"unfilled" poems
I am not in the business of being you
or him or her or they
we doesn't even really interest me.
you hated me within the first 20 minutes
like a shallow predator
experiencing virginal danger
you have the limbic system of a prey
obvious to anyone in touch with their senses.
you were threatened-
you cracked a joke and among
the robotic laughter and among
the generic thoughts
I stood back, blank-faced
a novel piece of art you haven't the ability
to muster up the courage to understand.
aloud, I said it wasn't funny
which I'm sure your emptiness already betrayed
in a booming, and terrifying fashion
*(I'm an intellectual sadist-
I get off watching you squirm)*
you know enough, that you have no basis
that the status quo is the stale stream you do nothing but soak in.
you're superficiality is so pervasive
that your thoughts are unfilled, plastic
discarded long ago by anyone with stamina
(you're a carbon-copy of a Xeroxed person)
looking the same as the others of your degenerate breed
with much less vibrancy than the original
and far less worth.
your boundaries have been in place for so long
passed down by
generations
of
generations
of
generations
great-great-granddaddy's barbed wire is the only thing protecting your prejudice.
you're not funny- you're scared
ashamed and lonesome.
ashamed of the person you wish you could be
but don't have the strength-or the guts
to morph into
lonesome because even yourself is someone you don't feel close to
you are so basically human.
I have no pity.
for you are no Muse.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 10:07 AM UTC
My sisters and I jest
That men never get over us.
We have been named
Muses, angels, succubi, leanan sidhe
But we are les belles dames avec merci
And that is their undoing.
Our breath has left them gasping
With unfilled lungs
We never meant to be their oxygen
But they drink us in like drowning men.
We didn’t ask for this,
But disarming, we are soft enough
For them to float in
Belly up, eyes to distant stars
Singing the sirens song that stirs in our veins.
Behind our teeth rests the love
The world has failed to give them till now
There are holds in the knowledge
that our fingertips find the hollowed spaces,
mother wounds, clefts where trust was carved out,
And they clutch our palms to staunch the bleeding.
We never asked for this,
They cherish the brittle changelings of us
until they are crushed in the coals of our eyes
Eggshell ideals, fragile as egos.
Blown by the sea wind in the strands of our hair
they are scattered, undone.
The distance drifts between, inevitable
And full they turn away to starve
We cut the mooring line
After one too many storms,
And search
For safer
Harbor.
Sep 29, 2021
Sep 29, 2021 at 9:54 AM UTC
Mirrors are all traitors
As in them I can see
Just what a monster I am;
That I will always be.
I have lumps and and spots
That make me unloveable.
And everything I eat is
Another bite of trouble.
Why can’t I ever look
Like the models in the book?
Why is it that I
Can’t look myself in the eye?
No one will look longingly
At the gorgon I turned out to be.
I don’t watch cartoons
Because what I see is me
What did I do to deserve
To become so **** ugly?
Did I cross the path of a cat
That was an omen meant to warn
And I ignored it so now
I inherited this awful form?
Why can’t I be the kind
With a beautifully formed behind?
I wish it was my history
To stimulate evil jealousy.
I want to look like a dream,
But instead I must surrender
A fragile wish, as it seems
An unfilled hope altogether.
Some friends are sweet to me
They say I look fine to them,
But I know what I can see
And I deserve no diadem.
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 11:06 PM UTC
Hold the universe inside my palms
I alone understand it is but a solitary dream
Between stars I make out memories
Connecting dots, forming images ingrained in my mind
I look in the unfilled depths of sky where suns have yet to burn out, remaining eternally preserved in an explosion of beauty lightyears away wondering about humans peering at their ambience through time and space
This isolated reflection I witness change in compliance with the predetermined path set in motion by the astrological forces of nature
Unstable
My hands must be trembling
Scared of sorrow and frustration they undeniably confront
The fear of the uncertain, the inconsistency of the unapologetic future awaiting
Solemn visions of an imperfect outcome, enough torment to push strength a bit too far over the edge
Fragile balance of peace and chaos resting within cupped desperate hands
Ignorant, the quickness of extinction among synapses in the cavern lighting the entirety of my skull
Pinned under familiar self-induced delusions
Galaxies silently begging for permanent freedom
Such fate to let their wishes dangle ignored
Urges within bursting, released
That moment I also give in
Forcefully close my fingers into a fist
Instantly crushing wild constellations scattered around my consciousness
A great deal more fragile than realized
Once unshakable destiny budged a millimeter by one lone act of rebellion
Against a powerful pull the majority pretend is rigid
Elusive control by way of self-combustion of life's temporary illusions
Proof one touch can fell worlds of fantasy
Founded on fiction
Or maybe
Reality
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 1:29 PM UTC
I remember the little men
in big boots. The ones who sat
at the edge of roof tops in a city called
Loneliness, and cut their teeth while chewing jagged glass and angry truths.
They parachuted down to earth
and hit their heads on desperation.
Hollowed out hearts with tree trunks
serving as legs, they marched
across the stratosphere until their existences neared zero. Nothing
more to disappearing than popping
some pills, falling asleep, and dreaming
that the whole world had gone mad.
The interesting part is when you wake up
and you can still hear the echo of
unfilled boots.
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 12:59 AM UTC
in our
besieged republic
snipers are
popping up
everywhere
taking ***
shots
ending lives
with a well placed
head shot
active shooters
star in
world premier
events
jokers
rise like
dark knights
casting large
looming shadows
on real 3D cinemax
multiplexed screens
sprinkling overpriced
buckets of popcorn
with generous
dollops of blood
others
head back to
school
still ******
about missing
recess and
excessive
sentences
to detention
halls where
bullies tortured
scrawny inmates
with wedgies
and painful
***** twisters
they’ve
come back
to even the score
leaving
bullet hole
pockmarks on
Sharpie smudged
smart boards
declaring endless
summer vacations
for classrooms
of children
who don’t
give wedgies
and only dream
of soft *****
these
urban guerillas
are now working
to liberate airports
from the tyranny
of TSA agents
fulfilling
PATRIOT ACT
duties for
10 bucks
an hour
and
last night
the latest
active shooter
showed up at
the Garden
State Plaza,
-my hometown
mall of america-
mumbling about his
Grand Theft Auto
score, strung out
and crashing
from an unfilled
pharma addiction
script
he grew
up as a
Highwayman
in Teaneck
a former
classmate
working
at Nordstroms
said he was
a really good kid
he was,
one of the good ones,
he could have shot
some people
but the only
person he
shot in the head
was himself
legions of
police officers
surrounding the mall
stood down
grateful for overtime
milling about
in the flashing
red strobes
inhaling the heady
blue fumes
rising to commend
Bergen County
Blue Laws and
next Sunday’s
time and a half
active shooter
training day
Jimi Hendrix:
Machine Gun
Oakland
11/5/13
jbm
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 1:12 PM UTC
m*any days I feel it isn't worth it
it is better I end it
I just do not fit
right
Small disappointments
unfilled expectations
make my daily lessons
I am no longer surprised
gifted with so many unused liberties
armed with many facilities
having all basic amenities
why still unsatisfied?
my thirst for what?
but compare it to so many of them
where do my problems stand
should my opinions even matter
God still has to hear my many complaints
every other day
No wonder he doesn't listen,
I wouldn't too.
Blessed with so much
wasted it all
on being this bitter self I hate
my present state draws the ugly future
and the only cure
is to feel gratitude
on the things I still have
on my conscience who still cares*.
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 2:07 PM UTC
went out
picked up three easy women
had *** with one
went out two more times
struck pay dirt
for my pleasure
still unfilled.
did you like my poetry babe?
you can create poems
whining about your broken
heart
and your loser state of mind
for having *** with me
withing hours meeting me for the first time.
were you a ******
doubt that!
i will be picking up more easy women all day
you can post poems about broken heart
on this site.
happy new year to you easy lay
going back to bed
finishing off this easy lay
then out to the curb she goes
with my trash.
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 3:53 AM UTC
One broke her,
Into thin fibers of glass disarranging a once whole vase
A beautiful vase, multifaceted and covered in ornate beauty
Intricate, delicate, carefully carved
A whole vase, filled to the brim with life and love
But what does love look like? She knows not anymore.
Two found the vase in ruins,
picked up her pieces, mended her and held on to her afraid she would break once more
Carefully, protectively she now lived.
Given everything, someone who had mended her.
Yet she still felt a sense of a missing piece
A gap, a hole, a missing fragile piece, unfilled but by One who had broken her
Why does she love One who hurt her, who broke her who left her unfilled?
Two many times has he mended her back together
Yet One is still the missing piece, the gap, the hole, the Vase
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 4:59 PM UTC
Unfilled dreams visit me
and I pretend
thundering pain does not touch my soul
when I can't hear you say,
“I love you”
before I lay me down to sleep.
Still, I wonder
if I called out on the coldest night
would I hear nothing
but silence
inside the dreams
I keep.
In the morning hours
I write your name
in the air
with a hand of power,
creating an image
of love's fire
that can never be lost
in thought.
A delightful understanding
becomes a sensation of living
with the eyes of my heart
wrapped around the words
I have sought.
My mind sings our story
even when I am alone.
It shouts
from an ocean
of heaven
with a tune swinging
to the countless beat
of our future need.
It paints our past
with long strokes of feeling
outside of all the years
that were hidden
by a shadow's greed.
Here I stand as I am
with an invitation
circling my heart
creating a place
for you to be
when time hands me leave
to love you
with every breath
I breathe.
Although, I may not hear the words
from your lips
the eyes of my heart
hear you speak
with ears........
that see.
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 12:29 PM UTC
a man gave me that phrase as a gift today.
quiver of constant smiles
for well he could,
yet little did he ken
the nature of the present
because
I read the smiles as the
tween the spaces,
in between the words of
anguish that never goes away
how can this be,
how to make sense of this
well I am a father too,
of words and sobs
and ownership of sins
between sons and fathers,
who inhabit
the unfilled spaces within,
the drawers with their name
on masking tape attached
Your fathers's hell will slowly go by
Show me a man-father
whose lips
have not quiet quivered
when hearing those words sung
we ease the grip of
carrying them on our shoulders
when they are five at the
Macy's day parade,
running alongside their first
solo bicycle ride
we ease the grip of
the vise of
not seeing them for years,
or never again,
cause they hold you guilty,
responsible for their confusion
have too, ease the grip,
cause we got more than one
singular responsibility
so we dad draw,
a smile from the quiver,
that like those of the elves,
replenished magically,
strap it on wide,
mile high and move on
oh you teenage children, you babies,
with your endless angst and bravado
of drunken scar talk,
first love lost
and the hard course
of being sixteen
put down your tiresome blunt pens
that revel only in Self-intensity glorious-galore,
read of the self destruction
of love pains thirty years in the making
and fifty in the undoing
write of ancient inescapable feelings
decades in the vat, aging, but drunk in the
moment quick searing of
every life breath you take
and it's Sunday nite
and the work week hell begins
but it is no compare to the other,
but **** you can't understand
so chant these words,
reflect on them well,
for soon while you dream sleep,
in clean, dry sheets and safe bed
a man will come for a peep,
to make the checkmark
on the all's well list
so chant these words,
a sad violin melody,
the single sole he ever hears,
*Your fathers's hell will slowly go by
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
Can not sing,
Nor play a note.
Academics,
Agility,
No strength neither.
Lust for talent,
Desire of success,
A void remained unfilled,
By the talentless.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 3:28 AM UTC
Death leaves us all as ashes;
an eternal void, unfilled: just dust.
Our legacy—of light and earth—
transforms us, each,
to carnations or roses
in a nameless garden.
Sep 24, 2025
Sep 24, 2025 at 8:39 AM UTC
I do not know who I am writing to anymore.
Faces blur to pages to chapters
of the never ending story that I write
as I walk through the waves of indifference.
Sea foam splashes over drying ink
and curling parchment in ways that
blend background and foreground into
nonsensical images of insanity.
I write blank letters left with open
spaces and unfilled lines waiting for
a name or a pronoun or even a shimmering
idea of who to place there.
The final line is always the worst
with "love" and "yours always" and
"sincerely" hardly meant before
the name I know even less than yours:
my own.
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 12:00 PM UTC
the Hello Poetry portrait gallery
is becoming full of empty frames
what individuals had a hand
in these harassment games
we've been deprived of many
talented written contributions
the villainous mob most adroit
with their unwarranted executions
blank boxes tell of an almighty
mischief being awfully made
by they who are wanting
to garner every accolade
under a serious threat our
fraternity of poets are thus far
and of seeing unfilled cubes
there leaves a permanent scar
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 10:27 PM UTC
Even in the darkest beast, one can find beauty.
If they look through the eyes of love.
Seeking a fading light, just out of reach
as the heavens reign from above.
Too soon, two souls become one,
While two hearts are left longing.
Darkness melds upon two minds
they're chemistry is haunting.
A connection so strong it spans the distance.
Feelings are so real,
one can feel the others touch.
Yet both their hearts will heal.
The realm of desire turns to ash
as the moon sets low upon us.
to need you so bad and not to receive
we both shall turn to dust.
Feeding off the dismal past
true love it will prevail.
two shadow;s dancing in the night
their friendship will not fail.
Tempers flare as longings go unfilled.
Both fighting an attraction that can't be real.
he has instilled a certain reality,
she now begins to feel.
A calmness in the darkness, a silence so surreal.
they dance within the keyboard,
in lacy shades of teal.
They both live in a fantasy...knowing it can't be real.....
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC
Cold, permeable raindrops
Fuse with warm, flowing tears,
Coursing down craggy furrows of
An unforgiving headstone.
An anguished face pressed tightly
To a glistening granite slab--
A column etched with memories
That will not pass away.
“Here Lies” is a reminder
That she was not a dream,
That on this earth did walk
An angel sent to him.
Instead of giving love,
He offered her empty promises--
Hollowed, unfilled commitments
That tomorrow would be kept.
A softly muttered prayer says,
“Please forgive me dear,
This final oath I make,
Tonight I will be with you
To plead for one more chance.”
Mar 13, 2010
Mar 13, 2010 at 8:24 PM UTC
The sky looks like cigarette ashes in a puddle of milk,
and I, almost 22, am unsatisfied that I have not won a Pulitzer.
And I, on the borderline of delusion and confidence, am unsatisfied I am not crazy or cocky enough to submit to The New Yorker.
I hear the voices of the pastors,
telling me that God heals all.
They say 'He' is the only absolute.
The people raise their hands towards the water-stained ceiling,
as if He'll push his arms through the copper-colored scabs and save them.
Grabbing their wrists and cooing,
I am the remedy to the anxiety of death.
I am six foot one and French, Irish, Cherokee,
some sort of Anglo-Saxon,
and a lost **** in a drowning garden.
I think about all those who had to ****
in order to make my cheekbones,
eyebrows, lips, and ****
I think about how I'm good at *** and bad when it comes to forgiving too easily.
I wonder how I can sweat on another body,
but only feel naked when I have to be myself.
I watch the elderly chant words:
****** ****** **** and Half-Breed.
I study if their dry lips reflect the hate in their eyes.
Not all are like this,
but I am surrounded by tables of them,
as I pretend to be Christian,
just to get ahead.
I don't speak,
just sit like an unfilled bubble,
waiting to be marked out by graphite.
I feel like a **********
I wish I had a Pulitzer.
The sky looks like a stretched grape,
covered in kisses of ******
And I, white American conformist,
am unsatisfied
that I have succumbed to the American Dream.
I wish I had a Pulitzer,
I wish I had my mom and dad.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 2:56 PM UTC
A vast unfeeling sordid breath,
That scalds my naked doubt
Grazing the space unfilled.
Lost in the waves
The summer an oppressive embrace,
Infecting this town.
And I am alone from here.
The stagnant tsunami,
Creeps up from the depths
Untiring in its attempts to overwhelm me.
But I'm already so tired,
Bone-weary.
I give up on my fight to the heat,
To the eternal god that glares
So balefully from beneath heavy clouds.
Have done with me now.
Leave me to the tide.
To the uncaring winds
Anywhere beyond the sweat of bodies
And incessant hate
Of the sun.-
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 5:16 PM UTC
Times Square was once a ****** place;
You wouldn’t go alone there.
When darkness fell, you held on or
You’d lose all that you owned there.
Today, though, it’s like Disney World,
With tourists, loud and surging.
There’s not an inch of space unfilled
Since everyone’s converging:
The families from Idaho,
The hawkers giving passes,
The Elmos and the messengers,
The bused-in high school classes…
The lunch-break workers, homeless dudes,
The theater geeks and shoppers,
The food carts, cabbies and the cops
And all the teenyboppers.
I love New York; don’t get me wrong
But oftentimes I wonder
If gentrifying Broadway
Might have been a whopping blunder.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 5:59 PM UTC
simply trying to remember a certain coat that took me like a mouth.
a coat my soul left me for.
I have been to the tub I would sit waterless in-
typewriter like a girl on my lap; the vaporous acorns of bliss winter squirrels, ash,
in the desperate curls of pubis. I have been
to the gym, its court of passed and passed back fire, its auditorium unfilled
as a church in spain. I have been to my knees.
to the egg of bird, the grief of cow, and to the lengthy absence
of train’s tunnel. I have been
with boy, with baseball, with book- smoking late on this fence
with these my trinities
soon to strike
for the house of my anna
cheerless and bare, not russian, not there.
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 1:45 PM UTC
For hours, I tried to sleep.
The rain drums down on the tin roof;
the demons are knocking.
I see their tears stream down the window;
a cleverly designed artifice to distract
from their true intent.
I ignore their subtle attacks, but they always
find a way back in.
I watch their shadows drift in through
the windows;
morphing from one shape into another,
hovering around me,
their whispered breaths cloud the air –
there is barely a space unfilled by their presence.
I can’t seem to chase them away, and I’m
wrapped up into their world.
Empty, cold and alone,
my reality remains stranger than any dream.
© Sia Jane
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 12:53 PM UTC
I love her
I desire her
More than anything
I can imagine
But I am unsure
I dreamt of her
I weep for her
I struggle with myself
But I never conquered
‘cos I am unsure
And at night
I hug my pillow
In my sleep
I held her tight
But I couldn’t keep her
For I was unsure
She kept coming
She kept smiling
But never opened her hands
To give me a warm embrace
Which is all I desire
And the more I am unsure
I never told her
I love you
I’ve never held her
In my hands
But I love her
Though I am unsure
The wound remained unhealed
The vacuum remained unfilled
The tears flow unstopped
And I’m losing her
Who is the remedy
‘Cos I’m unsure
And I’m losing her
Fast than I expected
Though she still smiles
The fear increased unmeasured
She loves me
I don’t know
For I am unsure.
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 4:52 AM UTC
There's no straight lines from A to B
No compass does it show
It shows my life as it has been
It doesn't show me where to go
As time goes by the pages fade
Just memories of past times
At times the present's blurry too
There's just so many criss crossed lines
No pages show my future
Just blank, unfilled, unset
You can not have a road map
To things that have not happened yet
Some roads it shows are darker
Roads you'll want to use once more
And on other pages, blankness
You don't know what they were for
The map is everchanging
It's not always the same
You can blame the old mapmaker
It's your mind that is to blame
You trigger things with songs and sounds
And others you might lose
It's a map that should show where you've been
But it's no good without clues
A compass in the corner
Doesn't point which way to go
It's your life, there is no answers
You get to choose which row you ***
It's not an easy map to follow
Hills and valleys all around
But, somewhere there's a spot that
Is where your best can be found
A page that now sits empty
Tomorrow, will be mapped and show the way
But, it won't show you where you're off to
It'll show where you were today
So, enjoy the roads you've travelled
And the experience so far
For this is not a map you'll ever
Find inside of any car
As I said, it changes daily
There's only so much room for stuff to stay
So, remember just what's important
And make the bad stuff go away
It's not a map that can be folded
It doesn't show you where to start
But when you go and look back at it
You'll see your life was full of heart.
.
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 5:05 PM UTC
i had a dream about you last night.
i’m wearing mismatched socks.
my face, bruised and ******
my body, slumped
in the corner of the handicap stall.
you’re standing above me
smiling, happy even.
“not happy, just killing time”.
your voice so soft, so sweet
the perfect lullaby
to put me to sleep.
i pass out from your love.
i woke up this morning
phone cord wrapped around my neck.
felt like a noose,
felt like you.
“i didn’t mean to hurt you”
(but you’ll do it again).
cigarettes in the backyard.
crossed legs on the patio table.
it feels like my stomach is filled with acid
and my head is filled with smoke.
you grabbed me and it stung like a bee.
i want to drink ’til i forget you.
i want to get so high that i forget myself.
i’m no angel.
i’m just a little dolly who gets broken easily.
i’m an artist using their own body as a canvas,
razor blades for brushes, blood for paint.
be a disaster with me.
ruin me with your eyes,
fill my soul with *****
and break my bones.
i’m feeling emotionally dead inside.
like forgotten flowers in the attic,
unfilled holes in the ceiling.
i’m hollow.
like vintage television sitcoms,
trap doors in old houses.
the chambers of my heart are filled
with cobwebs and spider eggs.
eyelids swollen shut.
mud up to my ears;
i’m choking on worms.
you’re killing me
but a very muffled “i forgive you”
still manages to escape my lips.
there is no remedy for a sickness quite like this.
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 10:17 AM UTC