"overuse" poems
I was born on November 30th , I hear that makes me a Saggitarius.
I dunno what that means.
I know how to swim, and I'm a sucker for a guy with a nice smile
And nice words.
I'm still learning how to whisper sweet nothings
I'm often loud at times when I should be quiet
I'm often quiet at times when I should be loud
I keep holding back or letting it all out at the wrong time.
I like sweet drinks... a lot.
I've been told that I give pretty bad hugs
People say that it feels like I'm trying to escape
Well I don't like letting people close.
Especially close enough to hear me breathe.
I have this odd fascination with things like time machines and technology,
I assume it's because I like to figure out how things work and fix them.
Am the same way with people, like to know what's coming before it does.
Love usually lasts a few moments,
That's also why I tend to fall in love with men
Who would never love me back
I know it sounds crazy, but it's actually much saner than it seems
And to be honest, I think it's safer that way
See relationships, they often remind me that I'm not afraid of letting go.
But I'm scared of what's gonna happen
The moment that my body hits the ground
I'm clumsy. I usually trip when am following my feelings.
I landed on my pride and it shattered like a mirror i check daily.
Now I can't even tell who's trying to give me a compliment
or just trying to get into my pants.
I've never been into martial arts but I have all these bruises,
I got from beating myself up over things I can't fix
I know it sounds weird but sometimes,
I wonder what the voices in my head say when am asleep.
I wonder what the doors would do if they found out
About all the things that I've done when they are closed.
I've got a trash can that's overflowing with really, really obnoxious mistakes
And a dump site in my closet with all the skeletons.
You'll trap me in a corner and insist I get help.
Hi, my name is Em,
I enjoy ice cream and yoghurt, people watching
And figuring out how to make them work.
I allow myself to cry more than I need to,
from letting all the wrong people in.
I have solar-powered energy, I have a battery-operated heart,
It flickers and dies from overuse.
My hobbies include rewriting my life story, hiding behind poems,
And trying to convince myself that I do matter to someone.
I don't know much, but I do know this
I know that if you don't have standards,
you won't be treated right and be happy.
I know God is still reworking my faults and flaws,
I'm a unique work in progress.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 6:15 AM UTC
For our Echoing Little Red Riding Hoods
Lagging behind in the Opposition Departments
Lets help you out by offering some buzzwords
For your important assignments even though they've
been floated around forever,
But we understand you need some help catching up
So memorize these basic premises
And please enrich your lives and utilise your valuable time
by raking your little brains to create poems with them
Lets begin with ITALIAN , don't forget RAINBOW, LIES
is also in, add RESPECT, throw in RUDENESS, factor in
LITTLE GIRL, remember ANGEL, write about TRUST, that
much overuse term, throw in BLACK - that's quite a
popular one. Also PINK is quite up the scale, as well as HEART-
Broken ( as if ) and pleeeezee make a big fuss on LONELINESS
That's a big seller. APPLE and SERPENT did appear now and
again so trigger them as you like.
How about BETRAYAL, LOYALTY, FAKE FRIENDS and that
famous one, FOUR or is it THREE, what about BONES,
Lets not forget SKELETON or even ANOREXIC, let also
remember SCREAM, that was a scream..hahah see what
I did there! Remember GREY that has a bit of colour and
what about BUCK or even DOOR-MAT that was a wipe-off
or SUBMISSIVE another popular one.
Hmmm...what about HAIR CUT or TOMBOY or DIGITAL
those are quite good or WOODGREEN or HULL or DOG
that reared its head...woof....woof...hahahah or CEREAL,
beats me what that's about or even MONEY..though that
never was an issue, how about GOLD-DIGGER just for
drama or 50/50 which has been mentioned. Hey! don't forget
RED, what to do without that pinking away.
So please Little Hoods, students of the Opposition Department
keep with the programme and work on these pointers
crack your little brains and write poems like crazy little ants
Your contribution is valuable cause persistent is the Key.
Keep up with your assignment and forget all other things
Oppose, oppose, oppose, work those little brains!
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 4:30 PM UTC
recreation's okay
if you don't overuse
it helps on days
full of constant abuse
it's not like I'm crazy
or criminally inclined
i just like to relax
i just like to unwind
too much to forgive
so much pain to forget
the world is in chaos
it helps ease my regret
don't worry about me
i got a lot on my mind
i just love to relax
just love to unwind
it's not going to **** me
there's no need to judge
i'm careful as can be
please don't hold a grudge
you say that's it's hurting you
you say "I'm not blind"
but I need to relax
i just need to unwind
what's the harm in a buzz?
it's better than nothing
"she does what she does"
we all want to feel something
maybe I should stop
they say you only have so much time
but I have to relax
have to unwind
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 4:05 PM UTC
I'll make you look pretty
I will make beautiful
You just have to use me
Just by that, I'll make you full
I will hide your empty,
I'll put on an illusion
Overuse'll become healthy
Incomplete? Then I'll make you done
I'm the perfect finish
I'm the cherry on top
Start with me, I promise you,
You won't want to stop.
I'm the creme de la creme
I will make you ENOUGH.
Cover up
Apply emotional makeup.
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 12:51 PM UTC
remember the last great
unpredictable summer
deluded by codeine and cigarettes
pulled by lunar cycles toward reproduction practice
interconnected over coral reefs
before real estate won the forest
we slept untouched on the beach
encouraged by chemical overuse
with our hair tied together in knots
and seagulls flocked on long leafy wings
their beaks pointed out passed the big rubber sun
and i struck your vein with a needle
and you struck my strange heart like a runaway slave
you danced naked in the florida sun
and i stood behind you on tall stalky legs
laughing, getting high like an osprey
sweating into a shrine, wringing out my heart
on the banks of that lazy river in my hometown
when the sun went down we chased each other
through the thready umbrella of vines and pine roots
under the old abandoned bridge
a mile long
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 6:02 PM UTC
I sit here angry with the writer (myself)
for his overuse of cliches, for his underuse of relatable things
Scorning his very existence.
"Why would you write, you fool?"
"Ah, It's an escape for you! Who gives you the right?"
No one does.
If you must, continue
I'd rather I heard 1,000 bad poems tonight
than let you sleep without writing a one.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 3:48 AM UTC
It was two lipsticks and a secret ago
That a text message from you lit up my screen
But my phone goes off and I read your name
The boy who uses pretty words that he doesn't really mean
And my name is not plan B
But you're a tough craving to ignore
Don't you tell me I'm beautiful
The way you never did before
'Cause I hate the way you overuse
The same phrase every time we talk
And I hate the way you think you're something new
When you're just another cliché in the flock
I hate the way you cling to my mind
With the letters of your name you can spell what I'm thinking
But between your indecision and the masks you wear
I hate how I'm only pretty when you've been drinking
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 2:21 AM UTC
Transplanted to these '...fruited plains...', grandpa,
One of Gaia's fruits, what was his twinkle among
The countless stars? Here, millions have come
To stay, imbuing us with their place of origin,
Their souls dancing, flying, in a universal way.
For over 60 years Americans to be came through
Ellis Island, headed to who knows where West,
My grandfather, Uru, which means hero, a Fin,
One of three who left a concentration camp that
Fifteen thousand entered, did too, to NYC, NY.
Following freedom's beacon, its first light he saw,
The Statue of Liberties still unscorched torch, thanx
To Frederic Auguste Bartholdi, and the French. Of
Libertas, the Roman goddess of freedom and a
'...Tabula ansata, a tablet evoking the law, upon
Which is inscribed the date of the American
Declaration of Independence, July 4, 1776.'
The broken chain of tyranny lies at her feet,
Upon a pedestal, wherein etched words are,
From Emma Lazurus' sonnet, 'The New Colossus',
Which may rise again, only if we embrace them:
'...Her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
'Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!' cries she
With silent lips. 'Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!'
Only 151 feet tall, she will ever stand taller, or
Be turned to dust with us, all of humanity and
Large mammals, as well as the Earth, tragic
Members of extinctions annals, if we don't stop
The permanent altering of weather cycles through
Overuse of fossil fuels, the degradation of the
Earth's orbit around the Sun. We can walk in
Nature's abundant balance again, humane beings.
Still, she gives hues to the vast canvas of what
The Big Apple, and its beautiful mosaics' art, can be.
I shine only because he, a Merchant Marine, did.
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 2:06 AM UTC
imagine a calloused doubt.
cracked, chipped, clicking
like warped wooden floorboards.
soft from overuse
but still overrides willpower
in one palpitating breath.
grimy yet illusive
like your teeth after a day’s work,
collecting gunk that sidles up
to calcium companions,
crunching down on things
that become
so bland in the end.
doubt is offbeat,
monstrous footsteps hidden deep
off beaten paths,
its thudding is clammy and hurried,
aligned to the discordant jazz of
your alarmed body.
it tastes like
coppery heartbeats,
rising bile,
salt and mucus in the back of your throat.
it is a truly uncomfortable thing.
it stacks sweetly like buttercream pancakes
but crumbles you
with such a sour taste on your tongue.
imagine an agony that loves you.
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 7:09 PM UTC
**That cup of tea, remember... the one I made for you
just enough for one to share, but not enough for two,
for while you sipped your cup of tea, your fresh and tasty brew
the one I made through chivalry, was the one that I would rue,
whilst reaching for the coffee beans, their flavour to infuse
that caffeine fix, dark and rich, were low from overuse,
within that roasted coffee jar, I clutched the unforeseen
for held confined, in there to grind... just one solitary bean.**
... ... ...
Apr 10, 2011
Apr 10, 2011 at 3:40 AM UTC
Another pointless, quiet fight.
Another message: “Yeah, you’re right”
Another text reading “goodnight”
Typing out “sleep tight”
as my phone screen turns to white.
I don’t turn off the music,
I do start to panic.
Everything reminds me of us,
The way you think I overuse “we” and “us”
turns to one more thing we used to discuss.
The way you tell me not to fuss
taught me minus and minus equals plus.
You never thought I had it right.
But I still hope you sleep tight.
Jun 14, 2025
Jun 14, 2025 at 4:18 PM UTC
~for Steve R. & Stephen Y.~
*"two regrets are mine -
not finding you earlier in life when...words would have carved for me a better road, and...not hand-ing you a touch, the perfect tightness-shake of one's hand reserved for fondest friends and the light press on one's back deserved for dearest brothers!"
~~~*
the light press surety of five fingers on one,
oh, what messages it composes, oh, what duty weighty it transmits
dear brothers:
tho this hands-on handoff, this fly-over, is still a
mission unaccomplished,
yet no regrets, please!
men don't overuse superlatives,
what you lovingly uncover in my rocket-verbal Mars probes,
is more telling, more revealing of who you are,
than any hand-tightness shake,
any touching grasp, could e'er convey
yet I promise, forsworn upon the cross
of the north west Pacifico latitude and longitude
a latitude that just happens to intersect
my olden, new english state,
knowing that Interstate 90
a straight transcontinental shot,
and the car keys just an impulse grab away
to tell your arms, your face, your back, our hands,
that when you love my poetry,
you love me,
you friends,
are an affirmation of Pablo Neruda's words:
***"whoever discovers who I am
discovers who you are"***
fondness is not distance constrained,
touching grasps pay no obeisance to time,
the honor of your affection permanent
affirmed and enflamed,
all mine, sublime, to lead my heart,
where to lay hands upon your back,
to realize even more
our single united rhyme
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 4:58 PM UTC
Andy...
You are not alive anymore.
You will never read this as a living breathing human anymore, you will never click on this poem and read my name and be blinded by the brightness of the screen, but I wanted to post this anyway. I wonder if you are watching me type this in spirit form or if you are doing something else but, just know that I'm glad. I'm glad you are not suffering anymore from the dread. I'm glad you are not scared anymore, because waiting is the worst. I grieve for your family and I'm heartbroken for your friends, and all who loved you but you were truly the most inspiring person I have ever had the privilege to speak to. I hope from heaven you can see me, I really hope now you know my real name because it probably doesn't make a difference but it's something I wanted to tell you because, I mean, that's a part of my identity, that's me, and I loved your soul. I loved listening to you, I loved reading what you had to say I loved watching the people who's lives you touched be inspired by the amazing person you were and you know what, it felt wrong for you not to know my name but I am very wary on the internet, I don't give out personal information so I stuck to my screen name, symbolic for something deeper, a deeper part of me, so in a way it was a part of my identity like a name but it still wasn't my real name.
The cancer killed your body, but nothing could possibly **** your soul, and I hope to God you are happy now that you have passed on because if anyone deserves it, it is you Andy.
I think “Rest In Peace” has lost its meaning from overuse by now, so instead I will say
Rest happily, Andy.
“And” is a part of your name, Andy
And you were the “and” in everyone you met’s lives. Something additionalto people’s lives to remind them that there is an and not just the depression or sadness they feel in their lives there is an and to go along with their burdens and that and was HOPE. You were hope. I hope you are okay, I pray for you and like I said before, Andy, I don’t know where you are but if you read this where ever you are in whatever form somehow Andy as I said before I don’t know what you are facing, what is going on right now with you now that you have passed on but like I said before it’s okay to be afraid.
I don’t know what else to say.
There will never be another person like you ever for the rest of eternity, so thank you, for being you and wherever and whatever you are, I hope you Rest Happily Andy, and I thank God for the beautiful blessing I was given: Knowing you.
Ember Evanescent
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 7:34 PM UTC
It's soft white alabaster but
a little dingy from overuse
hinting it's age with a bit of staining
around its curved spout
condensation dribbles from the lid down its azure twisting floral patterns
hissing it's boil with a pitched
Screeeeeeeeeeeee
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 8:49 PM UTC
When most people think addiction,
They think cigarettes and nicotine,
They think Alcoholics Anonymous and pain killers gone wrong,
They think gambling, *** and ****
They think addiction and they think of use versus abuse
After all the dictionary definition of addiction is:
"a strong and harmful need to regularly have or do something"
Something
Maybe that's why it's so hard for people to see that my lack of use is just as much abuse as the overuse of something.
They don't know that it is just as addicting to keep refusing food, as it is to keep drinking alcohol.
They don't know that keeping too small clothes in the back of the closet,
Hoping that one day your body will mold into them again,
Is just as dangerous as meshing oneself into someone else just for the night, but someone else the next.
They don't understand that counting the calories is just as consuming as counting the grams.
So don't tell me that my eating disorder is not as addicting as drugs, because cravings to be thin can be just as strong as someone's cravings to be high.
The feeling of an empty stomach, can be just as great as the feeling others get while watching ****
Don't say that my eating disorder is just for attention, because just like addiction it could very well **** me.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 3:59 PM UTC
A chanter cracked from overuse
Cheeks salt stained from shed tears
Shed for those who lost their lives
Lost well before their years
The piper played for seventeen
Who never saw their best
Amazing Grace hung in the air
While our hearts beat in our chests
The massacre at Dunblane School
took seventeen that day
One teacher and lo, sixteen more
Beneath a sky all streaked with grey
The Pipers lips were dry and cracked
And the salt burned as he cried
but, he played the best he ever played
For the seventeen who died
The world was once their oyster
But, it never saw them grow
If you listen, you can hear him
That lonely piper blow
"Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.
T'was Grace that taught my heart to fear.
And Grace, my fears relieved.
How precious did that Grace appear
The hour I first believed.
Through many dangers, toils and snares
I have already come;
'Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far
and Grace will lead me home.
The Lord has promised good to me.
His word my hope secures.
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.
Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess within the veil,
A life of joy and peace."
When we've been here ten thousand years
Bright shining as the sun.
We've no less days to sing God's praise
Than when we've first begun.
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 6:35 PM UTC
The walls cry-out as they burn.
A tumult of roars wreathed in the crackle of blazing matter.
Which is louder?
Perspective will tell.
The one who assaults,
Or the one assaulted?
The roar, or the crackle?
The giver, or the receiver?
Pleasure in two forms, two-faced gratification.
One hand for dispensation,
One mouth for sublimation.
And do we not all sublimate?
Base impulses, rank ideas,
On the surface, vindicate?
The residue of consequence
Brusquely scrub and expiate?
Perspective will tell.
We espy hedonism, unbridled delight,
And may envy those who bathe in these muddied pools,
Focusing our most ephemeral sense on dazzling cacophony,
Ignoring the estranged husband of hedonism,
Shunning the divorcée of delight.
Which is truly louder?
Perspective will tell.
In Oscar Wilde’s Salome the moon is thus described:
“She is like a woman who is dead. She moves very slowly.”
Pandemonium in the hall, the howling of wild beasts,
But she remains “a woman who is dead,”
And “she moves very slowly.”
The divorcée of delight,
A pitiful coming-down.
The remnant of misuse,
The scarring of abuse.
One reads on a stone:
The hardly-lovéd daughter of overuse.
And the one who gazes overlong is warned:
“You look at her too much.
It is dangerous to look at people in such fashion.
Something terrible may happen.”
The walls cry-out as they burn,
And they cry in desperation.
What we see is conflagration.
The light: A brilliant exultation.
The crackle: A herald of termination.
But when ash is blown in silence,
It is dangerous to look at what remains:
Scar tissue.
Slow death.
Residue.
The head of John.
The bones of Salome.
Broken glass.
Wilted flowers.
Cracked foundation on hollow cheeks.
Red lips the stain of blood on ivory cloth.
Festering flies.
The beating of vultures’ wings.
The snoring of satiated beasts.
The stumbling home.
Apologies.
Sublimation.
Conflation.
Expiation.
…
One’s well-mannered pause until the other’s end,
So that the one may pause…
And begin again.
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 9:37 PM UTC
Versifyin'
Isn't dyin',
But man,
It's hard to do.
Words and lines
Sound like cliches,
What once
Was old
Is new..
Familiar phrases
Crowd the pages,
Causing such to do.
Can anyone write
Anything new.
Did I write that;
Overhear a wit?
Read it in the loo?
I'll note it down,
Sit,
Sweat and swap,
Get off the ***
And write it.
I don't purloin
Pretty Woman
Because Roy
Is older than me.
To write Yesterday
Is almost to say,
I've hijacked
Sir McCartney.
Write Daffodils,
And see what thrills
That word brings to you.
We may overuse them,
Unwittingly
Abuse them,
And with some we amuse,
But they're ours,
Put to good use
With me.
The number of chords
Limits the hordes;
Repetition ensues,
The decry is sung:
I've heard that song before.
The great ones of writing
Are cause for citing,
By we and me and you.
Can't contrast love to roses,
Shakespeare's told us;
Can't compare eyes to stars,
Lips to petals:
To say,
Your soft, white skin
Is an ink-black sin.
And Beautiful should not
Be used as such.
If one must use it,
One needs
A thesaurus.
Thee, Thine, and Shall
Have taken their toll;
Like Death,
Be not proud.
Be the chosen one,
You know how.
Words and phrases
Are replete;
Too well known
Not to repeat.
They're in
Our vernacular
To be used by
Any author.
But verbatim
Copying's outlawed.
The copy cops
Finger-print
The frauds.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
Don't worry, I'll keep you right here in my little box for safekeeping.
I'll stow you away in my secret hiding place deep in my mind and never take you out until I know it's safe.
You are my little marionette, your strings taught and wary from overuse.
The wood you are made from chipped and abused.
Don't worry, I'll keep you right here in my little box for safekeeping.
You are afraid of the monsters outside, creeping, but I will protect you.
I am brave.
I will defend you from the evil that surrounds everyone and everything and I will keep you safe.
Your little marionette arms hanging by your sides, already prepared for the heartbreak of rejection.
Don't worry, I'll keep you right here in my little box for safekeeping.
You'll never be able to run away because I control your strings.
The strings you could never use to walk on your own.
The strings, only I know how to employ. My fingers toiling with the knots. You are bruised.
Don't worry, I'll keep you right here in my little box for safekeeping.
I swear I will never stray.
This promise will be engrained on my mind, sewn on my heart and tattooed on my fingertips.
You are mine and I will never let you go. Never.
You are mine and I will never let you go. Never.
Jul 30, 2011
Jul 30, 2011 at 2:42 PM UTC
Sticks and stones may break my bones,
But words will never hurt me.
So untrue, I believe
That words can easily hurt me.
You don't feel the pain I do,
The hurt that your words gave me.
Words can shatter, break and ****
The lovely one inside me.
Time after time you'd repeatedly say,
The words that always hurt me.
Little you knew how you were killing,
The loud voice inside me.
Your words that brought a lot of sad thoughts,
Suicide running in my mind.
I'd rather die than live a life,
Where your words are slowly hurting me.
Words do hurt and break people down,
I honestly wish you could see.
The tongue that we have was a gift given,
for use just by you and me.
But you chose to abuse and overuse,
The gift given to you.
How do live with yourself, I humbly ask,
Is speaking kind words that much of a task.
You have the power with the words that you say.
Why not be kind then? Just try it for a day.
You could save a life with the words that you say,
Please try speaking in a more polite way.
Lastly I'd like to leave you with a thought,
If you have nothing nice to say, then don't say anything at all.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 6:04 PM UTC
She gives the gift of gab!
When her love snapped onto my back, like a rucksack to be worn
The old me died, a rambling man was born.
My words are playing a twisted game of Temple Run
The monkeys are her eyebrows, cocked like pistols, and we're playing Russian Roulette.
My words are emptiness and hot air and imagined shapes, yet not nearly as two-dimensional as constellations.
She's a phrase I just learned, and will incorrectly overuse.
She's a worm in my ear, impossible to lose.
She feels like two cups of tea at three in the morning.
She feels like assembling an RC car without reading the instruction manual.
And by God, those eyebrows.
I need her like rocks need water and snow needs the sun.
I want her like turtles want to fly and eagles want to run.
She's that feeling when rain comes down on an empty highway.
She's half a bottle of Elmer's glue I just dribbled onto my hands.
I miss her like broken bowls miss Cheerios and holey socks miss feet.
I miss her like diarrhea misses constipation.
I miss her like NBC misses viewers who have turned to online news sources.
I miss her like journalists miss exposés.
I miss her like polar bears miss ice caps.
I miss her like avalanches miss snowy peaks.
I miss her like Hiroshima survivors miss World War One.
I miss her like cities miss silence.
Mostly, I just miss the silence.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 5:34 AM UTC
When did our society **** the genuine meaning of sorry?
In essence it is a word that should be seldom used and rarely heard.
Yet, we apologize for the most trivial of actions.
Mutations caused by insecurities result in a new purpose.
Now it feels as though it has become a faulty substitution for confidence.
Do not be sorry about character traits and emotions.
Sorry is a desperate word; a last ditch effort.
It requires the complete disregard of ones pride to utter.
"I was wrong and I am sorry."
The times that it is used correctly are memorable.
The look in the eyes of a loved one that screams of remorse.
The acceptance or rejection of the attempt at redemption.
Slowly, sorry has lost its legitimacy among people.
Those who have no other plan of action are met with denial:
all because of the incessant overuse.
I weep at the death of the word.
"Sometimes sorry does not cut it!"
But sometimes, saying sorry is all I know how to do...
...and it is a great starting place for growth.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 2:06 AM UTC
the woman disregards
what's best for me,
( See http://hellopoetry.com/poem/bus-poems-victuals-victim/ )
gives me with kind regard,
what's best for me,
for this is the kindness
that hallmarks
the long lasting kind
bring before your childlike tap tap attention wains,
a treatise on leftover chicken wings
and other such nonsensical
finger food additions,
purposed
to inspire, to find innovation,
in expressing, reclaiming and newly exclaiming
that miscreant four letter word
that appears in the other 99% of les ecrivants
(See the notes)
in some poem writ recent,
pontificated that the
most overused three words,
yes, those abused three,
degraded by overuse,
losing their poetic juice
thru constant repetition,
being nearly
boringly indecent,
even when
boldly italicized,
the impact upon the reader
is in the realm of
"oh yeah, that's nice for you"
Better to be best in show,
deduce how,
to demonstrate
rather than insistently remonstrate,
new ways every day
to say
chicken wings means..
you know what...
Some get tea and oranges,
others get cherished
when our repast is twice recast,
when she feeds me leftover
chicken wings,
both kinds,
spiced and honey just like
l....e should be
do you know why
Silly
has two L's?
Correct.
for the run lies therein,
kissing knuckles when unexpected,
********** the exhausted, tucking them in,
going out for ice cream in the midst of a
polar vortex,
recording the game to watch later,
so her downtown abbey guys,
she can be watching at the
proper English
place and time,
and celebrating life the next day
with leftover chicken wings
and other heartfelt,
but unheart healthy food additions
that folks, is how you writ a poem in deed,
that will be returned to you sevenfold in reads,
when you want to explain how,
you can, truly, sigh,
you know, love another...
with sinful, leftover chicken wings
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
Times New Roman reminds me of a time when I knew that romance was not dead because I got to hold it in my hand
The curve of the characters reminds me of the uneven curve of your cupids bow
The claustrophobic clustering of vowels reminds me of the cringe worthy cling of your foggy glass frames stuck to mine, failing sight feeding failed intimacy
The simplicity of each symbol reminds me of the systematic sufficiency with which you seduced me in so few words,
the straightforward soliloquy with which you struck me and bereft me of my sanity.
The length of each letter reminds me of the longevity of our last embrace
Lanky limbs looped laterally to the length of my body for literal milliseconds
The overuse in overdue essays typed in early hours of the morning reminds me of the overuse of three words and the emptiness and lack of effort behind them,
Submitting those three words for a good grade and a pat on the back, coming up short because professor and princess alike saw through the inability to do
With meaning,
That your words had no feeling.
The fact that though I've faced fancier fonts and fell for them fanatically, I always return to the first, reminds me that though a fair few have found more than friendship in my fragile forearms that the first is the forever
and if at times the former
then always the future
the finest font I've ever found is you
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 11:07 AM UTC
I like to imagine myself as a shield
Casting itself over it’s allies in battle
Saving them from shrapnel and enemy attack
On the front there was color
It has long faded into a plain metallic sheen
The color was not faded in one short stroke of grief
But rather by years and years of wear and misuse
It is filled with scratches
Some from enemies, some from allies, some from myself
On the back there are words
Some that I say all the time
Words like “I’m fine” and “Don’t worry about me”
Others are phrases I wished I heard
“Proud of you, son” “Good job, son”
These words serve to protect the guise
To persuade those who are protected by the shield
To never glance at the battle-worn front
Sometimes the shield is close to breaking
Mostly from overuse
Sometimes it breaks itself
Chipping pieces off wondering why it doesn’t feel whole anymore
What was once a thick, sturdy shield
Has become a frail, flimsy barrier
Ready to break at the slightest hit
It refuses to go easily
As if it were gone who would protect those behind it
How could such an imperative device be so easily replaced
How could others forget its purpose
How could the shield forget its own worth
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC