"zooey" poems
I’m not good at being forward
I have this habit of becoming disordered
I let my emotions change the color of my sleeve
In my aspirations I hope to find belief
I walk through jungles and rainforests
Once in a while I see through the canopy
Into the skies of my memories
And request that stars dance to the rhythm of us
I keep them alive to avoid the gathering of dust
My memories, caught in the Pensieve of your eyes
Have ignored all the times I told myself lies
I may not be your ideal Superman
But I’d accept Peter Pan if you’ll go with me to Neverland
I’ve rarely been so captivated by a girl
Sure, Zooey Deschanel is quirky in New Girl
And Emma Watson bewitched me from the start
Anna Kendrick was perfect in Pitch Perfect
Alex Morgan is the luckiest 13 I’ve ever seen
But I choose you! To fill my canteen
You quench my thirst when the loneliness dries me
I was not made to walk in a desert
My heart is an amphibian
Living like a Floridian in the ice-cold tundra we call Rexburg
You still need the sun, no matter how much it snows
I’ll trudge on in the jungle; dormant in the night
I’ll carry on with you in mind, until the time is right
Once I’ve faced death, or even a spider
Then, I think I’ll top the greats; George of the Jungle, Aslan, Mogly, Tarzan, Batman, Peter Pan, Harry Potter, Genghis Kahn, Michael… Jackson or Jordan
They’re all kings and I’ll be in their league
As I shake off the fatigue and find courage in you
To make it through the awkward moment of simply saying
“You’re a real kind of gorgeous”
In that chorus, played on my rhythm of heartbeats
I found my way out of the back streets
From deep in the jungle I’ve come to know as Fear
A jungle that disappears when your presence is near
Sometimes I have to stop walking, stop thinking
I feel like I’m on the verge of something spectacular
Anything normal might ruin that
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 11:14 PM UTC
Scene 1:
(Periwinkle room, Jigglypuff poster, soft alternative music)
I stomp in,
Niagara Falls streaming
Throw his copy of Pablo Neruda poetry into the trash
And start reading Virginia Woolf
Poetic revolution.
That’ll show him
Scene 2:
(Cafe atmosphere, fading laughter, upbeat music)
Whoa. That guy. Not that one.
The one on the left
Kinda nice, kinda cute
And he laughed at my joke
Jane Austen romances
and Zooey Glass daydreams
fill my waking moments
Scene 3:
(Restaurant, muffled conversations, classical music)
What is he staring at? Who is he staring at?
Oh no awkward conversation gap
Say something,
quick, anything
“The weather is nice tonight, yeah?”
Not that.
But he laughs
Night saved
Scene 4:
(Outside the restaurant, night breezes, car noises)
“That was nice,”
He casually mentions
Yeah. Nice.
Not great. Amazing. Life-altering.
Nice.
The same adjective used to describe the weather
Devoid of meaning.
Scene 5:
(Car, radio on silent, crickets chirping)
“I wanted to give you something”
Hands me,
Oh dear god no,
A copy of Neruda
That ****** Neruda.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 3:18 PM UTC
This poem is a Google Adwords ad,
Intruding into the sidebar of your heart.
It’s a 1-800-LAWYERS commercial
Making you money off your personal injury.
It’s a brutal, ****** UFC bout,
Weak in its ground game but knows its Jiu-Jitsu
And it’s got you on the mat, begging you to tap out.
This poem is *****
a SNAFU waiting to happen.
It’s the sarin gas Syria used against its own
And it’s the attack America will be responding with,
Using ****** to punish murderers.
This poem is a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken
Getting your finger-lickin’-good fingers nice and greasy.
This poem is yet another poet writing yet another poem about poems,
With the word poem repeated ad nauseum.
This poem is a bunch of awful band names,
Like Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Tapes ‘n Tapes, and Chunk! No, Captain Chunk!.
It’s a summer blockbuster and a teen dystopian trilogy.
It’s riding *****
In your ex’s car.
This poem is anthropogenic global warming
Whose CO2 emissions are dangerously high and climbing
While its polar bears are stranded on the broken ice floes of its verses.
It’s a baseball crowd speaking the words “no hitter”
In the midst of a no-no
Which itself is a no-no.
Its bad grammar, who’s comma’s are all, out of place
And its’ apostrophe’s, are meaningless.
This poem is Zooey Deschanel,
Who will not marry me some day, any day, in the future.
In fact, it doesn’t even know I exist.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
I am tired of being an empty shell that you find beautiful & eccentric.
I am tired of being a trope made by authors and directors.
I am like war and peace and not like a tissue paper you made me out to be.
I am tired of being your favourite shade of red.
I am tired of being a brush stroke, when I am the entire painting.
I am tired of being pinned to a pedestal.
I am tired of my existence and my name being relative.
I am tired of being a zany sidekick to the male protagonist in the movie that is my life.
I am tired of you thinking that I need help stilling the edges of my narrative, who longs for a tether or a buoy to keep her from flying off or sinking down.
I am tired of being told – unconventional, different and other such synonyms by boys, that I am not like other girls as if they are a disease and I am magic.
I am tired to be known as someone with wacky quirks and idiosyncrasies.
I am tired of being Alaska Young.
I am tired of being Sam from The Perks of Being a Wallflower.
I am tired of being Tiffany from The Silver Linings Playbook.
I am tired of being tagged as Sam from Garden State.
Or even Marla Singer from Fight Club.
Or even an Amelie or Penny from Almost Famous.
And every Zooey Deschanel character.
I am a Clementine.
I’m a Sylvia Plath.
I’m a Dorothy Parker.
A Maya and a Margaret.
You see, I am well versed
in death and in silence.
I have my interests and I am like all of the above. But I am “like” them. I am not them.
I am me.
I am scared now.
Scared of boys claiming to be wrapped in barbed wire
but is really a caged petting animal in the zoo.
I am tired of boys who thinks romance is a Hemingway novel.
But, most importantly I am tired.
Tired of men not falling in love with me
but instead falling in love with the idea of me.
Nomoreokaythankyouplease.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 3:22 AM UTC
We could love like
Johnny and June
if I could just walk
the ******* line.
We could love like
Bonnie and Clyde
if I could just rob
a bank with a smile.
We could love like
Romeo and Juliet
if I could just ****
myself with a vial.
We could love like
Edward and Bella
if I could just live
forever and still care.
We could love like
Samson and Delilah
if I could just pull
the columns down.
We could love like
Zooey and Ben
if I could just write
a song that showed you.
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 9:35 AM UTC
It's all in the cards,
So let's shuffle our deck,
And see what say our hearts.
Shuffle your deck,
Lay out the cards
And we'll find within the symbolism
Whether we're fleeting
Or meant to be.
And I be a liar if I said I trust cards
More than people,
But I definitely trust the books that hold stories of them
Infinitely more.
But these books,
They're my home.
I got to the library, the bookstore,
And please understand, that's my church.
Within those walls and these papers,
I find my truth and my guidance.
My gospel is To **** a Mockingbird,
My old testament is the complete works of Charles Dickens,
And my new testament is J.D. Salinger's Franny and Zooey.
I find prayer within Lord Byron,
And I seek guidance from Richard Bach.
So maybe it is all in the cards,
But if I could read the cards
As well as I read Edgar Allen Poe,
I'd be the most profound clairvoyant
In the history of history.
But I bet you
That when I seek prayer within Brent Weeks and Oscar Wilde,
Know that I'll find every reason to be with you
And none other,
And I'll see the beauty
Of our future
Together.
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 4:54 PM UTC
He was the kind of boy that would listen to you talk about your dreams
And watch you try on a series of hats only to tell you he didn't like any of them.
This boy that could talk about kiwis
without seeming dull.
He had an affinity for hip hop music and ironic T shirts
and fancied himself a good club crawl every now and again.
The two P's were often on his dinner menu (pasta and pesto)
And he was quirky.
Not in a Zooey Deschanel kind of way,
But in the way that is effortless.
In the way that intrigues people.
Intrigues me.
He wasn't the kind of boy you read about in books,
but should have books written about him.
I wanted to be the one to write it.
It started off as a fan-fiction
and ended as wishful thinking.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 11:09 PM UTC
right now, I sit curled up on my couch, under a warm blanket shared with my swear heart
we listen to the soft roar of the crackling fire
feel its heat radiating from across the room
the reflection of an old christmas movie on our happy faces
black and white couples flashing across the screen
a girl with a present
a man with a cigar
a child looking at the toys through the window
it all looks so nice on our flat screen
the steam from our hot cocoa starts to fog up the screen
the acting wasn't that great anyway, might as well turn it off
"you wanna listen to She and Him, I have their new christmas album on vinyl."
I laugh at his hipster-ness
"of coarse"
"rockin' round the christmas tree"
he knew I loved Zooey's voice
"care to dance?" his voice like butter
and who can resist butter??
we glide across the carpet, almost stepping on the pets
everything was so perfect in his eyes
as they were inches closer and starting to close
I guess I should be doing that too
CONTACT
it was sweat like candy canes at first then salty like a ritz *******
but still good
we stumble over back to the couch, Little Saint Nick playing
the blanket is long gone now
I can feel his burning hands messing with my bra
his mouth caressing my collar bone
its off, along with every other piece of our clothing
now the tv screen is covered with a different steam
the cocoa spilled on over my legs
his hand on my head pushing me downward
hes too strong
just as I was about to give him something he would never forget we hear something from the fire place
it startled us both
after the black dust flittered down we saw two little black boots
and then heard the grunting of a man, much different than mine or my boyfriend's
could it...
no thats impossible!
is it?
before I could question what was going on he was there, in the room with us
santa
his face soon turning red after realized what he had stumble in on
he didn't say anything though, just walking over to the tree and put some small packages down
then left
as he rode away we could hear him shout
"MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!"
well this is awkward
Nov 16, 2012
Nov 16, 2012 at 1:02 AM UTC
I rode my bike, fat, bloated 4-inch
Tires un-skating across
Frosted ground.
A degree below
(You know what)
Not ice, or icy,
Exactly, but...
As if some mythical
Dude named...John?
Jorje? (Hore-hay)
Ok, Jack, then - breathed
Almost-frozen breadth
Over much of Downtown
Indianapolis.
The sun was diffuse, low
Easterly, barely a lighted
Presence, as I pedaled through
The little pathway that perimeters the
Zoo, the muffled cries of
The furry and wrinkly-
Skinned high above
And safely ensconced
Past huge limestone walls.
Shutter-flash
Dapples of light struck my
Eyes as I passed leaves who
Stubbornly refused to relinquish
Their stemmed hold onto
Mother and Father tree.
Past the little zooey pathway,
The big bridge leading to the
Downtown canal, ordinarily
Crowded, but only I crowded
This time and place and space.
Where the sun wanted to shine,
But was stubbornly blocked by
Such insubstantial things as
Bridge abutments and pillars;
Shadows outlined the muted
Rays of a bleak post-Christmas
Sun, contrasting
Outlining them in a
Frosty embrace.
All around that little ******
Of ground, the light of day
Melted and softened Jack's
Iron-like grip. But not
That little piece of ground.
Nope.
I stopped the bike and looked
At the squarish rectangle of
Frost that stubbornly refused to
Give up its hold from the
Relentless, though much less
Powerful sun.
The clockwork
Universe ticks and tocks,
And moves and shakes, and
This morning, snug in my many
Layers, I got to ride my bike
On top of a battle
I'd never witnessed before
Today.
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 7:14 PM UTC
One of the hottest tattoos I have ever seen on a women is her grandmothers numbers.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 10:29 PM UTC
I've dated an artist for over two years
of headaches and yeast infections.
He's skinny, hairy, and the pointdexter I never knew I wanted.
I never wanted a man
to pin me to his wall as some temporary masterpiece.
But life comes and
kills us into what it wants us to be.
Every time I say “Let's stop”—
I shake my mind like empty soda cans
and roll over and take him again.
My trouble is
I love getting ******
Though we call it something else, truth is
I am his ***** It's an artistic statement
that's been done a million times over. But he needs me
to tell him he's brilliant.
And so, I bury my cheeks into his chest fur.
Feeling its scratches like a returning stray at the door,
As he twirls his finger around in my mouth
romancing me into
something lovely and agreeable as Zooey Deschanel.
I hope one day I can break away and
just be
my own ***** again. But for now, I walk on all-fours
bent over in sharp-submission
and it's
delicious.
For we are nothing more
than two hungry dogs, running back to each other
panting and stinking
through the pouring rain.
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 5:14 AM UTC
i was your manic pixie dream girl. i was just a hollow shell that you found beautiful and mysterious. in the letters you wrote to me, you compared me to zooey deschanel and the way all her characters seem to hide themselves under layers, waiting to be peeled back and understood by some unsuspecting male who needed a woman to make the story of their lives progress. but even after a year and a half, you failed to view me as a person and not a trope devised by authors and screenwriters with ***** that shriveled into their bodies. i thought i meant more to you, and you still probably believe i was just a lucky accident in your life. i've moved on to find boys that can almost see through me, even though i'm like war and peace and not the tissue paper you made me out to be. they can see i have a heart and guts and am more than a smattering of your favorite shade of blue on a canvas. you thought of me as a brush stroke, but baby, i'm the whole ******* painting.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
#1
The water crawled up
her legs like an angry fire.
Stop! For she likes it too much.
#2
Franny and Zooey
Speaks to me like no others.
Happy, yet so sad.
#3
It has been said, when
darkness comes light lives. Yet, all
joy dies as love leaves.
#4
Sound is a constant.
It is always heard. You can-
never unhear sound
#5
Up above the sun
it does not rain nor do they
cry for there is no sadness.
#6
I live again yet
The best part is yet to come
I feel beautiful.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 10:53 PM UTC
I never miss a thing around
the skies are always above me
'never' always asks for an 'always'
And blood will rush until it stops rushing
chilly air of a chill night out - hold, release
relive (free WI-FI) willingly crashing
So many trippy kids and adults in the city of M.
Empty beat attacks with the strength of a spring grizzly
Heart slipped my mind like a metronome slapping
Suddenly universal knee touch fulfilling each fantasy
Was bad so could be good again, by that it was winning
night knows playing cruelly, touch and run, taggers
i go with it, i play along, i start dancing, head first, bare neck, collar settling
cause of death: Guillotine in front of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs on Smolenskaya
Coke still evokes the taste of blood because of metal wrapping
Indistinct music on the street so kind upon me helps swirling
My curls grow, I cut'em, they come back
I leave locks in the books reread, Franny and Zooey hold it
* «Louis XVI, born Louis-Auguste, was the last King of France before the fall of the monarchy during the French Revolution. … Louis XVI was guillotined on 21 January 1793. … The executioner, Charles Henri Sanson, testified that the former king had bravely met his fate. » OST Wikipedia
* «Jerome David Salinger was an American writer. … Salinger died of natural causes at his home in New Hampshire on January 27, 2010. He was 91. … The representative believed that Salinger's death was not a painful one. » OST Wikipedia
* «Metronomy is an electronic music group formed in 1999. » OST Wikipedia
Jun 15, 2018
Jun 15, 2018 at 6:21 AM UTC