"overstays" poems
Dear Miss Melancholy,
I write constantly of how you affect me
you're like a guest
who overstays their welcome
in my head
and in my heart.
You seem to keep me all together
yet you constantly tear me apart.
And sometimes I think
that I will miss your constant presence,
but then I remember,
I will not miss Miss Melancholy
because she enjoys my sadness
and loves making me bleed
for reasons that are not clear to me.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 8:05 AM UTC
1. I really tried
2. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough
3. Why did I always think everything was about me?
4. You were my angel
5. My demons were too strong
6. I never look people in the eyes because I'm afraid they'll see through my windows and see that there's not light inside
They'll see my secret pain
The monsters gain
Persuasion in the argument
If I should live or die
7. The mask wasn’t supposed to stay on forever but people seemed to like it better than my sadness and sadness doesn’t always cooperate with my plans. Like sometimes sadness just wants to stretch his legs across my face leaving traces that look like tired eyes and furrowed brows. Sadness, like water, will take the path of least resistance from the world to heart and back. Self-endulgend, sadness begs for hosts without every bothering to host the party because sadness doesn’t mind if he overstays his welcome.
8. I was 17 when he died, it has been eight years
9. If I can't win the fight to stay
If I lose and go my way
I have to believe things will be OK
Because your grief won't come
From the fact that I am gone
Maybe you'll think about what
We could have done to better get along
10. You won’t often think of me
So let me go, let me be free
Your mind is the sun
Confidence and clean
11. My mind is a terror
That doesn't deal in dream
In years to come, perhaps
You think of us
A memory we shared
12. I wish I let you in and feel a connection
Isolationist tendencies are decidedly not the best strategy
So my island is a prison
Not a blessed reclusion from the judgments of my mental illness
I'm simply in denial to any sickness at all
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 2:53 AM UTC
I thought I knew what envy was
When I threw that stupid fit when I was seven
While my sister who didn’t like to draw
Won the art contest, instead of me.
I thought I knew what envy was
On a Monday, when I was thirteen and pimpled
While my best friend’s face
Was smooth, caked with foundation.
I thought I knew what envy was
The summer before senior year taking tests
While after it all we compared scores,
And I wondered what I could’ve done better.
I thought I knew what envy was
That it was quick, and runny in passing
That it was something that slips, slurped down your throat
Vindictive and vicious
But cured: by making them cookies.
I thought I knew what envy was—
But I didn’t.
Envy is not smooth, but sticks
Stopped, stuck in your throat
Stagnant, it chokes.
Envy is not green, but grey
You bat it away
But the fog overstays
Its welcome.
Envy is not thin, but fat
A wall—and for all of your gall
You cannot peek over.
Envy does not look out
Through narrow, hot eyes
Shifting gazes, suspicious
With hisses and cries
It doesn’t pace up and down
And beg you to listen—
Envy is silent. You can’t say, “Do you hear it?”
I thought I knew what envy was
When I was twelve, in Sunday school
White ribbons and smooth skirts
Under verses of thou shalt not covet---
But oh man, I didn’t.
Mar 31, 2021
Mar 31, 2021 at 3:33 PM UTC
Anticipation, say it s-l-o-w-l-y
Allow it to linger, feel it wholly
Place your heart upon your hand
Or the other way around
Hand over heart
Feel, hear, see your flesh pound
Rhythmic chaos contracting inside
Expectations building, rising
Higher and higher (along with anxiety levels)
Anticipation is a rude guest
Overstays his welcome, always outstandingly overdressed
Beckons silly fantasies to sit next to him on the couch
Leaves drops of contemplation on the carpet
Broken hearts, shattered expectations
Or best case scenario, a dream come true
Beautiful visualizations of contentment
The joy of fulfilled hopes
No sensation equals receiving
All the ideas you dare to believe
Can a cranium explode from the pressure of a hundred- thousand untamed thoughts?
The agony of uncertainty
Being in the pitch dark
Only speculations
No actualities
Merely the human imagination
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 12:34 AM UTC
I have grown to know the seasons,
like personal friends of mine.
Each one has it's own personality,
and all have a special place in my heart.
Spring is the friend that never overstays it's welcome.
It's there one minute,
and gone the next.
It's a friend you are fond of,
but you're okay with time apart.
Summer is the one who doesn't know when to go.
You share so many memories,
so when it comes around you are are ecstatic,
but by the end of it's stay,
you are ready to part ways.
Fall is the one who you can never get enough of.
It's a balance of all things beautiful.
It's the one you wish would stay forever.
When it leaves you feel empty,
and you start counting down the days till it returns.
Winter is the confusing of all the seasons.
It's the friend that is very bittersweet.
It brings joy but takes away life's beautiful colors.
Even through the dull, frosty haze it leaves,
it's magnificent in it's own simple ways.
Just like people,
each is wonderful.
They each share a place in our heart,
and will always leave memories behind,
but they all stay for as long as life will allow them.
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 2:25 AM UTC
this narrative has had its wear and tear
down to the last page that slips effortlessly off the book
pulling back strings to fit the ending
live action marionette
indulging in countless ways to flee
how could I ever?
eyes like a hawk vigourously watching over me
planning to escape is mind altering
hearts injecting blood a million miles per second
hold my breath as the goosebumps trickle under my spine
fingers twitching with rage
it's time to break out of this cage
sweat seeps off my face
leaving a line of dirt
momentarily, battle scars
I knew this day would come
just sooner than expected
but what did I expect?
existing, just barely
imprisoned in this jest of reality
caught between the societies realm of a fantasy
or breaking the barriers and taking a leap
numerous routes that divide into alternating states
yet the predominant remains
intimidation haunts me
crowding my thoughts
I always thought hell existed deep in my mentality
these dark memories combating to come to the surface
until one day I blinked and realized
hell is neighboring me
hell is leisures from the past that overstays their welcome
hell is energy deteriorating in souls you've attached to
hell is being starved of communication
hell is the strings penetrating your every move
hell is receiving no feedback from the energy you put out
hell is taking your last breath every day just to wake up to the same old ********
hell is repeating "go f### yourself", and its never going to stop
left for dead
in dire need of an escape
this is me sending a signal
sos, ... save me
planning this scheme for too long takes a toll on my soul
confusing reality with a dream
is this authentic or a figment of my imagination
am I hallucinating?
waited ages for an escape
overwhelmed over things I have no command over
will this justify the end?
and leave no cliffhangers to deal with repercussions
that is my chaotic life
an arrogant scenario to arise from
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 7:45 PM UTC
Cornwallis Inn,
Gothic Stone With
Marble Floor Ways,
A Small Lounge Area
And A Bar Alongside.
Road Weary
And Thirsty
We Belly
Up To The Trough.
A Drunkin' Patron
Pulls Up A Stool,
Too Drunk To Even
Pay Attention To The ****** Gestures
Or Our Body Language.
He Overstays
Any Sort Of Welcome
That I Would Have Given Him.
I Told
The Barkeep
I Was From Town
But Haven't Been Here
For Decades,
That When I Had Left,
The Town Wasn't More
Than A Ghost Town
In The Making.
That The Land
Of ***** And Orchards
Would Dwarf The Town,
Making It Only
A Spot On The Map,
Like The Stain
Left By A Barfly
On A Hot, Hot Day.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
He takes his last breath
for the night. The music
from exhaust engines
tire themselves out. Inside,
petty advisors punch their
timesheets, setting aside
solicitations for flowcharts
and returning to their ever
shrinking dormitories.
Good. Now we can begin,
the sugarplums declare.
(or are they centrefolds?)
It begins and ends like
every other cycle, not
that consistency matters
at all. Swivel, sway and
trot, or so is often thought.
Troops of the troupe
clean up nicely without
noise, nor is assembly
required. Soon enough,
the stage is ready.
A very handsome entity
(perhaps) pirouettes. No
matter if the platform
dissolves, for the performer
had rehearsed it between
routines. Now how about
the audience? Has the lone
ticket been sold? And the
theatre, well-unlit?
Yes. The prelude—or truth
be told—distraction bows
itself out. Stagehands,
raise them curtains up!
Eyes have no interest
in foreplay. What is in
play—skydiving?
Wakeboarding? Nudes
to the beholder?
—can only be
temporary. No actor
overstays their place.
Always, an unannounced
but not unexplainable
cameo, a kindred
spirit seeking presence
in the now, only serves
a sense of urgency,
of misplaced longing.
And then,
you wake up.
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 6:49 AM UTC
welcome to the city.
time moves differently here,
you can feel your bones shifting.
that Harmony is elusive
and gone in a flash
but Tedium overstays his welcome,
bringing with him
the lovely child, Ennui.
a plain face,
a plain heart too,
the same as the rest of us.
I want to die.
not really, maybe,
it's more of an occurrence,
a spark in the mind of a lonely wedge
of sour flesh.
please don't worry about me.
nothing is wrong
or right, I suppose,
it's just the consciousness
that comes from being with
my friend Monotony.
I know what's out there.
I know that there are things
worth living for, wonderful things
but they aren't happening to me, are they?
I have to keep my feet planted
as the planet turns.
this dead city,
I've seen it all before.
it's nothing new,
it's nothing new,
I spend every day
in a dirt-filled hole
while they shovel more
onto me.
welcome to the city.
everyone leaves here
eventually.
I don't want to die,
or at least, I don't think.
but when bones crack like sticks
in a muddy pool of blood below
and we're all scratching at the door,
(or maybe it's just me),
it's hard to think
that it's worth it.
I don't want to die,
but occasionally
it seems
like the best option.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 8:20 PM UTC
Time destroys
Time heals
Time is my enemy,
yet I can’t get enough of it
I run away from time
But I savor every moment with it
When life is enjoyable, time is quick to leave me
Though when life is hard, time overstays its welcome
I'm running out of time
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 12:02 PM UTC
The anticipation of spring's arrival
knowing that it seems far but is closer than we think
That's what makes winter beautiful
We see everything die, the cold settles in and overstays its welcome
We begin thinking it will stay winter forever
and then the sun thaws out,
a little green plant pushes it's way out of the earth
and it says, "it's not the end, it's a new beginning."
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC
Dear silence,
Thanks,
For always accompanying me even when I'm lying half slept, or half dead on my bed.
For being a blabbermouth always,
You've a lot to say, and
I'm your addicted listener.
For getting deep into the bleakness of my heart,
And making room for yourself,
Amidst all the crowded voices and thoughts on my head.
And then making your way to my eyes, and get drowned in their haziness.
Helping me gulp down the screech and hide my face against the pillow
With millions of emotional turmoils and crisis,
In the minute sniffles of
Choices made and opportunities lost.
For being around me at my continuous gaze at the flickering light and sickly falling scurfs from my ceiling,
Due the damping weather outside and the one inside my heart.
And at the knock at my door, or heart;
Coming down to my lips, and curling them in the most pretentious ways in between the overstays of the conversation,
With the one before me
And the one inside me.
You've been a beautiful companion throughout,
And your unwillingness for me to requite you the same
Makes you the lover most sacrificing.
Your selfish lover,
Aparajita Tripathi.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 1:21 AM UTC
What's real (anymore)
in a near perfect world?
The dampness of the day
overstays its welcome,
amongst snowy smiles which
fail to reach the eyes, while
pretenses are kept and reputations
saved from being tattered.
What's real (anymore)
in a near perfect world?
Closed doors which harbor
sinister beings while cursed,
mangled bodies lay oozing blood,
their stench attracts vultures
in human forms, which feed
upon the innocence lost.
Feb 16, 2019
Feb 16, 2019 at 7:41 AM UTC