"unorganized" poems
I looked down onto the paper before me.
Adjectives scrawled all across it.
Beast, worthless, idiotic, suicidal, freak, unorganized, unintelligent, try hard, spastic, boring, arrogant, obsessive.
This went on for ages, at least a hundred negative words against myself on it.
I looked down at the paper as a tear rolled down my face. I crossed out the adjectives. I smiled and flipped it over, and on the back I wrote a note.
"There are many things I can be describe as... Though, those are not adjectives I would use... But the best I could say? Healing."
I looked down toward the paper and smiled.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
My body spun
From one side of my garage
to the other.
In between the pillars of poles
creating space between the cars
parked in the two car garage
perfect family, right?
not even close
I unlaced my skates
tossing them in a case,
unorganized as my chaotic brain
I leaned down to pick up
a mess of what looked
like plastic
like a broken water container
crushed by the weight
of a basketball tossed without looking
being the good girl I was
I picked up the charred plastic
placing it in my hand to
throw it in the trash
I dropped it in the can
letting the pieces fall
one
by
one.
As I wiped my hands
I found a piece I had forgotten
it had the label of Prego on the side
I realized then
It was a broken spaghetti jar
I ran upstairs
to help with dinner.
I asked my mom
what I could do to
She said
"You can run that blood
under a cold water faucet"
I looked at her confused, saying
"Where am I bleeding?"
She turned my arm over
showing me the cut
glazed over my forearm
I hadn't even felt it
I didn't know
that was the moment
I would find an advantage
to not feeling pain
and an interest
in the impure
realization
that bleeding
wasn't scary...
that it couldn't hurt me
as much as the rest
of my life could.
Feb 17, 2018
Feb 17, 2018 at 11:07 PM UTC
The truth is, I’m not really sure who I am. She told us to draw ourselves and then to draw our souls; so I drew my face scratched and uneven, just as I’ve always seen it, and frowned at the result both in the mirror and on the paper. The only soul I’ve ever really known was the one that shone through the strokes of the keys I punched, the scrawling of ink on paper in mismatched arrays of awkward thoughts, disorientated and unorganized, shaded different spews of emotion and rearranged through the lens of ever last viewer’s eye. Even so, this soul that is composed of words that defined me painted a picture vivid in its contrast, though blurry from both afar and close enough to squint, no details able to be made out. These words that have wrapped around my soul rubbed raw from the time my skin first flinched at the cool March air cannot be deciphered by their author, though I know somehow that their letters flowing into one another say more than any curve of my face ever could. These words are black and white, two extremes crafted in the pallet of the Universe’s toolshed, and perhaps that’s exactly what I am. Black or white. I’m dark and lost and scrounging for some rusting wall or tree branch to cling to as to ensure the shimmering waves, onyx and charcoal in their nature with the flow of blood in its spine, do not flood into my mouth at a rate in which is too quick to balance myself upon them, or, I’m white, drifting snow from a cloud scraping the vast expanse of brilliant blue gazing as a sky above all the world, pure, innocent, unscathed with the potential for creation in vibrancies yet unknown, or to be ripped to bits, scattered amongst piles of cream and autumn leaves drained of their color beneath months of shivering frost. And so, perhaps any physical representation of my being would be all wrong, because that’s not what I am. Myself, my soul, it resides in the murky depths of heights I’ve yet to discover, tethered endlessly and uncertain among the caverns of my inners, pink and mushy, stirred and ****** untouched from the harsh light of a world encased in brevity.
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 8:20 PM UTC
you said you had been a mess lately.
i ran my fingers through your tangled hair and agreed.
the unorganized chaos in your head sent me into a whirl.
you said that old wounds dont heal,
i said that im just cleaning the cut.
ive always had a habit of disturbing things better left in the dark,
and i don’t think that there is any part of you that i left untouched.
childhood memories and things you had long since forgotten stirring in the dust
i took the paint splattered across your heart
and turned it into a masterpiece,
you said you had always liked abstract better than realism.
the neat rows that i stacked you in feel heavy on your tongue,
and you told me with words that i had already prepared for you
that the messiest thing about ocd,
is that nothing can ever be left alone.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 11:37 PM UTC
My love for you isn't just a feeling.
It's a civilization.
It's a group formed in unorganized noise.
A commotion of expression purposely existing
the sole purpose of you.
Living & breathing.
A jumbled language overheard.
Stenciled with each patter of foot.
Every horn honked.
Each lane clogged with the thought of you.
A foundation built from the ground up
in means to explore.
A stone age modernized.
Misinterpreted by the desire of fire.
Protected.
Built upon.
Built into the tallest building, which I call your name.
My love for you is like the plane that flies overhead.
Roaring loud in repetition.
Tedious nooks & crannies.
Places to shop, things to see.
All the things I see when I look into your eyes.
My love for you a province of sorts.
The smell seared in a pan. Best served on a plate for two.
A mix of different pastas, vegetables.
Fried in upbeat cafe, different aromas.
The chit chat different versions of me.
Complimenting the very essence of you.
A new building erected with cranes and steel beams.
Plastered dry wall.
Soon opened for your arrival
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 3:09 PM UTC
Autumns leaves undo
& all that's said carefully-
remains untrue
Unorganized these
unprecedented artworks
Powerfully heal.
Oct 2, 2023
Oct 2, 2023 at 5:14 AM UTC
clear signs of insanity
pacing
mind racing
dazed and unorganized
eyes look left
eyes look right
not enough contact
there is a clear detach
mad at myself
and laughing
hysterically I sing
a ring a ding ding
a crazy hymn
a dim dim a dim dim
I hear my thoughts
they're saying
**** him
but I must not sin
I wanna take it to the chin
I can feel my grin
ripping skin
energy wearing thin
I am finally living
insane
I feel no pain
I am pain
I inflict it on the lame
I am to blame
Only to regret my shame
Time will tame
In the mean I clean
spotless spaces surround
I am nowhere to be found
detached again
just cleaning
alive and aging
insane
Nov 18, 2021
Nov 18, 2021 at 7:33 PM UTC
~
*This level crossing--
stick,
sand,
and broken glass,
from naming to numbering,
names tend to define,
numbers are neutral,
they count the roads, follow their failings--
flow,
force,
and absorb,
dictated by a headlight,
I feel nearer to the surface of us,
motion made of visible memories, arrested in space,
mere unorganized explosions of random energy,
and therefore meaningless--
to fall in love with our progress,
and yet be outgrown by it.*
~
Mar 10, 2021
Mar 10, 2021 at 7:33 PM UTC
Brittle, crumbling, falling apart,
Piecing together, mending a heart,
Frustration, a manifestation of agitation,
Ponder, wonder, lost in thought,
Finding a riddle, unsolved,
Break into losing wits, yet you still sought,
An unorganized, horrible mess,
nozzle your love, flaws you caress,
Don't do this darling, on shaking knees,
Insanity is all I could feed,
I am not the saving grace that you need
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 9:04 AM UTC
Behind every song is a story,
Some moody,
Even EDM has a story,
It is a powerful story,
With unknown sounds creates,
A musical mystery,
For People it's just "sounds",
Sounds mixed and thrown together,
But it may sound all messy,
Scattered and unorganized,
But to create that ball of excitement,
The music is carefully analysed,
Up untill the last note,
Everything is precisely predicted,
Sounds unorganized,
Creations is organised,
Making it is perfection,
An artist work,
Dec 5, 2017
Dec 5, 2017 at 9:02 PM UTC
I want to tell you about love. What it does to you. How it feels when you’re “in” it. What it’s like to lose it, and what it’s like to have it and not be able to show it, or have it but not be able to share it, because it’s not reciprocated.
Love is a strange thing. It’s probably the only thing that’s very obviously real that we have to question the existence of. It’s the only thing that is answered with “I was, but maybe I wasn’t” when asked “have you been in it?”. It’s compiled of essentially every emotion, it’s horrible, but, somehow beautiful. Anger, jealousy, grief, loss, loneliness are to name a few of the negatives of it. But when it’s returned, happiness, joy, ecstasy, and positivity are what is felt.
Love turns you into a ball of unorganized unexplainable emotions, characterized by a feeling of uncertainty and great need. Love yearns to be reciprocated, that’s all it asks for. Do we all ask for it? Probably not considering some of us throw it away like it doesn’t even exist. But we need it to be reciprocated, maybe not the first time, maybe not the second time, who knows you might feel the truest love you’ve ever felt in your life and you won’t get it back at the twentieth time. Love is cruel like that, kind of a joker of some sorts, and yeah, maybe it’s a ***** for that like our old friend karma, but at least karma is always sent back, what comes around doesn’t always go around in love, and when it doesn’t come back around, it can eat away at your heart like an infection that refuses to go away.
Sometimes, we lose love, we had it and it was amazing, but we lose it, and it’s terrible. It makes you wish you could blow away with the wind, in fact it feels like you are. You feel like you’re hollow inside, as if even the gentle breeze will blow you away. Cold, like your heart has stopped pumping and your body has no choice but to share the temperature of the air around you – cold blooded. Nothing is worth it anymore, and honestly, you feel so dead inside that you choose that to do nothing is better than to do something – nihilistic almost.
But tis better to have loved and lost, than to have never have loved at all, right? To have a deep yearning inside of you that can never be returned by the one you love, that is true torture. You can beat me, you can hold me down, you can leave me to rot in the darkness, but leave me in love and alone, and that is true horror. A sadness that can’t be fixed, and hole that cannot be filled, to be in love and have no one to share it with is what true sadness is compiled of.
Why even love, it’s horrible, disheartening, depressing, saddening, and just plain bad. **** love it’s pretty much the bane of humanity and the end all of happiness. We should all just give up
But no, don’t give up, whatever you do don’t let go, love is beautiful. It’s bad when we lose it, of course it is; losing anything good is bad. Love is difficult, but it makes it special, and when you finally climb your mountain I promise you, you will be happy, you will feel fulfilled and you will never regret having persevered for your happy ending. Go out, don’t give up, find your love and get it, I believe in you, you deserve your happiness, now go get it.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC
its by growing through means
living by moderate extremes
anything to pass by that perluded meaning
drafted hung by my neck from the ceiling
intoxicated by your words
things phrases and voices, before you I have never heard
have you ever been inside fire before
scorned even when I open my eyes
to something called a new day
days are just blended into together
like watercolors
overlaping each other
sometime complimenting one another
and sometimes end up in a unorganized mess
yet we call it beautiful
but every painting has its own meaning
those that dont are never painted
Dec 5, 2010
Dec 5, 2010 at 2:05 PM UTC
Procrastination,
laying on the ground,
words fumbling through my brain like they're on some weird-ass drug
and can't help but bounce off all the walls.
Papers spread all around me,
goading me,
laughing at me,
dancing with each other and
playing twister over the square patterns
on my carpeted floor. They're my audience,
supposed to be sitting in
surprisingly well-cushioned red stadium seats,
only half-paying attention to my feeble attempts at
getting **** done. But I'm noticing this one, sitting (actually sitting!) three rows back
and two chairs down from the aisle
I can see his soft eyes twinkling in the light emanating off the
background of my stage
he watches me, amused, stern, patient,
believing in my abilities to complete
but understanding the trap.
His flat body is well-dressed, covered in straight black lines, question marks,
and capital letters. The kind of paper that means business. The kind of paper that
proves things. His blanks and spaces are all filled out:
pen under a backwards-steady hand.
With all of his numbers and names and titles he's declaring, predicting,
holding
encapsulating
saturated in my future.
He's like a time traveler, sitting there silently with
his boots and black top hat,
whispering softly about what is to come
urging success to spill from my thoughts
which are now linked together in an unorganized conga-line,
falling all over the place is if inebriated intensely,
the crazy ones even throwing up in strategically-placed trash cans.
What a nice touch.
Sweaty palms.
This is what happens
when all but one of your papers don't pay attention to you
and the one that does
is too severe and powerful,
overwhelming,
terrifying,
when that one paper
is the reason why you've been
a fervent procrastinator
this whole time.
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 8:56 AM UTC
The engulfing darkness of jealousy takes over,
The all-consuming hatred for the one that stole your love.
The anger is misplaced ans irrational.
My mistakes are where my fury truly resides.
Forgiveness is what I ask, Love is what I desire.
I yearn to confront you, yet fear to ruin your happiness,
These feelings, bottled up, are erratic, distraught and unorganized.
How is it you feel?
What is it you desire?
Does your love still exist for me,
As mine does for you?
Mar 31, 2011
Mar 31, 2011 at 7:58 PM UTC
questioning the soul, questioning
the mind. why did that girl have
to have so many strokes? how
skew'd is the memory? spirits,
spirits on high for nigh recurrence -
nihil remembrances. mention'd by
name once. something wrong with
the body. disconnecting from on
high, disconnecting in a somewhat
general sense. no straight lines in
nature, no chaos in nature. get away
from the species' mentality. chaos.
c-h-a-o-s. chaos. chaos. species created
word to organize the unorganized.
straight line, polygon, order, chaos. time.
species ingrain'd, call'd instinct. to file,
to follow, to seek originality through
unoriginality. thru the banal. memory
warp'd, once could live. self-destruction
and a thought of living life without
affecting the choices of others. weakness.
chaos. rambling. tryptamine influenced
creation of language. showing teeth,
trying to intimidate. trying to rise, a
Jane of the Jungle form of archetype.
the passionate, caring, forbearing,
ape hunter. and lids sinking, closing off
the soul of influence. struggling thru
connections severed. those released from
******* by soul's recollections. by
metaphysical muscle memory. weeping
chaos, wailing order. finding null purpose
in. in. of all things. all people, all purpose.
knowing the worthlessness of well-chosen
words. and gaining access, and
trying to rise, and thirteen lines to stretch.
thirteen to fill across.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 4:32 PM UTC
We were never a fan of dialogues.
At the other end of the street I would watch her
Each Monday, carrying a new book every time.
I didn't like to read.
I preferred music, in my opinion
Was the equivalent of a book
Each telling a story.
The cup of coffee in my hand felt as warm as my heart
As I blew the hot liquid from the brim of the cup
And take a picture of her with the smoke that frames her body.
I wrote short poems of how captivating her beauty was
On the greasy table napkins provided for the coffee tables
Producing a different piece each time.
Her mouth would move as she read the words,
Mumbling lines of incoherent sentences I could not decipher.
At times I would see a smile break out on her face
And I would find myself consumed in slight envy.
Would she have smiled at the words I've written for her?
She was a song, I was a poem.
She was first written on smooth paper,
A thoughtless idea jotted in messy handwriting
Soon expanding into a verse and chorus
Written over and over again,
Revised by experts, reviewed until perfection,
Interpreted by bassists, guitarists, drummers, and vocalists
Appreciated repeatedly through the stereos of listeners
As they capture each beat and tempo.
She was flawless.
I was a poem.
I was rewritten in a single document copy
Renamed and revised
From the greasy fingers tapping away on keyboards
Typed and deleted,
Typed and deleted.
Frustrating the writer as they could never get an idea out of me
Leaving me in a file hidden in the folders of an old computer
Unfinished and waiting to be opened.
I was a mess in unorganized stanzas of ideas,
Lines which no one will have the audacity to read,
A waste of time,
Flawed.
She was the perfection in every imperfection
An artwork that you could only love through the eyes.
A piece which I
Wanted in my own.
I watched her again silently and wondered
Is it possible to love someone you've only admired from afar?
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 11:02 PM UTC
Enlightenment is explosion Its means your mind is virtually certain Either been butchered Or wobbling or wondering Like a curtain thrown from system strongholds Threat of retaliation, with its more we feel the beauty
Trash bins for leftover, Buddha said the same thing A Zen master would say sidewalks If you work too hard the latent anarchists or God will attain anything Not to make everyone the same prostitution Capital into an asphalt jungle, the proportions of our own body Ritual *** on the other hand it may be too idealistic
Blood **** ended no need to talk about Unorganized and we can see the beauty Her face covered with blood you try to do it all at once Since most of the victims realized that you are one One whole, many thousands of innocents Brainwashed whites with reality Anarchy and savagery grew emptiness Subsequently died in a wise and effective way
If an artist becomes, Short intense raids on the system river Sources and supply and human life Put some strength into their veins and die With fingers encircling and incantations of Satan worship Her pretty face was smudged little by little She moaned of eternal life
The meaning lies in a flash about fifty yards in almost a direct hit From a secluded densely wooded suffer in your difficulties Exploded inside your body The projectiles began calmness Something in itself is enlightenment weapons especially for guerilla distress Your life in your effort thundering in the midst We saw beautiful blossoms of some meaning in their ****** toll Know the answer, but while it lasted
Apr 28, 2011
Apr 28, 2011 at 9:19 AM UTC
Cigarette to her cherry chap stick coated lips again.
She keeps on smoking them saying she doesn't care if she dies, yet she's discreetly afraid of death.
She knows she should probably get off her *** and get a job, but she'd rather listen to the same song over and over and day dream about ******
scenarios.
She'd rather stay up late at night writing and wake up at 3, majority of her day already wasted. Downing coffee and telling herself that she'd wake up
early one day to greet the sun and admire it's beauty but reality devoured her, and she's under her sheets sleeping with her breast pressed against
her cream colored silk sheets.
She fell asleep watching asmr videos, too much of a baby to try astral projection and her window is wide open, bugs with wings flying in her room but yet she doesn't care, she likes the feeling of the cold wind on her legs.
Oh, how she wishes she were in a field somewhere, holding hands with another male or a female that loves her back as much as she loves them. She wishes that whoever loves her would lift up her skirt and lick their fingers after they venture down her legs and inside the blooming flower so many individuals have been trying to deflower.
Rolling naked in the grass, smiling, laughing.
She wants to look deep into someones eyes, not uttering a word, just in silence smiling. She wants to tuck their hair behind their ear, she wants to feel the heat of another person up against her, or the simple pads of anothers fingers cupping her breast. She longs for someone to touch her, yet she's
afraid of being touched. She's afraid of men, she's afraid of many things.
Her picky self thinks she see's the good in people yet they expose their true
colors she were too blind to see. She's so naive. Letting her thoughts unravel her like a Christmas ribbon, placing acid tabs under her tongue, smoking more **** and drinking too much.
Anything to numb the fact that the ones she desire don't desire her, and the ones that want her she acknowledges, but simply picks up with the pile of clothes on her floor and shoves them in her drawers she keeps telling herself that she'd sort out.
An unorganized, mess.
Her room, her life. Everything.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 2:08 AM UTC
**Oh how my sorrows torture me.
Quiet room and dim light.
The silence does not comfort me.
Not in the way that I want it to be.
Where is the door that leads outside?
To fresh air and freedom.
To where risks are hid and excitement lives.
How I wish to go outside.
Inside I feel, It's such a bore.
Hurt and adrenaline does not belong here.
They belong out there.
To hurt and ****
Save the hearts of the confused,
The unorganized minds,
And the bodies of those who thirsts
for the blood of their own.
I just want to go outside.
Where I know the are many crevices to hide in.
My fingers will be *****
My mind will be empty,
My heart will finally feel content.
I just want to be free from worry.**
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 8:42 AM UTC
You finish off my sentences
You help complete my thoughts
Although we are quite different
"I'm an x, and you're a nought"
My life is full because of you
And the one thing that we've got
Is that we are quite different
You play "x"s, I play "noughts"
Together we're a power house
A team that knows it's way
But, separate, we're unorganized
That can't get through the day
We make each other better when
One is cold and one is hot
It's because we are quite different
You play "x"s, I play "noughts"
If the game should ever change
And we went a different way
I don't know how I'd make it
I'd not know just what to play
I wake up every morning knowing
You're there to be in all my thoughts
It's because we are so different
You play "x"s, I play noughts.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 7:31 PM UTC
Really upset for what comes across me lately
Had to keep my mind busy
Because solitude is the real friend
Rare people use to get along with it
I came with myself
To the place I love
without a bunch of friends
I experienced it myself
Solitude means enjoy yourself feeling alone
but not to feel lonely
I played it myself
To be dumb and pretend to understand nothing
while the world is crumbling down
I watched it myself
The place to stay for a while
in all of sudden got burnt
that left pieces of memories
I felt it myself
Having the loudest minds
always do something to limit their circle
and keep their feeling out from sight
while pain cut you off in an unorganized way
I did it myself
Meant to be good and somehow hollow
I listened to it myself
After words that come from the mouth are nonsense
I buried it myself
Guilty feeling that always comes up
and it keeps pushing up the ground to the skies
I said it to myself
This must have come to an end
Seems like having a different personalities
But, I can assure you it's not
It all full of stress and bliss simultaneously
Wish you to get well and blessed really soon
myself
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 10:07 AM UTC
that girl you see? with the big blue eyes?
she's in the middle of a war with herself.
she was known as the girl who went in her car everyday for lunch simply to write.
you see her?
she's the girl who holds a mask in front of her face
and if you were to look behind it
you would be shocked.
that girl, that girl loves .
she L O V E S.
and if she loves you
then **** you have got to be something special.
that girl is the one with depression and anxiety.
who has dealt with things you wouldn't even imagine.
she's that girl with the love for life
despite the fact that life has tried to turn her dark and grey.
that girl shines
that girl shines colors you've never seen before.
that girl is the one who is messy and unorganized but it's okay with her.
she's the girl with an ordinary face, but an extraordinary heart.
she's that girl that will apologize for the mess after you rip her to shreds.
that girl has a strange love for bears and the outdoors.
and has dreamt of the mountains all of her life.
she's from the small town where she was being swallowed.
and trust?
trust is not something that girl can do easily.
she has walls so strong that you wouldn't believe.
with a never ending for stargazing
because it reminds her each night that there is beauty everywhere
even if it is hidden sometimes.
yeah. that girl.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 3:55 PM UTC
Thoughts never left unfelt;
words never left unthought,
torturing the mind they cannot escape.
Illusive, yet demanding to be spoken.
Breaking, hiding, running at impossible speed
in fear of the coming storm.
The syllables are sprinting
while utterances bevel behind boarded windows
The mind turned against itself;
feelings turned against their maker,
while the dark rains, drowning rains, are pouring.
The intracranial hurricane forces itself through the ruins.
Treacherous, turbulent storm a’brewing
Discolored and tornadoing
through the mind’s hills and valleys.
Unorganized and unrelenting.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 7:38 PM UTC
I love you,
so much its unbearable.
The way you deny your beauty
really makes me laugh.
when i look at you,
i only see the purest constellation.
bright, unorganized,
yet in my eyes
you are beautiful picture.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
Drinking the tea
Soothing the soul
Killing coldness
Reviving warmness
Blinded by the wrong
Missing the right
The sky is crying
The wind is pushing
The sun is hiding
Shaking up her insides
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC