"scrutinise" poems
Last night
She accidentally
Walked to her balcony
And looked outside
She saw her soul
Wandering
Being sabotaged
By demonic creatures
Molested by those unholy beings
But all she could do was
Stand and stare
Scrutinise and regret
Because then she realised
She let it go
7 years ago
When she
Questioned her existence
And acted in an immoral way.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 10:33 AM UTC
There's a way in which I break for beauties like you. It's a performance piece, not of the egoistic sort, but rather a birthed love-child of servility and altruism. Here's my recipe, if you ever wanted to scrutinise my path to death.
First, i stare. And marvel in awe at the carved beauty of you and wonder how many cities you've inspired.
Second is initiation. A delicate dance to either be executed from a carnal desire or a romantic want. I choose one or another, seldom do I pick both; tho they end the same way.
Third is the burning period. I will saturate myself with unwarranted loyalty at this point. I morph to their warmth and this is where it gets sick.
Fourth: obsession. If you look into my eyes you will see a longing to drown and to go back to the ocean that is you. It's potent enough to drive me insane. Consuming.
Fifth, i surrender. I'd ask you to take off that fire. I want you to still exist but to go burn somewhere else. To be a forest-fire that inspires rather than to maim me insolently.
Sixth is penance dressed masochistically. I torture myself for reasons he wouldn't understand or is justified, but I somehow think it's salubrious.
Seventh concerns with the cycle of death. I die for you, over and over again. I choose to do this.
Eighth is where my pain becomes stagnant and transition into ghosts with names.
Ninth better itself to be the point of moving on and building graves on reverence for even having a taste of perfection.
Tenth, I repeat this whole process.
Aug 12, 2016
Aug 12, 2016 at 6:40 AM UTC
What is beauty?
An ideal stuffed down our throats,
That makes us scrutinise reflections
To trace every single flaw and imperfection in our very being?
I've long since stopped searching for beauty in the mirror,
It was a loosing battle, no mater what empty compliments were spat my way.
Instead I've come to think of beauty as freedom,
As liberation from the shackled thoughts of society,
And it's come to mean so much.... more.
Beauty isn't in the angular curves of malnourished models,
The photoshopped perfection of tabloid queens.
No.
Beauty is in muted sunsets,
Colours thrown up as homage to a whispered day,
Cradles by clouds and wisps of white.
Beauty is in the moments that make you itch for a pen,
A brush, a lens: anything to preserve the moment
In perfect clarity so that you can feel again the breath thieving awe.
Beauty is in woven fingers and passionate touches,
Love shouted through the twitch of a mouth and the softening of eyes.
Beauty is caught in the second you stop, look up
And dig your nails into a world that spins too quickly,
Seizing every day that flies your way.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
The tips of his wings stained a crimson red,
the light drawn from his eyes with his final breath,
a loathsome look upon his shame filled face,
forgetting all his amazing grace.
he's fallen from the tips of heaven to the depths of hell,
the angel his face stained with an auburn glaze,
captured in the battle just lost,
his nobility failing at his own great cost.
they whisper in his ear, the superficial beings,
they speak so mellow yet there words be celestial,
they scrutinise him, tempting his weaknesses,
their ****** eyes divulge his very being.
"Come my son ill give you peace" his father calls from above,
at this his tepid and tedious ways at once are banished,
he takes his fathers effluent hand and he is made clean,
saved from the superfluous for all eternity.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 8:25 AM UTC
Explain to me why I dance to blood,
Look at me when I hurt too much.
Tell me why he painted me black,
and scrutinise my high when he doesn't love me back
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 8:12 AM UTC
it's 11:11pm
where sorrowful low spirits cry
sanguine prays to the other side of the sky
the galaxy listens
maybe a little too closely
the cold atmosphere holds many's outbursts
collecting agony and desires
one too many wishes
for the young stars to bear.
but listen to our ambition,
observe our devotion,
sympathise our situation.
scrutinise the inclination of our appetite.
it's 11:11pm
it's a galactic duty for the baby stars,
not for too long.
because nobody likes waiting.
so create that miracle of ours and
f
a
l
l
Jul 3, 2019
Jul 3, 2019 at 1:33 PM UTC
my heart ticks with the punctuated rhythm
of a girl busy with embroidery
i see a corpse and scrutinise all its secrets
it lingers with a purposeful dexterity
a tenacity that resembles autocrats
of a starved third world country
a dangerous presence that underpins
a blank prism
my reconnaissance reveals a frenetic arc
orbiting, humming as it does so
with intricate nightly returns
travels between light and shade
where black shadows tred
forming a link in the great causal chain
of human destiny
it is a place where stone ghosts welcome me
with threatening indifference of magical
incantations
i roam through deserted streets
with an inherent clumsiness
like waves on dark coastlines
that in hypnotic deception
form groups of disorientated sadness
where clouds of black crows fly around
sinister watch towers in the dark
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
God made me human
she was feeling capricious that day
actually I was meant to be a frog
green and certain, self contained
content to simply squat and watch
flick a sticky tongue at a passing bug
observer of two worlds
at home in both
a leap-in-waiting
able when need or impulse
dictates to skedaddle
with the nonchalance of a Buddha
a gleam of green and gold
glistening on a lily leaf
or kerplunking into deep cool water
Frog had I such toes such elegant legs
I too could scrutinise the mysteries
of pools, the undersides of lilypads
do you wonder Frog
whether there are other ponds
do you dream a dream of elsewhere
do you pause to peer skywards
harbour a secret wish for wings
ah, what may lie beyond your pool
but perhaps I ascribe
too much mystery to you Frog
you simply are
whilst I, I am stuck in wondering,
trying to connect two worlds two realities
**** **** the divine indifference
Tricia Lambert
2010
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 5:07 PM UTC
In the fairy tale, Aimee was bad at heart,
a pretty shell that promised a pearl and
when cracked open, gave grains of sand
instead. It scratched the surface of the eyes
and misled; Aimee was just one of those pretty
Jezebels, cruel within, decorated without.
Her sister Aurore was the heroine,
a fatalist, who sighed her philosophy:
'What will be will be' and her patience and
good heart tugged her towards the coincidences
that always favour the light.
But Aimee was driven away by her own wickedness,
and had not the luck of the good.
All Aimee had was the face.
These are the kind of stories I am tired of because
I want to tell you that when Aimee was just a
small girl, she sat and watched her mother scrutinise
her appearance in the mirror. She watched as she
painted her face and knew then that she was just a painted
beauty, a kind that easily peels off. How little it
mattered though, as her mother smiled at her jewels.
Painted or true, her mother had succeeded through
beauty. So Aimee saw no good in the kind and the patient,
who suffered and accepted their suffering. She chose an
ambition called wickedness and she wore it like a petticoat
beneath the blue ballgown. Aimee was the kind of girl
to get what she wanted. Her mother had taught her
that her face was the only kind of fatalism she could follow.
I am tired of these fairy tales that give undefined shapes.
I'm tired of the dichotomy between the good and the bad.
I'm bored of the light always finding their happily ever after.
Just tell me the story of the dark and tell it properly.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 1:32 AM UTC
A mouth
opens and closes
eating food
talking to you.
Unkind eyes
that perceive
scrutinise
and deceive you.
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 12:06 AM UTC
The eyes are the doorways to our thoughts and hold in all that we see
They can make out the figure of a man in the distance watching as he draws closer
They can notice how he's walking and can spot what's in his hand
They can peer through the trees to observe a crime. They can avert themselves so they don't have to take stock of what they witness.
They can examine the crime scene or inspect it for clues
They can glance across to a colleague whose
gawping at the sky
They can survey the database and scrutinise suspects
They can ogle a coworker and behold her beauty whilst they study the facts and peruse through evidence
They can scan all the records till they see a match
They can look up the address and bring them to the court
They can glare at the perpetrator whilst he gazes down at the ground as he is taken away.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 10:18 PM UTC
Why do you choose
To starve yourself
When you have all that you can eat?
It’s the only way for me to
Change my appearance
And be accepted into
Society.
Why do you care
About society
Why is it so important
To fit in?
Because now,
Appearance is all that matters
You’re judged by whether
You’re fat or thin
Or the way you dress
Or by the acne on your skin.
Why do you believe all those
Mean comments
And hateful remarks
About your weight?
Because they’re true,
Of course
Even I can tell
The mirror shows it all!
And the number on the weighing scale
A different story it does not tell.
Why do you want to ‘change’
So badly
When you are beautiful
Just the way you are?
Because no one cares what’s
On the inside
You’re only worth whatever
they can see
and they see my flaws
they see all my weakness
how can I hide when
I’m the biggest?
They don’t notice
My light that shines inside
Behind their sunglasses
That shade their eyes
With their selective sight
They scrutinise me
Down to my
Smallest imperfections
My imperfections are the reason
they throw so much hate at me
I am the ugly duckling
In a bevy of swans
So all I can do
Is try to change
And pray for my
Fairy godmother to finally come
To end all my sadness
And pain
Why don’t you
Appreciate yourself
For who you are?
Because i hate myself
For my disgusting looks
My flabby arms
My muffin top
My thunder thighs
From head to toe
Is ugliness
My ugliness
The ugliness
I was cursed with
My ugliness will never leave me
They said
I will always be fat and hated
I was the one born like this
It's all my fault
Why do you choose to think so negatively?
You are imperfect, yes
But that makes you special
It makes you beautiful
So please don’t hate yourself so
Don’t listen to the haters
I know it’s hard
But you are strong
If you have lasted this long
You will hold on
Accept yourself
For who you are
Because I promise you,
You are not ugly.
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 8:33 AM UTC
In the future
they may scrutinise
the age we mislaid wonder.
Evaluate the epoch
of our long-forgotten grace
Landfill
for the Burial Ground
Trolleys
for the River Gods
Spray cans
for the Painted cave,
and say,
"This,
is when they
lost their way"
Oct 4, 2021
Oct 4, 2021 at 12:11 PM UTC
You see the world in greyscale,
A filter over your mind.
You feel colours in braille,
A gift plagues in your mind.
You scrutinise the sun; for all is black,
A disease that haunts your mind.
You pray for at least sadness back,
A prose of your lonely mind.
I'd go through the bay of Hades,
I'd take loans out on my soul.
I'd walk through trenches of cacophony,
Just so you didn't feel so alone.
I'd paint this earth in all the colours that be,
A gift to heal your mind.
I'd absorb the numbness that haunts you in sheets,
A plague I see in your mind.
I'd die for you, just wait and see,
And finally together we will be.
For you aren't one soul, you're an amalgam of different faces,
And if this mirror has taught me anything, it's that we lose colour in loneliest of places.
May 18, 2019
May 18, 2019 at 6:23 PM UTC
There is a beauty spot somewhere on my body,
And I want you to find it.
Drink me in
As your fingers surf my skin.
Take your time
It's all about the journey,
You are creating
as you trace.
Oh yes, linger there, scrutinise intently
Touch me, slowly, gently,
I am smiling,
Because I know where it is.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 3:58 AM UTC
Contempt of court –
The legal term for a charge
Levelled against those who dare
Those whose emotions and criticisms are laid bare
In front of judge and jury.
Contempt of court
Is when one is disobedient, or discourteous,
In the face of a system which is injurious;
It is the charge
That snaps one’s knees into bending,
That makes your dignity cave
And one’s case never-ending.
To oppose or defy the authority of the courts
Is viewed as improper, an act
That will have you prosecuted by your own cohorts.
Fellow human beings
Tasked with the imprisonment of another
Brother turning on brother
As the wheels of justice turn and grind,
Leaving trails of lost lives behind.
Contempt of court
Is a feeling I find difficult to abort –
How can I respect an institution
That is responsible for the destitution
Of societal morality?
It is the court’s stated responsibility
To maintain order and propagate
Fairness and equality for all,
To scrutinise and investigate
Not just crimes committed
By men and women struggling to make ends meet,
Putting their heads together so they can eat,
But those
Who hide behind banks and get to foreclose
Not just our homes but also, our dreams and hopes.
If you want me to respect the court,
I want the court to enforce laws justly.
If you want me to respect the authorities,
I want the authorities to stop lying to us so abruptly.
If we are to have authorities and laws
I want sensible, sustainable laws, to be upheld everywhere
Not to be iron-fisted with some,
A velvet glove with another.
If I ever see
A banker sentenced to jail
My respect for the court I shall hail;
If I ever see
A politician swallowing his lies,
Forced to live like us, and realise
The extent of the damage that they wreaked
If I ever see
An abusive or corrupt judge
On the other side of the gallows,
Locked up and told when to exist like a drudge
Then
Only then
Will I shed this contempt
Only then
Will I be content.
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 11:29 AM UTC
sometimes in the dead of night i
wonder if you ever fight
the demons that i sometimes do-
if they have ever come for you
and sometimes i think, "no, you can't"
because you never scream or rant
because you're smiling all the time
and fit life like the perfect rhyme-
but then i leave my thinking place
and scrutinise my own pale face
and smile into the looking glass
-a cheerful mask, a happy farce-
i do not know you very well
because i don't think i can tell
when your smile's real,
and when it's not
(and when it's really all you've got)
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 1:32 PM UTC
Yeah, I do..
talk to him too
But.. it's nowhere the same as with you
Yeah, I do see him but.. I don't watch as closely every breath he takes
Yeah, I do listen to him but.. But don't scrutinise every face he makes
Yeah, I do say hello but.. I don't lose sleep at night over what he said
Yeah, He does reply but.. He isn't for ever trapped in my head
That's you and only you
You have nothing at all to prove
You are strong enough
You are man enough
You are E N O U G H for me
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 5:34 PM UTC
Consent was trivial to you,
you thought, my flesh was ready for you.
you thought, me being friendly,
an invitation for you to violate me.
I was afraid, of the consequences,
you were groping your next prey.
I was afraid , of myself,
empty void nesting inside me.
I contemplate, did I do something wrong?
or was it you all alone,
the answer is obvious, yet
I scrutinise myself to sleep every night.
The wounds may heal,
but the trust is lost,
the shadows will scare me,
for the rest of my life.
I have decided to,
deem you insignificant,
at long last the woman in me rebelled,
overcoming the fear and shame.
I will speak out,
not in a whisper, but aloud,
vehemently, to end this injustice,
to end this torment within.
wad_arg
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 4:58 AM UTC
the iron lace highlights a corner of the edifice
catches a moonbeam, reflecting into the masked eyes
of a robber tiptoeing like a chorus dancer. a couple
clink glasses, filled with wine. the waiter hears
a feather floating to rest on terracotta.
on the street below a woman with a bun has departed
the gallery, towards the window of a man hardly known.
she wanders through a courtyard. frames with eyes
scrutinise footsteps. heels echo in the square. she glimpses
in the reflection an indistinct moon. another illusion.
a fat bald man jumps on a bus. she's obsessed
by that portrait and had read in the news
stories of post-war posturings, a curtain imposed by a rip.
romance in the window & she never witnessed dessert.
somehow in the city a forest of trunks hides
a power-blue sedan & a man with a gun. she can't remember
what she's done. her sister escaped with a bag
filled with notes. dull clues. a uniformed team takes
their cues. they talk to strangers. she doesn't often do that
unless in a shop, for an order, or a bank vault with her code.
the plot mechanically drawn like the woman by her easel
in her 50s frock, trying to convince the telescope
he's the one. a siren wails as she arrives at a different
streetscape, blinded as a gaslight catches
the diamond necklace of a different diner
with a man who may or may not be her betrothed.
she tried to call. no answer. where did Norman go? black birds flock
& swoop overhead, hardly noticed against fading stars
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 4:51 PM UTC
Climb
Loose
Sit
Catch
Breath
Let
It go
Gasp
The
View
Fingers
Scrutinise
Fiddling
Straw
Into
Gold
Adventure
Index
Not
Linked
To
Burying
Bones
An
Adventure
Never
To
Forget
Index
Or
Link
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 4:35 PM UTC
for ever under pgang 09.09.18
this is going to spike
the penny did drop
not a story to get a like
front page will flop.
every single shift
all of pgang did scrutinise
now for ever rift
staying clear for no jeopardise.
going to speak my mind
speculation is no illusion
looking back at rewind
gang mentality had conclusion.
on you is shame
you all did cross the line
like love for ever and playing the game
logged on poetry forums for ever to shine.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 2:34 AM UTC
comedy island with shazia mirza 18.07.18
midweek and still controlling
trying to change is this chameleon
forget alcatraz camden is patrolling
get me on a island with a comedian.
so correct in explanation
nearly in deep trouble
with 2 meat heads and contamination
hilarious was the head air bubble.
as a society we are looking
no need for poetry to explain
we scrutinise words to tv cooking
critics are just a pain.
we are in self obsession
yes i am jealous and bitter
maybe its tone of expression
shazia add me and i will join twitter.
send you poems on completion
can even do special topics
love and laughter is cohesion
true diversity no need for microscopic s.
when feeling down
not wanting to write or use the cursor
to the rescue in camden town
queen of every island is shazia mirza.
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 3:21 PM UTC