"visualizes" poems
I think those who are in love on this era is cursed,
not that their love is delusional nor artificial
But because their manisfestation of love is perceived
by how society visualizes and defines it
We think someone genuinely love us because
they upload hundreds of photos of us
We think someone sincerely love us because
they write essay competition-worthy captions
We think someone truly love us because
they praise us at all of our selfie posts
To me, love is listening to a music
and suddenly it reminds you of them
To me, love is reading a good book
and suddenly wants them to read it as well
To me, love is when winter comes and all you ever think is whether they wear their warm clothes
To me, love is when the night comes and all you think of is how their day was
Well, then again, Chbosky once said that
"we accept the love we think we deserve"
And maybe we don't get to choose the way we love
or the way we want to be loved
Simply because we think it's the kind of love
that deserves us
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 10:45 AM UTC
this combo presents itself
inexplicably demanding a
poem~all~its~own by gum, (1)
though the brain refrains from
providing any clues where/what
might be inside the intersection of
the Ven diagrams of cross pollination and enervation
but as an only love poet,
he thinks he is brilliant,
and visualizes the intersexual
excitement of two insects (bees)
recombinant/\recumbent after the stimulation
of cross pollination as most
enervating
<>
said the Queen bee to a worker bee:
"*Honey, be a dear and pass me a cigarette,
all that pollinating and wing flapping is
just so enervating, I think I'll just die*"(2)
Jul 27, 2025
Jul 27, 2025 at 7:47 AM UTC
Vocabulary
Bears imagism
Foundation
Imagery
Amplifies eloquence
Apache's tear
Metaphors
Stabilize meaning
Plausibility
Allegory
Visualizes enigma
Sammi Poe
Mar 17, 2012
Mar 17, 2012 at 9:45 AM UTC
He never asked me for anything.
His humbleness and fruitfulness grew on me
Without knowing that his hand could carve words into ellipticals and parabolas.
His cooking skills were awful,
but he can make a Ramen soup
That'll make your knees melt like overcooked chicken broth.
He was 24 when he first came to this country,
his English broken like the glass protecting his eyes,
He left African battlefields and deserts
To generate cereal boxes and lithium batteries.
His pockets stuffed w/ month-long receipts,
because he always wanted to keep track of where he spent his hard-earned money.
Nobody gave him a cup to **** in, much less a ***
But he always felt optimism grow in his foreign lungs,
swinging his voice like a hammer to build maturity,
to stand like golden shrines.
He’d pray every night to speak to his lord,
to ask God to help shape him into something a bit more,
like his shoulders were too weak to bear the struggles of his cries.
He works harder than ghosts to keep his heart in this world.
The Beach Boys were his favorite band when he first came here,
and he always babbled about Brian Wilson because he wrote poems.
He searches for lost poems that he's buried inside the mother of his children
He visualizes the pages of these poems,
writing themselves on the faces of his children.
He tries not to see too long, too hard,
because then he may see too much of himself inside his oldest son.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
There is nothing like stepping outside on a chill morning
& standing barefoot in the dewy grass
with my eyes closed against the rising sun.
The light piercing my eyelids fills my vision with a calming sunset red
that perfectly visualizes the feeling of the softly warm sun rays
blanketing my skin as the morning breeze paints my body
with a fine chilled brush.
I feel each patient beat of my heart
singing a song with the morning birds,
the flowing river & the dancing trees.
The sweet melody satiates me with serenity
& if only for a moment,
I am happy.
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 10:34 AM UTC
My words don’t appear like my mind visualizes,
A speech-impaired philanthropist swings inside,
Tonight, the hailstorm rides the waves,
I am not on the same page, inside.
My thoughts wander on that plane,
An unforgotten tune lingering in the rain,
Leaving this mere mortal on this plane,
How I wish I can leave this pain.
I need the cover of the Carpathian mountains,
And beyond in the realm of darkness,
Ambient sounds and the tragedy of dropping rain,
I need to leave this page, struggling madness.
Before I leave, I need to confess,
That what the heart had desired for long,
To be on a journey, with my obsessed,
I wish you were on the same page, forever after
What may come, with fire or water,
The Earth can swallow me tonight,
I perish with all that remains, written on this page.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 1:37 AM UTC
I wish I could run
my fingers through your hair,
smell your sweet precious skin,
kiss your honey lips,
feel myself buried
in your delicious thoughts.
I close my eyes,
squeezing them tightly
& my mind visualizes
you here with me
here in my bed,
where I lie alone
naked & dreaming.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 4:48 AM UTC
there is a boy who sits in the rain. Right smack on the ground, in the asphalt and dirt, but mud will not ***** further a stain of his token. and this boy is not forgiven, he is desperately lost in the state of broken-barely living which he feels suits him best. for this boy is willing to open wide, take the perverted inside for a price outweighing coins. At the moment they join, in whispered breath, he collects a secret as cold as death. They range from immoral to revolting; each twisted and shameless, yet not enough to dissuade the boy from his task. because this boy is searching for a murderer, solely to ask:
does the guilt make it your fault?
they promised it was not mine at all
And each secret held in his chest has two culprits or more. More than one have committed the same folly. They are disturbed and cracked but not caught, living freely. The filth has a chance to wash clean; they are able to repair themselves. But the murderers? No second chances. Thus they do not come to the boy; they are found by the law. Visible in society and chained in view of the innocent, this boy’s ears echoes with their sins. All the killers of people, spouses, strangers, parents, children, friends, vibrancy. All because of anger, revenge, fetishes, sicknesses...deemed despicable they were left to rot. and that eight year old boy could never understand why they granted him innocence when he was caught. and this twenty-three year old boy will sit in the rain, drenched in sweat as he visualizes the fire and feels the burns that rain cannot extinguish, whilst staring at an empty land plot. and this boy trembles, caressing an old, withered cigarette pack that is one short. Since years ago, this boy has not recognized his worth.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 12:12 AM UTC
I find my body constituently visualizes what use to be visualizable, what use to be tangible, comfortable.
Our blurry compatibility has driven me into a crash of emotions I can’t handle.
Killing me, every time I find my body visualizing what use to be visualizable, what use to be tangible, what use to be comfortable.
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 12:12 AM UTC
He still has fears,
Strotting as he visualizes their future together.
He still has fears,
Not knowing how to escape the quagmire of his emotional distress.
He is laden with fear,
Caught in between his innate desires and ****** expectation
But in the face of these fears, he is defiant
Determined to grasp that which excites his soul.
Even in this quandary,
He is more resolute in finding his heart's joy.
And though he sees this fear,
Lurking behind those dark shadows around her eyes,
Striving to be objective in the face of pessimism,
He knows, that the onus lies on him,
to bring hope
and to reignite the flame
bringing her to the state of belief
that irrespective of all his fears
He will fight to make her his.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 1:42 AM UTC
Pencils found in many sizes
Sleek and smooth
Shows the world in black and white
Or with a burst of color
Explains our deepest sorrows
Visualizes our highest hopes
Used as a powerful weapon
Creating soul crushing sentences
Or crafting joy inflicting paragraphs
The pencil is an instrument of great pain
As well as great happiness
The pencil gives the wielder great power
It allows the user an incredible outlet
Let it out
Apr 10, 2019
Apr 10, 2019 at 4:22 PM UTC