"irritatingly" poems
Decisions, decisions
One or the other
Irritatingly difficult
Why must I choose
Two terrific choices
Tormented by self
Distracted by nature
Forfeit attention
Lost in the barrens
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 8:36 PM UTC
T-Tons of garbage shoveled all around the place
H-High mounds of ******* confronting ones face
E-Enormous amounts dispersed within this space
D-Dare one say how gross the piles of debris appeared
R-Repeatedly the offenders were advised to have it cleared
I-Irritatingly into the mind the image of trash seared
V-Vast quantities are certainly not well endeared
E-Eliminating this poppycock is never feared
L-Long one's eyes hath been with this stuff overly smeared
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 7:44 AM UTC
I’m not always a fan of poetry - if I actually take time to ponder it
- it can be so irritatingly rhymey, kind of fussy and needlessly intricate.
Compare my love to a summer’s day and I’ll probably yawn and walk away.
Take a nuanced look at the transactions of *** and consent,
and as adults, we may wonder where the romance went.
You know, it only happens once in a while,
that someone with wit and individual style
comes along with something to say
and scribbles it down in a poem or play.
Here’s to the creative visionaries,
to Dickinson's unique and dreamy imagery,
to Shakespear’s highly stylized, run-on sentences
that manage to speak to us over the centuries
or challenge our stifled, bourgeoisie banality
like Nabokov’s use of stunning vocabulary.
Apr 12, 2022
Apr 12, 2022 at 5:51 AM UTC
I keep writing the spaces between heartbeats,
I keep touching the things that aren't real,
I keep saying how I'm going to change into something,
I keep erasing the lines that I've written before,
and when will I write for myself.
it takes skyscrapers filled with polaroids
it takes little white lies and telegraphs
it takes reflective puddles of gasoline
it takes armfuls of daisies and paisley print napkins
it takes princes and paupers and slurpees and silver
plated bracelets and philosophical books and memories
of people sitting on cracked green-brown bus seats
it takes things I knew and throws them away; it takes crispy hot nights
when cheekbones are sweating and boys who know nothing
of what they want filling their hearts up with and euros in pennies and sitting
on six clouds of old medications and basements with just too much dust.
it's a matter of time,
it's matter of perspective,
it's a snapshot hold-back parallel circle of constant irrevocable dimensions of porch swings
and merry go rounds undeniably irritatingly provokingly making me sick.
swish swish go cassette tapes I keep within reach
I can pull out their insides and stretch out the tape to reach to the moon
past the treetops and over the sun and into my head while I sleep.
someday I'll tinker with those that dream nothing,
and someday I'll write for myself.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 6:32 AM UTC
Freezing rain drizzles
off of my apartment roof tonight
I'm afraid of driving on sheets of ice
and I've only got six hours to go
I should be asleep by now
The numbers on my clock are an
irritatingly sharp red
and they stare at me all night
reminding me that they run things
Not sleeping is one of my hang ups
I have this bad habit of leaving my coat
on the floor
so this isn't my hang up
because someone
usually hangs it up for me
Although I'd feel like less of a burden
if I hung my own coat up when I come in
from the freezing rain
so I try
They know I'm just forgetful
so they don't get mad
They think I'm brilliant in other ways
which is comforting
Sometimes my hang up is wondering
if I am at all brilliant
if I am a good person
I run my fingers along all my old scars
and fight the urge to make new ones
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 7:17 PM UTC
How strange.
The dragon,
which I'd trained so valiantly for,
expected to breathe fire and
spit flames,
turned out to be more like
a cowering puppy.
Hiding behind his hair,
eyes rarely meeting mine,
I could put the sword back in it's case.
I felt more of a beast than you.
How strange.
The struggle I'd imagined,
the whirlwind battle,
where I defeated my demons,
and the dragon,
turned out to be nothing but a mere
pillow fight.
I entered the lair,
to find nobody there.
How strange.
The dragon I thought I'd
fall in love with,
failed to flame the spark.
My heart remained
irritatingly unscorched,
nothing more than the odd
plume of smoke
wafting around us.
And that was mainly your cigarettes.
How strange.
The 'dragon',
with his timid tone
and reserved demeanor,
roared
"F R I E N D."
This knight in
not so shining armour
needs a dragon
who can grip her heart with their claw,
and turn it white hot with desire.
You,
my little 'dragon',
are not that.
But you will make a great
friend
anyway.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 6:33 PM UTC
Tessellation & Interstices
**”A tessellation or tiling is the covering of a surface,
often a plane, using one or more geometric shapes,
called tiles, with no overlaps and no gaps…In mathematics, tessellation can be generalized to higher dimensions and a variety of geometries.”**
the insistent need to be distinguished
means many are not,
indeed,
this hunger
to be an influencer
and never just an influencé.
creeply creates a linear surface,
a flooring to be trod upon,
a tessellated plane,
were we each fit in
right-tight juxtaposition
and we are noticeable for our
uniformity and
the scuff marks of having been trod upon,
well used.
it is in the chips of irregularities,
the overlaps and the gaps
where we touch and connect
with our individual Ah Ha’s,
where our Venn Diagram Lives
intersect, infect, interfere, inject,
in the tiny
interstices
tween us,
the jagged, irritatingly edgy
rubbings
that the friction of creativity
is comedically inseminated.
I love a good tense sweat,
that invasive, deep boring burring,
that demands
instant creative solutions lest the angst of
an unwritten-in-the-moment-poem
is even more annoying,
before it is annoyingly,
befogged, lost forever.
that is why with old age,
fearsome fast
short term memory loss,
some turn to the speedy freedom of
free verse,
unconstrained by socks
and well fitting shoes,
and the slip on sneakers
of rhyming,
so insistent on perfection,
that the
burr is absorbed,
the irritant rubbing is creamed away,
and that loss of
a pouring of the soul’s *********** of
Done!
is
our exclamatory mutual curse
Mar 23, 2024
Mar 23, 2024 at 10:26 AM UTC
She just watches it
with indifference, smiling --
irritatingly.
Jul 7, 2024
Jul 7, 2024 at 2:55 AM UTC
Jack called in this morning
for a cup of tea
and he asked if he
could hold my knee
I turned down his request
rather smartly
as I had no need
of a hand on my knee
Jack is a man
who is into close contact
Jack is also a man
who is lacking in tact
he's very forward
in his style of approach
his manner doth
irritatingly encroach
last week he called in
to have tea with Meg
he asked if he could hold
her ample leg
to whit she said Jack
I don't think so
it is time for you
to get up and go
Jack likes to call
on the ladies in these parts
using his not so pleasant methods
to win their hearts
Jack fancies himself
to be the local ******
but the ladies around here
know that isn't so
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 7:45 PM UTC
I believe love has an evil twin,
But I could be losing my mind.
There are petals on thistles,
And thorns on roses;
I can turn 360 or 180
And ride off in any direction.
Tales run like a loop in my brain,
Not recalling who's heard what,
I preface:
I've probably told you this before, but...
Is how any old story begins.
Deja Vu is my new life.
Every thought was once a poem
To be polished and revealed.
Today, they are intermittent.
I've been trolling old television series;
The Monkees were terrible then,
Terrible still;
The Three Stooges were best left in the memory vault;
Bonanza still has Ben wearing his beige vest;
Elizabeth Montgomery is still bewitching;
Jeannie is irritatingly attractive.
I must be leaking grey cells;
Rationality is creaking in my bone-head.
Aug 28, 2019
Aug 28, 2019 at 9:06 AM UTC
Seeing him causes a pain so acute in my chest I fear that my heart might burst
Seeing him causes a rush of memories that used to be happy but now are filled with regret
Seeing him makes me wonder if I'm a bad person or if it's him
Or maybe it's neither of us at all
Maybe we are just two different types of broken
The types of broken that cannot quite understand each other
Because they are far too broken in their own ways to see anyone else's pain
But I can see his pain
Can he see mine?
A boy who used to be one of the select few people I trust
Gave me more reasons not to trust people
And assume that everyone leaves once they've taken from you what they wanted
Once they've gotten your trust
Once they've gotten your secrets
Once they've gotten your adoration
They find the escape hatch
They reach for the rip chord
And they leave.
I've often felt that people left me for good reason
I'm too loud
And I'm not all that smart
And I'm irritatingly full of love
Full of so much love for anyone who needs it
But when someone leaves I decide I love too much
I push too much
I'm too open, too trusting
Every person
Every single one
Has caused a need in me
To build up walls
To build up an incredible fortress
Because if anymore scar tissue were to cover my heart
I'm positive it would just stop
But it should have stopped with him then I suppose
Because the amount of pain he has caused
With every scornful glance
And every part of a friendship twisted and snapped
Maybe my fortress will be impenetrable now though
Maybe I'll be stronger
But I don't feel stronger
I feel broken
And hurt
And a special sort of lost
Because I know exactly where I am
But it's not at all where I thought I'd be
Is it possible to love with every part of a shattered heart?
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 10:44 AM UTC
Creature mother referred to as benevolent to salvage his miscarried stride, brother said his wingëd arms were ordnance and that was the workings of a good man (rather a tool I suggested), father thought his wide ego was equitable, a trait lacking in most boys, and I thought they felt like the hands of someone who grappled with your body in pool water, the exception to “pool boy” was that you had every right to elbow them hard in the windpipe, you close-lined his smirk with the same forearm that you used to cradle your niece, your arm was stuck to your hip bone -- by now you’d supposed it hard as cement and requiring the effects of a jackhammer, all night you underwent the pain and once the adults getted and got together the world came to a closing -- you got a slap to the spine indicating “job well done”. But. For this irritatingly foolish“pool boy” you faked flustered when he botched his cries with a surprised expression and you never got in trouble -- it was an accident, and their mothers needed them to learn anyways; for their interest in curves was now only game for the land sharks and you ruled the riptides. You made it clear that if you couldn't take a bruised lip then you should learn to drown in other places, and his webbed chest soaked up the minty fresh breath that your throat excreted when you dealt to the devil a hard “no”, and got back humor, and you both with your red skin, each burning the other amidst many. short. touches. Decided you had no choice but to laugh.
Aug 10, 2020
Aug 10, 2020 at 4:56 PM UTC