"unofficial" poems
For he's a jolly good fellow,
adorned in yellow and love,
it was hard to see his face through the smoke of a three blunt rotation, but I could feel his heart beating from across the trailer.
Worn out eighties music was the unofficial theme of the night and I think we lived up to the expectations Eddie Murphy set for his.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 1:43 AM UTC
Dear Shruti, wish you a very Happy Friendship Day!
Forever, do you keep negativity at bay
I love you as a friend
We share a deeply emotional bond
You, can I trust with anything and everything
To me, does your friendship mean everything!
Dear Shruti, wish you a very Happy Friendship Day
May you always be happy, come what may
You are **** intelligent and hardworking
A person who stops at absolutely nothing
To get the job done
Never, will you be alone!!
Dear Shruti, wish you a very Happy Friendship Day
Many a time, are you away
However, never does that stop you from caring
Whether it be family or friends
You are a person, to whom can I go on listening
May your long talks never end!!
Dear Shruti, wish you a very Happy Friendship Day
I hope you had a wonderfully relaxing day
After all the hard work you have put in
Moreover, do you also do your very best
To keep yourself fit, time and again
May you clear with flying colours, every single test
Which life throws at you
Forever, will I be there, to help you!!
Dear Shruti, wish you a very Happy Friendship Day
Always will I root for you and Pradeep, come what may
The two of you are among my favourite couples
Your parents are also a beautiful couple
By the way, you are not simply my friend
My unofficial sister, you are
And for you and your family, will I always care
May Jesus bless you, you amazing human being
With anything and everything
Which you deeply desire
Do take care
And hope to meet you soon
Dear Shruti, wish you the Happiest Friendship Day again!!
Aug 4, 2024
Aug 4, 2024 at 8:23 AM UTC
Saw her first at cousin's weddinG,
She looked astonishing I knew where it was headinG
Escorting the bride she came in smilinG
My eyes got glued on her and my heart started poundinG.
Afraid of her brother but she agreed to meeT,
I got there first, where the buses fleeT,
Time and place was on her to fiX,
Excited, I reached before the clock tickS,
There I saw her waving at platform thirty siX.
Time freezed for a while,
Walking towards her a million thoughts ran through my mind,
Was that really her or someone else!?
But that same magical smile and my heart again melts.
Simple, yet pleasant I liked her stylE,
But the best thing was definitely her smilE,
I got lost , stammered in speech for a whilE,
She was confident and I got nervous blood profilE.
The place was new ,
None of us had any clue,
I was sweaty , the day seems hottest,
Perhaps the oddest in the whole August.
Black and white top and she blingS,
Leather sandals and those shiny earingS,
The watch was pink , hairs were perfect readY,
But **** her luggage was real heavY!
Got in a cab, and some comfy place to talK,
She was in a hurry, but i had all the clocK,
She was bold at the same time cooL,
And I was smiling for no reason like a fooL.
More time I wanted to spend,
But getting her home safe and sound was important in the end.
Got her a bus had to bid a good bye,
And my hopes of meeting her soon are sky high! :)
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 4:04 PM UTC
In the Winter
we were friends,
but we weren't that close
In the Spring
we were best friends
that were torn apart
by your relationship
In the Summer
we were closer than ever
unofficial lovers
the best of friends
In the Fall
still best friends
but you're going out places
with other people
and I wonder
where we'll be
when it's Winter again
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 11:59 PM UTC
They swear they can teach you everything
you're going to need to know about
life and how to take on the world.
The same ******** who
can't even tell you an
honest version of history.
If you sigh hard enough, you learn.
Some of us pull everything we know
from the margins and get called part
of an agenda for it.
Most people learn only by what
they perceive on the surface
and miss everything underneath.
Some nights you go hungry, and you learn.
The ******** go to college or university,
get some ******** degree,
and decide it makes them an unofficial expert
on situations they've never been concerned with.
Racists with law degrees.
Some of them go into the military
and come back with scars in their mind,
tell us we're just civilians,
because gun-toting is the education they received.
If you ever slept in a car because you had no choice,
you learn.
I've met a lot of people who read religious texts
and only believe what people "knew" 4000
years ago, at most.
I've met people who tell you they believe in the bible,
then when pressed for information,
obviously can't tell you **** about their own beliefs.
If you have a hard time not biting back out of habit,
you learn something.
The funny thing is, you don't need to learn how to
hate to learn how to love,
but
Once you learn what love is,
it makes it a hell of a lot clearer what hate is.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 11:46 AM UTC
I posted this poem a few days after I joined HP. As is oft the case, poems you are especially proud of, fall to the wayside, under the onslaught of the constant waterfall of new submissions. With the usual exception of Ms. Lori C., one of the two unofficial High Priestesses of HP, in my estimation, this one, was pretty much overlooked. Despite some comical jaunts of late re bras and beds, real inspiration has escaped me ever nice I penned "Sittin' On The Dock Of The Bay (Razor Blades, Pills, & Shotguns" last week. So, with your hoped for solicitude, I resubmit it, hoping it finds a wider audience and dedicate it to those of you who I number as friends (you know who you are!), despite the fact that our only shared embraces have been techno~electronic, and yet the quality of your kindness is beyond measure.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Numerical Quality of Friendship
The quality of friendship is non-quantitative.
Yet, I ask you to number it, and me, this way.
With tape measure, determine that:
The length of my arm's embrace will always be
longer than long enough, and when distance magnifies sorrow's gains,
my shoulders measure wide enough to pillow your wearied head.
The depth of my pocket is finite for by definition,
a pocket is but an open doored, three walled shelter.
My pocket of shelter is forever open, forever deep,
and forever is infinite.
Trust that when bowed and bent,
upon my shoulders climb and together we will be tall enough
to touch the season's new fruit upon the tree of life,
and with one tongue, taste the unimaginable!
Do u think that mercury can measure
the warmth of my tears when love sears my heart,
or the heat of thy skin when it heals and cauterizes
wounds salted by the mistreatment, by the bitters of the weak ones,
who rejoice when they scald others?
Size me up.
What is my volume?
What are the boundaries that
length X depth X height
state must limit my capacity to cherish, to heal,
and even to forgive those who deserve no forgiveness?
If you measure me well and proper,
if I meet the standards that qualify me to be called friend,
then friend me here, friend me now,
friend me for the qualities I posses,
and number us a unity among the few
who are truly blessed
by a quality of friendship that cannot be measured,
for there is no scientific instrument that can quantify
limitless.
March 2012
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
I remember the jaw dropping moment of you walking into creative writing for the first time.
I remember passing notes daily
I remember the first time we went downtown with our drunkard friend.
I remember sitting in the cold in front of the pond and listening to you ramble.
I remember how happy I was.
I remember how hard I tried to impress you.
I remember it all like it was yesterday.
I remember you going missing from class.
I still remember the stomach churning worry that came with it.
I remember you coming back just to leave again
I remember the years we didn't talk. They were lonely.
I remember seeing you go the first time in forever.
I remember sitting in that swing and holding back tears as I confided in you about how sad I was.
I remember the absence of you again.
I remember sitting at the bus stop talking to you before I had to work.
I remember the night you had a small get together and invited me.
I remember how hard I smiled for the first time in years.
I remember coming over and spending the night with you.
I remember the ****** tension.
I remember laying in bed and inching closer.
I remember how cold your lips were when I kissed you for the first time.
I remember rolling around in bed naked and taking candid pictures of one another.
I remember being officially unofficial.
I remember walking to and fro my house to yours.
I remember you playing guitar.
I remember vaping until we were dizzy.
I remember you getting the text from your ex
I remember losing you to your ex
I remember the devastation.
I remember still seeing you daily.
I remember how awkward it was.
I remember you telling me you wanted to be with me.
I remember then running to meet you half way.
I remember hugging you as if to pull you into my body.
I remember him losing his spot by your side.
I remember fighting.
I remember hating it.
I remember still seeing you and talking things out.
I remember kissing late into the night.
God I remember so much.
I remember going downtown with Dessi.
I remember realizing how deeply I love you.
I remember the pain of missing a night by your side, it's like a bruise on the bottom of my foot.
I remember all the days I spent keeping you company at work.
I remember getting pulled over with you in the car.
I remember the look of dread.
I remember with no regrets.
I remember your smell from 4500 miles away.
I will remember and cherish every second we spend at one another's side.
And with all these memories behind us in such short time
I know that when I turn my head back to watch my steps I'll see all we have to look foreword to.
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 12:00 AM UTC
I’m not the same girl
I used to be.
Then again, maybe I am
the same,
and it’s everyone
and everything else
that’s different.
Maybe I’m just not adapting
to the changes in my environment.
Maybe I’m still the
idealistic twelve year old
who read romance novels
and ate ice cream while watching Titanic.
Maybe I’m still the
anorexic fourteen year old
who smiled when the number on the scale dropped
and cried when it didn’t.
Maybe I’m still the
ambitious sixteen year old,
striving to put her life back together
and get laid before prom.
(Without much success, of course.)
Maybe I’m still the
infatuated seventeen year old
who fell madly in love with a geeky college boy,
only to get her heart broken.
Maybe I’m just
an eighteen year old basket case
who drinks too much
and smokes too much
and ***** random boys (and girls)
with all the lights off
because she hates her body just as much when she’s drunk
as she does when she’s sober.
Maybe I have changed.
Maybe I never will.
Maybe in the end,
however soon or far off that may be,
I’ll look back and laugh
at my complete and utter stupidity
and inability
to stop thinking and just start
living.
Maybe I’m already dead inside
and just waiting for my body to follow.
I don't intend to leave you all behind,
but I’m beginning to think I already have.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 3:03 PM UTC
Green apples at lunchtime,
You were the only friend of mine.
We played in sand and built castles from our growing imaginations while we hoped our bodies would grow just like our minds so our hands could reach the monkey bars and… maybe one day the stars.
Back then I’d wish on those and hope you’d pinky-swear right back to always have an ear out in case I called for help.
Those were the days I’d spend making cards to send to you just because you might need to know that you were worth every glued-on sequin.
We stayed outside catching fireflies until the sun escaped and those jars were the only lights to guide our way.
Those summer breaks spent chasing salamanders, our fingers, our toes, warm river mud pressed between every one of them like an unofficial glue promising to keep us together.
All our thoughts concentrated on an everlasting summer,
No more school because we felt educated enough if we could be together all day.
I guess the river washed it all away, like the current wiping the mud out from between our toes, off our fingertips, off our minds your words turned cold,
Conversations dwindled and the best thing I could hope to come out of your mouth was hello.
And now you walk the way you used to walk when you made fun of girls on pageant shows.
Your lips are stained a perfect color of rose,
But you grow thorns when you speak.
Some say you flourished.
A blossom under fluorescence but I always liked things to be under incandescence. A phenomenon of light produced from our warm bodies under a shared blanket watching the stars, sharing our hopes our fears and our scars.
But now when the temperature rises it’s because you’re not looking at me anymore.
I’m a just another flower budding on your wall,
But, please watch me blossom before I fall.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 3:18 AM UTC
My name is bill, no capitalization, required,
the Writer will be ill, soon, once he gets me,
or my friends in the mail, my cousin e bill.
Won’t be far behind, a marvel of technology!
I am famed and legendary, but be wary,
we attack in groups and bunches and
don’t rely on hunches that you settled with us.
We don’t make a fuss or a muss, we will cut
off your cable, and internet, see?
Hydro and Natural Gas you can ill afford
to miss, we do pay dates, instead of play dates.
So if you don’t pay up we are through
with you, hope you can find your self in
the dark, call us and we will talk until your
cell phone loses power or they drop your
call from their towering collection.
So with affection,
from us named bill,
make a plan and a will,
to pay us on time, after
all it is your dime, until it
is ours, all ours.
You can take that to the bank,
but we will do it for you too!
Save you the trip...
signed the
bills
P.S.(we were going to list a few,
but we don’t name names, we
just collect Presidents and Prime Ministers,
they may be dead or royalty, but they are
acceptable to faceless nameless ones,called
bill(s), Thanks!)
©DWE042013
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
i’m the man who’s gonna wake up next to you
slipping away, a non-starter, her leg crosses over mine,
a right sided shakedown shackle, adhesion flesh as
tough as old yellowed scotch tape sticking stuck
no escaping, a known 6:00am risk when you sleep with
a pre-advertised holy roller, twist and turner woman,
making you into an unofficial woe-man (too)
left hand grabs the lamenting instrument, the beat up iPad,
to record your enslavement, a distraction from the bladder’s
faint morn winking at you with a Cheshire grin, muffling a
chuckle, at a predicament wonderful familiar, but unresolvable
this situation, a category of life’s small measure of annoyances,
invokes the wordy title, and a write-down list of pluses and minuses,
which I’ll spare which o’witch be the longer list
poems are where you find them, under your nose,
looking out a city bus window, but sometimes like flypaper,
they just come unasked and stick to you, the separating of the skin,
like a too tight bandaid, ain’t worth the pain and freedom gained
later, share this missive and her suggestion, she will prepare an
NDA (a non-disclosure agreement) or adopt other strategies like
pushing me out of the bed without warning when i am typing ,
to witch and to wit, reply,
ah!
another poem commissioned, and
*perhaps, name change too, needed,
making love in the morning*
12/14/19
Dec 14, 2019
Dec 14, 2019 at 1:40 PM UTC
my life is becoming a series of unfinished poems
there's one about the time
we walked home drunk
and kissed in the snow
I remember it so vividly
and there's one about the time you slept over
and how you held my hand
when you thought i was sleeping
but these poems are unfinished
likely because you and i
are unfinished business-
or rather, unofficial, unlabeled, I'm unsure-
I don't even know what we are
And I want to ask,
but then i remember that i am supposed to be the cool girl
the girl who does not care about what we are doing
and doesn't like labels
the girl who says "yes come over and drink"
but doesn't worry about what she'll confess when drunk
the girl who is okay with making out
but just calling this friends
the girl who doesn't ask questions
because she doesn't care about answers
but i am young and i am not the cool girl
i have never been the cool girl
questions to me are spaces to write answers
answers that i want to know
that i want to learn
that i want to hear
so please
just tell what this is. what we are.
i don't know why this seems to be so hard
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 12:33 AM UTC
-
we used to play a game, you and i:
we'd take the passing faces of pedestrians,
and bicyclists, businessmen and bikers,
hell, even that one elderly lady with fewer teeth
than stripes earned in strife, who stopped
only to inquire after where to buy a pack of smokes,
up the street, you told her, up past city hall, at bonanza,
and then a boy struck me silent
with the light off the studs on his jacket
we'd take their faces and give them
the most fantastic back-stories, ones we wished
someday we could tell our grandchildren,
or children, or even settle for a stranger on the street
to bear as some sort of unofficial witness to our lives
we've finally found definition, the illusion anyways,
we have evolved; we still like pokemon,
but we dress nicely now
needless to say,
we don't play that game anymore.
-
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 9:47 PM UTC
can you see through the haze of
future parading shadows of commuters in the
crevice of time
past the kaleidoscopic glass castle and
sepia windows
reflected in your eyes
students baying within bubbles of blue
blaring muted, ancient, utopian cries
let's
chase
clouds
from now
Apr 30, 2021
Apr 30, 2021 at 11:41 AM UTC
Remember the days
When beers and warm nights were enough
Where I carried my shoes on the walk home
And I lied to a good man
By letting him think
No one else had been in my bed
The night before him
Three years later it’s easy to see
The memory play out like it’s on TV
I told myself then that it’s not a lie
We just weren’t talking about it
I told myself I have no loyalties
I guess I was right
It was August and the air in the attic where I lived
Just felt like summer – moist, suffocating
Hard to sleep in – painful to wake up
Strange smells clung to my sheets
Deep purple – My mother bought them
I ate breakfast with him
He paid – a gentleman
Even on nights when I was
*too drunk
too tired
too uninterested*
To let him touch me
In the back of my mind … somewhere …
I worried about when he’d ask me
To be his girlfriend
I worried about when I would have
To make it unofficial
But in the thick humidity of that summer
Our apathy was enough to keep the parties going all night
And every morning when the sun blared through
My tiny, attic window, waking me
And drying on the sweat that reeked of Budweiser
Reminding me subtly – that it might time
*To grow the **** up
To have the tough talk
To learn the art of saying no*
I made plans for later that night
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 10:06 PM UTC
meaningful investment, definite impact
genuine compassion, to you I attract
unofficial adoption; like static, cling
nonverbal given, jubilant I now sing
protective walls liquidate, you're in; shell cracked
if anything at all, tender soul distract
short but ever so sweet, fill the gaps exact
gently you hold me; heal and bind broken wing
...if ever I've tasted of love's glor'ous life
trustworthy provider, fix all I've lacked
maybe walk down the aisle, heart intact
constant and watchful, giving hope for a ring
as I on an optimist pendulum swing
tangible, real, felt, believed. love not abstract
...if ever I've tasted of love's glor'ous life
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
This is great website, and I've met some lovely writers, and I hope to I meet even more - but *** are all these preaching comments???
I've never met a writing place with so many unofficial spammy preachers!!!
I don't need ******* preaching at!!!
How do you know I need salvation - maybe I'm already saved - have you thought about that? Or maybe I'm just a blind idiot in your opinion. But either way your pointless unfriendly and ungodly manner has zero effect. You've never met me - you know nothing about me. From now on anyone who spam comments and preaches on my work gets instantly blocked - use your energy elsewhere.
And here's another thought: what if what I write is called creative writing - heard of that before have you? Not everything I write is about me, and I'm sure I'm not the only one who does that.
Apologies to all the kindly beautiful writers on here - it takes a lot make me have a swearing rant, I guess I've just ruined my kind reputation. Just had enough of the spam **** and in my real life I NEVER tolerate idiots, and I won't here either.
I don't mind the mention of God as a personal view, I'm not God phobic, no problem with that, but just don't leave messages as though I know nothing and I need saving - I **** well don't.
Your sincerely
One very ****** off writer
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 7:32 AM UTC
My room is a mausoleum
Housing this living corpse.
The windows are always shut
And the lightbulb stays off.
A fan on the ceiling blows,
Though not hard enough, 24/7.
There're empty water bottles
Discarded on the floor
By the dozens serving as
Unofficial decor.
Filthy clothes everywhere
Mingle happily as
If ****** with the ramen cups
And chocolate wrappers.
A skyscraper built from books
Raises it's ink stained arms
Up towards the concrete sky
Pleading, crying, to be read.
Crumpled papers, like scriptures
Belonging to God, yell
Unfinished lines of poetry
During the Dead's strolling.
The aroma of burnt cigs
Stains the air and green walls.
Another wine bottle hides
In the closet, elixir
For the trapped. A skull, candles,
And a pack of tarot
Sit expression less and
Calm inside the nightstand.
Posters and poems line the walls,
Their eyes observe the goings.
A bed, the coffin, stands deep
In the peering darkness,
Stiff and terrible, alone,
A headstone slab pillow,
Accommodate the carcass.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
The Couch Potato is glued to the screen with his tin foil hat on
He sees tailor made charades being played for keeps
Superficial calling cards being dropped into mailboxes
Gravy trains being engineered by some guy subject to temper tantrums and growing pains
Window shoppers searching for second hand teapots, swear jars and unofficial other halves
To him it's all real
Is he wrong?
Put on your dunce cap and ponder that
-Tommy Johnson
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 6:10 PM UTC
Skin torched
Tongue porcelain
Unable to convey
What I have to say
One day
One day
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 6:13 PM UTC
Flies killed: 56
Origin: Unknown
Report:
Base sealed all day, no possible point of entry. Flies, where you come from?!
Hypothesis:
Flies used means of Spontaneous Generation to enter my room.
Aristotle:1
Pasteur:0
1 fly remains, doom is coming to you my four legged foe!
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 8:31 PM UTC
“stay low, go fast,
**** first, die last,
one shot, one ****
no luck, all skill”
(Unofficial Navy Seal Slogan)
I stand at the graveside watching
as each person steps forward
to throw dirt on the coffin
I study each face closely
and marvel at all humanity
What is it about funerals
that causes all to attend?
And yet in a life well spent
not a visit, not even a scent
I laid down my life, as you see
laid it so they could be free
It must be a sense of duty
now they come to visit me
Oh- the hypocrisy of humanity!
And now another journey awaits me
I soar to meet passing clouds
caught in the upstream of wind
a final glance, and just by chance
I catch your eyes following me
©Vivian Zems
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 5:00 AM UTC
There stood Colossus gripping tightly
At his injured head and whimpering,
Hemorrhaged for centuries and crumbled
Down to the crying blocks below,
To the crying nation below.
There stood tragedy in her nightclothes,
Caught unaware and unprepared,
But still willing to give the boys a show.
There drifts the smoke and burned up men.
There falls the mighty God of Rhodes.
Hanging now is the thick dust that blinds,
Hanging now is Comedy’s tired head, weeping
From sadness and silence and the ****** dust.
In the roads, the people stand and scream,
In their homes, the people sit and mourn.
Televisions show the Colossus fall,
But the only sound is a news anchor, bawling.
The crushing concrete quenches some
Of the hungry fire, and unofficial officials
Dive into the carcass for survivors.
The Hudson washes down the morning
With debris; and somewhere far off
I am seven, looking at the walls,
Wondering why our class
Doesn’t get a TV.
Mar 8, 2011
Mar 8, 2011 at 6:54 PM UTC
Day was very sunny,
Old Jet felt so funny,
Old black lab, muzzle grey,
His family off to work today,
Left alone, watchdog to keep,
Old Jet lay down to sleep,
His gait was slow,
Not much get up and go,
Jet slumbered on,
Not too long,
His canine dreams bemusing,
Flashbacks Old Jet perusing,
Brilliant happy companion days,
Lots of fun and rambling plays,
Ben was his best loved lad,
Now Jet's unofficial dad,
His loyalty never wavered,
Yes, Ben he always favoured,
Pats and hugs and lots of snacks,
All kindness, time to relax,
Old Jet's breathing slowed,
Snoring on, time to go,
Asleep in the sun, one deep sigh,
No one home to say goodbye,
No drama, no fuss,
Old Jet's no longer with us,
His long life over,
Puppy Heaven for old rover,
Old Jet had breathed his last,
Finally, Jet had passed.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 10:43 PM UTC
Constant worry.
Mothers know best,
and that is why their
unofficial motto is to
be in a state of constant
worry. My mother has
loved me from my very
inception. Through the
Caesarian section birth,
breast feeding, first words,
first steps. First mistakes.
First successes. My mother
has loved me.
My weight is the top concern,
my grades, nay my future,
is second.
But she believes in me.
She believes in me to do
what is right; not just for
me, but for others. She
believes in me and knows
I can do anything with
motivation. She believes in me
because *my mother loves me.*
She believes in me, and my
mother loves me, because of
constant worry.
Constant.
I am my mother's son.
My mother loves me,
and I love my mother.
Because I am in a state
of constant worry.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 1:43 PM UTC