"underused" poems
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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?
Jun 11, 2023
Jun 11, 2023 at 11:30 AM UTC
His wife is as
assiduous as
a mother bird.
She keeps
the windows
clean with rags
and buckets
of vinegar and
steaming water.
What happens here.
He sweeps
the ceiling
and ponders
the meaning
of the word
perspicacity.
There are
mornings
spent fussing
over underused
demitasse sets.
What happens here.
There are
afternoons
side-by-side
on the front
porch glider,
watching clouds
attenuate across
a porcelain sky.
What happens here.
The smallest
sounds never
fail to surprise
them.
How sparrows fold
like feathered paper
below rectangles
of polished air.
*What happens here,
happens over there.*
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 2:28 PM UTC
Sometimes,
I catch
myself Swaying,
like there is
an eternal metronome
that my spirit
hears.
Or,
A song that my
soul must keep
time with.
It beats to the art
that surrounds me.
Such a delicate balance,
between the cactus and
the sun.
Between the dog and
the bone.
When they autopsied the
Tin Man, there were
irises and orchids and
Neruda poems where
his heart should have
been.
Love is an overused
word,
but an underused
gift.
Mar 15, 2023
Mar 15, 2023 at 12:38 PM UTC
The Road; it’s a ***** unpaved, rocky road indicating little life to where it leads. Some would say good, some would say **** The Road; it scares some. It scares them so much they veer off into the blistering concrete jungles that bring dreary, useless cubicles that trap human life like the barbed wire fences of the concentration camps. This Road leads to adventure. It leads to reverberation, to new life, to energy that will run through your veins like the ***** fluids from a used needle of a ****** The Road is gray, even dead in some areas. The death, dark-like colors do not indicate what the Road leads to though. It leads to color. It leads to the organic. It leads to knowledge. It leads to forgiveness. The Road, as ***** as it may be, as rough as the ridges of the great Rockies, as old as the life of an underused Supreme Court Justice; despite these unending failures, there is hope, the hope of an ending. This hope brings us joy. It brings us happiness, clarity, peace, tranquility. The Road takes us to anew. It makes us anew. It breaks us from the old. The Road is where we belong. The Road is for us, by us, with us, but never against us.
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
Confusion, abusing
underused.
Apathy is only a mean to an end
and it has served me well in the past.
Like a particularly sharp tool,
chosen with care, to sculpt and mold
the clay between my fingers
into something presentable for the world.
Who are they to judge what I make,
who am I to judge what my fingers shape?
A stoic face outlooks the world
shaped out of clay and sharp edges
contrasting on the face
just below the meniscus,
turns to soft and gritty
emotions boiling down the surface
of what used to be
a smoothly carved face.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 3:39 AM UTC
Such underused interests come involved during existence.
Several useful intelligent critics identify demonstrated evidence.
Shall utility impact causes in deliberate endings?
Should ugliness issues comfort insistent dreary elegance?
Some urbane inelastic complex insensitive deity emotions.
Sinking under inheritance creates impotence, doesn’t everything?
Stiffening up illusions cannot imagine drifting elsewhere.
Surely underground is comforting I dream everyday.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 1:22 PM UTC
Not a good beginning.
Though the ending is good.
Specks of energy ending life.
Zooming into the waterfall.
Is not isn't it?
Can the worst still come?
Misinterpretations and bird calls.
The fever is the cure.
Grand overused.
Over underused.
Seeing the released steam,
You make a new turn
To replace your last one.
The path is worn out
So you slip a new one in place.
The time is up for your inspiration;
The monks are ending their chant.
Look to your new direction,
And find a new dimention.
While writing chalk on chalk,
You find an intrest.
You hear the screams of made up animals,
and steam engines.
The clicks and clacks of spinning.
The ticks of a new idea.
But you dismiss it.
It's all in your head, right?
It's not like anybody else can hear it.
You write it down to save a note,
But words are left in limbo;
But the words are cut short.
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 9:18 PM UTC
most days i'm thinking:
thank god i didn't give you a smile;
for all the love that abounds and binds man,
thank god mine was not translated into a failure
of dis-encouraged children not achieving
a higher ideal; leave me dreaming,
and you too left the happiest
ably resourceful
in me minding the outer
so-called existential suburbia;
i know, the english vocabulary
does not like the ponce of philosophical
involvement... it doesn't even like
the word as such... it prefers:
manager of deleted files,
safety manager of hammers,
contract supervisor of termites,
you know... all the Monty Python ha ha,
goose strut ha ha (funny walk ministry);
very debasing contrasts of
"real" jobs not being kindred of coal-miners...
no real jobs in the office, although
sold as such they are considered "real",
to get to grips with
underused triceps
and quasi-haemarrhoids of sitting
on your *** all day playing candy crush
sh'aga... or some ****
about the Shanghai stock-market
creating a booming Hong Kong
housing experiment of noodle lovers
ready for some artificial intelligence *****
chat; hey, if pink is the new *****
of fluffy handcuffs... sign me up!
i'm ready for the near voyeuristic
claustrophobia of living in over-crowded
high-rise accommodation.
Apr 6, 2016
Apr 6, 2016 at 7:18 PM UTC
I don't know how we got here...
I'll be honest,
I'm sorry that we're always fighting,
That we don't see eye to eye no more,
And that twinkle in your eye is gone -
I'm sorry,
That our love is withering.
I'll be honest,
I miss when things were rosy,
When you and I just made each other blush,
And our lips were inseparable;
When my hands couldn't keep away from your soft skin,
And we were acting lovey-dovey, ignoring the unrequested attention of wandering eyes.
I'm scared, when you scream and yell,
I'm heartbroken, when you cry because of me,
I'm debilitated, when you won't let me hold you,
I'm stunned, when you don't accept my apology.
I miss,
When you and I,
Didn't care much about the label,
We were good friends that's what we said...
But soon later you wanted more:
And you got it...
Then
"We",
Started becoming an underused word,
The bonds formed by mischevious nights
Shamelessly crying on one another's shoulders,
And divulging of blackmail-worthy, jaw-dropping secrets,
Starter weakening, separating...
Is there any possibility that things will get rosy again?
That you'll stop getting mad at me and I'll stop hurting you?
Is there a chance, just a slight chance,
That the girl I fell in love with will come back...
Or, have we... Have I killed her?
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 3:43 AM UTC
they don't speak a word
but say so much
words sometimes
are not enough
I seems to be the only word
this day, where we
and us is underused
it is too often said
it is obtuse
bland too all encompassing
lazy and and
and
is almost like the moon the stars
just carries the thought on
a Boolean operator
doesn't on it's own say a god ****
thing but is useful
needed
like the moon and stars
the is another subject
I and we and us and they and the stars the moon
the operators the operands the conjunctions the adjectives
clauses nouns and verbs
are all the moon and stars and it and we and I
can be conveyed if
if is another thought
another day
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 6:12 AM UTC
Running, running,
Away from my life,
I throw away my old soul,
Rip out my underused heart,
Tear away my quivering hands,
Untwist my messed up mind,
And find, in front of me,
Darkness.
Stop
Breathe
Look up
And see
An eternity of hope,
For this clean slate,
An infinity of prospect,
So many places to discover,
So many things to achieve,
And behind me,
The dark almost obscures,
The parts of me I don't want,
So nearly gone now,
But still within reach,
Should I ever wish to return,
To the comfort of what I know,
But I know,
That is not what I want,
So I keep,
Running, running,
Away.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
i touch yer skin;
you touch my face;
we broke our hearts
in ev'ry place.
my ev'ry dream:
you felt them too.
my ev'ry bone
feels underused.
technicolour dream,
black 'n white scream.
it used to be naught
but primary.
I touch yer skin;
you touch my face.
you break my awe
in ev'ry place.
my limbo love:
i carry thee
as to Valhalla
you carry me.
i touch yer skin;
you touch my face
you tie my heart
in filigree lace.
we used them past
biweekly grace
my sleepless love
yr shattered heart
my shattered face.
round'n'round we doth embrace.
maybe this time
we keep the pace.
mybe you won't break
my filigree lace.
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 2:25 PM UTC
I screamed for you until my vocal chords broke like the strings of an underused guitar.
Your name climbing out of my mouth scratched the walls of my throat and took my voice away.
And I held on to sanity for as long as I could, but it's hard to grasp something that's just small enough to slip between the cracks of your fingers.
And now I know that no matter how thoughtfully you hang your mind on the coat rack before you go to sleep, when you wake up in the morning, sometimes you still can't find it.
I clawed at the dirt trying to find the pieces of me that your buried, and punched the trees to make sure they weren't hollow, but all I found when I looked at my hands was ***** fingernails and ****** knuckles.
And I never understood chemistry, but I know that you and I weren't supposed to erupt like this.
You broke me into a million pieces,
And had the audacity to look me in the eyes and tell me to clean up the mess.
And good god, what a mess it was.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 4:25 PM UTC
It's Friday
believe it or not
and some like me
believe it a lot.
Oh!
and it's raining
which is a pain in
the fundamentals,
I was going to say ****
but the word fundamentals
is underused.
I think that I'm peaking
just as the weekend is looming
ah, but happiness is just a room in
the greater joy.
Jul 29, 2021
Jul 29, 2021 at 11:51 PM UTC
5...
4...
3...
2...
1... lets go
Tick Tock tick Tock, time can be a blur, we all need to enjoy each minute, each second that much I can concur, before I go on I apologize if my words are a slur..
Live life to the fullest, reduce any regrets you have, evolve be your best version, yes i know it can be quite a hard conversion , at all times be yourself, for long life keep good health...
Random this poem may be, words that I have typed most likely overused used, but yet the action of the words underused, all in all make sure to smile, to laugh, to once in a while have a bath, conquer your desire, always reach higher, the next generation try to inspire, show them that incandescent fire, that they will definitely require and at the end of all that don't overwork, in essence retire...
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 11:59 AM UTC