"nitpicking" poems
Many times I get asked what anime is. I wear anime t-shirts, I watch it with glee, I fantasize about it and have conversations about it as well. I go to conventions, I discuss it with my friends nitpicking at strong foes, and I even supported toonami coming back. Yet this question of what anime is always makes me pause. What is anime? I always think about it and I am always unsure of it. It's almost like theaters and movies, anime has many genres such as drama, romance, and even tragedy. Yet sometimes people argue that anime is nothing more than a cartoon. I could say that cartoons are only meant for kids but anime includes that as well. I could say anime has different art styles, but the same could be said for cartoons as well. I could say anime is more Japanese oriented but anime has no limitations. People question it however the same could be said of theater. Why do people love tragedy? Why do people wish to see a girl die from cancer? Why do people wish to see a couple being put through a lot? Why do people enjoy death? Anime has many genres like theater, anime has death, tragedy, and yes even **** Do not judge anime by it's differences, do not say it's simply a cartoon. Because to some people it is their theater, their muse, their life, and their dreams and inspirations.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 12:59 AM UTC
I like calm in my eyes,
They don’t wander anymore,
Searching for something ,
Picking and nitpicking ,
The small troubles of the world.
I love the silence of the void,
It hums me into its stillness,
Takes me everywhere and nowhere,
Places beyond these dimensions,
Away from the all the chatter.
I adorn the nothingness,
It puts a blissful countenance,
It fills my senses to contentment,
I want it and yet it’s nothing I want,
It sends me to the above and beyond.
I feel this harmony within,
Tugging and pulling my strings,
Arranging the notes of my being,
A harmony born out of chaos,
And synchronised into a melody.
My kindled life shining bright,
I see everything in its wholesomeness,
Untouched by the worldly elements,
I embrace now that exists in nothing,
This universe leads me to everything.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 3:42 PM UTC
Tricho-tillo-mania.
It rolls quite nicely off the tongue
Like the type of disease one with
Deep seated fears and complex facades
Would possess
When did this bad habit begin and form?
Has is always been silently lurking within this body?
Ready to pounce on any destructive opportunity
That would arise from my gut
Tricho-tillooooo-maniaaa.
I can overcome it, I know I can
Wait no, an hour went by and oh
Another pile of discarded hair on the floor
Again. And again.
If this luxurious mane of thick, dark hair is so
Admirable and wanted.
Why can I not stop plucking it from the very
Fibers of my skull’s skin?
Tricho-tillo-mania.
Keep it up and there will be naught
A single strand left on top of this girl’s head
My fingertips are aching and raw
Pleading with me to stop this
Nitpicking of these brown straws
Even as I type my nails
Scratch and burrow into my flesh
Pricking and prodding for what?
I wish I knew so I could tell you.
Trichotillomania.
Maybe my innermost desire
Is to rip this bruised skin and broken hair off my body
Until I am nothing more than a hot, ****** mess
Of congealed, dripping, internal organs
And a new case of polished, refined
Poreless, porcelain skin
and ruby- red sensual lips
Could **** me up and out of it
A perfect stranger would emerge
Free from my vice and sin.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 11:23 PM UTC
Honestly. I'm tired of hearing it. Who are you? What are you going to do in life? How will you make your mark? What will you amount to?
That's not a real career. Have you thought about something else as a more practical career? You won't succeed.
How can I think freely if all my thoughts are full of holes? Everyone nitpicking them until they no longer exist, what's the point of even trying?
How can I succeed if everyone pushes me back into my bubble? What am I supposed to do if I can't even leave? No one expects me to leave, either.
How am I supposed to get anywhere if I'm surrounded by high expectations? What am I supposed to accomplish? I can't get anywhere today. The bar's too high. All I can do is complain. Is this really all I can do? It's so... awful. It's a bother. It's a nuisance. I hate it. What am I meant to be?
Apr 7, 2021
Apr 7, 2021 at 10:10 AM UTC
I.
Prideless, they tore railroad men’s brown *******
lurking the thirsty Kenyan banks.
Red moonlight sluiced from brambles and linen skins
pressing upon tawny flesh, igniting fire of feline eye.
Imperious, they patrolled the union jack encampment
lingering in shadows of long-labour’s dreamless sleep
until the smoldering campfire morning
when one hundred hammers lean in one hundred corners.
II.
Maneaters in glass houses can’t throw stony glances—
the power to haunt having run off with the ghost.
Now, they reign over the acrylic savannah
sneering—not out of regal disdain, but mild discomfort
from dust mites nitpicking at tautly taxidermed pelt.
Rebel eyes that halted an empire now cast
dull marble stares at fossils in the floor
and derailed trains of un-terrified school-children
near a hissing robot-box called Mold-A-Rama
spewing magma into plastic tyrannosaurs.
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 8:06 AM UTC
my name is brandychanning the writing drips over the side of the coffee mug,
dripping stains upon its ceramic clean whiteness,
making me love the perfection of its perfect~rounded simplicity
even more…to love even more…
what a great thing
that is, must be, to love beyond loving, even more,
makes me morning giddy at the possibility that at
anytime, or even at any any you will offer me an
elixir to turn dross into injectable gold, thrilling me
for real down to my tingling toes that I laugh at my
very own foolishness and immensity of possible that
this
poem spilled out when I spilled my coffee and was born
in totality, and received like an infant in a straw basket
floating down the Nile, where a princess (yeah, yeah,
was a princess before becoming a Queen, no nitpicking),
pulled me from the bulrushes flanking a wide snaking
powerful river, aged in its own right, dress in a hurry,
out, out with no destination other than LA sun on my
face, a calming force to my warnings of rapid heartbeat
Apple Watch informing on me, so yes, I need your comments,
need your knowing attention to reassure this sharing is
worth something to you, that this too
is a possibility immensity.
so here’s that poem:
even more,
even any,
any any
for real
my
very own
possibility immensity*
Nov 22, 2023
Nov 22, 2023 at 1:54 PM UTC
I had almost forgotten,
The lines between the lines,
Details in dreary designs,
Perpetual persistent patterns,
Relentlessly resilient repetitions.
Why would you come now?
To remind, reminisce or read,
Reckless racks of reads.
All- knowing knocking knight,
A random reckoning recites.
What are these questions?
You ask, alter and annoint,
These dreadful death dreams,
And plough out pangs of pain,
Of a wilted and withered world.
Can't allow this anymore,
Lose this loathful lust of yours,
That belittles my boistrous being,
Paint a pretty picture please,
Let go and leave, one last time.
I live in a different universe,
Of my wonderful whimsical wishes,
Floating over my fantastic fairy tale,
Never nitpicking the neverending nows,
The happy hopeful and happening hows.
May 19, 2019
May 19, 2019 at 12:37 PM UTC
i cry,
i cry,
i cry for a life time over the million times i died when i used to try.
I mourn,
I mourn,
i mourn for the innocence that hovered and the promises they sworn.
I lift myself up
and
ask why?
Why would there be an answer except lies.
They don't realize the harm done
and how my soul got undone.
This all was mundane
yet you had fun.
will the nitpicking of my flesh ever stop?
will the conquest for my blood ever stop?
Another few questions to ask
yet no answers to give
none ever will
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 5:25 AM UTC
“many who are first will be last, and the last first.” Mark 10:29
the mixed drink of finance terminology
my stock and trade, or,
used to be anyway, when I was gainfully employed,
intersects with a place I don’t habitually frequent,
seeing as I am an Old Testament kinda guy
dollars to doughnuts,
this errant thought makes me smile,
the devil and me (a/k/a the devil in me)
have a warm milk with KAHLÚA,
in the dead of night, across the kitchen table,
doing repartee and bad poetree
and biblical textual emendation
on the verse in question
having been present, the devil likes it just the way it is,
but the old nitpicking me always thinking,
a little editing makes the ‘milk’ go down easier,
suggests a reversal of emphasis:
the last shall be first,
for many who are first, will be last
less threatening and the point better made
lead with your right, taught my boxing master,
and the last shall be first is
very right
you see, many call me,
the lender of last resort
which is true enough,
but my preference is best
when addressed as
lender of the first resort
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 6:13 PM UTC
Voices, voices is all I hear
They tell me to come over here
I silently say no
Then they turn into crows
Nitpicking on my skin
Leaving marks of my sins
They laugh and laugh
Their laughters turns into wraths
They throw me against the wall
Feeding me pain like its a brawl
But I don't fight back
All my willpower were taken into a sack
The voices are winning
I am losing
Then you whispered into my ears
Saying to stop drowning in your tears
You lend me your hand
And said we'll fight the voices as we firmly stand
They're gone
Whistling to a mortifying song
You too, soon disappear
I start to fear
I try to feel my way out
But there's no way out
You stole the key
Closed me in the darkness
Taunting me, shoving me into the walls
My heart cracks and out he crawls
He lends his hand
I reached for it but it dissolved into sand
He fades away into my past
I'm free at last.
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 5:07 AM UTC
Sit down at your table for a second visit
I smile without relent
For I know that I am not wanted here
But this is the mask you asked me to wear
Silent, I stand
You have claimed the kitchen as my new home
I scrub each dish until it is sparkling
But the previous chips on each plate are blamed on me
Still, I am not what you want me to be
He tells me to be myself
But, how can I?
When my very nature is considered a crime
I am not submissive; I do not fall under inferiority
I am anything but subservient
Meek
You cannot teach me to shape my personality
It is time for him to choose
Between you two or me
Hopefully one day he will leave
The two of you and cleave to me
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC
All of this is wrong
I should have never fell
I tried my best not to
I swear I really did
I'm now looking for reasons to hate you
I'm searching every corner,
But every time I find something
I fall for it
Nitpicking is useless and messy
And I don't want to hate you
I want you and only you
Every cell and every atom of you
I'm trying to stand against the current
Trying not to fall because of the waves and winds
Because everything you said was so heavy
And I'm trying to take it the best I can
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
We work ourselves to death
Day and night
We pay attention to the tiniest detail
And analyse everything with the utmost rigour
We keep putting things off
So that we can give our undivided attention
To the project in front of us
After successfully completing a humongous project
A project that pushed our buttons
And almost drove us to the verge of insanity
We began another project
After the barest minimum of a break
And yet again, we've pushed ourselves
To the very limit
However, you've not uttered a word of appreciation
On the other hand
You only seem to be intent on nitpicking
Correct this, correct that
And blah blah blah
Seriously, what does it take to satisfy you?
Should we sprout wings and start flying?
Or even better, should we wave a magic wand
And cast a spell
To ensure that each and every whim of yours is satisfied?
Mar 22, 2022
Mar 22, 2022 at 2:06 AM UTC
i try to work with a punctilious
attitude, and be conscientious
but it's tedious bein fastidious
vs. mischievous and pretentious
condescending, persnickety
assiduously, picky people
who keep nitpicking, snippy, sickly while judgemental they're evil
jerks, sedulously deceitful
methodical when diabolical
it's ridiculous how meticulous
these hypocrites are symbolical
is ice, so suffice is a Popsicle
society for sobriety is invidious
i drown in tears while amphibious
are the oblivious, and supercilious
who **** me like the lascivious
but most are naturally perfidious
& birth of its insipid incipience
always was, humans are hideous
and maniacal like puritanical
was a mechanical part of biology
which is like psychology based on astrology, so even mycology
can't explain some guys fungi
and some try to think logically
but being **** about hypocrisy
in thought can be, like ******
to the psyche, a likely lobotomy
cuz conscience is mythological
cuz wealth perpetual, comes to the less ethical so impossible
is altruism, as cynicism feeds the vision of their egotism
til rights far from wrong like paganism is to catholicism
that's why i live metaphysical
A mental visual state that invisible
where happiness is centrical
and by sacrifice isn't divisible
or only seen by our peripherals
cuz it's the only way comin to bliss
the only invention to fight tension for prevention of cuttin my wrists
Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 2:10 AM UTC
You're always in a state of shock
Looking up to a clock
Waiting for bad luck
Patience for your thunderstruck
For that, they called you a moonstruck
The clock starts ticking,
and people keep clicking,
Mining for a nitpicking
Till you start panicking
What would you do if they start picking?
I know you very well
From that single ring of the doorbell
It would be a shame if you said farewell
Cause you don't figure to show and tell
Fear not, you should not be in-shock
Once the clock starts ticking, it will be all good luck
You are meant to be a rainbow, not a moon-struck
A hidden gemstone with a sun-struck
Patience for your thunder-struck
Time will tell, that you have served them well
Now this is a story for your glory
Next to a foundation that will exceed their expectations
The shot that you will never throw like a cloth.
Till the streets are now excitin', especially when you're fightin'
Don't get so sorrow, for there will be another tomorrow.
All is well to say, the road is rough
But I know you're tough.
You're not glass but you're holding a glass
Till you rule a class, to ignore those sass
Till you hold your mass
To a voyage till you forget the dark past.
Life could be beautiful as Veronica said
Three colors did change you
Till you became blue
But you never failed to escape from being suppressed to the blue
As your companion at night
I am amazed by your might
Of singing every octave in the night
You always have the choice to never leave your voice.
Now as I end these words with "A music of the night", should be the title of this voice.
Jul 12, 2020
Jul 12, 2020 at 8:32 AM UTC
I cannot escape death. I mean that in the most literal sense, but also in the most metaphorical.
I keep thinking about writing. I keep thinking about what has been written. I keep thinking and sieving and choosing, nitpicking and weighing. What are the thoughts I want to see the ends of? What are the words I want to be accountable for when I am gone? How do I want to be remembered?
In writing I always seek death.
and that is precisely why sometimes nothing.comes.
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 11:19 AM UTC
It's weird but, you said it,
how you had to close all the doors
like I tapped every railing
and blinked three times.
You only ever wrote in black ink.
I'm two hours early for every
single
train.
I have dreams that I miss them
every
single
night.
You're sorry that you're angry
because you can't settle down.
I chose not to plan anything
that I can’t control.
I remember feeling
my bones hurt, because the pencil
lay sideways
on the desk. And my heart break
just because I couldn't get through on the phone.
Do you see yourself in me?
Could you bear to kiss me,
or would you dry heave
and rinse your mouth out
six times a day
repeatedly?
I’m compulsively
dotting i’s in the main library.
Red bullet points, but my wounds
bleed blue ink. “Wouldn’t it be nice?”
you say
“to be sane for a day?”
I look at you, not really feeling anything.
I find it
frustrating
that you don’t want me
and I’m left counting,
obsessively
nitpicking.
Loneliness is a silence,
a kind of tinnitus, a ringing.
I’m not sure if I’m deaf or
it’s really that no one’s speaking.
“You aren’t worth anything”
We both look up, but
neither of our lips are moving.
It’s an anxious tapping. Midnight
cigarettes so you can
taste
your breath. How else
would you know you were living?
Although
there is nothing to fear but fear,
so I couldn’t fear death.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 11:27 AM UTC
As the language aids in communicating our similarities
Duplicating these unique isolated experiences
Detailing the nuance crevices in the porcelain blur
Moralizing Gods and reflecting design flaws
Finding a mortal prevalence
You attempt to un-speak your empathy
Cuffing your wild uncultured flares
Taking shade in poorly structured bravados
You drum your chest and imitate your father’s voice
Fear starts to take form, as intimacy starts to rust
You are not without love, it’s just peaceful in the void
You replay the conversations
nitpicking the words and intonations
Editing out your rogue sways
Caging the child between a rock and a hard place…
And you go “who says that”
You in your unrefined glory
Your cello-taped memory
You and your poor choice of words
You uncultured swine
Aug 23, 2021
Aug 23, 2021 at 10:46 AM UTC