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You can't be what you don't see. I didn't think about being a doctor. I didn't even think about being a clerk in a store, I'd never seen a black clerk in a clothing store.

quote by Joycelyn Elders
Added by Lucian Velea
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It Is What I Don't See I Seek

You say you have been waiting for me,
To express to you genuine love?

Would that be before or after...
You remove,
That weave?
Those eye contacts.
Fake nails!
And false French accent.

'Gee...
What are you using a microscope?
To notice me that close.'

It is what I don't see I seek!
And, somehow...
That makes it easier for me to recognize,
What I desire least.

'I 'know' you ain't talking 'bout me.
'Cause I 'know' I am as fine as Beyond Say,
Halle Berry and Alex Rodriquez! '

Yeah,
Well...
You do have a way of expressing a little bit of each!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I See You But You Don't See Me

i am invisbile
i have the powers handed to me by the gods
to be invisible
on this site to have many faces to have many
forms and colors and
dispositions

beyond gender
beyong boundaries
religion, beliefs, beyond what you ordinarily call
poetry

i am invisible to anybody's closed eyes
narrow alleys
i have wings i can always fly
i have horns i can always bully each
one of you here

you do not see me
but i always see you

when you fall
it will be my poetry
that will stop the falling
when you melt
it will be my poetry
that will solidify you

the gods the gods
they must have cursed me
i am always invisible
even to myself

i touch but i do not feel

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ask About Me

If the day comes
where you don't see me
for awhile....
Ask about me?

If there comes a day
when I look depress
once again....
Ask about me?

If there comes a time
where I seem over joyed
you know what to do.....
Ask about me?

If you should see me
or not. Make me feel
like I matter.......
Ask about me?
Ask about me?
Please, , , ,
Ask About Me?

poem by Lore Me34
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You Don't Know What Love Is

You Don't Know What Love Is
but you know how to raise it in me
like a dead girl winched up from a river. How to
wash off the sludge, the stench of our past.
How to start clean. This love even sits up
and blinks; amazed, she takes a few shaky steps.
Any day now she'll try to eat solid food. She'll want
to get into a fast car, one low to the ground, and drive
to some cinderblock shithole in the desert
where she can drink and get sick and then
dance in nothing but her underwear. You know
where she's headed, you know she'll wake up
with an ache she can't locate and no money
and a terrible thirst. So to hell
with your warm hands sliding inside my shirt
and your tongue down my throat
like an oxygen tube. Cover me
in black plastic. Let the mourners through.

poem by Kim Addonizio
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If You Don't Know What You Want

How long have you been doing this?

'What time is it? '

No,
I mean in years!

'What time is it?
Do you have a second hand,
On your watch?
Should I include those...
Seconds!
Now...
Do you want the time before,
Or after my birth? '

Why can't you ever answer my questions directly?

'I'm trying to!
Do you want a response you want to hear.
Or the one I wish to give? '

Either way I wouldn't know.

'Than why ask the question?
Don't accuse me of not being direct,
If you don't know what you want.'

Why you gotta use logic?

'As if you know the difference! '

Why do you want to insult me!

'Now you are making requests.
Like I said...
You don't know what you want! '

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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You Can't Say (You Don't Love Me Anymore)

You can say, old things must end
You can smile and even pretend
And you can turn and walk away so easily
But you can't say, you don't love me anymore.
You can dream of what might have been
You can cry for what won't pass again
And you can say there's every reason you should leave
But you can't say, you don't love me anymore.
You can say I'm right you're wrong
You can make your plans to find somebody else
But I can't believe you can carry on
We know what should be said
But you can't find the words instead.
You say, old things must end
You can smile and even pretend
And you can turn and say you're leaving me for good
But you can't say, you don't love me anymore.
And you can turn and say you're leaving me for good
But you can't say, you don't love me
First just say, you don't love me anymore...

song performed by Kenny Rogers
Added by Lucian Velea
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You Don't Care, You Can't Care

It's dark, dank and dreary
The Wind is cold and uncomforting
But I am just another Raindrop
That lands on your Leaves,
You stand rooted to the ground
Not even the Wind moves you
And the Rain touches you.

As I land on your Leaf,
Trying to retain, to remain there
Just for a second, to be a part of you;
The Wind blows me away 'whoosh'
And I am gone.
But you don't look back,
The Roots tell you 'no' as the
Wind continues to blow...

Lying on the ground, looking
Back up at what could have been
You stand there, alone, the
Wind howling, the Rain falling,
And you don't care,
You can't care. Is it the
Wind or the Rain? Or are you just too vain?

Strangely, stupidly, sadly; I
Give you another chance, I try
To talk to you, but you let the
Wind shake your Leaves, the
Rain fall on you, you watch
those Raindrops slide off you
Each and every one falls to the earth
You don't care, You can't care.

poem by E.D. French
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You Can't Get What You Want

Sometimes you start feelin' so lost and lonely
Then you'll find it's all been in your mind
Sometimes you think someone is the one and only
Can't you see, it could be you and me?
But if there's any doubt
Then i think i'll leave it out
'cause i'll tell you one thing
You can't get what you want
Till you know what you want
Said you can't get what you want
Till you know what you want
Sometimes you keep busy reaching out for something
You don't care, there's always something there
Sometimes you can't see that all you need is one thing
If it's right, you could sleep at night
But it can take some time
But at least i'm here in line
'cause i'll tell you one thing
You can't get what you want
Till you know what you want
Said you can't get what you want
Till you know what you want
Sometimes you can't see that all you need is one thing
If it's right, you could sleep at night
But it can take some time
But at least i'm here in line
'cause i'll tell you one thing
You can't get what you want
Till you know what you want
Said you can't get what you want
Till you know what you want

song performed by Joe Jackson
Added by Lucian Velea
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You Don't Need To Put A Supernova In The Window

You don't need to put a supernova in a window
like a candle in a telescope
to help me find my way back to you
from the next galaxy over. I'm gone
like a sixties light show after the music was over.

But I didn't close you like a door behind me,
I didn't find you like a threshold
in the spirit's lost and found
and try to return you to the house you belonged to.

I've always been a little ahead of myself
so when I said good-bye, it will be light years yet
before you know anything about it.
It's just that time doesn't linger in the doorway
of enlightenment, and eternity isn't any closer to God

than the next moment is. A hundred billion stars
two thousand lightyears away and you,
checking the wiring on blasting caps in a beaver dam
that's threatening to flood the road you're on
as I go off like a firefly already
two mellenia into the future that's looking forward
to meeting you eye to eye in a brighter place than this

just to see if you recognize me as I am.
Black matter in the lifemask of a blossom
peaking through the keyhole of the universe next door
to see if I've returned to my room like the moon
with a curfew it's in my nature to break forever

whenever we are, if the timing's not right.
If you can't see in the dark what the light owes
to the shadows who have died for it
just to attract your attention from afar again

like a man who's been tarred and feathered
and set aflame like a phoenix in the rootfires of the sumac.
Like an immolation that scatters the ashes of a burning house
all over the garden you've been tending
like a urnful of flowers about to come out.
Like a candle in the darkness enlightenment
snuffed out on the dark side of the moon
to keep you from being lost in the blazing like a star at noon.

I lead you away from me, like all I've ever wanted.
I say good-bye to keep death from saying hello along the way
as if it had met you somewhere before I came on the scene
like a flame thrower with a flare for arson burning
like the passion flower of a dragon on a pyre beside the Ganges.
To raise you up shining out of the grave of your aspirations
like lightning and fireflies in the updraft of my expedient means.
So when you cry over someone you're missing like me,
your tears have the power of a sunflower in the garden after dark,
and the ashes turn green. And scarlet runners bind themselves
like the happy home fires of heretics to the triune axes of your tent poles.

poem by Patrick White
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You Don't Come

You don't come. Your absence is a guillotine. My heart
plummets from the altitude it risked in looking forward
to a day with you outside of time and circumstance, jumps
from the edge of paradise, the flat earth, the back
of a winged horse. You don't come and such
is the nature of love
I go out of the plane not knowing
if I've got a parachute on and my heart
pulls the rip cord to see if there's any salvation in the fall,
any flowers for me in the bag, morning glory
or dandelion seed, or this is just another
mode of acceleration to death. You don't come
and my heart candles without a reserve,
I haven't packed a spare dawn
and though I will make every effort to understand
there's a grave waiting down below like an open mouth
and the void is laughing at the persistent folly
of my believing you would come,
and my fear of not being worthy of love anymore
sends my mendicant self-image out
wandering over thirteenth century Europe like some flagellant
on a pilgrimage of flogging, ribbons of blood running down my back
from salted wounds, and though I know
the expectation and the disappointment are both delusions,
birdshit on the claws of a sphinx, and I will try to be
intelligent and wise about the whole thing,
tugging my heart out like a garbage-scow into deep space
where it will be laced with explosives and scuttled once again,
and I will be awarded another paradoxical brownie-badge
by another scout-master Tibetan rinpoche
for knowing how to survive alone in this empty wilderness,
a tiger of will, a Viking of resolve,
an aging clown without children or laughter, a jester-king
officiating from the throneless butt of his own joke,
a poet with nothing to praise, a painter
with cataracts in the eye and flowers in the sky, I
know there is nothing I can tell myself, no spiritual weed
I can poultice over the vacancy that goes on forever
to draw out the infection from my heart, the gangrene
from the broken pillar of the foolish temple I erected
to serve the goddess in any of her lunar phases,
and though I struggle like a diminished thing to accept my dejection,
to imbibe the toxins from the left tit of the Medusa
while trying not to turn into stone, while trying
not to avert my eyes from this crone-form of the moon, let
Kali drink my blood, in the name of insight, clarity and courage,
good wolf, I know this, too, is delusion, another
projected holograph from the third eye of the pineal gland,
and kick the chair from under
the useless fruit of my head in a noose. Back to earth
without a heat shield. Impact. You don't come
and your absence is filling up with people I like as far as I know
but don't want to see, people who walk into
the sad forests of my solitudinous melancholy with chain-saws
for conversation, stupid lost bored people who just can't help it,
looking for cigarettes and companionship in the life-boat,
the leper-colony, stars on the Titanic, and I am compelled up
from the depths of my cosmic despair like a white whale in a holding pen
to jump for the tourists, make a big splash, make
anything happen to amuse them, and I try, I honestly try, regretting
even the shabby sincerity of my own incapacitated efforts to love them
by pulling something out of the guts
of my own anonymous dismemberment, a hand or an eye or a smile,
and it all feels like the work of a tired ox grinding social corn
on the zodiacal millstone of its own heart
but everyone leaves like a gray day anyway, the sun eclipsed
and I am returned to myself like polluted water
running like a desert flashflood through the dry creekbed
of your undeniable absence. You don't come. You have forgotten me
as you said you wouldn't and all the promises
of intimacy and vivid affection
are unleashed like a plague of locusts on the moon
to devour the open-faced swordless clocks of the flowers
I planted there for you to know eternity in the hour.
I am eaten alive by a million mouths
and even yesterday's demons banished from the feast
are called back from lean exile
to this jubilant feeding-frenzy that consumes without mercy.
You don't come. And I don't blame you. I understand
the flux of time and circumstance, I understand
how a man goes to bed at night thinking
he'll be drinking wine in the morning
and winds up being offered vinegar on a cross,
I understand that there are events that appear like sharks
in this water droplet of a world, that there are crossroads
that baffle the journey with traffic cops
and starless unknowns, with roadkill and dangerous vagrants,
that there are off road shortcuts across the far fields
that seem to take forever to return us to where we began. Alive
fifty-four years, I understand what it is to walk this road of ghosts, a refugee,
carrying your own body to a shower in a concentration camp,
to mistake the apocalypse of a nuclear explosion
for the advent of dawn, to mistake the knot in a river of wood
for a ship on the horizon, an island in the stream. Castaway again
on the cold rocks of some extraterrestrial shore
to follow my own footprints back to me, every life form on the planet,
including myself, a fossil of nirvanic spontaneity,
some indecipherable glyph broken off
the loaf of some lost continent like a crumb of stale bread, a bone-fragment,
a dead civilization, to feed the curiosity of time-travellers
who fix like junkies on the mystery of their passage
through empty alien rooms, though I burn like a library of reasons,
and mock my own scholarship, mustering arguments against myself
to excuse your absence and justify another fleet of coffins
sailing to the rescue, I do understand. You do not come. This negligence
is unintentional. You are young, free, a gust of wind and a leaf
that flares up in a back-alley throwing gold-dust in your eyes,
fire-fly north that can't be constellated, a dolphin off the bough,
and I am no fisherman with a net, no obvious lures,
who's trying to draw you up on deck out of your element,
but a captain going down with the ship, his hands at the wheel out of habit.
You have not come and I am a thousand years older and more correct
than I was on this delirious bird-mad morning,
lyrically awaiting you, than I am now looking upon all these sad eggs
smashed like a junkyard of embryo suns and broken crowns
at the foot of a nest in the bent axle of the cosmic tree
where I hang like the pagan god, Wodin, a sacrifice unto myself,
one pathos to another, inaudibly whispering last words
into the ineffable silence of a non-existent ear.
You have not come and all your reasons are valid. Brutally,
I understand the firewalk of this excruciation on crutches,
limping over hot coals to transcend myself for clarity's sake,
for poetry's sake, your sake, my sake, love's sake, the seeing's sake,
I have worn out the road and the bridges of my feet
with my walking across the rivers of hell to understand:
I am aging and the ignorant insane children of this black spring,
brought up on logos and T.V. only come to look through
the rubble of Tintagel for the lost jewels of Merlin,
for any heart-stone they could pull the sword out of
to establish their own thrones once again
in the fields of glory beyond the round table of the calendar.
I have drunk from the cup and passed it on and all the shining skies
that I have ever walked under, all the legends of my stars,
my former radiance, in their eyes, are cemeteries of dead stars,
black dwarfs and the holes of exhausted graves in space, the blue-white
of their ingathered light that once could stir a planet into life,
now the braille of an effaced epitaph runed on a poet's tomb.
And it's not as if they don't come bearing gifts when they do come,
flowers and compliments to the green patina on my erudition,
small obeisances at graveside, gratitude
for my gray-haired kindness, token offerings to the dead,
to the prophetic skull of one of their ancestors
consulted like the weather or Moses
on the future of the promised land that I'm forbidden to enter. No blame
in their approach to the disembodied, no fault
on either side. I understand. You do not come. No word
to allay the silence, no sword to fall upon in the stoic shadows
of your portentous eclipse, no way to scry, haruspicate, divine
the meaning of the darkness that overtakes me
like Herculaneum under the canning-jar ash of a volcanic heart
putting up preserves. My dick falls off at forty. At thirty
the colour runs from my hair like a sunset. At fifty
I'm a desert in an hourglass. Fifty-four and my blood chips off
like flakes of paint from a dry rose. Two thousand a.d.,
at the turn of the millennium, my eyes turn into clouds,
my tongue, the spent autumn of a leaf on the wind. By forty-nine
all that I remember is on display in a museum, my eviscerated heart
sinks through a convenient tar-pit and my brain, cracked mud,
orders a modest sarcophagus and rents a small room under an affordable pyramid
close to the valley of the kings. Today
I shed a few tears tinged with acid that die
like rain looking for roots on rock and bury my riddle of bones and vertebrae
under the snuffed fire-pit of a cave floor
for an archaeologist not yet born to guess at what I was.
You do not come. I understand. Tired of scratching at my coffin lid,
I must get out, I go to the Perth Restaurant and call to see
if you need a ride even though the wheel
is ten thousand years in the future, fire hasn't been discovered yet
and I'm back in the Jurassic, a tiny mammal, trying not
to be stepped on by a stampede of doomed dinosaurs.
Wrong number. Wrong life. You do not come. I understand,
the flag of my heart at half-mast on the pole of my spine,
and no one but strangers and hired mourners,
mirages and self-inflicted nightmares
to carry me out of my hapless resignation into a waiting hearse.

poem by Patrick White
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You Can't Hate What You Love

Everybody has his or her own time in this world,
But you can't hate what you love.
Yes, you con't, love what you hate because,
What you like is like what you love;
And, what you dislike is like what you hate.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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You Don't Know

I'm so low
I sink into the ground
I've fallen fallen fallen down
I'm so low
I just go down
Sinking sinking as i drown
Strung along
Now I'm gone
I'm going down
I'm gonna drown
CHORUS
You don't know what it's like to live in my world
You can't feel what it's like to be in my head
REPEAT x 4
Strung along
I'm going down
I'm gonna drown
CHORUS
You don't know what it's like to live in my world
You can't feel what it's like to be in my head
REPEAT x 6
You don't know
You don't know

song performed by Puddle Of Mudd
Added by Lucian Velea
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What 'Is' Your Purpose? ...(If You Don't Have That)

Not into the sounds of whines.
Or complaints rotated on a pity plate.
All that is observed,
Has existed with your acceptance.
If it did not meet to your approval...
It sure has surrounded you,
For a very long time!
The value of your nothingness has increased.
And the substance you had not produced,
Is going to be a long time coming!
Since it was you who convinced,
Yourself and others...
Your lives were not worthy of your pride!
And if you don't have 'that'?
What 'is' your purpose?

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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You Don't Make A Choice

You don't make a choice,
The choice will make you.
Give you a character or brake you into two.

If you face your challenges calmly with an open mind
Knowing that you attracted that kind,
Then you are the only one who can solve it,
When you must, you'll find the answer, you'll have the wit.

If you look for others to fix it for you,
You get into a deeper problem, no matter after what you do.
So, solve your own problem little or big, face life bravely,
Sooner or later you find the way to live easily and happily.

poem by LaSoaphia QuXazs
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You Don't Mean Anything

Maybe I'm just not good enough for you
And maybe I just don't wanna be like you

And maybe I just don't wanna know
How low you're ready to go
I'm not gonna change
You can't make me

You don't mean anything to me
You're what I never want to be

Tell me does it feel good to be like you
Tell me why should I waste my time with you

'Cuz maybe you always bring me down
I'm sick of being pushed around
I'm not gonna change
You can't make me

I know you think you know me
You don't know anything
I know you want to help me
I don't need anything
Don't tell me where to go
I don't need you to know

song performed by Simple Plan from No Helmets No Pads...Just Balls
Added by Lucian Velea
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When I put in black and white for you to read and you don't...

When I put it black and white for you too read.
And you don't
With a message you plant a seed
To grow it won't

To ask such a vague question
An expect me respond.
Well how about a question to the question as a lesson

When I put it in black and white for you to read
And you don't
Don't expect me to believe
No I won't

I have no willingness to take part in the frivolous
Even if it is from the anonymous
I say stupendous, another rejected letter
Lets surround it with hearts and feathers

When I put in black and white for you to read
And you don't
Don't expect me to conceive
For accepting the idea of innocence I just won't

poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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If You Don't Wanna See Santa Claus Cry

Well I'm making out my list
For ole St.Nick tonight
But I'm afraid what I want this year
Can't be had
But Santa he's the kind
When he makes up his mind
Wishes can come true
And I bet my Christmas stockin'
If my wish don't come knockin'
He's gonna be blue
So baby come home
If you don't wanna see Santa Claus cry
He can't see where he's going
When it's snowing
If there tears in his eyes
And don't you know his ho ho ho will be
A sad sad sigh
So baby come back to me
If you don't wanna see Santa Claus cry
And don't you know his ho ho ho will be
A sad sad sigh
So baby come back to me
If you don't wanna see Santa Claus cry
So baby come back to me
If you don't wanna see Santa Claus cry

song performed by Alan Jackson
Added by Lucian Velea
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If You Don't Love Me Anymore

if you do not love me anymore
do not write me a poem
like a code
that i have to crack
like i am a spy
in your movie
like i am an unknown
target
of your assassin

shoot me right
with my eyes wide open
no need
to tell me to
walk a little farther
and hit me at
my back with your
pretenses

the way you
talk like i am already
a stranger
in your house

the way you
treat me like
i were a child
with all my
mischief

the way you
cover your language
like i am
a fool who cannot
understand
what direct
candid
frank language is all about

if you don't really love me anymore
all you have to do
is tell me

and i will tell you too,
never had i ever loved you

never, never, never

just tell me,
because i can always tell you,

i also know
what you can do, i also know what to say
when you finally tell me

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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You Don't Know Me

She's got a boyfriend
All of a sudden
She's never had one before
She's looking for the thumbs-up
When they're walking through the door

She's showing him off
By making him talk
She's putting his hand in his pocket
It shows on her face
What she doesn't say
What she doesn't say

[Chorus]
You don't know me
You don't know me at all
You don't know me
You don't know me at all
You don't know me
You don't know me at all

She doesn't know that we know
That we've been here before
We always pay attention
When she walks through the door
It's the clothes that she chooses
It's the words that she uses

[Chorus]

She's trying hard to pretend
That it's not really happening
But we can see her smiling from afar
We don't see her much anymore
But we can hear her whistling
As she walks to her car

[Chorus]

song performed by Lisa Loeb from Cake & Pie
Added by Lucian Velea
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You Don't Have To Paint Me A Picture

The kiss was colder than I remember
When we first said hello
I guess the flame's now a little lower
I can feel you letting go
You know the pain drops a little darker
Then when you first put it on
I guess your love's like some old cheap and magic marker
Said forever nice go
But you don't have to paint me a picture
You don't have to say things at all
You don't have to paint me a picture
I can see in the writing on the wall
When we first fell, we fell a long way
Summer nights and winter days
Mountain sunrise, ocean sunset
Hand in hand in the haze
Now it's cold heart summer evenings
And there's clouds on my sunrise
But you don't have to smile and say you're happy
I can see what's in your eyes
You don't have to paint me a picture
You don't have to say things at all
You don't have to paint me a picture
I can see in the writing on the wall

song performed by Alan Jackson
Added by Lucian Velea
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