"uncreative" poems
If I said I just needed to hear those words
You'd say I'm a stereotypical writer
Or a totally uncreative plagiarist
In this moment I'm not a poet
Just a broken person starving for acceptance
Rejected, abandoned, worthless
I'm sick of my definition
My heart is longing for your approval
Broken pieces would be repaired
If you would just care
Can't you notice something positive?
I want to be worthy
Am I so revolting
you can't even set your eyes upon me?
I crave a basic sentence
With the same intensity
a drowning man craves air
Fill my lungs with life
Let me breathe you in
Please just say
I love you
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 2:26 AM UTC
I am creativity,
Wanting to create something beautiful
But without inspiration
I am nothing but
A spotless piece of paper.
A dull mind kills me,
Inch by inch it erases
Every source of creation
Stored in my memory.
It shuts every bright emotion
That I keep in my frail heart,
And replaces it with a boring void,
Filled with nothing but
Suffocating air of blank.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 8:04 AM UTC
Writer’s block does not exist,
there’s only uncreative writers,
and those who don’t care enough
to care so much.
As the former,
I will write this in my quietest voice:
I am okay,
I am okay,
I am okay.
Few would care to know,
fewer would care if they knew.
But it is the truth,
and I am in no business
of making truths I cannot keep.
I no longer write with tired eyes.
I no longer think with shaking hands.
I am no longer transparent,
or translucent,
or opaque.
I am okay.
I know this because I woke up today.
Simply that.
I woke up today,
and I am not empty.
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 11:54 PM UTC
I am from soap bars unnoticed in supermarket aisles, from Lux and artificial jasmine fragrances.
I am from ****** motels, suspicion strong in the air; far from the warmth of toasty family cottages.
I am from the bouquet of extravagant roses, the dead white one within the reds.
I am from the cholesterol-inducing pizza nights and sharp senses for both the culinary and your lies, from a sinner and an angel and the brave and just the plain stupid.
I am from the self-deprecating and the highly-sensitive.
From you’ll never be able to climb a tree and you’ll never be able to find another me.
I am from the inverted views of the crescent and the star, on my knees waiting to turn back.
I am from the city of the creatively uncreative and its posers and poseurs, plain bread and steamed rice served on China plates painstakingly crafted.
From the not-so-happy ending of mom and dad’s love story, the blood boiling and the tears rolling.
I am from the well-kept, well-preserved antique shelves hidden under our everyday closets; a ***** little secret, secretly waiting to be saved.
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
To the little boy in the diner,
I’m sure you didn’t notice me, I barely took note of you
but your clear, childish voice traveled
it reached my booth and seized my ears.
You were gabbing on to your parents
(who were more mindful to your stains than your words)
about all the things you want to be when you grow up.
A teacher, a veterinarian, a doctor, a policeman.
Your naive string made me smile, until the commentation flew.
“You don’t want to do that,” the parents promised.
“You’ll change your mind and give up.”
And you were quiet, but I’m sure you shrugged it off
because that’s what children do.
I am still a child, not too much older than you,
but I can’t shrug off people’s doubts of my dreams like you.
Somewhere along my journey towards adulthood
I began to accept that my dreams are unreachable.
Our whole, young lives we’re told to reach for the stars
but gradually we will be told to lower those stars
until they’re within arm’s reach.
Parents like yours and mine will say our goals should be practical
and with our current lifelong dreams we won’t amount to much.
Uncreative adults like this will instill the dull principle in some,
but I hope not you, and I hope not me.
Everyone has to be someone doing something
so why not try for the stars a million miles away?
I want to look up one day and see
those far off stars are dangling just above my head.
And as for you, little boy in the diner,
I hope you do what you want.
Speak words people will hear across nations,
or whisper melodies for only those you treasure to receive.
Perform actions that millions of people will be touched by,
or be one person’s superhero to lift them off the ground.
I hope you go back to that diner someday,
accompanied by your aging parents.
I hope you tell them that you’re successful
I hope you tell them that you're happy.
Sincerely,
the girl in the diner
P.S. I hope you prove them all wrong.
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 8:49 PM UTC
"I am not of worth."
"I am not revered."
being talentless
is what i've always feared
"This boy
craving release of cluttered thoughts
puts pen to paper
but repeatedly jets out
uncreative inkblots."
I am silhouetted by the face of laughter and joy
all cavorted actions are just a decoy
what i'm thinking is I have no reason
everyone just seems so far
why am I here?
whatever you are.
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 9:43 PM UTC
This poem has no meaning.
It is completely devoid of substance or artist credibility.
It is badly written and uncreative.
It is a complete waist of time.
This poem will leave you unsatisfied and annoyed,
but not because it is powerful enough to conjure any kind of reaction.
This poem is a plagiaristic construction of hypothetical nothing,
only it isn't as good as that.
This poem will steal your handbag and smoke all of your cigarettes.
This poem doesn't even smoke.
The very logic that this poem is based upon is completely flawed.
Any evidence that in any way claims to support this poem is merely circumstantial.
This poem, was containing numerous grammatical errors.
This poem shouldn't exist.
There is no reason for it to be here.
It just is.
here.
Existence isn't temporal.
Meaning transcends over and through it.
Butterflies in a warehouse.
Once this poem has been read, it exists.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
i can't write anything good until i've had my morning coffee,
the words are comatose inside me
i can't write anything good until i've brushed my teeth
the words are rotting inside each breath
i can't write anything good until i've taken a shower
the words will shine or be washed away
i can't write anything good until i've sobered up
until then all you get is
belligerent
repetitive
uncreative
pathetic
Dec 12, 2011
Dec 12, 2011 at 9:46 AM UTC
The time it'll take you to realize I'm gone is enough time for me to run away, slowly taking myself apart, like a jigsaw puzzle. I'll be in a hundred pieces and before you can even find all of them I will have already been gone. Disappeared into the wind, like leaves falling in Maine autumn.
I hope you cry the hardest you ever did, and realize that it wasn't myself in the end who killed me. It was you. You talking behind my back, you making me feel so incompetent, you thinking I wanted it to be about myself.
I hope you realize that I cared more about you and the other than myself or getting better. I relapsed again and again cause I was dealing with your problems, I never said not to talk to me. I let you in, and in the end I just got hurt.
I'm sorry about your mom. I'm sorry that I'm not the best son. I'm sorry that I'm never good enough. I'm sorry when this finally ends.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 8:28 AM UTC
it's not that reality's boring
dreams just show me the way
it's not that reality's not welcoming
but in dreams I wish I could stay
it's not that the world is painful
but in dreams there is no strain
it's not that the world is judgmental
but in dreams I can bathe in the rain
it's not that society's uncreative
but in dreams I can paint with the music
it's not that society's not surprising
but in dreams I never feel basic
it's not that life is too limited
but in dreams I can walk on the sun
It's not that life isn't enjoyable
but sadly, my dreams are more fun.
Jul 31, 2011
Jul 31, 2011 at 7:08 PM UTC
We're so much sleepier than we used to be.
So drained, so strained,
so uncreative.
It's been a blast while it's lasted,
but at last, perhaps it is time to quit.
Quit running in circles looking for miracles.
New things and new beams of light
will ignite (the tender) and give us
our sight.
(Or at least I hope.)
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
The stream is flowing
These trees won't stop growing
What uncreative ideas I'm throwing
Writing about nature has already been played
Nothing new can be made
I'm juggling these words in my head
oh my, is this writers block
Am I dead?
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 5:23 PM UTC
creativity is sometimes hard to find
but the only way to find creativity
is to be not creative in the first place
if you are already creative
then how can you find the creativity you already posess
discovering creativity
is one of the most rewarding feelings
so let the world be filled with uncreative minds
and let those minds
have the opportunity
to find the creativity
that was hiding
in the depths of their minds.
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 5:29 PM UTC
In a white room
thirty people
empty and plain
yet full and lively
everyone different
everyone same
stuck in a system
for hours every day
preparing for a future
that may not exist
existence destroyed
by being uncreative
in a white room
thirty people
just numbers
in a system
different numbers
but no name
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 12:09 PM UTC
Break~
We could spark a fire
In our carnal wiring
Until we tire
In the shame
Or we could all be one
All be the same
Monotone
And strange-ly uncreative
~
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 10:28 PM UTC
You scream at me,
So rude, so angry.
You tell me to do this and that,
Even you insult me and call me worthless and fat.
You were supposed to be my role model and guide me to the right way.
You're the reason why I'm this way.
I tried to help you,
Tried to cheer you up when you're blue.
However I ended up getting in your line of fire,
You were the biggest of liars.
I had to learn how to do everything by myself,
I still don't know how to take care of myself.
I hate how you side with my brothers when they are wrong,
I wish I wasn't always strong.
I wish I could let myself be me,
I wish that you would see.
You say I'm uncreative, you doubted me.
You made me feel like a freak.
I would be so excited of my accomplishments,
But you treated them like burdens.
You are like the devil,
My freedom is always part of the deal.
I hate how I had to clean the house in order to be free.
It only gets ***** again from my family.
Yet when it was dad, I had to submit,
My freedom was forfeit.
So many dates cancelled because of him,
It jeapordized my relationship.
You were my mom,
You didn't protect me at all.
You were more likely to throw me under the bus to save your skin.
You suffered because of him.
Yet despite it all,
You're still my mom.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 8:18 PM UTC
I'm breaking down
I'm actually breaking
The cracks have gotten too big
It's flooding
My tears are rushing down my face
They won't stop
It's too much
I can't handle it
No one can
It's impossible
The pressure
Was building
Is building
Always will be building
So I broke
I'm breaking
I will never stop breaking
Till I'm shattered
And I become like the rest of the world
It will break me and
Make me like you
Responsible
Boring
Uncreative
A contributing member of society
I get it now
It's pressing us down
Into their mold
So we all fit
I understand now
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 9:29 PM UTC
I believe in the misunderstood, the underestimated, and the overlooked. I believe in society's want for you to stop being creative, to conform, to be ready when society tells you you're an unoriginal, uncreative human being right after you graduate. I believe death is a ***** and that the "living" don't really exist. I believe classrooms are hell, colleges are satans, and teachers are noble but wannabe St. Peters. Grades aren't supposed to judge but everyone judges by numbers. I believe everyone hates society but fail to know that they ARE society. I believe in the failure to connect and that those who are isolated are the ones who have the most potential to be great. I believe scientists are better bosses than management graduates who are taught to follow the money when scientists are taught to follow the truth. I believe the truth is a lie and that the world is nothing but a big fat machine. People are liars, I am a liar and I believe everyone is just dying. I believe suicide is courageous, because facing the unknown is always more courageous than facing the expected. I believe in the plastics and the cynicals. I believe in poetry and I believe in absolutely no one and nothing at all.
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 8:25 PM UTC
sixto rodriguez
isn't good enough for you
her faded name makes do
she has an inner wrist tattoo
someone said,
"there are a lot of uncreative people out there who have a need to express themselves"
how true
how true
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 6:15 AM UTC
Mr Snodgrass was an unrepentant man,
he wanted nothing more than a house mouse.
He laugh at her trainers,
telling they subliminally showed
she was uncreative.
He doesn't need twine
he plans to be provocative.
After intentionally brushing her cheek in the dark
she lower her head
and seem to take on his burdens.
She dye her hair sun red,
and wear a Ra Ra skirt to please.
Bare footed taking a few strides outside
to instinctively repair the mesh for the chickens
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 3:10 PM UTC
*a gullible **** in the watermelon patch
expecting to tower and live life among the others -
with hope of musical days , curious , a bit embarrassed -
lit up in late morning Sun
quickly shaded , protected by the burgeoning populace -
of kindred spirits he assumed were friends , befuddled -
with their ultimate height and fruition , something which -
he wanted so bad
but the "wanted" overtook his sky , leaving him -
quite maligned , uncreative and ready to die , returned to the fertile -
Earth as a lesson for the 'labeled' in the month of May ,
a parable of our short lives , minority days among 'the -
chosen' , disenfranchised from the all powerful Vine* ..
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 9:34 PM UTC