"undercooked" poems
She fell asleep thinking not of her
Boyfriend, but of the moon
Like the tides, her
Passions were tied to its
Waxing and waning
At its fullest she could
See around corners
Identify people not just by
Sight, but by scent
She watched, enraptured, as her
Fingernails grew and sharpened before
Her eyes
And for maybe
Not quite the first time
She felt alive
The strange symptoms
Of her youth
The pawprints in the
Yard, the lust for Jack
London, the undercooked meat
Calling the moon by her
Boyfriend's name
When her phone was ringing
With his number lighting up the screen
Calling her boyfriend
The moon
And thinking about sinking her
Teeth into him
The people who loved her
Pushing for a lock up
Questioning her sanity
The people who loved her
Trying to understand
It was all so
Unsettling, it was all so
Mindbending how much louder the
Wild called to her
And how it knew her name
Without any introductions
And naturally her instincts
Took over
And supernaturally her instincts
Wanted flesh
Finally it was just two
Wolf hearts
Beating in the
Dark, all those wild
Thoughts racing across
America and destiny was
Manifesting itself faster
Than they could chase after it
She had turned him and
There was no going back
Just forward into that
Rabid
Unnatural
Unknown
Forward into that
Toothy grin
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
You are witnessing a prodigious talent and promise, and to a lesser extent but still to the degree whereby it should keep you awake at night writhing in cold sweats, your life, slip agonisingly through your open and clammy palms. Promise means so little if not actualised. You have been granted chance after warning after fortuitous escape yet have blithely spurned every omen and will one day fall, swiftly and perhaps terminally. You are almost certainly depressed. You say you love your girlfriend, and you mean it wholeheartedly when you do, but you worry that the relationship perpetuates as without her there would be no reason to rise with the sun. Even if the relationship is unstable, and at times verging on the unhealthy, you believe you love her but are too great a coward to consider decisive action if that belief is to reside or subside. Your friends range from kind and honest yet deeply flawed to somehow toeing an inextricably thin line between dependability and duplicitousness. Conversations with a certain few of your friends necessitate decrying every undercooked ethos you've every conned yourself into believing you hold (you could well be the most hypocritical liberal to walk the earth, for you are innately and irrepressibly selfish) yet you still nod placidly as your conscience squirms. Grotesquely, like a beaten spouse, you crave the gaze of those who have treated you with the most insulting derision, but are too proud (of what?) and, a running theme, too cowardly, to stoop to a simple detante. You must change, for it pains you on a most base level to have to accept the feeble, whimpering, simpering spectre you have become. You must be bold, brave, unashamed in your convictions, anything but pursed and silent lips. You have a voice, and you must now speak loud enough for them to hear, for that which has become blunted must be whetted, sharpened, readied for battle to be unsheathed at an utterance. Heed the signs and change, for our sake. You, a milksop who attentively notes the sophistry of courage, you can still be brave, and you must be.
For one day you will be swelled with a courage and fortitude to fill your sails taut, enough to leave this place, forget these people and bear you away.
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 8:08 PM UTC
You either know me, or you don’t.
I’m your best friend, and worst enemy.
I’m bought, sold (new and old),
sought, found, and tossed around.
I get twisted and turned,
mimicked and gimmicked.
I lead you here, I lead you there,
I lead you just about anywhere.
I whisper in your ear, and boom across the sky,
feeding off echoes, savoring my cry.
I’m overlooked and undercooked—
raw as sushi just unhooked.
I’m encrypted and coded into complex clues,
hidden in books and the daily news.
I’m hacked, chewed, shredded and burned,
analyzed and synthesized at every turn.
I’m stronger than ever and growing each day,
collecting, connecting, and creating the way.
Information’s the name, and if life’s a game,
then I’m one slick player with zero shame.
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 5:47 PM UTC
perhaps it is apt
the first pancake
is always
a disappointment
stodgy
anaemic
without that light
crisped perfection
we've come to expect
it is undercooked
typically
as the ideal
frying time
is gauged
incorrectly at first
it will be
plated with
accompanying pleas
for forgiveness
and absolution
but as penance
someone has to
suffer this
pariah's offering
with each mouthful
comes thoughts
of apology
of atonement
of promises
it will be better
next time
Feb 27, 2023
Feb 27, 2023 at 5:56 AM UTC
Introduction
_____________
some words
chase you around
infiltrating and winking,
in emails and poems to
your attention dispatched
undeniably messaging
a wanting to be
realized, completed,
teasingly speaking
you know
a poem newly birthing
in your left brain,
tender pleading,
love me already,
just write me
like you would
make love to a woman!"
messages from others employ
the self-same word r e p e a t e d l y,
you start to get the hint
very very v i g o r o u s l y
the rumbling,
the back-seat tumbling,
you're driving
bipedal composing,
guitar and piano
gas and brake
pedals to the mettle,
and the speed limit
was 15 mph under
where your brain is fermenting
all tuning you up to
meet the guild's
product quality standards,
yet unlike an automobile,
a poem, like a life,
has a unique DNA,
cannot just be
recalled,
for repair
and additional tinkering,
jes' because
once it is out there,
it has been outed
sure enough in my
my "started but *** file,
a lazy layabout,
overlooked and undercooked,
the poem below,
a dabble and a muddle,
so ignored, so berefted
for so long
it got this
special introduction
by way of an apology....
Incarnate
She is my poem incarnate
She is the carne of my body
She is the innate of my soul
She is my woman incarnate
she is all I need
in form realized and invisible imagined,
angel and thank god,
devil as well...
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 11:06 AM UTC
I smell a home cooked meal
Which does not make any sense
Because all that exists here
Is bitter coffee
And undercooked rice.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 1:43 AM UTC
I can’t eat undercooked eggs with runny yolks,
Maybe that’s why I always end up frying them a little too much.
I can’t give only a little of myself to someone,
Maybe that’s why I end up losing all of myself to failed relationships.
But I can always learn.
To like runny yolks and give only as much as I get.
~Gunnika
Aug 25, 2025
Aug 25, 2025 at 9:47 AM UTC
give me your darkness and i’ll origami it into a thousand paper cranes. come to me on your blue days and i’ll paint you periwinkle, cerulean, indigo and sapphire. when those words just won’t come off your skin i’ll give you soap and won’t watch. i can’t teach you how to be honest but i can teach you how to become sunday mornings and undercooked brownies, butterfly kisses, unmet expectations and summer thunderstorms. i’ll forget how to be gracious and soon i’ll forget how to be kind, because everyone is just a reincarnation of what we hate about ourselves or what we wish we could be. if i wanted this to be easy, i would have given in already. but now i’m putting up a fight and i’m not sure why, but i have my fists in front of my face and i’m going to meet my demons outside by the dumpster and give those ******* cowards what they deserve.
May 25, 2012
May 25, 2012 at 10:51 PM UTC
Something I have not quite understood
As to why it is part of Christmas.
Tis the season,
For fruitcake.
A little bundle of squishy undercooked bread
Stuffed with candied fruits and nuts.
The loaf of
No thank you...please.
Though seemingly undesired,
The dessert reigns on.
Wrapped in clear plastic
So that you may marvel at its artificial glory.
Tied off with a bow.
Ready to be received by those you love most.
Tis the season,
For fruitcake.
Apr 8, 2017
Apr 8, 2017 at 10:34 AM UTC
Silent lunch alone in a room full of people
Stringy spaghetti
Quiet lunch with a cute boy across the table
Bubbling Raman noodles
School meal next to the cute boy
Toasted bagel
Cafeteria date with the boy
Steaming bean soup
Dinner date with a new boyfriend
Gourmet pizza
Perfect picnic on spring hills
Juicy strawberries
One year anniversary celebration
Succulent chocolates
Meeting with his parents alone for the first time
Slimy spaghetti
Breakfast in bed after passionate nights
Sugary waffles
Late night movies together
Buttery popcorn
Two year anniversary family gathering
Barbeque ribs
Romantic dinner for a marriage proposal
Roasted oysters
Nights alone after he says no
Greasy pizza
Following him wherever he goes
Rotten strawberries
After receiving a restraining order from the police
Molded chocolates
Sleepless nights staring at his picture
Stale popcorn
Insane asylums daily lunch servings
Undercooked Raman noodles
Mental institutes only breakfast special
Disintegrating waffles
First meal after faculty release
Boiling bean soup
Plotting revenge for a broken heart
Crumbling bagel
Violent lunch with a cute boy tied up across from me
Burnt oysters
A picnic over his chopped up body
…
****** ribs.
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 12:43 PM UTC
My dreams are so half-baked,
Somebody put a timer on them
And serve them hot to me.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 7:32 PM UTC
If we put all our ideas on the back burner
wouldn't we be stuck with undercooked concepts
Aug 19, 2025
Aug 19, 2025 at 12:56 PM UTC
Hair as wild as the Amazon Hair crazy and wild
holding secrets I do not that tickles me when we
wish to know sleep in a drunken haze
on a tiny bed
Eyes that scream an Eyes colored and different
intensity I do not that see through the
wish to pierce me smokescreen of my words
of deception
Voice as deep Voice that calls me back
as the Mariana trench to a place of sanity
I do not wish to hear caressing me to at 4 am comfort
Heart tender undercooked flesh Heart as big as the
I do not wish to see tear population of india
loving my scars and bruises
unconditionally
Keep away . Please stay, just one more day.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 7:37 AM UTC
I did not bloom
pink
underground
summerless bulb
mostly the
undercooked appearance
and gutty roar
I did not bloom
although it appears
that way –
speckled rose
with spread wings
eating her days
like knives
feeling small & summits
I was born:
Worldly, sharp,
the deranged.
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 6:57 PM UTC
I wish you bent spoons.
I wish you 3 a.m vibrating headaches.
I wish you salty fish eyes wedged between toes.
I wish you one broken ear bud,
A late bus,
Perpetual goosebumps rolling over skin.
I wish you holes in your favorite shirt.
I wish you bitten tongue.
I wish you panic attack,
Burnt toast,
Hot water scald.
I wish you nothing but bad poems.
I wish you crooked teeth, cracked smile.
I wish you spider legs.
I wish you broken middle finger.
I wish you scratches in all your records,
Even the ones you don’t like.
I wish you weak coffee
And weak bones.
I wish you lipstick stain on the collar of your work shirt
And her perfume starting a windstorm.
I wish you hell like fury
From a woman scorned.
I wish you mismatched shoes.
I wish you gutted grief.
I wish you clumps of wax when you
Desperately need a candle.
I wish you undercooked meat.
I wish you bedroom floors and popcorn bowls.
I wish you see my face
Every time you run your ***** hands
Down her clean body.
I wish you choke on that feeling at the back of your throat,
The one that reminds you of guilt.
I wish your fingerprints would melt from my memory.
I wish December to finally end.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 6:36 PM UTC
he is impotent
in heartache and ****
is the sum of his reading
and the fault of his breeding
he is undercooked and underfed,
my love is a pig for the bleeding
and dough for the kneading
i have made him so thin that
streetlight shines through.
it is a mockery
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 5:17 AM UTC
Maybe one day I’ll write you a book
Something about what everything is about
I won’t file it down like the rest of the world.
No my book will have all of the rough edges that life has.
The edges that’ll cut you if you don’t watch
Why not soften it up?
Because then it wouldn’t be real
It would just be a fantasy.
And the last time I checked
Life doesn't come with any
Safety precautions.
Instead life comes raw.
So my book to you will be equally undercooked.
Because I love you enough
not to lie.
My only hope is that you can enjoy my gift to you.
As much as the meal its self.
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 9:29 PM UTC
I know it's your favorite scent
Sometimes, especially lately, it's hard not to think about you
I want to reach out but I don't know how
And I'm scared you'll just push me away because I've chosen him
But people really do change as they grow up
I want to tell you all about my days all the time
Like two days ago when my brakes stopped working
As I was going downhill in the harbor
Oh I was so scared and I wanted to tell you
Or when I had my magical day at Rainier
But I know you'd be disappointed
I want to tell you the small things to
Like how I burnt the bacon and undercooked my pasta tonight
Or how I can't decide if I love pink or orange more
Or even how much I love that new CD
And crave hot cocoa all the time
I just miss your company but can't figure out how to tell you
And I wish I could be your dryer lint and cigarette ash again
Aug 26, 2019
Aug 26, 2019 at 11:47 PM UTC
If you could be with someone who actually loves you
leave me right now.
I am not an anchor tied to your ankle dragging you down,
drawing you into a sea of regrets
like overboard rice
taking on too much water and becoming mushed mash,
so even when you try to save them by throwing a line,
or holding out a stick,
they’re too far gone for you to get a grip.
You’ll go unfed and your soul will starve
when old age reveals it’s long awaited scars.
Same goes for me.
I’d leave in a heartbeat that beats twice
in two.
It has nothing to do with me and you.
But in my mind she still flattens the rice out,
even and nice…
Not undercooked
and still on board
waiting to be rolled cut and served.
To me maybe...
I do not know.
So I wait patiently
with the others in line,
while our opposites wave on bye,
waiting for two peaks to meet
and two valleys
to depart.
That is a certainty
of two caught eyes.
That is the key
to a victorious heart.
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 2:13 PM UTC
The perfection of triumph
to form a stellar nebula of what is
the next chapter arrives to collect
And bring it to a close
just to leave behind a smoldering corpse
the core expands as it does cool
after burning its hydrogen fuel
ejecting the he said she said tool
outer layers
sloughing away
words covered in dew
brining a star's false twilight
as the flora swings back the curtain
drop into this deep well
of conscious fare
a direct deposit
a victor's enlightenment
standing from inside the vale;
a weakened canvas
without a promised word to spare
just a dithering of parting
from a sky lit window; all too stagnant
Where is there to hold cover?
What is left to hide behind?
The messages
of everyday depths
untold
of everyday depths
a sunken ship
below the surface
Just a tousling back and forth
out through the mouth
puerile to the brain
the questions taste
Just a chirrup of a phrase
gone awry
and
undercooked
Into hollow shaded parts of hue
the lambency of a first call
muting itself
and wishing it to be other
A bandwidth of loss
For the reward of two
In the interest of truth
Jul 10, 2021
Jul 10, 2021 at 1:47 PM UTC