"pronounce" poems
You scribble down the name of a drug I can't pronounce
Is that an A or an O?
And send me on my way
It seems like that's how you send all of us off these days
Do you really know my life?
Would you even take the time to listen?
I have my doubts
and I'm sticking with them
Because frankly,
all you're concerned about
is the paycheck you'll be getting.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 1:35 AM UTC
With my eyes,
I told him what my mouth couldn't pronounce
By Chloe Elizabeth
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
Something I never understand,
(but ponder quite a lot)
is how boys get away with things
that girls simply cannot.
A man can boast about his feats,
and all pronounce him clever,
but a woman is conceited
if she speaks of her endeavor.
And tell me, why is 'bachelor'
a more attractive word
than the female term of 'spinster'
and the concept that's inferred?
It's this gender inequality
that renders women shamed
by the ****** exploitation
for which they're always blamed.
Whilst men are given status for
the women they've undressed,
so after this, please tell me now;
which gender has it best?
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 6:10 PM UTC
Love is a ***** soup going stale but steaming like it's brand new;
And I'm Oliver twist walking up to the *** with a rusty spoon full of desire and hope asking for more but getting none.
Love is a Doctor gathering dead bodies and shackling them up in chains;
And I'm a green freak with Frankenstein bolts ****** through my head walking around with only a mumble to muster trying to love people who just want to run away.
Love is a white paper rolled so finely, full of sedatives and drugs;
And I'm sitting by a fire reaching in for a log to smoke.
Love is puzzle made by Einstein and Sam Loyd;
And I'm a child with eyes made of glass and hands made of thorns crying to my mother because that puzzle is a *****
Love is Navy Seal training on a beach covered in cold water spilling blood for a chance;
And I'm a pot-smoking hippie who holds up signs and tells soldiers they’re monsters as I take a puff of death.
Love is a ten-syllable word compacted into one;
And I'm a hooked on phonics children’s thesaurus struggling to find a comparison that I can actually pronounce.
Love is a white egg timer sitting on the fridge set to all nines;
And I'm a busy housewife waiting to cook dinner at the sound of its bell.
Love is a robber with a 45 in his belt;
And I'm an eager dad trying to protect his family with a wooden stick.
Love is hot coffee from a luxury beverage shop;
And I'm a plastic party cup melting away.
Love is a doctor with a PHD in heart surgery;
And I'm a sick child waiting with his mother with no healthcare ******* on a free doctor’s-office lollypop.
Love is a huge pink eraser;
And I'm a graphite pencil struggling to write while me and the eraser fight.
Love is a pickup truck speeding through town drunk;
And I'm a lost puppy running through the same intersection looking for my owner.
Love is meant for fish;
And I'm a bird.
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 12:18 PM UTC
what i cant understand
is how people can write poetry about the flowers
or the sunshine
it just seems so irrelevant
when there are so many more beautiful things to write about
like your dainty, thin, long fingers
and the way your lips emit a tiny bit of air when you pronounce ‘th’ words
your towering, awkward, bony body
loosely, limply entwined in mine
that make up your gentle, comforting hugs
how melodic your voice is, almost lulling me to sleep
your contagious, animated smile
how you write as if embroidering the pages
gracefully, an art
and the words float mid-lines
reflecting how your thoughts float among the clouds
doolally detonations of enigmatic pure excitement
over the most extraneous of matters
your eyes, the captivating bluish-steel of a mid-winter night sky
their flare, and the way they light up when you maunder lovingly of such passions
alas perhaps, poetry about plants or the weather are just as beautiful
but i
would not know
for even the planet, and nature
and sheer beauty of life
seems pale
in prejudiced comparison to your radiance
and how bright you make
my insides feel
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
At seventeen I am almost grown.
Almost old enough to own a home of my own.
Yet, i remain viewed as young, naive.
Told I am too young to know what i believe.
At seventeen the world drowns me in a sea of questions it doesn't want the answers to.
At seventeen everyone thinks they know whats best for me,
"....grow up, be a part of your society."
Don't worry about happiness that's a selfish priority.
"...grow up."
But at seventeen its hard to differentiate between hopes and reality.
It's sad you can do anything you believe,
but i fear it's a lie, we've all been teased.
The proof?
On the streets.
An endless stream of people who've had their dreams seized.
I dread the thought of this stream consuming me.
Me?
Me?
At seventeen I don't know if I am me.
Or just everything that's ever been crammed down my throat into a part of my brain I cant pronounce.
At seventeen I've fallen down a rabbit hole.
The queen of hearts pounding me with every cliche ideal every adult has told me to believe.
The white rabbit screaming to me the time.
17..18..19
I just want to leave.
I am only seventeen.
But if not this rabbit hole where?
Just a new nightmare?
Filled with symbolism I should get.
Things I should know.
Seventeen is plenty of time to grow...
grow up.
But I am only seventeen.
I am only seventeen.
Am only seventeen.
Only seventeen.
Seventeen.
I am seventeen.
At seventeen the world says I am almost grown.
At seventeen I am scared to have a home of my own.
At seventeen I question everything I ever knew.
But remain unchanged.
Remain floating through life without a clue.
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC
Few can pronounce it
Unless Scandinavian.
The r's are all rolling,
And the letters all sound...
More or less not as
In English.
Just let it go, it's a 'twister,
I know.
My names are all old-norse,
Not modern Norwegian.
(Viking-speak sounded
More close to Icelandic).
Sverre means "spin like an arrow",
Expression for being untamed; un-
Controllable; wild-man.
G is for Guttorm: "Where Gods
Seek Shelter"; a fortress for those
One thought needed one least.
Holter means "edge of the woods";
The end of the forest (or where it
Begins).
*The Wildman Where the
Gods Seek Shelter at the
Edge of the Woods.*
My friends call me Sverre.
It is a name I've shared with
Swordbearing kings.
I am equally proud
When addressed.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 3:00 PM UTC
i remember being little when the
fire of my eyes still shone bright
my fingertips green with the world at the edge
i thought that someday i’d grow tall
like the linden trees
i wanted to stand before
things greater
than my imagination
experience the world with every
spare hundred dollars in my pocket
and now my branches have overgrown
and i can never be uprooted
so i stand tall and watch the planes overhead
flying to islands with names
i can’t pronounce
and i dream of the days when i was little
and still caught fire in my reflection
Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 11:07 AM UTC
By Janis Ian
I learned the truth at seventeen
That love was meant for beauty queens
And high school girls with clear skinned smiles
Who married young and then retired
The valentines I never knew
The Friday night charades of youth
Were spent on one more beautiful
At seventeen I learned the truth...
And those of us with ravaged faces
Lacking in the social graces
Desperately remained at home
Inventing lovers on the phone
Who called to say "come dance with me"
And murmured vague obscenities
It isn't all it seems at seventeen...
A brown eyed girl in hand me downs
Whose name I never could pronounce
Said: "Pity please the ones who serve
They only get what they deserve"
The rich relationed hometown queen
Marries into what she needs
With a guarantee of company
And haven for the elderly...
So remember those who win the game
Lose the love they sought to gain
In debitures of quality and dubious integrity
Their small-town eyes will gape at you
In dull surprise when payment due
Exceeds accounts received at seventeen...
To those of us who knew the pain
Of valentines that never came
And those whose names were never called
When choosing sides for basketball
It was long ago and far away
the world was younger than today
when dreams were all they gave for free
to ugly duckling girls like me...
We all play the game, and when we dare
We cheat ourselves at solitaire
Inventing lovers on the phone
Repenting other lives unknown
That call and say: "Come on, dance with me"
And murmur vague obscenities
At ugly girls like me, at seventeen...
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 3:34 PM UTC
I am learning how to love you
You're like a foreign language and I'm just learning to say hello
I am trying to pronounce you if I can
I am learning how to love you
Day by day
It comes naturally almost
Like I have loved you for years without knowing it
Like I have been unconsciously looking for you on every street corner
Every bus station, red light, checkout line, and hallway
You reign in the shadows of missing love, crippled love
I feel I am learning how to love you like I am learning to walk
You have kissed parts of me that have been lost for years
Parts of me that I have forgotten about, that I had given up on
There are so many ways to love and then there is only one and you are all of them
I am learning how to love you
Like lyrics to my new favorite song
I cannot wait to sing you in the car, play you on a rainy day
I am learning how to love you
Better than I ever loved
Because you deserve at least that
You are exquisite. You are art.
You have eyes like forests and lips like hurricanes
You deserve the world
So I am learning to love you
Slowly, in a way you will understand
So be patient, be gentle, I'm doing the best I can
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 10:17 PM UTC
Giovanni the Pizza Guy (Pronounce "a" as "uh")
Giovanni,you make a de savory tomato
and de thicka white creamy alfredo
you are a de pizza guy, amor'e
Si', I make a de homemade paste
she's a richer for you taste
and that's a part of my story.
I make a de pizza pie
I make a it to please
you wanna de pepperoni
or you wanna de plain cheese ?
I am a you waiter I take a you order
when you food-she a comes
she make a you mouth water
I make a de perfect pizza
in me you should a trust
you wanna de thicka or de thinna crispy crust?
I can make a spagetti or make a zucchini
butta for you , I make a linguine
I can make a de sauce red
I can make a it white
after you taste-you wanna more bite
I make a de spagetti -she's a made a with love
I cook a real slow you order ahead ;
or you take a to go.
I putta de stuff on de top
I give a you wine or a some pop
Uno momento, will you please
I must a cut a de cheese
I am a you pizza guy to make a you pizza pie
Why must a you stay a at home
when a you can a dine a in a Rome ?
I save a you a table
I tell a you a fable
I fill a you pants
I make a you dance
I make a de sauce thick
I make a de sauce thin
I make a you laugh
I make a you grin !
Si', Please a come a back ; see a Giovanni again!
CHOW FOR NOW, BELLISIMA !
Nov 26, 2010
Nov 26, 2010 at 2:45 PM UTC
*So I went to the campus today, for the first time in a long time. I smoked cigarettes outside of the the lecture hall with some kids from the eastern block whose names I could barely pronounce. They were talking about McCarthyism in a language I couldn't understand - snippets in English - an American history exam. I cut class again, for a reason I can't quite trace, just lost sight of it all I guess. Or maybe I was wishing it could have been a little easier. They never gave us a course in what it means to try, you know? It just seems as if the only thing that stops us from doing the things we love is a fear of failing at them. Thinking about this on the walk home made my head sick and my heart sad, and so sleeping through the rest of the daylight seemed like a good way to get by.
I met up with the friend, later in the evening, he was at the local venue. He had his hands in his hoodie and his Adidas were swinging over the side of the stage, head bobbing, and rhyming in time to the beat of an electric bass drum. I asked him to buy me a beer and he slid his last two dollars over the counter like he always does when he notices my lower lip quivering. I didn't ask him about the doctor's and he didn't ask me about my black eye. I told him to tell me the story again, the one about the cool kids he met in the East Village and he did, he told me about the whole encounter in the snow, with the lights, and how badly he was shivering. I smiled that type of smile, the one that ends up with your lips curved the wrong way and wished I would have went with him.
The waitress that hates me gave me a ride home again so her uncle could close the place down. I offered her one of those Ukrainian kids' cigarettes that I swiped but she said no thanks, and I was glad I had more. She knew this wasn't going to be the last time she did me a favor, the way my track record was but I like to think she doesn't mind too much. I invited her inside but she said she had to run, maybe next time. She told me to try and hurry up and finish school so I could give her the world, and then she giggled and winked at me before she sped off. Back to bed, I had a long day of bullshitting myself ahead of me when I awoke.*
Nov 13, 2011
Nov 13, 2011 at 4:11 PM UTC
The Yorkshire accent
sounds pretty rough
"T" doesn't exist
unless you from Bradford
then you can't pronounce things propperly
and you say Bratfd
and the "o" lasts too long
the note is held on
now you knooow
how two letters are pronounced
go learn the dialect
not heard down soulth
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 1:57 PM UTC
I'd last about an hour as a clerk inside a store
invariably I'd shoot my mouth off
about someone's daughter dressing like a *****
or making comments about the dreadful things consumed
which would include a good 99% of the people in the room
I'd eventually end up getting my lights punched out
after ********* someone as a fat *** undiscerning lout
or cracking some aside regarding what comprises that crud
and making faces of revulsion "you'd be better off eating mud"
ewwwww, you really eat that stuff?
this store should be sued for selling such bluff
children with diabetes, a third of adults obese
the courtesy clerk dies a little for lack of surcease
line after line of vapid consumers
mindless knee-jerk impetuosity belay the rumors
what's an adulterant, what's a filler?
propylene glycol alginate, yum yum
sorbitan mono sterate, shut up and eat it, its fun!
I can't even pronounce it, much less do I care
need I be a scientist to enjoyably savor fare
Go ahead and poison yourself
the quirky clerk exclaimed
its ever so clear you're stupid and lame
stay mired in your pig-headed muck of ignorance
you're exactly what they want
another brain dead consumer
a regular culinary savant
stuff your face with no remorse nor heed
no worries, the clerk of little courtesy knows your need
he'll limply wheel out your cart of miserable choices for you
and wise-crack some snarky rejoinder
then promptly get beaten, black and blue
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC
Shhh.
Silence.
The red robed supplicants
Are sequestered
Inside the Sistine.
They speak
In silent supplications
To the spirits
To pronounce a Pontiff.
The stewards are set
To send the smoke.
The smoke
That must be white.
Oct 11, 2025
Oct 11, 2025 at 8:42 AM UTC
well
there's plenty of cutesy names to
call one's children
but his was 'unlovable trash'
He remembered it from the time he was in the crib
They held him there
for longer than most parents
held their kids in cribs. Though only dad
called him so
because he constantly claimed he wasn't his
unlovable trash
he had the wrong skin tone
was too pale
with curly orange hair
and freckles
but mom always pretended she didn't
hear
the words
unlovable trash
she would act as if they were never uttered
and growing up
he thought
unlovable trash was a good thing
thought it was how you show love to your loved
ones
"Mom, you’re unlovable trash."
she was so happy to hear it
she burst into tears and went into the
kitchen and uncorked a bottle of wine
and drank it all by herself. What an
unlovable trash she was
Unfortunately
by the time he could pronounce the lovely
words
father was no longer in his life
but father too
was an unlovable trash
Oct 26, 2019
Oct 26, 2019 at 9:58 AM UTC
She wears:
Skimpy dress.
Tight shirt.
Short skirt.
I say:
Women shouldn't have to.
I give:
Empowerment.
You say:
But men do too.
Bare chest.
V lines.
I say:
Yes but--
You say:
No but.
Society holds it's grip on women.
Suffocating us everyday.
Fitting us into boxes each day.
Telling me what to wear,
How to do my hair.
Forcing paint upon my face to give
Me a face unrecognized.
Rewrite my name to something seductive,
Marilyn.
Regina.
Not the name given to me,
Hard to pronounce and
Not found on a gift shop key chain.
So I tell society to take their standards
And shove them
Because I will not be like the girl on the bus
With scars and cuts across her arm.
"Fat *** carved into her porcelain skin.
Dear Society,
I am me. I am not you.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:23 PM UTC
431
Me—come! My dazzled face
In such a shining place!
Me—hear! My foreign Ear
The sounds of Welcome—there!
The Saints forget
Our bashful feet—
My Holiday, shall be
That They—remember me—
My Paradise—the fame
That They—pronounce my name—
3.5k
Give me your soul, heart and hands
Give me your wildest dreams
Let's ride the train to where the rainbow lands
We just need to follow the beams
It's a one ticket ride
But new friends are waiting on board
You don't need to be shy and hide
Today is your day, just look at the colourful road
Think of something, and make a wish
Directly when we reach the blue
You could be famous you could be rich
Anything in your mind will become true
Orange is for happiness
Something blue can't give you
Neither money nor greatness
It's rare, but not contained by few
Don't you ever mix orange with blue
Or you will get brown
Then instead of happiness, depression will be a glue
And that might nock you down
If you wounder what does violet represent
"Your childhood and past"
All those years you have spent
You will feel like they were a blast
Red is for romance
Love, passion and forgiveness
"I love you" it's not hard to pronounce
But only if you had the guts and patience
Try to mix violet with red
You will find purple all around
Your first love will fill your head
And you will dance till you shake the ground
When sadness take over, know that it's grey
Your heart beat will start to fade
But God is in your side so start to pray
All your problems will turn to shade
Every colour has its own story
Its own symbol, its own taste
And on that rainbow, each got its own territory
Its own look, and its own rate
So come on and mount the Rainbow Train
Lets follow a colourful beam
With no stops, with no 'U' turns
It'll fly with its colourful rainbow steam
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC
The living reality of a metaphor, almost every ounce in-taken,
Every nuance, every pronounce, measured, weighted and weighty,
Fluid or firmament, each encapsulated, prior to release, scaled,
Tabulated, ordered, noted, recorded, and ultimately judg-ed.
Totality of it all, the varied quantities of the ingested nutrients,
even the forecast of the future, if every day was a metaphor for
like today…
DO
I speak of the day's headlines?
Of the quantity and nutrition that passes through my lips?
Or
The surround sound of the surrounding sounds of this day,
the flocks of bandito geese who exist only to torment,
the landscape working crews, with their tools, like a 7::00an wake up buzzing about, for the entire street, going house to house, looking for itinerant grassy knolls of patches of bright green,
overnight sprung up and needy to be
guillotined,
laundry to do, rugs needy for clothesline screaming/beating or merely super fast vacuuming;
they, hawking their skills available for the old and infirm,
or the fatty catty cattle lazy, (somewhere in there is moi);
and the decibels of their machines, the rat-a-tat of their rapido, voluble speech that feeds me poetry by the ounce of their laughter, but more exactly of,
What do I speak, to what do I allude?
Why all and none, everything and specifically nothing,
for the metaphor is meta! (1)
It is life itself, from the quarter teaspoon
to the overflowing bath, it is life at its most incremental,
the moment
of flushing face,
the second
of ah ha! recollection, the,
long term trends
trending,
the flatline of my EKG,
the weighty pronouncement of my talking scale (you've been bad),
IT IS THE EVERYTHING
that is measurable, weighable, isolatable, defined;
it is our existence of our each & every of action and inaction strung together like a necklace and a chain
We are metaphor, reality, is, the script,
which is the product of you.
scriptwriter…/
Aug 8, 2025
Aug 8, 2025 at 6:17 PM UTC
They warned us not to worry,
Just do our best in school;
Those worldly professionals,
Taught us work-to-rule.
They did a few case studies
On twins from day of birth;
There's a fifty-fifty chance,
A will be born first
They are urban fighters,
Of fire, crime and blame;
They live in high rise condos,
They return from foreign lands.
They wait over subway vents,
Their hearts and heads are bent;
They show-up in walk-ons,
They go without for Lent.
They fly in and out of space,
They don't identify with race;
They're picked up for vagrancy,
They dance cautiously in the street.
They volley warning shots
Across our private dreams;
They sign and seal a peace accord
They're sincere to a degree.
They contribute to the run-off,
And spiked our holy water;
They enlisted Moms and Dads,
Then slaughtered sons and daughters.
They made rings from ivory,
And pale lamp shades from skin;
They list dissipation
As a personal sin.
Then they did unholy things
With wood and nails, then atoms;
They tore at our goodly earth,
Wreaked havoc with their mapping.
They distilled our alcohol,
Made smoking so appealing;
Then they rang the tower bells,
And preached we had no feelings.
They dug deep for wishing wells,
Grew stuff to **** our germs;
They bestowed us rods and reels,
And spades to dig our worms.
They connected us
Through wireless touch;
They counseled us on loneliness,
And the traps of busyness.
They pronounce death is art
When they hang it on a wall;
Then blame it on our women,
In a scene based on our fall.
They're newsy opaque,
In love or hate;
They are the ambiguous,
The they, them and all of us.
Dec 15, 2018
Dec 15, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
I want to learn the alphabet of your emerald eyes,
Pronounce the words on the tip of your tongue
And complete the sentence between your thighs.
Master movement grammar while we are still young
The nouns all down your spine are pleading to be sung.
-
I want to trace the verbs of your palm.
Scribble the adverbs of your fingers
Across the conjunction of your wrists, into my psalm.
To decline your sides where my breath still lingers
Your tense, presently, limbers.
-
I want to speak your Body Language,
Be fluent in your tongue.
I’m eager to read your novels
And write your poems until we are undone.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 6:52 PM UTC
Nobody knows who Mona Lisa is in reality
Oh Leonardo my love
you need not tell
that I come to see you
invariably in your dreams
reviving our first kiss
No I shall not pronounce the last
each and every painful farewell rhymes
an onomatopoeic verse of please stays
and stay this time Please
I know that you can if
you make it such that
truth belongs to everyone
All as one made of our love
spirit born as You
and I will gaze through
lifetimes and generations long
exchange love to love
be of yours and theirs
there is no difference really
when each look carries the code
of your of my of our
and mirror their
enlightened face.
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 5:37 PM UTC
Strawberry ***** veins,
pronounce "Appalachia"
(correctly?)
Take care of me.
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 2:31 AM UTC