"using" poems
If I wasn't gay would people care?
Would they actually let me breath the same air?
Could I actually go to school,
without people being so cruel?
Could I live in a world with no hate?
Maybe people would love me if I was straight.
It's not as easy as people think.
I can't just go to a shrink.
I didn't choose to be this way.
You really think I'd want to be gay?
I don't want attention,
I don't want fame.
This isn't some sort of game.
I am who I am and thats okay.
Most people don't see it that way.
I only wish I could be the same.
To have a wedding and it not be shamed.
I want to have kids and not be judged.
I don't want my reputation smudged.
But apparently I'm different now.
Sick in the head somehow.
Therapy and shock treatment for something that can't be fixed.
How did I get put into this mix?
Toxic and tragic,
that's my life.
It's like I was stabbed in the back with a knife.
I'm gay,
what's wrong with that?
I get treated like some rat.
Using your holy books and your religion.
To fight against something that makes no difference.
I want to be a human not a punching bag.
Always getting called a ***
Let that word have power and it gets to you.
But that words as good as whatever is stuck to the bottom of my shoe.
I love being this way.
I don't care what you say.
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
Picture us happy, you and me; K-I-S-S-I-N-G
Making love together, pleasing you to please me; *******
Picture us naked, you all over me; K-I-S-S-I-N-G
Getting deep into each other, like we were meant to be; *******
you gave me your treasure,
I plan I want to keep forever
That night I will
I’ always remember
us overlooking the lake
Eating dinner, candle light,dinner
listening to the band play
The view was dynamite
Our lipstick perfect
Your dress was fitting tight
Looking deep in your eyes;
Glistening in the candle light
Started feeding you off my plate
Laughing as we enjoyed the night
our lips meeting their fate
Our bodies kneading each other right
Holding each other tight
Wanting each other more by the second
Our clothes putting on a fight
Your Dress falling to the floor, ******* second
Pleasing your body right
Teaching your body a lesson
Using my hands to please you
While using my tongue as a weapon
your body so beautiful
I melt in your hands
Just from smelling your essence
I can't wait to be in your presen
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 9:27 PM UTC
My name is Sara, a transgender chick
Wanted a ***** was given a ****
I hide it in knickers of satin and lace
before sitting down to make-up my face,
Next the prosthetics, I'm using two bits.
Stuck to my chest, they'll do as my ****
Now for my legs I'll put on false tan,
I wouldn't do this if I were a man
Alternative nights, a t-girl delights
to sit on her bed and pull on new tights.
I'll put on a dress, a cute one no less.
Then for my shoes, high heels I choose
A sandal style shoe as every girl knows
not only looks cute, they'll show painted toes
A bit of eyeliner, eyebrow definer,
lipstick and blush, I'm now looking lush.
I stand in the mirror all ready to go,
there's only one question I just have to know.
"Does my *** look big in this?"
Poetry by Kaydee.
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 4:02 PM UTC
It's the color of her eyes; the color of the sea. In both you could drown, or find God himself. It's the space between cities. Road signs & right turns, and the quiet determination to unravel in her arms. The sheets on her bed at 3am, where she whispers "I love you" and you've never been so sure of anything. The breath you exhale after you kiss her; it's the color of the blood pumping through your heart. The heart that she keeps beating. The heart that has her name written all over it. It's the heaviness in anticipation. The insatiable desire for a minute, just one minute. It is not the opposite of passion, like once suggested. It is passion itself. It is the sound of whispers. Her breath on your neck, and shivers down your spine. The color that fills in the weeks until you see her again. But most importantly, it will always be the color of her eyes. And it is no coincidence they are the color of the sea.
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 2:44 PM UTC
Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.
Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?
I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.
I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.
How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?
I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.
But am I just
pretentious?
fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 5:12 PM UTC
I want to break the rules,
using her limits,
to keep her in line.
Slowly, I take my time,
watching her take it,
enjoying myself the whole time.
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 3:10 PM UTC
You think I'm crazy?
HA! That's real funny.
If I were crazy, would I have written a twelve-hundred-page novel without using a single vowel?
No. 'Cause I did. And I'm not crazy.
If I were crazy, would I be able to predict the future by dropping empty tuna cans into an open drain in my backyard?
No. 'Cause I can. And I'm not crazy.
If I were crazy, would I love to slit your ******* throat just to watch the color drain from from your face and onto that cleanly pressed collared shirt of yours?
Yes. I would love that if I were crazy.
But I'm not crazy.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 4:50 PM UTC
Millennial is what called in this generation,
Everywhere here and there,
There are always youths who really never care,
And never been worried about their future.
In Facebook, Instagram, Twitter and Messenger,
Are consists of follower, liker, reader and including seener,
Loitering and using fake accounts just to gain a wholesome money,
Even though that it is notorious, they still embark their blunt journey.
Most millennials are undisputedly addicted to social media,
Their lives depends on likes they are going to gain,
They don't care if their faces might be inside of multi-media,
And they don't even care if it will give them a pain.
Some truly go beyond their limits just to have a lot of likes,
Perhaps they are fame ***** but they don't care if someone strikes,
Strikes every part of their body including their faces and such,
Yet they don't care if it will hurt them too much.
However, seeking attention in the cyber world isn't a good thing,
Instead they should focus on things that are essentially free like a king,
Because in this generation, too many people are unaware and careless,
And some they didn't even notice that our environment is already full of fraud either hypocrite and genuine people are less.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 4:50 AM UTC
A beauty you are out and within
Insatiable desire to write poetry on your skin
Your body my canvas feel my gentle brush
Writing ******* with my ****** touch
Cinnamon lips I love your tone
Soft and silky to the bone
Finding words..be my guide
As we connect I come inside
Filling each other..there's no strain
Steady my thoughts I must maintain
Watching my penmanship using a steady stroke
I start hallucinating from my mental smoke
Sends me into a frenzied flow
I'll find my pace..go on a roll
My words soak in as you taste
My emotions invade your inner space
Down from your toes..Up to your eyes
Writing Haikus between your thighs
Poetry on your body every inch
You start writhing from my Scorpion pinch
Sinfully venomous my words forever sink
Into your skin my poetic tattoo ink
As you lay naked I visually feast
Every line of your body a masterpiece..
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 8:01 PM UTC
His "I love you" came swiftly.
Like the monsoon pouring down on a leaky roof
Those three words broke through my defences.
At first they were an ambrosia;
They sustained my life and our relationship.
At least for a short time.
Then "I love you" became an excuse;
For absences, and purpose-filled accidents.
And I ignored the warning signs, the flashing lights.
I pretended like "I love you" was enough...
...But it wasn't.
His "I love you"s were like band-aids on bullet wounds;
Like using play dough to fix cracks in concrete walls.
But I rationed our good memories,
I held on as tight as I could to our love
And watched as it slipped through my fingers.
His "I love you"s became poison,
That seeped deep into my bones,
And turned blue skies grey,
And turned light into darkness,
And slowly killed whatever semblance of love
I fooled myself into thinking we had left.
Nov 26, 2017
Nov 26, 2017 at 6:23 PM UTC
Grace.
Let it fall like an ocean
Let it rip through the skies
Let it fill up my heart and pour out my eyes
Let it gravitate my soul
Let it make me feel whole
Let it remind me of why I live
Let it remind me of all that you give!
Grace
Let my heart be made still and let mine eyes be opened!
Let me remember that my ears
were made to listen
And my lips exist for a lot more than just kissin'
Let me remember that these hands simply cannot do it all
Cuz see I wasn't made for that
I wasn't made for that at all
Grace
I was made to live and when I say live I think I mean give
But then I quickly realize I can only give so much!
And there's only so many lives I can touch!
Well how can I love if I can't constantly give
And how can I live if I can't constantly love but
Where's the hope in the God above if I'm the one doin' all the work?
And that's when I remember I accomplish the most when I just let go
And let You grab hold
Grace
Well what were these hands made for if not feeding the poor?
And what are these heart-wrenching feelings of constantly wanting more?
Why do my bones ache and my soul quake at the thought
Of living for myself?
Why do I worry so much about putting the marginalized on the shelf?
Why do I worry
about a life that loves hell?
Well maybe all this
is an unidentified desire to glorify God personified in Jesus Christ crucified
Grace
And maybe my soul's been singin' songs to my saviour since the day I was born
And maybe my saviour's been singin' sweet lullabies to quench the fear in my eyes
Maybe not all is lost
Maybe hope and salvation really come without cost
WELL TRY AND TELL THAT TO THE MAN LIVIN' ON THE STREET WITH NOTHIN' TO EAT
an'
TELL THAT TO THE CHILD WHOSE FATHER GIVES HIM A DAILY BEATING
TELL THE MURDERER'S AND RAPISTS THAT THEY CAN GO FREE
TELL THEIR VICTIMS...
Tell them what?
Grace
Maybe it's time I remembered I don't have all the answers
Maybe it's time I remembered I am a speck of dust in a rolling beach of existence
Maybe it's time I look at what's right in front of me
And not strain my neck as far as the eye can see
Maybe it's time to focus on living and not just surviving
Maybe thriving looks more like trusting than trying
Maybe all the answers to my questions aren't really answers at all
Maybe it's alright that my walk sometimes feels like a crawl
Maybe 100% of the wrongs I do are all my fault
Grace
Maybe God's lookin' at me like a child set free
Maybe God's not lookin' at who I used to be
Maybe God's lookin' right past all the bitterness and apathy
Maybe God really does look at the heart
And maybe He's been holding mine from the very start
Maybe this is all going according to plan and if it's not well then maybe God's still using it to help me become a better man
Maybe it's time I stopped trying to figure all this out!
Grace
Let it be felt
Tangibly
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 8:56 PM UTC
Go ahead
hold me a little longer
than usual.
You say to me,
without using any
words at all,
"it should have been me,
its still me."
Like i don't already see
those sky blue eyes
every time i close my own.
Because we're still holding
on to god knows what.
Because it is you
and it will always be you.
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 11:48 AM UTC
You miss a meal,
Then it turns to two,
A day passes,
And no one notices you.
Craving nutrition,
There goes a week,
Those many hours,
Longing for something to eat.
Using the same excuse,
"I'm not hungry, I just ate,"
The numbers keep dropping,
Was sixty-three, now fifty-eight.
You can't go back,
People are noticing you,
They say you should eat, and you say,
"You have something better to do."
It's harder than you think,
Just leave me alone!
Stop telling me to eat and drink!
If I need you, I can find my phone.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 10:50 AM UTC
Could it be that I substitute lustful infatuation for love? or mistake an act of kindness for trust?
Using his words to define me, i mean refine me, leaving the real me in the dust
Can you really blame me for being attracted to someone who shows interest in my existence
Someone who is persistent, consistent and whose smile breaks my resistance
It's a real feeling I get of satisfaction through common conversation of nothingness
The willingness to waste time with me means something to me if not everything for me because time can not be given back
Sorry your interest in my existence was nonexistent, guess in the 90's being a father was wack.
Respect from hoes was worth more than respect from your daughter
If it was up to you, if you were her, you would have probably said "abort her"
You knew I was a girl and that I'd be your first daughter but that wasn't enough for you
You had 9 months which turned into 1 plus twenty now you're begging for my heart to attend to it's broken it needs amends too, a man too?
So I'm looking at guy after guy to cut into some deep hurting pain from my past
Not realizing that they can't give me what I'm missing cause I can't miss what I never had
I asked God for a brother but I never got em
When I was 8 I wanted to meet my Father but I never saw em
After that, just like everything you cant change in life, you learn to accept
Accept and move on not accept and dwell in it
Yet I found myself looking for what I lacked in a male figure in a young boy
I didn't know it yet but my innocence he would destroy
How can you be sure about love and if you're in it, if there is no demonstration clearly displayed to see
How can i be sure that he loves me for me, not what i give or what i can be but everything that I am if I haven't truly accepted me for me
I long to feel love from a man who created me with his *****
Not physical love from a boy with a toy in it ***** I'm talking something long term
Deeply invested in things that cannot be returned or given back
Like time, memories, laughs, tears, words, or the lack...thereof
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 4:42 PM UTC
When we met, love Obnubilated me.
I became bananas about you.
I wanted to be luculent.
Just to be Pauciliquent.
I however felt like a blatherskite.
You probably thought I was a glaikit.
Did I sound like a meacock instead?
If so, it’s due to kakorrhaphiophobia.
I might have operose my feelings.
Did it seem like I wanna mamaguy you?
You behaved like a frondeur.
Your callipygian body looked extramundane.
Your hair looked ulitichous.
Did you feel like I lusted your Callipygian shape?
I foresaw a love that won’t flatline.
If it does, it will be eucatastrophe.
Now we’re together, I’m disenthrall from Misogamy.
You’re a deipnosophist and a mixologist.
I’m edcious.
To keep you happy, I share a boffola.
To me, love felt like a Humdudgeon.
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 6:46 PM UTC
Artists are often
broken people
using the fragments of themselves
to create something new
and although
being healed
feels so complete
sometimes i want to be broken again
sometimes i want open wounds
so i can use the blood
to paint sunsets
so i can use the torn off pieces of skin as a canvas
so i can carve
masterpieces with the jagged bones left behind
but I can't bring myself to break my own heart in the name of Art
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 7:59 PM UTC
My focus,
pays attention,
to the tension,
as I plays with your mind,
pulling on the cords between your legs,
playing game like Syman says;
the temptation building in your eyes,
I can sense it from a mile,
touching on your lips with my lips,
as our bodies form allies --
burying my fingers deep inside,
your opulence is my wine.
pleasuring your body with my mind,
using one finger at a time,
your mind wonders --
as the ****** climbs.
painting visions of pleasure,
tingling between your thighs,
force your mind to cross the line.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 12:32 PM UTC
When people ask if you're weird, or tell you,
or want to believe themselves strange,
eclectic, or odd.
It's vaguely disgusting to me,
cringeworthy in a mild degree.
We think we're so different,
but we are not.
The individualism of people
should be and is comparable
to the individualism of ants.
Who looks at the anthill and
sees something in particular,
something behaving specifically
"uniquely"
from every ant and every anthill?
Why do you believe in yourself?
I see this, as a conversation about
depression, and your partner
does not respect you
but instead wants to
tell you how they feel worse,
or have it worse, or "understand" more
about the affirmation or situation.
A person looking for individuality
through a lens of misery, anguish, and sadness,
is truly alone in their minds, and missing the
reality that these depressions exist without them.
The statement, "you are not alone" is an attack,
or an offense to these people, because it says
"you are not as unique as you think",
it strips them of their identity and individuality.
This is true of many ideologies and affirmations.
I quit individuality, this constricting sense
of holding everything of yourself in center,
to be a drop in the whole, something fluid.
If you split your affirmations from yourself,
you'd see we're all the same;
Affirmations are just currents in the ocean.
I look at myself; and people see a man,
a radical feminist, and sometimes a musician.
As labels, these each have their own presupposed notions,
[especially, "man" or "male" in the patriarchal gaze]
which hardly, if ever, are true,
but as affirmations, when I consent to using them,
these are no longer stereotypes that constrain me,
but similarities that I realize
I can embrace or shut out in others.
Affirmations do not make me more unique,
but similar to more people.
If I remove these affirmations to try and get to my "true" center,
my purest form of self, I see I am without meaning.
This is why I quit Individuality.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 1:59 PM UTC
C-Currently the subject of much conversation
L-Learning of its effects through information
I-Internationally scientists are using education
M-Mankind's pollution is causes this situation
A-Altering our ways may stop the devastation
T-Time isn't on the side of the world's population
E-Ever we should be aware of its manifestation
C-Cycles of weather becoming stranger by the day
H-Heat is building up in the earth's rocks and clay
A-Averting further damage cannot be put on delay
N-Neglecting our response to the planet wont pay
G-Globally hotter and wetter conditions will parlay
E-Everyone needs to heed the message of this day
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 2:19 AM UTC
your witty remarks
and hearty jokes
aren't very funny
i thought i'd tell you
before things got
out of hand
i don't appreciate you
calling me
*"sweetheart"
"baby"*
or
"darling"
you are no one to me
and those
nicknames are
reserved
for those who
actually know
how to treat me
as a human
not a plaything
just because
i was born a certain gender
does not
give you the right
to feel like
you have the right
to call me
what you want
and treat me
as you please
my ******
(yes, i spoke the forbidden, sue me)
does not
make me
better
or more
than any
other human
with
any other
*** organs
so next time
you're about to
open that
big mouth of yours
or
put your
arm around my shoulders
or
wink at me
you'd better
think
twice
i'm using
my words
nicely
but
i'm not
always going to be
so nice
unlike what you said earlier
i'm not overreacting
this is a natural response
to everyday sexism
and just because
society has become used to it
adapted to it
accepted it
does not mean
i will give in
or give up
or ever conform
to these
downright disgusting norms
i am a woman
that does not make me
inferior
to those of other genders
nor
am i superior
to anyone
well...
except, maybe,
you
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 7:02 AM UTC
She paints a pretty picture
But the story has a twist
Her paintbrush was her razor
And her canvas was her wrist
She paints a pretty picture
In a color that's blood red
And using her sharp paintbrush
She ends up finally dead
Her pretty pictures fading
Quite slowly up her arm
Blood no longer flows through her
She can no longer do her harm
Yes, she painted a pretty picture
But the story has a twist
You see, her mind was just her razor
And her heart was just her wrist
- Unknown
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 12:29 PM UTC
Daylight come
Daylight go
How far will it reach?
Ain't nobody know
And when the dawn breaks
The cradle will fall
And down will come baby
cradle and all
And now I know you need the dark
Just as much as the sun
But you're signing on forever
When you ink it in blood
A.E.I.O.U., A.E.I.O.U.
I use the state of the art
Technology
Suppose to make for better living
Are we better human beings?
We got our wires all crossed
The tubes are all tied
And I'm straining to remember
just what means to be alive
A life worth living
Now you can feel it in your chest
Building like little bullets,
Just building up the nest
And you build it up strong
And you fill it up with love
And you pray for good rain
All from the Lord above
A.E.I.O.U., A.E.I.O.U.
I use my state of the art
Technology
Now don't you forget it
It ain't using me
'Cause when the power goes out
I got other means
'Cause when the power's goin out
I hear the power's going out
I mean it the power's going out
I really mean it the power's going out
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 10:09 AM UTC
The furthest distance in the world
Is not between life and death
But when I stand in front of you
Yet you don’t know that
I love you
The furthest distance in the world
Is not when i stand in font of you
Yet you can’t see my love
But when undoubtedly knowing the love from both
Yet cannot
Be together
The furthest distance in the world
Is not being apart while being in love
But when plainly can not resist the yearning
Yet pretending
You have never been in my heart
The furthest distance in the world
Is not
But using one’s indifferent heart
To dig an uncrossable river
For the one who loves you
by Rabindranath Tagore (7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 12:02 AM UTC
I spend most of my time
Locked away in my room
Writing metaphors that could never be
As beautiful as you
I try to catch your eye
With my words
But they could never do you justice
So I know this'll never work
But I keep trying
I try to capture your beauty
Using only thoughts that come to my mind
I know you find it hard to trust me
I don't blame you
Almost everything I say is a lie
I try to twist my own words
But I end up just twisting my tongue
And though I know it'll hurt
I try my hardest to be someone
That you could trust
And I
Wanna make you smile
But I don't know how
And I
Wanna stop lying
To your face
But I can't get a single truth out
Everything I say is a lie
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC
A dart of a glance
Felt across a crowded room.
A playful bantering
turned to something darker, deeper.
A smoldering gaze
lasting just a second too long.
A hesitant hand
pushing a stray curl into place.
Coherent thoughts
turned into an unlikely jumble.
And that one question
is answered,
using no words,
except the ones in the language
that has withstood millenia of human existence,
the language of seduction.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 12:36 AM UTC