"unsold" poems
What does it take
To have a joyful cheer?
What is it at stake
To smile; that's unclear.
When our gaze meets,
And a smile, it is spread,
And I announce myself a greet,
It is unreturned instead.
For this reason, I am unsold,
I need your reasons why.
A smile unreturned is cold.
Don't say I didn't try.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
Light spreads darkly downwards from the high
Clusters of lights over empty chairs
That face each other, coloured differently.
Through open doors, the dining-room declares
A larger loneliness of knives and glass
And silence laid like carpet. A porter reads
An unsold evening paper. Hours pass,
And all the salesmen have gone back to Leeds,
Leaving full ashtrays in the Conference Room.
In shoeless corridors, the lights burn. How
Isolated, like a fort, it is -
The headed paper, made for writing home
(If home existed) letters of exile: Now
Night comes on. Waves fold behind villages.
3.8k
I am a white, Jewish girl from Florida.
Hit me.
Hit me with your white girl jokes,
Your Jewish American Princess stereotypes.
I will giggle and squeal right along with you.
Because yeah,
I do order white chocolate mocha frappuchinos from Starbucks,
I Instagram pictures of my nails,
I take selfies, whiten my teeth, straighten my hair,
Shop at Forever21 and drink Naked Juice like it is my job.
Yeah, my daddy buys me things,
I don’t pay for my data plan,
There’s no way in hell I would drive a sedan,
I wear Nike shorts and avoid any nearby cameraman,
And let me tell you, I love jamming out to old school Britney Spears.
Hit me one more time, because none of that means I am any less intelligent,
Any less diligent,
Any less likely to face judgment
Than any other slice of diversity around me –
I am a white, Jewish girl
My nose is not its own cartoon,
I eat bagels (but I absolutely hate lox),
I’m not tan or even the least bit tinted,
And god knows I don’t wear Uggs.
Tell me I need to get married young,
Major in business,
Wear clothes that leave me airless,
Get some of that European gracefulness,
But don’t tell me I’m dumb.
Don’t tell me I’m not thoughtful.
I’m a white girl.
Take a glance at my resourcefulness,
Understand my goals of being ambitious,
Get rid of your own stereotype-inducing cockiness,
And notice me in all of my flawlessness.
Because I am a white girl,
And I am unique, strong, inventive,
Empowered, passionate, adventurous,
Indomitable, unbeatable.
I am an individual –
Not part of some whole that you put me in to stabilize your mold,
Not the example of a societally scatterbrained ***** meant to be your centerfold,
Not a previously worn-out piece of clothing thrown to the gutter unsold,
Rather a human being of my own rules and my own morals
A human being with ideas and intelligence and power,
A white, Jewish girl,
A person.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
He was walking home
Ticked off with a broken nose
They stole his things
And with no shame
Left cuts and bruises
Head to toe covering him
No one gets his mind
No one really tries
He hides in the closet
When he gets home
In fear of his intoxicated father
His leather belt
Swinging from his fist
The boy cries in bitter isolation
He can't trust anyone
With no safty
He fears for his life
His mother was killed when he was five
Nine years later
He just wants to die
Multiple times he's tried
Every one of them
He survived
His wrists bleed for releaf
His skin pulls tight
Then it's released
He tiptoes out of his room
This for the last time
His father asleep in the chair
He looked pail
His chest barely moving
If you weren't paying attention
You might think he was dead
The boy got an idea
Such a melancholy idea
He went in to his father's quarters
Peaking under the bed
There lay a box full
Unsold meds
A knife in the kitchen would be his weapon
Nothing but a sigh let out
His father was soon to be no more
His heart pounded
His mind thundered
With anger and pride
"This is for Mom!"
He screamed with tears in his eyes
A knife to the chest
He fought the man
Pushing further and harder
He worked fast
The eyes glazed over
Both fear and joy filling his heart
Into the bathtub
Pills in hand
He turns on the water
He uncaps the bottle
Putting it to his lips
Up turned
He sinks down
Letting the drugs take their toll
Gone
******
Suicide
This was the price
For freedom
For justice
Mar 5, 2021
Mar 5, 2021 at 5:27 AM UTC
find me a life
sell me some dreams
call me on my phone
leave a message atleast
push me to a corner
hit me with a club
hit me with a jab
sell me some highs
dope away the lows
sold my body
sell my soul
**** me everyday some more
kick me in the groin
laugh at my puckered face
sell the snapshot of agony
don't leave anything unsold
cash me in, cash me out
sell them the deepest desires
sell the sacred earth a dime
make all you can till I die
cut my veins and let me bleed
cut me to pieces and sell the pork
dry my hide and sell some more
***** me a ****
***** me now
***** me love, ***** me passion
***** me instant gratification
***** me death and the world beyond
we are all ****** **** me now.
Jan 27, 2010
Jan 27, 2010 at 7:17 AM UTC
Beside the window sits chirping
Chirping
Chirping
Birds! I'm trying to write. DBQ... FRQ..... Fml...
Starting-
passing by the sun hides behind the top of the sky
Noon- I'm trapped
Black
white
Colorless ideas and sights
"Opinions" used to persuade the guard to mark down you did all right in your studies
Adolescents- slaves to your presence
Obey the clock
Tick
Tock
Tick
Tock
Tick
"talk" speak your mind as long as I agree
God forbid,
My mind wanders
Far away lands,
Flowers unsold
People oh so bold
Love un-withhold
Stories untold
Take hold!
Wake up!
Absorb this!
My soul is invalid...as I am a slave to sick, adolescent oppression
Education is just memorization.
.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 1:34 AM UTC
Yonder in time a boatman wait
Behind the misty white death his bait
carrying souls to an unknown land
his path same in journeys uncounted sand
the early morn mist clears to light
rowing close his passenger in sight
he checks the list of destiny for the name
yells to the shore to confirm the same
mortal soul to immortal land
the boatman row with steady hand
A distant melody the boatman sing
A gentle ride sailed with feathery wing
Time swift to the unknown land
The passenger be welcomed by angels hand
What hath thou have to pay the fare
Seek the boatman his journeys share
The mortal look towards the angels hand
What hath i got in immortal land
pointed the angel to a box of gold
Tis your treasure in heaven unsold
Yonder lay in the box of gold
deeds of the passenger in earth to hold
deeds of love and deeds of care
memories of past ever to share
Time stood its ground the passenger thought
He said to the boatman thou shall have all i got
why doth you give all the angel sought
To those on earth I owe in deeds and thoughts
A fare to pay for those who cant
To heavens abode the ride they want
leaving forth the pains and sorrow behind
leaving with sweet memories to the loved and kind
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 3:24 AM UTC
The world has changed and so have we,
United we would never be.
Consumed by selfish greed our leaders fall,
The propaganda war blinds us all.
Unless we change for a new tomorrow,
The Lebanese soil will cry in sorrow,
Recalling the days we Lebanese stood firm,
Against all odds, fighting by our own terms.
In the land of the strong, the generous and the wise
Conducted disorder reduced our proud size
Us divided so is the ground under our feet
All alone the road becomes too steep
All that we need is to look at history
Read what was there and compare to what we see
The wise knows the brain, the warrior knows the heart
Carriers of blood hide not your origins, unleash your mark.
But what land do I speak of?
Was it the land of the free and brave?
But haven’t they all fled off?
For their future they must save.
To seek new opportunities they have gone,
Beyond the seven seas and the western stars,
Where they can bloom safely, save their sons
From where lies corruption and wars.
Yet under the dreaded shade of corruption
Still runs a silent whisper of light, unsold
So raise your heads and shout out this resolution
Let the whistle turn into anthems of hope
One day the whole world will hear our shout
That day we will have learnt to use our might
We did not think or let our spirit show
But today on the big black wall, we pierced a beam of light.
So Rise mighty phoenix and spread your wings wide.
Scorch the earth and awaken the spirits, the everlasting fire.
Light a candle, for those gone,
Light a fire, the new dawn.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 6:06 AM UTC
Mid October takes its end of season's leap
into the solitude of post-tourism autumn.
The landscape shows its truer face to celebrate
the reassembly of local solidarity.
Tat and trim tucked into hibernation,
chalkboards erased,
scant takings totaled,
inflatables deflated.
Unsold crafts packed between pages of yesterday's
'Correio de Manha'
Shocked freezers stand open-mouthed
their diet of ice dwindled to a thin trickle.
Sunshades collapse in deep south style,
redundant loungers relax supine.
Kids slope back to school -
a mule-train of shoe-scrapers packed to the hilt
dawdles through warming scents of
post-salad indulgence,
sweet with the street-aroma of 'feijoada',
garlic, and aromatic oregano
pot-grown in a back plot, littered with
discarded placards and tired bikes.
Past men leaning doors, unsure of new routines,
idle hands and minds with new time to fill
mostly in cold bars for warm camaraderie.
Women pick fitfully at quiet-season's crochet
squatting to gossip under a white wash
slung and pegged, stick-sure
against thin bleached facades.
Under Planes, old comrades congregate
shuffling at a make-shift table,
tired eyes set on cards,
playing for cents under a limited sky
once defined by Salazar.
Car parks thin.
Beneath the russet canopies street-sweepers
scorn a reckless wind, where still sun-crisp leaves
gather in gutters, thirstily anticipating
the first deluge under autumn's gathering clouds.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2011
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 7:13 AM UTC
Sea pulse asurge, your pores brace for influx:
the scrub of sixteen salts whose rigid karma
scrapes us down. So sound the signals
(likely sales) from shoehorned sleeper
towns. Their patron wasn't long for earth;
a grid (what genius!) takes a bow,
puts slideshow on, and all we hear is how.
When sunlight stirs again we'll chisel
feeble errors, chip a bullet
out of stone. We'll see which skulkers
have a six at home, and toast
the night in sheetery. When devils
drain the foosty runoff of
your prim report to primal center,
sweep up white-horse myths bleached out
of paved-gray lots. Submerge in steam
of favor, frenzied in unseen replies
(no sharper catching eyes as coffees,
tipped to spoon in drowse-A.M.s
from furtive nights) -- Behold (unsold to rights)
uncensored action, living truth!
Untempted nine-percenters,
go-betweens for stunning tens
ground out of poison pens.
Abrade with noise what was to clean our lens.
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 11:58 PM UTC
Cry the untold tears
Bought by unsold fears
By a lonely grave
Where only a slave
Sheds rivers for a poet
****** tears flow it
Down to a sea of voices
Full of forbidden choices
But why it could be
When nobody cries for me
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 7:28 AM UTC
In the darkness of the night, a soul does fade
Through the veil of death, it starts to wade
Life slipping away, like sand through fingers
Leaving behind memories that forever lingers
The breath grows shallow, the heart beats slow
As the final moments begin to show
The body grows cold, the spirit takes flight
Leaving behind a world of endless night
In the stillness of the room, a loved one weeps
As the reaper comes to claim what he keeps
A life once vibrant, now still and cold
A story left untold, a tale left unsold
But in the end, we all must part
It's the cycle of life, the beating heart
So cherish each moment, hold them near
For in the blink of an eye, they may disappear
And when the time comes for us to go
May we find peace in the afterglow
For death is not an end, but a new beginning
A journey into the unknown, a chance for winning.
Oct 3, 2024
Oct 3, 2024 at 8:12 PM UTC
all about
how your stock of words,
the inventory of what you got,
aged and now marked down on the books,
carried over from the holiday season,
that you, in marriage to life, accumulated,
to whom you have become betrothed
your trade, no can give 'em up,
gotta to maintain their
existence
no matter how bewildering,
gotta to demonstrate
persistence
by taking last year's unsold,
repaint, recombinate, dress 'em up,
post them as all new,
even tho the words used,
pre-existed you,
still noisily proclaimed,
still advertising
each Johnny-come-lately
poem as
"brand new"
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 2:14 PM UTC
To all of the nameless...
faces in the crowd at an event
your unity is endearing
it's currency and time you have spent
To all of the nameless...
wanderers sleeping outside in the cold
your fight to survive is empowering
spirit the only thing that remains unsold
To all of the nameless...
users who've surpassed last call
your denial is where the battle begins
a war cry against substance and ethanol
To all of the nameless...
children who lack a daily feast
your hunger no fault of your own
basic human rights have been breached
And to all of the nameless...
believers giving life to cause
your actions are restorative
but we must hold off on applause
When people are united &
hunger and struggle still exist
efforts must be given
until the problems are fixed
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 11:16 AM UTC
Our skin is like a canvass,
Etched upon by the lines of age.
Its tale is told by the scars that unfold.
Some made of sorrow,
Some born of rage.
An unturned page, ripped and unsold,
Tossed into the fiery blaze.
At least it kept us warm.
For the winter was rough,
The land cracked and torn.
The trees lay barren,
Bark scorched, for ever more.
Turn the page and start anew!
Yet still the scars remain.
We look ourselves, for now at least,
Though we will never be the same.
The smile beneath the shadow
Of our eyes, anointed red,
Can never belie what we have endured.
The hopelessness of being burned
From a trial by fires warming allure.
So although the flesh may falter,
No longer to be found anew,
Our eyes shall burn with a fiery purpose.
Till the day life's debt is due.
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 3:24 AM UTC
I scurry to the bathroom, shutting the door of the uncleaned world behind me and I just stare in the mirror.
I see myself, but not only myself, but what I have become.
I see blood and tears shattering down to the purist of sinks.
I have become Sweeney Todd, a man forsaking his lost world.
A man who doesn't even see himself anymore.
It just comes to show how much this cruel world can change someone, making them think that there’s No Place Like London. Their own creation of their own world.
Here with a mask, portraying what I have become; this man.
A man who kills for passion and with love and with no scarce for bleeding over the white dove.
A man who is mistaken by a fellow Judge, a bias judge who has ruled his final destiny, my final destiny.
I see myself becoming more lost, slowly slitting my throat by this man with white hair; dead bodies filling up the floor. I’m losing control.
Just like The Worst Pies in London, I’m disgusting, I am revolting; like an unsold bottle of elixir.
I have been tossed and used and if I dare take one step out of place I will be beaten.
People expect so much from me and I've tried my best to be worthy in their presence just like
my childhood, nothing but a blurred line, controlled by an egotistic, vile Italian wanna-be.
I've grown into a killer.
Not only on myself, but those who even dare to care for me.
I stare in the mirror with a forbidden soul I call my wasteland, my graveyard, my sewer; this man, this man has shown me the ways of disgrace and having an unloved life.
I scream in horror as this blade takes control of my new life.
Am I evolving into something I have wanted? Or am I following the footsteps just like the customers did when they lined for their funeral?
I glance at the puddle of blood I have created and wonder if this is the life for me.
I take a taste of what is yet to come of this new life and all I can do wait.
Wait Down By the Sea for this man to become, this man who lives this life of Sweeney Todd; the man of my creation, me.
I stare in the mirror struggling to open that closed door, wondering and thinking what it’s like out there, out there in the real world and question myself, is it the world for me?
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
drunk girls giggle ***** giddy
my distaste for liquor leads me
to render
my senses ten-fold
i am so
so aware
of their slippery tongues
my mouth knows silence
how
unsold cars in lemon lots
long for mileage
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 2:06 PM UTC
The new education
building was beautiful
because it was reminiscent
of friends’ houses past.
Fond, albeit naive, memories
of stone suburbs and finished basements and iPod stereo systems playing easy listenin’
trite popular rock n’ roll music to the smell of toaster muffins,
some Pillsbury brand I can’t remember the name of and didn’t bother to then
because my mom or dad (for different reasons) couldn’t be persuaded to buy boxed, branded
items (usually, and until an Aldi came to town), and don’t bother to know now because
it’s probably better and cooler to not know.
We fear what we think we know about what we actually don’t know.
I learned that recently and it is popping up everywhere.
Popping up like processed delicious memories out of new clean toasters.
Where are all the crumbs? Where is the crumb life?
I’ll ask that if I ever return.
There once was a statue of a short Italian chef with a mustache and a tray attached to his stone hand, for letters, I assumed, and if I ever go back I’ll also ask: is that for letters?
See the truth is that there was depth.
There was depth but what bothered me I mean really made me uncomfortable
was that it was hidden and wiped off the counter and swept up so to speak
with perhaps, someone else’s hands.
The depth wasn’t measured in wood chips and smelly black beautiful old independent dogs
or falling apart antique chairs or comprehensive but dusty cd collections, k.d. lang, Stevie Wonder, Jesus Christ Superstar soundtrack, or posters of hot chile peppers or piles of unsold rocks and bricks in the backyard that were also high standing posts for kids who were imaginary queens and kings and warriors, or tacky red spray painted bicycles.
Our depth was visible and pure and it seemed like everyone else’s was cleaned up and stored away.
It felt that way when I was young.
Now I value my family’s visible depth
and consciously remind myself that no matter how
fresh the paint smells or how not present a quirky old photograph is
it is somewhere, it is somewhere
**** it is somewhere
it is beautiful
to remind myself that.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 5:54 PM UTC
Infinite blue fields
Growing cotton,
unworn,
unsold
Letting the wind carry off the crop
And night brings an end to the season.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 9:58 PM UTC
I always act like this maelstrom of destruction is not by choice
I sit and scream in my mind but can’t get out my true voice
If I could speak do I know my speech
Would I listen then teach but never preach
Would I say the truth or cover it with a blanket
Would you listen with bird like free ears or like jenga try to take out a piece
Would you understand or burn me like a spatula flying off grease
Will I be ok when you act all cold
When I know you don’t care about a story unsold
I try to free my mind by hearing my shy voice out loud
But the stories I have I’m not always so proud
So I guess i’ll sit and have to start from the start
So when you take a dart and throw it at my heart
Remember I tried I tried to free my mind
And from the deepness of my heart maybe there was something that I wanted to find
When you sit and talk about a past that I never hard
And you judge me like you’ve never been sad
When you all act like you can deal with your pain better than I can deal with my own
Like you’ve never done something messed up and learn and grown
When you say you all carried me up my stairs because I couldn’t stand
Well that’s a lie because I wish I could have got a helping hand
And I get so explosive when I hear everybody talk, talk, and talk
Not knowing about the scars or the places that I had to go
So good luck covering up your own pain by stooping this low
You know nothing about me or the pain that I do still hide
So next time at those lunch tables, lab tables, lockers
Look at what you’ve done, said, hid, or when you lied
About a girls past that you never really cared about and just wanted something to put into that conversation
Maybe if this mad worlds lucky next time you’ll give it some hesitation
And when you sit there every single day
Remember that this was the something that I would have, could have, should have, wanted to say
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 2:39 PM UTC
This life in which we exist holds nothing written in stone.
For we are here today and gone tomorrow, left fearing the unknown.
No promises are kept, nor word without a lie.
No love that lasts, or knowing the reason why.
Nothing kept sacred or secret left untold.
No friendship remains loyal , or souls remain unsold.
No together as one forever , or death until we part,
No goals accomplished or finish what we start.
No respect given nor respect earned
No punishment for our actions or any lesson learned .
Morals and values are no longer what is taught.
Freedom is no longer free for reason this country faught.
What has this world become or what have we conformed to.
Wrong doesn't make right and evil is never good, as well as something false is never true
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 6:27 PM UTC
And here.
Among wights.
Missing all tickets unsold.
Calling all who lived and felt.
It is colder.
And the wounds are raising.
And again with revenue as to portray.
"It is gone." She says.
And I dream.
Of that razor to steal my heart.
And who steals my blood daily.
Though not as to compost.
Poisoning flowers.
Oxidizing.
And fermenting her soil.
Soon again.
I will drink.
My ears warm.
The morn brings leashed air.
A chuckle at present.
Of the last.
Of past words misunderstood.
Once of four.
And once of five.
And yeah, we speak in high tones.
In vague terms.
Of times arrived.
Departing flights forgotten.
Many moments undersold.
Still I taste.
A forced kiss.
Too loved to unleash.
And so I wonder who said, "Who?"
Oh bother.
Speech of idiots.
Words ******
I deny all salves.
All soothing.
All encompassing.
Sweet chestnut colored love.
Curves to hold and suffer subsurface.
Sans scars.
Food tomorrow.
After today, food tomorrow.
I recall her taste.
As recalled, I remember.
The violence.
And pride.
After the meal.
The tears and the urination.
After theft.
I swam.
With those who denied.
And those who gave.
Who took?
She sat.
And I swam.
And they spoke.
The water.
I emerge on new skin.
Skin of those before.
Of dreams wondered.
Dreams failed.
I pursued and entered.
A feast.
A drink.
Soft pelts.
A bed and works of excuse.
Drowned in water.
Drowned in love.
My sweet ancient temple.
The skies of false truth.
And the ******* of an angel.
The miss of one married.
Scarred.
Loud speeches.
Parades across the globe.
And hopes of love.
Goodnight sweet muse.
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 9:10 AM UTC
the tea is cold
my head is filled with mold
unfold stories that remain unsold
how can I be so bold
one might ask
I'll leave you with this
if I die tomorrow
I might never get the chance
to sing my song
instead of humming along
for so long I was just floating along
filling the void
devoid of all joy
I had to toy
with the idea
that my head remained unclear
tunnel vision
review mirror
not that I cling to all I hold dear
fear has its grip around my neck
I admit, it's hard to forget
a feeling that never left
a battle that still rages on
and on and on and on
repetitive thoughts loud as beating drums
but lacking the passion
contemplating cashin' in
cause I don't know where to begin
I once lived in sin
I still do
but because of you I made myself new
or so I thought I did
in the sense that I no longer do what isn't best
morally
for those supporting me
ironically
the only thing that holds me back is me
when I think back to being a kid
never could I have imagined this
a prisoner of war
and what for
there is so much more
I found a reason to stay and fight
I just wish I could fight for myself
I wish I could escape myself
self created hell
ah
to be granted a wish
such sweet bliss
or so it would seem
I no longer want to dream of dreams
but do
take a chance and pursue
change my perspective
seek something new
all old routes are through
I'm finished yet renewed
on the path to better views
painting the picture with brighter hues
always preaching it starts with you
this time I won't label it true
because what is
is
is
keep an eye out for my accomplishments
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 2:33 AM UTC
The fat and short one
Extremely different from everyone
Intensely pushed to the side
Scampering away to hide
Whimpering in that little corner
Sobbing till sunrise fades
Smiling till sunset starts
What a cruel world
Nothing's left unsold
No she's not unique
She's the one no one would ever pick
Helplessly embracing the thought
Of being alone in her own boat
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 8:12 PM UTC
separating thoughts
from my head
fighting the demons
haven't slept
awake every second
nobody to tell
this is hell
this is hell
I swear, it feels like it
this is hell
nobody to tell
i fear, i'll be like this
forever in my soul
nobody to love or hold
watch time grow old
a heart gone cold
how do you live
like this anymore ?
there's no spell
this is hell
i swear, i'm so naked
nothing to sell
this is hell
my dear, i have waited
for so long
in this lake of fire
that now i am nothing
but ash
and you'll always be
what i could never have
a part of me
bearing my black
a dream unsold
never be, untold
how do you
get it all back ?
for i swear,
this is hell
this is my hell
i swear, it's mine to keep
nobody to tell
all i have felt
for an eternity
somewhere within me
burning me
for this is hell
this is hell
i swear, it's true
this is hell
this is hell
my dear, here without you.
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 2:24 PM UTC