"personalized" poems
Dear Ashley,
Congratulations! Your parents decided to give you one of the most popular names of the 90s! This is your letter of introduction to being Ashley! However, be informed that your name will not only be just "Ashley". Since it's very common, non-Ashleys will need to differentiate between all of you. You may be nicknamed "Ashley #2" or "Ashley Last Name Initial". Preparing yourself for embarrassment is also essential. Instructors will call out your name, resulting in either you pointing to yourself mouthing, Me? or managing to chirp a "Yes?" in unison with three others, only to feel stupid when it's not you. With a name so stale and boring, you may grow a hatred for it. You will fall in love with unique signatures, wishing they were your own. Over and over again, you will fantasize about changing it. Keep in mind that other Ashleys feel the same. At least you can be thankful you weren't named Frances.
Sincerely,
Ashley
P.S. - Although, personalized key chains are easily accessible!
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
We are bones. Us as the human race. we are bones covered in flesh. Different flesh, but we're still bones.
We look different, but we're still bones.
We sound different, but we're still bones.
We move different, but we're still bones.
We act different, but we're still bones.
Get it yet?
We are individuals, but underneath, we are bones.
We are the same. Equal.
Each of us are skeletons created by the same God, who personalized us according to His will.
All in all; we are replicated bones.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 9:56 AM UTC
3:8:15 - Kosher pinot noir toasts the snowflakes that the eider brings, just as the Ash bows ache; naked and starving. Hurdling through old bedroom windows, giving those reasons why pennies are wished first into window wells. Smoggy gawkers, locked into an image shaped by organic lines and gestures. The two smoker- cure their hours reconnoitering in skyrise stairwells, discussing recipes for fixing wounded hearts without the peaceful frequencies she speaks into two styrofoam cups with strings pierced through their innards. Much like the story of how two people meet within the timespan of the living.
Even the Moon Men eat space cakes to loosen their chests, from the apathetic laws that began to govern their personalized truths. Not a mug with a name on it bought after an almost very cool free-art reenactment of Pirates of the Caribbean.
Love is not a sentence I can choose not to awaken.
It's the difference between having a one night stand rather
than keeping a toothbrush at each other's places.
Even on a Saturday night, we could fasten ourselves
to one another. Even if it's only you and I, who are you to
say it's not a party.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 9:47 AM UTC
I have loved and lost
all before 18
I lay here in the hallway
staring at the “artistic” mix
that now pollutes our ceiling
getting lost in the swirls
running in the wild jungles
he is leaving
I am skipping 5th
its English
Yet I really don’t care
let the security come find me
what will they do
slap me in detention
he is leaving me
I lay there
staring off
into my own self
life is funny isn’t it
we are pushed into people
but told not to fall for them
they will always leave
even if they don’t want to
he is leaving
I blame no one
for the way I feel right now
the quiet torture I’m going through
personalized pain
***** unyielding knife in my heart
slowly twisting every time
he talks about college
I’m stuck in the muck
that is this ***** hallway
the trash littered at the corners
cockroaches shuffle past me
he is leaving me
this is hell
this is life
lived by me
gossip obsessed friends
college is next
when it gets worse
now its just without parents
a structured freedom
I want out
he is leaving
he loves me
he will come back right?
someone tell me
please
I am holding back
my heartache
Someone
anyone
tell me something
other than
”if it’s meant to be it will be”
that won’t stop my heart
from breaking
I loved and am now losing
all before 18
the bell rings
the ants are let free
they jump to get to
friends, class, smoking spot
it’s the first day of school
he is not here
It’s the first day of senior year
he is not here
I should be happy
but I can’t be
he is not here
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 10:36 AM UTC
Prozac
It’s my own drug
Like a personalized brand of *******
Bringing me high as a kite
Not on the effects of a narcotic
But on fake happiness
Prozac
Almost as addictive as ****
Leaving me with an ache behind my eyes
When it fades away it leaves me with nothing
No protection, no refuge from the insanity
Only me
Only me
Only me
Only me
Only me.
Prozac
Oh how I breathe for you
I desire to be carried away from this hollow place
This empty room
This cold-hearted house
Fly me away
Allow me to perch upon your pure white wings
And get taken to a place that doesn’t exist
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 8:49 PM UTC
As a delicate flower,
you bring beauty to a barren garden
with your wondrous smile.
Despite the harsh winds of Life,
you are firmly planted in God's hands
and stand upright in strength.
Your tenderness will always be evident;
avoid those who would look
to trample you under foot.
Let Jehovah's spiritual principles
blossom fully in your life -
Be a blessing to others
and reflect the brillance of His Light.
Author's Note:
This piece was written for a contest, sponsored on the behalf of Uguandan orphans. Many children have lost their parents to the HIV/AIDS virus, including Violet. This particular event was partnered with showmercy.org to get personalized poems, a blanket and a stuffed animal to each child in need. We are all God's children; please visit showmercy.org and show some love.
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 6:57 AM UTC
*"The Business Int'l is a trans-national,
Multi-operative, corporate entity.
With the means to function outside
Normal Gov't bounds
The Business Int'l has become the worldwide leader
On the frontline of:
Genetic & Bio-Engineering!
Space Exploration
And long-range teleportation services!
Our research will better* [human-kind]
*And is the most advanced & comprehensive
Ever imagined.
The Business Int'l values it's loyal customers!
And at the Business Int'l
We take all of your corcerns seriously.
We also offer aid to every worker at any/all of our subsidiaries
Any 4th class employee who feels compelled to:*
[Leave the Facility]
Or
[Propagate sensitive data]
*STOP.
Remain calm. And fasten yourself to nearby set furniture
Until our Registered Physcian can
Follow up with you.
Self-Quarentine is a Business Int'l core policy!
In extreme cases though,
The Business Int'l reminds you to
Be prepared to utilize
Your personalized botulinum capsule
Provided to you during your initiation!
Thank you!*
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 12:25 PM UTC
Instead of the default Top Ramen "seasoning,"
try:
minced Garlic and Onion,
Basil, Marjoram, black pepper, ground cayenne,
and a hint of parsley and thyme
and use sea salt
to salinify to taste.
Personalized seasonings
make all the difference.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC
My fist crushed his angry eye
A desperate mother begged for my sixteen year old assistance
Her egg whites rolled back into her vomiting head
The personalized presents I picked out still unused
Clotting never came, I passed out dripping blood on the toilet
She screams for help at night, though now it’s less often
The ****** wore off and she found herself in an empty lot, **** recent
You cried when your knees failed you on each stair, each day
The irises never grew this year, dead roots
It was a freak accident, no way we could have seen it coming
He was mangy and homeless, but man was he resilient
They took paid swings at each other’s hairless faces, we filmed it
The bottle left my fingertips, I heard her yell in pain
Money is easily removed from unprotected leather
I probably said some things god wouldn’t forgive on a good day
She tasted smoke on my lips, boy was she ******
I wonder if people can hear the evil **** that lives in my brain
Like ugly sea serpents mulling about in an aquarium getting restless
Little kids with sticky hands pressed against the glass
Thankful for land legs and transparent barriers
No one would swim with the sharks by choice
Except an equally wicked leviathan
I imagine they will roam in circles
Until I die
Mar 28, 2011
Mar 28, 2011 at 3:19 PM UTC
He takes photos.
His books are filled
With spilled coffee.
Wavy sun ray hair
Lime green citrus eyes
Sturdy safe shoulders
Rich, melted dark chocolate voice
Pouty peony puckers
Stolen lenses
Quirky movies
Oversized sweaters to cover his quivering hands when he cautiously holds hers.
He reminds me of a child's desk
That was personalized by doodles dinged and carved into it over the years
The desk that his parents probably adore.
He is a collage of all the things he photographs.
He takes pictures of anything and everything
To make himself whole.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 5:32 PM UTC
All eyes on me.
Their field of vision lash against my walls.
Eroding them like the frothy waves gnawing at the desolate fort.
These walls that I've raised to hide...
Hide what? I ask.
Surely something that they mustn't know.
Their tongues wade at me.
I strain my ears to catch what they hide from me.
The slightest wind could exalt me to exhilaration
Or, depress me into the tar pit of my own creation.
Where am I headed? I ask.
I am besieged.
The intruder is at the perimeter.
Why am I here? I ask.
The walls are giving away to the tempest.
But they haven't reached me yet.
They are trained at my scent like blood hounds.
I sound the alarm and curl back deep within.
My station hangs precariously.
Will the pillars hold?
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 2:25 PM UTC
mail gets delivered everyday
do you ever expect a letter from me asking you to meet me halfway?
packages getting delivered under the windowsill
accidentally spilling coffee on the water bill
I have my book of stamps and personalized stationary too
just give me a pen and tell me what address am I sending this letter to?
pictures and videos
your recorded laugh echoes
seeing these old photos of you in your youth
feels like waiting in line at a tollbooth
visiting the past comes at a price
it costs a pretty penny and tends to be unwise
these pictures and letters will never make it to your mailbox
just like when you see me you'll always move over to the other side of the sidewalk
finding these captured moments of the past
makes me want to climb in my car and drive fast
you seemed happy then and even happier now
it doesn't seem like I've brought you too down
eight years ago today you gave me ten digits to dial
I thought our six hundred and thirty six days spent together was beautiful like mosaic tile
you were the first, that I cannot change
but even if I could, there's nothing I would rearrange
you still move me in ways i cannot explain
even after all these years there are so many feelings that still remain
some bad and some good
just wondering
do you still wear the sweatshirt I got you,
the one with the hood?
I'm sure I am forgotten about
everything about me in your mind, completely wiped out
which is fine
just at least have a glimmer of when your heart was mine
mail coming on the seventh day is a nice concept
except
no matter where you are, wherever the trees sway
the mail never comes on Sunday
Jun 9, 2022
Jun 9, 2022 at 1:11 PM UTC
Sometimes I lack feeling
I see a memory in my head and say "sadness and I were never friends"
but the truth is
Sadness and I were lovers
Tangled in sheets together
Sadness and I had pillow talk and night time kisses
Sadness knew every inch of my body
Sadness knew how to stick around
Sadness had a way of saying my name so sweet
but Sadness doesn't really touch me now... or not how it used to... Sadness seems far away like an estranged lover leaving at the end of august
Sadness feels like it's behind a piece of glass either as painting held behind a museum display case
or
as the figure I see through the local coffee shop window
Sadness doesn't sink into bed with me anymore already undressed Sadness doesn't look deeply into my eyes and say "I'm yours forever anymore"
Sadness doesn't touch my skin and melt into me anymore
Sadness doesn't send me perfumed love letters with personalized stationary anymore
Sadness and I don't speak much anymore
So yes sadness and I were lovers
but were sadness and I ever really friends?
Nov 27, 2024
Nov 27, 2024 at 10:15 AM UTC
my imagination
suffers from excess
yesterday in a dream
I said that I sleep
I ordered personalized matchboxes
I saw the sea
in a plate from soup
I heard how a baton
conducts the conductor
I saw a breast
****** by a child
I uncovered a naked surgeon
on my operating table
and I recognized the voice of ******
among those gassed in auschwitz
by Volker W. Degener translated from the German by Adam A. Zych with Andrzej Diniejko
from The Auschwitz Poems an anthology edited by Adam A. Zych
Jan 16, 2023
Jan 16, 2023 at 3:34 PM UTC
a series of negations
notated through angles
cascading, effervescent
in my life and wayward
my creation
an algorithmic error
personalized, recapitulated
almalgams of ones ones and zeros
looking back I see that sometimes
I would stitch together
turning melodies
from the sinews of the noise
I took from their bellies
but mainly, back then
I just drooled red into the clamor
-
a decade later I possess
striking imagery
my very own proverb
on visual omnipotence
but its tacky doesn’t oblige me
no more than the sheets of apathy
I peeled from my skin
I found a purpose that flows through my ears
and with it, happily I am
taken away
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 1:53 AM UTC
I remember when I use to have sunflowers instead of hair and butterflies were always landing on my head as if I was their own mobile home.
I never went to the barber but our landscaper would take his shears out whenever he came over and prune me, and I would sell the sunflowers at the end of our driveway out of a cardboard box stand. One buck a bunch.
Instead of shampoo I used fertilizer mixed in with the water I would sprinkle on my head each night from the tin watering can I kept under the sink.
In the summer I would lay in the sun to photosynthesize,
And I would leave home with a crown jungle of green stem and yellow peddle,
My personalized jungle.
In the winter I went bald,
Except maybe some brown droopy stems with wilting flowers that would shed their peddles whenever I got flustered, or laughed too hard, or cried.
When I was 14 I got tired of boys pulling out my hair to ask a girl to prom.
So one night I plucked out each blossom, one by one,
Until my arms were full and my head was bare.
I sat down and picked out each peddle, one by one,
“He loves me” “He loves me not.”
The sunflowers never grew back after that,
Whatever part of me made them grow was gone,
I no longer have the seeds.
And now I sometimes sit in gardens,
And wonder if the bees recognize me.
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 1:38 AM UTC
scraping salsa off a festive snowman infested paper plate
I asked myself about the meaning of life
my last tortilla chip cracked under the pressure of my thoughts
and I was left with salty finger tips and a half empty stomach
I guess when you’re living in personalized, small-sized pizza
of a school the food is never filling and questions are never answered
No matter how many times I tell myself I know what I’m doing,
I wake up every morning just as lost at the day before
cracking my dreams like chips, bitter as the salt on my finger tips,
I’ve become a half empty stomach impossible to fill
one of these days I’ll be a home-cooked meal—
mashed potatoes salted just right,
sweet biscuits that crumble, never crack—
iced tea with the taste of sugar, just enough to savor,
I swear I could go on forever about my idealized platter
that one day I will feast on in my confident contentment.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 7:33 PM UTC
Once we danced along to the same
sweet song, that you composed so
softly on acoustic chords.
Now, it is just a beat you keep
in time with, banging on pots
and pans like a child throwing
a tantrum. It's not my fault
your girlfriend looks like your
kid sister, or that I ******
your best friend
because you were too busy
maintaining another meaningless
relationship with 'the love of your life';
A title you give away like the generic
trophies parents get personalized
to cheer their children up when
they lose. Eventually, they'll realize
they're all the same, and changing
the name on the plaque doesn't
make up for failing. Like picking petals
off flowers, the only one that matters
is the one left standing in the end.
But the next time you go plucking
daisies from fields, and steal
their manes for predicting
the future. I still won't believe
in love. I never did.
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 12:37 AM UTC
(For the Words of LIFE have already been spoken tens of Times over through the Centuries)
I’d write,
spill out words,
letters binded and bond,
pasted to structure and form.
Language to engage and interact,
to mean and defy,
but this tongue of fingers,
lips of print and digital paper
have laser printed the world out upon the glitter of the screen.
Whispered to sing
and shriek sonnets of the reality I’m chuckling within,
presence surrounding.
I’ve spent shadowed years to form my personalized blue prints,
the architecture of the emotions and logics,
the laws to routines I’ve overseen.
I’ve grasped reality and found a serene among terror and sadness,
wretched and blurred.
Obviously I can contain contentnous when I’m so lavished,
family surrounding,
medium wealth cloaked about me,
but it only gives me even more reason to convey calm,
control, and content.
I’ve bathed among aloneness to puzzle about in confuse and wonder,
figuring to form a philosophy.
There is nothing left to pass against the parched flesh of my lips,
for the universe has already grasped it within the wind.
Devoured my sense of self and awareness,
there’s little left to say when every significant philosophy and observation
I’ve known and could provide
I’ve already said
or has been said
for it is but a well known to sought after cliché or element of the living.
What’s left to speak when every thought feels as common knowledge.
Aug 29, 2011
Aug 29, 2011 at 10:44 PM UTC
rest easy, sauntering children that inhabit these streets, marching endlessly with youthful rouge upon your cheeks. the ambient orange glow encapsulates your city's sky, enrapturing your scattered minds each night.
you search with strained and bloodshot eyes for the silver lined heavens
that hibernate behind blankets piled high and heavy with pollution.
you stalk these streaky sidewalks,
hands in your pockets, cigarettes dangling between crooked teeth,
billowing from your gaping mouths,
forever treading onward, gazing upward
at the luminous orb who emerges each evening,
floating thoughtlessly in its spiraling yellow haze,
glancing down with an occasional giggle at your mindless meanderings.
you venture through man-made parks, but make not a single mark of any personalized passing.
invisible, soundless.
walking not in the sand or the honest salt of the earth,
but on glittering concrete,
disregarding your worth.
you wandering specters, dragging your aching cancer ridden bodies through tireless voids,
fending off your tattered emotions that clasp their bony hands around your fleeting ankles,
begging you to stop, to engage. your shoes remain bare and battered,
lacking more and more sympathy for your simplified selves with each step.
you push onward, noiselessly.
your brittle fingers wrap themselves
around the spines of wine glasses-
clinking, clashing.
you smile and kiss surrounding strangers,
your loneliness ever consuming those enlightened, empty minds.
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 10:14 AM UTC
“Always remember that you matter, if only as a personalized scream into the chasm of existence”
————————————————————-
They’re all quite terribly polite, these places that carry the impeccable secrecy of your friends in a crowd
————————————————————-
“I watched those rodents grow maturely anthropomorphic and all I learned was that telephones have data plans”
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
In the grand tapestry of teaching, oh what an irony,
Heavy workloads and limited time, a teacher's reality.
The demands of planning and administrative tasks,
Leave little room for professional growth, an ironic mask.
Standardized assessments hold their prominent sway,
Personalized instruction often pushed astray.
In the pursuit of measurable student success,
Oh what an irony, tailored learning becomes less.
Creativity yearns to dance with the curriculum's frame,
But guidelines and standards can stifle its flame.
Balancing innovation and prescribed requirements,
Oh what an irony, creativity often expires.
Assessment-focused teaching takes center stage,
Holistic development may find itself in a cage.
The pressure to achieve desired outcomes so keen,
Oh what an irony, limiting the broader learning scene.
Teachers, pillars of education, yet often unrecognized,
Their impact immense, but acknowledgment minimized.
In the realm of recognition and fair compensation,
Oh what an irony, undervaluing their dedication.
Autonomy, a cherished gift for teachers to possess,
But administrative constraints can hinder their success.
Top-down decisions and rigid schedules in place,
Oh what an irony, limiting their teaching grace.
Work-life balance, a delicate tightrope to tread,
Nurturing students' well-being while their own is spread.
In the pursuit of equilibrium, an ironic juggle,
Teaching others to thrive, their own balance a struggle.
Outcomes become paramount, their value held high,
Yet the process of learning can sometimes pass by.
Prioritizing scores over growth and lifelong skills,
Oh what an irony, neglecting the learning thrills.
In the world of teaching, ironies abound,
Navigating the contradictions, often profound.
But amidst these challenges, educators endure,
Oh what an irony, their passion remains pure.
May 15, 2023
May 15, 2023 at 2:48 AM UTC
I see bodies
Huddled on the floor
Laying lifeless
Drained of hope
Deprived of what could be
Decorated with knives
Tattoos stained with
Resentment
And self-hatred
Does anyone care?
They fade into the shadows
And left abandoned
A beauty forgotten
Crumpled
Withering in defeat
From your words
That stab swords
Through hearts
Do you care?
Their eyes once saw
Mountains that touched infinite skies
A blue
So pure and clear
That once mirrored the innocence reflected
In their own
Mountains they planned to climb one day
And reach that place
So high
Their eyes saw (but you never seemed to notice)
Lakes that appear shallow
But hold deep crystals beneath
Along with a whole life force
Flowing curving
Ripples of delight
Ecosystems
Families
Friendships
That harbor her treasures
All connected by watery strands
Of energy
Webs weaving passions and dreams
And touch the depths that dive into hearts
Of the matter
Dreams and passions that can be followed
Pursued with unrelenting
Mysteries to unlock
Their voices spoke words of wisdom that could
Transform into flighty doves and claim wings
That softly land into unbound books
Scrawled in personalized script
With the little curlicues
And indigo ink puddles breathing life
Into blank white pages
All of their own ideas
And opinions
You never cared about their opinions
Their hands caressed another
Their bodies hugged
And encircled
Holding on tight
And passed so much to each other
Saying everything
And nothing
By touch
Contact sizzles
And fire burns
Pressed against another
They never found love
Hearts that beat so loud
And resonate in tune with
The rhythms and patterns in that
Of another
And lost themselves piece by piece
Until their identity reflected that
Of another and became
One
Maybe so
Maybe not
But you’ll never really know
But you said you never cared
Anyway
They once sparkled
Shimmered with life
You took it all away
Their beauty
Their light
Do you care?
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 9:28 PM UTC
You wore socks to bed- knowing it irked me.
Faced me while we slept- breathing your stinky breath in my face was a definite, guaranteed.
You loitered as I changed always trying to cop a feel- ignoring my agitated pleas.
You watched your wrist- telling me I’m late; of course, I forever disagreed.
Invited yourself to my TV time- talking to me as if I was free.
Told me I was beautiful; each and every day- annoyingly, times three.
Sometimes you had an ‘I’m the king’ attitude, and I was just your sidekick wannabe.
Sadly, I still wash all of your socks each and every week.
I face the fan as I sleep, so it dries my tear’s wet streaks.
I continuously pause while getting dressed- waiting to hear you make the floorboards creak.
I put on my makeup extra slow anxiously anticipating your frustrated shriek.
I turn up the TV’s volume hoping you’ll come interrupt to speak.
Waiting for your mushy compliments as I check the mirror at my womanly physique.
I made you a personalized crown, so you could be a king that’s honored and chic.
But silence and heartbreak are all that is left here to tweak.
You’ve departed this world suddenly, leaving my life confusing and disastrously bleak.
Now, your once irritating traits have become the only thing that my broken heart desperately seeks.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC