"photocopied" poems - Hello Poetry

Pretty boy, singing your pretty words: pouring liquid symphonies into my ear, knowing exactly what I want to hear. Stolen words, from a romance guide; pried from the heart of your previous lover, and some two, three, four or maybe five girls other. Cooing sweet nothings in your honey voice. It is not enough, a mating ritual parade, because I’ve been there before and I know your charade. Don’t you understand? - what you did to me. Demon possessed or a facade dropped, the memory: the pain, the anxiety, the shock. What you want is untouched, an untampered babe. Yet again, you devote your concert to me, but I don’t want it and you don’t really want me. I am stitched back together, corrupt by your hand. Your photocopied scars adjourn my skin, but the ink seeped deeper, obscuring your sin. And you’ll never understand, what you did to me: because you’re still a pretty boy, with your pretty words and I'll deal with the trauma, my story unheard.

0

Nov 2, 2018

Nov 2, 2018 at 9:22 PM UTC

avary

You'll Never Understand

Pretty boy, singing your pretty words: pouring liquid symphonies into my ear, knowing exactly what I want to hear. Stolen words, from a romance guide; pried from the heart of your previous lover, and some two, three, four or maybe five girls other. Cooing sweet nothings in your honey voice. It is not enough, a mating ritual parade, because I’ve been there before and I know your charade. Don’t you understand? - what you did to me. Demon possessed or a facade dropped, the memory: the pain, the anxiety, the shock. What you want is untouched, an untampered babe. Yet again, you devote your concert to me, but I don’t want it and you don’t really want me. I am stitched back together, corrupt by your hand. Your photocopied scars adjourn my skin, but the ink seeped deeper, obscuring your sin. And you’ll never understand, what you did to me: because you’re still a pretty boy, with your pretty words and I'll deal with the trauma, my story unheard.

21

I'm trying to remember The words my father wrote. He was a poet, in earlier days. When he lived my lifetime once, (Now he's lived it three-or-so times over.) And I remember one day finding the words he wrote, Photocopied onto bright white paper. And it was then that I first realized how much I am like my father. His words then held just as much as my words do now-- As much love, As much anger, As much confusion, And, at times, as much hate. And now that I feel lost and alone, I try to dig up the pages That were haphazardly tucked in-between the leafs of a novel, I think Or maybe an atlas, Or maybe in a drawer, Or maybe under the bed... Behind the bookshelf? In a photo album? In a book Any book In the kitchen Above the fridge In a box This box Not this box That box Not that box Any box, Try any box, Every box -- Which brings me to now. Now I sit here, on the kitchen floor Stirring my lukewarm chamomile, Watching the air, And the clock, Breathing deeply through my mouth, Holding back any sound Searching through my head To remember the words he wrote Long ago That somehow might make me feel my father's comforting smile Now.

0

May 29, 2015

May 29, 2015 at 1:59 PM UTC

rosemarie-caruso

the words my father wrote

I'm trying to remember The words my father wrote. He was a poet, in earlier days. When he lived my lifetime once, (Now he's lived it three-or-so times over.) And I remember one day finding the words he wrote, Photocopied onto bright white paper. And it was then that I first realized how much I am like my father. His words then held just as much as my words do now-- As much love, As much anger, As much confusion, And, at times, as much hate. And now that I feel lost and alone, I try to dig up the pages That were haphazardly tucked in-between the leafs of a novel, I think Or maybe an atlas, Or maybe in a drawer, Or maybe under the bed... Behind the bookshelf? In a photo album? In a book Any book In the kitchen Above the fridge In a box This box Not this box That box Not that box Any box, Try any box, Every box -- Which brings me to now. Now I sit here, on the kitchen floor Stirring my lukewarm chamomile, Watching the air, And the clock, Breathing deeply through my mouth, Holding back any sound Searching through my head To remember the words he wrote Long ago That somehow might make me feel my father's comforting smile Now.

44

One must suffer for beauty But not in this self-destructive fashion Maybe after we put ourselves out there They'll worship at the pedestal Some skewed mindset of what glamour highlights Re-invent yourself Not innovate another's identity We're just templates left to be traced by another Who wants to be the photocopied poster child? She just wants out You can't blame her for exploiting herself This was after the sext messages Sent to his phone forwarded to all his friends sent to all their friends inevitably the internet Girl's got a sickness about her She wants to go viral Starving for attention Starving herself for perfection Caught somewhere between ascension of ego and descension of the soul She's lost like a lighter in a smoke circle Won't somebody spark the way?

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Mar 9, 2013

Mar 9, 2013 at 12:57 AM UTC

kenny

Girl's Got A Sickness About Her

One must suffer for beauty But not in this self-destructive fashion Maybe after we put ourselves out there They'll worship at the pedestal Some skewed mindset of what glamour highlights Re-invent yourself Not innovate another's identity We're just templates left to be traced by another Who wants to be the photocopied poster child? She just wants out You can't blame her for exploiting herself This was after the sext messages Sent to his phone forwarded to all his friends sent to all their friends inevitably the internet Girl's got a sickness about her She wants to go viral Starving for attention Starving herself for perfection Caught somewhere between ascension of ego and descension of the soul She's lost like a lighter in a smoke circle Won't somebody spark the way?

25

Speech of Freedom I will listen – now tell me what you think And tell me what you think, not what you feel Not what you were commanded by bullhorns Not chants beginning with “Hey! Hey! ** ** I will listen – now tell me that you think You, not a crowd, a hive, a swarm, a shoal You, not a mood, a whim, a committee You, not a photocopied manifesto Because I want to hear you – you, not echoes I will listen – now tell me what you think

0

Mar 20, 2017

Mar 20, 2017 at 2:21 PM UTC

lawrence-hall

Speech of Freedom - in rebuke of certain Middlebury College students

Speech of Freedom I will listen – now tell me what you think And tell me what you think, not what you feel Not what you were commanded by bullhorns Not chants beginning with “Hey! Hey! ** ** I will listen – now tell me that you think You, not a crowd, a hive, a swarm, a shoal You, not a mood, a whim, a committee You, not a photocopied manifesto Because I want to hear you – you, not echoes I will listen – now tell me what you think

12

"...it is our own wish to be soothed that is the root of the attraction." I read in the yellow pages, the spine of the paperback cracking and that is underlined for the second time because I bought my first copy of this book in 1988 and I felt behind the times Still, I am a "woman who loves too much" My first copy became so thrashed I put duct tape on it from my grip kit film school and obsessions with unavailable guys, boys, and all kind of things I did, drugs and two on one *** to try to make him love me back until a social worker asked me to buy the book and read it I remember going over to University Village and walking to the back of the store where the self help books were and there was one copy and I paid 4.95 in a kind of glazed over way like I'd bought photocopied readers for classes. Dutifully, sure that this in some way would benefit me although I wouldn't really know how and then I read it and I was never the same. "This book says it comes from your family" I remember telling my mother on my land line with the long cord connected to the answering machine... and I read that book nearly every day and my life got better and I made a film and got accepted to a New York City graduate film school and I threw it away when my very serious boyfriend made fun of it which was a mistake, because if I had kept it I never would have married him, I think. I still remember it sitting there on a pile of newspapers in a milk crate,duct tape on the spine in the basement garbage room that was so cold with winter's air and I felt like I was abandoning something alive and now I think that something was me Anxiety goes up, impulse control goes down and here I am again I went to a store, some store, I don't even remember which one or where but some book store this time with desperation to find that book again and there was one copy and I bought it some years ago and every time some nasty thing happens there appears in my life some dude who torments me and who I chase who I try to extract caring from Because it is the struggle I know so well And it's 2013 and yes I am reading it again as if for the first time And I find, it is my own wish to be soothed. To have someone tell me, everything will be OK This, too shall pass And of course I know this, know this, ingrained and wired in my brain is it has to come from somewhere else when really, the only one who can truly soothe me, is me

0

Mar 10, 2013

Mar 10, 2013 at 9:20 PM UTC

zulu-samperfas

My own wish to be soothed

"...it is our own wish to be soothed that is the root of the attraction." I read in the yellow pages, the spine of the paperback cracking and that is underlined for the second time because I bought my first copy of this book in 1988 and I felt behind the times Still, I am a "woman who loves too much" My first copy became so thrashed I put duct tape on it from my grip kit film school and obsessions with unavailable guys, boys, and all kind of things I did, drugs and two on one *** to try to make him love me back until a social worker asked me to buy the book and read it I remember going over to University Village and walking to the back of the store where the self help books were and there was one copy and I paid 4.95 in a kind of glazed over way like I'd bought photocopied readers for classes. Dutifully, sure that this in some way would benefit me although I wouldn't really know how and then I read it and I was never the same. "This book says it comes from your family" I remember telling my mother on my land line with the long cord connected to the answering machine... and I read that book nearly every day and my life got better and I made a film and got accepted to a New York City graduate film school and I threw it away when my very serious boyfriend made fun of it which was a mistake, because if I had kept it I never would have married him, I think. I still remember it sitting there on a pile of newspapers in a milk crate,duct tape on the spine in the basement garbage room that was so cold with winter's air and I felt like I was abandoning something alive and now I think that something was me Anxiety goes up, impulse control goes down and here I am again I went to a store, some store, I don't even remember which one or where but some book store this time with desperation to find that book again and there was one copy and I bought it some years ago and every time some nasty thing happens there appears in my life some dude who torments me and who I chase who I try to extract caring from Because it is the struggle I know so well And it's 2013 and yes I am reading it again as if for the first time And I find, it is my own wish to be soothed. To have someone tell me, everything will be OK This, too shall pass And of course I know this, know this, ingrained and wired in my brain is it has to come from somewhere else when really, the only one who can truly soothe me, is me

35

you were a white male and I was a white male and we were young and even if one put us together we were young. our idea was to give winter gloves to those whose teeth chattered and we knew the sound had come to us both. we mowed lawns all summer and mugged when we could drunk jocks who sat beside train tracks reading love notes after baling hay. we bought the gloves and held them until winter because our logic had us waiting. by then we were not friends and hell was the handbasket. we divvied the gloves in a sad scene we couldn’t countrify. today I photocopied my privates and printed two-hundred sheets by accident in a hellish place made special by hell.

0

Jun 12, 2014

Jun 12, 2014 at 11:04 AM UTC

barton-d-smock

earshot

you were a white male and I was a white male and we were young and even if one put us together we were young. our idea was to give winter gloves to those whose teeth chattered and we knew the sound had come to us both. we mowed lawns all summer and mugged when we could drunk jocks who sat beside train tracks reading love notes after baling hay. we bought the gloves and held them until winter because our logic had us waiting. by then we were not friends and hell was the handbasket. we divvied the gloves in a sad scene we couldn’t countrify. today I photocopied my privates and printed two-hundred sheets by accident in a hellish place made special by hell.

1

So, with doors locked and cupboards vacated and evening fallen and images intertwined in a head full of rain on a cold Los Angeles day I proceeded to shift rooms once more, filling new ones, leaving empty spaces behind. I stood for a moment, lost in thought, staring idly at the cat on my former doorstep mewing for catfood or ***** I couldn't tell which, for I didn't speak her language and my ghosts were all my own. I'm sure she would've had me lend an ear to the tales of all her personal hauntings, given half a chance and a yellow Babel fish. Last night in Singapore, packing an overstuffed bag with gifts and memories, leaving a few scattered behind here and there, along with scraps of discarded poetry and some yellow-silver moonlight. Across the hall, newly vacant room, populated by a wrinkled Snickers wrapper, silhouetted against a sky the colour of oxidized Iron. Drowning in a sea of photocopied class notes and uncertain recollections of shimmering April heat in the ramshackle heart of Northern India. A few stray happinesses lodged safely in the occasional corners of luggage not occupied by books. Long drunken walkways and fading bird-calls. So, with new closets loaded and bookshelves stuffed and posters re-pasted with cheap tape on freshly painted walls I unlocked the old doors and checked one more time for things left behind, just to be certain. Two IKEA light-bulbs in a drawer, and some dust. That was all.

0

Jan 24, 2015

Jan 24, 2015 at 7:25 PM UTC

instantkarma

Vacancy

So, with doors locked and cupboards vacated and evening fallen and images intertwined in a head full of rain on a cold Los Angeles day I proceeded to shift rooms once more, filling new ones, leaving empty spaces behind. I stood for a moment, lost in thought, staring idly at the cat on my former doorstep mewing for catfood or ***** I couldn't tell which, for I didn't speak her language and my ghosts were all my own. I'm sure she would've had me lend an ear to the tales of all her personal hauntings, given half a chance and a yellow Babel fish. Last night in Singapore, packing an overstuffed bag with gifts and memories, leaving a few scattered behind here and there, along with scraps of discarded poetry and some yellow-silver moonlight. Across the hall, newly vacant room, populated by a wrinkled Snickers wrapper, silhouetted against a sky the colour of oxidized Iron. Drowning in a sea of photocopied class notes and uncertain recollections of shimmering April heat in the ramshackle heart of Northern India. A few stray happinesses lodged safely in the occasional corners of luggage not occupied by books. Long drunken walkways and fading bird-calls. So, with new closets loaded and bookshelves stuffed and posters re-pasted with cheap tape on freshly painted walls I unlocked the old doors and checked one more time for things left behind, just to be certain. Two IKEA light-bulbs in a drawer, and some dust. That was all.

55

“And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes” -Chaucer Everyone is a palmer this holy day Seeking the strange, elusive shores of truth Each pilgrim bearing in his eager hands A palm frond and a photocopied hymn The pilgrimage begins in the parking lot And marshaled by the blue HANDICAPPED signs Ascends to the doors, the narthex, and in, Up to the Altar, there where all worlds meet Come to Jerusalem; you’re on the way - Everyone is a palmer this holy day

0

Mar 25, 2018

Mar 25, 2018 at 7:47 AM UTC

lawrence-hall

The Adventure Begins Over There by Mr. Gomez’ Pickup Truck

“And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes” -Chaucer Everyone is a palmer this holy day Seeking the strange, elusive shores of truth Each pilgrim bearing in his eager hands A palm frond and a photocopied hymn The pilgrimage begins in the parking lot And marshaled by the blue HANDICAPPED signs Ascends to the doors, the narthex, and in, Up to the Altar, there where all worlds meet Come to Jerusalem; you’re on the way - Everyone is a palmer this holy day

12

Nothing quite captures the, “college feel” As running, Almost but not quite, Late to class, Several photocopied book pages, Packets, Handed out by the professor yesterday, Tucked in a w shape, Around your, my, middle ring and pointed pointer finger, The dark crevasse made by spine height, Etches a deep rift in the center of a work, Or a piece, Or a section, Making readers take running jumps, Hands and feet forward, In order to reach the other side, With some, Falling ****** Tunes, Into the dark lofty abyss.

0

Oct 20, 2018

Oct 20, 2018 at 3:23 PM UTC

john-paul-richard

The Line of Photocopied Books

Nothing quite captures the, “college feel” As running, Almost but not quite, Late to class, Several photocopied book pages, Packets, Handed out by the professor yesterday, Tucked in a w shape, Around your, my, middle ring and pointed pointer finger, The dark crevasse made by spine height, Etches a deep rift in the center of a work, Or a piece, Or a section, Making readers take running jumps, Hands and feet forward, In order to reach the other side, With some, Falling ****** Tunes, Into the dark lofty abyss.

19

A periwinkle sunset ran across the room only to devolve into the slippery realization that the heaviness of wanderlust can be no more Drunken illusions peck at me once again sober lullabies dance merrily in rainbow bubbles drifting through a nebula, Zinging with glee the couch proclaims another victim ssucked into the vacuum of many coats all fuzzy or woolen cuffed Punching through the withered vindrals blinded with foggy concrete a fluttering vision of gems makes the garden cornucopia come to life A creeping smile spiders up the face with blank stares into empty jars radiating a glittery photocopied jaw Now becoming closer to thee crawling through the messy webs of despair Children's laughter carries you closer till suddenly vimbers rattle past subtlety crunching leaves, you looking up at the bottom floor

0

Feb 27, 2025

Feb 27, 2025 at 11:22 AM UTC

KatM

May the Mind Go Near

A periwinkle sunset ran across the room only to devolve into the slippery realization that the heaviness of wanderlust can be no more Drunken illusions peck at me once again sober lullabies dance merrily in rainbow bubbles drifting through a nebula, Zinging with glee the couch proclaims another victim ssucked into the vacuum of many coats all fuzzy or woolen cuffed Punching through the withered vindrals blinded with foggy concrete a fluttering vision of gems makes the garden cornucopia come to life A creeping smile spiders up the face with blank stares into empty jars radiating a glittery photocopied jaw Now becoming closer to thee crawling through the messy webs of despair Children's laughter carries you closer till suddenly vimbers rattle past subtlety crunching leaves, you looking up at the bottom floor

22

Velcro lungs exhale on festering images that breath in photocopied negatives. Am I emitting life's expelling repercussions that were vacant in there image of reality. Could I be, but a depthless shade of what lingered, vaporizing images on to nothingness.

0

Mar 18, 2017

Mar 18, 2017 at 2:54 PM UTC

poetic-t

I Exhale Into The Void Of Nothingness

Velcro lungs exhale on festering images that breath in photocopied negatives. Am I emitting life's expelling repercussions that were vacant in there image of reality. Could I be, but a depthless shade of what lingered, vaporizing images on to nothingness.

6

I look back on them at times And grimace at almost all of the rhymes How dark and sinister, how lonely Depression makes them feel boney Jutting out like broken ribs Each one their own screaming little kid More funny poems please. I need ones that say "I'm alive!" I thrive, I survived and now baby I jive! Moustache ready, bowler hat steady Dancing in the fire with only my oven mitt Baby I'm here and I'm ready to do it. Climb that wall with all your jiggly bits. Put away all that dark matter mystique, Replace with crowd flashers and photocopied cheeks. I just want my brain to bleed comical ***** historical anecdotal gold Wax lyrical till my eyeballs bulge. Just more funny poems please.

0

May 24, 2019

May 24, 2019 at 9:11 PM UTC

spicy-digits

A note to my brain

I look back on them at times And grimace at almost all of the rhymes How dark and sinister, how lonely Depression makes them feel boney Jutting out like broken ribs Each one their own screaming little kid More funny poems please. I need ones that say "I'm alive!" I thrive, I survived and now baby I jive! Moustache ready, bowler hat steady Dancing in the fire with only my oven mitt Baby I'm here and I'm ready to do it. Climb that wall with all your jiggly bits. Put away all that dark matter mystique, Replace with crowd flashers and photocopied cheeks. I just want my brain to bleed comical ***** historical anecdotal gold Wax lyrical till my eyeballs bulge. Just more funny poems please.

19