Post by Defty on Nov 12, 2023 16:07:32 GMT -5
SLY
a collection I wrote in one night of the 6 things keeping me awake. there’s actually a collective secret to these poems that spell something about my real self, which is why I called it Sly 😉
JUST STEP BACK
If I just stepped back
And had a look
At myself,
Objectively,
I could list
Everything
Wrong with me.
I’m not who
I’m supposed to be;
I’m not
Where I belong.
My heart
Is calloused
Sometimes.
I am
Desensitized
Inside.
I claim
To have grown,
But I make
The same
Mistakes.
And
I don’t have
The strength
To fix them.
I’m losing
Touch with love,
For everyone—
Even myself.
But there’s no
Pain inside,
No sadness
In my words.
Just emotionless
Acceptance,
And inability to
Change.
Why can’t I change?
I take too many steps back.
***
OBNOXIOUS
When it’s only me,
I am the
quietest
Person.
Ponderous,
Thoughtful,
Writing
These verses.
But when I’m
In company,
I morph
Into a different
Being.
Words that
Aren’t from me
Escape through
My teeth.
I’d just like
To be noticed
by you.
I’m fearful
You’ll forget me.
If this is the
Only time
We’ll ever meet,
You’d need
A reason
To want to
See me again,
So you can
Know the real me.
That’s why
I contrive
These horrid
Jokes.
I think
They’ll
Make you laugh,
But you just
stay stone-faced
And straight lipped;
I see
it’s not
working.
I am not obnoxious,
I promise.
I’m different,
Given chance.
***
SO-CALLED
I am the so-called
Poster child.
Example.
Prodigy—
With beaming
Smile
And clean cut
Temple,
hiding my
hypocrisy.
Sundays
I shake
Hands,
While they
give my
Introduction,
Listing all
These things
That carry
Some importance.
And I’m tired of it.
I’m so tired.
IS THIS ALL FOR ME?
Her eyes lit up,
When she thought
it was
hers.
A fluttering
Stomach,
At seeing
his
words.
Unkissed
Lips,
and
Unheld
Palm.
Innocent.
Sheltered.
Trained up
From home.
Then my poem
Was written.
And she clutched
It in grip.
Desperately
asking,
“Is this all
for me?”
But why would it be?
I said, “No,
it isn’t.”
ABSENT
I’m there
For most
People,
Since I’ve
practiced
Politeness.
But with
My own
Blood,
I’ve found
That I’m
Absent.
I’m hearing
Her cries,
The woman
Who had us.
But when my lips part,
There’s nothing
That
Happens.
Why am I like this?
HYPOCRITES, YOU AND I
“Be like him,”
Point the parents.
“Be a witness.”
Encouraging kids
Who
Question
The system.
“Take a dip,”
They tell them.
“Become a friend.”
But you won’t
Impress
the
Importance
Of baptism.
How do you
Expect
Them to
Take root,
When
you’re
Not even
Confident
To begin with?
Our youths
In the truth,
Led by hypocrites;
By fake
Guides.
I saw
the make-up
caked
by his
black eye.
If only
They knew,
I’m not
Their
Poster child.
a collection I wrote in one night of the 6 things keeping me awake. there’s actually a collective secret to these poems that spell something about my real self, which is why I called it Sly 😉
JUST STEP BACK
If I just stepped back
And had a look
At myself,
Objectively,
I could list
Everything
Wrong with me.
I’m not who
I’m supposed to be;
I’m not
Where I belong.
My heart
Is calloused
Sometimes.
I am
Desensitized
Inside.
I claim
To have grown,
But I make
The same
Mistakes.
And
I don’t have
The strength
To fix them.
I’m losing
Touch with love,
For everyone—
Even myself.
But there’s no
Pain inside,
No sadness
In my words.
Just emotionless
Acceptance,
And inability to
Change.
Why can’t I change?
I take too many steps back.
***
OBNOXIOUS
When it’s only me,
I am the
quietest
Person.
Ponderous,
Thoughtful,
Writing
These verses.
But when I’m
In company,
I morph
Into a different
Being.
Words that
Aren’t from me
Escape through
My teeth.
I’d just like
To be noticed
by you.
I’m fearful
You’ll forget me.
If this is the
Only time
We’ll ever meet,
You’d need
A reason
To want to
See me again,
So you can
Know the real me.
That’s why
I contrive
These horrid
Jokes.
I think
They’ll
Make you laugh,
But you just
stay stone-faced
And straight lipped;
I see
it’s not
working.
I am not obnoxious,
I promise.
I’m different,
Given chance.
***
SO-CALLED
I am the so-called
Poster child.
Example.
Prodigy—
With beaming
Smile
And clean cut
Temple,
hiding my
hypocrisy.
Sundays
I shake
Hands,
While they
give my
Introduction,
Listing all
These things
That carry
Some importance.
And I’m tired of it.
I’m so tired.
IS THIS ALL FOR ME?
Her eyes lit up,
When she thought
it was
hers.
A fluttering
Stomach,
At seeing
his
words.
Unkissed
Lips,
and
Unheld
Palm.
Innocent.
Sheltered.
Trained up
From home.
Then my poem
Was written.
And she clutched
It in grip.
Desperately
asking,
“Is this all
for me?”
But why would it be?
I said, “No,
it isn’t.”
ABSENT
I’m there
For most
People,
Since I’ve
practiced
Politeness.
But with
My own
Blood,
I’ve found
That I’m
Absent.
I’m hearing
Her cries,
The woman
Who had us.
But when my lips part,
There’s nothing
That
Happens.
Why am I like this?
HYPOCRITES, YOU AND I
“Be like him,”
Point the parents.
“Be a witness.”
Encouraging kids
Who
Question
The system.
“Take a dip,”
They tell them.
“Become a friend.”
But you won’t
Impress
the
Importance
Of baptism.
How do you
Expect
Them to
Take root,
When
you’re
Not even
Confident
To begin with?
Our youths
In the truth,
Led by hypocrites;
By fake
Guides.
I saw
the make-up
caked
by his
black eye.
If only
They knew,
I’m not
Their
Poster child.
