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"putdowns" poems
pieces of flotsam soak and float on the paper, jetsam thrown to lighten the load, or goad, the alligator, away the guttural noises, sound like harsh commentary the closer the gator is allowed to get, not wanting to look over the shoulder, but stop in for biting remarks, the gator's teeth are so large and famous they have names and voices; "punctuation or punctures, I can help" "point of view tch, tch, tch"                                                                          "your grammar needs work" "doubt you will finish" "no one will read IT" "you will never find the right word" "is your audience a six year old" "borrrrring" "what a croc" "are you enjoying what you are doing?" "successful writers are all published" "you call that a sentence, keep it up and it will be a death sentence " "how many tenses can you misuse in a paragraph" and these are the names of some of the smaller teeth, the molars, are more than a mouthful, have polar names, that would leave anyone cold,                                                       even the bold, and shall not be put in print, they bring out the PTSD, imprinted for eternity, by the gator which comes at the sounds of splashing, flailing, and failing, as the pounding of the heart, the deepened breathing, as the ink from the pen, unfiltered, leaves nerves and veins exposed, while leaving to find home, a safe haven, a storybook ending, away from the gator's keen sense of overt criticism, intended to gut, and eviscerate, cutting remarks, putdowns to hold down and under, the piece that IT is trying to tear off while spinning or shaking the head side to side, which is both NO! and to bash the will, the self-esteem, into little pieces of me...             and my worst enemy,                                                 my internal, infernal editor,                                                                                               with the voracious appetite for self-defeating
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Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 12:08 AM UTC
wrestling with an Alligator named ddaarrrreellll
pieces of flotsam soak and float on the paper, jetsam thrown to lighten the load, or goad, the alligator, away the guttural noises, sound like harsh commentary the closer the gator is allowed to get, not wanting to look over the shoulder, but stop in for biting remarks, the gator's teeth are so large and famous they have names and voices; "punctuation or punctures, I can help" "point of view tch, tch, tch"                                                                          "your grammar needs work" "doubt you will finish" "no one will read IT" "you will never find the right word" "is your audience a six year old" "borrrrring" "what a croc" "are you enjoying what you are doing?" "successful writers are all published" "you call that a sentence, keep it up and it will be a death sentence " "how many tenses can you misuse in a paragraph" and these are the names of some of the smaller teeth, the molars, are more than a mouthful, have polar names, that would leave anyone cold,                                                       even the bold, and shall not be put in print, they bring out the PTSD, imprinted for eternity, by the gator which comes at the sounds of splashing, flailing, and failing, as the pounding of the heart, the deepened breathing, as the ink from the pen, unfiltered, leaves nerves and veins exposed, while leaving to find home, a safe haven, a storybook ending, away from the gator's keen sense of overt criticism, intended to gut, and eviscerate, cutting remarks, putdowns to hold down and under, the piece that IT is trying to tear off while spinning or shaking the head side to side, which is both NO! and to bash the will, the self-esteem, into little pieces of me...             and my worst enemy,                                                 my internal, infernal editor,                                                                                               with the voracious appetite for self-defeating
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Am I crazy, am I mad, For wanting to know what’s to come; good or bad? ‘She’s not pretty’, ‘Not really my type’, Maybe you should stop generalising and close your pipe. The idea of the ideal woman will not budge, But then they tell us not to hold a grudge. According to the government, women are fine; they have their rights, But behind closed doors, disturbing things happen and innocent ladies have sleepless nights. Call her obnoxious, call her pretentious, After all of this, isn’t she just conscious? Statistics show that males have a higher pay, Let’s just call it a day. Am I changing how you view females at all? Or is this just going to be uncared for feminist writing on the wall? To be treated the same, that’s our aim, If people listened, we wouldn’t have to exclaim! Dear non-feminists, this may seem like a lot of putdowns, But for tolerating all of the nonsense, we deserve crowns.
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Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 2:19 PM UTC
Dear Non-Feminists