Distorted Beauty
She was a small girl, the proof being the tiny soccer cleats
lying on the floor, and the low down marks on the wall
marking her height; and the pictures on her wall show
she is the only brunette in a family of blondes; the belts
lying on her floor had extra holes poked in them
to accommodate for her unnatural skinniness;
her clothes consisted of dark colors meant to keep
her constantly hidden in the background.
Her room was always messy, she was never
organized enough to keep it clean; and pictures
had been painted onto the walls as proof of
her artistic talent; she did not have any clothes
with horizontal stripes, she was too afraid
they might make her look fat; Her school
books are scattered on her desk, all with many
dog-eared and well-worn pages.
In the morning she sleeps in just long enough
to rush out the door without breakfast; at lunch
she claims she isn’t feeling well enough to eat;
when time for dinner comes she hides herself in
her room; everyday she wastes away a little more,
and yet she is still not happy with her weight;
however, she refuses to admit her problem and
that she needs help.
poem by Ashley Flock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Pictures
Whoa oh yeah
I've seen pictures
Well i saw you just the other day
And i could not help but look your way
I say you've just got this special look
That has got me completely hooked
Ow
Pictures on the wall
Pictures everywhere
Pictures on the wall
Everywhere i stare
Pictures on the wall
The ceiling and the floor
I'm in a metal room
And i cannot find the door
Will this feeling ever go away?
Or will this feeling stay?
Will this feeling ever go away?
'cause i can't live the rest of my life this way
Pictures on the wall
[c'mon]
Pictures everywhere
Pictures on the wall
[c'mon c'mon]
Everywhere i stare
Pictures on the wall
[c'mon c'mon]
The ceiling and the floor
I'm in a metal room and i cannot find the door
I see your face in the clouds in the sky
I see your face before my eyes, yeah
I see your face everywhere
And now i don't know what to do
Oh oh
Pictures on the wall
Pictures everywhere
Pictures on the wall
Everywhere i stare
Pictures on the wall
The ceiling and the floor
I'm in a metal room
And i cannot find the door
Whoa pictures...
song performed by by Hanson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Money (Thats What I Want)
I saw you just the other day
And I could not help but I look yxour way
You see youve got this special look
That has got me completely hooked
Pictures on the wall, pictures everywhere
Pictures on the wall, everywhere I stare
Pictures on the wall, the ceilling and the floor
Im in a mental room and I cannot find the door
Will this feeling ever go away or will this feeling stay
Will this feeling ever go away
'Cause I cant live the rest of my life this time
I see your face in the clouds in the sky
I see your face before my eye
I see your face everywhere and now I dont know what to do
song performed by by Hanson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Book
Standing at the door, to your room, I lean against the frame,
I am frozen, I whisper your name.
The chair at the desk, where you always sat, to work
is in place, unmoved, in the dark.
I sigh, holding my breathe, I switch on the light
I say your name, adjust my eyes to the sight.
Everything is in its place, unmoved, just waiting
on your return, digital clock on desk blinking
in even rhythm, as time moves on,
unaware, uncaring that you are gone.
on the wall, family pictures of the past
moments in time, captured, held fast.
Afraid to break the silence, to enter the room, I wait
and for a moment I pretend you are just late,
that I will turn as I hear your footsteps on the stair
and see you standing, smiling, blue eyes full of care.
and then, that moment, that hope, has past
one heavy foot forward, I enter the room at last.
An inspiration, to me, to all of us, friends and family
you dealt with your illness, with strength and dignity,
I can still hear your laughter, your silly jokes,
remembering your love for books and gadgets.
reminiscing, I notice on your desk, a book
lying open, page marked, I move to have a look
As I read I start to smile, your last message,
the lyrics from Life of Brian, a circled passage
'Always look on the Bright side of Life'
for my children and my wife.
poem by Julie Duff
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Shes On The Zoom
Well she got up every morning and she waited in the cold
Got on the stinking yellow school bus and did what she was told
And she stared out the window, all the way down to high school.
She went to home economics just like all the other girls
Making chicken a la king and peanut butter swirls
But she knew in her heart there had to be something better somewhere.
Well the boys in the school, they were just a bunch of fools
And they acted like a bunch of bad bumpkins.
But she went out with this guy cause she knew a girls gotta do something.
He showed her pictures of his car (pictures of his car!),
Pictures of his room (pictures of his room!)
Ohhhh, shes on the zoom, shes on the zoom.
She wasnt meant to stick around here, and be some quarterbacks wife
She wasnt meant to stick around here, be barefoot and pregnant the rest
Of her life...
Well she got up every morning and she waited in the cold
Got on the stinking yellow cab, put the money through the hole
And she stared out the window, all the way down fifth avenue.
She went on all the cattle calls just like all the other girls
And she waited by the phone in her rollers and her curls
But she knew in her heart there had to be something better.
Well she ran into this guy who was down at 54
Had a lot of gold and chains and he got her in the door,
And he knew so many people, and he made her lots of pretty promises.
He showed her pictures of his car (pictures of his car!),
Pictures of his room (pictures of his room!)
Ohhhh, shes on the zoom, shes on the zoom.
He showed her pictures of his car (pictures of his car!),
Pictures of his room (pictures of his room!)
Ohhhh, shes on the zoom, shes on the zoom.
Ohhhh, shes on the zoom, shes on the zoom.
song performed by by Don Henley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Face On The Cutting Room Floor
Shes history
No one would give her a star on the walk
Shed have a hundred if pillows could talk
Where have I seen her before?
Shes the face on the cutting room floor
Its no mystery
Acting in school at the tenderest age
Lit up the room when she stepped on the stage
Came to la for some more
Shes the face on the cutting room floor
She had visions of contracts
And thousands of people in line
To see her;
Knocking on door after door after all of this time,
Now shes not sure
Up in hollywood
Stayed with an agent she met in a bar
Laughed when he told her hed make her a star
Where has she heard that before?
Shes the face on the cutting room floor
One night he told her that shed never get anywhere
In her clothes
Thats what it takes to play movieland musical chairs
Now she knows
Goodbye hollywood
Leaving tonight on the 2:30 hound
Sunrise or sunset she wont be around
But theyll replace her with so many more
Shes the face on the cutting room floor
Poor little face on the cutting room floor
song performed by by Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wasted Sunsets
The day is gone when the angels come to stay
And all the silent whispers will be blown away
And lying in the corner a pair of high heel shoes
Hanging on the wall gold and silver for the blues
One too many wasted sunsets
One too many for the road
And after dark the door is always open
Hoping someone else will show
Someone is waiting behind an unlocked door
Grey circles overhead empties on the floor
The cracks in the walls have grown too long
The slow hand is dragging on afraid to meet the dawn
One too many wasted sunsets
One too many for the road
And after dark the door is always open
Hoping someone else will show
song performed by by Deep Purple
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wasted Sunset
the day is gone when the angels come to stay
and all the silent whispers will be blown away
lying in the corner, a pair of high-heel shoes
hanging on the wall, gold and silver for the blues
one too many wasted sunsets
one too many for the road
and after dark, the door is always open
hopin' someone else will show
someone is waiting behind an unlocked door
grey circle's overhead, empty's on the floor
the cracks in the walls have grown too long
the slow hand is dragging on, afraid to meet the dawn
one too many wasted sunsets
one too many for the road
and after dark, the door is always open
hopin' someone else will show
song performed by by Deep Purple
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Taken
Taken
By: Jean Pullman
Everyday I look at you and I know
That me and you won’t happen and you’ll go
Go back into her arms
Go back and feel her warmth
It will be her lips that you’ll kiss
You don’t know how much I hate this.
CHORUS
You’re taken
And I want to be yours
You’re taken
And I’m bleeding on the floor
You’re taken
By another girl
You’re taken
I’m alone in the world
Why oh why do you have to be
TAKEN
Now I sit inside my room
Listening to my stereo boom
I kind of wish that you were here
You I constantly want to be near
Every time you talk I fall in more
Fall in to the dark room with no door
CHORUS
You’re taken
And I want to be yours
You’re taken
And I’m bleeding on the floor
You’re taken
By another girl
You’re taken
I’m alone in the world.
Why oh why must you be
TAKEN
Why can’t you just leave her
I’m sorry if I’m causing you pressure
I constantly fight my urges for you
Because you’re taken and it’s making me blue
I hope you see one day
That I am here to stay
Until you’re not taken
Whoa oh
Not taken
Not taken
Not taken
poem by Jean Pullman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The writers room
The writers room
~
the walls lined with books
a thousand written worlds
open pages litter the floor
ready to begin a new journey
light cascades through window
across the unused bed
a room alive does not sleep
pictures and tokens spread out
points of memory and inspiration
shelves climb to the ceiling
hoarding words and lives
a writers room, paradise
a place to sit read and write
inspiration comes from life
and life is about discovering
all that is beautiful
however ugly it appears
look through the pages
of an open mind
poem by Matthew Holloway
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Her Last Poem
She sat beneath a shaded tree
She thought for a while
She thought about her life
For the first time
She wrote her first poem
She sat in her desk at school
She smiled a lot
Because smiles meant happy
And she wanted happy
She frowned when no one looked
She sat with her friends at lunch
She wondered what they thought
Did they think about her?
She wondered if they wondered
If her smiles were real
She sat beside the boy in school
They held hands
And he thought she was beautiful
Just a girl
And not much else
She sat on her bedroom floor
She let herself feel
And she felt like nothing
But feeling is all she wanted
And so she was nothing
She was alone
She was tired
She was afraid
And she was nothing
She sat on the bathroom floor
She pulled out the razor
She carved mor nothing on her wrist
She pretended to be ok
Because ok was all she wanted
Drip drop
Blood
Tears
No difference really
She sat beneath a shaded tree
She let go for a while
She thought about her death
For the first time
She wrote her last poem
The Artists.....
the role of a true artist
is to put order to the messy state of things
chopped lines are interconnected again
colors are categorized to a harmonious blending
a room of scattered old and dirty clothes
bedsheets in disarray
pillows on the floor
paper scratches and pens and ink spilled
the artist picks them all up
and puts them properly back to the places
where they must be
for at the beginning there was an order of perfection
but then this universe bangs itself against a black space of a wall
and goes into an accelerated entropy
a scattering, a chaos pursuing upon another chaos
expanding litters of planets and stars
and God the Artist gathers them all into One
Harmony, the Silenced Storm, the Wellness and Wholeness
of These All
We are all these Artists, God's Children looking for Peace.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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It's Time
Here at home
The thoughts racing through my crazy mind
Trying to figure out
If I'm loving you this one more time
And when I got the mail
It made me close the door just right behind
On a trail of clothes
Left lying here
Thrown across the floor now
Maybe it's the way this love
was meant to be
and maybe it's the only way
for you and me...
It's time
song performed by by Boyzone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Chains Around Me
You went out for a while
I was left alone with him
Before i knew it i was taken
The room was dark and cold
The door was locked
I was alone with him
He came closer
The sound of him filled the room
He grabbed my small arms
And pinned me to the wall
He says dont worry i wont hurt you
One hand lost its grip
He feels my heart race
His hand lets go for a second
I tried to move
And i failed to get away
He pushes me back against the wall
All his weight on me
Silence falls for a second
A sound fills the room
I didnt know it was
He turns around
His cold hard hands run over me
I cry in fear he says be quiet
Before i knew it i was an the floor
I felt his hands hold me down
I look up only to see him over me
The icy stare in his eyes watch me
I cant pull or move away
I can only stay still and watch him
The feeling over me the pain unbearable
Every second hurts every minute kills
I cry wishing it would end
He says never tell
I thought it was over for good
But every chance he got he did it again
I couldnt stop him he was too strong
He is like a chain tied around me
Theres nothing i can do
poem by Kerrie Maurer
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Love In the Asylum
A stranger has come
To share my room in the house not right in the head,
A girl mad as birds
Bolting the night of the door with her arm her plume.
Strait in the mazed bed
She deludes the heaven-proof house with entering clouds
Yet she deludes with walking the nightmarish room,
At large as the dead,
Or rides the imagined oceans of the male wards.
She has come possessed
Who admits the delusive light through the bouncing wall,
Possessed by the skies
She sleeps in the narrow trough yet she walks the dust
Yet raves at her will
On the madhouse boards worn thin by my walking tears.
And taken by light in her arms at long and dear last
I may without fail
Suffer the first vision that set fire to the stars.
poem by Dylan Thomas
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Part 3 of Trout Fishing in America
SEA, SEA RIDER
The man who owned the bookstore was not magic. He was not a
three-legged crow on the dandelion side of the mountain.
He was, of course, a Jew, a retired merchant seaman
who had been torpedoed in the North Atlantic and floated
there day after day until death did not want him. He had a
young wife, a heart attack, a Volkswagen and a home in
Marin County. He liked the works of George Orwell, Richard
Aldington and Edmund Wilson.
He learned about life at sixteen, first from Dostoevsky
and then from the whores of New Orleans.
The bookstore was a parking lot for used graveyards.
Thousands of graveyards were parked in rows like cars.
Most of the kooks were out of print, and no one wanted to
read them any more and the people who had read the books
had died or forgotten about them, but through the organic
process of music the books had become virgins again. They
wore their ancient copyrights like new maidenheads.
I went to the bookstore in the afternoons after I got off
work, during that terrible year of 1959.
He had a kitchen in the back of the store and he brewed
cups of thick Turkish coffee in a copper pan. I drank coffee
and read old books and waited for the year to end. He had a
small room above the kitchen.
It looked down on the bookstore and had Chinese screens
in front of it. The room contained a couch, a glass cabinet
with Chinese things in it and a table and three chairs. There
was a tiny bathroom fastened like a watch fob to the room.
I was sitting on a stool in the bookstore one afternoon
reading a book that was in the shape of a chalice. The book
had clear pages like gin, and the first page in the book read:
Billy
the Kid
born
November 23,
1859
in
New York
City
The owner of the bookstore came up to me, and put his
arm on my shoulder and said, "Would you like to get laid?"
His voice was very kind.
"No, " I said.
"You're wrong, " he said, and then without saying anything
else, he went out in front of the bookstore, and stopped a pair
of total strangers, a man and a woman. He talked to them for
a few moments. I couldn't hear what he was saying. He pointed
at me in the bookstore. The woman nodded her head and
then the man nodded his head.
They came into the bookstore.
I was embarrassed. I could not leave the bookstore because
they were entering by the only door, so I decided to go
upstairs and go to the toilet. I got up abruptly and walked
to the back of the bookstore and went upstairs to the bathroom,
and they followed after me. I could hear them on the stairs.
I waited for a long time in the bathroom and they waited
an equally long time in the other room. They never spoke.
When I came out of the bathroom, the woman was lying naked
on the couch, and the man was sitting in a chair with his
hat on his lap.
"Don't worry about him, " the girl said. "These things
make no difference to him. He's rich. He has 3, 859 Rolls
Royces." The girl was very pretty and her body was like a
clear mountain river of skin and muscle flowing over rocks
of bone and hidden nerves.
"Come to me, " she said. "And come inside me for we are
Aquarius and I love you."
I looked at the man sitting in the chair. He was not smiling
and he did not look sad.
I took off my shoes and all my clothes. The man did not
say a word.
The girl's body moved ever so slightly from side to side.
There was nothing else I could do for my body was like
birds sitting on a telephone wire strung out down the world,
clouds tossing the wires carefully.
I laid the girl.
It was like the eternal 59th second when it becomes a minute
and then looks kind of sheepish.
"Good, " the girl said, and kissed me on the face.
The man sat there without speaking or moving or sending
out any emotion into the room. I guess he was rich and owned
3, 859 Rolls Royces.
Afterwards the girl got dressed and she and the man left.
They walked down the stairs and on their way out, I heard
him say his first words.
"Would you like to go to Emie's for dinner?"
"I don't know, " the girl said. "It's a little early to think
about dinner. "
Then I heard the door close and they were gone. I got
dressed and went downstairs. The flesh about my body felt
soft and relaxed like an experiment in functional background
music.
The owner of the bookstore was sitting at his desk behind
the counter. "I'11 tell you what happened up there, " he said,
in a beautiful anti-three-legged-crow voice, in an anti-dandelion
side of the mountain voice.
"What?"I said.
"You fought in the Spanish Civil War. You were a young
Communist from Cleveland, Ohio. She was a painter. A New
York Jew who was sightseeing in the Spanish Civil War as if
it were the Mardi Gras in New Orleans being acted out by
Greek statues.
"She was drawing a picture of a dead anarchist when you
met her. She asked you to stand beside the anarchist and act
as if you had killed him. You slapped her across the face
and said something that would be embarrassing for me to
repeat.
You both fell very much in love.
"Once while you were at the front she read Anatomy of
Melancholy and did 349 drawings of a lemon.
"Your love for each other was mostly spiritual.Neither
one of you performed like millionaires in bed.
"When Barcelona fell, you and she flew to England, and
then took a ship back to New York. Your love for each other
remained in Spain. It was only a war love. You loved only
yourselves, loving each other in Spain during the war. On
the Atlantic you were different toward each other and became
every day more and more like people lost from each other.
"Every wave on the Atlantic was like a dead seagull dragging
its driftwood artillery from horizon to horizon.
"When the ship bumped up against America, you departed
without saying anything and never saw each other again. The
last I heard of you, you were still living in Philadelphia. "
"That's what you think happened up there?" I said.
"Partly, " he said. "Yes, that's part of it. "
He took out his pipe and filled it with tobacco and lit it.
"Do you want me to tell you what else happened up there?"
he said.
"Go ahead."
"You crossed the border into Mexico, " he said. "You
rode your horse into a small town. The people knew who
you were and they were afraid of you. They knew you had
killed many men with that gun you wore at your side. The
town itself was so small that it didn't have a priest.
"When the rurales saw you, they left the town. Tough as
they were, they did not want to have anything to do with you.
The rurales left.
You became the most powerful man in town.
You were seduced by a thirteen-year-old girl, and you
and she lived together in an adobe hut, and practically all
you did was make love.
"She was slender and had long dark hair. You made love
standing, sitting, lying on the dirt floor with pigs and chickens
around you. The walls, the floor and even the roof of the
hut were coated with your sperm and her come.
"You slept on the floor at night and used your sperm for
a pillow and her come for a blanket.
"The people in the town were so afraid of you that they
could do nothing.
"After a while she started going around town without any
clothes on, and the people of the town said that it was not a
good thing, and when you started going around without any
clothes, and when both of you began making love on the back
of your horse in the middle of the zocalo, the people of the
town became so afraid that they abandoned the town. It's
been abandoned ever since. "People won't live there.
"Neither of you lived to be twenty-one. It was not neces-
sary.
"See, I do know what happened upstairs, " he said. He
smiled at me kindly. His eyes were like the shoelaces of a
harpsichord.
I thought about what happened upstairs.
"You know what I say is the truth, " he said. "For you
saw it with your own eyes and traveled it with your own body.
Finish the book you were reading before you were interrupted.
I'm glad you got laid. "
Once resumed the pages of the book began to speed up
and turn faster and faster until they were spinning like wheels
in the sea.
poem by Richard Brautigan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Time To Sit
A time to sit, the doctor said.
The room silent,
the walls a dull grey,
painted God knows when.
The chair uncomfortable,
hard on the arse.
You look around,
cock your ears,
sniff the air.
Tell me, the doc said,
do you hear voices?
The carpeted floor
beneath the feet.
The shoes touch it.
You push hard down on it.
Not springy.
A small window high up
lets in light. The air is stale.
Body smell, sweat.
As if many have sat here
just like you on this chair.
The mind is a complex thing,
the doc said, layer upon layer
of memories and sensations
are buried there.
As if you didn’t know.
He spoke with an Irish lilt.
Just like you. Softer though.
Photographs were on his desk in his room.
You gazed at them as he spoke.
The wife of his some posh bit,
clothes aplenty, eyes just staring.
And two kids staring at you
from another photo: well fed,
nothing much wrong with them.
No screw loose, all right in the head.
The sitting in the room does you no good.
The voices are back,
never been away.
Good day, good day, they say.
poem by Terry Collett
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Looking Upon A Child
looking upon a child i compress my years
like how i keep the lines confined inside my palms.
i stop for while following where the child goes.
his hands are buds, his feet as small as a saki cup.
his eyes as innocent as an oil lamp waking on a dark night.
his hair are soft and silky like a kitten fur
his sounds like the arrival of morning on the grass.
i hold his tiny hands and i am back to my senses.
he calls my name, but i am no longer there.
i am back to my room. It is as crowded as a storehouse
with papers and books and chairs and used clothes hanging
on the beams and walls. Some old figurines bathed with dusts.
Some dried spittle on the floor. Some unopened off-white pages
filled with age.
i wonder, despite this crowd of things and thoughts,
despite the fullness of the wind from the window
there is still the wide vacancy of space. Inside the heart longs.
Inside the sound howls. Inside something so faint shouts.
It is the sound of the child still calling my name.
It is looking for me and i am never complete.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Pittypat and Tippytoe
All day long they come and go--
Pittypat and Tippytoe;
Footprints up and down the hall,
Playthings scattered on the floor,
Finger-marks along the wall,
Tell-tale smudges on the door--
By these presents you shall know
Pittypat and Tippytoe.
How they riot at their play!
And a dozen times a day
In they troop, demanding bread--
Only buttered bread will do,
And the butter must be spread
Inches thick with sugar too!
And I never can say "No,
Pittypat and Tippytoe!"
Sometimes there are griefs to soothe,
Sometimes ruffled brows to smooth;
For (I much regret to say)
Tippytoe and Pittypat
Sometimes interrupt their play
With an internecine spat;
Fie, for shame! to quarrel so--
Pittypat and Tippytoe!
Oh the thousand worrying things
Every day recurrent brings!
Hands to scrub and hair to brush,
Search for playthings gone amiss,
Many a wee complaint to hush,
Many a little bump to kiss;
Life seems one vain, fleeting show
To Pittypat and Tippytoe!
And when day is at an end,
There are little duds to mend;
Little frocks are strangely torn,
Little shows great holes reveal,
Little hose, but one day worn,
Rudely yawn at toe and heel!
Who but you could work such woe,
Pittypat and Tippytoe!
On the floor and down the hall,
Rudely smutched upon the wall,
There are proofs in every kind
Of the havoc they have wrought,
And upon my heart you'd find
Just such trade-marks, if you sought;
Oh, how glad I am 'tis so,
Pittypat and Tippytoe!
poem by Eugene Field
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Without You By My Side
I lie so tired in my bed
And moon shows herself to the door
And I shut my eyes.
I pray to god, wont you tell me please,
Whats a girl like me doing
Lying here without you by my side?
Lying here without you by my side
Lying here without you by my side
The room fills with moonlight and memories of old times,
But dont worry about me, Im just fine most of the time.
The hardest part is late night, when Im home all alone,
And the house is so still nothing better to do than think about you.
Im lying here without you by my side
Im lying here without you by my side
How quick my heart wants to believe, Ill never be lonely again.
Its those little things I never thought about much, that I miss most in the
End.
Like those sweet red-wine kisses, and the candlelight,
And the poetry, but mainly, its just the warmth of your skin,
And having you by my side,
Im lying here without you by my side
Theres this weight in my heart, its so heavy, so sad,
It felt like a wave that any moment comes crashing down,
And maybe my sorrow will drown tomorrow
When Im lying here without you by my side
Im lying here without you by my side
Transcribed by adam longfellow
song performed by by Jewel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Free Ride
I know you
I care too
I see through
All of the pictures that you keep on the wall
All of the people that will come to the ball
But hear me calling
Wont you give me
A free ride.
I know too
What you do
When youre through
Counting the cattle as they go by the door
Keeping a carpet thats so thick on the floor
But hear me calling
Wont you give me
A free ride.
I know you
I care too
I see through
All of the pictures that you keep on the wall
All of the pictures that you keep on the wall
But hear me calling
Wont you give me
A free ride.
song performed by by Nick Drake
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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