"unoriginality" poems
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
I wrote a poem for you
The day before I met you
When I didn’t yet know a soul can be shipwrecked
Or that the sun can have secrets
When I hadn’t yet learned to look for symptoms
Or dreamed you could become my weakness
You entered me like a sickness
From your first ‘hello’
You whispered my world red
And smiled it yellow
You came to me; a sonnet
A decorated soldier
Dressed in sentences and statements
With which to catch a schoolgirl
In succulent surprise
Your eyes kissed me
Long before your lips did
And under the spectrum of your splendor
My heart bloomed a blushing orchid
I was a slave to my sweet-tooth
You, a dulcit daydream
That knew just how to turn me
From still life into story
And in so doing, you cast me -
A shapeless statue -
Into your private purgatory
You created a planet
With just us living on it
And a snakepit, a sinkhole
With which to swallow me whole
I wrote this poem for you
The day after I met you
I thought it worth to mention
Why I started to regret you
So please pay close attention
(As I’m trying to forget you):
My innocence
Though far from inner sense
Was no less common
Than the unoriginality
Of your sugarcoated sin
Mar 12, 2012
Mar 12, 2012 at 9:25 PM UTC
it's not plagiarism,
rather, a collectivist
coincidence -
i can't believe people
in the former days would
reduce themselves
to plagiarism -
they'd sooner die than
relieve themselves
of an original idea -
working with a mythology -
how could such
differentiated people
achieve copernican
globalist relativistic /
globalist impetus,
and yet, somehow succumb
to an ethnocentric -
genesis of unoriginality...
yes, unfathomable,
the concept of polyphony,
synchronicity inter-people...
plagiarism is a modern
phenomenon,
it doesn't exists in
collectivism of inter-ethnic
conundrums of
segregating categorization...
just like evolution is god's
take on the thrill of gambling...
an original idea...
allowing an in group focus...
it could never be a plagiarism -
the segregating process of
techno. advancement...
toward a...
less cultural appropriation...
and more?
cultural loaning...
"plagiarism"...
perhaps i should "read" into
solving crossword puzzles...
now plagiarism is easy...
any son of sam
is not an arsonist...
but as my continued fascination
continues with
andrei chikatilo...
and batman, the dark knight rises
scene on the plane:
why would you shoot a man,
before taking him into a prison cell?!
ah... christine chubbuck...
this fascination... will not, die...
such a solemn,
vernacular death...
worthy of a Vatican pawn-ship
of preceding the scourge of death.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 9:39 PM UTC
Twirl and contort
Shape-shift and Distort
Undeniably a misfit
To function logically in the world we live in.
Fighting unoriginality
Breaking the bad reality
Unbeknownst to me yet?
"Too young", they say, "to fret".
Well beyond the years that I am,
Far below the society I am in.
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 12:52 AM UTC
Soma
a pharmaceutical usurpation
some subjunctive psychedelic
noxious decoction
of the capital kind
wrought by unoriginality
a conjuring elixir
to ignite the material mind
Maya
will have you
if you don't recognize
behind appearances
is always a disguise
beyond the superficial
over what eyes can surveil
may entitle you to what is
to be entailed
Yuga
beyond the ages
beyond the sages
epochs and eras
multiplied to infinity
expecting some recourse
exponential beyond sanity
gauges of the cyclical planetary
Akasha
ubiquitous aether
all pervading
all invading
revelations' recordings
substratum of
then and now
rife marshaler of how
Ishwara
great atman
ultimate overseer
transcending all time
cosmic conscience
consciousness sublime
beyond everything
sight unseen
Samadhi
reign over me
the be all and end all
of life's raisons d'être
superconsciousness
enlightenments
bestowal
of divine grace and mercy
Gunas
by knowledge of these moods
this will allow you
ambrosia of all roads
in your journey ahead
to navigate solely
without flag or fail
through equipoise unassailed
Ahimsa
through this your lips
can no longer trespass
over your welfare
or the welfare of any other
true liberation
from human inebriation
true love for one another
Siddhis
they will misunderstand you
not being like the same
eschewing commonality
for the perfected mindscape
a narrowed perspective
to focus more completely
upon the rarest of views
Om
what can be said
of this holiest sound
that permeates all ethers
the skies and the grounds
Brahman of this plane
and all that surrounds
now perish all that confounds
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 7:06 PM UTC
I lost the quintessence
of my rainbow beaded being
along with
the calligraphic indian feather pen.
The blood from my arteries
are replaced with black ink on paper.
The ingenuity of it all.
How much I despise it
the unoriginality ?
Not feeling me in my own words.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 11:06 PM UTC
my apologies
for my speechless soul
for my cliched analogies.
trust me, that wasn't the goal.
my heart seems
to speak a different code.
rather than logic, dreams
rather than smooth, the bumpy road
you deserve more than this
all the condescending words and unoriginality
crushing your spirit until I miss
your honest uncensored personality
As I sit in this car,
crowded physically but alone at heart,
even though you are so far
you still tear my mind apart.
the thought of you fills me
your laugh, your smile, your voice.
In case you couldn't see it,
I never had a choice.
It couldn't be someone
who never gave me a glance
No, now look what you've done
you've made my heart dance
M.C.M
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 9:46 AM UTC
So what we live space apart
We got our love in spades depart
Love him I do maybe so it could be true
I only refuse to say it straight
cause he doesn’t say it too
It’s hard to gauge his thoughts and feelings
When mine are blurry too
It’s hard to know true love
When distractions are varied new.
Yet, I believe in our love,
It’s not lust it’s trust
In us, and on him
I do believe he means well
When he refers to his sins
Of his past and his candour
I don’t think he likes to meander
In lies and half truths but facts he tells
Things were complicated back then.
Insecurity is the root of unhappiness
He doesn’t believe in holding on to tackiness
I told him stop holding on to the past so tight
Make way for future and present in sight
He told me he has moved on,
he doesn’t give it mind
But holds on to techotcke and trinkets and trophies
Messages and muses and Sophies in mind
Distance helps the heart grow fonder
Yet I stay up all night and wonder
Where I stand in this whirlpool of thunder
Where is his heart if not next to mine?
Where are his feelings if not completely merged with mine?
He says it’s the distance that’s blurring his sight
He wants me but can’t do much
He is right in hindsight.
With trust comes baggage of responsibility
With love comes feelings of banality
The same old routine of trust and fall
The same unoriginality.
Need to break this cycle this time
Need to thrive not survive
Need to grow into a new you
Need to see things from a different view.
Only then can we stop this fight,
Only then can we move past this Sophie’s plight.
Dec 30, 2022
Dec 30, 2022 at 6:29 PM UTC
In my car
Listening to tastes better suited to the past
Smoking cigarettes.
Inhaling thoughts desired. Exhaling
ideas of unoriginality.
Living a priveledged life in the U.S.A.
Free if worries of **** and ******
Belly full of carnage and illegal immigration.
Head twirling like ballerinas
Twinkling piano, followed by
Strings of mourning
Deep and somber
Reverberating lost love
and new life
Ember glowing. Smoke.
Eyes flipped inside out
Without humor
Like the 99.9% plasmatic Universe.
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 12:04 PM UTC
I’ve opened up
to the possibility
of being
of being something different
of being something new
of being something nobody
thought I could be
of being something beyond
recognition
of being something beautiful
of being something wonderful
of being something I am proud of
for once
of being something above
what I was before
I dream of this
I wish of this
I know of this
I act on this
I dream to be a singer
of unimagined tunes
I dream to be a winner
of contests unknown
I dream to be a leader
of people without
the ability to move
forward
I dream to be a teacher
of unspoken things
I dream to be a successor
of every free-
thinker and
innovator
I dream to be an original
in a world bent
on unoriginality
I want.
I will.
be.
all of this.
every last bit.
I will be.
I will be.
I am being,
all of this.
all of
it.
Jan 19, 2011
Jan 19, 2011 at 3:43 PM UTC
i would just like to say that you make me angry. when i think of your unoriginality and your entitled tone of speech, my blood boils. sometimes i think of how much happier i would be if i could leave your bland face behind and just start over. your face makes me want to pack up all my things and run to the edge of the planet.
possibly fall off !
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 11:26 AM UTC
.*i've seen cover songs
being overplayed:
t.a.t.u.,
snake river conspiracy...
of the smiths': how soon is now?
mind you... do you feel that
chernobyll itch? do you?
i like this quote:
the loudest applauses
craft the most silent encores...
who was it? i guess it must haven been
me,
if it wasn't me, then...
we have a problem.....
well thank you,
the danes found out...
the warsaw pact attempted to keep
it hush hush....
i am:
the sleeping diatribe*...
such a spectacular disobedience
to having fathomed
the obedience
to the last remaining iota
of a purpose....
friend to boyo fiend,
and the jargon buste (adjunct)....
while toying with
being enemy to the squish
and the tentacle lover
of lost
& last concerns...
serves you a: counter sushi
masterpirece with a worth
of herrigs....
to mind a counter with...
you know how "god" abhors
"original" sin..
what becomes "sin"?
well... "unoriginality"...
i too hate & abhor the platitude
of plagiarism;
i'm a blatant Evangelist
at this point...
i'd rather die...
before i'm reborn...
then again... i'd slso act
like Jack Nicholson....
but then again my demands
are worth are shutters squat...
to mind...
what becomes a Led Zeppelin
"original" sin...
tobacco shutters...
taping-course:
wet tobacco...
not chewed, rather, smoked...
whatever...
people will never believe the victim...
they will, when there's
a dead body... otherwise...
dead wise no war no death sold...
apparently the dead
are "wise" when there's no war....
then again...
when war...
the "wise" also claim:
there are no casualties....
who needs them?
no one can recognize them, anyway...
mother death justice earth:
who can blindly recognize either!
the twin justice,
that justifies encompassing both...
the joy that originates
from wet.... tobacco;
i don't care who's to blame...
all i care about is that...
someone is actually claimed,
as requested
for being made to claim blame.
now god, now no god,
now the infantile man
with a belief in a god,
now a memorable
now a seriously acclaimed man
of concrete disbelief...
that... pristine atheist...
i too hold my claims
to be of barren wastelands
in order to have them
be made for the worth of them
being cherished.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 11:04 PM UTC
My sentences get rambled up.
They make sense up there, but not once they're down here. They lose their "umph", their clarity, their ingenuity. Some too short, some too long. Never comfortable or natural in my mouth but perfect and unflawed in that glorious thought bubble.
But I'm learning to say it all anyway. Despite uncertainty, despite unoriginality, despite "perfectness". Because the biggest "despite" I've come to learn is myself.
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 10:32 AM UTC
poems of boys broken boys breaking boys boys breaking
silly little girl you never thought your world revolved around your involvement with boys but even distance was deliberately calculating their gravitational push and pull silly little girl i say to my old self i wonder what my future self will think of me?
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 2:55 PM UTC
He said, "if the girlies don't work out"
To come back here
And get **** faced
And maybe watch some bad movies
Like Predator 2
Past security, ticket given without a second glance
It could've been any old white piece of paper
But he didn't check.
Why wouldn't he check?
Inside are the real predators
The real commodifiers
Who stalk prey called women
Look at the way they look at you
Do you notice the way they look at you?
Or is it like breathing air, or a fish in water
And do you buy into the predator's worldview?
What do you really see when you look at the self?
Only what others see, perhaps?
I understand that
In the car, on the ride here
He said, "I'm looking for something special"
"I don't **** and get out"
But definitely don't stop calling them *******
The culture says who they are,
Rather, the culture says what they are
You are complicit in the culture
Just like me
A stoic face toward oppressors
Is still complacent
A face that prides itself on not objectifying women
Yet lays silent in their objectification,
Isn't he just the problem?
Aren't I that problem?
And the songs that are as unspecial as the ***
You purport to not want
Boom louder than your heartbeat
That you can't tell if it's the bass or the blood
Pulsing through your veins
How do you know what you want isn't real?
Are you oblivious to the remake, the unoriginality?
Like the songs stolen without rights,
You adopt your predecessors' predatory propensities
It's all ********
That's what our glasses are full with.
The Irish drink to connect
We drink to waste away
The same way we do when we sit
And become one with our couch
At the heart of the Ire-land
Is a history of conflict
And inability to have conflict,
Also known as: war
So they sit and they drink
And they talk and they fight
And they all have bad livers
But their hearts aren't clogged.
But back in the club, there's a one size fits all video
Playing over the one size fits all songs
Catered to the one size fits all people
And our one size fits all pallets
In the blur of the headbanging and the deafening
We lose our precious individuality
But maybe I'm acting too pious to judge as I do
But, if you were in my shoes, wouldn't you?
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 8:09 PM UTC