"repulsively" poems
Oh do not look at me like that.
Although I pulled the trigger you loaded the gun a long time ago.
Oh do not complain that my loose canons of speech are finally repulsively soaring.
When you gave me a deadly spark.
If you do not blame,
Then I promise I won’t too,
The collateral damage of two wishful hearts needs no ownership.
So stop trying to win a forgotten war,
What’s done is done.
No more friendly fire.
Jun 26, 2018
Jun 26, 2018 at 12:41 PM UTC
I'm done trying to make myself beautiful
I'm bored with mascara, weighing down my eyelashes
gunking up my sight like a city sewer
I'm finished with lip gloss
a pop of shiny color on my wet mouth
pulling you in for a sticky kiss
I want to be ugly
to let my pores gape wide and let in the air
my skin breathing for the first time in years
I want to claw off my clothing
my fabric fittings sewn to slim me down
to tailor me into something worth loving
I want to be repulsively human
maybe all of this is because you said
how you always love the most disgusting things
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 9:30 PM UTC
Nobody Knows McQueen
Why do mad men,
act so happy,
what do bad men,
feel so good,
nobody knows,
why,
do you have to lose the sanity,
to find,
the genius,
nobody knows,
why,
do the brightest lights,
cast,
the darkest shadows,
nobody knows,
can’t have the beach,
without the ocean and the sand,
can’t have bliss,
without the pain,
what a paradox we are,
us this Human Species,
all us actors just acting sans practice,
in deafening silence commiting acts of violence peacefully,
in this repulsively attractive romantically tragic,
dramatic sci-fi thriller comedic fantasy,
where we rarely do what we say,
even though we all say what we mean,
constantly on a conquest to find Plato’s Atlantis,
expressing ourselves through our art like Alexander McQueen,
which makes sense in a way since we’re all dressed up with nowhere to go,
and even though that may be so we still wear our hearts on our sleeves,
half peasant have emperor,
have invented have inventor,
half daughter/son half mother/father,
half created have creator,
only hope is that this sadness somehow leads to a happily ever after,
once gone,
only that odor lingers,
is it cologne or perfume,
no one knows or cares it’s 2018 it doesn’t matter,
nothing matters,
even though it feels like everything does,
or maybe everything matters,
and nothing feels like it does,
I don’t know,
and I don’t know if I care,
don’t have the answers,
and if I did I probably wouldn’t share,
or maybe I would,
and I’d do so through these words,
like a man stranded on an island with a universe full of knowledge,
sending these messages in these bottles as my parting gift to this world,
see we’re all on our way,
so have some fun before you go,
is there life after death,
maybe not maybe so nobody knows,
why do mad men,
act so happy,
what do bad men,
feel so good,
nobody knows…
∆ LaLux ∆
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 1:39 AM UTC
The Ashkenazi Jew are beautiful people,
The **** were just repulsively anti-Jew...
So many Ashkenazi were slaughtered,
The shameless Nazis are to be blamed..
Concentration camps had gas chambers,
Gassing the Ashkenazi to painful death.
Ways of the Devil belittled by the ****
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 5:58 AM UTC
A decision made impulsively
Sometimes ends repulsively
But sometimes ends perfectly
And eradicates conformity
Look just a little more you
(When in fact there's less of you)
They look again and say that's WHO?
Open up their world view
When they see that people can change
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 5:25 PM UTC
This is a subcultural song
Free energy efficient enthusiasts
Replaced the iroquois punk style
Alternatives, noisy hard core; ear
Damaging drum bass boxes in da
Clubs. Ravishing rave parties in
Mini skirts, glam glossy brass on
Ecstatic strobe-light synthesis - a
Synthetic mainstream paradise
Submerged to hypnotic sucklings
On the colourful plastic pacifiers
A gummy retreat before waterless
Collaps. A dehidrated dream that
Tried to shut the world off by the
Tendrils of regression resemblance.
Adult babies aboard going back to
The false long forgotten innocence.
There is no subculture in being above
The depth. Superficiality seems a posh
Pose and a good hiding reason for socially
Awkward childish rebels without material
Issues. The sore tissue of contemporary art
Is people don't believe in subjective objective
Selves anymore. What authorities put on the
Shelves there - it has to be good-when on the
Real deal discount. You think im not of such
Kind. Sheepishly blindfolded herd lives some-
where else. I pity them. Mock the socially meek,
Unajust, fat, poor or a greek profile. It has to be
A button hot child candy nose to **** her or to
Call a beauty per se. Per american dream team.
***** are hot untill they have pneumatics, man
Are man if they whirl the banknotes under bank
Accounts. ******* act like man in disguise greedy
For more. I inhabitated all this inherently ugly
Preachy words instead of puking into a labdab
Lavatory and cleanse myself from repulsively
****** cultural intermittent artifacts. And how
Can i not subdue to its overwhelming pressure.
I'm just an indigo child of flower children. Don't
Throw me the bones fueled with the black golden
Marrow. I'm a new alternative peasant, growing
Carrots and celery at bio degradable villages. . .
Its not a contra cultural venture if your socks
Are made out of industrial cannabis, and yet
There's no need to. Think. Love. Play music.
Listen. Breathe. Live life as if yours favourite
subcultural song is repetedly on...going along
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 6:13 AM UTC
I hate nearly everything about you.
That stupid dimple next to that stupidly gorgeous smile.
Your repulsively silky jet black hair that feels so horribly wonderful between my fingers.
From your obnoxiously beautiful deep complexion to your sickeningly dainty hands, I can't stand any of it.
I hate the way our bodies fit so perfectly together.
That feeling of eternal happiness and comfort when I see you is absolutely revolting.
The way you smell so terribly excellent makes me cringe.
Why do my hands always seem to search for yours, in some grotesque display of love?
But, even though I hate all of these annoyingly beautiful things about you,
The fact that I don't know what you think of me is what I hate the most.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 12:36 AM UTC
In a winding, twisted fate,
The Brothel, I’ve tried to Escape,
The sickening sounds of lips being ******
The horrid sounds of those being ******
The slaps of flesh o’er again,
My mind, I cannot now defend,
I hate every minute, every tick,
This endless clock makes me sick,
I dream of sleep that won’t ever come,
I dream of the day I can run,
Escape, Escape, Escape,
I’ll carve it in myself, it should be my name,
I’ve been mislead, indeed, I’ve been stolen,
But these shallow romances so repulsively sodden,
Have left thoughts so in mind forsaken,
Of each *** and race, lifelessly forbidden
The thought of leaving,
This **** hotel is quite deceiving,
I think of how it became
Synonymous in its name,
With “love" and a quenched thirst
Of our lust and ****** rebirth,
For this menagerie of psychopathy
Is the disease among society,
Eyes that I no longer look into as I speak
Gaze into mine as they endeavor to seek
My soul, laughable, they will not find,
To their credit, it’s long since died,
This wretched place holds me with no interest,
And of how I came about, to be honest
I’ve no recollection.
No recognition
Of anything here, nothing is alive,
All that come, just for pleasure strive,
Empty inside and dying within,
I must Escape this place of boundless ruin.
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC
in winter it is my first time home in three years.
I am in my bed again with a body full of volcanic acid
and a throat nervously full of phlegm as repulsively sweet
as the water of the river that I swam in when I was still young
and naked and fleshy. I have not been
young and naked and fleshy in three years.
My bed is as hard as I picture your body being tomorrow
when we are both in your car again
and your face
still crumbles open like a basket of bread.
My mother has never baked bread.
My mother at night lies alone on sheets cold as the light from a moon.
Her voice wails like a pair of haunted hands.
Last time I saw you your voice broke apart
atop your final word to me.
Before that your hands were on my thighs like a new curse.
Since then I’ve pictured you standing with raw hands
cursing into brisk air. There are times when I try
to picture my body into something smaller, like a ******
raccoon against the side of a highway strip.
There are no tall trees
in the yard anymore, nothing
to compare my body to. (Mother cries about them all falling
in past storms.)
When my father sees me in my bed he says nothing. He’s
best at walking with his hands sour as bees.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 4:38 AM UTC
Unforeseen flowers bobbing a wind's forever heyday...
submerged as if coral.
I could fit my valley into the shadow, and shadow into
its death with such balance.
What's overcome is sworn to secrecy...formulaic, rotund
and malignant what was prayer...even by all the loose
interpretation it suffocated the uneven, as unknown
factors of the life it's put to.
Here, as here is always concerned--it seems fruit of
Garden variety grows as to confine its worm.
It is here, as here is always concerned--I turn worm-ward...
to ultimately reveal nothing--linger coolly and repulsively.
We've an aversion to things that burrow and avert grasp--
a reward goes out for the head, or piece of such a thing
from the selfsame head.
Why is it our prayers are sent forth to expel the evils
we've gathered?
Prayer's construct is meant to be singular as it stands...
heartfelt--airtight in its sentiment.
Thus, by such definition I believe prayer is no longer
prayer--as it is here, as here is always concerned.
If you were to visualize such a prayer, the object of
devotion would become the objects of devotion to
overcome, conquer the God appealed to.
As an egoist is devoted to the objects of his/her nature...
as it were, an object may slip, avert the worm of such
prayer.
Hence, what does prayer become when its clasped
fingers curl under the spell of a blackening ******
Power lust, the bending, curling of will in prayer form
shape-shifts, and is submitted to God as prayer.
A loathsome possession of plummeting powers feeling
for themselves in adoration at every odd, and odder
angle.
As prayer was meant to be the prodigal son/daughter's
offering to the disclosed, yet undisclosed infinite...
here, as here is always concerned, the line lies to its end
to forego what is endless...unforeseen flowers
bobbing a wind's forever heyday...submerged...as if coral.
Of prayer, now--clasped hands die upon one another,
come to separately...without even the capacity to unify
such experience.
O hands of duality--meant to meet of prayer...kiss of life,
for kiss of death.
Such hands are fit for a prayer viewed by a shaman upon
the deepest cave wall, fireside.
As if two serpents deeply kissing, open-mouthed...world
to world experience is offered up...volleyed, interlocked
by and by...till God intuited as to appease such intimate
impossibility.
Who, or what could wish to keep at bay such words of
being...thereupon to release them to The Word?
Why...none other than we, so cherished by our
incomprehension it's founded us...and thus we must pray!
These two hands taken as token...as it is here, as here is
always concerned--I could fit my valley into the shadow...
and shadow into its death with such balance.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 2:27 PM UTC
To me, her love always was bitter-sweet,
More repulsively bitter than 'twas sweet,
Perhaps because I took her as my mate,
But she was like chalk on my life's slate,
Time rubbed her off & nothing remains,
To her I will truly wish the best of luck,
For she is attracted by the golden light.
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 5:19 AM UTC
You know how it hits you? The weight just slams into you and wonder how you stood so tall for so long.
Lately I have felt so ugly. Like repulsively ugly. Like to the point where I cry thinking about it and deciding what to wear is a losing battle every day.
I like to sleep with a couple of books on my bed. They keep me company.
I want to let my friend know how hot this fire is getting inside me. I want to know that when I sleep I sometimes think of him. I want to kiss him and i want to say how I feel like Tiffany does in silver linings playbook.
I am not okay after all. I am heartbreak and loneliness and I will succeed I have to succeed what if I don't succeed
Am I too broken? Lately this glass has been spilled all over the floor and it just keeps pouring and cutting anyone that cares enough to get close.
See I have a problem. I am so scared of being liked of being loved. I joke about the ******** I don't but ******** are safe. They will never truly love me as deeply as I love them they will break my heart all the time and I will cry but I know that we all get what's coming to us.
I want to believe I deserve something good but its so much easier said than done
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 1:28 AM UTC
violins play in my head
and my vision seems to be eclipsed in black and white
I don't tell you this
you would call me melodramatic
still my eyes they work at their own free will
and I am to admire the curves and smile of an unearthly being
you won't let my heart be still
it beats repulsively in your hand
bent out of shape and discolored like rust
but its still yours
the curtains close
the credits
and I guess you're the star of the show
thats how my life ends, love
I hope you got your standing ovation.
Sep 15, 2010
Sep 15, 2010 at 4:13 PM UTC
Her face was tainted by beauty.
Her body repulsively covered in curves
The way her **** sat in her thong looked completely absurd!
Her ******* were too round and her eyes too seductive
Her bare midriff, so smooth, left me aghast and disgusted
Her smile was too bright, hurt my eyes, left me blinded,
Shut your mouth woman! I had to say but kindly
Her hair was too thick, too shiny as it fell upon her shoulders
She was young and her grace made her look much older....
But thankfully she's gone, no more succubus to fight,
I am thankful! I tell myself, it helps me sleep at night
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC
Twenty line poems, she asks. Twenty lines.
Twenty lines? I haven't got time.
I can't write on command, I've tried.
Especially not with my compulsive need to rhyme.
Compulsively, repulsively, I'd rather rhyme internally.
Butterflies flutter by, I watch them for eternity.
Eyelids begin to droop, asleep I would prefer to be.
Regretting waking up never has occurred to me.
Why is this so hard if I love to write?
My mind is blocked and the paper remains white.
Put on my Converse and lace them tight.
I'll find inspiration tonight.
Remove me from the house, I'm going for a walk.
Runner jogs by in silence, preferring not to talk.
Step over smeared concrete art drawn in colored chalk.
No birds awake in the night to mock.
Surprisingly, the air is cold.
This Florida heat was getting old.
That giant orb of heated gold.
It's cold elsewhere, I've been told.
May 25, 2012
May 25, 2012 at 10:00 PM UTC
Philip was genuinely loathsome:
Utterly and totally loathsome.
Repulsively ugly, a stunted repellent dwarf,
Vicious, rude, unfriendly, possibly illegitimate.
He was sarcastic without being amusing,
Always ready to make a cruel remark,
Forever looking for ways to score
And to show his own imagined superiority.
He cleverly managed to make more enemies
Than most people have spots on their back.
The nicest thing I heard anyone say about him
Was "Philip's not all that bad, surely?"
O happy day when I received an email from a mutual friend
To say that Philip was thankfully dead
And pushing up the proverbial daisies,
Breathing silently through the grass.
Surely one should not hate the recent dead,
But for Philip I made an exception:
I wanted to know how much he had suffered,
I prayed that his was not a gentle death.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 6:58 AM UTC
I'm a desperate teen but not Faking It
I'm ugly and awkward but not Miranda
Talentless and scared but not Girls
Food rules my life but this isn't Skins
My family is big but repulsively unlike Modern Family
I'm quirky and alone, but cruelly never Amelie
I'm a misfit uncared for so why isn't this Glee?
I'm poor and kind but there will never be Boys Before Flowers
I have deep dark secrets but not like Degrassi
I live a life like many others
but with one difference
it's not a sitcom
it's not a show
there aren't perks to being a wallflower
and it all doesn't turn out okay,
which makes everything a lot less okay.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 3:00 PM UTC
Trying to wrap my head around everything that daily stirs in my chest,
Do I tangibly hold it, mold it, adhere to it or simply lay it down to rest.
So many questions so little answers and I'm fine with the percentage of how my life is balanced out,
For there is not time to live Chaotically and feed this mad disease called Doubt.
To be Free and Clear in My Heart, Head, Body and Soul,
Is to never report that what you held so dear someone repulsively stole.
So while there are days where my head tells my legs to take a step and walk,
I then simply encourage my journey and give myself a frequent pep-talk.
You are ok, alive, breathing, talking, living, laughing, and healthy...who can ask for more,
Selfishly I raise my head "I can" Lord you know what I am asking when I ask of thee to CLOSE THAT DOOR.
By: Maggie Lopez-Lavalle
Written: April 16, 2013
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 1:06 AM UTC
I spent hours staring at the phone
Wondering when we can ever be alone
It’s hard to love you and I can’t complain
It pains me that I want to show you what it means to be on cloud nine
Although, we’re together
It doesn’t feel like you’re mine
I’m empty again.
There’s no hope left.
I’m left begging for attention like the rest,
And it hurts me
Hard to breathe
Hard to believe that
Maybe we’re not meant to be
You’re shooting me down
Bullet to the chest,
Agonizing pain called ‘rejection’.
I don’t want to give up on this.
I miss when we don’t talk.
But you don’t even want to kiss me.
And I’m wondering if I’m that repulsively disgusting
Lusting over whether you’re worth it or not
When it’s good, I’m fine
But I’m so easily forgotten by you
You’re the Adalind to my Eve,
I can’t bear to leave
Still…that’s only because I’m afraid of abandonment.
The breaking of relationships sent me on a ship of destruction
My own Titanic,
With a dose of hypomanic infatuation
I never knew when to end it
Always afraid of going overboard,
A safety vest couldn't save me from this mess.
When I’m drowning in depression
There’s only the deep, blue sea beneath me
A bottle of pills across my bed.
I swallow my pride.
And death hits for a second.
My parents come rushing in, and they call the ambulance.
Cardiac arrest
Shattered apart like a broken bird's nest
A shocking force through my veins,
People shouting my name, telling me to stay awake.
The doctor said I almost didn’t make it.
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 8:52 AM UTC
Whenever I cut I feel okay at first-
I feel calm and mellowed down-
and then the wave of guilt hits me.
Its almost like eating a Warhead candy
and forgetting how repulsively sour they are.
Or like forgetting to stir your Greek yogurt-
then it leaves a foul taste at the back of your throat.
Instead of a terrible sour flavor,
or a nasty taste at the back of my throat-
I get the urge to ***** after I cut.
I don't know whether its guilt... or what.
But I hate it
-Lynn
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 10:54 AM UTC
Bipolar tendencies,
my colourful predicament,
the summer heat agitates mania,
the winter cold triggers sadness.
Bipolar tendencies,
both gift and curse,
to view the world soaring as an eagle,
to escape the world’s trampling feet as a cockroach.
Bipolar tendencies,
ignorant bliss and torturous wisdom,
apathy for the attractively wealthy,
empathy for the repulsively poor.
Bipolar tendencies,
both god fearing and atheist,
both the day and night,
both thankful and ungrateful.
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 7:40 AM UTC