"uninteresting" poems
From an airplane
The clouds
Are a soft
Blanket,
Tucked up
Over the Earth's crust -
Keeping it cozy
and warm -
Even in winter.
From an airplane
The rainbow sheen
On the sea
Is a patch
On the ocean's
Dark Wal-Mart jeans -
Bringing life
To what's otherwise
Uninteresting.
From an airplane
The cities
(quotidianly)
Are just toys
Left by children on
Christmas morning
That could not
Compete with
The Next Greatest Thing.
Back on Earth
I'm a speck
On a sad rock
In a terminal sea
Under the
Never ending
White expanse
Of The Greenhouse -
Sweating,
In February.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 8:36 PM UTC
ponces! nancies! veritable egrets of men!
people pleasing anti-charismatic animals
philistines, every one of them,
everyone else
a curse upon their forebears and a curse upon their goings-on
terrible business, that
the world should be filled with boundary pushing eccentrics, that is progress!
a plague upon normalcy, a plague upon stagnancy
uninteresting, dying off, done
ugh!
greatness can not be expected of all but at least an attempt should be made
how else will we overcome, will we build our utopia?
what use is MY struggle when others are defeated in making a move past the remote
television is for swine
rots your brain and morals
I've swell morals, just look at them
my morals reach to the moon
my morals are so swell I should run the country
my morals aren't two millenia old scriptures written by the seers of goat-tenders
my morals are modern, they are sleek and well dictated, they represent the future
my morals defy the past, my morals create new paradigms
why, you could say my morals defy all of traditionalism
and a curse upon tradition!
who ever learned from the past
history is rife with naught but sufferance
forwards is the only direction
forwards is revealed only to me
my ideals aglow with the lumine of the future
they are entrenched in idealism
me and mine, we are ideal
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 1:30 AM UTC
I am a walking contradiction.
I am six feet, five inches tall
But I feel microscopic.
I am a proud Englishman,
Disgusted by his history and absent
Of allegiances to any land, any country.
I am a nomad, but there is so much I haven't seen.
I am filled with wanderlust,
But also crave routine, and hate change.
I am a passionate writer,
But it pains me to write.
I am so very concerned by the world,
Its people and emotions,
Yet I distance myself, want no part in it,
Thrive off any psychopathic habits I develop -
I enjoy the disdain I have for most people.
I am well-educated, above-average intelligence,
But I know nothing... and always will.
I am surrounded by people that I love and care about,
But I feel so often, so desperately alone.
I crave my own space, my solitude,
The freedom of my own head and my mind's
Undivided attention, but it haunts me,
And I miss the feeling of warmth beside me in my bed.
It taunts me. It makes me want to die.
I am a walking contradiction because I desperately
Want to live, if only to achieve something worth
Being remembered for, worth dying for.
There's no poetic justice, beauty in death of
An ordinary man with uninteresting achievements.
That is wasted oxygen to me, and wasted talent
(if you can even call it that for)
I crave success, but fear I am talentless.
I am a walking contradiction.
Sometimes I think I am delusional,
But, then again, I am one of the most logical people
I know. I'm boring. But I want to excite, to entertain.
I am not funny, but I want to make people laugh.
I want to live forever and die tomorrow.
I am a walking contradiction.
Nobody mourns the poor - of pocket or of soul.
I fear that I am both.
I fear that I am a walking contradiction.
Completely devoid of purpose, of meaning
But so hopelessly in love with the beauty of it all.
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 11:15 AM UTC
Excuse me for my hurt,
I know you mean well,
And you want to inspire,
And uplift me,
But language is a fickle art.
One that can make the difference,
Composing tone and the words themselves.
And there is no greater insecurity
Than the one called Me.
Since the very beginning,
I have been openly listening,
Engaging in thoughtful discussion -
The subject of You, the percussion.
I immediately spotted possible repercussions.
I wanted, and I still do,
To know your essence,
But healthy exchanges
Involve equality,
And I don't want to be left hanging,
Feeling like I'm lesser.
I crave knowing the rest of your essence,
But have you no interest
In knowing the same?
Are our minds connected
Of the same fibers
Or are we what we weave,
Being different in how we perceive,
A lifetime of individual strings?
The only Person I should keep in my life,
Making me feel inferior and uninteresting,
Is Me -
And I shall escape that fate,
With unconditional love, and positivity.
I am deeply interested,
In knowing MySelf, loving MySelf,
And to You, who has shown limited interest
In simply knowing me,
You, I choose as a direction of my Purity,
You, unaltered and true,
You, and Me, Alone -
It all, once again,
Always begins with You.
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 4:42 AM UTC
Contemptuous of his home beyond
The village and the village pond,
A large-souled Frog who spurned each byeway,
Hopped along the imperial highway.
Nor grunting pig nor barking dog
Could disconcert so great a frog.
The morning dew was lingering yet
His sides to cool, his tongue to wet;
The night dew when the night should come
A travelled frog would send him home.
Not so, alas! the wayside grass
Sees him no more:--not so, alas!
A broadwheeled waggon unawares
Ran him down, his joys, his cares.
From dying choke one feeble croak
The Frog's perpetual silence broke:
"Ye buoyant Frogs, ye great and small,
Even I am mortal after all.
My road to Fame turns out a wry way:
I perish on this hideous highway,-
Oh for my old familiar byeway!"
The choking Frog sobbed and was gone:
The waggoner strode whistling on.
Unconscious of the carnage done,
Whistling that waggoner strode on,
Whistling (it may have happened so)
"A Froggy would a-wooing go:"
A hypothetic frog trolled he
Obtuse to a reality.
O rich and poor, O great and small,
Such oversights beset us all:
The mangled frog abides incog,
The uninteresting actual frog;
The hypothetic frog alone
Is the one frog we dwell upon.
3.7k
Dust motes and sweat stains
Faded graffiti over rusted steel plates
Advertising everything, from politicians to a massage parlor,
The engine roars disgruntled, in smoky rancor.
I stepped on your feet, said I was sorry
Tell me mister, could you tell I was lying?
Pushing through the rush-hour crowd
I finally found my footing and was proud.
Well, there’s something to be said for low expectations
A word of praise for cranky co-passengers.
Not that the polite ones aren’t fun,
When they smile and roll their eyes like they’re so done.
And it’s not that I’d ever expect sincerity,
At 10 on a rainy Tuesday morning
I’m not a nihilist, or even much of a cynic by default
But at 10am, I take nice with a bucket of salt.
I put on my headphones, crank the volume up to max,
Sway to the shrill screeching of pirated tracks
I’m sorry, did you say something? I can’t really tell.
It’s not you’re uninteresting, it’s just that this song is swell.
And maybe I could’ve made more of an effort
Gotten to know your name, exchanged toffees and emotional support
Maybe you’d have told me your story, if my ears were free
Maybe we could’ve found something worth a keep.
But you see, mister, it’s not you it’s me
At 10 on a Tuesday morning, I’m not the best company.
I hope, tomorrow, you’ll find a co-passenger worth your time,
As for me, facelessness suits me just fine.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 5:47 AM UTC
I don't know why
I keep telling myself
"You and I.", "Us.", "We."
like butterfly wings
are paired, intertwining.
I need to face reality.
Your constantly showing me
That I am uninteresting,
Romantically.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 5:59 AM UTC
It was the whole universe on the surface area of the white wires that took me home. I like the oldies. Sometimes I’m just too tired to learn a new song. The old songs are just as good, just as beautiful, perhaps more. And it’s not that I’m mad at you, I’d just rather hear Elton’s voice than yours. I know that your story is important, but I’ve heard it before. Yeah, I’ve heard his too, but his is more interesting, and I like it better. So please to don’t call me self- centered, like the uninteresting, dependent generation that I was born into. So I don’t think I’ll take out my headphones right now. I like hearing the music.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 11:50 AM UTC
Why, God, is there so much pain and suffering?
Because, my child, without such
You would be so terribly uninteresting
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 11:31 PM UTC
In my attempt to be clever and witty I have written you a poem.
For you to read and pick apart.
It will start with a catchy title that will then bring you to the opening sentence.
In my attempt to be clever and witty I have written you a poem.
If this poem catches your eye,
you will read Michelle Rose
to figure out worthiness of a follow or a like.
If this is uninteresting you won’t even bother to finish reading.
It will end with a clever remark that could be considered sarcasm,
just as the rest of the poem could have been.
You will then wonder to yourself, why did I just read that,
and what the hell is that second to last stanza supposed to mean?
Or maybe you won’t do any of this because you’re a normal person.
Did I just call you abnormal?
Sometimes I like to read in the dark too…
a clever remark that could be considered sarcasm,
Just as the rest of the poem could have been.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 8:31 PM UTC
Hanging at the end of
Strained rope
Swing my lost ambitions
And desires
My sanity swaying in the
Cruel winds of
Loveless night
Just a square peg
Confronted with
A round hole
Dropped anchor on
The shores of insanity
It seems so beautiful here.
I must create my own world
As my place in this one
Does not seem fitting
Genius is wasted
Upon the buffoonery
Of mass ignorance
Intelligence shunned
Brilliance and uniqueness
Frowned upon and cast aside
For the normality of uninteresting
****** zombies
The painfully intelligent
Forced into subversion
Hiding their gifts
For fear of being outcast
Men who cling to the faults
Of their fathers
And stories of stir crazy, house wives
Cabin fever was invented
To thin our stock
We all toy with the desire
Forcing blind eyes
Into the faces of
The gifted
Substance abuse is often a malady
Of the painfully intelligent and artistic
Drowning my will to be weird
My own underhandedness
Innately forcing my inner self
Beneath a cloak of politeness
This world
This living theater
Where we all assume
Our own role
Where our actions are
Transcribed
And cast upon us
Like stones on the river
I have grown tired
Of acting the fool
Prepare myself
For a new role
A starring role
Have you ever felt
The wonderment of déjà vécu?
And the sorrow of knowing
You belong to another time?
I need the exhilaration of a time
When life was simpler,
Yet more confusing
Was Judas the only one Christ trusted
To deliver him to his fate?
Is the human race too cowardly
To be welcomed in the arms of a deity?
Are we too ignorant to recognize
That is has already occurred?
Are we the last remnants
Of an experiment gone wrong?
The plague of the human race.
Devouring consciousness
Eliminating uniqueness
Evolving into our own demise
One too many mutations gone wrong
Retching in the soiled undergarments
Of our father's sins
Reveling in the untold lies
Of mother's milk
I have soured on this world long ago
Bounding for higher consciousness
Looking for the unseen
Searching for the undiscovered
Drug sideways
Through the sludge
Of society
Screaming wildly
Through the entirety
The gene pool would benefit
From a healthy dose of chlorine
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 12:52 PM UTC
I'm only lukewarm, marginally mediocre.
Not quite laid-back enough to be considered cool
Nor adequately exciting for red hot.
Just going by, average, as a rule.
I'm much too old to be reckless and immature,
Yet not as old as wisdom and a good war story.
Not so rich to live out luxurious abandon
but far too rich to be tragically sorry.
I'm unremarkable, uneventful, uninteresting,
Uncool and unattractive, unfit and unaware.
I assume I'm just not- I'm everything 'un' already,
A stale glass of water, gone oddly warm in stagnant air
I am lukewarm, at best.
Perhaps some day I'll be blast frozen
Or I had once been boiled hot.
For now though, there are no cubes of ice
That I can swallow and be more than not.
I am the everyday masses, lost in the throng,
The not-particularly-bright, non-slacker, no-name brands
That believe they're not good enough- or quite the sharpest prong.
We, the herd lost in the middle bench lands-
We're wild and we're sober,
Frightened and unafraid.
We're nothing like you, but we're just the same.
But we, the ones who spend our lives
In the middle bench,
will be alright.
We can persevere, we can.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 1:12 PM UTC
As I never cared for shiny objects.
until I felt I lost mine,
Illumination,
What feels like in a sudden,
There are so many from them,
Those people,
covered in gold and diamonds,
shining away from their high pedestals,
Stunning, ... captivating,...
I sat there in silence,
admiring from afar,
and once in a while when they come down from their higher ground,
I follow them around, --
I follow them around, ...
My existence is a wish of theirs,
wispy and feeble,...
...
There is a beggar on the ground,
begging for a second chance,
trampled and forgotten,
I don't know her,
I don't know her story,
As much as I know these sparkles,
they can't be the same kind...
Boring and uninteresting,...
So I scold at her,
ignored her,
as mine and me alone gasp for my care,...
Too easy...
Because it was too easy...
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 12:56 PM UTC
You may think that you are a dull gray
Quite like heavy clouds that casts dark shadows
Or those ***** dusts you sweep out of the house
But I think
You're a yellow
Like the highlighter you use to study every night
You're a red
Like the big book you read on biochemistry
You're a purple
Like the rims of your thick glasses that people make fun of
You're an orange
Like the ball of this game you don't know how to play
You're a blue
Like the only pair of jeans you seem to have
You're a green
Like the lizard you keep in your room as a pet
You're amazing,
Fun, and full of surprises
And I won't allow you to think otherwise.
So please stop seeing yourself as
Someone who is
No one,
Boring, lame, uninteresting because
Your spirit is uniquely splattered with colors
And it never fails to brighten my day.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 6:23 AM UTC
I am notebooks stained with coffee and blots of black and blue ink and
I am pages ripped and torn out of frustration
I am friday nights spent watching old movies and sipping hot cocoa from some old mug that caught your eye
I am black eyeliner and ocean waves and
soft grey v-necks and stockings
I am the songs you play
when you want to hear the
melody and not recognize the tune
I am fairy lights at midnight
when the clouds obscure the sight of the stars
I am those stars
and sometimes, I am the clouds
I am dark red nail polish to match dark circles under eyes:
I am mysterious in uninteresting ways
I am dented silver crowns and rubies
I am sweater paws and fatal flaws
I am beautiful chaos:
chipped paint and pulled threads
one tug away from unraveling
broken hearts and waterfalls
rose petals
2 a.m. phone calls
I am the love you gave
and the love you took
and I am the love I found in myself
after you were gone
Feb 10, 2018
Feb 10, 2018 at 10:05 PM UTC
Perhaps the most positively uninteresting tragedy
Is the story of flawed, impeded love.
For whenever I venture, strive, endeavor—
To exit my haven of solitary isolation
I’m devoid of any bravery.
Though I wish I could say
“People scare me! I don’t want to be judged
For things I cannot control,
For transgressions and loves
Methods, impairment, systems and failures
Despicable lies and harrowing truths
Cringeworthy trances and malicious propositions—
That’s the reason I tragically fear you!"
But such would be blatant lies.
For I am not a reticent sheep,
Not afraid of human, futile words
It’s not any judgement or hate I despise
It’s just that I can’t ever compromise
I’m so terrified of judging
Even in my mind
The people of the world
Precious brethren of my kind—
I don’t wish to hurt a weakling
Or a disgraceful abomination
Thus, I’ll isolate from anyone
For fear of impeding my love
Of all alive, of everyone.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 12:09 PM UTC
wake up
desensitized, oversanitized
want
unsatisfied
want
unsatisfied
want
unsatisfied
want
unsatisfied
Dab all over with aches, pains, and itches.
Struggle with gauche and forced interactions, coworkers and family. Friends?
No God.
POSITIVE THOUGHTS
POSITIVE THINKING
cloying, choking fear.
fear
Fear
FEAR
F E A R
Rub your face in the mirror.
Think deep thoughts that you believe are unique.
They are not. You are very uninteresting, probably.
want
unsatisfied
want
unsatisfied
want
unsatisfied
want
unsatisfied
drink until you sleep,
if not use the pills.
Use both.
Your room is warm.
You will have nightmares.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
The night’s quiet hold,
The tree’s uninterrupted shadows,
The moist breeze breathing,
All these things,
Act as my cloister,
To hide me away from the superficial world
Surrounding me in daylight.
Here,
In the night,
I take off the facade,
Of a happy, content child of society.
Here,
In the night,
I am myself;
A silent, dark ****
Sullen and reserved,
Laconic in conversation,
Uninteresting.
The night’s quiet hold,
The tree’s uninterrupted shadows,
The moist breeze breathing,
All these things,
Act as my cloister.
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 3:01 PM UTC
You keep folding yourself in. Like origami, you turn into various art sculptures. You change so you'll remain hidden and unseen but I'm an observer. I see how with every fold, I make a mental note of it.
How spectacular; you fold to hide but to me you're an art exhibition. The more you try to stay low-key, the more awestruck I get. So how, my dear, do you think you're uninteresting, unloved, unentertaining when your very being is a field I'm studying? You're art.
-m.b
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 6:04 AM UTC
I’m not big enough
I’m not strong enough
It isn’t wide enough
It isn’t long enough.
I’ve hear them all
You are not the first.
Not the best and certainly
You are not the worst.
Princess Tiny Meat
That surely is me.
As uninteresting
As a guy can be.
No fun in bed, but
How would they know?
They take one look
And away they go.
I’m not rich enough
Car’s not worth enough.
I live in the wrong place
No work done on my face.
Don’t know the right folks.
Don’t know the right jokes.
Don’t know the right dances.
Not worth taking chances.
Princess Tiny Meat
That surely is me.
As uninteresting
As a guy can be.
No fun in bed, but
How would they know?
They take one look
And away they go.
Not butch enough, yet
Who cares about that?
What matters in their soul
Is a big one for their hole.
It must be a big opening
That keeps them hoping
For an arm-sized toy
For such a fixated boy.
Princess Tiny Meat
That surely is me.
As uninteresting
As a guy can be.
No fun in bed, but
How would they know?
They take one look
And away they go.
There must be no talking;
Nothing but constant poking
Will satisfy the size-slut.
Nothing matters but their ****
No exchange of ideas or
Hobbies they can explore.
There is only getting laid.
And the conquests they made.
Princess Tiny Meat
That surely is me.
As uninteresting
As a guy can be.
No fun in bed, but
How would they know?
They take one look
And away they go.
It doesn’t take long to see
Where the gems can be
Among a sea of phonies
And disco show-ponies.
So, I tell them right away
There’s no bologna here today.
It runs off the size-queens
And leaves human beings.
Princess Tiny Meat
That surely is me.
As uninteresting
As a guy can be.
No fun in bed, but
How would they know?
They take one look
And away they go.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 4:50 PM UTC
You feel uninteresting
Unappealing
Want to get unstuck
You strive to be part of a larger entity
But you sit and watch
Apr 22, 2021
Apr 22, 2021 at 8:42 PM UTC
You can taste the water. She did.
Limp left leg supports her weight,
not to mention the infant that clings to her breast,
malnourished and weak.
With her left arm around the little one, holding him tight,
she slowly kneels down at the stream.
Right hand clings to the white bowl
as it scoops the liquid silence into itself.
Her infant first. He eagerly sips.
Doesn't taste good, but he's too young to know any better.
Her turn. Surviving had never been harder,
but she tasted the water.
You can touch the earth. He did.
His men, arms at the ready, invade
after unsuccessful attempts
at resolving the conflict diplomatically.
The land was unclaimed, and worth a fortune.
Peace kept it asleep
until the drums of war awoke its aching body.
The General dismounts,
takes a moment to scan his men,
kneels down, extends his arm
and presses his hand firmly on the ground.
He lets the soil stain his fingers;
moist with the cleansed foundation,
but also thick, with the blood of his enemies,
now on his hand.
He begins to cry;
the rivalry between him and his brother
did not have to come to this,
but he touched the earth.
You can feel the wind. They did.
Walking along the shore of a vacant beach,
he asks to see her. She's confused.
He strips naked, right in front of her.
She giggles. He smiles back.
She's always hated her body,
convinced by the voices in her head
that she's ugly, overweight, and uninteresting.
Alas, she closes her eyes and strips. Her eyes open.
He's still smiling, even more so now.
His gaze turns towards the ocean.
They start to run,
but it's not colliding with the water
that ignites their soul;
it is the wind, raising their spirits
and carrying them as they leap into the cold.
They were terrified,
but they felt the wind.
As for the fire? That is up to you.
When your heart beats for someone so fast
you lose all spatial perception,
your soul is igniting.
When the acrophobic young adult
takes the leap with a bungee cord
strapped to her leg,
she's never felt so alive.
Love is fire. Fear is fire.
There's a phoenix laying dormant inside you,
and it waits;
not to be burned alive,
but rather burned to life,
and it yearns for the fire.
In essence,
You can taste the water,
touch the earth,
and feel the wind.
However,
Until you drink the ***** water solely to survive,
or shed the blood of your enemies
in the name of duty and honor,
or set your naked soul free
to embrace the wind,
taking that giant leap into the unknown,
I'm afraid you can only imagine the fire.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 6:58 PM UTC
Beneath the embrace of our hands, ran a silver lining;
We walked along it, purposefully.
A gloomy late afternoon, a half-lit street;
We passed by dainty shops that seemed strangely uninteresting.
The dying afterglow of a summer spent together in New York,
summed up in a nervous kiss and a flurry of downward glances
— you’re leaving.
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 3:00 AM UTC
The embrace of the warm water was welcome on the iciness of my flesh. My skin, pale and uninteresting, reflected what I felt inside: cold, bitter, and lacking life. I can't recall the length of time I spent sitting in the porcelain tub, its overwhelming and vast whiteness enveloping me. All I could hear was the metallic ring of the shower head pumping water onto my pathetic, limp body and the rattling of too many thoughts inside of my head. The only other thing I could manage to do was rinse the conditioner from my not-quite-long yet not-quite-short blonde hair, scrub my face and climb into the familiarity of my bed, towels and all.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 12:49 AM UTC
do you ever ask yourself
if something is
too perfect?
like when the
sun filters through
the leaves of a maple tree
just right,
and you can see
flecks of shadow
spilling onto yourself?
or when you see
a certain flower
for the first time,
and somehow note to yourself
that the petals make
such flawless circles
you wish you could
take a mental picture
of them
to keep in
your pocket
to remind you to smile?
or when you're sitting
next to me,
and remember that we don't
fight,
or argue,
or insult,
or disagree,
or disrespect -
don't have to fix
how we react to each other,
because how we see
one another
isn't broken.
or are those
perfect things
empty,
boring,
lacking -
simply uninteresting
to you?
because in those
perfect things,
there is nothing
to improve.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 8:40 AM UTC