"moulded" poems
I'm a Barbie Girl,
in a Barbie World.
Life's fantastic: I
feel like plastic,
aiming for an eighteen-inch waist because I can afford to throw my internal organs away.
I feel like plastic,
having to choose
between eating and breathing with not enough space for two tubes.
I feel like plastic,
a thirty-nine inch bust and three times the forehead.
I feel like plastic,
a size nine squeezed to a three, spending
three to nine avoiding mealtime because my weight loss book says
'Don't eat.'
I'm a Barbie Girl,
in a Barbie World.
Life's fantastic, but...
I'm not plastic.
I've sat here listening while you complain about society but I don't think you realize that
society is made by you.
You complain about masks but you're masked by your poetry and
trust me,
it's trendy:
Psychiatry.
A bottle of capsules captures your soul and your dreams,
fading
reality.
I cannot be defined because a definition leaves no room for change and I
am a flame,
ready to burn the cardboard box of priority you put over me.
All the cool kids are lesbians and thespians on about repressions
and I care,
I do,
I mean... I'm standing here among you.
But words are just air.
You can stand on this stage and tell me I'm beautiful, but
I am more than my face so
disregard my mild distaste for your
inspirational speech.
Now, this...
This isn't a call for help.
This is a call to arms.
This
is a battle cry because
I
am sick of waiting for a future that should've happened yesterday.
So use this air to live the words you say and
rally.
Do not soothe, because we've already been cocooned by soothed reality in
Shawnee,
Johnson County.
I'm a real girl,
in a real world.
Life's fantastic, and I
refuse to be plastic,
aiming for generic weight range based on content, not scale number.
I refuse to be plastic,
a neck moulded perfectly for both eating and breathing so I don't have to choose.
I refuse to be plastic,
a bust that you don't need to be sizing
when I've got eyes
a green not of romanticized meadows but of drunken
puke.
I refuse to be plastic,
a size nine foot in a size nine shoe,
spending three to nine
enjoying my meal times,
because my weight loss book is
chucked down the chute.
I'm a living girl
in a beautiful world.
Life's fantastic,
because I'm not plastic.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC
The trouble with Hello Poetry
Is that I fall in love daily
Held under so many captivating spells
moulded and crafted by all walks of life
I find myself longing for all of you
the broken, the fallen, the bruised
the saints, the sinners
the righteous, the dispossessed
the holy, the unholy
all meet here
to speak of life
as they feel it
as only we know it.
Onwards, upwards
Downward spirals
kindness, cruelty
crashing through boundaries
bounding across oceans
carried on wistful sighs and broken dreams
The trouble with Hello Poetry
Is that it breaks my heart
Then brings me back to love again
All within an hour.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 4:30 AM UTC
when I say last year I hit an all time low,
I mean that I spent two hundred and eighty nine days without sunlight,
I’ve never known a rose to grow immersed in eternal night -
auctioned off my heart for the gift of sight,
I wonder how long I’ve lived my life blinded by the rose tinted glass?
false love will have you struggling to distinguish between gold and brass.
I draw out the sequence.
your palms met her flesh,
my reflection in the mirror is reduced to ash.
I feel my heart hit the floor,
blood stains in the carpet - proof that love does not live here anymore
next time just wrap them around my neck,
I get the same hand of cards
out of every single deck.
from love,
suffocating, choking,
that is the only sensation I have come to expect,
you know that better than me,
extinguished every fire set to your trees,
don’t you remember?
she left everything around you to burn,
choked on all the smoke,
still you fixated on all the ember,
if this body was ever not hollow,
I wouldn’t remember.
two hundred and eighty nine days,
I spent treading in the shallow,
moulded my existence out of clay just to fill another persons shadow.
Aug 23, 2021
Aug 23, 2021 at 9:20 PM UTC
The dough in the pizza pan
Becomes my heart.
And with my hand, my fist,
I strike it and flatten it.
I force it to change,
Plaster it into limp pancake.
With my palm I knead it,
But the pain which should ebb out,
Will not separate and flow away.
It stays inside the dough,
The flattened,
Moulded,
Hand-mangled dough!
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
I am in a room made of glass, sorry,
let me clarify,
the walls and doors are glass,
the carpet is woven by a machine where the workers are limited to toilet breaks,
the plants are plastic in pots of gravel
but the walls are glass and everyone can see in and I can see out.
The table is shaped like a kidney, don't ask me why, it just is, manufactured by a factory making furniture shaped like human organs.
That's the shape of the table, I can't change that,
and the chairs are moulded from one piece of plastic, in bright colours and people look in through glass walls.
I look out and I am really not there.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 4:21 AM UTC
Dirt
You've turned into dirt.
Twisted away in fragile positions,
You've turned into dirt.
How does it feel to be this vulnerable?
To be plucked from your home, and bought with dirt to be sold off to the husband who forgot his wife's birthday?
To be called 'beautiful', only to be left rotting away?
To sit beside a bed of 'beautiful' red roses, who think they'll be safe forever. To know they'll turn into you, you who has moulded into dirt.
These eyes fall on you now,
they feel guilt,
they feel remorse,
(they feel happy?)
they feel like a murderer.
They run to drench you with water.
The poor white tulips,
and the poor pink roses
will you be fixed from this phase of dirt?
May 5, 2021
May 5, 2021 at 4:05 AM UTC
the trouble lies
in your thighs
plump skin, of pink, apricot, nutmeg
fresh flesh fetched far
taught to knee, cuffed at ankle
red carpet to round hips
they ripple, as you stomp
as they should
you're a peach bottomed girl of pear tree house
she is a willow girl
her legs, they wind
country lanes that slim and thin
less lard, longer length
one music note to pink, apricot, nutmeg toes
pillars under sacred, upholding
the light twist of hips
is there the same problem
does it there lie
in that girl's thighs?
your thighs are equally moulded
pink, apricot, nutmeg
soft and plump and trembling, still
in mountains, or molehills
you're a peach bottomed girl of pear house
she is a willow tree girl of birch place
together, women
you have thighs
and neither of
those thighs
lies
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 10:13 AM UTC
you were everything my parents warned me about.
you were the person only existing in my nightmares,
never in my dreams.
a beautiful mess of motorcycle rides,
tattoos,
leather jackets, and lit cigar.
you screamed trouble
you screamed danger
you screamed bad news.
but i was hooked the second your lips and mine moulded into one.
you were like a drug i couldn't get enough of.
but
the comfort i once found in the warmth of your skin turned to flames i couldn't put out
and i was hurt.
i should have known.
after all, if you play fire with fire
you are bound to get burned.
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 10:43 AM UTC
we met one night
hearts of fire
kisses sweet
passions dire
out came rope
and string we found
white gauze wrapping
honey ***** bound
kisses hot
mouths like butter
i tied her hard
her eyes did flutter
ankles to arms
head to feet
she started to sweat
her joints did meet
stressed and pink
i love her so
she looked up
and started to glow
oh you mean man
she said you brute
hurt me baby
am i not cute
i slapped her hard
on the face and the ***
bit her feet
she quaked and gasped
i used her mouth
oh she ****** and ******
and licked with lust
and then got ******
i love her ***
it was really fun
we loved and cumed
i am her sun
kisses torrid
i ate her like pie
for her love
i would gladly die
i tied her and bended
she arched and she folded
crushed her to pieces
and then re-moulded
she cried and begged
oh i adore
and hollered and squealed
give me some more
all in a swirl
eyes crossed and diffused
bent out of shape
and begged to be used
love turned to passion
and passion to madness
i did terrible things
she kissed me with gladness
we consumed each other
let out all that we feel
couldn't help our selves
and thats how we heal
out came rope
and string we found
white gauze wrapping
honey ***** bound
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 9:20 AM UTC
In braze, silent breeze of dreams incantations,
Shiva arms sway in the forest dark, mushroom,
Cloud, lord with fungi, mosses whose clinging
Shades of branches, braids deep, forking stories
Of old, brooding cauldron Druids, sidles Eastern
Spindrift words of Sanskrit spake, told in veined
Sacred hands unfound, celestial spines, moulded
Green, in the windy monkish statutes of the fallen
And single handed claps of the missionary leaves.
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
1
Grey sky greyer sea
a litter of rocks balance
coat bright hat blue mittens striped
as on these November steps
you collect the gifts of the ebb tide
2
Glint green this living tapestry echoes
Jilly’s field with tractor not Devon
but salt-flats rocky revetments moorland rising
a map crossed by a chiromatic line
our destiny marked out on this concrete wall?
3
Beached clinkered double-ender
a bay-courser sjekte strand-crunched
fit once for Viking raiders two abreast
now daubed with tin ends of patriotic paint
a sea-steed hobbled hard on the shore
4
Bow faced a sea helmet thrice rope strapped
slow moulded over the boat builder’s ribbanded jig
a spanglehelm of wood
curved sheer straked plank bilged a tuck stern
raising its proud head seaward
5
Viewed from the air a map rolls out
north to the tilted curve of the horizon’s rim
cloud scattered mountained red
betwixt seas sun chalked wine-stained a volcanic isthmus
provokes desert the western waste land of a brooding city
6
Oh face of ropes knot eyed!
you blue cheeked wide smiler
wild wild your head of hair
beachcombed and splayed
wrapped on the sternest post
7
She sewed sugar kelp on the sea shore
a sporophyte with sheltered frond
strap-like stem stiff and smooth
of the species saccharina a spring-tide
stalk set among substrates shells and stones
8
I the camera turned and caressed
by her slight fingers (the pinky raised)
my viewfinder close to her blue grey eye / I
focus on this kelp-needled novelty feel her breath
wait for the thumb press the electronic click
9
Here is the beach walked in darkness
the fishermen shadows against the moonstruck ebb
fingers laced the sea’s breath in our ears
wave upon wave un-folding on the sand and later
we unfold then draw back in love’s relentlessness
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 4:09 AM UTC
I have fashioned out my worry doll of you,
your hair and eyes richer, sweeter
than the darkest honey.
Now you are borne from my own hand,
you cannot leave me.
I’ve sewn in a heart to keep you warm,—
amber eyes to charm me—
moulded lips from red Edam wax
and pressed them into your cloth cheek.
They do not stay. At night,
my teardrops stain your linen dress
a briny, bitter shade.
The lines I've painted on you bleed and run.
I love you, all the same.
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 6:37 PM UTC
The things we say to one another:
we could
choose
to make them mean something.
I could tell you that I love you,
even though we've never
really met. You could
tell me that you're dying
and it scares you.
We could talk about the rise and fall
of injection-moulded empires,
the rise and fall of your
mother's chest, as she
took her last breath.
We could vow to behead tyrants together.
We could promise
that we'd never fall victim
to that same sickness. We could
compare our hurts and find a
connection
in our mutual pain. We
could try to share our loneliness,
and maybe the world
would be less lonely.
Or at least we could
speak,
like you're a person
and I'm a person, like we're both
made of the same
beautiful, doomed matter,
only separated
by social convention and
accidental skin;
we could say something worth saying.
Instead: plastic bag tax, The Match,
weight loss and where to buy
the best factory-seconds shoes,
the televised finals of something or other,
the rising cost of corned beef, the
obligatory conversation piece
about the weather.
Can't we talk
just a little bit
bigger than this?
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 8:40 AM UTC
superman paid me a visit today
flying through the west window
cape
tights
and all
hang on
he ordered
i did for dear life
my cheek lay cold against a metal-based body
steel and iron perfect as
ever was moulded by natures hand
still i cringed and blushed
i could not touch him so that he would feel
mechanical savior
put me down at the next corner
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 1:13 AM UTC
A spark lit up a thousand skies
And the world stopped in its tracks to watch by
It sprang up and leaped to freedom
A king was born and with it a kingdom
Some hopes were born and some dreams came true
And some pureness crafted to fill the ethereal soul that brew
An idolization of an impeccable being
Was moulded with the best of abilities one could see
A utopia was created for her to dwell
And for her victory came out of its shell
Life greeted her with high spirits and charm
And discovering insight, in a vista she ran
But little did she know that the bitter truth would come to light
The dark times would lurk around and everything fade away from her sight
She was thrown around
And her soul fragmented when a stranger was crowned
Some blood was smeared and life hated upon
When defeat was tasted and a loss great inflicted upon
Some comrades dearest to her left
But innocent was she to realize that in her heart they did rest
She was trampled upon
And with abomination with life was created a deep, strong bond
And with a vengeance she came back
To make life repent for the defeat she had
But soon she realized it was not life's fault
But it was the hardwork that had proved short in her vault
She worked hard and victory she did see
She matured into the impeccable being one had seen
In determination and perseverance she now believes
And now finally the waters of her mind lay at peace
That girl is now so lively
Isn't it you who i am referring to Vahini?
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 2:44 PM UTC
In the stillness of the night beyond one can see,
When the expanse holds the stars for my mid-summer’s dreams,
Where only the presence of the birds of the night calms my spirit
And in such stillness fear preys my soul.
I could only find my wellspring of life quenched to aridness,
And only as a mirage such life exists in my being.
I find my thoughts confined in my deeds of shame or rather
Those that the enemy claims, and so
I find my cries being droplets that befriend my cheeks,
To cease and move on is as building a home as a house of sticks.
For in this journey of mine, the storms rage and roar and in such stillness
I only could hear them call-in thy gentle whispers they are as frequent
As the leaves that drop from a tree in fall.
In the stillness of the night- whom do I call?, when all lifelines
Seem to be on hold.
“Hello it is me speaking-do you recognise, Please be patient, please Hold”.
My mind is in ruins; behind cages for life in the desert has no patience.
Only it persists to feed on my soul and lives on my very last breath-
It is to my wonder that life is not the breath and the heartbeat,
For they continue to live even when life is gone.
I look up to the hill for whence my help cometh from,
Such knowledge is as vast as the sky, when only sand dunes are before my eyes.
However, I look up to the hill from whence my help cometh from,
For in such a hill rest my soul and life that has been redeemed.
Rest the life that is orchestrated and moulded into a perfect ornament.
In such a hill, rest a life that is of harmony, that is of melody ,
that the angels stride before because of its music.
In the stillness of the night, when the stars are shining and the moon
Is half asleep. When the flow in rivers walks in silence and only the insects sing.
I now find my thoughts confided in you saviour,
Even in the valley, the arid deserts and the stormy seas.
I find that you are my source of being-even far beyond what I can see.
Jun 14, 2010
Jun 14, 2010 at 8:29 PM UTC
Okay The Vibe To Write...
Is Now A Part of My Life...
It’s Just A BEAUTIFUL Thing... !!!
When I Start To Think...
And Start Writing Lyrics...
That QUICKLY Sink...
Into Papers Where Ink...
... Display Wordplay...
That Comes From My Brain...
It’s A Vibe That Invites...
..... REALITY Lines.....
RATHER Than THOSE...
Where Lines of WHITE...
Create Mental DOPES...
Who Embrace That Coc’... !!!
Or Yes... *******
That They’re QUICK To CLAIM...
Helps To Keep Them STRAIGHT... ?!?
The Vibe When I Write...
INFLAMES MY BRAIN... !!!
With Things To Say...
About The World Today...
From GREATS Like USAIN... !!!
To Things LESS HUMANE...
That Are NOT So Great... !!!
You Know What I’m Saying... ?
Or..... DO YOU..... ?!?
Cos’ The Vibe When I Write...
Is... NOT For Fools... !!!
Who DON’T Use Their Brain Tool...
So..... Is That YOU... ?!?
One Who’s Confused...
When It Comes To What’s TRUE...
Cos’ The Vibe When I Write...
REJECTS Those In DENIAL...
It’s A Style That Profiles...
A Great Deal MORE...
Than... Peoples’ Green Miles... !!!
It Relates To Flicks...
That EXPOSE How We Live...
But Also Deals...
In Things MORE REAL... !!!
Than Things That Are Filmed...
On... 8 Millimetre Reels... !!!
Because Words I Write...
Do Not Promote Lies... !!!
Or... FALLACIES...
The Vibe When I Write...
Is..... REALITY........
So ISN'T Written To Deceive...
Or Make People... ANGRY... !!!
... It Is What It IS....
So... If The Cap Fits...
You’d Better Deal With It... !!!
You See The Vibe When I Write...
ISN'T MOULDED To PLEASE...
Because THAT ISN’T Poetry To Me... !!!
It’s About Being REAL...
And Relating What You See...
In Ways That Display...
TRUTH And HONESTY... !!!
And Reflections On Life...
All It’s Lows And HIGHS... !!!!
And Those Last Lines...
Are The Things That DEFINE...
Why... Whether Day Or Night...
I Continually Find That My Mind’s Eye...
QUICKLY Provides A Mind Like Mine...
With...
... “ The Vibe To Write “...
Sep 18, 2020
Sep 18, 2020 at 11:44 PM UTC
They were masked
with obedience of terrorism on their lips
shoot people mercilessly
played with their souls
in their eyes, no sign of remorse
that dreaded night
when Mumbai cried rivers of blood
death toll increasing with the politicians giving zero *****
ten men killed approx 164
so many injured
so many scarred
lest we forget them from our hearts
martyrs left a legacy
they were many other than Salaskar, Kamte and Unnikrishnan
They played with blood in
Taj, Oberoi, Cama Hospital, Nariman House, CST and Leopold Café
their minds were moulded to be like this.
the innocent tried to hide in hotel lobbies
she watched her husband die
and then she died a silent death
they shot her unborn child
they ignored the infant's cry
they killed humanity
they came with guns
tied their hostages to a pole
and had fun.
The bomb exploded
shattering all their body parts
nothing but chunks of human flesh here and there
the innocent hid themselves in a room
took up the phone and fumbled words
they found the innocent
and...nothing.
the phone line went dead
6 years later,
we still can't forget
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 7:51 AM UTC
It's that time again.
When rangey youth
in wounded utes
are sent to pick up tin.
Eyes peeled for
shiny mangled bikes
and steely bits
of thing.
I want to see
the crucible
they put it in.
Behold the pearly
metallurgic
mess unfold.
A gleaming steaming
mass of brassy storm
So cooked
and cooled
and coaxed
and clicked
and jewelled
into mercurial form
Then moulded
bright and fine
once more.
This is the
Copper loop
of life we mine.
Eternal
Circulated
Alchemy
Divine.
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 2:30 AM UTC
Perhaps we were both waiting
for words to come from the speechless;
with our hands outstretched, feeling
for some infinite nebula we called love.
I liked the way you saw form in the formless,
a dreamer from the sleeping,
and the ghost from the living
(But the real ghosts and dreamers were us)
Sea-sorrow would sink our ships of wander-lust
And we'd rebuild with planks of heartache;
new sails of empathy and a hull big enough
for everything else in between
Some moments were better than others,
Some forgettable, others memorable
your lips, my eyes, your skin, my skies;
the cavities of silence in our conversations.
I remember, when you tried to blink away the sea-change
Rubbing waves of apathy, so endless
and unrelenting, from your face
Watching you fight the tempest moved me
and my lungs took in so much sin
It made my bones ache with guilt;
the fire of my desires, the prison of my soul.
Perhaps we were both waiting
for the proverbial hand, that infinite warmth,
to reach down from the heavens.
The hand that moulded us;
the hand we slighted for love.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 3:07 PM UTC
.
In braze, silent breeze of dreams incantations,
Shiva arms sway in the forest dark, mushroom,
Cloud, lord with fungi, mosses whose clinging
Shades of branches, braids deep, forking stories
Of old, brooding cauldron Druids, sidles Eastern
Spindrift words of Sanskrit spake, told in veined
Sacred hands unfound, celestial spines, moulded
Green, in the windy monkish statutes of the fallen
And single handed claps of the missionary leaves.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 6:47 PM UTC
A perfect man for me was never moulded by a box,
A box that screamed multitude of labels
To satiate the chaotic minds of society,
A belonging judged by feudality, no rhyme or reason required or questioned.
A perfect man for me was never measured by material things,
He gives abundantly by just being around,
An illuminating source of comfort on the other end listening,
Empathising and leaving a trail of laughter that makes me fall even deeper.
A perfect man for me was never masked crusader (okay, maybe Batman sometimes),
He is maskless for the world to bask in his genuity,
No bounds or limitations set on his acts of kindness and love,
Selfless and generous with his time, blind to any creed or pedigree.
A perfect man for me was never one to run away from problems,
Valiantly facing the raging bulls head on,
Inner strength personified by his poise and determination,
"I will get through this unscathed and no one will stop me".
A perfect man for me was never an owner of a cold crackled heart,
Headstrong, gallantly keeps the family together in a bind of unconditional love,
Lovingly adores his sunshine, making sure she knows she is loved with the same fervour,
Day in and day out, void of complains and pettiness, as the world turns.
A perfect man for me was never perfect,
Owning up to his flaws and shortcomings and being aware of mine,
A cycle that is never vicious but one that is laced with acceptance and non-judgments,
He inspires the best version of myself as he aspires to better himself.
A perfect man for me spells Y-O-U,
And the way that you are is exactly how I love Y-O-U.
Shalini Nayar
24.11.14
(C) 2014
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 9:51 AM UTC
Long and lithe fingers,
comfort moulded into cones,
is where art kisses geometry
and meets one of its own.
Her hands are to touch
manicured and glazed,
you feel home and lost
a Pharaoh now, and next a waif
The nails, you find and wonder
filed for a student and trimmed.
Not a wisp of colour
bare as a bone, naked and skinned.
Snug in a life song,
a pallbearer of untold griefs,
they are a stark sight
of colourless coral reefs.
On but a blue moon,
they’re a savoury rare,
when hungry eyes feast
on the riotous fair.
Why, one day, I ask thee?
She would smile and wouldn’t tell.
‘Never felt like’,
is her No Comment.
May 1, 2021
May 1, 2021 at 12:25 PM UTC