"misanthrope" poems
The roses of Love glad the garden of life,
Though nurtur’d ’mid weeds dropping pestilent dew,
Till Time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife,
Or prunes them for ever, in Love’s last adieu!
In vain, with endearments, we soothe the sad heart,
In vain do we vow for an age to be true;
The chance of an hour may command us to part,
Or Death disunite us, in Love’s last adieu!
Still Hope, breathing peace, through the grief-swollen breast,
Will whisper, “Our meeting we yet may renew:”
With this dream of deceit, half our sorrow’s represt,
Nor taste we the poison, of Love’s last adieu!
Oh! mark you yon pair, in the sunshine of youth,
Love twin’d round their childhood his flow’rs as they grew;
They flourish awhile, in the season of truth,
Till chill’d by the winter of Love’s last adieu!
Sweet lady! why thus doth a tear steal its way,
Down a cheek which outrivals thy ***** in hue?
Yet why do I ask?—to distraction a prey,
Thy reason has perish’d, with Love’s last adieu!
Oh! who is yon Misanthrope, shunning mankind?
From cities to caves of the forest he flew:
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind;
The mountains reverberate Love’s last adieu!
Now Hate rules a heart which in Love’s easy chains,
Once Passion’s tumultuous blandishments knew;
Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins,
He ponders, in frenzy, on Love’s last adieu!
How he envies the wretch, with a soul wrapt in steel!
His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few,
Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel,
And dreads not the anguish of Love’s last adieu!
Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o’ercast;
No more, with Love’s former devotion, we sue:
He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast;
The shroud of affection is Love’s last adieu!
In this life of probation, for rapture divine,
Astrea declares that some penance is due;
From him, who has worshipp’d at Love’s gentle shrine,
The atonement is ample, in Love’s last adieu!
Who kneels to the God, on his altar of light
Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew:
His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight,
His cypress, the garland of Love’s last adieu!
3.7k
My heart, it's hands
Reaching for his soul
My wrists snap, retreat back
I guess now we'll never know
Hung up, strung out
Just searching for a sign
Horror, misanthrope
Astrological pantomime
Visions clear, so near
Like vines we intertwined
Incompatible, at the core
Who was feeding me those lines?
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 8:15 PM UTC
What have we here?
A shy boy who wouldn’t swing
When all the other monkeys played,
Who didn’t like to speak
In case the others laughed and brayed,
Who didn’t quite fit in
With the other boys in school,
And ducked and dived
And hid from sports
When he couldn’t grasp the rules.
The boy who missed the girls
While he hid within his room,
And couldn’t speak when they were there
In case they spoke his doom
And wished and dreamed
For something more
Than others would assume.
The boy within the man
Who argued to the end;
The man of right and wrong
Who fought the standard trend,
And stood up for
The little things
That no others would defend.
The sad pathetic loser,
The one who had no friends,
Fought the fight for all of us
While we scrabbled to ascend,
And, at the last, the misanthrope,
When he could do no more,
He stood beside his principles
That he learned so hard before.
He watched the so-called good
Sell out their souls for lies,
Either to themselves
Or the devil in disguise.
He stood for truth and honesty,
And was typically despised,
But now he’s gone,
We’re all alone;
Slaves we realise.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 3:23 AM UTC
4)
I moved into the woods
built a little cabin, below the rocks
and covered by the trees;
yet I had visitors
who had come astray into the wilderness
Someone wanting space for the night:
“Is there enough room in your cabin?”
“Why,” I said, “there’s plenty all round”
I was vegetarian
but the destitute offered themselves to me -
the religious might say: *God fed me
even in the wilderness!* Ha!
A wandering woman one evening,
she offered love in return
for shelter that night
She let me lick, taste her flesh
“Bite me,” she said
offering a foretaste in our foreplay
Why would they not leave me? –
these wanderers, the intruding world
No, I had not come in like Thoreau
or the Unabomber – but maybe
like the misanthrope Timon of Athens...
afraid of my own hate; but the innocent
seemed to be drawn in as to a...an...abattoir
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC
The clock ticks away
the silence pounds you
it's not the peaceful quiet of life
one would wish for
it's the hostile silence
that makes your heart hammer
one that pushes you to speak
but holds back your voice in your throat.
It makes you wallow in memories
memories of things gone wrong
memories of having been wronged
it compells you to reminisce
all your regrets in life.
It instills fear in you
fear of people, of being cheated
fear of being different, of not being accepted
the fear of becoming a castaway.
It teaches you
teaches you not to trust people
teaches you
to keep your secrets locked away
in a distant, dark chamber of your heart
teaches you
to keep your feelings bottled up inside you.
Before you know it
it turns you into a paranoid misanthrope
it's cruel, it knows no love
it knows no friendship
it eats you from within
it destroys you.
This does not dawn upon you
soon enough
by the time you have realised it
it has already done its job
hardly have you got any time left
to set things right
you want to say
you need to say
things you should have said long ago
all the love not spoken of
yearns to be expressed now
you cling onto each moment
time does not pity you
it pays no heed to your pleas
each second slips by
like water in cupped hands
like the sand in an hourglass.
The silence still keeps pounding you
the clock still keeps ticking away.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 5:53 PM UTC
Idiosyncratic
she was so
Idiosyncratic
so idiosyncratic
*she couldn't help but realize
how idiosyncratic
everyone around her was*
a bored misanthrope who couldn't stop thinking
the girl made from manic pixie dream dust
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 1:57 PM UTC
Drip.
I Stare Down At The Ground.
Drip.
My Eyes Are Tempted To Drift Towards You,
But I Know Better.
Drip.
My Eyes Jump To The Loud Noise,
In This Silent Room.
Drip.
I Stand Silently, Walking Towards The Noise.
DRIP.
I Spin Around- Only To See You,
Hanging From The Rafters,
Motionless.
I Shut My Eyes,
My Head Screaming To Pull You Down And Scream Until You Wake,
But I Know It Shall Never Work.
Drip.
You Have Perished,
A Silent Tear Making It's Way Down My Face.
Drip.
I Fall To The Ground, Crying Softly,
You Claimed You Where Okay,
Not That I Should Have Cared For My Kidnapper.
Drip.
Or My ******
But What Can I Say,
It's A Case Of Being A Misanthrope.
I Love Him.
I Love Him.
I Love Him.
Your So **** Selfish.
Waiting Till I Loved You With All My Heart,
To End It All.
I'll Never Forget,
My Case Of Being A Misanthrope.
Drip.
~ Kat Herondale.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 11:43 PM UTC
Dying animals trapped in barbed wire
Man-made men all flailing to conspire
To cross the sea of destiny for hope
to design their own form of misanthrope
Building fences of ignorance and tears
for the respect of their own group of peers
Creating borders to destroy their own wealth
to hasten the decline of their own health
Living animals limitless and free
with untold abundance and scarcity
Roaming the planet to frolic and breed
to the farthest reaches spreading their seed
Happy with total harmony and peace
with no concept of coverings or fleece
Communicating only by their senses
unless of course they start building fences
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 12:50 AM UTC
Foresee the dance of the drunk pen,
On a white forgotten page,
And as the Indian ink has left its charm,
Through poetic swords of faith.
No, she said, to the young heart,
A sad dilemma song,
Drunk with broken words,
He bleed the crusade all along.
The blood has been painted,
Over the pages of art laid thorns,
As number he grew, he faded
Into the delusional walks and pavement songs.
The floors were carpeted red,
Like a heartbreak prom in lights,
While I laid drunk with my thoughts,
Like the dark soul of Broadway nights.
The black colour embracing,
Sweet sadistic vines of hope,
In the illest of fate, my heart sings
Like a mysterious misanthrope.
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 11:57 AM UTC
Drowning in a sea of disappointment
Swept away by the undercurrent
Into the depths of my own hatred
The weight of my heart
Set in stone and cast in steel
Kick me down
Complete submission
I reached for the stars as a last desperate
attempt to be part of the light
But you extinguished the sun
And you swallowed the moon
And by the time that I had finally made it
The stars had all died
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 2:46 AM UTC
I show up and plug my music in to the ***** stereo on the rack by the dishwashing station, and the first song that comes on is Misanthrope by the band Death. Just then, the head chef comes back to greet me for the night's work:
"How are you tonight?"
"Death Metal, Sir. How are you?"
"I'm pretty Rock and Roll myself, thank you."
And we both went about our respective business via our respective genres.
It's incredibly nice to be able to see eye to eye, even through airs of facetiousness.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 10:51 AM UTC
One must believe in something be he misanthrope or gambler
In tomorrows omnicience or the future proof of God
The penance in a drunk's decay sets self destruct's imposer
Wether speakerphone's on disconnect or cellphone's in the bog.
Conveyance of a threat to adherants of St Selfwise
Show athiest's are proof here, in belief of disbelief,
Haunted by the images painting painfull retribution
Picture sympathetic **** star's allocated hand relief.
A moments allocation of a syllogist abstraction
Shows perspective of the calibre we now reserve for Saints
A paradox regarded as autistic fascination
In a one act play of living disregarding all restraints.
Deliberately indicative of fraternal heat's expression
Notebook at the ready and deep frowning at the brow,
Question definition's collage of confusion's contribution
Do we sit it out pretending or just catch the late bus now?
Marshalg
13 February 2014
© 2014 Marshal Gebbie
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 8:53 PM UTC
Brisk footsteps clank on the cold floor,
Likewise it was a cold evening
the hollow air echoed the silence that
fell after each footstep.
This was the walk of a dead man,
And the chilly twilight wind only whispered lies
as the man trekked onward.
He had been gone. Disappeared.
His magic trick had prevailed.
For three years he fooled the people of the world,
For three years he fooled his one and only true friend.
As he walked, his footsteps echoed words
of the game. A game he had not wanted to play.
Unwillingly, he had fallen.
An expression of pain crept its way onto the man's face
as he walked, pace lessened under the weight of the words.
The words, swelling up in his mind.
Twisting, hissing, taunting and haunting him.
Annoying, psychopath, show off, misanthrope, arrogant,
ignorant, ***** abnormal, inhuman,
machine, fake, fraud.
Fraud.
The irony laughed at his side as he mouthed
the word again: F r a u d
Noun. deceit, trickery, sharp practice, or breach of confidence,
perpetrated for profit or to gain some unfair or dishonest advantage.
Indeed he had been tricked, what a wonderful trap.
A trap only he could have over looked.
It was all so well planned out, his final problem.
Final words. Wrapping a lie in a blanket of truth,
it was the only thing that could[had] stopped him-
The most human, human being-
Reality struck him
as his feet came to a halt, the man's gaze drifted upward,
shifting into a familiar glance.
The wind no longer wished to whisper lies,
and the silence that followed him would break
with the final echoes of his footsteps:
Home.
Apr 10, 2012
Apr 10, 2012 at 12:36 AM UTC
his fluid being mimics that of cigarettes;
death chopped up and rolled
into a curious little thing
i could hold him in my hands
but that is a mere only;
his wonderment insufficient
my soul too mammoth
my lips crave the grim reaper's touch
my skin detests the flawlessness of
staged idiosyncrasy
this world has seen enough
of those
you yell misanthrope,
but you do not understand
i seek
the intertwining of
precariousity
intimacy marked by fluttering thumbs
tracing specks of golden
on his cheeks
galaxies splashed across the
bridge of his nose
he is everything i yearn
yet;
everything i cannot be
he is my exotic morns
and my sunday siesta
fingertips outline
connect-the-dot maps
i could only ever get lost in
freckles.
like a lacklustre silence
the end of sentences pinpointing areas
chipped fingernails have lusted to memorise
you only crave what you know cannot be.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC
'Poetry is for emos!'
screamed a prosaic once
Don't worry,
he's dead now
I shot him with my gun
which is made from words
'Poetry is for the beautiful minds'
Someone once said
'No, silly! Poetry is for the scarred soul'
replied a maiden
'Poetry is for people like me!'
screamed Mr.R
'No happiness but chests filled with money!'
'Poetry is my hobby.'
said a future entrepreneur
'Poetry is for the one dealing with loss'
said the scientist
'I don't care about poetry, How often do you floss?'
said my dentist.
'Poetry is dumb.'
said the misanthrope
'Poetry makes me think about him'
said the victim of infatuation
I cleared my throat and spoke to clear the confusion
'*You're wrong to say poetry ain't fun
poetry is for everyone*'
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
We have bulldozed the Garden of Eden;
we are nothing more than a parasite with an unending appetite
for destruction in the name of civilization.
Our monstrous monumental achievements can be viewed from space;
we are the cataclysmic legion, the unbeaten ****** the demon of freedom
with the desire to demolish and impoverish the last bastion arboretum.
We are mad and frenzied in our passion;
we are the phantasm assassin choking the very lungs we use to breathe
the misanthrope who carves materialistic thrones to sit on and wait for exalted death while we replant trees in self-centered glorification of hope.
We are doomed and we know it, but we still don't care;
we question science and bemoan nature for wreaking havoc, stare into the microscope looking for answers in the reverent appliance of defiance waiting to find the sparks to eternal life there.
We are the envy, the mistrust, the sadist and the snake;
we squabble over the scraps of apple peel and douse ourselves in ice cubes
whilst far away some African child walks 50 miles for a sip of clean water
we are the plague of mistakes broadcasting hurricanes to entertain.
We have bulldozed The Garden of Eden
now only the snake remains and there is no escape
freely offering the apple peel to those who obligingly accept
our epitaph will read:
humanity stepped back
to be overshadowed by an ape.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 12:39 PM UTC
So simple life would be,
To walk the chosen path
Of such as him or she.
No regard for things of value,
Civility, Traditions or sin
And most importantly,
Caring not a **** for
The mortal encumbrances
In the forced companionship,
Of their Human Fellows.
No strife in seeking redemption,
No apologies offered or received.
Having not one speck of regret,
For their own moral misdeeds,
Living as they do with absolutely
No expectations of friendship or Love,
Or an ounce of human acceptance,
Given, shared or received.
Living a life time of this
Empty lonely existence,
Until the very end.
The lasting price for which,
Is the very path they picked.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
Does she know her profound effect, on two lowly rejects
or is she luminescent from some mutual recompense
and how do you feel when the exhilaration has faded?
'Secret gratification, I see you behind the blind, pacing
************ for the girl above your station
It's grating how you feel so humiliated
When you spot me in my lounge,
amused by the situation'
It's a mad sporadic dash to end, how long will she stand
It's a repressed trend but furthermore it soon wanes
and we're all left motionless, unbridled and insane
You, ****** master of disguise
Beautiful young girl, pale blue eyes
Me, misanthrope, full of despise
Cars on the street, I hear the cries
Human nature is strong, I sympathise
But in broad daylight,
can you truly say this is wise?
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 11:05 AM UTC
Oh wind,
You are a fickle thing,
You bring tidings of a chill
That can be resolution, absolution
Or anything in between.
Oh wind,
You are a gracious host,
Whose cruelty is unmatched
In your gift of mirth and hope.
Your wildest gusts are mild
To the coldest misanthrope.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 5:31 PM UTC
From the days of arranged marriages to the current remarks about **** culture, it seems that no one is ever meant to be happy. Either settle or keep their peace, and understand that for every idiom there is, another is written to contradict the former. For example: The pen is mightier than the sword, but leave it to a lover to stab you in the back.
The same finger you use to wipe a tear will later be used to point and accuse. This is the figurative punch called emotional abuse. It's the air that escapes your lungs faster than leaving the atmosphere, ascending to a place called Heaven, but free falling to a home known as Hell.
What starts out as fingertips delicately caressing skin leads to a poke then a piercing sensation. It's standing with your right hand over your heart, speaking trivial, incoherent words, as your left side goes numb and your newly acquired slack jaw can easily be the reasoning you never hoped for.
Only a misanthrope can find understanding in distance, knowing that it has nothing to do with making a heart grow fonder. Isolation is conceived with a utensil, using a wandering eye to beseech a vast vocabulary and an abundant color palette.
The man that wrote purple mountains majesty wasn't staring at a landscape, but rather a wall in a room with a closed door. And every love letter written was never meant to be sent, it was only after something was lost that something was gained.
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 1:02 PM UTC
**Each day passing by in a wild-eyed dash
In truth my soul fell aside, but bluer birds still doth call
Missed that cardinal harken when I set down my last two cents
Kickers of tricks, scroll-ers of myth, bottlers of ships
Knew it all along, just couldn’t stiff the rest
Refuse to capitol, refuge atop the pious politic that steeps these hills
Is it not hard to tell? The meanings of what buys in bulk
The people is we, of what sells slicker than plot itself
A minority rule, hid reasons from majority fooled
That is working trade class, taught to chain drive
The gleaming sheen glowing green, crowning jewel¬¬¬ is as mist and steam, fleeting as the wash of this worlds seething seas
We, the misanthrope of being, bloom in the warmth of idea
Only to recede at the water mark high of each our lives
Authenticity bless the distant time, costless venture to each about die, salute through another caesars’ dilated eye a definition
Eons in annunciation; immortality flashing by
Reverence cannot lie, not long at least neathe a chipping patina
Gold leafed by the hand of man, coerced creations’ fondling finger tips strips thin, leaving us then to watch the weathering
Not a one may ever remember for too quickly or too timely
Arrives dismemberment, a cyclic certainty, often relegated falsely
As loss or gain, truly misspoken frames for reference
At any given attempt to render the language of tongues, oh speaker the son of the morning shamelessly ****** by predecessors increasingly lavish
Phonemic savage; life running rabid, splicing love over the atom
The simple one whom tends a patch of what he calls “cabbage”
Knowing always the wordless truth that is his field fallowing
Unconvinced by everyone, save himself if nothing else
Penitent candor dangle, frameless wonder can you hear the thunder?**
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 2:44 PM UTC
Humans -- what a pitiful, parasitic species
That has infected this planet like a
Greedy, virulent virus consuming everything
In its path with no remorse, no reservations.
All humans have a rotten core oozing toxic
Sentiments that engender chaos and destruction.
I’m surrounded by hypocrites with no
Knowledge of the word altruism, blinded by
Their oversized egos and insatiable appetites
For superficial and fleeting pleasures.
There is no hope for remedy; progress is an illusion,
Where the only certainty is our imminent extinction.
Civilization was a mistake. We were better off as cavemen.
Humans ask me if I hate humanity so much,
Why haven’t I killed myself already?
Stupid humans.
Humans suggest that rather than lament,
I should be the light amid the gloom.
Stupid humans.
I'm allergic to futility.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 10:44 PM UTC
When I catch myself being overly Human
I pull in the reigns and push the thoughts from my head
But not through the mouth
The mindless blathering about.....
That's how I knew in the first place
I was becoming one of you and
It offers me no comfort.....
Quite the opposite
Jul 25, 2010
Jul 25, 2010 at 9:31 PM UTC
PlayBill
You left me heart in hand at the alter,
disappeared without so much as a word, nothing except the coldest shoulder.
While not even given any single
ounce of closure,
I lost it,
I lost my mind along with my composure.
Became a recluse, a pessimist, began living life like a lone wolf avoiding any and all human contact norms,
being sought out to be some type of mean spirited misanthrope.
But what more was I presumed to be,
I was living a life of misery without any real company.
Therefore not even my misery had anything to love, I was just empty and numb.
I was angry, furious, outraged.
I knew better,
but I still let u get the better of me as u left me with the absolute worst inside of me while you were just so sketchy about it and vague.
The world is nothing but a stage,
and I was second leading role with you playing first as I was just along for the ride paved with chaos and havoc down the line of intersections consisting of deceit and defeat where u crashed the car at a point in time, which by then we were just too far, and u had somehow put on the performance of a lifetime.
Mar 8, 2022
Mar 8, 2022 at 5:06 PM UTC
baseball
a malformed hand
resting
in a hay bale
feet
so discolored a figure
shoeless
at dusk
talk
an unbroken scribble
connects
the ears
bathroom sink the mirror’s
belly
in it
are fish hooks
survival lives alone
by the looks of this sandwich jesus is teething
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC