"peculiarity" poems
It's always been you!
If only you realized how much you mean to me,
Not a moment goes by when I don't stop to think about you,
Your peculiarity alone can do that,
And, that's always been you!
What makes you so special?
In layman terms,
You are my greatest strength
And, my greatest weakness.
The serenity in your halcyon heart,
The charisma of your captivating eyes,
The elegance in your illustrious smile,
The tenderness of your seductive lips,
The spark in your gentle touch,
The gracefulness of your alluring neck,
The radiance in your dazzling lustrous hair,
The lure of your hypnotizing heaving *****
The haven in your scintillating navel,
The holiness of your ravishing waist,
The sanctity of your fascinating hips,
The wickedness in your mesmerising curves,
For my hopes lie on,
The gateway to your heart,
That is now open,
Through the divine pathway in your sacred forest,
Filled with untold and concealed secrets,
And, mysteries unknown to man,
For I hope to touch, nurture and caress,
Every deep wall in you,
For you are the prayer to my appetite,
And, the incarnation of my desires,
It is now that I get the privilege of being a being,
To realize,
You complete me!
You are desire,
You are passion,
The inspiration for wanting more in life,
The personification of loving life itself.
The paragon of my eroticism,
And, not an end will there be,
For my ***** crave,
To be destroyed,
By the ****** dynamite you are.
An eternal pleasure in sensual misery you are,
And, a heaven in my hell,
The zenith of all climaxes,
And, the paradigm for my resurrection.
The yearning for the man in me,
You are!
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 6:07 PM UTC
In your eyes shines universe in the shape of your face.
The stars whisper verses of unconditional love.
Light of the moon emanates with your heart.
Sun burns oath of immortality on my skin.
Planets dance to the music of our souls.
Even the black hole discovered the essence of love.
Stardust wraps our bodies and souls.
Meteorites juggle in space of desire to hit ecstasy of fated land.
Interstellar space is filled with love of devotion.
Electromagnetism guards intimacy of our bodies.
Gravity is jealous about force of our feelings.
Strong impact rising between us.
Space-time continuum is richer in our kisses.
All forms of matter and energy count light years of love head over heels.
Our love was born in the Big Bang's peculiarity,
existes since the dawn of time.
Atoms formed union of our beings.
Star agglomerated in galaxies of fascination and fulfillment.
Supernova of our passion is new kind of cosmic explosion.
The shock wave propagates even in the toes and feet.
We transformed in pure energy.
Expansion of our love accelerates.
Existence has become a paradise on earth, cosmic catharsis.
Love is bliss of *********** with you.
Drink a love potion to the bottom of romanticism.
You will raise where I am.
In you I found the multiverse.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 8:38 AM UTC
there are lots of different ways to tell someone you love them.
(it’s a pain in the *** to burn music onto a blank CD and handwrite a track list)
there are so many signs we miss as we are crudely blanketed and silenced by the alarm of being emotionally disarmed and unprepared for war.
(i can’t believe you still try to make me throw up my feelings and set them at your feet as a sacrifice)
humanity’s horrific tendency to dismiss our most crucial feelings and toss them down the garbage disposal is, more often than not, a reflection of how we treat ourselves.
(i’m never gonna quit reminding you how pretty you are, so shut up and take the compliment)
the basis of our existence resides solely on how we perceive ourselves, so why don’t we take a closer look?
(i will never understand why you can’t see how talented you are. you’re not that stupid)
the precision in which all of our flaws and quirks fit together is the equation to which we are the answer. if you solve all of them simultaneously, then your world would end up containing a significantly deficient amount of peculiarity.
(dork)
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 10:37 PM UTC
Running away
An eternal struggle
Fighting against suppressed feelings
Feeling displaced
Located in a world of my own
A world so strange...
I don't belong here...
I'm just a misfit
Branded by society
Trapped by my own peculiarity
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 4:26 PM UTC
Familial connectedness once again balances upon the brink of severed reconciliation.
I regret those detachments of which I had no accurate knowledge, and I have come to realise that those precious smells of nocturnal celebration far surpass the Scottish occasion of Hogmanay.
The East coast of Scotland will never cast aside her conscious awareness of masonic peculiarity.
So, I proclaim that our significance and identity transcend steel constructs which span the treacherous marine pathways of The Forth.
Did you happen to see the most beautiful girl amidst the smoky atmosphere in Yoker?
Snowflakes will continue to fall in silence over Fife hills, as the wisdom of Jimmy's grey hair calmly submits to a kaleidoscopic inevitability.
Listen, my friend, because this is important: we will always be related to detachment.
Sit comfortably, with tears in your eyes, because our roots will surprise us in the Great Finale.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 9:56 PM UTC
You wear yourself in disarray
A peculiarity
From default state
Particular
In daily motion
Stillness
And troubled mind.
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 7:08 AM UTC
Cheers from inside the catacombs of just-alive vagabonds & miscreant self-delusions of sagacious sabotage & pyrrhic moonscapes, brandishing our eternal return
a tabula rasa for respect & character - bottoms up, too. Mona Lisa
Shroud of Turin, ******* on a trunk. Gamble 66
for trays, dealing steam carrots.
Gag reflex to polite televangelists giving viewers auspicious immunity.
Habits cede to Power, acquiesce to Power, love power.
Peculiarity can recognize & organize to displace.
Something suspicious may run amok , antithetical to the divide & conquer trite.
Defeating paragons, i , Plumed Serpent of release & capture beats, borrowing color from a skylark in forever-flight, conjure remedial winds
Guide inimical bows subsumed in a cosmo-prole dew against the fasces of a few.
Apr 7, 2010
Apr 7, 2010 at 10:20 PM UTC
She was trying, so desperately,
To outrun the quiet loneliness of the world.
She held vendettas against the sinister silences that haunt goodbyes,
Against the fading shades of love,
Against the quietness in a voice that speaks to a desertion of love; a death.
(The monsters of her heart).
However, there is a certain bravery in her desperation for life.
To escape the oceans of regret,
To escape a certain brokenness.
For bravery lies in her conviction to live,
To find an irrevocable truth in another,
To deceive the shadows of longing.
In the face of undeniable malice and grandure.
In the fear of feeling nothing at all.
For in the end,
When the silence is deafening,
With a weariness that electrocutes,
And a tiredness of the heart.
She wanted it all to have mattered.
-
*"Do you think I'm pretty?"
I think you're pretty."*
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 9:37 AM UTC
There is something Scandinavian about the experience.
It reminds me of eternal resolutions.
Are you able or willing to listen?
Let me be honest with you: although I personally dislike the texture of *** I truly validate its place in the realms of peculiarity.
I am privileged to say that we are humbled by those who are scorned by populations of presumption.
Sausages must be fried at the correct temperature, otherwise their savoury convergences are lost in an abyss of culinary sabotage – don’t you think?
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 10:57 PM UTC
clueless
I was clueless of my feelings
naive of all the sparks flying
this fiery desire in my heart
I never took in consideration
being so free, without a care in the world
disconnected me from society
but the paradigm was altered
since you entered my system
my universe of quintessence
you seem to understand
amidst the people who judge me
for my weird mindset and philosophy
so long i have tried to fit in
but it seems like it will never happen
just because we are oddities
who belong with each other
the world will no longer bother us
now all i can see is you
your uniqueness and peculiarity
are all that matters to me
i treasure and cherish you with all the parts of my circulatory system,
** i love you.
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 9:42 AM UTC
I picked up love once,
It, stranded on the pavement, wilting in the heat,
One arm stretched to the soil,
The other at me.
I bent over and cradled love in my hands.
It's frail and delicate thorns
Broke under the light pressure of my palm,
It's paper-thin petals shattered into broken and dismembered sorrows.
Although secure it seemed to long for something else.
It twisted and turned,
became restless in my safety.
It thrashed and shook, it convulsed,
And wept silent open wounds.
It began to decay, burning what was important on the inside into embers of ignored pain.
From beauty to remarkable,
from remarkable to beauty again.
And from beauty the tragic of love was gone.
I picked up love once.
And when I put it down, only ashes remained.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 11:10 PM UTC
Its a moment in time,
it finds me ever so often.
Like a vague dream that lingers throughout the day,
Or like a childhood home that isn’t gone but isn’t the same.
I miss it with so much of my heart,
And I go back to it often,
It reminds me where I came from, why I am me,
It reminds me of true friends who deeply care.
The moment seems passed,
but the friend I think of often,
I can’t think of a better person than the one of this moment,
I wouldn’t wish any life without them in it.
Its funny because they’re here,
But consistency doesn’t come often,
I see a future in their eyes that I can’t forget,
It’s home and I feel I am always chasing it.
They’re not the one,
at least now,
But their character stays with me often,
Like your deep passion that leads you to a life career,
Like those postcards of paradise that lead you to your own .
I don’t know why she’s stuck around so long,
I don’t know why it comes back so often,
The peacefulness is kind of melancholy and lonely,
But the kind of lonely that you share with another.
Its almost taunting its place in my life,
How it follows between friends so often,
It never seems to fit, like a daisy taken with the weeds,
Like a singer in the shower, with no audience to listen.
I want my friend close,
But how with pain so often?
I can’t seem to bring the past to the present,
I just want to acclimate to the change without loss.
I could go on forever,
My heart cries often,
This may just be a guide for one to come along,
It may just lead me to a home with similar peculiarity.
I will carry this flower,
I will smell it often,
I won’t forget the past with all the good it brings,
I will take what I’ve learned and trek to my home out there.
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 12:59 PM UTC
I am that quiet girl
Who's absorbed in her thoughts
Self destructed in her twirls and whirls
Hanging in her knots
Everybody assumes she's fine
That she's content
It will all tell in time
When she loses her mind; peculiarity bent. ♭
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 1:31 AM UTC
P
O
E
T
R
Y
Awakens the senses....
Captivates the eye with a unique flair, like a skilled artist on the stage-a great dancer, a supreme actor, an athletic acrobat, an experienced musician, an engaging orator, a gifted singer, a heavenly choir
Entices the nose to imagine the hint of various scents, soothing or disturbing, and often blends different aromas into peculiarity
Touches the heart, mind, soul and skin--when it is spot on, perhaps with shivers, or perhaps with warmth
Teases the tongue to taste the words, salty, sour or sweet, vaguely satisfying, sometimes mystifying
Pounds on the eardrum to listen to its beat, at times, offbeat, at times, in perfect rhythm
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 1:40 PM UTC
My poetic, ever vital *****
The loving heart
Was born with a deformity
It is crippled
For it only ever beats
Muted rhythmic thumps
It pumps blood and oxygen
But not love
And unfortunately my brain cannot
Produce such feelings
Nor steer my life as
Love might do
So I live; ever crippled
By odd deformity
Sep 18, 2011
Sep 18, 2011 at 9:00 PM UTC
An eye for an eye that's how it start,
not knowing,still thinking their smart,
not knowing to what these actions will lead
the detriment of those so desperately in need.
Suddenly the revenge is no more,
it's no more about settling the score,
no, now it starts, the tip of the gun,
just for the sheer pleasure and the fun.
cutting and cutting, not seeing them bleed
day upon day giving in to your greed.
can you not see it's you they fear!
there's more than one meaning to the word,queer.
no knife sharper than a pen or the tongue
sadly there's no wisdom for those who are young.
it's to late when you realize and see
their silence and peculiarity was really a plea.
"What is there", you ask, for me to do?
"Nothing", I say, can describe my feelings to you.
What's done is done,
now it's for me to overcome.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 4:37 AM UTC
I am drowning beneath an infinite ocean,
entrapped within a world of chrome and plastic.
plastic lacks understanding of the way
that the wind has been blowing for the past
hundred thousand years.
the breeze has allowed souls to set sail
carried consciousness amidst colossal waves
towards crimson creeks of hate.
chrome and plastic knows not of the black or the white,
for reality is composed of repetitive sounds and vibrations.
perhaps it is pondering the peculiarity
of the projectiles stunting the growth of gardenias.
or perhaps it is simply appalled that
when we tilt our heads backwards
and open our eyes...
we are no longer mesmerized.
Jul 25, 2011
Jul 25, 2011 at 2:11 PM UTC
Looking meticulously on a river scene of beautiful Wednesday afternoons with all of life’s luxury
Out the window is a tree bent and gnarled with visible age twice my own
The perfect metaphor of life merely eking by, postured against infinity
As another, warped by the waves and turned to termed drift wood, also catches my eye for its existential merit
As it’s all been said before perspective is our only peculiarity
At the point, or lack there of, between all and nothing
Our minds spontaneous self-revelation is miracle enough for any, god fearing be ******
As over grown and lush as the under-leaves have become it seems like a waste to cut them out now so we might as well pump them full of fertilizers and hope for the second coming
Of knowledge and growth that began in the stone age bottle necking and splurged on drugs and money during the industrial revolution.
While trying to remember the ugliest parts that were and always will be me
Lets get free, really really free
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 5:57 PM UTC
A particular peculiarity of my piss-poor
personality is a predictable penchant
for pursuing people who put that
***** of prominent protrusion
of pinpointed pain just
inside my perfect
throat.
It's in
the quaint
place where
questions quell
beneath the quiver
of emotion that could be
quickly dissolved if quelling
qualified in the quest for quiet peace.
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 10:17 AM UTC
Yet again, here I am, overthinking things that I shouldn't but it's hard to avoid not doing so when you're waiting for a huge change to happen.
My life is dull. Routines on top of one another. Daily conversations that ebb into nothingness and complete irrelevance, sometimes I forget what we even talked about.
The spaces in my head are occupied with peculiarity and distress and I am often dressed in a color that makes people presume that I am suicidal.
I have been in love, but I was never the lover who received genuineness from another. I was always the giver, emptying and deflating the lungs trapped in my rib cages. I released the life out of me for that person who considered me a girl and a friend, not the words put together.
The only time I am understood is when I sit behind a screen, mouthing out the lyrics while my eyes blink and speak. I drown away the letters on the keyboard and tower over them, replacing each with watery words.
Every evening, my breath paces back and forth the four corners of my room. Screen too bright to see what's around, and I wait in anticipation for the roof to collapse and surround me with its rubble.
Often times I wonder if my conversations will ever consist of importance. Whether my words will reach another person, instead of bouncing back to me, cutting through the skin and past my bones.
When will I ever empty out my lungs of oxygen?
When will I ever replace it with something of significance and worth keeping?
n.j.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 10:26 PM UTC
He's on the outside
Deep within the confines,
Inside his own mind
Mind-expanding from pole to pole
What he touches, what he feels.
What's real?
He consumes
Straw, in the Earth's core,
******* to taste and see
He tries navigate with soul
Navigating his world,
a world away from me
He took my world from me,
My world
in his blood stream
I can hear the screams
He's hemmed in by societies that can never know him
Looking on the scarred skin, superficiality
Try to explain his fatal peculiarity
Societies can't walk in his world,
Never walk within his skin
They can understand pyschology and try to explain,
But he can't feel their pain
No human instinct works that way
He took my world from me
My world's in his head
My world is dead.
Should we freeze him in ice?
Looking at a freak show
of glassy horror
A blank face, behind the make-up
we don't know
It's no animalistic, atavistic base place,
There's no human instinct that can explain.
How he walked our world, but ran a different race,
Alien, Upside down, The wrong way round, This ****** up clown
His inhuman race finds a place when a switch flicks the wrong way in a brain
There's no way to explain,
That he doesn't understand your pain
He ****** your world into his sick **** circus,
Feeding innocence to the Lions,
across lines that in his mind
just aren't
Once,
He was innocence,
There is no innocence,
There are no lines
A clown,
Without laughter,
No sense
There is just sensation,
Just living,
A clown without laughter,
Living and fighting,
natural disaster
A straw in the Earth's core,
My world is never safe
The world at individual war
He took my world from me,
My world
in his blood stream
I can hear the screams
He took my world from me
My world
In their eyes,
closed to passing time
He took my world from me
My world
inside his head
They died.
My world is dead.
Aug 2, 2011
Aug 2, 2011 at 11:54 PM UTC
“Can you cover my shift 5 to 10 next Sunday?”
The first thought is to bring life to another forged explanation.
But then remember “the car”, “Nike Air Max 13’s” “new black chinos!”
“Yes, but who is this?” my eagerness caused by some subconscious yearn to nab this opportunity for a little more change in my pocket
Return to the dusty road I came from
My smiles wider than the road it’s self
You know how happy I am
My eyes have seen things they shouldn’t have
Time as we know it collapsing
Back to the road that brought me here
Laughing so hard
I can never take it back
Homecoming of creativity
The four walled clock melting safe house
Oh the anticipation
The justification
It’s coming back soon
I don’t wanna stand on my toes forever
Just trying to peer over then moon
To see the sunrise for tomorrow
I’m finally content with the night light
I don’t wanna stand on my toes forever
Across the avenue
People walking on their hands
And having their peculiarity
Drained from their auras
I can’t understand
Arriving back to times we applauded at our own joy and success
I can comprehend
The boulevard
The corner where this all was conceived
I don’t want to put on my shoes
I’m just going to take them off again
Down to another dusky trail
Unraveling its self for my travels
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 6:06 PM UTC
Life passes by
Moment by moment
Each minute a grain of sand
In a ceaseless flow inside
This biological hourglass
Time has this peculiarity:
This irreversible absurdity
That to crave for more time
Becomes one's slow undoing
Sagging skin, unsightly wrinkles
Bones turn brittle, breaking
Muscles ****** out of their strength
Atrophied
Eyes failing, perpetual darkness
And the self succumbs to the lull
Of oblivion
The mind: no longer, extinguished
What's left is a husk of what once was
A human being.
Hope then becomes a beacon, a torch
In the middle of a starless night
A burning, warm sense of certainty
Hope, or that stubborn illusion
That happiness is one's lot in life
But time silently persists
Eroding foundations, narratives
Dismantling falsity
Uprooting grand, elaborate conceits
Blind and merciless
Uncaring towards puny human desires
Hope's demise.
Life: a futile struggle against time.
To what end?
Dec 15, 2020
Dec 15, 2020 at 3:57 AM UTC