"proportional" poems
Mass is not proportional to volume
A girl as small as a violet
A girl who moves like a flower’s petal
She attracts me with a force greater than her mass
Now, I
am like Newton’s apple
Rolled and fell toward her unstoppably
With a thump, a thump
My heart
Keeps bouncing between the sky and the ground
It was my first love.
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 3:18 AM UTC
Genuine intellect is often falsely understood.
Brainpower cannot be measured by grades or exam performance,
Nor from one's tone of voice or accent,
Or the complexity of their vocabulary.
It is not always proportional to the size of an income,
The exclusivity of a school,
The grasp of understanding of trigonometry or algebra,
Or one's apparent IQ.
*Difficulties and struggles do not make you unintelligent,
They make you human.*
Perception;
Clarity of insight,
Being a good judge of character
and showing an understanding beyond thought
indicate subtle brilliance.
Having an aptitude with words,
Knowing how to comfort, to console,
Delicacy and precision
And showing empathy to emotions
Signify the intricate beauty of the mind.
*Intelligence is sensitive, and has a certain elegance.
It is knowing, but not saying.*
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
The probability of me being improbable is highly definite.
The statistical occurrence of randomness
Is proportional to the flow of consciousness.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 5:19 PM UTC
Nothing ****** me off more
Than when people call me
Pretty
I get it, okay?
We live in a society that upholds beauty
As the most important quality
A girl can possess
So girls who aren't pretty
Feel like less
And guys, knowing this,
Call girls who were not gifted
With a symmetrical face
Proportional features
Or a "rockin'" body
Girls who rank on the lower end
Of that wretched scale
From one to ten
Pretty
Beautiful, attractive
**** exquisite
Gorgeous, lovely
Stunning, hot
And those girls
Those amazing, ugly girls
Infused with insecurities
Self-loathing
And sadness
Give in to those words
Give in to those guys
Believing, if only for a brief,
Tenderless moment
That those pretty words
Do apply
But I am not interested
In false accolades
If you don't find me pretty
Then don't say so
I have plenty of fine qualities
For you to compliment me on
Praise my wit, my charm
My intelligence, my confidence
Things I cultivate
Things I strive to be
Qualities
That complement me
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 7:48 PM UTC
Girls my height are supposed to be petite
Skinny and proportional
When I would read seventeen magazine and they would show the best outfits for your body type
Mine was never on there
Not big enough to be curvy
Curvy girls in magazines were curvy all over
and average height
The petite girl wasn't supposed to have curves at all
The petite girl was thin
The petite girl could wear anything
Why can't short girls have *******
Because when we do, we're a fetish
And for some reason, when you fit a fetish people assume you're there for them.
"I like short girls because you can pick them up when you ****
"Short girls don't have to get on their knees."
"Can you **** my **** standing up?"
"A C cup on a short girl is like a DD on a normal girl.”
“I like ******* short girls because I can really take control.”
My mom always criticized me for wanting to dress slutty
And it broke my heart because I never wanted to look slutty
I just wanted to wear what my skinny friends could wear
*And sometimes it's hard when you can't find high waisted shorts that cover your *** all the time, even right after you stand up from sitting in the car for 30 minutes and they rode up a little, but a little on you is a lot because you don't have a flat *** like all of your friends do, but you can't go a size up because then they're too big and they still don't give you the coverage that at first your mom wanted for you but that you now want yourself because you can feel the heat of people staring because girls like you shouldn't wear those kinds of shorts, and at parties they think it's okay to touch if it's not covered, and you've been in this H&M for 3 hours and nothing fits you like it does that tall, pretty girl with the A cups in the fitting room next to yours,*
But how could my mom know that
At 5 ft 4, she weighed 98 lbs on her wedding day
You can wear anything when you look like that
Jun 21, 2017
Jun 21, 2017 at 3:50 PM UTC
Those you haven’t victimized fear you.
Mighty and dreadful you seem.
Little do they know, you only seize flesh and control the mind.
You seize not the soul.
Hence be not proud.
You’ve dwelled in me for many years.
Imprisoned me to anti-epileptic drugs.
You’ve dispirited me.
You attack, seize, and control my mind.
Your attacks are but brief.
Epilepsy be not proud.
For I fear not what rescind only flesh.
I fear what abolish both soul and flesh.
Proportional to gravitational force I fell.
I’ve always find the forte to rise.
Epilepsy be not proud.
For against all odds, I’m still alive.
https://m.facebook.com/EpilepsyandCpfriends
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 6:10 PM UTC
Growing up,
There was no "newest form of technology," no "stylish clothes," no "little puppy". Never a collection of Barbie dolls.
Realizing
She was surrounded,
a plastic society,
choicelss.
Simple figures. Thoughtless taste.
Molded forms.
Unseasoned cuisine.
Unrealistic ideas.
Unsalted frenchfries.
Styled hair, bright eyes, rosy cheeks.
Growing up normal,
No distinct collar bones, permanent bags, big feet.
Brainwashed
convinced of being un-proportional.
No first picks. No invitations. No turn at princess.
Whispers about "that girl"
Not listening, but hearing
every
word.
Lesson learned
Chained to the plastic society.
Barbie dolls as examples, imbalance of body image expressed.
No "styled hair," no "big eyes".
Chained; foolish concepts.
Attempting to escape the prison worse than death:
alienation.
Bring it on.
Darkest places, broken rules,
done being molded, through being fooled.
Always considered "that girl. Breaking free
from this brainwashed, plastic society.
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 10:16 PM UTC
I told you this would last forever
But I lied
I said things will never change
But I lied
I told you you were beatiful, even though I can't explain beauty
So I lied
I told you Red was a beatiful color
but who and what describes beauty?
For they say the beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder
I say it's mostly directly proportional to how you feel about a person
Excuse my mathematical jargon because I'm no Mathematician
Don't they say in the Bible that King Solom wore Purple, the color of beauty, the color of wisdom
But who am I to tell it different so, I lied
I said your skin was as smooth as silk and as beautiful as vanilla but, was it? Was it really? I know I couldn't tell the truth so, I lied
I told you your eyes are beatiful, your eyes are big, twinkly
Maybe I lied, it was just your pupil dialating when it saw my light
I told you I could give you the world,
But the world was not mine to give to begin with, but baby its what you wanted so, I lied
I also told you the sky was green, the sea was blue, and you believed every word, I'm sorry
Maybe I lie a bit too much, or maybe just enough, or maybe that's also a lie
It's mostly to protect you
Remeber that day at the park?
I held you in my arms
The world didn't seeze to exist but us
We swore to be together for life, was it a lie
You said you're mine forever and I'm yours too, or was it also a lie?
Can't keep with the lies no more
It's lie after lie because that's all what you seem to believe
Because truth to you, seems too good to be true
I remember the day you held my hand, looked me in the eye and said, "do you still love me? "
I know I used to answer that everyday with no doubt in my mind, but that day,
The answer remained the same,
As I said proudly, "I still do babe"
Guess what?...
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 9:16 AM UTC
Do I sense them flying all around?
Just a possible outcome
of neurons criss crossing
into paranoia.
How do I transmit these frequencies?
If not I, then why you?
Each proportional stance,
attempting to make an advancement.
Sounds more like daydreaming,
but you hear me in your head,
Right?
Poke. Poke. Poke it goes.
Invisibility makes its stance.
The body can wither,
but thought
Now
Are outside and
Non physical
Forgive me..
I lost my train of thought.
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 4:46 AM UTC
I am the equation of infinite outcome.
Why then, do the sum of my actions divide my attention from the equation itself.
Either the theory is flawed or the law is wrong.
Don't quote this quotient it isn't divisible.
It's almost as if this is an inverse operation.
The properties aren't proportional to the level of difficulty.
The answer is adjacent to one before.
The problem is,
I always get the same answer.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 10:26 PM UTC
We do not fear that,
what we usually think of as death,
but the uncertainty, that may accompany it.
It’s the not-knowing that scares us,
because our whole, past life was built upon knowing
– to be safe from the sudden loss of our self,
even if this loss is only seemingly,
because it is not possible to lose that, what we truly are.
Every effort, as well that, what we may regard as very noble,
is ultimately an attempt to escape this uncertainty.
It is the look into this abyss, which bottom we don’t recognize,
we are afraid of,
because this look brings us in contact with that feeling,
that feels like a fall from those heaven of being borne.
All our fears always go back to this primal fear.
However, we will always fall again
– if we search for those heavens, which are coming and going.
And yet, those who think they die, maybe they are closer to the truth,
than those, who never consider themselves to be fallen from that heaven,
because their illusion is exactly proportional to the realization.
Then a miracle may happen,
as it might only happens once every 1000 Eons,
and a great sinner becomes a great saint,
and in the midst of death blossoms life,
and the world and God are no longer different from each other.
© Barbara-Paraprem, 2014
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 2:27 AM UTC
We are a messed up, un proportional team barely clinging to sanity.
We see each other at our worst and at our best, depending on how we played
The endless dictated hours in the gym we spend together,c only made respect.
And the passion we all share for the game only makes our bond stronger
We are a messed up un proportional family barely clinging to sanity.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 9:52 PM UTC
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child
Born in the wild
Raised around apes
As they congregate behind the leaves amongst the trees
Sometimes I feel like I don't belong
But there's no way to escape
I'm just another ball
Tethered to this world to be played with
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child
Who's been lost for awhile
No home to be far from
Traveled a road paved with un proportional tiles
Conceived from of the cracks I slipped through
No concept of the word love
Baptized In the faith of hate
Loneliness a stain on my jeans
Bitterness pokes me when I'm awake
motherless child
Who wasn't pulled out the womb
Unearthed from a tomb
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 11:06 PM UTC
∑ nPk, ∝ ≫ x! π f (x) ∞ x ≡ φ 3√a N(μ,σ2) <:)
In English:
The sum of the probabilities that your poem will trend is proportional, but greater than the factorial of the constant pi, when the function of x is leminscate (infinity), and when the value of the x variable is identical to the golden ratio constant, or when the cubed root of the normal distribution of love.
Finally,
finally
finds
you well.
It is the word you supply,
when asked
100 times a day
How are you?
How ya doing?
Answer:
Well,
I am well.
for my life, my poetry,
me, all of us,
are trending,
now that I have found,
found and solved,
the formula for
my-piece of the
Normal Distribution
of love
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 4:43 AM UTC
I’ve had myriad seizures in my life.
I’m however, still alive.
An obscure force constantly attacked me.
A force directly proportional to gravity.
God granted serenity to accept the certainty,
Epilepsy, you’re in my life.
You don’t own my life.
My cognitive function has been dented.
I’ve been labelled and painted.
Sometimes even laughed at.
Seized, fell and rose countlessly.
I soldiered on courageously.
Giving up has never been an option.
I never took my eyes off the goal posts.
Epilepsy tried to shift the goal posts.
Against all odds, I graduated.
Applause as I approach the podium.
They applaud for academic success.
I however applaud for overcoming epilepsy.
Hospital was my other home during studies.
Marks capped, academic record not true image of success.
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 5:16 PM UTC
I bet you thought I didn't have anything left in the tank. Bet you thought that I was done giving mind blowing advice on how to approach this crazy thing we call life. Well...you were wrong.
1. Often cases, how good a story you end up with is inversely proportional to how good a decision it was that led to it. Don't be afraid to make some bad decisions every once in awhile, because those are the stories you're gonna be telling for years to come. Even when you know it's a bad decision. Sure, you might wake up naked in a ditch on the New Jersey turnpike with a some blurry memories, a hangover, a tattoo of some girl named Francesca on your chest, and an ounce of black-tar ****** shoved up your ass...but you know what? You started this little adventure at a black-tie dinner party in Santa Monica, so I'm willing to bet some interesting **** happened between here and then.
2. Don't be someone who never breaks the mold. When you're lying on your death bed and someone asks you to tell them about your life, do you want to lean over and whisper to them that you always did exactly what people expected? That you carefully listened for society's cues on how to represent yourself at every point in your life? **** no. You want to tell them you broke off the road and went searching for the oddities that this world has to offer. You want to tell them that you gave the middle finger to society and did what you wanted because, you know what? It's your fuckin' life and you only get one shot at it, so you might as well make it memorable. Being normal is boring as hell.
3. Talk to everyone. Talk to them about uncomfortable things. Talk to them about their hopes and dreams. Talk to them about their fears. Just ****** talk to them. Real conversations always leave you with something you didn't had before. Real conversations make you think about your positions. Get passionate when you talk. Challenge their views and allow yours to be challenged as well. Do you think you know everything? Yeah, I bet you do. Why aren't you out solving everyone's problems then, you selfish *******
4. Whoever you are, be proud of that. If you're not proud of who you are, chances are you arent happy with yourself. If you're not happy with who you are, change something. If you're still not happy, change something else. Still not happy? Guess what. Change another fuckin' thing. Are you happy? Good. Now change something else anyway, because an interesting life isn't built on stagnation.
I hope you've all learned something today.
Also, I'd like to remind you to never take advice from strangers on the Internet. That's just stupid.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 12:41 AM UTC
The Physics of Love
Mass is not proportional to volume.
A girl as small as a violet.
A girl who moves like a flower petal
pulling me toward her with more force than her mass.
Just then,
like Newton’s apple,
I rolled toward her without stopping until I fell on her,
with a thump.
With a thump.
My heart keeps bouncing between the sky and the ground.
It was my first love
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 3:42 AM UTC
Image of her whom I love, more than she,
Whose fair impression in my faithful heart
Makes me her medal, and makes her love me,
As Kings do coins, to which their stamps impart
The value: go, and take my heart from hence,
Which now is grown too great and good for me:
Honours oppress weak spirits, and our sense
Strong objects dull; the more, the less we see.
When you are gone, and Reason gone with you,
Then Fantasy is queen and soul, and all;
She can present joys meaner than you do;
Convenient, and more proportional.
So, if I dream I have you, I have you,
For, all our joys are but fantastical.
And so I ’scape the pain, for pain is true;
And sleep which locks up sense, doth lock out all.
After a such fruition I shall wake,
And, but the waking, nothing shall repent;
And shall to love more thankful sonnets make
Than if more honour, tears, and pains were spent.
But dearest heart, and dearer image, stay;
Alas, true joys at best are dream enough;
Though you stay here you pass too fast away:
For even at first life’s taper is a *****
Filied with her love, may I be rather grown
Mad with much heart, than idiot with none.
1.4k
I was going to write a poem
about the distance
I walk
girls to their cars.
You know, to the door?
down the stairs to the front porch?
out to the first step for that last, awkward hug?
do I really like them?
Am I concerned for their safety
or is this just
the obligatory,
socially and culturally
acceptable
distance for me to walk with this particular individual?
Did I even get out of bed?
Is the distance I walk directly proportional to the amount of feelings I have for that person at that time?
Or does time of day or night play into it?
Do I actually walk them
all the way
down the hill
to where they are allowed to park,
if they are a one nighter but it is 3 a.m.?
Or perhaps to the end of my lawn,
at the opening of my small,
rickety,
barely noticed
fence,
which keeps nothing in or out,
to hold them so tight that they know,
they just know
with every molecule in their essence
that I am theirs,
all of me,
and that I do not want them
to leave
but if they must,
I shall be waiting
eagerly
with every molecule of my essence
to breathe them in again,
to feel them near me again,
to smell their sweat again?
I was going to write about that.
But then I thought,
why not write about your plants?
I realized the other day,
while watering my various plants,
six in total,
that all of them had been given to me.
They were all gifts.
By women.
My dear mother,
both of my beautiful sisters,
two rotten ex-girlfriends of mine,
and a kickass lesbian friend
I met through somebody
that got walked to the front porch.
Surely
there must be a poem
in there somewhere, I thought.
With all the females
and the ***
and the plants
and soil
and life
and all that other ********
surely
I must be able
to conjure up
something beautiful,
something wonderful
and profound
and bewildering
and inspiring
and all that other ********
but sadly for you
dear reader,
all I could come up with
was this piece of ****
you just read.
The good thing is,
I didn't write this for you.
I wrote this for me.
I have to.
Jun 22, 2012
Jun 22, 2012 at 12:06 AM UTC
first:
My name doesn't matter. I don't know anyone else who has the same name as me, nor why it's so significant. Any comparisons to other people's works will result in a block.
second:
Comment without liking my poems will result in me just removing your comment. Disliking doesn't really do anything and doesn't notify me. However, a comment with constructive criticism can be addressed through private messages.
third:
If you like or love or both any of my poems, I will try to get back to your poems with equally proportional likes and so ons. Sometimes the site doesn't work and I miss a few. Sorry. However, using suns to light my poems up and make them trend again will not result in reciprocation. I am broke. I also do not repost, so choose to if you want knowing this.
fourth:
Do not put my poems in lists like Worthy to trend or a notch above the daily fluff. I find those lists too pretentious even by my own pretentious standard.
fifth:
I post thank you's a lot because I am genuinely surprised people like my "art" and I can't make it anymore simple. Thank you friends, I had a rough time when I found this site and loved it ever since.
:)
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 7:56 AM UTC
Good or Evil?
Thousands of Americans saved.
Sacrificed in one second
were Japanese children,
Is killing ever just?
Proportional
may not be sufficient.
Is it better
in the end to ****
or be killed.
How do we answer?
Conceive loving
the words of the Bible,
many times contrary,
An eye for an eye
or Thou Shalt not ****
How to moralize or defend
so many deaths.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC
that's when your thoughts **** you. it's raining, and the white noise is wrapped up around your soul, leaving you cold even without touching the raindrops. you stare at blank space without even blinking once. and when you do, a clap of thunder echoes in the distance, and the raining gets harder. it's as if your horrible thoughts are directly proportional to the strong downpour of the metaphorical tears you've been keeping in for so long. that's when you pull the trigger -- when all you hear is the rain and the words you almost said, but never did, making you feel like you have a fish bone stuck in your throat. the raining gets harder and harder, but you think twice about it because you can't tell the difference between the sound of your heart breaking and the sound of angry rain collapsing on your roof.
and then it all stops. it all stops, but your hope is dwindling. it stops, but you don't see things the same way ever again. you're alive, but you feel more dead than ever. that's when you know your thoughts have killed you.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 3:13 AM UTC
Incantations of a Madman
do I cast a spell with words of magic
is this just a mantra of proportional tragic
be it of Old English or maybe Germanic
sending ones self into a manic panic
are you one who is a giver or taker
trying to steal her smile you can't mistake her
be ye poet or simple candle maker
behind a mask truly a faker
Mesopotamian pow-wows and Gaelic chants
spiritual wisdom disguised as rants
from deep pockets of knee high pants
Cinderella slippers at a ballroom dance
wave your hand create a Carmen or prayer
conjure up visions of hell if you dare
whispered Yajna like you really care
the fire of Vishnu behind the glare
oh ye of troubled heart and mind
seek out the treasures left behind
feel the breath of tides that bind
bow your heads see what you find
Gomer LePoet....
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC