"unscarred" poems
You've put all this weight on my shoulders
Responsibility
That you couldn't hold
You didn't want
You've been nothing when I needed everything
It's okay
My shoulders can hold the world
Such strength there is in them now
My heart can take the rejection, absence, abandon and can survive, it's walled now, protected from such
My spirit can take the absolute desolation that comes with your presence and come back to form into smiles and strength
I don't mean you've left me unmarked, unscarred
But you have given me absolute strength and that need for you has gone
You've given me the ability to be alone, self sufficient, rely on no one, need not another soul
And be okay with it
For that, I thank you
But you really are selfish ********
**** you.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
To some she is a shining light
A flash of hope amongst the dark
An optimistic helping hand
To pull you from the dark
And cheer your sorrow
To some she is a black hole
Pulling the world down with sadness
Reliving the past that broke her
And stabbing others with the shards
To some she is simple words
plastered on a white canvas painting a picture.
never more
but never less
To most she is unnoticeable
A tiny footnote scribbled in the corner of a forgotten notebook
A wall flower whose thorns push away all but those with the key to her locked heart.
When you ask me what she is
The answer is impossible
Because I don't know
But I can tell you what she's not
She is not a beautiful face, to stop you in a crowd
She is not a chatting girl to talk you into a date
She is not a innocent flower
Welcoming with open arms
She is not a genius to create the next invention
She is not a musician, an author, a designer, a star, a doctor, or a hero
She is not a loving companion for you to hold, and remember your every need
She is not a great friend, always there in a flash.
She is not a friendly person, starting up the conversation
She is not a good cook, making meals that are edible
She is not an unscarred girl, unscathed by the past
She is not a beautiful figure
That draws your eyes
She is not hilariously funny
Ready for stand up comedy
She is not someone to remember though she will remember you
However she is not fazed by judges
Changing ways to suit them
She is not perfect
She is not stopped by her imperfections, only pressed farther to become something more.
And though I can not say who she is or what she will be. Here's what I can say
To me she will always be the girl staring back in the mirror.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 1:04 AM UTC
i wish i could have that sweet 16 kind of romance.
kisses that are ardent and chaste
not forced, feeling like a mouthful of nails
hugs that are comforting and soft
instead of repulsive, a cage i violently try to break free of
hands that are holding mine, a loving reminder and consistent warmth
not calloused extremities stealing me by the wrist towards my demise
words that are gentle and sincere (beautiful, talented, queen),
instead of ones described only as ***** ******* ***** *****
intimacy that arrives only if and when i'm ready, youthful and gentle
not ****** onto me years before sweet 16, hardly intimate but instead bluntly illicit
bodies (especially mine) that are unscarred, untainted, unused
not the opposite, crusted in an inscrutable filth impossible to remove
love that is fun and bright, something I can boast to all my friends
not a sickening attraction shrouded in the depths of my mind, only to see the light through poetry written in the early hours...
i wish, i wish, i wish.
i wish i could have that sweet 16 kind of romance!
but i don't.
wishes are just flimsy desires; a tear-soaked plead to the void of night, words on a poem no one may care to read, something i say as i blow out the candles. hopeful and yet, hopeless.
so, i'm still 16. and at least my favorite dessert is sweet. but the romance? ha! my romance is dead; burnt to ashes, like a delicate rose bathed in kerosene and set alight by the burning match of a devil's lust.
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 7:16 AM UTC
the sum of my parts
is not greater than i am as a whole, no,
i am not simply a collection of scars
and ******** storylines, oh,
i
am more than
the gristle and bone
the fibers interwoven through my arms
my lily-white striped clavicle
this corpse is my throne
i am not simply a ******
i am a ****** with a history
i am mauve valleys' majesty,
i am more than just my regrets
and my atrophies
and if it's not commendable, well, at least it's a story.
i,
simply because of my condition,
have lived through more than you could imagine
i have burned down in the depths with fire-skinned demons-
with messes deeper than your credit-card sins-
and i
have managed to get through it
these are my battle scars
i've fought ******* wars
and yet you shun me as if i'm not a hero
as if i'm not honorable for just making it
but i know you simply don't possess the tenacity
or the strength of wit
to deal with my ****
there's no reason to reproach
the type of behavior which keeps me alive
when i've done greater things than you ever will
stop staring
like i'm some sort of reject
like i'm something to pity
like i'm something worth nothing
like i can't recover
this is just a bad habit
and though you may find it disgusting i know i
can find worse dirt staining your mind
even if i leave this life
without a square inch of me unscarred
i have never backstabbed
i have not given in
while your inky secrets stay unspoken,
mine are imprinted upon my skin
and darling, that's all there is
if i am hateful, i will show you so
i have nothing to hide
my mouth isn't lipsticked shut
so what
if i cut
i'm still a good person
and though my battle is visible
there is nothing more around the corner
i am here to stay
so are my scars
and that's all there is to say
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC
My tongue shakes to the rhythm of the undead
It's useless praying against all that I said
You end up unscarred 0% alive
For people you end up dead just another stone named R.I.P.
No words of apology to help you through
Heaven awaits in vain, as Hell beckons you
Bargaining your life on both hand sides
Hell pays more than what Heaven calls most
Greedy as you are you choose the dark side
Rotting as Satan laughs and tortures you
Came to realize a mistake was made
Fruitlessly awaiting nothing for all the sins you repented
Shackled to doom, your life wasn't yours anymore
You wondered what worse yet was still in store
You beg to my feet to appeal to the Lord
You throw your hands in despair as I see you burn, with glee
Why should I help you when I had been through the same in history?
May 9, 2010
May 9, 2010 at 7:45 AM UTC
Swirling, dancing emotion drenched
Hues
Licking the pure unscarred ground
Behind them a trail of unmistakable
Blue
Falling raining
Splashing sound
The only noise to be found
In the colorless room
A dash here
A line there
Her story told through
A swift movement of the hand
An expression of the mind
Silence of the tongue
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 4:21 PM UTC
my dad was a workin man
mud on his boots and rust colored hands
cigarette in his mouth and Carhart pants
covered in sawdust from the projects he'd sand
we were family but how he saw us I'll never understand
and there was always my mother so he always needed another plan
we were technically a family, the few of us just us three
in a house like a boxing ring the loving was left up to me
four poor walls held together by two wedding rings begrudgingly
you could starve to death there if you were the one hungry for sympathy
my mom was a violent woman, a true fighter
hot tempered and her temper would start hot fires
at a young age I was inspired to learn to fight back because I was tired
of the beatings, of the yelling, of fake apologies, of the mire
we were a family but how she handled us I will never admire
she wanted us forever but the fates conspired
we were a family through all of the calls to the police
we were a family through the jealousy, the paranoia, and the deepening grief
we were a family that went to war and ignored peace
we were a sick body on it's knees that knew only disease and no relief
then of course we were a sailing ship forced on it's inevitable course
divorce
then us three became him, and her, and me, the source
now I have no recourse to heal those old sores
my dad was a boxer and my mom was a volatile pyre
fourteen years on that noose and fears are all I acquired
what transpired has made me hollow and lonely and scared of today because of the prior
and whoever tells you that you could survive that unscarred is the worst kind of liar
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 9:47 PM UTC
No feelings
No depth
No core to strike the iron hot
Upon.
I regret to inform you Sir
That I have lost the capacity
To care,
That I have dropped the
Ephemeral Ball of belief
And have become tangled
Undone.
A shallow
Hollowed
Cracked
Broken and busted
Shapely shell
That contains only dust,
Particles of Mistrust
I am bumpy rolling stone
No moss collected
Just cleft reflected
On a surface
Not shy or unscarred of pain.
This is today
This empty decay
This is now, this dust cloud
Caught trapped aloof and uncaring.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 2:15 AM UTC
Once I was a Hero,
the Hero of my back yard.
My sword, faith and shield were handy,
kept my face unscarred.
I would fly on wings of ravens,
ride on the backs of beasts,
sleep under the Ice from the west,
rise with the Fire from the east.
I saved many fair maiden,
slew gremlins, ghosts, and goblins,
found ancient treasure from past kings,
ran through numerous gauntlets.
I commanded a battalion of knights,
who would shout my name with pride,
I wonder if my people have missed me,
since the day I grew up and died.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 1:13 AM UTC
my dad was a workin man
mud on his boots and rust colored hands
cigarette in his mouth and Carhart pants
covered in sawdust from the projects he'd sand
we were family but how he saw us I'll never understand
and there was always my mother so he always needed another plan
we were technically a family, the few of us just us three
in a house like a boxing ring the loving was left up to me
four poor walls held together by two wedding rings begrudgingly
you could starve to death there if you were the one hungry for sympathy
my mom was a violent woman, a true fighter
hot tempered and her temper would start hot fires
at a young age I was inspired to learn to fight back because I was tired
of the beatings, of the yelling, of fake apologies, of the mire
we were a family but how she handled us I will never admire
she wanted us forever but the fates conspired
we were a family through all of the calls to the police
we were a family through the jealousy, the paranoia, and the deepening grief
we were a family that went to war and ignored peace
we were a sick body on it's knees that knew only disease and no relief
then of course we were a sailing ship forced on it's inevitable course
Divorce
then us three became him, and her, and me, the source
now I have no recourse to heal those old sores
My dad was a boxer and my mom was a volatile pyre
fourteen years on that noose and fears are all I've acquired
what transpired has made me hollow and lonely and scared of today because of the prior
and whoever tells you, you could survive that unscarred is the worst kind of liar
Apr 26, 2012
Apr 26, 2012 at 12:54 PM UTC
it's such a shame
that these days
"real" friends are just about
as hard to come by as
teenagers with unscarred wrists
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 10:00 PM UTC
i am
--am i?--
yeah, i think i am
drunk drunk drunk
and signing myself up for
selective service so i
will be able to access my financial
aid and not have to cough up
almost $2,000 for one term
that me and my bank account
just really do not have, ya know?
and that little dropdown menu
well it doesn’t offer the option of:
“i am being forced to sign up for this
so i can afford college”
because i guess that sounds less
appealing than my being recruited
during lunch while i watched my fellow
(cis) male students dislocate their shoulders
doing pull ups so the older boys in uniform
would be proud of them and
maybe even give them a
nice little lanyard
because after over $100 to get
the right name and gender marker
on my id and $60 to get a new
birth certificate
i’m male enough for the government
to want to make into cannon fodder
but i’m still not male enough to
use the men’s room without the
threat of being verbally harassed
or physically assaulted
and that just makes me so angry
because here’s “bone-spurs donnie”
a known draft dodger of
at least 5 times who had the money
to pay off any doctor he wanted
trying his hardest to ban trans
people from enlisting
to fight in a war backed by a country
that wants them dead
yet that little M on my id
that i paid so much for
makes me eligible to be blown
to bits or come back to
a country that doesn’t want me anymore
with my brains scrambled from
shell shock and ptsd
because this country is willing
to pretty much force-feed young men
into the bottomless belly of the
war machine
always stoking the fires of the
military industrial complex with
money and unscarred flesh
and so much lies
and so much fear mongering
and i am just so tired
of having to fill in that
little bubble with my ballpoint
pen and a click of the mouse
pledging what could easily be the
rest of my life to being
riddled with bullets
miles away from home
just so i can grab that
financial aid
that perpetual carrot being dangled
in front of my oh so
transgender and queer nose
so i can afford an education
and not become another statistic
another person that the
united states of amerikkka
has failed
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 2:07 AM UTC
His wrists are my favorite part of his body,
Bones pressing delicately through pale, unscarred skin in a way mine haven't since the 6th grade.
The only bones showing on my body are my elbows and knees, just barely
And the worried bones of my insecurities.
I wish I could see my shoulder blades and hipbones.
I'd never hoped to be a skeleton but
I'd hoped to be proud of my appearance.
Even though my best friend tells me that I'm pretty just the way I am,
I know I'm not as pretty as my sister;
We're twins but no one ever believes us
She has gorgeous blonde hair and pale skin and sky blue eyes,
Hourglass shape.
I think she got the looks, but I always hope I got the brains.
Today I don't know which is the better end of the deal.
I know I am fat. I don't need any doctors or parents or bullies to tell me that
My curves are not big-boned,
Obesity doesn't run in my family,
No one runs in my family,
And by no one I mean me.
My every outfit is prefaced by compression shorts and slimming colors and self-conscious shame.
My stomach has ugly purple stretch marks like tongues of hungry fire
Burning away my self-esteem
Summer evenings aren't fun anymore
When my father tells me I'm too big to swing on the swing set
And my mother asks if I'm pregnant.
I'm not.
I'm a size 14. My mother thinks I'm a size 10.
When I try on the too-small clothes she brings home
I cry in the privacy of my bedroom mirror,
Oceans of salted pain worry over my face,
Try to rinse away the guilt.
At least I'm not an ugly crier.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
What are you getting at?
Poetically dispassionate ink
pouring out of your mouths.
Standing half-naked here
with your nasty bits hanging out and dangling.
Fifth grade ******* contest,
tape measure microphone.
'His darkness is bigger than his!'
'Well yeah but his is darker.'
It's okay
maybe you're a grow-er and not a show-er.
Half-poised, microphone voice-box
tell me now, what parchment does
your pen ***** onto?
Caligraphy college degrees.
Upper-middle class tragicomedy.
Skin unscarred,
pretending to know
just how deep a razor blade can go.
Red ink looks close enough to blood I guess.
This vast sea of poetic words,
snotgreen and scrotumtightening.
With your absolute knowledge
of what Joyce was getting at
as he layed there dying and blind
imploring to the world:
"Does nobody understand?"
What awful things has the world done to you
to beget these howls of pain?
What about you
does this dimlylit place,
with it's black coffee and chicken sandwiches,
epitomize?
When was the last time your world was worth destroying?
How did you sleep last night?
Have you ever heard a bone snap in half?
What is your first thought when holding a sharp object?
What will these words prove
when you find that no one's listening?
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 8:36 PM UTC
When I was two
I was told
What to do.
When to sleep,
When to eat,
Sometimes
When to pooh.
That's okay,
In fact, it's cool,
I was two,
Not yet in school.
I can't dismiss
That life of bliss.
When I turned six
I started school;
For sixteen years
I followed rules.
I got Qualified,
I got Certified,
I got Bone Fide,
I shoulda been Beatified.
I did what I was told.
I was sold.
I enjoyed
Middle-class life,
Rising early,
Then late at night.
Worked for the man
As best I can;
Reaped rewards,
Came out unscarred
Because I was
A rules vanguard.
I'm older now,
There's no rules,
So don't tell me
What to do.
But, there's one thing
I'll tell you.
Success isn't measured
In cars and homes
(there's some success in chromosomes),
Just follow rules
To your advantage;
You're not weak,
It shows your courage.
Secure the best
For your life's voyage.
Now,
That I'm sixty-two,
Say what you want,
I'm deaf to you.
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 1:49 PM UTC
Death of a Poet
Bittersweet, the whispers in my head,
Slugging tender punches intended to dismiss –
and yet they aggravate my sensitivities.
Calm, the winds that catch my sails
churning waters flow beneath my bow –
yet aggravate my need for comfort.
I witness beauty in the stars that hang their glowing spark
an effervescence in night's taut and endless hold –
yet aggravate my desire to endure another day.
On this Sea of Consciousness my shapeless form exists
to float upon its undulations and ride the coming storm –
knowing that sea's starving mouth
hungers to consume a ragged soul.
And knowing that this soul is mine.
Now sinking deeply to bottom's waiting bed
I close the final curtain
of a poet's pathetic act
this pretense that he existed –
as a poet –
at all.
Birth of a Poet
Renewed,
light beckons my arrival
spirit’s song still buried in this heart
its beating throb nurtures undying lessons
awareness courses through a sunken soul.
Returned to water’s restless surface
A vessel waits unscarred from stormy ire
I paddle, sensing land’s embrace –
encouraging my desires…
… to aggravate my sensitivities
… earn my comfort
… and encourage my desire to endure another day.
As this new act begins the curtain rises to reveal
a soul finding ground to call his own – and knowing –
that he never existed –
any less –
than a poet –
at all.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 10:29 AM UTC
Vermilion teardrops:
falling in waves like
anguished petticoats
rustling down the year's
corridor into winter;
the palace gates are bare
arms, living kindling
unscarred in pools of fire -
with Chronos' breath to set
the mood,
glowing in every torch
the charred remains of
a living kingdom
fall to ash.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 8:48 AM UTC
I plucked a splinter from my heart
As the past began to leak-
Before clumping up against the sore
And trickling down my feet.
I exhaled the bitter, salty air,
And coughed and heaved my loss
For my lungs could only hold their share
As long as I paid the cost.
I cornered you with words, tonight,
And wailed out against the moon-
While anger poured from every noun
Falling dormant upon my tomb.
You thought I mixed it up, somehow,
Between the trembling blame,
As you coiled up upon the sound
That harshly sang your name.
I burried up my bitter soul
Beneath some shards of glass,
And planted a new world right there,
Atop a hidden past.
I crossed my t's, and said my alms
To your sweet and sickly lord.
I held my voice from trembling,
So my distress would not be heard.
I washed my wounds with holiness
Drained from the city streets,
Cleansing myself of all that feels,
For acceptance comes as defeat.
I sat there in the dark, that night,
As I painted out my life
Upon the shores of an indifferent sea,
Unscarred by wisdom's knife.
Oh, do you see the butterfly
That's shriveled against the pane
Of a dusty, concealed windowsill-
Never to see light again.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 11:07 PM UTC
THere is wHere it Happens.
THere is wHere it meets its maker, face to face, and then rips out the sink and sHatters.
An image of (G)god.
THere. Do you see now? No, you don't.Do you Hear it?
Of course not. These things can be forgiven.
Hallways, brittle lit unwavering absence of ligHt unfazed face of Hope.
unmarred reason of passion unscarred wrists, scanning the walls
Do you...feel it now? Do you? You do? Then...
The only trutH is tHat you are full of lies.
You do not see, you do not Hear, you try to listen but you cannot feel so let. me. kiss. you. So tHat you can taste your own sweet sorrow.
As you drove into me I was like the sun and you were like the moon, a firey ******* ball of fire versus a cold barren landscape, but the only thing close enougH to feel.
It stung like a needle.
It stung like a wHipcrack on a sunburn.
It stings like that first hit of cold water on an open wound.
It stings like when you suddenly realize a (G)god doesn't rule you and
before you realize that tHere is a reason beyond tHat.
It's a little thing. And you're only going to notice it when it leaves, and makes everything so, very slightly
astray.
As you pulled away I was like desert and you were like twiligHt. A cold barren landscape versus a darkness tHat still sHows some false Hope of light. Our lips were like the Horizon. They were.
You pulled away. And planets died. And people died.
And the place where my feelings once existed became a vacuum.
Every day I carried worlds on my shoulders. And the sky opened up like an old wound. And if you were the sky, I was the desert below it.
And there was nothing in this desert.
And there was nothing.
And then I knew, that it didn't matter if I lived or died.
But you were dead.
And no amount of remembering can change the world I'm in right now.
So I will make a new one.
Consisting of...
...only memories
and that is fine.
Apr 22, 2011
Apr 22, 2011 at 5:55 PM UTC
Sweat infused with sweat came riding upon the soft night breeze, sliding through the ebony air; bringing with it the scents and perfumes of faraway and exotic places. The continent of Us where union was shared and passion blazed through the rolling waves that lapped and endured with the temperate tides at the beach of Now.
And how the tall trees shook and rocked as the churning wind rushed through them; clinging from it intoxication for our senses, sensual pollen released. Released…released.
In the broken silence of Monday night, the incensed symphony of sound and sweat and passion and desire, the unbroken breath of truth begged upon hands and knees for us to realize its beauty. Simplicity and instinct. Ah that depth to which we sank with stones tied to our decorum; and how relaxed we were to sink to that ocean, upon the beach of Now; the western coast of the continent of Us.
Parting from these natural shores, eyes ever westward we sailed to the peninsula of Dream on the angel-wing blown tempest of Sleep; whence we found ourselves clinging to the memory of that soft, lost land of Us. Where a moment is a lifetime and will not allow us to pass unscarred, unmarked and taunted for it will often blow its breeze so we never forget. And never forgive the time spent upon the beach of Now.
Now a memory as precious as a pearl.
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 10:56 PM UTC
I have no doubt you're in heaven right now. if prayers can help a soul that was already unscarred I alone would have already saved your soul forget about everyone else. So if you read this from heaven, I love you. You deserve this buddy. I'm glad you finally were able to fly without the limitations of our earthly forms. I may do one final person with wings, just for you, because all the beautiful colors yours would be amaze me just the way your soul and poetry did. I'll save it and frame it because I never want to forget you. And I will move on because you wouldn't want me to waste my time crying over you, but I will also have some days where I just curl up and cry because you are my best friend and I lost you to the void of death no one living can breach. Honestly though I would never erase a moment of talking to you. I would do this all again in a heart beat oh Andy if you can read this I would do everything again. Except I would meet you sooner and talk to you more so we could have more time. R.I.P Andy, you will live on in our hearts
Once a wise person said "if someone lives on in the hearts of men, he lives on." I think. If not, I just said it. And from what I can tell that's true. So Andy, though he may not have his physical body anymore, still lives, in the minds and hearts of all of us. Andy lives on. We can repost his poetry and write poems in his honor. We will move on, but a part of us died with Andy, and part of him lived with us.
I think Andy is talking to me, or his spirit watches me, or something because I have the inexplicable urge to just address the air around me as if it were him. I want to talk to it, interact with it, ask it questions and say what I never got to say to him to it. Call me crazy but I want to talk to Andy. And I feel like he's listening.
Our angel has gained his wings. While we grieve, parts of us should rejoice, because Andy is in a better, happy place, and finally he can fly
Fly fast, fly far, fly anywhere.
We love you
Andy
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 9:44 PM UTC
In a clapboard boarding house I lie
And I am half-organic;
Several days ago, a new friend
Smiled. I watched his unscarred hands extend
An invitation cordial;
A half-hour, and I knew the panic
Tasted on the air potential *****
Eyeballs rolling from the ordeal.
Now I feel a man primordial
A human made to mould.
A person finds there’s constance in decay
When all their friends are cold.
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 11:55 AM UTC
Back when I was younger,
Still growing and getting stronger
I was asked "what do you want to be when you're older?"
I said I wanted to be in the Army
Looking up to my Dad,
My absent role-model
As he fought overseas
He was my only idol
I wanted to serve a greater cause
Fight for what is right, no hesitation no pause
Just end what is wrong to make the world a better place
Meet these terrorists with a gun, fighting face to face
But then I heard some stories of war
A man went over not knowing what to fight for
Should he fight because he must, who could he really trust?
So many doubts and he ended up at Deaths door
Could you just imagine
All the carnage and the damage?
**** that, imagine standing next to
What remains of your friend
Being the one to carry him
Off of the battlefield
And laying him to rest in
An unscarred, peaceful, quiet field
I just don't think I could cope
No matter how much I want to fight
Torn in two, between wrong and right
Between the warmth of the dark and the cold light
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 1:32 AM UTC
I caught a tremendous fish
. . . . . . . .
And I let the fish go.
—Elizabeth Bishop
All the people are old people.
Older than me.
Granddad took me fishing
with one of his friends.
They said we’d catch flounder.
They killed the engine
near the bridge pilings.
The lines stayed slack
until a red and white
floater fell below
the bay’s polluted waves.
I thought I felt a flounder
heaving on the hook.
I reeled it up—
a fish,
cylindrical and silver.
Alert, black eyes peered
at me. He floundered
against the skiff’s side
with a barbed hook inside
his young, unscarred mouth.
The old men laughed:
flounder are flat
and brown.
He was small
and nothing special—
not a flounder.
But they didn't let him go.
They ground my catch up
into a pink paste, spotted
with specs of broken bone.
We threw the pieces off the boat
to chum the water.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 2:53 AM UTC