"lacklustre" poems
Weak is the light
dancing upon the thread...
That makes the horizon.
Lacklustre is the moon
that rose up proud...
But failed to inflate whole.
Dim are the stars.
Twinkling feeble
that seem further than far.
Dark is this night
soundless and still...
And black as coal.
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 9:10 PM UTC
Heavy and laboured the air permeates within
Coursing through the maze of tunnels.
Undeterred of where stone ends and rock would begin
Survival that drives to fill its channels.
Slow rumble that ignites the need to beat
Awaken functions both lacklustre and listless
The engine behind these dread ridden feet
Drag its load through mundane tasks emotionless.
At the core there resides the truest of stones
A jewel of sheer rarity that inspires wonder
Breathes life selflessly into dead broken bones
It throbs and ebbs with silent subtle power.
Claimed it and perched it deep on a pedestal
Protected it like it's the one and only source
It's what that keeps us sane and tolerable
It's what that pulls us through our course.
Whenever I think of if this gem would last
This monolith of a heart that I prop up *****
Stands steadfast hopeful of the light it'd cast
We have learnt so much of it to know that it is perfect.
You are perfect...
.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
Clementine deleted Joel
from her mind. Joel tried to
forget her; he couldn't, so
he got rid of her too. You
try, I know, to get rid of me. I
try, you know, to pretend that
the world isn't spinning so fast
in the hope
that we will fall of its spinning-top edge
and stumble, clumsily, gracelessly, into
each other. We're spinning so fast with it-
the world- so this is unlikely, so we both
pretend that it's an accident when we fall
into each other,
again and again, as
We play spin the bottle while
The world spins instead.
Suddenly.
Now that that same world has stilled itself for
us: we don't know what to do without its
rotationary madness angling us
towards old age and crumpets (together?). That
same world has stilled itself until
tomorrow when that same world will spill
itself out from day to night to day again
as we take our respective first drafts
of our poems written about each other
and
Edit.
out that same mad spin
that made us
us
just like
Joel and Clementine forgot-
on purpose. We forget, on purpose
with purpose
but,
we'll still meet each other in Montauk where
that same world will still itself
as we wrap our fingers around each other's
fingers
in the cold
where you might finally reciprocate
my lacklustre
confessions.
You too,
right?
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
his fluid being mimics that of cigarettes;
death chopped up and rolled
into a curious little thing
i could hold him in my hands
but that is a mere only;
his wonderment insufficient
my soul too mammoth
my lips crave the grim reaper's touch
my skin detests the flawlessness of
staged idiosyncrasy
this world has seen enough
of those
you yell misanthrope,
but you do not understand
i seek
the intertwining of
precariousity
intimacy marked by fluttering thumbs
tracing specks of golden
on his cheeks
galaxies splashed across the
bridge of his nose
he is everything i yearn
yet;
everything i cannot be
he is my exotic morns
and my sunday siesta
fingertips outline
connect-the-dot maps
i could only ever get lost in
freckles.
like a lacklustre silence
the end of sentences pinpointing areas
chipped fingernails have lusted to memorise
you only crave what you know cannot be.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC
Tiny clumps of hair
Once caramel in color
Crumbles beneath the lowest
Lair of pallid
Trampled dust.
A lump in the back of my throat
Rises as the bone shows.
Our teeth have clanked
Collided in battle, our hooves
Finger-less and delving, we were
Ambiguously a hiatus in the water-color
Sticky like honey whilst Satan licks up my spine.
Burning sweet like the water that runs from the Nile
Into the mouths of every little insensate frame and comatose sky
Lacklustre pallor only children could buy.
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 11:17 PM UTC
You were amazing
I could feel your thoughts flow through my very body
Every time you spoke
Every time I caught a glimpse
Thats all I could catch
My net was to big
I was fishing for something beyond my grasp
I knew
My body knew;
because every time I want to talk
My body freezes in place,
not allowing me to walk
I was like a middle school girl around you
Except I was 16
Your Black hair
Your Opinions
Your Big dorky smile
I couldn't take it
It made me want to be around you
But it pushed me away
All of these cliches in this poem makes it lacklustre
I know
But I'm just spewing out the thoughts
that come out angrily
every time I open the book
and see your face
With the green light next to you
Telling me to go
But i'm not mobile
So I just sigh as I close the book
Realising that your intelligence and hilarity will never be near me
Ever again
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 12:47 AM UTC
Sometimes silence is preferred
To those constant constricting string of compliments
Written in your words and thrown off your tongue
With careless heed of the damage that they do
Irrevocable words of the lies of love and lust
Drip drip dripping down from your lips
To fall simultaneously in hearts and in the gutter
Where ******* collects and rains pour down
Eradicating all trace, but for the heart in which it kindled
No recognition from lips whose secret they once held
Now long forgotten and poorly remembered;
Lacklustre speech trailed and its meaning dismembered
Ill-gotten feelings poorly deceived when hopefully conceived
From the deceptions which derided and descended
From lips once bloodied; now full of false testament.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 2:30 AM UTC
Hello Poetry; we meet again
my bored, unenthusiastic but sympathetic friend
Why is it you never seem to like what I do?
The rhymes, the rhythm structure, the ideas I write for you?
Or maybe, in my haste, maybe I've miscalculated
Maybe, it's actually me that feels discombobulated
I have had times when I've struggled with what I've written
I always die a thousands deaths, before I'm smitten
with how I might have dotted the i's, and crossed the t's
I'll hide behind furniture to be sure that no one sees
lest they lambast my catastrophic grasp on diction
With god's help I'm sure I'll conquer this terrible affliction
and actually construct a poem I'm happy with
Here are the laws, I'll live by, forthwith,
1. don't write about your pet hamster, no one cares
2. and you should probably steer clear of international affairs
3. remember no word in the English language rhymes with 'month'
4.
5. always know your subject, inside and out
6. Do weasels have noses, or do they have snouts.....?
**** you can't even write out a set of rules
You; You have no friend in anyone that won't suffer fools
gladly, but sadly, I have another idea
another lacklustre shot at being sincere
I hate this vicious cycle,
hate every single bit
but yep,
I'll get my pencil,
grab some paper,
then just
sit
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 8:09 AM UTC
memories made the weathered chair rock,
eyes wide with lacklustre - empty and deep,
as old woman walks 'round the block,
returning not home until nine o'clock,
night cuddles insomnia, hardly asleep,
memories made the weathered chair rock,
finger and thumb pinch 1920s frayed frock,
local teens see only the oddball creep,
as old woman walks 'round the block,
tears flow freely when stopped at the dock,
everyday starting here, ten minutes shall weep,
memories made the weathered chair rock,
girls grin as she circles a solo hemlock,
quickly in step, stride now mostly does keep,
as old woman walks 'round the block,
inside aged house, gaze freezes in shock,
relics of past - dusty, rotten in heap,
memories made the weathered chair rock,
as old woman walks 'round the block.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 7:29 PM UTC
Green moss thick and dark, grows slowly
The wild flowers rise and reach, to catch the breeze
Lichen lie low a laclustre collect, on the rock and lee
There are no walls, the barriers and possibilities are natures' ways
The birds sing among the Wisteria, to attract the mysterious
The wild flower petals open sun-wide to receive the bees
The tiniest things of nature, can confound the human mind
Insect, animal, and human are not the only occupants
The birds fly to chase and catch a meal, then return fastidious
E'er so often you may imagine, to see with disbelief, smallish things
Clear blue above, yet does your head not heavy grow, give in
It is not your tired eyes, that fool with faerie sized inhabitants,
Did you see the Twinkles moving, from the corner of your eye
Breathe, soft and become the meadow grasses long and tall
Clouded vision, any friend of nature, finds a pillow, live long
I have been to this very meadow, seems just recently,
Green moss thick and dark, grows slowly
Skin so soft petals enrich all dreams, on waking without the fall
Lichen lie low a lacklustre collect, on the rock and lee
© DWE20150416
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 10:50 PM UTC
Somewhere from this heavy present
Is a lighter mood, is a confident June;
Is a glass of wheat beer on the veranda,
Circling ice giants with my sweet Miranda.
Somewhere from this lacklustre town
Is a foggy new start, a life lived through art;
Is the full potential of human kindness,
As we finally see through this third-eye blindness.
Somewhere from these burying sheets
Lives an autumn love, where death and beauty meet;
Lives an ocean swell of sheer independence,
Where hunger is nourished, with all in attendance.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 8:58 PM UTC
I pick small flowers from the curvature
of the nape of your
neck;
i wake up, one minute:
you are
gone.
I move on
with my life,
i move out
of these same walls,
like the
next
fervent
dream, where I still believe
I'm over it,
I'm
just still kind of
in love with
you.
i'm sorry always
sorry i pretend
like I
care
or
don't care
and
I don't really know where the hours
went, or the years of life you wasted on
me.
x
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 7:30 AM UTC
Expectant people packed into stands
their voices issuing a rallying cry
as players take to the pitch
sporting a new season kit
for the last game
wishing to salvage a smidgen of pride
from a lacklustre campaign
it's come down to this
a moment that will determine the future of a club
the radio's are readied
held in unsteady hands
May 29, 2023
May 29, 2023 at 10:09 AM UTC
same old raunchy jokes
same old prates
same old habits
got your soul decayed
same old talk
you talk big game
spitting names to keep you sane
courage you speak
to those you fake
forget you not
so much for my sake
boo hoo you
boo hoo fake
boo hoo sacrifices
you said you make
all i get was ***** you've thrown
my name you spread
still claimed you mourn
so much love so much you make
so much bond from the names you scrape
it doesn't take long karma's taking place
you're falling now but you're still not awake
your own mind that you need to face
you are now your own disgrace
now you left with no clue
not even one person
not even one name
not even one soul bothers to save you
don't look at them look at you
that is the kind of love that you create
the joke now is on you
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC
but it's not worth stealing anymore
because all that glittered was never even gold
in the first place, and if there ever was a shine
it was made lacklustre with lust
and covered with rust over times that
even history books don't touch
(history repeats itself, keep eyes down,
avoid the looks, try to keep yourself from thinking
all of the men are just crooks)
and soon what you stole you see
you didn't really want that much
and soon it's getting old and your bones ache
under eyes so cold, but it's probably fake
what you thought was snow, so go
and don't make the same mistake,
don't make it twice. Did someone forget
to mention that the roads aren't going anywhere
only roundabouts back to tension,
not paved with gold? They are made of ice.
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 3:08 PM UTC
Why so facetious every time we speak
do you not think you appear weak -
willed to be acting like this
maybe the whole notion of you I should just dismiss.
The prosaic way you confess your feelings
honestly the jejune nature makes it feel utterly demeaning!
This lacklustre love I was not meant for
I crave something so deep
and that I am for sure.
No longer can I stand your nonchalant stance
my dear, goodbye,
I gave you your chance!
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 3:33 PM UTC
Cast iron clouds call their brushed allegiance to the age-clad masonry.
Whilst the mangled percussion of the infants' school bickers
with the soft tones of the older boys' band.
Still their sound is drowned by the whistling wind,
carrying parents' pleas that it's time to leave,
as the small groups crawl through the churchyard.
In a mossy corner, the window-man clatters,
with his brushes and buckets at the side of the oak shaded vicarage.
A scarf slides from an old man's neck
whilst he motionlessly salutes the monument;
his medals are dull in the lacklustre light.
But for all that's here, there's one thing not,
where I sit by this silent 'here lies' spot.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 6:02 PM UTC
Shadow of two-year guilt,
Rather be erratic than static.
The world rolls its tongue
And everyone is talking
But me.
You said
Something good will come out of this.
You said
That I wanted to be unhappy.
I could reach so far
For impossible dreams
But it would not be enough.
Sleep feigns rest.
Bedsheets weather to discomfort;
Hypnotic inducement
As the sun comes up.
Alarm clock, ***** Cigarette for breakfast.
Food sits in the mouth.
Chewing on plasticine,
Sudden fear of choking.
I do not remember when I got so bad.
Lacklustre tyre swings,
A noose in the half-lit cemetery.
No amount of air
To tame the breath.
Folded, years of divorce,
Of cold toast, early mornings;
My insufferable self.
You said
That I wanted to be unhappy.
You said
That love would never be enough.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 6:32 PM UTC
you immediately feel that there's some kind of unknown forces extracting air out of you moist lungs whenever you caught a glimpse of him, oh the pale complexion of his skin that you yearn all too much to devour.
his smouldering black eyes, darker than onyx yet far more magnetic than a black hole, you could gaze at it all day long. whenever he speaks you could genuinely feel all 4 corners of the walls caving in, his voice was as sweet as an ochesctrated hymn continuously to drive itself into your ear drums infesting every piece of neurons inside your brain.
he was the perfect fainting spell for you & i am merely a lacklustre, unable to charm you. all i ever knew was to write poems on pieces of paper crumpling them at the end of the day so i could string them up as a rosary that i pray to but now i realise that no kind of prayers was able to break you free from his necromancy.
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC
It turns out the show's only just started when the fat lady's sang -
'Tho mum had told me it'd be over when Mrs Jones came on -
So imagine my surprise when she burst into Kool & the Gang.
It was at this talent show; I'd come to see this smoking Orang-utan.
I'd seen the mediocre 'Mystico', the lacklustre 'Lassie' and a small man named Ron;
It turns out the show's only just started when the fat lady's sang.
The final act was to be signalled with a gong and a bang,
Then out came Mrs Jones, the size of the entire Yukon.
So imagine my surprise when she burst into Kool & the Gang.
I guess it was a perfect example of yin and yang,
And since it happened Mrs Jones is quite the local icon.
It turns out the show's only just started when the fat lady's sang.
It'd seemed like she'd be better suited at a competition eating pie, or meringue,
At her local diner with her 20% off coupon.
So imagine my surprise when she burst into Kool & the Gang.
The bass kicked in, she belted it out and the whole audience sprang
Into frenzy and boogied, like night had been and gone.
It turns out the show's only just started when the fat lady's sang
So imagine my surprise when she burst into Kool & the Gang.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
*soon forgotten in the mazes of old time
like a lacklustre story heard in passing
when the pain is brought on by the frowns
no honeyed words or feigned equilibrium
can erase that empty feeling inside
and your day will be done in their annals*
Aug 12, 2016
Aug 12, 2016 at 3:55 PM UTC
Love, so colourful and magical yet blind at first
changes just as swiftly as the seasons change,
love perspires ever slowly and inapparently,
till it is lacklustre and lost in the air forever,
Replaced with pretence for the sake of old times,
masking uninterestedness with a fake curiosity.
Lies come freely as one tries not to be obnoxious.
But seemingly, both are trying not to be insolent,
with both professing about love in the air tonight,
even when neither feel even a pinch of it in heart.
Oct 12, 2019
Oct 12, 2019 at 3:51 AM UTC
Let me tell you something
That little varmint was afraid of your names
Too much power you had
To show him he he was nothing special
Another poet, what else ya gonne say? A place for him to stay if he could stay in his place
But he' already decided he's a heavy handful of poems wrapped up in his palm
He's not bad. But he ain't Shelly
Lord Byron he is not
So it's no surprise he comes here
With his terra incognito poetry
Starts the alienation process until five days later
They poked fun at my rhyme
The one I wrote about sweet momma? They laughed it to scorn, called it too sentimental
Each in turn found new ways to burn me
Until eventually
They all became voices in my head
And each voice recited one of my wretched poems and I could see I was only fooling myself
Group sessions didn't go so well
I read their poems, superior to mine in every way
I let thier voices tell me what they meant
And it wa comforting until I realized they were all about me and a vast conspiracy to drive me away
Normally I'd figure this out
But the voice began to be belligerent.
"Get out of here hack" , chanted with the insistant persistence of one who wasn't going anywhere until her will had been done.
I had no choice
They had taken up residence in my mind
Now I had to find a way to rid myself of them
CONTNUED NEXT CHAPTER in which somebody gets their way. Who? What? We'll have to wait to find out.
It
ain't
gonna
be
pretty!
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 3:01 AM UTC
Shadows on the walls
even in the prettiest shades
in the arch that stretches
from dawn to dusk;
I see the dark of day.
It is in moments such as these
where I need you the most
to read every single thing
I've ever wrote about you;
my words act as the horrors host.
This sense of
unrelenting security
is it truth or foley?
for it is hard
to teach me to run
if you dear
are only crawling
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 3:28 PM UTC