"unskilled" poems
Thou didst not make me come
I came of my own accord
now you tell me that you're bored
how can I improve on my sweet Lord
Thou art a ruffian - unskilled in the
art of ********** no tantric ***
more like Titanic with a hex
I always know what's coming next
Who wrote my script and said that:
I wouldst love you no matter what?
maybe it was you more likely than not
I must be thankful, pretend with what I've got
Now thou art coming again - never mind my pain
why is it that my loss has to be your gain?
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 12:55 PM UTC
You Sir, Are An Electrician!
**technocrat
— noun
a proponent, adherent, or supporter of technocracy.**
This city boy was expert at
Turning the lights on,
Unlocking the front door,
Putting new batteries in flashlights,
And calling the handyman to
"Please come upstairs"
When the degree of diving difficulty was a
Positive number.
Also,
Freezing the semi-permanently the DVR,
Triggering alarms,
Killing car batteries,
Making laptops question
Human sanity,
Tearing up when reading,
"Some Assembly Required!"
Raised in a city of experts,
He was unskilled in things electric,
Becoming apoplectic,
When a device had an
On/off switch that ignored him.
Somewhat famous he was,
For engaging the inanimate,
In a verbal dialectic,
Which included words highly phonetic,
But unsuitable for children's ears.
She was raised in rural pastures,
Corn fields used for hide n' go seek,
Riding goats after school
Just for fun,
Familiar with innards of
Deus ex machina, a/k/a
Minor engine repairs, and
Doing what he called,
Making reparations.
IOS7, heaven.
Cabling laptop to external devices,
Icing on the cake,
Dis and reassembling a German coffee maker,
Did not require calling an 800 number.
She never read an instruction sheet
Without pleasurable laughing at
Japanese English.
He was unashamed of his skilled
Unskilled characteristics,
For such is the way of the world
In the human kingdom,
Some of us two handed,
some of us, bi-standers.
But upon occasion,
He would bemoan his fate,
Decry his inability to survive
On a post-apocalyptic Earth,
Like the people on tv and movies.
Periodically he would grow morose,
Listless, at his inability to adapt to a
Point Oh world.
Uncomprehending
Icons and symbols whose meaning
Were wholly unintuitive,
He secretly ashamed of his need for
technological ******
She would sense his frustration,
Wipe away his inner condensation,
Climbing into his lap,
Whispering the following:
**You sir, are an electrician
of words, a verbal technocrat,**
Plumber of the depths where
Few fear to tread, explorer of the head,
Restorer of human paintings unmatched,
Without your ilk,
this world would be unbearable,
Your heart's warming silk
Comforts bodies and souls,
Speaking from experience personal.
Then, she flicked his
On/Off switch,
On.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 2:43 AM UTC
people often underestimate me,
i am either
to dumb,
or to unskilled.
i am
to weak,
or to busy.
i am
to fat,
or to sad.
when in reality all i am is
m i s u n d e r s t o o d
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC
Blue infinity
Beautiful serenity
Breaking enmity
~
Food hopes crumbling
Stomach empty, grumbling
Taco bound stumbling
~
Smart
Polite, Educated
Enlightening, Enriching, Enthralling
Teachers, Students, Idiots, Parasites
Disgusting, Debilitating, Degrading
Disrespectful, Obnoxious
Stupid
~
Rap
Poetic, Spoken
Rhyming, Entertaining, Battling
Real rap takes skill
Hip Hop
~
Cinquain
Unskilled, Foolish
Annoying, Boring, Defaming
Cinquains wish they were poetry
Joke
Jun 5, 2010
Jun 5, 2010 at 2:59 PM UTC
Subtle ruses she plays with unsuspecting hearts
With an alluring trace of flair
Never meaning anything at all to her
No focus is ever there
A touch, a smile, along with lingering glances
Quickly melt a naïve fool
Manipulating to gain what she is seeking
With her feminine wiles and tools
Such lovely promises are made unspoken
Yet loudly and out of turn
Emptying the pockets of those hearts unskilled
In avoiding manipulation’s burn
User, abuser, or master of her own show
Which one of the three
Is a question asked by many an observer
Watching the travesty
Perhaps one day, those old tables will turn on her
Shift where her wind does not blow
One who is wise, to her unspoken feminine plies
Will smile, while stealing her show
Sep 17, 2010
Sep 17, 2010 at 6:28 PM UTC
Silken impressions can entice a novice
Unversed and starry-eyed
To leap from a cast iron refuge into raging fires
Relinquishing any thought of their pride
Sweet tempting trickles of honeyed bliss
Dance magically in their eyes
While chasing thrills with their naïve hearts
Unskilled in determining lies
A novice becomes tempered in raging fires
Versed in the troubles of love
When their naive hearts are utterly broken in two
Crying out to the blue moon up above
Experience reigns master, as a naive heart learns
To chase those thrills and yet discern
How to patiently peer from the refuge of iron
Before leaping into love’s fiery burn
Sep 3, 2010
Sep 3, 2010 at 7:41 PM UTC
He was five or six when he first challenged her
To play a game of checkers.
Fresh-faced and eager from battles with friends,
Young master of jumping and double-jumping,
Connoisseur of cornering and kinging.
Ready to wreak havoc on his grandmother,
A simple farm wife, unskilled in the battle of the board.
He didn't contemplate that the checker set
In the old farm house was hers....
Their battles raged,
Sometimes every day,
With, "Want to play again?"
His constant question.
I would watch her lose,
Seeing what my little boy,
The often conqueror,
Could not see in victorious glee.
Twenty-five years later,
We sit again at the old farm table,
And the two are pitted in their checkers game;
The same, but wearied box waiting
While the battle rages on the old scarred board.
Her hand, uncertain, moves the pieces slowly
As though she is off somewhere thinking,
And he, now patient, waits in a treasured time,
For her to contemplate and make her moves.
He is twenty-nine, and she is eighty-nine,
And though the opportunities rise,
Through my misty eyes,
I see my son, pulling punches.
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
three years- count 'em-
it was papaya and pasta. 'vegetarian' fried rice with ikan bilis in it. an assignment that i failed. my room is above the kitchen, and sometimes i smell meat and curry and i still think, i still think,
of the kitchen that isn't mine. of utensils under the stove. of fingers butter-yellow and dappled with flour. three years- the sink still drips, drips, drips, i still shuck garlic with unskilled fingers,
three years, and you still smell like home
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 12:42 AM UTC
Far away, a glimmer of light just barely breaks through the vast darkness which surrounds my flying hunk of metal. I imagine that I am falling through the blackness below, or maybe soaring through the one above. If this eight hundred thousand pound machine can do it, why shouldn't I?
The perfect, twinkling stars above are mimicked by the harsh yellow street lamps below, as if man admired the stars so greatly that, with youthful clumsiness, he attempted to recreate them, his hands clammy and unskilled compared to the divine and perfect ones of nature.
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 1:34 PM UTC
When I was eight, I threw a rock at my cat.
I wanted something to love me, and he
didn't. Unfamiliar with rage and unskilled
at throwing rocks, I missed and hit the fence.
I was and am ashamed of this.
I wasn't that kind of kid.
Once, a boy sent me photos from Scotland,
daybreak over the snowy moors where he
hunted grouse with his father. He was skinny,
and sweet. I stopped writing him because I
had a thousand words for love, and he
couldn't spell any of them.
And once, I took your love for granted. It was vanity;
I felt like the lost works of a prolific master.
I wanted someone to delight in discovering me,
to wonder where I had been. It was easy to
blame you; all those years and you didn't
know what you had.
If you believe in all possible universes,
I aimed for the fence and hit the cat.
I married a sweet, skinny boy who will never
love a poem. I never had anything to prove
and I don't need you to forgive me.
Oct 22, 2011
Oct 22, 2011 at 2:03 PM UTC
When I look in the mirror I see a failure.
When I look down I see unaccomplished feet and unskilled hands.
I have mentally collected every synonym for disappointment,
Loser, loafer, underachiever.
The worst part is others see it too.
Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 1:28 AM UTC
The day starts and the sun shines,
The moon rest and the stars flee.
The prays of men are sent in time,
And the angles of God achieves thier plea.
Time is precious and never to waste,
It's unlimited for now but limited to come.
The movement may be slow but has such paste,
When you loose it, it's too late all's done.
Tells of tales and the lies of liars,
Don't get fooled it's faster than Bolt.
**** it and it will burn you like fire,
Unless you're fast like lightening bolts.
Time tells, skilled men used talents to win,
And unskilled men fail in smarts and get, rapped up like tins.
Be inethectic and understand the theory of time,
Time tells and only lost time God can find.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 3:29 PM UTC
From formative years
To adulthood serfs-baited
Servants ill-treated
From their means
Of existence alienated,
It is with hatred
From- serfdom- of- every-kind
-the- newly -unshackled heads'
Formatted!
Though their much-lamented land
Has come back to their hand
Tardy,their mind proves not free,
That is why they engage
In a killing spree!
Worse still death to all, allies
Inclusive,they decree!
Although it sounds funny
They pay back gal
For received honey!
Also to cultural norms
And religious ideals blind,
Atavistic they slay
A woman and a child
In a way that is wild.
Oblivious for 9-months
They had a lodging
In a mother's womb
They want to blast it
With a bomb!
They want to shove in it
A spherical thorny wood
As far as they could.
Alive,they grill a man,
For idle or unskilled what
They can't do, he can!
In the name of God
Or religious sects,
Replete at this
Satan-released age,
They behead a man
Made in God's image!///
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 4:42 AM UTC
Even my shadow seems golden in the abyss that I call my residence;
even the water seems solid, frozen by silent darkness.
My screams seem like whispers,
their echoes alone reside with me.
A pariah in misery, clad in the darkness of despondency,
I shrivel like a dying flower with every passing moment.
I am my own confidant,
I am my own adversary.
Since, I am trapped alone in this dark monotony.
I calm myself with the vanishing memories of summertime kisses;
I hurt myself with a hope of an escape.
With bites inflicted by my own teeth,
I’m a carnivore for my own flesh.
Yet my hunger is rendered frail,
since I still cage my soul inside this torturous chamber of flesh and blood.
I’m an unskilled hunter,
longing for my prey.
I still breathe breaths of biting indifference.
The unforgiving air slices my trachea like a sharp metal,
yet the cuts aren't lethal enough,
to free the trapped bird that my soul is,
yet the crimson isn't abundant enough to choke my lungs in my own misery.
The cage formed by my bones,
still restrict its flight.
Perhaps I will be my own escape.
Perhaps I will free the melancholy bird,
without the ****** of my tainted body.
But I am a reckless mother,
who let her child fall into this labyrinthine chasm.
I’m the almost lover,
guilty of somebody else’s union with darkness.
My carcass remains bruised and broken,
yet it is not putrid.
I still exist,
but in a different form.
The dark entities now rejoice,
for they are free to dance around me.
Embracing darkness with open arms,
I see no golden shadow anymore.
Since the light responsible for it being cast,
was extinguished by my own sinister blood.
Its golden ember now lost in crimson.
And that is how;
I witnessed my shadow’s demise.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 10:25 AM UTC
You are the only water left
in the world
when I cup you in my hands and
drink you in
But when I try to
grip and clench you
to pull you closer to me
or just hold you
you slip away and run out
through the gaps between my fingers.
You're a stormy sea I can't tame.
I'm an unskilled captain
but I've bought a new boat-
Let me be a blue raft and blend (bleed) into you.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
it feels like lying on the edge of your bed
and you try not to fall
it feels like trying to figure out your head
but you don't have the ball
you want it to be like this and like that
but nothing seems right
it feels like dark hallways in a midnight late
and you expect jump scares in fright
i feel like a rat eyeing cheese in a trap
run away gets me nothing, try to get it i might die
i questioned why i keep running into mistakes and mishaps
i'm a strained cat try to claim the tiger's eye
in a group i'm probably the most unskilled
in a battle i'm most likely the first one who get killed
"where the heck you even got all those courage?" they say
"when among these shiny sharp needles, you're the only hay"
i'm fully aware i'm not the creme de la creme
let alone try to resolve these glimpses of dreams
but along this journey i started to realize
it's not the goal they convey that you need to emphasize
it's the feelings, the laughs, the cries, and the stumbles
the obstacles you had overcome after so long it got you shattered
and maybe you'll get to understand a thing or two
that happiness can also rely in a tale of woe
i've been here for too long, but i rarely have the gut
like an endless carousel, words and thoughts are still spinning in my head
it's too complex to collate, i'm not a poet laureate
and you'd still hardly understand, i might as well do charade
what i know is i should have had no regret, it's supposed to be meaningful
another lessons learned, another clemency for this clueless fool
this will end in no time, the ride is on hurry
final year is months away, and i'm scared as can be
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 7:37 AM UTC
The eye of the storm,
I stand, motionless.
The rain stings my skin,
But I do not cringe.
The wind chills me,
But I do not shiver.
A rough statue,
Carved from a flawed rock
By unskilled hands,
I stand still.
A monument to all that is me.
Never flinching,
Because with the tiniest movement,
I would disappear.
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 11:48 AM UTC
Radheshyam
ninety years
and hasn't won one transaction.
He has lost each and every dealing
failed business
lost job
broken family
down in everything
smiled upon only in mocking
looked upon only with pity
befriended only to be exploited
poor in maths
always ended up on the wrong side of measurement
fool in love
her woman bore the child of another
unskilled in societal ways
cursed by one and all
and to top it all
he wasn't clever enough to know
why it were so
he wanted to reach out to everyone
but none could reach out to him.
Radheshyam
named after god
but never someone's god
ninety years of being a loser
he doesn't feel.
The stray animals and birds love him much.
He feeds them,
they repay with love.
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 11:36 PM UTC
Ones who are skilled go by unnoticed;
While the unskilled ones get all the attention.
Why is that, I ask?
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 10:36 AM UTC
If I do not possess graduation certificates or a degree,
What do you think of me?
Am I illiterate, un-educated, or a drop out?
Perhaps a failure would be more suited?
I suppose you'd say it decreases my life chances of success,
With nothing to prove my intelligence,
I'd be a risk.
And if I told you about my passion, my dream, my determination,
Would it make a difference?
If I told you tests and assignments were not my suited measure.
But I could show you what it is
that I treasure,
What is it about that piece of paper, inked with words and letters,
that proves me to you?
Without it,
am I unwise, unskilled and talent less?
Ill-mannered, unkempt, and emotionless?
Knowledge can be gained without education,
Experience can be done without information,
Intelligence is not always academic,
And people can achieve through life without merit.
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
As boredom swallows each of my parts whole,
with every one goes a slice of joyful time.
To me will come a trepidation bowl,
which transforms into soreness I rhyme.
This poem seems to relish misery
that I do not appreciate greatly.
It drills and grinds away at patience’s teeth
alike an overpaid dentist stately.
The unskilled hygienist throws up her tools,
because the very poem is persistent
like a tenacious patient with strict rules
to whom floss is extremely resistant.
This sonnet, while providing me with grief,
becomes a fight of pain, with no relief.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 2:15 PM UTC
Earth's satellite-- bloated and hung.
And there you were out of sight.
An accidental prize tucked in the crevice of tomorrow.
A lethal burrow abundant with barbed avowals.
In a sick dugout flourishing with axiom; an infestation.
You were;
The space tucked in a dream.
The conductor.
The lout existing in the basement.
The brute in love with disdain.
Plucking circumflex arteries- clumsy, unskilled.
Your mouth is a watering can.
Vena cava, then the right atrium.
Body parts for guitar strings.
I unravel and you're amused.
The exercise of reason, the functioning of the intellect.
Silence always stings.
It feasts on the bone marrow.
In the cracks of the asphalt,
There you are again.
Like a thief.
The Viper.
The hurricane smile I believed in.
Use me up and hang me out to dry with all the other bankrupt *****
I'll still be dormant in the eye of your assault.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 7:21 PM UTC
Were I to sit so singly willed
to write of you, my love the quill
I would find myself utterly unskilled
at etching the strength of your will
Were I to sing, songs of praise
of your stunning self, so vividly ablaze
yet concealed so well, all in a haze
I would sing myself hoarse, making my case
Were I ever to try, and measure your heart
the depths of the love that I call mine own
I would find the universe, eternal and stark
nestled deep within, whispering to my soul
calling me along, to worlds unknown.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 1:27 AM UTC
"Who are you to look at me that way?"
My naked reflection quips as I continue to stare
Defying the obvious wants of myself
How philosophical, quite the Voltaire
This
This is indeed a fine place to begin
"You've aged" I say "The coal shall not be kind"
"Your hand shall be the devil" says the man in the mirror
"Your unskilled hand and your cursed mind"
I sigh an exaggerated sigh
Trying in vain to ease the tension
But he, he grits his teeth
Staring
Accusing
"And you can quit that immature rhyme"
Jabbing his finger at me
My eyes drop, as a scorned child
Charcoal touches the Tiziano paper
My model turns his back
An act of defiance
Or an expression of reality
He is always ahead
Leading me astray
This is the view with which he,
He has made me more familiar with
Where I can feel in my place...
***"Concentrate on the task in hand
He always thinks it is about him"***
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 7:50 AM UTC