"unsatisfying" poems - Hello Poetry

Your heart is like weak coffee-- Baseless and unsatisfying. Goodbye and Back to the grind.

0

Aug 13, 2014

Aug 13, 2014 at 10:22 AM UTC

courtney-pruitt

Morning coffee.

Your heart is like weak coffee-- Baseless and unsatisfying. Goodbye and Back to the grind.

7

Monday was terrible. Horrific. I spent the day sulking on my lonesome and went home ready to erupt. I could feel the slight tingle of tears threatening their way through my eyelids Ready to pour over the second they perched open But due to my lack of sleep last night I doubt I could even build up the strength to open my glossy eyes Even if I wanted to In a weird sense I enjoyed the mere thought of Monday being able to make me cry I almost laughed Or screamed Or both A year ago today Everyday was a Monday to me Everyday went horribly Everyday made me come home crying and lock myself in my room I was so used to that constant repetitive torture That Monday appeared to be no different than any other day Monday was just... It. Tuesday was "it" Wednesday was "it" Thursday was "it" Friday was "it" Even Saturday and Sunday were "it" But now, today Monday is distinct In a horrifyingly gruesome way And this tear-jerking unsatisfying Monday gave me hope Monday made me cry Tuesday did not Wednesday did not Thursday did not Friday did not Not even Saturday or Sunday made me cry Only Monday made me cry Only Monday Just as Monday made 7 billion other humans cry On this torturous inescapable earth It also made me cry And that gave me hope that maybe I really am normal Or I can be Or I will be Because Monday is unbearable for everyone And Monday is unbearable for me And the rest of the week is alright for most people And it was alright for me And Saturday and Sunday are fun for most people And Saturday and Sunday were fun for me Somewhere Deep inside my clouded, muddy mind I caught a glimpse of hope That maybe There is hope for me Maybe I am cured Maybe I can be Maybe I will be

0

Sep 6, 2015

Sep 6, 2015 at 12:13 AM UTC

Lyricalmind

Monday

Monday was terrible. Horrific. I spent the day sulking on my lonesome and went home ready to erupt. I could feel the slight tingle of tears threatening their way through my eyelids Ready to pour over the second they perched open But due to my lack of sleep last night I doubt I could even build up the strength to open my glossy eyes Even if I wanted to In a weird sense I enjoyed the mere thought of Monday being able to make me cry I almost laughed Or screamed Or both A year ago today Everyday was a Monday to me Everyday went horribly Everyday made me come home crying and lock myself in my room I was so used to that constant repetitive torture That Monday appeared to be no different than any other day Monday was just... It. Tuesday was "it" Wednesday was "it" Thursday was "it" Friday was "it" Even Saturday and Sunday were "it" But now, today Monday is distinct In a horrifyingly gruesome way And this tear-jerking unsatisfying Monday gave me hope Monday made me cry Tuesday did not Wednesday did not Thursday did not Friday did not Not even Saturday or Sunday made me cry Only Monday made me cry Only Monday Just as Monday made 7 billion other humans cry On this torturous inescapable earth It also made me cry And that gave me hope that maybe I really am normal Or I can be Or I will be Because Monday is unbearable for everyone And Monday is unbearable for me And the rest of the week is alright for most people And it was alright for me And Saturday and Sunday are fun for most people And Saturday and Sunday were fun for me Somewhere Deep inside my clouded, muddy mind I caught a glimpse of hope That maybe There is hope for me Maybe I am cured Maybe I can be Maybe I will be

57

I can't compute and become mute When you walk by My circuitry is fried Because your program is an encryption And your pulse is electromagnetic My car dies, so does my phone, so does my home I'm immobilized And demoralized By immoral ties To temporary generators They're validating veneraters Ultimately unsatisfying When you're still not buying I'm attracted to your charge Until there's a battery Yet you're the cure to your lure The EMT for your EMP Your negative charge casts a cloud around my nucleus But if you could be positive for a change We could meet in the middle And feel energy in our synergy But as soon as I feel electricity between us You shut me down With your EMP I can't get free

0

Oct 7, 2017

Oct 7, 2017 at 6:14 AM UTC

andrew-rueter

EMP

I can't compute and become mute When you walk by My circuitry is fried Because your program is an encryption And your pulse is electromagnetic My car dies, so does my phone, so does my home I'm immobilized And demoralized By immoral ties To temporary generators They're validating veneraters Ultimately unsatisfying When you're still not buying I'm attracted to your charge Until there's a battery Yet you're the cure to your lure The EMT for your EMP Your negative charge casts a cloud around my nucleus But if you could be positive for a change We could meet in the middle And feel energy in our synergy But as soon as I feel electricity between us You shut me down With your EMP I can't get free

25

My Prize for Waiting ~ *tucked in all by myself, resting dark and quiet in the thin place^ where the distance between this world and the next, is no distance at all, but a few inches separating, easily fordable, back and forth-able my palms, hands down, come to rest on my ******* and the two thumbs in unison, begin to sweep the streaming space of their in-between, conducting a radar sweep-search for the precise point passageway to poetic mystical places, hoping to snag any residuals for safekeeping no hurry to either arrive or depart, in patient attendance for rhythms of woven word arrivistes, coming in no particular order, asking to be seized, greedy to be nominated and recognized, immortalized, as great poetry, prize worthy, kept for all time inside others poetry chests but in the thin place, dream records are not kept, hazy scraps at best retained, a recipe for a witnessed totality, is only a soupy reduction of a few seconds of hazed video, that can neither give nor get no satisfaction the plastic surgeons attempt to reconstruct the body of the meal, the real deal, alas, there are no prizes either for botched surgeries and pretty but meaningless poetry scraps the only evidence of my travels, a flushing, blushing residual flow, slow to dissipate, a hangover makers mark of a sojourn best described as unsatisfying, my blush, a prize for waiting but failing, “the most peculiar and most human of all expressions”^^ woe to me when returned in ignominy, medaled in only base irony, me and philosopher Pliny,^^^ both dying while recording our own private Vesuvius, our bodies preserved by voluminous volcanic ash, but alas, you cannot recite the ash of poetry so one waits, cut and pasting brown edged burnt photographs epistles, that are clinging and clung to the distaff spindle, insufficient to weave a flax complete and yet we return perforce twenty four hours from now, to snag another prized piece of meaningless, my prize for waiting in the solitude of the thin place* 3:35am Saturday April 6th, 2019 ~ last nights scrap ***cease your whining, seize your waiting, therein is your own paid price for the prize of inspiration*** inspired by Jean Fisher, a real prize winning poet

0

Apr 6, 2019

Apr 6, 2019 at 4:26 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

My Prize for Waiting

My Prize for Waiting ~ *tucked in all by myself, resting dark and quiet in the thin place^ where the distance between this world and the next, is no distance at all, but a few inches separating, easily fordable, back and forth-able my palms, hands down, come to rest on my ******* and the two thumbs in unison, begin to sweep the streaming space of their in-between, conducting a radar sweep-search for the precise point passageway to poetic mystical places, hoping to snag any residuals for safekeeping no hurry to either arrive or depart, in patient attendance for rhythms of woven word arrivistes, coming in no particular order, asking to be seized, greedy to be nominated and recognized, immortalized, as great poetry, prize worthy, kept for all time inside others poetry chests but in the thin place, dream records are not kept, hazy scraps at best retained, a recipe for a witnessed totality, is only a soupy reduction of a few seconds of hazed video, that can neither give nor get no satisfaction the plastic surgeons attempt to reconstruct the body of the meal, the real deal, alas, there are no prizes either for botched surgeries and pretty but meaningless poetry scraps the only evidence of my travels, a flushing, blushing residual flow, slow to dissipate, a hangover makers mark of a sojourn best described as unsatisfying, my blush, a prize for waiting but failing, “the most peculiar and most human of all expressions”^^ woe to me when returned in ignominy, medaled in only base irony, me and philosopher Pliny,^^^ both dying while recording our own private Vesuvius, our bodies preserved by voluminous volcanic ash, but alas, you cannot recite the ash of poetry so one waits, cut and pasting brown edged burnt photographs epistles, that are clinging and clung to the distaff spindle, insufficient to weave a flax complete and yet we return perforce twenty four hours from now, to snag another prized piece of meaningless, my prize for waiting in the solitude of the thin place* 3:35am Saturday April 6th, 2019 ~ last nights scrap ***cease your whining, seize your waiting, therein is your own paid price for the prize of inspiration*** inspired by Jean Fisher, a real prize winning poet

67

I want to run, run away from this thing called life, and make my way toward a new me; a renaissance to believe in and hope for. I’ve grown impatient with the meaningless days and sleepless nights; dreams that disturb and work unsatisfying. Frightened of change, for there is comfort and familiarity in the desperate misery I’ve become accustomed to. The uncertainty of tomorrow is beyond my vision, Yesterday has undone me and tortures me stil. You were my hope and my future. Now I must go alone through life’s dark alleys without your light to guide my way.

0

Aug 22, 2012

Aug 22, 2012 at 6:59 PM UTC

vicki-kralapp

DESPERATE MISERY

I want to run, run away from this thing called life, and make my way toward a new me; a renaissance to believe in and hope for. I’ve grown impatient with the meaningless days and sleepless nights; dreams that disturb and work unsatisfying. Frightened of change, for there is comfort and familiarity in the desperate misery I’ve become accustomed to. The uncertainty of tomorrow is beyond my vision, Yesterday has undone me and tortures me stil. You were my hope and my future. Now I must go alone through life’s dark alleys without your light to guide my way.

12

To start -- being an adolescent with autumn eyes, seeking a prophecy for long-standing bravery to further the spinning spokes for minutes, five more, I burned the drapes to reveal a humanity only I could see. The expectations were elaborately existing, unsatisfying. Sons and fathers, years refrained from matters that reverse reverse reverse curses and maturity without purpose. Those idle accepted neglect, and the existence of an unsalted bridge was quickly detained. Alone, the foolish described to search for the future in geometric formation and coffee ring stains fading the desk. But the sense proposed in my decided equality drank dignity straight from the bottle. The road that lead me between two cliffs, Propriety and Statistics, with the rocks already pelting down, could not diminish my enthusiasm for necessary absurdities. There's no flesh in declared mediocrities. I became a luminary for pleasures of eminence, hope with resolve, opportunities in destiny. Blind gambles obliged the fear of exacting sensibility. Passionate follies created no-regret-consequences, satisfied stability. Only the **** are granted victories in eternal gaiety. Mortality is irrelevant if you let mystery be your urgency.

0

Oct 3, 2012

Oct 3, 2012 at 3:53 PM UTC

sarah-meow

Why

To start -- being an adolescent with autumn eyes, seeking a prophecy for long-standing bravery to further the spinning spokes for minutes, five more, I burned the drapes to reveal a humanity only I could see. The expectations were elaborately existing, unsatisfying. Sons and fathers, years refrained from matters that reverse reverse reverse curses and maturity without purpose. Those idle accepted neglect, and the existence of an unsalted bridge was quickly detained. Alone, the foolish described to search for the future in geometric formation and coffee ring stains fading the desk. But the sense proposed in my decided equality drank dignity straight from the bottle. The road that lead me between two cliffs, Propriety and Statistics, with the rocks already pelting down, could not diminish my enthusiasm for necessary absurdities. There's no flesh in declared mediocrities. I became a luminary for pleasures of eminence, hope with resolve, opportunities in destiny. Blind gambles obliged the fear of exacting sensibility. Passionate follies created no-regret-consequences, satisfied stability. Only the **** are granted victories in eternal gaiety. Mortality is irrelevant if you let mystery be your urgency.

23

We've reached an age where we talk at people. There's no 'to' or 'with'. We carelessly throw words around to each other hoping not to catch any unsatisfying sentences in return. Most of these substitutions for conversations are shoveled bit by bit through radio waves to small circuits in our pockets. Verbal language has become distant and alien to us. We're too content removing ourselves from the intimacy of communication that we've created societal norms that only further entrench this behavior while encouraging a facade of emotionless abandonment. An answer other than 'good' to the masquerade of an endearing question - "how are you?" - will raise eyebrows and prompt suspicion. How far removed are we as humans from one another that a question on another's well-being is genuinely regarded as a greeting and meant to be mostly ignored and never answered honestly? Put down your device and pick up your tongue.

0

Jul 16, 2014

Jul 16, 2014 at 7:25 PM UTC

jimmy-timmons

7/16/2014 - On Communication

We've reached an age where we talk at people. There's no 'to' or 'with'. We carelessly throw words around to each other hoping not to catch any unsatisfying sentences in return. Most of these substitutions for conversations are shoveled bit by bit through radio waves to small circuits in our pockets. Verbal language has become distant and alien to us. We're too content removing ourselves from the intimacy of communication that we've created societal norms that only further entrench this behavior while encouraging a facade of emotionless abandonment. An answer other than 'good' to the masquerade of an endearing question - "how are you?" - will raise eyebrows and prompt suspicion. How far removed are we as humans from one another that a question on another's well-being is genuinely regarded as a greeting and meant to be mostly ignored and never answered honestly? Put down your device and pick up your tongue.

3

A laughable matter, how hours seem to change you. Not change you fully, at least not in the way a metamorphosis occurs. It changes the signs of irritation, the raising alarm and mostly it adds a deep longing. A familiar feeling weighing down each breath. It feels like a numb explosion. Like there is more to it, but it never peaks. It taunts with promises of relief, but leaves you boneless. Instinctively you mark it as an unsatisfying end. Could be labeled pessimism or rationalization. You hope for more, you always do. Maybe it's the stop of the turning clock, the one that resounds heavily each night. The disappointment will dissipate eventually, but it feels like centuries until it does. The memories that keep flashing are like salt; the familiar sting of the shame from fresh wounds. The wind you always carry with you, it drifts you off to foolish daydreams. It helps hold back the inevitable shame and guilt. Soon you understand, this is all erratic. It must lead to an origin, but it is one you cannot find. You realize the attachment to this coldness is horrifying. You never plan to be cold, it just catches fire. Time takes its toll. It takes away the chance of ever amending; of retribution. The obstacles are clearly organized to hinder much needed evolution.

0

Dec 4, 2014

Dec 4, 2014 at 10:23 AM UTC

JasminH

Limerence

A laughable matter, how hours seem to change you. Not change you fully, at least not in the way a metamorphosis occurs. It changes the signs of irritation, the raising alarm and mostly it adds a deep longing. A familiar feeling weighing down each breath. It feels like a numb explosion. Like there is more to it, but it never peaks. It taunts with promises of relief, but leaves you boneless. Instinctively you mark it as an unsatisfying end. Could be labeled pessimism or rationalization. You hope for more, you always do. Maybe it's the stop of the turning clock, the one that resounds heavily each night. The disappointment will dissipate eventually, but it feels like centuries until it does. The memories that keep flashing are like salt; the familiar sting of the shame from fresh wounds. The wind you always carry with you, it drifts you off to foolish daydreams. It helps hold back the inevitable shame and guilt. Soon you understand, this is all erratic. It must lead to an origin, but it is one you cannot find. You realize the attachment to this coldness is horrifying. You never plan to be cold, it just catches fire. Time takes its toll. It takes away the chance of ever amending; of retribution. The obstacles are clearly organized to hinder much needed evolution.

15

Even I, with scales on my eyes and large, heavy headphones pressed tightly against my ears, can see that this three week conversation has died out, although I have made every attempt to keep it burning. Even I, with my nose bleeding, and my heart bleeding, and my soul dripping some strange, red liquid, know that this has run its course, which, coincidentally, was directly into an iceberg which I never saw. An iceburg that only exists in your eyes, yet this ship sailed, serene, into it, with no word of warning from your lips. Even I, with guts spilled out, in the street, in front of your house, spelling your name, must aknowledge the fleeting nature of the situation. I guess. Even I, with next to no knowledge of myself, know that I am lying. But they are lies that I must eat with the eagerness of starving foxes - for that is what I am now. I am made of lies and paw-prints in the vacant lot, near the abandoned sugar factory, that place I still believe is haunted, to this day. Maybe it houses my ghosts. But after my dinner of hollow lies, I am left famished still, even though I choked down one too many, coughing, and gasping for air, as if I were drowning in my own falsities. After my unsatisfying meal, I only want one dessert: A cigarette and an answer. But only one is possible, and I have already made my choice. The pull of Nicotine is much stronger than that of closure. So I don't really need it. I am a blind man, who has wandered onto the train tracks, far outside of town, where the iron horses can really run. In the city (or something that may only resembe a city,) they prance. On display. "Look at my tall, graffitti-stained walls. See my beautiful face of cow-catcher grin and headlamp, cyclops eye." I made my picnic on the tracks, thinking they were a bench. I guess that was a bad idea. And my reanimated corpse agrees, as it trusts that another train is still far away and stumbles about, picking up lost pieces. I should build a house here. I really don't mind rebuilding, and the trainwrecks ain't so bad... All in retrospect, friend.

0

May 17, 2013

May 17, 2013 at 10:44 PM UTC

eli-grove

The Lies of a Blind Man (as He Builds His Home on the Railroad Tracks)

Even I, with scales on my eyes and large, heavy headphones pressed tightly against my ears, can see that this three week conversation has died out, although I have made every attempt to keep it burning. Even I, with my nose bleeding, and my heart bleeding, and my soul dripping some strange, red liquid, know that this has run its course, which, coincidentally, was directly into an iceberg which I never saw. An iceburg that only exists in your eyes, yet this ship sailed, serene, into it, with no word of warning from your lips. Even I, with guts spilled out, in the street, in front of your house, spelling your name, must aknowledge the fleeting nature of the situation. I guess. Even I, with next to no knowledge of myself, know that I am lying. But they are lies that I must eat with the eagerness of starving foxes - for that is what I am now. I am made of lies and paw-prints in the vacant lot, near the abandoned sugar factory, that place I still believe is haunted, to this day. Maybe it houses my ghosts. But after my dinner of hollow lies, I am left famished still, even though I choked down one too many, coughing, and gasping for air, as if I were drowning in my own falsities. After my unsatisfying meal, I only want one dessert: A cigarette and an answer. But only one is possible, and I have already made my choice. The pull of Nicotine is much stronger than that of closure. So I don't really need it. I am a blind man, who has wandered onto the train tracks, far outside of town, where the iron horses can really run. In the city (or something that may only resembe a city,) they prance. On display. "Look at my tall, graffitti-stained walls. See my beautiful face of cow-catcher grin and headlamp, cyclops eye." I made my picnic on the tracks, thinking they were a bench. I guess that was a bad idea. And my reanimated corpse agrees, as it trusts that another train is still far away and stumbles about, picking up lost pieces. I should build a house here. I really don't mind rebuilding, and the trainwrecks ain't so bad... All in retrospect, friend.

10

Your memories creep back into my mind Their persistence is unyielding Not a single day has passed that I don't think about you I'm drowning in the lack of your presence This longing for you wont go away This unsatisfying, empty feeling But I'm only trapping myself Its time that I crawl out of this darkness Open my eyes to the light Stop hiding behind superficial happiness Because I lack the real thing I don't feel anything I'm completely isolated I stray away from everyone Including myself I don't even know who I am anymore If I even am someone If I ever was someone

0

Sep 29, 2014

Sep 29, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC

leavethislife

The Pain You've Caused Me

Your memories creep back into my mind Their persistence is unyielding Not a single day has passed that I don't think about you I'm drowning in the lack of your presence This longing for you wont go away This unsatisfying, empty feeling But I'm only trapping myself Its time that I crawl out of this darkness Open my eyes to the light Stop hiding behind superficial happiness Because I lack the real thing I don't feel anything I'm completely isolated I stray away from everyone Including myself I don't even know who I am anymore If I even am someone If I ever was someone

18

Self Righteous indignation, separation, and a flare for othering the man who strove to bridge the gap between himself and the world made himself an island to be safe from the chaotic trade winds Here, he felt, hell, he felt stronger than he was accustomed to but this only tempered his approach kept his destructive tendencies at bay and filled his time His ennui and his thirst for consequence His self deprecation, his lust for power, his empathy unbidden He knew of his own privilege, he knew other's pain was greater than his He knew other's success, and had tasted glory in doses unsatisfying He was meant to be satisfied with stagnation and was tailored to disapprove of the play by play but was forced to place bets on the rat race and to have his mind occupied by symbolism while he realized the cross was only two lines placed adjacently He was forced to explain to his lover, what love means, and how to believe What it meant, how it was, and why it was held in such high regard He comforted an ailing cherub, watered her roots with his own excretions For in appeasing her, he cut into himself All he wanted was to be big enough, to cut himself down enough that when he gave of himself, he could give what would have been his all while still holding on to what could be all he was.

0

Aug 20, 2014

Aug 20, 2014 at 2:05 AM UTC

jacob-oates

Why should I believe in love baby?

Self Righteous indignation, separation, and a flare for othering the man who strove to bridge the gap between himself and the world made himself an island to be safe from the chaotic trade winds Here, he felt, hell, he felt stronger than he was accustomed to but this only tempered his approach kept his destructive tendencies at bay and filled his time His ennui and his thirst for consequence His self deprecation, his lust for power, his empathy unbidden He knew of his own privilege, he knew other's pain was greater than his He knew other's success, and had tasted glory in doses unsatisfying He was meant to be satisfied with stagnation and was tailored to disapprove of the play by play but was forced to place bets on the rat race and to have his mind occupied by symbolism while he realized the cross was only two lines placed adjacently He was forced to explain to his lover, what love means, and how to believe What it meant, how it was, and why it was held in such high regard He comforted an ailing cherub, watered her roots with his own excretions For in appeasing her, he cut into himself All he wanted was to be big enough, to cut himself down enough that when he gave of himself, he could give what would have been his all while still holding on to what could be all he was.

23

*i'm sorry that i'm not happy. but all the lives i have lived, all the heartache & pain have caused my unhappiness. it's nothing to do with you. all it is, is the past. telling me that love means pain & that if they don't hurt you constantly it's not love. my past tells me that love is always perfect & happy, that there are no issues in love, love is perfect. all these ideals & perfectionism sabotaging my relationships sabotaging my happiness. telling me that this is wrong because i was raised in contradiction. contradiction is my home. i've seen the war between my parents i've heard the screaming of insults i've witnessed the anger i've been the blank screen on which to cast the anger on. i was taught from a very young age that my failures were catastrophic instead of a normal process of life. i was taught that my temper was a way to gain the attention i so desperately craved. i was taught that my pain was insignificant & invalid that i was a brat for feeing anything except grateful. i grew up thinking that nice was boring & unsatisfying & that danger & manipulation would fill the empty void. i grew up with negativity, pain & contradiction clouding my every thought, clouding my every judgement, shaping my every decision. so i'm sorry i'm not happy. saying "it's not you; it's me" sounds like such a cliché. but it couldn't be more appropriate. forgive me.*

0

Jun 27, 2017

Jun 27, 2017 at 9:54 AM UTC

ninasloft

contradiction

*i'm sorry that i'm not happy. but all the lives i have lived, all the heartache & pain have caused my unhappiness. it's nothing to do with you. all it is, is the past. telling me that love means pain & that if they don't hurt you constantly it's not love. my past tells me that love is always perfect & happy, that there are no issues in love, love is perfect. all these ideals & perfectionism sabotaging my relationships sabotaging my happiness. telling me that this is wrong because i was raised in contradiction. contradiction is my home. i've seen the war between my parents i've heard the screaming of insults i've witnessed the anger i've been the blank screen on which to cast the anger on. i was taught from a very young age that my failures were catastrophic instead of a normal process of life. i was taught that my temper was a way to gain the attention i so desperately craved. i was taught that my pain was insignificant & invalid that i was a brat for feeing anything except grateful. i grew up thinking that nice was boring & unsatisfying & that danger & manipulation would fill the empty void. i grew up with negativity, pain & contradiction clouding my every thought, clouding my every judgement, shaping my every decision. so i'm sorry i'm not happy. saying "it's not you; it's me" sounds like such a cliché. but it couldn't be more appropriate. forgive me.*

48

self-inflicted incompetence brought on by a life of misunderstanding, misuse sabotaged by my own mind with this unsettling gut feeling will i ever be good enough or will i be discarded as a broken unsatisfying machine tell me the truth that will cut to the core for deceptive sentiments cause self doubt to boil beneath my skin am i not a man or fated to be relegated to boyhood status unable to quench the most basic natural demands a failure at heart a selfish lover eating away at my conscious soul i know you love me im just paranoid as all hell we're only human

0

Oct 16, 2012

Oct 16, 2012 at 11:06 PM UTC

ben-2

why did i ask?

self-inflicted incompetence brought on by a life of misunderstanding, misuse sabotaged by my own mind with this unsettling gut feeling will i ever be good enough or will i be discarded as a broken unsatisfying machine tell me the truth that will cut to the core for deceptive sentiments cause self doubt to boil beneath my skin am i not a man or fated to be relegated to boyhood status unable to quench the most basic natural demands a failure at heart a selfish lover eating away at my conscious soul i know you love me im just paranoid as all hell we're only human

24

I start with a backhoe, displacing brain-sized clumps of earth. A few fickle particles escape between the imposing metal teeth. The mechanized bucket clinks against a rigid texture. I grab a shovel, bending my spine to the task at hand. Pretty soon the shovel only scoops up unsatisfying fistfuls of dust. It is cast aside for the broom, revealing the smooth shape underneath. A dingy film is spread around by the coarse fibers of the broom. I grab my toothbrush, furiously scrubbing the chrome-plated formation. Now all passersby can bite my shiny metal victory.

0

Jul 10, 2012

Jul 10, 2012 at 7:31 PM UTC

left-brained-poet

Excavation

I start with a backhoe, displacing brain-sized clumps of earth. A few fickle particles escape between the imposing metal teeth. The mechanized bucket clinks against a rigid texture. I grab a shovel, bending my spine to the task at hand. Pretty soon the shovel only scoops up unsatisfying fistfuls of dust. It is cast aside for the broom, revealing the smooth shape underneath. A dingy film is spread around by the coarse fibers of the broom. I grab my toothbrush, furiously scrubbing the chrome-plated formation. Now all passersby can bite my shiny metal victory.

19

2:00am I cannot fall alseep My lips are dry I've came once unsatisfying 3:27am I've had half a glass of vernors The rest is sitting next to my bed warm and flat I can't get comfortable I have too much room in this bed It makse me feel vulnerable 4:18am I went to the bathroom When I got there i didn't have to go anymore I went back to my room Only to have to go back again. 4:30am I can hear my mom coughing She hasn't been feeling well lately 4:37 am I can't stop thinking about how she cried today Or is it yesterday I guess the next day doesn't start until you sleep 4:39am I made her cry Im trying to remember what you said About it not being my fault I struggled with it 5:30am Another unsatisfying ****** Viewed some **** It wasn't what I needed I closed my eyes for awhile That was unsatisfying too 6:47am I try thinking about why you stay Or why you'd think I'd leave Why you claim to love my body claim to love all of me 7:15am I Sent you a silly text. You haven't replied yet I feel stupid 7:38am I logged into Facebook Updated information Looked though all your pictures You don't look how I remember you in these I don't like it We don't interact enough here Your ex is all over your page though I should log out 8:03am I hope you mean it when you say I'm better than the rest A better cook A better friend A better support system Better for you

0

Nov 15, 2013

Nov 15, 2013 at 8:41 AM UTC

maxine-rhue-t

2am

2:00am I cannot fall alseep My lips are dry I've came once unsatisfying 3:27am I've had half a glass of vernors The rest is sitting next to my bed warm and flat I can't get comfortable I have too much room in this bed It makse me feel vulnerable 4:18am I went to the bathroom When I got there i didn't have to go anymore I went back to my room Only to have to go back again. 4:30am I can hear my mom coughing She hasn't been feeling well lately 4:37 am I can't stop thinking about how she cried today Or is it yesterday I guess the next day doesn't start until you sleep 4:39am I made her cry Im trying to remember what you said About it not being my fault I struggled with it 5:30am Another unsatisfying ****** Viewed some **** It wasn't what I needed I closed my eyes for awhile That was unsatisfying too 6:47am I try thinking about why you stay Or why you'd think I'd leave Why you claim to love my body claim to love all of me 7:15am I Sent you a silly text. You haven't replied yet I feel stupid 7:38am I logged into Facebook Updated information Looked though all your pictures You don't look how I remember you in these I don't like it We don't interact enough here Your ex is all over your page though I should log out 8:03am I hope you mean it when you say I'm better than the rest A better cook A better friend A better support system Better for you

58

It's dark It's flowing It's hot It's calming It's in between, causing friction. It's wild It's affectionate It's touching It's body to body It's its tight It's enclosing It's gentle but also aggressive It's fixated It's unsatisfying It's greedy but also so sweet

0

Oct 7, 2012

Oct 7, 2012 at 1:10 AM UTC

zaina-r

What is it?

It's dark It's flowing It's hot It's calming It's in between, causing friction. It's wild It's affectionate It's touching It's body to body It's its tight It's enclosing It's gentle but also aggressive It's fixated It's unsatisfying It's greedy but also so sweet

15

Am I stucked to the same old page of a withering book? Has our story ended, why have I hopes? But you go on forgetting me, maybe hating me, why didn't you just explain? Everytime I read a poem I wonder what would you think, or if you cry reading unsatisfying,sad ends. And I'm hiding behind my dusty glasses while you're a step in front of me in a running over-crowded bus, not greeting like we've never met before. Because I miss you that's why I can't form a proper friendship and people leave, like you did, inexcusably. Maybe I only miss those idealised memories, or need someone who understands all of my aspects like you used to. And they'll keep the promises I believed in. What if I'm stuck to you calligraphic inscription in a tiny note? Do you still read those five pages letters? Do you remember them? Do you remember me? Are we complete strangers again?

0

Jun 5, 2014

Jun 5, 2014 at 8:51 AM UTC

katerina-niovi

Do you remember?

Am I stucked to the same old page of a withering book? Has our story ended, why have I hopes? But you go on forgetting me, maybe hating me, why didn't you just explain? Everytime I read a poem I wonder what would you think, or if you cry reading unsatisfying,sad ends. And I'm hiding behind my dusty glasses while you're a step in front of me in a running over-crowded bus, not greeting like we've never met before. Because I miss you that's why I can't form a proper friendship and people leave, like you did, inexcusably. Maybe I only miss those idealised memories, or need someone who understands all of my aspects like you used to. And they'll keep the promises I believed in. What if I'm stuck to you calligraphic inscription in a tiny note? Do you still read those five pages letters? Do you remember them? Do you remember me? Are we complete strangers again?

18

Cities Dot The World Below Me, Their Lights Reflecting Off Translucent Smog, The Trees Wave To Me In My Flight, As Mountains And Canyons Bellow From My Sound, I Am In The Middle Of The Sky, Just A Couple Thousand Feet Away From The Stars, If Only These Wings Could Take Me A Bit Higher, Then That--Would Be Flight, Miles Pass By In Seconds Below My Lifted Body, As My Eyes Hold Millions Of People Imbetween Weary Glances, Pressurized Air Fills My Earthenware Like Lungs, As My Ears Pop With Unsatisfying Pain, Is This How Airborn Embers Feel? And As I Fade Into The Impending Night, My Reflection Disappears In The Atmosphere's Haze, Graceful As The Clouds Underneath Me

0

Mar 4, 2013

Mar 4, 2013 at 6:44 PM UTC

sydney-victoria

Airborn

Cities Dot The World Below Me, Their Lights Reflecting Off Translucent Smog, The Trees Wave To Me In My Flight, As Mountains And Canyons Bellow From My Sound, I Am In The Middle Of The Sky, Just A Couple Thousand Feet Away From The Stars, If Only These Wings Could Take Me A Bit Higher, Then That--Would Be Flight, Miles Pass By In Seconds Below My Lifted Body, As My Eyes Hold Millions Of People Imbetween Weary Glances, Pressurized Air Fills My Earthenware Like Lungs, As My Ears Pop With Unsatisfying Pain, Is This How Airborn Embers Feel? And As I Fade Into The Impending Night, My Reflection Disappears In The Atmosphere's Haze, Graceful As The Clouds Underneath Me

16

Keep your TV's and your stereos, PC's and DVD's. I'm reclaiming my freedom, and none of thats for me. I've quit being a consumer, gonna boycott the recession. Because I'd rather have my freedom, than be prisoner to my possessions. Who cares if I don't have TV, Satellite or cable? I have time to sit and read and write, for as long as I am able. When I climb into bed at night, I'm tired from all I've done. No longer am I lying there, working out where time has gone. No microwave or dishwasher, to speed up all my chores. Cooking is my therapy, tell me what is yours? Is it watching new stuff gather dust, just like the old stuff did? Did you have to have the biggest toys, when you were a little kid? Well for me I choose the simple life, filled with only what I need. No more status driven plastic debt, no more unsatisfying greed.

0

Aug 7, 2010

Aug 7, 2010 at 7:19 PM UTC

a-thomas-hawkins

My Freedom

Keep your TV's and your stereos, PC's and DVD's. I'm reclaiming my freedom, and none of thats for me. I've quit being a consumer, gonna boycott the recession. Because I'd rather have my freedom, than be prisoner to my possessions. Who cares if I don't have TV, Satellite or cable? I have time to sit and read and write, for as long as I am able. When I climb into bed at night, I'm tired from all I've done. No longer am I lying there, working out where time has gone. No microwave or dishwasher, to speed up all my chores. Cooking is my therapy, tell me what is yours? Is it watching new stuff gather dust, just like the old stuff did? Did you have to have the biggest toys, when you were a little kid? Well for me I choose the simple life, filled with only what I need. No more status driven plastic debt, no more unsatisfying greed.

28

The idea of a fat rain drop smacking my shoulder blade is both wildly unsatisfying and much sweeter than the slice of a blade across my forearm. But in the real world Raindrops don't bruise don't damage don't break the skin like my glistening friend can. I never understood the sad girls, thick, black eyeliner running down, who cut. Until now. And maybe I haven't yet Maybe I never will. But the sting of the knife would be so much more tangible Than the ache I feel Every time I think about how you aren't here.

0

Aug 15, 2014

Aug 15, 2014 at 2:17 PM UTC

sass-v

Mother Nature's Blade

The idea of a fat rain drop smacking my shoulder blade is both wildly unsatisfying and much sweeter than the slice of a blade across my forearm. But in the real world Raindrops don't bruise don't damage don't break the skin like my glistening friend can. I never understood the sad girls, thick, black eyeliner running down, who cut. Until now. And maybe I haven't yet Maybe I never will. But the sting of the knife would be so much more tangible Than the ache I feel Every time I think about how you aren't here.

17

Follow the celestial alignments, seek the star shinning bright The deep leaves and vines of the forest will entangle you Keep striving for the path of the glistening moonlight When your lost in the forbidden darkness of the night The birds swoop swiftly beneath the glimmer of clouds, blue Follow the the celestial alignments, seek the star shinning bright Be above the fear of mystery and commit to the light Grasp the hope, dig your fingers in and follow through Keep striving for the path of the glistening moonlight The warmth of the light will steam your soul to fight The trees, the leaves, all unsatisfying. Even the flowers too. Follow the the celestial alignments, seek the star shinning bright The bleakness of the way you've been traveling will give you the might To find something that you never knew Keep striving for the path of the glistening moonlight Now you are found, predestined for life, never leaving sight Examining how much more beautiful everything is, even the dew Keep striving for the path of the glistening moonlight Follow the the celestial alignments, seek the star shinning bright

0

Feb 3, 2016

Feb 3, 2016 at 2:10 PM UTC

celeste-spak

Villanelle Poem

Follow the celestial alignments, seek the star shinning bright The deep leaves and vines of the forest will entangle you Keep striving for the path of the glistening moonlight When your lost in the forbidden darkness of the night The birds swoop swiftly beneath the glimmer of clouds, blue Follow the the celestial alignments, seek the star shinning bright Be above the fear of mystery and commit to the light Grasp the hope, dig your fingers in and follow through Keep striving for the path of the glistening moonlight The warmth of the light will steam your soul to fight The trees, the leaves, all unsatisfying. Even the flowers too. Follow the the celestial alignments, seek the star shinning bright The bleakness of the way you've been traveling will give you the might To find something that you never knew Keep striving for the path of the glistening moonlight Now you are found, predestined for life, never leaving sight Examining how much more beautiful everything is, even the dew Keep striving for the path of the glistening moonlight Follow the the celestial alignments, seek the star shinning bright

19

This is for the prom queen This is for the prom queen who wears her crown of insecurities with shaking knees and sees her body as disgusting always adjusting lusting for perfection. It's for the kids who seek affection or attention and can't tell the difference. It's gonna be okay It's for the kids who always sit in the back It's for the "Test tomorrow panic attacks" It's for the kids on the fast track to unsatisfying lives. It's gonna be okay This is for the kid with dreams set before him that bore him. Who wants more than a marriage and a mortgage. It's gonna be okay This is for the over-drinkers and the over-thinkers and the ones who hope one will stop the other. It's for the mothers whose daughters are sinking, thinking they have to be drinking in order to make friends. It's for the sleepless nights that never end. it's gonna be okay. This is for the kid with the bad complexion and the invisible girl who hides her scar collection under her shirt amongst the hurt, ***** looks, And her favorite books It's okay It's for the boy that's abusing and the girl that's confusing it for love and because of that does not see she's beautiful It's gonna be okay It's the for the friends we lose and the poisons we choose. It's for the kids that wake up late the ones that can't wait to graduate and for the wallflowers trying to participate It's gonna be okay It's for the monsters under our beds and in our heads that wake us up at 4 A.M And for the all stupid things we've said It's gonna be okay. It's for the kid who sees his face foggy in the mirror and does not have the means to make it clearer It's for the kids who have it all and the kids who see their life in a ball It's for every single brick in the wall for the ***** words on ***** stalls and for the brokenness inside us all. It's gonna be okay. It's for the kids who wear masks made of broken smiles and empty laughs and crack a little more everyday it's for the way we smile and say we're okay It's going to be okay It's for the skinny girl starving to be a model and looking for love at the bottom of the bottle with a magazine cover for a role model it's gonna be okay. It's for the fat girl whose proud of who she is because she knows that beauty lies within it's for the holy kids so afraid to sin that they forget to live It's gonna be okay. This is for the kisses under the bleachers and the schoolboys crushing on their favorite teachers This is for the kid who drinks tears from his beer for the football stars and the closeted queers It's for the late night phone conversations for the vibrations of infatuation and the sensation of summer vacation. It's for the chronic liars and nervous first-timers the cancer survivors and the poetry writers It's for the lives we've been given the cars we've drunk driven and the shells in which we live in. And it's for the normal kids It's gonna be okay.

0

Feb 9, 2014

Feb 9, 2014 at 3:40 PM UTC

nemonobody

Okay

This is for the prom queen This is for the prom queen who wears her crown of insecurities with shaking knees and sees her body as disgusting always adjusting lusting for perfection. It's for the kids who seek affection or attention and can't tell the difference. It's gonna be okay It's for the kids who always sit in the back It's for the "Test tomorrow panic attacks" It's for the kids on the fast track to unsatisfying lives. It's gonna be okay This is for the kid with dreams set before him that bore him. Who wants more than a marriage and a mortgage. It's gonna be okay This is for the over-drinkers and the over-thinkers and the ones who hope one will stop the other. It's for the mothers whose daughters are sinking, thinking they have to be drinking in order to make friends. It's for the sleepless nights that never end. it's gonna be okay. This is for the kid with the bad complexion and the invisible girl who hides her scar collection under her shirt amongst the hurt, ***** looks, And her favorite books It's okay It's for the boy that's abusing and the girl that's confusing it for love and because of that does not see she's beautiful It's gonna be okay It's the for the friends we lose and the poisons we choose. It's for the kids that wake up late the ones that can't wait to graduate and for the wallflowers trying to participate It's gonna be okay It's for the monsters under our beds and in our heads that wake us up at 4 A.M And for the all stupid things we've said It's gonna be okay. It's for the kid who sees his face foggy in the mirror and does not have the means to make it clearer It's for the kids who have it all and the kids who see their life in a ball It's for every single brick in the wall for the ***** words on ***** stalls and for the brokenness inside us all. It's gonna be okay. It's for the kids who wear masks made of broken smiles and empty laughs and crack a little more everyday it's for the way we smile and say we're okay It's going to be okay It's for the skinny girl starving to be a model and looking for love at the bottom of the bottle with a magazine cover for a role model it's gonna be okay. It's for the fat girl whose proud of who she is because she knows that beauty lies within it's for the holy kids so afraid to sin that they forget to live It's gonna be okay. This is for the kisses under the bleachers and the schoolboys crushing on their favorite teachers This is for the kid who drinks tears from his beer for the football stars and the closeted queers It's for the late night phone conversations for the vibrations of infatuation and the sensation of summer vacation. It's for the chronic liars and nervous first-timers the cancer survivors and the poetry writers It's for the lives we've been given the cars we've drunk driven and the shells in which we live in. And it's for the normal kids It's gonna be okay.

96

He said to me One needs to know where they're going in life To know where their writing's ending will come from. I have a vague idea of where I will go in life (Whether or not that's where I want to go... Is an uncomfortable question.) But my poems always end Unfulfilled Unsatisfying Abruptly. Is that some sort of sign?

0

Jun 30, 2010

Jun 30, 2010 at 8:23 AM UTC

christine

endings

He said to me One needs to know where they're going in life To know where their writing's ending will come from. I have a vague idea of where I will go in life (Whether or not that's where I want to go... Is an uncomfortable question.) But my poems always end Unfulfilled Unsatisfying Abruptly. Is that some sort of sign?

11

I skipped a rock on a lake. It skipped six times. I was estatic. Six. ******* Times. How simple life was during childhood. The joy you could get by throwing a rock. The fun of finding that “perfect” one. The one that was round, completely flat. You knew it was the right one. It was gonna give you that sixth skip you’ve been waiting for. And when you got it. It was like nothing could break you. Now, I’ve grown up. Skipping rocks is for children. Bills and occupation are for men. Getting up early, drowning myself in coffee. Making millions of ******* dollars, for someone else. Seems pretty redundant, unsatisfying. Yeah, we all look forward to pay day. Today is different, I’m looking forward to getting that seventh skip.

0

Apr 10, 2016

Apr 10, 2016 at 10:56 PM UTC

jsturner

Skipping Rocks.

I skipped a rock on a lake. It skipped six times. I was estatic. Six. ******* Times. How simple life was during childhood. The joy you could get by throwing a rock. The fun of finding that “perfect” one. The one that was round, completely flat. You knew it was the right one. It was gonna give you that sixth skip you’ve been waiting for. And when you got it. It was like nothing could break you. Now, I’ve grown up. Skipping rocks is for children. Bills and occupation are for men. Getting up early, drowning myself in coffee. Making millions of ******* dollars, for someone else. Seems pretty redundant, unsatisfying. Yeah, we all look forward to pay day. Today is different, I’m looking forward to getting that seventh skip.

33

written while talking to a dear friend, Irene, who i met on my travels to Paris, and who i'm spotted with, in a photograph, by the Moulin Rouge, hunched in homage to Quasimodo, with Paul the wild haired australian. i'm always depressed before composition and the first whiskey to stop me throwing up anything i might ingest, but then the seemingly graceless magpie with its extended tail flies into eyesight, then the blackbird, the crow, the seagull (huh?! 30 miles inland and a ****** seagull?)... and then i open my eyes a second time, take off the eyes that see lust gluttony colours and shapes, and put on my x-ray spectacles of looking at a white page and typing for a while... and then a song crops up and it bothers me, mortiis' parasite god from the album *the smell of rain*, if there is such a thing as a parasite god, we'll be constantly thinking about it, it will be an ontological implant of ours to then debate whether we're atheists, theists, gnostics or agnostics... it would be a burden, indeed an oversized tapeworm to put it mildly - but then the other description floating about, the entitlement of a title, akin to prince, knight, sir, baron or baroness or even a marquis... the lord of hosts... and with vain attempt at sounding in blossom of a magnolia tree attentive of courtesy, a host is someone who contains a parasite, why would i want to contain a parasite of thought in me, that would necessarily sway me from denoting myself an atheist, theist, etc.? atheists do indeed uphold the principle stated in this song i mentioned mortiis' parasite god; i among the jews a parasite of the host of ancient egypt; i mean, they always say they're atheists or whatever, they want that little sticker at a speed dating gathering *hello, my name is, queue (oh sorry, Hugh)*, but when it comes to defining what sort of thinking defines you as such and such, it's vaguely satisfying to hear a presupposition label, followed by a string of even more unsatisfying propositions, and since i'm not a fisherman in that department, i think i'll just stick to what i know, or at least what i think i know.

0

Mar 16, 2016

Mar 16, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

mortiis (the smell of rain album)

written while talking to a dear friend, Irene, who i met on my travels to Paris, and who i'm spotted with, in a photograph, by the Moulin Rouge, hunched in homage to Quasimodo, with Paul the wild haired australian. i'm always depressed before composition and the first whiskey to stop me throwing up anything i might ingest, but then the seemingly graceless magpie with its extended tail flies into eyesight, then the blackbird, the crow, the seagull (huh?! 30 miles inland and a ****** seagull?)... and then i open my eyes a second time, take off the eyes that see lust gluttony colours and shapes, and put on my x-ray spectacles of looking at a white page and typing for a while... and then a song crops up and it bothers me, mortiis' parasite god from the album *the smell of rain*, if there is such a thing as a parasite god, we'll be constantly thinking about it, it will be an ontological implant of ours to then debate whether we're atheists, theists, gnostics or agnostics... it would be a burden, indeed an oversized tapeworm to put it mildly - but then the other description floating about, the entitlement of a title, akin to prince, knight, sir, baron or baroness or even a marquis... the lord of hosts... and with vain attempt at sounding in blossom of a magnolia tree attentive of courtesy, a host is someone who contains a parasite, why would i want to contain a parasite of thought in me, that would necessarily sway me from denoting myself an atheist, theist, etc.? atheists do indeed uphold the principle stated in this song i mentioned mortiis' parasite god; i among the jews a parasite of the host of ancient egypt; i mean, they always say they're atheists or whatever, they want that little sticker at a speed dating gathering *hello, my name is, queue (oh sorry, Hugh)*, but when it comes to defining what sort of thinking defines you as such and such, it's vaguely satisfying to hear a presupposition label, followed by a string of even more unsatisfying propositions, and since i'm not a fisherman in that department, i think i'll just stick to what i know, or at least what i think i know.

43