"insufficiency" poems
I see the soft, charming ringlets bounce up, down, and around
As my little cousin opens her gift.
I hear the tinkling sound of her excited voice,
but feel sick to my stomach when she tells Mommy and Daddy what it is.
She squeals "Barbie!"
And I want to scoop her up and run,
Far, far, away from the little plastic doll,
On, on, onward toward a safe view of beauty.
Her ignorance is bliss, but I know better,
And I pray with a heavy heart
For that beautiful, creative mind underneath the ringlets.
I desperately ask some higher power
How we can protect her from that little doll.
What were you thinking,
I want to yell at the grown ups.
Didn't you learn from us?
Don't you know that Barbie cut open our hearts and sewed in her plastic ideal
Before they had beaten long enough for us to walk?
That she shoved sharp words in our head
Before we could string together full sentences?
That we never stood a chance,
From the moment we tore open the shiny paper
Dotted with cartoon Christmas trees?
That the "must-have" gift for a little girl
Would enslave our bodies and minds to a "must-have" torture for the rest of our lives,
And teach our brothers and classmates to look for the woman
With not enough calories in her body to sustain a simple memory,
With not enough room in her waist to hold a kidney?
Maybe it's not all your fault, you grown-ups.
Maybe you've been chained to the unattainable images for so long
That you've forgotten the shackles were even there.
But does that not scare you?
Maybe you'll remember the strain
When you see a beautiful young woman's scars,
When you hear a breaking voice speak about her friend's final breaths
At her own fragile hands filled with little pills.
But most of all, I pray to God that you won't have to remember too late,
I hope you don't have to remember when you're chained to her hospital bed
Because the insufficiency you gifted her in a shiny plastic box
Started a cycle of sinister self-hate and destructive delusion
That she cannot outrun.
I won't let you forget, because you cannot remember that way.
I won't let you forget, because she can't end up that way, like we did.
You think you gave her a pretty little toy in a shiny little package.
Didn't you learn from us?
You gave her Pandora's box.
You look at me funny,
When I replace the impossibly-sized plastic "woman" in her hands
With a toddler-sized plastic piano.
You may not remember, but I always will,
And I will dedicate my life to making sure
These beautiful ringlets will never have to.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 1:43 PM UTC
My one on one time begins as soon as I pick up this pencil
Writing to release these contemplations
The lead takes me to a process of distillation
Being careful not to run out from this eraser
Our everyday mistakes can be related to an eraser
Once you run out from your eraser you cannot wipe away any errors
So you carefully choose and think wisely
Being mindful of the insufficiency and blackness of the eraser
No matter how many times you erase
there will always be a trail of black spots left behind
Live life as if you were running out from your own eraser
That way you pursue perfection and not mistakes
Don't be the eraser that runs out quicker than the lead
Copyright© Cynthia Ulloa
All rights reserved.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 1:12 AM UTC
They've both had you in ways
That I could only ever dream of having you
They've felt your hands on every inch of their bodies
And have felt the bliss of your lips
They've exchanged all levels of pleasure with you
They've gotten your attention
They've been your favorites
And encompassed your dreams, asleep and awake
As i have to hack and squeeze my way
Just to approach the horizon of your vision
Jealousy isn't the word to describe
The desperate hunger I can't squelch
And the heaviness of my limbs
Being filled with the feeling of insufficiency
As I face the fact that I'll never be what you want
Not nearly enough
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
....................................................
my To-Do List fast becomes
my Should-Have-Done List
growing with awareness
of my insufficiency
and endless
need for
Grace
[and
Trust]
whose
hourglass
is beautifully
timeless - yes! I
thank you Father God
for seeing these - our timid tries
& loving still - our honest hearts.
......................................................
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 8:22 PM UTC
I was in my dream last night...
The girl in my dream was a self image that my self conscious created.
She had long thick curly hair running down her back like a wild river,
and There were these thin wisps of black curls that rested on her forehead and would not budge no matter how many times she swept them aside
The ensemble she wore was rich in color
I admired the way the colors complemented each other
incredibly lively and elegant
She wore an azure tank with an emerald silk scarf
A Celeste cascaded long skirt embellished with tiny vibrant glass beads that shimmered ever so brightly
She was bare foot but i couldn't help but notice every step she took
On her ankles were anklets that dangled the prettiest of gems
She walked towards me
Her beautiful clothing dancing against her body
She sat next to me on the curb and said
"You look sad, what is the matter?
i can see the circles under your eyes
the insufficiency of laughter
Your heart and your mind are intertwined
You convince your mind to keep you in a dark place
then your heart crumbles leaving your care-fee spirit behind.
These are simply realities you must face
you know, things fall apart
so better things can come together
it might break your heart
but believe that hurtful moments don't last forever
Sometimes in-explainable things happen
sometimes the going gets tough
but you cant allow it to break your spirit for too long
The sun will rise again, sure enough."
Then, just as she gracefully came,
she gracefully left
I Awoke.
She left me with my sadness
for me to decide.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 9:09 PM UTC
Everything feels like nothing, and nothing starts to feel like everything.
Everyday. Everyday as I wake up,
Nothing ever beats the feeling of inadequacy.
Inadequacy to do good
Inadequacy as a daughter
Inadequacy as a student
Inadequacy as a person
Inadequacy in feeling good within my own body
Inadequacy from feeling good about myself.
Everyday feels like an endless loop, you best believe my misery hunts me.
But what is inadequacy?
Is it scarcity? Deficiency? Insufficiency? A lack thereof?
Is it this mindless blob, formless and dark or a mangled form of flesh, eating away at you and your insecurities?
Like a virus, it pins you, goes deep inside you and there is never enough antibiotic for you...
This inadequacy keeps me up at ungodly hours where the sun howls and moon chirps, the clouds look at us, feigning interest, idly looking but never interacting.
This inadequacy lulls me in irregular fever dreams where comfort lies in solitude and loneliness,
where the people that surround you, cover their ears, bites their cheek, looks forwards, smiles faintly, but never tries to understanding.
My heart wails for the smallest of things. Nothing, nothing becomes everything.
My successes make me feel less, still. Everything, everything becomes nothing.
I am this inadequate thing, floating around, never seeming to be enough.
Inadequate. Because i could not protect myself from those who touch my skin like its free real estate, those clammy hands holding me in a state
A state of frenzy that never seems to end
Inadequate. That no matter what I do, my past will forever haunt me and define the being I am now that no matter how much I change, and try and try and try to do good, it will never be
enough.
And those same voices, those same people, they say they scream they tell me,
“You should have told me.”
“You should have fought back.”
“You are a waste of time.”
“You are dumb.”
“You are nothing.”
“You waste your talents for something as this,”
And those same people, let go of words
That back then would have meant nothing
But now it seems to be everything
It becomes my identity
It becomes my oxygen
It becomes the blood that circulates in my body
It becomes the endorphins in my brain
Nothing becomes everything. And everything that I’ve tried to change, worked hard to achieve, tried to mend, was sorry for, starts to become nothing.
But I am tired of feeling like nothing. That everything I do is always inadequate. That it is some form of scarcity, deficiency, insufficiency, a lack thereof.
These mindless blobs, or mangled forms of flesh,
Like a virus, it pins me, goes deep inside me and there is never enough antibiotic for me...
Because instead of listening, to understand, to empathize, they listen so they can jeopardize...
Whatever love is left that I could give to myself,
Without a shred of doubt,
In a warm, bright embrace for myself, in a corner slouched.
So, I ask these voices, who are only here to remind how inadequate I am:
How do I fight back?
How do I be good enough?
How do I become less dumb?
How do I make nothing stay as nothing? And appreciate everything as everything?
Because day by day, this inadequacy I feel, gets really tiring.
Sep 18, 2020
Sep 18, 2020 at 1:26 PM UTC
winter's after-the-noon shadow lights,
fused-tinged with early-onset grays,
harbinger of one for whom death
detaches the answer from that question
too soon asked, so long unanswered,
why me?
those gray lights, a violin accompaniment,
mourning pitched wailings unasked for,
yet always in attendance, court courtiers,
feelings of insufficiency, angry angst insects
envy days when simplistic unknown fears
were the worst enemy, never lingering,
for unknowns have no answers and
cannot obtain permanent resident visas
but reality, another matter, mad hatter,
asking repeating what is this, why is this,
even comprehension partial gives
no comforting answer satisfactory logical
envy innocence past, for newer questions now *****
comfort by the lies in the essaying, trialling,
if, but, for, the distractions most affordable,
so grasp the pen that is the envy of thy companions
let the ink wail louder than you,
make paper shed what you have used up,
let envy of lost and found, found, yet still lost,
salve, but not solve, soothe, but not save
in the winter afternoons, those shortest days
of indeterminable longevity, words received,
offer little, but words self-conscripted,
a mortal transcript of pain immortalized by pen, relief will yet be,
for the pen is the envy of all
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 6:10 PM UTC
“a decade old is forever new, for
truth is never old.”
Pradip Chattopadhyay
this man, ten years of inspiration, ten years of friendship, here,
on HP,
provides nourishment to my lagging body as it nears eight decades
of Earthly occupation, for
his eyes and heart and his mastery
of the songs of the tongue,
have wrenched me straight,
we, attentive to the tears
he makes me weep, for his insights penetrate my insides,
even now as one, unexpectedly, reflects midst
yet another first poem of the day, my eyelids blink away
the wet,
my brain revels at his pithy, how he corrals,
encapsulates the daily smoke and fire of life,
it truest value,
in words that make one wonder,
what admixture of mineral, chemical, history,
adventures, atmosphere, parentage, spices,
love gives him these super powers to gentle
seize the moment, size our souls, causing my
cheeks to wide smile, while mine eyes sheds
monsoon droplets of feelings so deep, that
my repaired heart oxygenates my very soul,
making me high, my mind reels that a day will
come inevitable
that one of us will be unable to sit by side,
swapping tales of granddaughters, and
other earth meaningful events, to walk his
streets or he, mine, finishing each other’s
couplets.
to think that I awoke with no intention of
composing this paean, but his brief pearl
knocks my head side to side,
and with the
tears, come words,
that age, or an entire
decade,
cannot restrain,
retrained to modesty,
for regarding my friend
Pradip,
my boundaries expand and cannot be
contained, even by my delimited vocabulary,
the paucity of my skill, the insufficiency of
the adjectives acquired over a lifetime, but
do my unequal-to-the-task best efforts,
but without choice, but compulsed, compelled,
one more time, to say,
to my new day,
perhaps my last,
I love this poet~man.
this is one of my truths.
<>
Wed Jan 17 8:31am
City of New York
<>
read the poetry of
https://hellopoetry.com/pradip-chattopadhyay/
<>
Jan 20, 2024
Jan 20, 2024 at 12:27 PM UTC
“Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”
Because you understood your lack,
Your deficit of soul,
You held aloft your empty sack
To Heaven’s welfare dole.
Though others said, “I have no need,
I’m rich forevermore.”
--(Not knowing that their state, indeed
Was wretched, blind, and poor)--
You looked within your heart, perceived
Your insufficiency,
And Heaven’s Kingdom you received
To end your poverty.
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 7:08 PM UTC
O, from what power hast thou this powerful might
With insufficiency my heart to sway?
To make me give the lie to my true sight,
And swear that brightness doth not grace the day?
Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,
That in the very refuse of thy deeds
There is such strength and warrantise of skill
That, in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds?
Who taught thee how to make me love thee more,
The more I hear and see just cause of hate?
O, though I love what others do abhor,
With others thou shouldst not abhor my state.
If thy unworthiness raised love in me,
More worthy I to be beloved of thee.
1.6k
I stand in your eyes
Looking out for the whole world to see
With the fabric of death staring at me
Its just you and me
On the edge of heaven
Mending distances as we begin
Ghastly gray hours littered my ears
Intensly intrusive and ******
The shadows spill stringently
Stamping the sky with feelings of insufficiency
The bitter breeze dreamers, protesting for peace
Beyond all countries and downward dreams
We heave our head, heart, and soul
The handfuls of gestures surrender the way
A taut twine traveled behind
With waves coiling and bending my mind
Dying eyelashes recaptured my memories as they danced upon my face
A once swollen spirit is a ripped fragment away
Consenting with out my say
Death burst your core
The life of limbs, once excitable and strong
A strong windswept set my ambivalence at bay
As I lay trembling, Soft secrets are told
Relief from bottomless sufferings
Loved ones long lost reunited with me
My tounge has say much to say as words sail
As the wisps of heaven begin to show me the way
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 1:32 AM UTC
history -
a history -
I wanted to know what that sound was.
I wanted to know what made your hair so straight.
I wanted to ask you to kiss me on the cheek.
You told me the sound was an Aeolian harp
imitating a macaw.
I am a boy on a scaffold imitating a window.
My hair is always the wind's *****
So the trip was a disaster.
So there was
an insufficiency in my reassurances.
a crab in the bed.
a wish in the closet.
But I meant it. I did mean it.
history-
at least I knew where the sound came from,
who made it,
and why it was beautiful.
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 1:43 PM UTC
I - stricken biped
Reside
Arranged on patina of dust
Compacted from its own breadth and comingled humid vacillations
Misplaced intent resides carking upon my ribcage
Cerebral reliquary reprises
Enunciating: distaste – mediocrity – insufficiency
Clandestine exhalation configuration obliges principal
Luminous descants evade ebullition bound in stained crystal
Eupnea elapsed - foreboding
Enigma binds frame to pith
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
Reality tv feeding the idiocracy
It's no secret my idiosyncrasy is increasing
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Parallel to my ever elevating feel of paranoia
I have a sympathy insufficiency
I demand more catastrophe
It's a ******* conspiracy!
I blame the aliens
Harvesting our brains
We are the sheep
Home on the range
Chalk it up for each and every mindless chucklefuck
More concerned with dynasty ducks
Distractions and false flags
You are my demise
Scourge of Mother Earth
?sdrawkcab evlover dlrow eht seod yhW
Such staunch contempt for the human race
Object of my fascination
Thou wilt bow to my conquest
Lo, hear my battle cry;
Oh how I vie,
to assassinate
all asinine swine!
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 10:03 PM UTC
Failure clung to me like winter, wrapping its tender fingers around my throat
And shaking life from me like dreams from childhood sheets
Failure let icy winds take hold of me and steal away my soul with whispers
Visible for everyone to see, insufficiency etched itself across my skin like bruises
Passionate, vibrant, and lethal.
In the scorn of daylight, my faults glistened like dew drops in the morning
Written across my shoulders like the freckled stories of summer
Or the shattered tales of my childhood
And in the middle of my self-loathing, I stood naked and unhinged
Unraveling all my syllogisms until acidic, gradual failure
Broke me down to the most basic form of human life
And there are I was
Alone and nonexistent
And failure draped itself over my bruised arms and shaking faith
And lovingly, endlessly, blissfully
Failure drowned me in its love
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 3:06 PM UTC
It pours relentlessly
I am drowning in a sea
of my own insufficiency
suffering in silence
alone
I lack courage
to compete with my denial
and sink into the depths
of sorrow
letting it swallow me whole
Jan 4, 2018
Jan 4, 2018 at 8:05 AM UTC
The rocking feels familiar
because we have been here
before, swaying on the crescent
of a black hour. A moment poised
on the lip of dawn. I am not rooted
like this oak but I will tender a tentative
nest. A patchwork home for the feathered
rhythm of your breath. Because this is too much
it is not enough. The contradiction of insufficiency.
Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 8:17 PM UTC
With a hint of death
mingling in the air,
the nocturnal snapdragon is
digging wells,
not just for water,
but also as final resting
places for friends back home,
in the garden,
deep within the soil.
Callous hands and feet
speak of insufficiency
and misery under the sun,
the one lone solace comes
with night,
and the partaking of
her body's delicacies,
bringing her innumerably
to the helve,
as she sings heavenly things
about the architecture
we creatures fall
so easily from.
Nov 30, 2020
Nov 30, 2020 at 6:59 AM UTC
I'm tired of relentlessly digging up my own guts.
Insides wrenching until I feel something close to empty.
Empty.
Sometimes empty seems so loud.
To escape the confines of my hollow silence,
I plead with my whirlwinds to redirect my madness.
Madness strung hand in hand with the outlawed 40,
and over rowdy yuppies that are too old to illegally sketch their rebellious spirits on ads that taunt them with their own insufficiency.
The sounds of smashing glass invite me to **** up my blackness into the midnight hours.
The smell of defacement summons me to heave my loneliness onto someone else's tangible reality.
But even in the electrifying twilight, I can't help but feel tired of digging up my own guts.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
I am so much more than I ever expected to be
Despite drowning in this insufficiency
A chorus of deafening inadequacy
Proving myself and others wrong,
So deliciously
I never expected to be so far
I expected to be much farther
I never expected to be alive
I expected to be demising
I know I’ve hurt
I know I’ve broken others
I know I’ve bruised
I know I’ve used others
Regretful I suppose
No
Just reactionary behavior
And I have succumbed to my darkest depths
Though they have never won
And I have fallen back 12 steps
Yet still, I scale the rungs
So when I say “I’ve given up”
Never do believe me
I am capable of getting up
Love, I’m just that crazy.
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 8:33 PM UTC
In this kingdom of dread, she straightened my hair and advanced my thoughts on my own insufficiency.
Never does it spawn out of the soil that you fit perfectly between her sheets and smell like peppermint,
The way we all sniff herbs in the garden,
How she now sits awake at night and will inevitably kick me out.
How much was I faking drunk to spur conversation
And how much is this...
Destiny, and all the pun that lies between here and idiosyncrasy.
I'm not whole, it's the way I always crack, thinking life has ran in circles and spit spheres into orbit.
Humor, humor, I wish I'd burn.
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 12:32 AM UTC
In a city filled to the brim
With confident philosophers
One was known to be the wisest of them all
A fact told by prophecy
You see
He walked the streets, engaging in harmless debate
In an attempt to sate their accusation with the burden of proof
So to the artists he went
Questioning the beauty and nature of their work
But try as he might, the one did not feel wise at all
Instead by comparison he found himself rather ignorant to those finer things
Then to the preacher he went
To test his mettle with the gods
And to his surprise he was yet again reprimanded
For only partially grasping the truth
Of divine fervor
Finally,
The one made one more stop
At the political heart of his great nation
So that he could engage in the rhetorical fallacy
Of power for rights sake
When alas he again fell short
Not quite stacking up to the ease of lying
Through a falsely painted facade
Giving up he then sought out the last prophet
An oracle of youth,
Beauty,
And chast
He asked
"Dear young one, the people of my city make a bold claim"
He uttered
"Claiming I am the wisest of all men alive and all those dead"
"How can that be when the knowledge I possess is an insufficiency?"
When slowly the lithe creature arose from the depths
A string of smoky whisps
Encapsulating her tiny form
Seemingly to speak from an abyss in reply
"Socrates, you are the wisest of them all"
Confused, the one was taken aback
How could that be true when apparent knowledge lacked?
"Sweet oracle,"
The philosopher did say
"If what you say is true
Then surely you must have a way
Of explaining..."
In stark retort, the smoking creature snapped
"You dare challenge the will of the Gods?!
"No," he replied coming to the conclusion
"If what you say is true and I am a king above all men
It must be thought
That if I am indeed wise,
As you claim,
It is because I know that I'm not"
"Scio me nescire"
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 7:07 PM UTC
another hull breach
most of her fortune slips away
suckled by the undercurrent
her shanties are bottlenecked messages
entangled in self-accusation
listing through distress and tide
she flags toward more sympathetic waters
love is the bright iris of balmy weather
a ballast for threadbare optimism
she makes berth in tiny lips
that pardon her insufficiency
emptiness, a welcome refuge
projected under the twinkle of satisfaction
mirroring devotion
May 30, 2019
May 30, 2019 at 12:12 PM UTC