"romanticized" poems
hello,
have you been
well?
i guess not,
for your attention
in my poem
could tell
sorry if this nurse
took so long
in finding
the perfect words
to cure
your soul
first,
strip your clothes
and
stand at the mirror
gaze at the
creature with
the foggy figure
there's
a sinkhole
in those eyes
and a temporary
stitch whenever
you would
smile
the collarbone
which hides,
suffocates from the
blanket of skin
with
sickening lies
it penetrated
and
corrupted your mind
ignored the
fact and just
romanticized
the beast
will **** you,
please
don't find
it ****
the chaos is screaming
later on
you'll be
empty
i know how
a reflection
cries
you lost yourself
you lost you
it's like
having a stray cat
beneath your
tissues
a wandering stranger
sails from
the memories
of truth
overflowing blood
choaked
your dilemmas
too
it mimicked the
fire of hell
in those
shoes
the greatest harm
you'll ever
cause you
but why a
nurse
and not a
doctor?
listen here,
you are your
fighter
the cure and the pain,
which decision
will define?
all i can
say is,
save yourself
from death,
because
it hasn't
deseved you yet
go ahead
and fight your
way to life
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 3:51 AM UTC
I'm a Barbie Girl,
in a Barbie World.
Life's fantastic: I
feel like plastic,
aiming for an eighteen-inch waist because I can afford to throw my internal organs away.
I feel like plastic,
having to choose
between eating and breathing with not enough space for two tubes.
I feel like plastic,
a thirty-nine inch bust and three times the forehead.
I feel like plastic,
a size nine squeezed to a three, spending
three to nine avoiding mealtime because my weight loss book says
'Don't eat.'
I'm a Barbie Girl,
in a Barbie World.
Life's fantastic, but...
I'm not plastic.
I've sat here listening while you complain about society but I don't think you realize that
society is made by you.
You complain about masks but you're masked by your poetry and
trust me,
it's trendy:
Psychiatry.
A bottle of capsules captures your soul and your dreams,
fading
reality.
I cannot be defined because a definition leaves no room for change and I
am a flame,
ready to burn the cardboard box of priority you put over me.
All the cool kids are lesbians and thespians on about repressions
and I care,
I do,
I mean... I'm standing here among you.
But words are just air.
You can stand on this stage and tell me I'm beautiful, but
I am more than my face so
disregard my mild distaste for your
inspirational speech.
Now, this...
This isn't a call for help.
This is a call to arms.
This
is a battle cry because
I
am sick of waiting for a future that should've happened yesterday.
So use this air to live the words you say and
rally.
Do not soothe, because we've already been cocooned by soothed reality in
Shawnee,
Johnson County.
I'm a real girl,
in a real world.
Life's fantastic, and I
refuse to be plastic,
aiming for generic weight range based on content, not scale number.
I refuse to be plastic,
a neck moulded perfectly for both eating and breathing so I don't have to choose.
I refuse to be plastic,
a bust that you don't need to be sizing
when I've got eyes
a green not of romanticized meadows but of drunken
puke.
I refuse to be plastic,
a size nine foot in a size nine shoe,
spending three to nine
enjoying my meal times,
because my weight loss book is
chucked down the chute.
I'm a living girl
in a beautiful world.
Life's fantastic,
because I'm not plastic.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC
Nobody was born today
But you picked up a cake anyway
for five dollars fifty plus tax
Now you're watching
Criminal Minds on a couch made for three
and eating it with your hands
It vaguely occurs to you that
you should be sharing it with someone
or at least put on some **** candles
You're not even hungry
you don't even need to fill a void
you did good today
You hardly even miss her anymore.
You haven't thought about it in weeks.
If you just slept you'd be fine in the morning.
You consider it all
examining the red velvet
stuck under your thumbnail
Maybe you're looking for
a file or a prison shank
sunk beneath the frosting
Or maybe you just need
to make this a Night
The Night of the Cake
It'll blend in
with the others
in a matter of time
But for a few weeks
you'll look back
and remember
you are a member
of those romanticized ranks
those plastic or terracotta statues
Tomorrow you will feed the dog.
And after work you will pick up groceries.
And after groceries you will pay your bills.
But tonight is the Night of Cake.
Tonight
you become a stereotype
An unforgiving consumer
with chocolate-stained hands.
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 1:33 AM UTC
Nearly home.
The bed
And the slippers grow ever closer.
A memory of things that give comfort seem palatial,
Euphoric in the mind's eye,
Though I do seem to ponder of its romanticized reality
Memories always seem so warm.
In reality,
The things that hold others close are affirming.
Love,
Shared events
Symbiotic empathy,
But given the current state...
The boring,
The mundane,
The trivial and the tedious that makes the most of a lifetime
Are omitted from the mind.
But why not have a memory full of nothing but the nothingness of life?
The train rides?
Waiting for the toaster to splay its insides
So I can feast on its wonderful toasty goodness?
Talking to the tenant who does not understand
That a bouncing leg
And constant time updates are signposts to **** off?
Empty the files of my brain
And fill it with the moments of nothing.
These moments and these alone
Are your true self.
if you are a good person
Is not determined by
How many charities earn your pay
Or how many items stored,
What you are is chosen by the lonely,
The solitary,
The Tigress.
Only when you accept that person,
You are happy
And free.
But don't hold your breath.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 11:29 AM UTC
these days
looking around the globe
one might believe that we are travelling in time
just in the wrong direction
regression as progress
seems to be
the dominant notion of the day
creating wannabees in various disguises
populist czars, sultans, nationalists, dictators,
assorted self-appointed snake-oil salesmen
and saviors of their peoples’ wealth and health,
trumpeting fences, walls, tough immigration laws,
etc., etc.
to keep out all those aliens
who otherwise are welcome
as our partners in the global trade
that seems to dominate the world of greed
so we can all be ourselves
whatever that might mean
claiming to solve the problems of tomorrow
with romanticized memories of yesterday
is hopeless and quite dangerous
do you remember
what that glorified past
actually was?
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 5:36 PM UTC
'you've felt it, haven't you? those feelings that seem to get so big in your chest, like something is so beautiful it aches.' - Heather Anastasiu
'you have a place in my heart no one else ever could have.' - F. Scott Fitzgerald
'i knew he didn't love me, but i adored him anyway.' - Patti Smith
'i like people with depth, i like people with emotion, i like people with a strong mind, an interesting mind, a twisted mind, and also people that can make me smile.' - Abbey Lee Kershaw
'most days i wish i never met you because then i could sleep at night and i wouldn't have to walk around with the knowledge there was someone like you out there.' - Good Will Hunting
'i have a million things to talk to you about. all i want in this world is you. i want to see you and talk. i want the two of us to begin everything from the beginning.' -Haruki Murakami
'i love you in that crazy, stupid, i want to rip your throat out and kiss you at the same time love.
that love where it's so overwhelming i hate you for making me feel so vulnerable.
that love that takes over your mind and i end up thinking about you so much i drive myself into complete and utter insanity.
that love which where i put my heart on my sleeve, took everything you could throw at me and still loved you with the little pieces you left.
the love that i'll tell my kids about, the 'what if' kind of love, the one i'll never forget.
the love of my life.
that's the way i love you.' - Chippylou
'i am holding your name
underneath my tongue
in case you ask me
to make my favorite
sound.' - Stolenwine
'i need to rip your
name off my tongue;
it no longer taste
sweet. - a.w.k.jones
'i keep thinking you already know. i keep thinking i've sent you letters that were only ever written in my mind.' - Iain Thomas
'i guess what scares me the most is knowing that at any moment, you could rip my heart out of my chest, tear it into pieces, throw it on the ground and stomp all over it. and that i'd just pick it up and hand it back to you.'
'i romanticized you
to the point where
the knives you pressed
into my skin
began to look
like cupid's arrows.'
'i'll never be busy enough to not miss you.' - m.k
'i never really liked
my name
much
until i found out
what it tastes like
when you sigh it
into my
mouth'.
'i have tried to let you go and i cannot. i cannot stop thinking of you. i cannot stop dreaming about you.' - Erin Morgenstern, The Night Circus
'your heart and my heart are very, very old friends.' - Hafiz, Persian poet, "Your Mother and My Mother"
'she hated that she was still so desperate for a glimpse of him, but it had been this way for years.' - Julia Quinn
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 3:47 AM UTC
My sassy gay friend
Is not an accessory
When you go rooting through the closet and find him
Lacing straight ties into chains
Do not think that he will complete your outfit
Just because a rainbow holds the hues that you were looking for
Haven’t you seen that bruises also bloom in shades of purple and blue
Fading into green and yellow
With red far too often escaping veins that are supposed to hold it in
Haven’t you seen what marks us
And brings our identity to the surface of our skin
When closet doors are slammed too often against our hands
My sassy gay friend
Is not a decoration
You do not get to wear him at your hip
To flaunt your acceptance
And claim symbiosis
As if he needs you to navigate the streets of heteronormativity
Cutting short his words when communication is the best thing we have
And when speaking fails us we resort to spending an afternoon
Sending smoke signals into the sky
Waiting for security in the focus that it takes just to
Breathe
My sassy gay friend
Is not a collectible
You do not get to gather us up into a complete set
To line us neatly in an array
Of rarities and charities
And alternative identities
Until you feel sufficiently well rounded
In your attempted diversity
My sassy gay friend
Is not an icon
A token character
Or comic relief
My sassy gay friend
Is not meant to be romanticized
Idolized
Or fetishized
He is human
I am human
You are human
And if we see each other as sparkles and rhinestones
We're all going to lose all the value
That can't be found on price tags
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC
I have been treated like a game and people ask me why.
I just want to sit on the sidelines.
Do you know what it’s like to be looked at as a number,
As flesh, as something that can fulfill someone’s temporary
Needs when all you want is so to be wanted as a person?
You start to believe it. You start to believe you can only
Be beautiful in the context of one night, one picture.
You start to believe you are as shallow as the compliments
That are copied to you and several other people.
You start to believe you have to fight for someone’s
Attention when you should never have to do that.
You start to believe that only certain clothes
make you attractive because when you’re wearing them, they notice you.
You start to believe your opinions don’t matter because
they don’t want to hear them.
You start to believe you will have to settle for an empty
day or week of flirting just so you can feel something.
You start to believe that there isn’t such a thing as love
because no one seems to be looking for it.
At least that’s what I started to believe.
I have lost sleep over people who didn’t even
consider me a loss. I have waited for texts and
phone calls that were never coming.
I have romanticized words and gestures that
were far from romantic.
I have fallen for people only to realize it was
because they pushed me. I have broken my own
heart on the behalf of other people.
I have laid right next to people who might as well
have been 100 miles away.
I have believed words that were empty.
I have let all of this happen in an attempt to find love,
and I have found the opposite.
Maybe there are people who don’t need or want something
that lasts, something that’s real, something that you want to
share in the morning light and not hide in the night.
Maybe there are people who don’t realize the games they
play have losers. Maybe there are people need nothing
more than a night or a weekend or repeated words.
And I guess all of that is okay. But I am not like that,
and that’s okay.
I want someone that I can fall asleep next to with
a smile on my face. I want someone who doesn’t make
me wait and wonder. I want words that are spoken
just for me. I want to fall for someone with the promise
that they will catch me. I want someone who tries not to
hurt me and cares if they do. I want someone who feels like
they’re right next to me even when they are 100 miles away.
I want to feel something that even scratches
the surface of what love is.
No matter where I go or what I do, you'll always be the one person I hope I can one day come home to.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 2:34 PM UTC
3AM
3AM thoughts are not a thing of beauty.
3AM thoughts haunt you.
They do not care if you have school the next day.
They do not care if you have to wake up early the next day.
Hell, they do not care if you've stayed up the past week because of them.
3AM thoughts are romanticized.
They are not something you want.
They are not something you need.
They are not something you desire.
3AM thoughts chill you to the bone
They cause anxiety
They cause bad grades
They cause chaos
3AM thoughts cause tears.
They do not fill you with happiness
They do not fill you with hope
They do not fill you with future goals.
3AM thoughts haunt you
With "what ifs"
With "why wasn't I good enough"
With "will I ever be good enough"
3AM thoughts fill you with questions that will never be answered.
"What if I was skinnier"
"What if I was prettier"
"What did I do"
3AM thoughts are all about you.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 7:48 PM UTC
**The allure of everything bad
The allure of vices that nullify circumstances which make living seem sad
The 'Hollywood' cigarette, the hard liquor... ******* crystal ****
All very romanticized but in reality, isn't that really just a self-induced slow death?
We don't talk about it, until we watch from the sidelines
If only for a second
When partaking one repeats quotes like 'it is what it is'
'I am not a quitter'
You've built up a tolerance for one, so you beckon
The bartender to pour you a second
Social trend like a hot topic on twitter
So now you want more
You ignorantly jab the needle inside you like you don't know what your signing up for
In a sense you don't, for you choose not to
Addiction entraps... but who?
Not you
And the moment you decide to go cold turkey
It appears more enticing in another movie, or in the hands of a fellow druggie
Impossible to reject
Relapse... rubber band effect
Yet even he that doesn't use gets a little curious
One day the stress becomes too much to handle, he's peeved
He's furious
He's heard of pills sold over the counter, and also of those available from dusty cobwebbed shelves
By dealers with hollowed out eyes, ghosts of their former selves
In an alternate reality
Where 'it's all good'
It's all about finding solace in one happy, high family... 'It's all hood'
A distorted image of zoned out smiling faces
Floating around in temporary elation
These vices have comforted and haunted many, way before our so called 'X-rated generation'
The druggie, the alcoholic or the *** addict you see... could be your's or someone else's dad
Or it could very well be you or me
Seduced by the allure of everything bad
I write this expecting it to be misunderstood by many...
For a judgement between bad and good
I myself could be affiliated to one of these vices... or many
Someone reading this may have already renamed it 'The allure of everything good'.**
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 4:01 AM UTC
I must admit that I am bored.
Utterly bored, actually, with the overly romanticized construct of dominance.
How easily one can claim to be dominant.
Shocking? No.
We as human beings aspire to attain the intangible.
Exponential wealth. Immortality. Fame. Power.
We live in a world of illusion and fallacy.
We drive cars that we can’t afford,
often to jobs that we despise.
We attain validation through the media,
from blasé people that require it in return.
What I have found- and take this for what you will,
is that my longing for external dominance is simply a translation for
“By god please take control, and ground me to something real.”
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 5:25 PM UTC
Do you believe in fate?
Or is it just some romanticized emotion?
Do you think people are connected?
Or does love only come from devotion?
Have you ever felt sad without knowing why?
So you stare while you drive and you try not to cry
The salt water blurs out the road as it sits in my eye
Everything in me wants to let those waters cascade down my imperfect skin
Yet everything in me holds back that raging sea with the quick motion of blinking lashes
There is nothing and everything in that moment
Time is here and every emotion once felt rises to the surface
Every regret of a path not taken stares at these flooded bloodshot blue windows
They shine the brightest at these moments
Who I truly am dances and shines as it reflects my inner most being
My soul swims in the blue
Regret smiles
No tears are shed
I smile
Regret subsides
It always does
I always love
When time continues I exist
When time stops I thrive
I’m here I’m alive and somehow I survive
Jan 8, 2021
Jan 8, 2021 at 10:57 AM UTC
You want me to be your manic pixie dream girl
So today I am a gardener
I’ll plant daisies and you can put them in my hair
Tomorrow you’ll fall in love with the freckles on my nose
I’ll make you sing along to bands you’ve never heard of
We’ll stop on the side of a highway to watch the sunset
I’ll remind you of what it feels like to be alive
You tell me to be a supporting character in your great adventure
So I’ll tag along behind you
Make you stop and look at bugs on the sidewalk
You’ll love the way I’m not like other girls
I’ll get a tattoo of a flower on my ribs
You’ll call me amaryllis
And I’ll change my name because you want me to
I’ll be the garden you grow with your green thumb
The one you show off to your friends
Make them bask in my beauty until you feel better about yourself
Eventually I’ll lose my shimmer
No more golden glitter, just dust
You’ll write the final chapter of my life
Give me the unsuspecting ending you believe I deserve
Stuff me in a suitcase and bury me in the backyard
Make everyone believe I ran away
Chasing a romanticized version of life I could never give
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 10:49 PM UTC
I understand they find dinosaur bones there in your backyard. Big ones. I've never been to your house or even close to that neighborhood, but ever since you've written me, I am completely intrigued. What you said about me, I think about you in an execrable Hemingway way, maybe as in his "Death In The Afternoon." All the goring. Faintheartedness is nothing to be carried by bullfighters or by bone hunters, I suppose. If there were a way of going back to days of nobler more romanticized slaughtering in bullrings, without the controversy, I'd have to say it is more evident in our modern day Jurassic Park flicks where nerdish paleontologists are transformed into fiendishly handsome toreadors.
I know I'm not making much sense. Bullfights and dinosaur rustling, what's to compare? One being non-civilized though colorful and bathetic, the other fantastical but forgivable because the beasts bite back. Oh, if only I could explain these machismo machinations. What a ruse. How song and dance does intrigue. Please write me again from South Dakota. I'd like to book one of those dusty dinosaur tours before I go extinct. Bone hunts, bullfights, same difference.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 9:47 PM UTC
*Let me tell you the beginning of a love story
That began with pretty eyes and rosy lips
Let me tell you the beginning of a love story
That started with hello and ended in silence
Let me tell you the beginning of a love story
Where he was all she thought she'd need
Let me tell you the beginning of a love story
Where she romanticized everything
Let me tell you the beginning of a love story
He read her words in a celebrity's voice
Let me tell you the beginning of a love story
Where getting swept away wasn't a choice
Let me tell you the middle of a love story
Roses grew among the thorns
Let me tell you the middle of a love story
And they lost everything they thought they'd found
Let me tell you the middle of a love story
Where he chose to walk away
Let me tell you the middle of a love story
Where she captured his essence in poetry for days
Let me tell you the end of a love story
The pen is falling to the ground
Let me tell you the end of a love story
Where they begged and pleaded too loud
Let me tell you the end of a love story
Where everything turned out wrong
Let me tell you the end of a love story
Just because a song is bad doesn't mean you don't sing along
This is the end of our love story
Who put faith in chemistry anyway
These are the last words of our love story
So hello, my dear, and goodbye*
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 7:46 PM UTC
Before you fall in love with a suicidal girl
Don't.
Suicide can not be romanticized and though she might idolize you
Remember that you may not be enough.
Remember that this world may never be enough.
Demons don't just go away, sometimes they just hide in the shadows.
And even at the highest noon they are there. Just smaller. The sun will go down.
She will always have shadows.
Remember that no matter what you do
You are irrelevant in her master plan.
She will plan out her letters in your arms.
When she is silent hold her. Make her know that she is loved, it may not be enough but those few moments in your arms might make her think twice.
But don't assume for one second you will be her savior.
When you see cuts on her wrists do not beg her to stop.
She won't.
She will cut deeper for letting you see her weak.
She will try to be strong.
She will put on a show for you. She will make you forget she was ever depressed.
Remember that sunsets can make you forget that night is bound to follow.
Know that night will follow.
When you get her final love letter to you
Ignore the fact that it is stained in blood.
Do not pour your precious time.into wondering if she suffered.
She will write her apologies in her best handwriting.
Do not read it.
Get in your car and drive.
Drive to the nearest bar and read the letter through hazy bloodshot eyes.
Do not blame yourself.
Do not look for moments you could have done something different.
It'll drive you crazy.
Before you fall in love with a suicidal girl.
Don't.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 3:55 PM UTC
You've left me here
In pools of honey and vanilla
Dreaming of London fog
Holding onto chamomile evenings
With every last breath
Orange pekoe on my tongue
Thoughts of you like jasmine flowers
Warm water and green tea
Something hibiscus and peach
Floating like little worlds
Surrounding me as I drown
In this romanticized life
Watching you swirl your spoon
In everything
We said
Was not our cup of tea
Feb 1, 2022
Feb 1, 2022 at 2:32 PM UTC
Fierce is god impenitrable
glad glad glad there is a
Fire up the street called Heaven
There is
A woman wearing only one shoe who is taking
an exhaustive drag of her smoke in the
early morning where birds are
still heard in
!!!!!!cities
A hymnal a
heralded nest of savory berries A quartzstone is trapped in time a myth is made more ridiculous when proven real
Continents wither where the flies glue their
regal canvases on downtrodden earth (missing Pangea)
Or smiles everlasting smiles meanwhile
(Blonde tongues wearing fashioned wigs)
in constant state of beguilement
The Neanderthalic stones will be unforgiving to the REVEREND who has collapsed through his song the song of lead pipedream fantasies of sexless dogma YEAH monkhood yeah Ghat burning holes in twilit schools of thought or no thought at all
I can
hear the collective Faerie outcry that silence has presented itself HEAvier to their wicked careless bodies ok I am innocent of love I love your innocent love I am careless(of their wicked careless bodies)
ResemblingA swans actual duty to die
a swan lies a swan lay
like an even more beautiful swan
on even more beautiful swanny grass
To die by swanlightSUN and MOON white like the swan where we soon listen closely to the swansong a celestialLOVELY
rhythm of gilded forest (((((orchestrals
The swan leaves us in happiness of bright groggy light
O (of which in chaos of day I am again innocent)
The Reverend's desperate gaspings into a micro -phone for a macro - cosmic prayer idol o idol where is your capability for worship idol o where is my chinstrap o idol where is ****** youth or the romanticized eternal SUMMERS I sing
O bible O cloudland O where is your telephone operator is they deceased by their own fragrant holines? The church
Watches the Reverend neverend his television routine of clamoring death odes
Watches his senility come like an implorical shadow outline watches a demon lick its dreamless lips beyond the periphery of godless dreams
Watches
Reverend lose his sight in anInstant
HeWAILSheWAILSandWAILS can you hear it Thomas De Quincey can you hear the sandbeaches ringing more clearly than the ChurchBells or the ****** Pagoda for torture /
his soul is to sleep in the (mossy)mountain the fire of the (forever)street called HEAVEN the mountain column supporting the sky(swan)gate of heavenHeaven!welcome
to:
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 9:41 PM UTC
There are railroad tracks
That run through my town
And at night when I finally receive
The silence I wished for during the day
I can hear the faint whistle
And hum against my bedroom windows
I hear the whistle now.
All my life I have heard the trains
And I find beauty in the fact that even when I'm not listening, they are there
The trains carrying coal, chemicals, lumber, and the better parts of my childhood
As a child I loved the idea of the caboose
Allowing any stretch of rail
Any length of land
To be your home
Your bed
And it was probably through this my wanderer spirit grew.
All my life these trains meant something
Escape
But not without possibility of return
I romanticized the long web of rails connecting all the land and Souls in the American night
I have always loved such pieces of antiquity
So in the latter years of my childhood in high school it's no suprise the love I had for Steinbeck, Sandburg, and Woody Guthrie
I would lament to friends that the trains became too fast to hop, but I never tried
I always sat back and watched
Or listened on quiet nights
Now my childhood has passed
I am nearly 20 but wrapped in my head is the idea that the young boy who had train posters and pictures covering his walls was nothing but a stranger or a character in just another awful coming of age rerun
But deep down that child turned to Ginsberg who wrote of boxcars boxcars boxcars
And Kerouac who followed the long stretches of road to the western edge of America
And it was through Kerouac I found
Thomas Wolfe
I feel I have Thomas Wolfe in my bones
Thomas Wolfe who left home rejoicing train rides to the North
Then realized he couldn't go home again
Thomas Wolfe who never wrote a bad train scene
Not all of Wolfe is in me
Not the 1900s Southern prejudice
Or the raving accusing of friends of great treasons, only to have to apologize the morning after
But I can feel his need
To write all I can
To never take away
To add add
To never reduce because who tells Van Gogh "yes yer paintings alright but I need you to reduce the amount of stars by 30 and I expect it on my desk Monday"
I won't take anything away from myself
Only add
So at nights
When I hear the train whistle
And soft rattling on my window
Thomas Wolfe is with me
And he loves the sound too
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 11:13 PM UTC
'So It Begins...'
once upon a time
there was a girl
who always ran around in circles
figuratively, of course
not literally, because if she was literally always running in circles, she'd pretty soon be dead
but that's neither here nor there. back to the girl
she had no idea that she did this
but everyone around and about
was painfully aware of her issues
she was convinced that she was always coming up with new and exciting ideas
when really she just spent all her time recycling her own idiocy
and she became increasingly irate as all the things that she kept around
even though she would never admit that she intentionally kept them around
started to seem wrong
or used
or just completely foreign
until a magic prince
with a magic want
who totally dug the fact that this chick was entirely self obsessed and weird
and pretty much certifiable
snuck in the middle of the night
and robbed the ***** blind
however
because the guy took all her worthless
pointless
and in the end
meaningless baggage away with him
she replaced her former obsessions with stalking him
and he became her magic want
which he severely regretted soon enough
because with her circular habits
her stalking efforts were not unlike being relentlessly pursued
by a small
angry
but not entirely unaffectionate
chihuahua
he fully intended for her to stalk him from the beginning
but unfortunately
as he had been raised in a pseudo-feministic
yet highly romanticized society
he was under the false impression that once this chick started pursuing him
she would give in to her basest wants
and deep seated but repressed desires
that every girl has but doesn't admit
to ending up with a magic prince
he was wrong
there
was
no
fairytale
and once she caught up with him
the relationship that ensued
became a vicious cycle of marriage, divorce, and remarriage
because he had been ****** in
to her circularity.
the end
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 6:28 PM UTC
i wish i knew how to put some pretty words together;
in a way that you could read me and cry without realizing it,
in a way that you don't know how it all suddenly made sense
but it all fell together - so right - till the end.
with the steady hand of a seamstress and the persistence of a theorist,
i would string together wispy letters, carefully taking away
and holding all the guilty, lukewarm feelings of self-romanticized nostalgia,
with those hollow, deep pangs of shamelessly missing you
from the somewheres and over theres beneath my ribs.
sometimes, i really miss you - and all of those times, i hate it.
sometimes i stare back at you longer than i should,
but i'm beginning to think that even looking your way
is much worse than a waste of sweet time at this point.
i don't want you inside of my mind anymore.
my wants and needs and maybes of tomorrow are foggy and furiously blinded with
what you used to make me feel. will i ever want anything that much again?
i see you a lot in my mind, smiling handsomely in a way that kind of ****** me off.
in some way, i am overwhelmingly upset in a way i can't describe, in such a strange dialect that
i've maybe only begun to understand when you spoke it to me with watery eyes and an offkey tone:
"i can't do it." i think i know what you mean now.
you were trying to say something deep, i had thought all along,
but i think you were just trying, just simply trying to go along
with something that was safe; you know, i forgive you for playing it safe.
we're just trying to protect what little good we think is left.
i wish i could have tried just as hard; tried harder/ to be with you
because i'm just so tired
(i need to rub my eyes clear)
that i will exasperatingly admit that i am lost after you.
i'm so ruthlessly childish, in a curious way that i refuse to let these warm,
painful feelings for you go.
ruthlessly, still into you, i'm so hardheaded that i will even ignore myself
to forget you
over
(this is the last time i'll look back on you)
and over
(i swear his name won't come to me tomorrow)
again.
you replay in my mind;
maybe one day i will
forget that you ever really meant everything to me once
anyways.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 8:46 PM UTC
I belong to you
whether you like it or not.
ever since that celestial night we spent together reminiscing about how broken we both are
but not the kind of broken
that people are afraid to touch,
or the kind of broken that can be seen on the surface,
the kind of broken that comes with giving your heart willingly into hands that tremble and shake whenever they hear the word 'commitment'
what was it about your touch that made me forget every dark and protruding insecurity that paid rent in my heart
Was it the way the corner of your eyes wrinkled every time you blessed this world with your forgiving smile
was it the way your laugh sounded like every one of my favourite songs perfectly in unison
was it the way I finally understood what home meant when you grabbed me by the shoulders and told me that I am a song worth being sung from rooftops
Was it the way I romanticized the idea of us, two dismantled antiques on a dusty floor, neglected and unappreciated, falling in love with each other
maybe.
I'm not sure if you're 'the one' but I am undoubtedly sure of the way I wish I could replay moments we've shared over and over and over again and maybe some how download the first time you ever uttered 'I love you' onto my retinas
I am sure of my devotion to you and how it is synonymous with how the moon will never give up on the sun, how the bees will never give up on daisies and how we will never give up on each other
I am broken
and I am mangled
and I am terribly sorry
but I am also blossoming with love and the burning urge to finally define 'forever' with you, if you'd let me.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
The Sun warms us in her embrace
Then tucks us in with a blanket of stars
And leaves us with the romanticized Moon
But she always returns
Kissing us awake with her beams of love
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 7:40 PM UTC
We have romanticized the idea
of a large ceramic bowl
an area
to potentially suffocate
lay until water drops body temperature
sticky humidity
is this sweat or water
cinnamon scented
and flavored
snafu: flames
singe my nostrils with your desserts
naked
and vulnerable
but completely content
I am stewing
in ceramic bowls
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 11:18 PM UTC
There is a weird
And not so wonderful fetish
Particularly British
Common
Amongst commoners
In the United Kingdom
Although the aristocracy
And royalty
Are seen by all
With eyes to see
To have behaved
Abominally
Tortured and twisted
Enslaved, enchained
***** re-shaped
With bloodstained hands
The entire planet
Sending ordinary
More innocent
English men
To do their ***** work
Their dastardly
Disastrous deeds
As slaves of knaves
Through common British eyes
These horrible people
Are placed high upon
Holy pedestals
Romanticized
Idealized, Idolized
Canonized
Perhaps there's some
Vicarious thrill
Exercising
Enforcing
Power and evil will?
But the hand no pleasure gets
When, through rubbing, wets itself!
Sean Hunt
Windermere January 1st 2016
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 3:19 PM UTC