"underuse" poems - Hello Poetry

<> you pout and defer, dancing backwards, claiming, blue is now blackened from underuse, incapable and incapacitating revival *saying eyes cannot see, distinctly, neither near or far, the tremble of love, forgot & distantly absent, but I know, a heart’s sensory muscles never die, though weaken they might, underused, un-exercised denying that inspiration no longer resides with in thy sensitivities, has fled, undercover of smoking forest fires all the diurnal hazards that invade, occupying my internal spaces once filled by poems you conceived, birthed, in a pleasured haze, came so fast, you bare recall agony accompanied, but not the ecstasy of the end resultant!* ***you know it’s you of whom I write, but, a note not shaming names, but messages countless private messages have I sent begging, beseeching, give me your gifts*** once more, you owe me not, though I oft irritate with my deafening pleas, yet only denials continue, my pleas ding but dent not, the tired fear of your exposition so speak to you plain, feed my soul selfish like in years gone past, there are holes in mine that require your elixir, creamy softness that moistens my face with tears of your words originating, astound, enfold** not later, not soon, not excusals, write for me NOW, WRITE FOR YOURSELF, but leave me not forsaken and thirst un-slackened,** Answer! To whom do you owe your poems?

0

Jun 11, 2023

Jun 11, 2023 at 11:30 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

The Ink in Your Blood Never Dies! (To whom do you owe your poems?)

<> you pout and defer, dancing backwards, claiming, blue is now blackened from underuse, incapable and incapacitating revival *saying eyes cannot see, distinctly, neither near or far, the tremble of love, forgot & distantly absent, but I know, a heart’s sensory muscles never die, though weaken they might, underused, un-exercised denying that inspiration no longer resides with in thy sensitivities, has fled, undercover of smoking forest fires all the diurnal hazards that invade, occupying my internal spaces once filled by poems you conceived, birthed, in a pleasured haze, came so fast, you bare recall agony accompanied, but not the ecstasy of the end resultant!* ***you know it’s you of whom I write, but, a note not shaming names, but messages countless private messages have I sent begging, beseeching, give me your gifts*** once more, you owe me not, though I oft irritate with my deafening pleas, yet only denials continue, my pleas ding but dent not, the tired fear of your exposition so speak to you plain, feed my soul selfish like in years gone past, there are holes in mine that require your elixir, creamy softness that moistens my face with tears of your words originating, astound, enfold** not later, not soon, not excusals, write for me NOW, WRITE FOR YOURSELF, but leave me not forsaken and thirst un-slackened,** Answer! To whom do you owe your poems?

36

I sit here angry with the writer (myself) for his overuse of cliches, for his underuse of relatable things Scorning his very existence. "Why would you write, you fool?" "Ah, It's an escape for you! Who gives you the right?" No one does. If you must, continue I'd rather I heard 1,000 bad poems tonight than let you sleep without writing a one.

0

Nov 26, 2012

Nov 26, 2012 at 3:48 AM UTC

tyler-1

The Self-Critical Poet

I sit here angry with the writer (myself) for his overuse of cliches, for his underuse of relatable things Scorning his very existence. "Why would you write, you fool?" "Ah, It's an escape for you! Who gives you the right?" No one does. If you must, continue I'd rather I heard 1,000 bad poems tonight than let you sleep without writing a one.

9

a man without a country is what he called himself, but this was his country, make no mistake. a man without a home, is what he meant. he overheard two girls joking a few years ago, they were saying what if we just lived in the tunnel, then we wouldn’t have to worry their voices bounced off the bricks, louder in that tunnel, where he was, where they wouldn’t have to worry but he did. he sighed into tobacco-yellow fingers. a few years ago, this was. a few years of rain and relentless seasons’ change and the kindness of strangers fewer and farther between and kids that will never be that way, that pretend they don’t hear him and they don’t see him and maybe they don’t. a few years of that’ll really take it out of you. his voice is deeper now from underuse and cold air and tobacco and being just so ******* tired. the kindness of strangers stops short of his hard palms most of the time. winter’s end just doesn’t feel like much anymore. a few years of that’ll really take it out of you.

0

Mar 20, 2013

Mar 20, 2013 at 9:29 PM UTC

cr1090

The Expat

a man without a country is what he called himself, but this was his country, make no mistake. a man without a home, is what he meant. he overheard two girls joking a few years ago, they were saying what if we just lived in the tunnel, then we wouldn’t have to worry their voices bounced off the bricks, louder in that tunnel, where he was, where they wouldn’t have to worry but he did. he sighed into tobacco-yellow fingers. a few years ago, this was. a few years of rain and relentless seasons’ change and the kindness of strangers fewer and farther between and kids that will never be that way, that pretend they don’t hear him and they don’t see him and maybe they don’t. a few years of that’ll really take it out of you. his voice is deeper now from underuse and cold air and tobacco and being just so ******* tired. the kindness of strangers stops short of his hard palms most of the time. winter’s end just doesn’t feel like much anymore. a few years of that’ll really take it out of you.

1

All my fondest memories are dreams. Days I've painted over and re-written. Like that time we spent all night talking and, I had to sneak in before my parents woke up. Or that time he took me to the city and, We held hands as we walked the golden gate. Or that time we went up on the parkway and, He kept me warm as we looked at the stars. Such pretty scraps of paper for my keep-sake box. Today is foggy with sleep and underuse. I'm an old toy that got lost and then everyone forgot about. I can breathe in fresh air until my lungs ache, But that wont clense me of my need for numbing pollutants; I can soak up sunshine until my skin is black, But that wont rid me of my unquenchable thirst for rain. Yesterday's smile isn't getting me through today; I slept too long last night. Tomorrow, tomorrow is just another day I'll spend asleep, Waiting, always waiting for my ship to come in, So I can go sailing. But that doesn't really add up. And I know ships don't even have sails. Tomorrow, Kasey will pick me up around noon. And he will save my life, for a day.

0

Feb 5, 2011

Feb 5, 2011 at 1:26 PM UTC

moriah-jean

Tomorrow

All my fondest memories are dreams. Days I've painted over and re-written. Like that time we spent all night talking and, I had to sneak in before my parents woke up. Or that time he took me to the city and, We held hands as we walked the golden gate. Or that time we went up on the parkway and, He kept me warm as we looked at the stars. Such pretty scraps of paper for my keep-sake box. Today is foggy with sleep and underuse. I'm an old toy that got lost and then everyone forgot about. I can breathe in fresh air until my lungs ache, But that wont clense me of my need for numbing pollutants; I can soak up sunshine until my skin is black, But that wont rid me of my unquenchable thirst for rain. Yesterday's smile isn't getting me through today; I slept too long last night. Tomorrow, tomorrow is just another day I'll spend asleep, Waiting, always waiting for my ship to come in, So I can go sailing. But that doesn't really add up. And I know ships don't even have sails. Tomorrow, Kasey will pick me up around noon. And he will save my life, for a day.

28