"outgrows" poems
It feeds and grows within the host;
It stretches the skin and swells the belly;
It dwells as warm as buttered toast,—
This toothless pulp of genes and jelly.
It soils the lair in which it lives
And wallows there within the waste;
And not a single **** it gives
That *** is an ever-present taste.
It sickens her and spends her strength
And causes her, the host, dismay,
Till it outgrows its den at length
And exits in a dreadful way.
And where the creature takes its leave
Is almost too terrible to believe.
O.O
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 2:28 PM UTC
Snails leave their shells
when their bodies have
out grown them.
People leave their shells behind too.
When the soul
outgrows the
body.
People are like snails,
slimy and gross
on
the
outside.
Hopefully we're better on the inside.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 4:43 AM UTC
It’s five thirty in the mirror maze,
and you’re all standing still,
surrounding each other at every angle.
There’s a way out but do we deserve it?
And the answer is no, no we don’t.
So we don’t try it and then it’s just you
and you and you in the mirror maze,
making yourself claustrophobic.
It’s hard to stand yourself in here
and it makes it hard to move.
We spend so much time alone together
that we begin to loathe each other
and then how can we get out?
If we can’t tolerate our self,
how do we leave the mirror maze
and inflict our self on others?
See, it’s better to just stab yourself
in the back three times over.
Let’s call it penance.
Let’s call it a lazy sort of suffering,
a selfish sort of punishment,
a *sorry I’ve been such a bad person
but look at how much of my life
I’m wasting, look, I’m suffering now,
and I know I deserve this, I’m so sorry.
I understand I’m a terrible person.*
We make no attempt to escape the
mirror maze that we’ve made for our self
so the life outside goes rotten.
It withers or it outgrows us,
and still, we’re standing in the mirror maze.
*One day, I tell myself, I’m going to make it.
One day, things will be different.*
But you can’t see it in the mirrors.
See, you’ve tried happiness before
and each time you find that beautiful blue winter,
that purple evening, that wide ocean,
you blink and you’re back in the mirror maze.
In the happy spaces, the mirrors put themselves back up.
Each perfect place and each perfect moment
becomes another mirror maze because we’re so stuck here.
*You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve this.
Why should you be happy? You don’t deserve this.*
I hate you, we tell each other and try to turn our backs
on our self but you can’t do that in the mirror maze.
We ought to be sad. Why aren’t we sad enough yet?
It’s unproductive, it’s toxic, it’s pathetic,
all this self-inflicted sadness, but aren’t we
all supposed to hate the girl in the book
who refuses to be sad? I don’t know what to do anymore,
so today’s yet another day gone, six o’clock in the mirror maze,
wearing yesterday’s bad feelings because new ones don’t feel right.
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 7:11 PM UTC
As cavemen with half-yard sticks
smudging soot on open rock
they hunch
over carcasses of donut boxes
(the wax paper skin folded,
use all parts of the animal)
and grunt in chorus.
stocks are down this quarter,
(anger of the Gods)
sacrifice to the sun,
perform the ancient gymnastic of
rain dancing while kissing up
let the blood ink river run
smooth and whole
pray our intake outgrows
our categorized expenses
let there be profit
(the vesper smoke stings
with the haunting of paygrades
and budget cuts)
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
this is a poem
about Nothing
but in being about Nothing
it is about Something
this is a person
walking Nowhere
by walking Nowhere
their endpoint will be Somewhere
this is a child
with No One
once this child outgrows No One
they will find Someone
everyone in this world
gets caught up in the Now
in the Nothing
but what people need to see
is that if you look a little deeper
a little in the future
there will always be Something
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 12:07 AM UTC
I
At night, I search for the wrench
I lift it off my nightstand
I lie down on the workbench
the cool weight held in my hand
what I must loosen first is my knee
lull myself to a state of repose
leg is a swollen trunk of a tree
placidity the pain soon outgrows
ache that is green
ache that is ivy,
ache that is wrapping
around me
entirely.
being disarming,
the way that a friend will--
in no way harming,
I pry up one tendril,
My ache and I have just locked eyes
I turn my bolt counter-clockwise
just one half turn.
making way t’ward release,
pain is adjourned
to finally find peace
II
And in the factory,
It seems I was wound too tightly
Deemed satisfactory
Now, I relieve pressure nightly
The bolt pushes in such a way
it leaves the metal bent
Relief is not given away
but instead it is lent
pain that is sharp
pain that goes squish,
pain that is swimming
around me
like fish.
The pain in my head
a pain bright white
Will surely spread
If not done right
My head and I sob, throb, and cry together
And then I finally sever the tether
spin one full revolution,
Though I know it's unwise,
Lets in nightmare pollution
Maybe last night’s reprise
III
At night, I will always search for the reasons
Why is it that bad things happen to good people
I lie down and lament each of the seasons
If it’s about church, I’m skewered on the steeple
Now plaguing me is my dear heart
O! Please don't think me frigid
It’s how to be, if you are smart
Walls that throbbed become rigid
want that is lace
want that is divine,
want that dissipates
completely
in time
Wincing at every twinge
Heart so hollow it awards me pain
Lace is fraying at the fringe
Meteor in my orbital plane
said it flutters and feels flighty
prescribed one spin righty tighty
Then, compact are the loves I hold,
Locked in my heart airtight
No space empty or left cold
I wish you all goodnight
Dec 3, 2020
Dec 3, 2020 at 5:06 PM UTC
We’re riding,
feels more like flying,
because this car,
feels more like a spaceship,
used to ride in a hybrid with eyes red,
now I ride a Tesla clean as a whistle,
used to use the pen as a sword,
now I use my laptop as a missile,
sorry I’m not sorry if I missed you,
didn’t intentionally diss you,
just been focused zoning on my poems,
keeping it going with my mind on the mission,
listen,
this is the future,
most are out to lunch better catch up,
this isn’t a **** it sandwich this is blessing dressing,
not an invalid salad but an important portion so pay attention when addressing us,
fck,
trying not to cuss too much,
but what the fck,
sometimes too much isn’t even enough,
probably heard that before,
probably didn’t know that was my line,
see when over a million people have read your words,
your words get rewritten time after time,
rewritten but not bitten see there’s a difference,
and yeah I know that the difference is a line and that line’s fine,
and it’s crossed when the message is lost and the spirit leaves the body,
but it’s not when I hear the words repeated in songs and I know those words are mine,
because when I know other people also know albeit sublimely,
I guess that’s what happens when your work outgrows you,
when you hear words you wrote in songs and quotes,
and it gives you that potent mix of anxiety and adrenaline,
which leads you to speeding by throttling the clutch like a throat,
heading north on America’s most west coast road,
going 100 MPH with no MPG up the PCH,
no MPG because the ride is all electric,
like we are running in this lifelong race,
racin’ with Jaden we ride out to our Topanga hideout,
got a whole 10 acre mountain top up there,
where we go to get ghost when we need to get away from foolish folks,
from their flashing lights Hellish cellphones and all their blank faced phony stares,
riding,
feels more like flying,
because this car,
feels more like a spaceship…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Dec 10, 2017
Dec 10, 2017 at 9:22 AM UTC
so sometimes I'm just right,
cold, calculating and perceptive.
and sometimes I can't make it through the night,
policing my thoughts and perspective.
But tonight is a night of freedom and purity,
closing the doors to opression,
spilling inpure and conformist thoughts,
and avoiding resurrection.
smoking and snorting and popping and coughing,
breathing, decieving, and barely talking,
focused now.
never later.
still breathing this atmosphere of pure hatred.
can't see past my hands in this tomb,
alone i lay and quietly consume,
every last one of them.
I've let them all go.
the part time, doin time, ebb and flow of cold.
growing old.
when I finally outgrow this taste in my mouth,
i'll be able to breathe.
when she finally outgrows me maybe she'll leave.
never looking back, always forward,
never late.
she quietly escapes the debate of our fate.
never look back kid,
cause your soul might turn blue,
tied tight with saran wrap wrappers,
duct tape and glue.
Aug 17, 2010
Aug 17, 2010 at 8:29 PM UTC
As every day begins
My heart beats with anticipation
With every call I make
There is a spring in my step
However, all good things come to an end
As the day wears on
The white clouds fade away
And are replaced
By monstrous, jet black clouds
With every call I make
My shoulders droop
My eyes lose their lustre
My hands begin to shake
My voice begins to falter
As the rain of despair begins
My mind loses its focus
I lose all sense of direction
The pile of work on my desk
Grows taller and taller
Until it outgrows Mount Everest
Just when I begin to think
That things can't get any worse
My boss cranks up the pressure
To such a level
That my heart beats faster and faster
I begin to splutter and choke
My mouth begins to foam
My face starts turning blue
With a rapidly shaking hand
I stagger towards my water bottle
Tripping and almost falling on the way
Eventually, with a supreme effort
I manage to prise the bottle cap loose
As I take a gulp of water
I spill a few drops on the floor
Very slowly and steadily
My breathing begins to return to normal
But not before my heart is filled
With a deep desire
To hear the three magic words
"You are fired"
Jun 10, 2019
Jun 10, 2019 at 10:46 AM UTC
Strong roots give you wings,
so you can learn to leave behind
what you’ll gladly come back to.
Love will raise you up,
so you can discover destiny
without fear of falling.
Nowhere is as everywhere,
and no-one is as everything
as this home and family of yours.
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC
The Shrinking Season
by Michael R. Burch
With every wearying year
the weight of the winter grows
and while the schoolgirl outgrows
her clothes,
the widow disappears
in hers.
Originally published by Angle. Keywords/Tags: schoolgirl, outgrows, clothes, widow, disappears, winter, time, shrinking, season, atrophy, emaciation, bone, loss
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 5:12 AM UTC
Tears rinse ash from her cheekbones
Understanding outgrows hostility
And each from this tapering path
Finally separate.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 8:22 PM UTC
Sometimes, when love grows,
it does not run wild, like haphazard branches
of a tree you wanted to stand beside.
It does not unravel like a birthday present,
hidden deep under layers of suspense,
and adventure.
It does not swirl around the world like a rainbow,
celebrating first touches, accidental eye contacts,
and naked phone calls.
Sometimes, when love grows,
it grows like the lines of a poem which once marked
tombstones around your heart.
It sticks like a fresh bruise under your feet,
and makes you want to run,
behind butterflies and stars.
It grows like a seed in your throat,
every-time you gulp, it scalps a little skin,
and heart.
Sometimes, when love grows,
it outgrows you.
– Mayank Arora
II. Sometimes, love dies.
Sometimes, love dies like the falling autumn leaves
That swirl in a storm
And before you know it, the summer is over.
Sometimes, love dies like the ever widening spaces in midnight phone conversations,
Just like the crackle over the line swallows your soul,
Love swallows you whole.
It’s musty rankness creeps up on you in the middle of your third dance,
When your lipstick begins to fade and the cocktail has gone stale.
Love fails.
Sometimes love reeks of broken dreams
And heaving, bruised promises.
It stinks of the clamor for survival against all odds. Though it boasts of battle sores,
Sometimes, love loses the war.
Sometimes love dies,
Fading away faster than the colours of the polaroid
That made love grow in the first place.
Sometimes, love renders lovers faceless.
Sometimes, when love dies,
It ends the lies,
Just so you can live a little.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 12:50 PM UTC
And life brings together
Sing. Dance. Love. Listen.
Feel the rhythm. Feel the ride.
A roommate previously unknown
begins to unpack,
curiosities scattered across the speckled dorm floor
unsure whether friend or foe mirrors her actions.
A match is lit as a friendship is kindled
starting slow and beginning to grow
until a towering flame outgrows the pit built
it thunders into all areas of existence.
A deluge drops
the wood is separated,
but the flames roar on.
And life tears apart
Write. Call. E-mail. Visit.
Clinging to the joy etched in memory.
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 4:01 PM UTC
If Dawkins were right
And faith is a farce
A human construct
If Nietzsche were right
And man has outgrown God
As a child outgrows his toy
Then all this
Hemming
And
Hawing
Would have all been in vain
All ****** folly
And this time could have been put
To better use
Courting you
And we would be
So very happy
Together.
~
Yet if the scriptures were right
And we are spirits made flesh
Having appointments with divine destiny
Then you are but a thought
A temptation
Testing me
An exaltation against His knowledge.
A boon you are not
But a bane.
And I am to nail it all
To the foot of the cross
Just as how I am to nail my flesh,
My sinful nature,
To this altar.
And in Him
Shall I find all-transcendent peace.
For putting the Kingdom first,
Shall I receive His best.
~
That is,
If.
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 6:01 AM UTC
just a bit like waves,
it comes and goes and never stay;
over the raging sea,
submerged betwixt the depths of me.
a flashback hits abruptly,
a deserted memory,
caresses like a touch, weakly,
can be delineated only just by me.
either conveniently registered,
or an untimely occurrence;
bears an optimistic euphoria,
or a somber ache.
like an old pal,
that was left astray;
a memory is only lived once,
but never forgotten.
like a ghost, in a glimpse,
it vanishes away;
a devoid mind is a devil's play,
a new seed outgrows and takes its place.
Nov 24, 2020
Nov 24, 2020 at 4:06 AM UTC
There are times
When you work your hardest
When you burn the midnight oil
Yet, it is not enough
Because, the pile of work besides you
Grows taller and taller
Till it outgrows Mount Everest
As you process this
And arrive at a decision
That the first thing to do
Is to take a nap
In order to clear your head
And ensure your mind is fresh
You receive a call
From that hated client
Your nemesis-in-chief
For years and years
A client that has pushed you
To the very brink
On a number of occasions
A client that has kept you on your toes
Only to pull the rug from under your feet
At the eleventh hour
As you take the call
You hope against hope
That they are bringing good news
But your hopes are brutally dashed
As they inform you
With apparent smug satisfaction
That your candidates
Who have been interviewed
After more than a month of inaction
Are all rejected
Thus, you have to start all over again
And **** Just like that
All those months of hard work
Have gone down the drain
And that is not all
This is merely an addition
To the gargantuan pile of work
That lies on your desk
As you take another look at it
You feel ready to pass out
To all those who've read till here
This may come as a shock
However, the reality is
This is just a day in Recruitment
Dec 14, 2021
Dec 14, 2021 at 11:09 PM UTC
There is sadness when the poem does not appear
on print. The sadness outgrows the present
and escapes drudgery.
There is sadness when silences of evenings
weigh heavily on times that are hurt.
Hurt because of what is happening.
What? When a child sees the dead of a road
is swallowed by breathing water.
There is sadness when a country re writes history
indefatigibly, unerroneously. A country which shares
burden of colonial discontent.
There is sadness when a friend's jealous looks at mine
when the poem is finally published.
The poem is actually published.
Sadness persists in aftermath.
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 11:43 AM UTC
Changes and grows and bores -
The seasons, as fall does spring,
Wishing for adventure and fun
When life is repetitive boring,
Wishing for dull and familiar
When life is fast unpredictable,
Discontent with the old taken
New is wished for, thus craving
This will be the human heart -
Always wanting, always depart
Of contentment, and always it
Finds change and changing, yet
Stills for a time enough to rest
Makes way for the new but does
Forget not the old and rusted,
It finds, it claims, it renews, and
It outgrows, rots, buries for new,
This will be its gifted curse living
Until its last very beat breathing
Fickle, want, and sentimental,
Human hearts as molten metal
As forever shifting unto death
Accursed gift of everlasting unrest.
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 7:05 PM UTC
A child assumes adults' superiority
Hero worships older members of the family
Absorbs opinions overheard over teas and coffees
And tries them on for size at school
Just as he might sneakily try on an Uncle's cool leather jacket
- comforting, macho and confidence-giving -
But he eventually outgrows the jacket
Casts aside those learnt opinions;
Tough, stubborn opinions
With rugged exteriors
And lined with silken narratives
That, thankfully, perished over time.
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 5:50 PM UTC
Let us accept this pain
and some fear
it will heighten autumn colors
crack of clean air
black crows in blue sky
lake.
Rather than fight pain, falling
asleep in front of tv,
understand the full
import of its situation
in the body. Blessed
once, cursed now
only fear prevents
full knowledge of experience.
The gray sky brings
winter, no blame.
The poet writes a few last poems
or continues to live with his pain.
In itself pain does not oppose
life, and may enhance it
or build character, create
wisdom. But too much fear
chokes the throat and burns
the eyes. It
destroys the last free
assessment of life.
--------------------------------------
Now I am going to live in my body
as it is, almost fearlessly
running in pain, working
to abandon immortality
as a hope, conceiving
sunset after sunset
feeling what I feel.
On the streets I meet
many beautiful young women
curious to a certain extent
what makes a man older.
I can only say ten years
and the hand that reaches through
the cloud. I can say
only the knowledge of mortality
which makes us brothers and sisters
with the animals. And only
the acceptance which gives us wisdom
to couple often and lovingly.
How am I going to live every day
as my last, hoping happiness
outgrows fear by an ounce
or enough? By running, writing
and loving. By moving uphill
and downhill like a bear.
By committing my last words
to a powerful lord. How
do the clouds accept my dead
self? A rock thrown, a crow.
--------------------------------------
When I am old
young girls will not be frightened anymore.
I will invite them
to my seat and tell
about the women I knew.
I will tell about
the clothes they wore
and how they earned a living.
I will try to remember
what was important to them
and if they had a favorite color
or knew how to divine.
Maybe I live and maybe I don't.
The smoke is white or black.
The winds are bright or dark.
The coins are heads or tails.
What have I been afraid of?
Death is most of all like sleep.
We spend so long apart
after briefly knowing ourselves.
I need you to know myself
and without you all I know
is sun.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 10:20 AM UTC
Wishing 19 was never not a dream.
Tired of Dying = Near or Far without U scares me to not take these fears away and explores the I.
Tried to pick up the phone, but I failed not wanted to hear my howlings of this hard goodbyes.
Wishing your eyes on I = Wanting U with mine
Kills me growing apart = Making I, the heart outgrows of U
Kills feels like sleeping with nothing to ease U and theses Blues
Wanting = U & I will be weary
U& I = Only Wanting to be.. Wanting to be like my little pocket diary.
Jul 31, 2019
Jul 31, 2019 at 5:32 PM UTC