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galaxy of myths Nov 2017
The bitter truth is that
I am not what you want.
Not your fave ice cream flavour,
not your fave flower,
not your cup of tea,
not your fave tee.
I'm not your fave song,
not your fave scent,
not your fave weather,
not your fave sweater,
just not your fave anything.
My entire being.

The ugly thing is that
you're precisely what I want.
You're my fave ice cream flavour,
my fave flower,
my cup of tea,
my fave tee.
You're my fave song,
my fave scent,
my fave weather,
my fave sweater,
my fave everything.
Your entire being.

-m.b
At least we can both agree to disagree
Judy Ponceby  Oct 2010
Nasher
Judy Ponceby Oct 2010
I was a chaparone at the All Hallow's Eve dance.
Listening to the band play Halloween faves,
and watching the eyeballs floating in the punch.

The background decor, seems made for Doomsday.
Grungy, haunted house theme, hellish ghouls,
Gargoyles gone mad, witch's brew, and bats all aflutter.

Here and there between the goth and the empath,
a psychopath roams, silently stalking his prey,
amongst the frightening selection of costumed kids.

The mental resilience to survive such horrors,
depends on your grasp of reality.  Realizing the lights,
the music, the garish dress, meerly decor for this night's festivities.

And yet, underlying this ghoulish fun, a sense,
a sense of doom, and *******, by something
otherly, stalking its prey, seeking that single moment.

To bring to light in the dim, ghostly haze,
a wickedness yet unknown to those attending.
That ever vile teacher, bent on making those around her suffer.

We have all seen her, stride the halls purposely,
Giant mole on her chin, Ruler in Hand.
Striking fear in the strongest of souls.
That authoritarian of witches, Ms. Nasher the Head Basher!

**Run for your LIVESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!
For Can you Spare a word or 5?
Psychopath.  Chaperone.  Resilience.  Doomsday.  *******.
st64  Dec 2013
fear
st64 Dec 2013
marvel at the complex-pattern
painting such a span of swirls
light-panels less than shimmer
in the afternoon shadows on the wooden kitchen-table
biggest fear - your leaving


1.
beautiful summer-days lost in your eyes
oblivion dances like a wily-***** at hypnotising fire-licks
from our languid-bed, I'd lazy-feed you lox-on-crackers
and everything you liked
heaven never had it so good

........................till

woke up and *you weren't there

where'd you go to?
no letter, no call.. for days


2.
to overcome this fear
I brought in a  b-i-g-g-e-r  one
that used to drive me to serious-pitfalls in the past

off to the exotic pet-shop, my toes marched me
and I got one - very toxic thing on legs
without a natural terrarium

once home, I set it free
I set free.... my biggest fear
        to blot out your absence
        to overcome your presence
        to forget you

it crawled around and made a home
while I hardly breathed nor slept
and moved about on ginger-steps


3.
I kept feeling strands of your hair
          in my sleep
          on my cheek
          inside my cry
and woke to moonlight bathed in sweat

I did not wash your pillow, after weeks now
I bury my face in olfactory-memory lingering
and pine for you, but I see your missing set of keys and..

/ scratch .. scratch /

I hear a sudden scurrying
heartbeat jumps out cage
eyeballs to the parquet-floor

nothing.


4.
I'm getting used to this new pet
and she doesn't mind my breathing
                    oh, I swear she's a brain-scanner
                    when she looks at me that way
                    like she can read me.. through and through

I dare not pet, I dare not touch... ohhhh no!
       I leave her the daily-bowl of delicious, fresh worms
       to find it empty in the evening
I guess, thanks for freedom.. of sorts

one day, I left the window open
as I jotted down some poignant thoughts
at my antique-escritoire
    espied her legs upon the solar-sill
    thought she'd be running... a leaver, too
but no..    
                 she was sunning all her legs awhile


5.
the season's changing.. leaves are falling
crackle of wind in the air

now, I'm making me some coffee in my silver whistle-***
hot, solo beverage to calm my settling-mind
when.. ping-ping.. comes a text
lo and behold....
it is you...

you!


6.
delirium / delirium /
(I'm on cloud-nine... you're coming home tonight..
                                      you love me so much, you say..
                                      made a mistake..
                                       you've got something big to share..

I've taken time to prepare a special-meal.. candles and all your faves
but must pop out quick to get some lox...)



I'm back now, got the stuff now
key in lock
but the door.. jammed by a weight.. of sorts
can't seem to push the ****-door open...
shoving hard, I see........







fear compounded by a minus
simply multiplied
disaster





S T - 4 dec 13
plan(e) in the air.. pushing tin's a fine way to get there :)



sub: fly

days fly by
on wing of trust
in rusty-daze
Miley Cyrus Dec 2014
So like i wowke up
and i was like i'm gonna read me some poetry
and i did it like..psshh **** it i did it
and i ripped 3 of my faves out
and decided i was gonna be positive right here right now
and decide to be ready for whatever comes my way and to change
because whatever i can't handle now...was designed that way
...so that i could grow and learn from it
so im sorta prepared to change
jammin to miley currently
and i'm just gonna chill
and be completely in the moment
doing my thang
because first of all it's my life
and we don't live in eternity
we live in a world full of people trying to make it
feel important and interpret life
so i don't blame them for being complete *******
but this time around im focusing solely on me
...time is winding down..and life's too short to count up who the **** hates me
and wonder how am i gonna show so and so how much i don't give a **** today
...like my life should be filled up with joy, adventure, and i'm gonna push my self to do that
me personally chooses not to give a **** about ****
that's me
that makes me happy
and ******* can talk, can laugh, and what not
but it's my life
straight up like i'm sorry if i offended you or if your angry of something that's going on in my bubble
but whatever our world right
but i'm focused on what i'm doing and on what the **** I want do
and I know you people viewing are like what the hell
your right
Chabadtzke Jun 2018
People say I'm obsessive, and I wholeheartedly agree. I'd die for a favorite artist, and I reread stories I like until I hate them. I force myself to love every song performed by "my band", to a point where I'm not entirely sure which of their tunes actually earned their place in my heart.
It brings to mind a modern-Hebrew term, "protektzia". It can be translated as social leverage, or "pull". Protektzia is when you are related to the administrator of an elite high school, or when you're friendly with the secretary of a sought-after doctor. It's as if songs walk up to me and say, "hey, I know I'm not that great, but I was written by so-and-so!"
All that changes when old Depression drops by. Suddenly, things I cared so much for are meaningless. It's like quarreling with a close friend. Although, I don't hate my former faves so much as scorn them, for being silly enough to exist.
Why does depression do this to me? Because depression is the drainage of passion. As a cow needs to be milked and a dripping air-conditioner needs a bucket, what are obsessions if not an outlet for the passion contained in the heart?
But neither are necessary when the cow is dead and the AC off.
Thankfully, depression to me is a mood rather than a condition, and so I host frequent reunions with my beloved idols.
You are all invited!
Scarlet McCall Aug 2016
To eat or not to eat, that is the question.
A doughnut, ******, airy I’ll consume--
adjust my diet later to make room--
or falsely reject pastries’ sweet delight
while bingeing pasta deep into the night?
Doughnut, thou art satisfying, sweetly
filling morsel, savored now discreetly—
perhaps a little midday’s sugar craving
is better solaced, hunger I’ll be staving
off, resisting better night time craves.
‘Tis better, easier to have the faves;
by portions small on calories I’ll save,
and skip on other dishes that don’t taste
as sweet and crispy, but go straight to waist.
This is one of the first poems I ever wrote, following the dictum "Write what you know" ;)
Trefild May 2023
his own & this world's realities are like the fuzz in the States
they're ones to escape
that's a plan of attack that's, on the lines of a wraith
switch side of Jo[ɑ]hnathan Blaze, running up on his brain
like Donald the dung piece, today
he feels bold, so maybe there'll be, like abundance of cake
["bald"]
fortune coming his way; this one's a schmuck thing to say
["fortis fortuna adiuvat"/"fortune favors the bold"]
but this club reminds of Ukraine (what?)
he, like motorized cavalcades
from the next-door empire, invades
its territory causing, like unaccommodating controversial writer, a sla[ɛ]m
[Eminem & his "Unaccommodating" song]
as he shuts the door frame; obvi, sO̲me people may
find them bars offensive, like an armed aggression
so my apologies, I'm somewhat ashamed
mainstream house stuff is on play
a thought in his skull: "this is lame"
Michael S. straight after he turned around & stumbled on blamed
Toby F.; through the crowd he cuts like a blade
[the ending of the "Frame Toby" episode cold open from "The Office" series]
having hopped U̲p on the stage
as if it were a narcotic substance you've ta'en
he, so loud as if with his cullions in grave
nU̲t-wrenching pain, bawls: "THIS ****** *****!", like a brace
of thigh highs colored with stains of blood; yanderE̲[eɪ]
["*****"; "so[ɑ]cks"]
schoolgirl; disgruntled, he makes for the f#cking DJ
delivers a verbal punch in his face by the fo[ɑ]llowing phrase:
"boy, go house-sit with your confounded
boring house sh#t, just like a housewyf"
whereafter thrusts him away
ending the uproar with "ciao, drip!"
music-wise, it's gon' go hard as nuts in this place
as if a flock of ones who're deranged
["who're" is supposed to be read/pronounced as "whoor"]
swung by a club in the wake of a ****** **[ɑ]spital break (nuts in this place)
he puts on midtempo dark cyberpunky synthwave
Gesaffelsteinish mid-paced
type of music; that's what drives his crumpet insane
speaking of crumpets, he spots a buxomish babe
while nodding his ******* nut to this cray
music, he feels like a **** being aimed
at, for she stands with her sight, like one of a gun, fixed his way
for a few secs, at each other they gaze
she's quite a fox with her vibrant locks
reminding of flame; somebody call a fire brigade
hourglass-shaped & rigged out in tight pa[ɛ]nts & a blouse
with a U̲-neck, like a fella without
*****, & leaving her waist a bit out
["******"]
on display; he makes his way to this frau
salutates her with "ciao"
she greets him with just the same, then he mouths
the following: "babe, you're way like a house
for lodging that's nowhere to be found
that is, in the deep of a labyrinth"
she's like: "what in the void's name's this about?"
he replies: "I'ma translate that one now"
"the way you look's amazing, ten out
of ten", like that "KleanColor" skin bro[ɑ]nzer
["a maze inn"; "Tan Out Of Tan"]
she makes a soft smile, then replies: "ain't you nice, pal
when you lay your thoughts out?"
"not being nice would be a crime
when you face a fine gal
like you", - he replies
"if so, rejecting the company of a guy so gracious would count"
as a crime too", - she replies
the guy asks the gI̲rl if she
fa[ɛ]ncies this sound
her reply is affirmative
she says she, mostly, faves underground
kinds of music; they vibe
to these tunes being pU̲t on, just like
that loony gobshite the whole liberal community'd like
to see wind up ruined, just like
Aleppo or Mariupol; stop, I'd
like, before the main telling resumes, to rewind
a little: they vibe to these beats being put on; he finds
out, when asking her what drinkable fluid she'd like
to have, that she deems it uncool to imbibe (*****)
he replies: "to tell you the truth, so do I"
so if there's somebody to end up lit during this night
it is the moon in the sky
["some body"]
soon after having their soft drinks taken, they bounce
like the music style brought into this wO̲rld heaps
before chicks twerking
blew into the mainstream like "blaow!"
["hips"]
like a sick pervert that digs scourging
while engaged in a bout
of carnal fun, he's got a whip ordered
they wait for several mins for it
finally, the motorized conveyance comes out
like a deb girlie
[debutante]
he trails this fox like she's prey to hunt down
watching her proceed to[–]ward it
in a way like she's on a catwalk waving around
a rig splurgy
having hopped in it, to a lodging place they set out
the saucy look in her eyes
once his palm is put on her thigh
a sort of luminous sign–
–board reading: "absolutely alright
with going on a lewd spree tonight"
"a night out rhyme tale, part I" by TREF1LD (TRFLD) is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (to view a copy of this license, visit creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0)

"a night out rhyme tale, part II":
hellopoetry.com/poem/4883683

"a night out rhyme tale, part III":
hellopoetry.com/poem/4883684
Spyley  Sep 2010
An Epic Battle
Spyley Sep 2010
Kiley in italics
Just Kyle in regular text
Spencer and Kyle in bold

And so it begins...


At poets I laugh
Silly boys with their rhyming
here I sit smiling

gracefully moving
She smiles at my poem
I smile at hers.

She burns all my books
I cry all the time, never over
She is my new fav

I cry when books burn,
Angrily **** those who burn
Even my new faves

She giggles all day
try to **** but always fail
She will live forever

None live forever
Though the war will never end.
We're back in the game

You silly little
youngster and second class guys
I will always win

Powerful, she is
yet she has less "class" than we.
She cannot beat us

two plus three is five
Indeed, but two men do not equal
that of one woman

In their clutter'd brains
Women make odd equations
that just make no sense

men cannot add things
men will never understand
the ways women speak

When girls start to speak
All we hear is rabble ra-
bble rabble rabble

Open up your ears
You have lost this game today
I'm done and win, *****.


Kiley exits
Soon these Oceans will Breathe your Nation's Flag
The Next White Wave bid your Empire Win
Of all your Faves to Labours your Efforts glad
Now Breed the Cup to place your Feet within
And will such Dream - as Clouds will gladly tell
Care to Raise this Jewel we call the Sun
Feign these Figures as one Critic un-well,
These Tripe-Haste Metaphors ensure your Fun
For what be such Success if Peppered Smiles
Seasoned to Last as any Great Athlete knows
A Pinch on your Cheek; And Gold on your Miles
All where Heart's be Heart your Country's Shine glows.
Still you Conquered - Cakes bittered by Life's Truth
Frost these Doubts - SIGNORA! Then Taste your Youth.
#lorenzadepeder
Traveler Mar 2016
Dear Sally:

     Hi! I see you stopped by my page, you're always so thoughtful!
And I did stop by your page, you know, to see what you've been up to lately.
      Unfortunately, yet fortunately, I ran into all my favorite HP Poetess and poets that you so kindly re-posted. And so after reading down your list and commenting and liking all our wonderful friends' poems, I realized I never found your poems.
      Anyways, Thank you Sally for giving me a new home page to read my faves.
       Seriously though, you are very awesome and have a wonderful heart!

Sincerely Traveler
                  Tim
Thanks to Denel, Pud, Eddy and the list goes on!

— The End —