"scoffing" poems
So I'm a little down.
So I'm not like everyone else.
So I'm battling something people don't know much about.
So I'm different.
So I'm "dysfunctional".
So I'm not from a traditional background.
So what?
Does that mean,
I shouldn't be allowed to attend my college?
The one thing keeping me going?
That I should be locked up in the loony bin?
All because my brain has become numb to some pain?
I've found function in my alleged dysfunction,
some traditions occasionally get broken.
Exceptions to the rules are made.
The world is full of suffering,
but it is also full of overcoming it.
So where do you get off,
telling me how to deal with something
you've only read about in your
guidance text books?
Where five minutes into meeting me,
that you feel the ability to dictate how I should go
about my life?
I've lived 20 years on this Earth
without your input,
sure, it hasn't been perfect,
but I've made the unconventional work.
I mean, ask anybody that actually knows me,
if they would ever consider me "conventional".
So don't sit there, and hide behind words like
"I just want what's best for you", "I care about you", "I'm concerned",
"Its your choice to go, but if you don't:
the police will forcibly escort you,
or you'll not be allowed to be in our college community."
Scoffing at the word community,
because whenever someone tries to use that word,
usually it is about discluding people, rather than including them.
"So, either be discluded now, by your 'choice', or by us making you.
All the while, literally 12 hours previous,
we had zero idea what was going on,
or even who you were. "
Seems like you really do have "my best interests at heart", huh?
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 2:57 AM UTC
Many people worry about their weight
In case it stops them ever getting a date
But gaining a few odd pounds is nothing
Just the result of a few days' greedy scoffing.
It's when you gain a couple of stones+,
And oozing fat smothers all your aching bones,
When your butts squelch against each other
Then you know you are a big fat mother.
But the cure for this is but a simple job:
You wire a padlock o'er your greedy gob.
Take daily laxatives and have no fear:
All will be relieved by constant diarrhoea.
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 8:13 AM UTC
My brothers dog is a naughty boy
he chews on the furniture, and destroys his toys
the chap can even open the bread bin
scoffing all that is contained within
My brother did say, just the other day
with a huff and a puff in somewhat dismay
that he had caught his crafty mutt licking
the board that he chops his food on
He had wondered why it always kept clean
now he knows, all is not always what it seems
Yet my brother loves that puppy
and together they are so very happy
but he is a rowdy little sod
is my brothers naughty dog
By Christos Andreas aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris
© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 11:07 AM UTC
*standing on the threshold of change, I await a fresh-line
but the universe may be unready
if not, I may take to choppy-waters
all by myself*
1.
if we are all stuck in the jam of time
perhaps, if we spread it out real thin
some of us could actually lift off
and catch a ride.. out
free some hostage from the twisting temporal-joints
and the wool-gatherers mind their business
and footsore beggars dine on exotic-things
deep in the heart of the jungle
where Nebuchadnezzar parked his dreams of old
by saving your surprise for a weekday jaunt
we limp on in the vacant-dust of paradox
yet get unavoidably detained by the present
undo the ribbons and the package may unfold its.. things
espy the tick-tock riding the margin of fright
common sense of morn lies delightfully unfinished
and the wrong side of a bold idea gets squashed
the brain-weary ingest their lot and plough on through thickets of tricky-fate
while tiptoeing silent on the farthest-blades of brimstone
holding subtly aloft.. the frankness of aiding-spectres
2.
balloon of green, balloon of blue
hold out your hand and pray you get no inequalities of flame
easy catch of the sound of science scoffing in the parlour
when we try to do something different; take a chance
uncivilised-humour will argue the rings off your punctured-lobes
any germ of new plan must needs be nurtured
let any frenemy go; intolerant-ilk do better by their vacuous selves
remarkably convenient
there's almost enough water in the well
to soak up the ivory-rays and let them fly
and there's a breeze lifting the needle off the ancient-groove
spinning reels on the bay
*no, you will never convince me
that the time-keeper holds all keys
'cos I snuck out furtive.. late one night
and sawed through.. for a whole decade
and well, guess what I have here..*
:)
S T - 24 Jan 2014
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 8:24 AM UTC
In the dark of night, in the middle of a storm
A dish falls, shatters
A shriek tears the relative silence
Pale pink blood blossoms in the water
While rich red blood wells up in the hand
Tears falling like a blinding waterfall
Stabs and throbs of aching stinging searing pain
Blood and pain and tears fill the mind
A flash of white tissue beneath the torrents of red
Panting sobs and hyperventilation
Panicking as victim is rushed to the ER
Mother tries to comfort daughter with story of healed,
Previously lacerated toes
Two words blurted between gasps of pain: NOT HELPING
Arrive to an empty lobby, excepting a nurse and receptionist
Focus on nothing, only the hand
The possible tendon torn, the skin shredded, the blood spilt
Dishtowel now soaking red irony fluid instead of clear soapy
The story repeated 6, 7, 8 times
A nurse asks if I smoke or drink
A radiologist asks if there is any chance for pregnancy
And for a moment I am shocked out of my pain into pondering
The corruption of the modern generations,
Such that I am asked these questions
Any friend of mine would quickly tell that
No, I'm not that kind of teenager... but how many are?
Then I am whisked from the x-ray room
Off for stitches, they say my tendon is cut
That I need stitches
The fingers no longer gush, but that triviality is soon remedied
A doctor probes the wound for shards
Nurse flushes it clean with chlorohexadine
Both renew the flow
Doctor returns, stitches both fingers and chats away
Grand tally of five stitches, a splint, blankets of guaze,
And a roll of medical tape
Prescriptions for pain meds and antibiotics, both given
A scoffing glance, but instructions are followed
Forbidden from any activity with the right hand by my mother
I struggle even to write, simple chores soon a nuisance
First time the splint and stitches are gone,
Doctor number two declares my hand usable
First time the little finger bends, the half healed skin splits
So all for a plate, a hand was rendered more useless
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 10:07 PM UTC
strike my eyes lovely
for S. B.
by way of introduction,
when you have gone to confession,
freely admitting you have nothing left for others to harvest,
no seed to plant a new crop, and lies and laughter, interchangeable,
there is no poetry left, not even raisin scone crumbs,
one good friend informs that a forgotten five month old poem,
a computer has selected & resurrected, for distinction
so months later you snicker for you have been seriously
self-kicked away from writing, all your vocabularies,
trite and yellowed overused, and you read
really good poetry and are
slapped-seen-outed by the impoverishment of
your own no-winsome word-smithy,
no delusions, even this, but a-quick script, more a thank you note,
and it’s the only lasting quality is the
genuine nature of its intent
but the poem itself falls bottom of the cliff, short on quality,
a victim of your dissatisfaction
let me explain better
she messages you while the time difference works in her favor,
she reads while you sleep the sleep of the soul-exhausted,
she, scoffing at your claims of motivation deprivation,
as she cherishes this forgotten one,
with words that cannot be ignored
the poem**
strikes her eyes lovely
daggered, this morning phrase cannot go unchallenged
for this a compliment that any poet would
weep for, be inspired by, stung into action,
provoked, ego flattered and challenged to-do more-better,
what writer could want for anything more!
who can own this ability
accept this ultimatum of success, a cross-word crucification
to strike down lovely
the readers eyes, almost all once,
almost excuses me forever
for trying and failing so many times
you smile
but not in the chest where
lovely
needs to strike you
for if you cannot strike the readers eyes again and again, then...
let the moment gleam, and then disappear,
again and again, stored but not restorative
11/21/18
Miami
Nov 22, 2018
Nov 22, 2018 at 7:49 AM UTC
What do you do at 3am when you're tired and bored and its raining?
Maybe this is punishment.
For eating those grapes before you paid for them in Sainsburys.
Or that time you forgot who Buzz Aldron was, or when you took pleasure at beating a five year old at Cluedo.
She started crying, and even then, you still
would not relinquish your title.
Maybe its for that time
You were accidentally racist to the chinese guy taking your order.
Or when you forgot to buy your mum a birthday card, or when you made fun of your best friend for not being taller.
Or when you said, 'Maybe
selective breeding in humans,
Is not such a bad thing after all.'
Yes, Its definitely punishment for that.
But maybe its for all the litter you've dropped, inadvertently or on purpose.
Or for last week when you accidentally kicked the cat, or for stealing those library books,
For swearing at kids
and blaspheming at the dinner table,
Christ!
Maybe its for nicking your brothers chips, even when you're not really that hungry.
For halfhearted apologies handed out like office stationary, for scoffing at most modern art.
For not revising when you
Really, really should
...But telling your parents you are.
But even with all of this, isn't the punishment, just a little bit too harsh?
Well now you are sarcastic, and bitter and pessimistic at least 90% of the time.
And you do hide the fact that you quite like country music, and that you have a blanket with sleeves (and you genuinely use it) and that you're really rather patriotic at heart.
And you didn't say all that stuff when you should have.
And you said all that other stuff you didn't mean
And you spend far too much of your time
Invested in impressing the people you're never going to see again.
And you realize all of this... at three o'clock in the morning, alone but for the fading of the rain.
And you swear to yourself, with all the fervour of a tired insomniac. That tomorrow.
There. Will. Be. Change.
But in the cold, harsh light of nine o'clock the same day. Six hours after you fell asleep. You resign yourself to the fact that last nights punishments can all be absolved, by a nice warm cup of tea.
And despite what you say
at 3am when you're tired and bored,
listening to the sound of the rain.
You will always be a pessimistic idiot, with delusions of grandeur.
That watches too much American TV.
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 6:38 AM UTC
He's part artist, part alchemist,
but a full-on con, self-professed with post-
graduate degrees in mixology
and the god-given sense to know which
smoldering home remedies will catch fire
(give or take an occasional legal glitch).
His healing pitch is grifted on the easy
comparison of queasily lowered brows to
their indistinctly raised betters. You'll doff
the scoffing face as he pulls back a masking
caparison, and your fever gallops hotly
hoof-in-mouth with an uncontrollable itch.
Tinctures, colloids, salves and potions,
they all have twisty caps, blithe boxes
bubbling over with hypnotic patterns
fashioned to cure your urge to avoid
his futility. First'll come the ****** then
the crumple followed by purse strings loosening.
Don't consider it capitulation.
His assortment of fluid manipulations
bear a singular branding at 100 proof,
and after the recommended daily dosing
(two jiggers with each meal), you'll feel
you're **** erectus made sapient.
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 8:15 PM UTC
Other worlds have hopes,
for plants, for trees and
dogs walking by, panting
soaking in humidity like carp
above water.
Not ours.
Dead ends, parked cars supplanting
serenity with passion, desire
crammed into
row upon row of heartless
dwellings expunging sunglass-wearing
**** suckers
blocking their emptiness from the world
with reverse blindfolds.
I know their eyes still glare at me, scoffing at
them. Walking, I
walk past
their barricaded kennels, under-
construction housing
impersonating natural climes
with sushi and slushy shops.
People like them have admiss-
able drives, hankering after
freedom; they're indoctrinated
to believe admission is
monthly cable bills
wired in beneath concrete slabs
maintained compliance
through lines painted on grass
where overlords can tell livestock
what to do.
Bus chutes form
hillsides, beside lines of
trees which perfume these
feedlots
we call
cities.
**** oozes below streets
walked on, they stared at me
like cows, watching a ranch-hand
suspicion toward anything
beyond bistro fences.
"What the **** are you looking at,
you filthy animal?
Have you no idea which species your greed
feeds?
Do you know where this ends
for you?
Who's tazing your ***
who's making you sit there?"
Moo, mooo.
Mooooooooooooooooooo.
Receipts, a cudgel on each table,
more cudgels ring
from pockets
telling them what time it is,
where they're to be.
Sunday's almost over,
back to blocks of houses!
Graze on painted grass,
then die,
but not before you stare at me
with empty eyes,
you pathetic, miserable
creatures.
Jun 3, 2012
Jun 3, 2012 at 10:11 PM UTC
She was only 15, no boyfriends yet
At a family gathering their eyes first met
Now Rob's not shy, with plenty of chat
So he gave her a call and they never looked back.
She went to Cambridge to get her degree
So every weekend, so did he.
When that was all done, what's next to do?
No more travelling, just me and you
In a cottage in Framsden made for two
With ferrets and fish and a couple of dogs
Oka cooks happy meat while Rob chops logs
A veggie garden appeared for a spell
A few came up, but the weeds did well.
Some chickens arrived and did their thing
Then so did the fox to commit his sin.
Now Rob loves his hobbies, it gets on her wick
When he's in his shed fiddling with his welding stick.
But life is quite settled, time passes like this
Living their version of unmarried bliss.
But something is missing, the feeling grows
She thinks to herself, will he ever propose?
Then leap year comes round, with it's extra day
That was her chance to have her say
Rob knew it was coming, he took the day off.
She said I want to be married, now don't you scoff!
But Rob wasn't scoffing, he said now I'm sure
I do love my Landie, but I love you more.
That brings us right up to this special day
We all wish you well, we all want to say
May your lives together be happy, healthy and long
May your love for each other keep growing strong.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 2:33 PM UTC
Sugar nightmares haunt children
Nancy harlequins cane them
Oh, child of mine
your life you did,
away,
sign.
Force fed familiarity with already branded emotions,
irregular realities and clouded surreal formalities,
so very many humans’ form dichotomies
out of our shared mute gray;
spinning constant self-important prose.
So very many humans share so much,
so little,
not often
doing little to soften
all of their emotional blows
trying hard to strike enigmatic pose.
Oh, child of mine
the heart of utilitarian method
has receded in incredulous fashion
followed by authoritarian apologies;
the majority is not icecream people
spreading simple good thought,
but generations fraught
with trivial conformist ideologies.
We are all hiding our seams
with creative masks
and self created tasks.
Oh, child of mine
your prescription reality is revealing itself as Atlantis,
sinking and shuddering into Quaaludes
with frightening psychotic interludes.
Emotions paint
stained lurid faces,
dancing with
ludes effecting movement,
nudes of swaying and repose.
You arose deeming so much rightfully yours
waltzing through seemingly already opened doors.
Holy curb their anti-Christ
Consider your aging soul
Oh, child of mine
Belief of awareness in action
understand the probability of dissatisfaction,
Stop!
treating the moment as a bleak bridge to the next inaction.
Eventually ponderous thoughts form
resembling an orrery,
an incessantly philippic story
orchestrates your oleaginous personality.
Oh, child of mine
Youth flees and your mind
takes once again to the seas,
a vexing penumbra of perception.
Bathos permeates the fathoms of an obstreperous life
and if you still care,
lament that this meaningless congeries
of moments
inspires only delusion,
no disillusionment.
Eventually a lilting threnody
leading 'tween burning pews of proposed serenity
and the following bumping callithump
will firmly stamp you into black infinity.
Oh, child of mine
You've used the switch
too much
too often
coupled with lofty scoffing
giving the innocent up as offering
to the
mechanical engine
of organic creation.
Sep 1, 2010
Sep 1, 2010 at 11:05 AM UTC
Fond woman, which wouldst have thy husband die,
And yet complain’st of his great jealousy;
If swol’n with poison, he lay in his last bed,
His body with a sere-bark covered,
Drawing his breath, as thick and short, as can
The nimblest crocheting musician,
Ready with loathsome vomiting to spew
His soul out of one hell, into a new,
Made deaf with his poor kindred’s howling cries,
Begging with few feigned tears, great legacies,
Thou wouldst not weep, but jolly and frolic be,
As a slave, which tomorrow should be free;
Yet weep’st thou, when thou seest him hungerly
Swallow his own death, hearts-bane jealousy.
O give him many thanks, he’s courteous,
That in suspecting kindly warneth us
Wee must not, as we used, flout openly,
In scoffing riddles, his deformity;
Nor at his board together being sat,
With words, nor touch, scarce looks adulterate;
Nor when he swol’n, and pampered with great fare
Sits down, and snorts, caged in his basket chair,
Must we usurp his own bed any more,
Nor kiss and play in his house, as before.
Now I see many dangers; for that is
His realm, his castle, and his diocese.
But if, as envious men, which would revile
Their Prince, or coin his gold, themselves exile
Into another country, and do it there,
We play in another house, what should we fear?
There we will scorn his houshold policies,
His seely plots, and pensionary spies,
As the inhabitants of Thames’ right side
Do London’s Mayor; or Germans, the Pope’s pride.
1.7k
Desensitized by the sands of time
I'm abhorred you're a cultural cog
Bobbing on the surface
you find eating gulls disgusting
but don't bat an eye at nauseous oil slicks
I wish I could set it all ablaze
so we'd pick our destinies more carefully
Or more care freely
You see me as a motley mesh
Flesh covered by cloths from mismatched fads
Yet, you're a pretentious simian that's forgot our past
Just a gussied up grazer, disavowing discomfort
scoffing at any endeavor that isn't grass flavored
The chimers on the lawn are all robed outcasts
bellowing to the fodder eating fodder
the posh set the stalks to be mowed over
But for the justice of all the inside out bulls
leaving their wallets on the ground
the entrail fashion never catches on
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 7:20 PM UTC
small irregular steps, like
a little kid top-toeing towards
a cookie jar, his jar
a lonely lady
buried in her latest ‘good read’
behind her now, his hands
eclipse light, ‘guess who’
**** you’ she moans. his fat ***
teeter-totters on the chairs face,
his eyes catch her shut book,
denoting a ****** title, laughing
he jokes about windmill dunking
it in the tableside wastebasket
scoffing as she claws at the book,
before 180 dunking it in her bag,
which resembles a shelter for some
petty, puny & pathetic dog
she bibble babbles blah blah,
his eyes entranced on her chest
hoping the slightest bump will
blast her ***** through her blouse
like an airbag. distracted
by bowels, he debates cutting
cheese. gas leaks through a forest
of *** hair. overpriced coffee odors
mask the lingering stench as it floats
like a boat through espresso &
cappuccino airways; docking
my attention to a tech boy blinded
by his desktop. to infatuated to notice
the pair of blushing blue eyes blessing him
from a corner table. an old man
at his starboard laughs as he clings to his cane
like it’s the decaying hand
of his deceased wife.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC
Tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day, again,
and I'm wearing green shoes, green shirt--
overeager as usual. I've never really enjoyed St. Patrick's Day, or any other holiday, for that matter, and I find
it ironic that the more significance we give to a person or
event the more their meaning is deluded. But it's good to have something to look forward to.
Today, in America,
St. Patrick may as well be a naked, red-headed lepperchaun.
People don't care about him as much as me; they don't get out of bed
each day that week wearing green and scoffing at
the timid early-spring sun gazing at the short-sleeved men and
brown-thighed women.
Maybe it matters to them that suntans at the beginning
are only de-tubed relics of an ancient, burning photosynthesis
relinquished to the ground. It matters to me more that
these women think-- even more, know!--
that it is too late in the early spring to cover their legs and
allow the pale, unready skin lie in hibernation.
They want to show the men their defined calves and
undefined dreams. They fain naivety with bright hues, such as Kelly.
And I frown, because I know they have to do this, or
I wouldn't notice them. Waking up and putting green shirts on
the whole week leading up to St. Patrick's day.
Anticipating the Spring, which is already here, they raise their glistening
arms in the air and lean back, smiling, to sing a toast to the short, Irish martyr.
Who wouldn't rub their flesh with dripping tongues for fingers?
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 8:59 PM UTC
There's a kid in my class,
who sits in the back, with skin
like fresh coffee,
and caramel lips.
He's alone every day, sitting by himself,
eating meals his father made for him,
(that's if he eats that day, that is.)
I see him go to the toilet after he eats.
He comes out looking paler,
sicker,
sadder.
Like the food had devoured him,
turning him on his head,
chewing him limb by limb, leaving
him a sobbing mess on the bathroom floor.
His eyes mist over but he wipes them,
as he stares at a gaggle of girls,
they're laughing.
Not at him,
but happily within their group.
He isn't happy and I wish he was.
I wish he would smile.
Just once.
I haven't seen him do that since Monday,
when a boy asked him where he got his coat from,
he smiled and replied; "My mum bought me it from the shop over in town, next to the hairdressers."
His voice was soft
and empty.
It hollowed as he spoke,
becoming a ghost in the class, his smile a touch of silk,
his hands a wavering dove.
But he stopped himself after that,
stared at the ground, muttering about his foolishness.
His utter stupidity at being anything.
"My mum got me it?" he says,
scoffing.
Disgusted at himself.
I don't see why.
His hair is coiled, bouncing with his attempts to brush it,
his teeth an off-white, slightly crooked,
his personality spilling with the looks he gives to
kind passers-by.
To people like me, who
don't know how to
help the boy who throws up every day because he thinks he's fat,
or the boy who curses himself out for speaking to someone,
or the boy who simply cannot bear the sound of his own voice.
Muffled by the depression and anxiety wrapped around him.
But he's fine.
He's a boy.
Manly and strong,
that's what his parents tell him, anyway.
'My big strong lad!" his father smiles, as he enters the room,
kissing his cheek.
His parents adore him,
He can't seem to adore himself.
He doesn't see what we see.
A student, who works hard,
loves music,
beautiful in every way.
He see's an ogre.
A revolting piece of human flesh,
too round,
too long,
too black.
Too anything.
He wants to be nothing,
a minuscule morsel.
He wants to stay alone in the back of the class,
and chip away at the voice of silk,
the soft hollow melody of his throat.
He stamps on his doves.
Killing them in one.
Dec 8, 2017
Dec 8, 2017 at 4:48 PM UTC
In the Garden, by the Creek,
Stands a Tree –
A Weary Willow, weeping, in
A prayerful plea:
“The scoffing Oaks hold
All their leaves,
But mine wither in this winter;
Don’t You see?!”
But, oh, what She
Doesn’t yet know
Is that, now, below the ground,
Growing down, and reaching out –
Hidden to sight or sound –
Are her Roots, preparing Her
To bear a thing no Oak has ever known:
Fruit.
---
So, may Her weeping turn to singing
For spring is bringing
A New Beginning
…In the Garden, by the Creek.
.
Aug 30, 2019
Aug 30, 2019 at 3:03 PM UTC
He smashed the box
to the ground
dancing wildly
upon the grave'n image
scoffing at their
promises
and
copyrighted lies.
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 1:38 PM UTC
A laugh, a smile, a giggle,
Questions of why, where and who,
And then why again,
Is what all children do,
Innocence of purity,
Innocence of truth,
Innocence worth keeping,
Innocence of youth,
A laugh turns into scoffing,
The questions more of fault,
As innocence is lost with age,
And becoming more adult,
Please cherish a Childs innocence,
Nurture their outlook so white,
Let them carry it through their living,
And keep it in their sight.
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 6:06 AM UTC
Where does it lie?
It's either throwing sand
or digging holes.
It's either loyalty
or tainted souls.
Proclaimed neutrality.
I call bs.
It's fear wrapped up
in indifference.
Can't let them know
that you're watching them.
Scoffing, bitter
when you're really wanting,
when you're really loving.
Condescend,
you're better than ill.
You see a shrink.
You've never been still.
I try to accept those in places
I used to be.
You try to forget
you were ever less-
running from one end
to the other.
They're bad,
and you're good.
With no in-betweens.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 9:08 AM UTC
The bag is half empty.
All evening, my right hand
swimming with cushions.
I pop in another
pink cylinder, squash the shell
with one bite.
A tinge of strawberry
coats the ceiling of my mouth,
swirls under my tongue.
Like scoffing
a miniature sponge, its insides
weld to every back tooth.
Once down my throat
I reach for the next softy.
Just one more.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 1:40 PM UTC
I am so sick of being that girl
The one who sits awkwardly
Tries not to show too much on my face
But here I am
I watch all around as people
Stare
Judge each other
And it isn’t even me that I am tearing the roots out of my faith in humanity over
I watch
And I listen
And all I perceive is laughter
“Oh my gosh that was totes hilarious”
No.
It wasn’t.
Those people you laugh at…
People of Wal-Mart
That crazy chick
The person at the end of all of your jokes
Harmless as they seem
Those people are people too
They have people who love them
Loved ones losing them to the horrors of the person that you force them to see in the mirror each day
Each breath
Rigid and Choked
Trying to be the person on the inside
“Only inner beauty matters…”
Then why won’t you let them be more than
The punch line.
I know
It’s harmless
Everyone laughs
It’s funny
And everybody laughing
And joking
And smiling
As they look past your soul
Just searching for a witty response
Instead of a human being
It isn’t harmless.
If I fall
And I can’t even breathe
I can’t even tell who I am
And no one is around to hear my cries for help
No one hears…
Do I still exist?
People stop wanting to exist when they feel like their life doesn’t exist.
I’ve been there before
So
Just stop.
Stop.
Stop.
Just stop.
Think for a second.
What if that was you?
What if it was your best friend?
Your everything?
And their existence is laughed off.
Until it shrivels and dies.
No more growth.
Not ever.
We are walking uphill through a snowstorm of meaningless arrows
Poison soaking the tips
And I can’t fight them forever.
So please.
Somebody help.
And even though you may finally hear my cries
And cry with me
You keep on shooting
Not even thinking
Because it is only natural now.
Please.
Think.
Stop.
Think.
Let me go.
Let everyone try to figure out who they are
What they want to be
Without pushing waves of stereotypes
And laughing at their dreams
Scoffing their entire existence away
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 2:06 AM UTC
Two lovebirds snuggle
in the shade of a weeping willow,
oblivious to chastising honks
of Canadian geese.
Blushing buds begin to bloom,
swollen with anticipation
as the solstice draws near
and blood boils beneath the skin.
Weathered voyeurs train watchful eyes
on the short-lived marriage of the flesh,
scoffing at the consummation of seasons,
knowing the fickle nature of the sun.
When the geese fly south, so will he.
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 8:30 PM UTC
Here I arrive, dressed in all black
Appearing to this cordial event
Nothing to gain from this experience
Only a re-visitation
Greeted by the master of service:
A fellow who looked vaguely like me
Introducing me to the partygoers:
The very things I tried to escape from my entire life
Lust, adorned in a tight red dress and heels
Tempting me with the fire of our past flings
I manage to control my quake
Remembering the times we shouldn’t have had
Regret, casual and comical
Drunk and cracking jokes with everyone
Trying to reconcile for the grief he caused
I remembered the times we shouldn’t have had
Depression, huddled in a corner
Appearing to be a beaten, scarred child
Staring directly into my soul with pitch black eyes
Making me remember the times we shouldn’t have had
Heartbreak, a tall, long-legged mistress
Scoffing at the sight of me
Sending a slight chill up my spine
Remembering the times we shouldn’t have had
As I begin to leave, I’m confronted
All standing in front of me
Finding myself under fire
A bullet from each.
Dying in the times I could’ve had.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 2:55 PM UTC