"unexciting" poems
i am choking for words.
i hacked off the tip of my tongue
to spite my quick wit-
stumble over it.
lusting for beauty through text/
creation is hollow at best-
a dollhouse
a fantasy, dystopian as per usual
for an idle mind
losing hours and
pickled in hate's brine.
salt in the wound
salt in the wound
angst, angst, teenage angst.
a kiddie anarchist.
stop fighting it.
turn up the stereotypical.
depression playing on the radio.
don't try to be more original.
what haven't we seen?
choking for words and
stuck on painted portraits
all is well, but never exciting
i'm exiting this uneventful existence
all for once and once for all.
-and you thought there was a winner
buried in this chrysalis-
well, the rhythm has returned,
but i'm sick
of painted portraits and lost hours
and sugar-coated expectations of the truth
how uneventful, how unexciting
and i'm tired of razorblades,
but at least they're honest
speaking down, insults and
lies and i know i need to sleep
but i'm fighting it.
i'm ready to move on, but not for long
not for long and
you'll see me as a butterfly someday.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 4:19 AM UTC
I stand out in the rain,
Hoping it washes away all the pain.
From my head to my toes,
Why do I hurt?
Nobody knows.
I’ve been to over 25 doctors,
And each time I leave,
A new prescription for pills,
None of which are right for me.
I’ve been to the ER so many times they know me by name,
They say, Hey Savannah what’s up? and What’s wrong today?
I’ve been told It’s all in your head,
But why would I possibly want to stay in bed?
It hurts not to know what’s happening to me,
I just want to know what this could possibly be.
The kids at school say I just want attention,
The pain is real why can't they see,
But what hurts the most is knowing,
Your friends and family agree.
I don’t think this battle is worth fighting,
My life is so unexciting.
I just want to die,
So to everyone in the world I say goodbye.
Goodbye to all my haters,
Goodbye to all this disdain,
Goodbye to this ****** world,
And most importantly goodbye to all my pain!
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
Twenty-three and skeptic. White teeth
and red lips.
Dirty-mouthed five foot seven countess.
Thoughts so lush, so green.
Intelligent but not unexciting.
Scarred right hand by climbing up but
wanting to know what falling feels like.
Unhinged.
Caught 4 out of 5 bouquets in weddings
she's attended. Claimed it should be an Olympic sport.
Breaks hearts like they are bones.
The love of my life.
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 7:24 AM UTC
I fear we are falling apart
That I have become boring to you
Used, known, unexciting.
That scares me.
You know my body
I love that
You are just beginning to understand
My complex mind though.
I want you to stay
I want to keep you captivated.
But I am afraid I do not know how.
Jul 12, 2012
Jul 12, 2012 at 11:05 PM UTC
I'm glad we made the uniting
Life without it unexciting
I love you so much
Almost like a crutch
Chocolaty cup filled
With peanut buttery goodness
What a dream
But wait there's more
The first has a partner
Another sweet addition
You can have it
On one condition
Let's be like Reeses
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
Pressure rising
Pulse subsiding
Outside flying
Inside I'm crying
Problems dying
To much lying
No more denying
I know this is trying
Tired of the spiting
I see you've been hiding
Becoming, abiding
It's time for some guiding
It seems so inticing
To rid the unexciting,
Coinciding,
Whining
Jeopardizing,
Stereotyping,
To only bring on,
A new horizon
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 3:46 PM UTC
If you read somebody’s poem and it makes you want to say,
“I think this piece is wonderful; it really made my day,”
just go ahead and say it – feedback like this is good,
but saying why you like it will please them (well, it should).
If someone that you don’t know says, “Please comment on my writing,”
and you look at it, and find it … let’s say, rather unexciting,
then don’t forget – be tactful, find something good to say
before you start on finding fault – don’t ruin someone’s day.
And if you think it’s terrible, be careful how you speak.
Some people write as therapy; their life may be quite bleak.
Don’t be too harshly critical and leave them feeling worse,
but simply go to look elsewhere, and just ignore their verse.
Some poems, though, may leave you with a puzzle or a question,
or even make you want to give some tentative suggestion.
There’s nothing wrong with doing this – just get it off your chest,
but don’t think your ideas are necessarily the best.
With members, though, who claim they are God’s gift to Poesy,
(if there’s nothing to commend them as far as you can see)
you can state your own opinion – of course you have the right –
but don’t forget the golden rule: *be honest but polite.*
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 1:48 AM UTC
spent a birthday,
and a new year too,
in a cold and unexciting psych ward.
(I'd been there so many times
it was really nothing new.)
I had so much free time.
I had nothing much to do.
I opened up a game on their computer
and laughed:
I was still save game slot number 2.
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 10:13 AM UTC
Lying in bed
with an abyss in my head
Abyss in my hand
being abyss
Bad faith with options
I can do so much, but here I am toiling without valor
I’m not oppressed enough to count
Almost guaranteed free meals for life
Respect for parents keeps me on the line
I’ll stay near it to get us a notch up
in Americay’s championship belt
But, even Ma knows the façade is tearing away
Wishing we could be the fortunate Chinese kids
We used to send our food to them, when
we couldn’t eat our vegetables. It’s unfair
I hit the books instead of wandering India
or Bloomington, Indiana
The unexciting part of an epic
starring myself and a one handed handful of friends
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:13 PM UTC
driving on empty, my tank way past e
i fear the sudden stop of my car on the busy street,
Its the academy awards,
I feel so unexciting
I gymed it up, worked out hard
I am eating better and taking care of myself
subway in my tummy
clean and showered comfy in pajamas
i wonder when I will meet that guy
who will like me for me,
just as i am
and loves my boringness
wonders what i am thinking
and loves to play the question game, in an attempt to get to know the real me.
You ask, Ill tell.
where is he?
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 6:56 PM UTC
Need no ***** need no drug,
what I need is just a hug.
Boring routine, unexciting WFHs,
Sitting all day on computer,
just gaining weight and cursing China,
puzzled head coding and solving bug,
what l need is just a hug.
Missing the taste of Biryanis,
all those extra cheese pizzas,
above all that exotic street food and chai,
Even a simple bottle of beer.
**** this Virus is a real ****
Need no fast food, need no *****
Still, what I need is just a hug.
I need you close,
I need you here,
just beside me near,
spread your arms, cover me like a shrug,
I just need the warmth of your hug.
Jul 1, 2020
Jul 1, 2020 at 10:15 PM UTC
Now, I have experienced several
types of love in my youth. Fiery, quiet,
and the kind that's mixed with a dose of
vermouth.
Though, I have grown tired
of ideas of settling down.
I fear to live a life
uninspired.
This kind of love, unexciting.
I prefer a poison,
some would say, is more
inviting.
A kind of love that tastes like fire,
where living our dreams
is most definitely
required.
I feel as though it is time to try
a new sensation.
This is unfortunately not a drunken
revelation.
Though I leave one pint behind,
be it trivial to most,
I believe I have found the right
Kind.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 11:48 PM UTC
Three insecure bodies fight each other for the security of only one thing.
One body.
One enjoyment.
I **** it all up. I never know what I want.
******* sleep forever.
******* wound opened and fresh for the world to puncture yet again.
The face of an hour glass.
The forceful push of his body as im slammed against the bedpost.
The drunken slurs, the silent words.
Unexciting, weak, unbearable.
Afterwards my body aches.
I survey the space.
What have I done?
Nothing but pure proof of his intentions.
Nothing but going back to where I started from.
Nothing but sitting on a pile of who knows what, in who knows where, with nothing to do but nothing.
I’m on my own,
ive come undone.
Its too late to try and bring me back to earths surface.
Im already destroyed on the inside.
He can’t say sorry
He’s already done enough.
But I tell him its okay;
three men in a room
one unnoticed me
one soul seeping its way through the mattress
Nov 12, 2010
Nov 12, 2010 at 9:26 AM UTC
There is one goal for us
One challenge that brings so much
To live. No,
To live
There is but one way to truly feel
That is to live, of course
For without life, there is no love
No hate
No emotions upon which we depend
Would you rather survive?
Chew upon the mundane and unexciting?
That, my dear friend, is not living
Yes,
To live thrusts risk onto oneself
The risk of heartbreak and betrayal and devastation
But, without the dark there would be no light
To live is to be,
And to be,
Is the answer
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 2:43 PM UTC
I'm a Marketing major thinking about
switching into Advertising
but no one will give me a straight answer
whether or not they're the exact same thing.
I guess no one really gives you a straight answer
when you're a grown up.
But when I go home for the summer I'll be
a child again, and I don't think I'll like it.
Currently the only rebellion afforded to me
are the bevy of boys from high school
who have always wanted to sleep with me
and I have never wanted to sleep with them.
So really that's very unexciting.
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 11:54 AM UTC
The inviting face of a happy ever-after...a bubble of light fairy colours and shades.
The chasm is broken by a burning sting from a brewing *** of disbelief...”It could never happen.”
To sadly sit through reality, paging through fantasy pages and drawing the outline of each character as though they would appear before your sights, is a thieve to the present blessings.
It is a frilly beginning to the rest of nothing.
The simple gesture of a warm dashing smile creeps into the lonely heart and formulates hard to believe possibilities.
Slowly and surely the brewing *** of self-image disputes threads a thick rope of scepticism and doubt that some dreams will never come true.
The rope gets stronger each day...it hangs over dreams and unhurriedly forms a loose noose in case everything crumbles.
Yet it seems all, if not, most dreams have crumbled...yet the hope that tomorrow might bring gold keeps blood flowing, pumping life to the musty heart.
Process the “what-ifs”, birthing the idea of eternal bliss. Sadly the assured bliss isn’t tangible at the moment.
We share laughter and thoughts, a bit of this and that...playing peak-ah-boo in each other’s minds.
Yet it isn’t enough to warrant further communication. Or perhaps there shouldn’t be further communication.
The cover might be appealing but the content could very well be unexciting.
Muddled in the passing years...a change in ages each year, you endlessly look forward to your treasures.
Perhaps the eyes should remain shut and instead search with the heart, or maybe the mouth should remain quiet, allowing the soul to speak.
Well...the skies held our conversation and in the clouds it shall remain.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
I find i write in drips and draps. I remember when I wrote like thunder and my words would lash and simmer and bring the world to its knees.
Now i am left with bricks and mortar and empty pictures hearing only the echos if a storm.
I feel as if i am a reflection of a reflection, that i am a copy of somebody before me and unexciting as a blank page.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
there is a place that i can call home.
it's cold and broken but it is home.
i find comfort in the trees and cracked paint.
in the cloudless skies and muggy summer nights.
the harsh season changes and fast blowing breezes.
sometimes i beg to leave and start anew.
sometimes i dream of the day i can escape.
i know that it holds my family and my friends.
i may run but i will never truly let go.
i will always come back to empty suburban towns.
where children play all night and parents count their blessings.
teenagers are drunk and trying to find themselves.
it's a right of passage to run away.
when we get lost we come running back.
being reckless just isn't enough.
our home is calm and safe.
at times unexciting and mundane.
but it is home; it always will be.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 2:31 AM UTC
1.
It’s true, you know
I observed it quite dispassionately
You loved me less
When I wasn’t working.
I know love is a psychological aberration
Built on moments of joy
Shared accidentally
But I didn’t realise that it was based
On conceptions of value.
I did want to make you proud
I wanted to be worthy of your love,
I hadn’t realised
I was supposed to earn it.
You thought I should make something of myself
And I wanted to make myself better
Someone you could love, or at least respect.
It seems we both forgot what Christ said:
“I am what I am”,
There’s no use pretending
To be anything else.
2.
On the day I told you
I had got a job
You sang a song
As though I’d recovered
From an unpleasant disease.
Were you happier then
Than when we tried to make love
Or went on that picnic?
I was glad as well,
It meant we had something to talk about.
But my interest in the subject
Of my unexciting job
Is strictly limited;
Surely you also find it dull?
I wish you hadn’t been so glad,
And said something like,
“It’s a shame
You’ll have to spend the day at work
Away from me and nature and your beautiful thoughts”
Instead of
“At least it’s a start
And better than moping around all day.”
3.
You took it too personally
When I said “I love you”
And naturally thought I was mistaken.
What I meant was
“Today I love the world and all things in it
And I’m glad to share this moment with you.”
If I’d been with someone else
I would perhaps have felt no less radiant,
But I did want and value your company
And then, of course, I made you a giant
To feed my pride.
But the beauty inside all of us,
When it manages to surface,
Is too generous to limit its love to one.
My one ambition
Is to liberate that gold within;
It melts all barriers,
It could free us all.
This morning
I was an hour late for work.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 10:40 AM UTC
I can’t shake the feeling that we are not
Finished.
Like I’ve been writing a story, but can’t type the
Ending.
Conversation with you is short, and mostly
Halted-
By your spacious replying and conversation
Unexciting.
One part of me wants nothing left to do with you,
While another begs you to pick up the phone so I can hear hello.
One part of me wants to delete your number and text threads,
While another adds an extra heart by your name and changes the pictures.
One part of me wants to give the other guy a chance,
While another feels guilty since there was no proper ending.
Letting go seemed easy while I wrote it all out
But then came time to conclude this poem
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 10:10 PM UTC
I wish I were home
That way I could be alone
In my bed fit for one
And no bigger, rather
Just as I left it
It is only for me
I wish I were home
So I could not think about my mom
And how she doesn’t know
Her daughter is dying
I wish I were home
And I wouldn’t hear my roommate’s clothes slide off
From man hands that will never in this life
Reach to me
He is across the room in the bed next to me
And the four, 12-inch tiles between are a universe
And he does not see me
He does not know I am listening
And I hear what he’s doing and I’m crying—
Because I know, now
She is something I will never be
This is something I’ll never have
Just me and my bed
So much bigger than my one at home
How long do I sit here pretending I’m sleeping?
How long do I stay as the lives around me are collapsing?
How long do I keep trying?
Do I dare tell him, now
In this dark he cannot see me
That the sound of your tongue on her body
Makes me want to scream
Makes me want to throw myself up at the ceiling
Makes me want to leave
In my own room
In my own bed
It is only for me
And, God, I wish I were home
And I wish I were an angel
And I wish I were Calypso
And I wish he loved me,
So I wouldn’t have to lay here so quietly
But it’s never hit me harder than tonight,
That I am the dark tunnel
That drowns out the light
The people here don’t know who I am
They don’t know what I’ve been,
What I’ve done
They don’t know I can remember every single one
One of the times I felt dark
Had to do with feeling like I’m sinking and dying
And this is now
The worst night of my life
And I’m crying
This darkness is ruining me
It is grabbing me and subduing me
And I am going out like they do in movies
And the song is the sound of
Him ******* my roommate
And I wish, God, I wish
I wish I were home
That way I could be alone
In my bed fit for one
What a love story it is
Girl on the left gets fingered
And girl on the right writes a poem
And she will be alone for the record
She’s got them beat and she knows it
And the sleep medicine only has her more awake for the moment
And I hope you ******* liked it
I hope you had to grip the sheets so tightly
And I hope you had screamed so I could have pretended it was me
And I hope he’s gone by the time I wake up
So I don’t have to remember it
And I hope you’re gone
And I’m gone
And I know that soon I will be
Because this life is as unexciting and unfulfilling as can be
And I know, love, I’m stunning
I hear the fireworks break right next to me
And I don’t need you to think—
Because you’re not the one who will die from drowning
And you’re not the one who will feel so lonely
Who will feel like her favorite poet
Who suffocated herself with gas from an oven
And I can feel the heat
And it’s burning,
I can tell
In pain you see angels and I go through hell
But it’s never hit me harder than tonight,
And I’m sinking
And it’s dark again
I’m hearing singing and I know I’m going—
And good God, this life
This life is only for me
Feb 14, 2019
Feb 14, 2019 at 2:44 AM UTC
I’ve always been asked why I adore the rain so much,
Here is my explanation.
I love the rain because it’s beautiful,
Just like my older sister’s smile.
I love the rain because sometimes it comes wrapped in a storm,
A storm with loud rumbling thunder,
And with lightning striking an electric current that jolts through my body,
Waking me up from the deep sleep caused by my unexciting routined life.
I do the same thing everyday, and each repeated action pushes me a little farther into this hole of depression.
That was until you came into my life,
You were my lightning.
But also my storm;
Ripping through my life and drowning me in sorrow.
I love the rain because it hides my tears,
They camouflage into it and for once it feels like I’ve stopped crying.
I love the rain because I can go outside and be alone.
The streets go from crowded and loud,
To lonely and quiet.
With the most prominent sound being the tiptoe of rain against the my old yellow rain boots.
I love the rain because it’s smell fills my lungs and I feel as if I can finally breathe. Because the thunder jumpstarts my otherwise sedated heart.
I love the rain because it brings me back to life,
And alters my numbed brain,
Making me feel again.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC
dad’s numb lips
two bruised slugs comatosey cozy
glued onto a paper-mâché head.
lips the delicate hue of grape skin
tinted by self-asphyxiation.
his wet mouth became unexciting so I rested my head on his chest
on a wine-blemished button down
intoxicating me.
the blotch soon wore off onto my neck
a small patch bitten reddish purple.
speckled flesh–a stamp of lust.
his universe existed in an 8oz Styrofoam cup.
a cough syrup medley shimmering violet with needle-head fizzy stars.
sip, swallow, spent.
he made his galactic purple potion perish.
and in this way he was God.
a baby was born
a seed gorged out of a plum
wailing in a thin sheet of sheer mulberry plastic.
we were made good for lavender stacks
weaved into flowering quilts
warm enough for a peasant foot.
you are the royal dye of Joseph’s coat of many colors.
I am the artificial tinge of a grape flavored popsicle stick stain on a bathrobe.
what if Joseph wore a bathrobe?
rotting plum for a knee
you kiss it ripely
– a sunset sickly blooming
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 11:35 PM UTC
fear of this
fear of that
fear of them
it spawns
the best tales of horror
even better than reality
which has
more often than not
such unexciting horrors.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC