"unshapely" poems
ALL things uncomely and broken, all things worn out
and old,
The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lum-
bering cart,
The heavy steps of the ploughman, splashing the
wintry mould,
Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the
deeps of my heart.
The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great
to be told;
I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll
apart,
With the earth and the sky and the water, re-made, like
a casket of gold
For my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in
the deeps of my heart.
4.2k
Wake up, stare out your jagged window at the yellow-green, creeping mist that pours through the suburbs. Taste darkness inside a spit shined, stream lined dank tank that your roommates call home. Shower and be appalled at just how unshapely you have gotten, your body a testament to your diet of Wendy’s and alcohol. Go to your dream crush, thankless job and stand at attention as the human flesh wave moves blankly through aisles and registers, even as they pretend that they are not the target market. Watch as they consume ferociously violent DVDs and smart devices at discount prices. Stand startlingly still and pray to God that they are like Tyrannosaurus and can’t see movement. Realize you are a ******* idiot because you get your facts from movies. Feel fear and dread make a shrapnel nest in your stomach when you understand that this might be the best that you can do. Frame count with fellow claustrophobic agoraphobics and call that pointless perfection pursuit escape. Desperately have twisted, quasi-acrobatic *** with every woman that is willing, but not so secretly wish they were that somewhat mousy, yet charming, grad student who makes your coffee every morning. Try to shrink into her pocket, invisible, only an absent touch away. Hope that someday you can intervene in her life positively so she notices you there. Go to sleep and breathe in that yellow-green vapor that reacts with your cells and becomes a clean cancer. Rinse, repeat and pray for that big break.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 10:31 PM UTC
love
aghast
at its own
separation
curds from
whey
drifting
up into
unshapely
neglected
kernels
drifting up to
a wide distance
in their broth
of once-
togetherness
weeping
energy
like a
milky
wound
expectations
of gushing
romance
seep out
and down
sunk to the
bottom
to never
feel
alone
to never
feel
lost
to never
feel
grown
or
responsible
for it all
sunk right down
to the
bottom
buoyancy
independent
rising up
I take care
of my
self
alone
purposeless
drifter
bulbous
love nugget
© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 1:07 PM UTC
A lukewarm pile of fresh *****
And the scattered pieces of a broken heart
Or some other wildly clichéd dross
A vague color between green and grey
Maybe some recent cigarette butts
In it are uncomfortable memories
Immortalized vindictive shards of the past
A boot print to assert the endless shame
Nothing positive is ever in *****
It's a relief of pain and dullness
It contains the distilled essence of heartache
I haven't thrown up in years
I must have so much pent up waste in me
Waste of the self, garbage of the soul
Unholy, rancid, putrid, odorous *****
Or am I perhaps forgetting something?
There is tranquil solitude in *****
Isolated, cold, mechanical self-reflection
Representations of pathetic shame
Cruel hatred in regurgitated carrots and corn
No disgust except that which the perceiver suggests
What point is there in disgust and regret then?
The ugly and incapacitating truth escaped
Perhaps the reason I do not, is because I am!
Quetzal, the drunken ***** of the Holy Spirit
Reflecting all the disgust God hides
Transposed onto unshapely fractures
Cavities and chasms, gaping on the cloth of Eden
Become as ***** lukewarm and odorous!
The purest and cleanest reflection of God's adoration
Oct 17, 2022
Oct 17, 2022 at 3:49 PM UTC
Spring time dew drips onto a blossoming bud
Each a piece of sustenance for a growing life
Enchanted by a combination of mere light
It starts to sprout leaves and stand firm.
They exclaimed of the beauty of a poppy
I knew little on flowers nor its effect
For all I could see did not reflect
the true art of growing a flower.
I watched the flower open up;
it's petal pushed pride upon its stem
But I knew little on flowers once again
And all I could see held no value.
The flower spoke to me by the breeze
A gentle aroma to remind me to 'open up'
and most nights, a poem is merely close enough
But coated words can only confuse the soul.
So I open up to you
You who have told me to **** myself
As though you build a life raft
and with blinding rage labeled it help
only to ever refuse me a seat.
You told me I was dressed like a furniture
as though wood and fabric could ever
equate to the spirit and soul of a man,
because the soul of a man can grow infinite
And in that brief second, that brief minute
your words left your mouth; you fired artillery
a mistaken hatred poured from your lips
to those who may have unshapely hips
to those who found it harder to deal with you
than it was to sit a ******* calculus exam.
...
It didn't have to be this way;
you didn't have to find those things to say,
as though the way I'm dressed
was only ever meant to impressed blind hearts
so you found time to tear me apart
just because I had on clothes that did not match yours
nor did dress as though I was built to mop floors
but I dressed as I liked.
I dressed as I liked
And after meeting you
an infinite closet
became minimised to
'Maybe I'll just stay inside'
and life became an everyday game of
hide and seek where those hiding
didn't really know what they were hiding from.
I've seen your smile as I let out a single sigh
between broken words, you tainted my spirit
And you burned fires with something fierce.
'I did not get hurt by your words',
I'll tell myself over and over
hoping that maybe this chapter has a closure
so I awake to every morning, avoiding your stares
hoping that you weren't there
because out of all the places you could be
you demolished your way into my world
and fired trajectories of hate only to ever make one mistake
you never really took the time to know me.
Those words didn't hurt me...
I kept telling myself that...
And those artillery made no impact...
I kept telling myself that...
hoping that none of it were true
that you were wrong
because out of all the pain I felt
it all originated from you.
I didn't know I was supposed to cry at a joke
...
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 8:03 AM UTC
Panic and manic sadness are two married troubles
The pair loves each other and hates to be apart
Because they love each other so much
Their home, once a shell, is now shattered
Because they love each other so much,
Their home is unworthy of them
A vessel, grotesque and unshapely
Yet with innards pure and pearly
The lovers stay to themselves
After all, the world that girts them is unsightly
Full of sadness, evil
and the scariest shadow in the inverted box
Love of another
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 8:21 AM UTC