long hair.
Don’t - give me that, show me a smile
it’s better to be natural oh!
look your arms are so hairy, hairier than mine.
Not rowdy or older than myself but definitely
confident and intelligent and maybe even
‘quirky’ as long as she’s thin
and kind. Because I don’t like fat girls
how to find your dream woma
where to find dream woman online free
I think I’m still in love with Grace but
she ignores and blanks and shuns me even
after I shared so much yet
she doesn’t even seem to care
hey
I’m verrru drunk
I see u
the little green dot next to your name haha
night then iguess
I think I just hate women and that
stupid insipid conceited *****
couldn’t tell a good guy if
he cuffed her clean
across the cheekbone
and spat in both her eyes
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 7:06 PM UTC
Choosing a series a words for a ditty,
Those we first pluck a few at a time.
For readers it will, at first, seem so pretty
When they detect that rhythm and rhyme.
But soon, I suggest, it becomes such a chore,
When words strung together do pose
An oft-trodden pattern or insipid score
That bounces and sings as it goes.
The message conveyed in this rigid frame,
Is lesser I fear than than when we escape
From words chosen for just ending the same
Or some fortuitous fit to that shape.
So I tend to lean towards using blank form,
For verses I build by the letter,
And chose the words that I feel will conform
To that which my heart says are better.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 11:31 AM UTC
There is a blood clot in the center of Imagination Street,
I can feel it.
It blocks the path that follows through Creative Avenue
where cars horn, roar and protest, curse and smother with
a simple look of “Move the **** on!”
And yet no paramedic can remove the jumper that
lays from austere insipid life.
It's a victim of routine they say, jumped from the nearest skyscraper
hoping to touch the sky but fell miserably on to the streets.
There is an aberration stretched over the streets, I can feel it
because it's me.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
Hail, dreamcatcher, hear now my thoughts
Free my soul of fond hopes of naught;
Of brokenness these dreams had taught;
Of ceaseless pain this life has brought.
This heart is weary of shouting;
Of being empty yet drowning
In insipid words befuddling;
In ashed promises succumbing.
**** this anguish feasting inside
That this shiv may be put aside;
These damp sheets be given a rest,
And that may bliss in this room nest.
Hail, dreamcatcher, hear now my sigh,
The words I'll mutter as lie
Below the grass, hear my cry;
My soliloquies ere I die.
The dreams that I wove with your strings
Are dreams that 'til I slumber clings;
Dreams that on stars I'll be wishing
That I with the stars be dreaming.
Farewell to you, dear moon, I say
Awake I can no longer stay
In peace on this bed I shall lay,
Never again shall I rise, I pray.
So dreamcatcher croon me to sleep
And let me drown in thoughts so deep
Don't wake me up, I had enough
Last wish: I be gone in a puff.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 9:01 AM UTC
Head up, stay strong, fake a smile, move on,
they always said,
No one will see a broken spirit.
They were wrong.
Your eyes saw past it all.
The way your eyes loved my soul
wasn't in vain or vanity.
They didn't see the complex masks
or the pounds of makeup --
Your eyes saw me in all my simplicity.
You dove into the darkness of my eyes
and found this small broken light --
some strange thing you called a soul.
Your eyes loved that shattered light --
they held it with kind words and soothing embraces.
I felt like The Golden Girl turned inside out:
a face comprised of dullness and imperfection,
a soul of great beauty and grace.
With words, smiles, and touch,
you convinced me to stay in my skin,
but for once in my insipid life,
my soul felt alive and bright.
No longer would I battle the darkness,
no longer would I be afraid of the monsters inside.
Your eyes struck the match that ignited my soul again.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 10:55 PM UTC
[From Fragments, The Following...]
... so it was that the Urth bled less. The Birch Moot was becalmed by the Anvil Cloud of Impending Deluge.
The Young Gods made sport of Their Names, and aimed to Oblique the colony of clever flesh
groping at the tender roots of an insipid devastation. The First Ones had vanished.
But Time was born and the Mortal Whirl released the Hounds of Change. Transition fused -
with the Eternal; and the offspring of unloved Spirits, roamed the Tangible. All Suffering was amplified
in the diamond lungs of a divine corpse, dreaming.
... for when the iron heart of The Cast Out was retrieved, the Legion of Heaven poured unseemly Grace upon the Fathoms
and the High King of Doubt, forced his blade ' Nimue '
into the soft palette, of the First Mouth. The Stars were born and The Void overheard the First Naming.
A solid drizzle of enchantment cloaked the oaken Yggdrasil
and The Pattern unleashed the folly of Pattern
to mask the virtue of succinct Chaos. The Children of The Lower Sky ate their Masters and thereby swollen -
gathered in the underbrush of the Fecund.
They came to Know Regret by Answering Prayers. The Kingdoms of Wane were waning in the fearsome riot of Creation
and not a boy, a man from no woman
and no woman
a man.
... the siege lights of the petty stars, babbled in the wake of yawning eruption and nullification. the ****** theater of blood
was made Holy by way of forcing camels into eyes of needles in constant dystopian joy.
... and that's how the rain gets in.
[ From the ' Kingdoms Of Wane ', a Lost Tome from Antiquity and Dada ]
What ?
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 7:07 PM UTC
Stars shine on in a night sky so black
you can see the truth.
What is that light but an interruption
to progress so blinding
the sun blushes–
as if another light vandalized
our ever darkening sky.
Closing out on reality,
opening up to ideals,
it’s the rays piercing through the layers
and the yea-sayers nodding
off to sleep in a darkness so deep.
When the genius strips off the latent,
flexes its manifest intelligence,
and puts down thoughts
that flare into the darkness.
No effort from a sun fibbing eternal.
The end might come but the hand
who writes eternity can’t see
the end coming.
Who are the geniuses
expelling the light
and who are the receivers
not likely to admit their stupor
for fear of fantastic phantasms.
Fleeing from their folly,
straying into strange, insipid
serials, unending, not rerunning–
only growing obese with weight
Of chances not spent.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 3:35 AM UTC
it comes and goes they say. Bringing life to awkard ways. Stimulating awkard minds on lonely days. wastes away in intrinsic minds,repressed.
hapless beautiful thoughts used as insipid grumblings in a harvest without seed.
It is a must.a need.a gift
times' vacation, times' digress.
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
practicing mental gymnastics
insipid memories
seeping their way past
defensive buffers
remembering repressed poisons
as a catalyst for making
wiser decisions
lackadaisical reactions to
sharply defined parallaxes
warrant an immediate shift
fractal spectacles
the labyrinth of my innards
inhale the cosmological smoke of suggestion
words become meaningless
when repeated exhaustively
semantic satiation
slicing away at true intentions
paving the way to
false inventiveness
shallow river beds are loud
prouder than their counterparts
insecurity overshadows
a lack of faith in the faint of heart
everything worthwhile
falls apart
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC
She picked it up from the seashore.
He encouraged her,
Flattered her with indulgence
To bring back her dying flame.
A girl once again,
She brought it home
In whimsically ebullient innocence!
On the polished floor
In a faraway city
It found it hard to walk
With the load of mollusk
And made a funny sight!
It strained its ears
But there was no sound of the sea,
No saline smell in the air,
Instead the water was sweet and insipid.
It went thirsty.
The food was alien,
It went hungry.
Soon they polished the shell
And celebrated addition of
Another showpiece in their room!
The crab had at last
Found a new home.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 3:06 AM UTC
impeccable artwork
splayed red anger
diffused dangerously
imminent explosion
take down your temper
ice it in silence
spread change
draw conclusions
inherent haste
find tranquility
in people places
abstract soliloquy
ethereal furnace
split skin burnt moments
wanderer waking
in a strange place
stars foretell
insipid futures
we are destined
for another ice age?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 days ago
- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11770244-zodiac-misfired.....-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.DX0ajG0s.dpuf
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 2:45 PM UTC
Texting somebody close to you,
Gossiping,
Chatting,
OMGees are all flying around,
LoLs flooding your tiny box,
Yet you're determined to stay aground.
I always have wondered why to limit,
Why to cap English or inhibit,
Replacing good ol’ words with some wicked text,
Emoticons they call,
Insipid, dull, and sluggish,
Emoticons they’re called.
Although indolence has reached its bounds,
And although my vote is utterly trifling,
Admit it,
Concede it,
Conclude it,
Emoticons’ presence should be abolished.
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 7:30 AM UTC
He only imbibes because of his dipsomania.
She only practices onanism because she's afraid he'll impregnate her.
He despises her monomania.
She's too affable, almost to the point of being obsequious.
He's too acrimonious and muzzy.
She knows she's a bit of a coquette.
He thinks he's a cuckold.
She used to be flighty until she fell into this convoluted dystopia.
He used to find it scintillating to get sozzled.
She just wants a lark once in a while.
His iniquity makes him want her to be lascivious.
Her every fatuity leads to a cabal.
He's too opaque and insipid.
She has to iterate and reiterate everything she says.
He feels his infatuation is unrequited.
She finds this unproblematic.
He doesn't imbue her with anything anymore.
She thinks he's unpitying of that.
He'll malinger tomorrow.
She'll wonder if it's all adventitious or kismet.
She can't handle his odium.
He can't stand her ten dollar words.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
Accept my pity, ye tormented souls unable to raise and dazzle
all I did was earn my keep and walked in sunshine from the soul
but
When men are full of envy they disparage everything,
whether it be good or bad.
Now I know some minds never grow and thrive only in envy
For Envy, like the worm, never runs but to the fairest fruit;
like a cunning bloodhound, it singles out the fattest deer in the flock.
These wretched starved toxic souls, only see a man with plenty
The flower which is single need not envy the thorns that are numerous.
I did not countenance that faces are pale because they lacked
just thought that was the Creator's work on days when brown
and yellow, swarty, ivory and tan paints ran out
I knew a lot hated this insipid opaque pale colouring, but at least
they have beautiful hair and lucky ones have pearly white teeth
but unbeknown to me, real envy resides in them and blinds them and makes it impossible for them to think clearly.
Oh dearie me, our pale brothers and sisters die inside their souls
And age so quickly, radiant in bloom one day, grey and wrinkled
in the morrow like a wilted rose devoid of water and light
Their pain and envy, their self-loathing, their insecurities ravages
Let age, not envy, draw wrinkles on thy cheeks, dear friends.
For you see, God's truth judges created things out of love,
and Satan's truth judges them out of envy and hatred.
Our envy always lasts longer than the happiness of those we envy.
If malice or envy were tangible and had a shape,
it would be the shape of a boomerang.
I fear not and now understand why you envy and hate me
I can appreciate the bile and venom for Fools may our scorn,
not envy, raise. For envy is a kind of praise.
Worth begets in base minds, envy; in great souls, emulation.
When people envy someone else, they want what that person possesses. As time passes, they develop hostile feelings towards that person, and eventually begin to hate that person because of their possessions and the unrequited desire to obtain those possessions.
Feb 28, 2019
Feb 28, 2019 at 8:53 PM UTC
I sit at the booth,
Thinking to myself,
**** restaurants that don’t have a television
Making me listen to insipid conversations
The kind that only in-laws seem to be able to speak
The fumbling and stumbling over topics and
Phrases repeated without any real meaning
Thought or understanding
I stare off into space and nurse my whiskey
But even it won’t fully drown out
Their side effects
“I’ll have the cheesecake,”
I hear one of them say
“Burger extra rare,”
The other hurriedly offers up to our waiter,
Our waiter
Fresh out of high school
Oozing pimples down the pores of his pot-marked face
Uniform stretched taut against his bulging stomach
Exposing crater like outline of his belly button
I wish that I could be the waiter
I envy the waiter
He gets to walk away from this table
And away from a flowing sea
Of faltering words
Someone’s talking to me
Asking if I’m keeping up on the OSU football drama
But I don’t hear them,
I’m too busy studying the Egyptian architecture
And wondering what it has to do
With the Cheesecake Factory
My wife kicks me
Bringing me back into this dreary reality
Telling me to answer the question
“No, I haven’t,” I say
As they began awkwardly telling me about it
I signal our waiter and ask for another whiskey
It’s going to be a long dinner tonight
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 3:30 PM UTC
The curtain of night descend upon the sky. It is aphonic, psychotic and dark.
Perpetually calling for daylight, but it is hours before the sun can, if, reply.
Those remote, desolate hours are intolerable, hurtful.
They bring the piercing screams of silence and poignancy.
My wasteland is inhabited with moribund trees in the middle of spring.
This world knows regrets and disingtegrating logic.
Although the constant clouds conceal my world, no sign of rain befalls the thirsty earth.
The trees curved to the scorched ground, seeking mercy, weary and restless of this static infertility.
The throats of the passing birds have dried, no song can brighten the sky.
Insipid and dimlit, not even the sun can filter through the clouds or the thickness of the fog.
Somewhere in this world my body awaits demise.
This decaying rationality bringing peril and incoherence, not a breeze or a murmur of rain,
to quench the aching and consuming thirst.
I beg in silence, but the words seem to hang confined in this inclemency, alone 'till my waking hour.
The curtain has not risen, the night still falls in place.
How long before I can succumb to oblivion and quiesce this raging, tormentig thoughts?
There is no answer to follow the question because I am this world's, this hell's, this limbo, wretched creator.
And so with cracked lips, with ragged breath and stinging chest I remain in the inside of this deserted, and cracked state of mind.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 10:33 PM UTC
We forget our mortality,
We forgot our morality,
We forgo our rights,
We live as blights,
We drink,
We sink,
We are missing a link,
We have no luck,
We have no buck,
We live in a digital world,
We watched our toilet as it swirled,
“Vapid and insipid has life become,”
We wait and succumb,
We long for an era past,
We know it doesn’t last,
Yet…
Forgotten mortality and morality, with our forgone rights and remembered blights, and sink in drink, there’s the link. We have luck and then we buck (we give no **** Our digital world, swirled.
We become,
and then we succumb,
to a past that…
won’t…
last.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 11:07 PM UTC
its all franchises
as far as you might see
burger joints, taco houses, and pizza parlors
dot the horizon
the whole lot
greasier than the pan
than the canola oil, a whole can of pam
its warehouse-sized stores
full of disgruntled
shuffling cheap trash
package to shelf
packaged for the shelf
in anticipation to sit
listen a while
under the low murmur
of the machine humming
you can hear ma n pop wailin'
Jan 30, 2021
Jan 30, 2021 at 8:43 PM UTC
To prolong such an absence of vexatious jove
Denying the will of instinct to arouse elation
Self-inflicted desolation in which we all strove
To create an empty shell like a fronted castration
All the while being comforted by a depressing superiority
As the uniqueness of our struggle blends in with conformity
Yearning for our relations to meet with a tragic end
Anticipating the consequence of a self-appointed woe
Glorifying our character as we passionately pretend
To endure an exclusive emotion that we all undergo
This proclamation of individuality through insipid gloom
Conveys nothing but the relative depiction of what I assume
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 8:40 AM UTC
this is not a death-wish
this is a resurrection.
on nights, you grow
weary of the sound of
your own breathing,
there is a fierce sun
burning inside you,
you must use it to grow,
not to scorch all you have.
you have tender hands,
why do you use them
to peel away your
conscious?
there is a thunder in
that insipid heart of yours,
go, forage it out.
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 3:45 PM UTC
There is this idea, this feeling you say:
A revelation of profound compassion
Riddled with crippling paramount tribulation
Dribbling with drops of pontification.
Thoughtfully and yet aimlessly kicking
Unctuously vacuous presumptions. Promising,
Eventually, to unveil brick by brick
This facade someday and assure me
The imprisoning edifice, with which you keep
Under lock and key, will be effaced
And naked, soon, someday in front of me.
Yet, here another day passes.
From curbside to manhole, up sidewalks and across gravel grit.
Then a squib toward onlookers window shopping
Glaring down at me as both they and you listen
To my dissonant and hollow caterwaul.
CLING, CLANG, BANG! Look at me I'm just a can!
Crumpled and malleable, a thin sheet of five cent aluminum;
Recyclable, reusable, just a means to a mans end.
Ah! But I am not what you think I am:
Within, a bountiful boisterous bloom, unravels
The arid breath of lies and procrastination you exhume.
Your insipid words fall vapidly in my mind like corroded rust
Gently drifting onto a lapping lake.
They are an erroneous ear infection boring my wits
And dulling my thoughts, a waste of time.
All of it bottled, canned, and manufactured
From within your ******** emporium.
Keep your bricks and mortar, think they retain your unctuous pride
While this time, for once, I kick the can curbside.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 9:27 AM UTC
*love is a rhythm i choose not to edit
burning serpents in syncopated tones
stolen vibrations from conquered nations
i am amazed at slavery's undertones
doomsday hypothesis
insufferable hypocrisy
is this the way we are meant to perceive
reality's final throes
perhaps a last attempt at infatuation
another insurgency toward our situation
there is music in the millipedes
1,000 feet stomping on the hot pavement
midday heat is burning the gentlest of trees
and yet saving lives of anteaters in need
grief is complete and not wasted
never jumbled by threads of frailty
insipid lipids deftly crawl upon caterpillars shoulders
starry eyed soldiers
sold to the streets in shivering brokenness
i am madness incarnate
the west is a spectacle of insubstantial lunacy
if you wish to conquer this reality
open your heart and kiss the feet of kindness
blindness is worshipped as if it was wisdom
sincere victims of another’s prison
simpler lives define simpler times
keepers of the rhythm
keepers of the rhyme
i dine on salamanders and supine slivers of the moon’s heartbeat
fault no one but yourself
gifts are wealth
i am salt and sulphur is the mother of the soul
loose cannons explode
she rode the wild shadows
and took the backroads all the way home
infinite living history
his memory serving beauty forever
for a lifetime i am looking for truth
in shattered space and respecting the face of the ancestors
self aware shades of solidarity
harvested by hands made light with clarity
is this music
is this meaning
her openness is our healing
this majesty surrounds us all
resolve to rise and your bound to fall
small instances of randomness daily
semantics are happenstance
you graduate from school with a bouquet of flowers
that rot in the morning’s splattering of paint
as garbage heaps resist ***********
issues of power and surface tension
i am dreading the exceptions
give love now or move out of the way
stay awake and aware
while sadhana is beckoning to us all*
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 2:58 PM UTC
Teenagers write poems about sadness
And I diagnose
Drain false narcissistic depth
I choose to diagnose
Girls that moan about darkness
I can try emphasize
At a therapeutic distance
Walls rather a leather settee
Cry me your conjured problems
The attention that you desperately need
Hug into my
False intellectual façade
You want your name in lights
Rose-colored perception
Of a overused typecast
Your sadness poetic and bottomless
Caught in the flight
Spotlight
That you cannot bear
Insipid perpetuity
Whining and moaning and whining
Life in hard and it is not fair
I’ve seen it all before
But should I sit
Put myself high on a pedestal
Satisfied with my own scholarly ruse
What I lack in qualifications
I make up in apathy
You wear a different coat
You messy attention grabbing
Poetically distraught
Attracted to the next sparkly thing
That will make you more interesting
You magpie, you lemming, you
I will hold your hand if you hold mine
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC