"unnecessarily" poems
...
While
Warm water as the geyser
Gives the skin a new taste
After the sudden rain
The sun peeped behind the clouds
As if a fire peaks in the red flamboyant forest
Then purple flowers of Jarul's
Silently washing the suffering of long pain
Worship to God with drunk
Late afternoon in front of the house of crow
Cuckoo calls repeatedly,
Wings fluttering,
Not unnecessarily
She searches her left offspring
Alongside a small river (Kumar) flows
Small dazzling waves,
With a Cold gentle breeze
Flows over my sweet sweat
Ah! Another form of Heaven
Seduced far away from the darkness
Furious within a dream,
I bathe
...
@Musfiq us shaleheen
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 2:13 PM UTC
Ending a relationship is like breaking a glass.
If you stand up and calmly, pick up the pieces, and carefully clean up. All you'll have lost is some time and the glass.
If you rush and get angry, or act irrationally, you will get cut and end up unnecessarily hurt.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC
well that was lunch which
was preoccupied with such
thoughts of the typical poet
eg why does the world want
to cheat me..
what is the point and what
is for tea..my lover´ s eyes are
burnished fields´ of wheat
i thought of love
and lily..
a small blue bowl of vague
reminded of a broken heart
and since stopping smoking
marijuana has my art
suffered unnecessarily..
or is it better some clue
must tell the difference between
the placid and uncontolable rage
the compatability of lasagne and rice
the oxymoron..
the pollution of serviettes..
with our destructive urges
laced with inexplicable
flat cola and
creation..
not unlike hunting for
searching salt to will
made in our own likeness
cold soup to chips
to explain..
what is this thing called man
chapatti and jam..
we have to have to tell
we have to work
and then stack
to clear them..
begin again
the thoughts
of a typical
poet and soooo
end..
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 9:17 AM UTC
It’s the kind of subtle trickle
That turns the asphalt into a glassy mirror
Ripples, ripples, ripples
Over it like a black pond
The silver lining of each little droplet
Streaking the sky with shades of gray
The streetlights cast an amber glow
Upon the shimmering mist
Hiss, hiss, hiss
Against your stinging flesh
Turn your face up towards the darkened sky
Let the rainfall and streetlights wash away the dust
The dust of the souls you carry on your lips and cheeks
Etched into your back and palms
Their burdens may cause you aches and pains
Let the rainfall and streetlights wash them away
Rainfall and streetlights
Rainfall and streetlights
An urban confessional
Where the sky leans in to listen
As every perfect drop of water hits your skin
It’s the sound of a cleansing
Only you can comprehend
And although the hope of purity may have been swept away
by the wind of unfixable mistakes
It’s still the belief alone in possible redemption
That keeps you from relenting to temptation
Drink up the tears of the sky, child
You are forgiven
You were always forgiven
After all
Paths were made to be strayed from
Straight lines are mundane, they all look the same
And never give a little boy glass when you haven’t taught him
how to grasp what’s right in front of him
When he drops it
It’s a dangerous job
Picking up the sharp shattered pieces
Do not make him do it all alone
Yes, inevitably you will cut yourself
On the broken shards
Crimson teardrops
If they tumble from you
Do not distrust your calluses
You made them through your own hard work and suffering
But they can only do so much for you
Remember your skin is a shell not impenetrable armor
So it’s best to avoid the things you know will cut unnecessarily deep
Bleeding is just another way your body assures you that your heart is still beating
Looking up from the gutter the universe awaits you child
Do you not realize what’s at your fingertips?
Infinity
So don’t give in just yet
Let the rainfall and streetlights heal you
Drip drop, drip drop
Let them bathe you in warmth
Radiating
Let the rainfall and streetlights take you away
To a better place
Wherever that may be
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 1:18 PM UTC
Yeah, we have a great relationship. But imagine how much better this would be if I actually loved you back?
But oops, that's right. I forgot to tell you that I'm kind of incapable of loving another human being.
But it's okay, it's not like love is real anyways.
And even though a good percentage of the general population have the same opinion as me, I'm labeled by those around me as a cynical, lonely, pessimistic girl, simply because others can't seem to comprehend that everything I say is derived from my own personal perspective and observations that I've made.
What was it that the naively optimistic, overly positive young man from the book store called me?
Oh yes, an "unjustifiably, unnecessarily negative teen who is disappointed with her life because she has yet to 'experience love.'"
Despite his ignorance and obscenely immature mindset, which evidently accounted for his matching personality, I don't think he realized that my lack of belief in the existence of "true love" was the exactly the reason that I was in the book store.
Because, as I came to realize, it appears that the only form of "love" that I seem to recognize as being adequate enough to somewhat believe in are those spoken of and created in novels.
It's formulated by the birth of a ridiculously intense, love fueled storyline, supported by a mindful choice of cohesive, dramatic, and emotional words.
Hence, fictional love is born, except to most it doesn't seem fictional because it's so breathtaking to read about.
They believe in it, they worship it.
As if it actually exists in an alternate universe.
The unrealistic perfection of it gives them a disgusting, false hope which just drives them to cling to it more.
It's a drug to them, they can't live without the hope that such a "love" exists somewhere in the world; they need it.
And the sad part is, they're completely oblivious to the fact that they have just become addicts, that they just sold their soul and relinquished part of their freedom to a fictitious concept.
It's so fake, it's almost real.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 4:10 AM UTC
Overthinking.
I'm dwelling
on things that need not
more than five –
no, two
seconds.
Dismissed.
Spinning, looping
Repeating.
So unnecessarily lingering.
My mind is a bubble,
with a delicate membrane between my world
and sanity,
that houses liquid danger
Evaporated and pressing
outward against the walls
I constructed to keep others out,
and that instead poison me
with the toxic gas of these
Thoughts.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 7:46 PM UTC
It is quiet,
secret seconds
seeking distractions
from overthinking,
and reacting.
Obsessive behavior
becomes
redundant checking,
and occasionally
checking again
unnecessarily.
It is observing
emotional signals
and decoding them
to the best of
one’s ability,
consciously,
and unconsciously.
Till, their anxiety,
anger, and sadness
is distorted
and reflected
in your feelings.
It is only alleviated
in engaging with
informative
and educational information,
fitness and exercise,
entertainment,
or sleeping.
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 11:26 AM UTC
we dance with spoons and spatulas
forks and whisks and tongs
we use then for their real purpose,
because we know what they're really for...
unnecessarily profane songs
that's why they're in our kitchen
that's why they're in our hands
right where they belong
Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 5:35 PM UTC
I won't be anything to you, you
Who planted the seed in confusion
Never knew I would be a product
A spawn of accident I was
Swimming in mystery, living without thought
You became a man of higher proportions
Seven feet tall in a blurry photograph
In my dreams you stood unnecessarily
Before I knew myself, I barely knew you
Giving you a second chance
Might have been the scariest thing to him
There is no fixing what was never there
No hating what I never loved
I'm stuck with confusion as well
Who am I supposed to call Father?
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 1:58 PM UTC
I'm a fan of Vontaze Burfict
Though he may not be perfect
For he gives players concussions
To continue the daily discussions
Of the power of his percussion
To receive a hall of fame induction
That is where his value is derived
So what do these penalties imply?
That the referees have a preconceived notion of him
And are preemptively looking to treat him grim
Which gives his team a lesser chance to win
Which makes the biased referees grin
We are a country that idolizes quarterbacks
Every other position we're quick to attack
We only care about who has the ball
And laughing at others when they fall
We worship that which is shiny
And view everything else as grimy
Quarterbacks become celebrities incredulously
While everyone else is treated impetuously
The NFL is like America
Politics makes it harder to watch
The Patriots are boring and plain
They win constantly
The Bengals are entertaining and rough around the edges
They show promise and potential that is never realized
In a nation
Of provocation
I'd rather proudly call myself a bengal
I know that seems an idealistic angle
But Cincinnati provides no coziness or protection
You must always avoid discriminate detection
Of those that call themselves patriots
That drive blue and white chariots
And penalize players unnecessarily
For African Americanning
We really fumbled the ball
Because of the ref's call
That treats us unequally
How they have fun evilly
They can arbitrarily treat whoever however
But a concussion will make them less clever
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 5:31 PM UTC
"don't come inside"
usually, in fact, almost always
I would pull out
with a split second to spare
and ******* all over her
turning her navel in to
some sort of overflow cum-gutter
proceed to roll over
panting like an old dog in the sun
roll a cigarette whilst she
wipes us both down with some nearby
toilet roll and suggest
we watch something on her laptop
this time was different though
I pulled out and she lays there
and starts tugging me off
entirely unnecessarily
as though both of our lives
depended on it
and I'm glad she did
I started spraying hot **** everywhere
and I think to myself
"I'm painting the ******* walls!"
it was nothing short of sensational
Jan 28, 2021
Jan 28, 2021 at 2:46 PM UTC
[On my birthday]
At low tide like this how sheer the water is.
White, crumbling ribs of marl protrude and glare
and the boats are dry, the pilings dry as matches.
Absorbing, rather than being absorbed,
the water in the bight doesn't wet anything,
the color of the gas flame turned as low as possible.
One can smell it turning to gas; if one were Baudelaire
one could probably hear it turning to marimba music.
The little ocher dredge at work off the end of the dock
already plays the dry perfectly off-beat claves.
The birds are outsize. Pelicans crash
into this peculiar gas unnecessarily hard,
it seems to me, like pickaxes,
rarely coming up with anything to show for it,
and going off with humorous elbowings.
Black-and-white man-of-war birds soar
on impalpable drafts
and open their tails like scissors on the curves
or tense them like wishbones, till they tremble.
The frowsy sponge boats keep coming in
with the obliging air of retrievers,
bristling with jackstraw gaffs and hooks
and decorated with bobbles of sponges.
There is a fence of chicken wire along the dock
where, glinting like little plowshares,
the blue-gray shark tails are hung up to dry
for the Chinese-restaurant trade.
Some of the little white boats are still piled up
against each other, or lie on their sides, stove in,
and not yet salvaged, if they ever will be, from the last bad storm,
like torn-open, unanswered letters.
The bight is littered with old correspondences.
Click. Click. Goes the dredge,
and brings up a dripping jawful of marl.
All the untidy activity continues,
awful but cheerful.
2.8k
We are all apart of one system
yet there are many components to this system
innumerable actually
all following the same laws
as if contractually
bound by one set of rules
but
with infinite variation
like nations of expression separated by vibration
only contained by the systems within
that perceive and react
to the system
they sustain
one giant metaphor
a sufficient example
is the human body
a complex interaction
of
individual organisms
all communicating, interacting and participating
in sustaining the body
an organism
of organisms
Even our organs have organs,
working together to sustain
a system larger than itself
cells
communicating, producing
regulating, exchanging
are themselves composed of
organisms, performing
all these functions
we must not
forget
the system
which we sustain
the order
we provide
for the larger body and mind
together
we compose the cells of this planet
interacting and communicating
with each other and all other life
a subtle dance
that carries impressive consequences
except
the way in which we act
as organisms
is likened to cancer
in which
a once productive cell
behaves individually
not in accordance with the system it sustains
replicating uncontrollably
wasting unnecessarily
not taking the whole into consideration
although
if the planetary cancer of humanity
replicates
itself to extinction
all will still be well
as it always has been
and
always will be
yet
the system
in which we exist
would lose
the chance to witness and experience
the transformation from cancer
to great negative immunity
through the powers
of the newly recognized
human organism
a system sustained
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 12:42 AM UTC
Your shaking, like Parkinson’s disease.
There on my desk, silently you sit.
With no particular reason,
You unnecessarily stare me down.
Until I am forced to take that one,
Last, sip.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
She thought she had it all
everything she needed
tried keeping it all to herself
tightly in her hands
but she didn't notice it slipping from her grasp.
and darling, don't you know,
you can't hold onto slippery soap
then
oppurtunies missed
friends lost
through her fingers
slowly but surely
turned to an hourglass
grains of
s
a
n
d
falling aimlessly
unnecessarily
to the ground
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 11:07 PM UTC
I wonder what would happen if i bleached my skin
What kind of twisted world i would live in
If one day i decided to do what the world demanded
And strip my melanin
I wonder what would happen if i burnt my hair to a crisp
If barbie doll hair was on my birthday wishlist
If one day i suddenly looked like
Taylor swift
The problem with this fowl dream
Is that it’s forgetting one thing
The thing in which i live and breath
My sanity
If one day i bleached my skin
And society decided to let me in
I would have tarnished God's creation
For equality
unnecessarily demanding humane unity
And Maybe if i bleach my skin
An officer wouldn’t shoot me
But What should be happening is me taking a stand
And saying it’s not him against me
But us against the hatred that makes individuals choose me
Single me out because of my skin
Fearing me because i’m chock full of melanin
Saying #allLivesMatter instead of #blackLivesMatter because if we let one house burn the rest of the town wins
But at the bottom of this is was and always will be hatred
And just because your side of the boat doesn’t have a hole doesn’t mean we’re not all sinking
So i suggest you do something.
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 12:25 AM UTC
staying the night
up high
in rainclouds
& I feel safe now
when I look down
the wide world
is so small.
we are all
tiny specimen
divinely dissected
subdivided into
lively sections
by wants by fires
by greed by needs
& secret desires;
one nation
under god’s feet
tired slaves perspire
unnecessarily
for possession
& obsess over
what they each acquire.
it is you, it is I,
and we are
frighteningly alike.
my attention’s quite untidy
all the time
my mind gets redirected
it walks like hell
& talks like heaven.
I am not well
I never have been.
but this hex is a blessing,
it’s too **** precious.
we are spilling
into the ocean
over the edges.
The Land is dead and
has been, days now.
I find it kinda pleasant &
I wonder if
they’ll ever
get around to
disinfecting the nest
of decaying flesh,
before it infests the rest,
y’know, the ones that got left.
rot is a pox
spread by proxy
& is not bonded
by neither
lock nor key; that’s like,
**** what you got
**** what you be
**** what you thought
what you think
what you see.’
**** you,
**** me,
**** everyone,
**** everything.
it’s lovely, it’s lovely.
I even think it’s kinda funny,
I laugh at nothing.
Oh, the irony
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 7:05 PM UTC
.as i once explained the concept of a seasonal diet to a pair of english pensioners, citing the Essex strawberry harvest, counter the Spanish winter imports... certain graveyards, in winter, can unnecessarily compete with museums, stressed as focal points during summer.
who is here,
to, expect...
comfortable?
i sacrifice the
aspect of museum,
in order,
to find a second tier
of peace...
within the confines
of cemeteries'
exfoliation
of statues...
weathered,
slightly hidden...
in guise,
of half living, half dead...
yet all the more:
ever watchful,
that persistent...
prosecutor stature...
with death...
the sole "ambiguity"
of a...
jury;
a jury...
with a persona non grata?!
mon deus!
but one answer:
je suis mort!
since?
it is really hard.. to re-appreciate revisiting
museums at this point...
whatever the ancient in modern
terms focus for the pre-Byzantine
marble...
the open air extravaganza
of statues in a Slavic cemetery?
weathered, chiseled by a shyness?
teased out of existence?
primordial in a focus
of being haunted?!
well... museums have nothing to offer,
given this fleshed out
excavation.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 9:32 PM UTC
Water
that's all I see.
Rain
day in and day out.
Floods
everywhere and anywhere.
Plants
don't need so much.
Humans
don't know what to do.
Water
its literally all over.
Rain
its ruined a lot.
Floods
deeper by the moment.
Plants
drowning in their only friend.
Humans
going crazy unnecessarily.
Water
it needs to dry up.
Rain
it needs to stop.
Floods
they need to go away.
Plants
they need some sun.
Humans
they need to chill.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 7:07 PM UTC
I have been here before
My soul sighs
When my mind conjures up these words
In that particular order
Combined emotions
Of relief, grief and satire
Often follow suit
Behind those words
I have been here before
I am reminding myself
That we faced this thing before
And that we faced it then
Simply means getting back on
That same horse
We rode it out last time
And we can do so again
I have been here before
Heartbreak
Loss of a loved one
Hard times
Relocation
Job loss
Scratch
Irrespective of the cause
I have been here before
Do we really want to
Go through something again
We've already faced and conquered
A resounding no and a sigh
Combined with resilience and retaliation
And yet a soft smile
I have been here before
We know the horse and the road
Better this time around
Reluctantly
Unnecessarily
Even so
I have been here before
And might be again
But now we stand up and saddle up
Bring what we have left over from the last round
And ride this one out
The scared little me that doesn't want to
And the big strong me who remembers how to
With a smile and a sigh
I have been here before
We were OK afterwards then too
We remember
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 5:41 AM UTC
With nothing in mind, on the soft green ground
While gazing around inside of a dream
Squinting of Sun, inhaling of sounds
Relaxed, next to a running river's gleam
Serene and sedated, the rustling of leafs
A lease - eternal, an ease inside
A polished, pure and perplexing peace
I slowly sway into the swallowing sky
Sounds of the gush and the wingless glide
Divided between blue and beautiful bright
A meeting of mountains and stars magnified
Below - a haze. Above - the great light
The delight of the earth, protruding and proud
Shrouded silhouettes and gorges that glow
Maps of the sky, echoers of sound
Transport me down to the wet below
Floating on top of the swirling blue salt.
Exalted beyond the liquid haze.
The deepest doors of this massive vault.
A conversation with the warping waves.
A daze of darkness in this alien waste.
Embraced in unknown - pulling me down.
A captive buoyancy with calm erased.
The essence of life, in which I will drown.
Finally, walls, blank and opaque.
The ache of vast indifferent time.
With a failed past comes a future vague.
Measured only by its dangling decline.
Maligned touches of world-less colour.
The collar of emptiness. The forever nothing.
Blacked out details unnecessarily smothered.
A ruined illusion of caring for something.
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 6:04 PM UTC
I listen to male artists,
Men who remind me of my father,
And his pain,
And my pain.
I imagine they sing to me,
Protect me,
Love me,
Give me all I've never been given before,
Everything I was supposed to feel,
Everything that was supposed to show me how people work.
I listen to deep, strained voices and reflect,
Connect to things I’ll never experience.
Men are angry,
Worthy of their feelings,
Allowed to unleash their rage in screams and electric guitars and unnecessarily loud drum solos.
I listen to music sung by men,
But I also listen to Stevie Nicks,
Joni Mitchell,
Janis Joplin,
Joan Baez,
Even Dolly Parton.
Hell, even Olivia Rodrigo.
I listen to women who are angry,
Angry and still women,
Surviving through agony and still women,
“Leather and lace,”
Black clothes and black makeup,
Singing about beauty and moonlight and darkness,
Female rage.
I don't have to be at peace to be a woman,
I don't have to be happy to be a woman,
I don't have to be pretty to be a woman,
You don’t have to like me for me to still be a woman.
Let me be angry,
Let me feel pain,
Let me be lost,
Let me like the darkness,
Let me find comfort in the night,
Let me chase impossible dreams and impossible feelings,
Let me feel everything I feel.
Women are put in a box of emotions,
Too sensitive,
Too dramatic,
Too simple.
I am not sensitive or dramatic or simple,
Don't put me in that box,
Don’t tell me what I am,
Don’t tell me how to feel,
Don’t tell me what my feelings mean,
What they make me,
Don’t project your weakness onto me,
I am not weak,
I am not weak,
I am not weak.
Let me be raw and witchy and honest,
Let me be intelligent and intuitive,
Let me see more than you'll ever see in the world,
Let me be frustrated and misunderstood and just a little too loud,
Let me be a woman,
Let me be me the way I should be.
Feb 11, 2024
Feb 11, 2024 at 3:42 PM UTC
For someone who loves to unnecessarily just talk & talk
Regardless of all the silent responses she often got
This speechlessness feeling is quite a shock
Suffocating with endless feelings, feeling less she is NOT
I know it sounds preposterous & absurd
Since cold & heartless she tended to display
Because the fire in her had no longer burned
She had broken pieces with an ash covered soul & the darkness faded her away
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 1:07 AM UTC
Compassion informs my outrage,
Skinny black kid,
super sensitive
playing the violin
for kittens,
pacifist vegetarian
tried to tell policemen
“I am not violent.
I’m an introvert.
I am different,”
as they choked him
then had paramedics
dose him
with ketamine.
Buds of pain
do not bloom
but burst, spray,
and sprain
my brain
that was self-trained
in the art of
kindness and reason.
It takes
less than five minutes
to break a mother’s heart,
to tare her world apart,
to shatter and claim
that they are not to blame
after unloading a full clip
on an autistic thirteen-year-old
who wasn’t mentally equipped
to do exactly what he was told.
Love and mercy
should rule the day
but cops make
violence great again.
Human suffering
is not magic
just unnecessarily tragic. cont.
Micheal Brown,
Eric Garner,
Tamir Rice,
George Floyd,
Freddy Gray,
Breonna Taylor,
Elijah Mcclain,
Linden Cameron,
Jacob Blake,
and so many other names.
There has to be a better way.
Nov 8, 2020
Nov 8, 2020 at 8:42 AM UTC
the white noise is calming due to the interruption of sober silence
depriving senses, seeming like aphasia, looking through peripheral to see
all but what was was straight in the clear, sight insufficiently corrupted
painful holdings and a hand punched into the car door beside me
screaming about the difficulties, a voice that cracked like stained glass
suddenly given a voice, to only express furthermore misapprehension
a voice that spoke words
that could be seen forming in the air above
the words that wrapped around my body and clung like static
pulled me like a rope twisted leash, forming circulating rusted lesions
across a protruding collarbone
stare down deep into the roots of a tender willow tree
look down, and avoid the expression on that face
and the truck that was unnecessarily punished
now pretend you have aphasia, pretend that lesions don't **** slowly
and pray your face doesn't end up like that car door
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 9:06 PM UTC