"romanticise" poems
Forgive me if my pain has touched you in ways my hands never have
You’ve got wounds I should have kissed gently and fire beneath your skin
Instead I bought you flowers you’re allergic to and wrote poems about your tears
Some days I tend to over-romanticise your bleeding lips that you never stop biting
Other days I can’t stand the way your lips curve when you laugh and the freckles on your hands
I’m a mess but believe me when I say my hands are clean
I’m just trying to love you
Even if it’s the wrong way
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 7:26 PM UTC
A spiral
A staircase
A long fall
How ever you decend it's always down,
Never do we see the light before we go,
It's forever darkness,
Never do we know what waits for us,
We think we know,
We hope we know,
Never do we get a chance to change our minds,
It's there it's easy once you've made the distance to get there.
What ever we do we decend,
I won't romanticise it it's not a decision we should make yet we do,
I won't tell you to stop because that will push you even harder than before because hell what do I know.
But I will say is this:
My mind is my prison
My body the vehicle I use
My soul the fuel
The decent my escape
Every morning it is there
Every night it welcomes me like a lover
Every time I close my eyes it becons to me
Every time I get up it threatens to pull me down
Yet I stand strong
Resting on the edge
Like running a knife across my throat hard enough to bite but not bleed
A damgours game to feel alive
To feel at all
A decent into darkness
A game we play alone
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 8:26 AM UTC
You think I romanticise suicide?
That I can find glory in death?
You're wrong.
I don't hope for romance, there is no romance in laying six feet deep.
Being defeated by your own mind holds no glory, there is no pride in suicide.
You say...
Get over it.
You can fight this.
It's only in your mind.
And you're right.
It's only im my mind so stop telling me how I feel.
So shut up.
I know it's weak.
Selfish... but it is my choice.
I know you think it's a choice to be happy.
If it was did you really think I would choose this?
sadness
pain
depression
Suicide
Trying to write a goodbye.
Wondering about the music for my funeral.
Suicide
I'm always scared but fighting.
I am weak but never giving up.
Never giving in.
I don't think this is fun.
This is suicide your talking about.
No romance.
Empty of joy and glory.
Suicide.
A way out.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 6:37 PM UTC
let's make a deal.
uncap the bottle,
discover my greatest work-
a soliloquy on sentience,
performed to an empty room.
the walls
are bleeding lead poisoning again
and i
am leaving logic behind.
the air is crisp on my wretched skin
and as the world dies
its aching breath helps me
to finally feel alive.
i am pure white.
let me rise, enlightened.
as i float, breathless,
i can feel, finally,
the weight of my bones.
make me into a sparrow,
feast upon my marrow,
so i can become porous-
but leave my hollow mind whole.
idolize me.
spin my disease into pure beauty.
a stone-cold rose
grounds the coffin for my dreams,
liberating me from responsibility.
awaken me.
strip my heavy corpse of its wings,
eviscerate the breath from my lungs
cease my tangibility
oh glory,
build me up
strip me down
to my knuckles and teeth,
to the weathered bone.
remove the bloodstains from my home.
if i bleed now
it will be beautiful
when i fall, i
will glorify the cement, decorate it
with my shining insides
when i come down
it will be stunning
it will be dreadful
and i will be resplendent
-but the delivery
won't change the content
candy wrapping
can't cover up the stench of death-
i have given up
on purging the necrosis from my tissue
i have found
this tantalizing muse once again, and
once more i
will let her put cigarettes out
on my sorry skin.
i've grown to love the smell,
that acrid poison
it almost covers up the scars
she leaves-
if i can make dying sound beautiful
then to hell
with us all
if you could romanticise suicide
you'd be rotting
too
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 9:14 PM UTC
There was death and gore,
During the second world war.
Many people died in extreme violence,
Killed before they could call out to loved ones.
Young men were trained to ****
Often against their morals and will.
So when I see your 1940s weekend -
Your 'war was fun and cosy' pretence,
Your clichéd polyester and fibre glass mockery,
Aiming to re-enact a mostly imagined happy-go-lucky camaraderie -
Forgive me for not joining in,
As I happen to feel it a cardinal sin,
To idealise and romanticise a decade,
Made up of austerity, rationing and air raids.
I've read a little social history,
The 1940s were not idyllic or crime-free,
Just as now, there were heroes and villains,
Among the soldiers and civilians.
Heroism abounded but so did black marketeering,
There were brave sacrifices but also racketeering.
City-wide black-outs were a gift,
To those who would rob and grift.
Your jolly nostalgic tribute is an annual celebration,
Celebrating your own fabrication,
Of a time when the machinations of war and a crazed ideology,
Saw the near extinction of an entire ethnic minority.
I do not wish to be a party pooper,
But don't just step into the fake shoes of a fictional trooper,
Please occasionally remove your rose-tinted glasses,
To remember that beyond your nostalgic narrative of the routines of the masses,
People lived with the daily fear,
Of the likely deaths of people they held dear.
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 6:49 PM UTC
I spy
with my little eye,
something beginning with I.
I wonder
if the kids younger
than I, know what it is to wonder.
To dream
of all that's unseen
and the places they've never been.
When sat
do they know how to relax
with just their thoughts as they plait,
their hair
or ears of a teddy bear
adding a bow for a flair,
to see
all their creativity
at the age of only three.
And how
parents let them plough
through screens without
a notion
that this motion
is only just a token
gesture
undress her
she's no saviour.
As she
believes the he
is here to set her free.
Romanticise
see the prize
a body plasticised.
Naïvety
meant to be
girl don't you see.
Plastic
elastic
please don't be sarcsatic,
she dreams
to be
the perfect thing to see,
but don't you see
it's not meant to be
she.
That girl of only three
now forever ****** to be,
Perfect.
A statement
not a standard,
so please don't do this to her.
Ignore her
for her
one day she'll thank ya'.
I spy,
with my little eye,
someone. Who wants to cry
Sep 24, 2024
Sep 24, 2024 at 4:45 AM UTC
But at the end of the day, I don't want the one who will spin my head round, who will make my blood boil, whose kisses will feel like I'm on fire, whose touch will make the universe explode. No. I want the one who will be okay seeing me throw up after we've had a bit too much to drink; who will hold my hair and call me a loser the next morning, but will, nonetheless, leave two Tylenol on the nightstand. I want the one who won't mind taking care of me when I'm sick, who won't mind my coughing fits and my runny nose. I want the one who will be perfectly fine with running home in the rain after we've missed our bus; who will be content with wearing ugly sweaters in front of the telly, drinking hot chocolate and watching silly movies. I want the one who will cook for me and who won't mind my cooking. I want the one who will be perfectly comfortable with us walking around in our underwear and who will drink as much coffee as I do. I want the one who will lie in bed with our laptop while I'm reading a book and won't mind the silence. I want the one who will buy my parents silly Christmas gifts and someone whose mother I'll be friends with. I want the one who will laugh at my jokes when they're funny and will call me an idiot when they **** I want the one who will beat me at computer games and who won't mind that I sing even though I **** at singing. I want the one who will open up to me and let me help them; who will listen to my worries but who will respect my personal space. I want the one who will call me silly nicknames and who will tell me they love me everyday. I want the one who will take pictures with me and will pin them on the fridge. All I crave is comfort and stability. Don't romanticise love: the only thing you'll ever need is a best friend who wants to sleep with you and spend the rest of your life with you.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 11:12 AM UTC
// she falls in love the same way that she falls apart; quickly and all at once.
tumbling into his outstretched palms with a startling intensity, his fists clench and she cries.
she wants him to hurt her, leave smouldering bruises around her neck. Force your fingers down her throat and make her beg. maybe this love; choking sounds and blood.
it’s almost funny, the fact that she still hasn’t learned yet; make him your everything and you will be left with nothing.
and it feels like hell, almost romantic.
her lips part in the dimly lit room, gasping for air.
that’s the thing, there is nothing he could do to her that she wouldn’t do to herself. hold a knife to her neck and watch her soul drip from her mouth
one rib at a time you snapped them all like twigs and complained that she made too much noise. too much,
too loud.
lungs swimming in fluid yet she breathes out flowers, because that’s what pretty girls do; that’s what you wanted isn’t it babe? beauty. perfection.
don’t let him inside your head, keep him between your thighs or else everything around you will become white noise; fading into the background.
go on, romanticise it. i dare you.
force its unwilling bones into a metaphor or a simile.
pretend that we fall apart into beautiful, tragic spectacles and simply glue the broken fragments back together
she sat in the dark with a cup of tea between her shaking hands, resisting the urge to split her veins over the white walls and string her organs from the ceiling like fairy lights.
wanting to die in the most violent of ways is a lot less convenient than it seems; an unholy addiction of the rawest degree.
darling, i’m sorry he made you feel like you are hard to love,
because loving you is the easiest thing in the world //
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 8:38 AM UTC
The fault with seeing the world through rose-coloured glasses is that we do not know when to stop.
When the lights at the crossroads flicker red, all we see is light, not colour.
We run, we hide in nostalgia’s walls, playing with the toys we grew out of, talking to the skeletons in our closet.
“Life is so strange,” we say, as though we are no stranger ourselves.
Romanticise, don’t realise
love is like hate
passion like anger, anxiety
and blood, just another fluid
Roses, red all the same
Wine, flows through oesophagus like water flowing like tears of the child’s sighs at night yearning for a relief of the pain of a
strange life
being no stranger ourselves
seeing the world through rose-coloured glasses
not knowing when to stop.
Dec 24, 2023
Dec 24, 2023 at 10:53 AM UTC
*we are not the
nicholas sparks novel
read wrapped in comfort
of store-bought quilts
on rainy days
or an ed sheeran song
in long-haul flights
flying us
into one another's
longing embrace
once in
a blue moon
how long will
the movie screens
and best-selling novels
continue to
romanticise a
love like
ours
all of its
torturous;
troubling;
tragic glory
even with dreams
of your laugh
and the most short-lived
imageries of your crescent eyes
the sheets on your side
of the bed remain
perfectly
uncreased
i cannot stop
my heavy lids
and tired bones
from gravitating into
both Arcadia
and Erebus:
another
sweet,
wicked
dream
of
you.*
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 8:06 AM UTC
Let us speak only in tongues
For all that wasn't made obvious
May present its true meaning in the unintelligible
Let us converse in stanzas
For what wasn't clearly heard
May perhaps show itself between these lines
Let us exaggerate and romanticise
For all that was spouted bland
May be heightened to receive some light
Let us exchange and trade through poetry
For all that's lacking in common words
May secure a foothold in the readers' hearts
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 10:02 AM UTC
I like to fantasise
Romanticise
Every single part of my life
I like to walk through the streets
Wearing rose-tinted glasses
With little swirls of blue and gold
That engulfs each thing I touch and see
In rippling hues
Of pure fantasy and beauty
Even the trash along the sidewalks.
May 26, 2021
May 26, 2021 at 8:29 AM UTC
And my nerves
Are like useless hands
At the edge of an
Argument.
My foot had a fight
With a brown brogue
And lost,
And it pays for its defeat
With nakedness.
I carry a jaundiced bag
On my hip,
Like an oversized yellow blister,
And I empty it
With a tremored hand
Against the cistern.
Half of my face
Went numb and
I dumbly
Stared into the bathroom mirror,
Astounded that I
Could still smile.
My most meaningful relationship
Is with laxatives!
I romanticise my gut,
Where the flora lives,
Because you have to
Love your body,
Somehow -
Don’t you?
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 9:21 AM UTC
I once met this French man.
Just a brief encounter; but towards the end of it he looked at me
with almost pensive eyes,
slowly he said "I could love you".
I laughed aloud.
Was it cultural differences
for him to have said that so casually?
Or was he just the brave sort?
I mocked him, of course.
Condemned his lionhearted statement even.
His eyes never left me, all the while,
they looked like a sad storm now.
Like somehow he already misses me.
And that was the last time I saw him.
Despite him asking to take me out to my favourite restaurant.
Despite him asking to take me camping underneath the stars,
Or for a midnight swim.
All the things I like, really.
A year later, and I'm still thinking about this
beautiful, brave French man.
And what could have been.
Haunted by his sugar heart.
But it wasn't my colour to romanticise happiness,
or the feeling of being wanted.
But he was right and, I was wrong.
He could have loved me.
I just didn't let him.
Wherever you are in the world,
I am sorry.
I hope you have a good life.
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 6:59 AM UTC
When Death comes by
Do you really see a man, a mere human?
Is it possible that an entity as ancient could be so?
It’s been there longer than any of us
Seen more than we could imagine
It would make the bravest demigods
Children again, crying for their mothers
It's an entity as old as Change and Time
- Something not many can claim
It's seen Change and stagnation
Seen triumph, as well as the bitter tears
Of one who has lost everything,
Including their own identity,
After having known ‘everything’.
I am Fire and I am Ice.
Get too close to me and you will be,
Changed, for better or worse.
You will be changed. Anything that
Comes near me does. I am inescapable.
Even galaxies explode, even stars fall
I am inescapable. I am indestructible
Come to me and you'll lose yourself
Look me in the eye and you shall see
A reflection. You will be changed.
The worst scars I give, remain unseen
You've looked me in the Eye, and now,
You pay the price, with nothing less
Than Mind, Heart and Soul. Bodies are
Now reparable. Scars can be hidden
The soul and your heart... That is where
Your true weakness lies and I leave the
Marks of my possession there. I am neither
Moral nor immoral. I am and I remain.
Some might romanticise my presence, but
I am neither good, nor bad. I simply Am.
I might bring pain or I may bring salvation
I am as I have been and as I shall remain
Humanity will come and go, the Milky Way
Will be extinguished. I will remain.
After all, I Am.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 7:53 AM UTC
Did I ever tell you that I miss you?
That now when the sun shines, I can't feel its warmth
Because I'm quite sure that you were the sun for me
My own bright star.
I could romanticise the constellations for you,
I really could.
But you of all people know that I was never a
Romantic.
Instead of love letters I'd give you stutters
And instead of flowers I'd give you a crane
Made from the napkin that I used to wipe pasta
Sauce from my face.
Unsurprising is the fact that you left without a word,
Leaving me here to write words about you and
Your arms when they held me,
Even for the briefest of moments.
Sometimes my brain tells my eyes that it was you
That passed the corner by our cafe.
But I'm still convinced that you're a dream and I'm
An insomniac not quite woken up,
Since my eyes are still half-closed.
You could be my Sirius or my Adhara,
Or even their flanks.
After all, Mirzam and Sirius were lovers-
Or siblings, I never did quite get that right.
Forgive me, gorgeous.
I lose my mind around you and talk about the
Stars as if they're your eyes.
That would indeed be the closest comparison,
After all.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 5:37 AM UTC
That’s the thing with us poets.
We fall in love too hard.
We get the worst heartaches.
And we still romanticise it.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
There's poetry in scars.
Do not romanticise them, they do not deserve such compliments, but
There's a story there.
Often I stare at my own and I remember
What it was that drove me to put them there
What forced me to guitily indulge in my habit.
Scars fade but they never disappear.
They're a melancholy reminder of my narrative.
They are the promise of a sequel.
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 9:47 PM UTC
I appear to be pushing back tears,
And I'm trying to stay strong.
Why have I been seeking forgiveness for all these years?,
Why did I romanticise my Demons in song?
I feel like the stem of a Rose,
A quaint mind of beautiful words to take away others hurt.
But I pierce the skin of those who comes close,
As I stamp on the acquaintances I left in the dirt.
Spawn of a Speed fiend and the ******* of an ***** freak,
A walking disease.
Ever so volatile and ****** to Hell like a Sinners smile,
Walking for miles in my own head,
Only to fall to my knees at Satan craving;
Death.
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 8:09 AM UTC
I'm writing narrative poetry
To please the masses with verse
Un-versed because nobody knows
How to do it anymore.
(insert metaphor for the heart)
Heart's are just organs teaspoons are the real deal
Here is happiness,tempest on a teaspoon
Getting quicker with the drips don't call them tears
Where's the originality?
(cackle at alteration and appreciate the notion
of a bracket and enjambement)
If emotion rests in the balance of milliliters
I'm calling it real because hearts beat
And that's it; don't romanticise, rationalise.
Your brain is intelligence doesn't mean it's apathy.
(end it here before people know you're being insulting
and **** ink tears into little noteboks)
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 5:38 PM UTC
We have the privilege
to romanticise rain.
We talk about the cold breeze,
the soothing sounds
of falling droplets
and the feelings
that are evoked within us.
However, to some others,
rain simply means
a cold sleepless night.
Rain, to them
is like an uninvited guest,
who finds its way through
cracks and holes
and sits uncomfortably close.
A guest who leaves
only when they please.
To some others
rain is like an old friend
who's face they can no longer
remember.
They don't even remember
the last time they met
because it did not seem
like an incident
that was important enough
to commit to memory.
If only they had known
that it was the last time
in a long time...
And the ones who farm
to feed us all
pray for rain
that is just enough.
Not too less or too much.
And when it pours,
the elixir flows
to quench the thirst of doubts
'will there be yield?'
'will my children eat?'
A reassuring yes.
So, the next time
rain runs towards you
and drenches you
with an affectionate hug,
embrace it
and let it be no stranger.
Jun 20, 2019
Jun 20, 2019 at 5:23 AM UTC
Maybe I romanticise the past.
I deny the quarrels,
Ignore the fights.
But sweet memories happened,
I didn't imagine them to be true.
They are real.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 4:42 AM UTC
If your poor like me,
Your flesh is gonna be burned
And added to the pollution problem,
And our smoke will rise
And be added with said skies,
Should I romanticise
Your body's burning a bit?
OK:
You shall join former skies
Like a mist of your essense,
Your embers will burn forever
Until they fall back from the waves
Of winds that have carried those before
You, and those that have yet
To join you.
And if you have enough money
Your get a proper burial
And get seen by many people you
Really weren't close to any more,
Those who already became cadavers
Long ago in your heart,
They walk with other corpses
That never penetrated your true self.
And $5000 in a plot of dirt,
Your picture on a slab of marble,
A song sung awkward by some
Niece or nephew,
Tears for the day,
And your body cannot rejoin the
Earth because the coffin
Isnt bio degradable.
Its just your body,
But the soul is finally free
From the riff raff of the flesh.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 2:51 PM UTC