"readable" poems
If only I was a crayon drawing
Where each smiling face looks the same
Where stick figures and three fingered hands
illicit the smiles of adults and adoration
of how beautiful the picture is
of how artistic the drawer is
Despite the fact that the people are purple
and everyone has a beautiful smile.
If only I was a crayon drawing.
With the sun always shining,
though I hover off of the blob of green grass
Though I am taller than the house beside me
At least I am happy
At least people tell me I look beautiful
though I am a blue colored person
and have no feet or hands.
At least the sun is always shining
at least I am happy.
If only I was a crayon drawing.
With no need to worry about how I look.
With my family in a line beside me,
clumsy names written above us, barely readable.
But then I would be tacked to a bulletin board.
Then i would be fawned over, Oh how sweet.
See, look at the smiles on their faces! Look how
happy they are! How cute, how adorable.
See how artistic, how true to life. See the smiles?
If only I was a crayon drawing,
I could never grow up.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 11:42 AM UTC
Thugs with Pens & Aerosol Cans
Thugs with Pens
Hell-bent; not on cultism
Just airing the other sentiments
That don’t make it to primetime
Thugs with pens
Not poking out eyes
Just venting spleen
Sick of the lies
Thugs with pens
Deserve to be heard
They don’t poison your brain
With stacks of *****
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans
Can change your mind
In ******* time
Thugs with pens
Can make a dent
They don’t need to insert
Un-readable, un-interesting
Covert small print....
Thugs with pens
Don’t need no script writers
Or advisors nor signatories
Witnesses, nor dodgy men
With gold plated fountain pen nibs
To make amends
Or throw in no hidden clauses
That secretly **** your life blood
Thugs with pens
Don’t aim to pierce your skin
But make their mark
Deeper within
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans
Completely uncensored
champions of free speech
The establishment want suppressed,
silenced, deleted; terminated.
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans don’t
Schedule meetings
To fix the minutes
And schedule another meeting
And keep ‘minutes’
As square angled
And unproductive
As formal conversation
Thugs with pens
Aim venomous ink
At headless politicians
That squawks like chickens
Bending over
For the *************
Bank-beefing corporations,
Controlling the masses
With ***** little catchphrases
And mounds of munitions
And illegally enforced restrictions
On your movement and free expression
Honest men
Have nothing to fear
From Thugs with Pens & Aerosol Cans
These “thugs” seek asylum
From countries
Where the law’s
Not bought and bent
Thugs with pens & aerosol cans
Are made to wear monikers and masks
Thugs with pens
Don’t turn on its own
Neighbours and citizens
To perpetuate myths:
A ****** ************* lie…
A thing that never happened!
(That’s for all of you dumb wits
out there
Who believe most of the ****
That’s drip fed
Your sensation addicted minds
Most of the time,)
Time you started reading between the lines
In fact get a pen
Or an aerosol can
Write your own lines
Start broadcasting
Reclaim your space
Before you’re completely neoned
Into the shade
And corralled under the spell
Of a TV screen
Or an anger raising headline
That conducts the flow
Of the status quo
Load up your magazines
With ball point pens
And sharp edged writing nibs,
Strap on a belt of aerosol cans
Reclaim your right to free expression
In public spaces
Join the rag-tag army
Of intuitive
Self-knowing men
The End: is well begun,
George Orwell
Should never have written
That blueprint,
‘1984’
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
Political correctness has reached a brand new low
It has now reached good and evil
And has changed things down below
The devil is still the devil,
That much has not changed
But, the food is all organic
And the meat is all free range
I didn't know the changes 'till
I made a plea last week
To sell my soul for increased wealth
And other things I seek
I expected a commotion
When the devil came from hell
But, there was nothing quite so flashy
When someone...rang my bell
I answered thinking nothing much
I looked outside to check
I am wary of the Mormons
and Jehovahs on my deck
I looked outside and there I saw
A man dressed all in grey
A poll taker, election geek
Let's see what he may say
"Good day, kind sir, I come to you"
"You wanted to be rich"
I thought he isn't from no bank of mine
He said "Sir, just call me Mitch"
"Mitch", I said, "I don't know how"
"you'd know I want to sell my soul"
He told me that was why he's here
To get a deal done was his goal
I said, "why use the door bell"
"Why not the cloud of smoke"
He said "with budget cuts'
"Pyrotechnics made us broke"
"The PC folks got wind of us"
"of our tricks and double speak"
"Now, you sign away your soul to us"
"but, you can get out within the week"
"We can't go by the same old name"
"Hell is not allowed"
"We're H...E...double hockey sticks"
"Try saying that aloud"
"It doesn't have the forcefulness"
"That the other word once had"
"we can call it heck, if we're in a pinch"
"You can see, it's got quite sad"
"The contracts are all readable"
"You don't have to sign in blood"
"With *** and STD's"
"It may as well be mud"
"A soul still has some meaning"
"But, as you yourself can see"
"The devil stays at home now"
"And sends his minions out...like me"
"I have a small brochure for you"
"You have choices, please pick six"
"It's more a club, a health resort"
"In H...E...double sticks"
"I can't get out, I'm stuck for good"
"I signed my deal before"
"The PC people got us good"
"And now...we use the door"
"Please look over the contract"
"Take your time, and read it close"
"You'll find it is a real good read"
"With language, non verbose"
"If you should have some questions"
"change your mind, or want to tour"
"Just call me on my cell phone
"I'm at star66 extension 4"
"I'm sure you'll still come down to us"
"It's not so bad, you'll see"
"Just call me when you're ready"
"You've got time, now we're PC"
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 11:51 PM UTC
See I wanted to write about you and everything that I silently picked up on up
if you're wondering what I picked up on
Body language and cues
The way you tensed up when you were about to hear bad news
your anxiety
how it at times it came crashing down and you didn't know what to do
I reassured you the best way I could
when you're concentrating or deep in thought about something
( I knew not to disturb you )
opening up to anyone was a task in itself
you hated doing that / I understood
The way you like to sing off key you think you sounded horrible singing wise
I disagreed
Personally, to me, I thought you sounded good
you told me a lot of info about yourself gradually over the months we got to know each other
I told you a lot of things as well
but one thing is for sure I picked up on several things you weren't aware of and I'd never tell you this
but you're easy to read just like a book
if you're annoyed, angry or upset
you might think oh no one cared or noticed
I noticed
as it was written all over your face meaning you had the most readable ****** expressions
if you're wondering how I knew about your moods
it's simple really I could tell in the tone of your voice
if you were about to cry you had a certain tone of voice that suggested quivering in I'm about break down and cry tone of voice or how you were upset you had a certain way of behaving that let me know either to give you space or to comfort you
if you were mad ( depending on what the issue was / who the individual was and how long ago it was in addition to the details determined everything )
how you'd need space or you felt upset / still brought up the issue no matter how long ago said everything
and how could I forget your favorite songs the way you hummed them
favorite food and snacks
I still remember the details that you told me
the way we both know I'm fine or I'm okay
is a complete lie when either one of us
is upset mostly you though
when you're upset or down it's like I can sense that your energy is off / vibes are off some way or another
but one thing about our friendship is how we told each other several things
and because of that I still remember how you react
favorite snacks
your dreams and what your plans for the future were
how you handled relationships
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 12:56 AM UTC
I only ever seem to have flirtationships.
Never relationships.
I feel that's what tires me most.
The thought of something being wrong with me runs its course-
over and over.
It's no question that you can tell when I like someone.
Body language is readable and I can't seem to change it.
A smile is usually constant.
My laugh is often.
My face usually reddens and I feel warm.
I am obviously aware of their presence.
A casually awkward conversation turns flirty
and ****** references
begin to enter everyday conversation.
Everything's going great.
Then fate takes it toll.
They decide to drop me,
or we slowly die out
and grow apart.
My heart breaks
due to the attachment that grew
because I saw distance in our flirting-
while they must've seen a sentence affair.
*it's me
it's always me.*
Yet, I can never figure out what is quite wrong with me
and no cares to tell me.
Someone new comes along and the cycle begins over again
and there's nothing I can do to help it.
I always have flirtationships,
Never relationships.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 12:47 PM UTC
it was in glasbury-on-wye (wales),
school trip,
two teams, driven out of the
house we were staying,
i was in team no. 2,
we were given the assignment
to read maps...
team no. 1 got dropped off
at a shorter distance to the
house we accommodated...
my team was dropped further afield...
getting out of the mini-bus
i got the map... and just asked
'where are we, on the map?'
'here,' said the driver's index finger.
i figured out a shortcut,
via the fields, the forest, via cow grazing
patches...
we beat team no. 1...
but the moral of the story?
i still think you need to be greek,
i.e. you still have to "believe" the earth is flat...
a flat earth makes sense with directions
like east, west, south, north...
i cruised the team to an early victory
rotating the map in my hands...
i wasn't being ignorant...
i wasn't being competitive...
but to be honest i had one thing in mind...
copernican east? copernican west?
huh?!
how can you work that one out?
i know copernicus was right to stress
the earliest signs of an anti-heliocentric way of seeing,
but if there's no lucifer looking at a 2 dimensional
map of the earth... geocentric improvements
don't really help to just argue rather than get from
a. to b.; what good is geocentric copernican east
to my flat plateau need to co-ordinate a group
of people? heliocentric copernican east is
geocentric east, west, north south put together,
given the earth's orbit and the expanding universe...
geocentric my *** i had to turn into a inverse
heliocentricity... i had to navigate on a readable flat
plateau, moving the map one way up
one way the other... and we got there... beat
the other team... didn't push any cows onto the pasture...
so that's how lucifer read the map.
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 10:29 PM UTC
He was a blank book.
With my ink of sonnets,
I gave him a story,
syllables full of stars.
I made him
readable, interesting, intriguing.
But, the last thing that ever crossed my mind,
was that sitting there,
on that shelf, I also made him
reachable.
Sandoval
Aug 20, 2017
Aug 20, 2017 at 4:37 AM UTC
I. You know I resent you for a thousand things,
like how she and I don’t talk anymore. But most
of all because you didn’t love me. Like how you
made everything seem so simple when it wasn’t.
But most of all because you fooled me
completely. I resent you for a thousand things,
but I still don’t know what I’ll say when you decide
to come back. You’ll come back.
II. Twisting my thoughts around you has
become so simple to do, become a habit.
Twisting them around you, through you,
drilling into your skin. But it gets harder and
harder to hollow you out like I would before,
making you into an empty shell that I was much
less afraid of. I love this ball and chain; Stockholm
syndrome has never been this fun before.
III. And you’re an entity that doesn’t have a
name. A mix of so many spirits that excites me
in a way I didn’t know something could. You’re
a list of intoxications that renders me so
readable it’s dangerous. I slur my words and
you take my hand like I’d never been so
articulate and charming.
Apr 16, 2010
Apr 16, 2010 at 3:37 PM UTC
i don't like people
questioning me
looking at me
quizzically
trying to figure me out
don't
there's no rhyme
to my reason
no "aha" moments
to be had
for...
there's no book
more open
nothing more readable
than me
so...
if you want to get to know me
just be
eventually
we'll find each other.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 8:18 PM UTC
I believe my muse may be a tease.
It will visit me with an idea,
but not the words to express it.
I am
FRUSTRATED.
My vocabulary
and eloquence
and articulation
have
dim-
in-
ished.
A poem will start itself;
The end product will be
WRONG.
Un-natural,
un-flowing,
un-readable,
un-me.
****
that
*******
teasing
muse.
(Although this is a poem -
and in being a poem, has created a paradox.
Nobody think about it!
If you do it will all disappear:
Poem, muse, and me.)
Jul 10, 2010
Jul 10, 2010 at 10:42 AM UTC
An empty mind
Is like an empty book
Perception is our ink
That may fill that book
Pages written in scribbles
Of what our mind registers
None is readable
All is chaos.
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 1:19 PM UTC
Clever is not poetry.
It's readable.
It's admirable.
Sometimes, memorable.
It's clever.
A word game.
Poetry is not a game.
No winners.
No losers.
Not even
A draw.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 12:04 PM UTC
So many differing ideas
So many different interpretations
Of what is/ what isn't poetry
The oft industrial offerings
Of my nephew Sverre
The vivid but real contributions
Of Silversilkentoungue
So good but so misunderstood
Beryldov with his multitude of two liners
Sometimes brilliant sometimes crap
Yakov, word perfect
Classical, readable
Then the good old boys
Francie, Jack, SPT Stephen E Yokum
Harlon Rivers
So many names, so many great contributers
Not forgetting Quinfin
So much romance in his soul
All of you
From the youngest, newest
You are Hello poetry of today
And the future of OUR tomorrow
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 6:42 PM UTC
I spied a woman wearing a pink flowered dress
and my intuition deduces the woman likes pink flowers
not a great leap of the imagination, but the woman is wearing the readable sign, and I am just the reader, with a Bee intelligence.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 7:01 AM UTC
I was just a girl,
Full of dignity.
Slightly reserved,
With a sense of humor.
He was a guy,
With a mask.
Humor carried his smile,
With a sarcastic tone.
His vibes unreadable at a distance.
Every inch of movement,
Caught my blue eyes.
A sense of amusement from the boldness.
The way he carries himself,
Like someone with a purpose.
For crossing paths with me.
Me being slightly reserved,
Knew no bounds of his honesty.
Testing the waters.
Wanting the mask to be removed.
I never knew his life story,
Never knew he almost sacrificed himself.
Never knew he was abused by a past relationship.
I didn't care for that,
I wanted to know him.
This blond haired,
Brown-eyed guy.
Knew I was watching him.
I wanted to break the ice,
To plan a surprise attempt.
He beat me to it.
Ever since day one,
His vibes became readable.
When the ice was broken.
The memories of darkness,
Pain and stress covered his soul.
His eyes were deep with understanding,
His wits high like a fox.
I wanted to help,
To hold his hand.
To hold him when the memories attacked.
I was too scared to say Hello,
He said it for me.
His boldness giving me courage to respond in kind.
After our official meeting,
I became anxious to see him.
To see him laugh at lunch,
To see him focus in English class.
I wanted his mask to be removed,
For him to show his true self to me.
I gained his trust and respect,
He fell for me.
Now my past has been dark,
Mates of that past cruel..
He healed me of this wounds,
Just by being nice.
Now..
I've fallen for him too.
It was like love at first sight.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 1:13 PM UTC
So she is called
Angel of silence
Always watching
What others do
Not saying anything
Walking among humans
Always shrouded in darkness
Her eyes barely readable
To those who knew of her exsistance
People feared
What they would find
So they never spoke to her
When the time came
However
People did not dare
Approach her
For she had seen their life
Weither she deemed them worthy
Of continuing to draw breath
She did not care
Angel of silence
She was dubbed
But more effective name
The Angel of Death
For your life may be next
To end on this final day
Good luck in life
I hope you see
You will end up facing
Evangelium de Silenti
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 1:00 AM UTC
Moments. I'm built up by moments. They surround me, shape me, create and recreate who I've become. A rainy day. The trip. One class. Many hours badly spent. But these don't make it into the frame.
Your blame. The rage. My guilt. These are the intances that outline my life. Micro moments. You see, tiny ones that flee. They flash before I can fully understand or become aware of their existence. On their own they stand as harmless, ineffective, deficient. Their accumulation is what creates the pain. They made me. I allowed them to be fleeting to deflect the hurt they flashed because I didn't want to bother. It was easier to let them pile up. But now they are clear, readable, traceable and they've lead me here to this moment, to that comma and this period. Moments that raised my walls and alarmed my defences.
So many little moments that build up the rage.
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 9:30 AM UTC
In fog or flood,
it has to look like news
and not wear down too soon,
not be abandoned at the shipyard;
hunt-and-peck it to death,
it remains invisible, so readable
that it does nothing to draw
attention to itself,
leaving only the content
in its lapidary wake.
Mar 4, 2025
Mar 4, 2025 at 10:04 AM UTC
down arrow
down arrow
letters to words to sentences
making thoughts readable
accessible
shareable
to my eyes from strangers minds
from my mind
to clicking keys
to lines to paragraphs
to "posted"
to your eyes
Hello Poetry
from hearts
to screens
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 1:19 AM UTC
I've written a thousand words that have trailed behind me for decades.
If I attempted to turn around and pick them all up as if I'm collecting shells from a beachside, it would be wheelbarrows full.
Write.
Just write Natasha.
Quit attempting to perfect this gift and just let it unravel.
Don't criticize, judge or feel
Guilt over your need to shut away and bleed the thoughts that you're unable to speak onto paper.
Release the fear that captivates you. It's that uneasiness in knowing the pain that spills once I form these words into being readable and they sink into my heart and become truth.
Truth equals pain for me.
It's the fear that this truth might just **** me.
Is it possible to die of a broken heart, I often ask myself.
Battling this fear to write this novel is the one thing holding me back from healing.
Allowing my entire being to sink into it, and rage against the words as if I'm the flat of the ocean being ravished by the never ending waves.
Tossed and turned by the emotions that come with the process that forces you to heal.
It's the still, that resides between each word written, that quiet space that leaves me restless.
Calm the infuriation, unclench your teeth and let the words be written into reality.
My need to burst into a blood pumping release that lightens my heart from this heaviness is enough to shake the floor of the ocean.
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 3:08 PM UTC
I find myself in this position yet again
Writing a letter I'll never send
It'll sit on my desk then in my drawer
And eventually end up in the trash
I scrawl it out in informal pencil
Because my tears would bleed the pen
And would make barely readable chicken scratch
Become smeared, smudged and completely illegible
I pour out my heart and soul to you
And then I lose my nerve
I want you to know all these things
But I wish you could without being told
So I find myself in this position again
Sealing an envelope and writing an address
Wanting you to know and losing my nerve
And writing a letter that I will never send
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 8:01 PM UTC
I am the age at which you died
no comely pictures immortalize me,
though I am not washed white with time
like you
a lone silver streak stripes my chin
many would say
you were too sensitive for this world
thus rushing your years
and guiding the barrel to your mouth
I would pit my pain
against your Nobel torments any day
if such things be a contest,
what is not, though
a rabid race to the grave?
but who would really win?
for your mother’s madness did not leave you
skittering around like a cat on a hot tin roof
and your father’s anvil hands
did not leave scarlet letters
on your skinny legs
excuse me then, if I don’t
grant you a capital letter in your name
excuse me if I don’t applaud your time in the ring
or say bravo to the iconoclast
for your sparse use of words
(though, “for sale, baby shoes, never worn” was…perfect)
excuse me if I don’t think your readable feasts
should be on everyman’s menu
you were but a man
who drank and ate and fought and ******
until you could no more and decided there was nothing left
I respect your triggered choice and do not call it craven
but janitors aren’t made legends
they just clean your brains
from the floor
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 6:10 PM UTC
I would very much like to tell you
How my last night went through.
It was raining, that time.
Distant ramblings of thunder
And constant slice of lighting
One could almost capture
And preserve in a bottle.
I would have, if it’s possible.
And would have handed down to you wrapped in a cloth and guitar strings.
To remind you that whatever might happen in the morning
We have lived everything we could.
This night, tonight.
From the coffee shop’s window,
I watched all these unfold
As the raindrops dripped and draped
And my hands scribbled your name
Barely readable on the tissue.
But it was still your name, nonetheless.
So that’s what I did,
While waiting for the rain to cease:
Stared past the window
And thought entirely of you.
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 4:40 AM UTC
I'm sorry every distorted metaphor I possess whispers your name
pathetic
I'm sorry I ever told you I loved you
I'm sorry I let you manipulate me for so long
I'm sorry I told you all my deepest secrets
I'm sorry I cared for so long when you stopped
I'm sorry I pretended to believe you still loved me;
I'm sorry I lied to you
I'm sorry I wanted to hurt you as bad as you hurt me, and I did
I'm sorry I was such a mess
I'm sorry I let my emotions get the better of me
So many times.
I'm not sorry I loved you as much as I did, and still do
I'm not sorry for all the wonderful moments we shared
I'm not sorry I tried my hardest at the time to make you happy, because I really wanted to
I'm especially not sorry
for swallowing my pride and admitting to you how I feel, even if you didn't care.
I find myself saying 'fuck this' at the end of every try to write the feelings i have for you into readable literature.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 2:05 AM UTC
"Stay away from mirrors"
A piece of advice not about evaluating my looks
But about getting out of my own head.
To stop naval gazing and look outwards.
Look outside of myself for what to write about
Things to say, starting lines.
So I'll steal a line "Stay away from mirrors"
More than just good advice.
"Write like you're talking to someone"
What would that look like?
Who do I talk to freely and naturally?
My Mum, my daughter, and my 'Secret Lesbian Lover'
Ok so you want wild, weird, crazy ramblings
Without the input of their side of the conversation?
If you say so...
Duck! This **** is going to get crazy!
Then edit... haven't I covered this before?
(Or did I just think about it)
My poems fall out of me then they're gone.
I can't seem to revisit them to complete or edit.
That is true to the idea of write like you're talking to someone.
I don't really edit when talking much.
I know I should, then I could say the right things.
I am too open, I doubt that will change at my age.
So should I manage to follow this advice
We can expect;
Wild, crazy ramblings which could be about anything.
Possibly made readable if I learn to edit.
I do hope I don't lose followers, this could get messy.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 6:51 PM UTC