"worryingly" poems - Hello Poetry

New words in old styles Tracked on a canvas of brick By a precocious kid Sneaking on the lines; The little ***** My morning art show Laid out in illiterate words, Scribbled by artists Who failed art at school, Then shat on by birds. An exhibition of names Written worryingly wrong, Evident to the system That failed before they Even joined the throng. We pause at one piece Daubed in indelible paint, White streaked on black, A chaotic sprawl of letters, **** al saintz". I've been there before; A nice school I thought, Catholic of course; I doubt the child gave The saints a spare thought. And what about Al? Does he care at all? Does he pause here, On his way to work, And dream their downfall. It drives me up the wall To see tracks filled with art, But are they to blame? We let them loose And they play their part.

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Mar 23, 2015

Mar 23, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC

mv-blake

Graffiti On The Rails

New words in old styles Tracked on a canvas of brick By a precocious kid Sneaking on the lines; The little ***** My morning art show Laid out in illiterate words, Scribbled by artists Who failed art at school, Then shat on by birds. An exhibition of names Written worryingly wrong, Evident to the system That failed before they Even joined the throng. We pause at one piece Daubed in indelible paint, White streaked on black, A chaotic sprawl of letters, **** al saintz". I've been there before; A nice school I thought, Catholic of course; I doubt the child gave The saints a spare thought. And what about Al? Does he care at all? Does he pause here, On his way to work, And dream their downfall. It drives me up the wall To see tracks filled with art, But are they to blame? We let them loose And they play their part.

35

You’ve got to love the little old men, The ones in the coffee shop from three till ten, The ones who eat cheese and read the news, The ones who seek the finest wines to choose. Little old men with long lost cleats, These are the little old men in the streets. The little old men who walk around, Quietly humming adding some sound, The tock, tock, tock of their cane on stone, The tick, tock tick of their life long worn, The little old men who oft hand out treats, Those are the little old men in the streets. Some little old men hunched over from war, Remain so from the packs they bore, Their muscles and bones ten years have been sore, But ask them now - what were you fighting for? The little old man will regain some youth, Say they were fighting for love,...- freedom and truth. "But we were young" he'll say-., "My best friend was young and he died at my feet", Those are the little old men in the street. With finite wisdom and finite life, These little old men once had a wife, And no doubt plenty of children too, In their day, two was too few. But age you see, has had its way, On that younger man of the day, ... And the little old men in the streets can't stay. One day you'll wake up and worryingly see, No men in the shop, no men by the sea, A stack of newspapers bundled up tight, And little old men nowhere in sight. Till one day walking in the fields you find, No tombstone, no flowers but a burial mound, And that little old man in the streets’bin found.

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Jul 31, 2011

Jul 31, 2011 at 12:43 AM UTC

raja-badr-el-din

Little old men in the street

You’ve got to love the little old men, The ones in the coffee shop from three till ten, The ones who eat cheese and read the news, The ones who seek the finest wines to choose. Little old men with long lost cleats, These are the little old men in the streets. The little old men who walk around, Quietly humming adding some sound, The tock, tock, tock of their cane on stone, The tick, tock tick of their life long worn, The little old men who oft hand out treats, Those are the little old men in the streets. Some little old men hunched over from war, Remain so from the packs they bore, Their muscles and bones ten years have been sore, But ask them now - what were you fighting for? The little old man will regain some youth, Say they were fighting for love,...- freedom and truth. "But we were young" he'll say-., "My best friend was young and he died at my feet", Those are the little old men in the street. With finite wisdom and finite life, These little old men once had a wife, And no doubt plenty of children too, In their day, two was too few. But age you see, has had its way, On that younger man of the day, ... And the little old men in the streets can't stay. One day you'll wake up and worryingly see, No men in the shop, no men by the sea, A stack of newspapers bundled up tight, And little old men nowhere in sight. Till one day walking in the fields you find, No tombstone, no flowers but a burial mound, And that little old man in the streets’bin found.

34

Is there a place somewhere known and yet unknown where humans keep or lose their guilts Is there a dumping hole or a snug or a fierce incinerator blazing That destroys or obliterates human guilts Is it a known some guilts carry comfortably and alone just another thing for the holdall satchel bag or arm Someday its worryingly heavy on the shoulders other times it's just small and weightless An accessory as any others imperceptibly light Is the heavy guilt or tons heavy ones like granite stone a weary toil left in a storage or thrown over a cliff What ever done guilts come with a personal receipt bearing owners name time and number Attached to owner and carried 24/7 marked as 'Non-Transferable' Is your guilt or guilts bearable or carry-able like your phone have you stored, hidden it or pushed down a crevice What about the indelible receipt on your person that which is there and rests on you Does it flare like an incindaries or just simmer quietly Is your guilt a bedfellow that clings to your chest in a zone whispering in tone foreboding and chills persistent Or one that wades in and recedes like shore waves perhaps it's a type like a central rigid statue An unmovable edifice of horror coated in fear and alarm Is your guilt light and niggly, a Bonsai with no tall grown did you amend paying a due and penanced did leave And though the attached receipt still haunts you least you know it will gradually fade away Leaving truly tutoring imprints Never to be repeated Is your guilt a stranger yet unmet and your spirit happy flown do you walk in salient steps with no recourse to remorse And greet each morn with pleasantries to I, me and self enthralled no rent paid for secret storage or a crevice Just the one that stands before man and Creation Held aloof by a Conscience unstained Copyright@Laurence14th Aug2018.all rights reserved.

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Aug 14, 2018

Aug 14, 2018 at 8:11 PM UTC

yenson

Do You Have.....

Is there a place somewhere known and yet unknown where humans keep or lose their guilts Is there a dumping hole or a snug or a fierce incinerator blazing That destroys or obliterates human guilts Is it a known some guilts carry comfortably and alone just another thing for the holdall satchel bag or arm Someday its worryingly heavy on the shoulders other times it's just small and weightless An accessory as any others imperceptibly light Is the heavy guilt or tons heavy ones like granite stone a weary toil left in a storage or thrown over a cliff What ever done guilts come with a personal receipt bearing owners name time and number Attached to owner and carried 24/7 marked as 'Non-Transferable' Is your guilt or guilts bearable or carry-able like your phone have you stored, hidden it or pushed down a crevice What about the indelible receipt on your person that which is there and rests on you Does it flare like an incindaries or just simmer quietly Is your guilt a bedfellow that clings to your chest in a zone whispering in tone foreboding and chills persistent Or one that wades in and recedes like shore waves perhaps it's a type like a central rigid statue An unmovable edifice of horror coated in fear and alarm Is your guilt light and niggly, a Bonsai with no tall grown did you amend paying a due and penanced did leave And though the attached receipt still haunts you least you know it will gradually fade away Leaving truly tutoring imprints Never to be repeated Is your guilt a stranger yet unmet and your spirit happy flown do you walk in salient steps with no recourse to remorse And greet each morn with pleasantries to I, me and self enthralled no rent paid for secret storage or a crevice Just the one that stands before man and Creation Held aloof by a Conscience unstained Copyright@Laurence14th Aug2018.all rights reserved.

43

Psychiatrists said my son was mad But I only saw a child, He needed to be locked up, he was dangerous and bad They declared, but I knew he was only wild. Psychiatrists have for decades employed ECT, that damages brains, destroys memory; With omnipresent power employed The soul-disabling effects of SS-influenced lobotomy. They prescribed (prescribe) addictive drugs To all and sundry, on a whim, Giving them to children, like street-wise thugs Covered in expensive bling. I took my son away Protecting him from a psychotropic shower, Until he’s strong enough to have his say, Not silenced by mis-used power. He talks of love and wondrous things, Of things he’s read and seen All they can see is a boy who stupidly grins- Like playground bullies, ignorant and mean. They said my son was mad Needs to be drugged, pinned down, abused But surely the world is worryingly sad, Allowing people to be so used?

0

Feb 9, 2017

Feb 9, 2017 at 2:06 PM UTC

stanley-wilkin

THEY SAID MY SON WAS MAD-

Psychiatrists said my son was mad But I only saw a child, He needed to be locked up, he was dangerous and bad They declared, but I knew he was only wild. Psychiatrists have for decades employed ECT, that damages brains, destroys memory; With omnipresent power employed The soul-disabling effects of SS-influenced lobotomy. They prescribed (prescribe) addictive drugs To all and sundry, on a whim, Giving them to children, like street-wise thugs Covered in expensive bling. I took my son away Protecting him from a psychotropic shower, Until he’s strong enough to have his say, Not silenced by mis-used power. He talks of love and wondrous things, Of things he’s read and seen All they can see is a boy who stupidly grins- Like playground bullies, ignorant and mean. They said my son was mad Needs to be drugged, pinned down, abused But surely the world is worryingly sad, Allowing people to be so used?

24

My sad mentality Destroys my reality Annihilates my honesty All I have got is privacy Not a shed of sociality My life's complexity Against myself a conspiracy Emphasizes my stupidity Locks up my humanity Self pity is my speciality It seems a necessity Which confuses my phsychology And Leaves nothing I wanna be My life's history I have waited patiently To write in my corrupting diary For I am no deity If there was something godly I'd have been killed furiously That conclusion comes logically Though simultaneously I have lived happily My neurology I have kept in secrecy Cause with my souls delivery To the devils cookery They feasted immediately On my souls purity My life's mystery Won't be uncovered easily For I life silently In my ****** up fantasy Which left nothing I wanna be I have waited impatiently For others to grow up with me For without being remotely angelically I have behaved, we'll almost elderly Or I have tried to behave intelligently Never drunkingly And quite rarely Entirely freely On this I look quite positively For it has allowed me To stand against the waves unwaveringly Looking upon life much more detailedly Seeing more nuanced on life's complexity And for the ability to do this comfortably I must thank my family While I can say all the above truthfully There is plenty to say negatively For standing against the norm unrockingly Can at the best of times be quite lonely And most the time I looked desperately After those who floated by me oh so freely While looking so unfathomably Completely, worryingly, unanimously happily At a world driven by the greedy, Disgustingly, horrifying monsters of humanity This have tortured me existentially At times I have felt ****** up mentally But as time passed slowly Step by step I realized surprisingly That it has left me allmost exactly like I allways wanted to be.

0

Oct 15, 2018

Oct 15, 2018 at 3:14 AM UTC

thom149c

I wanna be

My sad mentality Destroys my reality Annihilates my honesty All I have got is privacy Not a shed of sociality My life's complexity Against myself a conspiracy Emphasizes my stupidity Locks up my humanity Self pity is my speciality It seems a necessity Which confuses my phsychology And Leaves nothing I wanna be My life's history I have waited patiently To write in my corrupting diary For I am no deity If there was something godly I'd have been killed furiously That conclusion comes logically Though simultaneously I have lived happily My neurology I have kept in secrecy Cause with my souls delivery To the devils cookery They feasted immediately On my souls purity My life's mystery Won't be uncovered easily For I life silently In my ****** up fantasy Which left nothing I wanna be I have waited impatiently For others to grow up with me For without being remotely angelically I have behaved, we'll almost elderly Or I have tried to behave intelligently Never drunkingly And quite rarely Entirely freely On this I look quite positively For it has allowed me To stand against the waves unwaveringly Looking upon life much more detailedly Seeing more nuanced on life's complexity And for the ability to do this comfortably I must thank my family While I can say all the above truthfully There is plenty to say negatively For standing against the norm unrockingly Can at the best of times be quite lonely And most the time I looked desperately After those who floated by me oh so freely While looking so unfathomably Completely, worryingly, unanimously happily At a world driven by the greedy, Disgustingly, horrifying monsters of humanity This have tortured me existentially At times I have felt ****** up mentally But as time passed slowly Step by step I realized surprisingly That it has left me allmost exactly like I allways wanted to be.

63

I. I confessed a love you were never to hear of. I confessed in the strongest of forms, pen to paper. I wrote and signed my confession like a death warrant. Signing off on your love and giving you the authority to **** me. You always did take your job a little too seriously. Now my sentences are not jumbled but in a solid structure, for you. II. I find it impossible to write of my first love. I could endlessly write smoking metaphors or over-analyse the looks I catch between strangers on the street. I could give you ten reasons why I love spring and yellow flowers, but I could not write more than ten words about my first love. I do not wonder how he spends his time, I do not care of the 'man' he grows to be. Nor do I direct sentences towards him because to me he does not exist. He died on that December day, since then I have spoken with the ghost of a fifteen year old boy that spit poison down my throat then died, claiming to be Romeo. That is not how the story goes. III. i am, i am, I am. before I knew you, I would have described you in worryingly accurate detail as my ideal. now I know you, I simply say your name. a thousand years

0

Apr 17, 2014

Apr 17, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC

forlucy

1am

I. I confessed a love you were never to hear of. I confessed in the strongest of forms, pen to paper. I wrote and signed my confession like a death warrant. Signing off on your love and giving you the authority to **** me. You always did take your job a little too seriously. Now my sentences are not jumbled but in a solid structure, for you. II. I find it impossible to write of my first love. I could endlessly write smoking metaphors or over-analyse the looks I catch between strangers on the street. I could give you ten reasons why I love spring and yellow flowers, but I could not write more than ten words about my first love. I do not wonder how he spends his time, I do not care of the 'man' he grows to be. Nor do I direct sentences towards him because to me he does not exist. He died on that December day, since then I have spoken with the ghost of a fifteen year old boy that spit poison down my throat then died, claiming to be Romeo. That is not how the story goes. III. i am, i am, I am. before I knew you, I would have described you in worryingly accurate detail as my ideal. now I know you, I simply say your name. a thousand years

23

The darkness... It used to be a place that i could hide A comfort pit. But now it has pierced the full howl Of the undertow of the falling world. I feel the wash up rising above my chin To take me under. I tell myself if i hold steady It will be worth it, I will be great if i just hold composure But that's just not true The younger are passing me now They know not to make the same mistakes as me They look down at me with passivity, passing The Weeknd is singing, cooing from my phone You're only looking for attention... I am smoking a cigarette bummed from my brother, it feels surprisingly Worryingly good after a few days Of not smoking At that moment, thinking i have pierced the safe darkness and gone fully crazy, not stable when im sober Deep into the wine That the fox let out a curdling scream and it agrees horridly with my curdled soul I fear mediocrity I have lost the game of life I am 23, and It is too late.

0

Oct 14, 2017

Oct 14, 2017 at 12:05 AM UTC

SometimesStar

The Darkness That Was Never Safe.

The darkness... It used to be a place that i could hide A comfort pit. But now it has pierced the full howl Of the undertow of the falling world. I feel the wash up rising above my chin To take me under. I tell myself if i hold steady It will be worth it, I will be great if i just hold composure But that's just not true The younger are passing me now They know not to make the same mistakes as me They look down at me with passivity, passing The Weeknd is singing, cooing from my phone You're only looking for attention... I am smoking a cigarette bummed from my brother, it feels surprisingly Worryingly good after a few days Of not smoking At that moment, thinking i have pierced the safe darkness and gone fully crazy, not stable when im sober Deep into the wine That the fox let out a curdling scream and it agrees horridly with my curdled soul I fear mediocrity I have lost the game of life I am 23, and It is too late.

26

We are sons of guns Once a son of man. Now, dutiful to our guns Our hearts are daubed with beautiful hatred And ugly love Our youthful years borrowed To Mystic Voyage From birth at dawn to death at dusk Via life by midday We are the slaying generation An Estate Hired to death Planted with bullets In slaying season And graves harvested In dying season Each dawn awakes a new orange feeling Shadowed by a wordless numbness at noon Sunset usher’s eventide’s restlessness As terror covers the darkness Panic envelopes the night Hearts hammering the chest Pounding worryingly Until the rapid rhythm of the heart beats Matches the pace of the Drumming Boots of the soldiers Bang, bang! To each door Sightless sounds of commanding voices… “Open up” A pause…silent noises Sounds of Gunshots…Ram! Pam! Pam! Crack open the screaming orchestra Of women and children Everyone is guilty until proven innocent Home is not a safe shade no more Your own House betraying you Growing Into a shadow I wonder why the meat sings In praise of the butcher Horror commands the naked hours of midnight As fear rules the remaining decades of hours till dawn.

0

Jun 9, 2018

Jun 9, 2018 at 7:47 PM UTC

harun-shukri

Sons of Guns

We are sons of guns Once a son of man. Now, dutiful to our guns Our hearts are daubed with beautiful hatred And ugly love Our youthful years borrowed To Mystic Voyage From birth at dawn to death at dusk Via life by midday We are the slaying generation An Estate Hired to death Planted with bullets In slaying season And graves harvested In dying season Each dawn awakes a new orange feeling Shadowed by a wordless numbness at noon Sunset usher’s eventide’s restlessness As terror covers the darkness Panic envelopes the night Hearts hammering the chest Pounding worryingly Until the rapid rhythm of the heart beats Matches the pace of the Drumming Boots of the soldiers Bang, bang! To each door Sightless sounds of commanding voices… “Open up” A pause…silent noises Sounds of Gunshots…Ram! Pam! Pam! Crack open the screaming orchestra Of women and children Everyone is guilty until proven innocent Home is not a safe shade no more Your own House betraying you Growing Into a shadow I wonder why the meat sings In praise of the butcher Horror commands the naked hours of midnight As fear rules the remaining decades of hours till dawn.

41