"unpromising" poems
My spine is broken from the burden of your ungrateful heart, I have shrugged shoulders to the girls who can walk into the kitchen, just to nod my head to the girl who waits to be served on the dining table, I have swam beyond seas just to drown in your heart, I have betrayed my credibility towards the streets I was raised just to follow the path that leads to your happiness, I have chased all of my dogs at the gate so you can visit anytime, you remember when I found you drunk in careless hands at the club? Then I embraced all the shame and welcomed you in my hands, I no longer see the essence of visiting mama every weekend, cause I've always dedicated my time to you, I have lapsed the doctrines of upholding holiness just to sin for you, now all these broken promises, overflowing tears and unpromising future, you have caused all this because you are ungrateful, and before this coffee hits the surface of my cup, ill make sure this love chokes you and see if you are worth it.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC
You are the light in my darkest hour
You made me see the beauty
Within the shadows
Everytime I see your face,
I gain strength
You are the sunshine in my rainy days
Whenever you stand here and show your light
This complicated world just seems so easy
That everything which seems slight would turn significant
For you open my eyes to see the beauty
In each awful detail
You are the promise,
The hope of an unpromising tomorrow
That whenever you speak you would touch
The mind, the soul
The world
You are the history within the insensibility
You bring the memory of a lost dream
Creating a new child of courage
Yes, you are a blessing
A gift of splendor
An angel
The hope
The light
The promise
But even the sun needs to set
To give way to the reassuring night...
And I am but a wandering soul
Every gift I have at hand
Is not for keeps
I am the mist
Which anytime would go with the wind
To fade
And somehow delight in
My transience
And dream
To see you smile
In my repose...
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 5:05 AM UTC
We would dance until the ground was no longer at our soles,
when we would float in a trance of sheer naive
in the palms of death’s hand. slightly teasing.
Grasping vestal youth in our hands with
cigarettes in our fingertips.
Empty glistening bottles, left smashed on begging turf
whilst the substances slur inside minds.
Fallen drunken on the night’s moonlit whispers,
delusional romances, and unpromising fantasies.
The gasoline drooled out his hand needlessly.
It glazed the grass guilty
when we kissed it’s tips with a lighter.
its then those fantasies engulfed the air in illuminations of blaze
then creeping thick grey
and ceased to ash.
Death gently blew the ashes to the river
and kissed us goodnight.
- though now we are still dancing in our circle.
we light it all on fire again
to disintegrate new dreams
quivering romances
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 5:50 PM UTC
Faith is an ***** in bodies unseen
Filled to the brim to be daily redeemed
Guard as you might it will never decay
But hardens and softens like delicate clay
And it will be molded then put through the fire
Hotly transformed from unpromising mire
What's carnal will fall to the side and be burned
But what is eternal will rise from the urn
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 12:52 PM UTC
What is this that fills my head?
This drone and ominous hiss
Of static and angst
In rhythmic time to an orchestra
Of self pity and machine pistons
As my brain ***** and absorbs
But remembers little
Scared for an unpromising future
Angry at the past
Complacency sets in
Around the force that absorbs me
And always will
What is this space that contains me?
Not a physical draw
Involuntary
Pulling my every cell that portrays my being
Ripping, One by one
I am contained between these spaces
Trapped
This blank, faceless silence
So little shown
So much said
With each pause
Mar 19, 2011
Mar 19, 2011 at 11:24 AM UTC
I will myself to hate you,
And to find something that I can use
as ammo against your love.
But I give up.
I can listen to the brave words
that my friends help me use
as my shield.
But I don't believe them.
It's different this time.
It's all there, yet there's nothing.
Just a tiny lighthouse seen through
a deep dark sea.
I will my boat away
towards the islands.
But it's no use.
I am too in love with the light
to not follow its unpromising affliction.
Watch me as I drown.
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 11:29 PM UTC
unpromising,
this ****** clay
scooped from the thames.
old, used scoured
****** of old father
thames, river of home,
of shame and escape.
mould me, make this
wet lump pliant,
knead it into man-shape
paint it green, blue or
gold, red white and blue,
not with harsh horse-
hair brush, but soft
with tender finger-tips.
fashion mouth ears eyes
and that piece some
women prize.
breathe life into this
teeming, fleshing thing
mouth to mouth, eve,
make me man with
kind words and passion.
take a rib and press it
to your *****
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 3:09 AM UTC
The truth is
what once was yellow brick road
is now red from blood
blotched by dirt
and partly
covered in moss
I see no purpose nor hope
in following this particular road
that leads me back to a place
so called 'home'
It's rather unpromising
and untempting
unwelcoming even
And it makes me think;
At the end of the road,
will I be left to rot
by the people who once swore
that I will be loved
but would leave me standing
forsaken and starving
like they used to do
And so I'd rather stay in Oz
Then to follow the 'yellow brick road'
To get to a place where
I were to be ignored
Sep 19, 2019
Sep 19, 2019 at 11:18 AM UTC
It’s sweet like whiskey,
the aftertaste of your divorce,
and you force yourself to keep wearing lipstick
like the magazines tell you to.
Someday (you hope) soon, you’ll feel brand new.
It’s all just a second act, really,
and that jam-packed, steely feeling at
the bottom of your
sentences is meant to be discarded,
dug apart, and left unmentioned.
The phonebooths all hug in on themselves,
shrugging against the rain
when you pass by,
and the sky is always a schizophrenic grey
these days, clouds marching away
to an unpromising horizon.
You phone once,
after the papers have been signed,
to hear the sound of a newly parallel life
on a recorded track
to hear that voice one last time
telling you they’ll call you back.
Mar 25, 2020
Mar 25, 2020 at 1:15 PM UTC
Her parentage was a thing of considerable comment
Though a good deal less circumspection,
Mama's identity relatively sure, as everyone knew her mama,
Her father one of a laundry list of unpromising gardeners,
Yet she was a child of grace--no, more than that
An outlier in every sense of the word,
The dazzling unintended consequence
Resulting from a series of unwise and unhappy choices.
She sauntered (though there are those romantically inclined sorts
Who would insist she outright floated,
Her feet rarely if ever touching ground)
By the courthouse in Okolona most afternoons,
And though her dress was from the house of Ralston and Purina
And her jewelry courtesy of Sailor Jack and Bingo,
She neither shrunk nor slunk self-consciously
Nor walked with eyes ablaze and fists clenched,
In a manner asking Mebbe you wanna make sumpin' of it?
Simply walked her own walk,
Such things as poverty and pedigree
Trvial matters beneath her concern,
Though she was always provided for, as a seemingly chosen child,
Judge Hibbard giving her a store-bought doll from Jackson
When she turned seven, others providing her pop and bubble gum,
And later Miss Lucille Brisker sewed her a bright-blue silk dress
Plus gave her forty-two dollars for a Greyhound ticket
To Los Angeles via New Orleans
(When she hopped the bus in front of the K &B,
She gave her a peck on the cheek, and said
*Miss Lucille, you take care, but I doubt
I'm much likely to pass this way again.*)
Her whys and wherefores after that were lost to time and tide:
Perhaps she made it in L-A, perhaps she thought else-wise
And hopped off the bus in Hattiesburg or Bogalusa
Though most were of the opinion that it mattered little if at all,
As she allowed them, leastways for a little while,
To be in her orbit while she shone in such a manner as pleased her.
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 4:27 PM UTC
Appearances deceive
She starts to believe
She is as hollow as the glass is empty
so parched she becomes
Quenching her thirst in unpromising promises
We accept the love we think we deserve
Or sometimes the love that presents itself at 2 am
The kind that warms the vacant spots
Until there are no more vacancies in her ravaged heart
Fools and lovers are all the same
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 2:21 AM UTC
Stuck.
Once again stuck between four walls.
Darkness.
It rolls in slowly and uninvited.
Anger.
Not yet hatred but consuming.
Air.
Trying to breath and although alive, unsuccesseding.
Peace.
Searching searching deep within my soul.
Devil.
Playing games calling out to play.
God;
Trying to fortify strength and wisdom in the mind.
Sanity.
Slowly going out the more that I want to be in.
Death. Life. Hope.
Relaxation unpromising torture
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 10:47 PM UTC
We wandered through the woods and found a wallowing bridge, creaking softly in the symphony of the spineless sighs of wind. Gushing through its planks I could feel the water seeping at the weak cavity’s of the wood. I was there and she was there and we were on that bridge together, struggling on its loose and yielding bones. As we stepped on its ribs, the wood sighed beneath our feet and the water swelled and the wind sang and we held on. And the wind slipped through my clothes and hugged at my skin. And we walked in silence. I didn’t have to fill the atmosphere with empty words with no meaning. In the silence we Struggled across the softened wood. So soft that our feet were but muffled padding underfoot. We were careless of the bridges unpromising purpose, that its defeat and surrender could leave us swept away in the cold stream below. We were just moving away from the forest. Moving together.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 11:10 PM UTC
I do not understand what "in the moment" is
I've always drowned myself in the past, focused wholly on the unpromising future
What is happening right now, does not matter to me
What will happen in the future, scares me
Everyday I wake up surrounded by the same concretes
The same ones that echo my silence when the moon greets
I am tired, I am exhausted
I am tired of this momentary bliss
*I despise living this life of pretend,
forever wishing to start again.*
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 9:35 AM UTC
Monday is a struggle in itself, how treacherous she is, so unpromising..
Tuesday is just another day.. i try to get through but when you're losing hope its hard to even.. exist..
Wednesday is my least favorite day, im just waiting for Friday to get here.
Thursday, by the time he's here my existence is about ready to just fade away into the darkness that is similar to my spirit.
Friday is here, this is what ive been waiting for.. glasses full of whiskey as i try to numb the pain and as im half way through the only thing im able to do is remember you.. the very thing i am trying to forget.
& then Saturday comes, and i try again.. you know, it never works out but im not giving up! til the day i can drink glasses of whiskey and get inebriated without pouring out my heart halfway in because i miss you! i live for that beautiful day.
Sunday... oh isnt this great? one day before Monday and i start all over again.. the process.. its eating away at my soul & i dont know how much longer i can do this
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 5:11 AM UTC
When the painter first entered the room
He’d noted the walls drab and bare.
It appeared an unpromising canvas
and he had little time left to spare.
So forgive if he audibly sighed
as he spread out his drop cloths and paint.
His knees ache when he climbs on his ladder;
His swearing would trouble a Saint.
Still he made the best use of the light.
Sure his efforts would please and surprise;
The ceiling made a virginal white
And the walls the same green as her eyes.
It was dusk as he finished his task
and gathered his brushes and cans.
He’d have loved to see her reaction
when she’d witness the work of his hands.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 9:14 PM UTC
I want to be
just like you
living in the moment
breathing
the heavenly blue
skipping the light fantastic
weaving wonders from words
kissing understanding
and just like that
it's untrue
I can't be like you
because I dwell in the fear
of being unknown
but, I live here
in the unpromising zone
hack is stitched
as a single word
into every seam
of all the coats
I've ever worn
but I have sworn
that I'd be forever
the firefly
that lights the sky
from the warmth of my
tiny backside?
Just know....
I tried!
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 4:09 AM UTC
" Haunted by ghosts of times supposedly forgotten. The damages done have left the inside broken. The will to go on is too strong for the fuel is rage and hate..I would change but the pain is far too great. It comes back in waves..that means it's too late.
Father of Hell
Mother of Heaven
When will it come? My time to be forgiven
I am your loves resulting abomination
A demon seeking angelic redemption
Surrounded by people but always alone the time to me in solitude is my only favorite road. I fight the enemy within, the Beast looking back in the mirror. He is my ending..the answers have never been more clearer. Words of people being present are unpromising fables but if someone showed action..inside my walls accessible?..they might, possibly, be really able..
Father of Hell
Mother of Heaven
When will it come?
My time to be forgiven
I am your loves resulting abomination
A demon seeking angelic redemption
Though I know there is evil and hate unstable inside, I stay and fight while I run for somewhere to hide. These inner demons prove that I am meant for Hell..but I wish to do good for this world..and my best I shall give..I shall prevail!
Father of Hell
Mother of Heaven
When will it come?
My time to be forgiven
I am your loves resulting abomination
A demon seeking angelic redemption “
Mar 30, 2018
Mar 30, 2018 at 4:11 PM UTC
I imagine Hunter would have spread his arms wide.
Take me further and nowhere
outward and vanished.
For I have seen the most golden a person can be.
Road passing ocean.
I live, I live.
In the vestige of wind that carries me.
Tell me again,
why trees grow towards light.
Why we trace each others skin,
as if heaven sent.
And however
dreadful; unpromising
tell me why poetry is still seeking.
( C . C )
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 10:28 PM UTC