"repulse" poems
1567
The Heart has many Doors—
I can but knock—
For any sweet “Come in”
Impelled to hark—
Not saddened by repulse,
Repast to me
That somewhere, there exists,
Supremacy—
8.5k
Now, what the hell has just happened to me?!,
I went to sleep and felt quite human,
Alarm goes off, opened my eyes to see,
Two mounds where my little chest should be.
My ****** armpits have just sprouted some fuzz,
There's some hair where my lady garden was,
My beautiful blonde hair is all goopy and limp,
And my face has a likeness to a spotty chimp.
When i went to bed last night, i loved my dear mother,
Now, the thought of a cuddle makes me run and take cover,
Ant lanky Jimmy Owens used to repulse me, no end,
But now all i want is to be his girlfriend?!,
I suppose i will need to start wearing a bra,
And i'll have to smile through the taunts from grandma,
And my father will watch every move that i make,
And i'll have to conform, for my sanity's sake.
Well, tonight, when i lay down my spotty wee head,
I'll lie here and wait for the morning, with dread,
All these transformations, all yuk and all grease,
O lord, will i make it through in one piece?!.
c eileen mcgreevy 2009
Nov 20, 2009
Nov 20, 2009 at 5:50 AM UTC
A frozen avalanche set my night aglitter,
A festive shroud descends upon the theater.
Crimson sirens cleave apart the verdant veil,
Into the darkness we stride without fail.
Beyond the jubilation lies the next chapter,
With adamant fortitude we give thee cheer.
To each their own joys; for none with least,
Lest we drown in today, few dice are cast.
Behold my picture, let the verdict be: asleepy.
I jest, I grin, yet within: smooth boreal sea.
Tis simpler to repulse that which is coveted,
A gaze that levels souls; I've gladly forfeited.
Why? I cannot answer what I do not know,
Yet reason continues to war with my soul.
Let the rain cleanse my self-aimed ire,
From whence come this burning desire?
By dulcet caitiff, I set my conundrum aside,
The crux of life remain, my Draconian hide.
Plebeian ennui paralyzes my gifted facilities,
Enough sophistry, let I bid thee turgidities.
Let mine eyes be painted blind.
How else to behold beauty so fine?
Why, my sober vision...
Scream in revulsion! :DD
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 5:13 AM UTC
The meaning of true is false
blinded by brainwash and ignorance
reminds me of the ways you made me repulse
masked by a thing of brilliance
I hope you see what you need
It's me
I see it in the way you can deceive
God, your naive
I don't mean to rhyme
but I thought it was time
to put you in a place I've been for years
Lonely, disgusted back to the tears
You were divine
Made me be blind
best friend, not
who would have thought
That I would be writing this thinking of you
But no none of this is new
should've seen this new present
hot flash, think back, and make me resent
But now we're though
Don't you see the meaning of false is always true
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 10:52 PM UTC
Preached by priests and family and friends and teachers:
LOVE ONE ANOTHER
But that changes when people choose their true love,
Mommy and Daddy told me they’ll love me no matter what
But why can’t everyone else’s parents think and treat their child the same?
Since when does the holding of two peoples hands repulse a religion?
Can someone explain to me how a hug is a new boundary crossed once people are made aware of the real reason they hug?
It is no longer a hug of friendship but of love
It is no longer shared by only a man or a woman
Or a man and a woman of the same skin color.
Melanin of the skin declares who you should love
The prince and the princess in your fairytale books tell you which gender you belong with
Why do people condemn those who fully express themselves?
Your God declares your love
Forget your heart or your mind
A book written far beyond our time labels love
Love no longer needs a label
But to others
Love must die and so shall the people who love;
The people whose love does not go according to your God and your mind.
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 5:52 PM UTC
The greatest of distances separated us,
but being abrasive at best,
our two rougher edges always sparked.
Even when friendly,
a side conversing of judgement
and not-quite-resentment
kept the parameters of conversation
shallow and narrow minded.
Deeper inference
caused interference
like static in my mind,
and short circuits were common
even in the most civil of discussions
common to other circles.
Round and round,
wishes to connect and
a secret bid for volatile collision
kept us chasing,
while a wary voice forced us to stay separated
like magnets pushing and pulling.
Never did two people
hate so many common things
and yet repulse each other so completely.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 4:50 PM UTC
The bourgeoisie?
I loath them,
and I hope they buy my poems!
The critics?
They know nothing,
and I hope they hail my poems!
The intellectuals?
Dumber than pigeons,
and I hope they canonize my poems!
Unabashedly,
I'm not afraid to admit it:
I write for fame and riches,
and nothing really more.
Yes, yes, make no secret of it,
I wish only to shock you,
arouse and repulse you,
****** you,
with mindless,
gore-splattering violence,
and heart-throbbing ***
along on every page.
****** and ***** gore, and blood,
how else are my sales to flood?
It's art for arts' sake,
or something to the effect of that,
whatever makes me edgy,
socially relevant,
to scholars postmodern,
housewives bored,
and teenagers yearning,
to read ***** words.
So keep it then in mind,
my lovely readers you,
I very much like infamy,
and piles of money too;
be sure to buy my books,
praise me,
“Fresh and new!”
So that I may hire cooks,
to save time writing verse,
the very verses you adore,
lambasting the very rich and poor.
Rampant materialism,
spiritual decay,
what else do you
*******
want me to say?
A saint of the lowly,
the offbeat too,
voicing the obscure,
and the unheard and the
blah, blah, blah,
whatever it is,
I really don't care
quite honestly,
bluntly,
I'm being true,
I write for the fame
and the riches,
not you!
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
"god, i hate everyone. i cant stand being around people"
"same here, they repulse me. lets hang out some time"
seems...contradictory
why would i want to better know someone who hates people
when i hate people?
isnt that a recipe for disaster?
sure its a commonality but...
i still dont know what the allure is
i feel like an audience member
my voice drowned out by the crowd around
is it lonliness?
cant be.
when im around people i look for that.
but when im alone i search for company
not even sure what i want anymore
bouncing around from different states of mind
wants and needs constantly changing...
accepting that i can never have a normal relationship or interaction with other people
acceptance is much easier than fighting
the makings of an antisocial
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 1:23 AM UTC
I was once God's Picasso painting
(the Guernica era).
Chuck Jones' illustration
of the tortured artist,
laid out like Wile E. Coyote
on a bed of scalding rocks
and a white flag screaming "SURRENDER"
clenched with both palms.
If it were feasible,
I'd have dove head first
into the smoky center of the sun
if it meant my audience understood
the shrieking woes I had to bellow through
to reach their overwhelmed palates.
But Tragedy is the sitcom foil
that has long outstayed its menopausal welcome,
and I would much prefer a haunting.
To Hell with those
who repulse the flies with
the vinegar of exploitation,
gawking as their spit seeps
through seven layers of collected scars,
who ventilate the wrists
to keep the audience comfortable.
Real aesthetic power
comes from a shower
of light hail on the spine,
the moments a ghostly hand
****** you on the finger
with quietly hidden truths
always whispered from a field away.
It's far more bracing,
the lump in the throat,
not the electrical gasp of shock.
It's a far greater sign
of a forthcoming apocalypse,
the angel weeping in pain,
not the footsteps
of the wailing banshee.
The wisp
over the wallop.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:56 AM UTC
Clouds, the clouds diffuse a sad and somewhat somber hue;
Wind, the wind bemoans her loss of reins and calm control;
Crows, the crows flee men of straw, sleeves slapping at the wind;
Grass, the grass defends with blades, impaling truant gusts;
Rain, the rain descends aslant from angry ashen skies;
Stones, the stones repulse the pearls, exploding tears of gloom;
Woods, the woods assuage the angst of misty brooding trees;
Leaves, the leaves desert their branches, dropping one by one;
Fields, the fields imbibe a quaff to quench an arid thirst;
Streams, the streams meander, hushed, to distant vapid shores;
Breeze, the breeze intones a tune, a mourning monody;
Sands, the sands, in chaos, dance across the dappled dunes;
Shades, the shades appear confused, alone in lurid haze;
Mice, the mice discern the dawn, their beady eyes ablaze;
Clouds, the clouds diffuse a sad and somewhat somber hue.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 3:38 PM UTC
I want to cry, but the tears won't come
I choke and repulse out feeble breaths
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, so....so sorry." They scream
There's nothing left for me, somehow I've managed to devour myself.
Chew my body whole starting with my heart.
Though my words may make no sense,
It is the grief I cannot fit into words.
To feel this way..
my empty heart..
I have no soul.
I wan't to cry, the last comfort of tears I have left.
But nothing falls, only silent cries.
Words that make me wish I were dead.
What if I just hit another joint or let myself fade..
It won't ever be enough to cover what these words say is pain.
Because then when my mind floats back down to earth..
Whats left?
Nothing...
Nothing at all.
Just a bunch of words on a page...
No one cares at all.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 12:47 AM UTC
Art heals the creator
like scar tissue, sealing
cracks of a broken past,
Red-raw against pale skin
For the world to see that
You're recovering whatnot,
Till time fades these wounds
To nothing
a little makeup can't hide,
So we blend back in, to
Where we never belonged,
An find our identity within
Public display of deformation,
Striped naked, to express self
awareness, no more gruesome
enough to repulse, nor normal
enough to ignore the silver line
Between trauma and wrinkle;
scars fade, not vanish, but
keep us together regardless.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC
Electricity is talking; we understand
losing interest in conversations. creating land.
droplets of ice define the day
August ends in the middle of May
intrepid peeling; scabs of the earth
the hands fail; a dumbed feeling
Eins, the seeing blind have never seen
on screen, a shape of many faces
in through the open windows outdoors
smoke dries the unseen. air dry.
so paragon goners repulse the cleaver
the system has failed
so much detail to attention
when pink isn’t even a color
time is wasted on time itself
unfortunate cookie
wires once made you. complete.
ask for the answer to the question is nothing
Zwei light birds on a wire
the happenstance, the fire
where hell listens, there sight is drawn
selfishly we glare and mourn
******* ice cubes yelling “Jesus may…”
cold as **** the cesspool lay.
So, maybe I’m over thinking this.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 4:38 AM UTC
It becomes exhausting to come up with some ******** statement to intrigue thee. I'm not the everyday "raconteur" of great stories or jolly experiences. To be honest with each and every individual I meet about the struggles I face would take the courage I don't have. So I avoid the situation all together.
What does it mean to **** at adulting?
The question I despise the most upon meeting relatives or friends of family is...
"So what are your future plans?" i.e. (What are your accomplishments that will delight me? What are your goals? How much money are you making out of this?) I agree in which it's quite a bold matter to address, but the question ***** the life RIGHT out of childhood.
*That's when I know I **** at adulting.*
I repulse the means to grow up and get my **** together. Some would characterize it as extreme laziness, carelessness or even stupidity. But most times I feel as though if you don't understand the challenges I face, you wouldn't understand my dilemma.
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 8:43 PM UTC
I want to break it open.
I would show you what's inside -
It would repulse you,
it would scar you.
I am sorry
for tricking you.
It's much worse than it looks.
I make it seem as easy as it should be,
but it won't be.
It isn't.
Maybe I've been lying to myself.
Maybe I harbor no pearl of redemption beneath this ugly shell.
The rot is bone-deep,
soul-deep, carved out and heaped in a stinking pile on the kitchen table,
like when my father taught me how to clean fish, slice long and clean up the soft white belly, sever the gills and pull, pull, pull, until you've a handful of guts and blood and organs. Toss the innards aside, into the creek. They are useless.
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 3:55 AM UTC
Now, what the hell has just happened to me?
i went to sleep, and felt semi human,
alarm goes off, open my eyes to see,
two mounds where my wee chest should be....
My ****** armpits stink, and have sprouted fuzz,
and there,s hair where my lady garden was,
my beautiful blonde hair is all goopy and limp,
and my face bares a likeness to a spotty young chimp....
When i went up to bed, i loved my dear mother,
now, the thought of a cuddle makes me run and take cover,
and that lanky Josh Owens used to repulse me, no end,
but today all i want is to be his girlfriend....
I suppose i will have to start wearing a bra,
and i,ll have to smile through all the taunts from grandma,
and my father will watch every move that i make,
and i,ll have to conform, for my sanity's sake....
Well, tonight when i lay down my spotty wee head,
i will lie here and wait for the morning, with dread,
with all these transformations,sweaty armpits, hair all grease,
oh dear universe, please help me make it through in one piece !!
(c)[email protected] (re-edited)
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 12:33 PM UTC
When I look in the mirror
I lay my eyes on a terrible sight
An image so horrendous
It brings tears to my eyes
They all say "Honey, You're Beautiful!"
To which I pretend to agree
They all say "Please don't listen to anyone who says otherwise."
But then I ask my self,
Why would I ignore the people who are truthful?
My face is a mess
It's full of all kinds of red marks
My chest is so flat
It's almost like I'm a guy
My stomach is gross
I'm not skinny like those other girls
My thighs repulse me
They're full of scars and are way to big
So when I look in the mirror
I say to my self
"Why can't I be perfect?"
"Or even just a little bit prettier?"
I ask my self why people lie to me
They give me compliments
That are obvious lies
My boyfriend say "Babe you're perfect!"
To which I reply "Haha sure thanks"
He thinks I'm just modest
But if only he saw what I see
He would be repulsed
He'd flee the scene
My best friend
She says "I wish I was as pretty as you."
Until then I never understood
I guess friendships really are built on lies
The number that I see on the scale
Is much too high for me to bare
The size of my pants
Is much too big for me to handle
The size of my bra
Is much to small for me to feel proud
So off I go
Look up new dieting fads
Promising my self I'll make my self better
But as I know
I'll soon stop trying
And begin the cycle anew
But for now I'll try
Just skip a couple more meals
Maybe this time I can do it
Be perfect in my eyes...
Not disgusting.
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 2:58 AM UTC
A grim vision on prescription pills
A future you hope there's still time to avoid.
Because beneath all the cheery waving
And bubbling surface-level conversation
Lurks the same bad wound that won't heal if it's covered.
That itches
Just turns to stagnant mush
Sticking to the crusted pillow.
Yearning for fresh air
Aching for exposure, the sun and wind and rain and stars.
Desperate to impress, to repulse
To spread beyond the derelict tomb
To which this episode of history has been condemned to rot.
So become not the pitiful ****
Upon whom your judging eye scornfully rests,
And instead burst forth in a tidal wave
Of hot bile and vitriol
Dripping from the bloodied fingernails.
It will not be pretty
But then neither are you.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 5:27 AM UTC
To atone is to tune,
your soul's acoustic hole.
It's to loose it and be a loon
until, intoning spawns a hole.
A spartan room is an ****
for one whose toes
never follow chronology
and never miss the woes.
Eating the fruit of knowledge
bought accolades at my foot,
I have heavens to acknowledge
but I'm aging in rummage.
I smolder in pain,
as gratefulness grate.
I repulse my thoughts
as they stab me in vain.
A suave lily appalls
dirt on it's debris;
like a reclusive lady
who hates ghoulish paparazzi.
I cipher in poetry
outlets hard to decipher;
Like pottery,
it calls for practice not paltry.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 10:24 AM UTC
*What should never be
Soul separating at the seams
Bullets in my dreams
Me eyeing that apartment on Bub Teems
What should never be
Mama in the bathtub, in the floor
Pinned to the wall, I can't take any more
In my bed shaking to the core
What should never be
Night time screams and deadly dreams
Pounding pulse and silent repulse
Soaking sheets and floor beats
What should never be
Picking up furniture, who's keeping score?
The fresh metal hole in the screen door
Speak of these things never more.*
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 6:33 PM UTC
In a juncture of three years he traipsed ***** nilly close to christ
He was the treasurer and all the finances he kept safe in a pouch hanging on his chest
He was a chosen in the midst of the chosen twelve he existed
All the miracles the son of man performed he witnessed
In his gospel all he recorded
Yet deep within he charred with bitterness he was dissapointed with the long awaited messiah
Tears of hatred soaked his soul
Ironically he felt betrayed this is not the saviour he had longed for
His iron heart had yearned for revolution
All his selfish heart wanted was the surrender of the roman
His heart pumped blood saturated with patriotism and christ with his spiritual
Kingdom was a foe of the jews whose throat were parched with the thirst of a political king
He had been preordained and he had to fulfill the divine decree
It was a calling he couldn't overcome
Thats when the ministry of christ was done and together they sat to eat the last meal the lord dropped a hint about him
He sopped a bread in wine and urged him to hastily fulfill his mission as the other disciples sat there clueless
This was a golden chance for he knew by assuming the role of a traitor he will precipitate the action of messiah and induce him to manifest his miraculous powers
For he longed for this savior to perfom the miracle he had pergorme throughout judea
For thirty pieces of silver he betrayed his master Because of his greed he condemned an innocent man to be banished from the land of living to abyss
And when the son of man was condemned his sense of guilt stirred from a deep slumber
He became despondent at his repulse by the chief priest and elders he cast down the accursed payment into the santuary
The gnawing guilt took him to a tree and with a thread rope he terminated his life
He burst asunder and for hundred year the smell of his bowels lingered in the potters field of which the betrayal money bought
On the hill of skull the man on the cross breathed last and into hell he descended not only to settle scores with the lord of underwords lucifer but to free the soul of his follower from abyss
For it was written he had to die for salvation of humankind and his betrayer was the first to b redempted
The man called judas triggered a series of pretold happening
The man called judas fulfilled old centuries prophecy
The man called judas ensured redemption knocked in every sinners door
The man called judas jumpsttsarted the birth of christianity
The man called judas need a better slot in our history
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 7:37 AM UTC
- up country Laos, 1972
I won't do it, I said. I won't.
It's a direct order, he said.
We stood a few yards apart,
in front of the blasted wire
where the screaming
enemy wounded
were caught like stuck flies.
It had been a long night
of attack and repulse;
the howling wounded
were all that remained.
He was maybe thirty,
an Ivy League ***** wannabe;
I was just a battle weary broken
20-year-old with no silver spoon.
You will get your *** out there
and tap those moaning *****
and you will do it now, another order.
I said, I'm a medic, not a murderer.
They are prisoners. There are lines,
even here. I will not cross this one.
**** lines. What you are, he said, is a *****
In his hand, a lethal black 9mm Beretta;
in mine a 1911 model Colt 45 automatic.
Both loaded. Both ready to speak. Both angry.
Both anxious. Both with something to say.
You aren't my CO. You're not even an officer.
I refuse, I said. **** you and the Company.
My hand tensed on the 45. The Beretta quivered.
We looked at each other, working out the odds,
Death, for one of us, seemed only a few seconds away.
But he hesitated, lowered his weapon.
It's ******* like you who lost this war, he said.
And it's mad men like you who started it, I replied.
He turned and walked out to tap the wounded,
one by one, ****** after ******
Delighting in revenge.
I walked back to the chopper, gun in hand,
and nodded to the pilot. We flew away,
at first to more war, but then back to the world,
the world that could never, ever be the same.
~mce
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 9:28 AM UTC
When you no longer love me I think I will know it,
And it won't be because I've betrayed you.
It will be signs in things that once made you sing,
Instead now they abstain or repulse you.
When I no longer tickle your fancy but instead I tickle your last nerve.
When I no longer ignite your pulse but instead I extinguish it.
When I no longer sing through your skin but instead I pierce it.
I know you you will no longer love me.
When I’m no longer the breath that fills both your lungs, instead I take needles and puncture them.
When I’m no longer the stream that carries your dreams, instead I capsize you and drown them.
When I’m no longer the fuel that feeds each of your bones, instead I withhold it and starve you.
I know you will no longer love me.
It won’t be because my smile’s gone stale; it won’t be because you dislike me.
It won’t be because my affections set sail; it won’t be because you’ve lost me.
When you no longer love me I think I will know it,
And it won’t be because I’ve betrayed you.
It will be because you simply forgot,
Each part of me that once amazed you.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 6:53 AM UTC