"lessor" poems
tattoo ourselves in electric ink memorializing calendars,
diaries of observantional digits, black on white, no gray,
birthdays, anniversaries, dates of passing, starting lines,
occasional achievements, departure dates, even glaring failures,
sundial mundane records of diurnal habitude…even
defining self by, bye, byte marks upon flesh, upon our calendar
*not my first trip-tracking, he ruefully rues, wry smiling,
many voyages of indeterminate measuring length,
leaving litter of arrays of hopeful estimations & destinations,
each unequal, any or all possibilities, each day notated,
without critique or commentary, the numbers are the
gaols (jails) of goals, target, indeterminate determination,
terrific, horrific, introspections, inverse images resolve, resolute*
a year ago, +/- a few days,, new travelogue commenced,
notated but not annotated, just numerical truths,
(sans comments for the divine nature of numbers don’t lie)
and today my calculator app informs, that I am now
19.4 % lesser, but that clarifies less than expected
naturally this provokes a natty,
spirited, self-inquiry, lessened,
lessor, for better or for worse?
have the physical alterations
accompanying this reduction
mean exactly what,
if, it should be, a greater lesser?
here is the hard part.
your have always been a mirror~poet,
laughing, bemoaning the unvarnished, unshaven
AM sightings of a human perpetual dissatisfied,
the external never denying the interior “less~than,”
a J Peterman catalogue of weathered ****** expressions,
counter-parted by multiple Venn diagram intersections,
of experiential labeled bits & pieces of emotional empirical
less than good, not even close to perfect, so now that I am
*gaunt, spare, lean, grayed, narrower, again ruefully rue,
the even more visible truth reflection eye~hidden:*
I,
am the sum of the weight of my history, my deeds,
my disbeliefs, murderous deeds, weak choices
and that hasn’t changed nary an ounce, no matter
many times examined, indeed I am forever a lesser man,
there, internal infernal
too…
Apr 9, 2023
Apr 9, 2023 at 2:12 PM UTC
So she's leaving us
Driven out by the mindless idiots
Who infest this site
I had it with my last daily "Hope"
But the writer had less likes for all his poems
Than I've got in just one
We, we who write and post do it for one reason
We write because we love words
We DO not write for torrents of abuse
And so I say to you
Ignore the abusers because they are lessor people
Than you
There is no love in their words
Simply because they are incapable of expressing love
You, you the poets, you the true writers
Stay, ignore the idiots
YOU are the beating heart that keeps us alive
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 5:22 PM UTC
You can’t hold me against my will
And then tell me
What pain I am allowed to feel
And how I am allowed to deal with it
You do not have the right
To restrain me from what is mine
And then have the nerve to ask
Why I am fighting so hard
You are not allowed
To tell me that I am equal
While paying me less and sexualising my body
Yet you do it anyway
It is not right
To be told that I am sensitive
When all you do is scream in my ear
All the reasons that I am lessor
I live in a society
Where I am too intense to be held
I am too strong, too bright
But I am shunned for my light
Because I’m surrounded by men
Who refuse to believe
That a woman could possibly be
More than they ever could
You don't own me
I belong to myself
So why are you acting
As though I am yours to control
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 11:08 PM UTC
Ashlei Cottom
Sweetheart, fine art is not about pride. It's about FINDING pride. It's about creating something and taking pride in the fact that you did. When I read your poetry, all I hear is "Me, me, me, I'm the best." That's not what poetry is... Poetry is not self praise. Poetry is taking the most hurtful, joyful, mixed, complicated emotions that you have and putting them into words that make everyone understand. You may tell write back and tell me everything that is wrong with my poetry, but I will not care. Why? Because I know that I have successfully been able to express myself in ways that other people can relate to and enjoy. Ways that they may not have been able to express the same feelings. I have confidence in your ability to realize your mistakes and fix them. I look forward to seeing these changes. So please, take this to heart and write. :)
Loghain Carvó
How laughable that one of my lessors attempts to give I art recommendations.
Ashlei Cottom
It's not so much your art I'm trying to change, but your character. It's your character that is reflected in your art.
Ashlei Cottom
And if I could ask, why do you assume I am your lessor?
Loghain Carvó
I am not assuming, you already have shown that you are a lessor human through your words.
Ashlei Cottom
By encouraging you to keep doing what you love and bettering your character? Sir, I'm sorry, but if that is your opinion, I don't think it is I who is the lessor human...
Loghain Carvó
That is not what makes you my lessor, You are my lessor simply because you lack the artistic vision to fully appreciate the magnitude of my grand works. Please refrain from responding to this message as I wish to waste no more of my precious breath on peasants.
Ashlei Cottom
And how is it that I am a lessor human if all I do is try and help? Some people cut down and criticize and make others feel like mere mud on other's shoes. I am not one of those. I try to see the good in everyone. I think you have great talent, but I wish you would use that and dig deeper. I can tell you right now, with an unbiased opinion, that you unfortunately come across as narcissistic, selfish and and as you so eloquently put it, a "lessor human."
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC
...or at least being under the naive guise of youth, tainted with the dementia of infatuation
What if I really believed you were my one and only?
What if my love for you is as real as it ever was?
I still make love to you every night
Even though you left me
Alone I stoke the fire...
Together we shall burn-
Perpetually.
I let you live here rent free;
My beauty,
My lessee,
& naturally I
The lessor.
You spite me.
I allow you to
Every night is that same day
That same fight
It blurs a little bit more with every play
Every night I go to sleep in that day.
Every night I relish in the fact that...
As insignificant as it may seem
I'm the one who had the control that day
Every night I get to relive that moment.
Every night you are forced to see it my way.
Every night you are to face the me you tried to avoid so desperately.
Every night you are made to face the love you neglected so miserably and I remember every single detail.
Every excruciating detail of your struggle, to the breakdown, and finally acceptance of what you had comin to you; my love.
I ***** you that night.
I raptured you that night and I relive it as I jack off to the idea of spiting you and you just took it and let it happen because you knew you were finally coming clean about who you really were and how it made no difference what happened to you one way or another...
I remember my being a romantic
Every single night before I go to bed
I still love you to this day you see...
I said it back then and it still holds true.
I remember my being a romantic-
BUT NOT AS MUCH AS I REMEMBER ******* YOU!
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 4:25 AM UTC
Spring came quickly and
Ended abruptly.
Summer came sweaty and hot.
Autumn winds blew the leaves from the trees and
By the time Winter came, we forgot.
Spring came quickly and ended abruptly.
But it will come again.
Birth and growth and hope and dreams
Learning to live in a freshly made joyous world with
Only the overstated problems of the youth, and
None of the fears of the aged.
Curiosity and wonder and eternal rebirth.
Summer came sweaty and hot.
Long hours of hard labor.
Work and growth and goals and dreams
Chasing elusive, sometimes irresponsible goals often
At the expense of happiness and contentment.
Adrenalin filled days and nights
Peaks and valleys and elastic resolve.
Autumn winds blew the leaves from the trees.
Exposing naked branches,
And squirrel’s nests abandoned by the owners who are
Preparing for the months ahead
Without understanding why.
Others, with lessor goals, content and
Ever resting.
By the time Winter came we forgot.
It arrives too soon.
Memories of growth and hope and regrets
Realizing the fears of the aged have arrived and
Will never leave.
Understanding that Seasons change and
In Winter, life on earth recedes.
Spring came quickly and ended abruptly.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 5:51 AM UTC
She is happy-
which is usually defined as
feeling or showing pleasure or contentment.
But for her it's a three way intersection at most
always watching as the others slowly creep up to it
never knowing when to show signs of advancement
hoping someone else's happy doesn't move too fast
and end up ruining hers.
Her happy is dangerous-
it's 2am pints of ice cream and
late night selfies because she's feeling great.
But don't **** with her happy
because when she is not-
she is contemplating
her ideals in the forms of narratives
that she can ruin you with.
It's lucrative, the happiness of hers.
She can wear it like the heart on her sleeve
or she can sell it like it's nothing-
auction it off to the bidder who needs it more than her.
Her happiness is selfless at best.
She never really knew what it meant to her
all she would ever feel is the lonely and the low
and the friends that they would bring around.
Things got pretty hazy before she found her happy.
But it's quick wit and inconsistent nature
makes it hard for people to stay.
The happy will run away with her lonely
and come back with her mania
all the while her contentment drinks wine
with her depression until it's a ******* party
and the only one she sees across the crowded room-
is confusion .
She fell in love with it at an early age
never knowing her true self
letting confusion take her out on dates
and show her things that only made him stronger-
but eventually the happy came back.
It made friends with the rest of the emotions
and lit her spirit on fire again.
She's never written a happy poem-
at least one that wasn't about love
and she knows it still exists somewhere
because happiness caught the hope
that was once so fleeting.
Her happy isn't just happy.
It's not just a single strand of emotion
inside her brain stem-
It is a mess.
A tragedy.
Summer days
and rainy weeks.
It is bipolar and mania to a tee-
new shoes and cold sweet tea.
Her happiness is insecure
a small child on the school bus for the first time
waiting to go back home
even though they just arrived.
Some days you see it clearly
others its like a smoke screen
sending caution to those who are surrounding.
My happiness is me-
describing it would be all too complicated
and depicting it in a manor lessor than me
would be an injustice.
My happiness is the justice system-
it never knows what the **** it is doing.
But I like it that way-
so lock me into solitary confinement
with just me and my happy
and watch me make a masterpiece out of misery.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 7:02 PM UTC
pictures of past lovers are looked through the eyes of a woman scorned
dragged down into the depths of hell
by a fiery monster that mishandles me
striking yellow eyes
each breath felt on my bruised skin
he mutilates me for fun
my screams echos through the empty corridors of hell
all the while having to watch my past over and over again
made to relive each moment magnified
torture would have been a far lessor punishment
my face has to remain neutral as i look at pictures of lovers past under the careful gaze of others
the anger in my ever grows
these men they toyed with me as if i was not human
in there eyes my soul did not breath
i was no more than a second thought
i run through the corridors
trying to open doors while trying to stay out of the clutches of my captor
i need the find the door to mercy
i stumble
broken the monster finds me
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 7:00 AM UTC
make a big deal out of no deal,
stand still, life of a spinning wheel,
strands of fiber bind u.s. together.
united by the process stated and
our heritage is a product of the lessor,
from this day forth, or Fourth,
of the seventh or the Seventh Amendment,
so who has 20 bucks?
I am lookin' for 6 or 314 million jurors, (Americans need only apply)
If you were all talkin'
and if'n they would listen,
till the sweat glistens on their brows,
in that dawns early light,
I betcha they might not get it right
but here is to hopin' your open
the next time I...write a poem.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
the question of God's existence
finally put to rest.
or was it?
the big fat bus,
with the big fat yellow bootay,
turned her thoughts
to other existential
mysteries.
many a book
had been left behind
over the years
as students got off the bus,
so the big fat bus
with the big fat yellow bootay
had plenty of books
to read on her long days
cruising up,
and down,
and around,
the highways.
a veritable library indeed.
one book
particularly caught
her attention
as its cover
was a lovely
shade of yellow
and black.
i say,
hmmm,
that title
needs editing.
i am that,
now
became
I AM THAT FAT
content,
she put down
the yellow book,
and gazed off
into the emptiness.
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 9:09 AM UTC
Oh wondrous being
Thee who leads us from darkness into light
You, yes you who hath humility in your soul
You who like an ember in the coals
Burst forth in blinding flames
To show we lessor men the path
To poetic enlightenment
We, yes we bow low before thy wisdom
For thy are great in your wonderment
Oh
Without thy emphatic mind
The written word is but a mundane thing
Only you can put artistry in I
Only you can inspire with Oh
Master, Master mere mortals such as we
Can never hope to compare
With the artistry that is thee
Wondrous being, lord of word
Absorb me into your flock
For thou hath the poetic ability
Of my ***** rancid sock
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 7:33 PM UTC
Erstwhile, the morning came a new.
Yet you, in your self imposed blindness,
failed to see the brilliance of the sunrise.
This being the lessor of two tragedies,
as the light within you, both brighter
and eternal remains equally unnoticed.
May 26, 2017
May 26, 2017 at 9:35 AM UTC
My excuses for wild love,
not a **** cheetah.
The truth is,
the feeling does make me starve.
A loving man, but also a hungry creature.
Pardon the time I waste,
tend be doing *******
Gibberish written on my face,
many words sound garbage.
I'm a real mess, I must confess.
Mind the shattered ideas,
best to pop the bulb
Explaining myself as such isn't ideal,
but I'm not one to be loud
Much quieter in the silence of the crowd.
Excuse myself from peers,
not on the same surface of pressure
Excuse myself from kids,
off the scale who can't measure
Worth me understanding,
but also understanding depression
I'm not lessor,
but I am one to question.
Excuse me for this,
and I'll excuse you for that
Excuse me being lost at times,
life didn't come with a map.
All we do could be the last risk.
But not an excuse to never take it.
Mar 6, 2021
Mar 6, 2021 at 5:59 AM UTC
tattoo ourselves in electric ink memorializing calendars,
diaries of observantional digits, black on white, no gray,
birthdays, anniversaries, dates of passing, starting lines,
occasional achievements, departure dates, even glaring failures,
sundial mundane records of diurnal habitude…even
defining self by, bye, byte marks upon flesh, upon our calendar
*not my first trip-tracking, he ruefully rues, wry smiling,
many voyages of indeterminate measuring length,
leaving litter of arrays of hopeful estimations & destinations,
each unequal, any or all possibilities, each day notated,
without critique or commentary, the numbers are the
gaols (jails) of goals, target, indeterminate determination,
terrific, horrific, introspections, inverse images resolve, resolute*
a year ago, +/- a few days,, new travelogue commenced,
notated but not annotated, just numerical truths,
(sans comments for the divine nature of numbers don’t lie)
and today my calculator app informs, that I am now
19.4 % lesser, but that clarifies less than expected
naturally this provokes a natty,
spirited, self-inquiry, lessened,
lessor, for better or for worse?
have the physical alterations
accompanying this reduction
mean exactly what,
if, it should be, a greater lesser?
here is the hard part.
your have always been a mirror~poet,
laughing, bemoaning the unvarnished, unshaven
AM sightings of a human perpetual dissatisfied,
the external never denying the interior “less~than,”
a J Peterman catalogue of weathered ****** expressions,
counter-parted by multiple Venn diagram intersections,
of experiential labeled bits & pieces of emotional empirical
less than good, not even close to perfect, so now that I am
*gaunt, spare, lean, grayed, narrower, again ruefully rue,
the even more visible truth reflection eye~hidden:*
I,
am the sum of the weight of my history, my deeds,
my disbeliefs, murderous deeds, weak choices
and that hasn’t changed nary an ounce, no matter
many times examined, indeed I am forever a lesser man,
there, internal infernal
too…
Apr 16, 2023
Apr 16, 2023 at 3:57 PM UTC
Lately I've been going through a phase
I got ninty-nine problems I'm not willing to face
Not because I don't want to
I just don't have the strength it takes
Everything I touch breaks
-
Well except for this pen and paper
And the words on this page
-
With every word I write down
The weight becomes lighter
The problems becomes lessor
And for a brief moment
Life becomes better
And I gain my strength again
-
For a brief moment I don't feel insane
And although life is a game I didn't choose
I still press continue and carry on playing
Facing my ninty-nine problems
With just a mere pen and paper
And these sonnets I'm creating
-
Lowkie®
Jun 7, 2020
Jun 7, 2020 at 3:50 PM UTC
Acrimonious ****** oh, to such a wanted piece of thought, falling carelessly as a leaf blown in a sceptical kind of winds, and with their goal of rattling me. The present fortunes present themselves as a mystery unsolved, the many spasms in a day, constricted by the extravagance of wanting to be heard; but the audience is so uninvolved
As I sometimes misplace my identity in my own words- as when I misplace worries into the formula of my concerns. The lessor faith in words, frames on the highest platform; in the endless echoes of a writer’s afterlife- where their once idolized muses, are blessed enough to be seen as something appreciated as gods- __a Poetic pantheon__
Creativity is like two gloved hands, that choke out the reader’s eyes,
suffocating them to see new found knowledge, in the loss of consciousness. As the stage is set; upon the tears of the world, being the opening curtains to such an encore performance; an audience made up of eyes hungry for more. The author’s responsibility to provide to them all,
a due course of sustainable food for thought. As the world feeds the writer the vilest of things, to in turn create something ameliorates in place of it.
Jul 12, 2024
Jul 12, 2024 at 6:35 AM UTC