"unintellectual" poems
"bleed·ing heart"
a person considered to be dangerously softhearted
feeling sorry for everything and everyone and giving in to emotions quickly.
“My heart bled today.”
Nothing new, same old routine, same old unremarkable usual thing.
They say over and over, Repetition is key. The key for what, I may never know.
Things often moving quickly halt and take on the slow.
The same people, the same faces, the same air, the same places.
I’m a person with a bleeding heart.
It’s dangerous to lead a life like mine,
Sadly you can’t escape the family bloodline.
Constantly stuck in a place between the planes.
I can’t help what’s running wild, pumping through my veins.
No rest for me. The others are already gone.
My logic quickly left along with the dawn.
My bleeding heart might just be the death of me.
I would show you I am hurting but we can’t seem to agree
I am all alone surrounded by nothing but my own suffocating thoughts.
I can’t breathe and continue to find myself at a loss.
A new beginning. The strong will live, the weak will die.
It’s tattooed into the minds of the people in the city as a nearby excuse for people like me.
Yes, there are others, but they are far out of reach, conveniently unavailable.
The rest of us have been wiped out and deemed unfavorable.
What am I?
Just an unnoticed vessel of the human soul
and all of it’s dangerously soft-hearted mannerisms.
I have a bleeding heart. I do not deny.
Left alone for the beasts to tear apart.
But I cannot help but look to the sky.
I despise my nature, my being even,
Curse my benignant soul,
And my lack of self control
What’s left for me in this cruel world?
Run by unintellectual imbeciles running off their own flawed reasoning
A divergent past, lies in ruins which was once filled with memories and happy experiences,
I was once just a kid lost in her own place, drowning and begging for help but no one came.
Perhaps, I’m not as much of a person with a bleeding heart as I possibly could be.
Perhaps, the legacy I leave behind will be nothing but a life of running away.
Perhaps my bleeding heart only bleeds in contrast to the reality around me.
“Because it is mine, it will always bleed”.
I am stuck in this life of heartache and unwelcome spilled blood, but it will be alright.
Because I won’t give up, not until I succeed.
I will make it one day, even if there is no destination, I’ll go just to see the sights.
Bleeding heart and all, I will fight the war, not backing down, but disappearing at midnight.
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 2:56 AM UTC
I am human
I am selfish
and sometimes selfless
I am broken
and sometimes whole
I am unintellectual
and sometimes full of knowledge
I am capable
and sometimes insecure
I am destructive
and sometimes constructive
I am emotionless
and sometimes too emotional
I am happy
and sometimes far too upset
I make sense
and sometimes I'm just contradictory
But there's one thing I had in mind
throughout the construction of this poem.
*I am who I am,
And nothing you say or do,
Will make me feel otherwise.*
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 11:38 AM UTC
Work,work,work
Look down
Clutch pen
Cry inside
Lie down
then lie to yourself
"You can turn this around."
Work harder
bound forward
mind is paper
blank
and rank.
Unheeded words,
slurred with drunkeness
of lack of sleep.
Keep going.
Who the **** needs sleep?
Who needs food?
Work through lunch
because when you munch upon food
it magically transforms to paper
Sodden in your mouth, so sour.
They are draining you of your power.
Go on, take my all.
A friend texts you
they wish for help
you try to answer
but are suppressed by your
yelp of self pity.
So you break with people
to prevent
a self exposing
litany.
Work Harder
You must.
Don't dare to trust your mind
your shell
yourself
Whatever you do
don't ask for help
You're weak
Unintellectual
and small.
So what if failed subjects
enthrall you?
That won't get you the grades
You've paid them with your all.
You're still not enough
You'll never be enough
Not tough enough to cut it
too proud/unweak to fall
You're in the midst of
a truely unbreakable brawl
Pen
Paper
Time to write the essay
now
you don't know
how
but, who cares?
Let's catch them unawares
with your ignorance.
"This play was set in florence...?"
(I think)
don't blink
Just Sink
Maybe this time, someone will notice.
Yet then again, maybe not.
I promise not to stop.
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 11:36 AM UTC
The misfortunate will have their revenge in the first world,
until the hammer of money is toppled and unforced,
and the overlabouring encounters empathy,
until "freedom rings" over every hill and mountain in the third section of the globe and finally
the mind of avoidance in the nature of reality outcries the devil in revelation,
until then will this retribution be forethoughted.
Will you then— my pale brother listen to the voiceless?
Would you ask and then act? Give reason to the repress?
Would you feed
and clothe
and would bathe and still loathe? And would you continue to **** me?
Would you follow the way of inferior, preposterous, unintellectual, usurious, for the sake of an elusive triumphant state?
Would you continue wearing your boots and feasting on tea,
and remembering the wars and like a hawk hunting your senseless view on humanity?
If you are my God's creation, then who am I to you?
Allow me then to say to you, that your void is to be filled with the infinite and the sublime,
and that not the earthly and mankind.
That your constitution may be molded to your heart and not you to the constitution.
And that you always capacitate yourself of feelings deeply of any injustice committed against anyone, anywhere in the world.
Because of this last one, is the most beautiful
of the internal independence, revolution, and love immutable.
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 7:22 PM UTC
I think I shall sit upon my finest chair
but first sweep away the rubble
of emotional ash
yes, this feels better, a clearer mind now
so I can dabble in unintellectual thoughts
glass of red wine, sip gently, settle in
anticipating the silly grin
thinking of the why question, and the what
if, roll the ball down the alley, oops
a curve and a miss
do I anser the chirping robins calls
hardly, in what language, do they reply
the fog settles in now, a blanket of fine mist
for the demons and ghost to play in
i'm just an obsever of this nightly show
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 8:22 PM UTC
Illusive to all eyes but mine and
dare do I to ponder his weaved
tales of wondrous bliss to the
unintellectual mind,
Rumour fell from lips that prey
on the herds of unified madness
without their Shepard for the
devil offered them temptation
which the Gods had failed to
fulfil without their obedience,
Quite the thrill was the uproar
and quite the performance did
their eyes devour.
For if you deconstruct the
words that spill from the
electric pink flesh then
- insanity has found you.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 9:49 PM UTC