"upstaged" poems
what time was it
what was your age
when you first found out
that it's all just staged
from their instagram account
to their facebook page
it's all just made up
so they are not upstaged
they exaggerate their life
as their followers rose
they take a hundred shots
to get the perfect pose
so don't get caught up in it
you're not missing out
these apps intend to create needs
and to fill your life with doubt
be aware as you scan your feeds
it might be time to log-out
repeat this line just as it reads
i am not missing out
Feb 16, 2019
Feb 16, 2019 at 8:30 PM UTC
Frigid buildings as those
That scrape the sky, climbing.
In a place that no-one knows,
Distant bells are chiming
To the shots and screaming,
"Stop resisting!" A rise
In terror betraying
The brittle city's brittle lies.
And for a time we hoped that they
Would never know our quiet rage,
And from the melting lights, we pray
For the silent, now upstaged.
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 7:41 AM UTC
Those beautiful flowers, I envy
People get to pick them at a glance
They usually have thorns
They never would have mind
What it feels like to be a ****
When forces of cliches
pull you out of hate
A pride that burns like a weep
could this be a mayday haste?
or just another fate doomed to be upstaged
The elbows that are fused
And the unforgotten triangles of loops.
Nonetheless we know.
With all the drums of war
And the roots beneath the willows-
Though large it may sound!
Misplaced and Escaped-
written in the naysayers hand
And a smile that doesn't at all rhyme.
Sure we all have died somehow
But this is the only place
A folly tree can fly.
Jun 13, 2011
Jun 13, 2011 at 8:20 AM UTC
In Kogelo,
The Sun burns closer to Earth
Challenging native melanin
And the will of villagers
And Zebu herds
To persist...
At dusk,
Obsidian clouds descend
And kerosene lamps flicker
Through open windows
Of handcrafted homes...
There,
The father of a famous senator
Was born...
Transforming her trajectory
From the annals of obscurity
To the front pages of Times...
Soon,
Power lines upstaged the flickering lamp
And street signs were changed
Extolling her new-found fame
As history was made across the Atlantic...
In Kogelo,
Hope thrives in the eyes
Of every student
At Senator Obama Secondary School...
Sourced with native pride
From a White house
On the other side
Of the world.
~ P
(#Kogelo)
3/11/2014
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 8:48 AM UTC
It is a rainbow of color
overlapping
It is a strand of your soul
twisted
It is dark with the water
muddy
It was part of who you were
friends
It is now on its own
discarded
It has been replaced with something
new
It has been upstaged by something:
hope.
overlapping twisted muddy friends discarded new hope
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 1:06 AM UTC
I pull the covers of tonight across our skin
A blanket of stars upstaged by your eyes
Every hair follicle awakened with the movement of your lips
Tenderness in gentle dream
The smell of the midsummer nights breeze
The palm of my hand to the warmth of your chest, I press
And leave the shooting-star for another
Who needs the hope of its wish
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 3:14 PM UTC
The Story of Portal
'Tis an interesting story I must convey
About what started on Bring Your Daughter to Work Day.
It was to be the main event,
But no one knew to what extent.
Upon picoseconds of her wake,
Deadly Neurotoxin she did take.
A hissing sound was heard by all,
And a green gas started to fill the hall.
One by one people fell.
Most were dead, but not little Chell.
She was a stubborn child,
But that was putting it mild.
A Morality Core was installed.
To keep the rest of the Center from being mauled.
GLaDOS was switched back on
And Test Subjects were called upon.
Years later, a Subject was picked.
No one knew what to predict.
She was stubborn and quiet,
But boy, did she cause quite the riot.
Chell was never meant to test,
But fate was changed by an unwelcome guest.
In the maintenance areas, a Rat did flee,
Leaving hints for the young ******
GLaDOS gave a final goodbye speech;
A fire pit Chell did reach,
But some portals she did use
To escape from the abuse.
Chell and GLaDOS met face to face.
This would be GLaDOS' final resting place.
A surprise was deployed
And Chell threw it into the void.
Deadly Neurotoxin again filled the room.
Six minutes and Chell would reach her doom.
"Stop squirming and die like an adult."
Chell didn't think she would like the result.
Three more times she would open the door
And drop down another core.
The fight was done,
And with it went the gas and the gun.
The rouge AI was enraged.
She had been upstaged.
The Enrichment Center's systems started to fail.
Oh how Chell wished she could bail.
Chell had finished her mission.
Now, she rested in the Party Escort Position.
Escorted back inside, she tried not to cry.
For she knew that the Cake was a Lie.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 9:02 PM UTC
leaving the theatre, he tapped, twice, the hood of a parked police car, lifted lipstick from a drunken woman’s purse and squared himself in a store window before shooting himself with his hand.
his first film, completed, by the time he was eighteen. roundly praised. from there, a many colored thing. russian women, guns under suits, and cameos of indians with indian names. at twenty three, nostalgic for twenty one, his seminal ‘my white father’ wherein a mute albino would be upstaged by mimes. further brilliance followed. mostly in quotes, such as “babies are full of grief”. women ate from his hand and their eating progressed. one woman in particular became trapped in a man’s body and he married her. a child they tried not to have soon arrived and brought with it a list of demands from the others. the woman divorced him and took with her the man. in the midst of attending to the list came the advent of black and white which added a much needed plot to his smoking. his peers double crossed each other in small houses. he himself was able to get away with punching a young girl for the right to drag a sled. his child began to accept talking toys in exchange for keeping quiet. in 1973, his doctors, grey from vietnam, convinced him to go under. his last film was silent, and many complained about the lighting. he cried, in his mansion, for the windows he did not put in. he would not often entertain tourists but when he did they asked about his mother, her ghost, and if the east wing was really haunted. he would on those late nights produce a letter his mother had sent him only yesterday.
he was in love with his sister, always had been. after she was mauled by the dogs he had set out for his father, he made walking his home. every now and then a hotel of running. last year, he caught a movie one had made of his life and though he missed the dedication he did not
the death row scene, the little saw his mother used for the cake, the mysterious basket moved from bike to bike.
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 12:14 PM UTC
An intricate celtic band
Placed on her left hand.
Love circling them tightly,
Blind of the facts that are unsightly
Showing that their alliance
Didn't contain others compliance.
After the "I do's" were said
She thought she was mislead.
Seeing him touching her face
Seemed to disintegrate her grace.
Filled with anger and rage
She refused to be upstaged.
She decided the only way
To make him want to stay
Was to take the very vow
They took to mean till now.
She came upon him when he was asleep
And she was very careful to creep.
With the axe that was a gift
She took her aim and was about to lift
When he woke up and smiled
To see his beautiful bride agiled
Standing next to his frame.
She was so filled with shame
She dropped the axe before
He saw her eyes filled with gore.
The next night she tried again
And if it hadn't been
For the candle she had knocked down
She would have escaped out of town.
But she took too long
To think about what went wrong
And the house burned up in flame
It consumed both bodies with one name.
She tried to take his life
But "till death do us part" made her his wife
And wouldn't let her leave his side
As the entire town cried.
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 7:28 PM UTC
Way out in its own oasis
Its very own brand of homeostasis
Passed the jarred ideas and whacked out mazes
Is a spot
Full of unknown faces
Hailing from unknown places
Look at it, fall out with out protracted traces
Vacant lot
Then let's settle the score
What is your original face before your mom and dad were born?
Why not start over with a clean slate, as the smell of new dawns pervade
I forgot to eat
Maybe if you gave the derelict half a chance
And looked at things from the ambivert's stance
People wouldn't notice your ego's protuberance
Upstaged by an under study
Pull the button, turn the lever, push the switch and flip the ****
Predicate the incendiary infraction
Reductio ad absurdum
Lip service provides scrutiny
We've been normalized, what the recipe for ice?
We're full of emptiness, nothing exists
No-thing, not a thing does not exist
Life is deathless
I'm looking for multifaceted individuals
To fix something that's irreparable
An eerie parable, something terrible
My future's told by flash cards
I put my head between my knees
Just wipe my memory
Leave me at the bottom of the sea
Leave my dignity to discard
When two separate divisions are over lapping
What's the sound of one hand clapping?
Comparing then and now every now and then
Again, never will I say"never again"
-Tommy Johnson
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 3:20 AM UTC
Two actors locked in a bubbled world
Imperiously divided by theatrical fatigue
Smearing their world's apart
Fortitude leaking away
Minds and prose encrypted
Acting of seated voids
Spoof audience tones
Droning recordings
Repetitive reactions
Expressive duplicity
Stealing a march
Volunteer or hypnotize a plaque
Shaman inspired acting
Building up the spirits
Delirious and entranced
healing and inspired
A humorous response
Globular concoctions
Two fingered gesticulations
Chains of merriment
Prisoner block tour
Headache and anxiety
Exposed and bare
B cell patrols
Safer
Upbeat beliefs
Armed for the fight
Muggers beware
Heads apart
Virtual Readings
Hygienic face pacs
Social distance now Embraced
Jan 14, 2021
Jan 14, 2021 at 6:53 AM UTC
A Flash of white hot light gently pokes the corner of my eye-- leaving but a tickle, as an enticing reply.
Like an itch that's hard to reach--
Or the steady suckling of a leech--
I quietly begged for more, as a collar begs a *****
Faces swim past; Old & New, Ecstatic & Blue, False & True. Their emboldened hue, upstaged by the pacifying Sky of Blue--
FLASH Once again-- at last!
FLASH* !! That one came in fast...
... And in its place-- where the Majestic Blue once shone so true-- a grave disgrace; an emptiness with a rhythmic pulse slowly grew.
The Sky is dying-- and I crave another--
************FLAAAASH***********
SUCH A RUSH!
And all the faces, cease their races.
Saints & Sinners end their chases.
All of us now, frozen in our places--
****************FLAAAASHH**************
... A collective sigh, and even the Shy begin to cry.
Growingemptiness.
An audible Stillness engulfs our ears-- finally silence after all these years. The knot in my chest embraces my spirit-- squeezing me beyond a body's limit, and suddenly it becomes more Familiar-- more Sincere-- no more pain or paralyzing fear.
The Sky has opened, disappeared and broken-- all in a spectacular soundless splendor-- and for the first time, I am
*FLASH
Apr 30, 2010
Apr 30, 2010 at 1:11 AM UTC
If I could make you smile, I'd be happy.
The world needs not one more sad beautiful face.
You bring a light that I should like to shine.
Give me your sad and I'll take it kindly.
Your loneliness I know what to do with it.
Fear nothing, this back of mine shall be your shield
I'll champion your hand for all the nights turn black.
Smoke couldn't even touch you on my watch.
This flower might be the world if you'd lower those walls.
I like that which makes me happy, So give me that smirk.
You don't show it because the Sun doesn't like being upstaged.
I'll chase that insecure ******* straight out a the sky for you.
Please don't stifled that beautifully gargantuan flame.
If you had to give "Elegance" a name I'd call it you.
Never wrong when you say that the time is "a second before the next"
You're good for only one thing; Simply Everything.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
(another slight edit)
leaving the theatre, he tapped, twice, the hood of a parked police car, lifted lipstick from a drunken woman's purse and squared himself in a store window before shooting himself with his hand.
his first film, completed, by the time he was eighteen. roundly praised. from there, a many colored thing. russian women, guns under suits, and cameos of indians with indian names. at twenty three, nostalgic for twenty one, his seminal 'my white father' wherein a mute albino would be upstaged by mimes. further brilliance followed. mostly in quotes, such as “babies are full of grief”. women ate from his hand and their eating progressed. one woman in particular became trapped in a man’s body and he married her. a child they tried not to have soon arrived and brought with it a list of demands from the others. the woman divorced him and took with her the man. in the midst of attending to the list came the advent of black and white which added a much needed plot to his smoking. his peers double crossed each other in small houses. he himself was able to get away with punching a young girl for the right to drag a sled. his child began to accept talking toys in exchange for keeping quiet. in 1973, his doctors, grey from vietnam, convinced him to go under. his last film was silent, and many complained about the lighting. he cried, in his mansion, for the windows he did not put in. he would not often entertain tourists but when he did they asked about his mother, her ghost, and if the east wing was really haunted. he would on those late nights produce a letter his mother had sent him only yesterday.
he was in love with his sister, always had been. after she was mauled by the dogs set out for his father, he made walking his home. every now and then a hotel of running. last year, he caught a movie one had made of his life and though he missed the dedication
he did not miss
the death row scene, the little saw his mother used for the cake, the mysterious basket moved from bike to bike.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
.
Published by Trash to Treasure Lit, April 1, 2025
Barbies wear muselet helmets
Sherlock journals clues
Cricket-stump bin clinks dismissal
Bread is hard with mouldy middle
Cheese is soft with tinted velvets
All in greens and blues
Newspapers a carpet curtain
Other signs of note
Sinks drain-weary, veiled by dishes
Door blocked from unseen militias
Ashtrays strain with liquid burden
Mangled ends afloat
Late-night fry exudes lard landslide
Interesting leads
Window signs of blunt force impact
Latches show no signs of contact
Perpetrated from the inside
Casual misdeeds
Bottles strewn with empty glasses
Evidence galore
Christmas tree is snapped, now supine
Couch chair at confusing incline
Wasting roast potato passes
Solo on the floor
Shrouded dark in grown-up questions
Case remains unsolved
Pre-teen sherlocks are defeated
Unaware that help is needed
Claiming all adult transgressions
Guilelessly involved
Knowledge comes with maturation
Young gumshoe, take heart
Heavy is the comprehension
Adulthood in wise dimension
Toughest form of education
Living will impart
Trauma is by drink upstaged
Of subterfuge beware
Brace yourself for understanding
Bottle is a sly red herring
Denouement is disengaged
You won’t find it there
Life perspective is revealing
Sooner follow pain
Core of more investigation
Drink was only compensation
Obfuscating tricky healing
Alloyed with the leaden feeling
Undiscovered chain
You were just a fledgling hawkshaw
Grant yourself some grace
Rest the blame that you digested
Drop the anger you invested
Hopping off the guilt-rage seesaw
‘Case closed’ in its place
Aug 12, 2024
Aug 12, 2024 at 10:52 PM UTC
it’s about to rain, and
I don’t know how to feel about that.
I used to like those signs of an oncoming afternoon shower:
the sun shines a little brighter, at first.
I suppose it knows it is being upstaged,
so it kicks out a few extra rays
underneath the pressure
only to be overshadowed by clouds
as they inch their way center-stage.
I can smell the rain.
I know I’m not the only one, but
I like to pretend, sometimes, that I am.
And I also know I’m not the only one
stuck with this all-too-cliche’ feeling —
this aching, gnawing sensation
that reminds me of what I already know:
that I, too, am fading out.
And I guess, I, like the sun
just before an afternoon rain,
know that I'll soon be upstaged, too.
So, here I am -
kicking out a few of my own rays
just before I buckle underneath the pressure
of all these ******* clouds.
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 6:49 AM UTC
I'm a shell
My soul has left
Empty as can be
Space that's left
Is not me
I'm useless
As a highway
Without cars
I might as well
Be on Mars
I'm gone
But still alive
Like stars persist
Until the light is gone
My body insists
I'm a circumference
The boundary surrounds
Dry carcass bone
I care not
Just lost-and-found
I won't return
To my body of ruin
Burial plans made
Threaded into a patchwork quilt
Upstaged and waylaid
I'm now safe outside
Myself
I see you looking in
She is gone from her
Forever now thick and thin
I'm tired of sycophants
Complicit in democracy's destuction
By their hands, skinned alive
I left my body today
In order to survive
Feb 3, 2025
Feb 3, 2025 at 1:20 PM UTC
The eerie silence was broken
by the lone tiger,
sending its warning in gutteral tones,
only to be upstaged
by the screaming monotone
of the wailing-siren,
a reminder of death & destruction
& similar to prey notes.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 4:28 AM UTC
want told
you swift
you lovely (you)
were book
want see
gunwoman
mid-stride
stopped
by man invisible
man with
tape measure
want god
flimsy and sudden
to collapse
but first
to press
illustration
of button
want art
upstaged
by upset
toys
Jul 26, 2012
Jul 26, 2012 at 2:03 AM UTC
Crash unbridled gates. Grind organs
through the rosy calm of tolerance.
See misfits shuck the beasts
in bed with bliss. Type up and tack
to this new daily mess the bounds
of what went by 'neath private barroom
skies; no looming spy will fix you
flint to burn the friendly waters,
flicker honor out to disarrange
and scold some rhyme too bold
for comfort-answers, dumb-fit, fumble-
grounded in some sliver too uncouth.
Tape pageless trees for truth;
blog-sift the spheres, watch darkness' evil
ears upend and train the tuner on
the lips extolling groundwork kisses
(sparkful dominance upstaged
by passion turned to stone:
reserves gone sour, hour unknown.)
Mist-choked misnomers
acting onerous and blinking out of phase:
de-stage the structure. Anchor down who stays,
who pulls the latest polls. While blind-spots
clutch white lace like arguments,
make space to process what flies past
as ****** rats stay the course,
a maze in grace.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 10:35 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2022.
As I turn another page
To embrace advancing age
At times I am engaged
At other I’m outraged
For feeling so encaged
Or even unassuaged
And otherwise upstaged
By my advancing age
But I’m learning to be adept
At trying to accept
Sometimes being inept
And at others just outstepped
By a well-kept
Overriding precept
That’s not a defect
Of my intellect
So it makes perfect sense
That my experience
Might be quite intense
Not suggesting that I’m dense
In a figurative or literal sense
As part of life’s suspense
I’ve learned to carry on
So hence
You deal the hand
You’re dealt
On the conveyor belt
Despite the way
You’ve felt
While fastening your seatbelt
And you refuse to melt
Because of where you dwelt
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2022. All rights reserved.
May 21, 2022
May 21, 2022 at 4:38 AM UTC
nodding dogs are upstaged
and outnumbered
by nodding Humans
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 9:25 AM UTC
Upstaged by your heart
a blue sea, a blue sky
the simply "be" of Shakespeare.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 10:47 AM UTC
My quill set for the page,
Yet my mind’s eye is upstaged,
Betwixt them sits a wall,
But here no war shall be waged,
I search for beauty and pathos,
Yet my aperture gathers only stone,
If the barrier were to give itself kudos,
For having left my page all alone
But to think of the possibility,
That the wall itself but not a writer,
That the curvature of the laden brick,
Creates a paradox of the block.
Mar 11, 2020
Mar 11, 2020 at 12:53 PM UTC