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 Oct 2016
Darkly
Patron: "...And can you add the diced Hamlet to that omelette?"

Waiter: "Jolly good sir, and do you know if you'll be having dessert?"

Patron: "Oh yes, I'll have a strawberry Shakespeare."

Waiter: "Brilliant, your omelette will be out before you can say 'Ides of marshmallow'."

Patron: "That was dreadful and you know it."

Waiter: "Deary me, sir."

END SCENE
What the flippity flop. Who in the pooty comes up with this... oh. That would be me.
 Oct 2016
wordvango
has been ebb and flow
feline canine
to and fro

has been dark then light
man woman
peace and fright

has been colors and races
black white
red  and yellow

has been those in charge
bosses slaves
rich and poor

has been a time to see
positive negative
time and space

has beens
I am tired of
might be time for space
and colors and races
sexes positive and negative
rulers and peons
rich and poor
to see
I am ranting again

Talking I suppose
about some time or space
in the future
when evolution
is joined with god
or right with
left
or peace becomes
our ambitions
and man walks upright
morally
as well
Some poems walk with me,
Some poems simply talk to me,
Some poems reach out to me,
Some poems scream and shout at me,
whilst some poems eventually grow on me.

Some poems slow dance with me,
Some poems enchant me - they are
breathtakingly mesmerising to me,
Some poems captivate me after hijacking me,
Some poems rip my heart out
and break every single piece of me.

Some poems absolutely impress me,
Some poems couldn't care less about me,
Some poems embrace every inch of me,
Some poems share my soul with me.

Some poems inspire me and motivate me,
Some poems **** the very life out of me,
Some poems resonate with every fibre of me,
Some poems switch a little light on for me.

Some poems will forever live inside of me,
Some poems twist themselves and lie to me,
Some poems are open and honest with me,
Some poems...are just like people to me!

By Lady R.F (c)2016
 Oct 2016
Rapunzoll
my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.
© copyright

NOTE: i've noticed people sharing this to other sites without having spoken to me about it beforehand, I do not give permission for this and all poems are copyright, keep this in mind.

------------------------------------------------
my mother never actually said this to me, but i figure i'll probably end up saying it one day if i have children.

it's pessimistic yes, but i know there are exceptions. please don't take to heart. it's more a criticism of myself than all poets. :)
 Oct 2016
spysgrandson
her parents would have nothing to do with the z,
naming her Elisa Beth

which few got right in her 65 seasons, for their habit
molded an EliZabeth every time  

we presume it mattered not to Elisa, Elisa Beth, because she was
born blind and deaf

her record of birth got it right, but her social
security card did not,

the checks were cashed by caretakers, who cared not
whether the letter snaked or zagged

her parents' obits also claimed they were survived by
an only daughter, EliZabeth

when she "met her reward," some two years past
there was no legacy in print

save a death certificate, which again blasphemed
her appellation with the alphabet's final figure

but on her gravestone, curiously, she was Elisabeth once more,
though what flat, mute slab could even such a score?
Have you considered being a *** worker?
You have a body.
I know you never sleep there,
spend less time breathing than associating with your own ribcage.
You're an actress
no script, just a character summary.

Limp, age 12, non-verbal marionette.
Snaps her strings when forced to dance.
Clings to the ceiling tiles, like the shadows she hallucinates.
Let's the puppet fall numb under strangers.
Ragdoll to be used for kindling.


When you play your part
You'll inherit enough money to afford a studio apartment
in Washington, or Las Vegas; anywhere with men paid large enough salary to afford your vacant body,
three phone plans,
a hotel room for you to stay awake in
Listening to dull thuds against your wrongfully warm corpse
Invited hoping the stinging could form tendons
adhere together like rubber bands
Snap you back into your skin.
You cling helpless to the ceiling tiles
Watch the ragdoll make mistakes.

"Have you considered being a *** worker?"
A homeless woman asked me,
*"Unoccupied bodies should start charging rent.
Let a man who can afford it pay for utilities.
You might be homeless
but you won't be wasted space".
 Oct 2016
nivek
waffling seems to be at odds with poetry
but its such a good word
how could it possibly be left out
 Oct 2016
Sisilia
October 31. Halloween
A Celebration celebrated worldwide for children and adults to dress as whatever they desire and are free of judgement... of condemnation.
A night where the freaks hidden inside every '
normal' person comes out to play either;
commando,
or a zombie,
a damsel in distress or
might i add a naughty little schoolgirl..

An open invitation to ask strangers for candy,
a game to see who can collect the most......
Halloween is just a game that is just full of surprises aren't they?
Oh! Halloween is a night everyone looks forward too.....
the dead included
We like games too.

We, the ones who linger between realms awaiting trial.
waiting to be stationed into our eternal home a pick between;
a forever scorching, fire blazing hellhole or
forever be glistened by the almighty light.

On Halloween night,
we the dead are free to wonder back into the world we begged to leave
whilst upon the stars the judge laughs upon his throne at us,
knowing all to well we despise this place.

Mockery is a well known game,
played by many, deceived so many.
Even mortals shamelessly mock the dead and tease us with life
irony is they live for this very night
to dress up and be someone/something they desire the most.....
the things they so often remind thy selves are;
abnormal,
freaks,
an abomination..

For god so loved the world,
he gave his only son,
to prove that he can and could give and take life as he pleases
We 'freaks' learnt that the hard way..
Every Halloween the Gods are at play and so are the humans,
but never us.

We the ones the mortals fear
And the Gods personal entertainment.
These humans wonder off into the parade whilst we linger in the depths of the darkness
He told us as punishment we are to watch them parade about us
and celebrate the day of the dead,


He who looks down upon us cursed us.
To have a sirens call-
to lure them in,
sedating them with sweet nothings,

BUT only one rule applied to us all:
NO touching the one thing we freaks' all lacked; *SOULS

That's their sick,game
to tease us by gifting us to caress the mortals ever so slightly but nothing more....
'SADISM' is what we call the game in which Hades and the Gods play;
and us being the pawns.......

Well not anymore.
Not this time
No! tonight we will purge on whatever comes our way,
Sedating them with the curse of a sirens call.......
the one that the mighty gods has gifted us with,

Tonight we feast on what the humans are celebrating; DEATH.
No more hide and seek games, with the humans
No more cat and mouse games with the Judges
its our turn to give a good scare!
Tonight we play our own game,
We call it 'PEEK-A-BOO'!
'cause tonight we'll will give them one *HELL
of a Spooky night,
'cause we're coming for you!!!!!
Excuse the Halloween Puns :)
 Oct 2016
Doug Potter
I can not find the letter mother left me four days
before her death. I read it once and then placed

it in a cardboard box like you might a dull
knife or a ******* tin. The letter is

a part me, like Van Gogh’s severed
ear was to him. I want the letter

like love or sight; the way bone
                               needs marrow.
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