"unsatisfactory" poems
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.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 12:01 AM UTC
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.
4.2k
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.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 7:15 PM UTC
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
******
Oct 6, 2011
Oct 6, 2011 at 5:26 PM UTC
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)
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 9:44 PM UTC
*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
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 8:08 AM UTC
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
Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 11:00 AM UTC
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.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
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.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 10:44 PM UTC
“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.
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 8:00 PM UTC
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.”
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 7:52 AM UTC
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
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 5:41 AM UTC
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
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 10:18 AM UTC
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
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 11:45 PM UTC
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 ***** call,
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.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 12:18 PM UTC
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 shit'; '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
Jun 9, 2021
Jun 9, 2021 at 2:04 PM UTC
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
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 4:12 AM UTC
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.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC
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.
Apr 22, 2010
Apr 22, 2010 at 5:07 PM UTC
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.
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 3:25 AM UTC
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
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 4:38 AM UTC
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...
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 5:27 PM UTC
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.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 10:56 AM UTC
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.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC