"measly" poems
Back to the scrawling pad
a cheap red notebook
wide ruled, with the perforated pages in it
in case I wanna punch one out easily
Those moleskin daze were measly
Thinking I'm creative and potent
but spending two years
to fill those tiny pages
Please, help me
reinvent the feel and manifest it
to real, accomplishment
Songs, verse, or vice grip words
to change a nation with
- to start a new nation with
Bokonon Bhikkhu
hurling Pikachus down from Mt. Olympus
land on the concrete with lemming splat
Get the metaphor?
I don't. Make your own up
I just an absurdest
A poor boy humming Queen
and writing rap atrocities
Nah, the rap "apocalypse"
minus all the apostrophes
Write so much anything anyone says
from now until oblivion
was just quoting me!
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 12:38 PM UTC
Senses explode, WWII,
Nuclear warfare on this expanse of bare
Skin supposed to be closed at my age separates,
I let the saltwater seep into this,
Slick. Time passes, hardly passing,
But, oh, how well we move. Dance
Around our icy fire, escape from the pain
Constantly eating, feeding.
We are a buffet of things to harm
Come for another plate, fate.
Do us more harm? No. We will not stand, we can't
When we are in this state of mind. We have no state of mind,
Lust driven creatures, but we can speak. Command, tell me what
You want. You want a simple thing, but so complex.
And I want it, too, but simpler for me. A simple thing, unless thought of.
Believed in, felt deeply in ways not physical.
Arching and deepening, we will not be broken down by a measly
War outside of our windows.
Fire scorching the wooden figures, but we are sheltered by stone.
We have escaped and we are left with a heavy air and the smell
Only we can concoct. Nonexistent fabric leaving traces on my skin and yours, indent.
And your eyes are all I see, even in the dark. I know their color by heart, greenbluegrey-everchanging. But I can figure it out.
Your pupils dilate you know. You look at me and I see them. You seem drugged, dear.
Let me feed your addiction. There are many nuclear weapons left, buried
Throughout the world. We can travel and love,
Never ending.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 7:03 PM UTC
My dear, if you were to cut me open,
to tear away my measly skin,
you would not find
the contents of an ordinary human being.
You would not find veins
or internal organs,
especially not a human heart.
Instead, you would find a battlefield, with freshly made bomb craters
and you would find discarded bullets,
fashioned from spiteful words,
that were perhaps destined for use on my worst enemies
but were instead aimed at myself.
You would find the remains of a daisy field
with the left over petals
looking vaguely like feathers
that fell from doves
or perhaps even angels.
You would find memories of a tiny village
once colourful and lively
but swept away by multiple hurricanes,
that took all happiness and innocence along with them.
Blood would not pour
from my lifeless body,
but dark cigarette smoke would seep from the wounds,
and if you closely investigated,
you would find that the fumes were made up of
microscopic black moths
that had all my lies and promises
carefully written all over their feeble wings
For I am not a human being, but simply a worn out shell of one.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 3:01 PM UTC
I used to flip through my pages
Scanning
There were some interesting points
Some high, some low, some kind of just sitting in-between after the good and the bad cancelled each other out, but mostly I
Skimmed by,
Until I met you,
You can't be summed up, there's too much to you, you're too rich, too deep
Too interesting to be confined to a few measly paragraphs and sped-read through
You deserve attention, you deserve time,
And the more I've gotten to know you, the more I realize you're the entire book, the entire story in beautiful, vivid detail.
I'm going to take my time getting to the end of you, and I dog-eared the page where you entered my heart, so that if I ever forget how it feels to fall for you, I can go back to the start
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 3:14 AM UTC
Silhouettes emerge from the night lunar tide
lives still wriggling in their net
ghostly figures from the sea silken wide
reaping riches from the waves in spate.
The night a luminous smile wears
the belly is fired up for a bite
dried leaves would burn under stars
brewing another day under moonlight.
Mariners when not venturing into deep sea
release passions on the shallow shelf
harvest hope though the catch is measly
breathing in the winds the aroma of kelp.
I feel having long belonged to this place
wading breakers in the phosphorus' glow
gathering in my net a strange happiness
craving home when the tide is low.
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 9:21 AM UTC
They call it a 'Class War"
They call it a "War of Liberation"
whilst its just another instance of white oppression
Childish, immature, mean and nasty underachievers
like the kid on the beach who kicks over others sandcastle
because they are better than the ******* castle he made
Like that that uncool dumb teen who scatters the board game
because he's now seen that he is losing and cannot win at all
like those ugly pimpled friends who would play gooseberry
and cock-blockers because they can't get nice dates of their own
like that bitter mad one who will spill ink over your white top
or new Trainers because he or she has old and ***** ones
They are all from the world of the sicko psychos and damaged
talent-less mean, envious, sad pathetic people going nowhere
If I can't make it, why should others do and be winners
They all graduate to the divisive politics of the ****** losers
Power is stopping progress and advancement because they are down
Power is bringing achievers and enterprise down they can's gain
Power is sabotaging all that is good because they are bad in all
Measly fetid minds they plot and conspire in gangrenous network
dolts, scums, unwashed losers and rejects of society, bottom feeders
Come join the Party, our specialty is chaos and disruption of winners
The pathetic jokes of the white West, losers in their own backyards
picks on an African who came from disadvantages to better them
better educated, more intelligent, cool and stylish in every way
pack full of potential, going places they can never go or reach
Our sick, mean spirited under-achievers, expert losers and scums
crawled on the war-path, riddled with envy, sick with jealousy
ruin his progress, oppose and disrupt a black man who doubles
efforts to achieve, what if losers try is given to them on a plate
What here is done for the greater good, what here is honorable
celebrated victories for psychos, racist underachievers I think not
peoples power? more sick, tormented, jealous n envious chicanery
anarchy jealousy, anarchy shame, anarchy racists, anarchy liars
One Single Black achiever demonstrates the inherent strength
and grace of our all our Ancestors against sick, persistent white oppression. That's the story here.
If its a fair war, why hide and go underground, why fight *****
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 7:40 AM UTC
Forest inquires:
How do you decide, choose your design, find its guise,
give it a face, surrender to the poem's own
vanity,
and choose the poem's alignment?
an answer forms:
this alignment idea,
you think it simple,
everybody understands
what your inquiry means
alignment - the appropriate relative position
we live in relative position to each other, our poems too, for they are but written synapses of our close captioned interactions, seemingly random, but assuredly not, as we invest in ourselves, seeking the mysterious appropriate answer
from the Theory of Poetic Relativity
i love your question; hold it to my nostrils,
smell the coffee aroma wake up blast inherent;
kiss its robust childlike cheeks for the simple soulfulness essential arousal;
for you see sir you have found
the appropriate position that relates us, our mindful words;
answer no good, wholly insufficient?
perfect.
as i close this quick cooked to perfection laboratory solution, take note
the earth has moved
our hearts have beaten a measly thousand times
time and space have appropriated our prior
relativity
when you return years hence this poem's shape will perforce have moved. for words are weathered flux constant and yet inherently unchanged except for the part of us that changes with every re-reading
and what was
right before has left and the center has moved again
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 9:25 AM UTC
i can leave you alone.
i won't text you
or call you.
i'll sit as far away as i can from you.
i will no longer tell others
of how you're mine.
but the distance cannot stop my brain
from recalling memories.
all the distance on the couch.,
cannot stop my eyes from wandering to your messy hair or piercing green eyes.
it won't guard me from remembering your voice
or how in love with you i am.
a love as powerful as mine
cannot be damaged by such a measly tool
as the distance you want.
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 3:34 PM UTC
Somehow
I am surrounded by suns and stars
Me
A measly old lamppost that can barely stay lit
In the shadows of their bright lights
I'm barely visible
Who wants to watch a flickering lamp
When there are beautiful suns and stars all around
My heart is breaking
But they don't mean anything
It's just what happens when your a broken lamppost
Surrounded by suns and stars
No one can help me
I can't find any beauty
All I can see are suns and stars
And I feel all alone
A broken lamppost
Old and forgotten
All but abandoned
I just want to feel loved
I want someone to show this broken light
That I can be star
Or maybe even
In my dreams
I can be the moon or sun
In someone's eyes
But tonight I'm a broken lamppost
And they are more beautiful lights to watch
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 12:19 AM UTC
Creation can be a dangerous game ,
the words are not just words , nor the pictures measly brush stroke paintings
creation magic tricks
transmutation
translucent transfiguration from thought realm to
physical plane -
eat from the palm of third eye mind
lick the plates of your halo
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC
Like flirting with a cigarette, studying it
teasing it between these slender fingers.
Turning it this way
that way
and putting it out after one
measly puff.
You know, before the cancer seeps in
like that.
May 9, 2020
May 9, 2020 at 9:55 AM UTC
i am nothing but a stick of crayon
in the measly hands of a child
handled carelessly with a hold too tight
with skin scraping against roughness
bleeding red all over until they are satisfied
all smiles until im not so sharp and new
and the time comes to be replaced
all love until the tenderness turns into a break
and the time comes for me to be thrown aside
Jul 8, 2022
Jul 8, 2022 at 10:04 AM UTC
Diving into Buttercups--
My favorite pastime
The loveliest of happenings,
And things happened long ago,
And things that have yet to happen.
Each beat of the sunrays,
Each clap of the spring breeze
On the water below,
And the birds of love flying
Around my quiet hammock.
Absent thimbles are to be feared—
Especially if the needle is rusty,
Especially when I’m hemophilic--
And already on my face, bleeding,
Just begging for the yellow flowers!
Each rip of an artery so small
Each measly yet itching infection
On my pulsing bulb is wailing.
And the dark robed ghosts
Are waiting to take me.
I am a thorny buttercup
With no thimble for a shield.
I am a delicate beauty,
A pointed killer,
And a mirror to the morning star.
Sep 5, 2011
Sep 5, 2011 at 11:16 AM UTC
i wish that i
could be good enough
for at least one person
in my measly life
Dec 10, 2020
Dec 10, 2020 at 9:59 AM UTC
Three more weeks.
Four more assignments.
I count the days
I try to focus.
I sit. In front. Of. The Screen.
I read. I click. I type.
I Ignore. The Fire. Spreads. Over. My Chest.
I Ignore. The Fire. Sits. In. My Belly.
I Ignore. The Bubbling. Rises. To Taste.
I Ignore. The Hand. Squeezes. Ribs Closed.
I Ignore as the hand grows larger,
Squeezing torso
And throat.
I ignore. I ignore. I ignore.
Until it's too much.
Sit back.
One line.
One measly little line.
Check phone.
Listen: calm song.
Check facebook.
Back to it.
I Ignore. The Pain.
I Ignore. The Tears.
I Ignore. I Ignore. I Ignore!
***** this.
Click, click, click.
All shut down.
All packed up.
All despaired.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 6:51 PM UTC
I dread 2nd and King to this day.
I was born into a poor family:
dad the drunkard,
mom the **** addict,
brother abusive,
and sister wrist slitter,
in '84.
Mealtime portions measly.
The house's fragmented windows,
chipping paint
and carpet, ash stained beyond cleaning,
forced me to attempt an escape
several times.
Its a wonder we had a house at all!
I was the only one who worked.
From 10:00 until 7:00
in the dead of winter I used to stand
in clothes so thin
I was better off not even wearing them.
In '97 I was too young to work
legally.
But I wasn't too young for the men-
and I admit, some attractive-
who would pull up to
2nd and King.
I just crawled in the backseat,
assumed the position,
and took my beating
for not being born to the right family,
class,
city,
house...
...... corner...
..................men...
.................................
I can't look at that sign
marking the corner
without thinking of
crotch after crotch
until it was etched in my brain
that the male genitalia
was the epiphany of evil.
I have to turn my head.
I dread 2nd and King to this day.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC
Ahh-he-che'em ack-ahem. Sorry, let me clear my throat.
One day I set out galavanting, looking for a high.
I meandered to the ocean shore and set a lively stride.
My eyes were wet, my heart was light as I looked out at the splendor,
About that time I heard a rumble, a sudden yearning for a chicken tender.
I galloped to an eatery in hopes of a hearty meal,
But had a measly handful of coins, so I opted for a deal.
The only place I found tat would accept my sum of coins
For anything sufficient enough to satisfy my *****
Was a gritty place called Taco Bell, but it was my only choice.
The cashier was a voluptuous dame and my trousers became quite moist.
She said to me, "what will you have?", in a shockingly low-pitched voice.
I was taken aback for a moment, but stuttered, "a number six, I think".
"Comin' right up honey", he or she said with a wink.
I just smiled shyly and went to go fill up my drink.
My food was finally ready, but I was a bit wary,
I could't tell what was in my taco - squirrel, beef or canary.
My hunger pushed me through my fear and I finally took a bite,
Although skeptical at first, my taste buds did delight!
I had finally finished with my meal and was satisfied and full,
But down below my abdomen I felt a mighty pull.
I had no time I knew at once and dashed to find relief.
The single men's room was in sight, but who should be a thief?!
The cashier with the arousing bosoms had stolen my salvation...
As I stood there in that Taco Bell I felt a curious sensation.
When normally I could have held it, a complete bowel prostration.
While the **** was pouring out like a broken sink,
My mind started to wander and I couldn't help but think,
*If the women's room is out of order, I wonder which she/he has,
A set of both, a meat-locker or a **** and nads?*
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
Thoughts spinning, creating insanity, Twenty Four Seven.
God do I Wish I could be sweet old Eleven.
All wanting sanctuary, Want to be on Cloud Nine.
Instead we sit in our lullaby, stuck in Our Rhyme.
Black Crows fading in the grass field.
Turning fast , to defend, pulling out The Zelda Shield.
Whistling back and forth, calming nerves.
Heart dropping, where tires are not stopping, she swerves.
Music helps along the way,
Helping figure out a reasonable comeback to say.
Waking up, you're my savior.
Finding the key to this rusty ****** door.
Living in the unknown,
Almost nothing is really shown.
Under the blankets is where She turns Alive.
With no Authority, all She does is Connive.
Each measly passing second,
She drowns slowly, hesitant to go in the deep end.
About to die, left with ourselves, are only true friend.
High hopes, the letter She wrote was for you,
Collecting thoughts of passion was all She could pass on through.
Through the trees, fast speeds show flashes of unconscious views.
Jumping off the rock sides, She misunderstands, How to find her Muse.
With my canoe, I'll trying my best to save you.
Every bone in my body needs to, cringes, fiends, breaks, as you petrified me to do.
She spoke out, in no means of worries.
Not listening, growing ignorant.
Unaware of Her affair,
Leaving Her, to jump, leaving Her indignant.
She becomes whole, in the Levant.
(est.j.r.e.)
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 12:21 PM UTC
I’ve lost more than I’d wish
to lose
and learned more than
I’d like to.
This is what happens
when kids
grow up.
I am a product
of a broken boy
becoming a
measly man
in a
wallowed world
that has no room for
generosity.
The world will not end
with a spark
to the neck or a
chill
on the spine.
The world will not
die silently into
a night that
no good man
can bare.
The world will end
when the
human race
allows greed
to conquer
grace.
And my friends,
we are
well on our
way.
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 1:37 PM UTC
1. Stare away into a vacuum. There's always something entertaining happening in that
vacuum and it needs your undivided attention.
2. Master a blank expression especially when staring into the vacuum or directly at
anyone.
3. Never laugh or smile in social gatherings or ever.
4. Be a miser with your words, use one-word responses and add a few grunts and
guttural sounds to your vocabulary.
5. Believe every male is a ******
6. Never show emotions, especially obvious ones like happiness, surprise, or sadness.
These may serve as conversation starters and you don't want that.
7. Don't necessarily avoid all eye contact. If the person is obviously determined to
make contact with your pupils, give it to them. Stare them down and continue to
stare. If they say something, don't respond just keep staring.
8. Crushing on someone? Don't even bother. They don't want you.
9. Fine, you can't help your crush, these eyes you must definitely avoid.
10. Use up all your tech gadgets, phones, iPods, even a **** calculator can help,
after all the measly remains of your bank account isn't going to check itself.
Anything with words u can pretend to read is also helpful, even your last grocery
receipt that you just randomly found in your purse.
11. "I don't know" is a very good answer for almost every question you're asked.
To make it seem less harsh (if you even care) you can substitute for "not sure"
12. Always pretend to listen, nods and grunts are helpful for this.
13. The less you move your body or your face the better, they're all watching you,
judging you, trying to study you remember that.
14. Paranoia is your friend.
15. Refuse all food or drinks. Do not let them see you eat.
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 11:57 AM UTC
Mr. Zuckerberg
just another billionaire,
making moola off of us
giving us something free
in return for our email address
so he can sell us stuff and
direct out attention where he wants it
and think we too stoopid to know it
u feeling a flu of guilty
for we, the the ordinary people,
we, the excess humans of the world,
who scrape by day to day,
who don't have a measly million
not even a stinking billion to spare,
should be given a
guaranteed income by,
courtesy of,
mmm
myself, my taxes own?
dude, that is
called
how can you lose when you play with yourself?
which had a fancy name, can't recall tight now
cause I'm worrying about my next paycheck
which is less than half from FICA, and other initials
I don't understand
but gotta go Z,
time got a get on a toad road trip to get in touch
with the common peeps,
we, the excess,
so glad u taking a
p a s s i n g interest in
we, the excess
POD's
(pieces of data)
and if u need a buck,
or have a few to share,
I'll be in touch shortly
after I get fired,
meantime
check this vacation spot out,
Houston
so popular
even u may have trouble
getting a hotel room,
*******
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 2:02 AM UTC
I dont care about signing the divorce,
I've already told you that.
All I want is my kids,
more than just a few measly weekends,
I want them to not call her mommy,
I want my kids to learn from me,
I want my kids to know that I love them,
I want my kids to not be used as pawns
in your battle to hurt me.
I want my kids to not get hurt by this war
that you are starting with your arrogance
and inflated ego,
I want my kids to not be emotionally abused by you.
I WANT MY KIDS TO HAVE THEIR MOTHER
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 9:43 PM UTC
I have a dilemma in heart and mind
My brain to me is so unkind
Do I suppress my evil thoughts
With a measly prescription, store bought?
I’m staying strong for him
But some days depression wins
And my anger bubbles up
So instead I wash it down with a cup
Of water and a little nauseating pill
It’s blue and powerful, it often makes me ill
I worry to start again
Because I could barely stop back then
It’s not worth the toll
So I flush them down the toilet bowl
Jan 24, 2019
Jan 24, 2019 at 8:47 PM UTC
I have this little pencil pouch
that I stuff scraps of paper in,
"happy memories,"
and when I'm feeling down
I'll reach in, swish them around,
and pull out a few
to remind me of better times.
They're all kinds of memories:
big, significant moments,
funny or sweet quotes,
little nothings I don't even remember
until I read them later.
Today one was, "I threw away
my last two blades 6.12.14"
Now, this one was pretty **** major.
I used to have cutting kits,
blades hidden everywhere,
and one always
always
on my person,
just in case I needed it quick.
I remember my first cut
with scary clarity.
I was ten.
I'm twenty-six now.
Sixteen years I've been
haphazardly coping
in all the wrong ways.
More than half of my life
was consumed with the evolution
of my methods.
Maybe you can understand,
just a little bit,
how incredibly terrified
and yet empowered
I felt on 6.12.14
when I opened my palm
and watched those last two
faulty escapes fall into the trash.
Every day since has been a struggle,
but I haven't relapsed once.
I've thought about it,
dear lord have I thought about it,
but I've refrained,
forced to just rub the scars
running across my porcelain skin.
I feel like I've been battling
these hellish urges forever,
so when I opened that slip of paper
and read it, comprehended the date,
I wasn't proud at all.
6.12.14
I broke down, instant tears.
All this struggling I've been doing,
and it hasn't even been two months.
Not even two measly ******* months.
If this is what "staying clean"
from my ******** addiction
feels like in just the first
month and a half,
I'm not going to make it.
Aug 2, 2014
Aug 2, 2014 at 1:42 PM UTC