"realists" poems
If I could lock this all up in a bottle
Fill it with stones, I'd throw it into the water
And watch it as it drowns
All my sorrows, all the pain
Along with the disasters and too many betrayals;
From those that I loved most,
Or so I thought,
But it turned out they weren't themselves at all.
It doesn't sting it just tears
Everything completely apart.
As for the last, I had already learned why not to trust
But still you have to trust someone even though you know not,
Because that's just the way that the world has to turn.
You still believe a few,
However you believed them all when they were false.
But you have to put faith somewhere so you do,
Yet you're still terrified these as well aren't true.
If only it were a foolish boy
Then life would live on and it wouldn't matter,
Because anyway it's to be expected:
That guys will break girls hearts.
No, if only, but no
Instead they're your best friends.
Except they're not,
Everyone's just fake now.
There's no realists anymore.
If I could wash away the deceitfulness they gave,
Maybe someway a wound could heal.
But it can't 'cause it's too deep
And infected with grief of those you thought existed;
Instead everyone is just misleading and manipulative.
The worst thing because you could never see it coming,
Until it crushes you to near death.
Betrayal at its best.
Fakers at their worse depth to the innocent.
There is never an end
Just torture.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 6:50 PM UTC
At first they were vivid,
Technicolor dreams.
So real you could touch them
and taste them it seemed.
With time all the images
would fade to pastel.
He saw his dreams
for what they were,
as realists often will.
When they turned to black and white
in the cold hard glare of day
He'd prayed then for a dreamless sleep
who needs them anyway.
Then came the darkest night
when all was bare and drear.
He longed then for the dreams of youth,
but none, of course, appeared
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 1:00 PM UTC
Hope that you may understand!
What can books of men that wive
In a dragon-guarded land,
Paintings of the dolphin-drawn
Sea-nymphs in their pearly wagons
Do, but awake a hope to live
That had gone
With the dragons?
5.7k
i find myself drowning in
the softness of your deep brown eyes
falling further and further down,
as your gaze holds mine
when you touch my skin briefly,
making me aware of your presence
the warmth of your intent,
that's the purest of your essence
how can a single person offer that?
so much comfort and serenity
simply by just existing as you are,
i feel as if you were meant for me
perhaps this is fate as they call it,
or chance as the realists say
but there's peace when i'm with you,
as you are the brightest part of my day
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 12:20 AM UTC
There's an architect designing the world from the skyline downwards, as he believes himself to be a God
The paraffin lamps on Victorian cobbled corners are as dry as the seraph in dust bowls over some arid sea
A portrait exists, of a town covered in mist and the orange cliffs are a thousand bloodied wrists
Somewhere music plays to ghosts, obtuse reverberations of some cave on a mountain... or something
and what a useless skill it is to be a poet, flouting fanciful words as if a single soul cared or could possibly muster anything more than unadulterated apathy
What a lonely life it is, to spend entire days watching *********** and reveling in dissociative stoicism
Watching cam girls for hours on end, swept up in conversation yet never taking part, only watching
They seem as lonely as anybody, holed up in crimson rooms as anonymous DJs play through laptop speakers
Fielding obscene questions with a smile and renting their body in timetables to the highest tipper
and some days the depression becomes so heavy that ************ seems impossible, though it's possible to blame such scarcity on the anti-anxiety meds that have ruined so many-a youthful folly
Is there a more flattering notion, than a story teller being commended for honesty when every word is a lie
Fictional accounts of melancholic lives told in a pulchritudinous verse or a prose of the most regal purples
Using nothing more than psycho-stimulants and a smeared bedroom window for inspiration
There's a writer sat at a desk, typing ridiculous lines of text, as he knows himself to be human
and in that humanity he strives to create a realists interpretation of existence through scattered memories
and derivative styles of his favourite authors whilst using educational texts as footnotes in imaginary diaries
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
I see this guy at work sometimes.
He looks drained.
Eye lids halfway down.
Neck dropped.
Walking so slow, as if he wants slow down time.
To his left there are kids playing with cups, he looks at them and smiles. I guess that brought back memories of feelings of freedom.
To me freedom is having no fear.
I don’t want to fear paying bills on time, I don’t want to fear trying to create an image people would accept. I don’t want to fear the reality that maybe my life isn’t going the way I’d hoped.
I want freedom from all that.
But “realists” love to say that’s just how life goes.
In African American History class, my teacher told me that Harriet Tubman only saved about 60 slaves, and most of them were family, but there’s a quote from her that says ‘I could have saved thousands - if only I’d been able to convince them they were slaves.’ And that got me thinking. Back then some of those slaves probably thought that that’s just how life goes too. “That’s how things are supposed to be”
Well **** that not me.
I’ma challenge “reality.”
Maybe that’s not my reality because maybe reality can just be your own perception of it.
Mixed in with a little hard work.
So I’ll change what I listen to, I’ll change what and who I’m around because “sweet love and sunshine, if it’s all in the air, then it’s all on your mind.”
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 2:34 AM UTC
Henry says you can’t write poems about whales.
It’s too obscure a metaphor, the biology of behemoths
Is too exact. Too much science going on.
I like whales. The smooth dorsal curves of their fat bodies
Arching and twisting towards the depths,
The salt spray of their powerful breath,
And their positively massive hearts;
They understand that they are great
Yet there is something still more awesome than they.
There’s more mystery and poetry to biology than people would like.
Especially realists. Life isn’t straightforward and they hate it.
We have some very basic, very general patterns that we follow,
But they’re far too broad to say ‘always’ ever.
Every rule, every law, has been or will be broken.
And the world will keep on turning (until the day it doesn’t),
And the whales will keep on swimming (until the day they don’t).
Henry says you can’t write poetry about whales.
I don’t like Henry very much. I think he’s wrong.
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 6:24 PM UTC
There are dreamers
and there are realists in this world.
You'd think the dreamers
would find the dreamers
and
the realists
would find the realists,
but more often than not
the opposite is true
You see ,
the dreamers need the realists
to keep them from soaring
too close to the sun
and the realists...
well, without the dreamers
they might never get off the ground
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 8:39 AM UTC
Anxious sweat is chocking me
it's her birthday you see
to carry something so light and
yet feel like concrete
a bouquet of daisies, pretty, must be held right as it might make the difference or risk dropping, eaten by things around my feet and
grasshoppers grab as tasty treats.
the safety to feel at home is inside a loved one's stare
and to be the joker is a price gladly paid to see laughter
in kaleidoscope eyes, mesmerised
to smell the fresh laundry on you.
I would struggle to ask for more of all things
bound in our shared nocturnal time.
My chest is open, but I am too easy to persuade
with questions that snap me back from your gaze.
let's not be realists my love
and accept this sentiment where we can both be lost in thoughts of each other.
your eyes change from life giving trinkets
to shades of underwater
my heart snaps violins
until you utter one word
no longer staring at xanthic shades on a dress,
yes..
happy birthday Love, let's cut the cake and count our years from zero
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 2:21 PM UTC
When graphite meets the silky threads of paper
Or when ink drips upon the golden sheet
A beautiful artist is born.
There are many kinds of artists in this world
Although today I shall speak of only one..
A neglected kind that does not wish to
Gain fame or to capture the spotlight
But rather to share to listening ears.
There be people
Who see the world through the eyes of a painter
But are capable of stealing the elegance
Of a dancer, a fighter, royal blood, and much more
And condensing what they feel and see
Into a narcotic thread of words.
There be people
With broken and shining hearts alike
That run on wheels of ideas and epiphanies
And feed on overstuffed buffets of salty tears and sugary kindness.
Idealists and realists,
The poor and the rich,
The hungry and the fed,
The broken and the salvaged,
The logical and the emotional,
This beautiful art is not limited to anyone.
It is the echoing voice of the heart
It is the pleading cries of the soul
And the smile of our childhood innocence.
This art we call "poetry"
It is the life itself whispering ideas into ears.
And if that isn't beautiful.. I don't know what is.
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 8:45 AM UTC
The ace of hearts
sat down at the table
feeling oh so confident
stares at the three of spades
in his pocket
While the king of diamonds
eyes his diamond queen
in his mind
the ten
hides behind the jack
The queens figured
tonight was the night
they were going to get laid
The deuces were quietly weeping
wondering if another deuce
on the table was going to be played
The ace of hearts
his heart was racing
as the ace of spades
made its way
followed by the ace of diamonds
and a diamond three
a rare drop
was all he could say.
The king of diamonds
to his court he smiled
as the deuce of diamonds
sparkled on the table
The queens, they trembled
wondered if the only thing getting laid
was their heads on the chopping block
this day
The third deuce had joined the pair
his heart was lifted
but still in despair
the deuces looked down the river forlornly
Many have lost it all for more
The ace of hearts was feeling cocky
a warm fullness washed over him
he looked out at his life
figured all he could do was win
he believed in love
sometimes you gotta go
all in
he smiled as he waited at the dock of the river
The king still flushed with diamonds galore
their sparkles blinded him
he joined the ace in the fog
it was either this or that
there were no more games to play
Now faced with two endings
which path to take
The queens had
had enough
on the table they folded
into a fatal swoon
Three deuces
he wavered
his hands were trembling
the game ain't over until
the rent money is gone
Gamblers
some are optimists
some are realists
some are looking for salvation
some are going to play
until they have no more left to pay
looking for death, so they say
driven by compulsions rage
all ask the question
is
this a streak or a slump?
Which was the deuces on this day?
The optimist joins the fray
The realist he folds goes on home to play another day,
All pray.
On your playing field
so far away
what is the play?
Which are you today?
As many endings
as there are
combinations of cards
sometimes it even rains frogs
The room was quiet
the aces full
the king flushing
three deuces - waiting
what to do?
I guess I am the optimist today
the sun is shining after five days of rain
A distant sight
down the river came
as the two of clubs
was beating the water's edge
running and laughing
all the way.
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 11:49 AM UTC
i've learnt that the greatest
prompt and subsequent
impromptu to yet another poem
is to be constantly dissatisfied
with one's output,
because there's hardly a solemn
care for so little with so much
intent: prose writers are due
respect for hammering
so many little and big words into
novels with an odd flash of
poetic genius, poets are always
left dissatisfied because of this,
their open-plan scribbles are
the compensation odes to the bulk
of bulging plotted out scenarios
of fiction - i too wish i had the
capacity to write so much, bound
by 21 volumes of a Dickens or a Balzac,
but whereas they have their endless
stream of words and compensate
very little in terms of poetic economics,
i can:
do this
do that
and revel
in the blank trimmings
of a rim
of a canvas:
with each dispute
the white, the snow
grin of defeat;
or like the chinese poets said: haiku yin-yang
the poem must be,
less mechanism of anything,
more association of mechanisms as you elsewhere;
well less art more **** make each poem
a yin-yang assimilation - x-ray the renaissance paintings
and the impressionists, and the still-life
painters and the cubists and realists and the pre-raphaelites...
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
We are all part of the Dead Poets Society,
in that we are all adeptly capable
of free thought and expression.
The difference, between
true romantics and the (in)expressive realists,
lies in the passionate mumblings which echo across prairies.
The difference is simply that we
cling to life, to dreams, to desperation and to death
as though they are the buoys of a great journey - invincible.
While the realists puncture holes
in dreams and death alike,
sinking with abstract thoughts like great boulders - motionless.
The difference between two polar opposites
is the brazen stroke of being
and the frenzied, wild dash of living.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 11:12 AM UTC
*Time...a puzzle
to realists and surrealists alike
Time...a puzzle
of grand pieces
obvious if obtuse
obtrusive and obstructive
laboriously laid to waste
constructing a picture of existence
solid yet stolid
Time...a puzzle
of fine pieces
subtle if sharp
spacious and serene
pensively placed at random
culminating in a mosaic of life
fragmented yet feeling
Time...a puzzle of pieces
contained within a box
...or...
in a different dimension altogether...*
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC
i wake up with dried tears on the side of my face
i went to sleep smiling,
i thought
i dreamt of you,
as i remember
but i woke up with dried tears on the side of my face
perhaps my eyes see something
that my brain has not yet processed
they see your eyes trail off
when I'm enthused about my day
they see the way your body
is always slightly turned away
my brain gushes about the
sweet text you sent last week
and the future that could lie ahead
but my eyes are the realists
and don't ignore what my brain blocks
they notice the other girls
listed in your inbox
and my eyes know that
they've seen this all before
and the visions in my head
don't align with what you have in store
so my brain might be behind
and take some time understand
that these tears i wake up with
are not a deformity of my lacrimal gland
instead they are trying to fill me in
on what i am trying to ignore
and all these poems i waste on you
i will soon learn to deplore
i don't want to wake up with
dried tears on my face anymore.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 2:42 AM UTC
Listen to the aye-sayers;
Pay heed to the nay-sayers
For point and counter-point;
As Lear did with his fool,
As we did once in school.
Hear the sycophants and flatterers,
The realists and truists;
But in the end what matters,
Is the voice between your ears,
The sooth-sayer of future years.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC
So, you're a dreamer.
You dream of being a celeb
Who's chased and snapped,
Emulated, envied and rich.
That's a lovely, although
Common dream.
Why dream
Someone else's
Dream,
When you can choose
Your own unique
Future.
We don't have conscious,
Sub-conscious, or,
Unconscious control
Of our dreams.
This time,
You do.
Dream to be a
Bricklayer,
And build others'
Houses of dreams.
Dream to be a
Cop,
And help others escape
Nightmares.
Dream to be a
Farmer,
And feed billions
Of hungry spectators.
Dream to be
Good parents,
And raise dreamers
And realists.
Dream to be a
Fine friend,
And take Selfies
Til your arms
Drop.
Dream to be a
Teacher,
Who brings
Others' dreams
To fruition.
So many dreams
To be had,
So many people
To fill them.
Never stop dreaming
Awake in
The real world.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 12:23 PM UTC
They often tell you;
"Look on the bright side"
Don't be so down
Ha! I'm smiling on the inside
Honest I am
I can laugh with the best
At you're pathetic cliches
And this pathetic mess
That you call life
Well, that's a joke
We're merely exisitng
We're drowning in the smoke
You can dress it up
And say:" Stay cheerful!"
But to me it's no good
I need to be dull
I need to be real
To see the bad side
Because things don't go good
No ones on my side
And yes I might be a little pessimistic
I might bring a downer on your silly smile
But I can't pretend everythings okay
The realist in me can only hide a while
So I'll stick to my ways,
If you don't mind
Because when things do go well
It's overwhelming joy I find
So here's to us realists
Us pessimists, us sad acts
Let's laugh at the happy losers
When reality hits them with a crash
Nov 12, 2010
Nov 12, 2010 at 11:02 AM UTC
in the backroom bars of barcelona
broken bottles
blind old ********
with their blistered burdens
in their borrowed brilliance, basking
I sit; watch
reflect everything and nothing
a young boy brings jugs of water and ice
to our table
thinking on the bloodied realists
slumped in their stone thrones
condemning wild romance
with secret affairs
in the lost woods of aesthetic absolution
where ignorance has ascended bliss
up to the scorned eyes of thomas
that great protector of paradise
paradise
women and widows
and daughters and wives
sisters and sinners
slumped into sorrowful silence
stinging at the senses
where *** plagues the sacred
stolen sips from the chalice
wicked wine in the form of futility
reality and humanity
frail fruit forbidden from the fingernails
and the tongues and the tastes
and the tryst
between thinking and feeling
soldiers of thought
and solitude
march in their crooked lines
toward inevitable absolution
against the caressed canopies
of sensation
and surface level distraction
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 10:43 PM UTC
Where are you
my one perfect muse
the shape of contours
conjured in dreams
held since bud was formed
Where do you rest
waiting
like me for that
eclipse
of moments
Where?!
Are you even
embraced in capsule
light
weightless
located in One
Or are you diverse
scattered like seed on
winds unknown
beyond my reach
as I wonder
Where?!
Is it pointless to conceive
of your fullness
knowing deep down
you exist only in
poetry of disenchanted idealists
Newly formed realists
whose life work
lies smashed
pointless journey
reaching reality
Or will I glimpse you
in passing crowd
ephemeral but
sharply cut out
from all the rest?
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 4:07 AM UTC
a fog of uncertainty
or mist of opportunity
discouragement of the fearful
passion of the pathfinders
boredom of the erudite
opportunity of the ready
despair of the overcome
pride of the calm conqueror
crumbling of the thoughtless
savvy of the thinker
rebellion of restless seas
wisdom of the calmer waters
coarseness of the unmodified rocks
refinement of a rare diamond sage
repeating dirge of the pessimists
excitement of the optimists
shock of the confronted
pragmatism of the realists
dissatisfaction of the takers
fulfillment's flame in the givers
empty shell of the ever selfish
and balm of those who
to the bewildered
smile kindness
May 1, 2020
May 1, 2020 at 12:30 PM UTC