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My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her ******* are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks,
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know,
That music hath a far more pleasing sound.
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
    And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
    As any she belied with false compare.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimmed.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st,
    So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
    So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Copycat, copycat.
Mimic all that I do,
Even though,
you know
it's not good for you.

Copycat, copycat.
Do not be a fool.
You can fool
So many people.
But not me;
I will not drool
All over you.

Copycat, copycat.
Giveback my life.
No, I do not care if copying me is how you survive.
No, I hate you a lot... so goodbye.

Copycat, copycat.
I shouldn't call you so:
You're a *****, and I hope that you know.
I appoint you head ***** from now on.
Bam! Scram!
It's about time that you've gone.
Ahaha this is a phat mood

The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o’clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.

And then the lighting of the lamps.


The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.

With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.


You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters,
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed’s edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.


His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.

I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
Macavity’s a Mystery Cat: he’s called the Hidden Paw—
For he’s the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He’s the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad’s despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime—Macavity’s not there!

Macavity, Macavity, there’s no on like Macavity,
He’s broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime—Macavity’s not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air—
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity’s not there!

Macavity’s a ****** cat, he’s very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly doomed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he’s half asleep, he’s always wide awake.

Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,
For he’s a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square—
But when a crime’s discovered, then Macavity’s not there!

He’s outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard’s.
And when the larder’s looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke’s been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair—
Ay, there’s the wonder of the thing! Macavity’s not there!

And when the Foreign Office finds a Treaty’s gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scap of paper in the hall or on the stair—
But it’s useless of investigate—Macavity’s not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
“It must have been Macavity!”—but he’s a mile away.
You’ll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,
Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.

Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macacity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibit, or one or two to spare:
And whatever time the deed took place—MACAVITY WASN’T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!
Through the deception of sunlight,
and blue skies
There is a universe full of murkiness:
A place, and a time without light;
Dead of night,
And death.
Internal death;
External death.
Yet, no one knows it’s there,
And for majority of our life we are unaware
Of everything that happens around us.
In fate we trust
Too much.

Through the deception of blank walls lie many uncanny things;
Underneath all that insulation are feelings, Many lost human beings,
Saying their greatings
To their graves
Where their bodies will go to waste,
Where they won’t be able to be chased,  
Or violently traced

But it’s all an illusion;
All a pretty delusion;
There is no actual conclussion
To suffering.
Our haunted memories will be hovering
On top of us as we try and walk away from life,
Taking each stride
With illusional pride,
With a blank wall to hide behind,
And all of us behind this blank wall lie
To ourselves...

We are not finally okay,
We are not finally good
Just because someone had misunderstood us,
Just because someone hadn’t recognized our emotions and how we actually feel;
Hadn’t pitied us,
And hadn’t made a big deal...
We are not fine!
No matter how hard we try,
Fine is not what we are.
The new persona we try
to take on is just a lie.
We are not fine!

We are so oblivious to one another that we can’t tell the signs of misery;
Can’t see the scars;
Don’t know ‘bout previous injuries
In the past...
Or sometimes we don’t dare to ask
Questions because we are too scared that
Someone may get mad,
Breakdown, cry,
and stare sadly
At us;
Scared that someone’s pain and torments will pass onto us
Like a disease,
Or like a sickness;
Scared to acquire a new weakness;
Scared to have more sleepless
Nights than before.
We are afraid that one day we will walk through the door,
And have eyes on glued on us,
Pierced on to us;
We are afraid to contract a form of social anxiety,
Afriad that we will have to shy away from society
And be forever alone,
And thrown
Hehe, this is a little rant poem from 2017.
Ivana Rodriguez Dec 2018
Night 1:
I spend my last, and hurting days
Attempting to erase your face,
And the memory of your last hug:
Fingers tugging on the lace
of my dress,
and the purple velvet of the blanket,
Covering both our skins,
Our vulnerability,
And passion.

Night 2:
I am trying to forget,
But you stained me like ashes from a cigarette
On the white fabric you used to wear.
Or still do... who knows?
You haunt me, but I come to trace your silhouette,
And ****, you’re gone again—
Maybe protected in the shadows.

Night 3:
Where are you today, my joy?
Where am I?
I hopelessly wander the empty, sandy dunes,
Watching the full infinite moons
Pass by.

Night 4:
I never thought I would be the one to leave you—
I always thought it would be the other way around.
I am truly lost...
The sandy dunes are, in fact, hills of beige frost,
and I am fast-forwarding while still on a sorrowful pause.
I am scared,
I am scarred.
You’re an irreplaceable piece of art,
And I’m too far from where you are.

Night 5:
My hands are shaken, and are bruised.
I am ashamed; I am confused.
Clearly, the only way to **** off a memory is through abuse.
I learned to take a pill—
It does claim to have my pain reduced!
And the velvet,
And the lace,
Are appearing to erase.
Then goes a smudge of colour;
Next, leaves a seraphic face...
What was the purpose of a greyish-blueish gaze?
Who knows?
Who am I?
Who are you?
Who is who?
  I am no one anymore;
  For there is no one to adore.
Ultrabored & ultrarandom.
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