"prepackaged" poems
As talent drained from every inch of my mind
I found reading other's work only made me jealous
I started to feel unpopular
Not enough ideas left to create anything at all. Not a single drop of inspiration.
As all of theses emotions and realizations mixed together
I became okay with copying your work.
*I can imagine you slaving in the dark
Racking your brain to find the perfect words to finish the last line*
Lucky for me I have it all right here, completed and ready to post
Finished and polished and prepackaged with a message I didn't think of but everyone will commend me for.
I hope you enjoy it.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 9:53 AM UTC
Stick a lolipop
into the mouth of moments
your life is a child
and somewhere in there
you give a flying ****
about the moon
and no it's not cheese.
That mouth knows what dirt tastes like
but that wont stop me from pouring caramel
and cigarettes over it.
I need a fix
of candied dirt
and addiction.
I'm not afraid of the eclipse
because I'm already hooked on the dark.
So lock the door
&
draw the curtains
&
be content.
The tide wont be knocking
no matter how much you
want it to fill the room
or how big is your sweet tooth
because
hunger
is BIGGER
and eventually
anything will do.
So thank the moon we were wearing seat belts.
Otherwise we might be vegetables
eating only exhaust
like Hiroshima
force fed the sun
because
you only make war on an empty stomach
or with an insatiable hunger.
Be content
for the civilians and their children
who only know the taste of war.
Idiot flavored idiots with a hint of
dead mothers
that will bore a cavity so big
it'll put holes in the head
of kindergardens everywhere.
Who write their valentines on bombs.
Who's love murders buildings,
topples families,
plowing through bodies on city streets all to reach
nobody.
Be content
for the people
who aren't
you because when parents ******* in a box
you call a country means
you don't care
you put genocide on the menu
and there are some things that just wont do.
As I grow weary of rivaling chefs pointing fingers
in circles forever
becoming a porthole to the ****** business
becoming the unsuspecting manhole for
the human animal's existence
in crossing.
Mothers may find safe shelter in the sewers
but it reeks of prepackaged liberty
express delivery
to
every where.
Be content.
Because to start a revolution means living it
and what better way,
to ******* a reckless pace
that finishes first in hunger,
starting fist fights with other people's lives
and forgets even sooner,
than
to
be
content.
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
Use your fingerprints
decorate walls,
stain old world maps.
Whorls spiral into
comic book wallpaper,
vertical designs and heart lines.
Glass pillars fogged with secrets,
bits of chipped concrete,
2:34am security footage.
42 minutes of prepackaged snowstorms.
Lying corners of the mouth
whisper plans B through Z.
Rusty sleep theories,
half-truths
in runaway boats.
A static pulse
casually remembers menthol cigarettes,
apple cores and
eighties music.
Espresso roast washing
blue and white porcelain from 1683,
knotted pale navy dots.
Wisps of kites anchored in the sand,
anthropology in lighthouses
stretching for the aurora borealis.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 11:37 PM UTC
You think your children are being educated
But they're actually being ego deflated
They aren't being taught
How to form a thought
Because ...
That's not good for the machine .
You hear the fringe word
meditation
As if it's some kind of voodoo
incantation
Instead they want you to be fed
A steady stream of entertainment
As a way of keeping containment
Off the Grid
Off the grid
The inspector said
We can't be having that
Regulations regulations regulations
Thats all he had to say
Truth be known ...
.....he was just a clone
Latest model on display
Notice how the men in blue
Are becoming almost savage...
....In their demeanor
As they are primed to follow blind
The Crooked Mind
Of the Master overseer
So totally convinced
That they never even sensed
They never were...
..really
A volunteer
Primed and loaded
Each one having been pre - coded
By the educators in the classrooms
That are
The soul burning incinerators
Burning away every trace
Of any human emotions
While swallowing down
Steroid laced
Psychotic mind bending potions
As the rest of us are being fed...
... instead
Of our daily bread
Mind bending views
Prepackaged news
To keep us all shuffled up
Off center
So as to totally confuse
That way we don't ever wonder
Why we choose
Once we find we're standing
In the line to buy the latest toys
Keeping our heads filled..
..with noise
That way
We don't have any time to think
As long as everyone behaves.
They'll never know
That they are slaves
No shackles , chains or wooden canes
To keep the masses in production
We have the latest must-haves ..
.... new introductions.
But time to sit and think......
That's not what the machine wants
Us to do !
That's not
In the latest matrix
Silencing the external
In search of those things
That should be ETERNAL
Will make you unfit for society
As your number is etched
Into
The overseers recorder
In this ....
...THE NEW WORLD ORDER.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 12:41 PM UTC
Should I be prepackaged in rolls of bubble wrap
Placed nicely in a box labeled FRAGILE
wrapped in layers of caution tape?
Should I come with an instruction manuals and tagged "HANDLE WITH CAUTION"
To others I'm easily broken
But to me I'm incredibly durable
Maybe the only sign I should have is
WORK IN PROGRESS
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 7:04 AM UTC
I tried to make pasta salad for dinner
but my "healthy" pasta was spoiled.
The only little critters known to man that are able to microscopically sneak in to prepackaged wheat have won again.
So I settled.
I figured I'd make up for my starchy negativity by using "veganaise",
but,
of course,
it tumbled out of the fridge that day in my absence
And shattered.
....So I settled.
Cleaning the kitchen behind my
half-satisfying
yet
I- ate-too-much-of it anyway
meal shattered my glass across the tile,
Persistent tiny shards
just jutting from the grout
like my bruised confidence after trying to clean my soul
of the filth that holds me hostage.
As of today I've gone without car insurance for a month
I've been absent from school
because my attendance is hard-wired to my lack of a
functioning.....wallet.
I got caught in the rain this evening
wondering how long I've got before defeat
catches me by more than a single strand hair,
drowning me in a thunderstorm of
uncontrollable emotion,
pattering and piercing my consciousness so hard
that when I finally got indoors,
I approached my filth with open arms of surrender--
soaked,
sitting,
And settled.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 9:52 PM UTC
if i had the poetry to tell you how soft i am in hot bubbles
i could drive you mad
the combination of my prepackaged scents would make you curse
like they used to
for that one boy
whom i have willfully discarded
if you did not have the imagination
i would show you
and christen your forehead
with fig and blood orange
if you cannot reach my tousled wet head,
if you cannot not kiss my freckled shoulders,
if you cannot not put your arms around
my soft, bathwater waist
i should not tell you
that you could
no one
likes a tease
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 10:50 PM UTC
Flutter flatter flit flip flap
Clap chat chapped lips
Leaking secrets
Speaking softly
As the world whirls by
And faded faces blur together
On panes of plate-glass windows
Strolling silent streets and
Dreaming of anywhere but here
Pitter patter pretend
We’re on the
Tip top of everything
Taping together
Our own reality
Far removed from truths that
Could tear it tear us apart
Flash frame freeze forget
Flit flap free-bird fly away
Fast fly far from
Tick-tock towers
Click-clack-clocked lives
Empires encircling
Pretty-please prepackaged people
Dipper dapper dressed-up doves
With withered windless wings
Locked-up longing lost
And just
Looking for anywhere but here
And their
Haunted hollow heartbeats
Wind between our whispered words
Weaving these tangled tapestries
Tying together all the
Maybes memories melodies
That we carry
All the struggles and scars and
Shatter-glass shiny bits of
Hope-light heart-love
That we call a human soul
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 3:54 PM UTC
Love for me is like cigarettes
I need you, I really do
Sadly, I call off all bets
When I'm done and through
Inhale you warm and deep
Feed my addiction
Tell you, You're mine to keep
That you and I aren't fiction
Halfway through is where I doubt
How much is left of you
Soon follows screams and shouts
Our love turns blue
I see the filter approaching
And know out time is short
the arguments are worsening
with every cynical retort
The end has bitterly come
The taste I longed for
Is now dull and dumb
I'm a ******* you're a *****
Extinguish you
Like I have many others
Under my conflicted shoe
Due to issues with our mothers
Watch the ember die and wither
Unfortunately it'll be 20 minutes
Before I tell another to come hither
Oblivious to my own limits
Prepackaged and mass produced
Complimenting my every inebriation
For now at least, I deduce
Truly you are deaths creation
Set you ablaze knowing
That our intoxicating romance
Has not a single chance
Of ever positively growing
Love for me is like cigarettes
I need you, I really do
Sadly, I'll call off all bets
When I'm content and through
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 2:55 AM UTC
Fading springs,
And
Crying wolves.
I just can’t take this anymore.
In.
A killing headache.
I promise I’ll ruin those shoes.
Every last one.
Prepackaged talent
To amaze your senses.
Not so conscious.
It’s only a lie,
But it’s true.
This life;
A processed gem.
Rejoice in your misery;
Is what I’m told.
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 11:39 PM UTC
I count the hours in diapers, wipes, formula and tiny prepackaged jars of mashed food.
I count the weeks in early morning babble, and bedtime stories. In cuddles.
I count the months in doctors appointments and milestones; first teeth, rolling, talking, crawling, walking.
I count my heart beats when they stop because of tumbles, rolls and kabonka bonks.
I count my smiles in discovery, first aided and unaided steps; when small things to me seem so big and new to him.
I count my tears in sleepless nights, upset tummies, and runny noses.
But if you ask me the time, or what day it is, I won't be able to tell you. Because I count time in moments. They go by so fast, and if I stop to blink or give you the time I will miss them.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 3:47 PM UTC
I’m counting the freckles on my skin.
I’m tracing the coffee-splotch birthmark on my stomach.
I’m biting my nails and cracking my knuckles and
thinking about the Old House.
I think it’s sort of funny how in an entire life,
with all its seconds and all its moments, and
all its memories, only some things really stick.
There used to be a time where I prided myself
on my apparently “flawless” memory; I forget
things all the time. Like
my mother’s voice
my father’s face
my grandmother’s eye color.
I fear that I’ve forgotten the most
important parts of my childhood.
I remember daddy’s race cars,
mommy’s wine, the time my sister
slammed the van door on my head, and the
time I kicked the bathroom entrance.
Last week I opened the photo albums from
under my mother’s bed and I’ve
already forgotten all the things that I
finally figured out that I forgot.
Sitting on the floor, surrounded by one-hour
Walgreens prints, I started to pick open a
wound that I did not even know was there.
My dog’s ashes are still hidden, a copy
of my mother’s Will is still missing, and last
year my step father found prepackaged
“emergency escape bags” in our basement
along with $250 cash inside the
cogs of our whirlpool.
I’ve heard stories of how my mother
kept documented journals of my father, but I’ve
never had the guts to ask for them.
I’m beginning to wonder what kind of people
my parents really were. I’m beginning to wonder
just how much of my childhood
I’ve forgotten
and how much of it
I’ve lost.
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 9:11 PM UTC
Hypocrisy tastes like a burning flag, metallic and too sweet, like prepackaged lemonade and the sweat on your upper lip. Ghost girls with skin the color of special facilities linger in map-less forests, fleeing from camps where they dip chin-dimpled children in ice bucket lies. It’s only a game, gentlemen. Don’t think too loud or they’ll paint ribbons around your neck faster than you can whisper “this is wrong,” faster than “this is inhumane,” and even faster than “where is God?” Faster than the pale, fleshy worms that creep into the orbs of innocence embedded in girls’ abdomens and turns them crimson, and what escapes is only soggy snow and whimpers of protest. But no, you can’t blame those vermes. It’s human nature. This is all human nature, and we still find ourselves better than the trees, faster than sound, higher than the clouds.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 12:10 AM UTC
I legit never knew the beauty black roses possess.
I stared at one day after day.
She looked like she didn't want to be bothered.
Still she'd look and stare.
She grew differently than the red ones.
Prepackaged, given to others in mass quantity.
She'd sit alone and read amongst herself.
With arched eyebrows and shapely dress.
Most were afraid of her thorns. Despite all the beauty she possessed inside.
They only saw her outside.
Reason her thorns were so sharp.
The misconception that she was to be feared.
When in reality they protected her.
They made her to think that she was ugly.
The red roses that surrounded.
They'd bunch around her in fear of their own self conscious.
Attempting to stop her smile.
The more they tried, the more she stood out.
Grounded in her faith she grew out of her insecurity.
Being the regal beauty that she was.
Realizing the heroine she searched was inside her the whole time.
Her petals testimony to her root.
When I spoke she cheerfully replied with a smile.
I walked by day after day
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 6:19 PM UTC
i'd like to say that i've always been into clean living
but there's nothing really clean
about *** on your brother's living room floor
or
making you ache in movie theaters
with just a glance
or
handjobs and ruining your pants
i
somehow have this strange power over men
wanna look into my eyes
when i **** them
like i was prepackaged
batteries included
a little machine
with thick thighs and big lips
and
the prettiest eyes you've ever seen
below your belt
you
hang on my words like they're something
you've never felt
i
have a pretty smile
taste like something you've wanted
but never had
with crinkles in my cheeks and the dimples on my back
i
could make a grown man crack
and i
do -
the middle aged men at my job
love me
wait outside after closing tryna touch me
and i get scared
walking home
fingers shake
in the cold
one mile till i can let go
of the breath
that i hold
and i
try my hand at clean living.
eat salads,
stay home on the weekends
cut off boys
that make me
feel
anything
joe at work
tells me to wear less makeup
maybe then
men won't follow me home
maybe then
mike will leave me alone
stop calling the store phone
looking for the prettiest smile
he says he's ever seen
i stand behind the counter
ready to dial
911
on my screen
clean living doesn't feel very clean
when everyone you touch
has dirt on them
i mean
i don't want to make a scene
at work
i just want to make money
go home
not get hurt
keep my head down
but red is too easy to spot
much easier than i thought
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 3:53 PM UTC
Hell is fluorescent lights and the clicking of mice;
a place where the mind can’t breathe;
a place where the soul forgets her wings;
a place where the only flickers of wonder
are found in well-constructed Excel formulas.
This was never my kind of magic.
I often question why the little rectangles
on a spreadsheet are called “cells” instead of “boxes.”
Then it dawned on me: this is because
working these things as a daily job function
is the closest you can get to feeling prisoner
without committing a felony.
This was never my kind of magic.
Hell remains sedentary, listening to the same
fifteen rotating songs on a soft rock radio station
chosen by someone who makes triple your wages.
It’s prepackaged breakfast out of a vending machine,
eaten in a 4x4 cubicle that’s
fixed in a room without a single window.
This was never my kind of magic.
Hell is a cheap Chinese finger trap:
failing to find release
by pulling in wrong directions.
It’s a tight trickery that insists you stay
because you have nowhere else to go;
but my kind of magic is the inward force
that has met a friendly freedom.
It’s bathed in inviting shades of turquoise,
and fell in love with the solace of the desert.
It’s memorized the curves of mountain peaks
and collected freckles from every angle of the sun.
It loves the rush of blood to the head,
when racing the sunrise
on the edge of some atmosphere.
Something that hell could never
put its thumb on; this is
my kind of magic.
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 2:34 PM UTC
i want to stop,
i dont know if i can,
take these hands that fetter me,
remove the chains around this neck,
unlock my lips,
you can be creative,
figure out the steps,
make war on my senses,
id rather leave (her)e senseless,
capture this,
moment,
stolen,
and bought,
this organic prepackaged heart,
pressed and used to be pressed and you used again.
but its different for you,
ive made it for you unshackle the weary,
bones help me shake them down,
lets dance over supposition of our innocence now,
innocence used as a guise to cover and uncover who we really are,
well... the we ... we are together,
chop it up spit it all out give them something to shout about,
i will the secrets you keep hold to hope
will make a promise,
never to consider the rope
of injustice,
a picket fence and 2.5 kids
make the promise for living
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 10:02 PM UTC
Sometimes it is all talk show host and other times it is floating, if there is a distinction would you notice? Numb is good for a time and then it is nothing. Laying down to waste the days in idle chatter and used up coffee cups. Sometimes there is an angry door, or a sad chair painting in this upside down illusion. What is the core? What is there twixt the dusk and dawn that call unto the beast. We long for the base needs, mate, sleep, hunt not this convenience store loving hoard, give me TV and give me death. Plastic ,prepackaged, sterilized shipped to my door in pristine cardboard. Why am I the way I am?
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 3:03 PM UTC
My Mother's face beams
pixilated
and irreverent thoughts flood
my brain
gazing down
my legs too long
my ******* too large
his smile is a symphony
before fire and rage
and I, I am
sanguine, just behind
the deceit and pain of
her protrusive smile
My shoulders are too wide, bear
too much These eyes know
far more than hers
from a distance -
could be alive
and so could she
not as now - no, I cannot
fathom that
but as was - captured
flickering
like my memory of her
before it all went wrong
I search reluctant
for what small glimpses the
machine might offer
Her name here, not mine
anymore but another’s settles
lead through my veins
screaming NO
wrong
so gone that this picture
is foreign could be
prepackaged in frames for
convenient selling
I know his
grin as my own
and that sweater was
my favorite
but is foreign too as my
thighs and toes and trailing smoke
are to her
But beaming, I yearn
for what I cannot have
forsaken
with one hand while I clawed
out my heart with the other
still bleeding for you
my dear Mother
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 8:08 PM UTC
I lost my only pen and consequently lost my head
Sell my psyche .99 only once a month take me away burn everything leave me in the little box you made I'm here I'm here tell me what are my fears slowly dying of irony in a living room with prepackaged food if living is four walls well haha I'm living it up
The crescendo sounds like hey you wanna beer don't think about your fears fortisimo bounce legs grit teeth grip chair turn on the tv live bicariously try to get the experience through fire wire liars
My eyes are melting the chicken is burning smoke alarm living spontaus combust (ie watch **** smoke **** ride the bus)
I am the walking dead the champion of keeping it down when all I want is to scream and run around
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 1:24 PM UTC
It feels like we live in separate realities.
In your world the pop songs sparkle.
Shiny things bring a better quality
and the invisible hand of greed
is always the best option.
In my world there is anger and tears;
thirty-six years of disappointment
peppered with worldwide violence.
There is hunger and desperation
where it could be avoided.
There is aggression where compassion
would be better served.
In your world SUVs and mansions
seem to be the golden standard,
and everyone dreams of
acquiring enough new stuff
to beat the other consumers.
In my world there is war
There are people just beyond
my fingers reach,
children outside my door
still suffering.
While upper middle class mothers
are setting up scheduled playdates,
daughters are out getting date *****
People making choices
that no one should have to make
like water, or electricity
like food or heating
like gas to get to work
or a non-holey t-shirt
like killing your own mother
or someone will **** you
and your little brother
like selling drugs to make ends meet
or working a job that does not
provide any real stability.
In your world
bland statements stir the masses,
simpletons lead
the desperate, separate
but same factions
and your identity
is a prepackaged
commodity.
In my world
I rage against stupidity
but this anger is
slowly killing me.
Chest tightening,
it is frightening
how the wealth is passed on
how success is passed around
how art is watered down
to the most basic
and remedial bits of
repetitive ****
In your world;
You do not see what I see
but I still see you
and right now
you are breaking my heart.
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 3:48 PM UTC
Your consciousness is restricted by your self-imposed ignorance. You are so much more then your consumerism impulses, your romantic fantasies/heartaches, your political ideologies, and your religious dogmas. You are a universe of potential, something that can be developed in the stillness of introverted introspection, something that is unique and beautiful, something that longs to be shared with the world. You are your own mechanism for self-directed emotional, intellectual, nutritional, and neurochemical evolution. You just have to look beyond the predefined prepackaged reality and realize just because it is done this way does not mean it has to be done that.
Dec 25, 2017
Dec 25, 2017 at 10:37 AM UTC
I am almost twenty-three & her gentle prophecy has yet to come true
My curiosity gets the best of me and I browse through my old musings
I was so...seventeen.
My warped understanding of love with a twenty six year-old man
(predator)
whose sheets I still find myself lost in from time to time.
Fights with my father were mountains
& I was climbing to the apex of his approval,
always just short before backsliding.
Okay, so I guess things haven’t changed that much.
Maybe the five year mark of graduating high school
makes me long to have accomplished something that feels worth this living
I spent so much time hating myself for.
I worry my poems will sound so...22 in five years
marked by smoking too much **** & trying to outdo myself
with tenderness.
Even if I hate my now poems someday,
they serve as prepackaged memories
disguised as metaphors.
As parts of my trying to fall into rain,
unchanged & stop apologizing.
I feel my body’s accomplishments already.
Making it out alive counts.
Apr 21, 2020
Apr 21, 2020 at 11:43 AM UTC
there's a situation
I need words
straight from the heart
not necessarily mine
luckily CVS has
some prepackaged words
for any occasion.
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 7:20 PM UTC