"unpopular" poems
i see the flyer at starbucks
"are you caucasian?
without mental health
and drug problems?"
wow
i don’t know the answer to any of these questions
is a jew a caucasian?
is the occasional naked, dick-slamming drunken rampage
a drug problem?
as for mental health
i’m a deadbeat poet and unpopular pop musician
i’ve got a job fighting death and boredom
and i just changed my facebook password to "eat ****
my frustrations have driven weaker souls to homicide
but are these PROBLEMS?
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 5:16 AM UTC
As talent drained from every inch of my mind
I found reading other's work only made me jealous
I started to feel unpopular
Not enough ideas left to create anything at all. Not a single drop of inspiration.
As all of theses emotions and realizations mixed together
I became okay with copying your work.
*I can imagine you slaving in the dark
Racking your brain to find the perfect words to finish the last line*
Lucky for me I have it all right here, completed and ready to post
Finished and polished and prepackaged with a message I didn't think of but everyone will commend me for.
I hope you enjoy it.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 9:53 AM UTC
Benedict Arnold
We see them. Lying in the terrorist trap known as
The Uncomformers. What happened to them?
Did they say enough is enough? Stab their
Old buddies in their already turned backs? Well,
I guess some people just don’t understand….
Look at them!
They’re laughing!
How preposterous! They’re supposed to be lamenting or even just
Giving hushed whispers to someone about everyone else.
I can’t fathom—
How absurd!
The Good Girls
Ohhhhhh My Gosh! Can you like,
See how lame they are?
They just, like, don’t do anything.
I mean, I have never seen any of them at, like, any party!
Crazy! I know. They just keep to themselves,
I guess. But, I mean, come on? No parties!
Do they even know what fun is!?
Last night there was this really awesome one where,
I was dancing…..and drinking….and then I threw up in my boyfriend’s car!
Oh yeah,
Were exes now.
Anyway, I just, like, IDK.
I mean, who wouldn’t want to have the ultimate makeup and beauty?
It’s mind-blowing!
I swear their worlds are all, aerobics and songbirds.
But, whatever, you know?
Peacemaker
Talk about irritating. I hate people
Who stop fights before the crescendo finishes!
Bor-ring! Drama is what I live for.
Just let people ruin their lives already!
I’m dying for some action over here.
Hel-lo! Your “sensible justice” is causing me to have serious
Gossip underload. Stop getting in the
Way of everything! If you would just come in
One second after you usually do, there would be so
Much more to say.
It would be beyond belief if you just,
Go where you belong and stop
Interrupting before some of the most spectacular
Moments in people’s lives.
Iron King
This person is not so simple.
Loners that shield themselves from the world
Freaks that don’t want to experience reality
Maybe he’s evil
Attempting to hide a dark inheritance
Living in his mind, the Devil’s oasis
Visions of wonder and agony expressed throughout
Sending out blind waves of hatred to all who will not follow him into Hell.
Super creep.
I hope he leaves me alone.
I haven’t done anything to him…
May 28, 2012
May 28, 2012 at 12:07 PM UTC
Nobody believes in me. But, neither do I, and that’s OK. But they don’t really know how I am, and if they knew, I am pretty sure they wouldn’t feel the same way. I sometimes feel like coming out of the closet, not because I am gay, but just for my personality. Then, I realize we are all in the closet. Even when you come out of the closet, you search for somewhere else to hide. But basically nobody will get out of the wardrobe, which makes sense, because we judge. We dislike everything. How people talk, dress, look, or even walk. We are so caught up on ******** that we don’t even get to evolve as people. I know I don’t. Could that be part of the system we grew up in? How do we differentiate a critique from simply judging. The critique highway goes straight into judge, or does it not? We might say — this is just a critique, it’s for your own good— but in reality, most of the times, we have already spoken about it to someone else. Why do we always need to get people’s approval to fit into this world, and therefore, are most unpopular “outcasts” really the most honest people to be around. I will never know, because I am as guilty as everyone else. Involved in the society that simply sits in the caffe window watching people pass by as you consider yourself better than them. Whatever. Once again, I am no better. I just find it sad to think that I am always searching from approval by bashing on other people, who have decided to live their life without caring about the dumb girl sitting by the window.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 9:49 PM UTC
I am darkness, I am fright
The deep blackness of the night
Nothing seen, nothing heard
Unpopular thoughts, my spoken words
Invisible until you feel my stab
Don't play games with me, I'm a match to be had
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 6:07 PM UTC
So what?
If I'm not 'so hot'
Why do you care
If I never change my hair?
Okay maybe my videos won't go viral
But the aim is to make at least one person smile
Honestly, I shouldn't worry
About being ignored
Or being 'totally!' unpopular..
It's gonna make a great story someday.
.. The day I become a somebody.
SO, before you trade your glasses in for a pair of contacts,
Before you chop your mop, and throw on the make up, before you chug down that *****
Which makes you talk crazy when you snooze,
Ask yourself; 'What do I have to lose?'
.... The rep you don't have,
Or the pride that you do.
Popularity is down to you.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
This is probably not going to trend
You probably won't click that heart down there
I'm sure no one will re-post it
And not a single person will comment
This is an unpopular poem
Written by an unpopular poet
Using unpopular words
Expressing unpopular thoughts
I understand no one will want to read this
No one will take the time to consider it
Not a soul will get what I'm saying
And I'm positive nobody will like it
I don't think people are put on Earth for a reason
I don't think we have any destined significance
If we did, where would the beauty be?
We'd all be bound for one thing, one destiny
Who would want that? Really?
That strips away our freedom to choose, I think..
And I'm sure many of you are going to disagree
And you're going to fling at me your religious beliefs
I just don't think that way; it doesn't make sense to me
I don't see the mystical powers you all so desperately believe
Or the God you say is here to take care of me
I don't understand why this is something you could believe
So here you have it
An unpopular poem thing
Scripted by an unpopular poet, me
This is something I'm sure no one will read..
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 9:14 AM UTC
All are limitory, but each has her own
nuance of damage. The elite can dress and decent themselves,
are ambulant with a single stick, adroit
to read a book all through, or play the slow movements of
easy sonatas. (Yet, perhaps their very
carnal freedom is their spirit's bane: intelligent
of what has happened and why, they are obnoxious
to a glum beyond tears.) Then come those on wheels, the average
majority, who endure T.V. and, led by
lenient therapists, do community-singing, then
the loners, muttering in Limbo, and last
the terminally incompetent, as improvident,
unspeakable, impeccable as the plants
they parody. (Plants may sweat profusely but never
sully themselves.) One tie, though, unites them: all
appeared when the world, though much was awry there, was more
spacious, more comely to look at, it's Old Ones
with an audience and secular station. Then a child,
in dismay with Mamma, could refuge with Gran
to be revalued and told a story. As of now,
we all know what to expect, but their generation
is the first to fade like this, not at home but assigned
to a numbered frequent ward, stowed out of conscience
as unpopular luggage.
As I ride the subway
to spend half-an-hour with one, I revisage
who she was in the pomp and sumpture of her hey-day,
when week-end visits were a presumptive joy,
not a good work. Am I cold to wish for a speedy
painless dormition, pray, as I know she prays,
that God or Nature will abrupt her earthly function?
3.7k
For long, I've had a pen
And at the beginning of that time:
I used to write fantasy,
With set syllable and rhyme.
I gave it to the public,
And they gave it back to me.
Told me it was bland,
Somehow, I could agree.
And then I changed it to
First person—
Wrote about my troubles
Gave up on punctuation
And that ******* filter.
To write about my fight with needles,
A cyclic session of depression and regression,
Is release.
I am,
the butcher who chopped apart her soul
Drained blood into words.
Ground the bones into a bag and
Fed it to the birds
I won't dwell upon the rhyme scheme
Chime whenever the hell I want.
I hid my words in shadows
Did not care for
The world's gaze
And suddenly I found myself—
Showered with honest praise.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 12:03 AM UTC
The little voice inside of you
Directing decision
Trapped
Unable to envision
Success
In rapid succession
Reverting
In sudden regression
Sewing shut
Your mind's eye
Blame your loss of contact
Contact with me
The romantic deviant
Your love is beautiful
With all it's conditions
Scolding the masses
For their mental carbon emissions
Unpopular
Is an understatement
What do you expect
Pushing for a decision
When there is no answer
Jan 1, 2011
Jan 1, 2011 at 2:19 PM UTC
Just a random poem To postpone my english essay,
I guess it's not very good but I'll upload it anyway,
I guess I should tell you a bit about me,
Very nerdy, curly hair, I need glasses to see,
People think they know me- think I'm easy to judge
but they don't, and well, I don't hold a grudge.
I'm the unpopular girl who everyone talks to,
I look quite happy, but you don't know the heartbreak I've been through.
My poems are mixed, but mostly sad.
I guess I should stop writing now- this is getting quite bad
My punctuation isn't good, although I'm getting A's and A*'s,
My head is always in the clouds, I'm maturer than my friends by far.
I'm going to stop writing- so you can move on,
I'm EllaUmbrella and this is my song.
Dec 4, 2009
Dec 4, 2009 at 6:52 AM UTC
Nobody ever talks about how the rain turns soil into mud;
how precaution tangoes
on the soles of your rain boots and
one misstep could lead to a concussion;
damage,
or a little scrape on the knee.
Nobody ever talks about
how caged birds sometimes forget
how to fly.
Mundane gestures marinated
as “special”
instead of something one ought to do.
He’s forgotten how to make her laugh.
When he says “baby”,
she could almost hear the anchor
pulling down the sincerity
in his voice box
along with the word “sorry”
and “sweetie, im never gonna hurt you again”
where his voice begin to crack
like tectonic plates that supported his
ego—
when he says “i love you”
nobody ever talks about the barriers
on beds and ******* and fetishes
to which the extent
of the phrase lies—
His i love yous were starting
to sound like a beg for ***
and his i love yous fade out
when he gets what he wants.
He gets what he wants.
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 2:31 PM UTC
Stretchy sticky tape can be used for plenty
like preventing loose lips from spilling secret information
make 'em taste adhesive next time they lick crackly mouths
serve as a reminder of the importance of person-person confidentiality.
Some just can't keep a good story in their head
which is why they shout
and beg for the forgiveness of their unpopular ways
I love all these outcasts
because I feel I should, as do many others
they want to feel like good people
holy
and sometimes you find
you do enjoy the company of the strange
and I find
that I thrive on absurdity and being a ******
because it's exhausting to try to be normal
so you just act a fool and laugh
because you love to read about politics and physics
and you still enjoy
being un-sober
though it isn't apparent to all because you aren't so obvious
(except now)
and you know roughly who you are
at least have some ideas as to who you aren't,
you aren't a princess or an athlete,
you're not valedictorian, not perfect
just a humble little ****** with birds for brains
flying out of your ears
a whole flock of 'em
chirping away eating worms
early in the morn'
just insane in the dark.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 10:32 PM UTC
I would rather be
unpopular
for all the right reasons
than popular
for all the wrong ones.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 1:15 AM UTC
Online deals are the best distraction
for the leaky feeling in my chest.
Every click wipes a drip.
A shopping cart comprised of sale items,
the pair of oddly patterned socks,
suspenders no one will ever wear,
men's sweater in an extra-small,
an obscure band shirt-
all unwanted sitting in a 20 dollar cart.
I want them.
5 more dollars and it's free shipping.
Throw in unpopular shades of makeup
and a friendship bracelet.
Looking forward to the delivery man.
So involved in the next best sale-
the pain of neglect is removed with mail.
**i am in the clearance section-
waiting to be reconsidered
my emotions are overstock-
please pick one up half-off.**
Sometimes I never complete my purchase.
Imaginary carts of imaginary feelings.
Dump them away and forget their existence.
Someone else might see their worth
and make me wish I bought them first.
Rainy day
a broken package.
my leaky heart
drenched in mud
**wash me don't
leave me
don't forget me in the
mailbox by the door.**
Only 5 bucks.
**don't return me
to the store.**
It was free shipping.
**i promise i can be
more**
Fine, I'll take it.
Months of dust.
**i am sitting in the drawer,
wondering why you even bought me.
just because i was on sale-
now you never look my way.**
Off to goodwill.
Consumer's guilty pill.
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 11:20 PM UTC
I guess
It's my duty to express
Unpopular opinions
But
The only man I want
Leaving things
In my stockings
Doesn't wear red
He doesn't have a beard
And he's not fat
He's my Guy
With top shelf
On sale
For half price
I only know
Two things about
mistletoe
1. I've never parted
My mouth inside of
Its shadow
2. It would probably
**** to smoke
I don't need no fancy christmas trees
With lights, and stars, and hypocrisies
I've got hybrid harlots creeping
Down into the pink of
My cigarette kissed lungs
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 8:53 PM UTC
Lets look on upon unpopular stars when we are apart, and wish our hearts were heads, forgetting we ever met, as if meant to be, compiling our indoctrination unto ****** scent, and cold coffee, stale smoke, and years of therapy.
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 6:15 PM UTC
I bring hotdogs and turnips to it
gladly sit in the unpopular rows
with people who know their **** stinks,
not those who feel a need to condescend
degrade and comment on others here
I would gladly bring 'tato chips
and nachos and pass on the high brow
caviar some think they are
for you smell
when you judge others
like you are the beginning end and class of the show
when you are just
pretty versions of ********
in better clothes
with store bought words and
stupid wits.
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 7:45 PM UTC
If I am to be where I should belong
I would be one or two words in an unpopular song
The squeaking hinge on the bathroom door
Or the missing tile on the bathroom floor.
If I am to be, What is to be of me?
Would I get swallowed in Ahab's whale
Crawl my days in the shell of a snail
Be the hole in the bottom of a dairymaid's pail?
And if I am to be what will I see?
The fires of dawn lighting up the land
The oil can drums of a Caribbean band
The countless whispers in the grains of sand?
If I am to be where I belong..If I'm not wrong
I should be here.
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 4:40 PM UTC
it usually leaps like a swordfish out of the ocean
and I’m able to harpoon it,
but as of lately,
I’m stuck with pond ****
and the tuna on my bad breath.
it’s nowhere to be found;
not in the parks,
the libraries,
the liquor stores
nor the circuit clerk’s office,
I tried fishing it out of the swaps of
spitfire and melancholy
but found nothing
I tried to ****** it with an excessive
amount of trouble and ********
but found nothing
I tried scooping the guts out of myself
like a hollowed out pumpkin and
splattered it with a wet slap
against an old newspaper
but found nothing
there’s nothing here;
no spark,
no imagination,
no ingenuity
what I’m I suppose to do?
as I sit here petting the black
velvet fur of my dog,
my toes won’t stop curling,
my nails are bitten down to the nub
and the stink of aging soars past
like eagles on fire
I have nothing to write about:
no unpopular opinion
no peculiar viewpoint
no bludgeoning over
the banality of
extinction
the only logical thing to do is
head out to see some local
band at a Chicago bar and see
where the alcohol takes me
I need the ammunition
I need the fuel
I need to make
something happen
the hard days of labor have diminished me
through attrition and lack of euphemism
but for right now, no matter how
saturated I am of feeling and thought…
whether I’m
drunk on sleep,
salacious on vulgarity,
grieving with quills,
vacant of *****
dreaming of gout,
reading Géza Csáth,
listening to Sass Dragons,
burrowing under empty houses
or fixing the plumbing for the woman down the hall.
I still
can’t
coax
the word
out.
Feb 13, 2025
Feb 13, 2025 at 10:45 AM UTC
There once was a great beast, now but a myth, who sat atop Mr. Atlas’s throne. So the story goes, the beast had become so heavy, and such a burden on Mr. Atlas, that he enlisted some folks to tame it. ****** that beast could fight back. He fought for ages, centuries, eons, a near-bloody-eternity to stay on top of his throne. He would not be defeated, until the world stopped turning up on old Mr. Atlas’s back. After fighting back on and on, pressuring the tamers for years on end, the gargantuan beast was slowly getting tired. Energy seeped out of his body. But he kept fighting. He kept fighting until he didn’t see the point anymore, and he fought some more.
To this very moment, the beast is still fighting up there on old Mr. Atlas’s back.
The beast, our voice, our final bastion of worldly balance, should very well be tamed by now. The idea of submitting to our tamers is a very unpopular one, though popular at the same time among some. But they are the tamers, and we are the beasts, fighting back to little avail but not giving up on the mission, though thoroughly futile.
Folks, it’s time for us to submit to those who are taming us. As awful, as cowardly, as utterly asinine as this sounds to most of you, we just cannot go on if we continue to fight back.
Those in charge have ****** it up so thoroughly that we must live life through simplistic principles. We can’t afford to **** around with “the man” anymore. It simply will not work. We have to find our happiness. We have to enjoy the little things, little victories, little comforts, little joys, little hardships, and big souls with big aspirations on the little scale that we are left with. As we enjoy these things, we in turn do not submit to those above us. In fact, those above us hate that we are content. Our contentment is their pain, and if they feel pain, then they stop taming us and they themselves become the ones who are tamed, subdued by their own (now) unsuccessful attempts to tame us.
So we have to find comfort in the uncomfortable, and joy in the hardships of life, and accept that we cannot change a thing unless we are content with the conditions that these folks have presented us with.
Comfort and contentment is everything, and it is what tames the tamers of the beast.
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 8:57 PM UTC
You're what's in now?
What many call popular?
But we aware you might be out tomorrow.
You get all the attention.
Along with great stories.
Unlike God, you don't get the glory.
You're what's in now?
What many post as popular?
But you're be in past tense tomorrow.
You be talked about as what was?
And not about what's now?
You will be claim unpopular.
News for tomorrow.
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 7:19 AM UTC
I would rather be
unpopular
for all the right reasons
than popular
for all the wrong ones.
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 3:08 AM UTC
A President fell into
the conspirators trap.
History was rewritten
as easy as that.
Remember the riots
the blood and the gore.
Remember the protests
of an unpopular war.
Think of who benefits
when young blood is shed,
for its they who put bullets
in J.F.K's head.
It was they who put Johnson
up on Camelot's throne.
Do you still think Lee Harvey
acted alone?
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 11:41 PM UTC