Long Uncomfortable Poems
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I’m sorry,
I didn’t mean to leave so suddenly.
I really miss him
and I still care about him.
I was just scared
that he was upset with me,
and instead of talking about it,
I left.
I feel ashamed about it.
I don’t want him to hate me.
I don’t want him to think
I left because I didn’t care.
I just don’t like affection.
I don’t like love.
I don’t like relationships.
They make me uncomfortable.
I’ve always felt uncomfortable with them.
I don’t know why.
Every time someone gets close to me,
part of me just wants to leave.
But with him,
I actually felt happy.
And that’s what makes me feel worse,
because I really did care about him,
and I really did like being with him.
I just can’t stay.
It doesn’t feel right to me.
It never does.
Even when everything is good,
I still feel like I need to get away.
I wish I knew how to explain it better.
I wish I could just be normal about love
and not feel so uncomfortable with it.
But I can’t.
So I left,
and I’m sorry.
Maybe one day
I’ll understand myself better.
Maybe one day
I’ll stop being scared of love.
Maybe one day
I’ll learn how to love.
But right now,
I just don’t know how.
So interested in girls and ladies
Not so a little child or baby
I myself was a child trying out my wings
No matter what I looked at a female
Turning red or kind of odd around them
I guess it was just the age that things spring
And pants get tight when thinking happy
With delight I had my first kiss
That I know was a step to euphoria
It was hard to look at my mother
Because she did not understand
My dad was not around much, he worked
My mother had found me down in the barn
With magazines that my dad had hidden
She looked at me and I was embarrassed
What are you doing with this she said?
I looked at her and said that everyone is doing it
And I never thought that she could understand
My dad came home and smiled at me because he knew
Mother had told him what I did and words flew
My heart was pounding so hard and my dad had explained
Every little detail that he had known
I could remember that day, I was so uncomfortable
Now I think about it, I left home to find that special person
May 9, 2015
Another year of
Homelessness,
Joblessness,
And abject poverty.
Year after year
He wanders about the slums
Shoeless,
Trudging through mud
With bruised feet
Life's uncomfortable;
A bed of roses
Full of thorns
Pricking his weather-beaten skin
When he lies down to sleep at dusk.
Each daybreak, a blessing
To be alive,
Each day, a struggle
To exist, to survive
Out on the mean streets
Panhandling,
Dumpster-diving,
Shelter-hopping
Perennially down-on-his-luck;
Why is life so unkind
To this poor soul?
''Y'' Contest, New Poems - Poetry Contest
Theme chosen: Year
Sponsored by Constance La France
Date written: 12/02/2021
I thought buttons were born but to fasten,
Or if not, as added frill to fashion,
But not those on coat-sleeve—
They were placed there to peeve,
To teach a wiping nose a sure lesson!
___________________________________
Happenings |10.06.2023| humour
Poet’s note: Buttons on coat sleeves is a fashion today. But that was not the purpose why they were fixed there long back. Napoleon’s forces, exposed to cold, when started wiping noses with coat sleeves, he was annoyed and had buttons fixed on sleeves making it uncomfortable to wipe nose. Yea, these buttons were not for fastening, nor for fashion.
Last Sunday I spoke to my best friend ,
after many years I felt as if I didn’t know her at all.
She was bragging about her pretentious innocence and compassion while telling me how she celebrated her birthday in an orphanage.
Her parents took her to an orphanage for her eighteenth birthday to scream to the world how generous and kind they are on social media.
I couldn’t help but imagine the conundrum of the children there ,who wouldn’t understand why there is a need to click a picture of each and every moment .
The nasty truth behind the considerate action made me uncomfortable.
The children in the orphanage don’t need your selfish charity,
they need a loving heart to spend time with.
Children in the orphanage are seen but never acknowledged,
they need a person to make them realise of their own childhood.
She showed the pictures clicked by her dad’s expensive camera but all I saw in the numerous pair of
eyes the stinging feeling and sadness of how they could never be a kin .
In one picture she was feeding a piece of cake to her mom and beside her was standing a little angel seeing in awe the biggest luxury of life which she couldn’t afford , “ A MOTHER”.
Each photo captured different emotions.
In the end my best friend was happy with all the likes and comments she received.
Her words created a void in our relationship which will remain forever.
I feel you in the chill wrapped around my shoulders, a familiar friend, neither denied nor welcomed.
Old shadows. Sweat. Flaking paint over iron.
I feel you in the control of the shaking muscles in my leg, uncomfortable and dear for the pain.
Worn rubber. Smiles. Snow on the hills.
I feel you in the burn of the frozen rain as it pelts my skin, pebbling the flesh with icy fingers.
Tears in the dark. Sorrow. Hot chocolate with cream.
I feel you in the music playing in my ears over the beeps of the machine, like an old, well-worn pair of shoes.
Familiar rhythms. Songs. Colored pencil faces.
I feel you in the memories we made and in the memories I’ve borrowed, making space for nostalgia.
Guilty letters. Sun. Grass growing around a gravestone.
I was a “why child”
but unlike many others
didn't ask my questions
right out loud
for they never elicited satisfaction-
only bizarre grown-up reactions
discomfort shown
in odd looks or awkward glances
at each other, over shoulders
uncomfortable silences
growing colder
nervous laughter
qualmish coughing
even worse- the teasing, scoffing
or miserable mealymouthed
meaningless exchanges
in that drudging monotone
of “I'll explain later”
or “you'll understand better
once you're older-
or you're grown”
And so I dug for
the answers myself
delving in dresser drawers
combing through closets and
straining to reach the very
highest-high shelves
I wanted to know all the kinds of things
that people keep to themselves
Until one day, I finally found it
the holy grail I was searching for-
in an anemic cream-colored binding
weathered and worn
my Mama's diary of secret thoughts
from the years before
Breathless, I broke it open
impatient with worrisome wait-
wanting to savor it, to slow down, and taste it
every scandalous secret enclosed within...
so I scanned the dates before reading the entries
to find out where the story would begin
So far, so good
it was ancient to me
back before she was even married
and I couldn't wait to know the fullness
of it treasures trickling down
like a delicious waterfall
cool and refreshing
invigorating
but- Oh!
how she had let me down!
Ruining all my breathless fun
I found that my Mama
was not a very
exciting
kind of woman
I keep getting mixed up with this man called Insane,
People mistake me for him which is a pain.
Like I went to a club dressed in my underpants and shoes
They told me “The Gothic” is down the road this is the blues.
Dresses like that you must be Insane?
Well to tell you all that ain’t my name.
When I went to America on holiday
There I was singing away
Bomb bay bay bomb bomb bomb
Customs arrest me as if I did something wrong
They said to me “You either a terrorist or you Insane
So I shouted at them “That's' not my bloody name.”
Well you know ten years in Guantanamo Bay
Is the longest most uncomfortable over stay,
I soon adopted this character’s name, Insane
Before you know it I was flying home on a plane
But between you and me I am not Insane
Just read my other poems, you’ll see my real name.
© 2000
Ebony eyes eclipse ripping away sun
Moon blooms of golden gloom
Lips lacking limerick’s lift
Onyx mood swings back and forth
Like grey grandfather clock
Time ticking as a blues bomb
Raining purple passionate pain
clouded by lemon lyrical labyrinth
Of love lacking it’s sweet liquor
The bittersweet longing embraced
Tastes like red regrets sifted through time
Straining to be reinvented not lamented
In black bird’s somber death song
Sacred and solemn in honor of loss
Mourning is important inked in green
Like poison ivy uncomfortable
But never worthless as it is digested
And creates cranberry calling to
Remember the fallen angels
With soft tears laid like roses
On the cold creamy colored casket
Some people are just uncomfortable
She is putting on a smile
under her mask
I don’t know if it’s her
or it’s me
She’s nice, a little hurried
Even her son’s spirit
seems lost to the horizon
They are no strangers
Some people hurry
and still
make me feel safe
mask or no mask
There is a message
tucked away
behind one’s flesh
I can meet a stranger
even have a quick encounter
and feel kinship
The lady in the Santa hat
ringing her bell
at this time of year
as if she’s always been there
She’s warm
Her message says, “Hello.”
Nothing nefarious, truly kind
Don’t get me wrong
it could be me…
Maybe I’m too approachable
encroaching in an unwanted space…
Still the angel
that went to heaven
had wide open arms
it could be me…
I will always wonder
but then I’m too old
to be bothered