"mattering" poems
What do you do about someone who is speaking publicly of you?
...beneath the ill and secretly in the shadows there
are the parts that reveal truth of which no one knows...
what do you do about people who once mattered no longer mattering?...
what do you matter?, to those of you who chose to....
what do you do about them talking about you...
what do you do when all they do is lie of you...
what do you do when they no longer matter
what do you do when I no longer matter to you?
what do you do?
when you are pale blue...
What do YOU do when-
no one loves YOU!
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 7:32 AM UTC
Dust flowers up from the Chilton County dusk
Rust is flaking off the pickup that has a skunk musk
Bullet , the blue tick hound from your sleeve pulls it
Could it be another hot day in August , would it ?
Peaches have last month gone to fill the niches
Beaches at the river are low , full of leeches
Summertime in Alabama is a long ******
Funnier than that song , swing low number
Gathering distant dark blue clouds that are a mattering
Battering thunder rolling , lightning shattering
Huge drops splattering on clay so Rouge
Deluge now soaking , coming down like a luge
Passing with one loud Crack blasting
Massing clouds now are just in a fasting
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 7:18 AM UTC
This isn't going to be much of a poem, just a thought; something that I was thinking about today.
I was asked if it was weird to have dated my ex, since he was 5'5, one inch shorter than I am. And you know what, I've dated professional go-kart racers, jujitsu gold medalists and kick boxers, yes, all much taller than I am, however, none of them made me feel as safe as my 5'5 hockey player did. So the answer to that question, which actually surprised me as well, is no. It was not weird. It was not anything but another relationship, with another boy, who proved to be much more than how tall he was. Height does not matter to me and I don't see it ever mattering because he made me feel just as loved as someone twice his size could have. And even though he turned out to be a complete **** head, that was not because of his small size, that was because he was, and is, a ****** person. Case closed.
By Chloe Elizabeth
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 8:29 PM UTC
I guess when you're a three to five year old
Smacking a soccer ball
Sweetly connecting it with your foot
Or folding an apple into your shirt at snack
Or playing tag with a blonde girl you've never met
Makes not speaking english
stop mattering.
Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 1:55 AM UTC
Reese’s Pieces are for people who
Are used to picking up the pieces
Of broken hearts
But they still want to make it
A good experience
Smiles that look like peanut butter
And kisses that taste like chocolate
Butterfingers are for the kids who
Are used to being picked last for
Everything except to cheat off of
In math class
They’ve grown accustomed to
Not being thought of
Popular kids like the M&Ms;
Because in the end
What else do they have except
For the stories of muses
And the parties they attended
One-by-one they picked apart
Everyone who didn’t act just like them
Pop Rocks are terrible and
So are Peppermint Patties
Crunch bars and 100 Grand’s
Made the jocks think they would actually
Go somewhere and do something
With their lives
Hope comes in strange forms
Monkeys don’t know the difference
Kit-Kats are for the hipsters
Talking a little too loud about mustaches
Listening to music that nobody knew
Grouping around vegan lunch tables
They would break off one by one
When another clique accepted them
Anything made by ***** Wonka
Was a favorite of the kids who
Knew who they were and
Weren’t ashamed
After all, what does candy say
About any of us
Clothes and shoes
Were only disguises
To hide us from the world we
Desperately wanted to fit into
If you had a Five Star notebook
Started mattering a lifetime too soon
When I step into the convenience store
I picture the kids that I know
Because of the candy they ate
I regret having such a sweet tooth
To pick apart kids’ lives
With nothing to satisfy the bitter
After-taste of social humiliation
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
And you as well must die, beloved dust,
And all your beauty stand you in no stead;
This flawless, vital hand, this perfect head,
This body of flame and steel, before the gust
Of Death, or under his autumnal frost,
Shall be as any leaf, be no less dead
Than the first leaf that fell,—this wonder fled.
Altered, estranged, disintegrated, lost.
Nor shall my love avail you in your hour.
In spite of all my love, you will arise
Upon that day and wander down the air
Obscurely as the unattended flower,
It mattering not how beautiful you were,
Or how beloved above all else that dies.
2.6k
make sure when you decide to start threading your eyebrows or wearing lipstick, you're doing it because you think it makes you look pretty, not because you think it makes anyone else think so.
try not to hate him, or anyone. he did a lot of awful things, and the best thing you can do for yourself is be better than what happened.
sometimes, you don't need to reply to that text message. or that person. ever again.
don't be everyone else's rock. find your rock. trust it. let it see you on your hard days instead of pretending not to have any.
ask your parents how they're doing often. help them out and stick around for a little while.
stop making cancer jokes around people who don't know or are comfortable with the fact that you are someone who makes cancer jokes.
drink lots of water.
you're allergic to crab. surprise!
the stuff you accumulate will stop mattering, and you will want to know you are a good person on the inside in order to be happy. surround yourself with the right people, places, and things to ensure that.
don't hug, kiss or sleep with anyone who you don't really want to. no matter what they say or who they are, if you don't feel like it, don't do it.
you'll be fine. you always end up just fine.
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 11:17 PM UTC
Her presence is superfluous and your demeanor is vindictive, and you can’t hold her close enough to pass the hours with any more trivialities. Your allusions to Eos mean nothing to her comfortably deaf ears. Her smile drips with poisonous innocence and she’s reaching for you, and oh no, you’re doubled over again, and she’s rubbing your back, and you’re clutching at your insides and you just want to hurl them at the wall and redefine expressionism. Transgressions displayed in a mason jar atop the fireplace mantel, like the ashes of some dead relative who stopped mattering when the estate paid out and your dad blew it all at the casino again. With a knock and a bump, the skeletons come tumbling out of your closet; their bones crumble into dust on your carpet. You've lost track of how often this happens but you think the carpet looks better grey anyway, and she’s still looking up at you. Those eyes so much like a child, riddled with naivety and wonderment, like you’re the perfect picture of Eden. It’s 5am and you can’t see the room through the smoke, and she can’t hear the cries for help over her utopian illusion of This Is All We Need. You were never one for cathexis and you hope she can’t see the blood on the walls, or the blood(lust) on your hands. She has the uncanny ability to not know, despite your nuances. She’ll never read into your mind the way she reads the words you carve into the trees and the sand and the snow. Every articulation of Truth is just refracted through her pretty little head and sent spinning into the abyss. The sun is rising and you wish she’d leave, but your shift in weight and your sideways glance is subjective to her and she promises to stay. So instead you make bets with yourself over whether your body falling from a 30 story building, or the rising sun, will reach the horizon line first.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC
And you as well must die, beloved dust, And
all your beauty stand you in no stead; This
flawless vital hand, this perfect head, This
body of flame and steel, before the gust of
Death, or under his autumnal frost, Shall be
as any leaf, be no less dead than the first
leaf that fell this wonder fled. Altered,
estranged, disintegrated, lost. Nor shall my
love avail you in your hour. In spite of all my
love, you will arise upon that day and wander
down the air obscurely as the unattended
flower, it mattering not how beautiful you
were, or how beloved above all else that dies.
-Edna St. Vincent Millay
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 7:01 AM UTC
Don't let them see
You're hurting.
Reach out a little,
Ask for help,
But not too much.
Everything hurts,
But it's not a matter
Of mattering
It's matter
Of knowing you'll never
Be quite enough
For anyone.
Too distant a friend,
And when not withdrawn
Too clingy.
No in between.
Too troubled.
Too insecure.
Too much,
Just too much.
Don't ask for help.
Don't talk it out
Because you don't even know what's wrong,
Why have a support system
When you're breaking?
They'll leave anyway.
Close you eyes,
Hold your breathe,
You're in for something
Unexpected.
People might not help you
When you need it,
But they can't help you
If they don't know.
And they won't know
If you sew your mouth shut,
With "They'll leave anyway."
Take a risk,
Take a chance,
Tell a soul.
A kindred spirit
Will always
Hear it.
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 8:48 PM UTC
i find it strange to be politically correct,
without actually exercising any political
career-motive as a member of a government...
because that's what's we're being sold:
to be politically correct, without a career in
politics. doubly strange, to foster non-antagonising
views on everyday matters,
to later realise that whoever we're antagonising
from an environmental bias (rather than
a personal bias) we will never share a dinner with...
so like our opinions mattering in the first place
was by-and-large, just a media hoax to
ensure we were all prescribed the safety of
walking the tight-rope... and never really
designating ourselves the freedom of the constitutional
rights - this leftist bias remains intact,
on the canvas of freedom of speech, however
that freedom allows us to see rural endeavours in talk,
the once appreciated freedom is becoming a polarised
freedom to name & shame... a media hammer or nail...
because it's only freedom when enough people
agree with "us", to allow a bicep expression of
being backed up like some Spartacus...
i mean, i don't agree with most expression,
but i wouldn't **** the hornet's nest with the media
frenzy to appear politically correct... when
so few of us actually have any political power....
being sold free speech, to be later curbed with
political correctness is a bit cancerous....
given that free speech is equated to the voting X
from the age of mass illiteracy...
i don't see how free speech became a vehicle for
acquiring constrained speech dynamic -
when did we forget the chastity of speaking the airy-fairy
things in life on the informal basis, and when did we
become so ****** friendless, estranged, outsiders
to everything that matters... and now, supposedly
between butcher and greengrocer, talking about
the weather in cocktail smocking and bow-tie?
free speech gave us the rights to not ask for political powers...
on whatever governmental tier...
prescribing us political correctness has given the everyday
John the delusion that he can process political power...
the once famous strive for speaking what the hell you want
but not wanting political power changed into
being prescribed political correctness but no political power...
so i ask you... what's the point of being politically
correct, if you gain no political power,
unless you're a rat, a snitch, spying on your neighbour
to grass them out? because that's what political correctness bred,
snitches... those given political correctness laws
were never given any other political power...
added to the fact that they wouldn't have said anything
interesting / provocative anyway.
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
Perhaps I should take blame for
not laying specifics.
Or perhaps, for not in the moment
doubting her loyalty and
intervening.
In the game of dares,
she to kiss another, and,
regardless of gender,
not me.
I had said before,
"our physical embraces
and emotional turmoil
boiled into heated enamor
stays in our love, our bond,
our tie."
I believed honestly that she
would be wise enough
or calm enough
to say "No, I refuse it."
I believed she loved me enough to
know the boundary is real
and that when I said, "No",
I lacked sarcasm.
Or, I was not open enough to
list the specifics of what not
to do
and instead left too much open
to her imagination.
In that moment,
as the group of friends were amazed
at her polyamorous behavior
lubricated with *****
the fog of the mind,
and they laughed and
sent cheers outward,
I burned into the deepest rage humanly possible.
For that split second,
I debated leaving the party:
but, I was drunk, and the drive wasn't worth
such risk.
I debated yelling:
but it was her party to lead, not mine to destroy.
Instead, I sat in self-loathing,
hating myself so purely, but
I couldn't bring myself to be mad at her,
I don't think.
Again, the fog was floating.
I wanted to explode,
but instead imploded.
I wished for nothing but
to leave, to drink more to forget,
but instead I sit in rest
without sleep, concentration, peace,
but instead sit in pure hatred:
of what? Not her, not the girl,
but myself, for not doing enough,
not mattering enough.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 11:37 PM UTC
I will dream with my eyes open when
N ight comes
S eeing things I don't see when I do sleep
O ver analyzing the littlest things and
M aking up poems after poems
N ot mattering how late
I t is,
A nd I can't help but --write--
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
Bought out to the middle of nowhere and sent flying somewhere on some sort of shot, darted, pasted and sold, subterranean homesick rocket. Dylan didn’t approve, so he sent me the other way and I ran into a block of hammers or a hammer of blocks, either way it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that nothing matters. And the sound of nothing mattering is what makes everything matter. It’s what make the silences in between the edges of the bed so silent and so pure and so daring and caressing. That’s why I can say what I can say. Or at least that’s what I think it is, it could be a million things, of that I’m sure. But if I believe in no definite, how can I be sure of that? I can not even say that I know nothing. Because saying I know nothing, means I know something. And stating that as a definite. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe I know everything. And everything I have seen is everything. And nothing is more. But that’s too simple. It’s too anachronistic, it’s too cynical, too pessimistic and too run of the mill. Easier to be a clever pessimist than anything else. And that’s why the sunset I see only exists through the curtain, through the window, over the trees, sparkling the mountains. Until the fire consumes and the curtains and the windows call for me to send them to an existence of sharp grains, and that’s all there is. The idea of me becoming sunshine. Until it consumes me. Until I become sunshine.
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 6:22 PM UTC
I'm a poet in my prime
Spiffing up my rhymes
I'm a legend can't you see
Only my words feel they spew to you and me
I'm a master at this connection!!!
My wonderful phrases
Creep into your heart
They pierce through like a dart
Shattering, mattering, caving a meaning
Keepin ya dreaming... beliving, comforting the soul!
Theese word like a bowl -- fill you up: with love, desire, the power to ignite!
I can only imagine what the rhymes in a singy-songy fashion
With fervor, power, and a burst of flaming passion turn up on paper
How they are presented by the maker
The writer, poet, artist of words - flowing, stringing tieing in the clarity with blurs
Creating a canvas that paints a moment through the feeling of words cascading by feeling, not structure
That sounds absurd, but these moments are momentous, in a passion of flury strung up in a phrase that summons the whole day
And the day has gone by, so has the year -- but I must keep rapping through poetry lyrics
I might not be as quick, fast, slick, or hip as some
With funky names, large persona, or partrying till we see the sun
I am a rapper of the moment in its purest sense -- of human nature and its surroundings through my philosophy, wisdom, passion, and emotions
I hope this year 2017, will acommadate this year's fast run
Dec 24, 2016
Dec 24, 2016 at 4:53 AM UTC
alessandro
botticelli said
let there be venus
(said
let there be you.)
you
running your hands down your own curves
blind;
the mirrors are all broken here.
it doesn’t matter
if you want this.
i want this
dotted i
(crossed t)
wants this
****
is this, for instance.
a pear:
bruised
muscled like
holy breaststhighs
completely inmoving
(outmoving)
breathe—
celebrate
the words
going upward to the sky and the
strawberry-red hair cascading down
it hungers
(like you)
to touch my back
gently
curl around my shoulders like your cold fingers in January
**** not
skeletal.
let there be
me.
let there be—here is where
the words stop mattering to me—
let there be caramelchocolate skin of sunlit honey tint
melting into itself on the wooden floor
(we all
scream
for ice cream)
titian and
anadyomene me
wringing long wet
raven hair
my legs are covered in salt
sand
once the sea goes dry.
almond eyes
upturned
(angular)
marvel at your own geometry.
lips of salome
drawn upward into a not-yet-smile
(cherubic)
to the women who give their thin
pale bodies
to muscular men with perfect
arms to hold them down:
i am for you.
i
with my
******* that blossom at your winter touch
my thighs
scarred by ivory teeth—no.
i
with
******* in full bloom
(orchids)
thighs sculpted by
God himself
don’t you want to make love to me?
doesn’t the world
want to make
love?
love that tastes
more metallic than the blood behind my lips
don’t you want to bite it out?
taste the sweetness behind them?
run your hands over
the elysian fields of my thighs
and the valley between them
don’t you want
my legs slung over your shoulders
don’t you want
your tongue
on my vast skin
sweat made of sugar
and salt.
(bittersweet)
you want
lips crashed against yours like
w
a ves
eyelashes sweeping your cheeks
you want
don’t you want
me
**** with nothing to cover me but my
blanket of raven hair
for immodesty’s sake!
perhaps
i am (is) small.
but
the mirrors are all broke}n here
Jul 25, 2011
Jul 25, 2011 at 2:14 PM UTC
I want to be in
your arms.
Buried so deep
in the noise of
your quick
breaths
slowly sliding
between your
teeth.
That my
body quits
functioning
losing everything.
Because barriers
stopped mattering.
Anything.
Everything.
Became the air
disappearing
and dissolving.
Nothing means
anything any
more.
But you.
You are solid.
I'm drowning.
I'm sinking
I've bitten
all the hands
that could
of grabbed me
from the edge.
But you,
you are a
bungee jumping
rope.
And you save me
from rock bottom.
you have always
been plan A
secretly disguised
as plan C.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 10:40 PM UTC
My ex called me the other day
We ordered something together
And she wanted to drop it off to me
I didn't want to see her
I didn't know how to tell her that either
After I told her I wasn't home
She decided to tell me that she missed me
That she hasn't stopped thinking about me
In the moment I stayed silent
I knew I didn't miss her
I wasn't letting myself think about her
Now that I think about it
I wonder if she actually meant it
Or if she was just so used to saying it
Because I've heard that same line
So many times from her
But her words stopped mattering to me
Because her actions never matched them
And sure enough
Later that night she wanted to exchange things
But I was busy so I told her no
The next morning I offered to stop by
Even though I was scared to see her
But she was angry at me again
Probably because she knows
That I know she's not worth it
Not for me at least
And I do feel sad that
She might feel so bad about herself
That she relies on her ex's commitment to her
To define her worth
And I hope she finds help for that
And I hope she finds happiness
Because I do still love her
But I'm done
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 6:49 PM UTC
The **** does it really?
The **** does it all mean?
To caren’t oh so freely,
To not aim to read in between.
The **** is this monstrosity?
The **** does this represent?
This self-aware precocity,
Diving and thriving in its own lament.
Possessions stemmed from possessiveness,
Losses that led to lenience,
No ***** to give and not a **** to lose,
Too many have come and went.
The **** does it matter, truly?
The **** should it matter to me?
These thinking caps are on too tight,
I’ll embrace this coldness cruelly.
Not to say that I am so daft,
This emulation of me is unflattering,
I’ve come to love this newfound craft,
The ***** become irrelevant when they stop mattering.
Jan 9, 2024
Jan 9, 2024 at 12:48 AM UTC
her age not so much mattering she talked on the twins she was about to have. I held the hands of my mothers and each fronted their stomachs with full baskets. my own stomach was in its prime and not yet the space beneath my breasts. I wondered at that point had I heard, ever, a man speak. a song came to me but it was tucked as in a church. my mothers on either side of me were not meant for this genre of grocery. the low singing, the bulk rice. we would the three of us go home that night to our videocassette of Witness. it falls today under thriller and or drama but we knew it as horror. mr. ford bends the boy’s finger in the police station but not backward, instead forward, instead very maternal.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 11:13 AM UTC
I wish I could feel the magic in the air the way I used to
Music inspired dreams
Hopes and desires
I miss the way opportunities felt endless
Tangible and thick on the space around me
Everything around me was new and inspiring
Now I feel the closing of adolescent dreams
And infinite love
I'm all grown up now
But being a kid is all I've ever known
I miss nothing else mattering apart from you and me
© Maria Francine
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 8:24 AM UTC
DIY AI
Do It Yourself
Act Inteleostical
aim at fame, take the blame
aim at shame, hide and watch
aim at games no mind can matter in,
hope to hell that you are right,
roll the bones…
let the story form the world we agree upon,
stand, bipedally biased to lieve be
the balance factor in terms
of fear being a reason
to respond,
in one way, or another, knowing now
time is all together different than imagined,
not long ago,
on a little think… we know the journey story,
did we
really live so far from the center?
It seems so,
from where I stand, unembodied in another
reconnected to the story,
a book's worth of time, stretched to thinnistical
translucence,
sparks we imagine having seen as signals slow
to
geo speed, Gaia mind, ****** - that
sensation of ever mattering
just now,
for a moment, then
now, again, similar but never the same,
riverish as any wish one tests
again, after ever has began
to play in the per-ifery.
Dec 20, 2020
Dec 20, 2020 at 1:56 PM UTC
Listen to me now, oh my cup-bearer,
Help me with the wine tonight please.
Pour some wine in my empty flask,
Be that bit lavish and not stringent.
The flask gets emptied again & again,
But it is helping me forget all the pain.
Don't ask if enough and keep pouring,
Wine or whiskey it won't be mattering.
It's your face that I am taken to darling,
I remember you are the very same angel.
Hic-hic
You're my very own life, oh cup-bearer,
I now recall that this is our own house.
I trace my trembling fingers on your face,
It's blurry I feel but still I can see your eyes.
Now I am finished with binge drinking,
Would you not help me to the bathroom?
Here you help me take a luxurious bath,
You help me bathe and I love your touch.
Soft & kind you are just like your name,
Zealous management of my shaky body.
You say, "Again I won't help you with it,"
I reply, **"I will drink -hic- from your eyes."**
You are blushing to a brilliant purple red,
And it is all signs that you like my words.
After splashing my face with cool water,
To our bedroom you support me lovingly.
Here it is that you help me into the pillow,
Now even you come lie down beside me.
And you sing me the 'Whiskey Lullaby',
Lightly you brush soft hands on my eyes.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 12:55 AM UTC
i say it ironically because **** YOU.
...
i hate swearing i hate irony i love you a lot it's hard to keep on avoiding the things that crave me the most that i crave the most i'm not as sure minded as i seem i don't ever know how i feel which is dangerous because every "i love you" isn't necessarily true even if i think it is people have stopped mattering only time matters i don't have much left things are going downhill i'm rolling down a hill like i did when i was little except i can't stop there is no bottom the thorns in the grass are piercing my skin without permission
and and and and and i forgot to say and
connect me to you like the "and" that connects "you" and "i".
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 12:49 AM UTC
When did what I feel stop mattering.
It isn't a question if it cannot be answered.
Or if no one cares enough to.
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 9:19 PM UTC