Best Rough Around The Edges Poems
You say I need a makeover,
that I'm not the man I could be
You say I'm too rough around the edges,
a little smoothing out would polish me
To you, I'm too straight ghetto;
I got the right mind,
just tilted a little wrong
Instead of saying: "I'm leaving,"
I say, "I be gone"
So let the makeover begin,
but I don't know what
will be different when it end
Will my family recognize me,
will I need a new set of friends?
A bad vibe is arising,
trepidation is setting in
Now I'm willing to make this sacrifice
to satisfy your insecurity
But once the makeover is done,
will you still like what you see?
In due time, no doubt you'll learn
this one immutable reality:
You can take me out of the ghetto,
but you can't take the ghetto out of me
Although you may refine my speech,
to talk in a proper Elizabethan tone
I will always remain ghetto,
straight ghetto to the bone
I will tell it like it is,
I will only come strong
I will always remain ghetto,
straight ghetto to the bone
A tribute to my beloved brother Joseph
It was the kind of day I had always dreamed of,
a source of energy was emitted by the sun,
the tiny leaves dancing like they were in love,
green, red, yellow and orange...I had to pick just one.
My arms wide open towards the rustling breeze,
my smile upright inhaling the heavenly atmosphere,
clouds so evolved into shapes I'd never seen,
startled I thought, “I think I'll pick the one right here.”
Not the red one....not even the orange caught my eye,
and the yellow seemed too rough around the edges,
but the green leaf looked lonely so I gave it a try,
For it was buried so deep in my front yard hedges.
It was not part of a foliage but buried under a rock,
eight sharp points creating it's own special star,
deepest kelly green seen from any tree on the block,
so I scooped it up gently and tucked it in my scarf.
Walking home I wondered why I chose a leaf so plain,
after all, there are plenty of colors during Autumn,
but I was looking for something that wouldn't complain,
and something to alleviate my mid-life boredom.
See, I am that green leaf that doesn't need to stand out,
I'm perfectly content being consistent and clear headed,
some people may not understand what I'm talking about,
being such a big part if this world, stay true and connected.
I pray I stay this way and keep walking down nature's path,
the exact way God had intended before I was born,
to be honest, sincere and carry on my own happy laugh,
for I'll always have my little green leaf to keep me warm.
Written By: Laura Loo
Date Written: January 14, 2016
My words might sound to some strange, or my rhymes maybe rough around the edges
I only write what I can arrange, I don’t need to stand on any bridges
sometimes I am not in my right state of mind, all my thoughts are scattered along the ridges
But other times I glow bright like a star, or piece of art, in its fringes
no matter how hard you try, you can’t please people even if your words are riches
What your heart tells you is always right, so don't ignore your pain and look at the stitches
Continue to write what’s on your mind and don’t stop as long as you’re writing hand itches
Saleh Ben Saleh
No excuses needed
Nor apologizes
This is who I am as a person, a human being and the man that I intend to be. Take your thoughts and beliefs and keep them for yourself. I am this man that you see before you without shame.
Not a shell of myself, maybe rough around the edges that seem to cut through the surface of my personal imperfections. My life and struggles has made me, prepare me for unexpected disappointments. So that I could just smile with tears in my eyes holding my head, no matter the circumstances. I make no excuses for myself every tear and worried thoughts are accounted for compared to the scares that cover parts of my body. I’m a fighter in every aspect of any thought or words form.
I represent the broken men who believed in something once
Maybe twice, maybe I should just count up my tears and move on.
Dues paid and deposited into the tampered and broken sections of my heart, no dearly departed I’m still standing. I’m just aware that my life means something to me. I find myself looking into the mirror with wondering thoughts that seem to just cross my mind and time doesn’t exist. I want to hug myself, searching for some type comfort even though poetry frees me. There are lists of things going on but that’s the role or part played by the image of this broken man.
I work hard on who I am, doing my best not to be wrong though have been taught by several, sometimes I just don’t matter. It’s not in me to give up, just that part of me to be Noble and at the same time a broken man.
Bitterness is a black pool of bad poison
And when it liquifies it saturates once warm and loving hearts
Leaving them ice cold,ill and frozen
Whoever it has chosen they chose bitterness first
It is more awful than anger with it's slow soul corrosion...
Like a creeping mad curse
It's voice speaks the next verse leaving it's listener feeling justified but still jaded and jagged
Like a sour off key symphony of souls...shattered spirits too rough around the edges...too raw and too ragged
Truth tellers can tag it...still it's victims claim it's a virtue and never a vice
Take a word of advice!
Get rid of that garbage before your days turn darker and your sad life soon decays
Give it to God! Get on your knees and pray
You say I need a makeover,
that I'm not the man I could be
You say I'm too rough around the edges,
a little smoothing out would polish me
To you, I'm too straight ghetto;
I got the right mind,
just tilted a little wrong
Instead of saying I'm leaving,
I say I be gone
So let the makeover begin,
but I don't know what
will be different when it end
Will my family recognize me,
will I need a new set of friends?
A bad vibe is arising,
trepidation is setting in
Now I'm willing to make this sacrifice
to satisfy your insecurity
But once the makeover is done,
will you still like what you see
In due time no doubt you'll learn
this one immutable reality:
You can take me out of the ghetto,
but you can't take the ghetto out of me
Although you may refine my speech
to talk in a proper Elizabethan tone,
I will always remain ghetto,
straight ghetto to the bone
I will tell it like it is,
I will only come strong
I will always remain ghetto,
straight ghetto to the bone
A tribute to my beloved brother Joseph
TomBoy, your reading about one. Most people are confused, so in a way, I'm here to explain
because i truly fit the definition.
Tomboy's are girls, that some call it, "Rough around the edges." We're not your typical,
average girl or woman. Yes, we date guys, can be one of the guys and can hang around the
guys. Most of us play video games, we wear more pants than anything! We defiantly play
sports, football, baseball, soccer, volleyball, ext. When its late at night we
occasionally watch ESPN. However, we do have an feminine touch. Hair is always done, nails
painted, pretty outfits, intelligent like all human beings and 5-star hygiene.
We are unique and different. Not weird and defiantly not unladylike.
So you think you know just how us cowboys should behave
But listening to your jawing, I hear Chisholm spinning in his grave
A Cowboy who don’t drink or cuss, I’ll tell you that’s not right
Ain’t you heard of Old Whiskey Row, Where two cowboys got tight?
To go to tying knot’s in the Devil’s tail took more than lemonade
There’s been liquor on the bar in every movie John Wayne made
Back when Chisholm blazed the trail & cattle claimed the West
It was music round a campfire, as the hands settled for a rest
They’d often talk of home or sing a tune to pass the time
You’ve seen that in the movies, when it only cost a dime
They sang of Laredo, Lil Joe or maybe Annie Laurie
Right then & there you decided what a Cowboy ought to be
There are some things we might share with Hoppy, Roy & Gene
But real cowboys won’t ever be like those on the Disney scene
Any buckaroo can sure clean up sharp for a Saturday night dance
Even be persuaded to use pretty words when sparking a romance
We pick a little guitar and some can make that harmonica wail
But you’re just as apt to hear La Bamba as you are a song of the trail
Those cowboys that you talk of, all slick & squeaky clean
All pressed and starched, with proper speech, they ride a silver screen
You see that feller in the corner, all tattered & dusty, that’s the real McCoy
Battered old Stetson, mud & manure spackled jeans, a bonafide Cowboy
He might be rough around the edges and his language a bit coarse
But when he sets to working cattle, You swear he was born on a horse
We are only human after all; sometimes we just need to cut loose
Shoot out the lights, kiss all the ladies; drink our fair share of the booze
We still love our mommas and say grace with most meals
We just don’t handle being boxed, can’t stand the way it feels
Those who don’t tolerate a lot of rules choose the cowboy way
Much like this cowboy you see here before you today
I can see you are trying to sort this out in your head
For all you know of cowboys is what you’ve seen and read
I surely hope this little talk about cowboys made it all a bit clearer
The only one we answer to is the maker and the face in the mirror
I hate to burst your bubble, still you best here it from me
Cowboys can’t be pigeon holed; they must be wild & free
Catherine Lilbit Devine © September 19, 2005
“Have you ever done this type of work before”?
“they’re sheep – I’m a sheep dog – are you serious?”
“Are you aware we have a dress code?”
“no way am I wearing a dress.”
“You will be interacting with our clientele daily”
“and to be kind --- you are a bit rough around the edges.”
“Have you seen your clientele up close?”
“I only wear my hair like this to fit in.”
“And there is the security clearance issue.”
“Security Clearance!!! If I can fit under the same fences
that they fit under…..that’s my security clearance.”
“So we’ll offer you the standard contract.”
“Twenty four hours a day, seven days a week,
fifty two weeks a year.”
“Hey, hey, I’m a sheep dog not their mother!!”
“DID YOU JUST LICK YOURSELF???”
“GET OFF THE FURNITURE!!!”
“Why did I ever take this Bo Peep contract??”
John G. Lawless
6/23/2015
In a window down on Main St.
Sits an old pawn shop guitar
Its strings are like a slinky
And its finish has been marred
But when a dreamer has a vision
They keep shooting for the stars
It's not about the glamour
It's more about the heart
If that old pawn shop guitar could talk
Oh the stories it could tell
Its raspy voice from the smoke
Would prove it knows the bar scene well
It's rough around the edges
Yet it strums every chord in tune
It could reflect upon the saddest song
It helped write in some bedroom
I walked in through the front door
And it's like the man could tell
He approached me with a smiling face
Said here's the story that I tell
I've seen you for the past few weeks
Sneaking by to take a look
That guitar right there could write a page
It could even write a book
Our late nights were never ending
She knew Johnny, Hank and Merle
Even sat in with the possum
On his tour around the world
She's played all kinds of music
From rock and roll to hillbilly
She even tried her hand in a bluegrass band
But heartache's still her specialty
If this old pawn shop guitar could talk
Oh the stories she could tell
Her raspy voice from the smoke
Would prove she knows the bar scene well
She's rough around the edges
Yet she strums every chord in tune
She can reflect upon the saddest song
She helped write in our bedroom
I know all this cause she was mine
From way back in the day
But I hung her up the day I got
The note that she went away
She helped me through my darkest hour
I'd rather see that she lives on
Than look out on these lonely streets
And think she missed her first hit song
Son promise me that you'll go far
With this old pawn shop guitar
Who am I Lord
That you are mindful of me
A tiny drop of rain
In a wide expansive sea
What could I ever give
That you could ever need
Who am I Lord
That you are mindful of me
Who am I Lord
That you should bless this wretched man
In all the scope of time
I'm but one single grain of sand
After all I've put you through
You still take me as I am
Who am I Lord
That you should bless this wretched man
Who am I Lord
That I would ever deserve
All the mercy poured out on me
In the power of your spoken word
Why did you choose these ears
To be the ones to have heard
Who am I Lord
That I would ever deserve
Who am I Lord
That you could want this heart of mine
It's so rough around the edges
It's been hurt so many times
I know that if I give it to you
It will be forever thine
Who am I Lord
That you could want this heart of mine
It is only by the blood of Christ
That I know exactly who I am
And only by that precious blood
Do I now have the power to stand
The power in your blood poured out
To justify this sinful man
It is only by the blood of Christ
That I know exactly who I am
They say you can not be both black and female,
you can only be one and dare you ever choose to be both,
what an abomination!.
If you choose to be female,
immediately you bleed from your uterus
and drape on that blood on Rosie cheeks and pink lips
curves of death, to die for.
the mirror is your best friend and pretty pink dresses
push up bras and at times hair from her, becky!,
hang around in groups of threes in hope that you all will sync, period.
now that is what a woman should be, politically correct.
have your dinner on a side plate and occasionally be the side dish,
because all you are is a compliment,
" you look pretty today"
rings in your ears the next day for today you try to be like yesterday,
Men take aim with their piss tools cocked in your direction,
sex slaved for those who wish to give it at the bottom of the hill
they can never climax.
painting and panting,
nipping and tucking,
blowing and smoking.
all that you have been told to be.
Smile!!!
But on the other hand, When you choose to be black,
you loose all sense of femininity,
you are rough around the edges and hard to swallow, so shallow.
you raise you fist in the air "amandla" and to his face amandla.
you are the go to girl when guys want to go to a girl because you are just one of the boys,
your Afro and bare face mean that you don't care enough to look in the mirror long enough to realize you have a vagina,
you are simply not woman enough because real woman know their place and ace the test of bearing rather than walking away,
an easier choice I guess.
A woman first than perhaps later you can tick the 'black' box on your resume just for statistics, control.
No wonder women take 3 times longer to get out of the bathroom than men , too many masks to put on and to many lies to make true to us before the world gets a chance to judge us... dare you step out the house as any other monkey... you are simply a barbie doll Toy....
I know sometimes I can be quiet,
No smile upon my face.
It’s not because I’m callous,
I never thought I would feel this way.
At times I know I seem displaced,
When I see you there in pain.
Inside my heart is breaking,
Searching for words to say.
Experience in love isn’t one of my strongest virtues,
I’ll easily admit where I’ve done wrong.
For I know I can be hard to hold onto,
Give me a little time and please hold on.
I know I can be hard to hold onto.
Especially when wrestling with my pride.
There are so many things I want to tell you.
I have so many emotions of you held deep inside.
I know I can be hard to hold onto.
Yet you have broken the walls around my heart.
I never wanted to be hard to hold onto.
This is an admission of where I have had to start.
There’s no question I’m rough around the edges,
I noticed how you’re able to look past that all the time.
Always able to see my heart that’s beating underneath,
It beats with yours in perfect time.
I know at times I’m the puzzle you have to work hard at,
I love you for you never quit.
Yes I know I can be hard to hold onto,
Yet you always make the pieces fit.
It’s hard to decide, when I ended up this way.
How I let everything slip through my grasp.
How I became dependent on anything to keep me high.
How I ignored the world around me, for my online persona.
I’d say it was really when I was twenty.
Things were rough around the edges,
But we were kind of okay at times.
But then bills became numerous,
My dad’s age started to show.
I still don’t know how to grow up.
Or how to deal with this depression.
True, I’ve been depressed before.
And I’ve come out of it okay.
But this, this is something different.
This is complete, and utter defeat.
How I let my grades slip away.
Potentially tossed my future away.
How I found that I really, really, really loved being drunk.
And how I almost completely despised being sober.
Because when I’m sober, I have to face the reality.
Of everything I’ve done.
Of what I have let my life become.
Of what my life will become if I don’t do something now.
And that absolutely, completely, utterly scares the **** out of me.
Perhaps if I told someone how I felt, they might understand.
Or be able to lend a helping hand.
But I’m scared to admit how weak I’ve become.
And how I’ve let my life become shambles.
I have no idea what to do anymore.
I keep preaching to have more hope.
But it almost feels like my hope is gone.
I still can’t drive.
I’ve never had a real job.
I flunked this semester of college.
I became addicted to buying habbo credits.
And alcohol.
I ignored my dad so many times.
I’ve let my house become disgusting.
And I haven’t brought any of it up.
Or acknowledged it.
I’m losing my grip on reality,
I don’t know what to do.
This is the lowest I’ve ever felt,
The lowest I’ve ever been.
How to cope?
What do I do?
How do I grow up, and tackle life?
When I feel like I’m still a kid?
I wonder why it is that,
Some women work so hard to be chased
That they forget to flirt
With the idea of being caught and embraced.
I wonder why it is that,
There is such a need to fight against male reliance
That the lines become blurred
Between independence and defiance.
I dare say, I see a need
A need to realise it’s ok to be homely.
Because it’s easier than realising
You’re not independent, you’re lonely,
Before moving on to
Blame men for the choices you made
And handing an IOU to all men
That you feel has never been paid.
There are some women
Who will drop the cliché, “I’m different”.
So far removed
From other women. Just different!
But, in those ‘different’ eyes,
All men fall under the same umbrella,
Meaning that there’s no room for you
When life decides it’s time for stormy weather.
And another thing
Music and Hollywood don’t portray men.
They portray ideas that make money,
Money that makes them.
So men wonder why
There is love for R. Kelly while he pees on young girls
But divorce is an option
Because he sometimes fails to comment on curls.
Ladies, men aren’t perfect
And real men are always rough around the edges
But we shouldn’t have to storm
A beach in Normandy just to make our pledges
Because, eventually,
The chase stops and all that is left to see
Is a lonely, defiant rock,
Being eaten by life’s cold sea.