"unoriginal" poems
When Villains Win
Movies and books
They're all predictable
So unoriginal
I dream of a story
Where the plot is somewhat gory
And the villain
Isn't just chillin'
The hero and their nemesis
Are at a stale mate
And their actions aren't repetitive
Finally the hero's imperfections take over,
and he hits too late
The enemy takes control
And the moment, he stole
He doesn't hesitate
A second, he doesn't wait
Time isn't slowed down
He doesn't take his sweet time
So quickly, he cuts the line
The end of the hero
A new beginning for evil
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
The evolution of art never halts
Once we began dancing around fire
Our feet couldn't stop
A place in our lives
Where our subpar seeds
Could be seen as glowing trees
That's the way I feel about my poetry
It reminds me a lot of me
I reread it and rewrite it so often
By the end it seems unoriginal and plain
And all I can hope
Is the themes and ideas that were the inspirational genesis
Remain intact
Art walks a tightrope over the most unpredictable factor
The audience
They are the other half of art
Their power cannot be overstated
And as time progresses
Their power grows
And the importance of art always extends an equal distance
But the stronger art becomes
The more it asks of it's audience
In many cases
The audience is not ready to take the call
This is one of those times
Here at the current pinnacle of art
Surfing the web
A wonderful chance as
Art is a reflection of people and society
The Internet is people and society
But just as we listen to songs
To decide what concert to go to
Or watch trailers
To decide what movie to see
We like what we like
And put blinders on to find it
Like moths to fire
We could do amazing things
If we could harness the potential
Of our collective conscious
But the threat of losing our individuality
Is too great for us
Unable to accept
Our individuality is always in the context of our cosmic existence
We are part of something greater
And we can't escape that
Even in death
We feed what lies beneath
The memory of our lives
Shrinks to obscurity
The maggots that cover our corpses
Flourish to maturity
Everything this world creates is art
And we are it's most complex creation
Not necessarily the best
We just have the most parts
And the maggots that use our dead bodies for sustenance
Were once the monsters that roamed this Earth
They had no nationality
Or political affiliations
Or religion
And they're still here
Waiting to reclaim their throne
Once "smarter" species seek suicide
Jul 26, 2017
Jul 26, 2017 at 10:19 PM UTC
Adapt & absorb other beings,
needs,wants, habits, ideas, beliefs.
Influences, unoriginal.
Metamorphosis,
eternally avoiding the raw,wicked truth of your inner soul,
drop the ******* facade, it is futile and ludicrous.
Analyze,compare, identify, mimic, imitate, copy,shift, evolve.
Perpetual cycle.
Veiled false identities and lies,
layers upon layers, shirk the pale shadows of who we used to be.
Shall we continue?
Contradiction.
Fools, to believe that one can ever change.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 6:00 AM UTC
I am the black sheep
among the high-achievers
and
the sociable.
We don't
even
baaa..
the same tune.
Nothing
*****
more
than
being
compared
to them.
It is the height
of
cliche,
lack of imagination,
unoriginal.
Parents love cliche, right?
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 8:06 AM UTC
It's an anxiety attack waiting to happen when I can't think of a witty way to say something unoriginal; something that everyone has heard before, but that just now occurred to me to say. I can feel my thoughts racing, my heartbeat speeding up to pump blood to my overreacting brain that's now thinking, "How the **** am I gonna get these feelings out, now?" I can't think of a cunning way to use a metaphor--one that I need to be able to put this pen to the page and call all these thoughts in my head poetry.
What is the meaning of poetry? I feel like I should have some kind of figurative language in here, but my brain is fried. I'm too numb to process a **** thing. I'm so numb that it physically hurts and that pain is all that I can feel. That and the burning of my eyes from lack of sleep. This isn't poetry. I don't know what this is--random words strung together by a writer who's falling asleep at the page, who doesn't even know what sense is at this point. It's a rant...it's a ramble. Sleepless ramble
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 10:22 PM UTC
I wanna taste ya, I wanna take you away girl..(away from all the **** shit*2)...all the **** shit..that you gotta (deal wit2)...me girl Yeah..(I wanna taste2)..I wanna (take you away girl*2).(away from all the **** shit*2)..all the **** shit..that you gotta (deal wit 2)...me girl Yeah..Just (deal wit me girl Yeah2)..(just deal wit me2)..(deal wit me2)..(just deal wit me*2)..Shawty.. Yeah..
Deal with me girl so what's the deal girl, what is real girl..what is real love girl,..What is true...What's happening..What's up..wit you..baby me & you..that's what's good.. Uhh, Young Ston Babygirl you need a soulja baby I'll be the whole troop for you if you want me to..girl, I'm willing to do whatever I need to do for you, Yeah baby so..(you believe Dat*2)..Imma be there whenever you need me, best believe Dat Imma treat ya, how you supposed to be treated..(Yeah
You best believe girl2)..best believe Yeah..you best believe me. Yeah believe Dat..Uhh Aye..best believe girl..you best believe girl, you best believe Yeah..you best believe me....(best believe Dat, Yeah you best believe girl2)..believe dat..
I won't tell you no lies baby..I will never cheat on ya..(you best believe Dat*2)...believe me..Aye..Baby Yeah..
(I wanna taste you, I wanna take you away girl*2)..away..(from all the **** shit,yeah*2)...that you gotta deal wit..Uhh..,just (deal wit girl 2)...Yeah,.. You (best believe girl2)..I wanna taste you,..I wanna take you away girl..(away from all the **** shit2)..,that you gotta (deal wit2) me girl..(just deal wit me Yeah*2)..Deal wit me girl...
I'll protect you like you my Louis Lane boo, baby Yeah believe dat, believe in me, Dat your heart won't be in pieces no more baby & if it is already baby I'll be a mechanic & fix it..forget them other worthless man, that you have been wit, I'll put them in their place, if you need me to, Babygirl Aye..Imma keep it real, Imma keep it gangsta wit you..You gone need me, best believe Dat, yeah best believe girl, baby Imma put it down on you daily,..every chance I get..Imma give you love baby..Yeah true love girl..Imma have you screaming, Imma have you moaning, like "Young Ston you the man, like **** Daddy you the best ..I ever had".. Uhh..Yeah I know dat already baby..girl just take this **** yeah, take it all in like some good kush babygirl, don't exhale it, just let the good smoke marinate in yo mind & yo lungs for 30 seconds, then cough it all out..
Aye Shawty being wit me..is like being in another dimension baby being wit me is a new reality, Aye..Its another universal feeling being wit me girl , you (best believe Dat..*2)..I ain't like another man, they so regular that's so unoriginal, & I ain't even tryna spitt no player **** to you baby..boo, I'm rhyming from my heart girl, Yeah this song was written deep down from my soul girl..I really love you girl..This song is only dedicated to (you2), know who you are , You my (boo,2)..You so sweet, you my favorite candy, girl..Oo..Oo.., (best believe Dat*2)..you my only woman too..Oo..Oo.
It's just (you2)..the only one dat I think about girl...boo, its just (you2)..the one when I fall asleep, I dream about (you2..)..Aye & when I wake up Im still thinking about (you2)..(just you*2)..
I lust after you..& only (you2)..is all I really care for girl.. (Yeah you2)..(just you,Yeah*2)..
I adore..(you2)..girl Yeah..Yeah..just (you2)..baby..Yeah..Yeah..
Best believe it's just..(you2)..(just you2)..be on my mind so much Shawty..,I'm so crazy in love wit you..shit, I gotta put a ring on you soon, when I find ya best believe dat..(you best believe girl2)...you best believe.. (Yeah2)..Best believe me, best believe (Dat*2)..
I wanna taste you..Yeah..I wanna take you (away girl2)..(away from all the fucc shit2)..Yeah..from...(all the **** shit2)..that you gotta (deal wit2)..me girl..deal wit me girl..deal wit me Yeah...just (deal wit me,girl2)..(deal wit me2)..,you best believe girl..,(deal wit me girl2)..(deal wit me2)..,you best believe girl..,(deal wit me3)..girl, Yeah you best believe girl, you best believe, (deal wit me..3)
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 1:17 PM UTC
"I knew this girl once,
she had long hair, so long it whispered tiny kisses along her hips and waist
she had the oddest bluest eyes i'd ever seen, the color of the sky right before it gets completely dark
her thick, long eyelashes framed those eyes, and freckles formed constellations across her cheeks
i could almost draw the big dipper and Orion's belt on her milky white face.
She didn't know i existed but i admired her from afar. I could tell she was educated- She always had some form of poetry in her hand. But of all the things i could have noticed about her i noticed her bookmarks. She would lose them all the time, i would see her chasing after the scraps of paper as they flew through the wind down the street. She'd stick anything in between those pages, wrappers of all sorts, leaves, pennies, shoelaces, once i even saw a page ripped from a different book. It became my favorite game to guess what the next bookmark would be. After awhile she stopped chasing the various bookmarks across the city and she cut all that long hair off, then awhile after that she started using unoriginal, uninspired plain old bookmarks.Then even awhile that she stopped bringing books altogether, until one day she didn't show up. Nobody knew that beautiful, mysterious, bookmark making girl was locked up inside her own mind. Nobody knew she hated her long hair and her freckles and even those baby blues. Nobody knew that she couldn't stand to live in her skin anymore so much that she swallowed a couple pills one night to ease away the pain. Even worse was she didn't know i watched her for so long and thought she was the most interesting human being i'd ever encountered. That girl committed suicide because she hated herself learn from her mistake, my mistake, everyone who ever noticed her bookmarks mistake, and don't do this, don't off yourself with a .45 before you've even had a chance to live" he's desperate now
"please please you don't have to do this" he sputters
I answer simply " I never was much of a bookmark girl, i always dog-eared my pages"
bang
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 6:35 PM UTC
I could be anywhere with you.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC
when i was young,
i only lived
between the pages of a book
between the words of a sentence
between Privet Drive and Baker Street
between bookstores and libraries
where I did not have to speak
to make friends;
where I made friends
who would not leave,
where I could leave
and return to see
that nothing had changed;
nothing, except me,
but only a little.
now that i’m older
i’ve been twice
to the other side and back;
i think i’d also like to live
between time zones and skylines
between silken sheets on starry nights
between your fingers and your eyes,
where conversations are passports
to other worlds in
in other hearts beating
in other bodies;
if only for just a little.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 11:21 AM UTC
Here comes The Change
That has the range
Of emotions
And demotions
And devotions
Of a perilous populous
That likes to raise a fuss
When they eventually learn who I am
And treat me like I'm the Son of Sam
To be specific
They discover I'm gay
And begin to filet
My mentality
In totality
For fatality
Merely by acting differently
If my sexuality isn't the first thing people know about me
I get to witness The Change
Like a dog with mange
I am shedding my hair
While screaming no fair
Because of the shift I see
Because of the **** I need
To make my heart bleed
There is a steady bellowing burdensome baggage
From those that want to ****** some *******
So I search for weight lifters
But only find shapeshifters
That become great grifters
When The Change occurs
And The Change burns
So The Change turned
Me into an interdimensional changeling
And an unintentional rage king
After they use words like flaming
Because the results are so draining
It becomes hard not to hate people
Who are inspired by hate steeples
They say I'm going to Hell
While I notice the smell
Of being buried in their banal ****
While they play their greatest hits
That are as unoriginal
As they are cynical
They say I'm a degenerate
An embarrassment
A parent's lament
I want to change into a carefree bird
Instead I stay in Hell with the herd
Wanting to escape like Lupin the Third
Rather than be oppressed like the Kurds
But there is no relief
Only re-grief
When changes aren't permanent
But The Change is
There's an illustration of my life
That will change your perspective
The picture is in my words
When the painting is what I choose to say
And the canvas is your mind
Whose textures I could never imagine
So I jump off a cliff blindfolded
Expecting to be changed once I land
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 6:13 AM UTC
You're not a necessity,
You’re an accessory.
Stop trying to own me, talk at, and stand next to me.
Stop playing the role of the leader- you’re less than me.
I am the boss here you have nothing to offer- see?
I am stronger, smarter, brighter, bolder-
and all you have to say is what?
“If I can’t have her I’ll hurt her.”
You think because you’re man and I’m women I’m yours,
but when it comes to offers I haven’t see anything worse.
You call at me,
Stare at me,
Swear at me,
Slimy and gross like a leach.
You taunt me and smirk at me as if I’m in your reach.
So I’ve talked to you once,
We’ve made eye contact- your point?
You’re a cog in a machine line,
a small piece,
an ordinary joint.
You’re unoriginal with your words,
even less with your actions.
I’m beautiful and talented,
So when it comes to you there’s no attraction.
You have nothing to offer me,
let me be-stop accosting me.
You’re taking up my time and it’s costing me.
Because unlike you I’m not worthless,
I’ve got ambition and drive.
I’ve got brains-not just an ***
You’re not the reason I’m alive.
You’re nothing,
You’re worthless.
And if I wanted you, you’d know.
I’ve been trying to tell you repeatedly just where you can go.
Your offers?
Not catchy,
not tempting,
I don’t want anything less.
So sad to know when it comes to relationships-
this is as close as you ever get.
You’re ****
You’re trash.
You confuse me when you talk.
Since when does a women sleep with someone when they gawk, or when they stalk?
You’re a coward,
You’re a loser,
Your creation was a glitch.
And though yes, I am rejecting you,
No, boy-you are the little *****
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 3:42 PM UTC
It caught me off guard, this sudden feeling of loss, this sense that something beautiful was gone forever. I didn't know what to do with it, this overwhelming idea that now, out of neglect or shame or starvation, a work of art had withered away into nothing.
I suppose that I'm beginning to understand that the world isn't a narrative, it's not a story by an author with a plot and a hero.
This is the essential fallacy taught to children with a streak of the hopeless romantic in them:
the desperate belief that somewhere out there is a place for people who live their lives waiting for King Arthur instead of Jesus.
And even now, with every word comes the terrifying truth that my babbling is going to change absolutely nothing, not a single atom is going to **** an electron on the completion.
I won't feel better, the situation won't change, you the reader aren't going to say EUREKA!!!! at the end of it, so what's the point?
Expression, that is the point of it, and to be be completely blunt about it all, I hope some one I love and admire will read this and say the typical things that are said when people are honest on public forums. Do I have a point? No, not really.
So what do I do with this loss, this empty fireplace in my soul?
I drink and smoke and **** it away, stay so busy that I don't have time to consider it, this knowledge that the fire has gone out. How typical of me, how unoriginal and bourgeoise to write another ode to the trials of the individual.
Who am I to feel loss and pain when my stomach is full and my needs are met?
Aren't I another servant of economic output?
Should I not donate time and money to a cause more worthy of respect than a withering example of excessive individualism such as myself?
No, and what's more, **** you society, **** you for taking away the only haven I ever had: my head. **** you for marketing my imagination,
for inventing a bunch of ******** about responsibility for the greater good,
for poisoning the little freedom I do have with feelings of uselessness.
And most especially **** you for your greatest crime of all;
implanting this feeling of guilt whenever I do anything with my own well-being in mind.
You have created a system that perpetuates itself on shame and output,
you have killed the desire to create for it's own sake.
**** you, and I'm going to unplug from you if it's the last ****** thing I ever do.
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
Creativity
is not measured by how many
love songs there are on the
radio
Writing one more
does not make love songs
unoriginal
Nor does it make it
bad to like love songs
All it does
is put a new love song
into the world
Creativity
is not making something
that has never been made before
Creativity
is making something.
And if you hate love songs
then go ahead
tell me they're not original
tell me they're too mainstream
tell me there's no other subject these days
tell me how that annoys you.
But don't tell me
that making something
isn't worth celebrating
Don't tell me
creativity is only what
you think it is
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 11:40 PM UTC
I am Strong
I am Vulnerable
I am Sure
I am Foolish
I am Smart
I make Poor Decisions
I am Filled with Energy
I am a Lazy Slob
I am Sure of Myself
I am Confused
I am a Leader
I am a Follower
I am Creative
I am Unoriginal
I am Optimistic
I Fear the Worst
I am Brave,
I am so Scared
I am Dark
I am the Light
I am Free,
I have been Captured
I am Short
But I am so Tall
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 9:19 AM UTC
Monday
Bleak unoriginal
Mondays
Where there is no
Whipped cream or cherries,
Hot chocolate sauce or
Peanut sprinkles
Only
***** wrecked trams
Absent faces &
Dreams of freedom
From hell
That is
This is
These are
The Monday Blues
Mar 12, 2012
Mar 12, 2012 at 5:19 AM UTC
I'm not exactly sure what love is.
I don't know what it is supposed to feel like.
But I know this.
Every time I see you,
My palms start sweating uncontrollably
And I wonder how in hell
I am ever supposed to hold your hand
If being yards away from you
Does that to me.
When I see you,
I swear "Dream Weaver" starts playing
In my head.
Whenever I see you,
I feel like I have to puke,
And it's the best feeling ever.
Every time I am done
Spending time with you,
I have to *** right away from nervousness.
But there's not a single person
I am more comfortable around.
When I am around you,
I spend more time
Covering up the teeth I'm so insecure of
Than I do talking to you.
I don't do that around anyone else,
But then again,
No one makes me laugh as much as you do.
When I see you,
I start thinking of different cheesy quotes
From different cheesy Rom-Coms,
And pray to God
That you haven't seen those movies,
So on the one in a billion chance
That I am actually brave enough to say something,
You won't realize how unoriginal I am.
Whenever I am with you,
And you ask me if I agree with what you said,
I'm lying.
I have no idea what you've just said.
I was too busy counting the wrinkles
Around your eyes
(Because wrinkles are my favorite, you know).
When you hug me,
I feel like crying.
WHY DO I FEEL LIKE CRYING?!
I have no idea what love is.
But let me tell you,
This feels pretty **** close.
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 7:27 PM UTC
I can't tell you how much I'm hurting
To acknowledge my pain is weakness
To share my weakness is pathetic
But I hurt, oh, I hurt
I can't tell you how much I want you to love me
Because to say it would be to jinx it
And to jinx it would be to lose you
But, by god, I wish you loved me
I can't explain how much I depend on you
Because to explain would be to trust you
And to trust you would be to make me vulnerable
But I depend on you. I really do.
I can't tell you all the little things I want you to say
Because to tell you would be to make them unoriginal
And to make them unoriginal would be to make them unsatisfactory
But I wish you would coddle me and tell me those things
I can't tell you how much I want to be yours
Because to tell you would be to give you power over me
And to give you the power would be to give you my leash
But I wish I could, and you would own me.
I can't tell you how twisted I am
Because to tell you would be to make you notice
And to make you notice would be to disgust you
But I wish you'd accept me
I can't tell you
I'm sorry for that
You've given me your trust
But I can't give it back
I can't explain
So I'll apologize
I simply don't want to be
Pathetic in your eyes
I can't confide
And I'll always feel remorse
But if I were to lose you
I'd feel much worse
I can't be who you wish me to be
So I'll keep who I really am
Under lock and key
I'll chain up my personality
So, ideally you'll see
The person you can't help but love
That person that leaves you starstruck
I'll hold back all I am
Because I am not your ideal
And your ideals are above me
So I can't let myself be real
I've shunned who I am
Because of who you are
I am bitter and angry
But you'll never see my scars
I want to let you closer
I want to try my luck
But deep down I know
I'm not who leaves you starstruck
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 10:18 AM UTC
omnipresent sick to my ******* stomach
dressed in mosquitoes that are woolen
like the lining of my english ******* and
coated in a complex mixture of secreted proteins
i follow the screen of the teleprompter as it storms,
blue and brilliant behind a mess of optical wiring.
lip and teeth
theres bile at the base of my throat
threatening to bust with each greased second
as my brain becomes nauseated by the snow-drift
of sentences burning the back of my eyelids.
i've never believed the things i read
so now i'm mute but spitting, spiteful and unoriginal
visualizing their greyhound decapitations in high colour.
nearly implying transit to our friendship or something
that would only churn the stomach like rich food after famine
so yes, i am the cruelest female of august
shipwrecked on the front porch with the lamplight raining in my mind
and i'm asking the moon as it rises like a solemn word
why i'm sick all the time, sweating
from everywhere but my tear ducts and
waiting for several breeds of cold to attack my corpse
Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 11:39 AM UTC
Midsummer midnight skies,
Midsummer midnight influences and airs,
The shining, sensitive silver of the sea
Touched with the strange-hued blazonings of dawn;
And all so solemnly still I seem to hear
The breathing of Life and Death,
The secular Accomplices,
Renewing the visible miracle of the world.
The wistful stars
Shine like good memories. The young morning wind
Blows full of unforgotten hours
As over a region of roses. Life and Death
Sound on--sound on . . . And the night magical,
Troubled yet comforting, thrills
As if the Enchanted Castle at the heart
Of the wood's dark wonderment
Swung wide his valves, and filled the dim sea-banks
With exquisite visitants:
Words fiery-hearted yet, dreams and desires
With living looks intolerable, regrets
Whose voice comes as the voice of an only child
Heard from the grave: shapes of a Might-Have-Been--
Beautiful, miserable, distraught--
The Law no man may baffle denied and slew.
The spell-bound ships stand as at gaze
To let the marvel by. The grey road glooms . . .
Glimmers . . . goes out . . . and there, O, there where it fades,
What grace, what glamour, what wild will,
Transfigure the shadows? Whose,
Heart of my heart, Soul of my soul, but yours?
Ghosts--ghosts--the sapphirine air
Teems with them even to the gleaming ends
Of the wild day-spring! Ghosts,
Everywhere--everywhere--till I and you
At last--dear love, at last!--
Are in the dreaming, even as Life and Death,
Twin-ministers of the unoriginal Will.
1.8k
My mind is colored with red and blue
stereotypes.
All that spills from my mouth is mundane.
Unrequited love,
depression and disappointment
all so self centered.
Yet, if I were to ask
"What do you love to read the most?"
your eyes would light up
at the idea of fairy tales
and love.
But what is love?
Some say it is the best and worst
but love is a feeling
and I'm not one for feeling
anything at all.
So to that I say
I wish I could rip out my heart
and bury it away
from the world and it's monsters
but that would be expected of me.
And oh so unoriginal and plain.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 3:36 PM UTC
Really..? R or Top hat or Woody or James
who ever you really are.
.........
r commented on my poem ''Poetry'' and said....
''I don't usually respond to children or little nuts that fall from an oak tree, but since you addressed me specifically, I will. You are apparently clueless about the true character of your daddy woof. If you want to be a little fly buzzing around his piles of Chihuahua crap that he calls poetry, feel free. Leave me out of your juvenile postings. You don't know me fallen acorn, so I choose not to respond.''
....................
You blocked me, cause I called you out and you knew that I was going to respond to your comment.
You called me a child, I'm 16 and I'm way more matture than you...
hint hint: fallen acorn..... Really...? Come on r you could have done better than that. Thats was corny and so unoriginal. :)
I really wasn't trying to get involved with this. But I was going to defend my friend and let you know what was good.
........I'm leave it right here. But come at me again and we (just me and you) are going to have some really big problems. <--thats not a threat either...its a promise that I intend on keeping.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 1:38 PM UTC
Like old
mean beetles,
like old
men in battle,
like egos: solid anvils,
like families: lethal weapons,
like these: them,
begotten sons
who begat daughters
of a land, of a bordered plot
on the globe, the dirt,
the house, the property
which begot
them
both,
these two
bitter enemies
from two
separate places,
furiously blaze,
as the time
for darkness,
is far
from arrived.
And the sun
quakes,
in its heat
rippling sights
and
knocking particles,
which deter the next
knocked,
and which enforce
the continued sensation of
warmth
continued,
of aversion
continued,
rising,
screened,
for its impeccable quality,
against
nobody in
general or
specific
to announce, or to gain
against
consequences, which are
soothsaid
in time,
nullified.
Partners afflicted will be less opportunistic
and more egalitarian,
but are sworn,
like the sun,
against the monotony,
of repetition,
of indistinct days;
like these:
them,
the enemies,
they
are
engaged,
aged,
unteachable
and
spoiled.
They are always
immersed
in
vexed
states,
always in competition.
Hope
is
the
souls
united
never again
as much
as the static,
single dimension,
alone,
impeccable,
impossible,
for its possibility
is drawn by He
who
spews forth
lumens
next to card sharks and Amazons, knowing these
will have to suffice, having no escape
from the projected
source
of energy.
The metal heads
of garden rakes,
weapons
thrown
at devils
in the sweltering heat
of hell,
the Inferno
that holds a
first-person
point of view,
a dream, alongside
superheroes, allied,
but who are,
nevertheless,
without their unique
and exceptional powers,
pros and willing deviants
from the celibacy,
the weight,
the unoriginal paint
that collides
in
each
stroke,
making what
appears
null,
and the array
but one,
and supposed,
so that then
are the weary
and soulful mergers
which corrupt
and meander throughout,
polluting,
as
it
were,
the tranquility,
the wrenched service,
of the destined
machine,
of a million
trajectories,
homespun threads,
woven
into
a
million
miserable
microfibers,
unanswered
queries
that were
held back
in
fear,
and
were
never
asked,
and remain
even
now
sorry.
Jan 17, 2010
Jan 17, 2010 at 7:49 AM UTC
Have I ever had
an original thought?
I've been told
that, 'Everything we ever
write is just an accumulation
of all we've ever read,'
or something
like that.
I don't remember
by who, but I've cited him
Chicago Style
in my heart.
It started young, with my name.
Permanent ink on the soul,
a cliche. I hated
hearing it,
over used and
haphazardly
picked out of
a book.
If I have children,
they won't suffer from recycled
personality disorder. I'll
start them off right,
give them names
that don't
exist yet.
One in a sea
of Lindseys. My
post-modernism
lost-cause syndrome
in itself
is unoriginal.
How can I write
in stream of consciousness
with two decades of
songs stuck in
my head?
This isn't new, I've always
plagiarized while I dreamt
of you, hallucinated
my creativity, now I can't
even picture you without
sappy lyrics
sticking to your
clothes.
I am merely stealing like
an artist, another concept
I stole, brilliant,
but don't
thank me.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 10:55 PM UTC
There are so many of these girls
bright, lovely pretty young things who’ve suddenly—
(like it was a choice)
taken to all this madness of reading books,
drinking fancy tea and pretending that
they didn’t care about boys or clothes.
well i’m your messenger from the future
your ghost of Christmas past
Let me tell you now that i’ve always been the girl who
Was lonely in high school
Who preferred her books to nights out spent partying
and drank hot cocoa by the liter
and never once considered herself lovely or pretty
that was until i traded in my precious uniqueness
for the generic, unoriginal cutout that i superficially am now
i skipped meals for weighed almonds
put on heels pretending to be tall and cool
but i still stumbled and hoped no one saw me
boys came and talked to me but all i could manage was
awkward sputter that was a sad excuse for words
or else talk to them about books,
politics, social issues and science
until they walked away afraid their eyes telling me
She’s crazy.
let me tell you now, honey
being a geek isn’t cool
whatever trend or substance you’re on forget it
geeks are awkward
****** weirdos with their own language
who blurt out random fandom quotes and references
they’ve known by heart since they were ten.
If you think it’s fun to be the only one laughing
at a joke you were sure everyone knew
of to get stared at like a madman
for speaking klingon, elvish, harry potter, star wars, Dr. Who.
it’s not silly child, my lovely
for in all their uncoolness
geeks actually think they’re cool
well i’m your messenger from the future
your ghost of Christmas past
Let me tell you now that no amount of make-up
can hide the fact that you still preferred Kafka and Bukowski
over cigarettes and alcohol and clublights and you
(not really sure about this one, i like alcohol and cigarettes too)
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 9:20 AM UTC