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45/M/Stoke On Trent
I love the acceptance I have found on HP. A working class poet is something to be.
16/Gender Questioning/lost
Don't judge a book by it's cover
Poems
Norbert Tasev
Feb 15
We are my friend to deny everything a million times nowadays: sweet-sad loves, torturing, burning breaks just like universe feelings. Can you ask my friend who could have been the bigger traitor: the constantly loss-making, vulnerable heart, or just a series of desire for spontaneity?! "You are looking for your answers in vain, as if they didn't exist anymore, because it was always more important to be a little style, Pipogya career, and the awareness of what others think behind your back."
Once upon a time, you undress to the bone to see your inner, more true being than a mole-bearer who first ventures to the surface and frightened because he is forced to blink; You will blink a lot yourself like a blind, glassy swollen mushroom, cowardly rabbit if your beloved dear is just an unexpected announcement: Sorry, but she loves something else for a long His needs, nor his tingling instinct-molecules, which you knew faithfully, remained loyal to you.
It gets empty at an accelerated pace, perhaps just because you could never really understand the petty, insidious rules of the troubled, complex life. In your dreams, your selfish-mushy ******* would try a host to yourself, and when you look at the depths of mirrors, you will surprise yourself as a curious-child Esti Esti; How did you think all your dreams, your desire, would be fully fulfilled!
All of you will be in your instincts, and you will only be shocked if you are nervously unexpectedly doubtful, uncertainty, preserved in vain as the basic formulas of Spleen.
Once upon a time, you undress to the bone to see your inner, more true being than a mole-bearer who first ventures to the surface and frightened because he is forced to blink; You will blink a lot yourself like a blind, glassy swollen mushroom, cowardly rabbit if your beloved dear is just an unexpected announcement: Sorry, but she loves something else for a long His needs, nor his tingling instinct-molecules, which you knew faithfully, remained loyal to you.
It gets empty at an accelerated pace, perhaps just because you could never really understand the petty, insidious rules of the troubled, complex life. In your dreams, your selfish-mushy ******* would try a host to yourself, and when you look at the depths of mirrors, you will surprise yourself as a curious-child Esti Esti; How did you think all your dreams, your desire, would be fully fulfilled!
All of you will be in your instincts, and you will only be shocked if you are nervously unexpectedly doubtful, uncertainty, preserved in vain as the basic formulas of Spleen.
Lunatic
Nov 2014
Somewhere between the field and sea
Lay a place one would like to see.
It's drowning not water, but in trees -
When blue hits green my eyes do freeze.
In mind I wander everywhere,
Much faster than moon sphere -
Sometimes I'm kissed by salty breeze
And then I sit in grass on knees
Swift walk upon deserted coast
Where water makes the islands' ost.
The fifteen hundred pieces of peace,
All dropped around without cease.
Then one might rest in pleasant shade,
Which is a slot by bluetts made.
And find the shelter for the mind,
Being embraced by perchance wind...
It calls my mind with vintage matter -
In here and there old castles' scatter
With cobbled roads so often looping
Among old dwellings nobly drooping.
But Lady I do argue about
Is not senile, don't have a doubt:
A neo song that beats her heart
Is kind of modern charming art.
...It's not as ancient as the rest,
Of Course, it's not even the best,
Yet I do know that land's more rare,
Than ones disguised by false compare!
Lay a place one would like to see.
It's drowning not water, but in trees -
When blue hits green my eyes do freeze.
In mind I wander everywhere,
Much faster than moon sphere -
Sometimes I'm kissed by salty breeze
And then I sit in grass on knees
Swift walk upon deserted coast
Where water makes the islands' ost.
The fifteen hundred pieces of peace,
All dropped around without cease.
Then one might rest in pleasant shade,
Which is a slot by bluetts made.
And find the shelter for the mind,
Being embraced by perchance wind...
It calls my mind with vintage matter -
In here and there old castles' scatter
With cobbled roads so often looping
Among old dwellings nobly drooping.
But Lady I do argue about
Is not senile, don't have a doubt:
A neo song that beats her heart
Is kind of modern charming art.
...It's not as ancient as the rest,
Of Course, it's not even the best,
Yet I do know that land's more rare,
Than ones disguised by false compare!
A L Davies Jan 2013
i, almost
A L Davies
Jan 2013
last night i almost
gave up thinking of bronzy brazilian girls
perspiring pure coconut oil, eau de margherita ;
supermodelas eating my dreams like concord grapes, lionesses
lounging on new york balconies, lithe, reading céline.
(esti ginzburg, on the phone, considers another pomeranian) .
almost stopped.
almost derailed strange vogue-like fantasme of irina shayk, standing legs planted
left knee out-****** and foot
in ebony heel, cocked against the earth.
set being imitation of gloomy coal mine, east of prague. thin arms firmly controlling the
arc of her pickaxe, clothed in leather, high heels;
sheen of sweat holding her feline body in sweet embrace.
imagining that when shift's end buzzer echoes thru the tunnels she smokes a cigarette
on a bench in the women's locker, apple planted on old planking, elbows on her knees.
cover-alls peeled
down to her waist and her hair,
free at last.
(click)
on the tram back into the city all the smoked glass
cartier storefronts pass by like polaroids held in the hand. the same speed.
giggling, 'rina thinks of the six she could place
along her arm; gilt gold, brushed silver, diamant...
there are 11 smoked belmonts by the back steps; i did
little with the night. (tall shadow of a woman in a black dress and my mouth
a cotton ball)
that is to say:
i did almost give up thinking about bronzy braz ilia g rls ,
-
but i didn't/and so there's nothing else.
gave up thinking of bronzy brazilian girls
perspiring pure coconut oil, eau de margherita ;
supermodelas eating my dreams like concord grapes, lionesses
lounging on new york balconies, lithe, reading céline.
(esti ginzburg, on the phone, considers another pomeranian) .
almost stopped.
almost derailed strange vogue-like fantasme of irina shayk, standing legs planted
left knee out-****** and foot
in ebony heel, cocked against the earth.
set being imitation of gloomy coal mine, east of prague. thin arms firmly controlling the
arc of her pickaxe, clothed in leather, high heels;
sheen of sweat holding her feline body in sweet embrace.
imagining that when shift's end buzzer echoes thru the tunnels she smokes a cigarette
on a bench in the women's locker, apple planted on old planking, elbows on her knees.
cover-alls peeled
down to her waist and her hair,
free at last.
(click)
on the tram back into the city all the smoked glass
cartier storefronts pass by like polaroids held in the hand. the same speed.
giggling, 'rina thinks of the six she could place
along her arm; gilt gold, brushed silver, diamant...
there are 11 smoked belmonts by the back steps; i did
little with the night. (tall shadow of a woman in a black dress and my mouth
a cotton ball)
that is to say:
i did almost give up thinking about bronzy braz ilia g rls ,
-
but i didn't/and so there's nothing else.
'some girls' (insp.) / kanye west taught me a lot about supermodels.