"vandalizing" poems
Don't You Dare Speak,
Your Words Trying To Make Blue Streaks,
On The Monalisa Of My Soul,
Black Graffiti Stains My Wishes,
And Teeth Bare At My Well Being,
Am I Daft?
Or Sane?
My Head Pounding With Lyrics,
About How Cruel Life Can Utterly Be,
Sharpie Crossing Out My Faith,
Paint Vandalizing My Mended Heart,
Rust Dressing The Hinges Of My Heartbeat Itself,
And Golden Irises Reset,
Back To Seaweed Green,
Resting On A Bloodshot Background,
Crayons Scribbling On The Coloring Book,
Of My Dreams,
Making It A Midnight Sky Mask,
Flecked With Miserable Maroon Tears,
Slang Covers My Intellect,
Making It Foggy And Usless,
You Can Thank Society,
For Sculpting My Strength,
From A Slab Of Clay,
Burning It In A Kiln,
To The Foundation Of Life,
I Am Art,
Sculpted From The Earth's Face,
Yet I Sit On A Shelf,
Collecting Dust,
And All Of The Arrogent People,
Doodle On My Shell,
Colors Make An Ugly Mix,
On My Bodies Skeleton,
And What Is Making Me Special,
Is Slowly Drowning,
Underneath A Sea Of Graffiti
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 4:05 PM UTC
It was the most horrible thing I've ever seen.
I was murdered 100 years ago on Halloween.
A man accused me of vandalizing his house but I didn't do it.
I told him that I was innocent but sadly, I could not prove it.
He grabbed his double-barreled shotgun and I was shot.
He threw my corpse down his well and there it would rot.
When I was killed, I became a ghost.
Revenge was what I wanted the most.
And I got exactly what I wanted.
That man committed suicide after being haunted.
I haunted him for months and he couldn't take it anymore.
He shot himself in the head and his corpse fell to the floor.
I haunt that man's house on Halloween, I haunt it once a year.
If you come to this house on Halloween, you will experience fear.
That man murdered me and when he died, he went straight to Hell.
Stay away from this house on Halloween or I will haunt you as well.
Oct 31, 2022
Oct 31, 2022 at 8:41 AM UTC
I am a Muslim, not a terrorist.
Don‘t judge me because of my religion. Don‘t judge us all the same. My religion teaches me peace. My religion teaches me love. It tells me to show compassion, not what you think of us.
I have only one request. That I‘d kindly wish you to look beyond the hate and hurt, and see Muslims are just like you. Peaceful. Loving. Caring. We have families too.
Terrorizing and vandalizing isn‘t Islam heritage.
Muslim, Catholic, Atheist, yellow, black, white, men, women and children. We are all born to this world for a purpose. We are in a world full of discrimination, based on our religion, color, nationality and gender.
Yet, they propagate Islam with a bad image, wich is a huge damage.
They call me terrorist, they call me danger. I‘m feeling like a stranger.
Remember, there is only one world and it is all for us.
We Muslims are the holders of peace, we spread love. Why am I being represented by their false actions?
They say that they are Muslims and they say, they stand for Islam. If they are Muslims, their actions would show it.
Muslims stand in prayer. Shoulder to shoulder, to stop the devil winning.
A terrorist kills someone and Muslims are blamed, a Christian kills someone and he‘s just a ******
Violence is not Islam.
Terrorists are not Muslims.
Alhamdullilah I am Muslim.
-Nura
Jun 6, 2018
Jun 6, 2018 at 8:24 AM UTC
Our men are heroes, of course.
They protect us, gun in hand,
against enemies plastered on posters
vandalizing once-beautiful stone storefronts.
More every day.
Stapled on top of one another
until words blend.
"But now,"
the overly made-up woman at the podium says,
"women can do our part."
They’ve gathered other pretty blondes
with symmetrical features measured
by a myriad of devices.
Beautiful,
demure
women
with
beautiful,
Aryan
genes
to breed with our handsome heroes.
Because women,
and the children we bear,
are the key to Germany’s future.
I glance at the woman to my right,
eyes skiing down the slope of her nose
to rest on smiling lips.
Is the blush on her cheeks genuine,
or set by rouge?
It suits her.
She catches me staring.
My breath hitches in my throat.
I throw my attention back to the woman
glorifying human broodmares.
Heat assaults my cheeks.
“Your rouge is lovely.”
Her whisper warms me.
“Can you believe this?
Us, with war heroes?”
She sighs.
I can practically see the dream
play through the air.
A husband coming home in uniform,
splaying a hand on her swollen belly
and kissing her forehead.
A fantasy.
These men…
they’ll come,
take what they want from us for granted
and claim they did us a favor
when they leave us alone
with child.
But my fingers would dance
never-ending pirouettes
across that porcelain skin.
Swirl intricate patterns
through golden hair,
all for that sigh
to carry a dream with me in it.
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 2:28 PM UTC
come one, come all.
gather 'round, gather 'round the table.
you'll find your invitations—
corporations' coupons—packed
between stories of Indigenous
People, shot by militarized cops in riot gear.
Water Protectors defending the river
while a black snake rears to poison the well.
tear gas, rubber bullets, and concussion grenades
replace ragged blankets draped in smallpox.
a tradition rooted in genocide
upheld in frigid North Dakota.
no need to ponder
the lasting legacy
of a leader who campaigned
on "hope" and "change." a hypocrite
continuing a tradition of colonial
aggression, lying by omission.
just another facet
of his presidential profession.
so drown the news of a fascist's
election in gravy and eggnog,
viscous substances to gorge
yourselves on. Nazis vandalizing
black churches with swastikas
must've escaped your notice.
vacuous, preaching
that Jesus is the reason
for the season, but i think
your savior would flip
your Thanksgiving Table over.
flimsy pretenses of gratitude
discarded hours later, chasing deals
before your stomach could even settle.
your brand new 4K TV
cost you over $4K, but couldn't give you
a clearer picture. you continue to disregard
the smoke signs and headlines,
pursuing the material.
consume!
Nov 26, 2016
Nov 26, 2016 at 11:10 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
Archery pro and just hit the target of poverty,
And probably,
I'll be out of here before the cops notice I'm vandalizing,
Painting a picture for the up risers,
Better take a seat,
Almost like first class,
Most airlines don't have phobias for flyers,
Keep an open mind,
Your negativities closed,
Your eyes open,
Letting suspense unfold,
And unravel,
And somehow collapse,
I may have had bad experiences,
But human beings are futile at that,
But now let's rewind it back,
I remember you said you'd never be like them,
Would not talk their language,
Or do drugs with them,
Keep following them and you'll end up dead or walking with a limp.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 4:22 AM UTC
These people...they're obsessive. Hoarders of memorabilia associating success with handshakes, photographs and play-dates. I'm surrounded by squiggly lines vandalizing art and silhouettes of super-heated sand granules encasing a substance so vile that it permanently damages the frontal lobe of the collective consciousness. Inspirations float helplessly about the sea of underachievers and people-pleasers. What is success? Is it simply to impress the people around you? To instill envy upon your enemy? I won't even begin to dissect the differences. I can't even begin to protect the witnesses. The costumes are insignificant. The same tired, scared, eyes stare blankly at themselves from behind every mask. The ladder needs some broken rungs. The bladder bleeds; soaked in *** People milling about, spilling their sins. Reaching out sure looks a lot like clawing, and what is the difference between pleading and begging? May it be the same difference between dancing and squirming? No matter what we do, we all feel unworthy. So, I guess all that's left is: Learning. Teaching, not preaching. Boy, this place sure is unnerving. A shuffling mass of introverts sent into a downward spiraling life of discomfort, soon to be snuffed out with possessions. The empathy for the undead is utterly apparent, and arguably, inherent. Looking for answers in dusty pages and plastic heroes. Punks, Drunks, Nerds, ***** Women with bright hair and crooked teeth. Men replacing the hair they've lost on their heads with that which sprouts from their chins. I need a drink, I think. But in actuality what I need is a warm bed and a couple centuries of sleep.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 2:15 AM UTC
"You've eyes that bleed violence" they tell me.
Sometimes I grip my bat so hard,
my chapped nails break into my skin.
I inhale my surroundings
and spit out the excess misery.
They glare at me
as if I were the spawn of Satan.
It would explain much if I was.
A demon..
It's fitting; they all hate me anyways.
That's fine. 'Cuz I hate them too.
Not sure why everyone gives me the cold shoulder, though.
I roam the city vandalizing everything in sight,
maybe that's why.
I've been in every street fight that's come up in the last 13 years.
I've been begged to join in gangs. I don't like those.
Been on the streets since I was 7, back then I was spit on while begging for food.
Resorted to stealing everything in sight in order to survive.
Stabbed a kid for stealing my apple, then realized I had power.
I could defend myself.
Learned to steal from other homeless thieves like me,
got beat up and failed miserably the first hundred times.
Stole a bat at the age of 14.
My weapon of choice hasn't failed me since.
I spray paint **** everywhere I go, beat the **** out of anyone in my way.
Everything I "own" is stolen.
I'm a thief. A criminal. I survive.
People know it, they can smell it, I'm sure of it.
.. Though I've been treated the same since I was a kid..
Maybe I'm a demon of sorts.
So that's my name.
My name's Demon.
Lately I've been feeling someone's presence.
Maybe I spend too much time alone.
Like hell if I care, though. I don't need company.
..
Still..it's comforting..
It's not a ghost. It's someone out there.
It's a girl. She's real.
I used to hang with some alley cat; I'd feed her.
The presence reminds me of that cat.
Maybe she wants me to feed her.
Maybe she needs protection.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 10:33 PM UTC
Here I am hunched over another
stomachache, another mistake,
and all I can do is watch the bruises form and darken.
The first time I met you
was a corner table in a coffee shop
with blackberry water and toes frozen solid.
Mint chocolate chip nights, vandalizing desks,
scrubbing grimy dance floors—
it was my kind of falling in love.
Less like falling, blushing, butterflies;
more like a face plant onto the sidewalk
(unexpected, clumsy, bleeding).
But maybe love isn’t french kissing and slow songs.
It’s forehead kisses, dreaming of Japan,
listening to post-rock.
I think you knew, though,
that our ice cream would melt and our sparklers would die out.
Now I’m the beggar on the street corner:
“’Scuse me sir, do you have any love to spare?”
Or change.
Pennies and dimes jingle in my cup holder,
but change is what cracked my plastic heart and ripped my paper skin.
I’m weaker now, but not poorly made;
There’s been no knock-out punch or final words.
Just bare-fist brawling, searing insults,
bruises,
bleeding.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 6:31 PM UTC
there ought to be a law about love
but so many people would be sent to jail
for vandalizing heart, and you're quite
the troublemaker.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC
Today as I read about the vandalizing and the bomb threats I feel, no realize that may be as important as ever.
I Am Jewish
I read about
An upgrade of the Jewish hate
To say nothing of the Jewish state:
Renewal and revival
That makes the Jew a rival
Present and eternal.
Pressed anew
To say “I am a Jew”
Interned in worlds of other faiths,
Each based
On love
But peopled by
A fractured many
Filled with fractured understanding,
Wear my Star of David,
Feel the coming holidays
With childhood love of coming days,
As always,
Living with those few-ish
Who know also that they’re Jewish,
Forced by some upbringing me,
Living, as I always have in lands where I, minority
Forget, neglect, omit so easily
My true identity:
I am become the Jew I’m born to be.
I Am Jewish 10.17.2016
To The Child Mystic II; Pure Nakedness;
Arlene Corwin
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 7:11 AM UTC
It is 3am and silence is music
as I choke on the expectations
that make it hard to breath -
“Inhale, exhale” you tell me
as the caffeine slips into my blood
and I worry that you exist
only in this crazy little mind of mine
It is 3am and silence is music
as my eyelids protest against the light
that is burning too bright to see -
“I’m here” you whisper
as the corner of my lips curl
and I laugh
because you aren’t
It is 3am and silence is music
as my fingers shake the pen
that is vandalizing the old yellow paper –
“You’re okay” you assure me
as I scribble more useless words
and I nod
because I like to believe I am
It is 3am and silence is music
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 12:19 PM UTC
Ink stains bleed more than I
Marking wood beneath this thin paper
Like branding thoughts onto a fragile mind
I'm painting pictures on their ****** canvases
Vandalizing the thickest of skulls
Although
I see my questions have yet to pierce your eyes
Will any words to me ever escape your lips?
Have you written my name in your diary of misdeeds, or
Carved it deeper in your bones?
Can you not feel my fingerprints traverse this poem?
I grow so tired of this effortless disregard
For my crippling self hatred seems no more than a result
Of my inability to hate you
You perfect, breathing @#!*%
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 12:27 AM UTC
Captivating is the boat sailing across the ocean,
Alluring are the winds blowing from the Sahara,
Amnesiac are the long winter nights in my bed,
Vandalizing are my thoughts and dreams which never came true,
I walk alone and journey across the world,
I fight the thundery and cold storms of the desert,
I cuddle in my bed during the Winters to keep myself from getting cold,
And I cry as none of my hopes may ever come true,
As I walk alone the only thing that accompanies me is my shadow,
The curvy paths of the desert and the runny sand swallow me into their crust,
The blanket that I wear to protect myself acts as a shield,
And my tears that I shed they mend and teach me what its like to be heart broken.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 7:45 AM UTC
The sky split, cracked open through sheer force. A spectre’s mind is hailed away to a foreign shore, nestled amongst unsolidified generalities, binding it to the aftermath of time’s relevance. Hope came in a voided sun, imploding in the sky over Bethlehem, and through its transparency, a vision of the end was brought forth to this unjust land, where filth rules supremacy, and dominion is granted for a grandfather’s pittance. It displayed the market value of a soul through a diminished stance, collapsing on the shore as violent waves crash and beat the resonant senses held within.
…
Contemporaries held in fear, chucked and pushed down back alleys, ending up under the pier, vandalizing a vanquished peer, awkward glances insuring no one is near. Washed away with the evening tide, passed up to the coast after a lifeless ride. Broken down, drifting with the stream, token now, drifting with the dream.
Naturalized and neutered before a board of advisors, composed of highly unsanitary elders, pieces of flawn stuck to the chin, picked up while eating from another’s bin. Dictated and deemed to seem all right, recreations shown on daily late night, refracted and turned into a joke, remuneration held as big brother had spoke. Patience restored as order forms in line, hastened into place by fluorinated wine, individuals return to their lives, and negligently pass over recent lies.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC
the contractors moved in
with a wrecking
ball
and of great destruction
they caused at our
mall
nothing was left standing
over it all did
fall
we were aghast on seeing
the results of the
squall
their services weren't
needed around our
lot
they smashed everything
like a wind's blasting
knot
the scene was reminiscent
of a terribly mangled
spot
they'd done so much
damage on our
plot
we've witnessed the harm
they've wrought
about
vandalizing our buildings
as would a felonious
lout
we'll not forget the badness
of the devastation's
clout
hard hitting was their mission
in demolishing our
grout
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 7:37 PM UTC
why do I write when I’m sad?
how do I express emotions when they aren’t bad?
I’ve got my mind turned off and my ghost is asleep
I replaced him with my soul and traded love for spontaneity
a disembodied existence
incorporeity
value connection and protection
but never hold your words
they escape the weak grip of your promises like hummingbirds
premises of sobriety and vandalizing the heart of your lover
games and rules we never follow
declare yourself the oracle of Apollo
villains of the world and ink in your skin
tell ourselves we practice deadly sin
reflection in the mirror and that wicked look you carry
they know you’re not here to Hail Mary
abuse with no release
I feel sorry for them and you’re not a masterpiece
prove it with marks on my neck
show you the bruise on my thigh
I’ve finally escaped your high
Jul 18, 2019
Jul 18, 2019 at 9:39 PM UTC
A dystopian paradise, you're both in one
Turning sweet into sour
Reproduced in reverse a delayed reaction
Wandering through the twelfth hour
Looking down from your high tower
Leading me through hell
I keep turning back for more
These desolate declarations I can't ever ignore
Providing constancy, with means to make me stay
I am the vile fragrance of desperation in the cold light of day
And I can't rinse it away fast enough, it's already in
Twisting through the surface
Scorching my skin
Vandalizing my integrity, dividing my mind
These venal words have changed the colour in my eyes
A shade of decept turning my perception dim
Watching myself from the outside as I try to get back in
****** to reiterate yesteryear
Occupied by myth
A ********* hidden in my own body
Glorified
Looking promising but full of lies
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 1:56 PM UTC
My tummy hurts again,
From what I didn’t know,
Would hurt intestines weak from fear,
Of another vandalizing idiot.
Pure and fresh,
Rot to make flesh,
That will last the grinding days,
Long enough to sing,
As complete as You would wish,
And binding together to be more whole,
Than I have ever been.
I don’t like to be told,
That all this was airy lies, and empty bowls,
The plates piled high with man-made leeches,
Killing me and you, one by one, then all at once,
In avalanche catastrophe,
Does the truth come at long last?
After decades of mindless tastes,
And steps towards this disaster,
Do we now come to the truth?
Oh, God, help me to know,
And be well.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 10:43 PM UTC
i used to write so many things related to you. your whole name, your favorite song, the things you always say, the place where i first saw you.
i write them in different places-- on paper, on the back side of my notes, on the wall, on my wrist.
my hand moves involuntarily and i end up writing everything repeatedly. i write even in between classes. it's even frequent when i get home.
they are always written in the same manner the first time i wrote your name. with care, as if your name was the most sacred thing i'd ever encountered.
but now, i don't even do it anymore.
i stopped the rhyming about you. i forgot your middle name. the song that plays in the car seems so familiar, yet it isn't.
everytime i walk down the corridor where we always used to meet,
your voice doesn't seem to stand out anymore.
my papers are neat now. the last pages of my notes are empty. i didn't receive suspension from vandalizing the school's walls this year. my wrist is covered by my watch. i listen to my professors now. i sleep comfortably.
i lost my pen.
then one day, i encounter your name again.
this time, i write it without feeling anything.
i guess your name isn't as sacred now as it was in the past.
i guess your name would only be a foreign word i knew i encountered but i don't remember.
yeah. i forgave and now, i forgot.
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 4:55 AM UTC
Spray paint rolling and spilling liquid
Vandalizing a mothers hope
Or showing what's inside his cry
A picture for his empty mind
Take a look what will you find
Letters of graffiti spelling
Help...
Drugs spilling down each letter
Getting addicted to the style
Drug dealers in trench coats
Opening wide to see a different galaxy
A different world many wish to journey
Vain an endless road
****** riding along the pathway
Comics books become heros'
Saving the little kids from magazines
Not the paper one
But the one that slides into pistols
And carrying one can make you feel like everyone's a bad guy
TV becomes a distraction from the gun shots outside our window
And inside everybody is shaking in their own skin
Wondering if today brings another drive by
A little boy looking out the window for his father
His father left nothing behind
But the boy believes he forgot something
Or he is lost and trying to find his way back
And he is praying for superman to save him
Or for superman to save the little boy
This boy doesn't know how to cope with the heart ache
So he shows it with vandalism
A word that says help
That gets dusted with sprinkles of crack
He becomes addicted to the style
Showing the world that their are different galaxy's
Places he doesn't like but he's addicted to the style
His mother's hope vandalized
He is sorry but he is in a different world
Come into his mind
And find the sentence
That's covered in crack
"Help... I'm addicted to the style"
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 7:39 AM UTC
It was Halloween night but I had no candy.
But I did have an air rifle and it came in handy.
Because I had no candy, some punks started vandalizing my house.
Just because I shot them with my air rifle, people called me a louse.
I pumped the air rifle ten times and shot one of them in the *****
The **** juvenile couldn't walk back to his house, he had to crawl.
I put pellets up their ***** so that a valuable lesson would be taught.
Before they vandalize another man's house, they will have 2nd thoughts.
But the cops came to my house and I was the one who was placed under arrest.
Apparently it was illegal when I shot them in their ***** ***** and a girl's left breast.
Sadly, shooting the girl was an accident, I shot her as she was walking past.
After I got out of jail, her dad paid me a visit and put my arms and legs in casts.
There was a valuable lesson that those juvenile delinquents learned.
I shoot people who are vandals, that's why none of them have returned.
Oct 31, 2019
Oct 31, 2019 at 8:25 PM UTC
The delicacy of the situation,
At its epitome,
Could not but vexate me.
The vague and cloudy memories,
Set aside all the tragedy,
You came back like a lightning bolt struck.
Vandalizing everything to a degree,
Discrete were we,
And our lives in peace.
But then,
You came along,
Dragging misery.
My eyes were shut before,
Now I see the true you,
I thank God I had fled away.
Perhaps it is fate that brought you here,
But now I will not accept you anyways,
Because now I believe I'm destined for greatness.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
people be saying:
“Defacing your temple of Lord.”
“Vandalizing your skin.”
“Marking up your body.”
“A mistake you’ll come to regret.”
“It's ugly, it’s stupid, it makes no sense.”
God gave me a mind, filled with light and color and ideas and beauty. And he gave me a body, plain and simple like a blank canvas asking to be colorized.
I stain my skin with ink because I think it is beautiful.
My body is covered with marks from a needle, not a knife. This is the way I choose to feel, think and share with the world. You ought to be glad that my way is not another.
And how could I regret painting my skin in a way that brings me such happiness?
You look at these lines and squiggles and all you see is dirt. Maybe to you, there is no rhyme or reason to the pictures that I so carefully choose, but every mark has its story. Maybe if you’d ask, I’d share them with you?
I color my flesh.
Have fun, have a voice,
Express my thoughts without using words.
A permanent reminder of what I stand for,
A protest of the things I do not.
This is my body and I do as I please.
Could it be you who is wrong
For reprimanding me from wanting the world to see
That I am not perfect,
But in imperfection, beauty can still be found?
Could it be you who needs to open your mind
And your heart to new ideas
So although you all treat my tattoos to be taboo
If I wish to paint my skin, that is what I will do.
Mar 30, 2021
Mar 30, 2021 at 1:41 PM UTC
My love vandalizing life slowly.
I don't want to hurt you.
But I can.
My lips are shredding the air.
I don't want to kiss you.
But I will.
My eyes are drinking your soul.
I don't want to love you.
BUT I AM ...
My room is cold and lonely.
Without you..
My lust is digging that loveless town.
In search of you..
My Life is drifting that pain away ..
From me...from you..
My love is hell and heaven..
I know... no colors...
Destructive ...
Tantalizing ...
Pushy..
Dark
But simple ..
Lonely..
Love ..
And
Me
Jun 27, 2019
Jun 27, 2019 at 2:47 AM UTC