"unpoetic" poems
~
*I am
Unpoetic, for
Isolation built from self-paved
Solitude has wilted my writing's
Possibility for sweetness
And sugar-faked beauty,
But poetry is crazed
For a taste of
Vast feelings,
So here
I am-*
~
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 11:30 PM UTC
*In memory of, and with respect to the victims of the 2011 terrorist acts in Norway.
As the weather resembles, one remembers...*
Perhaps if you went to my school,
You'd have gotten beaten up for your egocentricity
Long before it grew to such deranged preportions.
As misplaced as the runes you carved into Glock and rifle;
You'd have been not only estranged, but broken.
Disarmed decades before detonation.
Alas. A distorted berserker you ploughed through
Establishments and hearts; an armed teenager fuelled on
Video games, soft candy and steroids.
Pity the nation that nurses such an unpoetic national enemy.
We forgot your name and face, as you never knew ours.
The symbol we chose was an ocean of roses,
Like torches held to our love unharmed.
Norwegian leap year two-thousand-eleven;
Only twenty-two days in July.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
Our summer fellowships are over! We learned a lot - for instance - how summer’s a lot less fun when you’re hemmed-up, inside working. I mean, we preesh’d the clinical experience, the learning, and especially how good these fellowships will look on our med-school applications - seriously - but there were a hundred rules - aren’t rules incompatible with summer?
Hmm, Ok, let’s see, something poetic..
As the summer sun's blistering radiance waned, shadows,
muscled by sunrays to the marginal edges and corners,
gradually spread, like water - soothing, lenifying and assuaging
simmered nerves with their refreshing, canopied touch.
If sunlight scorched with heat, twilight soothed and gentled,
while varnishing, the dimming world with rainbow, event-horizons,
larger, more inventive, colorful and glorious than any mere mortal art.
Night gradually squeezed, unseen, through those vivid sunset cracks,
and refreshing night-air, drawn in by the last, escaping updrafts of heat,
rustled cooling relief to weary workers seeking the solace of evening and home.
back to unpoetic realities..
When work was finished, we’d retreat from the heat, racing up to the rooftop pool, like two happy porpoises out of school.
Whoever invented poolside food delivery, should win the Nobel Prize for ‘thank you very much.’ We wouldn’t go back to our rooms until it was dark and we’d started to prune.
Now, we’ve a month to relax before our Junior year begins. We got letters from Yale that said, “As upperclassmen..” “Upperclassmen!” We shouted as we danced in hand-holding circles, singing, “Upperclassmen, upperclassmen, upperclassmen, upperclassmen. upperclassmen.”
We’ve grown so much at Yale.
Aug 2, 2023
Aug 2, 2023 at 12:05 PM UTC
And I can control my feelings better now.
The shakes are still there of course-
General anxiety is another problem to deal with,
But, since it's winter,
I can pass it off as just being cold
When the small child holds my hand
And asks me "why are you doing that?"
The drugs are working,
And I can feel myself getting calmer by the day.
The things that bother me don't so much anymore,
And the medication flows through my bloodstream
And into my brain, slowly changing it's
Chemical make-up, and helping me become
A better person.
The drugs are working,
And this is my first attempt at a poem in months.
There's no rhyme or structure anymore,
And it's lacking a certain something that you're used to-
The metre is non-existent, and everything has
Descended into free verse.
The drugs are working,
And I can't help but wonder if that's a good thing or not-
Perhaps it is. Perhaps it is the case that I have simply forgot
The unbearable pain from which my poetry was born,
But still I miss it- those ups and downs which made me... me
And now, as I stare blindly at some old withered tree
I forget what poetry lies within, and only feel forlorn.
The drugs are working,
The old feelings have gone away
And, with them, a part of my soul,
Which could not stay another day,
In this unpoetic hole.
But the drugs are working...
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 5:05 AM UTC
I may never change the world with words.
I may never write a string of syllables
that a high school kid will be forced to memorize.
But I know that I must try
because the world is a wonderfully awful
brutally beautiful place and everyday
I look at something I saw yesterday
and still it shakes me.
And maybe I write too many poems
about too few different things like
women that get stuck in my head
the way poems sometimes get stuck in my pen
or... did I mention the women?
But I'm going to keep writing
about the same four things
or the same one girl
until I can read it back to myself
and instead of it reminding me of what I ment
it will show you what I saw.
Because in the end you gotta do
what you gotta do and I HAVE to do this
and I don't care how much I was
called a ***** in high school or last week.
And it doesn't matter if I meet somebody in a bar
and when I say I'm a poet they smile and walk away
and never look back.
Because I AM a poet
not because I made the choise
but because I was born this way
and before you comment on how
I'm stealing the slogan
of Mamma Monster
I'm going to say that it's not about
being gay, or the wrong color,
or being sluttier than most people like,
or being crazier than most people can handle,
it's about absolutely owning who you are,
because deep down we're all a little queer
and you can let your oddities make you invisible
or you can make them turn you into a monster
and let you be the thing that goes bump
in the middle of the day.
And if you don't like it
I apologize for this unpoetic end
but you can go **** yourself.
Feb 1, 2011
Feb 1, 2011 at 12:23 AM UTC
She is fond of sunsets,
yet prefers sunrise.
She cares about the weak heart,
yet is uncaring about her own.
She is surrounded by devils,
yet manages to find angels.
She is kind all the while,
yet mean at times.
She is faithful to the windy winter,
yet admires the soft summer.
She is passionate about her love,
yet apathetic in an irregular manner.
She is roughly foreseeable,
yet effortlessly unpredictable.
She is able to be whole,
yet unable to have a piece.
She is easily melted by the fire,
yet controls the tough cold core.
She lives in her own fantasies,
yet awaits an unpoetic reality.
She is a prepossessing paradox.
- Aishwarya Kulkarni
Nov 9, 2020
Nov 9, 2020 at 2:26 AM UTC
the melancholy you wear always
is becoming of you, albeit repeated.
I reminisce about last year
about the ethereal days
filled with pain yet,
I felt... like, I was supposed to
does that make sense to you?
your furtive glances make me anxious
anticipating the moment
where you regurgitate your words
your unpoetic bile
that I drink in so willingly
so deep
our movements ripple
our murmurs trail off
to somewhere we cannot follow
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 4:05 PM UTC
You know, my love, that the worlds we have each created for ourselves
are galaxies apart.
Our language games are mutually untranslatable.
We never had a chance, my love. Even I know that.
We would never have been able to achieve an understanding of each other
deep enough
to overcome our fear of the unknown, (and utterly unknowable),
that we symbolize for each other.
The logical, brutally rational part of me knows that we could never have made each other happy.
So why must I, though you have been gone now for quite some time,
keep my mind on you all the time?
Why do I still feel this way, thinking about you every day?
And I don’t even know you.
I write this not to try to change anything.
I have lived long enough not to hold out for what cannot be.
Despite my unwanted, embarrassingly unrealistic romantic dreams from Hell,
well, not exactly Hell,
say, from the dark cave out of which fly the blind bats of activated archetypes,
inevitably,
we still would have had to face eternity, or the lack thereof, alone.
You are still looking forward to an eternal life with God and, I realize now that, ridiculously,
I still can’t stop dreaming of an earthly paradise with you.
Nasty business, my love, that we are each in love with an illusion.
What if we lived in a world in which our longed for illusions
were not just desperate self-delusion but pointed at some kind of Truth?
Do you think that would make us happy?
Isn’t it pretty to think so, my love? Isn’t it pretty to think so?
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 2:26 PM UTC
This poetry site used to mean
Quite a lot to me,
But recently all that I've seen
Is not what used to be.
Perhaps this site is dying,
Like the fragment of my soul,
Which has given up with trying
To love this unpoetic hole.
"Five–O-two, Bad gateway"
Is mostly what I read,
And the same **** poems every day
Appearing on my feed.
This used to be a lovely place
To connect and to explore,
But now I accept it's lost it's grace,
And this site's done for, for sure.
I hope in time they'll fix it,
And this site will be restored,
But, 'till then, I will not risk it;
So I'll leave on my own accord.
Oct 12, 2022
Oct 12, 2022 at 10:15 AM UTC
Up, down, back and forth
Seems purely unpoetic
What a serene change
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 8:01 PM UTC
#No me diga – la nena ‘ta pregnant again?
(I thought she decided no more after Tito…)
she’s almost 16 – and she dropped out of school.
(It might be the spice in abuela’s sofrito…)
There’s one in the oven and two in the stroller
Oh nubile Boricua, what gives – ¿Qué sería?
if life is the masa and birth is the bakery
yours is a virtual panadería…
Some pulse in your short-shorts, those flexible hips
under tropical rhythm of lewd reggaeton
seems to summon the ***** from your lover’s abundance
whenever you find yourselves home and alone.
Where’s your man? Who’s the daddy? Why didn’t he stay?
your gaze is unsettling, harshly pathetic.
You sad Betty-Boop: are you waiting in vain
for your man – or your period? How unpoetic…
This life lived on welfare, entitled, enslaved
with your babies at grandma’s and you with your phone
is a taxpayer’s nightmare and teenage recurrence
(but you’re busy texting some drama unknown…)
Mamita herself looks more like your hermana
She started this game even earlier, too
When you stand, side by side, in your thongs and pijama
it’s hard to be sure who is who.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC
time passed with you
is time well wasted
change well made
from bills well spent
and i am bent out of shape
from all these round rhyming words
bowed to the ground
at the feet of this feeling
confused as all hell
(however unpoetic that may be,
it's how it is)
at the line between
beauty and truth
between outside and underground
uncomfortable heat and ignored cold
weird words, but that's all i've got
i'll shout them underground, unheard
or silently
to the cold, rushing river
or whisper them to myself
but that's it
(however dishonest that may be,
it's how i am)
and these simple words
primary colours:
red is telling me
that the pink in your cheeks
is diluted, and i don't want to know
what that real colour means
blue is saying
that the ice in the air means nothing
and that melancholy has no place
in the space between our hands
since we close that
a million times a day
and it is forced to escape our grasp
yellow tells me
that the sun is shining, somewhere
and i reply that i don't even care
it's sunny here, even underground
face turned round to meet yours
i'll survive
time passed with you
is time well wasted
change well made
from bills well spent
and i may be broke
but trust me
it's been worth it, throwing
colourful Monopoly money
imagined riches and caution
to the wind
with you
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 1:32 AM UTC
Ugly is beautiful, ugly is under the pretty skin and colors we wear.
When one thinks of art and the beauty of words it must always sound nice, it must follow and follow traditional laws of language;
**** that.
Art is an expression of self and soul is it not?
Humans don’t all have beauty in them, humans don’t always have some wonderful soul or righteous heart, so why should all art show the beauty of life?
Why not mock the beauty? Why not admit that sometimes we’re ugly, sometimes we’re crass, cold and vile?
Are we not all we are? Do our life experiences not shape and make us?
Life is not perfect and we all have pitfalls, everyone is flawed yet when it comes to art we deny the fact and mask it by saying “art reflects the tragedy” or “I use art to express my pain” and in that way, we make it romantic, but what if, we just showed it as it is.
What if we just said exactly what we’re feeling, what we’re thinking, what we want?
Must we use the beauty of words and paint and rock to hide our shame, or fear, to mask our greed and lust?
Sometimes people aren’t pretty, sometimes they have no soul, so what if some art was ugly?
What if I didn’t use proper words or language
Or started to; break up words by what-ever means I saw fit for the piece?
It would confuse, it would anger, it would look bad.
But that would be closer to human than always trying to turn some act of woe into some poetic moment.
For a moment reject the beauty, reject the urge to be clever or pristine, smear some mud across the page, ugly can be beautiful in itself because ugly is just that.
You are not the best, you are not the best looking, the fastest, the strongest, smartest, you do not know everything- so it would make sense that art at times should be flawed, that art should be ugly and broken, that art should offend you at times.
There is a humbleness to be found in ugly art, in art that is raw and exposed.
Once you take away the fluff that people are attracted to, once you strip her down and expose what she is, you may find that while some art is a flawless figure in her **** skin- other art may be torn, ripped and festering with disease but she’s not hiding anything in that moment- and on top of that. She doesn’t care.
Why should every poem sound nice?
Why should art have rules and laws?
Of course, we must have laws and standards, of course we must have laws and rules HOWEVER in times and for somethings- breaking that mold, stepping outside of the box, that is needed.
I say ugly art hides nothing and shows everything, pure surface value with no hidden meaning or deeper philosophy, which won’t do for some people.
Some people will rip art apart to understand its meaning refusing to believe in face value because they can’t understand the face value of ugly, they have to have something pretty, they have to have something clever or witty or something they can cling to as being elite as if that somehow places them above the social stature at which they reside.
Trust in ugly art, trust in unpoetic words, trust in blemished statues, trust in unpolished raw music, trust in ugly from time to time.
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 7:48 PM UTC
baby i'll say it through poetry,
unpoetic rhyme schemes wrapping around your neck and whispering in your ear, licking the tip of your tongue just enough to make you want more, words holding me down enough to let you pick me back up, push me against the wall of this page and come into me through metaphors and every cliche that there is,
poems so hot you'l burn your finger reading them, bodies so sweaty the pages curl in the moisture of the room where my mind keeps roaming around and around searching for every metaphor i can just to say take me
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 12:42 PM UTC
I'm getting ready
for a Poetic War
all this time
been keeping Score
building a Poetic Army
is a good idea
though we are the Elite
our seat
is with
the Highest Command
in the World
comprised of Genius Ninja's
cloaked in love
sent from above
teaching Mindfulness
praying hands
prepare your Sandbags
the ones under your eyes
are nothing
compared
to the sleep
in counting sheep
you made me lose
and choose
a side
I pick me
you see
like Joan of Arc
I have a mission
to see to the end
my Unpoetic Friend
and Foe
Slay
with what I say
my words
you do not stand
a chance
regardless
of your dance
I am coming
in my anger
in this
I am ******
into Justice
my pen
unsheathed
for battle
my ink...is what I trust.
Cherie Nolan © 2016
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 4:44 PM UTC
the day was spent
posting old, neglected
poetry
& ******* around on
tumblr
listening to eisley
sing about
never growing up
the babe is rocking himself
in the big yellow chair
grinning at me
its so frightening to be someone's
pure guidance
every
day
the husband is cursing at
modern warfare 3
unpoetic
harsh
rude
I'll never understand why
he calls me childish
we don't sleep around here
& when we do
no one is there to hear it
I have bad words on my
tongue tonight
& nowhere to put them
but in songs
no one listens to when I post
them on facebook
I'm addicted to this exhibitionism.
Jan 24, 2012
Jan 24, 2012 at 1:18 AM UTC
I have lost my words
Which I turn to for repose and release
They have disappeared and transformed
Into slurred speeches and mismatched colors
My fingers, they search for comfort
Lacing each other in confusion
I cannot find the words I am looking for
My thoughts have remained quiet for too long
What I thought was a spectrum I could rely on
Is as bland and dull as the skin I have worn
My eyes are a perception of lies
Only visualizing in black and white
My mouth a conception of verbal conundrum
Confusing and replacing words
Once so facilely found
I am born into a world
I'm not even sure I can call my own
I do not know where I am from
I cannot find the words I wish for anymore
n.j.
https://perennialink.wordpress.com/2015/11/06/unpoetic/
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 5:35 AM UTC
It is void of beauty.
Of life.
Of joy.
I am the ear into which you spill your every complaint.
I am the sleepless kid with the rings under their eyes.
The kid that never wants to wake up again.
I am e m p t y.
Bruised knees. Stifled sobs.
Unpoetic.
Unapologetic.
I raise parents.
Siblings.
Myself.
I have no one.
Have loved and lost. He was my best friend; my every hope.
2 months, 14 days, and counting... since he said goodbye.
...The dress still in my closet.
Every day is a war against exhaustion. failure. weakness.
Tears every night.
To do lists every day.
Another pep talk. Another, "It will be ok."
Would you like to see my reality?
... It's a war-zone with a one man military.
A fight for a lost cause.
I'm just a drum without a beat... lifelessly marching on.
Aug 23, 2010
Aug 23, 2010 at 7:33 PM UTC
The day your world bled there was no blood. There were no tears. The clouds gorged themselves on sky but remained white and empty. (There was no rain. There never was any rain.) The earth you lived on faded to the cold grey of old black and white photographs but nobody screamed. Was your voice caged by self-loathing, or pity? It wasn’t ignorance. I still remember the day you said you missed the color red. Where was the violence? Did you bury it with your fear or your innocence? Because there’s nothing as unpoetic as an open wound. It seems that’s how you’re heading to live your whole **** life; open and weeping and dying without color. (And I? I saw a ray of hope and decided to give up on you after all.)
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 9:18 PM UTC
my head hurts
my heart hurts
everything ******* hurts
and there's
nothing
at all
poetic about it
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 12:42 AM UTC
Awful
Black butterfly,
Lacking even the blue dots,
worn upon the wings
ripped off by smiling children at play
I dwell in the shadows of low light
I'm forlorn and forbidden
Alone
My feast,
contains saline and salty tears
Unloved
Grasped by unpoetic hands in the stillness of midnight
No matter how pretty
How soft
What expensive things I decorate my unholy self with
I dwell alone
One of many
Forlorn, forbidden things
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 11:35 PM UTC
What is your story? What say you, curtsy, wile and whisper -
You, the everyman, blank face in the crowd;
You, the stranger on the streets, decked out and dapper;
nay We, who exist in the life of the life gone, forgotten, that Time enshroud?
What pictures do your eyes behold in visions past and present-
drawn to memory in intangible ink yet indelibly lustre?
From whence the dreams do you evoke in daytime quiescence
or cascading phantasms painted on pitch-black canvasses unfurled in slumber?
What paths have you taken, to gloom or glory
and upon which pedestals have you stood in crowning echelon -
when once upon a mountain peak, above clouds, you stood proudly -
or taking solace in sidewalk shelters with no home to go to thereupon.
What words should escape your lips in all manner of dictum
or wisdom and deceit for all intents and folly?
Words in coalescence like beads on strings, the essence of rhythm
threaded by tongues in guile and unwitting poetry:
What say you, as but a flower linger and wither
in the winds of Time; a mere flicker in the lives of stars?
What prose should speak your story, hither or dither
in unwitting poetry - nay Unpoetry! - as the Everyman exemplars?
Alas Unpoetic, the story of us all in bloom
told in unwitting poetry and archetypal analogue.
Alas so unique the lives we lead from conception in the womb
should by perchance end with a humble epilogue.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 11:41 AM UTC
i cannot write you a poem,
I'm sorry.
But the way i feel about you,
all these emotions?
they cannot be placed into words,
nor fathomed into art.
It cannot be expressed in song,
or spoken eloquently.
So sorry,
I cant write you a poem.
But I can say,
I love you undeniably.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 1:44 AM UTC
It’s National Poetry Writing Month!
Align your chakras, hold your breath.
Let poetry flood your living spirit;
free your mind from lyrical death !
Let go the appallingly unpoetic:
meditate. Assume the position.
Adore your muse in rhythmic wonder;
write in automatic transmission.
Chant the mantra: NaPoWriMo
Let it hum like raw electricity.
Find your center… focus inward
¡ And thus behold sublime diversity !
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 10:46 PM UTC
**my states
and muses
aren't so much unpoetic
to be justified
so easily.
they determine
to exist.
they crawl.
how I wish,
I understood them
so easily.**
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 8:46 AM UTC