"mentions" poems
A Muslim boy with a clock
Is seen as a terrorist with a glock
Maybe i'm right, maybe i'm wrong
But if he were White, Asian, Hispanic or even Pacific Islander
Nobody would of suspected anything.
When are we going to stop fearing an entire race for only a portion radical and illogical ways of treating others?
I don't tolerate people who behead others if they don't agree with their religion
I don't agree with the repressive governments that control everyone and stone them for minor misdemeanors
There are good men out there fighting this evil that has plagued their homelands
I'm all for ending terrorism of all kinds
But let's stop terrorism of innocents too
Sure, i'm afraid of what the radicals will do to their own people, my people and the rest of the world
But i'll be dammed if i treated somebody from the Middle East like a monster when i don't even know who they are
If it wasn't for a Middle Eastern girl
The Syrians girls wouldn't have an improved education
If it wasn't for a Middle Eastern man fending off the Taliban and risking his entire village to keep Marcus Littrell alive
He would of been KIA a long time ago.
What about the ones who fought and died for America?
Nobody ever mentions them
The media wants me to hate them all, but i laugh and shake my head
Warped minds trying to warp others
I only see the ones who want to do us harm, and the ones who want to live peacefully and away from a life of hell
Brothers and sisters, just a different culture and skin color
I'm sorry if America seems racist or hateful, but i'm proud to be the one who throws those two words in the trash
Because i'm not afraid to speak my mind
And i welcome everyone here
America is everyone's home.
If only the Soviet Union never invaded Afghanistan
If only the people were not scared
To be free like America.
Unity for all,
Religious differences and Cultures alike.
I hope one day a Muslim man or Woman can walk down an American street without being labeled as a terrorist.
I hope one day these repressive governments fall into the hands of democracy
And we start the Age of Unity again.
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 4:23 PM UTC
You ask me if I'm okay
And I can't even tell you
Because the words break in my throat
Like waves crashing against the cliffside.
How can I look at something I knew
Like a scientific conviction
And believed in with a faith
Stronger than that of god,
And choke out the words,
"How could i still love you,
Through all this pain you've caused?"
I've always been broken,
Something that I've accepted
Like the knowledge that the sun comes up each morning
And goes back down at night.
I never asked for any of it,
And never asked anyone but God and Archangel Micheal
For help.
But you heard the echo of my plea,
And mistook it for a cry for your help.
I never asked it of you
Yet you acted as if I expected you to stop your life
To find and mend the pieces.
In reality,
All I asked for was your support as a friend.
But even that was too much.
Instead,
You ignored me.
Me and my pain.
Maybe you didn't want to deal with it,
And I can assure you that I did not.
But you made me a million promises
And broke every single one.
I suppose you did it to protect yourself,
And through everything,
I've learned that from you.
I've learned to fight for my soul too.
So now I begin writing my goodbyes
Which will probably come to you in a thousand fragments.
But this is it.
The pain and anger over the last 6 months was heart shattering.
I've come to resent you.
For loving you so much that I can't tell you I can't love you anymore.
And even though I cherish and love
The people who laid next to me when I was sick..
Who never left or judged or pitied..
Who were just..
There...
It will hurt every time someone mentions your name
Until the day I die.
And even when they shower me in the light of their smiles,
I will miss you like a bad habit,
And yearn to see your eyes
Like the steely kiss of cold metal on my wrist.
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 2:00 AM UTC
Collaboration
Cen' and Traveler Tim
Traveler:
This is not about ***
There will be no
******* *****
Any flesh
That you read
Shall not be nibbled
On by me
Any mentions
Of flower traps
Petals filled with
Sweet cream sap
Curves or crevasses
Such lustful lines
I refuse to burn
By your design
You **** thing
Such beauty I seek
But I won't
Be made
Into a freak!!
Cné:
A poem of ***
But not in this text
I just used those words to see
~
If you would come
Looking for fun
And read this poem by me
~
You will not find
Words of that kind
No moaning passionate steam
~
Two of the night
Not in this write
All of these verses are clean
~
Lips locking soft
Hearts now aloft
Maybe what you did expect
~
Candlelight flame
Screaming a name
Glistening skin, beads of sweat
~
Sensual sighs
Quivering thighs
****** moments to trace
~
Euphoric throes
Fingers and toes
Sorry you’re in the wrong place
~
None of that here
Let’s make it clear
Nary a stanza reflects
~
Words that you see
Written by me
Not a Poem of ***
Traveler:
I'm sure these words
Cleverly crafted
Would never lead astray
A moaning voice
Breathing heavy
With a wanting to get laid
No words of touching
Self out loud
No fleshly fluid rhymes
I'm sure your words
Would never stir
My lustful hunger mind!!
Dec 10, 2018
Dec 10, 2018 at 11:03 AM UTC
we're told almost every day to never be selfish, but in a world like ours, how can we not be? even calling this world "ours" is selfish, but no one ever mentions that. do what you want. be who you are. be selfish. because in the end, the only person who you'll always be forced to impress, is you.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC
I'm trapped and enclosed.
Buried under paranoia.
I fear he will leave.
Replaced by Chanel perfume and deception, cat like eyes and caramelized extensions.
Drowning under mental images I've created. Mentions being spoken.
Inevitable feelings I try to avoid, but I can not.
Her existence makes me melt, even though we have never met.
My thoughts are too much to bare.
I despise this naked evil.
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 1:25 AM UTC
She's lace and confetti
With stars in her twinkles
A bright morning sunlight
Where smiling nose wrinkles
Perpetually moving
A bird and a flower
Now growing, now stretching
With all of her power
A tomboy, a lady
Whom nobody heckles
Until someone mentions
Those cute little freckles
She lives in her world
The star playing softball
At times sharing secrets
With kitty and her doll
But few in this world
Can know her so well
As I, sworn to secret
By her radiant spell
She's sometimes the thief
Just playing her part
Unknowing, each day
She steals in my heart
So one day tomorrow
Like roses, will bloom
With joy and with sorrow
Will leave with her groom
But come that tomorrow
Whenever it may
Forever in my heart
Forever she'll stay.
J. Sandy
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 11:57 AM UTC
i seem to only see three constellations in the night
sky these days... the modo -
it be the sign of: the age of scorpio,
there's but the big & little dipper (respectively)
º
º
º
º
º
º
º
do these people really need to be spoon fed?
the smaller dipper is akin to the big
dipper, hence to write in the other
and last constellation (minus that odd rhombus
without a name) -
and believe me when i say: orthodox
astrology doesn't agree with me:
º
º
º
º
º
º º
i guess i managed to draw the right
schematic,
besides the point, there are but
three constellations in the night sky
around here, and one is a revisionist take
on the scorpio...
**** you hippies, and your age of aquarius,
this is what a scorpion looks like,
and nothing what you've indicated,
i'm starting to think that astrologists
did poorly in geometry class...
but i'll end it on a positive note...
*there is more dignity in being ascribed an
epitaph, than being given a "proper" burial...*
and by "proper" i mean: the leech family
members waiting for inheritance,
the sycophantic actors of attendance -
throw me into a mass grave, i don't mind
for a "proper" burial...
there is no dignity in whatever burial
ensues as many will do...
but allow man to transcend
the date of birth ** / yy / zz
and the date of death zz / yy / **
with an epitaph...
however "wise" the man was in life,
his dignity only arrives postmortem,
in the form of an epitaph...
but one epitaph overshadows a thousand
quotable mentions of the man, when alive,
but one epitaph of a david,
overcomes the oeuvre of maxims of a goliath.
whatever argument for light pollution exists,
even when in the scottish highlands
i didn't see any more stars...
there are only three constellations in play
on the night sky,
and one of them is the genuine scorpio
constellation,
with the orthodox constellation being
bogus, fake, unnecessary...
i, i've spotted the constellation of scorpio,
and i did so: with my naked eyes!
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 8:21 PM UTC
Do you know how many times my mother coughs so hard in an hour that it still surprises me she hasn’t lost a lung?
I wonder if all the money that she spends at the gas station on that tiny cardboard box was saved instead of spent, if she could manage to pay the bills before the late notice arrived in the mail.
How many times do you think she tries to quiet the change being pushed around the tabletop as she counts out the quarters, the dimes, the nickels, the pennies before she has enough to slide the coins across the counter at the station?
How many times is her anger thrown at me because nicotine is absent from the house?
I can only imagine the color inside her chest, protecting her lungs with a black tar after too many years of flicking a flame to a thin white candlestick stuck between her lips.
The house smells of smoke and the yellow filter lines the walls, around the frames that hang themselves by nails.
I clean the mirror and see the paper towel golden from the lingering tobacco. My clothes reek of a stench so strong no amount of perfume seems to be enough.
I’m paranoid that every time I’m in a room of people and someone mentions that it smells like smoke, if they know I harbor such a scent that I pour it off second handedly as if I inhale the drug too.
I open the mailbox and the temptation to “lose” the coupon booklet addressed to her grows stronger.
The business cards labeled with a barcode on the back subtracting a dollar off when you buy two packs strengthens the urge to scrabble up the silver coins or summons the question, “do you have five dollars? I’ll pay you back when I get paid on Friday.”
Friday never comes.
I often think about how much longer it will be until all the money spent on tiny cardboard boxes will be split between tobacco and medical bills.
How long can you smoke a pack a day and still be cancer-free?
And I wonder how it’s fair to watch your mother gamble with her life each time she places a thin cigarette between her lips.
Russian roulette with cancer is a game she’s become too good at.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
Scene 1:
(Periwinkle room, Jigglypuff poster, soft alternative music)
I stomp in,
Niagara Falls streaming
Throw his copy of Pablo Neruda poetry into the trash
And start reading Virginia Woolf
Poetic revolution.
That’ll show him
Scene 2:
(Cafe atmosphere, fading laughter, upbeat music)
Whoa. That guy. Not that one.
The one on the left
Kinda nice, kinda cute
And he laughed at my joke
Jane Austen romances
and Zooey Glass daydreams
fill my waking moments
Scene 3:
(Restaurant, muffled conversations, classical music)
What is he staring at? Who is he staring at?
Oh no awkward conversation gap
Say something,
quick, anything
“The weather is nice tonight, yeah?”
Not that.
But he laughs
Night saved
Scene 4:
(Outside the restaurant, night breezes, car noises)
“That was nice,”
He casually mentions
Yeah. Nice.
Not great. Amazing. Life-altering.
Nice.
The same adjective used to describe the weather
Devoid of meaning.
Scene 5:
(Car, radio on silent, crickets chirping)
“I wanted to give you something”
Hands me,
Oh dear god no,
A copy of Neruda
That ****** Neruda.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 3:18 PM UTC
─illustrations on the ceiling
i love the way
the sunlight ripples along his skin
with no complaints
"messiah" the shadow talks
"of course he is" i reply
and i resume to orchestrating my love
─little phobias
i wander aimlessly along his windows,
his eyes;
they are gates to afterlives unloved;
they are oceanic shrapnel
sky imprisoned infinities
a lapis point of view-
that i treasure
his heart is drenched
in my soul-
in a sweeter sickness-
in the liquid measure of my steps-
he mentions i'm contagious
i tell him he is my favorite way
to bleed
"september prodigy" the shadow babbles
"why?" i rasp
**"sun at long last
kisses away
all the ghosts
harvesting from
the heart of the moon"**
and i broke out into stars
─my serendipity
i love the raw
music of our conversations,
and how his voice
undresses me
and my monsters
so delicately
in fabrics of the dark
i love how his laugh
makes all the other planets
look dull;
how his smile
is the first step
to curing the blind
so the blind may know
what i know
"the symphony of seams"
i love how he is the shocking
philosophy
of turning suicide notes
into paper cranes
of picking fights with death
so i may remain
i love the phoenix tucked in his soul
how it defines-
the altitudes-
the limits-
our existence he describes to me
"reincarnation?" the shadow asks
"every morning he wonders" i answer
and the fever invests it's time in me
"what is he to you?" the shadow murmurs
"*besides broken flowers,
and ink blots shaped like rain
he is my favorite stairway to heaven.*"
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 10:32 PM UTC
!TRIGGER WARNING!
(Mentions of suicide)
The wind caresses my skin.
One feeling to lead me in.
The tide
So wide,
I am feeling a rush.
Combined with hushed
Whispers of a spirit once crushed.
Though she thrived
In a landslide,
In the sea she is pushed.
To the deep waters,
She is finally shushed.
Feb 15, 2024
Feb 15, 2024 at 1:10 PM UTC
Right in the physics lecture
Mentally dreaming,
Thinking of a phenomenon
I am day dreaming,
In the front seat of the corner
And all the conceiving,
Thinking of a phenomenon
Cause I am day dreaming,
Sometimes the teacher gives a bang,
Mentions my name, and takes away my tang,
Little does he know that the lecture he’s singing
has a thinner bandwidth than mine.
So, right in this fellow’s lecture, mentally beaming,
thinking of a phenomenon, I am day dreaming.
Sometimes the future bike is back,
Other times, the actress who’s not black,
Sometimes the ex girlfriend whose new boyfriend,
for whom we say, “Hey he looks like a ***
Moreover, you think about the dating,
Was she pleased or was she just faking
Next date in café coffee day
Or the recessional snack corner away
So, right in the fellow’s lecture, you keep on dreaming
Think of your fond hope
And keep on day dreaming.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 8:53 AM UTC
is a governing **********
is lamer than Carrot Top cracking ***** jokes.
has a secret blog called "Pro4Life4Guns4God".
mentions the sexiness of my beard every time we hang out.
spills coffee on his crotch every time we brew a batch.
paints his **** for sporting events.
won't drink alcohol.
***** himself daily to clear his head.
prays for forgiveness every day after ******* himself.
is a box in a cage.
is beige, nursing home wallpaper.
is a real barrier,
to really living.
Nov 24, 2010
Nov 24, 2010 at 8:47 AM UTC
The truth is, I probably love you...
and what i mean by that is...
I love you...
and that is to say I have loved you
since I first heard your voice
and lifted my head
and saw you walking away
that may seem odd
or improbable or impossible
but I recognized that feeling instantly
and though it was odd
and improbable and impossible
it dug its way straight into my heart
and it made it self comfortable
and stretched out and stayed there
though it was sometime
before I saw you again
and then even longer
before I ever heard your name
and much longer before I sat
at the same table as you sipping coffee
and all that was a long time ago I know
but it feels as if it all may have
just happened around the corner
five seconds ago
I may be rambling
because I really don’t know
how to talk about these things
and I am not really that good
at talking in general
and its even worse when its
with a living person
that I know I love
but have failed to mention
that fact
to that person
and the best option
always seems to me
is to pack my bags
and move to the other side
of the world
and never talk to that person again
because wouldn’t that be easier
than rejection
or worse...
acceptance
because acceptance
can often lead to failure
and if I check my track record
that is exactly where it has lead
ever time so far
also in the side notes
it mentions that
i am i hopeless romantic
so the fact that I seem hopeful
every time I hear your voice
and every time i see you
just seems to point to that cliff
were I always find myself
tumbling head over heels
and down into the shards
of stuttering bad poetry
and pillow cases filled with bricks
made out of tears
carved out of the infinite ocean
of my own stupidity
and that seems to be my life so far
something to laugh at
that isn’t funny
but thats ok
because it’s more of a nervous laugh
so the truth is, I probably love you...
and what i mean by that is...
I love you...
and that is to say
I will most likely drown
in my own stupidity
before you ever know
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 9:11 PM UTC
Define success. What does it mean to you?
If you listen to the different responses you'll notice, everyone has a diverse perspective.
I see a world being devoured by society’s way of judging who possesses more or less money. How superficial is it to let the kind of car you drive or the clothes you wear define you.
Why are we overly concerned with what success looks like? What if you think you're already successful? Yes, you are successful right where you're standing. Would you believe me? Not many would. Most people are caught up in the pursuit of money to buy more stuff.
Since children we were brainwashed to believe this or that amounts to being "successful." What if the version of success for you is getting out of bed. Or climbing a steep mountain when you're afraid of heights. Do you see the full picture now?
Most conversations lead to “where do you work at?” as if it actually defines me. Granted, if I said I own Amazon, that individual would look at me quite distinctively. Whereas now, they have an opportunity to see what they can get from me. Versus someone that mentions they work at the local coffee shop.
**This is for my generation, for the sake of perception becoming tainted.
Keep your eyes and ears open, this world isn't what is used to be.**
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 5:40 PM UTC
she inches moments closer---
mentions, "I don't usually
tell people this." we sit in
our dysfunctional silence,
her leg brushes mine. life
is fine. life is fine.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 8:03 PM UTC
Depression is an ugly Christmas sweater your mother bought you, but you never want to wear, but never want to get rid of, either. It's not her fault, as much as you tend to blame her for it. It's not anyone's fault, really, but god **** that thing is just ******* atrocious and not very-well humored. You do your best to keep it buried and hidden, no one can know that you have it, it's an embarrassment and now, because of it, so are you. It'll be in the back of your mind, in the back of your drawers, the whole time. Any time someone mentions Christmas, you'll rub the back of your head 'cause it'll come to mind, and flood with it hundreds of other terrible memories. Almost everyone has one. Those that do, understand the importance and the significance of it, but those that don't, will always look at you funny. Wonder what the hell you're doing. Set that Christmas sweater on fire while you're still wearing it. Act casual. This is normal. Everyone stops and stares, but no one offers or tries to help you. Soon you realize that it's no one's job to. The only person in the room with a fire extinguisher is you. Are you gonna put it out? Or are you gonna let the whole house burn down? Suddenly the flames are out, and no one noticed them but you. Funny, the sweater is just fine. You can burn it, stain it, cut it, slash it, destroy it in any way you can think of, but it will still be just fine. Everything will be just fine. Tell yourself "everything will be just fine." Tell everyone around you "Everything will be just fine" This sweater will make you a liar, but even when, and especially when, you don't believe it, tell everyone that everything will be just fine, because it has to be. They can't worry about you. You want them to more than anything, but you can't let them know they should be worried. They should already know. They should already know. When they ask you "what's wrong" or "why the long face," you honest mother ****** you lie to them. You lie to their face. You look up and you tell them "Don't worry, everything's just fine. Can I have some more eggnog?"
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 8:46 AM UTC
she
(*her 2am moods
were monotone
dialogue
on the receiver*)
is at her loudest
in sepia photographs;
fake smiles,
like shotgun blast;
her shrapnel days
fall silently
in-between
cheap perfume
bottles on the
night-stand.
in the drawer is
every memento
she seldom mentions
(*empty, jejune...
hushed
frustrations*).
with each exhale,
her pillow fills with
crumpled words
(*embellishment,
a waking hour's only
comfort...
an insomniac's
internal monologue*).
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 12:00 AM UTC
They say losing a loved one is the worst thing you could go through.
Suicide.
******
Heartbreak.
Divorce.
Miscarriage.
The whole nine yards
But no one ever really mentions reputation.
For me reputation has engulfed my whole life.
Caring so much about
What other people think.
Image.
Late nights
Wondering whats wrong with you.
Wondering why
you cant look like her.
And wondering why boys
steer clear of you like a virus.
For me
I contributed all of this uncertainty
to one event in my life.
And for some reason i think if i got the opportunity
To go back in time,
I would.
Maybe.
And teenagers, especially girls
Crave affection.
You have no idea what a girl would do
To feel something
Even for just a minute.
People call us names for looking for affection.
****
*****
Thirsty.
But how were we supposed to know
That this so called
"Affection"
Wasnt real?
How were we supposed to know
That we would get
Played
And used?
Yet we do it more than once
In hopes that
Someone.
Will surprise us.
Dont get me wrong,
My life isnt terrible
None of those things i mentioned before
Have ever happened to me,
But reputation has.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 8:13 PM UTC
I am trying to forget you
Really,
I am
I have been drugging my memory
Repeatedly
Every night
Drinking from bottles
Filled with liquid strong enough
For me to untaste you
I still do
It's funny how
Nobody mentions touch
As the most important sense
Associated with memory
I still feel you everywhere
Your hands on my skin
I am trying to erase them
Your fingerprints must be
Permanent ink
They are no longer visible
But I can still see them
I tie my tongue in knots
So that when I choke
On words
It will be on my own terms
I still cough up yours
I am trying to forget you
The way your voice sounded in my ear
Breathless and humming
I can still hear the ringing
You are the melody
I cannot get out of my head
The music that I cannot stop singing
I am trying to erase
The parts of you drawn onto me
I have gotten four tattoos
In the past three months
And two of them remind me of you
I am trying to forget you
But I purposely don't try
Hard enough
If I really wanted to
I would destroy the proclamations of passion
I once wrote to you
If I really wanted to
I would delete the pictures sent back and forth
Like ransom letters
Thinking my body could force you
To surrender your heart
I used to consider swearing
To be a holy thing
You swore on so much
That it is no longer sacred
Humans are incapable of certainty
I have bent my pinky fingers in half
Just to come close
To believing promises
But people
Always let you down
And disappointment
Is inevitable
Your salt lips
And iodine mouth
Left a burning sensation
From every cut that you made
In mine
I am trying to forget you
And the way you said my name
How you only said it
Quietly through phone calls
Directly into my ear
As if you didn’t want anyone else
To hear you say it aloud
I am trying to forget you
But it is not easy
The moving on
Is a crossword puzzle
I do not know the last answer to
There are fifteen spaces left
That I don't know how to
Fill
With anything other than you
There is so much empty
Left over
It is much easier to hold on
To memories
And remnants
Of what could’ve been
Than it is to accept
A definite ending
Our future
May be dead
But you are still
Very much alive in me
If I really tried
I bet I could forget you
But I don't think I want to.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
someday, i won't flinch as your name
appears on my screen.
someday, i won't stalk and visit your profiles.
someday, i won't be bothered
when someone mentions your name.
someday, my world will not stop
for a moment whenever i see you.
someday, your glances and smiles
won't make my heart skips a beat.
someday, i will not miss your hugs ang cuddles.
someday, i will no longer crave
for your presence and kisses.
someday, the places where we used to go
won't make me remember you at all.
someday, i can have the spirit
to read love stories again.
someday, our sweet habits will fade from my memories.
someday, your promises which turned out to be lies
won't hurt as much as it used to.
someday, all that we had won't matter to me anymore.
j.m.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 11:49 PM UTC
What is it? What does it feels like?
Can we touch it, a title to be achieved
Mentions get looks unless their certain
People need a hero that shines the most
What is it? Where does it come from?
A true calling, recognized for being super
Plateau bestowed from the challenged
The truth is what they see and believe
Dec 6, 2009
Dec 6, 2009 at 11:19 AM UTC
i take things to extreme
if you know what i mean
*** is only fun if
you like it rough
maybe it's just me
thinking passion
comes from
two lovers' creativity
when they **** in bed
maybe I'm just a bit
gone off my head
just a little naughty
but my body's all sweet
i guess that's why when he
mentions whipped cream
that i get lost in a day dream
wishing he was licking it off me
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
I heard silence in the cobwebs
of your soul
while everything else walked
as if lost
inside of the belief
that all you see is black and white.
Then, I watched you crawl in search of truth
among faces with eyes
that held the illusion of everything
you think you want in life.
Your fingertips seem to know more
about your emotions
than your tears do
because you touch each hurt
your heart mentions
until they bleed.
I watch you pause,
and look over your shoulder
for yesterday
almost as if you wish
it would never leave.
I wonder if you will ever learn
how simple
the feel of your own skin
could be
if you would just not let anger write its name
on your walls carelessly.
Perhaps then, you could see the sunlight
of a brand new day
and accept the shades of gray
that color me.
May 28, 2012
May 28, 2012 at 8:36 AM UTC