I am no poet, I am no slithering wordsmith sensually scintillating the senses of your mind, my words are shallow, the random conjugation of senselessly sentences making sense of subliminal metaphors and similes savagely scraping shackled ankles of those that are slaves to poetry.
I am no poet, I am no sweet talking honey tongued sentient slowly submerging my thoughts into yours subliminally, slowly giving you parts of me, hoping somebody somewhere coherently combines the components and will be able to tell me who me is. I am no poet, I'm just broken my words are just shards of a me I haven't been able to fix yet, a puzzle I'm not able to solve yet, clues to a me I haven't found yet. I am no poet, I am no sharp minded philosophical phenomenon, I am not to be, I am that tree that falls in the forest with nobody to hear, I speak when there's nobody to listen. I am no poet, I just use bigger words than you, hoping you will snap your fingers in an attempt to break the shell oh humility and crack open my pride, no matter how much you moan and groan I can never satisfy the saudade appetence of you somber soul. I am not poet.
chilli
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I Am No Poet
CATEGORY
life
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COMMENTS
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tretre says: I SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO love this poem. Perfect. I can so relate. Please keep that pen movin Chilli! |
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2b2b2 says: TIGHT WORK....BRAVO |
OTHER POEMS WRITTEN BY chilli
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This skin is not blackThis skin is not black, your eyes are, why should I be persecuted because you choose to live in darkness, blinded by your hearts blackness. |
soSo, your hair. So your hair peaks around every corner like the sun, dawn every time you walk in my direction, golden fire in every strand. It's growing on me, figuratively, but literally much like it grows on you. Your smile. Your smile shines much like a full moon, not bright but beautiful, your laugh different staccatos of lazy happiness, joyfully crescendos of glee. Your skin glistens like Arabian deserts, smooth, golden and never ending, it is infinity. Your eyes. Beauty lies within the eyes of the beholder , and it's captured somewhere in the essence of your gaze. Your eyes look like pearly gates to the precious that God placed in your mind. And your mind is an incline I'd like to conquer, the unknown I'd like to explore, I wanna dip my hand in your memory and return with the secrets of your soul. Your hands look like they perform kitchen miracles, look good to hold, look prepared for molding, the future. You are the morning, and I love watching the sunrise.<... |
The 11th HourIn the 11th hour the meek sleep, but there are those that delight in the night, those that have grown accustom to darkness and its vulgarity, those that party. In the 11th hour, there are those that are in tune with the moon, whose feet dance to house music while at home mother waits alone, in agony and their bed lies empty. In the 11th hour speakers boom while bodies gyrate in unison to the beat, while the meek watch reruns of game of thrones season 5. In the 11th hour, the meek go wild, engage their minds in novels that blow their brains but the girls are more into blowing other guys minds. In the 11th hour she shall set the dance floor on fire, but in the morning what will be left of her but ash, she would have danced all her freedom away, danced all her beautiful self to waste, danced until no dance was left to dance, until no fire was left to burn, no beat was present to move, to groove. She dances her silly self into obscurity, danced her way into the sheets of her s... |
Dear Post modern CivilizationDear post modern civilization, now is a good time,now is eternal, now has never been better. I think it's the people here, have you ever seen their smiles, heard their laughter echoing like wind chimes in autumn. They walk with the swagger of tomorrows hope, of possibility, their creed You only live once, there's no fun in eternity. Earth is a one time deal so we enjoyed it while we were still above ground, when the sand still held us steady, before the hunger of death engulfed us we were happy. Dear post modern civilization we enjoyed the days we spent alive, we enjoyed summer, when the sun peaked over the hills like your one and only in the covers. winter was the season for lovers, bodies fused like heart and soul only death could separate them, on those cold windy nights. Spring was all butterflies, it told the story of the birds and the bees, budding leaves on trees, and exposed legs them thighs and knees, all the way through the calf to the ankles, spring was happiness. Autum... |
I Am No PoetI am no poet, I am no slithering wordsmith sensually scintillating the senses of your mind, my words are shallow, the random conjugation of senselessly sentences making sense of subliminal metaphors and similes savagely scraping shackled ankles of those that are slaves to poetry. I am no poet, I am no sweet talking honey tongued sentient slowly submerging my thoughts into yours subliminally, slowly giving you parts of me, hoping somebody somewhere coherently combines the components and will be able to tell me who me is. I am no poet, I'm just broken my words are just shards of a me I haven't been able to fix yet, a puzzle I'm not able to solve yet, clues to a me I haven't found yet. I am no poet, I am no sharp minded philosophical phenomenon, I am not to be, I am that tree that falls in the forest with nobody to hear, I speak when there's nobody to listen. I am no poet, I just use bigger words than you, hoping you will snap your fingers in an attempt to break the shell o... |
Forbidden FruitIt makes sense that evil first entered through a woman's lips, and you know all food goes straight to her hips. No wonder many men could trade their souls for a piece of her eden. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, but his daughters are still hanging...like many fathers he doesn't want to let go, afraid that the world will strip them from their innocence and they will know their nakedness and I'm afraid these cities are no Edens, these concrete gardens have no where to hide, no leaves to cover up the parts left in sight. On the eve of birth no wonder mothers feel pain when they deliver, because he thinks back to when the serpent deceived her. She has become a bag of skin, nothing more nothing less, guess that's what happens when people only see sin, she is forbidden fruit people seldom see the good in her, they never see the knowledge in her, they can't see past her eyes, men's vision stops at her thighs, these vultures all they want is her virtue, they scavenge over... |