Hello Poetry is a poetry community that raises money by advertising to passing readers like yourself.

If you're into poetry and meeting other poets, join us to remove ads and share your poetry. It's totally free.
Stephen E Yocum Dec 2013
Hold your tears little man,
Ignore the hurtful things they say.
Rest your head here, with me.
Ten year old kids can be cruel,
Say things they should not say,
Hurt even their friends for no reason,
As yours have done today,
Thoughtless, mean words they were,
Said without thinking,
using bad judgment .

This thing they called you, “Fat Boy”
Or words to that effect, they mean nothing
Unless you let them, unless you don’t
Understand.  .  . Let me explain,
You are a growing boy, nearing what is
Called puberty, a physical change of
Your body from a little boy, on the way
to being a full grown man. Your body
will be ever changing, it’s how it is,
how it’s supposed to be, how it is for all people.
When I was your age, I had a more rounded
Shape as did your Dad at your age as well,
We too heard those mean thoughtless
Words directed at us. I cannot lie it hurt
every bit as much as these words and
names hurt you today.

Rest assured son of my son, dearest friend,
This chubby stuff, it’s only temporary not a
Permanente thing.

Now as to the stupidity of Mean people,
that hurt other people so thoughtlessly,
for them that state of Ignorance and
stupidity might just last forever.

Go dry your eyes and get the ball and Gloves
and let’s play us some catch.
Here wipe your eyes and blow your nose
on my sleeve and think no more about it.
Had this same talk with my grown son when he
was around the same age. Some things never change
when it comes to dealing with other people.
Meanness and ignorance it seems is generational.
To my grandson "W" you won't see this 'till you're
more grown up, until what I have told you has
become a truth apparent even to you.
With Love Poppy
Amelia Glass Apr 2013
it wasn't snowing yet, but they'd told us it would.
probably I said something infantile, about how
I could smell it, the frostiness of snowflakes in the
air, because you smiled that knowing smile of yours,
like you were an adult and i was a child and you
didn't have the heart to take my innocence away.

that look always made my heart smile, sadly, and
it also drove me up a wall, partly because it made
me want to hug you close and pity you the
burden of assumed moral superiority, and whisper
that you, too were a child. but mostly because you
were right— I clung to my naiveté while you, you
had already had the good sense to push it away.
it followed you around with sad puppy eyes, but
you knew it and you kept it at arm's length.
you brave, brave soul.

when it did start to snow I wasn't surprised. you
were. you didn't say anything. we were in
a deserted school hallway, listening, removed
from the other kids' cries. we were
delighted too, but the others wanted to run home
early, and we knew the definition
of home better than they. and I can speak only for
myself but it seemed we both wanted only to stay
forever side by side, tucked away in our corner,
me reveling in the softness of love and friendship
and winter, you trying to be there with me but having
trouble leaving your mind, where that sad-eyed
puppy snapped at your heels. it whimpered
but you held your own.

and slowly, we built up moments like this one.
we wallowed in each other and in the coziness
of cloudy days. we read good poetry and
heard good music and took photographs as we
discussed life from our  softer world.
there were moments of such pure white happiness
that they came full circle to being sad,
simply because I knew I would never be that
happy again, and I was not wrong, and I didn't
want to be. and we had
sad moments, too, never ever think I am not
happy to be sad with you.

and slowly, too, your innocence knew its
defeat, and sat obediently at your feet,
and we shared things.
but I was a child, and a weak one at that, and
*** knew I was not as strong as you so she
gave me no great suffering to speak of, to
share with you. no way to reciprocate the
vulnerability you gave, and that in
itself was suffering for me.

I regret that I was not good at saying things.
that while
you had to be your own adult and push childhood
away, I clung hopelessly to mine as
I discovered me and watched it slip
from my small hands.

among the plethora of reasons I can give for
bitterly hating sunny days is the
way the sun slanted through the window and lit
up your eyes and swilled particles around
your face like fairy dust on the day you reached
out and pulled my lanyard over your own neck.
look, you said, content. almost proud.
I'm wearing a bit of you around my
neck,
and you wove it through your
sunlit fingers, eyes bright. you tugged on it,
lightly. that's what love does, it strangles
you. and we all want it.


and I gasped at the way that word sounded,
so harsh in such beautiful sunlight on such
a soft face. but I don't want to strangle
you
. I said that. thoughtlessly,
instinctively. I regret it every day. in that regard,
you gave me a strength, but it's no german shepherd—
you are so **** strong.

when your ache tugged and tugged at you,
tore you from reality, or brought you closer to it,
it slipped its finger into that lanyard knot. loosened it.
I could have reached out right then, as you had when you
pulled the sun-soaked string over your head, and
tightened it. tightened us. been a friend.

I didn't tug the knot. if you run.
when you run,
I know that two grown dogs
will follow after you, blocked
from the sun by your receding shadow.
He slowly assembles his rifle on the barren rooftop as the
     wind blows through his light blond hair.
His long overcoat ***** and wraps around his thin long
    legs.
He places his elbows upon the short wall in front of him,
     firmly kneeling on both knees.
Glancing into the rifle's sight, he focuses sharply through
     its cross hairs; he sees hundreds passing through the sight,
     men, women, children, and as he sees it, a maze
     of mass hysteria.
He thinks of his current desperate situation and with each
     passing thought, his heart pumps more hateful
     adrenaline through his expanding veins.
What am I?....He wonders.
"I am the orphan child too **** to adopt!
I am the spit in the street you step in and curse!
I am the cockroach so many crush beneath their feet!
I wish to love and beloved, for I am ever so lonely,
     so empty.
I wish to give my whole self to someone to make them
     eternally happy!
To sacrifice all I possess, including my life, for the one
     I love,
but I am thoughtlessly branded a stalker!
I am the void in all broken hearts.
As a child, I only wished to be loved and appreciated,
but I was raised the invisible child.
There's a painful sore in my throbbing brain, the lethal
     virus of society'd disdain.
I'm insane!....I'm insane!...Give me peace, *** if you exist
     Give me peace!
He glances once again through the sight's cross hairs,
catching sight of a young boy standing alone, mouth wide open
    with tears rolling down his cheeks.
He pauses.....envisioning himself, his blue eyes cloud
     with tears.
He pulls back back his loaded rifle placing it against the
     short wall,
realizing at the moment this wasn't the way to end his
     unbearable pain.
Reaching into his deep overcoat's pocket, his long fingers
     catch grasp of the cool surface of a 9 mm.
Pulling it slowly from his pocket, he raises it to his temple,
slipping his finger upon its tight trigger he whispers once
     again,
"***....if you exist,
Give me peace."
To explain this piece, I wrote it over 15 years ago. I was a child who was nearly beaten to death twice by the age of 5 years old. One thing I do remember was at the times I was being beaten, it was almost like I was observing it from outside my body. When I started school I was a skinny, poor, cross eyed kid who went from one beaten to another. I once wrote, that I was like Daniel walking into the lion's den, the kids hopped about me like kangaroos with wolves teeth, punching me, spitting on me, continuously mocking me. I became just a shell of a child and sadly hated myself like all others. Took me years to heal I was quiet, introvert, who couldn't even find a date; but with time, I grew stronger, for I had family that reached out and showed me I was more than a rag doll to to be tossed around. People, called me a saint and a great guy! But in the final summation, it was the bitterness of an unforgiven world and it's cruelty that made me a tortured soul, etched thoughts that bled into my wounded soul. I grew to love my father and I grew to see the good in people. I harbored physical and emotional scars that amazingly never weighed me down and when people spoke of the cruelty I suffered, it was a hind thought. It became someone else, not me. But realize that all people are molded with each day of their lives and that mold can always be molded to be destructive! Faith and openness are great healing tools, for confidence and soul.
Leo Dubson Nov 24
Oh, what wonderful ways will I find today,
to thoughtlessly waste my time away.
croob Oct 2
silk & saffron cylinders basking in the still light
thoughtlessly as a blue jay bathes in his bird bath
as a brave baby bites for his mother's bare breast
as i watch you from a house across, you stretch awake
your rib cage glimpses the light for a moment and
dissolves, disappears.

i knew i was unseeable first when i was five
watching my mother undress for him and then him and then him
and then again when i was fourteen when my eyes
were white as snow against the unlit room
but still my sister didn't-couldn't see me staring.

i'm a ghost, woman,
and I need to **** something in you
to make me live again
Andrew Mar 29
I argue
To harm you
The protective computer screen
Allows me to be rude or mean
Without feeling your pain
So it becomes a game
Or a simulation of fame
If I can ignore the shame

The tread is wearing off the tire
After the internet stripped
The rubber off the telephone wire
And we lost our loose grip
After being shocked
By the rest of the flock
Their existence
Shows a difference
That is hard to accept
We're not what we expect

We push the boundaries of communication
But we can't handle the technology
I feel it gives me social immunization
But I feel the darkness follow me
And swallow me
Until I'm wallowing
Yet I don't know why
I try to ignore it
Only if it gets me high
Will I be for it

This utilitarian keyboard
Should help me see more
Instead it transcribes my anger
As I turn into an electric stranger
The words on my pixelated screen
Do not reflect my childhood dreams
But the bitterness of dreams being crushed
My petulant reactions are thoughtlessly rushed
And I represent my views in a negative way
Until I'd be more useful with nothing to say

There is a need for empathy
In the electronic discourse
Right now there is only entropy
And words without remorse
Spoken from a high horse
That looks down on peasants who own it
It's also a ***** but doesn't even know it
So it arrogantly trots along
Never admitting that it's wrong
Until it hears the slithering snakes rattle
Then it doesn't mind wearing a saddle
But the venom has already been injected
And its mind becomes hopelessly infected

We argue without blinking
We argue without thinking
We argue with poor logic
Our ignorance we flaunt it
Until the internet is haunted
Yenson Nov 20
Irrelevant force zeros cyclones, whirlwinds of smallnesses
Swirling pants from slimy orifices laden with smergma
Showers pristine leaving pollutants on mental polluters
Living lives fast callously, thoughtlessly and remorseless
Their mate cancer is waiting round the corner impatiently

Love me or hate me, my dishonourable purloiner s
both are in my favour. If you love me, lifterologists
I will always be in your hearts, and if you hate me,
I will be in your minds, regardless of their miniscule sizes
Hate is too great a burden to bear but bear it proudly I beg

The voice of truth and Light drowned out by the roar of fear.
It is ignored by the voice of desire, compensating emptiness
It is contradicted by the voice of shame and abject cowardice.
It is biased by hate and extinguished by terminal fizzing anger.
Proudly the wicked envy and hate; it is their way of admiring.
yellowpotato Oct 4
Sadness costs a fortune.
You spend more time in the shower because there's that seemingly comforting feeling of water falling on your skin.
You thoughtlessly go everywhere trying to force yourself to lighten up, and finding yourself in the farthest place you could go.
Also you could be mindlessly buying ***** for everyone, especially for yourself.
Because even if you know getting drunk doesn't solve the problem, you still cling to the idea of feeling a little better after you gulp all those liquor, and metaphorically drowning your heart to either numb the pain and dozing off the feeling, or mustering you confidence to say the things of your sober heart's sentiments.
This is not a poem. This is a sentiment of an aching heart. Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side. And this is just losing.

— The End —