"neologism" poems
I unlove you
I don't care if it's a neologism
It's my heart you imprisoned
And I unlove you for that
You were everything I wanted
Because I love everything you're not
I love it a lot, like a lot a lot
And I love what you don't look like
I've fallen head over heels for
Whose personality you don't resemble
I long for the way your kisses differ
How the *** isn't as curricular
But of course that's not enough
I want to want you
And "you" is an easy word to rhyme with
So that's what I won't do
See how easily I'm distracted away
From what you've got, what I can't say?
Because all I know is what you don't relay
How we share a not-so-bad day
I've got a question... if I may
I should love you for what you've got, right?
For all you are and not for who you're not, right?
If this holds true, we'll descend from the spotlight
'Cause I don't care about who you are, just who you're not quite
I unlove you with my whole heart
And I refuse to dig any further
I like to love everthing you're not about
And I pray that's okay with you
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 2:47 AM UTC
Silent [s]laughter
T
e
m
p
o
s
h
i
f
t
e
r
Blacklight jam session
*I
n
c
e
n
s
e
s
m
o
k
e*
Twirling higher
*******
Everyone’s a rock star
G
r
a
v
i
t
y
free
f
a
l
l
Midnight
basement
hellraiser
Swimming to the drop-off
Red devil eyes
Cereal killer
*******
Everyone’s a rock star
B(eco)me S(eco)ndhand
Obsidian
roller
coaster
Neologism transition
At
night
the
stars
are
stalking
Agrestic retraction reaction
*******
Everyone’s a rock star
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 7:58 AM UTC
So, this is the poem that I will end up writing
when no other poem is willing to do the work.
This is the poem I write when I'm past not
being able to sleep and I'm beyond
even trying. This is born of body burnout.
This unfolds as I unpack myself from
bags beneath by eyes.This is an ugly poem
unfolding from ugliness.
In this poem, I'll make an ambiguous allusion
to someone who is missing. The kitchen
feels suddenly too small.
This may be one of a few kinds of resentful:
parental, psychosocial, rebel-without-a-cause sentimental
but the poem blames something for what it is.
This poem is to say I am not a talented poet.
I'm a poet with a stammer, a non-poet, speech impaired,
a poet with neither the rage nor the riot.
So this poem may even plagiarise, for
not even poets have measured how much
the heart can hold. -Zelda Fitzgerald.
This poem throws itself down the stairs.
It burns down the asylum with stolen words inside.
How do I urge this poem to do better?
I can't, I can only keep writing it.
Writing out my resentment, my restlessness.
Wretchedness, Wanting. I can even break
linguistic, grammatical and syntactical
regulations By capitalising some arbitra-
ry Words and messing with enjambewhatnow.
This poem has found a neologism.
In this poem I CAN RAISE MY VOICE
for my wanting, and then in the same poem
shut my voice into a music box
to leave on your nightstand.
This poem has managed a neat trick. Illusion?
Some rhetoric magic. Some see a rabbit appear from
nowhere. Others see a girl being sawed in half.
.
The best (- though, at what?) could see both
but know it's not really about that.
They know it's about appearing as something
that are you not and that's a craft in itself.
As I or this poem already told you,
I am not a talented poet. I am just a girl
masquerading as someone she's not,
because she doesn't know what she is yet
or wants to be or could be, yet.
She and this poem may seem to have more
to them, to be even interesting,
but both are waiting for you to grow bored.
"
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 1:22 PM UTC
" Vivid"
Our Hearts get Vivid to each other
Wish to hold on tight and tighter,
But tight than tighter,
Wish to Neologism unspoken
Loveish words, to explain my feelings.
"Vivid"
I need unconditional vivid love
I got to keep it real vivid...
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 3:25 PM UTC
The manic pixie dream girl of my youth
Curving and tight, scampering along the beach
Her wild black hair flying about as she danced
Teasing all the boys with her sunlit joys
I read to her Rod McKuen by candlelight
While Joni Mitchell on the turntable mused
We played and smoked, and drank good screwcap wine
And played some more, and then she went away
And now - an old lady in a funeral home pew
And I’m not so sure of myself anymore
(“Manic pixie dream girl” is a neologism attributed to film critic Nathan Rubin)
Apr 28, 2019
Apr 28, 2019 at 3:05 PM UTC
i feel like i'm dreaming
all the time
like somebody took it upon themselves to throw words at a wall
and turned what stuck into doo-wop scatting nonsense
which was then assembled gracelessly into a scathing neologism
something that scrambles into some semblance of an inner monologue and circles my tongue like treacle or a lab rat's ****
and if this is the scattered fantasy that my brain cells have scraped together from that primordial soup
then i don't think i want to wake up and see the aftermath of what feels like an eternal loop
but it's so scary to live life like a browning dulux colour swatch
businessperson's rolex watch
vignettes of vague consciousness vitally percieved through a time machine of moments and a swelling kind of grief grieved
for the moments inbetween that are lost and i'm pristine in an ocean of dark marine wondering where in my head my emotions and i have been
i can't ******* remember what i had for breakfast but i can recall that i feel like i've come last
in some kind of riddle where the clues are in a language i don't speak but could read with practice and anguish and the rhyming becoming more linear and fluent but i wish i could tell you what i said's congruent
to this fairytale drowsing that makes me feel alone and i think therefore i'm in a state to atone
i can't wake up
i'm going to throw up
similarly i think that i don't want to show up
tomorrow
i'll see you when i'm better or better yet never but it won't last forever
right?
Mar 31, 2019
Mar 31, 2019 at 5:23 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
A Cup of Tea in the Hand,
a Pointless Neologism on the Lips
“Tea is one of the mainstays of civilisation”
-George Orwell, “A Nice Cup of Tea,” 1946
In the afternoon (and you can look this uppa)
I don’t want a teafluencer; I want a cuppa
Feb 28, 2021
Feb 28, 2021 at 10:46 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
Atheist Chaplains Forging Mixed Metaphors
“Atheist chaplains are forging a new path in a changing world”
-CNN 7 November 2024
One seldom thinks of chaplains at a forge
Work-weary, work-stained from hours of smoke and sweat
With mighty hammer strokes bending hot iron
To the will of the artisan in useful things
Some writers forge nothing but metaphors tired
From overuse, and mixed as verbal soup
In music, art, literature, and life paths can be
Cleared
Paved
Traveled
Surveyed
explored
Followed
Noted
Marked
Mapped
Found
But it is not in the nature of paths to be forged
Atheist chaplains and metaphor soup
Are nothing more than an ouroborosian loop
(Look upon this fresh metaphor and neologism
And despair)
Nov 8, 2024
Nov 8, 2024 at 5:08 PM UTC