"uninviting" poems
thin lips
fat cheeks
dull eyes
blotchy skin
uninviting
grotesque
lackluster
young
ugly
and picking at the imperfections
only makes them more prominent
until they are all i can see
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 12:51 AM UTC
Sleepless eyes wide awake
During a sleepless night
Tossing and turning
The bed is so uninviting
Not allowing my soul to rest
Listening to the dark lull
Turmoil in the mind
In retrospective mode
So many incidents come alive
Darkness giving me clarity
Of my experiences
Trying to decipher the past
Imaginary solutions
For episodes from my past
Time travel, visiting in reminiscence
Not sure whether I am happy or sad
More of a neutral state of mind
Sleepless night engaging me
In a futile attempt to resolve
Only memories can visit the past
Time, has long ago taken me miles ahead
My sleepless night indulging
In hallucinating my mind
Ramblings of a sleepless soul
From the experiences of sleepless night
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 9:48 AM UTC
An artist,
Bleeding his heart into the canvas
Carefully planning his masterpiece
Dutifully paying attention to every detail.
Emotionally drained,
Forced to finish his work
Grueling over an uninviting crowd
Helpless to the impending backlash
Inspired, the artist continues
Just to prove his critics wrong
Knowing that his work will be amazing
Loving himself even more
Meticulously painting his beautiful image
Never letting stamina get to him
Opening his mind to a grand illusion
Presented to him by an transcendent figure
Questioning if what he saw was true
Reveling in the moment of it all
Slowly, the artist comes to a finish
Trapping the moment inside of his easel
Unveiling to the crowd was his final test
Vociferously, he explained his masterpiece
When all of a sudden, the artist begins to run
Xenophobia had stricken him
You now know why most artists are obscure.
Zealous fans always ruin everything.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 3:12 PM UTC
I met you at the station
you said wanted to go anywhere but here.
I said to look for the tracks that
are the most uninviting. You
took my arm. I wished for
something better and here it came,
disguised by dirt, dislocation and greying days.
Your ticket says no return but
mine is undefined, watchful, ready
to bolt or to linger. You say you love
the stations from afar.
There's not much of me
requested, but the splinters that you
do, I gift hopelessly. The
smallest glimpse of light approaching
filtered through dank, oppressive air
are superior, surely? than finite life
exhausted watching the dark.
By the night you amplify,
when you have enjoyed my fill and
left with little but fingerprints and
recollections, casting parallel shadows
on directions that await.
I give you almost everything
except for the words that
travel nowhere but my head.
You gave me the signal
a briefest flash of red
that stopped this in its tracks.
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 6:04 AM UTC
I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago,
He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
Just "on spec", addressed as follows, "Clancy, of The Overflow".
And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,
(And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar)
Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
"Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are."
In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy
Gone a-droving "down the Cooper" where the Western drovers go;
As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing,
For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.
And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
And at night the wond'rous glory of the everlasting stars.
I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, ***** city
Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all
And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
Of the tramways and the buses making hurry down the street,
And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,
Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless ***** of feet.
And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me
As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,
With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,
For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.
And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,
Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal —
But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of "The Overflow".
3.7k
The Lung.
The broken bone branches hang heavy off knuckled tree. As cold and uninviting as wrapped meat in cellophane prison cells and those sweating milk bottles left on doorsteps. Women cry with the blackbirds as day breaks, rousing their reluctant nests.
As the shadows trawl in from chicken farms and slaughterhouses, across the squalid estates and past a debt collectors party. A ***** drinks his soot like coffee and waits for another years tide to retreat. Holding pith less ambitions and unmentionable qualifications, stewardess pass, uniformed thoughts and averting faces..
The rusty playgrounds sink into the fermenting wood chips, and a plastic bag runs through the scene; only to commit suicide in the oil ribbon canal. The chemical clouds thicken into a duvet of sky whilst arrows of a natural sun run home with tears of fear on their hot faces.
Down here the street lights flicker, and the patched uniforms drape off children sick with the flu that hit the school like a plague. Herding like cattle into the classrooms, to learn about the natural world
that is most unearthly to there reason.
Lunch bells ring from factories and the sky has drained to a sick -off white. The chip shop sells butties with no sauce nor bun, which machine like men guzzle and slurp.
The car parks lay stagnant in the distance and pigeons too fat to fly lay droppings on the bronze statue of a crying hero. As the roaring stops from the factories and high visibility coats are hung, the sky bruises and the men fill the pubs, until wives with children hung on washing lines drag there sweat soaked frames to the table, only to indulge them in a row.
Night creeps in, bringing with it the hooded figures that flutter along the streets. Music plays from a vacant building and seems to brighten the night.
A silhouette is seen standing on the edge, watching the busses bellow run like migrating snails, filled with the elderly and too young.
Cigarettes infest the streets creating a carpet of ash and litter. The city survives, remaining grey, never blinking, never heard.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 6:20 AM UTC
"there isn't anything out there for me," he thought.
a rather less-than detailed description of what some may say, a contemptuous observation.
erasing sentences that weren't worded properly,
or didn't make much sense.
"I value the life I consume," he lied.
in other words, I've run out of ambition
no longer am I able to lie to others to make my life meaningful to them.
It's that lack of that melts flesh from bone.
"Shang, I miss you," he read.
as if the **** drawing
were her.
skin flushed,
an inconceivable silence
only for my mind to take in.
the silence is now nothing short of uninviting.
all the while,
I continue searching
for something..
something not all too satisfying.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 12:36 PM UTC
When the topic of conversation in class was about finding meaning in life
I struggled to find a reasoning behind why
I choose to keep fighting
the same **** voice that keeps on illuminating
the parts of my heart that don't need extra lighting
For reasons of staying safe
secure enough to keep from igniting
any other demons that make joy seem uninviting
My heart is tired of trying
to heal
My feelings boil over
like a *** of forgotten water
forcing me to clean up a mess that I did not ask for
I am tired
But still refuse to be fired from life itself
Why do I keep fighting
If my life is not something I admire
I have sisters who wage wars on their bodies too
trying to reach a place where they feel like they are somebody to some body
and not a disease
that strips them of all they were created to be
We are tired
Yet I ride waves of urges so familiar to the ocean of darkness that my heart rages
because I just want to feel free
because my future family and clients need me
because honesty is the key to living authentically
And if I'm being honest then I'm able to see
past the reality
that is my eating disorder
I desire more
which means that I am more
as my worth does not come from being the best me for others
but rather it comes from a deep understanding
that my life is my own and not my own
equally
Realizing that my hands are strong enough
are big enough to hold
even the pieces of my soul
that fail to fit the mold
of what is normal
But why can't normal have permission to be broken
Instead of whole
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 9:59 PM UTC
As he began to play his song I was transported into another dimension
A place where all of his hopes and all of his pain came together to form a beautiful tapestry
The tapestry told a story of deceit and betrayal with colors of dark red and black
But as the song continued the story began to change and the colors began to adapt
Splashes of pink and blue entered the tapestry as his faith was sung
Soon Yellow and Green began to intertwine with the tapestry as sparks of joy entered his words.
This tapestry that was once dull and uninviting had transformed into a complex depiction of the trial and triumphs of his life.
Who knew that eight simple notes could form into the tapestry of life?
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 10:55 AM UTC
We delusional from the burn of heat,
Fields crowded with not-so different men,
Along comes the watchman, just takes a seat,
Whites uninviting make us sleep in dens,
We are unwelcome; go on with no fuss,
Dreaming of bright days, hope this is a phase,
Watchman watching, say bad people is us,
Wrong! Look for a bright future, much haze,
Before you know, we shall leave this rich place,
Poorly treated, frowned upon, discarded,
Won’t find us because we left with no trace,
Here we settle, you thought we’re not guarded,
We paid your fee, tried hard to work your way,
We left along with town, what can you say?
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 2:57 AM UTC
Winter’s releasing us from its perpetually gray and gloomy grip.
Who can study in their room, on a beautiful spring afternoon?
Azaleas assail ya, with champagne petals of bubblegum fuchsias,
they blush in near neon reflection, with a mathematical, fractal perfection.
Courtyards that were once dark and uninviting, frosty scenes,
sport impromptu manicured carpets, of flawless, vibrant greens.
Dogwoods explode, abruptly overnight, with cherry blossom whites
they blush like brides on parade, they sachet, swaying flag-like bouquets.
Ordinary maples become emerald queens by unfurling avocado, hunter and chartreuse leaves,
accented with vibrant electric limes and honeydews, as if to say, ‘We too can please.’
New life stretches, almost yawning, in the seemingly reborn sun, insects hum as they cultivate,
birds flit excitedly, as if to say, ‘Why’re you inside? Come out and play - why do you even hesitate?’
I know there’s something in spring that’s irresistible, pheromonal, hormonal, surfeit and emotional.
Is it the solar zenith angle or the sun’s declination that produces these delightful inclinations?
.
.
Songs for this:
Funky Galileo by Sure sure
You get what you give by New Radicals
New World Coming by Cass Elliot
Apr 18, 2024
Apr 18, 2024 at 3:09 PM UTC
Quieter days stand before me as if they are trying to tell me
that the answer lies
perhaps there is more than one
perhaps there is none
What was it that should’ve been done
I catch her staring off into space
Then closes her eyes
for an instant, expressionless face
contagiously gleaming
then opens her eyes
I find her worries to be uninviting
Do not dare to come near
casting a spell is intertwined
With aftermath that must be endured
Immediately raising her voice
but not raising words
cannot find the right choice
resorting into vanity
Quiet days stand before me as if they are trying to tell me
that the question divides
perhaps there is more than one
perhaps there is none
What was it that could’ve been undone
I catch them gazing into place
then close my eyes
for an instant, enthusiastic face
contagiously beaming
Then open my eyes
Disengaged with comfort of my own
Do not dare to come near
breaking a spell is defined
with progress that must be lured
Effortlessly blending her dreams
but not blending thoughts
can find the right choice
morphing into sanity
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 10:00 AM UTC
Into the green grocers
Within you an appetite
You see all the attractive colours
The beautiful smells and textures have you mesmerized. Some are full juicy and large
Others bright colourful and petite
Some with unusual markings
Inviting inspection.
Yet there are others unattractive
Having a beautiful scent
A delicate skin and a taste
Oh so sweet inside
Some are prickly to the touch
Uninviting, simply protect the goodness within
Then there's the fruit that looks good
All it's bright colours dazzle the shopper
It gives off the most alluring of fragrance
It is soft to touch yet rotten to the core
Over ripened and of no use
Which do you seek?
I mean fruit of course!
Don't I?
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 11:35 AM UTC
When I was young in the suburbs. My dad never listened to my mom. He stole yelled got angry and it all felt so wrong. When I was young in the suburbs angry and in dismay. After years of abuse on Valentine's day. He invited his other family to play. He told them we were dead as if we didn't exist. But that was the last straw my mother still insist's. When I was young in the suburbs my life was sad, but now I'm grown and its not so bad. My mom's still here, my bad memories forgotten. But dad is dead because his kidneys were rotten. I could feel I couldn't see all this pain uninviting. All these feelings residing, beside and inside me. I'm fighting climbing rhyming. But I can't help these words stuck in my brain. There is so much pain. Awake screaming in bed, dads dead. and I can't explain what you've done to my head
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 5:37 PM UTC
i could be a contortionist,
i would have bent backwards for a touch
of your cigarette lips and
i could unscrew my bolts to weld against
your plastic case.
your shell you carry is uninviting,
yet i want in.
i promise not to promise,
when you hold your
bird caged bellows in,
the ones that left you long ago.
i will take your lion frame
and form it in
the comfort and shelter
i have discovered
in the gray weather systems
and your blue eyes.
i can't give you my lungs,
but i could help you breathe a little softer.
i won't give you my heart,
but i could lend you some of it's
articulation,
fascination,
like how your hand fits in mine.
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 3:59 PM UTC
It couldn’t have been a more uninviting day
When you spewed out south.
Not a chance in hell you’d stay
Didn’t matter how dreary. With moss mouth
You emigrated from education to eternal dilation
Burning each bridge as you crossed it.
You put yourself on spiritual probation
So henceforth until the roads don’t split
You’re going to walk until you can't feel her anymore.
Got a name change, got to get strange,
With every step she’s that much more folklore.
You get clean dreams & exchange
Your cheap stake in the “real world”
To become both simple & wild.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 1:30 PM UTC
Tonight, my bed is uninviting, and the moon too bright.
I get down on my knees; I send you
a prayer:
I hope you still find strands of my hair
clinging to your sheets, collected in the dryer’s lint trap,
strewn at the back of your dresser drawers.
Despite the figures of my absence-- in lunar cycles and miles--
I sometimes linger in that humming interlude before sleep,
picturing you twisting in those wrinkled sheets,
flipping the pillow only to uncover my lingering scent.
The full moon is glaring; You,
like myself, must be restless
at this witching hour, stringing
words together, our thread-count tripling
as the stars blink out. But,
close that tired moleskine eulogy. Tuck
it in some ill-attended corner of your
room along with the remaining,
waning remnants of me,
and sleep.
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 12:14 AM UTC
I never understood why your lips were confined,
To the uninviting flatness of a line.
Or why your presence was lost,
In mundane routine and apathy.
I thought maybe you didn't enjoy my company.
I didn't know if your smiles and laughs were real;
They seemed so ephemeral,
Like stifled strikes of resistance ,
Against your solemness.
When I began to burden the weight of knowledge,
I finally understood the safety of the guaranteed.
When they dismantled your family,
And starved you to emaciation,
You forgot what faith was.
You forgot what love was.
And you forgot the impact you could have on others.
But you would never forget what work was.
Your perseverance accounts for my existence.
For that you are unforgettable.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 1:29 AM UTC
when all i see is my darkness
pitch black and uninviting,
you see shining stars,
and moon-lit clouds with
silver linings.
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 9:55 PM UTC
At dusk
At dusk, Ill take off my mask
At dusk, ill pull out my flask
At dusk, ill take out that razor
At dusk, ill say my last prayer.
Once in for all, ill be gone.
Once in for all, ill be gone.
Ill lay on my bed silent and still
you will see me and get and uninviting chill.
At my funeral you will fit in
with all the people who lie and say they never came across my sin.
You will say you cared and be on your way
you will sleep well at night, and greet tomorrow as a regular day.
but
at dusk, you will feel my pain
at dusk, it will start to rain
the last drop that will fall
for now you are my doll.
At dusk we will play.
And greet tomorrow like another day.
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 4:39 AM UTC
I watch the clock as I have been since the sixth of October.
I try to forget because it pains me to remember.
Lately I'm on edge; anticipating your call.
Though I cannot be certain you will call at all.
I know you have moved on, as have I.
But I am left here replaying our last goodbye.
It was a sorry excuse for our last words.
They're possibly the worst I have ever heard.
So stiff, and uninviting.
Both of us avoiding fighting.
A few tears were shed, I admit.
Yet friendship we must permit.
Simply too overwhelmed then to let you go.
Now I anxiously await a simple, "Hello."
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 4:06 PM UTC
All this poetry I write
is here for a reason.
I am feeling rather nostalgic tonight
my room is clammy and hot
whilst on the inside, I'm in a freezer
unable to move from the isolation
I am currently listening to a song
it is singing me to sleep
and singing all my consciences
without me having to think too much
philosophising everything
I'm tired of being here
alone all the time, and
I can't carry on being second best
even third, fourth and so on
like a never ending cycle
the term 'wallflower' is so perfectly beautified
and evokes imagery of aesthetically-pleasing nature
but I find this so hard to believe
as I feel like a wallflower
but certainly the opposite of beautiful
more like the uninviting sight of a prickly ****
needing to be dug up
because nobody likes its presence
irrelevance is probably the only term I can use to describe
just how things are
no one wants the companionship of someone
who perceives others' opinions as negative
all the time
and their own thoughts are just as diabolic
the thought of myself
ever being denoted as beautiful
is at the height of impossibility
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 8:14 PM UTC
I was "hands are tied" denied
by a Bloatfly with two eyes,
four wings, six feet, and no *****
A gene splicing brainchild
high on the benzene manslaughter
fuming up from the shores below.
He was snooping through a kaleidoscope
Excavating my frontal lobe when he noticed
the furious drone of an active anthill catacomb.
Next thing you know Jealousy's backbiting nag
is setting it's sites on his uninviting neck,
going in for a quick pulse check.
Ready for war, no need for cures attitude
he grabbed a scalpel and evened the score.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 7:44 AM UTC
There he is,waiting and
Watching the storm come in.
The clouds roll in like tumble weeds.
Thunder rocks the muddy banks,
While Wishkah lives
With its live scene.
There he is.
Uninviting to the casual passerby.
Appealing to the trained lady eye.
His situation is easy to fall into.
You will slip into the abyss,
Where everything is black and
The voices in your head become real.
He will peal the pale off your skin,
Pick you up and force you in.
Force you down and lie you flat.
Scrapes off lies from you lips.
Scalpel to cheek, he takes you in.
The blur sets in
And there he is.
The final howling begins.
The thunder meets the wind.
In detox, feeling like a small man.
He drops you into a crate box.
May 5, 2010
May 5, 2010 at 11:04 AM UTC