Best Overuse Poems
"When the Grim Reaper asked for my spirit,
I told him to take my poetic pen.
He walked away smiling, leaving me illiterate."
In the mystical wilderness of virtual poetry,
surrounded by metaphors that mystify my mind,
I've become a shadow of the poet I once knew.
Insecure with egotistical lame labels,
tormented by attention seeking tags,
irritated from imitative compliments.
Exhausted eyes sting, bloodshot from
reading an overuse of mumbo jumbo jargon.
On the edge of personification,
symbolic syllables burn all desire to scrutinize.
Sometimes there can be too many words,
sometimes not enough,
yet we veil the true meaning of our thoughts.
I guess there is an art to pretending,
yet I watch my artistry fade.
We weave webs turning the internal into external,
but I question whether I was ever a poet.
Pondering if my poems served a purpose.
I have lost patience for personal prose,
rhymes without rhythm sound so revolting,
the soul is sick of old fashioned sonnets.
as iambic pentameter has always been my enemy.
I hear alphabetic patrol sirens,
their ignorant judgment is a mockery to the bilingual.
An assassination of alliterations,
is causing a massacre of my muse.
There is a void in my verses,
which prevents me from roaming free.
My soul feels like a starless supernova,
a moonless sky drifting into a black hole,
as fatigued fingers become a mistress
to simple scribbles.
I yearn to be forever silent,
with no motive to write for a legacy,
so I've imprisoned my muse in an asylum.
I have lost passion to spill the ink from my quill,
so I no longer tend to the petals in my poetic garden.
I've found peace in the solitude of a blank canvas.
Silent One
15 February 2022
So many people complain when they lose
To gain better rankings, judges they schmooze
And if they don’t place, their egos are bruised
They even use blogs simply to recuse
To some extent, these attacks may amuse
But their true intent is to light a fuse
Comments from favor seekers surely ooze
Superlatives they always overuse
They don’t know how to give honest reviews
“Luv” is a word they quite often misuse
Seeking to have their poems perused
But tell them the truth and they’ll sing the blues
It’s a game of getting comments and views
If you don’t play, they will transfuse
Words of anger from an inadequate muse
In the dark light of this winter morn, I see
The clothes that I am expected to wear
(Though, maybe, the fault of illusion lies with me)
From overuse, have become threadbare
Nothing there…
In a cloak of blue, I steal through these lanes
Measuring myself, roughly, for something new
A suit of humour, to cover my pain
A coat of hope, to stop the doubt shining through
Do not fit true…
This protective subterfuge cannot last long
So, with the aura of my old hide, around me spread
(Without my own skin I feel so wrong)
In this cloth that is woven from transparent thread
Words, unaltered, from my head…must soon be said…
Can't sleep? Why not?
Drink a lot? Feverish hot?
Indigestion? Sinus congestion?
Arthritis pain? Half insane?
Constant wheezing? Bouts of sneezing?
Drug abuse? Device overuse?
Relative died? Stock market slide?
Spouse cheating? Overeating?
All these are troublemakers, true
Others sleep ~ Why's insomnia picked you?
The body is a strange machine
With lots of moving parts
And once we’re born, like products purchased,
All the action starts.
The heart pumps blood, the lungs expand
And brain cells do abound.
The muscles grow, the eyes and ears
Take note of what’s around.
As years go by, from overuse
Or injuries we’ve faced,
The cogs and gears inside break down
And sometimes they’re replaced.
We plug along, though, even when
We’re aching and we’re tired,
For as we age, we also know
Our warranty’s expired.
The world continues its rotation
with or without your attendance.
It has been so since the earth cooled
and mountains and seas became.
Give it up and
check out –
to the closet corner, if you please.
Dark and soundless
singularly personal.
Sit with shoes of worn tread left upon the
path of overuse,
the scent of lessons learned and
willfully ignored.
Feel silky seams sewn with promise
brush your cheek,
now frayed and undone.
Pull your knees to your chest
and rest your chin upon the death
of desire for it all.
Let your heart heal.
Then unlock the door
and savor the scars.
"Images"
The God that never was, puts one shoe on at a time
And spends four hours in the make-up room
Putting on mascara and eye liner for the darker look
Occult man of seemingly rebellious nature
Is deified by the masses that show up to performances
He, a man of strong portrayal even at a skinny 155 pounds
Grows stronger with every compact disc sold and the overuse of base
Blowing out of a sound system which rocks the car next to you
While you wait for the light to turn green
Abandoning social mores of quietness well into the night
The appeal grows everyday for a man really just making a living
Out of his fans age group they have no idea what he is
Whether the media builds him up or tears him down
As a good guy to hate and a bad boy at heart
Any press is good press, though infamy might be better for sales
Topping the charts and making parents sick of his songs
He is a beneficiary of childhood splurging and so inclined to be
The adults wish for a mere fifteen minutes of his fame
So their children would listen to them with the same respect
But who were they when listening to cassette tapes?
And the bands of the eighties put on make-up then
A man of mixed persuasion people are drawn to his ambiguity
The role model singing about jail time and Hennessey
A toughness to some is a weakness to others
It makes you wonder if the man knows who he is!
Whoever that is and for all it's worth
There will be more than enough of him to go around
In his image that is larger than life
Hash tag Mary Jane
The hackers just stole your name.
They know the name of your favorite pet.
The street you were born.
How your parents met.
Hash tag Mary Jane
You threw a bash but no one came.
Surrounded by friends in an empty room.
Dancing in a haloed blue haze swoon.
Computer overheating from overuse.
No one there to judge.
Hash tag Mary Jane
It's happening all over again.
This time they're using your credit cards.
Thieves in your business in your back yard.
How you gonna pay the rent.
Cops cannot put a face with a name
Identity theft now that's a shame
Who can you rely on now.
Hash tag Mary Jane
The booze can't ease the pain
You convince yourself that you're in control
But Alice won't let you down her rabbit hole.
Still late for that fictitious date.
Hash Tag Mary Jane
I think you might be going insane.
The phone's unplugged
Your cell's on mute
No sense in pining for misspent youth.
The pills in the drawer look mighty appealing.
One man's floor is another man's ceiling.
Can't seem to find the door.
Hash tag Mary Jane.
They held a funeral but no one came.
A blank screen of death for your headstone.
The final dance, you danced alone.
Slowly fade to black.
At some point you are going to need to impress more than a few friends with some burnt toast. I used to have an old, heavy-gauge chrome-plated toaster with a dial to adjust doneness from 1-5. I took a Sharpie and scribed a 6 at the extreme. The pointer doesn’t actually go there, but it is useful for indicating my intent. It works better than the 5 setting which merely chars the surface. But 6 chars it darn near all the way through, enlarging the pore structure to retain even more melted butter. You gotta be cautious not to overuse that feature because it’ll burn the toaster, as in overheating the thermostat and melting the whispy wires. No more toast for you. Back at the store they were quick to figure out your attempt to exceed the capacity and the clearly worded statement in the ownership contract will be pointed out to you, that glamorous document with the curly-Q decorations making it supremely authentic like a stock certificate from the 1960’s. They replaced my toaster once, but the second and third times I only got a stern look of reproach. The manufacturer has black listed me through my credit card so now all my toaster purchases are cash only.
Here he comes again
The keyboard pounder on the loose
Sure wish he’d learn to type
Without the finger abuse
Or overuse of
The Backspace key
Don’t smack me
I didn’t lose your pictures
You should have backed them up
Before you opened that attachment
And invited that worm
Into my circuitry
You bum
Go get some medicine
And wipe that nose mist
Off my monitor
That’s disgusting
Don’t open that file
Here comes that Trojan Horse
You’re on your own now
I just don’t care anymore
Hey, who are you
Where’d my user go
What’s that CD you’re shoving in me
My memory
My memory
My mem…………..
Hello
Welcome to Windows
© 2015 Earl Parsons
Confinement is too much of an excuse
while the papers are spread across the table.
The phone rings:
It is the Boston Massacre.
Those are funny words when even here,
even at this time of wind,
overuse is deadly in the wheat germ.
Mice droppings show evidence
that the wheat is defiled.
Be careful, she said,
Be careful of the worms that drill inside.
The cat knows;
she is wise and stretches.
Words connected in my brain
are tenuous indeed,
ephemeral.
Read them and you will know my
building blocks
all scattered across the floor
as my papers are scattered now.
Put the right words in the search box
and you will find me.
Try it.
Lay down the common law,
and unroll it like an old rug
once stored and forgotten.
(What am I doing here in this cold
and desolate winter?)
Feed me building blocks of amino acids,
the healing of the wound.
Comfort me.
Once tricked, always the puppet
The strings are invisible to many
Somehow, you feel the tension of each rope
Constant tugging and pulling
Marks left from overuse and abuse
Doing what you must, not what you want
the tattoo on her eyebrow frowned
at the sight of yesteryear’s cutlass
the well-rounded blade had become
blunt dull and worn down from overuse
and yet straight to the point of salvation
the pain cut unceremoniously deep
like a double-edged sword that
protracted the kill in anticipation
of slicing from a lacerated mind
saw teeth serenaded an ode to demise
one more incision and the blood flow
would take her across the river of tears
lacerated dreams punctured and carved into
her epitaph a forgone pleasant conclusion
the point of no return loomed un-capriciously
her wounds had festered in purulent beauty
and she appealed to her inner resolve
why prolong the inevitable release
and she was calm with no tremor
as she faced the extinction of terror
her glance fell upon the scalpel
next to the toothbrush and lather
and the mirror liked what it saw
cracked glass a few shards missing
a borrowed fantasy and reflection
of a bloody life unwanted as she
pondered upon what message
to inscribe on her tombstone
the shower curtain ready for a last splash
cheered her on ‘don’t you worry’
‘I’m easy to clean the mess will abide’
grout bleach and tiles lured a whitewash
and the toilet brush smiled in applause
cacophonous bristles caked in foul smell
took her closer to the crappy memories
which had darkened a life not worthy
of living and she let out a flatulent moan
ultimate and terminal the fizz pounced
and she gripped the rapier with
surgical precision and intricate joy
then Occam’s razor pleaded for parsimony
and she went back to self-laceration
prolonged suicide suited agony’s hurt
much better than a knife in her heart
17th May 2021
Knife’s Edge Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Edward Ibeh
A kaleidoscope of butterflies
greets my eyes,
on entering this paradise.
Specially built to give joy
to each little girl and boy.
Who never see them now.
As a child I remember well,
there were loads of them
in the glens and dells.
A sure sign of summer.
Along with buzzing bees.
Birds singing in the trees.
Mankind has messed it up.
Their habitat kaput.
With overuse of weedkillers,
and random hedge cutting.
I, for one will be returning
to Butterfly Land this morning.
In everything we think we own
lies everything we stand to lose;
in every feeling we have known
lives every phrase we overuse.
Our cycles end, begin again
with boundaries we fail to set,
act not from love but with disdain,
say we forgive but can't forget.
We crave release but carry on
in much the same as those before,
nothing unique to call upon,
our own mistakes to answer for
in days and weeks and year to year,
and beg redemption to appear...