"sensical" poems
I hate how the words
"Lesbian," "Gay," "Bisexual," et cetera
Are thought of as bad words.
It's like, oh, no, don't teach your little sister the word lesbian
Don't tell her there are some girls who like other girls
How inappropriate!
It's like, oh, no, don't teach your little brother the word gay
Don't tell him there are some boys who like other boys
How disgusting!
Don't let anyone under the age you deem appropriate know
That there are people who aren't heterosexual
Why?
I can't possibly understand why.
There is no reason for homophobia, not really.
I saw a metaphor somewhere that went something like this:
"I was in Subway, and I bought myself a ham sub. As I was paying, the man behind me bought a different sub than me, and I was immediately offended that he got a different sandwich."
This is what it sounds like when people say homosexual people affect them.
How do they affect you?
Just because they don't love someone who is of the opposite ***
Or just because they like both
Or something else
Just because of their ****** preference, no matter what it may be
You think that gives you reason to hate them? Really?
Just because they're different than the 'normal' you're used to?
Normality is relative.
You can't say it's not "normal."
That is not a justified nor sensical argument.
What is wrong with those people?
Can't they just see past all their biases and realize that we're all people
And we all deserve the same rights no matter who we're attracted to
No matter who we kiss
No matter who we touch
No matter who we have *** with
Is it really that difficult?
**We're all humans when it comes down to it, and we all deserve the same rights.
Everyone should be able to see that.**
And you know what I wonder?
Why are we voting on whether people deserve rights or not in the first place?
And then there's people who act like homosexuality is a disease
People who act like anyone who is anything but heterosexual is broken and needs to be fixed
They're not broken.
They don't need to be fixed.
They are who they are, and the government shouldn't tell them what they can and cannot do
Based simply and only on who they're attracted to.
"You can't get married because you aren't straight."
Do you realize how shallow that is? Do you?
"You're disgusting because you aren't straight."
Why?
Why should it matter to you who they're in a relationship with?
It's their life, their decision.
No one ever asks heterosexual people why they're heterosexual.
No one ever says, "Hey, when did you decide you were straight?"
It's just ridiculous, and I'm fed up of it.
"If gay marriage is legalized, more people will become gay."
Oh, yeah, sure, of course, that will totally happen.
Just like when African Americans were given rights
Everyone decided they wanted to go out and become African American.
Just like when women were given rights
Everyone decided they wanted to go out and become female.
People of all sorts of sexualities and preferences have grown up
With mostly straight media everywhere
It didn't "turn" them straight.
So gay media won't "turn" anyone gay
It won't hurt anyone if there's a gay couple in a commercial.
Or a TV show.
Or any other form of media.
It makes me sick to think that just because of your personal opinion
My friends who are not heterosexual would not be allowed to get married
To the person that they love.
Do you know what will happen if gay marriage is legalized?
Gay people will get married.
Why can't you just understand that it doesn't matter?
Why should you care what they do?
Why should you care who they like?
It doesn't affect you.
It doesn't change you.
It's just giving LGBT people more control over their own lives.
It's just giving LGBT people rights they should have had in the first place.
Why?
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 10:36 PM UTC
Love poems rot,
The sensical knots.
I tie, overflowing, the dread.
The Pickwitkin Heavy,
The Verveberry Wedding.
Such shanks, still stuck in my head.
My memories loosen,
The Stopshift Tallcluesen,
Cut to myself dreaming in red.
Full throttle forward,
I'll sail ever toward,
My untying your knots from my bed.
Aug 29, 2010
Aug 29, 2010 at 7:24 PM UTC
Bottled up affection
So much more to give.
Bursting to just give it away
Much less than to receive.
A motive beyond selfishness
Logic seams protruded.
Less sensical to understanding,
Yet truly, eternally concluded.
Pivotal to our existence,
Impossible separation from our souls.
Loving another, only to love
Brazen faith like internal coals
A surrendering of hearts
Uncomfortable yet embracive
Doubts exist, but pale in comparison
Love being more persuasive.
The deepest truth
The greatest need
Saddest misplaced reality
Life long searching
Journeying toward
An unconditional love mentality
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 6:59 AM UTC
Here we are again.
Lying on my side,
You running your nonexistant nails
Down the curves of my bare back.
"I can't tell what you're writing."
"I'm not writing, stupid.
I'm drawing."
And I lay there
Reveling for 10 minutes,
Not at the comfort of being touched,
But because it's your fingertips
Tracing your silly doddles
Across my bare skin.
I'm not sure how we got here.
From crab rangoons and redbull,
To sushi and back scratches;
From best friends to this,
This thing so out of touch
With any sensical title.
I'm too much of a ****
To even begin to act like I notice,
To show that I'm more aware than I seem.
Time for a new distraction.
"Meet Virginia" is on, time to tease you.
May 6, 2012
May 6, 2012 at 10:25 PM UTC
History has shown
They will **** their own
Before living with others in peace
Have no doubt
That hatred is as nourishment
Sustenance
Subsistence
A necessity for existence
They can not do without
Burning hot as fire within the wretched souls
Of those
Whose evil knows
No bounds
Would **** you
As soon as kick you
Because your skin is Olive or Brown
Or you pray to a Deity
That your life revolves around
The depravity
The corruption
Never cease to be astounded
By
Those that NEED someone to hate
Who would these mongers hate
If successful in their efforts
To eradicate
Everyone who was, from themselves, different?
If they knifed all the *******
Burned all the *******
Chopped up all the chinks
Would this, their hate, augment?
If they tortured the towel heads
Killed the catholics
Hanged the homos
Would this, finally, curb discontent?
Or
Would the haters implode
And begin to feed upon themselves
Would short people
Shoot tall people?
Would merely looking at skinny
Make fatty incensed?
Would brown-eyed people
**** blue-eyed people?
Would red hair and freckles
Be a stoning offense?
Would black-haired people
Break blond-haired people?
This is a hate poem…
And hate seldom makes sense…
But sensical or no…
Seems the real status quo
Matters love that we show
There will always be those
That just plain NEED
Someone to hate
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 9:28 AM UTC
You think you're special
Special, you are, my dear
Look in the mirror,
You're one in a million
You have two eyes, a nose
Oh, and a mouth too
That spits venomous fire
Onto every soul that disregards
The beauty of your mind
The logic they cannot find
In your thoughts and your speech
But, oh, how you mind
Everything that makes sense to you, is beautiful
And all that fails to, non-sensical
Of course, you're one in a million
A copy-paste of a different kind
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 11:42 AM UTC
a guy sits here
hair a twist
no ordinary man
but a case
whatever prefix fits
he knows no limitations
seeks no thrill but fear
holds no memory dear
brains grasp simply too frail
such a broken outside
and gargoyles pier
however
he tranquilizes them
anytime someone comes near
yet the people abstain still
no shame, no cheer
they simply cannot see what purity
he has in his crypt
intimidated
severe
so let us move forward and glaze over the thick
move towards the misery which anguishes him
nonsense is sensical, whimsy at best
rational is of logic and dreary
detest
********* and thumbing
he frantically does his best
pulls his hair out
pulls his hair out
closed fist
punches chest
"where is she
where is her
name i cannot confess
for it escapes me...
not because
but rather-"
due to his distress
he stopped and sighed
violence
cried
broke down
then bled
red from his eyes
i want her
the sad one
shy
hurt inside
abused, accursed
diseased but undisguised
she'll love me
she will
there's nothing there to hide
she'll make me forget myself
sing or dance or
romanticize
"i want her...
a baby's friend
the neighbor's newborn daughter
the baby friend that came over
as an infant, i saw her
i kept the same heart
but its been through a lot
and now its done with slaughter
i kept the same heart
its growing apart
i need the neighbor's daughter"
it seems as though convinced
he truly had the heart of a newborn
ambivalent
knowing no complexity
purely hurt or comfort
either way's a shoulder
diamond or dirt
seemed to be bipolar
so he seeks the same
not the opposite
that would be a shame
because no one else can relate
to someone who feels the world
has turned its back on fate
he seeks out this girl
overlooking
all the beasts in his way
with evil colors they mask their face
appear to appeal, they may
but he knows better
their defenses fragile
they attract a plethora
to which they expose
like a sinister rose
the black rock in frame
the black rock so hard
shapely carved
to which its "blacksmith"
inscribes no name
a black heart
he sighs
which holds no light
might as well not exist
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 3:39 AM UTC
In the frame time with mimes
Circling around in rhyme
Where the whispers are shouted
And the misery is publicized
In colorful banners all emphasized
Take thy front foot to the left
And they back foot gone to theft
All here on the bitter mans salute
All here on the fitter mans salute
All here on the winning mans salute
And in sticking finicky horse flies
War torn and wishing they were never born
Telling tales that now are screened as myths
Where love is prophesized in the shape of gifts
No man may enter and no woman may squeal
We are all habits in finely packed eight dollar meals
Shipped off and clipped off
Like coupons were are richly scuffed
So here lie the bitter mans salute
So here lie the fitter mans salute
So here lie the winning mans salute
With the bid that went through by the government official
Stating that all tax will be in the form of red wax
Each child must pray to someone else so to obey
Kidnapped minds that grind their kinds as thin as lines
Non-sensical quotes that drift in the minds like long lost boats
Skimming the surface of a service of true freedom
Reaching millions with a smile with crossed fingers as long as miles
And here lie the bitter mans salute
And here lie the fitter mans salute
And here lie the winning mans salute
Our timing in the black market square
Makes all who enter shiver and dare
Know not who you hate only who you love
Take a start toward the finishing line above
Inside all of this lies no secret and no lie
Your heart will be broken but do not cry
Bright in the day but dark all around me now
The farmers in the field work with no plow
She's memorized by pity pain capturing her life
Sharpening the ****** weapon a heart shaped knife
Make your way down and
See the bitter mans salute
See the fitter mans salute
See the winning mans salute
Dec 21, 2011
Dec 21, 2011 at 3:21 PM UTC
there is a broken thing
reformed in amber
disarranging the spectrum
of sensical causal motion
nail biting following
migration patterns of neural
activity and we bless the few
who cut clean and learn early
those bespectacled masses
cannot intuit the limited scope
of aversion to blurry pink clouds
gussied up in peripheral vision the
pineal gland controls circadian
rhythms gushes dmt when
we die i wonder i
wonder what that (vestigial)
little pinecone knows
that we don’t
cased in spongy
grey matter and i don’t think
much of time as metaphor but
my watch strap broke
yesterday i hope
that is
important i do
nothing so simple or complex
as love but(i carry it in my heart)
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 8:44 PM UTC
two bodies; once one.
fumbling hands are now still,
clasped on separate knees,
separately shaking
with separate lives.
some words are best left unspoken
and best left to speaking in bodies
and tongues
and without understanding
as non-sensical as the birthmark
shaped like a boat
that she claimed was never on her
back before.
it wasn't there anymore.
everything was removed.
rent asunder.
torn apart.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 11:48 AM UTC
Rack my brains
Rake through and find the right memory
Tip it out, squeeze and shape it
Mold it to a more sensical form
Then, observe your consumers
Subtle changes
Until it becomes almost an original story
Forgo accuracy for entertainment
More colourful, less accurate
Oct 2, 2022
Oct 2, 2022 at 5:32 AM UTC
What ifs
Truths without proof
Lies without conviction
Seemingly sensical thoughts
Wandering down a senseless trail
Where does this road lead?
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 12:49 AM UTC
To write a brilliant poem:
Use a concoction of ridiculous words.
Non-sensical message conveyed.
Show off your manipulation to language.
Stop. And pause. And start again,
your repeated point no longer in tandem.
Then for some unknown reason ignore all logical structure and ask a question?
Darken your mood.
Randomly: use colons.
Where do; you use; semi-colons¿
Only poets admire your work.
The rests are ignorant gits,
who cannot see how your use of a thesaurus can bring upon untold bliss.
Reflect. Unreflect.
One or two words don’t quite make sense.
Finally summarise, your all-knowing point takes flight
Filled with silent anger; you’ve written utter sh**e.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 1:53 PM UTC
Is it rude to lean my boots, that which touches the ground, without any kind of discretion or watchfulness, up against the toilet seat and tie them up neat, into little bows?
I'll never know, I suppose, whose bottom will sit, and **** where I thought it appropriate to mend my un-laced foot.
Is it non-sensical and insensible to stare off into space, breath heavily, and pause in mid edit, while a handsome chap, inside and out, walks past with a stranger? "Call out his name," No, heavens no, do not call out his name.
Are our engagements forever fleeting? Am I to arrange the next meeting? "It's the 21st century," he retorts one day, "I gave you the wrong idea," the next. Wrong idea? Just because we woke up and smoked a **** together and discussed the pros and cons of city life versus country life doesn't mean you gave me any ideas, I just thought you liked me.
Wrong idea? Idea, the conception, misconception, that your touching my naked body, meant that from there on out, we were going steady, and I was to call.
The 21st century, is all that it is cracked up to be.
And I am cracking up, outwardly, while I muse.
Inwardly, I am cracking.
Needless to say, Athens county should most surely stop fracking.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 6:23 PM UTC
I thought I knew anatomy until I took to mesmerizing
the movements of your finger tips and the curl of your lips
it was a surprise to me that everything I was sure of its meaning
measured up to nothing in my journey of analyzing
because bones are filled with marrow
but talent must support your limbs because theres no other way to explain it
and your finger prints must be hieroglyphs of the most beautiful piece of art thats taken to be written
I exhale carbon dioxide but your cadence is different
alongside common elements, intelligence is escaping from inside
I've sat to questioning the pictures my textbooks taught me
and the only sensical explanation is you're too beautiful to be contained by science alone
because you can't place an equation on a work of art
perspectives wont always let x = x
and maybe that's just it
the awareness of being aware pressed your eyes
so I studied them a bit longer, like a test I didn't want to fail
you have features that ask to be traced so they can be born to more than one place to grace the blank expressions of the earth's faces
an infinite impression of peacefulness
these aren't lines telling of hopeless love and romantic woes
Im looking to tell of one of the most interesting people I ever met
that didn't cause me to be swept from where I commonly stepped
but reminded me to be grateful for being grounded
butterflies never filled my insides
but a craving to learn everything that coincides with your latest stride
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
Me and Mary moved in together almost six months ago now. We moved into a little smelly carpeted paradise on the top floor of pre-war building in Dennistoun . It has three rooms, and that's all we needed: The glowing yellow walled bedroom, the freezing grey tiled bathroom ( that could wake a dead man up for work), and the warm red living room that has a sink and a cooker shoved in the corner of it.
In the beginning it was bliss: childish ****** adventure, and many a burnt stew. We would watch ***** catch up t.v on our laptops until well after midnight, falling asleep in each others arms on the couch, with easy dreams and full bellies; I don’t think we ever slept on our bed then, because then it had a better purpose. But that’s where she sleeps now, and I’m on the couch staring at the ceiling night after night, hoping she’ll call me in. But she hasn’t, and it’s been almost a week since she’s said anything to me. You see thirty days ago I lost my job with the leccy grid, and we’ve had to cut back on a few things as a precaution: First it was our Friday night bottle of wine, and then it was our nights out on the Saturday; then good portabella mushrooms, then it was the Netflix subscriptions and last week I had to cancel our B.T account. I’v tried to tell her it’s only temporary, that I’ll be back on my feet in no time, and all she has to do is trust and believe in me and what we have together. But she's tired from working every shift she can get, and the last thing she said to me was with wet eyes that refused to focus on me: “ How can I love you without wifi?”.
To be fair to her, it was in the middle of a very heated conversation where we had both said some incredibly non-sensical attacks on one another, but it’s stuck with me. Is that all we are? A ****** little connection that you pay for monthly?
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 12:09 PM UTC
You asked me if I felt chills
down my spine when
I listened to jazz music
late at nights.
It was almost two in
the morning
and I was riddled
with paranoia
and sleeplessness,
so I told you that I spend too
many nights thinking
of my own mortality
and not
listening to the
strum of cellos and
violins clashing
together;
a supple sort of melancholy
trickling down my being.
..........
You told me that
you were tired
and that you were
picturing me
mumbling in your ear,
the things
I type down in
lazy, barely sensical
texts that lose their
meaning
when I read them
again in the
afternoon, craving
connection
more than love.
..........
We both have songs that
we can't listen to;
mine
is about a burning house
and it
reminds me of a
fifteen year old girl who
never
woke from her sleep.
yours
is about
someone
who broke your heart
and refused
to slow down even
when the
carousel stopped spinning.
...........
So, we live in each
others ripples,
consuming the
liquidity of time
that
we allow ourselves
to exist in and
I wander away a lot
but
you call me
your favorite reminder.
I keep travelling
through familiar
streets alone, watching
our lives
together collapse; lost
to a tide of memory.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 6:30 AM UTC
Watching people compile the data of their lives.
Projecting and archiving information to stimulate cultures of us
when we give ourselves space to be about what makes us us.
To lose sense of myself is to
castrate
my own vitality
and why I fall in love with the toils of another’s expression.
The catalogues of souls that stand like sentinels in the arteries of the human race.
We were here. We know this moment.
We share it with you and you know the moment in your way,
in the language of your life
and you are heard while being spoken to.
Living to be romanced in this way,
to be understood in the ways we know
with the words constructed on top
of the emotion which was constructed on top
of a moment
now a memory.
A mortal drive of creation in evolving consciousness,
immortally moving another.
Now theres no going back.
I’ve challenged narcissism to grow from nasal gazin bathroom mirrors
into seeing yourself in it all,
to sense the language;
Lust
and fleshy aspects wrestle urgently in the song of your life.
Sorrow
and the audience retreats into the cushions of their throes
or runs from that back alley full of discarded mental furniture.
Love
and their minds explode with connections blossoming into each wonderful and terrible memory that grows into a mesh of a net cast out into the ocean of their heart.
Each memory connecting in a timeline of our moments.
The lines of our lives are filled in with dead words
masking all life to ever show its face.
If only we gave those dead symbols life
in the way life gave them to us.
The language of you while being born with the stubborn disposition
of restless curiosity of our being that begs the questions
of where our lines could go
and with what we could fill ourselves with.
Possibility bursting at our s e a m s ,
spilling over into our realities.
Aligning our minds towards considering perspectives;
perspective being one thing that our paradigm of truth does not demand more of.
So eager to settle into a home in our head,
we chase the walls and roof of one truth and forsake non-sense of what has yet to make sense
when maybe the bigger picture
and all the multitudes of its non-sensical parts are waiting to hold hands together
in that same portrait,
framed on your nightstand
where you can see how it makes sense,
so the sense can put the weary wights of the unknown to sleep,
so that you may dream with certainty.
So then, what makes more sense than non-sense?
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 10:30 PM UTC
writing a nonsensical poem
and
expecting
a praiseful
comment
on
it
is
the
greatest
weakness
of
a
socalled
poet
like
me
on
HELLO POETRY
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 2:20 AM UTC
Week old tincture
tinted with lemon-grass
and snod-grass
and grease from black beer-spilled book-bag.
Weak old tincture
couldn't sustain relationships that envelop
circadian rhythms that clash and grate against bunk-bed guards and bone hanging ceilings.
Play bill:
swam in the shallows, metamorphosed, gender bended
unwavering and unending personal development through catharsis.
Pushy beliefs pushed on people who don't believe,
who won't believe in the "serenity of a clear blue mountain lake."
Science, and logic, and classical hodge-podge of ideas,
no,
of theories;
that makes sense.
The non-sensical is the warm.
The un, understood is the energy.
The sun shines in hard, unforgiving through the frosted window, blinding me and I trust my instincts suddenly.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 11:13 AM UTC
The Simplified Mind holds no thoughts non-sensical
It retains only thoughts with Structure and Reason
It won't contemplate what the mind won't allow
Or contend with thoughts unanswerable
The simplified mind knows everything
And nothing outside the mind
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
I find myself existing above where everything else is.
I do see the cars gliding in heavy rain, painting me with white Hollywood flashes but I could confidently argue that they wouldn't cast a shadow behind myself. I find myself existing outside of my body and away from everything I can see in some muted soft space in between.
I wonder if it is because I turn everything into symbols or is it because I am 26 and just trying to feel different. To feel smarter or better or kinder. Is that the goal of all this? There is space between everything I touch and no ability to feel the jagged edges or cold surfaces underneath my fingertips. A numbing that would drive me insane if I wasn't so bloated and churning with random thoughts; some good, some bad. Nothing specific.
I lay on the sofa and notice the moon reflected in the large windows. Two moons, a nice distance apart and somehow the same size and light. The only thing that tells me that one moon is a reflection is some guttural instinct. A discernment. I would love to say they emulated the eyes of a cunning cat or some other great power instead, but they looked blank. But they looked at me.
I feel myself reaching the end of this current mind shift. The one where everything has a meaning or everything is connected. I wonder if it has actually poisoned how I see things but I understand it is a natural progression. Instead I am moving towards the prophecies that things just happen. People can say things without meaning, things can exist without history. Pretty existential and less poetic. It should be less freeing but at the moment it feels more non-sensical and there is less music in everything. Ironic that I should find bliss in less blissful things and I wonder if that is an excuse. My next thing should be to write something beautiful.
To fashion something that is delicate with an expanding and deflating tidal force behind it so strong you could feel it in the muscles of your tongue. Or how the knocking on the door in the night pokes crashes of adrenaline into the top of your chest and contracts your torso with sickly electric, charging your muscles to move and how we are in all fact some weird victim to this wet newspaper slurry and sewage mosaic of stone greys and denim blues all coming together as one when you shake your head but leave your eyes open. And we are just trying and trying to swallow what things happen to us and around us all the time
Aug 11, 2025
Aug 11, 2025 at 12:30 AM UTC
will my roots wither if I pull away?
this, incessant self-querying,
the heart pain tug that tugs on a
clockwork-random schedule,
should I pull it up by the roots,
that, the deepest cut of all.
when you obsess, perplexed about responsibility,
about escape, from what you’ve planted,
which came up with thorns unexpected.
the sweat, from the care and feeding,
rankles and saddens, for this
investments sour taste makes you question
your common-sensical nonsensical,
that intersection where the heart and the brain clash fearsome.
this is oft, too oft, how life sinks it teeth
into you, and extracting those thorns,
leaving teeth marks
hurting long long time after
those withered roots get tugged, pulled,
like a pain in the heart that was exorcised,
but couldn’t never be fully excised
9/12/19
Sep 12, 2019
Sep 12, 2019 at 4:35 PM UTC
If I can't make something into logical sense via concepts, then I make it spacially sensical by knowing certain aspects of a class have repeated.
E.g. in my brain I label a verse with tabs pertaining to a previous line of thought.
E.g. like playing target practice.
May 5, 2021
May 5, 2021 at 8:47 AM UTC