"lowlife" poems
They say artist have a unique way
Of looking at this place we call our world
We miss that there is more they don't display
Unlucky their vision has been disturbed
You see, we think we live in harmony
Blindly going on with our restless lives
Ripping off their band-aide now nakedly
To only be looked at as a lowlife
Facing the truth in a perspective matter
By various colors and feelings
Watch as they pick a beautiful flower
Painting black to give it a new meaning
But even though they bring much delight
They are curse with the artist eyesight
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 4:30 PM UTC
feeling sorry for myself again,
surprise surprise, I think a lot
they say don't it's bad for you,
surprise surprise, I wonder still
feeling sorry for myself again,
like some crack-addled *****
frustration at every turn, as I see
the corridors of my mind; a dead end
every time, and maybe the migraines
are a true sign of recent times
pain for days, a complete sense of contempt
seeing myself so low, I must mount my eyes
high up in the trees, stitched into leaves
to look down on everything so
feeling sorry for myself again,
surprise surprise, I think a lot
they said don't it's bad for me,
surprise surprise, I wonder still
feeling sorry for myself again,
like some lonesome lowlife
I understand the kettle's whistle,
tormented and brought to boiling point,
tortured by the very talents that give it purpose
am I a kettle or a joke to you?
pain for days, a complete sense of contempt
seeing myself so low, I must mount my eyes
high up in the trees, stitched into leaves
to look down on everything so
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 10:04 AM UTC
We must never **** the spiders
While, they wove their words into the likeness of thunder
You only watch the news to find out
Where the con artist stands,
He opens his mouth and nonsense comes out
He twitters like a bird and the sound of a dog bark echo,
Lowlife, unhinged, bigoted, racists, misogynist,
How do one goes from eating at his table:
To coming in through the back entrance,
And whether it matter to us or not;
We got to see what division can do to us
Some might even say, salacious and ridiculous
I think it’s a game change, with the wars of words
Bishop and knight checkmate!!
your move my dear..
and by the way :
You are fired!!
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 4:53 PM UTC
Dear Ms. Di Prima,
I really,
Really,
Think that Alchemy—Alchemy--Al-Chem-EEEEE
Is a
Nifty
Topic.
But,
My mother has a ring
Of gold.
Standard Gold,
No lead. None.
Or had,
Until our house was
B-R-O / K-E / N
Into
By some lowlife scumbag with
Too much ability
And
Not enough intelligence.
With Alchemy
I could make a shitload
Of Gold (wasn't that the point?),
Provided I had the
Lead,
And not that
IMPOSTER
Crap in pencils (Graphite. My childhood was a shambles.).
But it's only valuable
Because
We're willing to pay so much.
Like with Diamonds.
Or Japanese Akita.
Or Wagyū.
It's not a lie.
Just a trick.
Making you think you want things that you don't need because it helps someone else who you've never met make more money than they'd ever be able to use in a legitimate way
(HOOKERS AND BLOW).
All of these things are synthetic.
With the exceptions of
Gold
And
Graphite.
So,
Maybe,
Alchemy did work out alright,
Just not in the anticipated way.
We can make all sorts of things.
But they become coveted only when they exist.
Just ask Swipey McStickyfingers.
It actually wasn't gold.
You just got a bunch of painted junk,
And passports.
No rubies.
We weren't international crooks,
Renowned and beloved
By jealous zealots.
It was purely sentimental.
But you can't understand.
You can't fondly look at the earrings as the last reminder of a deceased parent.
You can't flip through the identification booklet and be flooded with memories of your first trip out of the country.
You ****** You can't even cash the savings bonds that were bought to put someone through college.
No. He got a box of documents and some cheap jewelery.
But still. Probably called for celebration. A successful heist
Because his brain is still in his head.
We create people as well as objects.
Ms. Di Prima,
In the end,
Some people will always be
Clasping ********
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 6:38 PM UTC
Laws that get me in trouble.
Mostly for public intoxication
After wandering aimlessly down
Lost streets.
Love I never receive; or gift anyone with either.
Liquor that takes the pain away
If only temporary.
Love fades,
Feelings change,
And the hangover the next morning
Reminds me of why I hate myself
After downing my first shot of alcohol
The night before.
So I start drinking again for breakfast
And the next morning will play out the same.
Endless truths hide behind lies
And luck has never been something I’m good at.
Life is a game and I can’t ever seem to win,
I lost. I lose. I’m losing.
Over and over again
People call me a lowlife and say I’m going nowhere.
Liquor cures the lonesome for the night
And men tell me they love me.
I believe them.
I hate the word “love.”
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 10:34 PM UTC
It was a Saturday night in the park
his trees were singing
out of tune
his clay pigeons needed to come out
of his closet
for he was parked
on a stool
at his favorite watering hole
amongst a full house
where pairs beat singles
and there he was
shooting blanks
drowning in his sorrows
on his nine lives of lowlife
hoping for a sitting duck in despair
the kind that waddles right up to the Romeo's
with suspense in their hearts
and spontaneity in their wings
a cackle
that he can tackle
to take home
to his garden bed
for him to be fed
but what he got
was for not, naught, knot
wistful thinking
sitting in a bar sinking
for the jukebox played a broken record
finding love in the wrong places
and the joke squarely was on him
for thinking, he could round the bases
looking no further than the escape of his glows
or a crutch of decoys
and sitting ducks
for he was no Romeo
yet
there he was still, like steel,
a stole away in society
forlorn, preserved
like mamas mothballs tucked away
in basement storage
squandering the forage
for there were no triple treats
tonight for him
or forever sounds grim
for his reality check gone dim
or
no eye candy
for his heart beats
no picnic
for his ****
and all the bottled whiskey
could not drown out his pain
as his eyes were slain
as the sitting ducks turned
from his fantasy corner
phantomlike
and though
he's sitting at the bar, a loner
reminded that in cards of life
pairs beat singles
and in his worn hand
familiarly holds a lonely joker
for it's like he tries
and its
like his sitting ducks
are like hoofed deer
and his little sweets,
are spooked
hoofing
away from his
now darken forest
like red ants at his picnic
and the gleam in his eyes turned
to the poorest
its
its
as if his life and watering hole
was condemned
his garden bed cut at the stem
it is as if he has a red vest on
and a rifle don
and all the hoofed deer
panic
looking at him in fear
like he's manic
or maybe it's his eyes
that hold dark skies
he orders another double
trouble
for what else is there to do
on his Saturday night
than to sit in a bubble
forever sounds grim
but sing him a sweet hymn
he says please
to wit as he steals peeks
at the bartenders triple treats
like a bee to a hive
his joker still strikes a beat
if only he can find a bolster
for his gun needs a holster
and a deer in the headlights
would be hard to find
the confession now told, tolled, towed
through tears
the guy in the bar window
is me, sitting
resigned
Logan Robertson
10/18/2018
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 6:23 PM UTC
Come to see him
when you have no right to
Come play daddy for a day
does that make you feel good?
Run and tell your friends
that you're a father
because you like the title
Put on a happy face and smile from ear to ear
Talk like you know him
for everyone to hear
Talk like you have always been there for him
Hold him as if he would recognize your touch
Watch him through your lieing glazed eyes
and hug him way too much
Kiss him and tell him how much you care
Tell him you love him before you disappear
Turn your back and walk away like he never meant a thing
Tell him your his daddy
when he don't even know your name
I see you swell with pride when you call him your's
when you play with him like you're the one he adores
You're the definition of fake
You're a lie and nothing more
and your son knows not who you are
So tell him that you miss him
And that you'll see him soon
Lie to him again and again
Make empty promises
that will never come true
Laugh at all the silly things you watch him do
Act like your something big
Like your doing something good
Does it make you feel like more of a man?
Does this feel good to you?
Hug me before you leave and tell me that you're sorry
Hold me like you really care and
Tell me you still love me
but don't dare look me in the eye
Because you know I'll be able to see nothing but true lies
You're a drug addict
A lowlife in it's truest form
So go back to your shameful life with your *****
light it up and take another hit
Let it burn and try to let yourself forget
Wallow in your self pity
and hang your head real low
Cry until you drown yourself because
You won't see us anymore
The damage you have done can never be erased
So live with the few memories you have of him
that are burnt inside your head
then close your eyes and sleep with your pride and regret
You have made this bed and in it you will have to lye
Waste yourself away to nothing
as you slowly dissipate
You are nothing to him
and you're nothing to me
so overdose on us as you take your final hit!
Copyright © 2013 by Ashley Rodden
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 3:15 PM UTC
Don't allow yourself to close your eyes;
To sleep or rest, to look away.
You see, you know,
They all lied to you.
Existence;
Immersed in it's ambiguities.
Meaningless suffering,
Life is unjust.
Left behind.
Drowning in real
Refusing to ignore,
It's killing you.
It is all truly there,
It is all that there is.
Onerous to accept it.
You're creating a war with a reality
Who only seeks to destroy.
Nearly lost elation,
Thoughts transmitted in times of joy,
Hope at times afforded.
Faint memories of it will linger,
Just try to hold on.
-
You think so highly of such a lowlife as yourself,
Or are you it?
Are you it?
Dec 10, 2021
Dec 10, 2021 at 7:55 PM UTC
Suicide should only be committed once
So why the hell do I try every couple months
Something's up with the water
I don't feel the rush like I used to
There's no happiness tutorials on YouTube
I laced together my shoes, through them on a wire and convinced myself to sit and think
The kitchen sink's dishes stink
But you are what you eat and I had a helping of insane
Low key lowlife, broke and high under a spotlight
No ice so there's more drink at the drive thru window with my eyes suspiciously low
I'm ridiculously close to laughing what's left of my mind away
I forgot how it feels to feel fine today
It's either love or hate and there's no areas of gray
*I wish I had a thousand hours to sit down and figure out exactly what the **** that I've been running from
I wish someone would stick around long enough to identify with the place that I'm coming from*
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 4:28 PM UTC
this verbal wishing well, appreciated,
a nut of good intentions but drives me
deeper into de-spare-ing downing detentions,
for it is only the article's genuine genius,
that elevates the human spiritus, to godlike status
no ditty this, but a wail, shriek, for
human touch is gift so greatest,
that any day passing without
either, neither but both, 'tis one
truly wasted,
a deduction on our
calculus of inited^ human intuitions,
a failure of our greatest inventions
a subtraction of our
gainful living, a purposed ecstasy
our one and only inexact
measure of measurement
that defies pedantic notions of
things of weight or volume,
but extends our own existence
sans
the armies of embrace,
the electric elected syncing,
of the shocking sharing of
closing the borders of divided spaces,
a soft contusion, a realized illusion
a de minimus of our days,
a lessening of our lessons,
a loss of earning livingness,
a nail in our coffined basket,
and here to cease without surcease,
the elemental incalculable numbered
members of our total human races,
that so tragic in a twenty four expiry,
that the bonding of affection goes
unexpressed...
offer you my armory of arms,
cleanse us both with showered kisses,
inform you thus of our emboldened connection,
voiding these lowlife separators of lineage divisors,
what matter color, gender, chosen god nomenclature,
any of this nonsensical human inventions for distancing
divested human beings from each other
tho eyes closed, and all our senses flaring,
when we confirm what we were born knowing,
there is nothing greater than the human touch
PostScript
my first and best poem of the day,
how it came to me goes unbeknownst,
but will practice what is preached
with any and all willing encountered souls,
and perhaps, come-end of day, will write,
once more, one more, re heaven on earth
7:02am
Tue Sep Thirty
Two Thousand and Twenty Five. nml
Sep 30, 2025
Sep 30, 2025 at 7:13 AM UTC
I cast away my narrow waist
Whale bone my rib cage
You open me up to demolition
My voice is silent
As you split the seams
Of a world I was far too fragile for
Living, the flash of liquid light
Turns the horizon on it's end.
The lies you fabricate, a master
Storyteller by design
A lowlife criminal
With overwhelming needs
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 5:16 AM UTC
Its like I sit and watch the world go by cruisng to oldies,
feeling new inside, but outside is a face of a man who will attack if you dont know me.
gut instinct is below me homie, piece of mind,
dont change your words if you cant cash the truth but besides that...
See im not perfect I lost ties and made knots that made me fall from my own tension with no intentions to stand even if I can, I cant, im grounded by my mistakes that relvolve around me, reminding me what I did made me what I am.
AS I stay subsiding in a position thats clearily hiding,
binding my chest compressed against my last breath , to save what little life I have left in a world where title nor status mean nothing when your an ******* to those you called your best interest I do confess im that lowlife as i cruise still music speak to my esscense releiving me for those seconds im just a person again but after that im back at it again
..I dont write for pitty so let that be known, im just here to vent this steam that once stood ablazed passion for a love that is now a shack of memories in my head of your smile and gestures a feeling I onced called home now ruins from what i ruined, foolish I am.
Clueless more than anything to let many so many slip away im the worst fisherman of love.
because I use my soul as bait, and little by little i let the big ones escape an take chunks of me away to a place I can never retrieve it, so believe it im that space
im that vessle ive became the shell of a hermit , hollow and skirmish.
Tarnished, and used,
debri left as rubble to make roads,
but none to pave my own cause I have no resources
cause im that alone....shit,
maybe I can just leave it for those who wish me back if I do something foolish like giveback the life Ive live, for a plaque and a name and a date?
or should I just lookback and keep cruisin passed the bruissin and showin scars of my mistakes as a human,
all I know is....nothing,
and thats why I stay cruissin, freedom of the road and music,
away from the world and my ruins.
-Deep Though aka
Linguist Musician
aka Emmanuel Hernandez
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 10:46 PM UTC
why cant i cry without you being the cause
why cant you leave me
dont try and fix your mistakes
you know my name , not my personality
i show you my fake personality so that i can protect my self from you entirley
your not my mom
you can yell
you can critizize
you can call me names
to everyone else yuor a bad ***
to me you are a lowlife trying tom make herself feel better
i find it amuzing
that you think you can hurt me
that you think im crying because i want to be you
weel im not
im crying because you are so jelous
that your trying to replace my mother
one of the only exzact copys of me
well everytime you call me names
you are just hurting yourself
because i know that i am 3 times younger than you
and still the more respnsible mature reliable trustworthy person
and the only thing important is that i know that
so go ahead try to get me
try to make yourself feel better
because every word
every thought
every smirk
makes me the better person
you cant break my heart because i have a shell
a fake personality
only my blood know the real me
the secrets
the things that would crush you
thank you for making me stronger
thank you for being so low that you make a druggy seem sky high
i was only 10 when we met
but now im only 13 and i feel like im thirty
ready
ready to take on the world
im only a kid
but thanks to you im emotionaly a full grown adult
you need a script
but all i need is my mind
i play it real while you are always trying to be plastic
your blood son already hates you
i hate you
the boys hate you
what more do you want
you drove us away
are you really so low as to drive my dad away to
then the only thing you will haVE
IS A DISGUISE
the only thing youll have
is the lies that you tell everyone
your own mother is under your spell
but im not
im free
on my own
go ahead do it
lie
because i know the truth
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 2:58 AM UTC
Hey Mr Big Nose harassers
Thieves, Bullies and Morons
Look how many years you've had
Still can't break him or shut him up
You are thieves and criminals
No good lowlife degenerate scums
You can't terrorize me,
you can't pressurize me
you can't fraternize me
You are thieves, cheap common criminals
can't do better in life than stealing from others
You stole and I called you out, Your are thieves
plain and simple, stinking useless criminals
You can't terrorize me,
you can't pressurize me
you can't fraternize me
I will not shut up, I will not be gagged
You are thieving scums you and your paid thugs
You have tried putting the frighteners on me
You want to break me and discredit me
I am still here and I won't shut up
Do your worst
Enlist the whole world
Hound me from pillar to post
You are nothing but stinking low life scums
You can't terrorize me,
you can't pressurize me
you can't fraternize me
White thieves and burglars
Stealing thieving Racist scums
Wanna shut me up
Wanna bully and terrorize me to gag me
Wanna break me and **** my spirit the cowards they are
Come do your worse white thieves
yes I'm in your country and there are more of you
I ain't scared and control all you like
I will still say it to your faces thieves!
Your are stinking thieves and crooks
No good scums and lowlife
I ain't scared of you, come and **** me
I will not be broken by scums, degenerates and lowlife
You are nothing but stinking criminals with connections
Underground the lowlifes call themselves
Proud of criminality, white thieves makes a profession
out of burglary and stealing, Shame on you!
You scums blatantly burgled me because I am quiet and gentle
you thought you will meet no resistance
then I stood up to you
you swear you'll take me out, destroy me
Cheap shameless criminals
With all the civilisation and advancement in your Nation
All you can achieve is going around burglarizing
Cheap scums and degenerate, now come shut me up
I ain't scared of you and your underground
You can't terrorize me,
you can't pressurize me
you can't fraternize me
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 10:18 PM UTC
I have a fear.
It’s something called “philophobia”,
The fear of falling in love.
Some may say that love is a blissful experience,
But I know better.
I see the people surrounding me,
All that fell in love one way or another.
My mother, who fell for a cheater.
My sister, who fell for a lowlife.
My best friend, who fell for the one that could never reciprocate.
I see them hurt and fragile,
Love doing them no good.
They’re on an emotional roller coaster,
Going high and low,
But never coming to a stop.
I fear of ending up like them,
Weak at my emotion’s hands.
So I keep my heart guarded,
For love is something I do not welcome as freely as others..
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 2:05 AM UTC
Mama always told me that he was a no good,
rotten, lowlife
son of a gun
And everybody knew to stay away from him
when the alcohol was running
through his veins
Really though
It was all my fault
For tripping down the stairs
And miscarrying the baby
A bright blue baby boy
Came out silent, so ****** quiet
He was still and tiny
It broke my heart in two
seein' his tiny blue hands
We buried him under the oak tree
In the back yard
right under the swing
I loved that swing
My husband loved his alcohol
and hated my incompetence
and liked to leave some marks on a woman
But I loved him
with all of my aching heart
even with all the bruises that shaded my skin
He was the best thing
that ever happened to me
I took all the beatings and the nasty words because of it
But when he brought home that woman
Well, you'd guess I was pretty upset
But I refused to go down without a fight
So that night I lit a few candles
Put on my best nightgown
Waited for him in the bedroom
Even managed to clean all the dirt
out from underneath my fingernails.
I was in the garden all day
After all it was hard work
digging myself up from under
the old oak tree
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 9:52 PM UTC
Standing at the edge of mortality
is my work really done?
Looking over at the black abyss
what is one to think?
Time to find god
root for heaven
root for reincarnation
call for your mother
bring a flashlight
the black sack and that's a fact.
Standing at the edge of mortality
my hand over my brow
block the sun?
Too dark for that
Try to see better?
Too late for that.
The precipice stands waiting
and all those who once lived
forever gone
took that plunge.
Standing at the edge of mortality
waiting for the momentary mirror
reflecting backwards in time
highlight reels
lowlife deals
ecstatic moments
unwound in regrets
achievements
done and gone.
Standing at the edge
my children come to me
wondering what breath will be the last
too late for all regrets
all those
if only I hads
there is a tear for that
that's for sure.
If it could all be undone
to do again
what would one do?
These are the thoughts and feelings too
one finds
when standing at the edge of mortality.
But still here
another chance for us my dear
more work to do
on this side of
the edge of mortality.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 9:05 AM UTC
Art is an obscure excuse for a lowlife to vent,
speak of how one's perspective is wrong,
as they do not ideas circumvent,
because they are too busy singing their song.
Art is a way for someone to withdraw,
live in their own world,
creating their own law,
complaining of how everything is world.
And with this ponderous excuse that is art,
we become something.g different,
revolving away from the start.
With the beauty that is art,
we can state **** you,
to the ones who tore us apart.
With the significance of art we can relate to each other,
appeal to the masses,
but not be a bother.
And lastly, with art, we can learn how to live,
through showing our souls,
With this art that we give.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 6:54 PM UTC
Stuck in a ditch
and crying for help
would be so embarrassing
because it is obvious
that all the eyes looking down
hold no interest
in lending a hand
so crying for help
would only show
how much of a lowlife
they make me
out to be.
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 6:10 AM UTC
He was born on the wrong side of the tracks
a ruffian, lowlife, wastrel
probably addicted to drugs
taking from a society
which was never there for him
"don't end up like him son,
he's on the fast track to nowhere"
born on the wrong side
the bad side
the hopeless side
sitting at the bar
he ponders life
in a glass of whiskey
"where is the right side?"
he asks
to no one in particular
he doesn't understand
why he seems to be trapped
every city it's the same story
always caught on the wrong side
but that question got to me
what's better?
to be a ruffian
lowlife
wastrel
addicted to drugs
or the other
over privileged
a smile bought
at a great bargain
wrapped in plastic
ready to be shipped off
used and used and used
worn out
but there's always a replacement
submission or punishment
these are the lives we pick
and regardless of which side of the tracks
we are born on
we've all made our beds
we're just trying to accept
that we have to sleep in them
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 7:30 PM UTC
Slutty *****
Not enough.
Emo cycle.
One of the regulars.
Deadbeat lowlife ******
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 12:48 PM UTC
What are poets made of?
is it luck and charm?
or dreadful heartache
that causes them self harm?
What are poets made of?
is it love and dance?
or a soul that withers
from one lost love romance?
What are poets made of?
is it tweenkly feeling from inside of chests?
or a hurtful silence that reeks of deamons
those dark,lowlife pests?
what are poets made of
i'll leave that puzzle unsolved
i'll just say it's a feeling
that make their words revolt
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 2:13 PM UTC
You're a liar.
Decadent. A thief.
Harlot, lowlife, general ****
You, sir or madam, bring ****** to bed.
You are a drunkard in the street.
You beg, when you have enough.
You, my good friend, have greed and avarice that surpasses all.
Please, take my money and my soul.
You pig.
Any assorted profanity could describe what you are.
You lowly
little
speck of dust.
I can't bear myself to be near you.
You might start to leech off me.
You parasite.
What? Me? What are you talking about?
I'm none of those.
I'm just a hypocrite.
Nov 1, 2011
Nov 1, 2011 at 10:24 PM UTC