"underfed" poems
Society sells beautiful lies,
Emphasis on the beautiful,
They sell you the definition of beauty in
small pictures,
small ads,
small sizes.
Spinning the world on a string,
They've got us all fooled.
Telling teens they don't need to eat,
"Skip the food today,
be beautiful tomorrow".
Selling the idea that beauty can replace sorrows.
Society sells the idea that beauty is empowerment.
Society sells the idea that if you are beautiful,
then you could have the world on a string.
These lies lead our leaders of tomorrow into disarray.
Sell us the idea that if we are beautiful
today will be better than yesterday.
But the empty promises lead us all astray,
Abandoned on street corners begging for scraps,
because we didn't think we felt empowerment.
Society sells small,
Society sells beauty,
Society sells small.
Small models,
Small manikins,
Small sizes.
Spinning the world on a string,
Society sells the idea that the size of your waist,
defines how beautiful you are.
Society sells the idea that beauty
is empowerment.
Society sells small.
Society sells the idea that if you are not small,
you are not **empowered,
ugly,
waste of space.**
Society sells small.
Society says beauty is empowerment.
These lies lead our leaders of tomorrow into disarray,
Too many teens today are to prone to facings their problems with razor blades,
Because today was not better than yesterday.
Then tomorrow won't be either.
Society sells small,
small pictures,
small ads,
small manikins.
Society sells protruding plastic ribs,
ribs sharp enough to cut paper.
Society sells the figures of the sick and dying.
Society sells small.
Small enough to be drop dead gorgeous,
Emphasis on the drop dead,
Society sells women who are severely underfed.
Society sells women suffering from malnutrition.
Since when did this become tradition?
Since when was fragile stature empowering?
Society sells skin and bones.
Society sells so small,
women are literally dying to feel beautiful.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 12:22 AM UTC
spread-eagle at the summit
facing endless gusts of sandy billows,
mountain-backed vitruvian man,
i flail frustration at the outer
drips against, again in toes
forget the boots the pack
the bearbag full of snacks
the nylon thunder night-fret
flash of demon forking
shamefaced fear in throat
of shaken chest or weakness
soaking downy thermarest--
underfed it seemed so clear!
with only distant puffs within the blue
so here i lay despite the warnings hitherto--
the stakes have ripped electric
by the sky or sudden wind
as corners rock and threaten
rolling off into the gale--i sweat to add
a static vision sailing back alone,
a teardrop tent against the lightning caverns of the clouds
a skeleton of light suspended in the strike,
a sierra sign designedly godlike,
zapped nocturnal whisk i am
in awe now fearful grateful
mythos-understood of human
imagination's pawn still prone
with whining seams the poles still hold
within the whipping whites so loud
to tug my heels against the flying fabric
portal damp enstormed insomniac
to will the stony sand there once again
to sleep perhaps another dozen in
before the morning knuckles
pound the staff from off this mountaintop
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 5:59 PM UTC
Dear Papa,
Yesterday I saw something that I didn’t understand.
They were walking a little ahead of me.
But walking isn't the right word,
because there were two people
and only two feet.
It sounds like a math problem,
But nothing added up in my head.
It sounds like Vikram Vetal, papa,
But unlike the story you told me the other day,
there was no strong king or sly demon.
I saw, however, one ***** underfed boy of eight
dragging his crippled mother across the street.
Adhunik Shravan bal.
A Lilliputian on a Herculean task.
I couldn't decipher her age.
When you're that poor, does age matter?
Do they keep count of the days that pass by
when their aim is to survive just one?
Do they have a mirror to look into
and count the wrinkles on their face?
What does age matter to an eight year old boy
who, instead of attending school,
is hauling his handicapped mother across the road
on a seating board with wheels?
When I was that age, papa,
you bought me a skateboard
that was the exact leaf green
from my 50 colours oil pastels set.
I couldn't see the colour of their clothes.
There was the dark of the night,
yellow of the street lights
and everything was in sepia
like the picture you showed me
of your childhood.
You once told me you were raised in poverty too, papa.
Are there different kinds of poverty?
Did you get toys to play with
or were your clothes in sepia too?
I told you this sounds like a math problem, papa,
And here’s what doesn't add up.
Isn't a parent supposed to hold their child's hand
and show them how to cross the road?
I remember holding your hand,
looking left-right-left
and matching my steps
with your strides.
Fast, but never run.
Who taught him, papa?
Did he have his own papa to teach him?
How did he learn to walk fast enough
and pull hard enough
so that he and his mom made it across the road in time?
How did he find the strength if he was underfed?
He truly reminds me of Shravan bal,
because who else would carry his mother
across such distances.
I told you it sounds like Vikram Vetal, papa,
and now that I think about it, it really does.
Maybe this little boy is a young king.
Maybe he brings his vetal back home every day.
Maybe he hears her talk about her day.
And maybe, papa,
when he succeeds every night,
she saves him from an evil tantric.
An evil tantric called hunger.
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 11:07 AM UTC
Even when my wonderful
universe seems like
a cosmic mess,
Even when
all these souls
leave us in the
form of death,
Even though I'm
underfed, underslept
and can't catch my breath,
I emit love
and so who cares about all the rest?
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
This wall you build around angelic things
to keep their halos shiny-bright, instead
you'll never hear the sound of downy wings.
These Precious Moments smiles and wedding-rings
(for mixed-sex couples only), when they wed,
this airtight wall around angelic things,
a thousand miles from where a seraph sings
God's love for hated folk and underfed;
you'll never hear the sound of downy wings
unless you break the prejudice that brings
the boundary where angels fear to tread,
this airtight wall around angelic things
that shutters out angelic visitings,
or when you too are dying on your bed
you'll never hear the sound of downy wings.
you never know with whom they'll break their bread,
or so the writer to the Hebrews said;
This wall you build around angelic things
Will never hear the sound of downy wings.
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 6:36 AM UTC
un·hap·py·man [uhn-hap-ee-man]
-Noun
1. Undersexed.
2. Underfed.
3. Archaic . Doing dishes; cleaning; childcare
Jul 18, 2010
Jul 18, 2010 at 10:33 PM UTC
She was a dancer,
caught off beat
by a neat little stranger lurking
in the body of the womb,
where once she strayed from danger,
within a motherly costume.
After show drinks, stage
& waits in the green room,
were pipe dreams for this
Mum without a groom.
Yet still, and continuing so,
she provides for two girls,
her blonde Monroe's; be that lifts
to school or another
big shop so the nonstop
keeps from turning blue.
But how up North can you keep from the cold,
when constant frost creates the vignette
to the serviette snow out there?
Cheap beans and even cheaper bread
won't make that meal you read and said to be good,
any better than it is.
But a text, fax, pigeon post fast, to your Mum back home
wipes clean these thoughts of being alone
and underfed,
and instead; restores your faith in everything
and anything you may do in the future,
and what you said-
to me once on that walk;
will stick with me until we next talk
or, maybe quite possibly, drink
until glasses are empty and
the wine bottles clink.
for the Carters
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 9:12 AM UTC
Shape of figure;
strength, courage, love,
Curved into masterpiece; a fiery heart,
fiercely burns my eyes in the wake of desires.
A dream? I hope not, for angels don't
belong in such a place. I'd choose not to wake.
Wishful thinking. I wish to have that I cannot,
that perhaps all do not. That I can't truly love.
Anguished; underfed passion, yearning the taste of tears.
Beautifully falling like rain that has blessed the grounds.
I'm on the grounds under your weight, the weight of your
desire has to my heart.
Sigh! I'm tearful at night; pillows that hold oceans,
drowning. Drowning in my vivid imaginings spent
with you.
A paint brush,—wet as lips shaking from a kiss,
it must have outlined you with I in mind.
All things I like; to experience them into love.
A clutch pencil,—clutching my heart, piercing through
my paper thin weakness towards you.
A tablespoon,—sprinkled into a dish, baked in
a maturity's time in the oven of growth.
Funny how I've kissed a thousand times those
skins of savoury lips. But wailfully, woefully,
wretchedly, and painfully you don't exist.
_Just an imaginary Miss._
Jun 18, 2022
Jun 18, 2022 at 9:57 AM UTC
I hung my head, I hung my head
I looked down and all I saw was red
I walk along the outer rim of the atmosphere
Reveling in the beauty of the frontier
I hung my head, I hung my head
I lay me down in a feather bed
I saw the brilliance of the sunrise
Dew drops on the wings of a dragonfly
I hung my head, I hung my head
I taste the sugar of lead
The poisonous white solid used to **** the mighty Mohamed
I hung my head, I hung my head
I see the children and the underfed
And I wonder
I hung my head, I hung my head
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
[I understand Shakespeare played every role around his theatre such as managing the theater, acting, directing, playright, etc, etc. Too many responsibilities for one man. He was treasurer and everything else. What did he didn't do? Was that true about him I ask in all humility]
William Shakespeare, wordsmith king…
Some people doubt he did all things.
Such teeming thoughts for just one man…
Perhaps Chris Marlowe had a hand
Among some others underfed
Who sold their work to buy some bread.
And Will for one bought many plays
Then claimed the work through present days.
No sweat upon his brow rolled down…
For those he claimed for shills and pounds.
That system shorted men with skill
And all those credits went to Will
And though the man was very great
He kept the profit on his plate
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 8:42 AM UTC
Love is a salesman i'll never let in,
Yet he won't go away-
always overdoes his stay.
I offer him a drink or a slice of bread,
He takes it all in as if he's underfed.
Love sells to the ones who dream of much hope.
Building your confidence, fighting your fears,
But when needed seems to be nowhere near.
After all of this time you think one would learn,
Yet for some crazy reason we let love return.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
You have eighties shoulders
Of twill
fish bones.
You speak in rumbling
R.P tones.
I know you've never
forgiven the time
you heard him thump
my dark design
behind the door.
Incestuous, yes,
and so
much more.
I've never been one
for jealousy.
She sat herself upon
your knee
and dipped her fingers in
your tea,
She was more of a boy
Than I'd ever be
and worth ten of the men
that I've had in me.
(Oh, the horror in your masculinity!)
Certain men I've met have said,
whilst reclining heavily on a bed,
that they blame daddy
every time,
(they sit up, take a sip of wine)
and say that hands ****** down
their kecks,
is replacement for arms around
their necks.
But your arms just weren't made for me.
(No, I was made for *** -
Is that what you once said to me?
And ****** and ECT?
Let's agree to disagree.)
You are the marble pallid giant,
Silver statuesque,
Defiant.
I'm the pigeon on your head that
loses footing,
Underfed.
(I want you.
You know that,
Don't you?)
You eye me up,
Your spoiled brat boy,
Like a child in some deflated joy
would finger a scratch
in a favourite
toy.
Hating my madness and sexuality,
hating hating hating
me,
You hate my writing,
Hate my books,
Hate my mother's French good looks.
(And you especially hate
my inherited size.
It affords me
the ability to
surprise
you with glorious,
stars-in-the-eyes
Right
Hooks.)
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
Every word
a land mine
buried under thick skin
drowned in venom
mauling at teeth
a shoreline shudder
Hardened men
tiptoe around a sentence
a rosebush infested
crawling with
depraved lions
masked in solitude
and then the pounce
the way
boiling a *** of water
brings a blizzard
the way
a twig snaps underfoot
in the dead of night
the way
a clenched jaw
met a quiet tongue
at a cafe
called each other
red
dead
underfed
and one to another said
where do we go?
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 8:51 PM UTC
A sea of waving green and grey
Bows and bends in our path
In warmth and comfort we'll catch disease
One so sweet we'll let it rage
To the unknown holes beneath our feet
We'll cast insecurities
And to the wall of white above
We'll go, looking for the sunrise
I'll bet my frozen toes on love again
You sing me chopped up ballads
And throw material goods into the distance
Because, right now, we're all we need
We're a tangled mess of underfed limbs
Eyes hidden, smiles wide
We've heard the words many times
But there's no place I'd rather be
A failed attempt, dissapointing ending
But I've yet to be let down in you
Your head on my chest, listen to the heartbeats
Your own are toomuch to ignore
Here in this last place untouched by us
In your eyes I see flowers bloom
You touch my lips, the heavens tremble
For you, I'd give anything
Feb 10, 2011
Feb 10, 2011 at 5:28 PM UTC
this is the perfect grey day
vomiting among the wild zinnias
secretly touching two apples
from savage height
invisible
in stratosphere
*** bare
cock-tickled by static electricity
or an underfed spanish girl
hair permed
home alone
desperate spirit between my legs
dealing drugs in the garden to
a scorched lizard intent on creation
savage torpedo almost drowned
special noontime drunk
strange eyes filled
with tragic summertime dust
clothes chopped off delightfully
by car horns and lady-whistles
cigar smoke streams from cheek
clouds green on magenta leaf
aftertaste of lament
dissolving
on the kingdom of tongue
i only climbed down here to think
and hide
my own brown skin
and recover
from the sun
and read
my own poems
in the wealthy river
oil stained
denim jacket in my wake
yellow from the muddy gutters
dead dried palm trees
made into boat oars
against the white sun
high
and low
and, lo!
i got high again
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
Over caffeinated and underfed,
what a curious life I've led...
With nothing to show,
as in, no dough
but perhaps I'll get paid when I'm dead.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 4:08 PM UTC
I’m locking away all my metaphors
Packing up all these stupid similes.
My rhymes and I are
Out.
No doubt can bail me out
From this decision.
Blinded by illusions
Of sincerity
Happy hyperboles of fidelity
Reality
Rips my pages
To shreds.
My personifications are
Dead.
Like my underfed heart.
Part
of me
will remain
As lifeless as this page.
Don’t let my pentameters
Hold you back.
Let my lyrics liberate you.
Revel in this
drop
Our rhyme was only ever an end stop.
Here is your conclusion.
Your last allusion
True
Because
No matter what you do,
No girl will ever again write poems for you.
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 12:33 PM UTC
I am predicted
an opinionated tidal wave
of misplaced affection
a fickle shelf for your scripts and hangups
overused and underfed
never stepping to see
never wanting to know
always lingering here
in the interim
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 10:06 AM UTC
She was f-u-l-l and stuffed to the brim.
Not another thing could be shoved down her throat
She was silent though,
Deathly quiet because she was in actuality
E-m-p-t-y,
Empty of food, that is.
She was full of emotion and feelings and
Suicides
Her wrists whispered those attempts
And her legs moaned those failed tries
Her throat ached with pills stuck there
And her neck was ringed red with burns
Her blue nails wailed underfed
Her blue lips screamed lacking.
So she took a k-n-i-f-e,
A big, butchered blade
A laid it flat against her sewn on skin.
And she shaved off the first layer of shield
And then she swiped off the second layer
To reveal nothing but words underneath,
Crawling out like spiders and centipedes.
She screamed and shook them away onto the floor.
Then she took that k-n-i-f-e,
That big, butchered blade,
And pressed it to her battered heart
And let it slide in with slow precision.
And she didn't feel anything because there was nothing there.
And she let the words crumple to the tile
Along with those bright red droplets of
Tears.
By the time she was found, she was no longer
F-u-l-l,
But rather very very
E-m-p-t-y
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 2:44 PM UTC
I'm not a click chick,
I walk with a stick,
Sometimes I smell of baby sick,
So I can't be a click chick,
I walk with a limp,
Feel like a gimp,
Sometimes I look like a shrimp,
So I cant be a click chick,
I have a bed head,
Look half dead,sometimes I look underfed,
So I can't be a click chick,
Coz they're the perfect ones,
In their designer gowns,
At the school gates,
Nibbling after eight's,
At three fifteen,
They're the clicky mums,
Toned up bums,
Makes ups done,
For the school run,
Perfect hair,
It's just not fare,
I don't have the time to spare,
I'm not a click chick,
They think I'm thick,
They don't smell of baby sick,
They think they're cool,
At the school,
But I'm no fool,
I'm a good mum,
Wobbly *** make up,
Not done,
But I'm a happy one,
My kids have fun,
Run in the sun,
End up ***** when the day is done,
We are all mums,
Not to be outdone,
At the school run,
So quit your stare,
At my messy hair,
My wrinkled jeans,
It's ok they're clean,
You think your better,
I beg to differ, you just look fitter,
So I don't wanna be a click chick,
I think I'll stick with the baby sick,
I'm a happy gimp with a limp,
I don't mind looking like a shrimp,
At the school gate,
Coz I'm never late,
So you can take your clicky group,
And stick it up your hula hoop.
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 3:52 AM UTC
You can't compare,
You can't complete
The line, the sentence, the poem, the life.
You can't comprehend the mind of a poet,
Speak not of what you don't know.
Overspill reconnecting gilded twines of truth,
Splashed and dabbled into ink,
Paper soaking in wisdom.
Lacking inspiration, strayed away from the sacred muses.
Desecrated the holy routine, violated -
The sacred spring of inspiration dried to a dust bowl.
You've had the draught and drunk it dry,
Now scraping the base for drops of dew,
Underfed and underdrunk, afterloved and now
The plate is empty.
Starched dry of opportunity, for progress' sake.
Busy lives no longer free to mingle with life,
To drink the horns of gilded mead.
To write poetry, to bleed the music of the heart.
But I must cease,
For I speak of what I know not,
What I no longer know.
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 5:12 PM UTC
you spread your love across state lines
and i'm sitting here crumbling under the pressure of my names
and i'm wondering how you could spread yourself so thin
and still be whole
when i'm having a hard time just walking out of my bedroom door
and seeing my bloodlines splashed across
this 60 by 100 lot
but you were willing to cross those lines
and share so much of yourself
and i'm still afraid of carving into my own skin
for myself
to see what's inside
for fear of someone finding out and wanting it for themselves
all those gardens inside of me left to grow in someone else's hands
helpless while i watch myself **** over
overgrown
underfed
give me love,
but here you are
opening your gates and letting the floods through
what happens when the garden of Eden gets washed away?
all of the topsoil washing out to sea
roots worn out, removed by gentle hands
one by one
open season in your chest
until you were emptied
and there was no more garden for you to grow.
and i just kept building my walls too high
but one day i looked over because i heard your screams
and i saw you and your broken stems
soiled petals and trampled earth
so i opened the door
intending for you to stay just for a minute
for the taking of tea
or a glass of wine
but look at you now, growing like a vine
on the wall of my secret garden.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 1:41 AM UTC
large hearts swell, with brown
eyes full of love; two sets fought,
leave earth far too soon.
~ ~ ~
sunday night, in fruitland township, michigan, two pit bulls were found lying dead on the side of the road near an elementary school. a man by the name of joe weaver found the dogs and covered their bodies so that children wouldn’t see them on their way to school. the link leads to his facebook page — which is open to the public — where he has been keeping everyone up to date about the dogs. when he found them last night, there were no footprints in the snow, suggesting that the dogs were most likely thrown out of a car and left to die, if they weren’t dead already. we believe the dogs may have been used to fight, and they were underfed.
my mother contacted mlive, WZZM 13 (the grand rapids affiliate of ABC news), pound buddies, and woodTV 8. two of her friends who don’t even live in michigan contacted muskegon police, giving anonymous info about the incident. over the course of the night and early this morning, this story has popped up on WZZM13, and has been mentioned on local animal rescue facebook pages. a news caster even posted on a facebook page that this case is currently undergoing investigation.
i want this to get spread around in hopes that whoever did this can be caught, and we can get some justice for these poor babies. no animal deserves this treatment. today, after joe weaver found them he decided to name them “moody” and “george”, after the military base he served at. he is hoping to get the bodies back after autopsy, so he can give them a respectful burial.
please, please, if you can, reblog this and spread it around. even if you don’t live in west michigan, or michigan at all, please get the word out so we can find whoever is responsible. if social media is good for anything, despite all its toxicity, it’s stuff like this.
(you can reblog the post here: http://blackcr0wking.tumblr.com/post/77718225228/if-everyone-could-please-spread-this-around-i )
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 6:02 PM UTC
Lydia
wants to go
out skipping
her skip-rope
but there's rain
coming down
outside of
her window
Gloria
her sister
is snoring
on the bed
behind her
her boyfriend
(Gloria's)
is asleep
beside her
mouth open
in a wide
oval shape
her brother
Hem is out
getting wet
good job too
she muses
watching rain
pouring down
she wonders
if Benny
is outside
(he's the boy
in the flat
whom she likes
both of them
9 years old)
she goes out
from her room
passes down
the passage
and opens
the front door
and looks out
at the rain
the milkman
shelters out
in the door
of the man
with the large
boxer dog
LYDIA
Benny calls
out to her
from the high
balcony
of the flats
where he lives
she sees him
he's waving
come on up
he bellows
I'll get wet
if I come
she replies
go along
by the side
up the stairs
he tells her
she hadn't
thought of that
so she runs
by the flats
by her own
up the stairs
and along
the narrow
balcony
where Benny
is waiting
watching rain
falling down
what you doing?
she asks him
nothing much
he replies
what about
playing chess
in the flat?
he asks her
don't know how
she replies
what about
Ludo then?
seems boring
can't we play
something else?
she asks him
you can be
Mrs Earp
the wife of
Wyatt Earp
Benny says
and help me
shoot badmen
in gun fights
she agrees
and they go
in the flat
where his mum
is making
mincemeat pie
just playing
at cowboys
Benny says
to his mum
his mother
nods her head
smiling at
Lydia
the small thin
girl who looks
underfed
with dull hair
flowing down
from her head.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
Always complaining and underfed, misread the news people said
Not enough money begging for more watch out the disease will spread
Bed made of roses and a look from years ago
John Doe even after committing a crime rehabilitation is slow
Beauty and the Beast no clean air to inhale
Itchy nose but excited to breathe as you exhale
No Kodak moment life is different behind the scenes
Disowned by your own genes when pregnant in your teens
By all means go on with your routine without a care
But beware of the affairs and glares and the turtle that doesn't beat the hare
Because life isn't fair, you're not God so don't sit in his chair
Everyone can spare a little change
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 6:13 PM UTC