Dramatized exit,
Kelly Whiteside
Aug 15, 2011

I can disappear too.
I can so easily
Remove myself
From the eyes
And lives
Of others,
Yet still be here.
From the shadows
I can watch
As life goes on
Without me.
Nobody will realize
That there’s
One less person present.
Without the
Dramatized exit,
One can fade,
Hide,
Slowly
Disappear…

Just like that.

Or anything shown like the royals dramatized dreams.
jeffrey conyers
jeffrey conyers
Jun 17, 2013      Jun 18, 2013

Love, it's isn't like the movies.
And nothing like a Disney's cartoon.
Yes, you might find your Prince Charming.
And your Cinderella too.

Just realize, love isn't like the movies.
Or like one of those old religious drama.
Where the King visualized his Queen?

Or anything shown like the royals dramatized dreams.

Once reality kicks in and you adjust.
Then you come to the realization.
Love only works when you put your hard work effort into it.

You'll have disagreements.
You'll have arguments too.
Just remember, love isn't like the movies.
And it shouldn't be.
When it comes to you.

purposefully. get up swiftly in an over dramatized acrobatic display. dart away.)
Keith Faherty
Keith Faherty
Oct 23, 2012      Oct 23, 2012

gloomy girl. pretty.
seated at low table
someone comments. she replies.

(look over
take a few steps forward)
"i bet i can make you smile"

(looks up.)

"i bet you a kiss on the cheek, right here, right now, i can make you smile-
here slap me-"

"what!?"

"go ahead, slap me, right here in the face- right on the cheek."

"i'm not going to slap you!"

"why not? you're just gonna kiss it and make it better anyways."
(pause. raise eyebrows. crooked smile.)


(she smiles. tries to hide it with her hands. head down. giggling.)

(kiss her on the cheek quickly and purposefully. get up swiftly in an over dramatized acrobatic display. dart away.)

of his over-dramatized
Carla Michelle

Strangers to the touch:
he was fast to dive into
the waves that were
indeed
his briny deep.
She, whom took
his complexion into
the trench that is her,
also took the senile
artistry that was he,
recklessly.
Strangers to the act:
he took the palm
of his over-dramatized
antagonist of his own
life and just
pressed it.
She  caressed the
thought of it,
yet still arose
to find her most
fragile protagonist
grazing his head
on the
adolescent but corrupt
land line that made up
as her thighs.

Strangers they must be,
though, strangers
whom have
found need in
the halves that have
halves in half.

The sudden hurt, I have not yet dramatized that morning
Sarina
Sarina
Jun 13, 2013      Jun 15, 2013

My poems idealize your tongue on my tongue
your breath in mine,
these verses will romanticize how we skipped from street to street
our arms swinging between your left hip and my right
like I did not think about how my parents
never doubled their strength to pull me up above ground as
we walked through parking lots. I
needed to fly and no adult could let me but you.
The sudden hurt, I have not yet dramatized that morning
you returned my voicemail unsuspecting
unknowing my intention to whisper I hate you I hate you I hate you.
Every bone in my body had broken because we could not
levitate any longer: you were not even strong
enough to keep yourself grounded. I make you sound beautiful
I make you sound ugly, but neither is real, just as
how there are no words for the New Year ball dropping.

The music dramatized, Feel the rush it’s a site.
Robyn Neymour
Nov 4, 2010

Iguana of diamonds,
Sand sea and sun,
Little children in sight,
Attractions of light,
Natives of love,
Decorative cities, what night.

Island’s of the Bahamas beauty as can be,
What more fun than playing with dolphins in the sea.
Creative costumes, dancers so bright,
The music dramatized, Feel the rush it’s a site.
Nothing more beautiful than the island themselves,
Well except the people willing to give help.
Pineapples, peas and rice, pink sand, flamingoes, and some conch salad,
Not forgetting the “KALIK,” cause’ “IT’S A BAHAMIAN TING”.
Blue, Black and Aquamarine, was just described to you,
All in the Islands Love.
Come and enjoy the exciting experience too!
My Bahama Land!

©

© RGN - Nov./3/10

Trying something new...
lute and the rhythm of the bass guitar, Dramatized his beauty. The spectators in fear, but
Robyn Neymour
Nov 19, 2009

The acoustic guitar plays softly, in the background of a critiqued ball room as he made his entrance. The attention of the audience fell upon him; As he walked readily towards the dance floor, The melody of the flute and the rhythm of the bass guitar, Dramatized his beauty. The spectators in fear, but his passion so real, As I stared into his eyes, that made beauty felt unreal everything else that surrounded me disappeared. He focused his eyes on the dance floor they began to whisper; Who will he choose? Who has to leave now? He flashed his eyes upon the viewers that were once in shock, now in terror, but their facial expression in awe. The apothegm states that he continually seeks for the one that would heal his disease but bound to the power of the earth’s forces, his determined, stunning eyes will never be able to reveal, the secret one that can heal. The bass drums play wildly as he shows the crowd his fury. The once stunned viewers now begin to panic, but I draw myself closer. Before I could reach him someone else got in the way. “I would like to die” was the words I know her to repeatedly say. He gently pushed himself away in anger. He looked around the ball room, and observed the reaction of the audience to his response. They’re now in astonishment. He then stopped and his focal point was clear. The piano and the cello played softly to become one with his voice. He said to me “let us dance.” I’m frightened, the majority of the onlookers left in a daze. My vision weakened before our dance began. He smiled, and as he looked upon my face all the instruments faded away. He said to me is this your last dance? Will you leave us tonight? I’m the kiss of death will you close your eyes forever or will you leave me in delight?”

© 19 November 2009 RGN
convincing you dramatized
Terry Collett
Terry Collett
Jun 18, 2012

After history
something to do
with the Munich Putsch

in 1923
and going out
on to the school

playing field
Rolland said
That hot lips chick

is waving to you
from the outer fence
and so off you went

leaving Rolland
to go kick ball
with others on the field

and as you strolled
towards Christina
she came towards you

leaving her giggling friends
behind and met you
half way on the field

and said
I dreamed of you last night
her voice floated

around you
for a moment or two
and you saw across

her shoulder
Rolland head the ball
towards the goal

between two jumpers left
on the ground
then looked back at her

standing there
bright eyed
with her dark brown hair

and you said
Did I behave?
And she took your hand

and walked you across
the field slowly
and replied

Of course you did
Oh good
you said

wishing you could
have shared her dream
making it your own

she squeezed your hand
and said
Do you dream of me?

Yes
you said
Most nights

trying to make the lie
convincing you dramatized
a scene that never happened

and she smiled
and laughed
and you noticed

out of the corner
of your eye
Rolland kicking the ball

goal ward and waving
his hand then
having reached

the boundary of the field
at the wood’s edge
she kissed you

on the cheek and said
I’m glad you dream
of me as well

and smiled
and lay her head
upon your arm

and soon you knew
the bell would ring
for end of play  

and maybe
you thought
smelling her perfume

and shampooed hair
kissing her head
you might

dream of her
for the first time
tonight.

step too far into the world of the over dramatized.
River Raras
River Raras
Jan 15      Jan 15

Don't worry.

I'm here to tell you what you need to hear.
And it's not what you thought you would hear,
And it might not be what you deserve to hear.

Don't worry, it's me.
You don't know me well, but
You should know that I am kind.
I am gentle, and I think about you in that fashion.
My thoughts are not barbed wire,
Nor clear sky.

When I think of you, I think this:

You are foolish.
But so was I,
For years
For the same reasons as you.

And nothing can judge you
But the years,
And the years are nothing if not judgment's mirror.

Lonely years.
I would write poems of hate.
I tattooed my life onto the skin of so many notebooks.
Letters only exist on paper--
How badly I wished my depressing poems would be emblazoned proudly on my soul for all to read.
How cold I felt when I realized nobody wanted to get close enough to see them.

The only tattoos my mind bore
Were freezing outlines of emotions
None of which could burn hot enough to melt the ice they were etched into.

Then something magical:
Neurons. Synapses.
I realized that my mind is not a metaphor.
My mind is not a tangled mess of hyperboles and adjectives.

My mind is not poetry, and life is not scripted.
Nobody's brain is made of prose,
Much as some would like to believe.
Depression is not more noble because it is written well.
And if you have written it, believe me when I say that the way it flows when it is read aloud makes no difference either.

Do you understand?
Here it is, simply:
Step back if you find yourself a step too far into the world of the over dramatized.
Burn your depressed poetry.
It serves no purpose but to remind you of the state you are in.
It dwells in your long-gone years without thought of any future unless that future is your past relived until your future's end.

Poetry is not a coping method.
Poetry is an excuse to linger,
And "coping" is a very poetic way to euphemise that fact.
I have found this out the wrong way.
Poetry is as addictive as alcohol, as drugs, as depression.
They all go together well.
And they don't like to let go once they've started to hold hands.

What I'm saying isn't "stop writing."
What I'm saying is that if poetry is an excuse to linger, you have a choice.
What i'm saying is I hope you choose to linger on joy before you dwell in sorrow.
Because the longer you stay somewhere,
The more it feels like home.

Politically over dramatized to fool even the most sincere
sparkles asparagus
Nov 30, 2010

I have switched to mechanics
The pen and the paper are morning my bemuse
The organic matter is dying just
Artificial forced relationships
With penetrative remarks

The tiny prism in the back of my mind
Where I can not stake out the feelings
It is forcing me to convulse on this awful thing
Those white walls are suppose to fool you
Repudiating that they are of silence


Do not placate me young sir
I know that’s were things come to a halt
You enlist them into your nihilistic theories
They can not see cyclical processes
The influxes of hysteria
that inevitably ward out the insurgency

No you claim them among the broken
Make them scared of large boxes with no windows
But does it even matter
The black matter had cast them to the seductress anyhow


The very seductress, whose embodiment of good and evil fools even me
Can she not see the rampant fires?
The cages that are cracking
As the mice turn on each other

Or is it calculated
Politically over dramatized to fool even the most sincere
You remind me of my mother
and the United States government

The will call my a conspirator
But ill know you never landed on the moon
And even if you did
You didn’t caress its very surface  

You didn’t risk your life
to just inhale the fumes of a memorial
It was nothing more then capitalist foot hold in outer space to you
No matter how much you sing about it

And what for me?
I could fix you in one splash of a recall  
But that wouldn’t change the fact that the gears are all out of whack
And the turnstiles
can’t see color anymore

I am growing blinder everyday
But I can never find my oracle under all this rubbish  
He has possessed me that
Flying gingerbread monkey

Before this I liked solidarity
Juggling my own fortunes
My own soggy breath fill up the window signs  

Now I am a menacing
Ravished house beast
Revering for him to make me categories and pie charts
This isn’t the competition that he enlisted for

But maybe will make it just five weeks and completely meaningless topics we will become the foremost informant
Populously used factoids over martinis
God know me and the monkey are socially retarded

As this thing of forsaken design
has morphed into a manifestation of everything wrong with my punitive inception
We must talk about the alcohol.
Dwindling alone a poor and empty bottle
no worries it will have friends

Should I be concerned about my physical stability?
Not really I rather like bisecting my liver
and pouring to the brim
No its that I don’t enjoy it ,,,,,alcoholics are suppose to be a jolly breed
Why else would AA be so giggly?

I have tried to reform and it won’t be in vain
I won’t give up the dream
and succumb to a lobotomy
Just cause I Cant hold my liqueur

This is worse then the torah
A bigger degradation then the bible
If only I had cried for the proletariat
Then I would be famous

But even though the trances are fun
And the posterior eradicating
OH dark and shifty friend I have missed You!

And I do mourn in some postulated manner
for the orphans
But they would have made it out of their capsules
if you just gave them time

 
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