"spektor" poems - Hello Poetry

Here are the names of my lovers, The women I sleep with, whom I use, like they use me. Spent, they discard me, for when their pleasure needs Satiated, they climb aboard another man. What they do not know, Is that in my mind, in my ears, everywhere, I did not let them, or you go, We are still romping, For I Take them as needed. I need them all, For my pleasure needs, like my unshaped heart, Addictive, endless. If your is name is here, I do not Apologize. Pink Adele Lilly Allen Anna Nalick Bess Rogers Beyonce Brandi Carlisle Cat Power Colbie Callait Duffy Eva Cassidy Evanescence Alison Sudol Fiona Apple Florence Welch Grace Potter Ingrid Michaelson You Joni Mitchell K.D. Lang Kate Nash Kate Voegele Leona Lewis Lizz Wright Madeline Peyroux Marie Digby Mary Wells Norah Jones Regina Spektor Sara Bareilles You Sara Haze Taylor Swift and Tracy Chapman Tristan Prettyman Vanessa Carlton So many others, used so long ago, I can't remember the faces, Which can't be googled. Use them hard, use them often, more than daily. Bluntly, I tell you Your name is on my list, Even if I do not disclose it.

0

Aug 18, 2013

Aug 18, 2013 at 9:31 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

Here are the names of my lovers, including you! (Aug 2013)

Here are the names of my lovers, The women I sleep with, whom I use, like they use me. Spent, they discard me, for when their pleasure needs Satiated, they climb aboard another man. What they do not know, Is that in my mind, in my ears, everywhere, I did not let them, or you go, We are still romping, For I Take them as needed. I need them all, For my pleasure needs, like my unshaped heart, Addictive, endless. If your is name is here, I do not Apologize. Pink Adele Lilly Allen Anna Nalick Bess Rogers Beyonce Brandi Carlisle Cat Power Colbie Callait Duffy Eva Cassidy Evanescence Alison Sudol Fiona Apple Florence Welch Grace Potter Ingrid Michaelson You Joni Mitchell K.D. Lang Kate Nash Kate Voegele Leona Lewis Lizz Wright Madeline Peyroux Marie Digby Mary Wells Norah Jones Regina Spektor Sara Bareilles You Sara Haze Taylor Swift and Tracy Chapman Tristan Prettyman Vanessa Carlton So many others, used so long ago, I can't remember the faces, Which can't be googled. Use them hard, use them often, more than daily. Bluntly, I tell you Your name is on my list, Even if I do not disclose it.

58

this year: the one person i thought was my soulmate left my life without so much as one word i fell out of love with the first girl i fell in love with i was reunited with someone i hoped would be my new mother i was repeatedly disappointed i met the most amazing friend i only ever imagined having i quit my job i got a new job i fell in love with a pathological liar i went to my grandfather's funeral i was lied to by the pathological liar (surprise!) i was there for her when she went to detox i was there for her when she relapsed i had a rather epiphanic moment where i was brought to inexplicable sobs and repeated screams on my knees saying "help me" in desperate hopes of being heard by some unknowable God i quit the new job and got hired back at the old one i lost trust in all humans, including myself i moved in with my dad i got to know the depths of fragility i was manipulated and in turn, i manipulated i had random panic attacks i met Regina Spektor i wrote poems i wrote songs i painted i read books i drank a lot of coffee i smoked many cigarettes i laughed less i cried less i felt less i denied anti-depressants i worked on letting go of unhealthy persons, including my mother which lead to learning the repetitive lesson that overnight success does not exist i booked a flight to Mississippi i learned how to be alone without being lonely i became even more infatuated with the moon i wanted to die, i'm still alive. i made mistakes, i learned from them. this year has been a whirlwind, a teenage drama gone half right topped with a questionable ending 2013, here i come.

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Dec 30, 2012

Dec 30, 2012 at 3:13 AM UTC

lyra-brown

a year in a poem

this year: the one person i thought was my soulmate left my life without so much as one word i fell out of love with the first girl i fell in love with i was reunited with someone i hoped would be my new mother i was repeatedly disappointed i met the most amazing friend i only ever imagined having i quit my job i got a new job i fell in love with a pathological liar i went to my grandfather's funeral i was lied to by the pathological liar (surprise!) i was there for her when she went to detox i was there for her when she relapsed i had a rather epiphanic moment where i was brought to inexplicable sobs and repeated screams on my knees saying "help me" in desperate hopes of being heard by some unknowable God i quit the new job and got hired back at the old one i lost trust in all humans, including myself i moved in with my dad i got to know the depths of fragility i was manipulated and in turn, i manipulated i had random panic attacks i met Regina Spektor i wrote poems i wrote songs i painted i read books i drank a lot of coffee i smoked many cigarettes i laughed less i cried less i felt less i denied anti-depressants i worked on letting go of unhealthy persons, including my mother which lead to learning the repetitive lesson that overnight success does not exist i booked a flight to Mississippi i learned how to be alone without being lonely i became even more infatuated with the moon i wanted to die, i'm still alive. i made mistakes, i learned from them. this year has been a whirlwind, a teenage drama gone half right topped with a questionable ending 2013, here i come.

42

My Grandmère and I have long, gossipy conversations, where we fall into our own chatty, slumber party rhythms. She’s met or knows everyone important, and people tell her things. They DM her or whisper secrets of lives ordered but loveless, of careers choked by excesses and indiscretions. She gets stealthy, leaked business reports of purported fortunes gambled and lost or of innocence wasted in bittersweet embrace - delicious, tangled narratives that expose the gaps between facades and realities that can’t be purchased. Sometimes we pop popcorn on our private ends of the Atlantic, watch Netflix, share secrets and laugh conspiratorially. . . Songs for this: Us by Regina Spektor Young And Dumb by The Bird and the Bee

0

Jul 30, 2024

Jul 30, 2024 at 7:44 AM UTC

anaisvionet

gossips

My Grandmère and I have long, gossipy conversations, where we fall into our own chatty, slumber party rhythms. She’s met or knows everyone important, and people tell her things. They DM her or whisper secrets of lives ordered but loveless, of careers choked by excesses and indiscretions. She gets stealthy, leaked business reports of purported fortunes gambled and lost or of innocence wasted in bittersweet embrace - delicious, tangled narratives that expose the gaps between facades and realities that can’t be purchased. Sometimes we pop popcorn on our private ends of the Atlantic, watch Netflix, share secrets and laugh conspiratorially. . . Songs for this: Us by Regina Spektor Young And Dumb by The Bird and the Bee

13

It's 3:09 PM, I've just deactivated my facebook account. Not planned, or thought-out...just so. I know, it's a foolish and stupid thing to even take the time of noting down in words but so it goes. I'm not horrible, I've been worse. I'm just not...doing too good. I don't feel well, and quite frankly I'm too exhausted for the whole staying positive ******** Things like deactivating my lame facebook account and not owning a cell-phone by free-will...it's my way of modernly disconnecting from the artificial world I've held part of and the people in it. It's not that I'm trying to isolate myself or become anti-social completely...it's more like...I'm just trying to find some air, some real ******* fresh air to breath. I've been listening to Man Of A Thousand Faces by Regina Spektor on repeat this past week, and I just need...I just need to let my own self be. I'm at a distant public library away from home as I type this. It's one of my favorite places to visit and spend some quality free time at. Surrounding myself with books and records and strangers is one of the most tranquilizing methods I know. It's difficult sometimes...to accept that I'm twenty years old and in far reach of accomplishing my dreams. It's difficult to accept that my father's heart could fail again...it's difficult to accept that my mum has vertigo...it's difficult to accept that my uncle is dead, it's going to be a year since and I still cannot bring myself out of selfish denial. Loving is difficult, caring is difficult, trying is difficult, beliefs are difficult, feelings are difficult, I am difficult...and the thought of wanting to cry makes me want to cry because it's so exasperating and draining and overwhelming and humbling. I haven't written or posted much on here lately, but doing so right now gives me this tiny and odd and inexplicable crumb of...hope? It's difficult to accept death as much as life itself sometimes but nevertheless I accept it. I cope through it in the stupid little ways that I can. I become torn and furiously passionate all at once. I can only love as much as my heart can manage and work hard and try hard and cry when I feel like ******* crying because feelings are beautiful and meant to be exposed. todo en él es lugar adecuado .

0

Jul 7, 2013

Jul 7, 2013 at 10:50 PM UTC

arubybluebird

let me spin, darling .

It's 3:09 PM, I've just deactivated my facebook account. Not planned, or thought-out...just so. I know, it's a foolish and stupid thing to even take the time of noting down in words but so it goes. I'm not horrible, I've been worse. I'm just not...doing too good. I don't feel well, and quite frankly I'm too exhausted for the whole staying positive ******** Things like deactivating my lame facebook account and not owning a cell-phone by free-will...it's my way of modernly disconnecting from the artificial world I've held part of and the people in it. It's not that I'm trying to isolate myself or become anti-social completely...it's more like...I'm just trying to find some air, some real ******* fresh air to breath. I've been listening to Man Of A Thousand Faces by Regina Spektor on repeat this past week, and I just need...I just need to let my own self be. I'm at a distant public library away from home as I type this. It's one of my favorite places to visit and spend some quality free time at. Surrounding myself with books and records and strangers is one of the most tranquilizing methods I know. It's difficult sometimes...to accept that I'm twenty years old and in far reach of accomplishing my dreams. It's difficult to accept that my father's heart could fail again...it's difficult to accept that my mum has vertigo...it's difficult to accept that my uncle is dead, it's going to be a year since and I still cannot bring myself out of selfish denial. Loving is difficult, caring is difficult, trying is difficult, beliefs are difficult, feelings are difficult, I am difficult...and the thought of wanting to cry makes me want to cry because it's so exasperating and draining and overwhelming and humbling. I haven't written or posted much on here lately, but doing so right now gives me this tiny and odd and inexplicable crumb of...hope? It's difficult to accept death as much as life itself sometimes but nevertheless I accept it. I cope through it in the stupid little ways that I can. I become torn and furiously passionate all at once. I can only love as much as my heart can manage and work hard and try hard and cry when I feel like ******* crying because feelings are beautiful and meant to be exposed. todo en él es lugar adecuado .

2

So familiar the sparks of inspiration about to bloom Horripilation and several empty soup cans tip me off My time has come to be prolific, under the wise tutelage of my angelic spektor Accompanied by the wailing hormones of pre-pubescent boys trying to sing into microphones Teacher please, spare a verb? Where the ivy used to crawl up fragile arms sanguine for all intents and purposes Dear teacher, nothing electronic works in my room anymore Dear teacher, your students are all ****** Dear teacher, I retain your lessons as lacerations upside my skull Sweet teacher, reposing just across the hall and sideways a spell In a coffin of criticisms and carbon monoxide fumes The love of a generation, a single blue rose, and a jar full of tea 30 years old.

0

Apr 27, 2013

Apr 27, 2013 at 7:34 PM UTC

bayn

Awaken, Ariel

So familiar the sparks of inspiration about to bloom Horripilation and several empty soup cans tip me off My time has come to be prolific, under the wise tutelage of my angelic spektor Accompanied by the wailing hormones of pre-pubescent boys trying to sing into microphones Teacher please, spare a verb? Where the ivy used to crawl up fragile arms sanguine for all intents and purposes Dear teacher, nothing electronic works in my room anymore Dear teacher, your students are all ****** Dear teacher, I retain your lessons as lacerations upside my skull Sweet teacher, reposing just across the hall and sideways a spell In a coffin of criticisms and carbon monoxide fumes The love of a generation, a single blue rose, and a jar full of tea 30 years old.

12

The books are wrong; Samson is not his name, But his last name. Strength is his identity, Though Jaime is what they call him. He did not die lonely, Nor will he ever do. Regina Spektor got it right somehow, As how people never do the first time; A woman broke his heart Whose name I cannot confirm to be Delilah, She could have been anyone in his past. But he married a woman named Michelle And borne love by four beautiful children With one which I know very well And sometimes feel as if she were me Or I were her. But in his eyes I could not tell if I were her Or she were me. In fact, I could not see myself at all, As if I am only, in those eyes, A ceiling to keep from falling; A mere test of strength, Held up by pillars of sacrifice And blocks of responsibility. But I must be something else, For there was something more Than my nothingness in those eyes Which keeps me from falling, Besides those powerful hands That steady the blocks And secure arms That lock the pillars; It was his love regardless of who I am That holds my blocks up And embraces my pillars close; His love which need me not contained in his eyes For I am already contained in his heart. I guess the writings on the wall Failed to let us all know That the great Samson's weakness As well as source of strength, Is not his hair But his heart beneath that hard chest. And so the legend goes, Not with Samson's great strength, But with his love as a husband Which can cure a whole hospital And as a father Which can withstand all torture. And his story will be told; His love will be passed on By his children to their children, And they will live forever In the name of his glory, In the name of his triumph Over the prophecy's false tragedy. And not a soul will not know Of how Jaime – the real Samson, Was the strongest man of all.

0

Sep 29, 2013

Sep 29, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC

jami-samson

Samson

The books are wrong; Samson is not his name, But his last name. Strength is his identity, Though Jaime is what they call him. He did not die lonely, Nor will he ever do. Regina Spektor got it right somehow, As how people never do the first time; A woman broke his heart Whose name I cannot confirm to be Delilah, She could have been anyone in his past. But he married a woman named Michelle And borne love by four beautiful children With one which I know very well And sometimes feel as if she were me Or I were her. But in his eyes I could not tell if I were her Or she were me. In fact, I could not see myself at all, As if I am only, in those eyes, A ceiling to keep from falling; A mere test of strength, Held up by pillars of sacrifice And blocks of responsibility. But I must be something else, For there was something more Than my nothingness in those eyes Which keeps me from falling, Besides those powerful hands That steady the blocks And secure arms That lock the pillars; It was his love regardless of who I am That holds my blocks up And embraces my pillars close; His love which need me not contained in his eyes For I am already contained in his heart. I guess the writings on the wall Failed to let us all know That the great Samson's weakness As well as source of strength, Is not his hair But his heart beneath that hard chest. And so the legend goes, Not with Samson's great strength, But with his love as a husband Which can cure a whole hospital And as a father Which can withstand all torture. And his story will be told; His love will be passed on By his children to their children, And they will live forever In the name of his glory, In the name of his triumph Over the prophecy's false tragedy. And not a soul will not know Of how Jaime – the real Samson, Was the strongest man of all.

60

i am afraid to see you, because i am afraid you will covet parts of me that i have cultivated on my own. the color yellow, regina spektor and ukeleles, blazers and old dogs. pieces of you embedded in me. yours. but mine are sunny days, and glittery pop music the way i drive my green car too fast and my red lipstick my habit of singing reckless harmonies to the songs on the radio going away to college and dyeing all my hair pink. mine. i don't want to see you. because harmonizing with you means losing something that i found on my own, and leaving my red lipstick on your face--and we both know it will come to that-- will only leave my lips pale and wan and you telling me to slow down means that i will never drive alone again and whether you tell me that i should or should not dye my hair and run away i will do the opposite just to spite you and not for the happiness that is finally mine. and ********* you do not get to galavant back into my life with your "Happy birthday! <3" and your "I'll be in town this weekend, can I see you?" and run my life again with your manipulative ******** that i learned to absorb into my bloodstream, or spit back into your face because i had to get rid of you i don't want you to know what my new favorite book is. or about that one movie that i've watched of my own accord more than once or the song that makes me cry about the future because these things are mine. I do not belong to you anymore and I will never belong to you again so long as my heart is my own and if i have to give up seeing you forever to make that so, then so be it.

0

May 7, 2013

May 7, 2013 at 11:58 PM UTC

keely-anne

possession

i am afraid to see you, because i am afraid you will covet parts of me that i have cultivated on my own. the color yellow, regina spektor and ukeleles, blazers and old dogs. pieces of you embedded in me. yours. but mine are sunny days, and glittery pop music the way i drive my green car too fast and my red lipstick my habit of singing reckless harmonies to the songs on the radio going away to college and dyeing all my hair pink. mine. i don't want to see you. because harmonizing with you means losing something that i found on my own, and leaving my red lipstick on your face--and we both know it will come to that-- will only leave my lips pale and wan and you telling me to slow down means that i will never drive alone again and whether you tell me that i should or should not dye my hair and run away i will do the opposite just to spite you and not for the happiness that is finally mine. and ********* you do not get to galavant back into my life with your "Happy birthday! <3" and your "I'll be in town this weekend, can I see you?" and run my life again with your manipulative ******** that i learned to absorb into my bloodstream, or spit back into your face because i had to get rid of you i don't want you to know what my new favorite book is. or about that one movie that i've watched of my own accord more than once or the song that makes me cry about the future because these things are mine. I do not belong to you anymore and I will never belong to you again so long as my heart is my own and if i have to give up seeing you forever to make that so, then so be it.

27

looking at each other wrapped in two different beds we smiles, laugh, giggle and seem happy (it’s sickeningly cute) we sing along to music to regina spektor and the decemberists I don’t know all the lyrics but she knows how to sing it’s a night to remember I’m sure in sixty years, in thirty years in fifteen in ten I’ll be thinking about these great times before everything happened and nothing happened any- more before love died and happiness stopped and youth wore away on the rocks I will remember the smiles and the music and this night like so many others will be what keeps me going on for the dark times to come

0

Feb 26, 2011

Feb 26, 2011 at 5:41 PM UTC

wave-break

a night for music

looking at each other wrapped in two different beds we smiles, laugh, giggle and seem happy (it’s sickeningly cute) we sing along to music to regina spektor and the decemberists I don’t know all the lyrics but she knows how to sing it’s a night to remember I’m sure in sixty years, in thirty years in fifteen in ten I’ll be thinking about these great times before everything happened and nothing happened any- more before love died and happiness stopped and youth wore away on the rocks I will remember the smiles and the music and this night like so many others will be what keeps me going on for the dark times to come

31

i can’t listen to the Strokes without thinking of my first love, and how I only fell in love with them because they were his favourite band, and i was in love with him. i can’t listen to Mozart, Chopin, Satie, or classical music of any kind without thinking of my mother playing piano late at night while I fell asleep to the sound of her fingers emanating warm melodies. i can’t listen to Elliott Smith without thinking of being on the bus on the way to high school, and how much solace his music brought me during those deeply lonely years of anguish and abandonment. i can’t listen to the Beatles without thinking of my entire family, jamming together in the garage, without thinking of love. i can’t listen to the Weepies without thinking of my best friend, driving around in her car on our way to anywhere, how those songs are symbols of our friendship in the form of sound. i can’t listen to Regina Spektor without thinking of myself, throughout all stages of my life, without feeling alive, reminding me of who i am, as an artist, as a lover, as a being. i can’t listen to Tegan and Sara, ***** Rilo Kiley, Metric, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, or Broken Social Scene without thinking of my high school friends, all those concerts we went to, all the late nights. That was the music that made me brave. I can’t listen to Jazz music without thinking of my grandfather, and how many times I sang with him while he played the piano and smiled. most of these people have come and gone and i could go on but if I’ve loved someone, there is a song that I will always associate with them, and that time of my life. music is the definition of every moment. it’s one of the most comforting truths that there is.

0

Mar 7, 2014

Mar 7, 2014 at 1:56 AM UTC

lyra-brown

music is the definition of every moment

i can’t listen to the Strokes without thinking of my first love, and how I only fell in love with them because they were his favourite band, and i was in love with him. i can’t listen to Mozart, Chopin, Satie, or classical music of any kind without thinking of my mother playing piano late at night while I fell asleep to the sound of her fingers emanating warm melodies. i can’t listen to Elliott Smith without thinking of being on the bus on the way to high school, and how much solace his music brought me during those deeply lonely years of anguish and abandonment. i can’t listen to the Beatles without thinking of my entire family, jamming together in the garage, without thinking of love. i can’t listen to the Weepies without thinking of my best friend, driving around in her car on our way to anywhere, how those songs are symbols of our friendship in the form of sound. i can’t listen to Regina Spektor without thinking of myself, throughout all stages of my life, without feeling alive, reminding me of who i am, as an artist, as a lover, as a being. i can’t listen to Tegan and Sara, ***** Rilo Kiley, Metric, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, or Broken Social Scene without thinking of my high school friends, all those concerts we went to, all the late nights. That was the music that made me brave. I can’t listen to Jazz music without thinking of my grandfather, and how many times I sang with him while he played the piano and smiled. most of these people have come and gone and i could go on but if I’ve loved someone, there is a song that I will always associate with them, and that time of my life. music is the definition of every moment. it’s one of the most comforting truths that there is.

22

writing in red pen and blowing smoke through my head Regina Spektor plays in my room hey remember that time we were spinning under pictures remember that time i touched your knees on that red patterned carpet remember green lockers, rust, and catholic dust remember molding clay and all those times you'd run away there are times i remember the stories in each scar and decide to trace patterns in the stars looking up, i get lost wondering are we the only survivors are your lungs just balloons full of bus fumes and regret are your eyes crossed by love remember my hands tracing your pant seams and barely touching your shoulder blades i should have gone in the river that night i learned to wade in bath water but feared the drain was full of snakes i want to wait to give you all my love but i fear it is too late

0

Jun 4, 2016

Jun 4, 2016 at 12:17 AM UTC

delilah7n

remember that time

writing in red pen and blowing smoke through my head Regina Spektor plays in my room hey remember that time we were spinning under pictures remember that time i touched your knees on that red patterned carpet remember green lockers, rust, and catholic dust remember molding clay and all those times you'd run away there are times i remember the stories in each scar and decide to trace patterns in the stars looking up, i get lost wondering are we the only survivors are your lungs just balloons full of bus fumes and regret are your eyes crossed by love remember my hands tracing your pant seams and barely touching your shoulder blades i should have gone in the river that night i learned to wade in bath water but feared the drain was full of snakes i want to wait to give you all my love but i fear it is too late

24

My words feel bloated again and Regina Spektor is on the TV singing about love and heartbreak better than I ever could and I have no piano accompaniment to make this hurt seem somehow romantic and somehow beautiful instead of the ugly rasping that has rubbed my thoughts raw with memories of lost times and fantasies of reconnecting and it hurts extra to realize that of all these people these best friends and loved ones lost to time and circumstance I realize that there's not a **** thing that I want to talk to them about and if we're being honest here because poets are always honest I miss the idea of these people but not the people themselves.

0

Dec 13, 2017

Dec 13, 2017 at 12:03 PM UTC

zach-wr

Blot

My words feel bloated again and Regina Spektor is on the TV singing about love and heartbreak better than I ever could and I have no piano accompaniment to make this hurt seem somehow romantic and somehow beautiful instead of the ugly rasping that has rubbed my thoughts raw with memories of lost times and fantasies of reconnecting and it hurts extra to realize that of all these people these best friends and loved ones lost to time and circumstance I realize that there's not a **** thing that I want to talk to them about and if we're being honest here because poets are always honest I miss the idea of these people but not the people themselves.

39