"reblog" poems
six-inch heels abandoned
in lampless corner grimy pennies embedded in carpet
rent's due
wedding band girl "fab polka dot frocks"
waterfalling past knees outta place
on casino bus destined for rest under Ft. Worth stars
now, now ********* borealis speckled dice
true love waits
socialite lip balm and bourgeoisie hips compete
in bidding war over which black face triggerpulls
which black face eyes the ground
passerby the red light the green light
all night diner egg on chin coffee-stained porcelain teeth
"I forgave, I think. I forget."
crowded and paranoid in the left lane the right lane
empty and weak and surrender and soiled underwear in ammonia nursing home
children is a word time is a lie the polka dot and the interstate ain't selling
divorce the consequence of acoustic shadows
reblog undo #sotrue reblog
living through x-ray radiotherapy the dotted gown
never the veiny calves or the blush or the eyeliner
somewhere in North Texas shawtys are in the club
shawtys are backin' it up shawtys are dropin' it down
hit me+hit me+hit me=blackjack mishap
the marvel of the wind and of wind turbines
cognac decade brides the epitome of class and natural elegance
standing like oil derricks and treated like oil wells
so secretive and philanthropic
this taxon remains nameless
casino turned dance hall dance hall skinny ties still a thing
this wine is good. is it a merlot? no. this is purely recreational
for birthdays for weddings and Ft. Worth missionaries
10-50 passengers we've got 53, no 54 #hahahaha #whoops #party
who needs unprescribed drugs? me, me (!)
decomposing mascara sweat on brow the interstate no longer lit
polka dots has got the suicide by Manet pulled up
on her iPhone the financial stress which shudders warm-blooded moms
on her lips every mother a librarian every mother a swing-pusher
but digression next to bitterness the lowest sin
edging the cultural gateway of the old west
miracles in and miracles out of tradition following
the slender bends of middle ancient Trinity River
children a word pattycake a game
and time time a lie we left to museum panoramas
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
I suckled my mother's Bluetooth breast
while my father built me a bassinet
of series circuits with high, motherboard
bars.
I've got that artificial baby glow.
But Mom put my ****** on Facebook
at four weeks and I still haven't re-friended
(forgiven) her. My upgrade's in nine months,
but I want my downgrade now
'cause all I get are social invite excuses
from Facebook fuckfaces. We pack
our lives into little boxes that we're
not even allowed to open.
We drink to technology, keep our lazy
eyes on our news feeds, and recycle
ideas like their owners would even
want to see what we've done to them.
We misquote Confucius and credit ourselves
with mangled Robert Frost stanzas.
"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I think
it's awesome that Pepsi used to be blue."
Reblog, revine,
retweet, FaceTime.
Folding chair fold-out on someone's lawn.
White-out Yeats, Keats, Byron, and Auden,
and write John ******** or Tom Whatever.
We're caught in the chicken wire of an LCD
fruit basket so neat, orderly, and brushed
aluminum. How can people write in Starbucks?
S
B
U
X
B
S
The cooler's too ****** music's too shy,
and the sugar, no, not just the sugar.
THE PEOPLE are too artificial.
The carpet-suit inlay I'm standing
on has pencil lead, sock lint,
and receipt shred lapel pins.
Even corporations play dress-up.
But what happens when Y2K kicks
in tomorrow?
Lives will be lost even before
the missiles **** us.
And the planes that drop
from the sky won't even come close
to when the bough breaks your little
girl's heart, baby, because your phone
can't raise her anymore, so you have to.
And based on your search history,
tweets, and recorded dreams,
she's better off in the warm
embrace of a hard drive.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
It’s not enough now for my words to be written
They must be pretty, and witty, and bright.
The words themselves matter less each day
With each reblog, retweet and like.
It’s not enough now for my words to have meaning
They must be relatable, heart-wrenching and fierce.
The words themselves are being lost
With each glance, dismissal and worse.
It’s not enough now for my words to mean something
They must be have rhythm, or rhyme, and more.
The words themselves are unimportant
With that truth I take flight and soar.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 4:15 PM UTC
the quality of being authentic
(AUTHENTIC IS)
(of undisputed origin; genuine)
messy buns a little bit too messy to be pretty, hair falling all over
a camera held loosely, fingers easily finding the record or picture button by muscle memory
years of bad relived in words spilling out to another entity for need of connection and know
pacing back and forth, staring at walls, and misplaced hand gestures all while talking to yourself
what too many people crave for so bad
what turns stale when too many people crave it so bad
stale
found 75 pages deep into a blog found from someones reblog of anothers' reblog at midnight
drunk like sleepiness, the slightly tipsy shitpost on the verge of deep conversation
open skype calls with gritty laptop cameras and headphones, talking talking talking
waking up at 3 am and writing something down immediately so as to not forget it
post dinner midnight snack cereal
"i don't really know how i am. how about you, how are you?"
talking to your dog
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 11:53 PM UTC
It’s not enough now for my words to be written
They must be pretty, and witty, and bright.
The words themselves matter less each day
With each reblog, retweet and like.
It’s not enough now for my words to have meaning
They must be relatable, heart-wrenching and fierce.
The words themselves are being lost
With each glance, dismissal and worse.
It’s not enough now for my words to mean something
They must be have rhythm, or rhyme, and more.
The words themselves are unimportant
With that truth I take flight and soar.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 4:15 PM UTC
You said, in small text:
<p>OKAY. Let’s talk about this. </p>
<p>✨CW: transphobia, mental health stuff, strong language✨</p>
<p>[Reblog the hell out of this post. It’s about to be important].</p>
<p>I woke up this morning to my girlfriend, my partner-in-crime, my best friend, my favorite bean, sending me this photo. She couldn’t believe that it was real and thought that I was playing some sick joke. </p>
<p>Good ******* morning. </p>
<p>Listen up, whoever you are, you entitled little **** Your opinions, attractions, desires, whatever they are - they DO NOT MATTER. Assuming, based on the context of your post, that you identify as a guy, let me just say this: </p>
<p>You are a small man. You’re using the guise of anonymity to objectify a radiant woman whose depth and breadth you can’t ever begin to comprehend - and I’m not just saying that because she’s mine. You’re also transphobic as **** - and clearly don’t understand that trans-ness and genitalia are actually (and often) far removed from each other. </p>
<p>I’d like to think that I don’t need to explain why the comment “your girl ain’t a girl no more” (in addition to being grammatically terrible) is NOT acceptable, but in case I do, here is MY two cents on the matter of MYSELF. </p>
<p>I fought for this body. I bled for this consciousness, I shined light into places in me that I didn’t know existed and found depression, dysphoria, trauma, and loads of anxiety. I nearly died for this body. If it hadn’t been for a select few people who saw me for the love I was worth, I wouldn’t be alive to write this post. That’s not an exaggeration, it’s a fact. </p>
<p>I’m telling you, stranger, this because there is more behind your words than you know. Each time you take your privilege and cishetero advantage for granted and allow misguided, bigoted words to fall out of your disgusting face-hole or fingertips, you’re reminding me of how I almost died for this body and consciousness. How my girlfriend and countless others like us have been subject to vast physical and mental torment for our queerness, our trans-ness, our SELVES.</p>
<p>I’m addressing you not as you, but as the mass of people you represent. I’m posting this on behalf of the 22 trans people who were murdered last year because of ignorance like yours. I’m posting this on behalf of feminine-identified people everywhere who deal with the wrath of objectification, sexism, and violence that your very actions embody and permit. </p>
<p>
Jul 17, 2016
Jul 17, 2016 at 9:29 PM UTC
oh you are all so *******
good and god **** righteous
with your Facebook statuses
and tweets and blogs
that you pour your hearts into
reposting better men's works and words
cowering behind a screen
that hides the fact that you've
resigned your life to nothing
but giving others the publicity
that should have been yours
perhaps the more pathetic
thing is that we live in a world
where this is acceptable
and the norm
where people are given the ability
to like, and reblog, and comment
instead of actually making contact
and establishing relationships
**** it, if i want to talk to you,
i don't actually have to talk to you!"
and here i am, the eternal hypocrite
writing a god **** poem on my macbook pro
that i'll post to a poetry forum
so i can get off on all of the likes, reads, and comments
it collects
i mean,
who the **** am i if nobody else tells me who i am?
Oct 6, 2011
Oct 6, 2011 at 12:38 PM UTC
Is life imitating art or is art imitating life?
Eventually there will be nothing left to hide
Save your sorrys
It's time for me to cool your mind and tell you it's all alright
We're the pop-up's on your phone screen
Sending you little blurbs
Memes are funny because they're true
At least to you
You're the hypochondriacs
Who convinced yourselves you need to be healed
With a numbness cure by posts that make you feel
There will be a new one, if you like the last
Is life imitating art or is art imitating life?
Eventually there will be no where left to hide
Save your sorrys
It's time for me to cool your mind and tell you it's all alright
This is a beat generation
But with less respect but way more dope
The question is "why should I?"
Our answer is always "I don't know"
We're yesterdays news and tomorrows punchline
Never even had chance
Self-entitlement won't ease the situation
Of our need for instant gratification
I need a drink in my system to take off the edge
I need a lie to make me feel safe
I have an axe in my skull splitting my brain
Is it me or the world who's insane?
Upload, like, follow
Reblog, comment, unfollow
What's hot is hot now but not tomorrow
Will your words hold up or drop out?
-Tommy Johnson
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 8:57 PM UTC
No one ever wants to read a poem other than one about love.
They’re only interested in thoughts from another that might just be about them.
I mean it’s pleasant if you happen to read a poem that relates to you, but don’t just click copy, save, or reblog.
Someone put their heart in to that poem; they shed tears and carved crevasses into their undoubting mind that everything is worth it.
They found their worth.
Some through words of love and transgression, and others through words of doubt, vexation, and sorrow.
They’ve been able to overcome themselves, and now it’s your turn to take the wheel.
Understand the words you want to say about the grass dancing in the wind, find the comparisons between yourself and the sun, and reach for the top of the clouds with the courage
of a self-spoken soul.
Not everything has to be about love, people just make it out to be.
(j.a.r.)
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 10:49 AM UTC
I breathe you.
I breathe you in the first breath I take every morning
I taste you in the NyQuil I have to abuse before I can sleep
I see you in the purple dreams I remember every night
NIGHTMARES
I have nightmares of you.
I nightmare you in my inadequacy and my ignorance
I nightmare you in my clothing and the way I cut my hair
I nightmare you in the tumblr girls I reblog
*I nightmare you in the way my breath shortens when I can't breathe you and when I don't want to breathe you.
Asthma attack, you're my air and I loathe you
I want to suffocate but I can't keep suffering like this*
I NEED AIR.
REAL AIR.
NOT THIS HELL.
I want to breathe air.
I don't want to breathe you.
I want to dream dreams,
Not nightmares.
You have total grasp of my mind
And you don't even know.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 12:22 AM UTC
I stay up til 3am.
I scroll,
tweet,
reblog,
upload.
I keep my mind busy until it's too tired to argue with itself.
I wake up at 12pm.
Unrested,
regretful,
dissatisfied.
I've wasted my day,
swapped a sunrise for a dimmed screen,
breakfast for lunch,
sleep for rest.
My days blur,
with nothing to occupy my time,
I watch 5 seasons in a day,
reach my post limit,
exhaust conversations.
Doing nothing had become my job.
And it consumes me.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
hello.
my name is Catherine but I go by cat.
I make videos, and help out a lot with audio for others,
but I have never recorder one of my own poems.
So, this sounds kinda odd,
But I'd love it if someone could maybe help me find a few good poems,
That I wrote,
To record and upload.
Just audio for now,
I'd also be very open to those ideas for an actual video to go with it,
but I'd like for people to of helped from this site,
And I'll give credit-shout outs,
to everyone who helped,
even in a little way.
Thank you.
-Cat c: :3
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 8:45 PM UTC
A rumble of laughter not from an LOL in an SMS
but a sound from a breathless child
running in a field
not scrolling through a feed
two friends sharing secrets
in a hide out only known by two
not hiding behind a barricade
clear yet mystifies the truth
I see you smiling in front of me
As you share old stories
And dreams of what’s to come
I don’t face a pixelated picture
As I try to communicate
Face to face?
Or face to screen
Or share winky faces
As you tease me
while sitting in a room two doors down
What happened to the times when
We were connected by the strokes of the words on paper
Or the moments captured by film
And not destroyed by a single glitch of a cellular phone
There’s a ring to my name as you call
A melody in your voice
But now
since when have IM ever been better than calling a name
with your voice
we know people more by the click of a finger
than a stroke of a hand
and from 140 words
in an app
expected to chirp our secrets like songs of birds
sung to everyone
We see connection
As the strength of the wifi at the corner of our screens
Dreams are shared with every retweet and reblog
Shared to strangers
Who care about you?
Or care about the amount of followers or likes you get
Of a picture you do not own
Of an experience you have never done
Or maybe yet to do
life is not as beautiful through a screen
it is not about those minutes you spend
clicking that play button
you cannot fast forward or rewind the wasted time
sitting and waiting
as the video loads
just so
YOU
Can live their life
I sit in front of a camp fire
Hearing laughters from every side
Smiles brightening in the dark
What happened to these nights out?
the fun nights where the stars and moon were the only light source
and not the screen of the 3G phone
or when beauty was only experienced and not captured
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 7:48 PM UTC
Sitting in the corner of the room,
Cigarette in one hand,
Black coffee in the other,
Caffeine
Nicotine
The perfect combination.
The sun is melting into the horizon, merging with the darkening landscape,
Like a flame being extinguished as it is plunged into water,
The luminescent glow of the laptop throws shadows against the wall,
Pinned up by gravity.
The relentless scrolling through images of pretty girls and pale shades,
Vibrant foods and tranquil nature,
I wonder which one I should reblog
All of them.
The cigarette continues to burn,
Plumes of ashen smoke consuming the scent of ancient wood and faded paint.
Raindrops begin to tear at the window,
Fogging up the glass,
Echoing through the hallowed halls.
The coffee is gone,
It warms my veins.
I suppose I better make another cup
After all, this is what I do for a living
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 5:29 PM UTC
large hearts swell, with brown
eyes full of love; two sets fought,
leave earth far too soon.
~ ~ ~
sunday night, in fruitland township, michigan, two pit bulls were found lying dead on the side of the road near an elementary school. a man by the name of joe weaver found the dogs and covered their bodies so that children wouldn’t see them on their way to school. the link leads to his facebook page — which is open to the public — where he has been keeping everyone up to date about the dogs. when he found them last night, there were no footprints in the snow, suggesting that the dogs were most likely thrown out of a car and left to die, if they weren’t dead already. we believe the dogs may have been used to fight, and they were underfed.
my mother contacted mlive, WZZM 13 (the grand rapids affiliate of ABC news), pound buddies, and woodTV 8. two of her friends who don’t even live in michigan contacted muskegon police, giving anonymous info about the incident. over the course of the night and early this morning, this story has popped up on WZZM13, and has been mentioned on local animal rescue facebook pages. a news caster even posted on a facebook page that this case is currently undergoing investigation.
i want this to get spread around in hopes that whoever did this can be caught, and we can get some justice for these poor babies. no animal deserves this treatment. today, after joe weaver found them he decided to name them “moody” and “george”, after the military base he served at. he is hoping to get the bodies back after autopsy, so he can give them a respectful burial.
please, please, if you can, reblog this and spread it around. even if you don’t live in west michigan, or michigan at all, please get the word out so we can find whoever is responsible. if social media is good for anything, despite all its toxicity, it’s stuff like this.
(you can reblog the post here: http://blackcr0wking.tumblr.com/post/77718225228/if-everyone-could-please-spread-this-around-i )
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 6:02 PM UTC
Losing you cant be fixed with Ben and Jerry's or any number of Coldplay songs.
But still I sit here and listen to sad songs, and reblog for hours on end.
Because tumblr seems to know me better then anyone in reality.
I guess I like listening to these songs because they share the same experiences as me.
And I guess I'm too scared to find other people in my life who share the same problems.
I swear to God, Ben Rector and I have twin lives.
When I hear these songs I almost forget about everything else.
When A Heart Breaks might just be my life story.
I could rant on about my favorite artists but it wouldn't be worth it.
But I wont.
I will end with this: No matter how much a girl tries to forget something she cant, no matter how hard she tries. Because what happened, mattered. And all she can do is hope that it mattered to you. Because you cant forget something that mattered.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 9:43 PM UTC
I am so sorry you fell in love with a writer.
As I sit in this coffee shop and my ears are consumed with guitar strums and voices I've never heard, I realize how unfortunate it must have been for you to fall in love with a writer. I've written you into so many pages of my notebook and even if I set every sheet to flames, my words would still exist in this atmosphere. They will not die when I withdraw. They will not fade when you disappear. You are dangerously out of reach, but you are almost tangible within every heartbroken expression I offer to the air. You will exist throughout every website where I mistakenly proclaimed my love for you. You will occur every time a girl faces her first heartbreak and seeks comfort in my art. You want to die, but you will prevail in every retweet, reblog and share. I know you want to be forgotten just as badly as I do, and I should consider myself lucky that I won't live in the creases of every journal you own.
I am so sorry you fell in love with a writer.
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 5:29 PM UTC
not even good enough to be classed a hack
try poetaster
but making more money than me
and more people reblog all their
juvenile word *****
than they do anyone else’s--
ah, legitimacy has been declared!
shots have been fired!
there it is, ladies and gents
the ultimate arbiter of quality:
the approval of social media!
do please excuse me,
let me go and burn my wings in penance.
may every poet you meet
stab you in the heart with their pen
and if they do not,
send them back in shame and disdain.
RAGE AGAINST THE PALE AND BEIGE.
Nov 21, 2020
Nov 21, 2020 at 1:45 PM UTC