"unimpressed" poems
You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen.
And I know that.
But I can't rediscover it every ******* day.
I can't return to that epiphany
every time my alarm clock goes off.
It's unnatural.
But what I can do, and do quite naturally,
is become jaded and unimpressed by it.
I can see your beauty as normal,
as one of my life's many constants.
I can climb atop its shoulders and travel about,
rolling my eyes at sunsets and rainbows,
dismissing all the beauty of the world as
less than average.
And I complain to you about it.
And you can deduce your beauty from that.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 11:19 AM UTC
euphoric period
a hospice worker
naps
in a lawn chair
beside a tree
(a tree
with tire
swing)
in the front yard
of a house
with a man
on its roof
a man
unimpressed
by the woman
half ****
half woman
roughing her bare
scalp
on the wood post
of a neighbor’s
mailbox-
the only person I don’t recognize
is dying / in the house / is dying
from my
boredom. I could check the bird feeder
or I could check
the bird-
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 2:07 PM UTC
My Principles Are Not For Sale!
This poem is dedicated to all those secret, righteous souls, the silent minority (and heaven alone knows who they are) who guide their principles of conduct, whenever their evil inclination challenges them, by the credo "G-d is watching." They do what is right, unimpressed with what "everybody else does." They readily hold their lip, and bow their head to maintain this "peace" in G-d's world. To them, know, this is their holy sacrifice--a sacrifice to G-d, on his very Alter (our world).
Surviving adversity, it is really against the odds
that you'll still stay normal with your full deck of cards
Like many a cause that you know have a price
where principle is concerned, you're ready to sacrifice
There is right and there is wrong, you don't need to belong
your principles are just, they have made you headstrong
No rhyme and no reason can sway you from this cause
because you've pondered its justice and have found no flaws
Shouts of anger and negativity galore
you are now tasting just what is in store
What words could you offer to those limited in thought
when all is finished, would it be your wisdom they sought?
Words of the heart enter the heart, when all else fails
it's not a bad place to be, when addressing another's ails
To overcome adversity there is not always one solution
but it can never be found in starting a revolution
In final sum, it seems like the rule of thumb
better to negotiate that peace and then some
For the alternatives are all to clear
why perpetuate hatred and fear
so put aside your differences
and find a world wishing to care
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 9:39 AM UTC
So u have the answers huh?
So you know what is best, is that right?
Well, I will tango around your empty materialistic ways,
dancing my way to fame.
Laughing at your play by the rules mentality.
Individuality, originality yes it's me unique and unimpressed with your routine.
So excuse me as I stay the same.
Like a tango is my rhyme, so strong and a passion that is all mine.
Divine, divine is my state of mind!
So you have all the answers huh?
You know what is best, is that right?
Aug 15, 2011
Aug 15, 2011 at 9:42 AM UTC
Bury me in Paris, when my heart stops and my eyes open wide,
next to Beckett or Sarte & de Beauvoir, ménage à trois.
Bury me in Paris, where the tourists go,
on the Champs-Élysées, or near the home of Picasso.
Bury me in Paris where the Seraphs scoff and roll their brown eyes
and the saints sell paints on the edge of the Seine’s grime.
Bury me in Paris between the pavement and le Métro,
take my body to whatever stop, just go.
Bury me in Paris on a winter’s night,
beneath the Louvre pyramid light.
Bury me in Paris with Lady Liberty in tow,
make my bed next to de Balzac, next to Marceau.
Bury me in Paris at the foot of l’Obélisque
accompanied by pharaohs, exhumed.
Bury me in Paris, leave me there, I guess,
in the hotel room overlooking the Arc. I, fully dressed.
Bury me in Paris while listening to Robespierre’s final scream,
the silence drowned out only by the guillotine.
Bury me in Paris, Montrouge, your angel calls to me,
that one who serves macarons at the head of the Tuileries.
Bury me in Paris, with the Angel, unimpressed,
next to her, I, in eternal rest.
Bury me in Paris, toss me off Bir-Hakiem, splashing,
or under tour Eiffel in the springtime night, waking.
Bury me in Paris, my body yearns to be free and true,
but if I am to die in New Orleans, bon Ange de Montrouge,
Bury me there with the jazz worms, singing:
“Angel, come to me, come to me, Angel, come.”
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
You're beautiful but I can't remind you every ******* day
I can't rediscover that beauty all day
When I wake up at 6 am I don't think of it so
It's unnatural to so
But what I can do is forget it and become unimpressed
That would be unnatural
Forget to complement your dress
Forget to complement your eyes
Forget to complement your laugh
That would be daft
I can climb the top of your shoulders
Get lost in your freckles and laughter wrinkles
Discover the new sunset and it's death within you
Dismiss the rest as average
Is that okay?
But what I can do is silently admire it every ******* day
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 9:53 AM UTC
My Principles Are Not For Sale!
This poem is dedicated to all those secret, righteous souls, the silent minority (and heaven alone knows who they are) who guide their principles of conduct, whenever their evil inclination challenges them, by the credo "G-d is watching." They do what is right, unimpressed with what "everybody else does." They readily hold their lip, and bow their head to maintain this "peace" in G-d's world. To them, know, this is their holy sacrifice--a sacrifice to G-d, on his very Alter (our world).
Surviving adversity, it is really against the odds
that you'll still stay normal with your full deck of cards
Like many a cause that you know have a price
where principle is concerned, you're ready to sacrifice
There is right and there is wrong, you don't need to belong
your principles are just, they have made you headstrong
No rhyme and no reason can sway you from this cause
because you've pondered its justice and have found no flaws
Shouts of anger and negativity galore
you are now tasting just what is in store
What words could you offer to those limited in thought
when all is finished, would it be your wisdom they sought?
Words of the heart enter the heart, when all else fails
it's not a bad place to be, when addressing another's ails
To overcome adversity there is not always one solution
but it can never be found in starting a revolution
In final sum, it seems like the rule of thumb
better to negotiate that peace and then some
For the alternatives are all to clear
why perpetuate hatred and fear
so put aside your differences
and find a world wishing to care
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 6:32 AM UTC
I am a thousand different things
I'm people, objects, nature, animal
I'm woman, man, girl, boy, child
toddler, baby, foetus
I'm all you could dream of (not) wanting
I'm all you wish you were (not)
I'm (your) anger, sadness, fear, regret
I'm (your) happiness, joy, hope, love
When I write, I'm a character
fiction, autobiographical, biographical
I'm lived, burned, broken, insane
I'm madness, virginal, loose, free
closeted, bi-curious, let's wait it out and see
I'm intrigue, a passer by,
I'm the observer, the observed,
voyeurism, peeping tom, negative film
Moss, McQueen, Klein
I'm art, symbolism, post-modernism,
I'm poetry; written and spoken
I'm the woman you read of; her
I'm the girl who made you cry
I'm full to the brim of (your) inspiration
I open doors to the past, then slam the door
in your bright doe eyes
I close doors to my future, and sneak back
through cracks in the floor,
just to get back
I laugh in your face, and burn holes
in skin at your absence
I kick dirt in my eye, then cry wolf
blinded,
I'm the severest of contradictions,
I say yes at no, no to yes,
I decide on impulse, and cry on cue
Beauty, romance, love, lust
poetry,
all the questions I am made of
I answer in the written word
mute,
You only know me,
(if of course you dare)
by reading my rhymes,
(non judgmental stance)
and loving me regardless,
(don't expect perfection)
If you're going down
the same road
start today,
face your demons,
be the contradiction.
© Sia Jane
--
*"So unimpressed but so in awe
Such a saint but such a *****
So self aware so full of ****
So indecisive so adamant
So rock and roll, so corporate suit
So **** ugly, so **** cute
So well-trained, so animal
So need your love, so **** you all"*
Robbie Williams - Come Undone
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
Depressed, at it's best.
Once incredibly blessed.
Now all the rest,
Unbelievably stressed.
Put to the test,
A big game a chess.
Once lightly caressed,
I somehow confessed,
distressed, not expressed,
I was simply possessed.
When reassessed,
Shall I reinvest?
My heart unexpressed,
You're unimpressed,
I'm just depressed...
Has the music vanished?
Made me black and white?
Stole the color from my soul?
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 4:49 AM UTC
I showed the librarian how Dostoevsky predicted the internet (and what we'd use it for) over a hundred years ago.
She seemed unimpressed.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 8:15 PM UTC
i'll always be there outside of the box
where you spill out your burdens to god
tell me everything you've done wrong-
just unpend your sins, you're cleansed, now you win
i'm
the convenient answer
to feeling remorseful about what you've done
made a mistake? i'm here, don't you wait
i've got all the time you need
and on it goes; my shoulder
for you to lean on will always be there
but don't bother to ask me how i'm doing-
you're not supposed to care
i'm tired of being used like an old *****
you rip me to shreds, leave my tongue on the floor
i'm speechless, i'm hurting, held back by my pride
i'm letting my ego take over my mind
i'm playing callous like it's some sort of game
pretending i'm fine when i'm driven insane
you take the wheel from me, steer into a ditch
leaving me battered and broken, unimpressed, not spoken
i've got
my tongue tied in knots
from navigating the tangled webs you drag me through
but i
will never let myself lose
i need to destroy something, run it right through
to reflect my insides after speaking to you
and maybe i'm just a bitter young *****
but i'll take a hit, and i won't let you miss
so drive me into the ground
i won't be beaten down
you can't do much to me;
i can't get much lower now
how far can you bring me down?
yeah, i'll hold my ground
i'm tired of hearing each of your confessions
simply not being able is not a transgression
you're weighing me down with your innocent guilt
i won't feel your trauma if no souls were spilt
i'm so sick
of hearing your troubles; don't say what's amiss
take a hint
your drama won't make or break you
it's no calamity if she hates you
i'm tired of hearing about your petty fights
scuffling over my business won't help with your strife
you think being hateful will show me the light?
you're wrong, good riddance, get out of my life
something so intrinsic isn't abomination
no matter your creed or your denomination
your social life will never make you a saint
and confessing won't stave off my hate
i'm so sick
of hearing your troubles; don't say what's amiss
take a hint
get off of my shoulder, take your own ******* boulder
and live your own life for a bit
don't confess, i'm not impressed,
just live your life and leave me be.
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 4:21 AM UTC
Stared at a clock today
it was broken
it ticked slower and slower
until it's time seemed to be frozen
Even in it's current state
It would be right twice a day
* I was reminded of lie I was once told
it had left me broken, bitter
battered and cold
But even this lie would've been made true
if it was left to sit unfixed
and I let those emotions brew*
I stared at the clock, unimpressed
the clock had stopped,
twelve o'clock it read
but I knew that it was taunting, teasing
and I believed what it said
*There, I stood, alone and naked
debating with myself if I stood
broken and forsaken
or if this was the start of the new
the beginning of the path less taken
for whichever I stood to believe, this I knew
where I stood then, that was the catalyst
and where I will be next can't be presumed
but for this moment, this second in time
is the only time it will be my center, my middle*
my noon
And with a taunting tick, this clock
began to move again
tock, tick; tick, tock
and without a show of face
I stared in surprise
the clock began to run backward
began to mock
Turning back time
seconds, hours
whispering, shimmering
tempting with the ability to rewind
time
* ...and her face began to focus in my thoughts
the ringing in my ears became clear
became screaming
and the pain I had wrought faded
and the scars done to me dissipated
just for a second, I was watching myself
holding her, touching her, *** despising her**
...and I awake alone
sweating
yearning
scars burning
stomach turning
*And down the hall the clock can be heard with it's ominous, taunting tick-tock ticking into *
oblivion
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 12:46 AM UTC
She have never been into things such as growing a garden, they say her potential will have to be reached by a streak of light draping through the window pane.
she builds her greenhouse and collected some seeds, she doesn't sort if she'll grew by season or if it's a monstrous plant— she just want to see a lot of butterflies that she have never seen before.
she remain unimpressed, seeing a hues full of periwinkle and blues, roses and thorns decorated beautifully by her fragile hands, you can see on her plain tone the visible traces of paper cuts and ink blotch.
one day, a boy visited her garden, he grew fond and perpetrated on every flower she had. they sat on an empty, unfurnished room, filled with his paintings and brushes, not seem to notice the one uncleaned palette she used and left forgotten. She watched the boy as he paints, as if he knew every detail of his magic, it reminds her of the days she spent the same way, on how she loves it, tenderly in her heart— she said he was a stray butterfly, everything on him is luminous.
they spent their time there, little did the boy knew that she loves everything he had done on the garden. She wonders how a little misadventures were found in a wild wood.
Oct 8, 2021
Oct 8, 2021 at 11:00 PM UTC
sometimes my apathy falls
like a silk robe to the ground,
and once again I stand before you
naked.
ashamed of myself
I try to cover the monster that you ran from.
I walk on the sands of the hourglass
for our time has ended.
there is only one set of footsteps
because I needed you to carry me
but failed to realize that you were not strong enough.
I sit alone on the beach
unable to listen to Best Coast
because that would make me cry.
I hug myself
and feel very
very small.
the gentle waves of memories
lick at my feet:
your unimpressed face when I laugh at the way you mispronounce words,
or just your face
or just the way you could make me laugh
your disgust when I joke about your **** ***
or just your ***
or just the way we could joke about that.
it almost makes me smile
but you are the only person alive who knows my tickle spot.
the way your fingers comb from the back of my neck
to my bangs like a fisherman's net,
a feeling the sea breeze wants me to forget
as it tousles my hair violently.
the shore has too much of your face.
I dive into the water to cleanse myself
of the haunting absence of your presence
but I am too small.
my thoughts and your words surround me,
and in my attempt for closure
I am nothing more than closed.
cleansing nothing at all,
I drown in this baptism
as the distorted and unfamiliar
waters of the past soak my lungs
emptying me of breaths of hope
filling me with waters of desperation.
I am sinking into the darkness of depression
my chest compressed like the lungs
of a deep sea diver with no chance of return.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC
When I was stationed at Enoggera, as a young platoon sergeant with 9 RAR, a Merino ram was offered, and accepted, as the Battalion mascot. The diggers called him Stan. The brigade RSM of the time was outraged because he viewed our adoption of Stan as a direct and improper play on his surname, which was Lamb. And, of course, he being as bald as a coot the diggers called him Curly. As I recall, Stan was a lively, ill disciplined beast with little respect for the niceties of service life, hence:
When Stan-the-Ram met Curly Lamb a fracas did ensue.
For Curly stood beside the road just outside B.H.Q.;
His Sam Brown belt so shiny, his pace-stick 'neath one arm,
The RSM of our brigade was used to war's alarm.
But Stan, although a raw recruit and barely chewing grass,
Unimpressed by Curly, charged and knocked him on his ****
"It's contact rear" cried Curly, as he struggled to his feet,
Turned about with arms akimbo his assailant for to meet.
Meanwhile Stan's poor handler looked ready to desert
'cos Stan-the-Ram whilst in his care had Curly eating dirt.
I guess he felt embarrassed, which was natural, wouldn't you?
If involved in such a fracas outside of BHQ.
Your questions are but natural and in answer I can swear,
As these events unfolded I was marching off the square.
Having Just dismissed defaulters I was feeling rather mean
But my despondency was lifted by that ****** glorious scene.
And in the mess that evening rang out laughter clear and loud,
For I'd told them all my story and of Stan we felt quite proud.
There was Sutherland and Massingham, and Peter Cowan too
And Tim Daly called **** Gordon from his room, well, wouldn't you?
And when **** heard my story he poured port into a glass,
And we drank a toast to Stanly putting Curly on his ****
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 1:45 AM UTC
These whitewashed walls scream out my discontent,
The faces of inmates line the corridors, impassive and unimpressed,
I bang on steel locker doors, but I hardly make a dent,
My words are not replied to, and my screams go answered,
It doesn't matter though, they are silent screams of aid,
They resound through these hallways like the echoes of a gale,
The cold of locker steel is an ever foreboding constant.
They line the hallways, like the vigilant sentinels of a jail,
And I can help but think, how familiar the two seem to be,
And how in one a perfect illusion is created, of being free,
These whitewashed walls are filled to the brim,
With students and inmates, angels and demons alike,
Teachers and wardens stalk these halls, hidden behind their hollow faces,
Bullies and inmates swarm these halls, hidden behind unfamiliar faces,
In these whitewashed walls, there are blackened souls and empty holes,
Holes where hearts used to be, and coal where souls used to be,
These whitewashed walls are alive, and they bear witness to it all,
And here these whitewashed walls remain, through our rise and our fall.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 7:46 PM UTC
a person on the metro, six stops from their destination
leafing through a brochure titled How
To Get Rich Quick -
sighing in disgust,
"I was never allowed to go on the metro
when I was young," boasts the woman
sitting beside them, an accessory of
The Scene. a prop
(voice is loud and nasally, and the person - five stops - considers moving)
quick smile, polite:
which means, go away. or, at the very least, don't talk quite
so loud
okay? okay?
a softcover Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary is under the seat, discarded,
Sharpie skidding through it (four stops) at every jolt
of the train.
this is normal, all trains are jerky sometimes, and the loud woman
expresses her concerns.
an old man, older than both people,
older than anything really - coughs.
wet coughs.
the person frowns, but quietly, so
the woman and man won't notice.
(they are well-practiced in the art of subtlety)
three stops. the woman leaves
but the smell lingers
and the dictionary, having slid back
one or two rows for effect
a flock of tourists board. kids in the seats
parents hanging tiredly to safety holds
(be still be quiet keep your hands to yourself, mandy
a little boy of six clinging to the person's jacket with
sticky warm fingers)
two stops, and the boy asks why they look so sad.
what they're reading.
they have perfected the art of silence
but little boys don't understand silence.
the mother hovers in the background
sneaking ***** looks at the person,
wax smudged smile going crooked at the edges
one stop,
the boy asks where they got their hair
(my head;
he is unimpressed)
he is kicking the lonely dictionary
providing it with company,
or maybe unaware.
they leave, and the mother hisses something at them as they pass -
clutches the boy's arm.
the dictionary has been stuck on the word spectral for three days,
and the train hums to life.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 9:28 AM UTC
I am from a rooftop garden
That smell like fresh guavas
And hard, wired fences
Behind which lies a foggy skyline
A dreaming city
I am from a small, brown-red backyard shed
Tucked between rural green fields
Where two little girls defended the world from evil by
Laughing and swinging wildly on a rusted, fluorescent swing set
I am from a row of townhouses
Where no matter how late the return
Warm lights inside glow
Beckoning
I am from strong rocks
Against which foamy, icy waves crash
Leaving behind grass
Soft to touch
And hard to uproot
I am from eating overdone fried chicken
From short-lived patience
From a voicemail
That will always say
From Lucy, Tulu and Samah
From don’t eat that, it’s for the guests
And if you have to do it, do it, but I don’t want to hear about it.
From too many whys
And not enough faith
I am from Dhaka, Bangladesh
From jostling crowds and hearing a million voices outside
I am from Limerick, Ireland.
From rustic houses and quaint parishes
I am from Wallingford, Pennsylvania
From suburbia and inane boredom
From the college-genius who crashed weddings on weekends,
The woman who is still unimpressed by sushi in Japan
I am from feeling sad if you do
But wanting to make you laugh anyway
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 6:11 PM UTC
Trying to sleep but my eyes open wide
With voices whispering from every side,
Battles in my mind and nowhere to hide,
a futile resistance against the rising tide.
Thought after thought taunting my soul,
As this constant barrage takes its toll,
Eating away slowly now a gaping hole,
My mind going crazy and out of control.
I know not why I cannot rest,
Thoughts of random is all I possess,
A decent nights sleep, and I'll be blessed,
5 minutes and I'm unimpressed.
I always loose the fight to sleep,
I've counted every last ******* sheep,
Watched them 'baa' as they leap,
Watch them land in a heap.
I give up, I might as well,
Just leave my sleeplessness to dwell,
Bid my dreams farewell,
Cos everynight I'm met with hell...
Aug 29, 2012
Aug 29, 2012 at 9:37 PM UTC
I don't wanna leave your arms to write,
but these moments give me such insight.
Laid down beside the still moonlight,
these moments set my heart ignite.
Forever endeavor,
misery mistress to confide.
Clever minds severed,
as your feelings turn to hide.
I feel your heart beat through my chest.
Pressed to me, you take no rest.
But I would love you regardless;
you never leave me unimpressed.
Not out of mind, but out of sight;
everyone I see is you.
I hope you love me, facts despite,
already running back to you.
Forever endeavor,
misery mistress on the side.
Has eyes for whomever,
you sit along for the ride.
I never meant to be uptight,
I know I've not been too polite,
but you only come to me at night
and somethin' 'bout that don't feel right.
-
Love starts its day with you;
you spent the morning in my bed.
I don't know if your heart is true,
for I cannot read your head.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
Some nights,
I dream of my father's fists,
or the blue-green color of his eyes
and how they watered,
became oceans,
when he'd had too much to drink.
There was a galaxy inside of him,
a great, gravitational mass.
He opened his mouth and swallowed worlds;
became a death-eater,
teeth biting down into a swollen black tongue.
When I was a fetus, I felt him pulling,
so I gnawed my way out of my mother's womb.
Covered in her blood, I met my adversary.
I dove into the sea to stare him down,
but could scarcely remember my amniotic swimming.
I drowned. My lungs filled
with the emptiness of space,
and for ages I floated, unmoored,
drifting by stars forever unimpressed with me.
One day, the universe will collapse,
time flying backwards toward its end.
I will see him as he was when he was new,
a stardust embryo not touched by awfulness.
I will know what it means to love.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 5:59 AM UTC
She was not like most people, she got caught somewhere in between reality while swallowing substances as a form of psychiatry.
She had found herself always stumbling accross her own art you see, even amongst her own world she was lost and misplaced her galaxy's key.
She was never exactly listening while breathing in your level of dimension you see, her thoughts wandered much too far off the edge of her galaxy's sea.
This place she ended up was consumed by madness, darkness, and imagination. She was always shaking on the floor fighting the feelings of prostration.
This woman lived inside of her head you know, all these things she could not explain somehow made her grow.
She fought against her own world, how was she supposed to stay sane when the reality around her was swirled?
She tried her best by hiding behind the moon and sprinkling her world with fairy dust, still she found herself screaming at the stars to please shake off the feeling of lust.
She was cursed with a heart that never ceased to love, voices whispered in the skies of her own galaxy and laughed at her from above.
She refused to waste her time believing in actuality, for she was too busy seducing starlight with her sensual sexuality.
Her unpredictable personality was either devilish or angelic, she was lost while chasing dragons in this world of hers oh so psychedelic.
You would never dare to walk deeper into her thoughts of fantasy and lucid dreaming, your naive infinity could have never established any meaning.
You were unimpressed by her actions and resented her always reckless, around the witch's neck laid her luck inside a necklace.
She remained in her own nonsense believing mysteries indeed mystical, in the end these mysteries meaning nothing less than egotistical.
You never saw beyond the facts of your own perspective, little did you know
from her's she was fighting villians just to keep her nature protected.
May 15, 2019
May 15, 2019 at 8:26 PM UTC
I can still write words
Words unseen, unappreciated
Unheard
I can still pen my emotions
In black & blue
twisting syllables and sentences
So you won't understand
How it feels to be lonely
Abandoned & rejected
I can write words
You'll have to find
Through dictionary pages
And perhaps you might not
Have the time
So instead you'll sigh unimpressed
And close the book
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
I have seen the wonders of the world
in a month of new experience.
I have let people in for a change.
I have met the kindest, most helpful angel
on a road trip off to nowhere.
Too gentle for his own good.
I have felt the warmth of laughter
in the ladies' room while having a smoke.
I was walking on clouds.
I have heard the focused, resonating silence
amidst spaces in a study room.
A pin dropped.
I have seen the sad, the happy,
the lonely, the mighty,
the inferior, the hustle,
the coziness, and the wind.
I have seen it all, my love,
and still I remain unimpressed.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 1:11 PM UTC
Dotta swung and he missed
Time for him to cease and desist
After Ren went ballistic
Because he couldn’t resist
The allure of a battle
Using words like their fists
Landing blow after blow
Without a beat to assist
We witnessed a burial
An end to a reign
But all that king Dotta was..
Was a true royal pain
A husky, sad, clout chaser
Vanilla, quite plain
Who failed in his attempt
To perform; entertain
Ren showed his ferocity, his ability, his skills
He speared his first whale
Despite Dotta not having gills
But Ren gave him a lifeline
Without showing any ill will
Offering all he can eat
On a buffet filled with krill
One million subscribers
Sent to consume and digest
King Dotta’s music
Of which I’ve been unimpressed
But the message from Ren
Was really quite clear
As the words spilled from his lips
“A rising tide, lifts all ships”
Aug 6, 2023
Aug 6, 2023 at 5:21 AM UTC