Long Unconvincing Poems
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Escaping reality
seems the only way
to really feel free;
lying back on a soft meadow,
looking up to see
the scarlet moon
rushing against another shadow...
before the coming of dawn!
Losing what's not mine,
its very hard of letting go,
because it took more
that faith to get where I am...
and only be left with pride!
I took a forgotten dream,
and turned it into a vision:
to set the mood of passion...
to steadly touch, not just feel!
Losing what' not mine
makes me doubt the meaning
of those unconvincing words;
how did I fell for a lie so unforgiving,
too unpleasant to be remembered by time...
to which everything belongs?
Every star has gone to another sky,
and the pale moon won't leave;
how should I forget about Eve,
if I have no strength to cry?
I am an afterthought,
Unnecessary to the plot.
A seed so frail,
Poured out an empty pail.
Like a weed I grow,
My roots running shallow.
Look in envy,
At these walls so empty.
Just something to bring a smile,
But only last a while,
Then go away,
Before you stray,
Into that unconvincing truth,
Away from youth.
A mirror knows,
Not what it shows,
But wonders all the same.
Could it be,
That what I see,
Is still unknown,
Not imagination overblown.
I look into myself,
And see an empty shelf,
Of empty frames;
Dreams I cannot claim.
I cannot fill,
But cannot be still.
Against myself I rage,
With every single empty page.
A template incomplete,
Still supposed to compete,
Against their highs and lows,
And heaven only knows,
The dream I cannot claim.
The rules may not apply,
But not because I’m sly.
I did not come to play,
Yet here I have to stay.
You tell me its unfair,
But politely lend a chair,
For me to sit and wait,
Careful not to complain.
Yes, regretfully stare,
At your lended chair,
Shake your head,
At this undeveloped head.
Call me a martyr,
I’m not trying harder.
Call me a tyrant,
My screams are silent,
For I have suffered nothing.
Unconvincing words
is what I hear...
and need, not want
keeps bursting out
of your pathetic thoughts;
all is gone so sore!
A fobidden thought,
not spoken for your own sake,
what you hide is plain and clear;
when that voice starts shaking,
and those eyes start rolling:
I lose faith in everything you say,
look at me, and be as true as yesterday!
Have I ever kept a secret, or been insincere?
Sympathy wouldn't be in me today,
unless you revealed that forbidden thought!
Secrets can cause doubts,
enought to destroy trust and confidence;
are you still hanging on pretense?
Go beyond the storm and foresee
things that can't ever been seen;
put it all to rest ...it's your last chance!
A forbidden thought
locked inside so shamefully
is another reason to fear truth;
being so untrue and silent
doesn't make easier for me
to forgive you like I would like toI
A forbidden thought
lingering on unspoken lips
makes me sad and wonder why
it seems hard to face
the consequence of a lie...
when all you have to do is apologize!
A forbdden thought so unspoken,
never sheds light on anything too foregone;
something lost to time that only love can
bring back from its deep darkness!
A forbidden thought follows a gloomy dawn,
afraid that the silence will find a voice!
I know it's highly unconvincing, Mrs Blackwell;
an unimaginable storyline no doubt.
In all your years of teaching science at St Hilda's
you must have thought our wild excuses would run out.
I know you'll calculate with ease my fabrication
but hope my alibi will raise a passing smile
for even scientific minds abrim with logic
can set imagination free once in a while.
And so to tell it in a nutshell Mrs Blackwell
last night a swarm of flying reptiles hit the town
and gazing upwards with increasing consternation
I noticed one was breaking rank and swooping down.
Then with a thud it landed right outside my window
its sturdy beak began to smash through my defence
I had to pinch myself to check I wasn't dreaming
for such Jurassic visions counter common sense.
And then the flaming pterodactyl ate my homework
and Mrs Blackwell, I do hope you'll understand
that when a flying reptile lands inside your bedroom
events will rarely go as smoothly as you'd planned!
10.02.21
...And Then A Flaming Pterodactyl Ate My Homework Poetry Contest
Sponsor : John Lawless
Marilyn wore a pretty pearl of yellowish white
on her golden necklace, which had an alluring shine,
anytime she was in the mood for a kiss and an embrace;
I constantly doubted her honesty from her unconvincing face.
It was a clear midnight and that pearl
resembled a small moon anyone wanted to own;
I touched and felt its charm giving it another frown,
but unknowingly, I seemed to have broken the mystical spell.
No longer she desired those kissess she thought were " Sweet and wild "...
but she suddenly ran in shame as someone who had lost all pride;
oh, the blame was on me for having touched it and fantasized!
Yes, untrue love has its prize: a shattered dream never realized!
Beautiful Marilyn, are you wearing the same pearl to attract
another guy and make him taste Heaven with flames of Hell?
I would cover your bed with roses and rubies, if you threw away the pearl
that enchanted me with your spell and made me lose you on a lovely night!
Most of us are too quick to judge
not knowing anything about a person,
and distrust is the outcome of ignorance
capable of setting us apart from civilization;
first gather the facts, not useless rage,
and the belief that anyone can change
draws ourselves to a truth so unknown...
Hear all the words they speak, use intuition;
do they convince you to continue listening,
or throw you off with idignation?
If that voice sounds too unconvincing,
and can't confirm the answers you're expecting,
come up with questions that are pungent:
transforming those ideas with a thought,
and always believe that anyone can change...
Empires have risen, giving the obsolute power
to fearless men who were made into legends;
some were deserving, but most were tyrants of unclemency,
and did shameful and cruel deeds:
torturing or killing anybody who used to dare;
are we learning something from History?
When Attila the Hun rampaged Italy,
Leo the Great...the courageous Pope,
persuaded the savage king
not to sack the city of Rome;
and he also believed anyone could change:
that any heart, with all its brutality and rage,
could replace its rampant fury and grim
with human compassion and mercy...
I take an unhurriedly walk
through the virgin forest
with paths fully covered with brittle leaves,
its trees emit mournful laments
to protest its anguishing fate until spring arrives
and transforms their dullness
into a liveliness loved by a novelist;
and walking farther, I spot a red-tailed hawk
that built his nest amid the branches of a willow...
should he return late, the cry for hunger will grow!
Nothing thrilling is found in a barren forest
when its beauty faded without the song of the larks
when they frequented the fields of a bountiful harvest,
I sit by the small lake without the floating ducks,
they shivered into the cold water and departed at early sunset,
leaving the drama on the poet's perplexed face;
his narrative would have seemed real and deserving of praise...
had he not embellished it with an unconvincing verse!
I take a long stroll
in a forest with a nakedness that frightens,
there are no intriguing discoveries;
those urban noises aren't too distant from the ears,
the minds, and the thoughts of the observers;
isn't tranquility and pensiveness that call
all for solitude and the dreary images they extoll?
Shouldn't they depress even if they are as realistic
as the life of a derelict
clothed with cheap garments, but has a noble spirit?
An old sweetheart of mine never believed
in daytime dreams, because they shattered
quickly and shaking her unconvinced head
silly words came out of her mouth admitting,
" Aren't fantasies unrealistic dreams...
when they appear more tempting
then a cake with irresistible frosting?
And while she cut it with careful fingers,
" The outside tasted very sweet,
but the inside looked kind of hard;
its whipped cream was soft and white,
its filling was solid and not much inviting! "
It's worse than a thriller too unconvincing and trite,
although to the novice novelist the tragic plot
appeared to be real with the small-minded bigot.
Comparing fantasies to a decorated cake
is a huge and unforgivable mistake,
the ingredients look fine and exquisite;
but who garnishes it may lack artistry
and gastronomic skills to create an extraordinary
delight not applauded by someone who's inquisitive
about what went into it before baking it,
and laying it down on the table it looks perfect.
Are we still pursuing hallucinating fantasies
that weave themselves into allusive dreams
that make others notice how disappointing
they are having put all our trust in them?
Is this an end to dreaming coming to grips
with a stark and naked reality never being
challenged by a mindless dreamer who causes an ahem
not realizing that he's in a dire state of optical illusions...
instead of being persuaded that nobody ever wins.
To have a repenting heart
which is changed by flowing kindness,
you earnestly need to pray,
and I pray,while others rebel...
ejecting bitterness from their harsh words;
and as sinful as they are: they still
like to be praised for their formidable might:
to mock,to insult,and deride in an harmful way!
I pray, while others rebel...
demanding an act of veneration;
nothing that exposes conviction,
or liberation from libel!
They continue to look right and holy,
but underneath they cringe...
plotting against the will of God,
bending their ways to fit their habits;
an iron bar will bend 'till it melts
from the intense heat...and so will they!
I pray...while they rebel,
and set their mind on revenge...
their unconvincing glow seems strange;
do I have to resemble them in heart and mind,
speak in the same voice unti I reach Hell?
Haven't they noticed that I'm listening to another sound?
What is this sense that's made to be?
An afterthought expunged to reality?
Does this sense have a scent
of revelation, betrayal or of backing down?
Is it smelly repugnant, or a tasty, tangy treat on tongue?
Is its resolution crystal clear to bed-fellows one,
or lackluster and unconvincing to some.
Does it ooze up between the cracks between the lines of evidence?
Or is it refined in time, from raw materials mined to sublime?
Is it an ore, that lays there like gold,
to be panned and picked up among the nonsense sand,
with no need of refinement?
Making sense is a happening happenstance,
a presence, made and revealed
in the present tense.