"prided" poems
I prided myself on never hating anyone
I let their negativity roll off my back
Bit my tongue until it was split in two
Took their criticism and took the high road
I see that was no use
Your negativity is a poison
Seeping into whatever crevice crack it can find to invade
A parasite latching to its host
Wanting to bring down my drive my spirit
My mind you want to raid
You glance at me smirk with contempt
because you see in me what you lack in yourself
Personality maybe?
A smile that shines so bright the very sight of it sickens you
But in true fashion
I never brag or boast or thrive on the vision of another's misfortune
Even though you would love to watch me suffer
I use your negativity
As my creativity
My fuel to leave you in my rearview
And as i drive away I will throw up the deuces
Make my own way
No excuses
You wont bring me down!
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC
Up very early on this particular morning
couldn't sleep not unusual.
Trillions of thoughts racing in his brain
leaving his lovely wife in bed!
knowing to well the problems he'd created
met another himself he hated.
Nine months Jamie had been having an affair
his wife asking why he was late.
On numerous days his mistress wanting him
easy to say it just happened!
How could he let his fling get out of hand
he knew it was underhand.
Couldn't rest his conscience nagged him
no children with his spouse.
Practically one less worry for him to resolve
now his mistress was pregnant!
The usual cliche he still loved his wife
aware this situation was rife!
This didn't help sort out the mess he was in
what was the solution?
None of the answers were fundamentally good
but could not escape the truth.
It would break her heart to if he were to leave
who he never wanted to deceive!
With a deep breath he prepared for honesty
it had been a long time coming.
Prided himself in being an upstanding man
not noticing how low he'd sunk.
Seven thirty approached he heard Emma stir
he had to go and tell her!
With a burning guilt consuming his whole being
he made his way for judgement day!
The Foureyed Poet.
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 7:59 PM UTC
What once was stoic
and only showed strength,
now slowly sinks and melts...
Like a castle of sand
on the shore,
fending off the teases
from the playful waves
of the rising tide - but failed.
What once was rock...
Now submits to forces
that meant to erode and break.
Pounding, battering and
eating into the outer carapace
I’ve prided for years.
What once was armour
I thought impervious
and would deflect,
now threatens to collapse into itself.
Like a weak submersible
made for the shallows
yet dove too deep,
anticipating the impending crush
at the end.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 9:49 AM UTC
i prided myself in the thought
that i was the one who played
i had you at my beck and call
and for some reason... you stayed
back then i wouldve left you
back then i tried not to care
but now i see i need you
i breathe you in like the air
and now its you who plays
it is you who has me addicted
but all that time i thought i was playing
this strange turn of events not predicted
see now i do what i must
to get your desired time
but now i feel the moments i steal
are truly a terrible crime
i need you like the air i breathe
i need you like the sun
rather than me playing you
i think that youre the one.
so love me kiss me hold me miss me
each moment youre away
and when we hold each other close
pinky promise that youll stay.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 4:22 AM UTC
I’m not sure what implored me to put the picture as my centerfold.
Of that I’m sure I’ll never know.
Instead, I just did. No questions asked.
Though the picture had always perturbed me in a slight, quiet way, it was something that my father prided enough.
Why should I not pride it as well?
Besides, my wife said it really “tied the room together”.
I told her that I still didn’t understand that phrase,
But that’s neither here nor there.
Every day, I passed that painting on the way out the door,
And on the way back in to the heart of my home.
My wife and I embraced a multitude of times
in front of our deer-headed ******
In his suit, painted onto that canvas, framed with gold leaf
That shined just so, when the sun hit it.
And I’ll always remember that my father left it for me
When he died.
Me specifically.
I inherited the deer head, and the body of a businessman.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 12:51 AM UTC
Sometimes,
I think that
Our prided human
Masterpieces of civilization
Are just giant **** piles
On the earth.
Who needs
To live until they
Are 100+ years old, honestly...
We are a virus
That keeps adapting
To stay alive
And cheat death,
Which, I think,
Is our greatest achievement...
It is final
And one less person
Eating away at the place
That gave us life—back
To the earth to try
And help it heal.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 11:09 AM UTC
Once I was called an Enigma
and it was different than I had expected.
My whole life I had prided myself
on being able to hide
everything
and remain a mystery
to keep my desires to myself
and let the others do the wanting.
But, I messed up.
Because being an enigma
leaves all the mysteries to be solved by you.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 1:47 AM UTC
over and far away
across the sea
the ghosts i see
they see through me
silent mockery casts
around my steel composure
decays my hope by
truth's overexposure
i seek shelter
in my contradictions
i seek power
in my prided perceptions
raindrops on starboard recall
beat me to mud
i am blinded by
what is misunderstood
they hold me to every word relayed
always remind me with a nod
that i'm always searching
for those lost at sea
always returning
to my journey
to the dead
they're comprehendible
never moving
never touching
just between
real love
and imperfection
i coast these waters
at my own self speed
i long for something
which doesn't exist
Dec 11, 2009
Dec 11, 2009 at 7:50 PM UTC
"Did you want to smoke that cigarette?"
Mrs. Prine asked as she covered her skin
in a black velvet nightgown.
"That'd be good. Just to be outside."
"Right. It's pleasant this evening."
Harvey climbed out of the sweat-drenched
sheets, slid into his jeans, tossed on a t-shirt,
and stumbled behind the widow Prine.
The field behind Mrs. Prine's home
stood tall -- a rich green sea, with
islands of yellow dandelions and
splatters of Indian paintbrushes.
The two sat down in the tall field.
Mrs. Prine closely watched Harvey's
moves.
Her eyes followed him with
gentle observation and understanding--
much like his own mother.
A cloud of dust perpetually hung over
the Prine place.
Mr. Prine chose the abode
to escape the hum of cars and exhaust-teeming air,
but his reconnaissance was poor.
Mr. Prine picked a house that was less than a mile
from Kiev, Oklahoma's hidden gem:
Sugar's Sweethearts.
Sugar's Sweethearts prided itself on being
the only strip club in 50-miles.
The girls were much older than young,
the ******* suffered from much more sag than they did once,
and the bar sold nothing
but light beer and throat-dicing whiskey.
"I think Cindy is going to live with me for awhile," Mrs. Prine's voice whispered then dissolved in vapor. Harvey sat on her words a moment,
"Your daughter?"
"Yes."
"I thought she just had a kid. You acted like it was all fine and dandy
less than an hour ago."
"It is fine. I don't mind. Her husband cheated on her. *******
"What about--"
"Us? Harvey, I know better than to believe this means anything remotely tangible."
"It's our escape, Mrs. Pri--dammit--Margaret."
"Sure. You and I have a healthy understanding of our needs,
while the rest of this overly-religious town
empties its restlessness at Sugar's."
The suns rays bulletholed through the clouds.
Harvey put out his cigarette on an anthill.
An interstate of ants led Harvey's eyes to
a dead blue jay.
Flies and ants alike covered the bird's body.
"I love you, Margaret," Harvey got up,
dusted off his jeans,"See ya Monday."
"I'll see you then, Harvey."
May 26, 2011
May 26, 2011 at 2:58 PM UTC
Right off the top
Here are my thoughts
They are as fresh to me
As they are to you
They are revealing themselves to me
As I write them to you
So here it goes
The raw unspoken truth
I have fallen short in my days
Repeat offender, I have greatly sinned
I have suppressed my darkest secrets
Secrets that rot within
I have blamed others for my pain
Pain that I was owed by my friend Karma
Pain that I was built to endure
Pain that I wore like shiny, heavy armor
I fought and battled with depression
Depression that almost did me in
I fell out of love with myself
Fell into lust and sin
I gave my all to another being
Depleted and reduced myself to nothing
I gave myself to those undeserving
Confusing lusting with loving
I prided myself on my success
But never acknowledged my God given purpose
I refueled my emptiness with ***
You can touch me here, but my heart, can't touch this
But here I am at the cross roads
My soul torn between who I am
Who I want to be
And who I was meant to
Each path requires me to make decisions
Continue on towards destruction
Turn towards what I want and away from God's will
Or acknowledge my purpose and change my mental
I believe in this very moment I have decided
By acknowledging my faults
I am already working towards the better
For the world, I have published my truth
I am working towards redemption
Letter by letter
Now that we have arrived at my rebirth
Blessings upon me, God will bestow
For I have unblocked my energy and cleansed my soul
For through my poetic vessel, God's glory can now flow
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 10:13 AM UTC
I.
Ngozi yangu ni nyekundu
Choka wanaochukua kama mfuo
Bila ushunda na heshima
Waichezea kama kikapu cha samaki
I.
My exotic melenated skin is dark
Pasted with chalks that crease in mist
The world that sails with no justice and politeness
A sifted clan put in a basket like the unwanted fish
II.
Wainukia hii fedha, kwani sina mkopo
Hizi ndamu nyekundu zalia pilipili
Kwa uchungu umeomwangwa duniani
Haya si maneno ya sifa wala ya hatari
II.
Don’t smell at this treasure, for I have no debt
The bloods that pour in crimson and burn in hot pepper
The pain streamed from faces, a tainted worldly existence
Let these words not be seen as a praise and neither a threat
III.
Binadamu ulimwenguni wakifu
Kama mfalme mwenye hana taji
Umoja madada, pamoja makaka
Mkono tushikane kwa usawa, mdogo mdogo
III.
Humanity is a concept weft from the universal strains in cobalt abstracts
Lost in illusion like a king who is prided by invisible crowns
Together sisters, brothers, daughters and sons
Hold hands, spread the love in a united mesh, little by little
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 12:05 PM UTC
I have had this exact same song on repeat for 7 times, only because I bother to count and I think it is a beautiful, wonderful number (second only to 15 but that is a story for another time). I tie my dead knots 7 times and count the seconds before I fall asleep that eventually add up to 7 too, a little number that trails behind me like a reminder of a blessing; exactly how amazing it is to be alive sometimes and all the time.
I'd like to point out that you can't exactly be alive all the time in every sense of the word, because physically existing on one metaphysical plane and slumbering in the soul and emotional metaphysical plane does not account for actually living. Most of the time I am hibernating in myself; a plane shifting mess of tangled emotions, and other times I am numb. It is the type of numbness that penetrates and envelops everything that a person is, was, and ever will be.
Today is one of those days.
-
If you were here you would point out that it is interesting that I am not like other girls and do not follow the 10 cm rule concerning boys and dating (to which, you would also add a wink and a knowing smile, simply because we both know you are attracted to me as I am to you because we are separate from the normality in life) but count the times that 7 and 15 appear in my life despite being absolutely terrible at math. You have - and always have - prided yourself in being the only person successful at eliciting a response from me in moments where I withdraw myself from the world, your hands finding mine, your gaze resting on me. And you know this, to some extent. You know how much our existences depend on each other, how some people were destined to meet and never be the same again.
I have doubted a lot of things in this life, but the one thing I have never doubted is my endless affection for you.
-
"You're exasperating," I say, with a roll of the eyes. "I don't know how anyone puts up with you."
You grin in response.
"But you do."
(A.H.Z)
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 10:32 AM UTC
Oh glorious day, did my eyes deceive?
So long the wait had been I could not believe,
That the time had come, so bright and fair,
My poor and barren chin would no longer be bare.
No more would I shave in vain attempt
To feel manly and escape contempt
From my bearded brother, whom according to he,
Could grow a full beard by the age of 3.
Oh how he'd be proven wrong from now on,
That even 'Baby Faced Jack' could possibly grow one,
Soon I'd have more hair than could be counted.
So much in fact I would never be discounted,
By burly builders and stubbly cooks
And have my age judged as 12 based on my looks.
Oh, what possibilities could be within my grasp,
Sideburns, goatees, chin beards OOH A Moustache
Ah, so many new ways to help me look prim and distinguished,
Like Hugh Jackman but better because I'm... English?
But as I pet, stroke and caress this wonderful hair,
My eyes widen in fear and despair
It was not what it seemed, it just wasn't fair,
This wonderful thing must have come from elsewhere,
For as I prided over becoming a man,
That tiny hair fell off right into my hand.
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 10:30 AM UTC
As I tossed you in your carboard coffin
Pieces of you I loved too often
Now shelves for dust and feelings softened
By time and intrusion
And lack of exclusion
Of the wickedness in you
I marveled at each fragment laid to rest
Photographs that caught you at your best
The scent I breathed while on your chest
Now I see your smile is lopsided
And the cologne you once prided
Yourself upon now reeks of decay
An imitation engagement ring
A crass, tinfoil, pitiable thing
Your last bid to try and cling
To a disenchanted free ride
Exhibit A to say you tried
To be half of what I deserved
A love letter in invisible ink
Clear for a moment till the words sink
Like a stricken ship upon the brink
So worn and frail from frequent view
Shoddy proof that you loved me too
A poor Exhibit B
Your faded tee I found comfort in
When doubts crept in of where you'd been
Now the costume of a man of tin
There is no road for you to follow
You have a heart, metal and hollow
For you, there is no place called home
For someone who seemed so central
This tiny box makes you seem incidental
Perspective for the seemingly monumental
You would fit nicely in the attic
A burial I cannot find tragic
I won't even need my black dress
Theres nothing worth embalming to preserve
Two strips of tape and to the curb
A resting place undisturbed
Till the grave robbers haul you away
You're no ones treasure, just trash today
A garbage truck is a proper hearse
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 9:09 AM UTC
Blooming with happiness
The sun stroked and I smiled
The park adventurous and prided
The grass was soaked with dew
The wasp befriended my notepad
My face was pretty for you
Hands in my pockets as I waved a dog
A shy hide away in the open space
A French book on my minds fence
.............je veux la paix...................
A bench with grounded families
Young hobbits playing ball
Young couples indulging thigh on thigh
The romping poodle and German shepherd
The pond with the calm natured ducks
Underage puffs of clouded cigarette fumes
My awakened spirit opened it's legs
It flew to the overwhelmed senses of hope
.............je veux la paix......................
A scoff of falafel parcels and fizzy muscles
The stalker sat on the aligned bench
A season to figure out what life is
A strange woman on the bike in amusement
The Portuguese cafe full of beautiful souls
The world revolved with a cleansed sheen
An Eastern Europe parade of basketball novices
A melodious day that though of you babe
.............je veux la paix......................
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 5:31 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
The colour red strewn through the rocks
Iron rusting over years
Untainted by The touch of man
With exception of tourists
Oils slowly eroding, but untouched
By our prided advancements
Miles of peaks attracting the world
Though, still wild in the sense we define
A refuge from the bustle of life
We ascribe ourselves to
At least to me, it is a place to be alone, to meditate
With acres of trees, existing and feeling with them
Pulling from their ancient wisdom
To sit high upon a peak
With notebook in hand and a pen in the other
My only defense against the human condition
Peering out as far as my feeble eyes will allow
Clouds paint elegant watercolours
With the rays of the sun
Storms creating drama and feeling
But I am above it all as Zarathustra was
But I am compelled to return
As was he, back to the hives of my birth
To the city that Jack and his cohorts
Loved so much, as do myself
This place that has more sun
Than the marketed beaches of paradise
It may snow here, but that is the beauty of it all
The variety of seasons, it is not all-arctic wasteland
In the winter months
One day I may be swathed in layers
Against the cold, the next
I can walk around open to the elements,
What other place is the weather so differentiable?
A couple hours’ drive and you can be
In a winter wonderland or arid city
An arctic paradise with acres of fresh powder
That many do not take the time to sit,
Just sit; in a supple seat.
Perfectly formed to the contours of your body
And look out; simply look out.
At what is surround you; high above everything
Too often do we become obsessed
With the tiny oases of ski resorts
And forget the solitude and beauty of its telos
It’s not the resorts I love,
But the mountains themselves; that is my attraction.
A place to carve your own path, to find yourself
This is my home, a sojourn for the Beaten
As they traveled this country,
for those on the trail settling from sea to shining sea
Facing the fortress of rock, ice, and pine
I may stray for spans of time, travel the word and sea,
But I shall always come back to pay homage
To the place that has sculpted me
And given me sanctuary from society
Colorado
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 12:40 PM UTC
surrounded
enveloped
covered by you
always around
but wanting more
my passion has come back
you are my only inspiration
lying in wait
in the background
so patiently
I could never have asked for something so close to perfection
not knowing what I would do without you
now I have the reason
the motivation
the trust
the fire
it's all back
what I prided myself on
for being such the Virgo
the will to endlessly serve
to create
to love
is now engrained in my DNA
and is here to ******* stay.
<3
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 8:01 PM UTC
A city brewed with History
*A simmered *** of diversity*
An empire extended in streams
The devolution of solid districts
Prided with craftsmen and artisans
A showcase of nature at its core
Forested and iced mountain tops
Valleys plentiful of sweet waters
A greenery of wealth and Industrialism
A Romania of open heart and miracles
Cities of social capital, tourist destinations
Initiates of a Western Europe Rebirth
A Transylvania of forts and Baroques
Cathedrals, and orthodox moments
Sibiu a reserve connected to haunted castles
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 6:20 PM UTC
Not enough verses.
Not enough rhymes.
Not enough comments
Not enough likes.
Delete. delete. Delete.
The words I prided myself in
That won no awards
That were not good enough
To be heard.
Delete. delete. Delete.
Embarrassing thoughts
Of a younger me.
A silly child
Is now all I see.
But clearly
I'm more lost now
Than I was then
And maybe that angers me.
Delete. delete. Delete.
Will I write again?
Probably not.
I've lost my passion.
My words only rot.
They can no longer shine
Or comfort me.
Delete. delete. Delete.
It may be selfish
Maybe somebody saw
And felt something,
Anything at all.
Anger, joy, static, relief.
Though I'm sure that's
Not the case with me.
Delete. delete. Delete.
It's over.
Done.
Been and gone.
Me.
And my time with
Poetry.
And here I am,
Pressing on repeat,
Delete. delete. Delete.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 5:48 AM UTC
Разблюто’ — это когда тебе разбили сердце, и ты после этого очень сильно напился, до тошноты. Вот тогда в организме все разблюто.
I am sorry
But, you stumbled in your lies,
and, you hurt me with goodbye.
And, I am sorry-I cant lie,
your words were more deveined,
back when I told that I can hide,
under these layers of pride.
That I have built up over lives,
of people who have affected me.
In more ways,
than I can describe,
but I can no longer
stand side,
to the words that I prided to never lie of,
Under the blood vessels that rumble
Of empathy and our dalliance
Of words more than humble
through my razbliuto of you.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
Dear Lord,
Forgive me for my transgressions
For they are many and sundry
You have said that it is easier for a camel
To pass through a needle's eye
Than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God
I was once a rich man
Now I am but a traveler, a beggar
Among these Atlantan ruins
As low now as the Negroes among me once were
Who walk past, too busy or too proud to give a second thought
To my new state of affairs, my ***** arm outstretched to them
I owned twenty-five field Negroes at one time
I saw many whipped, and I whipped many
I saw my transgressions as justifiable by Holy Scripture
I was called a "Nigger-breaker", and prided myself as such
But pride is one of the Deadly Sins
And it brought your Wrath upon me
And upon my countrymen
As a terrible swift sword from the North
And as a Great Fire upon my land
I beseech thee, Lord, for forgiveness for my sins
For my hatred of the ***** has brought me only suffering
And pain and death to my family
My wife left, my two sons dead, my field-Negroes gone
Oh! How I wish I had not hated the *****
As I had before and as I do now
They were once property, vessels for men such as myself
To do with as they wish, to apply the lash, to love and caress
Now they are land-owners, oh! The cruelest change of affairs
"Those ****** ******* how I wish them dead!"
You might expect to hear uttered from these dry lips
But I am too tired and hungry to curse now
My throat is parched, my mouth is filled with cotton
Lord, I wish for you to take me now
And to let you decide what you wish to do with my soul
For I shall take either the Heavenly bliss I once believed I deserved
Or the unquenchable fires of Hell
But there cannot be a Hell worse than this, Lord
So now it is dark, and I am tired
I will close my eyes soon and fall asleep
Perhaps to wake tomorrow
Perhaps to never wake again
In your holy Name,
Amen
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 6:46 AM UTC
Because it’s something you should start considering.
Because it’s something I’ve privately prided myself on being able to do, if only for a short while after the fact.
Because I don’t give a **** if it’s wrong, and I’m weak—just wanted you to entertain the question.
I don’t care which part of me it is, either.
I don’t care if our talks on your back porch peeled back so much of your skin that all of your blood leaked out, and you’ll spend months trying to take somebody else’s.
I don’t care if the impression of my face on your pillow makes the asymmetry of others’ burn—so bad that you’ll prefer dark spaces.
I hope the smell of my neck on your sheets violently pulls you from sleep, especially if it’s not even there.
I hope someday you find the sock I lost on the side of your bed, and it beats you in a staring contest.
I hope someday it finally creeps in on you that everything I said when I was joking, I meant—so much of what you own is stupid.
Maybe you’ll remember being so sickeningly sweet, in spite of yourself, and turn bitter from the inside out.
Maybe you’ll be preoccupied with the moments I allowed you to think there was nothing I could stop you from,
and maybe you’ll cringe when you realize it wasn’t the physicality of it that I wanted—it was any small power.
Because I don’t give a **** if it’s wrong,
and I’m weak
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 5:12 AM UTC
She tried to block
everyone out.
She told herself she wouldn't
allow anyone to hurt her any more.
She lied.
She knew, deep down, that the walls
she prided herself on - the ones she
claimed she topped with barbed wire
and electricity, were really just small
white picket fences with far too many hinges.
She knew that there was a
“Welcome” mat sitting at the door
to her heart that had been caked
with the dirt from the previous men
who had walked all over her.
Yet it still lay there, cheery and
hopeful as ever, that one day
someone would walk in and
make themselves at home-
maybe someday someone wouldn't
end up walking right back out.
She was naive- blind sided by her
own dreams that one day things
would be different;
that one day she wouldn't have
to hurt any more. She dreamt that
she would finally meet someone
who wasn't like everyone else.
Someone who would stay.
Her dreams would never come true;
but no one had the heart to warn her
of that-
even if they had she would have
disagreed, even though
subconsciously
she would have known she was
the one who was wrong.
Her heart may have been weak but
her will was weaker.
She never had the strength to
protect herself; or to build better
walls; or to burn the welcome mat;
or to lock the door.
She’ll never know
how not to let people in.
So instead he greets the
with a smile and dives in
heart first, granting everyone
a chance to get inside
and destroy her, every time.
She’ll never learn…
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 11:05 PM UTC