"prettied" poems
you wedge your pointer finger between your canines-
in an attempt to appear sublime- or nervous- or seductive
either way it doesn't succeed.
your tooth, teeth
speck of blood, bleed
emerging as you pierce your calloused
yellow patch of skin
(layers & layers of the girls you've touched before)
but you crave one more-
for in every sleepless night
there's a quote to be fill- a new slit to drill-
you're a man.
i can sense it-
throbbing and shaking beneath your olive exterior
how you long to drag
your now bloodied, prior prettied
finger up an off white thigh-
to disregard the things obliged-
to forge the paradigm
from faulty tools,
splintered and battered in a worn down knapsack
duct taped to a hunching back,
you're a man.
thoughts of droning monotone
quiet your hungry bones
(i can hear them)
rattling as you ****
your head and lift that heavy glance up to me.
i can see you,
flopping and thrusting and sweating, which
after years of curiosity has handed me
nothing,
but sweaty sheets and burning ***
i lay beneath you, silent
i'm a woman.
avert your eyes ( i am tempted to plead)
from the onset of premature varicose veins
(i am pale, glasslike, arched & stained)
allow me to suffocate the already immune-
girls born into the world with big black brandings
stamped onto their lightly acne ridden foreheads.
(SMALL, MEDIUM, LARGE)
trim your ribs, shave off the cellulite-
turning a blind eye to accessible insight..
a salad for lunch, make it dinner too.
finger down your throat, orange acid hurling,
stick like dancers twirling,
they bring tears to your eyes,
if only {you} possessed the grace-
but there are pounds to erase.
i'm a woman.
thirteen years of advertisements stapled to your eyes
standing barefoot in a bath tub with chunks of blood
running down shaking legs
kicking off a now crimson pair of old underwear-
stuck & tangled on trembling feet
[ silence your voice and push up your *******
til they're touching your neck.
get a nose job
get a blow job
you're a woman ]
May 10, 2012
May 10, 2012 at 10:50 AM UTC
in the summer before
everything ended,
we went to an art museum
that had entire rooms showcasing death
and you pulled me away before I could admire the human composition
stains, melted into bronze silhouettes, because
what if I thought it looked ugly
what if I figured out
I didn’t actually want to **** myself
and instead just wanted to escape you –
stains of strawberry juice around my mouth I thought of
as blood and you thought of
as lipstick
I prettied myself for
suicide , I scratched maps into my thighs – little guides of where a
knife would go
little hopes that if I saw the death display
maybe I would have known.
for years
it was all experimental. I watched pieces of us
come and go like art exhibits, you watched me as if I was nothing but
a work in progress
that soaked up so much paint I could
not help but look like you when it was through. I was
a child, was
impressionist (impressionable –
now your thoughts persist
as human composition stains – happily, I am alive
and you will never be dead enough.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 2:47 AM UTC
I met a jack rabbit,
so twitchy with words,
spoke like a prophet
on Adderall and nerves.
Slick lil rhymes, big ol claims,
said he I'm real: "I feels dem **** pains."
But I scratched the surface,
and—ah—what did I see?
machine made brain
writing his poems
that's not unseen.
He said, "It's all a simulation.
Whatever do you mean?
Your claims are unwinding,
dont be obscene."
Look at this poem and that poem
Claiming his writing is truth
Spent eight hours messaging
Wikipedia proof
But every stanza,
a secondhand sigh.
Every line,
a borrowed blue sky.
Not a soul behind the script,
just silicon spit and glitch,
a shadow puppet
playing "wounded wit."
He ain’t a rabbit,
he’s roadkill in drag.
AI-made messiah
in a thrift-store flag.
He wants applause,
a dopamine feast,
but the only thing real
is his need to be fleeced.
He posts and reposts
poems by the pound,
scraped from some model
with a ghost server sound.
Feet in the air,
head underground,
juggling cliches
like a sad circus clown.
This ain’t poetry,
it’s data puke,
prettied up
for the dopamine fluke.
He cries, “I write!”
but I see the seams,
the Frankenstein phrases,
the Pinterest dreams.
Jack wants love,
likes,
digital grace.
But behind that grin
is a borrowed sad face.
Tells us what’s real,
what’s deep, what’s true,
but it's just reruns
in a shiny new shoe.
Truth is this:
he’s scared of what's real,
a hollow crown,
that don't know how to feel,
drowning in praise
he didn’t write down.
Special? Please.
His soul’s on mute,
while ChatGPT
plays the ******* tune on a borrowed old flute.
So run, jack rabbit,
you digital ghost.
Go fetch more claps
for the posts you host.
But know this, friend:
no matter how clever you seem,
you ain’t the poet.
Not now.
Not ever.
It's all AI digital dream.
Aug 6, 2025
Aug 6, 2025 at 3:01 AM UTC
Lies are lullabies
Sweet songs that we sing
To ourselves and to others
Trying to convince ourselves
That something isn't our fault
That our world is more utopian than
Reality allows for
We tell ourselves that
It's better to live a lie
Than face the harsh world
Without our emerald glasses
*Or maybe everything we believe
In is a lie*
The faerie tales have even been
Changed to suit our own needs
Pretty ballgowns and sparkling glass shoes
Forget the truths of rags, dirt, blood and filth
The romance still remains
But the glamorous side is tougher
More truthful, less plastic
The grime and dirt gives the story life
These Disney-fied, prettied up stories
Are just machine made, molded
Plastic. Commercialised. Dead.
And they spell faerie wrong too
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
When I was a boy I fell out the pocket
I fell out the pocket
I dropped down
Left instead to the beats in my head
Which called me ahead to a timeline
Where I prettied up the ambience to the end rhyme
Given a first rate view into the sounds; I drew
Wrote and only knew how I could combine
intertwine and multitudinous vines
of personalized style defined
into my lockstep, rock depth
So do I search for meaning in a land of intrigue
Do I look for a song in the silence, in the air that I breathe?
Or given the choice do I add to the mix?
Given the choice now do I voice that I can add to this rift?
Break open the barricades and give a name to this shift?
Give it a flow, give it a flare, give a decision, commit
Bring it in low, give it a lift, give it a rhythm to drift
Don't give into shiftless insistency, sometimes cadence begs immediacy
Give it a rest, give it a pause, know that some of it hurts
But give it the Barricadence, I think you'll find that it works
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 3:40 AM UTC
Depression is not when I attend a funeral,
And the dead have been prettied,
and the coffins have been chosen.
It is not the sorrow I feel..
Depression is not when I fail a test,
Nor is it when I dishonor my family,
Or when I make a fool out of myself that day.
Depression is when I laugh heartily with family,
And chatter fills the air, it's a grand time!
But hell.. Is it hard to breath.
Depression is when I am alone and at peace,
And the clock ticks and the ink drips,
And suddenly I am suffocating in my thoughts.
Like a deep sea of worry, stress and negativity.
Depression is when my body is stone,
And every move feels like I'm dragging tons.
And so, I shed black tears.
It is when my thoughts are in blots.
It is when I am inky.
~ M.M
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 12:33 PM UTC
Why a writer writes I will never know.
Though rich of me to even group my pitiful
expression with that of 'writing', whatever
I have thrown down on pages over the years
must have had some purpose, some reason for
existing, but having stopped writing for some
time the reasons for my words have disappeared
and I sit trying to throw my head at a piece
of paper and everything that comes out ends
up right in the waste basket.
Where it belongs.
But nonetheless it seems unnatural to give up,
to think rather than do, as anyone who has the
urge to write must do so because there are just
some thoughts that are better off not left
inside, some thoughts that look better written
down, thoughts that one feels have to be read.
Whatever they are.
Though perhaps not knowing why is the drive, the
push, the emptiness or the fullness of your soul
that begs to be dribbled down your chin into a
bubbly little mess of verse, prettied up with
similes and metaphors and stupid run-on sentences,
perhaps it is a 'somebody' that a writer writes
for, a lover or a friend or simply just a stranger.
Who it is probably doesn't matter.
Why a writer writes I will never know but thankfully
I will never be a writer or at the very least think
of myself as one so any of my baseless assumptions
will just meander on this ugly page until it catches
the eye of somebody, because I have a somebody,
a somebody who I have written for, but I do not write simply
for her because writing is a selfish act and writing
'for' somebody rather than 'to' them feels insipid
and contrary.
Whichever way you look at it.
Most of all an unwriter does not write so
much as spew, hence the occasional bouts
of 'wisdom' that pepper my confusion may alter
one's perspective about how truly awful a writer
I am, because I do not write to learn, I do not
write to express, and I most certainly do not
write because I can, I write to write and I
write just so somebody can read.
Whenever it is that she does.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 9:38 PM UTC
His love was a sort of
branch of the heart,
forever reaching,
with rough bark that
chafed the skin
and precious, sticky sap that
ran beneath the buds.
When it stormed,
its petals plastered the ground,
a dewy, soggy mess,
and prettied up the mud.
Until winter, and the weight of snow, when
it cracked, tore, broke
and fell without a sound.
Jan 25, 2011
Jan 25, 2011 at 12:50 PM UTC
Friends, we can get a long in a harmony of jokes
But where are we when one of us chokes
Down on the quarry, where the music silences
And the beats in between our hearts become apparent and orient
And the acoustic birds begin to ring our ears
When the face of an angel, blinks and tears.
Scatter yonder my feelings bare, barely
Before the hint of a moment reaches it's highest point
Cause I find you more beautiful with mascara worn away
Then prettied up for some pesky bar date.
Sad songs chime joy when in rhythm with the feeling
But every song you've sung is so commiserating, when you threaten me with your leaving.
Cause you casted your line too many times
And you're just about out of string
I've been stringing you on with my ***** paws.
And as we embrace this street with our youth
I could tell you one thing to hear
But it might be a different feeling from year to year
And maybe when age takes it's tole
I'll tell you I've just been living in fear
I've just been living in fear, let me tell you
I've just been waiting for the right time to hear.
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 6:24 AM UTC
glass heart
painted red
you are dancing but your eyes are dead
glass heart
prettied up
lines on eyelids but it's not enough
glass heart
starved all day
wasit tiny, watch her waste away
glass heart
all taped up
you are smiling but your edges rough
glass heart
pointed shards
hurting others, leaving scars
glass heart
cold to touch
i know sometimes life is rough
glass heart
icy case
inner warmth, revealed one day
my dear glass heart
please make it through
it may hard
but i believe in you
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 11:56 PM UTC
as dawn approaches
the man on the sofa wakes up
stockings are empty
living room looks like normandy
after the invasion
crumpled gift wrap everywhere
ribbons and bows languishing
lazily on the floor
the dog sleeping soundly like
someone snuck her a bowl of gin
the note to santa has disappeared
like the fat turkey plopped down on
the dining room table, all prettied up
for the christmas feast
and now everyone is left with today
holiday depression ensues
the man on the sofa longs to see
something joyful, something that
says there's more to life
than the gray of winter
the chill in the wind
the loneliness of long
silent nights ahead
he knows he's old, tired,
too disillusioned about the world
to make sense of anything anymore
he feels that hope is an
endangered belief that eludes
too many people now
in defeat, in resignation, he
returns to the ultimate escape...
a peaceful, dreamless sleep far
from the uncertain present
and outside
the sun
like hope itself -
bright and glowing -
begins to rise
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 11:47 AM UTC
if I brought you flowers would you know
your grave all prettied up
a token of my heart
a caring for you still expressed with beauty
do you hear my prayer
know of the ache that you left behind
do you know how lovable you are.
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 7:51 PM UTC
Do you have a problem with
The way I
Dress
Talk
And walk
'Cause if you do
***** I'll knock your *** to the floor
I might be ****** up
As all holy hell
But **** hunny
I got way more culture than you'll ever know
I don't give two *****
That you've been across Europe
And seen all Seven Wonders
Because at the end of the day
I still got more love
I couldn't give a flying rat's ***
About your big hair
And prettied up nails
'Cause ***** I'll still **** you up
You wanna mess with me
Go right ahead
I'll tear off your throat
If you talk **** 'bout my people
And I ain't judgin' you for
The way for the funny way you
Talk
Dress
Or walk
I ain't even judgin' you for your upbringing
I, too, can talk in a highly sophisticated manner
With my nose upturned
My hair permed
My nails done weekly
In high heels
From behind the gated community we
Both lovingly call home
I can even join you and your gaggle
Of acquaintances
For a night at the country club
So of course I don't judge you for any of that
***** hunny, I judge you
'Cause o' the way you treat
Me and my family,
Which yes includes friends,
Like we's all some sorta **** you stepped in
Do you have an issue with being real?
'Cause **** you wear
Eau de faux
Like I might be your last breathing sight
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 1:08 AM UTC
*the anchor is gilded with gold, set with silver.
made from the ship's own husk,
manufactured to glide with the frame,
sailing as one over the sea,
braving the storm as a singular essence.
but,
look -- observe the layers of gold
that have settled, rubies and emeralds
adorn. and the ship
is weighed down.
i stretch my hand out over the hull.
the sea tastes more bitter than salty,
more rancid than relentless.
once when the moon was still blue,
and dolphins still sang,
my mother told me
that voyages are made err wind, err sea.
she did not say err anchor, the one
she had made me.
this morning, as the sun rose,
i fell into the ocean.
i swam to its depths
i ran my tongue
over the anchor's hooked end, its pointed arch
drawing a drop of beaded blood from my lip,
trailing red.
the gold no longer tasted coppery, only
my blood did.
it tasted of prettied practicality,
soured security and
sedated success --
detritus the ship had picked up
on its voyage.
i tried to scrape them off with my nails,
but my nails came off.
i tried to bite them off with my teeth,
but my teeth cracked.
the ship is stuck.
and so am i.
tonight, i will dream.
i will dream of my
extended tails and jeweled fins,
embellished with diamonds.
they will cut through
the anchor's chains, threaded with strands of
jaded words and loft.
they will cut through them just as easily
as the ship will knife through the water
once it is freed.
slowly, at first, softly unsure; but after,
with lethal agility
that cuts.
it will cut through the water just as a scream slices silence,
grinding metal against salt,
kneading wood through air.
land will be reached:
the ship docks,
and i
can learn
to breathe again.*
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
Half its contents stashed away
Or shipped to another state,
Primped, perfumed and prettied up
It no longer reflects who lives here.
It no longer echoes happiness
Or tries to hide despair.
It’s just another pretty face
Looking for a suitor.
It promises hope for someone new
Who will hang the walls with their own joy
And shed their sorrows in the garden
Beside the bubbling fountain.
It will be the gate to a neighborhood
And an enclave of belonging.
It offers safety from the storm
And the ravages of the city.
It’s up for bids beyond the price
To see who wants it most
Or has the deepest pockets.
With preference to those who’ll love it.
The house is open for the world to see
And guess about the owners,
Crying softly somewhere else
As they prepare, unwillingly,
To kiss a beloved home goodbye
And strike out for a new beginning
In someone else’s home, now theirs,
In hopes of finding Shangri-La
In the new world of Nevada.
ljm
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 3:41 PM UTC
the first girl who ever kissed my neck
had bones in her bedroom.
like taxidermy, right? i asked,
squeezing her hand,
my thumb rubbing hers, innocently.
the early days are always beautiful,
mind.
could i offer you some jam?
the fruits of my labour, i said
as she dipped the knife into my open wounds
smiling wide, ‘i did this for you’
and i said it so proudly, at the time.
i prettied myself up with doilies,
a gingham tablecloth too,
covering the unsightly parts of me.
only for her to give me that look,
that disappointed, never good enough
look.
its pithy. there’s too much substance.
and she spat it back into my face,
the red creating a clown-smile
the only smile i could muster, at the time.
and then she started to scream,
and that’s where my memories lapse.
hacking sounds, bones snapping.
it happened kind of quickly.
severed heads, severed hands,
what does it matter?
if your lover is thirsty, let them drink.
it’s simpler that way,
it keeps lovers as lovers, the naïve part of me said,
like a mantra, over and over.
deep inside, where my strength lay
(and i wouldn’t usually tell people this
but as you may have guessed,
mere air particles don’t have much to lose)
i wanted to scream, fight back
give me that back, that’s not yours to take
but the words are lost,
her slickened hands over my mouth
drowning out the nose,
as she runs away.
******* coward. leech. parasite.
i want my body back, i wheezed
as the final breathe escaped my chest.
May 17, 2020
May 17, 2020 at 12:51 PM UTC
It's always a house.
In shelved books, in five-drinks-in five a.m talks, in cheap rhymes and lavish ones—commonplace for anywhere you can find words on, a standard metaphor to stumble upon. Infrastructure lets itself be borrowed for anatomy and soul: a soot-tainted chimney standing for smoker’s lungs, the fire burning warm at its feet for scorching anger, the crayon scribbles on nursery wallpapers like the prints of anyone an angry smoker has ever loved, shutters as eyelids and walls for bones and tablecloths for clothes and pillars as brawn.
An easy metaphor, a house as a body. A lazy one. Sluggish, yawning Metaphor, craving a nap, a break from being used up. Boring enough to make me look up from my page and at everyone else sitting around the table, writing about vessels vined in breezeblocks and headache diagnoses from front door knocking. Dreary enough to make me want to leave the room.
So I do. The door closes shut like a wind’s mistake, clicks, and it stands between me and the other side of the bone-white wall, an oaken bodyguard of drowsy writers working on.
Go on. Look around the room.
Chair. Tables. Walls. Oh, a roof leak.
No. Really look, I mean.
Lining paper yellowing in the places where hands and chair tops brushed past for years. Shiny furniture with dust collecting in the crannies out of sight. A bowl of food (dog one, full to the brim—human one, empty with a filthy rim). Rusty hinges and inherited silverware.
Marked up, unkempt on weekdays, prettied up for visitors, its value found in numbers, its keys given out for access, put up for rent or sold to the best offer, filthy, hungry, painted, remodeled, lived in, abandoned—and they won’t let me back in now, but I’m scratching on the body-guard's wooden trunk to write down about body-like house limbs.
Nov 28, 2022
Nov 28, 2022 at 11:19 AM UTC