"substitutes" poems
Ice cream is sweet and quite the treat
A savory delight I crave at night
At almost any time and any where,
it is worth to desert for this dessert.
Some keep it vanilla while others want a twist.
Sometimes it's good to mix or other wise switch.
Maybe you're ***** can't resist other flavored dishes?
What if you were denied it or could no longer find it?
*** how I'd crave its taste, but at least I'd lose weight.
Other substitutes are lame and aren't quite the same.
Regardless, I would survive and still be able to thrive.
Why is *** so different?
It's a biological need you'll probably say,
so you, can't compare the two.
I disagree completely.
Though we'd all prefer not to be lacking,
it's not as if we'd die for wanting.
Additionally, people have lived ascetically
and have been perfectly fulfilled and happy.
Those kinds of people aren't born that way,
but rather we are conditioned to be *** crazy.
We are made to feel as if
we are measured by who or how many we've been with.
It is validation we truly desire
and to know we always matter.
And though *** is one of life's greatest gifts,
it does not give your life an overarching bliss.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC
Fluorescent lights absorbing.
My glass cage surrounding.
Smart phones and silenced minds.
To strangers WiFi connection binds.
Likes substitutes compliments and comments conversation.
I turn myself inside out for empty validation.
Cyberspace is like a vacuum, they can't hear you scream.
Forced smiles, you lie and hide behind pixelated screens.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 12:00 PM UTC
I feel you, I really do.
Guess what my father wasn't there too,
a bunch of substitutes but no one solid.
A bunch of institutes couldn't give me solace.
You'll wonder about fishing
and camping trips too.
You'll wonder about shaving
or using a tool.
You'll learn from your friends
some of the above,
then you'll learn on your own
and feel so unloved.
You'll get into trouble
and a couple of fights,
you're living and learning
its the way of life.
No worries though,
I'm here to tell you,
If you give it you're best they'll see the value.
So don't fret my boy for I am you, keep faith stay strong and you'll make it through.-JS
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC
I plucked the flowers,
The bees are unemployed.
Nothing sweet left in this world,
We settle for artificial substitutes.
Technology on the rise,
Man in a spiral decline.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 9:56 AM UTC
Hold it!
whole ***
whale fitting
room
bowing walls
expanding spandex
seams stretched out of shape
lurid –
disturbed images play across the screen
biggest loser season MCMXVII
American dream with heavy cream
and spleenwiches
cleaning the crumbs,
bums long for an extra morsel
gnawing on dorsal fins
grinning, toothless, at least they have their figures
that figures says the emaciated diet queen
leave it to the homeless to be the only group
worthy of the runway –
starvation date
only the grumbling cuts the uncomfortable silence
empty bellies howl for nourishment
instead are fed meds and red licorice
which is immediately vomited
for fear of caloric inconsistency –
breathing adds blubber
to thighs and midriffs
marital spiff over the last cookie
sugar substitutes
substituting themselves for love and compassion
lashing out at the one above
fat girls with teary eyes cry
for just five more pounds
the dress fit in 1978 –
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC
Working at the amusement park is a grand old time.
There’s nothing like having to hide
In the ticket booth when you wanna smoke a joint
So your boss doesn’t find out and fire you.
Every ride has bright, multicolored lights
And this is how I waste my time away.
The closest bathroom is half a mile away,
Those Porta-Johns are full all the time
And always smell like Marlboro Lights
It’s where those teen brats like to hide.
A kid always asks for another toy gun from you
And immediately bends it all out of joint.
Jocks, barbies and snotty kids mill around this joint,
Throwing all their money away
Buying more and more tickets from you
Screaming, complaining, cheating all the time
And there’s no good place to hide
With all these obnoxious lights.
They’re poor substitute for big city lights,
They only illuminate this cheesy joint,
Don’t even let ***** gutters hide—
I’m surprised they don’t want to look away.
Cotton candy disappears in your mouth every time,
But you think it’s worth it, don’t you?
The only boy who ever liked you
Works across the park, beyond the lights,
But you miss him waving at you every time
Because some skeez is yelling, “Let’s blow this joint!”
And a mom drags her eight kids away
Screaming, “One more word and I’ll tan your hide!”
Why do the five-year-olds always play hide
And seek in the Fun House? “Hey, you!”
Where the hell are your parents? Go away!”
Finally Anna, who manages mini golf, lights
A gloriously white-papered little joint
And we smoke until closing time.
This is where I hide, and yet these lights
Are poor substitutes you know, for home, the joint
You tried to get away from, before you wasted your time.
Apr 19, 2011
Apr 19, 2011 at 7:19 PM UTC
Tell me how,
One person can divide into
Three perfectly psychotic sentiments
While still appearing to be whole
Tell me how
Multiplying your kindness only
Creates a rift between myself and patience
And ends with nights of contemplation followed by tumultuous
Back-and-forths with imaginary numbers
For I am no mathematician
I cannot find a solution to every concrete problem
I do not bother with equations or substitutes
I only skim the symbol, rewrite questions and leave the answers hanging in the air
Tell me why,
Subtracting victims from my life
Only added a murderous sentiment
To every repeating decimal that couldn’t find its’ place
Tell me why,
The quadratic formula is emblazoned in my memory
But everyone keeps throwing opposites at me
So forgetting whether to add or to subtract becomes hazy
And the square root gets suspended until next class, so the
Four drops off the plane, two goes insane, and
Letters lose their fictitious meanings
For I am no mathematician
Archimedes is finding the constant of my triangular coffin
While Newton is rolling in his gravity
Carl Gauss is busy laughing his *** off with fundamentals in his eyes and
Descartes keeps whispering incoherent Latin, migraines sprinting towards me
As if in a race
So don’t ask me
Whether or not you should divide by zero
Or whether it requires sine, cosine, or a tangent
My logic will not tell you anything you want to hear
I am through trying to piece together this imaginary puzzle
And I’ve had enough of playing this never-ending game
Because I’ve been through two continents, and 4 different states
And I still don’t know the meaning of my name.
For I am no mathematician
The only pie charts I am fond of,
have to do with sugar and preheating an oven to 450 degrees
And with every cubic centimeter
I start thinking of cubes of cheddar cheese
For I am no mathematician
I can’t graph a simple line
I don’t understand the dimensions of the polygon shown above
And I’m tired of wasting precious time
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 6:15 PM UTC
Of all the things upon this earth, there is only one that can stimulate all five senses of a man at once. A man may find individual substitutes for these pleasures, but none compare to that of what a woman can do. Her fragrance can stir your senses from a distance, and she enters your mind, simply her scent, can be as sweet as any other this earth can conjure. When you first met her image; your heart may skip a beat. With your eyes you caress every curve of her body as you crave her touch. And as the tips of her fingers stroke the surface of your skin, your urges increase. Your outer surface bumps as her grip increases; and the heat rises as you reach with your lips to take the first taste of her body. Then when you reach it, it comes with a flavor so sweet that no other fruit may compare. When your tongues meet within the twisted tangle of lust the feeling and flavor are to be savored. The moans as you each attempt to occupy the same space, will raise your pulse, and drive you to be closer. For her words and her sounds of enjoyment would fall upon your ears more gracefully than and melody composed by man. And as you lay there with the passion still fresh in your mind you may realize that of all things upon this earth… Only a woman can stimulate all five senses at once, and she may continue to while you simply lay there with her in your arms.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 9:09 PM UTC
With a gluttonous obesity that devours love,
spits up lust,
and snacks on a
high-carb
pre-cooked
combination of the two,
we're counting calories consumed
with a track record of lovers,
regurgitating with regret and
binging again anyway when hunger pains strike.
Eventually we'll all suffocate
under the weight of the world.
May 27, 2012
May 27, 2012 at 2:52 AM UTC
Look at the 8 limbed creature A nightly procedure
What was meant to create life Now substitutes a knife
The disappearance of the individual Such a cruel ritual
Aug 30, 2025
Aug 30, 2025 at 11:21 AM UTC
the man nearby on the train clacks his laptop offensively
like the annoyance of noisy writers in school exams
when I was stultified by writers block
I wonder what the black girl would taste like
passengers feed their fatness with crinkly cellephane food substitutes
did you have a good weekend?
conversation openers start to chorus
corporate cockwombles
talk in jargon tongues
as they sell their souls
to white shirt organisational ambition
common sense takes a back seat
in the street car of Progress
there's talk of profit and effiencies
from men who never made their wives moan
there's talk of scalability and security
from those who know nothing of flexibility and risk
there's talk of innovation
from those whose personal best
is a smart phone
have you seen the latest?
what do you think?
hey, that's what I think!
we must be brothers!
in a cozy co-ordinated mediocrity.
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 8:56 PM UTC
Your spine is a holy place
From the tip of your neck, to the cradle in your pelvis, it is baptized in your waters
Starting with cervical, a lucky number of seven sections
The number of days it took god to create the earth
Greek mythology tells me, Cer is the personification of a violent death
Vic means to substitute,
Therefore this section substitutes itself for your violent death
Holding up an unlucky number 13
Pounds.
Of skull, and flesh and
Blood. Which it facilitates the flow of
It has hollowed itself out for nerves
Hollowed itself out so that you may feel
Everything.
Thoracic.
A dozen protective pieces,like the disciples foundation
Hammered in by thor himself
God of the sky
The horizon within dotted by a heart, some lungs,
Spleen, stomach, diaphragm
Stars in your very own galaxy
Lumbar
Five little graces
Luminary
Holding enough weight so
that the sun could settle down
right between your hip bones
root within your nerves
Apollo has come to visit
Showing you just how much holy light you can carry
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 4:44 PM UTC
Living in a car
in New York City
I hide underneath a tablecloth
which substitutes for a blanket
It is quite uncomfortable in the backseat
with that bump in the middle
pushing my lower ribs into my gut
as I lie on one side, and hide
Though so much better then the
cardboard box with news-papered roof
I once pretended, could protect me from
the rain
If only I could figure out the
alternate side of the street on
which to park
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 2:44 PM UTC
it is baffling that after
a series of unfortunate/emotional/fulfilling events that
someone would ask to use
one word to describe how
you feel
the day was.
my teacher once told me to
cut down on my sentences because
apparently ‘shut up!’ was more
effective than ‘shut up you are
very noisy and disturbing me.’
"but," i protested, "i am a long-distance runner.
my periods end far past the 400m mark.
besides my ‘and’s are your punctuation equivalent and
my full stop your ‘the end’ because i
can’t stop won’t stop not when my chest
is so full of air and lead and
pounds like a mad man locked up
not when there are tyre marks and red lights be ******
not when dots and curves and dashes feel like moving day
as though you can pack feelings into neat spaces.”
how i feel
my day is
is not an entity to fulfill your collection of
singular adjectives because no
one word explains the comfort of a
dear friend in a day with
too many questions and far too few answers
because the dictionary cannot match being sad and angry
for being sad and annoyed for being angry for being sad.
so know that when i say ‘good’ or ‘bad’ or even ‘reflective’
they are poor substitutes for all the
nouns and prepositions i force back down.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 1:05 PM UTC
Considering my flaws and all
Could I still be the love of your life?
I'm friendly with majority of the population
I hope it doesn't shy you away
And give you the impression that I am a attention seeker
I utilize my mind almost too often
I hope that it doesn't seem as if I'm heartless
I can talk a little bit too
But I don't think it substitutes for my actions though
I'm violent first then violet second
I'm only careful after I've been clumsy
I had grey hair since the 7th grade
Does that take away from my grade?
My skin texture is somewhat dark, but a bit lesser
My sensitivity is not a mystery
I like to go astray for days
Does that makes you impatient?
My ******** is still in place
Does it take away from the depth of my ***********
Sometimes I don't practice what I preach
But I don't mind being called on my hypocrisy
I hope you don't become obsolete
My flaws and all
Considering all of my flaws I hope you do not withdraw
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 1:46 AM UTC
Language is an intricate map. One that we've collectively agreed upon as a means of communicating about the 'territory', or experience. Life.
We can draw a tree, and we can write the word "Tree", but neither are trees.
We can draw a pipe, and we can call it a pipe, but it is still only an image of a pipe.
http://www.exoticexcess.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/06/this-is-not-a-pipe-by-rene-magritte.jpg
Language is not the territory.
Language is but a toolbox. A toolbox filled with lots of cool toys and fun sounding words and some interesting etymologies.
But sometimes the task at hand requires a tool we've not yet conceived of, let alone one we have in our toolbox.
Different languages have different tools, but many will suit similar tasks, even if not exactly the same.
This is no reason to assume that, because our particular map is imperfect, that the territory is somehow more absurd.
The absurdity arises when we fail to recognize and respect the fallacies of language. A spiritual person will understand this notion immediately.
This, however, isn't necessarily to say a religious person will grasp it, and likewise is also not to say that a totally secular person won't.
In fact, I find that many of our conflicts with ourselves and others only arise because we squabble about our interpretations of the maps instead of realizing that the maps are in fact tools to achieve an end, but not the end itself.
Once we can step back from our ego
Once we can admit that we can be wrong
Once we realize we've been deceived
Can we begin to again grow strong.
Borders are maps. Humanity is a territory.
Dogma is a map. Reality is a territory.
Education is a map. Life is a territory.
We mustn't allow our perceptions of maps to occlude our ability to live as we are, an interdependent family of meat-bags twirling around a rather uncaring furnace in space.
This is where dogma comes in, and tends to ruin it for the 'little' people.
This is where money comes in, and substitutes itself for value.
This is where entertainment comes in, and substitutes itself for truth.
This is where ACTA, SOPA, PIPA, the Patriot Acts, and the NDAA come in
And move us one step further towards the Vierte ***** (Fourth kingdom. The Nazis fancied themselves to be the Dritte ***** or Third Kingdom).
Recognize the signs. Fabricate your own map. Then learn to leave it on the shelf.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 3:57 PM UTC
It doesn't matter
how many infatuated knights
I've brought to my table,
The hollow whisper of you
still echoes in my mind.
And the cold comfort
of sleeping with substitutes
only leaves the heart bereft.
Our flower bed tumbled
with naked leaves entwined
with Forget-me-not’s
and breathless kisses,
was never meant to turn
into a ****** killing field.
And yet it did.
There's a fear in me I can't deny.
That the memory of us
madly tearing each others hearts out,
while ripping each others clothes off
will eventually start to dissolve
like an unholy ghost in the wind.
Denial and terror at the same time.
Because what would become of me,
if my fractured soul would let
the hollow whisper to return?
Diary confessions
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 9:00 AM UTC
I'll fasten my belt, but I won't let my beliefs buckle.
I'll need more than luck, though it's sweet as honeysuckle.
Good things start; well the path will get bumpy.
No doubt I am strong, but we all need company.
Most matters can be solved by the mind: it is the original power tool.
It has its domain, as it grows it will prove me a fool.
Inventions of the imagination are poor substitutes
In reality, fantasy has its roots.
The tree grows lofty while I sit in the branches sipping coffee.
Looking down with a fantastic view, I think
"These visions will do--in lieu of a real experience."
Because watching everyone have a good time
seems to suit me just fine.
Jun 12, 2011
Jun 12, 2011 at 1:23 PM UTC
How ridiculous is it that even sugar substitutes scream your name?
Understandable with the veins of a diabetic, though.
You're one bad habit too sweet to shake, and you put me in shock with that rare, flashing smile.
I ripped open a packet and studied those white crystals as I'd once studied you.
I failed to consider your authenticity before pouring.
Freely you fell, and loosely, you dissolved.
I stirred you in, and wanted more.
Suddenly sour, my drink was unbearable.
You ripped my heart in two in the same way I tore that paper.
This divided heart of mine is now a pool swimming with your artificial ingredients.
But honestly, how concious is anyone measuring your flavor?
My god, life's so bland without you.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 2:06 PM UTC
We are suffering today
From a disease called hypocrisy.
And it is the basest enemy
Of freedom in democracy.
It substitutes a dollar amount
For lives and souls and hope
And tantalizes the population
With TV, ***** and dope.
By the time the population
Wakes up and catches on
A new batch of crooks exist
The old got rich, moved on.
Every campaign promise
They will fail to deliver.
They will lie to your face
And sell you down the river.
Our women are widows
Our children are orphans
The churches want money
For larger pipe organs.
They wring their hands
Subject abortion to scorn
But, abandon them to penury
As soon as they are born.
They say they want nobody
To receive free ride Medicare
Then freely give corporations
Un-needed trillions in welfare.
The chant against big government
Is a perennial marching tune.
They’ll decide the kind of ***
And have control over wombs,
The world is a place today
Where the dollar comes first
And the children of the poor
Are usually treated the worst.
We are suffering today
From a disease called hypocrisy.
And it is the basest enemy
Of freedom in democracy.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC
Set the mood: Can you feel the bitter? Taste it, drink it, **** it, love him. That is life and if these are the best years of it…then I’m not sure we want to see the worst. It’s called an epiphany…a warm rush of ice, slitting my lips. ****** as they are, these lips are open for you. So speak. I am here for your assumptions, so assume. Please, good friend, assume. Right here, write this down:
I need a voice to speak into. Ears to teach me to listen, because either I'm deaf or God's mute. Cause I've spent too many hours branding paper with my pen in these half-hearted prayers they call poems.
I need true empathy, not the GreatValue knockoff from a dimly lit aisle or Made-in-China substitutes worn around my friends' necks. Empathize with our loss. The traditions you and I will never know. The traditions we both know we’re going to miss.
I need a way into your mind, a shortcut through the jokes and labels. Ask your heart to crack its wary shell open just enough for me to slip my secrets inside, cause I know you're just as lonely as I pretend not to be. And I know you have secrets, too. Whispers are like questions begging not to be known, but I'll whisper to you anyways and beg you have the answers.
I need someone to talk to, someone who thinks about the skies at night. Stares off into the nothingness, screams into the emptiness his whispers. Someone who can blink away all the light. I know I am young but I am a witness to the symptoms of true thought. And you? You are infected, as well. You think. You are a liar, like me, and a natural-born beauty, as we all are. I see what this world has to offer today, and it’s you.
So how much time must we take? I think about you thinking about how much world there is. Or how little there is. How little all the people are. How the people look like flowers.
But not us as we sit on the roof of some ****** car. Its walls are ridden with messages from us to God, and he wrote back in dyslexic lettering, “I lvoed yuo all alnog.” I may seem more shallow and less a witness. You may seem like little but a confused sadist, desperate for an experience. But behind your perjury, you are scared.
You need a voice to speak into. To feel your words, molested in the dark. You know more than you say. Speak to me what you speak to your mind. Watch the flowers sway as we sit, immaculate. Slip your secrets inside my heart. Speak to me. Just speak.
I don’t need to love. I need to speak. So whisper #1: Why is the sky so ******* blue?
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 3:10 AM UTC
Sometimes a poet has to ponder upon:
substitutes
suspense
building
breaking
glueing
grooving
gazzillion
broken pieces
put back together
Love
Heart
Rhythm
pace of words
Rhythm !
Shall words be beautiful ?
Or aggressive ?
For some opponent heavy readers Lovely words just don't suffice!
***Love words, cheesy romanticism and odes to beauty
turn out to be:***
too easy
too light
not a delight
a psyche's cry is heard:
"Where is some drama!? For God's sake!!!"
We hear annoyed reader's comments...
**"Brother, this cheesy woobadaloo, smoochy kind of poetry ain't nothing but pure ****
An effort compared to one, two three, slight steps in muddy warm water
nothing much to do, a lurking pudding, fibble will... oh, my my
oooooohh"
no harm done
but boring
but! - there's always a - but!
some badass poetic freak
with it's head in
the clouds
tell me about Love
dear!
till
the day's tiles
are done.
***"Where's some culmination!!?!!
Crime, anger, passion!!!?!!!
Terriffic twists of turmoil, sweat, deceit... !??!
At least a bit of dark matter puked on a silver platter!! Where is this abruptly amazing, abolishing lust for hedonism!!!?"***
fortune
torture
pain
lust
give me some more!
blood, thorns
screams,
tears
sweet ****
Does beauty suffice!?!
Without duality?!
Is there a Real Poetry without
Suffering ?
Tell me poets!!
Is there a Poetry- Divine without ugliness ?!? of words, energy, meanings without a constant fight!?
inner dialogue
characters
opposition
HAIKU!?!
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 11:10 AM UTC
To make a kind heart
First you will need
Tender loving care
With a pinch of good deeds.
A handful of smiles
A cup of warm love
An ounce of effort
Without substitutes above.
Now together you mix
Until all is blended
This will make kindness
Ever so splendid.
Combine a half cup trust
With a half cup honesty
By spoon fulls drop
Lots of generosity.
To complete the mixture
Add the main part
To the life of kindness
You must add the heart.
Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 12:17 PM UTC
So you are gone, I realized this tonight
At the thousandth night of our separation,
Stars glittering, Moon playing hide & seek
Same like the night you and I talked last,
How I hated change and
How I found it at every step I took, is inexplicable.
The promises were not plenty to stay.
Oaths were mere other words said in frenzy
Washed in the first rain of the season.
All those texts I wrote, stanzas I composed
Were not enough to win you.
I ask you; was I that bad?
I remember me; so different than now
Awake all night waiting for your call
to start talks having no purport,
To listen your gasps, kisses and breathe and yawn
Every moment felt like you were breathing unto me
Traversing miles, splashing on face,
Warm in winters, cool in summer nights,
your breath reached;
Inhaling all, I stored it inside
Like a souvenir; to remind me how close we were once.
You said,
you “are weak in catching the hidden meanings
In my poems”. How ignorant I was to not listen
But if you were around now,
I'd explain those connotative lines
full with request and pleas,
I had typed in midnight emotions
tears gashing;
Only had simple meaning;
I long and yearn to live with you,
around you, beside you
every second.
If I’d known substitutes of hundred diverse
emotions spinning,
I'd have used it
to avoid your confusion.
But I didn’t find. My rotten luck!
Sometimes, I ponder
If you're there to see me awake all night for words
that can match you; your radiant beauty, then all
would have been different.
But you're not there to witness the devotion.
To my ill-fate, words carry only pictures
Reading depends on the reader,
And you read it all different than I intended,
Maybe, it’s the fault of my poetry
broken and stained in failure
Never achieved the power to conquer you forever.
Every word I wrote haunt me onwards
See, the sorrow I'm indulged in,
When you have forgotten my existence,
and the love we shared.
Still, after all these years
I fighting with change
Waken all night
weary, tired, sleepy; Write you in poems!
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 4:34 PM UTC