"scrappy" poems
I deserve to be happy,
But the world is too scrappy;
I deserve to be pampered,
But people always hammered;
I deserve to be loved,
But I always lost my beloveds;
I deserve a precious friendship,
But always got hardship;
I deserve more time,
As to my destiny I need to climb;
I deserve to be heard,
But soon as comes a warning word;
I deserve a good rest,
But I'm lingering like an unloved guest;
I deserve to be respected,
And that's what I always expected;
I deserve to have what I have,
As that's only what the world gave;
But even that's not in my luck,
I'm totally stuck;
I deserve to suffer,
As I had been a lover.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
i still straddle the fence on this
immigration reform manifesto
i see both sides of the story
it's good to have the grandfather clause
for the immigrants in my bloodstream
- the scrappy scots-irish-ingles-welsh
in me - but too late for the cherokee
behind the old fences of history.
r ~ 11/9/14
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 9:57 AM UTC
The teacher's eyes gathered colours about
The cultured garden scene she knew so well;
She likes the section flowers nicely sprout
Her hidden world where varying colours jell.
Achievers pride she takes with all her heart;
Like outstanding pupils she proudly groomed.
But scrappy lazy ones, never seems to start,
She wished them luck and left alone to bloom.
The sun regardless shines on all juniors.
The bright ones, the brats she pitied a lot.
Through years and wise by age she remembers,
Oft visiting her those she had forgot,
Those she loved and cared have whittled away.
But strugglers now trees they weathered to stay.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 9:54 PM UTC
Everyone wants to work where they are happy,
I worked where i used to feel scrappy.
Each day i went to office with a new hope,But each day, i was the only one to cope.
She made sure my life was hell under her rule,Nobody thought she was cool,She made sure i looked like a fool.
I was a free bird who wanted to learn,This was something i wanted to earn,But no i was joked in return.
Having no options in my hand,With deep sorrow in the end,I said to my boss i quit..i quit
I known i could have fought this injustice,But knowing there would not be any justice,With no options left i said i quit ..i quit.
I know it was hard for my maa n paa
But this was a rightful law,
As i couldn't suffer alone,Just to ensure i was in a comfort zone,So i said i quit ...i quit
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 10:01 PM UTC
As their son,
I'm acutely aware that my parents
fear me.
They're afraid because I'm everything they raised me to be.
They're afraid because I'm everything they raised me not to be.
I'm the product of a failed attempt at suburban life,
a mixture of the 80s punk-rock *****
and a scrappy ******** *******
almost perfectly blended
like chunky peanut butter.
They're afraid
because I have my mother's "Devil-May-Care" attitude
and my dad's endless charm.
I made a Pick and Mix candy bag
of their traits
until I created a boy who is everything they fear.
The fear what I stand for,
and the reactions I invoke in other people,
and the looks I get in public.
They fear my body,
surgically altered
until it's not the child they created,
but the creature I did.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 9:48 PM UTC
"He's young now." I look into the mirror. "He'll grow on you."
"He's learning. Unwise in his few years, low in confidence."
I ponder..." Will he always be so...scrappy?"
Here stands a young man, looking in the mirror. Still baffled at the reflection he sees.
There goes a woman, his mother, still determined to have a youngest daughter.
People say "He's changing, look in the mirror...see for yourself."
What I see is a scared young man....
scared to live, scared to take up space, scared to make a sound in the noise of society's never ending chaos.
She's trying...she says. To understand. To support. To move on. She knows not her faults nor the effect her words have on you...she only knows that one day her daughter stopped wearing dresses, cut her hair, and left a life of pink and pageantry behind.
No, she doesn't know what she does, but she can see the light in your eyes began to dim when she calls you her little girl.
His father....slowly decaying, pushes the ideas of a son out of his mind. Refuses to see the beard and changing physique in front of him, clings desperately like a moth to a flame to his little girl who he swears never grew a day past the age of five.
Back when things were simple. Back when there wasn't so much **** change. Back when things mattered less about pronouns and more about peace of mind and reputation.
When I grow up, I want to be the change that I wish I saw in all of you. I want to embrace who I love with open arms, decide that I'd **** for the man I see in the mirror. Let all those who disapprove be ******
Because if I couldn't protect the light in that little girls eyes so many years ago, I'll be **** sure that the man I become is one who will protect mine.
Jul 26, 2023
Jul 26, 2023 at 8:05 PM UTC
paint me with all those messy colors and broken brushes.
paint me with your rough hands and scrappy fingertips.
paint me with all your love and your regrets.
paint me in a dark room with uneven breath.
paint me with dried out lips and the tip of your tongue
paint me all night till you're halted by the sun.
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 7:06 PM UTC
Light creases the pavement
like ruddied cheeks on a pillowcase,
warms the scrappy reeds,
the goldenrod bunching
on hillsides,
the tired, waterless crop
and their juvenilia tenacious
and cambering over field -
(and with present as marked past)
all realigns
and is overwhelmingly
simple
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 9:43 PM UTC
It will haunt her
the favorite pencil
tip softened just so...
paw pushed it
somewhere to a secret spot
out of vision, her reach
a peice of paper elusive
yet there...
lodged deep amidst
a stack of most important things
She does not lose well...
Not in terms of games or competition
but the things in her life
that envelop her world
tough n' scrappy
beautiful n' tender
holding all things dear
close to her heart
Loss is a place of
deepest contemplation
Her memories
are vibrant, alive
She does not lose well
creatures and people
that are immersed
in her life
even one pulled out leaves
like a building block
A tear
A gap
A hole in her life
She does not forget
or minimize the
pertinance of
freindship
love
A moment that has
touched her heart
When it is time for
the loss
the breaking of her heart
can be felt
through
time
space
The moment
becomes filled
With rainbows of light
She will bathe in that beam...
helps guide them home
She trusts in the divine
finding there solice
amidst the
flutterings of
her tender, broken heart
Grief shrouds her
A mystical veil
that holds her dearly
as the pain
becomes bearable
she will begin
to tell her stories
once again
~ Christi Michaels ~ June 2014~
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 6:04 PM UTC
Damnation of the Mind
In Society’s eyes, I commit a Crime.
Freedom mistook as a Sin
“For I’m always right”, says the Red Queen.
I scattered my scrappy writes
In this forest full of lies
I am as good as dead
For I am never needed
Naked to the bone
A far away star, I am alone.
“I am your salvation”, says the Holy King
I oblige for that’s what I think is right, Lamenting
Oh, Holy king, I can’t stop wondering
The man made crisis keeps on repeating
Driven by powerful Need
They hunger for what they don’t Need
I am in a brink of exhaustion
Many hides in the facade of beautiful illusion
Creation for an easy solution
Abundance is slowly fading
Our soulful purity is slowly dying.
© Pax
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 2:08 AM UTC
I stopped commenting on airy internet objects long ago
lest it be a needed praise of some starving artists’ work
or in response to a worded response of my own work
It’s just such a waste of time to tell a million view band
they “rock” or they ****
All I will incite is defenders or refuters of my claim
who are just as petty as me
As an immature high schooler, that’s just what I wanted
The modern version of my dead grandfathers
with their white shirts, blue jeans, and duck *** hair
Driving from the city to hick school dances
just to pick fights
I once typed lines of **** talk on Elvis videos from the 1970s
just to see what would happen
- Nothing much
My grandfathers are dead and no one’s left to defend The King
I’m not so tough, but I felt scrappy then just the same
Now, with my lowly little job
my first world laptop and my glasses
Sipping coffee and mellowed out
I read some comments to see what people feel
about an article on my generation
How we’re more corporate than ever
bamboozled by a guise of fake uniqueness
Sure, I agree with the critique in the article
if you can even call it an article
People get paid for three lines of an opinion,
sometimes a link, and then the real entertainment's in the comments
Where can I get in line for this ******* job?
Not the commentors, their labor’s free
I mean the three lines guy, it sounds too easy
“Don’t ya get it yet, son”
My grandad chuckles
“His job’s just corralling all those comments,
inciting easy debate,
and getting advertising clicks”
He shook his head
went up through the roof
and his twenty-year-old jeans
ended in a wispy swirl
But I couldn't help noticing
they were name brand
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 7:59 PM UTC
^¡^
^¡^
^¡^
Plain and brown
Ubiquitous
Seen yet never seen
Like street workers
Or bellhops
Or busboys
Or homeless.
Scrappy little scavengers
Scraping out a small lifespan
In cracks of concrete
In city streets smelling
Of asphalt and skidmarks.
They hop along
Like yesterday's newspaper
Or a 5X81/2 inch flier
For last night's bar-band.
Dandelion's fluff.
Outside of McDonald's
They congregate competing
With each other for
Hamburger buns which
Cling to cold
Half eaten cheeseburgers.
Greasy french fries
Which cause congestion
In their legs so severe
That they shrivel up
And fall off.
Yet God sees every one
Of them. Loves them.
His eye is always on them.
They do not fall
From the branch
Without being
Counted.
A freedom we
Will never know
Is their portion.
They are unencumbered
By the ground
While we are
It's slaves.
Their 🎶🎶🎶
Tells us we will
Always be thus.
We will always envy
The soul of sparrows.
Write of Passage aka
SoulSurvivor
2022
Aug 29, 2022
Aug 29, 2022 at 3:51 AM UTC
I'll get me a yappy dog
A small one
Scrappy.
He'll screech and holler
Like a rat lost in the dark
Oh how it'd be
To bear such a mark.
I'll get me a mousey dog
A youngish one
Mousey.
She'll annoy me in the mornin'
Evenin'
Night
Back to the height of the sun.
She'll tap and scrap till...
I can't take it anymore...
Maybe I'll get a biggun one
It'll protect me
Like a gun
She'll keep watch
While I be sleepin'
Till they put out some food
And continue on creepin...
Well maybe a medium one
Crazy as can be
Runnin' out in the mornin' sun
He'll play catch and give chase
Run with the pack
Cageless and free
Until I bring it inside...
Well, now it's gone to ***
On the carpet...
Doggon it
Maybe I'll throw out that dish
Send 'em back to the homestead
Perhaps get a fish instead...
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 12:46 AM UTC
You in Georgia?
Kentucky?
Oh **** man,
that's my vagabond girl right there.
Come here.
This place is full of you
your face is in it
and it's full of books.
I know what you're sensitive to
and I'm kind of an idealist.
We'll do it up.
Or down.
We can get scrappy!
That's our middle names.
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC
I've met so many people
In this one lifetime
Befriending faces and so many names
Often only for but brief, moments
A few will stick around for a while
Rarest are for a life time
All with qualities, short-comings
and vis-versa, but none closer to perfect
Devotion from one person to another
is a rare blessing to be had
But from mans' best friend it's a given
To a man that friend devotes all of his attention
Always ready and willing to lather on the affection
Happy with just the pat on his soft head, with it, he is in heaven
Will I ever know another soul like him?
One that will never purposely harm or mistreat me for no good reasons?
In my opinion that answer is a resounding NO
No, not man, not a woman, no human not ever
Because not a man alive could ever handle the heart of our dogs' burden
That of our best friends, of our k9 companions
Unselfish, and unquestioning devotion will never be a humans
No, our burden is simply the curse that we out live them
So that as they pass from where we know and love them,
Into the place that we can not simply look down and pat them
I pray that place has someone just as awesome waiting for them
Someone who makes them a world to live in and celebrates every second they share with them
Asking nothing back from them... And While we all just keep going on...
Heartbroken, but profoundly and fiercely proud to have ever known them.
We might hope and pray daily...
One day, when it's our day... Might just be when,
we look down and again
there we find that beloved friend... Right then,
and realize that heart has never forgotten...
Smiling at us... Tail wagging...
Because this time he knows we'll never separate from him.
As we both walk on as is destined.
When the hard work is done,...
Distractions of living are all gone...
Finally we can pay them their due attention.
And never be mean,.. nor take them again for granted...
Only believe in... nor be separated from them...
It'll be our time together in what surely must be heaven.
Dogs hearts will forever be the greatest love, this man will ever learn to miss so badly...
As I will. I will miss you so very badly Scrappy, and you too Toby. Good Doggies!... I'll only regret every day I must live with out them. Til my work too is finished boys... Till then enjoy your new friends.
your poppa...
Jack.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 6:11 PM UTC
freckle-faced
jug-eared
left-handed
skinny as a fungo bat
loose-jointed
like a string-puppet
in sports
not great but
scrappy and fun
long distance runner
played hard
no grudges
nobody’s idea of handsome
voice like a scratchy record
married straight out of high school
drafted
101st Airborne
everybody had a dumb nickname
Denny, Little Old Lady
nobody remembers why
Thua Thien, South Vietnam
hit by an RPG
August 5, 1968
smithereens in a body bag
days later, a letter
informs
he’s a daddy
Denny, if you’d lived sixteen more days
you could’ve legally bought beer
I’m sixty-seven years old
you’re forever
almost twenty-one
Memorial Day 2015
We've lost them by the thousands.
We grieve them one by one.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 2:42 PM UTC
Here's another story that I just made up
That just can't wait to be told
About a weary prospector, down on his luck
That gave his life for his gold
He was way up yonder in the hills, they say
Just him and his scrappy old mule
That poor old mule didn't have no teeth
So he'd sit around the camp and drool
Now that prospector, who we'll call Jake
Was as secret as he could be
He didn't like people snooping around
So he wasn't much for company
See, Jake had been on that mountain
For nigh on twenty years
But he never did hit the mother load
With all his sweat and tears
Then, one day he decided to go fishing
A fish pulled him right in the river
He tried to hang on with all of his might
It's hard to do when you shiver
Jake looked up and was headed toward the falls
So he decided he'd better let go
When he dropped that line, he sunk like a rock
And started thrashing to and fro
Now, Jake was a real good swimmer
He was on the prospector's Olympic team
But, everytime his head went under
All he could do was scream
Now Jake had prospected his whole life
But now, he was getting pretty old
He didn't know the reason he was drowning
But his pockets were full of gold
When he figured it out, he had gold fever
And he refused to let it go
All poor old Jake could think about
Was he finally hit the mother load
See, when that old fish had ****** him in
He was dragging him on the bottom
There was gold just laying everywhere
And that's where his pockets got 'em
Poor old Jake drowned that day
Richest man in the world, I think
His old mule was standing on the bank
Drooling, as he watched him sink
They fished his body out of that river
The next morning before dawn
But they found both pockets as empty as could be
It was stolen by a leprechaun
Well, I guess it's time for me to go
I can see as I look at my clocks
But if you really wanna protect your prospector's gold
Then let me suggest Fort Knox
Feb 7, 2011
Feb 7, 2011 at 11:59 AM UTC
My dearest rough & rotten,
Are so full
So red
So very sweet.
Their warmth and yours
Is coursing through my veins
And the way you breathe
Is enough to knock me down.
But it doesn't need to;
I'm already here
Under your little scrappy form
Sinewy and poised, brimming with athleticism, masculinity.
This can't be right;
But I wouldn't want to live without this,
Without your hands,
Your pulse,
Your tongue,
Your Lips.
Oct 25, 2010
Oct 25, 2010 at 4:07 PM UTC
Mountain ranges evident on old coyote’s back
Legs that buckle and mange standing on end
Scrappy snarls and chattering clack
Band weary of its brother, how moons expend
Pushed from its den; old dog’s final indignity
Young competitors keep ahead the pack
What time will take; a brutal insistency
For a dying dog cards be stacked
Skinny whippy coyote your days complete
Senility your friend and nothing you lack
One last howls to death; a verse to meet
When no moon in sight and all goes black
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 5:55 AM UTC
She does not lose well
will not forget
It will haunt Her
avorite Pencil
Tip Softened
Just So...
A Paw pushed it
Somewhere to a Secret Spot
Out of Vision
Her Reach
A Peice of Paper
Elusive, Yet there...
Lodged Deep Amidst
A Stack
of Most Important Things
She does not Lose Well...
Not in terms of Games or Competition..
But the things in Her Life
That Envelop Her World.
Tough, Scrappy,
Beautiful
Oh-So Tender
Holding all things Dear
Close to Her Heart
Loss is a Place of
Deepest Contemplation
Her Memories
Are Alive
Vibrant..
Stay with Her
Immense Joy
Her Deep Well of Sadness
A Cachet of Stories
Reverberate
Expanding Outward
like Ripples in a Pond.
She does not Lose Well
The Creatures and People
That are Immersed
In Her Life
Even One Pulled Out
Leaves
Like a Building Block
A Tear
A Gap
A Hole in Her life
She does Not Forget
Or Minimize the
Pertinance of
Freindship
Love
A Moment that has
Touched Her Heart
When it is Time for
The Loss
The Breaking of Her Heart
Can be Felt through
Time
Space
Filled with Divine Wisdom
She is Able to See
All Aspects at Once.
The Purpose
The Moment
Becomes Filled
With Rainbows of Light
She will Bathe in that Beam...
Helps Guide Them Home
Knows Intuitively
She Trusts in the Divine
Finding There Solice
Amidst the Flutterings
of
Her Tender, Broken Heart.
Grief Shrouds Her
A Mystical Shawl
A Veil that Holds her Dearly
till the Pain
Becomes at Least Bearable..
Then She will
Begin
To Tell Her Stories
Once Again.
Copyright © 2014 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 5:33 PM UTC
Water bottle and a candle sitting in the dark,
the room filled with heat,
so much energy vibrating in and out,
what is it that helps me stay focused.
The night is not as bright as a full moon would be,
but you can hear some kind of gloom.
Is it only because I only look at the negative things,
because all I think about are these stupid flings.
I can live life with no strings,
attached to my mind and just act like kings!
I should just stretch my wings, and fly maybe until I get to the Colorado Springs.
Does it really matter?
Because what im concerned with is being happy,
I shouldn't get mad if there is a challenge cause that just means I get to be a bit scrappy,
This is no reason to get all ******
and make myself and the others around me unhappy.
I lived and I learned,
Sometimes in life you just have to be;
And not worry about how to get free,
No matter how bad you think you need to flee.
Because you learn that nothing is a guarantee,
So even if it feels like your emotions are falling out of your heart like a planed that crash and left debris,
Everywhere so everyone can just plainly see,
who cares just let it all oversee, that there is nothing **** wrong with being ARTSY.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 6:18 AM UTC
Her face was pain stricken while she lie asleep.
You could see the effort in her smile, although her grin was weak.
She stayed searching for something of some substance,
She couldn't find any but she'd keep searching the rest of her existence.
Always in bed crying or writing down a piece of her,
As a result of her fear of her mind, she was thought of as a wanderer.
With a mindset unlike anyone's else's,
She had an opinion on everything, very thoughtful ones that is.
She never let anyone tell her what she could & couldn't do,
But she was her biggest enemy, & that could never be truer than the truest truth.
Of course she wanted to be happy,
But the Depression she was battling with was tough & scrappy.
For her there was no escaping the realms of black,
But she knew she could find her way, because she needed to get back.
She needed to return to the life of love & smiles,
She wouldn't stop looking, even if she had to for miles.
She would get to her final destination,
She would not let anything get in her way, she would avoid procrastination.
It was truly sad how every time she tried she fell down,
But she need not worry because on her head, held high was her crown.
No matter what tripped her & made her fall,
She would not succumb to black's intoxicating call.
See her crown was beginning to drop but it would not plummet.
Because though her climb was tough, she's approaching its summit.
You cannot say she is at the top,
But you can say she'll get there because she will not stop.
So sick & so tired of these nights of tears,
She's had them for so long, no not days, or months, but for years.
At seventeen years of age it's heartbreaking to hear such a story,
But don't let your heart fill with uneasiness, because in a short while she'll reach her glory.
A tale like hers is common & unfortunate.
Depression is something we can beat, so long as we stick together, we will be victorious, I'm sure of it.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 4:41 PM UTC
My army stands behind me
Where you cannot harm them.
And, with them to defend me,
You cannot harm me too.
President Mujica, Emporer Jimmu,
Jesus, Buddha and Scrappy Doo.
Gazoo, Kung Fu
And most of all you
The ranks of soldiers unfallen
Always unreachable by you.
They are my past, my knowledge
And my future.
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 11:44 PM UTC
It is all about the money we learn
because money talks and suckers walk
and this is sometimes sad to say
but if there is no money
there are no friends only pretends
and no one looks anymore
because on money everything
depends.
Have it and here come the friends
and you are so beautiful
and seemingly so happy
and a little bit scrappy.
If you don't have it
you are invisible
and become depressed and insecure
and all of those other things
about which no one really cares
to look at or see so they
set you free.
When the money comes
you are suddenly set free
and all of a sudden it is just
about me, me, me
and you feel so good
and can do almost anything
with a little more
zing.
You see no more middle class
as all you see are the very needy
and the very greedy
because you are either
super rich or super poor
but you are always
wanting more.
If you are poor thay will
always show you the door
but when you have everything
and everything comes your way
you find life easy
and you don't even have
to be ****** and now you get to
show them the door.
It doesn't matter
if you are wealthy in knowledge
or rich with love
because you can't spend it
or deposit it into a bank
and only few can recognize
such wealth so when
push comes to shove
money in the hand is always
the most grand because
that is just the
way it is.
Moral of the story :
Find the money and your skies
will always be sunny
or get rich and you won't
have to live with a *****
and always listen to the money talk
or you will just be taking a walk
and having it is a must
because without it life is
just a big bust
so listen very carefully as
the money talks. Jon York 2012
Aug 21, 2012
Aug 21, 2012 at 3:39 AM UTC
I would rather
be a
wanderer
a belongerer
to no body
to no country
a loose end
than to bob
eagerly
at every tug
of the yarn's
end
whose
wound-up
mass
amasses me
a wriggled up
ball of
wriggles
I would rather
be alone
than
scooped up
in a basket
with others
of my
supposed
ilk
and held in
by the
over-under
wicker
edges
domed up
for containment
ominous
clicks and
scrapes
of my
destiny
clattering
and chattering
above
fraying
frizzled
frazzled bits
smoothing out
as my length
is tugged
up and up
like a long
slurpy
noodle
I would rather
be loose
and scrappy
and stumpy
and ragged
the one that
nobody loves
the discarded
refuse of a
more discerning
eye
than be made
surreptitiously
into somebody
else's
jumper
© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 8:21 AM UTC