Curated Poems | Examples

The white woman's tears

Their tears drown out truth
In a thick coating of white lies 
Used to prepare our demise
Each tear, a loss, a death, a wound 
That seals our communities doom
A cry for war without any real cause 
Our flesh the only thing it burns
A pain that continues into the next generations 

Fragility they use for power
Without it they would starve to death
Insecurities dictate their minds
Flooded by the truth of how they feel
Dominating their being without attention 
They don't just crave it, they need it like the air they breathe 
Or the alternative dealing with their thoughts of inferiority 
Whilst being clouded by jealousy 
They feel to the race they claim to hate 
Yet copy everything we do 
That steals everything we've built

The power of the white woman's tear
Is something to be studied
Something so dangerous it's killed more than the white man
Curated a war against the black man 
Killing the innocent with their blood Soaked tears
This a crime gone unpunishable for centuries

Aphorism Hubris Catharisis

An empty room
Standing center stage
She waited for her cue
bassoon in hand
She breathed life into
"MI Stro" a ballad by
Piffston Grisser"
A song which curated
More than four minutes
She incorporated
    " it's gotta be" 
by Danny Dewmore
A very popular song
To the delight of those
In attendance and to those
Who were to view the film
The staff stood and applauded
She bowed and smiled
And then letter the stage.
I heard one saying "she wowed us"
Her male factor spoke whisper to
Her "I should be nervous to lose you
to someone who is as talented as you"
He kissed her. We found it to be romantic.
The reliance of performance allows us
To speak of you as "the deal sealer" 
You have mourned in triumph to get the part!
We spoke this moment as her "monomythwhere
The bassoonist has arrived at stardom!

I Breathe You In: 300

As the ethereal guitar mesmerises
My soul responds
As if I dipped into a melodic bath
Of perfectly curated
Lovingly tempered 
Heart massaging
Candle flickering 
Water 

A fragrant tune invades 
My nostrils 
Flaring as the warm
Moistened air tumbles by
The world merges into
Perfection
Harmony
Stirring

The resonance
Of childhood memory
Percolating through the mist
As sliding strings 
Caress my ears
My mind drifting
Towards that past
Safer place

Yet this mesmerising medication
This tuneful tumult quelling
Perfect prescription
Is deeply welcome
Somewhere in my gut
My true being
Soothed as we surrender
To this soulful sabbath

May you never grow old
At the joyful table
Where your soul dines
Hear the whispers
Of the small pleasures
Taste the fermented flavours
Of the ordinary delights
Using all your available senses

When the music plays
To transport you
Run to catch the moment
Soak in the vapour
Embibe the elixir
Breathe it all in deeply
Holding in gratitude
Each heavenly moment

Dust Trees of Manila

They planted trees but forgot their water.
Each leaf a wrinkled newspaper clipping
from a world I never subscribed to.

Noise here is curated.
A choir of car horns, a sermon of drills
but I hear the silence
between footsteps
and the echo
of one slippered child
crossing the pedestrian overpass
with rice in a plastic bag.

My eyes collect
forgotten wrappers,
graffiti prayers,
the melancholy
of sky cut by concrete.

They say you must harden in Manila.
But I cracked
gently,
like an eggshell left in heat.

Neither Do I

They don't like me,
But neither do I,
I shield my face from them,
Because I am carefully curated,
Cured like resin,
But soft as snow,
I know what I’m doing,
But inside these walls I don’t feel as home,
I am a child that no one likes,
But the other fact is, 
Neither do I,
Neither am I the person they see,
When someone says to envision me,
All I ask is why,
Though I know the answer, 
Because neither do I,
And neither will you.

Gods are online

The gods are online today,
Updating their laws like software patches,
Fixing glitches in heaven while we glitch on earth,
Typing commandments no one reads,
Uploading sermons no one feels.

They scroll through prayers like spam emails,
Ignore the bleeding body in the dirt,
Reward the loudest liars,
And punish the quiet truth.

In their group chats,
They laugh at those like me —
Broken ribs, broken voice, broken trust —
Another ticket closed,
Another sinner "served."

The village bows to their screens,
Worships the edits, fears the updates,
And I,
I am just a bug in their system,
Flagged for deletion because I dared defend myself.

My innocence is offline,
My pain is offline,
Only the image matters here:
The curated guilt,
The viral shame.

The gods are online —
But none of them are listening.

Code of Contempt

Emboldened by whispers,
echoes curdled in algorithmic rot—
electronic voices hiss their sermons,
venom soaked in coded politeness,
dripping beneath polished avatars.

Hate seeps
through curated feeds,
a slow infection
wrapped in memes,
seducing the young,
the angry,
the aimless—
until ideology feels like identity.

A curriculum of fear
streamed without consent,
etched into abandoned timelines,
where education once should have stood.
Now, only digital ruins remain—
barren soil
where thought might have grown.

This isn’t chaos.
It’s code.
Written to polarize,
to radicalize,
to dehumanize.

They teach with silence,
they preach with fragments,
they baptize with blame.

Their design is surgical—
not to inform,
but to fester.
Not to question,
but to conquer.
To crown the cruel
and cast the rest as fuel.

We Are So Connected, Yet We Can’t See Each Other Anymore

We sit inches apart,
glowing screens between us,
a thousand miles wide.

We speak in echoes,
algorithm-fed replies,
pre-packaged thoughts
we never owned.

I send you a message.
You send back a reaction.
A digital thumb,
a cartoon heart,
a flicker of presence—
then gone.

We gather in crowded rooms,
silent, heads bowed in reverence
to the gospel of notifications.
A congregation of ghosts,
all here,
all absent.

Your voice is there, but flattened.
Your eyes are there, but dimmed.
I reach for you—
but you are buffering.

And yet, we post proof of life,
a curated display
of curated selves,
hoping someone, somewhere,
will see beyond the pixels,
will touch something real.

But no one does.

Because we are so connected,
yet we can’t see each other anymore.

Outside the Outside World

Here I once am again,
Resting where there's true peace
But not in the way you would imagine
Let me go on and explain.
Others accept the usuality of reality
But to I, I think beyond such staleness
Things that embody greatness.
The way that the trees are complete with their leaves
Is how I feel sanity
When the mind is at ease.
Where it can scatter and be free.
That's my own little fun curated reality,
Well, outside the outside world.

drop-dead delirium

if tears of the sun were the metaphorical keys
to unlock twisted trinkets of the searing sky
would you feel the festering forest~
homing arctic orchids within these veins?
or am I to remain detached and numb;
caged in a cursed collision
like an evanescent epiphany 
   of a misled marionette ~ 
   screaming for a cathartic elixir….

tonight my intuition is a passive-aggressive gaslighter
manipulating the inner voice ~ like a pathological liar
freezing the floral clairvoyance…
while curiosity keeps crawling
           amidst crestfallen opium

I ponder:  do frost and flame, as I breathe in bleakness~
transcribe how the echo 
   within the fog filters reality
curated in the midst of melted angst
fluctuating like stone-blind blackness~
a drop-dead delirium kissed by the darkness 
    of a silent sepulcher? 

I’m a prisoner of splitting supernovae
caught in polarized pyretic disruptions
for everything feels like exaggerated deceit
 when truth seems like a mere dot above~
       a hyphen of irrational ratios
 carved from calculated confusions,
         betrayed by the violent strings 
            of my violin heart…

Curated Search History

1. Lasagna Recipe
2. How to replace alternator 
3. Bookstores near me
4. Coffee shops near me
5. Breve
6. Breve vs latte
7. How to tell if your house is haunted
8. Derealization 
9. Common ghosts
10. How long to boil eggs
11. Chairs stacked in a pyramid
12. Footsteps 
13. Hearing footsteps
14. Hearing yelling
15. Yelling just outside my door
16. Bruises
17. Random bruises
18. Angry ghosts
19. Angry ghosts
20. How to get rid of angry ghosts
21. Why is there an angry ghost in my house
22. Exorcist 
23. Cheap exorcist
24. Package stores near me
25. How much is too much crying
26. CPTSD
27. Baby names list
28. Indeed
29. How to move on
30. Pilot pens

Anxiety

Anxiety
A mental condition characterized by excessive apprehensiveness about real or perceived threats
Anxiety is such a fickle thing
It can wrap around my throat like a noose, choking me until I am unable to breathe
Or it can hide in the background, whispering poison thoughts in my ear, tainting every situation with distress and uncertainty
But no matter the form it takes, it never leaves me
My constant companion
An unwilling partnership forged in memories I have lost to time
It has been around in all my biggest moments
There for every low and every high
In every memory, leaching the color from my successes
Darkening the shadows of my failures
Anxiety is the chains that keep me locked in my own mind
Never truly me
I am only the carefully curated picture my anxiety paints, and allows the world to see 
Do I even exist without anxiety?

Psychopathica

Subtle it's subversion it just catches the eye.
Can't tell which diversions really the greater lie.
Take caution it's pervasive yet it goes undetected.
Subconsciously persuasive now your mind is infected.
Unknowingly you've now become part of the collective.
Working towards your own downfall is the directive. 
Everyone's unique but that dare not be expressed.
Step outside the lines and find you're being oppressed.
Question the insanity you're seen as defective.
Grow your mind on clarity and gain some perspective.
The powerful are driven by a need for control.
Empathy is weakness basically rigmarole.
Feeding the division to keep everyone confused.
Far from idle hands are puppeteering the used.
Shadow games the projections are finely curated.
Join the dots the picture shows it's all fabricated.

SCENOGRAPHISTA claude

SCENOGRAPHISTA 
visual
   experments
in
spatial
  constructs
arranged
     with
       meaning
curated
& holistic
in
seamless
  synthesis
of
space
in singular
stimulii
to
  the eye

Naturally

Subtly significant for the cause,
Ripped apart by men,
Revering the reign of the lord,
Fools caught up in the act,
Making change prosper,
Or an effort toward it the least.

What failed was agony,
Disbelief of fauna and flora,
Once brimmed with confidence,
Flooding of the bloodsucking leech,
Man yelled at the being.

Tree hanging by the ridge,
Suffocated by newly fought freedom,
Of façade of expression and growth,
Ambition not mindful of the process,
Species that curated the being,
Progressed sipping some tea.

Fight in the open on land,
Now had turned it barren and sore,
Existence had to be revered,
It was in the past,
Not now with opening of new doors.

For salvation we may pray to him,
Or maybe give life to new,
Where little is done for being,
Even human won’t survive calamity,
Surrender to seizure of nature,
Living with a lie,
Brain put to a good use,
Man claimed!

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