"meanness" poems
I sit and look out upon all the sorrows of the world, and upon all
oppression and shame;
I hear secret convulsive sobs from young men, at anguish with
themselves, remorseful after deeds done;
I see, in low life, the mother misused by her children, dying,
neglected, gaunt, desperate;
I see the wife misused by her husband—I see the treacherous seducer
of young women;
I mark the ranklings of jealousy and unrequited love, attempted to be
hid—I see these sights on the earth;
I see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny—I see martyrs and
prisoners;
I observe a famine at sea—I observe the sailors casting lots who
shall be kill’d, to preserve the lives of the rest;
I observe the slights and degradations cast by arrogant persons upon
laborers, the poor, and upon negroes, and the like;
All these—All the meanness and agony without end, I sitting, look out
upon,
See, hear, and am silent.
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**** Your tyrarny!
I am passed
trying to understand
what your intentions are,
were,
or
what they would have ever become
with me.
Why did you
choose me
to torment?
What is it about me
that makes you want to
hurt me,
insult me,
belittle me,
and run ruff shot over me, when I am
and have been
the ONLY person who
has ever stood by you
no matter what.
Even so, you treat me like
a piece of trash
that you would just as well wipe your *** with.
You have disrespected me,
my home,
my heart,
and my dreams
of ever
having any kind of life with you.
I have been tormented by you
until
I really just want to be
rid of you and
and anything to do with you,
any memory
of you ever having been in my life!
Your pure unadulterated filthy meanness is
so obnoxious
and heartbreaking, that I frankly,
want nothing more to do with you
ever
anymore!
I just want to be far Away from you!
I pity you!
I really do.
I wish you well,
but I know now
you will never have any kind of life with me,
Simply because you never wanted that
or me.
So.
it is time
to pick up the pieces of my life
move on
with what I have left of the material things,
and build myself a new life,
with the help of my spiritual belief,
and the faith I have in my own self worth.
you have left me with nothing
but hurtfelt memories
and the realization
that you
never meant to do anything
but hurt and betray my kindness
and to test my faith in what could be.
Now
all I feel is disgust at my own stupidity,
not to mention
my repeated self destructive actions
and simple hard hardheadedness
when it came to making things work with you.-
-You never cared enough to even try
so
I am
as of right now,
gone, gone, and gone,
out of your reach!
Your mean insults and ignorant gestures
can no longer hurt me, as ..
I don’t care
what
you do
or
say
anymore!
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 8:17 AM UTC
She was like the iron pyrite
The teacher asked them to examine, and describe;
Cold, dense and prickly,
Difficult to love.
Given the right light
And a gentle handling,
Oh, how she'd sparkle,
But in that place, expectations and sensory overload
rendered her lumpen, and resistant.
Removed from her books and her inner world - all she needed -
And placed in a maelstrom,
She was bewildered and forlorn.
Un-cooperative, they called her,
And the teachers loved the other gems instead,
Pretty little nuggets; Ruby, Jasper, Jade.
Two years of discouragement and dislike
And even the tentative sparkles had darkened.
The other gems enjoyed each other
And moved away from her magnetic pull,
sensing difference.
No outright meanness, not yet,
But hints were brewing, whispers had started
And she wandered alone, in the playground,
Talking to the seagulls, and singing to herself.
The teachers only wanted conformity
And called her parents to voice concern
about her lack of friends.
Had they asked her, allowed her to have a say
She would have told them it didn't matter
But they were determined that it did, to them, if not to her,
And her parents were added to the burden of people
Worried and disappointed, watching.
She knew now, she was different, she had always known but never minded,
Now it was a problem. She didn't fit,
Like that scratchy purple uniform, around her chubby waist
Food didn't judge, dislike or condemn.
That life ended, and a new struggle, in a new school, began.
This was harder; the meanness was apparent now,
Difference wasn't tolerated
And someone wandering alone was a target.
She found a place to hide, behind a staircase, with a book,
But they found her, removed her and patrolled her only refuge
Forcing her to submit to the torture.
Every day was a war zone,
So she found another way, and embraced ill-health, stealthily
Spraying deodorant directly into her own face
induced asthma attacks; and not all those ear infections were real,
She was an accomplished actress.
She got through it, millions do.
She found her own place, her own friends in her own time.
Among Onyx, Jet and Tigers Eye
Her darkness didn't mark her out as different,
And all that fake illness
Was great prep for theatre,
Where she was able to return to her inner world,
And no-one cared if you feigned madness
Or embraced the real thing.
Difference was celebrated,
The whispers now, were that she had a great stage presence,
And a talent to be nurtured,
Not a difference to be despised.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 4:35 AM UTC
The morning mists still haunt the stony street;
The northern summer air is shrill and cold;
And lo, the Hospital, grey, quiet, old,
Where Life and Death like friendly chafferers meet.
Thro' the loud spaciousness and draughty gloom
A small, strange child--so aged yet so young!--
Her little arm besplinted and beslung,
Precedes me gravely to the waiting-room.
I limp behind, my confidence all gone.
The grey-haired soldier-porter waves me on,
And on I crawl, and still my spirits fail:
A tragic meanness seems so to environ
These corridors and stairs of stone and iron,
Cold, naked, clean--half-workhouse and half-jail.
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The gaunt brown walls
Look infinite in their decent meanness.
There is nothing of home in the noisy kettle,
The fulsome fire.
The atmosphere
Suggests the trail of a ghostly druggist.
Dressings and lint on the long, lean table--
Whom are they for?
The patients yawn,
Or lie as in training for shroud and coffin.
A nurse in the corridor scolds and wrangles.
It's grim and strange.
Far footfalls clank.
The bad burn waits with his head unbandaged.
My neighbour chokes in the clutch of chloral . . .
O, a gruesome world!
2.1k
I must have been raised wrong,
I believe in being generous.
I think people should be loved;
That meanness can be onerous.
I have seen what evil does
And I want no more of that.
I don’t think that selfishness
Will really feed the captain’s cat.
I have watched back biters
And gossips and thieves
Bring themselves all unawares
To the point where everyone grieves.
I have witnessed liars who get
Tripped up on their own tales;
Regular folks and politicians
Get the air taken from their sails.
I know well that our elderly
Have already done their job
So it’s fine with me if they just
Sit around and act like slobs.
They took care of us when we
Were the indolent folks kids are
So, they are entitled to rest,
More than we are, by far.
I was raised to let people be
If they had some philosophy
That did not match mine
Or even the vast majority.
Someone thinks a different way
That’s fine if it hurts no one.
Not everybody thinks the same
Carnival rides are that much fun.
I saw for myself that people
Were individual in so many ways.
Different in how they dressed
And what they had to say.
Some liked sports TV
And many preferred the soaps.
All of that is fine with me
So, why call each other dopes?
Is there something wrong with me
That I don’t go along with the crowd?
That I don’t enjoy the fights,
The sports fans shouting out loud?
Am I silly for not slowing down
When I pass a wreck on the highway?
Well, if I am, then that is fine.
I will go on doing things my way.
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
Got a message from my half
Mrs. Hypochondriac
Moody right, moody right
Tell your CC
Let everyone know
Beatnik **** beatnik ****
Listen to that beaten sound
Keeps me running, keeps the engines hummin'
Listen to that beating sound
Tic Tac Tic Tac
Got a lookout for King Me
Watch your Q's and watch your P's
Dot your eyes and cross your tease
You're gonna see what you still won't believe
Birth your rumors of immortality
Pound them 'til I can't help but agree
But when the truth slays the light
Don't blame me
King Me King Me King Me King Me
I'm the King, I'm the King, I'm the King, I'm the King
Keep your filthy black stained hands off of my crown
Take up your own bleeding cross and ride it to town
I'm the King
Too good for my own good and don't give a fu ck
Hatching plans to freak out the Man
Got a meanness in me that I don't understand
A lie for a dollar, a life for a dime
There's a well, a deep, deep well I fell
Into once
Where in the tumbling I found
The true hidden meaning of falling down
The treasure at the bottom wasn't worth the minute
It took to get there
King Mad, King Mad, King Mad, King Mad
These songs for a King
King You and King Me
King Kong's a Ding ****
Monkey Tales
Banana on a stick
Dipped in black chocolate
Rancid and arcane
Read in, read in
The main character wears a black tunic
His queen is the one with the brain
Better half, better half she tells him
It's best you stay quiet you'll give it away
You've done enough damage for one other day
What's done is done
Nothing but another bridge to burn
Another corner to turn
She says
You understand it less than I
And your understanding is void and dry
Quiet now, my loveless love
My misunderstood drug
My salt melted slug
Quiet now, before people believe
In the nonsense you write, the ******** they read
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
The Guest House
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and attend them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
clean of all its furniture,
still, treat each guest honourably.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
greet them at the door laughing and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
-- Jelaluddin Rumi, translation by Coleman Barks
Feb 20, 2010
Feb 20, 2010 at 11:56 AM UTC
Ten –
I loved you much
Nine –
As not anyone before.
Eight –
I forgave you a lot of
Seven –
Falsehood and lots more.
Six –
I threw into whirlpool.
Five –
I suffered meanness.
Four –
When it was cold,
Three –
I gave up proudness.
Two –
I waited for love in return,
One –
But I didn’t wait.
While I was waiting for your love,
My love got lost for late.
Feb 2, 2025
Feb 2, 2025 at 3:40 PM UTC
Orange orange everywhere
Orange orange in the air
I’m given an orange despair
By a man with orange hair
I see through his orange glare
To see nothing really there
A man became president
Promising to evict residents
His stupidity self evident
When he says nothing relevant
About all the topical elements
He just talks for the hell of it
He’s unfit to lead
Because he’s equipped with greed
And an unwillingness to read
Gaining success from his family tree
He lives the American dream
By making others scream
To indulge his team
And his bigotry
All it took for his courtship
Was a culture of celebrity worship
And idiots buying his horseshit
Of acting remorseless
The gullible are impressed
With how well he is dressed
So they think he’s the best
Putting him in a wing that is west
Because he has a lot of money
But without any capability
You better start running
Money let’s him **** willingly
He takes advantage of the stupid and racist
By pointing at people with brown faces
Saying they’re here to replace us
Like they’re working for Asus
And not mowing his lawn
He said they will **** us
To manipulate his pawns
He’s a megalomaniac
Who thinks he’s a brainiac
But it’s a brain he lacks
To understand the impact
Of his negative attacks
Still he thinks he’s a genius
Which justifies his meanness
So his cruelty is seamless
While he claims to redeem us
This is our most vulnerable hour
With a president compromised by foreign powers
Building ivory towers
By turning minorities sour
There’s a litany of reasons
Why he calls them heathens
But it all revolves around freedoms
Being stripped from those who need them
His constituents have their heads in the sand
So they blindly give in to his demands
Going after whoever he’s ******
In the name of this land
Other kinds are banned
You can tell the bad guys have won
When they start separating mothers from sons
At the end of a gun
So there’s nowhere to run
Away from the oppression
Of our downward descension
As he does nothing to lessen
The root of our depression
His concentration camps
Give a **** slant
To his lofty plans
Until no one can stand
Without a weapon
Because of his deception
Which was his intention
To win the election
He promised detention
Of the boogeyman mentioned
The red, white and blue
Adopts an orange hue
When the foreign lose
From the fascist bruise
Of an orange noose
May 1, 2019
May 1, 2019 at 9:47 PM UTC
I am the thunder that shakes your world
The terror lusting in your eyes
Simple gesture of impending pleasures
Intamently scratching out your eyes
Your meanness puts me off
But attractions turns me on
I hate to say, I’d like you
If your cloths weren’t on
Constructing my own tower
To keep you far away
But my hips sway in just that way
And broad shoulders lean in closer
What a titillating game…
I promise not to play
To bad you’re such a jack ***
You only know how to grab ***
I’m a gental honest lover
With passion under covers
I bet you have never known
That silky golden tone
Of soft lips whispering
I love you
Too bad you’re such a jack ***
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
an old lady lived in the neighborhood
spewing spite from her window calling out
I'm sure she would tell you her life was good
atop the world she would tell you no doubt
her meanness revealed the hatred within
her blatant name calling would never end
pointing her finger at everyone's sin
secretly wishing that she had a friend
even her family wasn't too keen
her two young nieces would visit with care
she chased them away creating a scene
they considered her home a witches lair
she lived by herself, was buried alone
in an grave unmarked, without a tombstone
May 17, 2010
May 17, 2010 at 6:03 PM UTC
Most cringe at the fringes of reality, mind-splitting dualities
tear apart what's known, but its a start to grow, a seeker, a
keeper of secrets you have grown to be, yearning to be free by
learning what has to be, but you dare not to care, to show the
divine glow, hiding by gliding behind the shadows, and now
twisted wits slit your mental capacity fastening locks that
casually create apathy, now callously you afflict, lifting veils
that trick, gifting secrets by sifting through weakness,
designating your self a genius, resignating your true gist with
lists of accomplishments that compliment your ego, letting go of
your whole creating a hole that needlessly creates your
deviousness of pure meanness that's created quite an inconvenience
to a once great friendship.
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 3:06 PM UTC
All I wanted was to see a smile, to hear a word that didn’t hurt,
I’d go to sleep at night thinking about how different it could be,
How happy I’d be if I could only go through the world unafraid,
And in my vision I would have a friend who listened and who cared.
Every morning it’s the same. I wake up knowing that they are waiting,
Putting on my clothes I try to make it so I’m invisible, a ghost—
That way no one will notice me walking down the hall,
No one will call me names and trip me, my books spilling on the floor.
Every day I have to live in this hell that others call life, waiting,
Knowing that each classroom brings its own special torture,
That each bell calls me to yet another soul lashing,
Another stinging name they’ve invented for me to keep the wound raw.
I did nothing except not knowing how to act or what to say or how to belong,
And so they took my shyness and used it to make sure I’d pay for my disdain,
Making me the target for all their own pain and anger, the crucible of their cruelty,
Each day spent inventing some new way to make me bleed tears.
That old singer is right—there is a meanness in this world.
They took from me everything I was, everything I wanted to be,
Finally, they managed to take away my reason for staying alive
So I went home and locked myself in the bedroom, made sure the rope was tight. . .
And put an end to the unendurable pain of belonging nowhere, with no one, ever.
May 15, 2012
May 15, 2012 at 10:02 PM UTC
the earth world retains its soiled crust,
more polluted than just a few weeks ago,
meaning me is meaner, an iron irony ironic,
madness and meanness anger me more
than-ever-before turning me sour, an infection
and an self-inflection point, forgive me cause
I no longer easy forgive, starting with me, here.
it is so easy to be easier, but the creeps creep in,
what they possess interdicts the free
flowing blood of what we could be,
maybe, even
what we want to be, for some of us,
so I’ve come to display,
come to splay,
come to say,
nice has
been disposed of, in overflowing corner city garbage can,
spilling onto the street, madness and meanness,
littered and the lies sugarcoat it with veneers of
righteous, cause anyone can claim the moral
high ground, but find me the low places, where
honesty is not defined by an ism, or in only your opinion,
and right and wrong are so oft
so easy distinguishable…
yeah, soured on many things, and what hasn’t changed
cannot be shared, for too many will seek to pollute these few
good things remaining.
and the mirrored reflection of my inflection point
is my soiled infection, red, swollen,
and being this away is…new
8:04am
Sat Oct 21 2023
Oct 21, 2023
Oct 21, 2023 at 8:10 AM UTC
They will soon be down
To one, but he still will be
For a little while still will be stopping
The flakes in the air with a look,
Surrounding himself with the silence
Of whitening snarls. Let him eat
The last red meal of the condemned
To extinction, tearing the guts
From an elk. Yet that is not enough
For me. I would have him eat
The heart, and from it, have an idea
Stream into his gnarling head
That he no longer has a thing
To lose, and so can walk
Out into the open, in the full
Pale of the sub-Arctic sun
Where a single spruce tree is dying
Higher and higher. Let him climb it
With all his meanness and strength.
Lord, we have come to the end
Of this kind of vision of heaven,
As the sky breaks open
Its fans around him and shimmers
And into its northern gates he rises
Snarling complete in the joy of a weasel
With an elk’s horned heart in his stomach
Looking straight into the eternal
Blue, where he hauls his kind. I would have it all
My way: at the top of that tree I place
The New World’s last eagle
Hunched in mangy feathers giving
Up on the theory of flight.
Dear God of the wildness of poetry, let them mate
To the death in the rotten branches,
Let the tree sway and burst into flame
And mingle them, crackling with feathers,
In crownfire. Let something come
Of it something gigantic legendary
Rise beyond reason over hills
Of ice screaming that it cannot die,
That it has come back, this time
On wings, and will spare no earthly thing:
That it will hover, made purely of northern
Lights, at dusk and fall
On men building roads: will perch
On the moose’s horn like a falcon
Riding into battle into holy war against
Screaming railroad crews: will pull
Whole traplines like fibres from the snow
In the long-jawed night of fur trappers.
But, small, filthy, unwinged,
You will soon be crouching
Alone, with maybe some dim racial notion
Of being the last, but none of how much
Your unnoticed going will mean:
How much the timid poem needs
The mindless explosion of your rage,
The glutton’s internal fire the elk’s
Heart in the belly, sprouting wings,
The pact of the “blind swallowing
Thing,” with himself, to eat
The world, and not to be driven off it
Until it is gone, even if it takes
Forever. I take you as you are
And make of you what I will,
Skunk-bear, carcajoy, bloodthirsty
Non-survivor.
Lord, let me die but not die
Out.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 7:08 AM UTC
Act with Kindness...
Kindness is something, not everyone has
It is an act, it’s a feeling, and gives you pizzazz
Without it your grumpy and maybe a little mean
Is it too much to ask, can we fix, the mean machine
I've known many people, whose kindness, is through and through
They act out without warning and give out smiles to renew
Be kind to one another, let's all try, to help out, please
Without meanness, you have kindness, in that, I hope you agree....
Brian Hill - 2019#115
Inspired by a friends story of a total stranger reaching out with kindness...
May 10, 2019
May 10, 2019 at 9:48 AM UTC
Does magic pixie dust spring from Jimi's eyes
as we roll in microdot dreams,
shades lost,
counting blades of grass
as they wave to us
when heaven sighs
watching smart pebbles line
in formation like magic
marching to a psychedelic Sousa band
we can't quite hear
but know must be playing somewhere
'cause they, the pea stones,
keep amazing time -
'till meanness finds us on the ground
afraid the Sun has grown too hot
though we know it would not
play at night.
Apr 14, 2010
Apr 14, 2010 at 1:09 PM UTC
scrawled on public lav wall
expression of desire
meet for cockfun
bring own lubricant
hateful avarice
petty meanness
**** OFF FATFACE
Good, innit?
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 9:59 AM UTC
I am not a mad man
Indeed, I’m not a man
I am the Fisher King
An enigmatic fraction
Of your frantic imagination
I come and go as I please
Mixing serene silence
With immaculate impotence
Who will help me
The King and his kinsmen
The King and his people
A barren madman
In a barren world
Living on hope alone
Hope and make-belief
Yet behind the façade
Of a harmless hermit
Lies greatness and goodness
And the promise of purity
The meaning of life
And the riddance of meanness
The secret of bliss
Without ignorance
The purest pleasure
For both body and soul
For the King and his kinsmen
The King and his people
The barren madman
Changing the barren world
Into a painting-like paradise
So forget about reason
And the rules they imply
And embrace the essence
Of my delusional ravings
Look out for the invisible
Listen to silent whispers
And expose hidden meanings
I’ll be here for a while
Resting on the riverside
For I am not a mad man
I am not a man
I am not mad
I am the Fisher King
A barren beacon
In a dark, dark world
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC
Is life a course
or a curse,
a path
or a pathology?
Is living a blessing
or a lessening,
a miracle
or a mirage?
Is it a kiss
or a miss,
a tender touch
or simply a come-on?
The opposite of love
is not hate,
but uncaring,
simply not feeling.
Are all illnesses
psychosomatic,
a disguised, silent way
that we take out
our unconscious anger
against ourselves?
Love both clarifies
and resolves these ambiguities,
seeking always the better
over the worse.
Life can mean love,
but too often
means meanness.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Oct 1, 2021
Oct 1, 2021 at 2:57 AM UTC
Every wise woman build her house.
She controls it.
The man might think he does.
Every woman installs love within it.
She deliver it.
Her man just need to be accepted to it.
She perserves it despite the obstacles.
A woman will always be the object of her man's love.
Every woman desires a faithful mate.
While knowing together they can make one another learn from their mistakes.
A faithful spouse.
Is cherish for life around the house.
All temptations are tossed to the side.
When you have a true soulful lover by your side.
Every woman is a Queen.
Only the hurt ladies acts mean.
And behind that meanness is a reason.
A fool mock sin.
While those that's righteous finds favor.
A heart know their own bitterness.
When it's surrounded by silliness.
Every woman seeks joy.
Which comes from her man that loves her more.
Every wise woman know this.
That's mainly why, when they are apart.
And she comes back.
Her man is waiting to say, why he loves her?
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 9:45 PM UTC
Does the poet live his own words
Measures up to what his verses promise
Strives for the heights his thoughts reach
Plays the part his writings reflect
Goes to any length to be good
Rids himself of all meanness
Is generous kind faithful trustworthy in his personal life
A lover a friend an aide a benefactor,
Or at the end of the day
Just a preacher
Who never is as tall as his sermons
But remains a run-o-mill guy
Who endowed with poetic skill
Spins in self-deceit webs of lies!
Does a poet ever endeavor
To become a poetry in motion?
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 1:00 PM UTC
As foes they head
As friends they pause
At every step
At every cause
As such we have been
Right from birth
Our mornings are loud
That muffle our mirth
We here say we are better
And across the line
They say its them!
Wearing a past forlorn
A present torn
We puff up at each others loss
Whose fault is it?
Who is to blame?
Shame on us as we both are the same
We need confession
We need to admit
To clot the blood and dampen the heat
But no!
We have no needle to stitch the cause
So fight we say
And do fight!
Sticking to old ways
Like lizards,tight!
Such meanness we show
Small sentiments and feelings so low!
Nor do they owe us
Nor do we owe
They call us foe
We call them foe....
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 11:34 AM UTC