Poets only write about sad and pretty stuff.

•March 17, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Caution  : Another Wtf  poem. Enjoy. If you’re offended , Heath Ledger will come out of his grave and ask ” Why so serious ? ” . So let him sleep , people.

Don’t try to defend yourself
Us poets indeed know
Our kryptonite is tragedy/ beauty
Or both combined to show
(The depth of perception to flaunt rhyming perfection
leading to poetry genre having a small list of selection )
Like an itsy bitsy wiener
Have you seen her ?
Or him , why , are you homophobic ?
Microscopic
is your imagination .

Lets write about farts
the Satan for sophistication
I bet Julie Andrews would say
Its the Sound of Music in our nation
Creation
is better than pop song repetition
We can see through your similes
As apparent as Baby , Baby , Baby
I’m 18+ so call me Lady , Lady, Lady
Unless the baked beans start to hop
Let the bass drop.

Lets write about PMS
Hell hath no fury like hormonal glory
Its Quentin Tarantino week
So forgive me if I’m bleak
If you’ve watched The Red Wedding
Without a tear shedding
Then you’ll ace this test
Unless you’re male then
Whatever , go bang your chest.

Lets write about Instagram .
These people take starvation seriously
Take pictures of their food deliriously
Because the public truly cares
about the fancy breakfast you share
With us , we salivate
For dessert you feed on our  envious hate
Post photos of  scrumptious food
Thanks for ruining our mood.

Lets write about discount
Which finally encourages me to count
Percentage values , how nice to discover
That a 400$ faux fur jacket
Can one day cost  as much as a 4$ racket
Consumerism has us in deep
We’re discardable sheep.
Meeh.

Lets write about censorship
Sometimes uncared for , sometimes a blip
Male genitalia equals porn
Whereas female genitalia an art movie
Asterisks in subtitles make them look groovy
Use that in a rap song and you’ll see
99.99% lyrics shall be starred for you and me.

Lets write about what we don’t write about
And perhaps our poetry will give out a shout
that we’re special
Looks like mommy was right .
Enough with the nature
Or the moon at night
Enough with the heartbreak
Or love at first sight
Enough with the typical
Its all holistic and conjoint
Enough with the ” enough with the”
Oh , you get my point.

Mundane Girls & Fictitous Boys

•March 2, 2014 • 4 Comments

[ Its been a year since I did Picture it and Write , I forgot how awesome it was. You should definitely check it out at :
http://ermiliablog.wordpress.com/category/picture-it-write/ ]

reading-in-the-forest

Us mundane girls
Fan-girl on cloud nine blessing authors towards heaven
Lock us up with your boys for minutes seven
Characters scrumptious like chocolate fountains
Flowing patiently down our marshmallow heads
All the wicked witty things they said
Squirm.

Us mundane girls
We get fluorescent high on our scenario worlds
Replace the fictitious boys’ girlfriends , ultimate solution
And pray that the boys don’t acquire Capgras delusion
Faces sculptured like Greek Gods , canvas on easel
Presenting plot twist , pop goes the weasel !
Dead.

Us mundane girls
Fan-bitch on earth condemning authors to hell
Murder our characters , you’ll murder us as well
Deserve eternal imprisonment
For the mass heartbreak you’ve caused
Only Game of Throne readers will move on and applaud
Remainder weaklings will seize and splatter
This better be a bloody cliffhanger .
Sequel.

Frankenstein’s Female Monster

•February 28, 2014 • 4 Comments

Seemingly so ,
The whole world except you knows
The monster you have made me become
You believe you’ve created someone
Beautiful
Dig catacomb deep , Frankenstein
There’s nothing but hideous inside of me
Who would fall for this wretched  face
Who would sing songs about my grace ?
Does existence have a purpose
If love for me is a degrading carcass ?

Broken and haphazardly stitched
Sylvia Plath’s mirror
does my reflection no good
Would a man desire my grafted lips
Or wish to dance holding my slanted hips ?
Hell hath no fury ,  I cannot fathom
Will regret or relief follow revenge
Rotten
is my once fresh soul
You’ve stolen my choice to be someone
Look at the monster you’ve made me become.

Love has thrown me out of  the equation
Who will bring me heart wrenching elation ?
Love songs
I shall never be able to relate
Future ruined , you’ve preplanned my fate
If our past has damaged me enough to mortify
The love and beauty that once flourished inside
Heartbreak
transforms us to Frankenstein’s monsters
Then it must be fair , you replace Frankenstein
No man will ever be mine , and I’ll make sure
love , that no woman shall be yours.

The Plague of Infatuation

•February 25, 2014 • Leave a Comment

Loveseat warmed , come closer now
Lets drink to these morose nicknames
Synonymous to sweet , your attraction
to me is not lost , bittersweet talk
We pour forth our pompous mouths
Mumbling about fantasy futures , fortunately
disinfected by our alcohol , blurred lines
Clarity is emotional suicide
Get out of my head
Hit the bed.

As am I , the naïve fool
To think of you as more than just a boy
Teenagers elude themselves to be indestructible
Magicians of love ,  send science our apathies
Kings and queens of  pseudo-deep thoughts
Who are we but mortal ridicules of the lot
You and I  , an absurdity I admire
more than the possibility
All the world’s a stage , perhaps
But we can’t act
So don’t.

Relationships take the stairs , we’re gravitated
Falsification of your undying love , hearts
take the blame , in our case however
Oxytocin and dopamine combine
Must you publicize your heartbreak  , my developed fetus
We are patients of a disease  , give mono a flying kiss
Crushing may soothe our insecure souls
while simultaneously crushing our soul mate vows
Monogamy as buried as chivalry , so  next time
you tell me you love me , my heart won’t combust
In fact , I’ll tell you to
Shut the fuck up.

A ridiculously long hiatus.

•February 20, 2014 • 5 Comments

I am uninspired.

Its like the creative side of my brain suddenly shrunk and now ceases to exist. I know I want to write , but the urge is just gone. Kaput.
The lack of muse isn’t to blame ,  its my lack of perception. Have you ever reached a phase where you read your work but you cant recognize it as your own ? Sometimes I read a random poem of mine and think ” If Ryan Seacrest  had a top 40 list for worlds shittiest poetry , this would probably be in it ” . Maslow’s pyramid of self actualization is incomplete in my case and I really want to reach the top.

So , fellow awesomesauce bloggers , this post is a major cry for some good sans-le-sugarcoated-bullshit advice. What do you do when you feel like you have reached a stage where you can’t write anymore ? Is it possible that I outgrew my poetry phase ? ( DAMMIT , YOUNG -ADULTHOOD ! )

If I do happen to have any readers out there who’ve been wondering why Im AWOL , then Im really sorry. I will have my final exams beginning soon , after which Ill have a two month vacation where I plan to spew poems like its raining meatballs. Or bacon. Mmmm bacon.

The Literary Devices’s Opinion

•December 13, 2013 • Leave a Comment

Briskly rubbed my cold feet  , let the courage extricate
Since the gray zone had finally left our labyrinth to tessellate
You were wrapped up real nice in your unmarked grave
My tunnel vision zeroed in , your perceptive lens concave
Divergent , along with the Albatross circling around your neck
Our snowball effect treacherous from the origin of a speck
We are all but a big metaphor , without which nobody will see
The magical phenomenon in the simplicity of you and me.

As for oxymorons , you are the epitome of a beautiful mess
Blame me for showing apathetic interest ,  I refrain yet I confess
We are among the first with our dysfunctional perfection
However the controlled chaos is a subtle exaggeration
Are we the result of my experiments led haphazardly astute ?
I struggle with my tense calm while you are loquaciously mute
On this battlefield we frolic about with our  inglorious Peace War
Progressing backwards , do we even know what we’re fighting for ?

Look at what we’re made of  at the midst of an amusement park
Atop an obsolete carousel illuminated heavily through the dark
Our highs are too extraordinary , the grief is long forgotten
But gravity sucks us in and spits us out when we reach bottom
Seasonal are we , only presented on several holiday occasions
A dangerous illusion of eternity for the daydream nations
We shall rotate until our old habit dies a morbid death
Literary devices will continue to describe us , so don’t hold your breath.

Hiraeth

•November 21, 2013 • 1 Comment

Hiraeth (n) : A homesickness for a home you cannot return to , maybe which never was , the nostalgia , yearning and grief for the lost places of your past .

Of all the luxurious spas and tourist destinations
I hoped to return to our mediocre abode
Where I would be welcomed by a genuine smile
My presence for once appreciated , while
soft indie spoke of your loving arms
Into which I would fall asleep, disarm my insecurities,
fiction aside , dream about reality for a change.
Wrapped me in your incandescent warmth
like a loving mother , food sans preservatives
 Moonlight evading through minuscule threads , banished
the monsters we created under our beds
Soothe without the animosity underlining social
networks , connected with the stars instead.

Agitated soul replenished and satiated unlike
the brittle ones worshiping technology, fast lives
like catalysts rush us over the process ignoring its depth ,
so we fool ourselves of the dreams lurking in the corner
soon to be caught , yet to be found , so we become nothing ,
nothing but success-craving drug addicts , social hierarchy
gives most the high , all I wanted was simplicity
from this cryptic demise . A balcony providing
clarity other than polluted skies , a bathtub to drain out
saccharin coated lies , walls that embrace rather than
close in , meditate just by breathing in
the characteristic aroma of one’s home.

Of all the human inhabited infrastructures that are possible
I hopelessly wished to resurrect my past , procreate
a world that once was , decreasingly sublime due
to the effects of time , perhaps for once ,
we could be spectators of life instead of
victims , just this moment we could feel like
our existence is not to survive ,but to belong.
A location cartographers cannot seem to place
Imagination brought forward  a placebo , acceptance
 thrown out the window , we don’t need saving
 My wretched mind rambles about a memory so non-existent ,
of a home I knew 
I didn’t possess , but an alternate universe said otherwise.


 
When will the universe stop staring?

Im just a damsel, coincidentally destined with distress. And I think I'll start writing.

Poesy plus Polemics

Words of Wonder, Worry and Whimsy

Jano Boscher

all works © Jano Boscher 2014

honeyak

Imaginations, expressions and whatnot!!!

jennalovestherain

I wait for rain, for the breath of heaven to descend.

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