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b Jun 2015
it just feels like everyone is seeking for something,
their happiness,
their salvation,
their refugee,

you never truly know,
but it always strikes me,
what if happiness doesn't exist?

what if it's just a term,
a word we like to convince ourselves to have hope,
because without hope we can't possibly survive,

happiness is ******* overrated and
i'm sick and tired of trying to find ways to reach it.

what if all of those positive energies are nonsense and just empty vibes that we temporary try to fill ourselves with to get rid of all the bitterness when we're all rotten inside,
zoie marie lynn Oct 2017
I LIKE GIRLS I LIKE GIRLS I LIKE GIRLS
it sort of
spills from my tongue,
and makes up my lips.
because everything feels right when we're laying down in bed like this.
I LIKE GIRLS I LIKE GIRLS I LIKE GIRLS
it sort of
shakes in my bones,
and folds over and over inside my head.
because we're both in wedding dresses and i fall in love all over again.
I LIKE GIRLS I LIKE GIRLS I LIKE GIRLS
it sort of
smooths over my skin,
and makes an extra layer of love to drown in.
because this is my life and a girl makes it worth living in.
I LIKE GIRLS I LIKE GIRLS I LIKE GIRLS
i know i could have called her and i know i could be bolder but i'm thinking less and less
my palate favors
particular concoctions
over too many pots
and helpings spurned

I don’t need
to taste everything
imported from China
suped-up HFCS and MSG
the first bites are yum
across hungry tongue
but the rest are all meh
instigating regretful churns
and nutrient deficiencies

I just want that
raw, organic, GMO-free
concentrated, satiating
perfected recipe
crafted expertly
on my tongue
daily

x3
Osiria Melody Nov 2019
Come one, come all
To the circus that shall make you enthralled
Get thrown into the fiery rings of lecture halls
And catapult through a cannon of adulting

Come one, come all
To the circus of pulling all-nighters in awe
Get thrown into the trapeze of feeling small
And catapult through student loans defaulting?

Come one, come all
To the circus that shall make you appalled
Get thrown across like a rag doll hitting a wall
And catapult through résumés that seem insulting

Chant this self-deprecating mantra
Oh ****, will I ever amount to anything?

You’re the performer, after all
This circus is an emotional, physical, and financial risk
I know that it would be ironic for me to say this,
But college is overrated



Melody
11/08/19
current mood be like....
(I ain't against the education system.)
Noor Feb 2015
Silence was overwhelming
Tension in the air
As if we were in a warzone
And no one wanted to be the first to leave
But for us, neither of us wanted to leave
Promises that we will never leave

The way you broke that silence
You shattered the glass everywhere
And what came out of your mouth were not words
But a warm breeze on a cold night
That melted the ice cubes
Residing in my heart

You taught me love is not a mistake
And how love feels when you kiss my hand
The way your voice sounds
When you tell me I’m a gift sent from above
And that we are meant to be
With words that belong to a novel
Now found its way to me

When you touched me,
I felt like a flower that blossomed
Emerged between the cracks
And everything that has fell apart in me
Somehow fell back together
As if your hands were made out of glue
And my body is a puzzle piece
Nobody told me that being in love with you
Is better than all novels

I want you to send me your voice in a postcard
So I can hang it next to the flower you once gave me
I want to breathe you, I want to feel you
Because distance is overrated, beauty is overrated
But love, love is above all ratings

Everyone can see you in my eyes,
Soaked in my skin
As clear as a tattoo
Everyone can see how I am a woman in love
A woman inked with love
Inked with you

I always want to tell you
How you smell like home
Like something that got lost along the way
And I’m mostly not good
With love poems
But with you, somehow.
I always have something to say.
Happy Valentine's Day!
Lyn-Purcell Aug 2018
Imagine living a scripted life,
perfect image, born and
paid
Stress.
Sergio Esteban Oct 2018
I’d like to be away
In a world far away
But that won’t escape
The world inside my brain

I’d like to stop the time
Live frozen between the lines
But that won’t bring me closer
To a picture perfect moment
That you and I never had

I want to live on your wavelength
Travel with you
At the speed of light
Penetrating
Any barrier
And travel parallel
To your sweet and endless path

I want to tell you that I love you
Have the courage
To make you mine
Too bad I lost the fight
That was going
Inside my mind

I’m endlessly falling
For someone like you
But I’ll gladly fall forever
If the destination leads to you

I think of you every night
And wonder where you are
Do think of me the same way?
Do you have the same thoughts?

I’m sure one day I’ll meet you
The moment won’t be perfect
But perfection is overrated
I’d rather meet you
In any way
As long as it leads me
To your mellow heart

My sweet nebula
Travel to me
As fast as you can
I’d do the same thing
If I wasn’t stuck behind
But I’m moving on
You’re my motivation
Even if met you I have not
Andrea Dec 2018
No one listens, everybody talks
with voices overlapping each other
I get lost in thought
Talk is overrated, I just want to listen

So tell me your troubles,
tell me your woes
I'll listen intently
to your words that flow

Into my ears, whisper them to me
Cry out your eyes and I'll let you be
I'll hold you close until you're better
Till' you pick yourself up and run back to him
Matthew Conrad Aug 2018
i couldn't never write a book, sorry, a novel, i'd hate to become a puppeteer, someone who attempts to play chess, a fiddling and bothersome shadow-baron (schattenbaron)... imaginary "friends" is not my thing, plus... i don't have an exact elastic approach to heidegger's compliments concerning poets: i only like heidegger because he likes poets, **** me, he elevates poets to the stature of philosophers when language "things" are made necessary... i.e. (and verbatim) - language - only if speech has acquired the highest univocity of the word does it become strong for the hidden play of its essential multivocity (as withdrawn from all "logic"), of which poets and thinkers alone are capable... welcome! welcome! to plato's republic! Brennus & Alaric welcome you, quiet fondly depicted by Joseph-Noël Sylvestre... and when the Huns pushed the leaders Fritigern and Alavivus into the eastern empire to settle... and emperor Valens... that's history for you: a cascade of: and and and and and and... sometimes a p.s., but mostly the and and and of causality... facts come barging in, you forage... but thanks to heidegger: the poets have earned their graces... and can return to the republic... as wordsmiths... i mean, was i ever to think of myself as a french dada dandy? frivolous and superfulous raconteur / racketeer? poet or philosopher, that's beside the point, the point being: i'm not a novelist... i don't like dealing with language that chokes that i rely on mostly and that mostly being: i like the idea of a raw vocabulary... i'm more of a butcher than an artist... i like the rawness of an inverted crossword puzzle... in my "trade"... there are no clues, whether synonymous or antonymous, in this spaghetti of: ex nihil factum sermo (out of nothing came the word)... poetry, of all places, allows this form of unadulterated nibbling at raw vocabulary... bypassing the standard g.c.s.e.: overt-scrutiny of poetics... i never like that... a 5/ 7/ 5 syllable haiku poem should never be preserved for its essay-worthiness to extend into 2000 words in a school exam... poetry strapped to pedagogy is... less heavily censored, more... over-scrutinized... you're not supposed to think in terms of poetry: you're supposed to, feel... and since when has feeling become so overrated, so despsised? oh... when people "learned" to feel, prior to learning to think... you really have to learn to think, prior to learning how to feel... if you ask someone from the orient, they'd counter the western perception of placing thinking / "reason" on the top of the pyramid with horus' eye as emblem... to learn to feel: is to learn to how to not think, while to think? it's to learn how to not feel... pretty simple, no? not really... neither approaches should be underrated, they should be understood better... who the hell needs, or wants, to be an apathetic brain-in-a-pickle-jar zombie: constantly engaging with a dialectic? then again... who wants to be a heart in an electric chair constantly bamboozled into pointless reactions? so i'm more of a butcher than a "poet", i simply appreciate the raw realism of cutting pieces of the tongue that extends into the brain's fathomability - and that overrated visual ******* of dreaming most people associate themselves with... but that's beside the point... i really appreciate days akin to this one, humid as in the concrete basin of Beijing while europe is frying in the African plume... no thanks, no, me go to Greenland or the Faroes Islands... do i look like a ******* ******* / camel jockey? why do i have limited respect for islam? i once watched a video of a saudi with an european bride... sitting on oil was both a blessing... and a curse... muhammad would whip some of these saudi brats silly... but of all days... when i get to work my magic in the kitchen, and make the most superior food in the whole wide world? blue indian cuisine: i call them blue indians and not red soxs because: come on... the raj... and that polytheism that doesn't want to disappear... h'americans can boast all they want: the steak, the hamburger, the hot dog, the pizza... n'ah... n'ah mate... it's either curry or you're chewing chicken bones, ******* out the marrow... indian cuisine is superior... i love the days when i cook up two curries... it feels like being back in edinburgh, walking into the joseph black building, the perfumes of sulphur and wood, the 12 hour experiments it would take us to conjure up an ester... esters? bases for the perfume industry... that' the grand thing about cooking a curry... you start to feel like a chemist once more... the two curries? a tikka masala: sure, an easy adventure... marinating the chicken what not... the real fun came with the malvani... blitzing the masala up: a bay leaf, half a nutmeg, 4 / 5 cloves, 7 dried chillies, 10 peppercorns, a cinnamon stick, cumin seeds, coriander seeds, chilly powder, turmeric powder... and that's just the malvani masala... the cocunut masala... ****... only two green chillies... how to get the right colour? ah... blitz up some coriander stalks... garlic and ginger... milk to get the whizz-kid on the job... it's superior cuisine, indian cuisine... it reminds me of a being in a chemistry lab at edinburgh... doing organic experiments... mind you: it's more fun, the environment is less sterile... even my mother said: you're stinking up the place, you're worse than the sikhs two doors down... so... why would i visit an indian restaurant, or indulge myself in an indian take-away, if i can mimic? i see no point... there is no other cuisine on the planet as good as what could come from either Goa or New Delhi... the colours, the perfume of the spices... by now a hamburger, pizza or hot-dog are staples or both humble beginnings and even more humbled ends... i've found my 1st to none passion... and with a afghani naan bread... and with rice infused with turmeric... tiresome ponce schemes of duck a l'orange... spaghetti this that and the other... one bias... though... scandinavian treatment of raw herrings... in cream sauce... i'm a sucker for those herrings like i'm a sucker for pop music... the added zing of the herrings' rawness out-competes the bland sushi manifesto... eating one of these herrings in a cream sauce... has the complimentary sensation, very much akin to performing oral *** on a woman... oysters are beyond the marker of metaphor / literal association... well: hello today!

I.

i'm starting to suspect, that one of the...
"supposed" stars...
   is actually a planet - due to its colour -
      it's unlike all the other -
todkompf, metallic white
glitter...
      it's hued in a more orange
spectacle - more fire...
less distance...
                and on the canvas
of the night?
   sits lower than all the other stars,
which are more up -
   rather than on a horizon
to speak off...
   question is... is that *mars
,
or is that venus?

**** it: 'ere i go...
'n' buy me a *******
telescope to investigate further...

II.

did the ancient romans really
distinguish the arithmetic
quantity of I - or IX -
   or XII or...
                with a dot?
       not unless it was inscribed
in stone -
   where even upsilon had
to vacate the more easily chiseled
in:              YOVR POINT?
just wondering
   how only two diacritical marks
were applied to the encryption -
and both... not for orthographic
reasons, but for aesthetics -
    what's the actual difference
when the guillotine digestion
machine (like me) comes in and
says...
    
     ȷokιng around...
        what with the iPod...
   why shouldn't ι,
                    come ιn -
   and give a ȷester's ιnquιsιtιon?
out of... mere... curιosιty?
ιt's not lιke those two-heads
even make a dιfference...
come on! ιt's ιneffectιve,
there are no orthographιc reasons
for ιt!
        why, even, bother?
    and no fancy name eιther,
ιn the dιacrιtιcal famιly...
  dot... when compared to?
cιrcumflex, caron, macron,
      cedιlla,  ͅ (ιota subscrιpt)
...
you name ιt!
can someone, please,
ȷust gιve me, an approprιate reason?

III.

it's not like i can confuse,
i with I - since i have 1, and 2 instead
of II, and 3 instead of III,
and 4, instead of IV,
       and 6 instead of VI...
ah... L(l) -
              and the exodus of handwriting
in the digital age...
any schmuck can write
now... but... i'd love to see
them write with a pen, on paper...

personally - i couldn't write an intact
word with a pen...
   calligraphy: a bit like monkish
Gregorian chants... coming near
to extinction...
          i could sometimes write
out a intra-connectivity of syllables -
but... entire words?
    no chance... the digit system
came in... and i had to learn how
to position my arms before
the keyboard, to write, and not look
down...
   unlike my old G.P.,
who, bless him... nearing his retirement,
pecked, like a crow,
on the keyboard...
   looking down on it...

the ENTER key? right arm pinky finger...
SPACE BAR key? primarily
left hand thumb...
   unlike a piano, you don't actually
use all the fingers on both arms...
e.g.? ring ringer on the left hand?
rarely used... unless doing some
mental hand gymnastics...
  
stream of "consciousness" - no words,
just observations -

(0,0,) LH ******* A
    RH index finger N -
     that's - ah! ring finger of
the right arm is used, quiet a lot,
  notably?  SHIFT + (?/) key -
      *******...
   but for the apostrophe?
    the (@ ') key...
  which, on my machine translates
as the (" ') key...

IV.

     - interlude -
--- -- - - - -  - - - logic  -- - - -  -- - bomb -- - - --  -
- - -- computers -- -- - - & - -- microprocessors -
- - - --- -- - --- -- -(parasense ----- - - remix) -- -- -

V.

it is chiromancy in reverse,
only that i'm reading my hands...
facing down,
rather than staring on the reverse
side of the... where the girdle of venus
is situated,
   or the index finger skin folds
of the chokhmah, chesed,
    netzach
- respectively -
akin to reading mandarin:
   from the the head - to the base
               of a knuckle.
i read my hands - looking at a screen,
how else can you write anything,
distracted by looking down
onto the keyboard -
  no aware of the spacing?
        question: how fast is your typing?
don't know:
what sort of ******* am i to note
down, and how many amendment
will i have to make to the text,
as we plow along to your diatribe
monologue?
                  
VI.

why would anyone sit up all night,
drinking?
     ****** question, esp. given
yesterday's 5 / 6 am carnival of rain...
out of nowhere,
there i was, ready to call it a night
well spent (not working in a Stratford
casino) - dreading the heat of
the sunrise...
  boom!
   thunder, lightning...
    the air turned white from
the ferocity of the rain...
   literally...
                the ground was wriggling
with a meteor shower -
excited gnat fly like puddles
appearing and disappearing -
soon becoming lakes
  within the confines of a supposed
**** of worm parasites...
      probably your typical day
      on the Faroe Islands...
you know... on such occasions...
you really can't help, but stick
your head out of the window,
far enough to drench your head
and hair in regenwasser...
            i should have walked
into the garden and
cleansed my whole body...
   but...
guess all ι needed, was the head...
       god...
  there's nothing more **** than
listening to horror movie soundtracks
while it pours a mini-monsoon
outside your window,
  and there's thunder, and there's
lightning...
   and you're just about to fall asleep...
like a baby might...

VII.

oh god... the one time i don't take
a beer for a walk, coming back
from the supermarket...
and i pick up... this genius:
genius... tortilla wrap...
    falafel + hummus + a hint
of mango chutney (with a tease
of arugula leaves)?
            **** me... who needs
beer... if not a bottle of mineral
water... to accompany
taking a walk?
Cutezeni Jul 2017
Life is colourful
But not in the way I'd like,
Its shades keep changing
From lemon to blue to burgundy,
Feels like I'm living
In a constant state of melancholy.

Tried hard not to stare
At the melody that kept swirling
In front of my eyes
And through my ears,
Sometimes I forgot breathing.
And it trapped me into the deep
Clawed hard to come up from beneath,
But it was hard to hold on
The walls were too steep.

Never thought I'd wish
For a colourless life of black and white,
Of boring creatures and ordinary sight..
Never thought I'd be the one
To want my seeds to sow,
To want my roots to dig deep and grow.

Maybe flowing with the wind
Is not for me,
Free-falling is not the same as flying,
Peter should leave me alone now,
I don't want to end up dying.

Thought I almost saw
Heaven from where I was,
But it lay barren
With no gates or guards,
Or even angels or gods,
Either the books or my mind are lying,
It is overrated to wish for dying.

But I made it through
Somehow I swam back ashore,
Fought the muddied waters that blinded me,
Somehow I found my door.
And to sanity I return,
With lessons and scars that still burn
It's good to look ahead with clarity,
It's good to be back to reality.
ashw Jul 2019
I have nothing else -
Not one person close to me.
Only ever ostensibly known,
Via some overrated reality.
Truthfully, a manufactured facade-
Beneath, a much less pretty wasteland.
I want my real self to be known,
Have all my understandings understood.
First I must find the right words,
But they always pale in comparison.
There’s no real description, it seems
Of our inner-most workings,
Even here I pause as my depiction stutters.
I wish I could just bequeath my mind
And have my soul be exposed;
For someone to retrieve my thoughts
And need no explanation.
If I can’t emit my true visage,
If only I can see color,
Then I have no hope for completion,
And the loss is overwhelming.
Ashari Ty Mar 2019
We used to watch the sky together
In the evening - we hated daylight
Blue is overrated, the sun is a star
Why not see many at once?

But stars are suns, sun is star
It's now all pointless
As we

Used

To watch the sky together.


★ . • * •  *   . * . .• ★
We used to.

★ . • * •  *   . * . .• ★
Andrew Rueter Jun 2017
Originality is overrated
We are at our most original
The moment we are born
The rest of our lives is for specificity
Not for staring in awe at something different
But building with blocks already used
Style is arranging those pieces in ways
that are pleasing to our species
Humility is gaining pieces from others
Specificity is collecting as many components as possible
In the most unique manner available
Because when I'm traveling
I have a destination in mind
And it's not just anywhere
It's a specific city

We must sift through the mud to find the diamonds we build with
The dew forms on the grass at night
It's beauty eludes us until morning
As our terrace becomes a tower
Specialties become more apparent
As our tower becomes a tomb
Glory becomes more transparent
Not wanting to be a cliche is such a cliche
Tradition is our foundation
For we're only truly free once we're given constraints

Who do we ***** these facades for anyway?
Do we want everybody to enjoy our lobby?
Or do we want one person so interested
That they climb the rungs to the top floor?
I'd prefer the latter
So I continue growing new wings on my structure
To attain specificity
Until the day someone comes along and says
"Oh my God, I **** with this **** so hard, how did you know?"
I'll respond
"I have no idea what this is or how I built it."
But I built it for you
pitch black god8 Apr 2018
5 Sensory Deprivation Relevations  (Happy Birthday Will Shakespeare)


I     the smell of sad

odor colorless like *****, similar familiar sidewinder effects,
musty invasive, it has no specificity, no locale centrale, well closeted,
saddling saddlng, in place, plain sighted better to toy our lives,
pervades persists, worse lingers, impervious to sprays
and even everyone’s good literature (even Will’s)
good wishes good intentions and mood prayers
to the nearest lay god
on duty at the spiritual emergency room on weekends,
stink

don’t think that this poem is for you; solely for the writer,
your doppelgänger ******, your mirror’s inside hiding out place,
I, who has your sadness smell into my skin cells crept
waft woof and warp wet weft-woven
into the sad receptacles hidden in my
head’s cubbies and the palms of my tree hands-covering face


there are cures so wonderful and inexpensive but unavailable
at the local Rite Aid, though they are the right aid recoverable,
so closer than close, so close that the internist
cannot prescribe them because he must inject himself first
because the live bacteria in the antidote can **** all

this odor lays down bamboo-strong roots;
to eradicate you must dig down deep,
six feet perhaps more, with heavy earth moving equipment,
uproot at the source, follow sad always all-the-way down and the root
great god gone,
but the saddest truth
stench odor yet present

II    the taste of joy

the joy of cooking is not a gene in my litany possess,
but the buttery taste of joy I know, I know,
it’s a real princess rarity,
the hard costs of finding and keeping it,
I’ve paid endlessly and willingly pay on

the taste of joy is like presents under the tree,
shock surprises delights lives/life, customized, infectious
(except for socks, no matter how joyously exceptional),
joy to those whose buds never blossomed for its taste
readable on some one else’s, anyone’s ****** expression

I think of it as the taste of fast traveling cumulus whites
upon my eyelashes blinking as they are speeding you by, but happy
for ten more behind before the evening stars takes over

the taste of joy is physical, there can be no denying,
concentrations can be found in the lips and the fingertips,
which you think of as a tandem, someone else’s on mine

but it ain’t necessarily so; the taste of joy, shared I, having submitted to others kisses carried on the wind that
found their mark and were well received,
poems from the heart
that arrive well,
as their intended is sleeping, and
as intended, as waking gifts

the taste of joy in droplet tears
when you are notified that words
you joined in holy matrimony made you cry,
because the reader did, wept for two,
the weeping of contentment released,
free at last from container confinement;
this particular taste of joy is in the  
recovery and recognition that these
are not for you,
just joy peculiar these tasted tears for whomsoever sheds them

III   the hearing of truthful

truth am told is oft served cold and hard up for the hearing,
best avoided tween noon and midnight and any time a
bathroom mirror is in the vicinity; though religious men lie
too easily; bathroom mirrors cannot; a character flaw for sure,
but the truth to be trusted is this: no one is truly contented, always there are the richer, the more famous, the employed and
someone above who has more, more burdens of a different sort,
better quality losses and pains unseen not dreamed of

truth tastes terrible and is awful sometimes noisy painful;
it hides well in the stink of sad exposed to the atmosphere when exposed it turns red humans blue

truth may set you free, free to be what are you are or truthfully
an admission of what greatness you have to release the trick is
use the correct scale, do not let the wrong sized ruler rule you,
the truth, if you hear, hear it unfiltered w/o the bias implanted
by not your people; hear your poet voice growl like a blues singer and be truthfully satisfied like no thing no person only you could hear it as you intended it be spoken

IV   touches of fantasy fantastic
secret confess: touch my fav cause when its juiced with
mental visions of what might be, it Saturday satisfies and let me weep happy smile silly and is mine all mind; yes another’s tip
has sorcerer powers of revelation
but alone by myself I yet
relevate
and flow; my hands are right sized, my arms reach around myself for so designed, and the pleasure is mine to give;
mine to take,
neither better or worse if self-administered,
touch myself anywhere anytime and fantasy over dreams wins,
rise up, touch is a language and I speak six or a hundred;
listen to the sounds of touching and be touched human

V  insights for the sightless

at last we close the deprived
with an elegant elevation
sight overrated when imagination exists,
cannot be restrained
this the revelation
you have proffered and preferred all this time

have pity on me
I crystallize the unseen with the replacements
of my conjuring
the other senses lend a hand
telling me look up look up, be life save life
let your madness blossom in the spring airs,
the coolness of a first fingered ungloved snow
sight,
a mathematical function from the other four derived,
sightless an impossibility for with one alone defeat the
sensory deprivation and give tongues to words

epilogue

read my face
incapable of,
deprivation
but how now silent bow my head to Will
for teaching the way of words
traced upon
a fool or a king's tongue,
two too human,
so that poet may ken
his senses keener,
all for the better,
for the betterment of all
and now you understand how came this poem to be writ
in the pitch black
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