"overused" poems
Nothing can break the souls bond
between twin flames and no matter
how long you are apart or what
happens you are always connected
and sometimes two souls are even
created together and in love before
they're born.
Once a deep and powerful connection
between two people has been made
they become a vital part of each
others lives and there is no
separating them and no measure
of distance or duration of silence
can prevent the outbreak of smiles
and laughter or the strong desire
to leap into each other's arms when
they come together once more.
My soulmate lives her life like a
flame; A dance of purposeful chaos,
Her enchanting light can guide you
and quell your fears....She's hot;
warming those who respect her
and burning those who don't..She
is a flame with an unforgettable
glow...A weak man will try to dim
her luminance ... but her Soulmate
will have pleasure in fanning the
blaze as I try to do but "soulmate"
is an overused term, and a true
soul connection is very rare, but
very real and a soulmate will always
be someone who will make you the
most "you" that you can possibly
be as she does for me.
She is a mystery to me, yet so
familiar like a song I've never heard
before and a tune I've known my
entire life, knowing that we are
spiritual beings in human form
with a desire to simply connect
with a soul who feels like home.
The moment our souls connected,
our hearts became one and now every
day that I communicate with her I
can feel our love continue to grow
stronger...stronger with loyalty,
respect and encouragement and
I am so happy to share my life with
her spirit and as we grow old
together,as we continue to change
with age, there is one thing that
will never change...I will always
keep falling in love with her. Jon York 2018
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 6:14 AM UTC
I am fat
like an overused ****
If you need some crack
gimme some smack
and ill make you lick my *****
until my *** goes splat.
All over your face
please put away the mace
I only want to *** on your sister's face.
I **** at poems
I hate America
the next chance i get
ill give it back to the Cherroka.
This will not rhyme
I hate poetry.
its only for dumbfucks who want to drink coffee with hipsters and lick obamas *****
I love black people and my ***** is gigantic. Goodbye :D I still hate Titanic.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC
Sun up till sun down
Trapped in a perpetual frown
Moon comes then she goes
Drops free fall from my nose
Waking hours in the daylight
Aimless motions; clumsy, puppet-like
Waking hours in the night
Uncomfortable in my own skin and psych
Sleeplessness be my companion
Restlessness be my actions
Despondence be my demon
Crest fallen be my reason
Frantically sifting through my head
Vertically upright or supine in bed
Compartmentalising might be key
To fend off self inflicted insanity
Desperation hangs overhead; ripe and bruised
Excuses upon excuses ridiculously overused
Furiously typing before my mind curds
Hopes of finding peace in these unspoken words
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 10:45 PM UTC
The world is my canvas,
I am the rainbow that illuminates it.
My colors fill the open spaces surrounding me.
I see beauty with my eyes closed,
I speak my wisest words without a strain in my vocal cords,
I lead an army with no weapons.
I speak when I am not spoken to.
I create Unity and destroy resentment.
A man I once bought dinner for
had a body filled with darkness ,
I met his lurking shadow before I was introduced to his warm soul.
"I can't make it another day"
"this is no longer a game that I can play"
"I want to break away from my fate"
"3 big macs and a bottle of ***** that will help me think straight"
"I have this hole in my heart but its feeling more like a never ending weight"
his overused cardboard sign hung off of the side of his garbage filled shopping cart.
his fingertips froze against my palm
we talked about his life
his brother and mom
their drug addictions
and how he has survived so long,
he was 32
with no home.
he understood life in only one tone.
i feed,
I listen,
I speak influential truth.
what I said to him,
through my guitar callused hands,
saved his delicate life.
Purple vibrated through his toxic chest.
Purple.
the color of
wealth
power
creativity,
independence
dignity and wisdom.
purple filled His veins.
My weaponless army will proceed to expand.
and my soul will always be available for helping hands,
my guidance will forever lurk in the dangerous shadows,
I will speak when I am not spoken to because
speaking out of turn
saves souls.
and one day, everyone's soul will drown in purple.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 11:01 AM UTC
dear lover,
i miss you. even though i’ve never met you, i can still feel your energy from a thousand miles away.
a face that can make men go to war for you. your smile makes time move slow, everything in the world makes sense. i find comfort in your love and warmth in your presence.
lover. i fell in love with your words, everything you uttered was. beauty personified in words. that deep energetic vibe from your soul makes me want to dance in your. elegance.
i fell in love with your mind, and i fell deep within your subconscious. a trance i was in. you’re my intellectual crush. you had me on my knees, you had me intellectually lovin’ you.
i had a dream we were both dancing to Eros’ beautiful rhythm. nothing makes me stronger than your fragile heart, baby don’t think im out to hurt you. not my intention.
i fell in love with you and i never knew. falling in love with you was never my plan. but i guess it was God’s plan. we’ll never know.
even though we’ve never met. i can still remember the sound of your heartbeat, your voice so sweet like the heavens. and your movement so graceful. graceful. you’re like a Raven – innocent, beautiful, sweet.
my heart just skipped a beat.
beautiful soul. speak to me. i saw the beauty of life through you, beautiful soul. and even though we’ve never met, lover. i miss you.
you got a lotta soul, lady. that’s beautiful.
all i wanna do is admire your beauty from a distance because im afraid if i touch you. my flesh will be tempted to do all that is regarded. earthly.
i’ll prolly luh you fo’eva. let me escape through you in thought. beautiful lover. beautiful soul.
“touch me with your mind. hands are overrated & ‘soul’ is overused.”
the closest stranger i’ve never met. i became more with you. your lips i will kiss, your hips i will hold, and your love i will embrace. you have my heart. you have the key to my heart.
and the more i think of you, i miss you. even though we’ve never met, beautiful lover.
our hearts are interlocked in deep conversation. thoughts & feelings in graceful motion, love never known.
i saw us dancing under the moonlight. you wore a silk white dress with Queen Elizabeth’s crown upon your head. and me, just a man wearing a white suit with a purple rose in his chest pocket.
imagine.
and we danced in the cosmos, the stars were watching us — the sun and the moon were playing music only heard in the heavens.
dear lover. beautiful lover. beautiful soul. i love you. i miss you. even though we’ve never met.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 10:25 AM UTC
My body is the training ground for
All of the reject demons
My inner demons failed to qualify as the right sort of fight
To match with any worthwhile struggles so
My inner demons are over dramatic children
They do not wage wars
They throw tantrums
They stand inside my temples and pound the walls
When they do not get what they want
And shriek ringing into my ears until they turn blue
Then fall asleep when they get tired
Forgetting that they were supposed to be upset
My inner demons are pretentious
They call themselves demons
When they are more like imps
They tickle at anxiety with the nerve to call it an attack
And separate velcro and seams with the audacity to say that
They broke something
Then press on my heart
Daring to call it an ache
My inner demons are clumsy
They walk with their toes curling around my eyelashes
And slip and spill their handfuls of tears
At inopportune moments
As I tremble due to the ones
That have tripped and tangled themselves
In my heartstrings and vocal cords
Causing me to grasp my rib cage in desperate attempts to reach them
And tear apart the inconveniences
My inner demons are shy
They sway in my veins to the rhythmic pulse
With clawed hands outstretched to the blue walled sky
Cautious to never leave a scratch through my skin
They dance on nerve endings and muscle tissue
With footwork just gentle enough to not summon bruises
And hold themselves still against my capillaries
As if their presence might distract my blood from
Its daily circulation
My inner demons are hoarders
They over-stuff the filing cabinets in my brain
With reports and analysis of too many situations
And pick up old emotions and hide them in the recesses
Of each ventricle and aorta
Creating pseudo-space for newer, stranger, replicas
Then pack extra breaths into my lungs
Storing "just in case" inhalations and overused sighs
They insulate their homes with extra calories and extra clothes
Hiding until they can forget themselves
My inner demons are moody
They like to stitch up new wounds with the thorns of roses
And pry open old ones with feathers
They tie my tongue with pages of foreign textbooks
They tie my tongue in gauze and cotton
They tie my tongue with other tongues
And pins and needles and teeth and drawstrings
They are self depreciating and they know that they
Are not worthy of their title
My inner demons are pathetic
I suppose they're right where they belong
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
I’m just so tired of every day. I’m so tired of the gray and the way my body begs me and begs me for just a few more hours of darkness. And I never know if it’s asking that because it feels tired, or because it’s afraid that my thoughts and monsters might drag it out passed its’ limits like it normally does. It’s such an odd thing. I’m terrified of darkness, and sometimes it’s all I crave.
One half of me begs for summer days filled with shooting clouds and soft blankets that are hard to lay on because I’m sweating. The other half wants nights filled with angry music and dark clothing. Piercings and dyed hair, shoving my mouth against a stranger with tingling finger tips from what ever my ‘friend’ had given me only minutes before. One wants a calm surreal happiness. The other wants to get revenge on the world. Exhaust her body until it is filed down to skin and bones. Big heavy bags underneath my eyes that hold nothing but the reminder that I will always be tired. Splotchy cheeks, oh that’s right, I was crying last night. It doesn’t make sense. I feel so much more strongly on one side even though the other is so much better. For me. For me for me for me. But is it what I deserve? Is it what I see myself really wanting?
Who knows. I don’t want to care about me. I want to throw myself away, and in the meantime, hold someone else. Of course I wouldn’t drag them down with me… Or maybe I would.
Maybe I don’t deserve people.
Or at least I should avoid them.
But I can’t be alone, because a lonely life is a pointless one. And if I am pointless, then I am wasted space, and I should not wave my arms around in the air anymore. My lungs should not do their regular function, and maybe, just maybe, my heart could be given to someone who would put it to much better use.
My skin feels overused and overdone.
There’s sand in the cracks of my hands and I swear I will never feel satisfied in anything that I ever do. I am not soft to the touch. I am rough. No one wants to put their hand in mine, and wear me like I am the sea. No one wishes they could spin me around and push me off, so that I would beg and plead for the right direction towards them. No one wants me to love them like I so badly want someone to love me. And I won’t have it. I will never have it. I am not meant for anyone, because I am not meant for myself.
That is the problem. It’s right there. It’s right in my own face.
I am not meant for myself.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 8:55 PM UTC
Do you ever write something
So good
That you feel like you've peaked
As a writer?
And everything from then on
Is a question in your head?
Maybe you should never
Pick up a pencil again
Because your writing career
Has already been wrapped up
Tightly with a bow
Maybe you planned to be a poet
Get a proper creative writing degree
And forever make a living
Off the rhythm of words
But every idea now
Seems like a steaming pile of ****
Compared to your last masterpiece
So it just sits
Rotting in your brain
Until you stink
With a lack of genuine creativity
Maybe you've written so much
That your rhymes
Begin to sound tired
And overused
But if you don't rhyme
It sounds as if you've gotten lazy
So no matter what you put down
The effort doesn't show
Maybe writing about the ordinary
Seems boring
But writing the extraordinary
Has already been done
And every option in between
Seems like a cheap plagiarism
Maybe your standards got too high
And people expect more from you
So every ounce of energy you have
Is wasted on doubting yourself
Until you're too exhausted
To write at all
Maybe you dreamt too big
Maybe quitting while you're ahead
Sounds better than actually trying
Maybe the emptiness you feel
When you don't write
Is worth not risking failure
Maybe saying goodbye
To your dreams now
Will be easier
Than a downward spiral
From the inability
To write something better than before
Or maybe
You're just overthinking it.
Aug 28, 2017
Aug 28, 2017 at 12:49 PM UTC
I am a dramatized china doll,
but I never rouge my knees.
The MC introduces me as Scarlett.
Lulu embraces me as we saunter
off the platform. Whistles follow my footsteps
digging into my brain, fermenting,
to strong wine.
Gentlemen enter the club to leer
at cabaret girls dancing in lace.
Some are drawn to the boys of the club,
the ones in the dark corners with kohl-rimmed
eyes and eager kisses.
From their seats in the dimness, the audience
fails to notice rips in my blouse, cigarette
butts smudged out in the wings. No one
sees the ***** face powder spread out
among the lighted mirrors, overused,
my own makeup dried out.
Their giggles and applause keep
the club alive, filled with dead
grins from dinner to dawn.
Drum roll—my turn.
We rid them of their troubles.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 9:40 PM UTC
Grey is my pain(t)
Smeared on this tain(t)
Seeping in(k)
Entanglement be my kin(k)
Now I thin(k)
Soon I will sin(k)
My mind ramble(d) on and on
Struggle(d) till I'm almost gone
Overused angular frow(n)
Paint over the brow(n)
That had (s)oiled this painting
(Sp)Oiled by sporadic inking
The ***** in my skin
Sung of battles that reside (with)in
My armour though(t) sturdy
In(side) I only bury
Must...
Plan(t) my feet
Swift is my flee(t)
Envision my escape(s)
Beyond the cordoning tape(s)
Shed the armour and reveal the s(h)eep
My vulnerability hid(den) deep
Let loose... The courage I hone(d)
Let them be heard... Voices that groan(ed)
I await... Patient(ly)
Time I bide... Defiant(ly)
Fade(d), bleeding away
Shade(d)... With gloom that stay
Grey is my pain(t)
Only colour, tinting my tain(t)
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 9:55 AM UTC
It’s something about the
way you say pathetic,
the words sting and burn
like the shots of a diabetic.
Overused and undervalued
by a simply judged fanatic.
The looks you cast,
as I slink past,
are all but few and
far between,
let alone sporadic.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 2:16 PM UTC
i feel the heat in my cheeks
and from your hands
say it again
when i sleep
when i lay on fields
when i pick on the pedals
whisper it in my ear when we're alone
to me, it lost its meaning, becoming
an overused invaluable phrase
something everyone expects but never gets
i did for sure, and learned my lessons
but from you, it was different
nothing less than my shooting star wish
i landed on the right pedal
you say it when you are
when i think you're not, but you mean it
but you always remind me
and show me you do,
i do too.
Jul 27, 2022
Jul 27, 2022 at 3:56 PM UTC
These poems are flower crowns.
Sometimes beautiful and full of color,
The words soft and crushed,
Others small and scratchy, made from
The clover blossoms growing with the weeds.
Some nights my words are wilted from wear,
Like an overused excuse, an old tale,
Because I've said these words before.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 11:05 PM UTC
You are the worst thing that has ever happened… to my poetry
You see I used to write poems that make people want to set fire to the world, and cry an ocean. I used to write about death, and depression, and hope, and how I am finally okay with who I am. I use to write to inspire, I used to write about the demons under my bed and the ones in my head. I could write poems about my fears and my dreams and how messed up this world is. But lately, all I have been about to write about is you.
Roses are red, violets are blue, my poetry has gone to **** and its all thanks to you
My poetry has gone from a ***** the world mentality to what ever this sappy stuff I have been writing lately is called.
My poems are about your smile and how it can light up a room better than 1,000 suns
They are about how I get butterflies every time I see you and how there are fireworks when we kiss
They are full of overused analogies, like fireworks and butterflies
They have gone from being about how sometimes I get so scared of everything my heart beats out of my chest to being about how my heart skips a beat when you say my name
They have gone from how music is my catharsis to how when you play music I think I lose the ability to breathe correctly.
They are about how it takes you 20 minutes to get ready because you have to re-lace your shoes every time.
They use to be about how I am scared. I am scared of failure, I am scared not doing anything with my life, I am scared of spiders, I am scared of things changing. But all I can write about is how I am terrified of losing you.
My poetry is about our stupid jokes
They are about how terrified I am that you are going to see me differently when you find out that I am more messed up than I may seem.
They are about how cute you are when you are sleepy and how you are like a modern day, male, Cinderella except instead of losing your shoe at midnight you kinda lose your mind.
You see, I have a reputation to uphold. I am the depressing and angry poetry girl, but I can’t be that when you make me so **** happy.
My poems are about all night video calls and awkward first kisses
They are about how no amount of time is nearly enough when I'm with you
They are about how we are pretty much the same person but with different faces
My poems are about your hair and how much I like it even though its always getting in my way
My poetry is about how you are the only person that manages to give me **** while simultaneously telling me I am cute
My poems are about how your eyes are like coffee, and how I love coffee, and how I love you.
Don’t you see what I mean? You are the worst thing to ever happen to my poetry, but the best things to ever happen to me.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 10:25 AM UTC
sadly
it's the broken toys
who were played
to the
core
the broken toys
were overworked
overused
but the toys
did not
know
that they were overused
because they
were loved.
m.g.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 11:25 AM UTC
I read a story today.
Like any good story it was layered upon the premise of the love between two perfect strangers.
Like any good story it was about romance that blossomed... and then flourished as quick as it was fierce.
Like any good story it spun a far-reaching web of hope and longing whilst still holding on to the uncompromising nature of responsibility to one's dreams.
Like any good story, there was a spot of intimacy. The gradual build up of physical and psychological attraction that culminated in the merging of two, was nothing less than tasteful.
Like any good story there was conflict.
But it was not the cliched garnish that involved oppressive parenting styles nor glaring racial differences.
It did not rope in the overused notion of "we're so different, we're two parts of a whole".
It was... a beautiful conflict.
One that does not allow the audience to choose sides.
In fact, it encourages you to think inward and root for both parties - be them together or apart.
If anything at all, it boils down to the pursuit of each individual's happiness.
Like any good modern day story, it ended with a breath held in a gasp. You hold it there for the longest moment and you have to close that breath with a heavy sigh of loss.
It also leaves you with ample room to deliberate the "what if" factor.
Happy endings last a while but sad ones... they rip a hole in you that almost never closes...
and you cannot help but go back to read it over and over again in the hopes of finding the elusive right answer or the best alternate ending.
Like any good story it was tailored in my fit. Because I envisioned myself in it. I got consumed by it. Overwhelmed by it, enough to almost break the pipes.
And like any good story, it's worth keeping...
In heart and in mind.
So I read a story today. And I didn't want it to end.
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 6:26 AM UTC
strike my eyes lovely
for S. B.
by way of introduction,
when you have gone to confession,
freely admitting you have nothing left for others to harvest,
no seed to plant a new crop, and lies and laughter, interchangeable,
there is no poetry left, not even raisin scone crumbs,
one good friend informs that a forgotten five month old poem,
a computer has selected & resurrected, for distinction
so months later you snicker for you have been seriously
self-kicked away from writing, all your vocabularies,
trite and yellowed overused, and you read
really good poetry and are
slapped-seen-outed by the impoverishment of
your own no-winsome word-smithy,
no delusions, even this, but a-quick script, more a thank you note,
and it’s the only lasting quality is the
genuine nature of its intent
but the poem itself falls bottom of the cliff, short on quality,
a victim of your dissatisfaction
let me explain better
she messages you while the time difference works in her favor,
she reads while you sleep the sleep of the soul-exhausted,
she, scoffing at your claims of motivation deprivation,
as she cherishes this forgotten one,
with words that cannot be ignored
the poem**
strikes her eyes lovely
daggered, this morning phrase cannot go unchallenged
for this a compliment that any poet would
weep for, be inspired by, stung into action,
provoked, ego flattered and challenged to-do more-better,
what writer could want for anything more!
who can own this ability
accept this ultimatum of success, a cross-word crucification
to strike down lovely
the readers eyes, almost all once,
almost excuses me forever
for trying and failing so many times
you smile
but not in the chest where
lovely
needs to strike you
for if you cannot strike the readers eyes again and again, then...
let the moment gleam, and then disappear,
again and again, stored but not restorative
11/21/18
Miami
Nov 22, 2018
Nov 22, 2018 at 7:49 AM UTC
As I open my eyes,
My body starts aching.
The fatigue is my prize
For this overdue awaking.
I've overused my body
I gave too much away
To help others be
When I couldn't find a way.
So I lay here still
Because everything hurts
And I have to pay the bill
Now that what's left of me is inert
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 4:24 PM UTC
The rope I'm gripping tightly have
taut fibers twined around each other.
I wove them that way, meticulously.
One string after another, its form gathers,
and I'm proud of my craft.
I've used it to save myself and others,
pulling and tying knots, anchoring.
A tightrope to dance on over and over,
Tugging, stretched, fighting, breaking,
but my rope's getting slippery.
I've used it so much it's hard to hold on.
It's overused and now
everything's
going
wrong.
Only a matter of time before I can cut it
without effort,
just one scissor,
and it's no more.
I'll tie it back together but I can only try so hard.
It's wearing down, going gone.
It withers and soon I'll have none.
Nothing to save me, or them
if I start abusing it again.
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 9:41 AM UTC
Because a thing may seem cliche won't mean it isn't right.
Warm sunbeams, drumbeat thunder, and the clash of dark and light.
Or just because it's overused, don't say it can't be true.
Old words and phrases well describe my burning love for you.
Jun 15, 2018
Jun 15, 2018 at 10:24 AM UTC
Words are just tools, or things to be used
they can make sense of the world, or leave you confused.
Love's just a word, so's beauty, perfection;
they once conveyed meaning of undying affection
but they're now overused, and so seem cliche
what good are words she won't believe anyway?
But say them I shall, just to let her know
that for me love means the same as it did long ago.
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 7:05 AM UTC
dragon’s flames
rubber bands and blank paper sheets
a pair of ***** red sneakers
black and white keys
thick, old books
crumpled paper
a box of paints
pencil shavings
shades of gray
stacks of cds
dog-eared magazines
ancient stuffed toys
newspapers from two months ago
ninja gear and beyblades
a box of keychains
picture-plastered walls
last week’s jeans
yesterday’s jacket
ballpens with no ink
worn out satin slippers
an overused waveboard
loose change and
illustration boards
all found in
my room
Oct 9, 2011
Oct 9, 2011 at 3:56 AM UTC
she wanted my soul
so I cut off a finger,
noting that this little pinky offering,
came from the same hand,
who, who went to the market
to buy her a love poem
all her own, because,
it was from the self same hand
that wrote:
*who, can cut a soul into pieces,
no one!
so one will still ask you,
who!
who will love you
in whole poems,
that are both past and future tensed
composite composted,
from words overly overused,
but still foolishly feeling brand new
when referencing you,
so you can believe with new fool-thinking,
this is your sole composition*
she wanted my heart,
applauded her determination,
gave her one eye to see me instead better,
so the visions she essays, to write,
like when I sit down to write
of women I’ve loved but!
they do not come from my heart pieces,
but from inside insight from of parts
that are blind to everything
but raucous untamable invisible desire
she asked me for all the world’s wisdom,
while standing on one legging,
I simply said, here I am,
telling you I’ll love you the way you requested,
if only to be loved in return
so with one eye and one leg,
you will observe, two is not more
than the sum of the parts of one love,
as I count to ten on my nine fingers
fingers that wrote of love not enough,
no matter how many he gave up
she wanted my brainiac left hemisphere,
said, sure,
the left side of me is where the baby poems
are created, and then angel-released when ready,
when needed, now that I
see you’re needy for pieces,
but still mistaken that pieces can be reconstructed into
a whole with spit and spirit
and an overarching imagination -
no!
the whole comes from only a holy place extracted
from the hole-in-one that is my entirety
give me then your utter essence,
the place of you
I, only I know exists, must exist,
but cannot touch to see
where you keep it hidden
from all the women who love you,
better than you even love yourself
if you want that, then collect it,
for it exists and lives on
in every woman that asked for nothing,
but was rewarded with more
than a thousand poems,
stored in stars, for her,
to be creamed and cleansed,
when she plucked them
from the night in the galaxy where exist
love poems, only
to she-one shone-shine
Jul 15, 2019
Jul 15, 2019 at 1:48 PM UTC