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What do you think of the ****** of the Prime Minister?
Yes, what do you think of the ******
of the Prime Minister?
And what do you feel?
Are you in shock
or depressed?
A question was asked.
And do you stutter
or are you unsure of what will happen,
or do you speak with such bewilderment
because of the future or the present—
A question was asked.
And perhaps you feel stupid
or without a point of view?
Answer.
And I reply:
All that you say is right
and you are a dear person.
And I want to add one more thing:
The Prime minister died a happy man.
Peace to the dust of the Prime Minister
Husband and father and something more:
the son of Red Rosa.



Translated from the original Hebrew by Karen Alkalay-Gut.
insecurity is eating me
the world is showing me
that you have to be having it all
or you have nothing.
i should be happy
with my natural blessings.
my hair
my face
my me
because it all belongs to God
and i was made special in his image
and if he supplies all of my needs
then my natural self is okay
that is all i should need.
those people that i envy
those people aren't happy
those people are irresponsible
those people are temporary
because they waste their life
and feed on
on temporary things
and you are what you eat.
those people don't care
those people are full
of the gigantic meal called
themselves
their ego.
i see
but the would feeds me
a different meal
which i am the cook
they feed me my own
unsatisfactory.
wow
this is how i eat and be eaten.
what does the world show you?
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
Magnificence blasted

I came to this with a title and then formed an Idea then got out the heavy hitter books all founding fathers thought it would be
A good touch to reconnect with our country and it history at this time of the year well it didn’t proceed that way I did find the very
Word that serves as the title in G. Campbell Morgan’s book an exposition of the Bible don’t get excited I will just use that to set the
tone and it will give you a head start on what I want to deal with the place where life is at odds with our peace and well being He starts
the first chapter of Job now he is one that can at least give us a great example it’s all about winning getting the results we need instead
of the pain of failure (In magnificence of argument and beauty of style this book is one of the grandest in the divine library the story
of Job is presented in dramatic form) I want this to serve two purposes give understanding to the point we all can use these stories
to make us victors and in a very small way have a readable escape from drudgery or outright problems to that end I will start at this
Point I already wrote about the Dutch businessman who got fed up chucked it all started a journey to circle the globe by human
Power alone so to that end he made a boat that by pedaling and that alone would be what would propel him through great waters and
Grand adventures but for this one were going to stay on land I did meet a eastern traveler years ago from New York he was on this side
Of Shelbyville his ultimate goal was the west coast I think he had been at it a little over a month and he was on horseback we talked
but way to briefly to be able to use it here so go to one I know a little more about Jack Kerouac he was in that idea and wrote the
Book on the road first problem the guy had very bad language steeped in the sixties drug culture an iconic figure of the beat
Generation but he was human as we are and when you get down to the soul you catch the part I want to use this is going to play
Like an old family recipe that is hardly readable and the family is the human family but Jack was a writer a full blown saga that had to
Be read had to be listened to a solitary seeker a poor outward drifter who was deeply lonely man a sad melancholy drifter one writer has
Said “and if you read the book closely you see that sense of loss and sorrow swelling on each page” another penned why Kerouac
Matters he matters because he is one of us he ran the course with large gains and ultimately ended with his magnificence blasted.
Taking the cue from Jack I will take you on the road to another life of magnificence Steven Beckerman he was a neurosurgeon I met
And worked for well his wife Sandy she was such a tragic figure she was so fragile high strung would be a good description if you didn’t
Know better you would think she saw the future the first blow to this couple was there pricey home was gutted by fire everything was
Replaceable but the two Doberman guard dogs and another dog that was their family they were childless but before this fire Steven
Was not a snob but he was only a few degrees higher than Sandy on the fragile scale he had these beautiful hands he seemed to
Always be guarding them he would walk in the back of the house down by the fence always faraway I’m sure he was thinking of
The patient and the operation that waited on him at the hospital he had a vulnerability he entered other peoples troubled places and
Gave them back their lives but his own he couldn’t seem to walk divided it was all their concerns and needs.Their dream was to leave
The Bay area where neither was happy and go to the southwest New Mexico where people were laid back the pace was slower
Then the fire happened they weathered that resumed life then Steven was near home a car accident this wonderful gifted surgeon
Was left a paraplegic he went to the bedroom placed the gun between his legs then with those fingers who helped so many others
Pulled the trigger on the shotgun his magnificence was ended he couldn’t overcome the reality and fact of his situation he could have
Became a teacher so many things could have been we need to take from this a lesson of guarding our mind and heart we don’t know
What the future holds if only Steven would have measured his worth kept and made a powerful ally as Job had, his magnificence
Would still be shinning today to finish up the last piece talked about Yvette being shot with Zack in the desert her injuries included
Right side nerve damage a metal plate in her head that prevents her from getting private health care we heard what her dad said about
The Grisly listen to the wise words of her mother her mother said you have to mourn the person you were before up to the time of the
shooting that person is gone you need to turn and start a new life she did that as much as possible started out to do sports casting found
It totally unsatisfactory changed to law and now is a lawyer and victims advocate she said she never tells her story to her clients but
She has a compassion for them she found her way through giving and serving others to keep her magnificence stellar.
celestial Mar 2014
every night i go to bed
and i feel incomplete

every morning i wake up
and i feel unsatisfactory

every day i go to class
and i feel inferior

all i feel is
flawed
flawed
flawed.
:(
Q Mar 2015
Oh, love, you are missing today
And, suddenly, everyone knows your name.
Oh, love, do you remember the way
You watched the seasons shift and change?

You're not here today, love
You'll visit and revisit
Yet you refuse to stay
And that's not enough, is it?

"Sweetheart, what have you done to us?"
We sang those words until we couldn't breathe
"Don't lie, I know we're fixing to die,"
And you were first to leave.

Beauty is subjective, but you were universal
Time is unreliable and age is routine
Life is objective and you were unimpressed
So what did you find so unsatisfactory?

"Hallelujah," you sang as you left
Hallelujah, hallelujah, rejoice for death
"Hallelujah," you said no "goodbye"'s
Just, "Hallelujah, hallelujah," until you died.

.

I heard there was a secret chord
And no one on Earth has heard it but you
We listen, watch, and wait for the answer
With our fingers crossed that it's the truth.

That David played to please the Lord
Though you never believed in him at all.
We are the David's playing until we can't
Then resuming at your call.

But you don't really care for music, do you?
In futile, in vain, our stupid efforts.
What song would you like to hear, dear king?
What will make you stay with us?

It goes like this: the minor fall, the major lift
It was set in stone from day one
We should have seen, should have known
That you would, so soon, be gone.

And the baffled King composing Hallelujah
Did you understand our words, our pleas?
Did you think of our cries before you left?
Oh my dearest, bemused, lost, little king.

Hallelujah...
Hallelujah...
Hallelujah...
Hallelujah...



The days passed by and you grew weary;
Your faith was strong but you needed proof
So you searched the world helplessly in vain
That life would mean something, anything, for you.

And then came Her, a breath of hope
You saw Her bathing on the roof
You crossed your fingers and prayed to the air
That She was the concrete, unfailing truth.

You followed her with your heart in hand;
Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you.
You knelt by her feet and raised her up
The whole while singing, "Hallelujah."

She held you closer than you'd ever been then
She tied you to the kitchen chair.
And you were content, you were secure
You were so happy to be there.

She stripped you of titles and material things
She broke your throne and she cut your hair
She skinned you completely, down to your soul
And left you liberatingly bare.

She reached inside and wrenched the pain from you
And from your lips, she drew the, "Hallelujah."
You were so completely healed at that moment
How you relapsed, how you slipped away eludes her.

Hallelujah...
Hallelujah...
Hallelujah...
Hallelujah...

.
­
Oh, had I seen you slipping
I would've let you know that
Baby, I've been here before;
It's not the place for you to end at.

I would have stressed that you're better
Than this room soaked in the blood of thousands.
I've seen this room, I've walked this floor, you know
You'd be better off far away from it.

I would have explained that you were it.
I'd yet to see color, to live, to trust;
I used to live alone before I knew you-
Then you appeared and left me starstruck.

You were a light, you were a star
You were what I thought didn't exist before
And I've seen your flag on the marble arch
So I'll raise it in your absence; let it soar.

You were hope, dearest wayfarer
Though I know hope never lasts
And love is not a victory march
But I never thought it'd end so fast.

The message isn't an apology
It's not guilt or regret
It's a cold and it's a broken, "Hallelujah,"
That I've not managed to accept yet.

Hallelujah...
Hallelujah...
Hallelujah...
Hallelujah...

.
­
You said it once and I heard you clear
"I'm so tired," your eyes were closed
You didn't confide again, but oh,
There was a time when you let me know.

What's behind that small, secretive smile?
What is it you won't let show?
What are you feeling; are you okay?
What's really going on below?

All the things I never asked
For fear that questions would stab you through
I would've been a hiding place for your sorrow
But you never show that to me, do you?

I never knew what was on your mind
You never gave the slightest of clues.
I was more than prepared to give up
But remember when I moved in you?

I saw the pain, I saw the age
I finally felt as though I knew
We flew, I believe, we soared and flew
And the holy dove was moving too.

You were more than a light then
You were the cosmos, you were Earth's deus ex machina
We flew through time faster than we should have
And every breath we drew was, "Hallelujah."

Hallelujah...
Hallelujah...
Hallelujah...
Hallelujah...

.

May­be there's a god above
Who was looking down to see you
But if he didn't stop the you from leaving
Then what good can he do?

But all I've ever learned from love
Is that it hurts too much to chase
All I've ever learned from love
Was how to hate; all I' learned

Was how to shoot someone who outdrew you.
I bit at their heels like a rabid dog,
They didn't see the impossible thing you were
Until we reached the epilogue.

And it's not a cry that you hear at night,
That'll convince you to go.
It's not the passing of days and months
That snatched you from home.

It's not somebody who's seen the light
That coerced you away.
It's not the worst of your times
That convinced you not to stay.

It's a cold and it's a broken, "Hallelujah,"
That froze you to your bones.
And by the time heat had come
You were already gone.

Hallelujah...
Hallelujah...
Hallelujah...
Hallelujah...
Ha­llelujah...
Hallelujah...
Hallelujah...
Hallelujah...
Hallelujah.­..
Hallelujah...
Hallelujah...
Hallelujah...
Hallelujah...
To Him.
I'm trying to move on.
I've been writing this since October, I think this is the best version.
Rob Oct 2011
Biro poetry doesn’t work
It does not flow or fill the page with easy thoughts
The pen is a bulky lover, rather than the finer bodied pencil
It gives no quarter in correction, and scribbling out is just a messy affair
So it is unsatisfactory, clumsy and clogging
Oh for my pencil, where have you gone, my love?
Your fine point skating the velum,
An extension of my mind
Allowing expression beyond such coarse biro
******!
RD © 2011
Anya Sep 2018
I found out during class one day
That there’s no way to satisfy everyone
No matter what you say
Talk too much
Sullen eyes turned your way
Tucking away agreivement to mutter about later
Talk too little
They barely notice your presence
And eventually,
Slowly but surely
You’re gradually disincluded
No longer the one they think of
When they have nothing to think of you by
So where is the balance,
How do you satisfy everyone?
One can’t go about their life being apologetic
Although I’ve certainly tried
So isn’t it about time we stopped determining our self worth on what others think of us?
Hello, I am at the candle festival and I just had a beautiful gluten free curry but the only problem is it had potatoes oh well I will go back to my diet tomorrow
What is the candle festival about if you can't break your diet
Ok well there was water bombs where I can guess you throw them, oh the kids throw them
What a bit of fun and there was a Japanese version of our national anthem advance Australia fair and there is also judo demonstrations and the nara school all the way from Japan are just about to take to the stage and by golly there are a lot of kids there, I am wondering what songs will the play, something hip I imagine
The first song got the kids dancing and a big yellow and black thank you on the back
Of the back line and the next song is some old kids song done in Japanese and mate these kids are amazing the second song sounded like when your ears hang low waddle to and fro tie them in a knot tie them in a bow and mate if you can't get what that song is you are a bit of a clot and now on the stage there is a lady with a Japanese fan, and she sounds cool and now she is dancing stylishly with a carousel and mind you she looks good, the next performers on the stage are Riley lee and Steve Allen and it will be interesting what music they play for us one played acoustic and the other played the flute and mate it was peaceful as you look toward the lake and trees and the beautiful candles that are in the garden ready to be lit
Riley and Steve gave a really cool performance of acoustic and the flute and coming up next there will be a chef with a very big salmon and I wonder what that will be like, I guess it will be ever so groovy dudes
This chef very carefully cuts the salmon to very small portions
And maybe he might have a bit of sushi ha ha, he is cutting the fish without touching it with his hand mind you he has a bit of a problem doing it but he is amazing  
The chef finished early
So he went back on stage to explain about his knives that he was using for the cutting of the salmon and there is a special basic way to cut the fish/sushi
Whatever you want to call it
I really like how they add the chrysanthemum flower and he is cutting it with so much care as he puts the flower in the middle of the fish and the people are coming over bringing their dinner and it is hard to understand if the smell is coming from a fish and if you remember the Simpsons when they had a poisoness fish if you cut it wrong and he mentioned that fish as he was carefully cutting it and mate, he looks like he really knows his fish  
And that was really amazing and from the aboretum in Canberra they are bringing out a special tree called the bonzai tree and the tree dates back to the year of 1989 and this tree looks great
And as the tree goes off the stage, we are about to see the official candle lighting ceremony which promises to be very cool
Coming out to officially say some words from the ambassador of Japan and Andrew Barr who is the chief minister of the national capital
As they are about to make the speech of the 15th candle festival and they are lighting the candles on the stage and they are about to go to the candle garden to place the lantern
The music started a bit later than last year but we really need some audience participation to get everyone cheering and the first song is my island home which is a rather nice song but we need some audience participation to wake them up a bit but I am not saying that he is a bad singer
I am just thinking bring on the exciting singers and after one performance the singing was unsatisfactory and I went for a walk in the candle garden which had some pretty candles with trees and buildings, yeah and I will show you the photos I got from the candle garden in the pictures yeah it was a good night out apart from the rain making a few appearances but overall I give it a 7 out of 10
They needed to have more audience participation toward the end to encourage people to stay and not go home
brandon nagley Nov 2015
i.

Coming out of the state of anabiosis, mine form was ripped and torn, mine adorn was battered and burned, I went through Hades whilst the pit of death's kiss shattered me in agowilt;

ii.

I was dying, in Hell's kilt; once a shape, now ***** in a pit of unsatisfactory demon's; roped, doped, bleeding.

iii.

The scaled creature's bit me, the ceiling's muck dripped me, whilst at mine ending breath's, a light shined forthward, a Filipino empress.

iv.

I was nothingness: a mess, molested, infected, by the realm of raven's nest's. That's when she thundered in, in Baro’t saya wonder; twas me who on the sea, on her lip's i swirled up-with Satan down under, mine tears hadst fluttered by like butterfly's; mine ghost awoke with Jane;

v.

Twas, she was
Heaven on
Mine side;
She took me
For a ride,
Back to
Life
Again!!!



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( Filipino rose)
agowilt- is sudden fear.. Fear!!! An archaic word now gone. .
anabiosis is- life after death. Or coming back to life from death.
Forthward- means forward in archaic form...
Baro’t saya means- the main dress for Filipino women. Or traditional...
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2015
for T.M.R.
our "fellow" southern friend*

the southern way,
she-poet
teaches me
via long distance
breaking of the
braking neural inhibitions of
the loudest silences
that only humans can
mistress

photos, stories,
Facebook posts
how the earth rebirths
taking unasked
unwitting but wisely
both of us
to be refreshed,
so verily
the southern way

sharing worldly  
southern words
betraying a
more than
passing
(how I hate that word)
expertise
in spring colors
glorious to every sense,
best described
as nature's way to humanize what we wordily call
hopeful,
self-betraying herself by the
she -poets
innate
southern ways

calls me
northern boy
in a
true voice,
raconteuring,
quick retorting
always in the midst of
d r a wling stories,
about all crazy frogs
of Columbia County,
jumping multiple courses

all about
she-poets navigating
life erratic,
half ecstatic
yet singularity colored,
characteristic of a  
ninety percent southern
Tennessee whiskey blues

hear clear
she-poets
welcoming swirling
undertow undertones
lying just above the calmest
morning water surface glistening
words betraying nothing,
yet saying
all in
between, in
pauses of
speckling sun drops spectacular

she-poet
has her places
in woods, knolls and
rarely visited mountains
where cold brooks and cold beers
southern sooth
in ways
I will likely,
wanting but unable,
never learn
to hear clear

the southern way
is never flex,
nerve never
never bend, smile,
still fighting
the prior lost cause
ignore the
cracks coverup

until and when
the afternoon sun
ceases to warm
the orchard porch
daylighting no longer
when no one is around
she-poet
weeps out loud alone
in the
southern way

and I,
northern boy,
student witness,
having obtained
a learner's permit
for her teachings
re
the southern wayfaring ways
of living life

weep along side
in my unsatisfactory
northern way,
learning that,
who knew,
tears are also
glue
anywhere
For Tonya Maria
David Barr Nov 2013
Let us awake from the decay of strategic costumes where the incestuous fragrance of madness permeates golden dreams of eclectic strokes.
Bureaucratic self-enhancement nurtures docile manufacturers of laborious compliance, whilst social conscience plummets to depths of callous and entrepreneurial versatility.
Enduring imitations of an unsatisfactory kind is like pairing mint fondant with rich and savoury gravy which is acquired with strategic dishonesty.
Oh, negligent wakefulness – will we ever arise and discern those lobotomised representatives in this legislative brothel of excessive absurdity?
Shake me at one minute to midnight in the House of Lords.
0 is only possible with water
1 sadly isn't possible and won't satisfy
13 is equivalent to that of an unappetizing snack
300 is starting to border between satisfying and too much
500 is a little out there
1,000 is unsatisfactory
2,000 is toilet time
I'm so sorry if you get this...I know how you feel... I'm going through it now....
©LogenMichel copyright 2015
Pedro Garcia Jul 2014
What drives a man to achieve his goals? Motivation of course!

The enthusiastic mindset that if you work hard, you'll achieve.
The unhindered perspective that compels you to think about the end goal and ignore the hardships that attempt to impede your progress towards greatness.
The idea that putting your best foot forward will gain the admiration of a metaphorical Hermes who will then grant you his winged sandals to propel you above the rest of your peers and out of your unsatisfactory situation.

What drives a man to succeed in his ventures? Motivation of course!

A burst of energy that says "I can do it if I believe I can." despite limitations on your strength or your intelligence or your character.
An aura that surrounds you and invigorates your humors, enticing your senses as well as giving you a mask that hides your unsure demeanor.
It's a revelation, that motivation, which enlightens the soul and frees the body from the chains that marked the end of it's abilities.

What drives a man to accomplish milestones for himself? Perhaps it manifests itself in something other than motivation.

It could be the desire to find acceptance, to be wanted, to get that simple thumbs up that sends a message that needs not be spoken. "You did well."
Possibly it would be the wish, the simple wish that a man will have done something worth remembering in the brief existence that he has, something he can look back on and think to himself, "I didn't do half-bad on that, did I?"
Teetering on the self-existential reflecting concepts, it could just be that man wishes to find fulfillment by filling his daily activities with anything. And that the greater the activity, the laborious hours put into completion, here man finds solace in putting meaning into his day to day living. Thus we find that goals are merely tick marks, road signs on the long drive from life's start to inevitable death.

This, this is all motivation. Anything that places reins over a man's mind and hits the spur against his brain, in hopes that this will help him move forward and do what he believes is necessary to do.

Motivation is to place one's self in this self-deprecating position as to be a slave to ambition in order to be satisfied with one's life. And to think that motivation is a blessing that leads to self-improvement.

Motivation is truly the mind's greatest illusion.
This was originally gonna be a happy poem, don't know what happened to it.
Dahlia Oct 2017
Trying to fall asleep in a room whose windows I can’t open
My legs are tickling with jolts of energy that I’m too tired to put to good use
Or use at all
I’m this room, I waste so many days
Wishing, wondering, longing, yearning for better things
But I’m getting too familiar with this feeling of unsatisfactory living  
The disappointing drop in my stomach of what could’ve been is just getting old now  
It’s making me mad, how did I let it get this bad?  
I’m tired of it, it’s exhausting my drive for life, or for anything really
It’s all I’ve ever known, it’s the only forever that I’m used to
But it’s okay,
“I’m just tired.”

It doesn’t matter what they all say
“You’re beautiful the way you are”  
If I don’t feel it myself, there is no point
My body is supposed to be a sanctuary, a place of love and care
But the only thing that I’ve done is slice the walls that holds it together
Feed it what it craves instead of what it needs
Force it to endure emptiness, refusing to give it its necessities
As if that would make anything better
But I swear when I look the way I want to look, I’ll feel so much better
If I don’t feel beautiful, your words mean nothing to me
But it’s okay,
“I’m just tired.”

It’s true, I’m tired to my bones
My mind has been exhausted of feeling this way from long ago
I am 22, but I don’t feel nor look it
I have skin that sags, lines that are wrinkled, and features that I shouldn’t have to worry about
At such a youthful, fruitful age
I’m supposed to be at my prime, I’m supposed to feel free
But I’ve never felt so caged, so afraid to be me
Afraid to step into the spotlight and show myself to everyone I meet
Because maybe there’s a love handle that’s hanging out of my jeans
I don’t need encouragement, I don’t need positivity, I don’t need you to tell me I’m pretty
I need money and independence and drive
That I can’t seem to get because
“I’m just so tired.”
I am tired.
Sixolile May 2016
“Don't you miss being in love?”, she asks.
I simmer, gathering myself  and my thoughts.

No, I don't, because I have not been in love;
Not in the manner I imagine it.
I have loved - beautifully, might I add -
But never have I been in love.

How can I have?
At my best, all I knew was to compel, persuasively,
someone into loving me -
the best possible way I knew how.
I revealed just enough of myself,
the beautiful of myself,
the parts of me that drew butterflies.

Hidden were the broken parts of me,
those which keep me awake, sleepless -
'til the moon kisses me goodnight,
in the last hours before dawn.

I am not, by any means, denying ever loving.
I have loved, blindly and beautifully.
All I have ever been good at was loving -
loving someone into loving me,
the best way possible.

But, all of their love was inadequate.
A love which always fell short of loving me,
the best way possible.

Love; inadequate:
Unable to express loving me,
unable to express themselves of loving me.

In turn,
I was slapped with sloppy efforts of loving me -
Vague inadequacies of love.
It was never enough, not remotely close,
to what I had imaged loving me would be.
It was short of ever arousing me internally,
short of wits to spiral me into being in love.

And so, how can I miss being in love,
when it has always been a feeling that eluded me?
How can I miss being in love, when in love -
I concealed the broken parts of me?
How can I have been in love when I was lonely, in love?

How can I have been in love,
when all I knew of being in love was to love myself -
by loving whomever loved the aesthetic parts of me?


Loving me has always been an infatuation -
an infatuation of the broken pieces of me,
coming together to create an illusion of a love -
an unsatisfactory love for loving me.

How can I have ever been in love when no one has known,
expressed, conjured the best possible way of loving me.
All of me.

Once more, up at the last hours before dawn -
awaiting the moon to kiss me goodnight, I tell her.
Love is as much of an idea as it is a livelihood of feelings we can't explain in a logical sense, and each has a different way of perceiving and experiencing this idea.
Q Apr 2013
I can't tell you how much I'm hurting
To acknowledge my pain is weakness
To share my weakness is pathetic
But I hurt, oh, I hurt

I can't tell you how much I want you to love me
Because to say it would be to jinx it
And to jinx it would be to lose you
But, by god, I wish you loved me

I can't explain how much I depend on you
Because to explain would be to trust you
And to trust you would be to make me vulnerable
But I depend on you. I really do.

I can't tell you all the little things I want you to say
Because to tell you would be to make them unoriginal
And to make them unoriginal would be to make them unsatisfactory
But I wish you would coddle me and tell me those things

I can't tell you how much I want to be yours
Because to tell you would be to give you power over me
And to give you the power would be to give you my leash
But I wish I could, and you would own me.

I can't tell you how twisted I am
Because to tell you would be to make you notice
And to make you notice would be to disgust you
But I wish you'd accept me

I can't tell you
I'm sorry for that
You've given me your trust
But I can't give it back

I can't explain
So I'll apologize
I simply don't want to be
Pathetic in your eyes

I can't confide
And I'll always feel remorse
But if I were to lose you
I'd feel much worse

I can't be who you wish me to be
So I'll keep who I really am
Under lock and key
I'll chain up my personality
So, ideally you'll see
The person you can't help but love

That person that leaves you starstruck

I'll hold back all I am
Because I am not your ideal
And your ideals are above me
So I can't let myself be real

I've shunned who I am
Because of who you are
I am bitter and angry
But you'll never see my scars

I want to let you closer
I want to try my luck
But deep down I know
I'm not who leaves you *starstruck
Third Mate Third Jan 2015
for pennies, an app
to do the heavy lifting,
rhymes, pentameter,
all the quatrains ya ever needed

strained fever, emotions rampant,
insufficient and unnecessary conditions
for poverty poetry evocation,
even autocorrects insipid
really bad tiresome love poems,
après endless generation (degeneration?)

who needs you

you think
no such animal

you be write

for the art of life
cannot be mechanized

wrote a poem,
a wistful sad lament
on mothers losing children,
a prayer, a yelling, a condemnation,
the app was,
on this subject
uncommunicative,
un étranger
of silence
in all languages

you can buy love
but you cannot buy pain

too costly and
3D printers
give you plastic, disingenuous
wholly unsatisfactory

for a lousy $1.99
I'll write you customized,
supply the situation,
a few descriptive phrases,
60 minutes later,
et voila!

am you app,
am your scrivener,
don't do roses or violets
but yes to
rhythm and blues

will take
PayPal
PenPal
but no credit cards

you may take my words
as you own,
take my credit,
but I won't take yours...

I am app human,
bring me your lush, winsome,
plain vanilla, tutti frutti,
all acceptable,
for where the real stuff
comes from

I have only mined
the surface,
the veins beneath
richness for the asking
meet where the broad rivers both
empty and fill the oceans,
takers and givers,
swapping fluids constant,
loyal ******, from the sky, robbing,
selling what isn't theirs to the soil,

for this is the human condition,
the foaming eddys where
life becomes words becomes life
Cassie Jan 2021
You'd think I'd have more to say
2 years and I still find a way
To bite my tongue and still feel numb
But yet, I've become a pawn.

I stuck myself to your word
Like a struggling flightless bird
And I make excuses for all my muses
But maybe, I've broken a mirror.

Maybe I've truly been cursed
Then wouldn't it be worse?
You've clung to me while I've tried to flee
But I feel nothing but regret.

You've always callsd me a nuisance
And I still choke on your nooses
Constantly on edge while you're by the ledge
But you're living in your own shadow...
the dead bird Mar 2016
the garden holds
an aromarous display
of flowers
sprouts of tulips
with their
caressed petals
bringing life
to the dirt they were
grown from

all planted
with a purpose
someone wanted
to see them bloom
wanted to see all
but the dandelion
the pesky
****

I am the dandelion
plucked
by the child's hands
given a purpose
for I sprouted without one

here, mama
look, I brought you
a flower
I thought it was
just as pretty
as you!

smacked
to the ground
"youre saying
I'm as ugly
as that hideous
****?"

the one
that never goes
away
the one
that shows up
when you want it the least
stealing
your sunshine
stealing
nutrients
from the tulips
and roses

in the garbage
with an old
banana peel
and empty containers
of yourt
I hear the child
cry

I am sorry
to only be a burden
I am sorry
I could not impress
your mother
I am sure I will be
one of many
unsatisfactory
gifts

I did not ask to be here
a mistake
a pest
never appreciated
only causing
trouble

I am the dandelion
the child is me
won't you let me
grow
freely
growl I haven't been writing as much why why why
Denise Ann Jul 2013
Boy, don't you dare look at me like that.

Like I'm a question, a riddle, a puzzle, jigsaw pieces that don't quite fit with each other. Like I'm an unsatisfactory answer, a justification riddled with holes, a problematic solution to a solvable problem. Don't look at me as if I'm a blank sheet of paper, as if you can see what isn't there, as if you see beyond this cage while even I can't see through it. Just...don't look at me.

Boy, don't you dare talk to me like that.

Like I'm a pulsating time-bomb that is always on the verge of explosion but never really toppling over the edge, like a shard of glass that cuts everything it touches yet can be easily crushed into mere beads of crystals, a beer bottle with liquid forgetfulness as its contents, a bucket of blood, sweet, luscious agony, a cacophony of pounding hearts and rasping breaths. Don't talk to me as if you know I'm about to shatter because I'm not going to be scattered in front of you, no, boy, trust me, I can handle this.

I can handle this.

Boy, don't you dare stay with me like I'm the one who needs you, like I'm the one aching for you, like I'm the one who loves you, like you're the one for me. Don't get close to me as if you're actually planning to touch me, don't, I hurt everyone, please don't touch me like this. Like the soft brush of a bird's wings against the sunset, the caress of ink against paper, the whisper of the wind thumbing through the rustling leaves, boy, don't get close to me.

Please don't come near, I am an explosion of splinters and jaded rocks and pain and anger and spite, boy, stay away from the explosion. You might get hurt trying to help me, I don't need your help, I don't need the glimmer of your smile, the vastness of your eyes, the comfort of your lips, I don't need you, boy, listen to my lies, believe them as if I am a stranger to you, an unread book, an unused drawer, boy, I'm no good for you. I'm not good enough for you. Listen to my lies and believe them.

Boy, don't you dare love me like I'm your forever, because I'm not and I will never be, I am not forever. I am only a single instant, a flicker of flame, the dying light, the purple dusk, I can't be yours, boy, I'm not enough. Don't you dare care for me as if I'm a snapped wing, a broken bone, a bruised face, a torn knot of sinew that still won't stop beating at the bars of its prison, boy, I can't let my heart out of its prison, it's dangerous when it's out of its cage, boy, it might see you. It might know you and recognize you as my forever, and I will trip over my own feet falling into your eyes, boy, this heart needs to remain caged in its prison.

Boy, don't scold me about this, I know what I'm doing, I won't wear my heart on my sleeve, I won't set it free no matter how many times it hurts itself trying to break the bars of its jail, even if the edges of my ribs become knives with serrated edges I won't let this stop, I won't let this heart out.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, my heart.

Please forgive me, boy, I lied, I've lied so many times I've lost count, so many times the truth is nowhere to be found but in my chest, no, boy, I won't let you in. My insides are hollow and lined with blades, all you'll find there is hurt and anguish and blood and unshed tears, and silent screams and the soundless slamming of fist against flesh and bone, boy, I can't let you see this. I can't let you get hurt.

I'm sorry, heart, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

Boy, I know you know me, I know you know I love you, so please, please stay away. I am no good for you, I am not good enough, not whole enough, not enough, boy, I'm just not enough to fill the empty spaces inside you, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, my heart, boy, I love you, I love you, boy, leave me now and don't ever show yourself again.

Just don't.

Please don't.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

Boy.

Please don't break my heart.
Douglass Oct 2015
"I love you."

It feels like;
Last week,
Everything in your house
moved--
Inexplicably--
Two inches left.

You still haven't yet found
Why your hip is
Permanently purple
From kissing the desk
You've never collided with before.

The words I'm looking for
Are two inches to the right;
But if I took that phrase and
Shifted it it,

All that would leave my throat
Was the sound of
Bruised skin;
Permanently purple
From hitting the words
I've never felt were less than satisfactory before

Because the words I need don't
Actually exist.
Jesus, look at me. I'm on a roll with love poems. I'm not saying my love for him transcends anything, just that it's.... Different. And "I love you" feels awkward on our tongues, but we say it because it's the best we've got.
Allen Wilbert Jan 2014
Day Of The Deadly Living

Nine to five, is what you work,
both kids, think you're a ****.
Wife never wants ***,
not a phone call or even a text.
Same job for ten long years,
bills are in arrears.
At diner, no one talks,
empty is your money box.
Staying together til kids turn eighteen,
bad movie you'd never want put on screen.
What a very depressing life,
dead now, thanks to a knife.
Sometimes life is unforgiving,
day of the deadly living.
Working graveyard shift at a factory,
coming home alone is unsatisfactory.
No wife, no girlfriend or even a *******,
just Rosie, and Tara his blow up doll.
Watching **** on the old laptop,
its been so long, you need a mop.
Couldn't get laid, even in a ***** house,
up your ***, you once stuck a mouse.
No friends, neighbors hate you,
all because they know, you knew.
This poor guy never has no fun,
dead now, thanks to a gun.
His family died on Thanksgiving,
day of the deadly living.
College by day, at night a stripper,
no candy jar, can't be a dipper.
Only sleeps two hours a day,
all night long men stalk their prey.
Started snorting *******,
gave up college, for a room of champagne.
Now she is a coke *****,
opens her legs, more than you open a door.
She had no problem, just an addiction,
a lost girl, with no direction.
Blood gushing from the nose,
dead now, thanks to an overdose.
Three holes I'm regrettably digging,
day of the deadly living.
Torits Melody Sep 2019
Love Or Lust, who was to know,
You never step a foot In this ocean to see How deep we could go,
Through my veins, circulated Love so untamed my blood boiled every time it flowed.

The holocaust in my heart wasn’t enough To make  you stay,
The Insatiable Hunger You Possessed I wasn’t Able To Tame,
You never truly Saw the Bigger Picture Maybe ***’ you were too busy Worrying about the frame,
You Always Wanted More, The turmoils Of Your Brain.

We had Two Different Blueprint, it seemed,
The lies You told me had submerged deep within,
To the Point if I had Tried peel off This false skin,
The painful Effect would Be detrimental to well Being.

The Girl Who Came From A world Where Love wasn’t nothing but Four Letters,
The Knife You brought To cut me in two Also Broke  our Tether,
And now Alone I drift through An Endless Vacuum like a single feather
You put on an Outstanding Show, But Now The Acting’s Done, So Take Your bags And leave The theater...
Sharnna Jan 2016
An influx of dreams
Relief when I awaken
The almost nightmares
Andrew Rueter Dec 2017
On the internet
I begin to fret
When I keep learning my worth
Like I have been since birth
This thing called online dating
Seems to give me my rating

The conversation is scripted
No matter how I've flipped it
I conjure a hello hell
When they answer
In the form of lol
They strike a ko
Once they type ****
And my skin starts to fry
When I read kthxbai
I'm left staring at a computer
Wishing I had been ruder
So I become jaded
And develop a slick approach
My patience has faded
And I start to think like a coach
Drawing x's and o's
To get people I chose

There are those that stalk
And those that balk
Some just want to talk
And it's never their fault
There are those that are mean
And those that are green
Some are just teens
All looking to be seen
I'm the watcher
Their profiles remain the same as days become the past
I'm the botcher
I either go too slow or too fast
So I stay perfectly still
And wait for my fill
I become a scavenger ravager
When winter comes I am savager
To those I consider mere passengers

Other vultures migrate south for the winter
I remain sedentary on a power line
Frost develops on my wings
I seek warmth to survive
I see a dying stallion laying in an empty field alone
I swoop in for the ****
My quest for survival becomes one of comfort
For the taste of the stud infatuates me
And my enthusiasm overwhelms me
As I eat through its exterior into its heart
I find its diminishing warmth unsatisfactory
But I'm caught in its rib cage
And what was once sustenance
Is now my blizzard prison
It's a big derision
Not flying through the air
But also not quite a pair
So I wait for a summer that may never show
My life lit by the computer screen's glow
Displaying faces of people I'll never know
My vulture's talons buried in desert snow
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
something beautiful happened to me,
more beautiful than a Mona Lisa,
a Staffordshire terrier (funny how you
say b'ah b'ah sheer, or you do say shire - shy ire,
but the former is a gluttonous tongue
expression) ran up to me barking
and tail waggling from ~200 metres away,
i asked the breed but not the petting
i just called him a nice fella the owner called
him a dragging-of-the-leg ******...
what a bulging scull, firm throughout,
strong limbs, hidden ribs, a proper meat-head
of a dog, quick to please,
i turned into a butcher in an instant,
that's what i mean, a moment like that,
you go walk in the Essex fields and you
meet strangers with welcoming dogs,
former convicts judging by the tattoos...
when a dog forgets its owner and rushes up to a stranger
instant magic,  barking, tail waggling, head readied
for a patting... moments like these are better than
a striptease; i was a bit furry in feeling throughout,
come to mind - it's funny, isn't it?
how a man will readily magnetise his feelings
into animals when he's experienced unsatisfactory femininity,
that sexualised belittling "motherhood",
some men can take it, others can't,
to be frank mothers are less relentless in what a man
should be... women bully men into
acting as tools for provisions, who the **** thought
of excavating harems from lions or sea-lions
was a genius... imagine exporting the 11-year itch
to Iraq... i mean, the only success story of western
society is ******* everyone over, given
that ~50% of marriages in the western world fail
after 11 years... the curse of individuation,
morphed into a pet chihuahua in a purse of some
glamour model, the Chinese are laughing, believe me,
even in their factories, numbering over a billion,
and in the west? the success of science, prolonged
old-age... and the care homes... hip hip hooray!
******* marvellous, sleeping in my own ****...
Jimi Hendrix got lucky, god loved him...
is old-age really a success story? i mean, does it really,
*******, matter? what sort of achievement is it?
a life a century a hoopla of the next brigade
of hip replacement surgery? i guess only turtles get to
live over the century mark, trying to sabotage this
ontological fact is suicide or, well... sadism...
i rather live to my necessary expectancy
than outlive it in one;
but what a beautiful scene, he spotted me from
~200 metres away, and i got to pet him while
he barked joyfully, that thick-skull head of his,
a fine fella that staffy - i never knew that a dog
could give you more pleasure than a woman;
well i do now, having petted those autistic animals
known as cats.
A lame boy; they say I be
Low-pitched guy?; yee' that's me
been a lame boy since I was three
Dull and placid; unsatisfactory

been a quiet boy; since I was born
Psychopathic; and somewhat tough
Sail your ship up-north; I go offshore
A prodigal son;...
left by his mum; at the age of four

Sometime I'm cool; sometimes I'm warm
Father wasn't sure; if I was sane or not
Thought my abnormalities; equals 'dull
So he left Up-North where he'd be bother-not

Father's gone; mum's living rough
Doing enough stuff to rid the boy off.....
the black hole living in the boy's thought
Cos' everyone gets lost; crossing the boy's port

Afterward; I was left in this dungeon
Life raised me to this lame strong boy
A lame boy; raised by rain of dirt
All he's ever taste was the opposite of joy

This lame boy will soon find joy
I'm lame for sure; but my feet are strong
My mind find words when my hands are bored
My heart finds love when my head's at fault

When you bring me stress; I'm turning blind
Cos' this lame boy seems to find
Peace in the loneliness of his mind
Seeing the path ahead and behind

This lame boy is ****** enshrined
Prodigal and divine; a boy you can't confine
Cos' money or ******* doesn't define
his mentality and the way he grind

I'm that lame boy; that you hiss and judge
For my writability and use of words
While you nuisance spew sh*t and sort
I do my lame stuff; Yea; I sit and jot...
And then I pour.....; my state of mind; in a distinctive thought

Well; I'm a lame boy; I only look upfront
I don't care if my root; is clean or not
Don't mind if my boot is filled with mud
Only focus on my dreams and things I sought

I'm a lame boy; I've seen the sea and shore
Crawled this earth from south to North
Been in this world before 94
Before Abacha ruin the course; of this Nation more

Lame boy this; lame boy that
'Lame boy 's ****'; 'lame boy 's bad'
"He's lame and dull; he can't attack"
"too rough and poor; he's not my type"
Well; this lame boy doesn't care 'bout
Words from your lilly-filthy mouth
Cos' this lame boy is now an OG; yes!
An Original Gent; who is God-blessed
David Lessard Mar 2020
Things that do not satisfy,
are things I shun the most -
like zombies & werewolves,
sorcery and ghosts.

Movies laced with violence,
excess profanity in bools -
music that's just noise,
proud and haughty looks.

Things that do not satisfy,
from such, I turn away -
they only seek to scar he soul,
to mar a perfect day.

Give me truth and beauty,
that satisfies the soul -
poetry that nourishes,
to make the body whole.

Things that do  not satisfy,
I gladly set aside -
to be contented in this world,
to never have to hide.
Rj Aug 2014
Somehow today I saw disappointment on your face
And something just snapped inside of me
How does my 4.125 GPA not please you?
How does balancing my honor role with
Being one of the starters on the basket ball team
unsatisfactory
How does going to ******* Tulane for neuroscience
Not good enough.
What about going to state for track WHILE
maintaining mostly A's just okay
I get this feeling you don't appreciate me
As much as you should,
A daughter that her reasoning for striving
To do everything perfectly
Is to please you
Because I feel like I still haven't quite done it yet.
Carly Two Apr 2010
I want to go home but I don't have a home.

I live in the middle space between where you're driving from
and where you're driving to.
I live on backseats and inside large purses.

I live in vending machines
and beds you used to sleep in all the time
but don't sleep in anymore
because you moved away.

I live on driveways that got redone while you were gone,
and new haircuts you couldn't see because you weren't there.

I live on promises that we'll do something.

I live in those cool new sunglasses you got,
but they broke,
and I never got to see your wear them.

I live in the little space between you and your lover,
the one that feels like "I love you"
but really means
"I love you, but I'm not in love with you."

I live on unsatisfactory naps
and the island your friends put you on when you finally said what you'd been wanting to say.

I live under the rug when you complain about people behind their backs
because no one really knows how to tell someone they don't like them
for who they are...
as a person.

I live in every spare shoebox that isn't filled with notes
and gets jealous of the other shoeboxes that are filled with notes.

I live on the top bunk
and I've never fallen off

but I'm still kind of scared that I will one day.

I live on the laugh that lets me know you're still listening.  

I live where I never wanted to live,
but I live here,
because I choose to live here.
And you live there because you choose to live there,
even if it doesn't seem that way.

I'm here and you're there.
I'm here for you and you're there for me,
even if it doesn't seem that way.

This is where I live.
You should send me a letter some time.
Copyright C. Heiser, 2010
Nigel Morgan Dec 2012
These images ask you to forget everything that might be construed as ‘of landscape’, because they are not. They are of the mind’s reflection: that closing of the eyes which brings something often unseen, certainly unrecognisable, to the back of the retina. It’s illusory, dreamlike - even though one is awake. The images defy formal categorization. They are not ‘like’ anything, and even if one makes an attempt at describing a mark, a fold, a ridge, a texture, a colour as ‘like’, it is wholly unsatisfactory. What you see carries with it emptiness of association, probably because things that you might describe won’t connect. So don’t. Let them lie there on painted linen cloth. Uneasy. The six cloths hang from two nails apiece, no fancy frame or fitting, two silvered nails, bang! hard into the wall. Watching very acutely they move so slightly under the air conditioning’s breath. A infinity of sadness lies upon their surfaces. Once sewn there could be no unsewing those marks made; and all that painting over and over, but the trace of a needle there always there. The full form, the total image scours the memory. These pieces seem to deny the sun, the action of weather; they have been removed from the continuum of nature and become preserved. The process of making and creating has entombed them. They absorb and reflect nothing except a waste of loneliness.
Polly Binns is a textile artist who is currently exhibiting at the Civic Gallery, Barnsley in West Yorkshire. Her work is influenced by the landscape of the North Norfolk coast.
11/26/2013

I'm beginning
to realize
how alone
I really am

and how
alone,
is what
I've always
been

and honestly,
I think I'm
partly okay
with that

my best mates
have always
been
these walls,
this computer,
and the pages
in every book
I've ever laid
my eyes upon

I've always
found myself
to be quite
lonely

little did
I realize
that I had
everything
I needed

I've found
comfort,
in knowing
that these
pages can
not up and
leave me

they cannot
decide to hate
me

or ban me
from their
pithy lives

they cannot
judge me
or deem me
unsatisfactory

I have found
comfort,
in knowing
that these
walls
can not walk,
and can not think,
and can not judge,
and most
of all,
I have found
comfort
in knowing that
these walls
can not
talk*

I've learned,
over the years,
to live
alone,
inside my
own mind,
not to worry
about others

I've learned
to keep to
myself

I've found
things to
keep my
occupied

and most
important
of all,
I've learned
you can not
let your
emotions
and feelings
depend on
those around
you

because they
will fail you

every time,
they will
fail you

you must learn
to live
with yourself,
you must learn
that your mind
is an oasis,
an escape,
a paradise,
that does not
need to
depend on
anyone else,
but yourself
to be happy

© 2013 Scarlet Van Allen
She was accused of
Many unstable unsatisfactory emotions
All of which amalgamated her hurricane soul
That so breathlessly changed pace
With every maleficent or peaceful encounter
That fed the storm of her pith
A hollow quintessential girl
Hidden beneath eyes of tragic twinkle and
An amorphous disposition
That so whispered her visceral uncertainty
With which
She placed her demons in plethora
Upon all who obstreperously disturbed
The susurration of her own self-cataclysm
This decrepit distorted typhoon
Of the thundering lullaby she once embraced
Dissatisfied with the resonant rhapsodic scintilla
She so carelessly went from sonorous to somnolent
Once her nature echoed a sanguineous symphony
Of intimate honesty’s to now
Only as discreetly murmur callous contempt
Until this once magnificent hurricane soul
Did crumble like the walls her efficacy once
Tore down to whimper into the dust that is
Now her soul’s riven zephyr.
I'm a fool.

Lost between something truly comfortable
and an old spark.
Why the **** do I do this ****?
This feeling of lost time,
Of constant yearning.
The result of a lifetime of unsatisfactory relationships; especially the one I have with myself.
That's the answer isn't it?
Nothing.
Just me, myself and I to figure it all out.
100% acknowledged.
Yet my heart...
Could not yearn harder.
It's defining... This constant pulse in my ears.
Makes me want to curl up and sleep it off...
No hangover in the morning,
No missed messages,
Nothing.

Just wash my makeup off,
And still think I'm beautiful.

Wait...
Circa 1994 Mar 2013
His touch was too eager.
Almost as if he was afraid
She would evaporate into thin air.
She wanted to.
But she laid there instead
as he murmured drunken slurs into her ear.
She could taste the bitter fluid on his tongue.
He never seemed to want her when he was sober anymore.
It made her feel utterly repulsive.
Was it her unsatisfactory performance
that had driven him to his alcoholism?
Or had her looks deteriorated so rapidly
that the thought of touching her was sickening?
Perhaps this is why his movements were always so rushed now.
He wanted to get it over with.
Maybe he no longer enjoyed it
but saw it as a right of passage he had worked so hard to earn
he felt obliged to indulge.
Frankly, she no longer cared
to know the answer to these questions.
She felt his body convulsing on top of her -
a sign that he was close.
So she closed her eyes
and clenched her jaw.
"It'll be over soon" she thought.
Alyanne Cooper Jun 2014
Entropy--
The gradual decline into disorder.
Deterioration--
The process of becoming progressively worse.
Decline--
The gradual and continuous loss of strength, numbers, quality, or value.

Recover--
Return to a normal state of health, mind, or strength.
Ameliorate--
Make something bad or unsatisfactory better.
Wellbeing--
The state of being comfortable, healthy, or happy.

— The End —