"outsiders" poems
Humans are by nature
unappeasable no matter their behavior.
As a conformist
We threaten outsiders,
Yet long to be our own person.
And individuality is no better,
We long for acceptance of
The group we once called home.
That is the nature of humans,
We viscously treat
those that are not like us.
Its no wonder so few are happy
with such constant inner confliction.
Because the human mind is
a kingdom ruled by two fears,
Fear of the unknown,
And Fear of rejection.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
What puts a smile on my face
is a smile on yours
When we sit and talk
and your problems you pour
I like you even more
when the same you do for me
When you say, "I understand,"
you're the friend of the century
I welcome your presence
because every moment counts
Time with you is like love
taken in large amounts
There's no such thing as too close
You never stray too far
What I really like about ya
is that you know who you are
You never spend your time
trying to convince others
that you are nice and kind
You just let them discover
We know where we stand
Outsiders need not apply
They see not what I do
when looking at your eyes
We connect on a level
different than most
You're my constant guest
I'm proud to be your host
You and me together
is so uncomparable;
what dreams are made of
or a love parable
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
Anxious
Dull, a boy is he
names he would not plea
eyes like baby blue-
lips a crimson hue
Feelings like me and you
Reclusive
Outsiders he'd not choose
In his mansions he bore
luring himself-
with enchanting lore's
drifting away, loosing woes
A Xenos
Traveling in his hallways
unknown, ominous
a wretched life he portrays
even in his heart, he'd say-
"Loneliness, such a Cliché"
Forsaken
Befriended, unseen
though he's not a devil
-for I believe
tortured, battered on thee
delude by his mistress' skim
He Left
portals out from misery
gone himself eagerly
then comes back, with such
-A Victory
for now, a statured man is he
Knights & Kings
upon bended knees
and everything he please
from a man to a boy
-in a dream
A Castle, now he redeems
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 7:48 PM UTC
A strange kind of people
whose hegemonic ways dictate
and justify them
to exhort their rituals upon outsiders
and breathe fire on those
who refuse.
They have people called Slareneg
whose job it is to decide the fate
of the outsiders.
They claim to be receptive
of foreign rites
but are known to somehow be able to
coerce others into
blindly discerning matters their way.
They even have a history of
confining their own,
the ones they care not for at least,
to do their bidding for them
even though they are of akin heritage.
These people also defecate in the same place
where they consume meals.
They are backwards.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 1:20 AM UTC
I am a controlling boyfriend.
No, I am not a male, nor do I have a girlfriend to abuse. But I am the crazy stalker controlling boyfriend.
I have realized something in myself:
I am free with my boy and his casual flirtations, but am extremely jealous and possessive of my girls, when I have one.
Or even in my present case of not having one, I want to possess her as she has possessed me. I want all your time, all your thoughts, as you inhabit mine.
“How do you handle the jealousy??" It's funny, I don't get jealous when I have both partners in my bed, or in my arms. That is when I’m most content.
I get jealous when outsiders are flirtatious or show interest. It's also funny, I'm more annoyed when people flirt with him thinking he’s unattached.
I don't get it either; just a quirk of mine.
Perhaps my nonchalance with my boy is merely grown out of our time together. In nearly seven years, not one has managed to create a rift. Those who have tried have failed, and he and I have come out the better.
Patience is a virtue I do not possess, and the longer I go on incomplete... mayhap my own fears make me dig my claws into a new potential. Fear that someone else will charm such a rare unicorn away from me/us, and we’ll be left again, searching.
Nor is this a new feeling, for this young woman. A year ago, I felt the same overwhelming possessiveness. Then again, it would not do to compare the two; they are two different people, who hold different qualities.
The bitter jealousy I now project I have tasted before. The shock that I’ve become my own controlling high school boyfriend fills me with disgust.
Unbeknownst to her, I imagine her not only in my bed, in my arms, in my life… but also on my knee. I’ve never before considered someone as both lover and submissive.
Unbeknownst to me, would that make my jealousy grow or fade, were I to possess her in every way I’ve imagined?
Obviously I have some things to work on.
Firstly, finding our unicorn.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 1:46 PM UTC
I love how people in tumblr and instagram managed to present a life behind those lovely photographs and beautiful writings – as if it was perfect. How they can present a perfect and attractive life with a great effort. Sometimes there’s a sudden envious within you, until you realized that not everything you see is true. Instagram or tumblr become the home of people who cover the truth with perfect photographs and beautiful words.
I could relate to a certain extent whenever I post something beautiful in social networking sites. People appreciate you and adore you, but there’s a whole part of your life, vsco could never saturate or cover and your audience would never know. Your life may look so perfect in the eyes of the outsiders, but you know that there’s a hole in your heart that photographs and words could never fill.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 1:51 PM UTC
I let you go
to Philadelphia
I let you go
thirteen goin' on “life”
to your momma-- (God rest her-- and keep you
--from wherever she is)
to your father in Philly
outa the picture
Sheepish in the doorway of my classroom
back again
one last time--
Say good-bye, kid, to your short stay in Scranton
a town that can't rhyme
whose name falls over its own misery
No use for outsiders
“Where's your book?
Found your binder in the rain
Soggy protest to school's demands?
Of course it's yours
I checked, ya know”
"No way!"
Desk's been empty, three weeks now
Still, gotta ask
“Whacha doin?
Where ya been?”
“Khmir,
I'm sorry for your loss....”
Thirty seconds shares our grief
Thirty seconds for your future's-- all I got
“Listen to your teachers!
Do your work!
Please-- be okay?”
Khmir
in your wooly black coat-- like a bear
like a dare
shruggin and dancin in the doorway
of the “show”
Homework? Aint happenin'
But one paper, though
on why--
YOU-- should be president
and I almost vote for you
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 3:24 PM UTC
*stacking the arrows in piles
a triangle of fuego
furnaces blaze fire
infinite reminders
of the morning after
shafts of light
drift from window panes
remake our names in
god’s slumbering veins
from here to there a whisper
or was it a word
fellow companions
have you heard
the threadbare sisters
took their turns
climbing mountains in order
that we could learn
the ways
of green hearted sun-scrapers
sweet little dangers
fellow death chasers
full of music
givers of blooming veils
bouquets of snow and hail
almond shaped eyes
resplendent thighs
and a mind as pure as a lake
during an alaskan winter
in the frozen splinter
trees are taken from their roots
the women are bleeding
weaving you the meat and the story
outsiders are cast from clay into statues
with feminine bodies
curving like cotton candy
i choose to impress you
repeat the compliments
that land on empty stomachs
string together words
like a rosary of sweet nothings
simple deeds give thrilling feats
a chance to restore their honor
purity is unwashed in ***** soil
as i am cut from the cloth of the earth
our shirts are pressed at birth
white light forming fellowship
dimples in the cheeks of the mother
the earth’s bones torn out from under
the way we made ourselves invisible
the minute we realized our accents were noticeable
our actions were abominable
how could we ever repay
the generosity we were treated to
our ultimate needs are met by poetry
upon a ridge a silent figure wept
and held his head upon a bed of cement*
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 2:17 AM UTC
(Author's Note: For those of you who have read "The Outsiders" by S.E. Hinton, here you go.)
I am used to insults
after seventeen long years.
I should be, I create
half of them
and suffer through all of the rest.
I lived in New York for part
of my life, so
I am also used to violence.
I am able to rebel against everyone,
opposing gangs, the Socs,
even my own little posse of greasers.
They are like brothers to me, and
I am willing to lay down my life for them.
Not that I'd ever say that out loud.
I am not without pride
and I have quite the reputation to uphold.
I am rough, tough,
and a guy you want to have
on your side in a rumble.
But at the same time, I have seen to much
for a kid my age.
Fighting, blood, and a good guy getting in trouble
with the law for something he didn't do.
Death is the worst.
I am affected most by this, so I have built up a wall.
I am truly the one on the edge of our gang.
I am an outsider.
I am a greaser, a hood,
and proud of it.
So you can call me what you want to,
but
I am used to insults
after seventeen long years.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 7:50 PM UTC
A fisherman is drifting, enjoying the spring mountains,
And the peach-trees on both banks lead him to an ancient source.
Watching the fresh-coloured trees, he never thinks of distance
Till he comes to the end of the blue stream and suddenly- strange men!
It's a cave-with a mouth so narrow that he has to crawl through;
But then it opens wide again on a broad and level path --
And far beyond he faces clouds crowning a reach of trees,
And thousands of houses shadowed round with flowers and bamboos....
Woodsmen tell him their names in the ancient speech of Han;
And clothes of the Qin Dynasty are worn by all these people
Living on the uplands, above the Wuling River,
On farms and in gardens that are like a world apart,
Their dwellings at peace under pines in the clear moon,
Until sunrise fills the low sky with crowing and barking.
...At news of a stranger the people all assemble,
And each of them invites him home and asks him where he was born.
Alleys and paths are cleared for him of petals in the morning,
And fishermen and farmers bring him their loads at dusk....
They had left the world long ago, they had come here seeking refuge;
They have lived like angels ever since, blessedly far away,
No one in the cave knowing anything outside,
Outsiders viewing only empty mountains and thick clouds.
...The fisherman, unaware of his great good fortune,
Begins to think of country, of home, of worldly ties,
Finds his way out of the cave again, past mountains and past rivers,
Intending some time to return, when he has told his kin.
He studies every step he takes, fixes it well in mind,
And forgets that cliffs and peaks may vary their appearance.
...It is certain that to enter through the deepness of the mountain,
A green river leads you, into a misty wood.
But now, with spring-floods everywhere and floating peachpetals --
Which is the way to go, to find that hidden source?
4.6k
A world, hidden in a lover's eye—
Outsiders ought not to oversee.
It's where anything can come by,
Where ordinary would be a beauty.
Yes, dear reader,
It's the lover's eyes,
A realm much deeper,
Where all the magic lies.
Don't turn away,
Don't shun the flame
Let it softly stay—
It's love, not shame.
Feb 21, 2025
Feb 21, 2025 at 8:12 AM UTC
We were just like stars.
Exploding and crashing into one another.
It was beautiful at first glance.
Like glowing specks dotting the night sky.
But it was painful like deafening explosions.
And ashy clouds suffocating the inhabitants below.
As your hands enclose themselves around my throat.
I used to think that passion came from the heavens
It doesn’t.
It comes from a place of evil not unlike this.
One where wars are fought over control.
And can only be thought of as an enveloping abyss.
One that I know, you no longer miss.
Because now I am yours, with or without consent.
We were like stars glittering, so very far from the rest.
I thought it would last forever, that we would dance
Into eternity, with your hands locked in between mine.
The moon dust splattered like droplets of fresh paint.
Across a vast canvas that was never to be finished.
I was unaware and unprepared for the intensity of
An abusive relationship.
That to outsiders looked like desirable goals.
If they only knew what happened behind closed doors.
We were beautiful, just like stars
But we were just as violent.
With a hauntingly quiet release, a single star fell.
You return to the evil that you call home, but that I call hell.
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 3:23 AM UTC
*one big tear in
the fabric of society,
the shut ins,
the outsiders,
the comic book geeks,
the gamers,
the carefree lovers,
the jokers,
they all want to fit in,
but why would you
want to be on the inside?
the biohazard *******
and ken dolls aren't cool,
they're cruel.*
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 8:31 PM UTC
Less than three denotes a heart
showing love between two teens.
Texting back and forth with words
created out of broken and squished words.
Back with “ilu,” “ilysfm,” “ily,” “ilusm.”
And forth “i<3u,” “ilym,” “ilylc,” “bilu.”
Outsiders don’t understand the slang
but they don’t know,
they do not need to.
Only the two who are in love.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 3:08 PM UTC
You are entitled, they say
I asked for too much on christmas.
I asked for time, and wished for difference.
She stands on stilts and judges outsiders
This is all for you, she claims
From behind the shattered window pain.
I gave birth to you, she says.
You are an adult.
Scratch that.
You are a child.
Strikethrough.
You are a burden.
I am crippled without her
I am broken when she's near
She doesn't want to hear
She's too far gone.
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 11:42 PM UTC
I live in the land
Of the inbetweeners.
We are what
The French would call,
Bourgeoisie.
What the ghetto calls,
Bougie.
What the successful calls,
Day dreamers,
And what we call,
The future leaders.
I live in
The land of rebels.
The people who fought against their oppressors
Because they know the truth behind
Social Darwinism;
And the fact of the matter is
That no race
Is a superior race
Because "race"
Is a manmade idea
To justify the injust
Ideas of slavery.
The rebels who ran out of chains
Because they weren't
Supposed to be chained down.
The rebels who walked midnight railroads
To escape the clutches
Of the white man's burden.
The rebels who refused to stand
In one spot
When there were plenty of seats available.
The rebels who refused
to bite their tongues and
The rebels who refused to be spoken over
Because they had
A lot of important stuff to say.
The rebels who dreamt outrageous dreams,
So that the complexion
Of your pigment
Was never a deciding factor
In your life.
The rebels who refused
to follow unlawful laws
Because they were
Law abiding citizens
Only when laws were just.
The rebels who challenged what was superiority,
The rebels who changed the course of history forever.
I live in
The land of the outsiders
Who conform the
Preconceived ideas
To fit them
We roll small blunts
of white paper
Filled with the words
of novels and poetry
And blow through those books
Inhaling every letter
And letting it cling to our lungs
Flowing the grammar
Throughout our bodies.
We stand spittin
Absolute value bars
Rapping elongated equations
Of X equals
Y +/- root Z
Divided by root A
Times the quantity of
B - C.
We stick up
Banks filled with
Material and instruction.
Stealing all the information we can take
And try peicing it together
So that more than words
We have knowledge.
We **********
Our brains,
Pleasing its sapiosexual
******* with
Grammar and arithmetic.
I live in the land
Of the inbetweeners.
The people making history
In their everyday lives.
The revolutionaries
Who fight for even
The smallest of issues.
The individuals who stand out
Amongst a crowd of people
That look just like them.
The inbetweeners,
They who refuse
To subjugate themselves
To society,
But will subjugate society
To themselves.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC
there are people like you there.
the ones who yell "what the hell"
when there band plays on the
radio because they don't want to
share it with the world.
the ones who don't talk during
class because they simply just
want to be out free not making
up some stupid drama.
the ones who wear what they
want not giving a **** about
how people will look at them in
the hall.
the ones who are the outsiders.
the ones who are
just like you.
h.d.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC
These are outsiders, always. These stars—
these iron inklings of an Irish January,
whose light happened
thousands of years before
our pain did; they are, they have always been
outside history.
They keep their distance. Under them remains
a place where you found
you were human, and
a landscape in which you know you are mortal.
And a time to choose between them.
I have chosen:
out of myth in history I move to be
part of that ordeal
who darkness is
only now reaching me from those fields,
those rivers, those roads clotted as
firmaments with the dead.
How slowly they die
as we kneel beside them, whisper in their ear.
And we are too late. We are always too late.
2.7k
It started in Dublin before I was born
Crossing the Irish Sea to weather a storm.
London called through the wind and rain
Big city lights and a country's flame.
To Manchester then, a city united
At least to outsiders.
But to those within it's somewhat
Divided.
Summers in France.
Dining in Provence
Time in Toulouse
And along the Loire.
But Paris! Paris has that
Je ne sais quoi
Fine wine, fine company
It's a fine philosophy.
A German exchange
*in einer stadt namens
Bad Bentheim.*
Exposed to a culture
And the work of Rammstein.
A few days in Berlin
A fantastic city with much
History within.
Gondolas in Vienna if only for a day
Sailing down the Danube
Water wants us on our way.
We stay for a while
Within the walls of Budapest,
My first shot of Absinthe
Puts my liver to the test.
No rest for the wicked
That wanderlust I long.
Settled for a while by the lights of
Hong Kong,
A place I felt for a while at peace
High in the Monastery of Lantau's peeks.
I went once and I went again.
When wizened crones speak of golden devils,
Stroking my blonde hair on the streets of
Shenzhen.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
the stifled sound rumbling on the tip of my tongue eager to come out.
It roars with happiness and excitement from what it seems.
But behind that exotic laugh is a soul. The laugh hides the soul keeping it hidden from outsiders.
The laugh keeps a delightful smile on someones face. Everyone wants to feel happy..even if it is for a split second.
That laugh takes your mind away from the dreadful thoughts of suicide or the painful outlook of what is called you life.
The laugh takes away the pain as if were an antidepressant.
But what happens when the laugh stops...that dreadful pain resumes to what is reality as it consumes your identity as a whole.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 9:17 PM UTC
The most you left the house in a week
was a peek out the screen door
All those exposed scurry about out
there and falsely carry your irrational fears
You think they care to judge you ?
Are you reading their minds
from a passing bored glance?
half read pages cracked open spines
books don't talk back or have eyes
You watch tv all day long avoiding
real human contact .
So proud of the few phonecalls
that you make and take
as if you had allowed yourself
to meet outsiders from another world
Stop avoiding life and don't waste time on tv
organize , clear your clutter seize the days
these hopeful fresh days without obsessing
about things you can't change
exchange tv remote for will and action
come alive honestly out of your moonburned
pale skin
pity filled shutin
go with purpose
brave worldly wounds and heal all at once
don't be just a phonecall
Apr 4, 2010
Apr 4, 2010 at 8:31 PM UTC
Inside my four walls,
Not much is seen.
The same people day after day,
Their actions always precise and clean.
"What's out there?" I wonder,
"Outside of my four walls?"
"Only horrible things," my tenants explain
"It's a place you don't belong."
When my bricks were fresh, this was enough
To help me press wearily along.
"What's out there?" I wonder still,
"Outside of my four walls?"
My curiosity eventually overcame my build.
I needed to experience the outsiders' guild.
My bricks ached, my woodwork choked,
Until finally
clouds birds sun wind lights chatter
These sights and these sounds,
Some beautiful and some not,
Flung debris on the ground
And to my architecture brought
A beautiful hypethral view
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC
I've spoke of the Pork Rind
And my love for it's crunch
Now I must give due credit
To whom I'm having for lunch
The Pig or the "Porkster"
In my circle he's fondly called
But to all the outsiders
He is simply known as the Hog
He comes in many flavors
Bacon, Chitlins, or Ham
There's even an air of mystery
In the can known as Spam
He's at all the major holidays
The guys a Rock Star
Those sweet on him call him Honey Ham
Oh.....you know who you are
Why he's even in China
Where the Royal Family has succumbed
I hear the Emperor's pet name for him is
Pork Egg Foo Young
Well I could go on for days
Talking about that little feller
But could you please pass the Mustard
......preferably the Yeller
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 5:09 PM UTC
Curious bright light, like insect burn close to the core,
no one knows why we do this. Perhaps, it’s instinct,
how funny, an insect’s instinct that we share,
funny from a distance, but in experience – complete cosmic significance.
Nothing is more important, you are what I revolve around,
constantly fly close to the attractive warmth, oh – warmth,
no one can remove emotion, fire, burning ****** desire,
teenager’s fantasy, obscene embarrassment that makes us young,
with imaginative and over expressed feelings towards light,
Why do we fly so close to dangerous sun?
It can harm us, so, what must we do but dream,
raise expectations, deny faults, dream of ideal outcome,
outsiders watch; they snigger, laugh and even pretend we don’t exist,
they don’t understand the stupid phases, constant rambling,
internal beating up, bleeding from our organs within our soft skin,
they can’t see us from the inside, only from our youthful frame,
more important that life, this is our life, memories will be shattered,
make the little things last, they say, we don’t listen.
We’ll live forever, time is irrelevant, merely a trick of society,
as time is the destroyer of passion, and pure ecstasy,
so fly forever. Towards the bright LSD steam that emits electrical glow,
fly forever. Finding different ways of explaining its attractive aura,
sensual smells and touches arouse us, grasping for more,
so close, you push further, we are virgins finding ourselves,
exploring our bodies, yours and mine, all is new and exciting,
explosion of overriding passion, spilling around our hips,
naked with awkward embrace.
We are so close to the fire; dangerous and beautiful fire,
as close as I can be, to true desire,
thrusting and propelling, spinning uncontrollably,
mind is hazy and drunk,
feeling so right, feeling so good, feeling so,
description goes on, until hit the glass, border between pain,
though, the collision stings, it does not ****
like fence, impossible to cross, it protects but denies,
fly away.
The cycle continues, until we wise up,
learn to avoid the light, grow legs and walk,
no more flying, no soaring and freedom,
you walk away, leaving it behind,
but as you turn, glance behind your tired shoulder,
the fire still burns it’s eternal glow, trapped in restricting glass.
Jun 5, 2012
Jun 5, 2012 at 4:25 AM UTC