"loathes" poems
Save me.
Save me from the
place inside of me that Loathes my
existence.
help, it is pulling me
down.
Dragging me deeper into to this
dark
cold place
full of everything i hate. like
you, and me.
i hate You more than anything on the face of this planet, well
except for me.
i hate me hate me more than a mother hates the murderer of Her
own Child.
this Calamitous pit inside me
like a Rabbit's hole i can
Never escape, no matter how i
scratch at the sides until my
fingers
bleed.
there is a lot of blood
in this place.
It's the poison inside of me, the reason
why i breathe in short, wispy breaths. It's got to be
the answer. i've got to get the poison
out.
i dig and dig.
dig, dig, dig, dig
and not once do i cry
of pain.
i dig and dig. deeper
and deeper.
the Hot Malicious wine of my pain flows all around me and the world turns grey as my head begins to spin. i hear You. i know how much You hate me.
LEAVE ME ALONE GOD ******
the only colour i see now is the deep red of a rose as i clench my hands tighter around the thorns and then
Drip.
Drip.
The sound of my own breath
shocks me. i lay at the bottom of the bottomless cistern inside of my soul.
the air in my lungs hissing, as i lay there broken. Vulnerable.
in a pool of my own sorrow, thick and dark. You have left me
to die.
You were the only one i let into this place
You pushed me down. You killed me
please Someone help before the rasp in my chest completely fades.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 10:04 PM UTC
Indelicate is he who loathes
The aspect of his fleshy clothes, --
The flying fabric stitched on bone,
The vesture of the skeleton,
The garment neither fur nor hair,
The cloak of evil and despair,
The veil long violated by
Caresses of the hand and eye.
Yet such is my unseemliness:
I hate my epidermal dress,
The savage blood's obscenity,
The rags of my anatomy,
And willingly would I dispense
With false accouterments of sense,
To sleep immodestly, a most
Incarnadine and carnal ghost.
6.1k
There are three versions of this poem. only one of them is available on the internet. This first version is from the New Yorker in a 1941 issue. It is the earliest version and the one that is quoted all over the internet.
To My Valentine
by Ogden Nash (1902-1971)
More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That's how much I love you.
I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than gin rummy is a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.
As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.
I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you as much as a beggar needs a crutch,
And more than a hangnail irks.
I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As the High Court loathes perjurious oaths,
That's how you're loved by me.
The next version is the lyric of a song from the Broadway musical "One Touch of Venus" (1943) by Ogden Nash, J S Perelman and Kurt Weill. Nash wrote this lyric. It is not on the internet that I could find. I got it from the sheet music.
HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU
More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That's how much I love you.
As a sailor's sweetheart hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a wife detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.
I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than a hangnail hurts.
I love you more than commercials are a bore,
And more than a grapefruit squirts.
I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As a bride would resent a blessed event,
That's how you are loved by me.
More than a waitress hates to wait ,
Or a lioness hates the zoo,
Or a batter dislikes those called third strikes,
That's how much I love you.
As much as a lifeguard hates to swim,
Or a writer hates to read,
As Hays office frowns on low cut gowns,
That's how much you I need.
I love you more than a hive can itch,
And more than a chilblain chills.
I yearn for you in an ivy clad igloo,
As a liver yearns for pills.
I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As a dachshund abhors revolving doors,
That's how you are loved by me.
The third is from the book "Marriage Lines: notes of a student husband" It was published in 1964 and contains a revised version of the poem with a much different ending. This too is not on the internet. I got it from the book.
TO MY VALENTINE
More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or an odalisque hates the Sultan's mates,
That's how much I love you.
I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than commercials are a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.
As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.
I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you truer than a toper loves a brewer,
And more than a hangnail irks.
I love you more than a bronco bucks,
Or a Yale man cheers the Blue.
Ask not what is this thing called love;
It's what I'm in with you.
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 2:51 PM UTC
The pain.
The agony.
The tenseness of your body.
The rage.
Everything inside is burning.
Everything raging inside.
Everything out of control.
Everything inside is chaos.
Your body is mad.
Your body is crazy.
Your body is weak.
Your body is terrified.
To cry alone.
To lay alone.
To pray alone.
To die alone.
Rage going crazy.
Rage is on fire.
Rage is mad.
Rage is taking over.
Bliss is sweet.
Bliss is perfect.
Bliss is rare.
Bliss is fleeting.
Fear is hateful.
Fear is terrible.
Fear is common.
Fear is there.
Weakness taking over.
Weakness fighting for you.
Weakness dying inside you.
Weakness is you.
Fighting inside consumes you.
Fighting outside loathes you.
Fighting everywhere reaps you.
Fighting is you.
Failure isn't an option.
Failure is a path.
Failure is in us all.
Failure is imminent.
Leadership is in us all.
Leadership is dangerous.
Leadership is for a good soul.
Leadership isn't meant for all.
Goodness is a great thing.
Goodness is an uncommon thing.
Goodness is hard to find.
Goodness is easy to make.
Brokenness is my thing.
Brokenness makes you stronger.
Brokenness builds you up.
Brokenness defines us all.
Happiness is so amazing.
Happiness makes us better.
Happiness makes us wake up.
Happiness is all we need.
Love is a wondrous being.
Love is only a rarity.
Love will fill your soul with goodness.
Love can make the worst the best.
For us all we shall be happy.
We will all be respectful.
We will all be happy.
We will all fail.
The key is to accept some defeats.
The key is to be all you can be.
The key is to disperse from bad.
The key is to embrace the greatness.
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 9:35 AM UTC
A breadcrumb I am - the morsel of my old dough,
a piece of chewed bread rotten, missed near a toe,
shredded by the sons of righteousness and “normality”,
entombed I am under the carpet to fulfil “morality”.
Mum added the yeast for me to grow, as well as flour,
Hoping my crust would golden as a vivid live flower,
She sprinkled little salt into me, to know the grimes,
Sugar too, for life brings out the salt to eyes, at times.
Dad poured the water, to soften toughness uncalled,
For man is kind too, not merely clay masked, walled -
And above all, they added affection and compassion,
They wanted me to satisfy mineself, not one’s ration.
Into the oven, 9 minutes, under fire: I show colors,
The warmth turned the heart warm for all others;
I am left to rest, to harden the shell and eternal body,
To be perfect as ma and pa wish: not adverse, shoddy.
But the stale, unpuffed, unfresh bread of this world,
covets but loathes what is good and not yet twirled,
It wishes for me to inhibit mold and evict dignity,
Mais allez, étrange moi, expose me not to malignity.
The least of their gurgling sounds puncture heads,
And the weakest of their advice the spirit dreads;
The making of me is the capacity of mine flexes,
Your ingredients suit not me, mortals and sexes.
Days yearn for you, not this battle of complexes:
You, mine old dough who suddenly “complex” is,
My parents baked me on low heat nice and gentle,
And they sear me with words not for me, mental!
Know you: Pita, Kmajj, Brioche, Shrak, or Baguette,
Bread is bread, could be different, but it is no threat.
Jan 18, 2023
Jan 18, 2023 at 9:27 AM UTC
Curls.
Lengthened, stretching
Auburn curls.
Winding around the delicacies
Of profound life.
Growing incandescently
In a newfound, unsound method.
Vibrant with innovation,
Yet in the same instance, arid.
Questionable.
Irresistible.
Undefinable.
Desirable.
Allegorical.
Many are awe-struck by this oracle --
She loathes her curls.
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 4:07 PM UTC
Barely Walks.
And does not sleep
day squinting
night in trance;
Moonblinked
& Anomie doesn’t speak
What she thinks
Until she drink
Apart; life projector spreads in sheets
Anomie not loveable
so off she goes
with dogs in sheets
that bark and bones
& in the padded womb
zaps milky-Light
synthetic-filtered-bright
A spotlight for the bees
Getting Drunk between her Knees
Confusion explodes confetti
disorientation takes the plow
*** the only how
An ****** or a fake hopeless meow
She lives in mental corners
watching window borders
They push in; she falls out
Brand new day
Teeth on pillows crack
Anomie's mind
has to react
She's fast to split-
Spit out a rebuttal
method witty-tactix kit
No one tells her time to go
But when Bee's belly full
She-goes - Self-loathes
Morning Glories still shriveled in their pods
They own the glory of her story and her song
Hiding in sarcastic retreat for clean feet
under ***** water bathes
wipes off the meat
Not your friend
She's trouble to love
The dirtiest dove
Anomie is naked and she's hated
Take away the curtain glove
eye slit under sunlit
She recovers
Don't judge
it's all her love
but you ****** Anomie anyways
just because
The Thrill
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 4:48 AM UTC
melancholy blanketed the whites
scarred voices muffled by
a ****** mind.
an avalanche stuck in my soul
severer than a bee at a forked road
how confused!
red-cheeked petals and afternoon birds glare
in confusions at the footsteps :
unbalance, shaded, muted!
the green umbrella's warm, so scorchingly cold!
all embittered, by solemn beams of the soulless sun.
their eyes widen,
for they had never seen such lone,
for such lone, rare, is forbid to the sons of nature,
never belong to happy child's arms,
that dreams in a mother's charm.
grieving droughts in the air and grass,
no dews, why!,
yawned the madden, soporific rabbit
Ah, so wild.
the windless noontime cross, my quivers stopped, mild.
lashes waxed, blacken like a coal,
mind stuck in a haze, or maybe a threatening maze.
stiffness of the air injected to my nostrils
into my white tongue they will soak, like perfumes to a clothe.
Selene will gaze angrily at this and say,
why no, it shouldn't be in there!
the midnight orchids waver and frown.
soon the frothing dreams peter,
but the bolded letters in a white board stay,
my chair stays.
creaks of an abominable burden became a din.
The smudges of grey-white dust I smelt
hover gaily in the air of pompous breath.
spellbound by the stagnant languor,
mazy, in hallucinations of the heat and homesick.
I sought the fount of hypocrisy and vile,
my hiding nonchalances rosen
(towards a flock of friends)
and loathes to an abominable sun frozen
(I wished it to die!)
Tilted to the windows,
I saw nothing, but fatal secrets of a heart rosed
like window dust to a nose.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 3:45 AM UTC
Okay, so she and I are not the same religion
Okay, so we are of different cultures
Okay, so we have different beliefs
Okay, her ****** orientation is different than mine
Okay, so she looks different than me
Okay, so she is a different race than me
Okay, so she doesn't believe in the same things as me
Okay, she has different values than me
Okay, so she says unkind things to me
She is still a human though.
And I owe her respect, basic human love, and kindness.
I don't care if we are polar opposites.
I don't care if she spits on my religion
I don't care if she loathes me and is cruel to me
I don't care if we have nothing in common whatsoever
We are both human
And that should be enough
For me to show her
Kindness.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 2:09 PM UTC
losing thoughts to the margins in
some great depression of creative
outlet. taking inked works from a
revered Shakespeare born of the
Moorish states, filling out cata-
combs of this one's entombed
thoughts. and pondering Paris
of some earlier century, how
those writers flocked together.
how this one loathes his current
centuries other writers.
and these, are we, birds of a feather?
flocking, so to be better caught
by twelve-gauge scatter shot?
perhaps we are of a generation
lost, with blinders grown thru years.
expats stranded in a sea of comp-
lacancy in isolation with warring
souls raising higher parapets for
safety? this one's soul may have
raised too high fortifications,
forcing attrition upon the inhab-
itants. this one's soul may have
slaughtered the others for fear
of a low-cat staring up to
the eyes of its King. and
lone heart-beat echoing off
solid stone walls built of mortar
mixed with sweat and tears from
desecrated - of the desolated - and
now forsaken culture only a
quarter-century out. this one's
dogma consisting of self-martying
psychopomps pre-proclaiming ..
'I went out myself into
an immortal body, and
now I am not what I was
before. Now born in mind.'
this one's canonized martyrs only
seeking migration and division.
seeking the Kepigori for hopes of
retrieving knowledge lost - placed
without qualm of forgetting - the
ancestors bore unto still setting
mounds of clay mixed blood. and
when finally set, when finally full-
formed, when finally upright and
springing forth the common know-
ledge which was taught once in
truth. and, now breaking in thought
while this one's hours rot, while this
one leaves an abrupt end.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 7:41 AM UTC
His words crash around us, his miserable dark dampening everyone’s light. Your blue eyes roll high, then low, letting his hanger catch on your shoulders. I protest, claim love and want hope, but he’s well prepared; bible, violence, and stereotype in hand.
At first, he locked his anger up tight, disguised the resentment, fought the archaic nature of his values, the great expanse of his hatred, hidden. He kept it in, fought it, failed to understand it. Finally, internal battle lost, he started leaking. Any hope for happiness killed by a diet of frozen pizza, polish sausage, and spaghetti westerns. He respects men who don’t respect women, loathes anyone who dares to think or feel more than necessary.
His eyes shift, and a creeping moustache has begun above his upper lip, framing a mouth spewing misunderstanding. You say: He makes everyone miserable. He says: Its all the cigarettes and alchohol they’ve been using. You shake your head, knowing an argument only spreads the contagion and inflames the rash.
I forget, ask him how he knows so much about things he’s never done. “You don’t have to try it to know,” He replies, the creeping moustache more and more evident. I roll my eyes, lay back and listen as he preaches theories about women he’s never known, never had. How many times can he fail to realize he’s no better than anyone else. He preaches God and Christianity, but hates more than anyone, has no hope, or faith, or love, and lacks any shadow of compassion. He’s filled with violence and anger, yet claims to follow a God of love.
He’s not tough, or hardened, or experienced, he’s afraid. Afraid to love, to lose, to understand, to hope, to accept, because it means a change. It means growing up, throwing out comic books, drawing mor than Batman, finding friends who are real, feeling the pain, understanding the gravity, and embracing it all.
Jul 27, 2010
Jul 27, 2010 at 3:52 PM UTC
As I lay on my deathbed in the hospital room,
The awareness of my soon doom,
Exudes feelings of gloom,
But more so it ensues feelings of regret,
So many stupid decisions which in my heart beget
Feelings of indecision, unaware of what is next.
The disease that’s ripping me from my life is unknown,
All I know is I had to leave my son and wife at home.
Soon I’ll have to leave from the life I’ve known.
I remember my last words to my son,
Looking sympathetically I looked at him pathetically,
And said so empathetically, I loved him,
So death could see.
But it doesn’t matter, because talking doesn’t work,
So I’m patiently waiting for the coffin and the hearse,
And then all a sudden I started coughing and it hurts,
Then I pressed the button which was calling for the nurse.
The door flew open
But it couldn‘t be her,
Instead I got the black hooded death,
Known as the Grim Reaper.
He approached me, I got cold, time froze,
His hand hit mine.
He got close to me and told me, that it was my time.
Filled with frustration I couldn’t control,
Snatched my arm away from his hand so cold,
Looked him in his eyes, because it was time he was told,
He’s not taking any more lives and it was my time, I spoke.
“If you reap what you sow, why reap souls?
You’re the creator of none, but you can take them and run?
How is this so, the keeper of the souls,
Reaper who sold nothing he sowed?
He only stole, and away he stowed ,
Until he bestows them to the one below.
And we all know that he has no soul.
So your envy controls and even he knows
In heat he chose to fight those he loathes.
Despising those whose demise,
You own.
Spiting foes, despite inside he knows,
That it was he who has chose,
The life as Reaper of Souls.”
After I finished my speech,
He roared with laughter and disbelief,
Then, up I leaped and for his sickle I reached,
Chopped off his head, which fell to his feet.
Now death is dead, just grim from defeat.
But to my surprise, death did have a soul,
And into my body, the spirit arose.
The Grim Reaper’s hood then covered me whole,
From the inside to out my body became cold.
I was no greater than he, reaping what I did not sow.
I was just as Grim,
And now the new Reaper of souls.
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 1:28 PM UTC
Some would say mysterious
I say dark and devious
from experience previous
He loathes strong women
doesn’t value their opinion
treats them as minions
He hides from my presence
doesn’t like my essence
petrified I guess
I find this hilarious
I’m just gregarious
and think he’s precarious
I should take it as a compliment
he finds me a worthy opponent
thought fills me with merriment
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 7:51 AM UTC
A word of advice: don't ever tell her she's a daddy's little girl
funny isn't it when she speaks of her dad,
she sounds like every other normal girl
that it would never come across your mind
she would be the one who receives the beating
when he's angry, whether at her or someone else.
She loathes him with all her heart
and I kid you not, this isn't a mere exaggeration
but believe it or not, she is very much like him
though she refuses to believe or admit it, she is.
They say, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree
she is as hot-tempered and stubborn as he is
her hands are as fast as her mind, once you **** her
she won't think twice about laying her hand on you
bear in mind that her petite figure aches to hurt
the pain she absorbs is greater when released.
"Like father like daughter" they love to claim
but she is nothing like him, like a shadow she resembles
only his physical traits and they're what she's known for
though her heart is ice cold, breathe a little fire to it
it will melt, she likes to think they're stone cold
but you'll be surprised at how sympathetic she can be.
She is bulletproof, her heart heavy on lockdown
nothing can hurt her worst than the tyrant in her house
but she endures and she triumphs and she learns
her fortress stood tall, guarding her from enemies
her mind seems to always be at war;
does she want to grow up to be like her father?
I always feel like I am two different souls in a body
I have the devil's fingerprints but the angel's persona
resides in me as well, and they're always fighting
at times, they get along and I am in peace
though my blood taints of my father,
I am not like him
but let me take you back to the start;
maybe I am a daddy's little girl.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 1:01 PM UTC
If my poem arouses you then I know
I am doing something good
I am the poet,
the narrator of this poem
I write what I feel,
I say what I like
Somehow, I captivate my audience
Who I am, and who you think I am
or what you think of me.
Have no bearings
on this poet's work
Therefore, I am who I am,
without the smearing
I am from this Century
where I am free from *******
my words spread in a nanosecond,
across the internet,
however, my lip are sealed
my poetic spirit guides me:
until it’s time to orchestra
an forgettable vogon list of poems
with my unique vernacular
I can take you the mountain top and
Make you believe it’s easy to climb
I can make you reach for the star,
Knowing that it’s unreachable by far
Life has a way of making you fall on your behind
The language I use, it far too complicated
Because I celebrates life with poetry
As well as I loathes it
So what’s your question?
I probably knows the answer
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 9:17 PM UTC
The words come out wrong,
wishing seconds could be hours
still not enough
you must think I'm weird
I want to stop myself from getting hurt
all the time
all day
but I can't
Because you're so pretty, pretty unreachable
There's always another guy
I want to be that guy and not
Cause everyone hates that guy.
But you don't
You love him
why don't you love me?
It's like you don't even try
It has always been my
intended action
failed
nailed on the spot
useless piece of uselesness
being useless and stuff
I have had enough
I want to leave daytime.
Step out, night into we go
studying, front row, below
average, passed, gone, missing
forever.
Why can't I accept it's gone.
Maybe it isn't?
that's what I'm talking about.
She must think I'm weird.
people don't like weird people
they only like people who turn out to be weird.
Daytime offers dresscodes
dresscodes nighttime loathes.
I judge but I hate being judged
I hate but I hate being hated.
I love but I don't see how one could love me.
If she doesn't, why care for anyone else
she doesn't
what matters doesn't
doesn't that hurt?
Why
day
why
may
I not
be loved
beloved
day, why?
Though it is not 'ed, night brings light
it might not be too bright
but it's better than nothing.
I wish I was nothing.
I wouldn't have to worry
I worry a lot
I'm loved by those who I don't like
and love the ones that don't like me
Who is wrong here?
CAN SOMEONE PLEASE TEACH ME HOW TO NOT THINK ABOUT SOMEone eVERY SINGLE SECOND OF the day.
time, she is unreachable
and way too attractive,
loved in general
which shows you just enough to be of interest
to keep me going
yet not enough to let the night keep glowing.
If daytime is so bad, why not sta
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
The mighty grizzly bear
Waiting by the waterfall
Watching the crashing waves
Listening to their mystic moves
The first salmon leaps,
Just to make sure it doesn’t run into a famished bear
It’s mind panics, as it realizes what is happening
The bear’s mouth widens
And clamps down its jaws
Satisfied with his dinner, but wanting much more.
The wolf cries out from above
Depending on the moonlight to show her the path
She’s drifting away, too tired.
But remembers she needs to feed her cubs
She lurks in between black spruce trees
Her sons, closely following behind.
The creatures of the night watch where they run
Making sure they don’t catch the attention of death.
Though she doesn’t realize, the scampering rabbit
Just two feet in front of her
The rabbit is lucky enough to have a snow white coat
To blend into god’s blanket, laid across the land.
Mother wolf isn’t so blessed, for tonight is one more night
Her cubs will have to go unfed.
The eagle
Mastering the art of flying
Swimming in the skies
Looking for a tree, too perfect to live
Skimming the land
Just the perfect tree is all he needs
To sleep on tonight
For the sun is coming down
And moon is rising up
The stars become visible
The eagle is getting worried
But finally, he finds a tree
Swings down and places its claws onto a branch
So peaceful, listening to the wolf’s howl
Like the theme song to his life.
Unlike the “woof” that the same animal makes
It pierces his ears, the eagle loathes it.
Finally asleep, eyes closed.
Dreaming is his favorite thing
A television for his mind.
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 5:37 PM UTC
Love is a thief.
I never asked for my
focus to be stolen.
You never meant to
take it from me, I'm sure,
but its gone now.
I've always said love should be a synergy of
two whole people. Despite this claim, I find myself
newly unwhole. I lust for wholeness.
You cliched me.
Love is a humaniser.
All my life I've been
an alien, grey specimen
trapped and bound in pale white skin.
I've never felt comfortable in this form.
I want to be light, energy, flowing out of here
and through the world
and the stars and all.
Only, you
make me now feel human.
Breath comes easy.
I still yearn for outer space,
but maybe we could go together.
If you wanted.
Love is a would-be assassinator.
It possesses your mind and your fists,
a dark green spirit. It targets wandering
eyes, and it loathes
replacers.
Love is a fear of inevitable "see you later"s.
Love is an all-conquering now.
The past is dead and
the future isn't real
but we believe in those illusions
until we come together.
Love is half-burnt coffee on a dark November morning, as mist haunts the air outside of the old kitchen we inhabit.
Dec 15, 2017
Dec 15, 2017 at 3:34 PM UTC
I wish I could whisper
sweet nothings into his ear
But he hates kitch
Loathes sentiment
And besides
He's hard of hearing
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 9:51 AM UTC
When I fingered the thin skin on my left, vein-bulging limb
Where the forearm adheres to the costly little hand
I realized in all my intense ardor for pain
That there in my penitence, self-pity, self-loathe
I am a narcissist.
Laden with self-obsessed sorrow
There is a selfishness in being a dreary,
To feel for oneself,
When others care too much
An aggregation of sympathizing sobs and tears
Too much for an egoist
Who would rather wallow alone
In the orange-tinted hue of twilight turned nightfall
A ray of the luster in all subtle shades,
Can I summon the force to recall
Why I hate myself
Is it not that all despise me for a purpose?
And those who are inept at reasonable loathe
Are marooned in deep shame
That they had degraded themselves for what?
For a felon? Such as myself?
Deep in such sorrow,
Deep in my self-loathe
I have encountered the truth of all fruitless self-regard
I am a narcissist, egoist, one who self-loathes
Who slashes and severs and cannot speak love
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 5:33 PM UTC
She invested much of her time into something that, in the end, proved to be worthless and a waste of time
She didn’t know where, but she could feel herself moving away from anything that could be beneficial towards her.
She allowed her uncertainty to grasp ahold of her.
Discouraged as she was, whenever she sought, she was disappointed with what she had found.
She feels herself becoming as idle as the worn-out people she loathes.
She doesn’t know what to believe. The external world has a way of disguising too well inner turmoil.
Is it even there?
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 3:26 AM UTC
Fragile Minded,
Gullibility that leaves me in embarrassment,
Causing an obvious departure from my notability.
I weaken as my former friends migrate to someone new,
Forgetting that it is time to move on.
I have struggles to let go from my past,
Nostalgia makes it impossible to achieve,
Those days have been long gone,
But my memory will always cherish them,
Even if they carelessly forget my name.
I'm wondering if my sadness is because I'm moving on from this place,
Or that I'm having trouble giving up the idea of it,
Whichever one my path leads to,
The lost art of smiling behooves me to feel blue.
It's meaningless and useless in regard to my successful future as a man,
But the emotional scarring will always be with me,
Part of me mourns my mistakes and lost notoriety,
But another part of me loathes the other part of me,
As it is someone I never truly wanted to be,
But had to be, in order to survive.
There were as many good times as there were bad,
But the bad times sinfully destroy my chances of retaining bitterness,
I've lost many girls before,
And friends who then became rivals.
Life in these years are like being guided by a safety net,
But the following year the world gets dropped in my hands,
Like a melted piece of clay,
And yet I have to be the one to mold it.
I'm not afraid of being a grown up,
I'm afraid to let go of my youth,
Not matter how petty and senseless these experiences may have turned out to be,
I'll always be me,
The teenager who refused to grow up.
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 12:33 AM UTC
My heart is full of love,
It’s soft like a rose pedal
Yet my head is filled with hate,
Like a bucket of shrouds of metal.
My heart is warm,
It has learned to let things go.
But my head is cold,
Like a winters first snow.
It never forgets anything,
All the damage that has been done.
The harsh words of a loved one,
That still pierce it like a gun.
My heart forgives,
It only wants to love.
It’s filled with it,
From the man above.
My brain keeps yearning,
To reach a similar level.
Yet it keeps punishing me,
Like it is straight from the devil.
My heart only seeks peace,
To be filled with joy.
My brain is always at war,
Like the battle of Troy.
My heart forgives others,
It fills my day with glee.
My brain is a constant reminder
It loathes me and betrays me.
My heart will never give up.
I hope it will lead the way.
Maybe my brain will ease up.
I so yearn for that day.
Feb 13, 2018
Feb 13, 2018 at 6:36 AM UTC