IWriteAveragePoems

He/She | 21 | Aspiring writer and filmmaker | Kinda just here to vibe!

[averageclericpoetry]

As of about a week ago, I am officially a bachelor of fine arts. Guess they're really just handing degrees out to anyone, lol

[averageclericpoetry]

I saw a man flip off a pride flag today.

He had to stop helping his mother, who was in a wheelchair, to do it.

I think that says something about love.

[averageclericpoetry]

Righteous Anger

Anger was handed to me -

A sword, presented blade first.

I took it, edge carving into my palms,

And used the pommel to bludgeon the very one who handed it to me to death.

And now I stand in victory,

Worms eating away at my flame-kissed flesh,

My scalp burned clean by vengeful fire.

I rejoice in my repugnant body,

And even if my song is drowned out by the anger of those who wished my sword had pierced my heart,

I sing for myself,

Myself and every other reviled champion.

For though my flesh sloughs away,

My eyes melt to nothing,

And my face is burnt down to nothing but a grinning skull,

I am beautiful.

[averageclericpoetry]

Promising Young Man

I think I was supposed to die at 4.

I was supposed to let my stunning blue eyes rest under that old oak tree as dappled sunlight flit over my long, beautiful lashes.

I think I was supposed to die at 9.

With grass stains on my jeans and scuffs on my elbows - the taste of old rubber, dust, and a chain link fence my final meal served to me by my peers.

I think I was supposed to die at 16.

With my throat torn out by the very teeth of my close friend whom I so desired to taste. He rest his head on my shoulder instead.

I think I was supposed to die at 18.

Instead I was reborn, maybe for the better. I shed my skin, just to cling to it and wrap it around my raw, naked flesh once again.

I think I was supposed to die at 19.

Televised, on the evening news. It was only a matter of time, after all. Instead I just called out of work.

I think I'm supposed to die at 21.

Somewhere, a long distance call between two loved ones is cut short as I wrap my car around a telephone pole.

[averageclericpoetry]

Being amab and nonbinary is just: realizing that your father is the kind of person you'd want nothing to do with if he were a total stranger yet seeing him in the mirror every day anyway.

[averageclericpoetry]

I wonder if the tree in the front yard in my childhood home remembers me. I cut my hand badly once climbing it. I hope that little sacrifice helped it grow big and strong. I wonder if it's an adult now, like me. Filled with hopes and fears and all the precious things that make me (and maybe it too) alive.

[averageclericpoetry]

Jesus fucking christ I'm too tired to make art or anything cause you're telling me it happened AGAIN? Subhuman ICE animals murdered ANOTHER person? Fuck me man I just wanna stop seeing this shit.

Like, I'm in my final year of Uni, I'm four months away from getting my film degree, I'm writing more than ever, and continue posting my poetry and stuff here, all while still working my retail job that I love. Life should be good, but the blatantly obvious slide of American politics into an authoritarian police state makes me wanna kill myself.

Fuck Trump. Fuck Trump supporters. Fuck ICE agents - I hope their lives are forever ruined and that whatever justice comes next is as cruel to them as they are to the American people. At least then it'll be justified.

[averageclericpoetry]

Human Phenomenon

I am but a flash of lightning,

A dull, distant rumble far beyond the horizon.

I am a single electron -

One link in a chain that folds into itself

Again and again and again ever after

Maybe you note me in the moment,

But in the next, I am gone.

[averageclericpoetry]

Red Blooded Countrymen

The snowmelt's tinged with red

Like mouthwash in a bathroom sink,

But the taste in my mouth won't so easily go away -

It tastes like kisses, cherry sweet from a lover -

Whose bloodied knuckles decorate the skull and ribs

Of all who meet their embrace.

For purple mountains majesties

Rise up

From the flesh of the cold and huddled masses, yearning to be free

As bruises and scars upon their frostbitten skin.

And spurned lovers float as lifeless husks

Spangled across every blue sea to shining sea,

As the crimson stripes of their forgone hope

Melt the white snow upon the sidewalk.

[averageclericpoetry]

Is it oil or blood that lubricates our vast machines of wealth and prosperity?

Can our gods even tell the difference?

[averageclericpoetry]

10:04 After a Closing Shift

"You should shave."

"Huh? Why?"

"You know why."

"Oh, hm. I dunno."

"Why not?"

"I mean, it's late, and the hair clogs the drain."

"So?"

"So what? Look, man, I just don't wanna tonight."

"..."

"They're just late-night thoughts. They'll be gone by morning. Always are."

"And when they come back?"

[wiltkingart]

from the bottom of my heart: just because something makes you uncomfortable doesn't mean it shouldn't be allowed to exist

[ischleepzzz]

"But what about <thing that literally kills people>?"

[firedragon1321]

This was on a non rebloggable post so I'm setting it free.

[averageclericpoetry]

Sometimes the best art IS uncomfortable. Like, good art is meant to evoke strong emotions/feelings, and disgust, fear, anger, sadness - they all qualify

[averageclericpoetry]

Toothpaste

I can still taste the stale toothpaste on my breath from an hour ago when I said I would go to bed.

I got sidetracked scrolling back through our conversations - through endless emotions I only half said aloud.

I told you I loved you, but sarcasm was my shield back then.

Maybe if you tasted like toothpaste, you would have only lingered for a sweet moment, gone by the time I awoke the next morning.

[averageclericpoetry]

Spotify Playlists at 3 AM

The things best left behind are covered in barbs and hooks.

They hang off the ends of our clothing,

And dig their way deep into our boot soles.

Maybe we brush them away,

But most often we'll carry one or two of them to wherever we go next.

The mud we track into our homes

From roads we've long since left behind

Brings back thoughts of every step we've taken.

[averageclericpoetry]

Just tell me what to do

And I'll do it all right now.

I'll write a hundred stories,

But I won't write 'em well

Sing a thousand songs,

And tell ten thousand tales,

They won't be mine,

But they'll be there,

And nobdy'd be able to tell.

[averageclericpoetry]

Call me "it" like I'm a dead mourning dove you found outside your window. Treat me with the same gentle disgust - thrown out with a shovel, under sweet whispers of "Oh, poor little thing." Forget about me in the morning - I'll be mouldering in your garden where you buried me nonetheless.

[averageclericpoetry]

12:46 A.M. With an Electric Razor

A twenty one year old shadow,

On a 5 o'clock chin,

Is a reminder of mem'ries,

And places I've been.

'Neath it is skin rubbed red raw,

And an insecure grin,

And thousands of roads,

I dare not wander again.