"unreflective" poems - Hello Poetry

How can you enjoy love? When he stole it from you She sat where she had sat on the stair Held her head in her hands And felt the fists and the feet Pushing himself inside And taking her out She could see him leering In her unreflective eyes She would no longer let him fester in her soul Deep rooted Wrapped around her veins and muscles Interlocked within her every intimate move A pat on the back Would never penetrate deep enough To wrap her scars in silk And tease out the knots they had forged around her heart So she wore the lipstick she had worn Smudged poorly over her child lips Bright red so all could see Every kiss she had placed Over every place he had been. My polka dot Mama Speckled with drops of love Not blood How can you enjoy life? When he took every chance you had

0

Dec 8, 2010

Dec 8, 2010 at 7:02 AM UTC

charlotte-greenstock

My Polka Dot Mama

How can you enjoy love? When he stole it from you She sat where she had sat on the stair Held her head in her hands And felt the fists and the feet Pushing himself inside And taking her out She could see him leering In her unreflective eyes She would no longer let him fester in her soul Deep rooted Wrapped around her veins and muscles Interlocked within her every intimate move A pat on the back Would never penetrate deep enough To wrap her scars in silk And tease out the knots they had forged around her heart So she wore the lipstick she had worn Smudged poorly over her child lips Bright red so all could see Every kiss she had placed Over every place he had been. My polka dot Mama Speckled with drops of love Not blood How can you enjoy life? When he took every chance you had

27

You don't believe the truth You blame it all on Him You're hypocrite and fool Stubborn, unreflective But when it comes to someone else Your critic side shows off Demanding good from wrong So, who are you to judge?

0

Mar 30, 2014

Mar 30, 2014 at 12:19 AM UTC

AngelaPaulinaLo

Untitled

You don't believe the truth You blame it all on Him You're hypocrite and fool Stubborn, unreflective But when it comes to someone else Your critic side shows off Demanding good from wrong So, who are you to judge?

8

Abhoreal realms unreflective and hollow Unearthed beyond the tendency to gleam Torrid unhap’ly, oft laid sallow Tired or dying, life’s tree Stays open ‘til well after midnight Constantly piroueeting This world, tied to a thin line Forgetting

0

Jan 19, 2011

Jan 19, 2011 at 5:32 AM UTC

sansara-justinovich

Circles

Abhoreal realms unreflective and hollow Unearthed beyond the tendency to gleam Torrid unhap’ly, oft laid sallow Tired or dying, life’s tree Stays open ‘til well after midnight Constantly piroueeting This world, tied to a thin line Forgetting

8

There is an old oak which sits formidably Upon a tangle of spindly wooden arms Which reach above from the grave In the middle of a field Otherwise totally barren. The sun casts a shadow across the land And just before it reaches its highest point The shadow shows an unreflective image Of a tree full of foliage. At noon the shadow sinks into the earth But as the hours pass, a new image occurs Just as deceptive as the first, Whereupon you will see the tree’s branches dead. Whispers that the devil’s curse Effects that half which so strangely Refuses to mirror the other Traverses between the two hills Which make this town a valley. It was the man who made his path By endearing the hearts of the people Who did see at this place The last image which was burned into his cornea Never to be seen. No one could have guessed That such a caring man Was not the image he himself projected, But it is the silent tears of an aching woman Which would expose the inner soul. For a time there was no sign Except the scar which traced the woman’s face From each tear duct To the softened line of her jaw. It was after the children had headed back From their school houses When she walked with light heart Across the field, and headed home As her mind considered the feeling of the breeze, The freshness of a new school year, The rich golden color Which crowned the intricate web of branches above, She was taken by surprise. A pool of crimson covered the ground In the shade of the oak tree Which after the dry summer season Quenched its thirst The day following, the traveler was seen Whistling as he walked Across the field, with his belongings in hand Stopping to admire the color which contrasted Perfectly against the blue sky. With a satisfied air, he left Continuing in the direction of his original path When suddenly, he stopped – As did the mechanism within his ribcage Which counted the seconds of life left. When the spring season returned, The tree no longer contrasted the sky In all its glory, for one side no longer grew And in the wind, the people fantasized visions Of a man hanging from the southern limb.

0

Jun 21, 2011

Jun 21, 2011 at 6:25 PM UTC

veronica-ward

Widdiful

There is an old oak which sits formidably Upon a tangle of spindly wooden arms Which reach above from the grave In the middle of a field Otherwise totally barren. The sun casts a shadow across the land And just before it reaches its highest point The shadow shows an unreflective image Of a tree full of foliage. At noon the shadow sinks into the earth But as the hours pass, a new image occurs Just as deceptive as the first, Whereupon you will see the tree’s branches dead. Whispers that the devil’s curse Effects that half which so strangely Refuses to mirror the other Traverses between the two hills Which make this town a valley. It was the man who made his path By endearing the hearts of the people Who did see at this place The last image which was burned into his cornea Never to be seen. No one could have guessed That such a caring man Was not the image he himself projected, But it is the silent tears of an aching woman Which would expose the inner soul. For a time there was no sign Except the scar which traced the woman’s face From each tear duct To the softened line of her jaw. It was after the children had headed back From their school houses When she walked with light heart Across the field, and headed home As her mind considered the feeling of the breeze, The freshness of a new school year, The rich golden color Which crowned the intricate web of branches above, She was taken by surprise. A pool of crimson covered the ground In the shade of the oak tree Which after the dry summer season Quenched its thirst The day following, the traveler was seen Whistling as he walked Across the field, with his belongings in hand Stopping to admire the color which contrasted Perfectly against the blue sky. With a satisfied air, he left Continuing in the direction of his original path When suddenly, he stopped – As did the mechanism within his ribcage Which counted the seconds of life left. When the spring season returned, The tree no longer contrasted the sky In all its glory, for one side no longer grew And in the wind, the people fantasized visions Of a man hanging from the southern limb.

60

Talking about trash and vomitting i am staring at the ceiling with my dry mouth open I slept at three and woke up at eleven It was a sunny morning my roommate left at seven she left the curtain open and why did not she let the window break sometimes i think of jumping but standing on height makes me want to fall to bed and hide under the blanket I don't want to bathe and eat breakfast but i kept snacking and i wish i were that sweet tooth i haven't washed the dishes and ****** and i am thinking of Being in a plane Heat struck and breaking the window the wind the clouds the pressure I don't know if i am still afraid of heights I have never been that high enough anyway like i am on the second floor it's never high enough i think of the high buildings in the capital city but i just love her too much I will not I will not I will not let them read me in newspapers I still think about methods to die but it does not make sense anymore like i want to have bullets on my head like jesus' crown but i don't want the cold thing in my mouth i don't want my head to be a blood fountain out of the blue I am too drained even to think of running and jumping off a cliff like it's actually dumb and not pretty and i hear that we have so much to live We have so much to live I didn't have my breakfast I am too okay to think this laziness as depression i cannot blame my brain it is too okay it is too okay i am too okay i shouldn't complain Too much Too much i complain too much You grow flowers out of your corpse but all i want to be is to decay into plastic and harm the earth and it's true that such a sad world we live in I am getting you back here Sonja i am getting you back here You are still me You are still me You are still me Welcome home

0

Oct 18, 2014

Oct 18, 2014 at 3:27 AM UTC

Pea

Sudden and unreflective

Talking about trash and vomitting i am staring at the ceiling with my dry mouth open I slept at three and woke up at eleven It was a sunny morning my roommate left at seven she left the curtain open and why did not she let the window break sometimes i think of jumping but standing on height makes me want to fall to bed and hide under the blanket I don't want to bathe and eat breakfast but i kept snacking and i wish i were that sweet tooth i haven't washed the dishes and ****** and i am thinking of Being in a plane Heat struck and breaking the window the wind the clouds the pressure I don't know if i am still afraid of heights I have never been that high enough anyway like i am on the second floor it's never high enough i think of the high buildings in the capital city but i just love her too much I will not I will not I will not let them read me in newspapers I still think about methods to die but it does not make sense anymore like i want to have bullets on my head like jesus' crown but i don't want the cold thing in my mouth i don't want my head to be a blood fountain out of the blue I am too drained even to think of running and jumping off a cliff like it's actually dumb and not pretty and i hear that we have so much to live We have so much to live I didn't have my breakfast I am too okay to think this laziness as depression i cannot blame my brain it is too okay it is too okay i am too okay i shouldn't complain Too much Too much i complain too much You grow flowers out of your corpse but all i want to be is to decay into plastic and harm the earth and it's true that such a sad world we live in I am getting you back here Sonja i am getting you back here You are still me You are still me You are still me Welcome home

25

Thoughts wondering within the space of my breath and memory, trapped in lingering stagnation. They breath on the expunged momentum of fragmented meanings. But when this fades all that will linger is dead ideas. Swimming in a stench of unreflective concepts, and this essence will keep me clouded till they are only dust in the winds of my mind......

0

Nov 12, 2016

Nov 12, 2016 at 11:45 AM UTC

poetic-t

Thoughts Swim Around My Head

Thoughts wondering within the space of my breath and memory, trapped in lingering stagnation. They breath on the expunged momentum of fragmented meanings. But when this fades all that will linger is dead ideas. Swimming in a stench of unreflective concepts, and this essence will keep me clouded till they are only dust in the winds of my mind......

8

the sea wrinkles, extends beneath her moon glow, awaiting its lustrous return keening with melancholy ache of wave soaking midnight sands unreflective as night's obsidian hand - snakes along his features casting a shadowed aura across his liquid expanse lulled into silent slumber while the moon fore-sakes her nightfall promise stretched alongside his ivory form, awakening breathlessly, tremulously, he discovers her as moonshine on outstretched palms, bathing in her resplendence was it all summer night's splendor, (quicksilver to his mind like the moon beckoning his misbegotten sea) or had she - at last - returned to solace his lovesick dream?

0

Nov 8, 2020

Nov 8, 2020 at 10:54 AM UTC

south-city-lady

dreamscape mystery

the sea wrinkles, extends beneath her moon glow, awaiting its lustrous return keening with melancholy ache of wave soaking midnight sands unreflective as night's obsidian hand - snakes along his features casting a shadowed aura across his liquid expanse lulled into silent slumber while the moon fore-sakes her nightfall promise stretched alongside his ivory form, awakening breathlessly, tremulously, he discovers her as moonshine on outstretched palms, bathing in her resplendence was it all summer night's splendor, (quicksilver to his mind like the moon beckoning his misbegotten sea) or had she - at last - returned to solace his lovesick dream?

23

Oblivion. The writing's on the wall. A map to no where fast. Non existent places, empty spaces, Unreflective, devoid, absent, soundless, a quintessential nothingness. Wrapped in endless streams of non integrated meaning. Non thought, yet unextinguished. waiting, for that..... kiss.

0

Jun 18, 2016

Jun 18, 2016 at 8:36 AM UTC

gerry-mcclelland

Oblivion

Oblivion. The writing's on the wall. A map to no where fast. Non existent places, empty spaces, Unreflective, devoid, absent, soundless, a quintessential nothingness. Wrapped in endless streams of non integrated meaning. Non thought, yet unextinguished. waiting, for that..... kiss.

15