"unfitting" poems
Growing ever so fearful
Afraid of who lives next door
Why do they talk funny?
Do not associate with their kind
They are the spawn of evil
Away with our jobs we deem unfitting
Why are they here
This is our home
But did we not steal it from natives
Who are we to judge
Why do we judge
Why do we preserve our way
When there is nothing to preserve
Lies!
Filth and vermin you say
I call friends and family
Nothing more
Nothing less
Oct 8, 2010
Oct 8, 2010 at 10:44 AM UTC
A yearning she cannot fathom
A whole 'nother level, she was mind blown
Hoping to blind herself with deception
Perpetually drowning in confusion
Said that she would never again be ****** with your sorcery
So everyone told her to be extra wary
But I guess that's a quality she lack entirely
Now she's drowning in confusions, perpetually
She never planned a pursuance
Though the force is strong, 'twas only a nuisance
She saw your face, she was caught in a trance
Perpetually drowning in confusion, an abundance
This animal is in dire need of suppression
And so she did, filling herself with depression
But then the prey showed a different sign of intention
Now she's perpetually drowning in confusion
Your sudden interest seems unfitting
Could it really be? So close to believing
It opened more, showed more, she's heeding
In perpetual confusion, she is drowning
She was taken aback, this impossibility
Yet you opened it wider, the eventuality
Or so she was led to believe, the absurdity
The confusion is drowning her in perpetuity
Doubts, doubts, doubts were running
In her head, seconds from wilding
But you calmed her fears, ever growing
Deeper in perpetual confusion, she's drowning
With every positive response of yours
She was driven crazy, hoping for more
For a moment, it felt certain, she was sure
Perpetually drowning in confusion, no more
Now her true self was put into question
For the longest time, involuntarily shunned
Is she truly worthy of this identification
Perpetually drowning in confusion
She was quite lost in traffic
The signals were all but messed up
Wandering around like some lunatic
She's clueless of what's true enough
Perpetually drowning in confusion...
You were a swimmer...
Yet you never even bothered to save her.
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 11:23 PM UTC
I am pretty sure I'm in love with you. I love the way your freckles fall perfectly in place like the ones the draw on American girl dolls. I love the way you smile, crinkling up your small little noes and squinting your eyes like the books you always read have damaged not only your adjustment to light, but the way you see earth so that now everything seems unfitting. Unfitting for a king like you. I love the way your hair looks like you just woke up. I love the way you smell. I love the way you walk like a character from the Incredibles, hopping around. I love the way you look when you read one of your novels. I love your eyes. Your eyes I could stare at forever. Reminding me of our first conversation, time I complemented your eyes . Your eyes. As if some one took the bluest lake out of your newest book and shrunk them. I love the way you talk. I love the way your voice sounds when you read aloud. It reminds me of being a kid, curled up in my pink cat pajamas, listening to my father read Good Night Moon. I love the way you dress. I love the way you laugh. I love you. But to you I'm just a friend. The person you get the homework from as you rush to study exactly 5.5 seconds before a test. I'm just the girl you smile at. But I love you. I love you more than I've ever loved anyone. I love the way you acknowledge me as just a friendly face. I love the way the way I love you is just a secret.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 12:15 AM UTC
I don't fit.
If only it were that easy. If only I could go to a different store and find a better size. If only I could unzip this skin and find a better fit.
My body feels foreign as I move and stretch, watching my reflection in the mirror. This cannot be me. It can't be.
Because I do not have ******* today. I do not have a large, curvaceous body.
No. Today, I should have a flat chest. I should have muscular arms and stubble on my chin.
But I don't.
Instead I see who I once was. Who I was yesterday is not who I am today is not who I will be tomorrow. I want my current body.
I want the body that fits.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 12:38 PM UTC
A space so unfitting
A space tired, not so uplifting
“Rehab”
”Rehab”
”Rehabilitate my space”, you pled
And I did
I did just that once you, out of town, fled
Back in town, it was going to be a monumental surprise
One that you and I could share and sleep in that night
That night and all the nights to follow
When you witnessed your new space you could barely swallow
Chocking back tears, I had succeeded in my mission
Now this space, you share with your new person
Does she like the color blue?
What about the gold accents I detailed just for you?
It’s your space, and hers now
I hope the dark shadows of your new space haunt you, watch over you like an owl
In witness of you two interlaced
With someone who has now taken my place
To lavender I retreat
That shade of navy and I never to re-meet
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 3:07 PM UTC
It's strange
the way a cluster of neurons in your head reacting to some particular stimulus can make your heart feel like hamburger meat
As if there really is a hole in there, and everyone can see right through it.
What kind of strange fiction allowed debilitating pain to come from a mere firing sinapse?
How unfitting, that such an incomprehensibly small and silent event begets the destruction of worlds.
You'd think
that with the breaking of a heart should come some ceremony
Smashing of a gong, ringing bells, the flight of a thousand crows or even the sound of breaking glass.
But we're left with heavy dreams that tug at our consciousness and even heavier moments upon waking and remembering that you have a hole there, that everyone can see right through
that didn't even warrant shattering dinnerware.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 3:47 AM UTC
The next time you wander through
the Forest,
give attention to
what makes it live.
From towering oak trunk to timid
wisps of grasses,
Wind
blows through.
Though rampant branches jut
in chaotic cacophony,
wind calms the fray:
harmonic, swaying, symphony.
To refer to Wind by her name
seems almost unfitting.
Product of the sun itself,
impossible to be un-felt,
Wind pervades.
She's a comforting breeze on a calm day,
who soothes whatever goes wrong,
forever on the mind when she's gone.
Perhaps Wind could be better called
by a name that captures all
her beautiful, ceaseless soul,
twisting through life.
My Love,
they should call the wind
Mariah
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 10:13 AM UTC
Where were we when you quit the sound?
Caught in distance while you hung around
Encased inside of our own menial pursuit
Flaunting desperation as a constant survival
As you battled death in your combat boots
There is no glory with fate as your rival
What were you seeing in your distorted mind?
As you ate your last words and ecstaticly dined
At the chemical festival of illusions' absorbtion
How far did your gaze stroll onto the other side?
did you meet with an end or the start of damnation?
In which lonely drawer do your dreams now reside?
Where have the remnants of life made their grave?
Are they in the lingering regret that you've paved?
Through each flash of your face and casket sight
The delusional rebirth of your presence revealing;
Fragments of ended realities giving spark to night
Burning sigils into visions of a broken feeling
Flame lit sketches etched across a charred eulogy
Only a name remains lying in the wake of a memory
Pieces scattered amongst an unfitting resting place
Conflicting beauties molding a divine contrast
A devil laid to rest in the midst of holy space
One shade of diversity on a bland earthly cast
Echoes of descension from this dimming black sky
Adorning each reflection with your hollow eyes
Complexions left searching for an answer to hold
As to how lifes' vigor can so swiftly fall to decay
And,The aging of dignity resembling every tale told
Seems to shine a reality check on this tragic play
A nulling backdrop for this cemetary playground
Where the kings and queens become tediously crowned
With a sickly ailment that reaks of dalipidation
The stench of the end atop an eternal retrospect
Glaring back with the most sincere of validations
That the fallen live on as our recollections resurect
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
alliteration
delving delusory,
a literati shun
thy commissions,
galore,
the line goes around the
corner
Entrusted.
write us a prayer -
as if I were thus worthy
t'is a delusion
which is worse than
Illusion
my fingers command me -
not I, them
I scribe inky,
they write what they deem
the most unfitting fulfilling
thy requests
more crosses to bear,
this Jew has walked the
Via Dolorosa
then, and again,
now
oh yes delve delve
with archaic *****
turn over earth unsubstantiated
long time un~disturbed
**"bring us your truths
in whatever form
they spill from you"**
Thus, they command me, Lord
**"Go back to living,
like it used to be.
No more tortured soul
to slow you down"**
Thus, they command me, Lord
sleep restful,
feet bathed,
Pavorotti & Pachelbel
comforted,
let it go,
live the fleeting,
well,
drink the wine,
wafer, taste,
Jew,
but stay away from the confessional
don't
delve into your own
thesaurus
when opened,
one can vision
right through us
don't
delve in to the recesses
thankfully receding, eroding,
except for the enlightening flashbacks
that stone cold come with no
forewarning
don't
let the sin memories
of ancient words,
black gold bubble up
with the first striking of the blade
Delve
(excavate your soul deep)
Not
I did not come this poem to write
I did not come to repeat
Solomon's poem,
nothing new under the sun
don't,
daunting
wish to delve into my delusions,
my original sin
the deceit
the conceit
I am unique
I am original
but let us weave as I best could
diagrammed prayers
as the sun rises over my eastern river
for it the seventh day,
the sabbath day,
which the commandments
commend as the day to remember and
*to keep it holy.
Six days you shall labor,
and do all your work,
but the seventh day is a Sabbath
to the LORD your God.
On it you shall not do any work,
you, or your son, or your daughter,
your male servant, or your female servant,
or your livestock,
or the*
sojourner
*who is within your gates.
For in six days the LORD
made heaven and earth, the sea,
and all that is in them,
and rested on the seventh day.
Therefore the LORD
blessed the Sabbath day
and made it holy.*
no delving today
I will observe thy reader's,
all of them my teacher's,
commandments
rest easy,
spill no truths this day
but on the new born morrow
I shall fresh
delve and sin again
and write them
joyful hymns
to sing
on the profane workweek,
for my torture,
my spilled and soiled truths
shall be
re-presented
to joyous comfort
and then,
I shall sojourn among them
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 7:26 AM UTC
Tonight, I'll be at it again.
I'll search the streets like
A detective searching for a
Lost child. Ironic, isn't it,
that detectives are looking for me?
But I'm undetectable, because
I look just like everyone else.
Except I'm not like everyone else;
I'm a monster, Satan in the flesh.
I'm a skilled hunter, just like
A lion. I'll sneak up on you,
And you won't know I'm there
Until I'm tearing into your skin.
The media is saying I get off on
This, well, maybe I do.
Every scream and cry for help
Is stored carefully in my brain.
The term "serial killer" is so
Unfitting. Although I do prefer
Pretty blondes with blue eyes, I'd
**** just about anyone.
Their eyes are my favorite;
That's what gets me every time.
The way they fill with horror
Just before the life drains from them,
It's exhilarating; it's ****
I cannot deny that it
Gets me off, it's the biggest
Thrill I've ever felt.
And the media lies to the
People, saying I'll be caught
And you'll be safe. I am
Unstoppable, I'll never be found.
I'm your worst nightmare;
Lucifer is my middle name.
This is all a game to me,
And it will never end.
Tonight, I'll be at it again.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 8:53 PM UTC
That 1 lengthy and detailed conversation we had as I fixed her a hot bubble bath, it was very necessary to figure out the pattern in which each of our souls orbited around one another's life. Life. It seems that in the seams of this biographical regime, we get lost in between 2 wings, steering without a true tale, leading with our beaks instead of our two feet. Finding elation through impatience. Determination to fly without defining our own matrix. At that particular time I just wanted to slowly sit your soft body down into that pool of lavender scented steamed water, but everything you had to say nearly drowned me. The invisible crown I continuously placed on your head suddenly vanished as my imagination panicked. I always thought that my mind was backed up by my heart which was backed up by your art. Oh how gentle you scribble. I have to erase line by line, direction by direction, affection by affection, disconnect on top off disconnection. Difficulties I'm having while looking at you lather but no longer seeing you in the picture. Watching you lave as you give me your take on how our relationship was shaped was a bit unfitting. In my mind "it's inevitable that she's open for bidding". I'm lounged against the sink in a bind. Bonded by your fondness, then detached by your honest responses. How blunt you are and how drunk I'm soon to be. Wasted vibrations, my mouth began to tremble. Somehow I find an idea to cause the both of us to tickle. Temporary bliss. Moreover all of my hard efforts that night turned out to be the worst shift. I went from pleased to please. Expectedly you never tried to appease by appealing to my needs. Draining water like my decaying heart. Drying off reminds me of my suffocated feelings. Lotion as I drink this 40% potion. Hoping of hydrated coping. Can you leave? So I can shower, attempting to rinse away the most beautifully devastating hour.
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 12:34 AM UTC
Longing for someone
an unfitting feeling
like the math teacher
with a New York accent
teaching in Wisconsin
Waiting
for the baton to go down
so I can stop pretending
and let the anger free
the last note of an opera
Tuning out
like putting earbuds in
everything echoes through
but falls short from me
an incomplete pass
or a fumble
Moving on
infinite and torturous
an unending bootcamp
ending only in tears
and a reinforced spine
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 7:32 PM UTC
vision's hazy
don't know where to go
never have known
such faded distorted lines
im falling
into the pits
of my own
mind
i shriek
and i scream
i choke
and wheeze
the path is broken
hasn't it always been?
i am
truly lost
i am no longer me
i am only now
trapped
in another body
caged thoughts in
quite an
unfitting corpse
broken always.
my mind
is fading
i have become
a mindless drone
ensnared in
the emotion
of indifference
i am overcome with
the want to feel
something
it has always
been the same
endless cycle
continuous repetition
have i
become numb
to the capabilities
of true love?
my mind
breaks into
periods
of screaming ecstacy
i am breaking
i am screaming
as the sun approaches
i long for
a world
that i may be
free again
(b.d.s.)
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 4:50 PM UTC
to write a poem about you
the fleeting, unknown presence of you
a seeming hippie in flight
dislocated to these locked lands of 'might'
i might, i may
you are a presence of try and some day
a enforcer of push
and hitter of that beautiful, blossoming kush
you will bleed from these layered grasses of country sorrow
off to a greater and better tomorrow
rooted in a new proclaimed essence of you
those lands will wash and embed your coded hands of can do
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 2:15 AM UTC
The slow winding years sliced up here:
Your birthday: that memorable year
New year O'seven,
that festival of lights,
Sulis,
Brussels;
Years that rolled like mellow waves:
Receding, returning;
Slices of joy.
Photographed here.
But pain, is all curled up.
Jarring notes, unfitting angles
caged like birds
grieving in the corners of our souls
where we return, each time
the bass is strummed at the string of our hearts.
Half-drawn breath, part-held lungs
Moist pain I see in the corners of your eyes.
Let go, let go, let us let go.
This hour of receding darkness,
let them fly away
free with babblers that ring in the day;
Freed, freed of the burdens past,
let's walk in the wind
into crimson tides
to tipping waves,
dipping skies.
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 1:03 PM UTC
Four life-size lipsticks jive, they
groove in tune with costumed comrades:
the monstrous tapeworm, unfitting for even
a family of whales, head held high like
homemade dragons on Chinese New Year, or
the bald man decked out in navy felt, garb
saturated with plastic spoons he
needs to get laid.
But the lipsticks in their red, red heels, with
human eyeholes hidden behind fabric, which
shows the blend of castor & chemicals, what hue:
dark crimson or barracuda berry?
They wear but a fraction of the common ingredients
used for dressing up,
makeup as the encore.
It stains the lips,
the coffee rims around the country,
the chests of restricted lovers.
Let us celebrate the metaphor of makeup
on this festus day--where it’s excusable to act out
the fantasies of being not
ourselves.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 6:35 PM UTC
he goes
swinging arms set on
leaning shoulders and
feet that climb pavement
every step
taking inches before miles before the span of her heart
infected with a childhood
an unfitting frame for
such words and
sometimes he feels sick,
at the size of his own hands
isthmus, island
sick at the foreignness of being
skin native to all the touches
but blood that tastes only enemies, shies away
she thinks how, how,
beautiful the white skin
light strains he looks at nothing, not her
dull eyes, white eyes,
never enough of night,
eyes
he will bend and glance
deep, to taste a bit of his own death
trapped in his clutched palm
annoyed,
she thinks what sweet bitter held hands
I don't want to be your friend
don't want to lose a friend
the child builds love where it doesn't belong, everywhere
stacking towers against God, unlearning,
the child fights, he fights
they resist and scratch and embrace
and he bends
his fingers
May 29, 2011
May 29, 2011 at 9:26 AM UTC
things start to make sense as soon as you start feeling like background music instead of the main character in your own life and you'll start staring down at your shoes a lot and watching your phone die without making the effort to charge it again.
you'll feel lonely but never intend on making the effort to speak to anyone and you'll start looking for love in drunk encounters and every corner you can find it but it's not really love it's fake smiles and cold showers afterwards. you'll start to listen to songs that sound like all the apologies you want to tell them and watch sunrises that look like forgiveness.
you start spending a lot of time in busy coffee shops but at empty tables and in bed but never asleep.
and you'll start to realize that they haven't missed you in weeks and your hands started to shake more after they stopped holding them.
you'll begin closing yourself off again and silently apologizing to the next person that tries to love you.
you'll start drinking whenever you're around friends because if you don't they'll ask you why you're so quiet and silence is so much worse than slurred speech filling every gap and unfitting laughs every two minutes. then you realize you're just as needy as you were when you were three and someone had to rub your back to get you to fall asleep and all they had to do was tell you they love you for everything to make sense.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 11:10 PM UTC
She runs the purple corridors of an inexplicable tenor;
forgetting the voice--in connotation of the congealed, mushy-make and pith.
'Victoria, you're dancing inside the bag of veins,
that creep the blood crooked to my brain.
'Your living in there, you know?
Forever, for ever
and ever for the time past ever.
'Stay in there. You were born in there.
You will live in there. You will-
live in there.
'Lovely, your lips do mock and expedite this breath.
A succinct touch even joshes my lungs.'
Alone she is;
together the sinews of my center-piece and she
be.
Only ever has it been her,
only ever will it be her,
simply never will no other
be.
Jan 18, 2011
Jan 18, 2011 at 5:45 PM UTC
Their spirits are tired,
Their spirits disfaithened
Can not so remember
Why they are, are so parched.
This soul that does wander
Hops bodies forever.
They hope to find one shell
Filled Full to quench their thirst.
A people so angry
Has become cynical.
Bodies don't remember
The feats of old lives.
Like old men are old souls,
So medicine drugged up,
Bitter in tiredness,
Stubbornly they unchange.
In anger I'm waiting
For one life more suiting,
Not inevitably.
Maybe I'm trapped here in
Here in this body thing.
I can not stand my luck.
A spirit unfitting
Cursed men and women both.
I can, atleast, dream of
Something my memory
Is sure to be clear of.
Future brawls in bodies,
Pasts I can't be sure of,
Warriors that I was,
Brains that I did mess up,
Were all my souls doing.
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 4:55 PM UTC
Don’t just comment on others life
First try to walk on their shoes
Find out the hardness
When the shoes doesn’t fit and is lose
You have that fitting shoes
You are positive
Once try with a large size
And find out why I am negative
Don’t you think, I have tried
To make it fit by sewing
Your shoes are comfortable
So no need of altering
Let’s just exchange our shoes for sometime my dear
You experience with mine and I do the same with yours
When you find out the difference
Ask yourself whether the comment you gave was fair
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 10:09 PM UTC
The universe is testing me
It did not inquire
When there was plenty
Of opportunity
It picked the right timing
That it could not be
Rather unmistakably
More unfitting
Had I been asked before
I would have been certain
About my answer
But now I am bewildered
How am I to dismiss
When each time
The suspension is tempting
How can it come to an end
When soon enough
Never seems to arrive late
A clash with the universe
As it forces me to reassess
The choices
I am about to make
When really
I should not be
Doubting
Even for just a second.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 1:07 AM UTC
A hummingbird’s fragile heart can beat up to 1260 beats per minute.
That’s a whopping 21 beats per second,
Which is rather fitting,
Because my pumping ***** manically pounds against my chest at a constant rate.
It only comprehends one anxious speed: fast.
What is also fitting,
Is that hummingbirds are capable of flying in all different sporadic directions,
And I am never meant to be in one place.
We are not meant to have a standard sightseeing radius of one cul-de-sac,
But rather drift and soar to various dimensions and realities.
Without this freedom, we both simply cease to exist as an entity.
And so, when we find ourselves trapped-
Which is the one primitive and instinctual fear birds and humans alike have in common-
Desperation and panic cannot begin to describe
The depth of the dark cave of unfitting enclosure
In which our brightly vibes of body and mind find ourselves in.
We ****** and thrash ourselves in a suicidal manner against the bars,
We refuse food and drink in silent protest and rebellion,
And then beg and plead with our captors to be let free at last,
Wondering why, the hummingbird and I, deserve to suffer.
What did we do?
Claustrophobia is a serious issue. And it does not have to be in the form of a cage.
And it chokes.
Hummingbirds are delicate creatures.
If you squeeze too tightly, their eyes will bulge out of their skull,
And their heart will race to extreme measures,
Until they are crushed and are no more,
Leaving the captor’s hands wet and sopping
With blood and guts and feathers.
Please do not crush me.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 9:52 PM UTC
I imagine
your nightgown limps sadly against your trotting legs
The light becomes
choppy
Trapped between your gowns effortless sway
piouretting from
room to window
towards the moon
back to bed
where
snowflake kissed sheets grow
unbearably cold underneath the night sky's icy breath
Close the window
"Dont, pelase, don't..."
shivering,
The gown
a peek-a-boo
into skin that can't form goosebumps any more
peachy silk coating
flowers
stay still
plastered smiles across all of those
good God fearing faces
A fabric
Unfitting
for a mind so
chaotic and chemically smeared
In a funk,
a different time,
a different place
I've removed myself from the watches' ruthless reign
I'm a glazed donut
that look in your eye,
Where does it end?
a black pit,
a bottomless barrel
some
puny animal shot down in the middle of the woods
eyelids dry like pork rinds
Perfect loops decorate the top of your cut thighs
"Who's here to pet my hair?"
my hair,
as shallow as the shore's waves
unlike the deadly tsunami festering underneath it
Pet my arm.
Graze it with your soothing fingertips
Warm sparks fly madly
dancing atop
a cold log
deadwood that never made it past the beaches of your boundless regret
"I didn't realize it'd grow this quickly...
when I,
mentally shoved the flames of my disease inside of my mouth."
"I thought it'd...burn out."
"The pit of my stomach now filled with the flashing signs of panic and
puke"
All across the side of your bed
spines don't fall into any more
a dark room
"Who's here to make the noise to fill the empty caverns of my bustling brain?"
A dark room
Words fall into it
Stumbling across the bumps of your
nauseating hips
"Who's here to scream back?'
Laughter sounds so far away when I'm here in my timeless prison
Sun creeps out of the curtains
light falls like broken piano keys into you
mucous made mask
and puke
I couldn't find God today
and the Devil was swimming my cereal bowl
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 9:39 PM UTC