"sparingly" poems
If there was one word
One word, isolated by itself
That I cannot stand above all others
It would have to be "Okay"
I despise "Okay"
"Okay"
Is how your millionth day at work went
"Okay"
Is off-brand raisin bran
"Okay"
Is how you say life is going
When you don't want to admit you spend
Every second of it
Wanting to die
"Okay"
Is packed to the brim with
Hidden implications
Like a treasure chest
Filled with bottles
With little subliminal hatreds
Written on tiny slips of paper
Passively aggressively pushed inside
To discover later
As I pull out a treasure map
And try to decipher
Where I went wrong
"Okay"
Is a one word dismissal
That feels like an essay a thousand pages long
"Okay"
Is a poison dripping with disinterest
When I dared to share with you
Something I thought might make you smile
"Okay"
Is like trying to talk to a wall
While watching the paint on it dry
"Okay"
Takes two seconds to write
Yet I waited days
For that dreaded word
To grace my notifications
"Okay"
Should be used sparingly
As if each time you send it
You **** the receiver just a little bit
"Okay"
Should not be said so often that
I know what you're about to say
Like I saw it in a crystal ball
"Okay"
Is not looking up from your phone
When I tell you about my day
"Okay"
Is not the proper response
To "I love you"
They say that the opposite of love isn't hatred
It's indifference
And I can't think of a response
More indifferent to pouring out
My heart into your hands
Than "Okay"
At least the last thing you said to me
Before we parted ways
Showed that you cared
At least a little bit
"I hate you"
Stung less
Than the thousands of times
Over our countless conversations
You responded
"Okay"
Okay?
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 12:09 PM UTC
*be ever gentle to thy words
treat them, your tools, well,
cleansing and protecting,
wrapping them in cloths of chamois and moleskin
that they may be well conditioned and
pour forth with a temperament clear and viscous,
reflecting their high honors and a noble lineage,
they are well-intentioned to exist far longer
than your meager temporal life,
upon this ever hasty, ever perpetual, orbit
give them all respect, their fair due,
they are treasure immeasurable,
for which you have been granted guardianship,
custody received from others to be gifted onwards,
yours, but for the duration
so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction
more truffle than trifle,
find them in the dark forest of your life,
use them sparingly, just for soaring,
take them from the roots of your trees,
shave them with a paring knife,
counts them in bites and measure them in grams,
even in grains,
for words are the seasoning of our lives,
agent provacateurs that can modify the moment,
bringing out to the fore
the flavor of the underlying
speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor them at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them*
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
she was leaving
and got the gumption
to see me before she did
so we went to dinner
she sat, crumpled
at the edge of the booth
playing with her silverware
hands sweating
our knees barely touching
underneath the table
they shook like the day we met
they shook like floodgates
when the clouds get upset
her hair was drawn back
into an apology
and she didn't answer
when the waiter asked for drinks
she pans, tilts
looking for the restroom
but doesn't get up
covers her mouth
to hide her furled chin
i cut her a piece of bread
not sparingly
i didn't want to ruin the symbolism
of cutting a gangrenous thing
from ones self
she half wept out "tell me a joke"
i thought to say "look at us."
that's it. that's the joke.
the premise & the punch line
sharing some silence
here in this ominous moment
so thick with goodbye
you could touch it
i said "when they asked what the name was for the wait, i should've said "awkward, party of 2"
but that's not the joke
"knock knock"
she whispered "who's there?"
i sat for a moment and said
"so we've come full circle.. we're even in the same seats, from all those months ago"
her lips quivered
and she hid her mouth
"i just wanted to hear a joke"
she said
i came back with
"if i fell for you in a quiet restaurant & no one was around to hear it, does the laughter of children i drempt we'd have make a sound?"
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 7:19 PM UTC
An Open Letter to my Best Friend
You, dear are the strongest person I know,
And trust me when I say, I know a lot of people.
You stand, rooted as deep as an oak tree in my heart
Your eyes find their way into my dreams, burning with passion and fired belief.
Your sorrow matches the winds of the sea
Constantly badgering you
With the threat of drowning,
I'm so scared you'll take yourself from me.
Your voice is something,
I can only be thankful for
Coming to me in times of need
It has all the power to make my heart soar, suturing the bleed.
Your dreams,
You've been told,
Are far fetched at best
And unachievable at most.
What people don't understand
Is unicorns are shy creatures
Who just don't have the heart
To prove they exist.
Even though they run free,
Jump high
And take great pride
(Their horns are always meticulously shined.)
I think back on the times
You taught me to be strong
Without even knowing
You were consistently adding words
To my life's song.
The melody just a little sweeter
While it plays in my head
Added like you do with sugar to your coffee before bed.
Sparingly,
But needed.
Oh so very needed.
You, my darling, have your roots dug deep
Your dreams being dreamed
Your life, I do believe
Is worth so much more than an amount that any bank could offer,
Is worth more than the english language can explore,
And all I need you need to remember,
The alphabet is composed of 26 letters,
Voldemort wasn't always in power,
take each insult
And pull a Tom Marvolo Riddle out
of the sorting hat.
Believe that the positive outweighs the negative,
And yes that means your scale is wrong.
Tumblr's idea of pretty girls,
Doesn't take place in my song.
So this is an open letter,
To my very best friend.
Darling, please know
You can always depend
and lean
and cry on
and hate
and call
and love
and trust
me.
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 10:10 PM UTC
these thoughts...
they are my own,
walled within the deepest recesses
of my
cerebral labyrinth.
sprouting out of vine covered walls,
are multicoloured blooms
brandishing thorned stems
and
thirsty stigmas,
dripping with
absinthe.
mind full of poison in
permissible amounts...
i am caught in a
web of restless stupor,
anguish...
and regression...
these thoughts...
rationed out sparingly,
for they're not for unready ears
blooms of thought meticulously
triaged before
necessary expulsion.
hairline cracks between
insanity
and peace...
i tread precariously
the fine,
meandering line.
still clutching my flowers
in a tight obstinate grasp...
not letting go
for these tainted blossoms
are
undoubtedly
mine.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 6:42 AM UTC
the narrative does not cling to classicalism of stating whether the pronoun usage is either singular or plural or both to allow an armchair of expression; after all... there's enough for us to bypass the classical philosophical debate about subject and object, simply investigating pronoun usage in relation to singularity or pluralism.
there’s a theory where poetry came from,
one read: cleopatra wanted to hear sweet-nothings
calibrating a razor with a viper’s kiss...
another read: she báthory?
she báthory? she the one that turned milk into blood?
she can burn in hell.
i thought we were un-dialectical in the realms of concern?
no... you see... poetry came from punctuated-impressionism...
or a fear of it... punctuation of course, not from the impressionism...
poets fear punctuation...
give them a semi-colon
and
they
treat
it
like a sidelined line of verse.
this is poetry in mathematical equations:
i had a pear(,)
it was a spare(.)
i had a care for traffic(-)
so i missed( )
the expressions and started using an obelisk to quarter up the mammoth
into chop suey...
poets simple say: next line! when prose says next paragraph
and the prized execution of the 100m sprint . . . (.)
that’s universal alpha romeo with alfa bravo charlie delta (echo)...
come on in the u-turn... give us a smile......... :),
poets says... i need breathing space
without sentenced timing of silence, for the toad to feed inspiration
and envy!
no wonder you came with the alpha - zulu
alphabet given that you used ɪɡ and zoʊ...
so tell me... where’s this copernican west upside down
(this heliocentric west with east being the big bang)?!
i'd swear the thing stopped orbiting in circles
and a thing that's on it's thought started to become
orbital... a fashion sense of the 60s 70s 80s 90s repeated -
that's right, the whole thing became heliocentric
and we became narcissists instead of solipsists
in the geocentric system of worked-up plagiarism
with adequate excuses.)
it's here it the poets apprehensive of punctuation symbology
and instead writing "sparingly,"
to write, e.g.:
i
hate
this
love
affair
claimed
to
be
the
world...
i
rather
chisel
chequers
into
geometry
of
x4
90º.
makes sense poets begot fear of
punctuation and not grammar, they
serviced to explore nothing else,
leaving grammar open long enough to *****
mathematics in... remember...
poets are firstly concerned with punctuation...
secondly with grammar...
philosophy for poets is grammar;
**** i'm um um so drunk i'll need to revise.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
This is for all the girls
Who think they aren’t skinny enough
This is for all the girls
Who think they aren’t pretty enough
This is for all the guys
Who think they have to act a little more “tough”,
As if mere kindness isn’t enough.
This, my friends, is for you.
Our society today
Has painted its own little picture
Of how we should look
So that guy’ll wanna “get wit cha”
Of how to live and how to dream
Of what to do and who to be
Today it seems the only way to be “cool”
Is to smoke a little and drink a few
To stay out until all hours of the night
Partying, getting higher than a kite
See, what gets me confused is this
The things we are told are right
Are much different than what we see on TV
If there is one thing I hate more than lying,
It’s hypocrisy.
We are told to exercise
To get fit, and eat right
Then what do we see?
Models throwing up at night
Scared
Because the pressure is too much
To eat is too pricy
So food, they don’t touch.
What is a model?
Someone or something used as an example
I don’t know about you, but
When I shop, I grab up ALL the samples
Starving isn’t realistic
Nor is it “right”
Regardless of your pant size,
Regardless of your height.
We are told that beauty is only skin deep
That what really matters is all underneath
I have yet to see one person at the VMAs
With less than 5 makeup products on their face
Why is that?
There’s a simple Answer.
Thanks to Maybelline and L’Oreal
It costs 6 dollars for a beauty enhancer.
Girls talk all the time
About how there are no good guys out there.
I hate to burst your bubble
But saying that isn’t fair
There are plenty of guys
Who are respectful and kind
But you push them away
Without a care in your mind
You want one thing
Then it changes to another
Because movies make you think
You don’t have to really care for one another
They show relationships as prideful,
Full of lust and lies
So when it comes to the real world,
Kind guys are despised.
So they mask their emotions with
Hardness and Vulgarity
Showing love on occasional,
Rarely, and sparingly.
See According to society,
Men have to be “tough”
Or else they are judged and pushed aside
Left waiting for the one to call their bluff.
This is for all the girls
Who think they aren’t skinny enough
This is for all the girls
Who think they aren’t pretty enough
This is for all the guys
Who think they have to act a little more “tough”,
You’re beautiful, you are loved.
Don’t ever let anyone tell you
You aren’t enough.
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 4:07 PM UTC
Windmills
Life’s short
From the gate
Better use time well
Spend sparingly
And wait
For your chance to dwell
Forever comes
Sooner than later
More often than never
When millions of men deny
Windmills spin
And time testifies
As an eye-witness
It spent
Like seconds
Collected as you went
Saw dust dance in the air
Took for granted
Then used as evidence
Of what happens
When we go
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 4:02 PM UTC
How can I recall the past? when I can’t even remember your face, I can’t even remember your voice.
All I've got is your jewellery box and your writing in chalk, probably not worth a lot.
I save the box for the moments of loss that feel like I’m scraping nails down a wall with no foothold.
Within the lining I can, if I concentrate, recall your scent. Sometimes I open up your old lip-balm and wear it sparingly. Loose as it may be, it’s as though you’re reality and touching me.
Emersed in these moments, I forget, you’ll always be someone I never knew.
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 8:48 PM UTC
Who do you think leads us
When we find it there at the top of the mountain
The sky a sweating forcefield
Defending an unknowable cannibal society from the rages of brutality
No lifeguards here at the sidewalk hot dog stand
No golf carts swerving in and out of lanes
On a neighborhood parkway
Our footsteps bend back with tension
Where we face a collision course
With a culture three short steps removed
And left to warp and mutate in the lee of the stone
Where sands of time blow sparingly
To the pace of a sputtering tractor motor
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 1:48 PM UTC
this isn't heartbreak,
no,
this is swollen
and there's a difference between the two
heartbreak is what you feel when
you get your heart broken
swollen is what happens when
you give too much of yourself away
and I do
too often
without thinking
I love
like everyone is dying
and my passion is the only thing that can save us
like the end of the world is coming
and all we have to save the human race
is my weakness
I care
like it is an alternative to breathing
and every available ounce of oxygen has gone missing
I give
like a one time supply
that thinks itself endless
like my limbs can regenerate without trying
like my lips are incapable of cracking
like my bones were made for splitting
I give
like if I were to empty out completely
I could still call myself whole
like I can auction off this body
and still refer to it as home
like I can hand out my vulnerability in pieces
and still have something for myself
this isn't heartbreak,
no,
nor is it swollen
this is a resignation
from my conscience
to my desperation
this is a reminder
for my own
to give all I have sparingly
and this is an apology
to my sanity
for when I don't listen
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 2:10 PM UTC
There are moments of clarity.
They come sparingly
And I ache for their return
Once they decide to depart.
In those mere seconds
I finally know what my life entails
And accept the greatness I hold.
I am at a high that throws my mind
Above its own capabilities,
But I know the end is near
Once my body begins to plummet
Through the stratosphere,
A simple shooting star
To the eyes of onlookers.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 9:21 PM UTC
My heart is fragile and frail, and few are the words that she so sparingly; so seldom says.
"I love you."
My heart, she says.
Jan 4, 2021
Jan 4, 2021 at 5:28 PM UTC
How do I love thee?
Let me count the ways
of soul soothing play,
unique in it's own way.
To join our hands
and walk over the Sands.
Dreams of lands,
adorned by scintillating star bands.
Together we breathe and
share the lovable air,
Full of aroma and sweet
scents of pine.
Let's start to clear the
clouds of fear,
Make love not sparingly,
in actions of passion.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 10:50 PM UTC
the day you called me
i could hear that tin can tear drop echo
in the midst of my happy hello,
but my hopes crashed faster than my ego
as you recited those rehearsed lines of let go,
& the words were wet with sobs & sweat
& love wasn't mentioned amidst the mess
of apologies & idle threats.
& i listened with my full attention
until you ran out of breath,
& i responded cautiously
with tiny verbal tip-toed steps.
& while your eyes ***** dishonesty,
your heart hunts for a better chest
because you're aware of it so sparingly
it's just a ribcage ornament.
& i felt empathetic as you wept
because your valves were finally thawed & thumping
& i wonder if you felt the weight
on your breastplate
as it was shocked into a waking state,
& made up for missed decades
by pounding at a rapid pace
& revitalizing vapid veins.
& as i listened to you come alive
over that claustrophobic cell phone line
it floods my ears & drains my eyes
& makes my heart divide...
May 8, 2010
May 8, 2010 at 3:21 PM UTC
Such an abatement of voices creep sparingly, verily I tell you, they shall be accrue in the mornings dew!!
Acquaint me on mine wrongs, thank me for mine songs I subdue!!!
They are just registry's of what's real and what's not!!!!
Must you haveth natural air to breathe? Annotater of annunuity. Apprentice fakes overtake innocent babies where the unnatural scabies infest the freshest of human skins.
Carrouse all your symptoms away. You leader, you fearer, you murderer by day!!!
Your one charitable cent gives to noone, for someone in thy heavens watches your do's and donts!!!!
Sure you won't infest beyond breed. You striver to succeed, your alive today aren't thou?
Grant it, you don't look it....
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
Lydia's mother
sliced the bread thinly
and buttered sparingly
and handed Lydia
two limp slices
and said
get that inside you
can't have you going
everywhere
with your stomach rumbling
people'd think
you've not been fed
Lydia took the two slices
and a mug of stewed tea
but she hadn't been fed
that was why
she went and got
the rolls and bread
but she said nothing
just nodded her head
and followed her mother
into the living room
and sat at the table
her big sister
had gone to bed
her father was sleeping
off the beer
Lydia nibbled like a mouse
a thin long haired girl
of a mouse
can I go up West?
she asked
up West?
her mother repeated
as if her daughter
had sworn at her
up West?
she said again
turning the words around
in her head
to see how they fitted in best
can I?
her daughter
asked again anxiously
you can in the sense
that it's possible
but if you mean may
as a permissibility
then no
her mother said
what?
Lydia said
uncertain where
she was
in her request
your gran always said
that the difference
between can and may
is one of possibility
over permissibility
said Lydia's mother
may I go?
Lydia asked softly
no you may not
her mother said
why not?
her daughter asked
because I said so
her mother replied
why do want to go there?
her mother asked
Benedict said
he was going there
and that he'd take me
Lydia replied
oh him
her mother said
she sat and took a bite
from her sandwich
picturing the boy
from upstairs
in the flats
with his hazel eyes
and big smile
and self assurance
about him
why does he want to go
up West?
she asked
he likes adventures
Lydia said
adventures?
her mother said
repeating the word
as if
it were unknown to her
who does he think he is
Biggles or someone
like that?
Lydia sat nibbling
frowning
holding the bread
in her thin hands
he's never mentioned Biggles
Lydia said
don't talk
with your mouth full
her mother scolded
Lydia swallowed
the bread
he's not said nothing
about no Biggles
Lydia said
well you can't go
her mother said firmly
looking at her daughter's
thin frame
and lank long hair
do you mean I mayn't?
Lydia uttered gently
I said what I mean
her mother said
and don't get mouthy
like your big sister
or you'll feel
my hand
across your backside
Lydia nibbled
and looked away
a train steamed crossed
the railway bridge
leaving grey white smoke
behind it
lingering there
unsettling the air
her mother muttered words
but Lydia didn't listen
she watched clouds
cross the sky darkly
carrying a storm
or rain
she liked her backside
as it was
she didn't want
no pain
she'd not ask
again.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 7:44 AM UTC
I heard a rumor part of the reason Amy Winehouse died is she abruptly stopped drinking and her body did not adjust well.
She harmonized with poison.
She needed this.
Isn't that interesting?
I wonder if a similar rule applies to other poisons.
Let me tell you about the time I got really, really wasted in Spanish class.
The bartender sat directly to my left.
She would give me dopamine bombs with oxytocin shots and serotonin chasers.
She poured me love in a pint glass.
I was drunk every day.
One day the bartender cut me off.
My body did not adjust well.
I harmonized with poison.
I needed this.
But it's okay, I have different flaws now.
I have SSRIs for synapses.
I have whiskey for frontal lobes.
I have potassium cyanide for contemplation.
I have THC for memories of her playing symphonies on heart strings.
Also the guy who sold me these colorful pills is a ******* liar.
Ecstasy feels like those fingertips.
Now every birthday I wish for smiling wrinkles when I'm old.
I'll do with these blisters on my passion and these calluses on my character and if she really is gone I hope sunshine takes it's job back.
I apologize.
Blaming her isn't fair.
I'm just tired of my reflection at the bottom of whiskey neats.
But I do hope she pours sparingly now.
Over-serving is ******* reckless.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 8:50 PM UTC
*It was a gloomy Halloween night, misty, dark and cold,
With madness and mysteries that were yet to unfold,
When a pretty and pleasant witch, simmered hot brew,
Preparing to cast a spell, to the young and old.
With a poisonous drink, in scents of sweet potion,
And a fragrance of pure white lilies, only if they knew,
Tasty and hot, similar to a steamy cup of tea,
Placed in a large *** plenty for everyone, and not leaving a clue.
As ghosts glided through, generating spooky sounds,
Reflecting mysterious whispers, as light as the winds,
And scary black bats flew endlessly, into the darkness,
Sparingly stroking, their generous long wings.
As guest gathered hopelessly and anxiously, drinking her brew,
And became drowsy, falling asleep,
And the witch grew weary and tired, through the night,
Upon her awakening, her invitees managed to escape, and she started to weep.*
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
The Wildest Conclusion
Who are you
To tell me
My thoughts
Aren't worth being heard
I deserve
And demand my rights
I might
Shout amendments
First,
Then commence
To irregular common sense
My stability
Is retained
By the imbalance
In my brain
You see,
I can't enable
These "Cain and Able" angels
That rest on your shoulders
Because
I ain't able
Fables
Fly out the mouth
Of an astounding author
His sound
Is profound
His prowess authorized
By his copy written
Signature
Which is his style
Italicized and laid back
Now,
Crack open
Another pack of pens
And draw out
The wildest conclusions
In deep thought
Then listen...
.The world disapproves.
The extent
Of my intentions
Were wilder than I could imagine
So I didn't know
I would take it this far
The words written
Were forbidden
In the foulest belief system
I wouldn't have wrote them
If my outrageous mind
Wasn't dying
From boredom
Boarding off the monsters
That alter ideas
From beneath the bed
They reach my head
And toy with my
Emotions
Tantalize and
Taint my tender mind
Then morph it
To be the tainter!
To picture death
You'll need help
From this
Morbid painter
Why do I
Write so wickedly
Then spread like pandemics
It's
Pandemonium momentarily
Shared with you
With whatsoever
You should do
With
Evil knowledge
Is truth
Look in your hands
I say
"Vice is right"
Can I persuade?
Like a gun used to
****** a murderer
Some executions
Are executed
At the exact moment
Of redemption
How tempting
Is it for
A wholesome man
To make
A half-hearted attempt
At prosperity
Sparingly
Laying in Evil's bed
But never staying
When he awakes
Will he use the tools
Because he learned the trade
Or teach others
To not
It's hard to reach others
When all they believe
Is a happy ending
I conclude
But
The true ending
You can't imagine
Because it's too wild
For you.
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 4:03 PM UTC
Within this crimson,
opalescent phial entwined
with metallic vine slumbers
death's grim visage.
A few drops
laced in wine or tea
produces sinister
hallucinations
and
searing agony.
To be used so
sparingly,
only in greatest
need
to avoid discovery
of secrets harbored.
I tuck the phial away.
He never knew
how close he was to
agonizing death
by my hand.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 2:47 PM UTC
I've never been one for talking.
My words have always been used sparingly
As a child, they were minimal and meaningful
But my years progressed
I lost confidence
So they became less and less.
I started to believe
That my opinion was worthless
And I could never formulate a perfect method
In which to express my emotions to others
So I began to fall into myself.
As depression hit like a crashing wave
And anxiety was the flood that followed
I looked for ways to cope.
I would attack myself with anything sharp
Sending me to the hospital was it's only effect.
An eight year battle with an eating disorder
Seldom reaped any benefits.
But through it all,
I began recording my experiences.
Not ******
But with a pen in my hand
And a cigarette hard-pressed between my lips.
I would write anywhere I could
In classes
In my bedroom
Sometimes, surrounded by nature
And it was so unexpectedly freeing.
It was as though
My words finally made sense
And flowed seamlessly, one into the next
I didn't stammer or hesitate when I wrote.
I felt esteemed and witty and self-assured
I finally had a space where I was free of judgement.
All in all,
Writing is a gift
To express thoughts and say exactly what you mean
Is beautiful.
For me,
Writing is a means of escape
Of expression
Of art.
Writing is really
The way I communicate with the world around me.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 9:25 PM UTC
Balancing whispers in our scales
We exhaled our reason
And spent a lifetime
Immersed in a spiral of pleasure
The grass may seem greener
But only in fair weather
And your mind is a heavy sweater
That you wear sparingly
To cover up the bareness
Of your shoulders
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 11:13 AM UTC