"uncultured" poems
I have been made fun of for the color of my skin;
For the way I dress;
My taste in music;
Even how I talk.
They say I talk black.
Talk black?
What do you mean talk black?
We have given color to the words I speak?
Can you SEE their color?
Instantly they make me a ****
I become uneducated.
I am a thief.
A suspect.
Uncultured.
You do not even know me;
Yet you make ASSUMPTIONS as to who I am.
You do not even know me?
I'm sorry, where are my manners?
Hello, nice to meet you.
My name is ---- ----.
I am white,
But I talk black.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 1:53 PM UTC
ill-mannered impolite uneducated
how many words would describe rude
cheeky uncultured inconsiderate crude
how many words would say rude
they say money can't buy you class
then how much did you buy for your crass
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 12:42 AM UTC
Come up north to see the great outdoors
Rolling hills
Scenes leaving you wanting more
Never mind the weather
Whether its rain or shine
Grab a pint
Sit down
And enjoy our way of life
Born and bred northern boy
But no flat cap or corduroys
Yorkshire til the day I die
I'll represent that West Yorks sign
Faithful to my northern life
Faithful to my northern rhyme
Brought up well with northern vibes
Through hard times, miners strike
Times when maggie thatcher tried
to stir up **** with lies designed
Got miners and police to fight
But don't believe that southern hype...
Those brutal battles gave us life
It redefined our future times
Redefined our future lines
Redefined the northern kind
Redefined our northern humour
Redefined our northern style
Tourists come from far and wide
to find out what the North is like
Expecting lack of cultured life
Surprised we're not uncultured swines
Rewarded with our northern minds
Our northern ways
Our northern lives
Come up north to see the great outdoors
Rolling hills
Scenes leaving you wanting more
Never mind the weather
Whether its rain or shine
Grab a pint
Sit down
Enjoy our way of life
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 3:50 PM UTC
My beautiful Oak stood nobly on its own
It embraced my troubled mind and all my deeds condone
And when its sickly leaves lay crushed upon the soil
They would cushion me in comfort
as Id dream there for awhile
A chainsaw massacre!!! How can this be?
Some dammed blind fool your beauty couldn't see
No passion or affection, this man knows
His love a plastic piece or chalk repose
Things without a life , like this mans heart
He looks upon and calls a work of art
At his uncultured hands, your acquittance bell did tone
To see your life all drained has chilled me to the bone
All my innocence and youth has been severed
with your mighty root
My embittered heart or so it seems
has cursed the man that killed my Oak
And all my dreams
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 4:09 PM UTC
- Hi, I'm calling to tell you that:
I wrote down everything you ever said to me (in the literal sense, standing stretched against my own uncultured and violently ****** vocabulary)
- And am regurgitating it back to innocent passerby - my sincerest apologies to those poor victims of circumstance, suspended in the projectile ***** of my dysfunctional disdain
(In a slew of worm guts and warm bodies, mama-bird to baby-bird saying "please don't leave the nest" - it's too hot for blankets anyways)
My original letter to you was written on the backside of an airplane **** bag, where I detailed my favorite scenes from a movie we subconsciously made entitled "Baby's First Time", while blissfully unaware of my stern faced in-flight companion.
My first draft, though, was a series of half-hearted winks and very, very drunk texts, beginning with:
SEXT: I offer my services as sacrificial ******
(and followed a whopping six months later by)
SEXT: I am still young enough to accuse you of statutory ****
(The art of seduction seems to be less of an art and more of a particular science)
You are:
- My own personal Edgar Allan Poe, just blonder and younger, with a bigger gut and a bigger ego and (alas!) a complete lack of interest in your sweet Annabel (but I could change my name)
- And oddly enough, I'm the one writing the poems here
(The whole world's a stage, with me just watching your sad indie boy band from the nosebleed seats)
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 12:56 AM UTC
you seemed shocked when i told you
i’ve never seen star wars
or godfather I or II.
Nor have I seen pulp fiction,
ferris buellers day off,
little rascals
or most marvel movies.
you insist on a movie night,
“i can’t let you sit there uncultured”
you say with a smile.
i agree knowing that i won’t remember the movies.
all i’ll remember is you sitting close to me
too nervous to hold my hand, but too stubborn to move away.
i’ll remember seeing out of the corner of my eye, you watching me in awe.
probably thinking “how beautiful”
and you aren’t even watching the movies.
you’re watching me,
staring at me,
longing for me.
all i want is for you to grab my hand
and take me in your arms
make me yours.
don’t be embarrassed my prince...
i want you too.
Mar 15, 2019
Mar 15, 2019 at 10:53 PM UTC
Look, this woman is pregnant,
In her second last chance to have a baby
Perhaps a baby boy, or sexless,
She is yet to give birth,
Or even a still-birth
Will be a land mark
For those who feel for others,
This September 2014
The midwife will attend to Europe,
Mrs. Europe the mother of all nations
Had been impregnated by reason,
Voice of reason and consciousness,
He fertilized her with the ductile germ,
Full of cells for struggle against unit
Against marginalization of the uncultured,
Where the progressives in the oats’ mouth ****
Now, a second last child is bound to be born
Britain may be her foster mother,
We pray for Britain to be strong
In this moral duty of parenthood.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 9:31 AM UTC
I am writing this poem as a letter of reference for my uncultured heart,
Unedited and uncensored and
Unlike the affections I so willingly gave you.
You read me your poems
As if I were the first girl to receive them,
And boy,
Did I receive them.
I took them and their delicate lettering that traced
My name written boldly and profoundly in the center
As if the world was handing itself over to me.
To: Olivia
From: Jupiter
No return address.
I kept your smooth words and slipped them into my coffee,
Tucked them underneath my pillow case,
And folded them into a book I virginally scribbled in.
I found them scattered across the night's sky
And sewn into the shirt you loved on me.
I planted them in good soil waiting for spring.
My good, rich soil.
Untouched and unused.
I Watered them carefully and buried them with a warmth
That the sun itself couldn't radiate.
You lit me up and I was burning so wildly for you.
For you, Jupiter.
My garden was beautiful, full.
Plentiful.
Abundant.
Good, rich.
Untouched and unused.
And little white lilies began to sprout and dot the I's of your
I love yous,
I miss yous,
I was thinking about you,
I love you,
I miss you.
I was thinking about you.
I love you.
I miss you.
I was thinking about you, Jupi.
But drier than your recycled sentiments,
My soil
Became parched and emaciated
As more of your lilies grew.
My coffee became bitter,
My pillow case as soft as sand paper.
The small, black journal I carefully pressed flowers with
Now stained and sopping wet with Your cheap ink
That ran down my skin and into
Creases you left your finger prints.
Your lilies, though small and sweet,
Were deadlier than any poison ivy
I'd ever touched previously.
The little plot of earth I saved for myself
Was now a pile of your cigarette ash
And venomous weeds.
I burned so wildly for you,
But without you.
For you,
Not with you.
I was another one of your American Spirits,
Smoked, put out and
Tossed into the grave of another fruitless harvest.
Taken, left, and used.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC
I think what really kills me
is to see a guy pour out his guts
about how hard his life is
how committed to the struggle he is
and how much conviction he has
(with his daddy's trust fund)
I could really learn to get behind his success
if I just ignored that he's a rich man's son
I grew up poor, I grew up brown
so I'm Mr "What a big ****** when my thoughts came out
about how I have hopes for a brighter tomorrow
or that life's too short, we're on a track that we borrow
So now I hear succinctly that there's guys who say distinctly
How they're fed up with the system and they hate the gender binary
They're enlightened, in the know, and they're really having fun
Because this **** is easy when you're a rich man's son.
Oh, so I grew up in a small town
A suburban uncultured brown, public school GPA high
That's nice, I like how they let things slide for you guys
getting high, dealing dope, chilling with weirdos
and not the weirdos you know, the kind with emotional, physical, and ****** hangups
and not "wee we're so ******* different"
Because we never got praise, we only worked with a backdrop
Hoping maybe someday we'd get the key to the padlock
But it doesn't matter you say, there ain't a place left to run
Because it's easy not to care when you're a rich man's son
It's always the ones with power, the one's who hold royal flushes
Who say "money can't help you, I feel so out of touch with"
all the nature that I have the money to afford to go visit on a whim
Because the world is an oyster that I have yet to sink in
While I'm hoping for you, you get the point when it's done
That not everyone gets the chance to emote like the rich man's son
I built my kingdom from my grit; I'm not a rich man's son
I learned that no one gives a **** I'm not a rich man's son
I've no promo but my mouth; I'm not a rich man's son
I've got the battle on my back, I'll be a rich man, son
I've formulated my attack, I'll be a rich man, son
I got my loving back on track, I'll be a rich man, son
If I want to stay intact, I'll be a rich man, son.
Your father loves you boy, so you're a rich man's son
Don't care if I can't have the toys, cause I'm a rich man's son
My father loves me to the death, so I'm a rich man's son
"Dad life is pretty hard, don't think I'm having fun"
"Jake, you've got to make yourself, I don't care what the other kids have done"
"If you can only do one thing, and yes I only ask one"
"Be the best at that, there's ever been, will you do that son?"
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 4:53 PM UTC
Reading Vonnegut
I'm reading Vonnegut
I'm tired
Had to look up three words
In three pages
The app wanted more money
To view the words
In a sentence
I don't have the money
So the sentances remain
Unknown
I long to be more like Kurt
I dream intense
Repetitive dreams
My pen in my hand
Thoughts profound
I reside inside his followers
I want to go to a party
And quote meaningful texts
I want to join that society
'Catachresis'
Now there's a word for me
The writer inside me
Is trapped
Uncultured
Behind failed education
Inside a broken mind
Desperate to find those words
To explain my thoughts
Which are deep and saturated of
Feeling..... No one will hear me
My emotions frozen
Those three words
In three pages
Already evaporated
I have another four words now
Four more to research
Four more to skim my brain
To mock my intelligence
The app wants more money
I'm reading vonnegut
And I'm tired
May 13, 2020
May 13, 2020 at 10:29 PM UTC
It always ends in **** because the walls can't speak the honesty you need. Somehow you find the gratifying affection in watching other people make uncultured love in unkept sheets. We call this cycle, good enough. As our hollow hearts beat harder. Mass production of media, easily prescribed as a fault of technology. Mass media production is a man made reduction of ourselves behind glass emotions. Sickening potions, as you hit delete history. From your phones memory, but not yours kid.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 12:10 AM UTC
Savages, animals,
uncivilized Creatures,
Fiend on Earth,
Unrully beings.
But do I complain?
NO!
Through Devious deeds,
Robbed me naked,
Devised weapons to
silence my Menacing
mouth.
But do I complain?
NO!
Wrote Memoirs of how
Dark & uncultured I
was,
called me a Devout
to my Unpolished ways.
But do I complain?
NO!
Mesmerized by my
wild and Beautiful face,
Dazed by the
Candidness of those
residing on me.
But do I complain?
NO!
Driven by Cupidity
stole both life &
lifeless,
Tall buildings Built by
my sweat & Blood,
my Kins sold and Tortured
on Foreign lands.
But do I complain?
NO!
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 4:01 AM UTC
There is a lesson
among the others
that I have failed to learn.
A mother's wail,
a child's cry,
the tortured sighs
and lonely eyes-
these signs,
these misgivings,
these misguided reasons
become lost on me.
It's the pain,
the uncultured beginnings
of a slowly spreading weight
that I fail to see
in full colour.
I look to the sky
at the words;
tell me it's raining
and I will believe you,
but the water will not touch me.
I look up,
searching
for the tears among raindrops,
the carbon
among the breathable air,
looking for the cats-
looking for the dogs-
but finding only a beautiful rain.
And ashamed
for not understanding
the pain that it takes
to be like the people I see,
sitting at the window
just like me,
but whose blank stares
and sighs
mirror nothing
inside my own soul.
I have wished to feel that pain,
if only for a day,
just to understand
the way it takes hold.
I have searched
for that sincerity,
and found only the clarity
of somebody who skips through life
making eye contact easily.
But sometimes,
instead,
I look down at the ground,
trying to find what they search so hard for;
trying to pick it up again
and lift it towards the sky.
I don't need a reason why
I just do.
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 12:47 PM UTC
The senses, being irrelevant
And often misleading,
Have led me to answering questions,
You've never bothered asking
When "when" is not a timeframe
So much, as it is a
Time of day, be it
Morning over coffee,
Or a digital dessert, I can't be
Made to let go of the
Gasps I grab for, upon your entrance
Or exit, breath becomes trivial.
You steal jealousy from
My eyes, and quite a jealous
Man can I be. Those same portals
You fill up every day with
Smoke and sensationalism, through which
Stolen intentions, kept quiet,
Are made mutineers
Against their vigilant captains.
The how came from surrender.
Realizing you turn me against
Myself. And as the world falls
Down around me I can't
Get that awful sound of my
Own hypocrisy, crashing down, out
From the canals they've found to call home.
Below broken-hearted-bowls,
And lying over the phone, and a
Cancerous presence on the
Stage of Socialites, you still look
Perfect with a cigarette in your lips.
*I've used "portals" before.
To mean eyes.
And cigarettes before.
To mean freedom.
But you just smoke them... Don't you...?*
There are those who marvel
At the size of her, before taking in
The expansive beauty the moon can speak.
Some are willing to court her,
Others rip the hoop skirt off,
And **** her 'til she bleeds.
Oddly, no one is ever jealous,
Of the time others spend with her.
She's taken for granted, as
The passed-around property
Of the Uncultured Below.
But that's not why I'm sorry...
***Or don't you wonder...
Don't you ever wonder?
Who went wrong?
What's correctly missing?***
It is in how I love,
The ways not withstanding,
And reason, remaining remiss,
That I ask you to forgive me.
You are who you are
Because I love you.
And I am who I am,
Because you are.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 11:47 AM UTC
In the beginning when Adam met Eve beneath the canopy of paradise
they agreed on most things.
They basked in the perfection of all that surround, laughing at each other's jokes.
One day Adam carved a gift for Eve.
Tirelessly wildling the branch of an oak tree.
"Tools", he boosted as she stroked the small utensils.
"I'll call them forks," said Eve happily setting the table.
What came next sparked an age old debate, as Eve grasped her fork in the left hand, Adam in his right.
"What are you doing?" he vexed, scratching his head.
"That hand is incorrect!"
"Tis not my sweet, it is the hand I use to eat, I am in my right mind my dear, you are the uncultured one here!"
And so it began, as they reproduced.
Cain was right handed as was Seth, but poor Able was born with his mother's fondness for left.
Jun 22, 2019
Jun 22, 2019 at 2:34 PM UTC
the world is too full of people
a lot of practises, norms, traditions
something i can't get along
i have had it in me
languages, oceans, love, seasons
unfed, uncultured
i refuse to open up
to the danger living out there
it might swallow it up
i went away...i subtracted
from all the additions
and madness, jury's, promises
vows, linkages
this silence that i possess is worth a language
of speeches, made up by words
so carefully sewed by grammer, adjectives and nouns
a beautiful place - trees
love, nature, mountains ..child's careless laughter
open yet so concealed
souls sees it - dances it with the sensations
coming out ..like a sun amidst dark clouds
i stay like i care least
shrugging off everything ..and everyone
not of that, not of this
in my heart..i contain all
feeling of beauty ..feltful sadness
converted into deep joys
rivers, cold glaciers into melting snow .
there is much that can be spoken about
it's only..silences in me
take me along..much more
than language with such torn up words
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
We were lying in the field
Behind my apartment
A mid-day meal
Wooden compartment
Your eyelashes extended
Your forehead and hairline
You intended
To find a fault line
The earth crumbling beneath
And car alarms sounding
Uncultured heath
Fractures abounding
Your dark skin mixing with dirt
Dangling from the rift
Dropping unhurt
Found gold to sift
Leaving with your small treasure
And I in the dust
Aim to measure
And readjust
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 4:11 PM UTC
enough of your foolish folly
return to your oyster shell
re~polish your dull exterior
relive the moment before
being wrenched from your
existence. Be glad. Acknowledge
the close confines of which you dwell
Take nourishment from inside
the cage that keeps you warm
Hardened arms that shelter you
from the storm. A closed mouth
that speaks not of freedom
remaining tight lipped
leaving you guarded but unwarned
Oh, yea pearl uncultured,
unappreciating of the body
that bred, unyielding
such opalescent perfection
once ripped from the flesh
dull will you wink in indescretion
tied to a string alongside other
conquests. Just a trophy
of your latest obsession
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 5:46 AM UTC
My mother wanders into the fancy party,
A bull in the china shop,
Her eyes are saucers as she watches
Waiters enslaved to the night
Unidentified identities lie behind masks
She's afraid
Not unsmart she repeats
Not uncultured
Not uncivilized
Not un (is) not un (is) not un (is)
A meter, a harmony, a rhyme
Meaning inherent
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
City of eternal wonders
An empire built,
fallen, re-animated
alive and never broken.
There lay ruins
old and modern,
monuments of marble
stumbled on by hoofs
and carriages shrieking
on the cobbled streets
poisoned by uncultured
tourists.
But in the little streets
lay a calm
silence not many
can hear.
The beauty is underneath
hidden, not all will see.
It's heart keeps beating:
like fine wine,
it improves with time.
Oct 7, 2019
Oct 7, 2019 at 1:28 PM UTC
I'm from moving around and many friends. Around the world and in my neighborhood.
Forgotten memories and forgotten life.
Left alone in the dark, crying until my eyes are red and on fire.
Keeping every memento I've ever gotten.
I'm from deep thoughts and long nights of research.
Not sleeping for three days straight.
Page after page of books.
New followers and information.
I'm from years of bullying and being different.
Twitching and raptor hiccup.
Hair and clothes.
Like and dislike.
I'm from a world of imagination.
Books that take me on a journey through worlds I wish I could be apart of.
Pictures and drawing I've drawn as a child.
Games that explain more than my schools could ever.
I'm from a life time of pain and joy.
I'm from updating my knowledge of the world.
I'm from a world of uncultured swines.
I'm from a world I wish not to be in.
I'm from the unknown.
A life I've yet to figure out.
Keep dreaming.
I'm from a world of fast moving dreams, that I'll never catch up too.
I'm from Earth.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
*He...
Silently sees Me
Acceptance
Beyond
Surface level deep
His
Gentle approach
I embrace
like
His
Written Word
takes
me
to
A place where
My
Essence
Is glowing,
showing
freely*
*His
Sincerity moves me
with
one
peek
He sees
My sensuality
Colors
of my emotions
His
Attention
To my details
makes
Me
Wonder with
amazement
unlike
the
Uncultured swine of
our
time
**He’s spawn from
a
Different
Generation of
Major Leagues
who
Plays for keeps
In
Tune
With masculinity**
Through
the thickness of
Fog and midst
He
Knows
Why I exist
To
Be
Queen
I admire His
Every
Word
Spoken, written me
I’m
Pleased
Elated
To be acquainted
We
Shall
Ever
Remain
Separated from the
Tainted*
~ButterFly εїз 2012©
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
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The disease is hegemony
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 7:20 PM UTC
Her genital_the big "WHY"
Oh! She's born of a ******
Her ******* a call to say"HI"
Her voice_a well to exploit from.
And her physique_just to have fun.
Her gender role, no one questions
Even the feminists call for attention.
She keeps these, term uncultured.
She unseals these, term a ****
Obviously, kissing is amazing.
Foreplay, Hnnnnn! So appealing.
Undoubtedly, *** is fascinating.
With pain, how often she tries to fake the moan.
She enjoys it much, now a curse.
He walks up to her and says "I love you."
She believes him, he sounds so true.
He lores her to bed_ already in her loo.
When the stomach starts to push through,
He says to hell with you.
Fifteen minutes of pleasure.
Nine solid months in seizure.
Some days in the hospital.
A child without a paternal name. Isn't that fatal?
Such of a child a *******
And the mother, a ***** who deserves not a ballad.
Mar 22, 2021
Mar 22, 2021 at 3:11 PM UTC