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maggie W May 2014
My voice is a wall of glass
On the both side of the wall it's all the same

The roof is consisted of umbrella-shaped beams
The world is an embroidered web
I'm a spider that don't spew silk
cling on to intertwining iron bars
Accidentally chocked my fly to death
Buried it in the oblivion sky

Fed on chitchat
I'm now becoming a skinny,
wind up bird.
Translated from my uncle's poem
CAM Oct 2017
Some days you feel like you need to write something.
I know I'm not relatable, don't be too worried.
But today is one of those days where writing nothing,
Feels like betrayal hurried.

Some days you wish you could disappear.
I can't decide whether today is one of those days or not.
My crush disappears at 1:55 I fear,
But it's not like I ever enter his thoughts.

But some days aren't like that.
Some days you think there's nothing at all.
When in reality your mind is filled with chitchat.
You feel ready to fall
Right out of your seat
But that's alright.

Lunch sounds kind of boring,
But I suppose it's the people there who count.
My friends are always kind of alluring
They're some of the best people I've found.

You think someday someone will sit next to you
And you'll know it's them,
But you realize few
People find it's them.

I'm one of those people who finds the empty parts of the hallway to walk in.
Luckily, my friends are too, so I'll see them there, in the empty parts of the hallway.
Sorry I just kind of wrote on the page today so it's there and unorganized and beautiful in its own way.
Purcy Flaherty Nov 2018
Just yapping away;
claver, clack, waffle, chunter,
off at the mouth;
yap yap yap yap!
Bla!, bl!, bl!, Blar! B~blar!

Let's shut our mouths, and stop pretending and drown the blather with cups of tea!
SshH
Molly  Oct 2013
Idle Chitchat
Molly Oct 2013
My words always come to that stuttering stop.
Hurts hidden past their dates
don't pop, don't explode, scream
or make a scene. The *** bubbles over
and the hot rivulets swim southbound.
There are never more than two.
Colourless, without sound; inside, the reaction
of heat energy, raising temperature
and changing state. My thoughts evaporate.
Escape.
I regain myself and carry on
the endless day and stagger home to bed
routines don't change, and in my head
I hear your voice and ask you
what are we doing, what is this madness,
why are you doing this to me when I...
I...
"The Beatles had no genuine musical talent, but were a product shaped according to British Psychological Warfare Division (Tavistock) specifications, and promoted in Britain by agencies which are controlled by British intelligence." Why Your Child Became A Drug Addict" Lyndon H. LaRouche, Jr., Campaigner Special Report, Copyright 1978*

Don’t let it be said,
That nothing chipped off his father’s block,
The father who played
In ragtime and jazz bands,
In Liverpool, England.
Sir James Paul McCartney, MBE, and
According to “another clue for you all”
Compliments of Glass Onion:
“The Walrus was Paul.”
But I digress.
Sir Paul, erstwhile Beatle,
Certainly had the ear-for-music gene,
Percolating through his spiral double helix.
And the clever linguistics gene as well,
Lyrics seemingly crafted in an earlier era,
Back when fine-tuning & finesse,
Ruled bouts of social chitchat.
When men could sing when they spoke.
The music of the spoken word:
Homeric and magical,
Casting spells upon us.
Like English scops:
Medieval Minstrels, Jugglers & Clowns,
Who memorized and recited long heroic poems
And stories. Usually both.
The music of the spoken word;
The magic of an aural experience;
Back before those words conjured up oral experience,
“You are correct, Sir!” mouths Johnny’s sidekick,
Back before mouth-on *** crossed over to the Straight Population.
Back before Gordon Gekko/Liberace
Blamed his oral cancer on *******,
No. Not Colonel Angus.
Think Cole Porter--
Sophisticated, ***** lyrics,
Clever rhymes, complex misdemeanors.
Think Tin Pan Alley.
Cole Porter--a Yale graduate by the way,
Demonstrating another critically-important genetic fact of life:
The gift of Ivy-League DNA.
But, again, I digress.
Paul was the happy Beatle,
Not to be confused with John, the serious Beatle, or
George, the quiet Beatle.
Not to mention Ringo: the utterly extraneous Beatle.
Let’s map the social dynamics of their band.
Let us scrutinize that famous mop-top barbershop quartet.
Immediately we comprehend the creative tension,
Centered largely on that giant clash of personalities:
Paul vs. John.
The surprise is not that the Beatles broke up.
It’s more a sense of unsuspended disbelief,
That this particular band,
Ever got it together to show up for a gig,
Let alone last long enough to record their first album,
And go on to become the first
(Can we forget Elvis for a moment, please?)
Truly viral sensations of this earth, this realm, this England:
Pop stars of the Nineteen-Sixties.
John vs. Paul:
For every “Strawberry Fields Forever,”
There’s a “Lovely Rita, Meter Maid.”
Aaron LaLux Oct 2016
Espresso Yourself

Word hit like espresso shots,
got that stress of regret you’re best to let it go,
best to express it outta your self tun it into espresso,
or else that regret will fester into gunpowder until it totally explodes,

unload reload,
you’re the gun,
memories are the ammo,
noting is verboten even when forgotten,

this twisted linguistic addict attitude is not an act or a show,

but the derangement of this is entertainment regardless,

and this artist is in demand all around the world,

they want to take my time,
and everything else that I thought was mine,
but I don’t have the time to spare because I’m in a race to nowhere,
trying to find the finish line before I completely lose my mind,

gaining ground in quicksand sick and no one seems to care,
grinding grounds no chitchat i just grab my espresso and get outta there,

there as in here no beer just these coffee beans this is a caffeine affair,

I’ll take a double on the double,
actually if it’s more simple I’ll take a triple,
no milk no sugar no trouble,
just this espresso and these expressions that ripple,

with words hit like espresso shots,
got that stress of regret you’re best to let it go,
best to express it outta your self tun it into espresso,
or else that regret will fester into gunpowder until it totally explodes…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Check yo self
I’m sorry boo,
maybe I’m too much for you.

my mind keeps thinking too much
and you’re afraid of my touch

I’m too heavy, too intense
or maybe you’re too weak, no offense

I’m too smart, too elegant
don’t want to sound arrogant

I’m too emotional, too loud
and hell yes, I’m ******* proud

too this, too that
I don’t want to chitchat

so I’m sorry boo,
but maybe I’m just too much for you.

- gio, 22.03.2020
Laurie Fisher Sep 2013
With blinders on they let the wrong go on
No interventions
No attempts to make it right
Look the other way
Not putting up a fight

They must kinda like it
You know
If trust were an *****
Then I’d say they’re looking for a donation
Another one to ***** up
Like cirrhosis of the liver
They’re lookin’ to corrupt another

Kinda a sick when you think about it
Acting as if nothing occurred
Forget that pain we condoned
It’s as if I’m a scapegoat, placed on throne
Smiles and chitchat are replaced suddenly
Each with a heavy rock and jagged stones

I emerge from the mess; still angry
I don’t fight, No I don’t get revenge
But I’m still angry
What do I do when I’m still angry
I want to cause pain
I want to get them close and turn my back
I want to be the one with the power and the patience
The push them to the brink and fill them with self doubt
But no, I don’t fight
I don’t get revenge
I just get angry.
Invocation Nov 2014
I love OD'ing on sunlight when I wake up
grab some OJ and go lay in the soft grass, and tell the birds to carry on
their light conversations and noisy chitchat above my closed eyes
open head - delve into me
the grass probably itches if I pay attention, but who cares
I can't restrain my limbs any longer
no more hanging in limbo with excuse of pain and no gain
I can't remember why I'm naked but
I always feel naked around you
I've always been naked under these clothes

My brain is dashing ahead, though I stop and gaze inward and upward
The trees could be mocking me, but they're probably just as happy to be themselves as I am
so I follow suit and reach up to ask for mutual attraction from the sky
and we start a new day
time to function
back to the grind
my gears shift and the grey leaks back into my veins
time to function
(but once you've overdosed on daylight, you're never the same)
song in my head and a bounce in my step
you can't bring me down today

— The End —