"portrayals" poems
We were both love. I was a rose and you were a snowflake. Both beautiful and gentle but unable to coexist effectively because flowers can’t blossom in the cold.
Yet when it ended, the truth became misconstrued.
Suddenly I was a thorn that pricked you till you bled.
And you were frostbite that nipped away at my skin.
We created false portrayals of each other to make this all a bit easier to deal with.
But the truth will always stay.
We were both beauty, purity, fragility, love.
We just weren’t meant to give our love to each other.
And now we both bleed, because the hardest part is accepting we were never meant to be.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 2:46 PM UTC
She chokes on her apple turnover
Leaving a cloud of powdered sugar
That would stop Marlon Brando in his tracks.
Instead of cleaning up the dust,
She starts to swirl her fingers around in it
Until various shapes start to emerge.
She says it doesn't feel like there are clouds in the sky anymore
That maybe it's because she hasn't been keeping her chin up enough,
Admitting that optimism never quite suited her.
So instead, she says she'll make her own patterns
And test out realism for a while
Since she figures that realism is the only mindset that
Allows her something tangible to hold onto
When she's drowning in a false sense of security.
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 7:53 PM UTC
I need to write a slam
what about
about people
about places
about money
about faces
I am a human being
not to be judged about my creativity
judged on my productivity
Not an object
I will not be contained by letters on a page
A page written by people who don’t know me
Claim they can show me
a picture is worth a thousand words
they say
Then what is a face worth
Starting at birth
we trap ourselves
limit ourselves to these words crammed together
letters
these small portrayals
to who I am
I stare
stare in a mirror
reflection getting clearer
clarification getting nearer
you’re pretty they say
then they turn around and you hear
‘she’s already classified’
classified as average
nothing special
You’re telling me
I am pretty
I am witty
A 5 letter portrayal
of a person
will not define me
will not make me
show me
who I am
I am not an object
not to be used as a pawn in the
circus we’ve happened to be spawned
into
The way i see it
there are few
few people to realized I am not contained by a page
nor a word
And I will stand up and be heard
I stand to say
Someday
fairness will come my way
When you will not be able to
confine a person in one word
nor a hundred
Someday you will ask yourself
Will I be okay
You will be okay at somethings
great at other things
But you will be outstanding at everything
Stop limiting yourself to a definition
only in words
define your self in actions
pick yourself apart in fractions
Change your life in transactions
and stop worrying about what your new definition is
I hear small voices begging to be defined
Tell me I’m pretty they say
pretty what
Pretty desperate
Pretty pathetic
Pretty separate
separate from those who choose to be content
being undefined
becoming redefined
staying behind
Hiding our plastered on definitions
Plastered to these facades
That become flawed
splitting apart at the seams
limiting your dreams
but brief descriptions
plated to our foreheads
So Pretty
Really Witty
What a Pity
Pity it is to let others define you
Your own self becoming blurred
These small molds called words
Taking you and forming you
into a conveyor belt barbie
The same as her
no different than she
But I will be me
I will be heard
I Will Never Be Defined
By Just Words
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 7:52 AM UTC
Portrayals of suffering -
Mine and everyone else’s -
What are your cravings for?
May you matter
Existing in this endless instant.
Voicings of my pain,
Do you matter if you save a life?
For a life is but a number.
Representations of my fears -
First aid or pitiful joke?
Sublime art or appalling misery?
Beauty or madness?
Tokens of life or death?
Pointful or pointless?
Does it even matter if it matters?
God doesn't either,
dead or alive,
in dreams or in nightmares,
Unless He makes you laugh.
Jan 16, 2022
Jan 16, 2022 at 8:12 AM UTC
pictures scare me
they're like portrayals of undoubted fun
you look at them
they have become memories
and you relive them in your head
you laugh at the face you made
or the jokes made from that night
but you realize that moment
will never happen again.
the picture can be taken
just as fast as the fun started
and can be destroyed
just as fast as the memory fades.
in an instant.
before your eyes.
before you realize what happened.
like paper in a flame.
nothing lasts forever.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
PRE-CHORUS ::
Can you taste it? Can you taste it!? CAN YOU TASTE IT!?!?
THIS IS BITTERSWEET!
CHORUS ::
Tear me up inside! Treat me like the ones who hurt you!
THIS IS BITTERSWEET!
Never again! Will I ever trust your word!
THIS IS BITTERSWEET!
Clever deceiver! Leading me on like you did, then rejecting my every effort!
IS THIS BITTERSWEET?
Was this love ever sweet?"
VERSES 1, 2, & 3 ::
Tear me up inside, like you always do with your sweet demeanor. Unknown to me, this is the last time. Your intentions seemed clear, you shared your heart. Or was it false emotion?
Do you really see him in me!? Now the trust we had is gone. Everything you said is a lie, should I have expected this from you? Take my gift and burn it. I'm burning. Slow burning. You were the only one who ever listened.
The hardest part of this is knowing I lost what I convinced was love. I'm not bitter. Four later and still alone. My intentions were pure. Who can know yours.
LOW OUTRO CHORUS:
Now you tear me up inside. Accusing me, just as the one who hurt you. Never again will I ever trust your word. What is real? False portrayals and misguided intentions. Know that we were never sweet."
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 8:19 AM UTC
The sound
The look
The taste
The touch
It's all a perfectly painted portrait you privately processed, patched with hope.
The certainty
The promises
As the days pass us
The roundabouts regularly revisiting rocky ravines reassure us to hold on to that rope.
The visions of fantasies
The feelings combust
Passionate portrayals with punctual pauses providing positivity to possibly promote premonitions
In truth we trust
To transcend temptations of trivial trickeries by treading on tip-toes through troubled trebutaries
To let go, seems a must.
Hallucinations from a lack of sleep, are leading me into a field of dreams. There I find that anything's possible, and nothing is really what it seems.
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
a couple of days ago we visited a land inhabited by deceivingly accurate portrayals of life. we grew so entranced by everything we saw. we spotted a very strange looking crustacean flanked by a really thin looking squid positioned upright. she quipped about how it looked just like a pen, and when we went to the store we made it our life's only mission to find it and buy a replica so that every time we confessed to our journals we'd remember the day. but it wasn't there. i think about it now and i laugh because what kind of a mentality is that? to just be so sure that something will be there, will work out in our favors, will come back despite all odds. i can't afford to think with such ironclad naivety. people are not infallible. funny as it is, i can't expect to find a squid pen, and no amount of determination can make tangible something that doesn't exist.
but the whale, above our heads, floated as lifeless and seemingly ordinary as a chandelier. a half idyllic half menacing scene at the bottom of the ocean. we laid underneath it and felt so small. our worries and problems themselves seemed even more infinitesimal. i pretended i was submerged underwater, letting all of my troubles disappear and become one with nature, and she was the only person who could listen to my thoughts.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC
My senses tense,
tingling with aspiration
of the energies within the air.
Renewed with prolonged
activation of perceptive portrayals
of vicious sunbeams attacking
the hems of my subconscious.
I awaken to the sun.
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 9:24 PM UTC
Watching
observing
like social outcasts
typical and yet atypical
according to demographics.
Craving ideas concepts facts
that will/do separate us from the herd.
Lost notions of sense
seeking portrayals, refurbishing old ideals
Warping every ounce of self
simply to emulate
some long forgotten concept
which no one will ever truly understand.
The brunt of a joke yes,
The stoic face that removes you from a content moment always.
We see
We accept
Most never understanding
Reading lines casting lies
doing our selves the only justice
Of keeping "them" content
I am not social with you all
I was never to be
I can accept that
I would even claim to understand
I care for,
for some small sake
Yet
"who's?"
is the only question to astound me.
Not the for who or the good golly whys
That are blathered from the lips
of every would be philoso-phile.
More so the
"who is?"
Because in reality so many of us are not
NOT
Stopping to smell the flowers
(for the truth of its meaning)
Breathing
Feeling
Seeing
Listening
Coaching
Questioning
Learning
(or ever truly)
Knowing.
Not even i.
i won't even fathom what it is to be.
Simply out of
Respect,
Awe,
Wonder.
Do we touch sanctity
or does it only grace us with their presence?
If so does
he/she/they/it
have a name?
Could our gift remain solely
in our ability for recognition?
i Question myself in efforts
To obtain procure peruse
not in doubt.
Doubt is a by product of fear.
I shall not fear
Will you
Do they
As hard as we make it
It will forever be ourselves.
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 1:55 PM UTC
Her breast of broaden chest
uncovered slight
by a sheet pulled across in the night
tangled by twitching feet
a mixture of movements
unsure toes singing
songs of unsettlement.
And her brow
furrowed as her teeth set
and clench
What does her throat yearn to garble?
instead of yarble
as her wrists slither along
like Cleopatra's snakes
that whisper trails of burnt red
and blotched white.
Bedded portrayals of lovely betrayals.
Because the guilt is clawing up
transpiring from the floor
like a mutant through a wall
weaving through taught bed springs
as a mouse after cheese
bursting from the indented mattress
like a monster in a horror movie
to grasp her
and pull her
until her screams ring out sharp
and scissor through paper dreams
before the weight crushes her.
Decapitated
as the Red Queen did to cards,
It was only a game
and always,
as silly games do,
someone had to lose.
And she
unfortunately
Won.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 2:05 AM UTC
I go back to that precious place on the lake
The hill overlooking the world
A tranquil perspective
Where peace of mind can be secured
But we cannot sit here forever
No matter how hard we try
We always have to descend back down
To a world full of angst
A world congested with immoral moral compasses
But even just a few hours spent
With a view such as this, I wonder....
That maybe.....
Just maybe...........
We are closer to heaven than we recognize
With the sun setting behind the rolling hill
And silhouettes lengthening behind us
Looking into the ideal
At the mouth of this cave
We unearth what is real…
Subjects still imprisoned by their own ignorance
With the glimmering warmth of a fictitious blaze
From the deceptive flames of a fabricated fire
Faintly whispering up against their backs
The puppeteers' handiwork betrays them
Splattering superficial illusions
Along a dull ill-defined canvas
Becoming aware of their elusive scheme
We broke from the inhibiting chains
Liberating our confiscated minds
We deplored the fraudulent portrayals on the wall
Abandoning these projected shadows
We emerged from this somber fallacy
Bringing to light
A consequential validity....
Mind over matter,
A beautiful reality
A breathtaking ideal
Scatter the truth and let it unfurl
Climb towards the sun
On top of the hill overlooking the world
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 8:18 AM UTC
To lay my head upon the tawny cover of softwood pines once more
as I pry the manifest question of youthful travail and insecurity ,
to garner the earthen tier beside natures vested , rippling waters ..
Churning runnels lending delicate directions , whirlpool portrayals that countersink their matriarchal beginnings , only to gradually disappear ....
To wander the carpeted trail with arbitrary resolve , free of pious
intimidations .. Fixated with superb creativity .. With the eyes of an eagle .. Determined . Pithiest .. Invincible ..
As heat obscures the blacktop ahead , the shade of home is but a dot in the humid distance , tar laced Georgia roads in the month of August are quite dangerous to young , bare feet ...
Sorghum fields , hog wire boundaries , darkening skies ..The unbounded Sun dragging each step , briar patches line the road shoulder , painful reminders of lonely boots foolishly left unkept ...
Fire ant mounds hide in tall grass , Cow Killers forage alone in Summer swelter , brown scorpions , cottonmouths and the list goes on virtually
forever during Dog Days , legends of wounds refusing to heal , double headed rattlers and rabid foxes , Longhorn bulls turning wild , growing bloodthirsty , hunting down unwary farm hands .. Men turned lunatic
from tainted moonshine , waiting at the wood line for clumsy boys and girls , well water made septic from lack of rain .. Bobcats running in packs for any food easily obtained , including boys that refused to listen
to mother , leaving their cowboy boots when warned not to do so ... This will be the last time I'm caught barefooted , all alone , left to my own wit and minds reserve , Mom and Dad can be sure of it !
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 9:44 PM UTC
Regardless of the portrayals by The "old masters" in their oil paintings, or Hollywood depictions; I don't think that when Adam and Eve were created, they resembled "Mr. Universe" or any of the"Victoria's Secret" models. A rather hirsute individual, carrying a club fashioned from a tree limb, toenails in need of clipping, knuckles dragging the ground. I'd hate to see what Adam looked like.
copyright: Richard Riddle-March 09. 2015
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 9:05 AM UTC
I have come to the point
and I'm pretty sure I've been here for quite some time
where I know what happened
but I still don't know
why
and that bothers me
It's like a melancholy voice that
drones
through my inner-ear
it sits heavy on every cell of my brain
so that just the thought of this confusion
breaks bones
So I want to know the driving force
behind these decisions
and wishes
and I want to know the scores
for how many accurate portrayals
are out there from family, friends
saying
"It was all you"
and Big Brother trying to keep me fed
saying
"There's nothing you can do
you're not accountable
do better for yourself
walk away"
But I'd rather stay
and I'd rather shout
till my lungs turn inside out
and scream at you that
I am not backing down
until I find out why
these people cry
these people die inside
these people play with life
Because I know there is a reason why
and there must be a way to make this right
and you can tell me so many times
that there is nothing you can do
You can say
this does not concern you
But as long as someone who is like me
a fellow human being
has to feel in a way they can't explain
separate from gunpowder and lead
this is my concern
this is my problem
because there may be something that I can do
to help them
and in turn help you
So
I want to know
I want to have a 'root of the problem'
I want to have some ground to stand on
and please don't tell me
I can't have the ground to stand on
that there is no ground to stand on
because I have seen the earth where you place your feet
and it is made of holes dug a thousand year's worth deep
and filled in
with my ground to stand on
and let me tell you that
it is time for that withering dirt to come back into the light
and you best believe I'm going
to fight
to bring it back
under the sun.
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 2:00 AM UTC
Regardless of the portrayals by The "old masters" in their oil paintings, or Hollywood depictions:
I don't believe that when Adam and Eve were created, they resembled "Mr. Universe" or any of the "Victoria's Secret" models. Rather hirsute individuals, carrying a club fashioned from a tree limb, toenails in need of clipping, arms dragging the ground; and that's Eve. I can't begin to perceive what Adam may have looked like.
copyright: Richard riddle-March 09, 2015
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 10:17 AM UTC
1
flumine stretches to the small of her back
as the clock slowly runs off from
twilight to midnight
perfect time for assault but undeclared
say when tugging of hair to expose
the jugular -- that is where you plunge
the message
when biting the lip becomes
predatory, when sweat is the telling
trace putting the clandestine, ******
or easily when hold becomes grip
else it was just estrangement face to face
in the dark, cannot remember features
only textures -- walled up message tongued in all fours as if a crucifix or idle
penitence
2
whoever was steering was just
teaching how to hate, treats as open and
easy target, mapping out what to sequester
and authoring silence as acquiescence.
first trust is given and is thrusting deeper
in hollow grievance. we have no use for it
and so we take it as the first step
out of the door keeping love unharmed
only to be taken in unmindful of its implosion.
3
we then have damage portrayals as if
we have a long divide, or a grueling history,
hit from our blinded sides.
a man from another country could have taken you from this juncture,
but he is somewhere lugging objects
he has no use for in a haul that was meant to
drift him away from sheer possibility
and so we remain here, a promise that things will start to exact relevance, until then
we remain, waiting for our smoke to
dissipate when the last fizz of fire is sounded.
4
you do to me what i do to you
as if polarities are clear reversals
and then back again with hope
so i drink from your mouth what i have
given as your body depletes, your fingers
crenelate as you rebuild your stronghold,
my emptiness a catchbasin of all the
rain growing inside you, your body swollen,
ready to burst and after that
perhaps, forgive.
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 2:38 AM UTC
Finally, we spoke of the nature of existence
While we lay in bed, sitting up right
I looked at you with the type of reflection
One could but only presumably perceive
To be
A fun house mirror demeanor;
All distorted with elongated features, we
Are one in the same universal happenings
Tonight
But never the less, the image shining back
Is you
No prejudice has been bestowed on you
I will not assume that your words are meant for conflict
Or that any questions you have - for the sake of argument
Respectfully so, I do not intend to ever judge, or deny
Your emotional or logical self portrayals
The illusion of separation, the self, this idea of identity
It has rotted open-communication at her core
This round the decision is clear
By riding to the top of the crest
Much of the garbage keeping me afloat has sunk
And now, at this height I have fully,
A three hundred sixty degree view
At the next crest, there, in front of me
There's an interesting new looking pile
Totally enough strength and energy to swim over, too
"We do, we have the same core perceptions at our marrow." I exclaimed, pouching my hands up ahead of my brow line, and then in a circle with my right hand swirling about. " And then, there is all of this. Uncharted territory, at this level. If I am in creation, akin to 'it', then why am I doing this, whats the point?"
I knew how I felt about the subject
But I just needed a witness
She was so close, and I so enveloped in topic
At one point I couldn't tell the difference
Between me, her, or anything in the room
I'll leave it at that...
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 4:57 PM UTC
Why am I surprised by my imperfection?
As a child, media portrayals of heroes
inspired and enticed me to be heroic
but my fallible family and crazy-wired brain
always kept me from being
all I aspired to be
putting me in a constant state
of unease about being me.
You might say, “Welcome to the human race!”
Thank you. I appreciate your hospitality.
I don’t know if it is comforting or scary
to know I’ve got lots of company.
Sometimes both I guess.
Mar 18, 2021
Mar 18, 2021 at 1:14 PM UTC
I don’t know what
love
is
When I can’t even bring
myself
To love someone
else
who loves
Me
As self-centered as it is
I can't help but stray
away
And hold myself back from that
Heartbreak
And
Grief
It’s killing
Me
And
I want nothing more
than to be
close to someone
That will hold me
close
like in all those
sappy portrayals
Of love,
But it doesn’t
come
I lay around
And wait for something
New.
Mar 11, 2025
Mar 11, 2025 at 7:21 PM UTC
Regardless of the portrayals by The "old masters" in their oil paintings, or Hollywood depictions:
I don't believe that when Adam and Eve were created, they resembled "Mr. Universe" or any of the "Victoria's Secret" models. Rather hirsute individuals, carrying a club fashioned from a tree limb, toenails in need of clipping, arms dragging the ground; and that's Eve. I can't begin to perceive what Adam may have looked like.
copyright: Richard riddle-March 09, 2015
Edit poem
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 12:10 PM UTC
In solitary stillness wait,
the rambling thoughts of youth;
Where poets' lines caress the page,
with honor, love and truth.
As inspiration flows within,
the barren minds of old;
Each word evokes portrayals,
in colors bright and bold.
The Muse connects the dots between,
the present and the past;
While lightning strikes of intellect,
shatter life's perpetual hourglass.
Yet time can often be a friend,
to all whose fond desire;
Reflects creative forces which,
arise like blazing fire.
Reactions to the mute defeat,
all thoughts in fair design;
Turn blatantly each missive's tale,
toward clear reasoning and rhyme.
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 11:45 AM UTC
silver screens
of fish, full to
the gills with
cinematic portrayals.
rewatch this...
with tubular eyes~
Feb 2, 2019
Feb 2, 2019 at 1:47 AM UTC