The best part about poetry
Is not even having to write ourn own poem's
But just relaxing back.
And reading all the other amazing poet's on HP....
Lovely indeed....
And so
Inspiring.


©Lonesome poets poetry
©Brandon nagley

~~♥~~

I used to think men
should be more like books
Both you cannot
judge by looks...

If I didn't want to finish reading
I put it down... no heart was bleeding

A book will never fuss or fight
It will stay with you
through the night...

It doesn't smoke. It doesn't drink.
It won't leave toothpaste
in the sink!

It doesn't binge... it don't eat...
It won't leave up the toilet seat!

It don't forget. It doesn't mope.
It won't hog the TV remote!

It doesn't have to have
The last say...
It doesn't have legs

to walk away.

But it's not soft. It isn't warm.
It doesn't keep you
safe from harm.

Even though it makes no fuss
It can't think. It can't discuss.

Even though it has its charms
it can't hold you in its arms.

It doesn't pine. It doesn't miss.
It can't hug and it can't kiss.

So now I think on it again...
... I think BOOKS should be
             more like MEN!!!


SoulSurvivor
2/20/2015

I see you've got one
I've got one too
Came with instructions
Along with a tube of Elmer's glue

I like to take mine
Do you take yours too
Out for a Sunday drive
Or a plane flight to Timbuktu

I like to keep mine
Safely by my side
You know how these things
Can get sidetracked in life

Since I only have one
And you only have one too
If I ever find another one
I'll gladly share with you

She meekly chased after
nonexistent moonbeams
  in rose fashioned pipe
       dreamt illusions,
as visual stimuli to
        rock her existence
of inklings' stark impressions
  inciting some exertion
       in her bland universe,
she was ever so ordinarily dull
even her reflection in the
    deepest sapphire seas,  
  appeared as drab dishwater
she lived in a world of her
   own fabricated deception
still, she wondered why every
   impaled consequence was an
   arranged shade of washed-out gray

-

Behind the thick crimson and gold thread curtains
he stands listening to the din of the audience
searching their seats for popcorn crumbs
while roaming hands brush against the legs
of those sitting closest

The young girls get the winks
and free drinks as the old men
vie for position, straightening their hair
and flashing thick wallets
from stretched out back pockets

He peeks through the slit in the
fancy brocade drapes to find a full house,
everyone is here, the self imposed mayor
wearing a handmade campaign button
shakes hands and seeks signatures

Mrs. Broadmore assigns seats in her row
as the little people gather around, telling her
how beautiful she is while hoping for a glimpse
of the diamond crusted gin filled flask she keeps
tucked away in her left garter

The lights dim as the depressed sulk to their seats in the balcony,
broken hearts fill the back rows closest to the bar,
cheerleaders in pink lipstick and short skirts, the football team
all ****** out of their minds and the debate club collect in the center
while the pretty people, the wealthy pose in the front rows

He gets the signal as the curtain slowly lifts
to the ceiling on well oiled pulleys
There is not a sound as he makes his way
to the microphone at center stage, dead silence
but he reads his poem anyway

It is obvious he is no Leonard Cohen
but he does his best as he recites the verses
he has penned especially for this evening
Upon finishing he stares out as two people
clap their approval and the others whisper and look away

His shoulders drop as he leaves the stage,
head hung low, crumbling the paper he had read from
and tossing it in the trash as he wonders aloud, “why, why do I do it?”
A janitor sweeping near the exit door hears him
and shaking his head replies, “Because you’re a poet, that’s why”

Lizbeth finds
dinnertimes
a right chore

sitting there
at the oak
table with

her moody
mother there
facing her

her father
glum as hell
beside her

and Lizbeth
trying hard
to ignore

both of them
its beef stew
thick gravy

and drowned out
vegetables
you're quiet

Mother says
anything
wrong with you?

nothing's wrong
Lizbeth says
gazing at

the beef stew
you've a mood
I can tell

Mother says
if the girl
wants silence

why complain
Father says
I know her

and you don't
Mother says
to Hubby

Lizbeth stares
at Mother
I'm just on

nothing else
Lizbeth moans
on the rag

Auntie's come
sandwich week
THAT'S ENOUGH

Mother shouts
rattling
the windows

I won't have
you talking
like that here

at mealtimes
it's not nice
Lizbeth stares

at Father
as he mouths
the beef stew

in silence
did you know
Lizbeth says

that Tudor
King Henry
the 7ths

mother was
married at
12 years old

and had him
at 13
Mother sighs

your point is?
that's my age
she sprouted

her king sprog
at my age
Mother glares

at her child
with her dark
angry eyes

Lizbeth thinks
of Benny
pretending

he's upstairs
in her room
stark naked

all waiting
eat your stew
Mother says

no more talk
of those things
outside it's

countryside
fluttering
butterflies

a bird sings.

I guess I'm not a very likable person
I tend to be condescending without even realizing it
You really have to try to earn my consideration
You gotta prove you have half a brain
Because I'm convinced most people are idiots
Even if I'm right
I'm still kind of an ******* for thinking that way
It's not as if I'm Stephen Hawking