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Nathan Squiers Aug 2015
I know I'm not an orange, but I feel like one at times.
My heart feels encased until someone peels the rinds.
Now I'm open for the tasting, but something in me dies--
I'll be left as bits of scraps; left to feed the flies.

Yea, I know I'm not an orange, but I'm rhymeless all the same.
To most wanderers I won't fit anywhere; I just can't be framed,
Though, perhaps, some may see challenge for another day...
At least that's the way I think everyone feels, anyway.

Look, I know I'm not an orange, but I feel acidic just like one.
The farmer's hand can't leave me be; the chaos is never done.
So I'm stripped and sectioned off for all the world to own.
I know I'm not an orange; I'm just a citrus fruit with bones.
My soon-to-be wife made a point that any poem called "I'm not an Orange" probably wouldn't do well with any sort of rhyme scheme. Because I'm me (and not an orange :-p ) I took this as a challenge and made the **** thing work ;-)

Enjoy ^_^
Nathan Squiers Aug 2015
I hear the trickle of fickle murmurs as they tickle past my ear,
Their intent is ill, but to what extent should I indulge such a thrill?
Fickle tickle, still the clock's tick-tick-tick 'til time stands still,
Leave it all behind me, but never stop lest it catch me in the rear.

I'm here to remind you there's more than just time out there to ****.
You strive to stay alive; others die--what's left for them to fear?
They're escaping all the hassle you're then left to commandeer,
So can you really celebrate when there's chaos for you still?

The fickle murmurs of their vocals squirm about my ears,
They tickle--sure--but nothing greater than a trickle 'cross the gills.
All their malice could fill a chalice (but no room for fuss or frills).
So while the dead are free I'll trickle on as a tickle in your ear.
Something that started off as playing with sounds that quickly became something more preachy than I was expecting. C'est la vie, right?

Enjoy ^_^
Oh, plate of bacon, how you tempt me so
With your sizzle and your crunch I do crave
A gift from Gods wrapped in a tasty bow
There are no leftovers to even save

Why can't I feel myself grow full from you?
There are no others that can be as true
Your fame is unmatched by any before and it's easy to see with such allure

With every new bite, the tears grow stronger
This small plate won't last for that much longer
As the bacon leaves, I fear what's to come
The plate is bare, with not even a crumb

Oh, plate of bacon, I still need you so
With hope, I pray for more bacon to show
My fiance snuck onto my Facebook and made a status that if it got over 20 likes, I would have to write a bacon poem/sonnet. Here is the result... (the status got over 60 likes)
Nathan Squiers Aug 2015
I've always been one for the dimly-lit halls,
The mysterious passages and the potential falls.
I'm not about the risk, though; it's not about the danger.
It's the hope that in the depths I might come upon a stranger.
A stranger with an eye that's seen something I have not;
A stranger with a hand that holds something I haven't got;
A stranger with a rope that will show a new knot.
It's about finding a stranger who can teach me a lot.

I've always been one to seek the lesser known,
To look within the shadows where no light has shown.
I'm not about the darkness; I'm not hoping to get lost,
I'm just hoping for a stranger who will be worth the cost.
A stranger with a pair of lips that tell me unknown tales;
A stranger who's succeeded where many others failed;
A stranger who has navigated all the unknown trails.
It's about finding a stranger who puts the wind in my sails.

My tendencies have earned me a great deal of concern.
I'm told that, should I stray too far, it's unlikely I'll return.
They tell me that my obsession is a danger in disguise--
that seeking out the unknown can lead to one's demise--
But they can't see something new with their old-fashioned eyes,
So while they look down at their feet I'll keep my gaze upon the skies.

What they do not understand and what drives me to my doom,
Is that one should never find themselves the smartest in a room.
One cannot learn all there is; a life can be bettered or it will worsen.
So getting lost isn't so bad if you get lost with the right person.
A good friend of mine inadvertently inspired this with the line that became the title. Based on that (and the desire to prove to them that poetry can stem from any source) I rolled with it.

Hope you enjoy ^_^
Nathan Squiers Aug 2015
Trying to be everyone's clown
While feeling an anchor of reality drag at my guts.
Face paint drips around saline rain,
But everyone sees the drawn-on smile
And joke that my mascara's running.
Lucky mascara, I think; wish I could, too.
Perhaps I'll cry out,
Wipe off the face,
Hope that everyone sees it this time...
But there's already a crying clown across the street.
One with a shinier soap box...
And nary the burden of effort to show for it.
Nathan Squiers Jun 2015
Another day, like any other, left to wonder "Why?"
A mother, guilty as any other, left alone to pray and cry.
Smothered beneath the covers as I recite "I wanna die,"
Brother, it's just another tortured storm cloud in my sky.

Lie; I'm spewing nonsense like it's going out of style.
"Hi," I'll force a smile, "I haven't been down in a while."
By and by I'll buy the lies and just force myself to smile,
Try to fake the same old high as I'm just adding to the pile.

File my condition under "hostage;" forever bound...
Vile: forced to smile while the echoes still resound.
"I'll be fine," I tell myself, but it all comes back around.
While a tree can rise to new heights, it's still anchored to the ground.

Pound a blessed coffin nail into another wasted day.
Found another breath of life that still won't go away.
Confound the demons pushing me--holding them at bay--
Astound the very Fates, I have, so still in this life I stay.

Pray for the best, but I'll forever be transfixed.
Pay it all to the Piper, but he still plays his tricks.
Days, yester- and tomorrow, always feel affixed.
Lay still and listen for the call of Death; I'm betwixt.
Been trapped in a rather lengthy bout of depression. Figured I'd breathe life into some of the thoughts (air out the proverbial ***** laundry) while playing with a dual rhyme scheme (both in the beginning and end of each line).
Nathan Squiers Jun 2015
that no
other man
your eyes. i can see that i
but i can't see over the peak just yet.
of your pier any longer. it's not a question of my place
in your horizon, but a question of how you perceive my climb.
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