"subtext" poems
hey
sup?
nothing. u?
im ona date with u know who
dude I thawt u and her were thru
i did 2 dude I did 2
so how's it goin????
badly dude
she yelled at me for eatin food!
*** that's fuckingrude
well shes a ***** I shouldv knewed.
hows the date with such and such?
she said i used her as a crutch
she sad i don't talk and i text too much
jesus dude what a butch!
***** I mean
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 11:57 AM UTC
Her warm words wash over me like a dope fiend daze... other voices boorishly buzz a cackle cacophony. At best they are the background noise of your existence.
bit players (endless layers) as she comes my way
**Your body pixilates in an ******* focus**, it bends, projects all else slowly into your frame, the deja vu of ****** tunnel vision. I struggle to speak as I stand before you.
All others condemned, reduced to extras in a celluloid daydream
they are arrayed for your adornment
set pieces that surround you in the cinema that is your daily divine saunter
body sacramental (those around you incidental) as she walks away
The subtext, the reflex, the ambivalent, ambient lighting
means nothing without you
**my arc, my carnal ******
any other epilogue is dystopian
cdh
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 5:25 AM UTC
dear, you cut me off mid-sentence.
for all my skills, techniques and terms
here's a thing i can't find a way to convey.
a narrative even beyond comprehension to it's protagonist
a girl without a simile or metaphor applicable?
somebody to leave me laconic, short in syntax, unstructured.
will we discuss possessive pronouns now?
for in subtext, i am the possessive one.
i'm so lacking verbally
but i'm sure you'd understand it contextually
to punctuate: i can be the ellipsis, the implication of my omissions
but you're in my text as the most eager mark of exclamation
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 3:41 PM UTC
The pierced ego sees
through an opaque lens;
a vestige of hope,
humor and
intellectual solidarity.
Effigies of forgotten ethos,
the culmination of a
fated dream;
unrequited ardor, abandons
identity to an irreducible
fervor,
subtext of tension,
enduring ****** privation;
etude of a paramour
ending torture,
tasting mystical polarity.
The wounded heart
once intruded,
bleeds effusive;
the ornament of humility.
Flattened collateral
damage,
primal search,
proves illusive;
portals of hurt, slivers
of pride,
assembled fragments of
thereness
absorb the loss
of my English muse.
Poetry and devotion
punctuated murmurs
of piety,
depth perception
virtue unfound;
expectation - access
to suffering;
disinterested love
present,
desultory carnage
of rescission,
absurdity personified;
euphemism
of adieu,
the sound of no sound.
The discarded image
finds no favor,
the salt lost it's savor
unquenched thirst;
desire of
diminished purview,
the saporus stream
deferred;
vision eclipsed;
saturated self
hidden in the text.
Poverty asks the
question,
absence summons
ethereal substance
merged into
the immanent frame;
integrating,
in solitude signifying,
mediating - logos
contested
the humiliation of
the word.
Lyrical enigma,
where did I go?
provisional
personality
scorned,
renouncing nostrums
of the prosaic,
surrenders to the
the realm interior
sovereignty
assumed in
provenience,
native
horizon of the next.
©2008 & 2011 W.S. Warner
Sep 3, 2011
Sep 3, 2011 at 6:11 PM UTC
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filmed up close and
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With a well-crafted subtext encoded within
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Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 1:58 PM UTC
when we met, it was tipsy tuesday and donnie had swollen fingers
and nate sank into his plaid frock and dropped his shadow
on the patio like a heavy slug, and the flies
cavorted in the vortex of our subtext
as the night skies spat stars
at our foreheads.
you were beautiful; too beautiful then.
i was smitten, i was tossed on stormy seas, unsick.
i was healed. the world spun filth and dull glamour
but your face hurled fireworks
and my mind leaned into my heart
and i knew i loved you.
whoever you turned out
to be.
i babbled and groped, as the inertia
of falling, filled my sails
and I was purposefully adrift -
in your brown-black eyes;
as a dog fetched a frisbee
for an illiterate.
and i think i bit my lip a bit.
I saw you for the first time.
for the last time
in my life
and was never
the same.
my heart, now more precise.
you had fierce speech
underneath your sweet speak
and long hair.
i had you in my soul's yurt
on a plain of windswept pavilions
with free horses and costly
remoteness.
i was ' there ' less
and more somewhere else
alone with the perfect you
reading my lips
as they tremored
delight of it.
i babbled speechless.
i remember you tossing your locks
at my cage. and i was set free.
please add me to your wishlist
and complete me.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
1. If it doesn't take place at 4 in the morning, immediately change the setting.
2. You should center all your work. Centering makes the piece unique and improves readability.
3. You should invoke the idea of The Mask. Paul Laurence Dunbar didn't do it well enough.
4. One word lines improve readability and do a great job of making emphasis. Use them a lot.
5. On the other hand, really long lines explain points wonderfully. Feel free to be essentially prosaic.
6. The subject should be obvious and everyday, that way everyone can easily understand what you're trying to say. Subtext is dated.
7. Confessions and heartbreak are unique to you.
8. Not editing makes the work extremely human and relatable.
9. Emoticons and the ilk are the cutting edge of the English language. Feel free to use them without reservation.
10. Rhyme scheme doesn't need meter.
11. Making a word into waterfall letters tells the reader you're falling apart (See #3).
12. Journals, diaries, blogs and Tumblr are old news when it comes to venting. Write an angry poem about your day instead.
13. You're probably going mad according to the DSM-5. Definitely write about that.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
*Your mind, I can read through the mirror of dark eyes,
no iris reading technology this, an ancient practice of lovers
disagreement creeps in to your naughty mind
don't I read it's alphabets and words?
you still smile and act amiable,
just to mislead me and hide your war tactics.
this little game of ours has a subtext of lust,
in bed we translate it to a physical duel
half moons of my nails etch blood mark all over your back
your sharp teeth, give quick bites, lips nibble my earlobes,
love play quickly become a rough and tumble game
when you are the naked aggressor sitting above, I the victim,
moving up and down, we inch forward to culminate in sweet thunder,
you have your sweet revenge, my lover, like in times before,
dissolving your disagreements, in my willing surrender
to your charm, warm naked body's entrapment, every time my dream*
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 7:11 AM UTC
scheduled a meeting with you
in spite of myself.
wrote down a couple of guidelines.
"be polite. be friendly.
avoid her eyes, and her hair as well,
do not look at her legs, do not look
for flirty subtext in her casual
conversation. ask the right questions.
don't stammer. remember you are not 13.
don't look at her and smile and say
'I love you'
when all you should be saying is
'goodbye.'"
tried not to worry; after all, it's just
a crush.
after all, I am not really
in love with you
that
much.
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 6:37 AM UTC
It's always incredibly sad when you say goodbye to a loved one.
Doubly so when its the one that convinced you that "loved" ones could still exist in your life beyond family and people you've known forever.
You would think at 46 it would be different somehow, different to the way it was when you were 16.
But it isn't
Not really
The big hole in your chest is still there, the tightness, still there
You still put on a brave face to everyone around you lest they know the pain you're in
And it still doesn't make
any
*******
sense
at
all
...
..
.
So you just choke everything down as best you can,
move on,
lick your wounds,
and try not to let this moment of your past dictate your future the way theirs did.
And therein lies the tragedy of it all I guess.
You can go forward assuming everyone's the same, put up walls, let nobody in for fear you'll feel this way again and in some bizarre ********** of the word feel "safe"
or
you lay low for a while and go out there again
forgive and forget
really and truly try and forget
let the future be anything it wants to be without looking in every nook and cranny, every gesture, every subtext every moment...... for signs that its going to happen again, that he or she is just like "they" were.
Whoever said insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result has clearly never been in love.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 5:23 PM UTC
A shout out to my history teacher who makes the time to teach
for I’ve picked up on the subtext she can’t speak:
if you teach to the test no one’s really being taught
all we learn is to chase empty numbers
and you wonder
why we’re all burnt out
when the end goal isn’t our happiness now
when the very organizations meant to support education
profit off those who have no choice but to turn to them
when the ones who can pay to prep
the ones who work until they can't see straight,
the so called “high achievers”
are the only ones who matter
and we ourselves kick everyone else off the ladder
if standardization is supposed to make education equal
then at the very least it should teach
that we all have a spot,
that in society, we can all be contributing members,
but it’s not.
like my history teacher’s given me,
we need lessons to life rather than to test
it’s time we set a better example for our students
Teach us that even when the blocks have fallen down, we can rebuild the tower
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 7:47 PM UTC
This heaviness, a stone in the chest,
a brooding passion flower,
fully at bloom, at moonlit night-
emits the distinct scent
of the tormentor of my heart,
an intoxicating accent it exudes--
which cages my mind.
Lust is its subtext.
Lungs are bottled up
with a mix of her pheromones,
signature perfume and the musky
scent of her sweat,
If a girl, with that intensity
gets in to the system, mixes in blood,
it's excruciating pain, is a bane,
and an insane ecstatic bliss, same time!
This isn't animal instinct, I know,
didn't she bare her mind though on the sly,
in words that has many facets, like a diamond?
No, still not sure, feels like an idiot,
(Wasn't she quite an artist,
playing with my heart?
But I am totally her's, can't help it,
from those moments,
which refuses to leave me in peace)
A longing that won't
let me take her off
from my mind's GPS.
Oh! now, shut both eyes and imagine
her undress in slow moves,
her lush, chiselled form, sends me
waves of fragance,
I am on the verge of collapse...
Then-
suddenly the phone rings,
she complains
a heaviness of heart,
***** thoughts that-
refuse to go to sleep.
"What would you do for this?"
she anxiously whispers,
"Hey, you are the only doctor,
I can lay my hands on,
to keep this malady at bay,
I badly need you near here,
**Is it true?
Am I falling in love with you?"**
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 2:54 PM UTC
Your love is addicting –
like…
******* in my beard
on a Tuesday night.
Teach me to see
as an infant:
I need everything to be
for the first time again.
I want to watch you bleed –
into the subtext and margins
of my notebook
so we can dispense with the periods.
Your sweat is bitter
like dreams deferred,
but I still long to lick
your mind and taste your voice.
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 3:48 PM UTC
Though I am bold and young at heart,
Tempered by the varied winds,
I must not forget
What I gleaned from your eyes
As you peered into mine
I saw you.
The taste of lime and dim light
Fetter as I took you away from the crowd
From strangers to lovers,
We came and went,
Our fondness disheveled covers
Subtext, riddles through course encounters
I lay alone those nights and reminisced
The touch I sought was yours
Periodic formal dinners
Gave way to more late nights as
Friends followed the informal
And soon, no secret
I see our friends come and go,
But we, we never leave.
On crowded sunlit beaches
With the rest
We step on rocky sand
I take you for granted
Juggling careers,
Dreams we dreamt since we were kids
It all falls short of machinations
But that which stays had no division
Rarely speaking
Those words which grow ill with repetition
As we grow together in flore
Now dim lights keep the flowers by your bedside table
Subtle patter of branches against a doctor’s window
Is all I hear against the swell of loss
I see me old, but still young at heart,
Weakened by the varied winds,
And I never forgot
What I gleaned from your eyes
As you peered into mine
What I know is I’d love you
Worthily through life
And, as life leaves, preserve it
I see it in your eyes
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 1:08 AM UTC
You’re the furthest thing from any form of knight in shining armour
In actuality I’ve already found mine
But I am captivated by the vigour of your free spiritedness
Somewhat consumed by the brooding of your aura
I am addicted to the way in which its easy
and the way that nothing ever needs to be said
I am captivated by our relationship of metaphors
Stimulated by the subtext of our blunt conversation
Deep ocean blue eyes that suppress everlasting adoration
Mischievous smirks that speak a world of sharp truthfulness
Truthfulness that should never be spoken
I am entranced by the shameless way you talk it anyway
And the shameful way you know it
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 8:02 AM UTC
You told me you didn’t want us to have any words left unsaid that night, so I told you everything, but over-thinkers like us can never really leave a conversation with everything on the table.
I didn’t tell you thank you, thank you for making me want to be the best version of myself, and for making me feel butterflies I thought were dead forever.
I’ve had to keep my mind busy, for when it stops I always find my thoughts displaying our memories like art in a museum, I keep racing to the door, but it’s locked and I can’t escape, I feel trapped in a nightmare I can’t wake up from.
If you’re reading this I have only one more thing to say, it doesn’t come with subtext or any expectations, I just want to say I miss you.
Oct 12, 2023
Oct 12, 2023 at 9:17 AM UTC
how horrible you are!
mirrors crack upon your gaze and split you in two
yelling and throwing tantrums, almost begging you
to vanish from their reflections, so they can heal again
the ugly truth - a part of the festering pile of **** you really are
want more? sure
you write about how wonderful a brand new day in your life is!
-this is happening in an E.R. at 4:00 AM - no subtext
last night was the best ever! drums, drugs, toxicity and debauchery
-you beat the land lady to within an inch of her life, then
ran from the cops for 4 miles, after which
you fell down 4 flights of stairs in the park because
you couldn’t see the railing properly - no subtext
{new update! 158 people followed you}
you’re a success. your blog is on fire. next day 281, day after - 590.
you post pictures of yourself with women getting ********* and ******
-you didn’t score with either - no subtext
you write old quotes that nobody’s heard in ages
-said you started a trend and took pride in it - subtext
you post made-up chats with ***** women trying to come on to you while you’re playing it cool
-it was your pen pal asking you to stop being a fake cause she believes in who you actually are,
so you tell her to **** off and block her. - no subtext
the one thing you don’t write about is why you are such an *******
in a world full of ******** with nothing better to do
than entertain others with a **** load of lies
simply for the sake of recognition
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 3:53 AM UTC
>Want a thing? Relax
>into a script to get a taste.
>Fetishes? or repressed natural inclination?
>Roll a D20 to feel better, take fun and make it killing,
>with just enough free will to make it interesting.
>Nothing else can become reality so in the universe we got
>in the cosmic lottery, calm down
>and have fun.
>Find the most effective deformation — BAM BAM
>SHOOT EM UP — and life is real. Over the top?
>Or so aware that art is less than or equal
>to life, so why settle for realism?
>Say something the way that no one else can say
>it. Maintain a state
>of relaxation by white knuckling your partner until you forget to breathe.
>Fetishize white men not being racists.
>Lay it all out for your audience
>whose uneducation cries out to be fixed
>by you
>and you alone.
>Reassure them
>you get it:
>art is hard,
>so I’m going
>to speak my subtext
>and spice things up
>with some choreography
>just to make sure
>you get what it is
>exactly
>that I’m trying
>to say,
>because god knows you wouldn’t get it otherwise.
>(And this way, people will finally understand you, and you will be complete, and you will be satisfied, and you will get everything you ever wanted, and you will ride fulfilled into the bright new day of artistic enlightenment you lucky sonuvabitch.)
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 8:39 PM UTC
oh boy, where do i start?
the subtext to every movement in the game of life:
"you were in my dream last night" and "deja vu"
as hard as i try to forget you appear in my dreams and
i wonder if i dreamt you up to begin with
and then i wonder if someone dreamt me up to begin with
and someone dreamt them up to begin with
no one mention that ********* leonardo dicaprio movie
what about when a dream turns into a nightmare?
dreams so realistic, you wake up feeling as if you haven't slept at all
dreams that you've dreamt before
i dream while i'm awake
supposedly when you dream of someone, they miss you
do you miss me like my dreams swear you do?
am i dreaming right now?
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 1:01 AM UTC
Writer, Writer, finding stories
in every twitch of every eye ---
there are no chance encounters here!
Coincidence is banned from us,
for it does not make good books.
Cause-and-effect makes the world go round,
thus questions by millions unanswered:
why thatword, why that look,
and what crucial subtext
was inferred by that three-second pause?
Does the world work like this,
like a well-crafted novel?
Are we characters moving
to preprescribed endings?
In short, I suppose, my question is this:
are we Writers so cursed to live in this illusion,
or cursed to see how the world actually works?
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 1:34 AM UTC
Future fed,
I am past tense,
With pretense of post textual subtext.
But I'm in love with mental reflex,
That rebound and curve in action,
Reaction replicated and reduced,
Redistributed and digested through the nose,
Said then to then be brought down to a new low.
But it's hypocrisy,
And inert,
Like morality in children,
Who celebrate their own centennial,
While 10 children to each their year,
Are snuffed from this earth,
In quite the same fashion as the candles
On Mr.Centennial's cake,
And it's fake,
For he's a diabetic and suffers,
Having already forgot half the people he raised,
Sentimentality wasted on a senior,
Who shook hands with the devil,
And then smacked an angel off its cloud.
It makes me sick,
Such sin began,
Stopped to begin,
Walked thin and ran thick,
Over budget and understocked,
Cut backs on morality,
Cut backs on humanity,
They call this art,
The only proof of evolution,
Is how we slide down the chart.
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 2:33 AM UTC
We never spoke of love.
We spoke of cosmic miseries;
we spoke of falling statues;
we spoke of unsolved mysteries,
of the prevailing cultural attitudes.
We spoke of miscommunication
and Comedy and Tragedy as brothers;
we spoke of being lost and broken,
yet healed at the hearths of others.
We spoke of Winter's silent war
and how the Sun scared us both;
we spoke of wanderlust and bars
and how our lives were the funniest jokes.
We spoke of possibility,
in coded symbols and allegories,
of all the universes we wish we could be,
of all the things we'd do with wings.
We never spoke of love,
and yet,
somehow,
it's all we ever
talked about.
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 3:05 PM UTC
Something real in my vision
This lifes a head on collision
Subtext and sybolism
Society, and religion
Begging me to beg forgiveness
I never listen
To anything but my heart
And the art on my wall
Hung a bit odd
If one's standing out in the hall
Not ready to evolve
And enter the fog
Gods get lost in this dark
This amusement park with chairs that spark
Where the lights always die
In your eyes
And you stay locked under your skin
Paying for every sin
By being broken
And bent
From head on collisions
Colliding head on with the song in my soul though my flow I let you know I'm an honest man but don't **** me off I'll still **** you up like you're wet and soft like Lara croft but it's not for naught I'm lost but always found mainstream yet underground I'm a heavyweight lyrical boxer I contend pound for pound each round
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 2:02 AM UTC