"overstatement" poems
I knew a kid in highschool
Rather to say I knew him would be an overstatement,
He was a friend of a friend at most,
The boy that sat directly in front of me in my economics class
Second seat from the right, second to last from the back
The corner of the classroom between the whiteboard wall and the windows
I remember that scene like a diagram,
I couldn’t tell you anything I learned from the class but,
I knew a kid in highschool
He was best friends with my childhood best friend
He wasn’t quiet, wasn’t loud- he was a normal highschool boy
I remember the last words I said to him
Well not quite, I remember the vague idea
Something along the lines of it only gets worse
He was talking about the theoretic project where we role played
Each kid acting out as if they were in the real world
He said he was overwhelmed by the amount of work
I told him it only gets worse
I knew a kid in highschool
He killed himself during the weekend
The Monday they announced in I was sick
I was sick
His obituary isn’t up on the internet anymore
Neither is his facebook, he is nothing but a yearbook page
The page to a book I couldn’t afford
He is a memory on bookshelves filled with dust
I knew a kid in highschool but I had to ask a friend to confirm his existence
That I didn’t just make up a daydreamed suicide
I’m so tired of wondering what’s left of us when we die
I spend most of my life running from evidence of my existence
No photos, no yearbooks, nothing with me or my name
I knew a kid in highschool
Jul 2, 2019
Jul 2, 2019 at 4:28 AM UTC
If ever I thought I was
worthless
useless
an empty vessel to hold the blame of the world, I was ignorant.
In the shadow of others I did not realize I was outgrowing the limited social garden bed of my ‘friends’ and companions. Friends would be an overstatement and a title many of them have never and will never earn. As a Scorpio my trust is not easily gained, and one lost, it is gone forever. Something in me, though, always forgave, but kept the trespasses against my trust cataloged, loaded, waiting to fire across my synapses is self destruction.
If ever I took your interest as a sign of friendship, I was a fool.
If ever I opened my heart to you, if ever I extended an almost maternal hand to you I was an idiot.
My body has been run ragged with its attempts at pleasing all and apologizing for its darker nature. My narcissism has become a survival mechanism that I once thought needed you.
My soul is weary of your needy hands, your open-bird mouth that I keep feeding more and more of my soul. Compassion has an end with me. In this game of survival, I will always be the fittest and you’ve stopped entertaining the animal within me.
I am worth so much more than being drained of my entirety. I am manifest energy as you are, as the earth is. Like the Earth my resources have been tapped and I can give no longer. Like the Earth I shall strike with ground shattering vengeance.
If ever I thought friendship was giving you everything for nothing in return, I was blind, for I am a Goddess as you are. I am a Goddess as you are a God, and your meager offerings of passing interest and constant need are insufficient. My inner patriarch has fed of your male-centric patterns of thought, and the women of my past lives are too loud in protest for this to continue.
I deserve much more than “friends” like you.
& most of all
If ever I thought my thighs were a sufficient reason for me to hate myself, if ever I thought they were an excuse for you to disrespect me, then I was a *****
Because you are an *** hole.
And my body is rad
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 4:59 PM UTC
How do you tell someone that you’re tired of existing?
No one has done anything wrong, and by all normal standards this day has been quite nice, but something in me
can’t
handle
that.
Something in me can’t stand this constant standard of
“surviving”
Being exhausted of simply being is draining and no amount of stimulant can correct this.
How do you tell someone that it takes all of you to simply wake up in the morning? To wake, to breathe. How do you tell them that it’s nothing they’ve done, but you just can’t do it anymore.
How do you say **** like this?
How do I think **** like this?
Where could I go?
France?
Scotland?
How far would I have to run for these hounds to stop their pursuit of me?
Will they stop this chase?
The answer is no. No, I don’t think they will.
I think they’ll keep ******* chasing me.
They’ll keep coming. They’ll keep
this race no matter how run-ragged I may be. They’ll keep pace, keep biting at my ankles, keep snarling, snuffling, tearing the ground with their paws. They’ll hunt me until the end— no matter how many rivers or oceans I cross. Or maybe the river Styx will clog their all-knowing-noses….I shouldn’t have given them my scent. But they know it now. They know it and they want more.
I’m living off jolts of too much caffeine right now. What way is that to live? Living, though is an overstatement.
I’m not living— I’m just taking up space.
Taking up space and filling up volumes with these hollow words— as if I don’t know how stale I sound.
So where can I go? What do I do?
What the hell do I do when I can’t even decide if I want to be Alive?
What do I WANT to do?
I WANT a house in the mountains.
I want an herb garden planted in the shape of a sacred spiral. I want a river to bathe in, a fire place to cast into,
a cat to hate and watch suspiciously,
a dog to keep the hounds at bay,
a kitchen to make magick and medicine in, and a bed warmed by someone else.
I want cold nights and mornings warm
only because there is skin against my back.
I
want not to be a prisoner of my own words.
I want to stop dreading the day that I run out of words-- because the day I run out of words will be the day I let the hounds catch up to me.
I want moonlight&moonshine.;
I want sunlight and dizzy sun spots.
I want trees and the sound of a roaring tuck.
I want sweat and the smell of Wood.
I want woods and warm skin at my back.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
***Fell heal over heads
in love with a poet,
he's mostly a rhyme schemer
likes Poe and his dark Raven,
in actuality, I'd fancy him more if
he were like Pablo Neruda, but I digress
I'm much accurately fashioned after Emily Dickinson
chasing heaven's June bugs toing and froing,
we'd meet at a perfectly superfluous coffee shop
he'll be murmuring elegiac pentameter
I'm simply looking to devour precious words,
we'd argue about abstract destinations,
straight forward persuasions and
premonitions of wayward ink allusions,
some days I want to claw mine own eyes out
amid all that nonsensical alliteration
others, I want to rip out embellishments
of his black heart's magnification,
he mutters tumult under his breath,
states he's abundantly sickly tired of all my
fanatical froufroutant flourished fantasies,
albeit, we're mild mannered artistes
of overstatement and simplification
thus, we continue laying it on thickly
I, with my hyperbolic cuppa tea and honey,
he's all brass tacks, no nonsense black coffee
ultimately, we reservedly seek gratification,
envisioning who functionally makes it first
to a finished line of manifestations's publication,
in eternity's poetic intentions and beyond***
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 9:14 AM UTC
I’m feeling this way,
I don’t yet know how to escape
Yet I know it will evade at some point,
I’ve been drifting in and out,
Without much sound,
For maybe a year now, maybe only a second.
Should I think it’s an overstatement?
Is that what I’ve been lead to know?
Or is it just my mind bringing false accusations to surface?
Could it be because people want to doubt me,
Or because I assume if it’s happened to me it’s just a little bit, it’s only small; it doesn’t matter,
Not at all.
Three years? Four or five? Maybe none,
It’s not real, this doesn’t count.
Anxiety. It’s anxiety they said.
We’ll give you these pills,
Because you’re complaining about something else,
But we won’t acknowledge that.
You feel terrible, but we’ll say we’re treating the thing that you’ve put in some sort of remission.
Listen, listen. Why do they never listen?
It’s not that bad. How do I word it?
I could say I feel dead, but not really,
It’s been worse before,
So I don’t feel like I can use that description anymore.
It will go away soon,
I should be happy.
Actually, should I? I should feel tragic.
I do but I feel good sometimes too.
Why am I trying? No one who sees this will understand.
How about, it’s this:
I want to do something but I don’t feel like anything.
I don’t feel good but it’s not anxiety -
it’s been trickling in, but not this time, it’s not just that.
Maybe my emotions have just gone underground today,
Maybe it thought it would match to how I’m physically feeling.
I woke up so exhausted, I told someone I’m sick,
Still sick,
And they said being tired doesn’t make you sick,
But this isn’t normal tiredness,
This isn’t feeling down so your body can’t be bothered either,
This is one way of what it can feel like
When your body’s done with you,
And mines been done a long time,
But never long enough to care,
And in a decade it still won’t be time,
But I guess I should be content because
It’s only been five-hundred-and-thirty-two days.
I know no one will believe me, but maybe that’s okay,
For now,
After all, I can’t say any of these things out loud.
Like monsters, they would all surround me, laughing maliciously,
Thinking they were right,
They’re not, but how much longer do I have to put up a fight?
No one can know if I feel stressed or upset,
Not sad because then their army will have ammunition,
Meanwhile I have nothing.
Nothing, give me something,
But actually no, maybe I can’t take anymore false hope,
Because everyone, all of them, have ******* me over,
Time and time again.
They think I’m stressed, I’m not ill,
So if I say I’m starting to become stressed, unhappy, not good...
Well I don’t know what will happen,
They’ve already destroyed every single part of me.
I don’t want to give them more reasons to disbelieve my honesty.
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 6:24 PM UTC
I have lost something, at some point,
And I fear I will never have it back.
It pains me to think about the past,
For it reminds me of what I lack.
I'm not quite sure how to move forward,
Or how to fix this condition;
It is sad that I have ended up this way,
A disturbing and abysmal rendition.
With knowledge comes power,
Power follows along so close behind.
With knowledge also comes loss,
Innocence is no longer mine.
I fear I have went too far,
I fear there is not much left for me.
I fear I have locked my heart's door,
And let darkness swallow the key.
My goodness peeks through sometimes,
But it is just smothered by disease.
And no matter how hard I try,
It's a sickness I cannot appease.
I wish that God existed,
A merciful, kind deity above,
One that didn't just speak
But act upon the written love.
If that was true, I could find solace,
But God does not exist,
I am finding another way,
Other than religion's devious mist.
Or perhaps that is an overstatement,
For I see no solution.
My morality has bent recently,
Undergoing evil dilution.
I have lost something, at some point,
And I fear I will never have it back.
It pains me to think about the past,
For it reminds me of what I lack.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 11:53 PM UTC
to me, everything that comes goes.
detailed is an overstatement, do not waste your time.
some things work with others, others might as well be nothing.
do not waste your time.
this world moves in a way that is complete without you.
no, but, you are wanted, always wanted.
needed?
probably not.
but that’s regular because the same goes for you,
or me,
or him.
so why worry about the past when it’s already let go?
why worry about the future when in the end it won’t stay?
why worry about the now because it’s only a moment?
your mark on your home is not permanent—it never is .
oh, and tell the rest of them to get it together.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 9:59 AM UTC
It may have been a simple overstatement
Or maybe shocking surprise
But what courses through me says otherwise
I came into this experience
Prepared for my utter collapse
Into something unfamiliar, yet expected
It would be a lie if I admitted it was what I desired
Perhaps true in the chase of achieving
Of finding truth in the smallest things
But the notion of being alone
Was one I had not confronted
But had given myself up to, swallowed in the expanse of myself
Then she appeared
Sitting at the end of a table
Of which I had no business sitting in
She seemed normal at first, perhaps a bit shy
But even I could see she was different, almost as if she felt out of place
A weakness to some, but a sense I held. And that has made all the difference
We spoke, we laughed, but it was normal.
I hold myself from most people. It’s been a habit, foretold as negative.
I realized she was unique, but I didn’t know it then
And time passed as time tends to do
Hidden in its ways of longevity and forgetfulness
Except in small moments that come to define ages
And such a moment happened then
One lonely night. I was joined by her
And we spoke, laughed as before, but there was something different
Perhaps it was in her unnatural lift of voice
Or maybe it was something I was simply imagining
And then she told me a truth, something I had been ignorant of
Such truths don’t come easily, as most lies do.
Words in these truths hold power, and her power was represented
With something that strikes me to this day
It was a small thing, a few thousand molecules really
Of common liquid, perhaps with a grain of salt attached
But it hit me as if a waterfall had appeared at her behest
I realized many things at that singular moment, before that tear had even a chance to escape
Foremost that I had been wrong, oh so wrong
Of who she was to me
And, just as significant, that somehow, she had changed me
Past the person who wanted to be alone
Who couldn’t connect
Almost as if, in my ignorance,
She had slipped past all notions I had previously known
Creating a path previously unseen to my eyes
And in ages past and days foretold
I chose the road traveled through her path
And that will make all the difference
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 4:39 PM UTC
I'm thinking of you tonight,
And of how it didn't end quite right;
You'd become a part of me,
Meeting you was like a discovery,
You showed me parts of me
- disguised as parts of you,
And then you were me,
My own, before I knew
My love I called you right from the start,
Little did I know, your home wasn't my heart,
Your un-chosen abode it will always be,
And memories will always be home for me,
You said you would tell me when the fight was done,
And yet, it wasn't exactly you who told me you'd won,
Regardless, I was glad to know,
My baby's okay, even though he won't show,
Maybe okay is an overstatement,
But at least you're getting there,
There will never be a day, where I couldn't care,
And life will go on, sadly, as it must,
And you'll be okay,
I'll hope, I'll trust
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 11:30 AM UTC
Clicking and clacking, keypad strums,
Shouting every word it conjures,
From the mind of the insane,
To visions quite humane;
*Unsettling *********** of words.*
I serve not to your entertainment;
Sovereignty still reigns,
It is yours to spend a tad of time, or not,
I merely am placing my thoughts with words;
For it might explode if I bottle it in my brain.
Masterpiece would be an overstatement;
Nonsense would, truly, be an understatement,
Mediocrity seems to fit my anecdotes,
For what one sees in front of them,
May hide something much more hideous.
Wrap your thoughts in my words,
I implore you in your attention,
Yet, who am I to fend off nobody?
I may speak highly for myself,
But, honey, I try to sound like everybody else.
My ears buzz with white noises,
Words seem to fly off my head,
Like a flock of birds startled briskly,
Quite a description, I know, I've tried,
But I just seem to be a distasteful poet.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 1:31 AM UTC
Handshake claw grip, crustaceans with an overstatement,
Never distressed with a sober sense spent on aimless wastage,
Never become too complacent,
Never butter devil's sodden words on scriptures burned through the ages,
Certain pages curtain stages grace to shattered shambles curdled shameless.
Shiny geodes the traditions on the backhand,
Sages matching matter sets a salamandrine babble balance act,
Skin tight ever-bond clasped reattachment,
Radical bags sag at the mystery of a mattress ,
Routine carry forth enabling of double standards,
Tailored youth to a callous canvassed pander *******
Cat scratch moral compass to the badlands,
The pinnacle of rabid actions in the aftermath,
After that,
A rabbit or a lab rat,
Maze running side effects from the last batch,
No lessons learned just oblivious to brass tax,
Malleable malice in the marrow of the crab man,
Can't stand a phalanx divided by the last laugh,
Middle finger sinner Peter chapters in the chapel of a hashtag,
Shadows in the chiaroscuro flit mongers little gas lamps,
Calypso rhythm stages a symphony of backstabs,
Coup d'etat passive damage scatters gravel slat in sandbags,
No matter shiny medal coiled vertebrae permeate the flashbacks,
Never with a sordid memory retraced to get a plaque stamped.
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 8:18 PM UTC
when did u change your name to memory?
Why do i think that name suits
you better than anything
i had every called you..
including.. best friend
you moved on, I moved on
but disclaimer, i dont miss you.
i dont even know you
i know what you were
i was friends with
what you were...
i miss who u were before this change.
i miss who you were before memory became your name.
NO.
i dont miss everything about you
i miss everything about who you were
and i dont miss whatever you have become
i miss the before..
who is the "after"?
and what you were is someone
who still exists in my mind
what you were to me back then
i still crave
all the time
cause i see that at least
the memory of you
is something that is still alive
PLEASE.
dont tell the younger me
that is best friend is only avaible
for a limited amount of time
dont tell me the younger me
that i buried her in my past
letting her funeral
be my final goodbye
everything you were to me
no longer exist
no matter how much i want to deny
that you and i are not anything other
than stranger to eachother
ive never met
the you of today!
ive seen pictures but
the girl on instagram
doesnt even look the same!
the girl on instagram doesnt even remember
hearing me say
let me ask if we can hang out
and we can met eachother half way
half way
was just a catchphrase
we both said too much
when the road we were walking down
was the rope keeping us bound
but we were both losing
our touch
i wont deny to anyone you were my best friend
but i can teach everyone something
because you were also
my lesson on how fast friendships sink
and how best in "BFF" is not as good as you think
and how "forever"
is an overstatement
its not as long as it should be
you let the hands of your pain clutch you
you let it choke and corrupt you
i wanted to think
i was wiser when it came to us
but really it was just you
but that wisdom
has been drained
you lost a battle
to your own pain
was i your army
did i make the hurt weigh less?
and is that why now that im gone
you try so hard to make yourself weight less?
tell me what happened to that light.
tell me what happened
to your smile that used to shine so bright
tell me why your a lightbulb
that went out
why your done
tell me what happened to my friend
who once resembled the sun!
because we forgot about
meeing eachother
half way
we both turned around
ans started walking
the other way
and i wont look back
if i know you wont do that same,
i know you wont do the same.
so when did you change your name to memory?
why is memory still a friend of mine?
and why is she a better friend
to me than you ever were?
and why am i okay
with your replacement
your replacement being her
our end their wasnt any drama
it wasnt on any stage
and you have only gone behind my back
because i turned around
so we would both be facing
opposite ways
so rest in peace
the best friend
of the growing me
im sorry my memory have become
your cemetery and
im sorry we couldnt have stayed friends
because i didnt stay then
...
my memory will live on
even if your not livingwith her
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 8:09 PM UTC
A Poem For All The Publishers Who Say “No Poetry”
I’ve looked it up a million times –
(a little bit of overstatement never hurts)
I think in meter, think in rhyme.
It suits my temperament. Reverts
To chimes of nursery rhymes
Instinctive in us all –
This call to childhood’s guiltlessness.
Yet publishers of good repute
Refute this claim
And to their shame,
Their snobbish, profiteering shame,
Say No to poetry.
We should attack!
Abundant in attractiveness are we.
Ever clever, disciplined;
Deep, reflecting all reality:
And yet they say, “NO POETRY,
DO NOT SEND POETRY”.
Refused, rejected
Are we bards dejected?
Never!
We go on forever,
Eager in our hunger.
While you publishers go under,
We are there, bad, corny, muted,
Understated and astut-ed;
Couplets, meters, forms abstract,
Highbrow, lowbrow, autodidact:
Rumbling on like thunder.
A Poem For All You Publishers Who Say “No Poetry” 12.21.2016
A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; Our Times, Our Culture II; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II;
Arlene Corwin
Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 6:49 AM UTC