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Äŧül Feb 8
You can experience it
Coming from most of
The writers around the
Block of Writers Block
Only to be saved by the
Bunch of Writers from
The Writers' Block.

They can call you names,
Ranging from A ******
To A Grammar ****.
But don't be put off,
Don't be put out,
Just hold on.
Hold your ground.

You might have OCD,
The Obsessive Compulsive Disorder,
Don't worry - just channel it well.
Channel it well and play your tunes,
Don't worry about the runes,
They will be all covered with ink.
Yes, the electronic ink.

For all eternity, they say,
You can never achieve perfection,
And it should not concern you.
Just remember your wordlust,
Coin new and better words,
Just play your sweet lute.
Yes, you are so cute.

"What's so cataclysmic about the apostrophe?"
You asked me,
And legitimately so.
It's the difference 'tween us,
Perfection and poets,
Godliness and humaneness.
Divinity and profanity.

"Yes, perfection is sacrilege,"
I say, "Perfection is an ambition,"
"Of humanity and nature."
I take a deep breath before saying,
"In the knowledge available,"
"It's just a figment."
You ask me, "Where is it located?"

I say:
Find it 'fore some letters,
You can find it afta' some letters,
Lockin'n'poppin words together,
The apostrophe is so savoury & flexible
I just hope that I never become,
A Grammar Apostate -
I'll rather be ill instead.
My HP Poem #1732
©Atul Kaushal
Andrew Dec 2017
They either say "We'll spend some time"
Or they say "Well, never mind"
Is it the apostrophe
That makes us we?
Or is it a mentality
That sets us free
To changes
And ranges
Of open thoughts and feelings
That bring us together
Until negativity starts stealing
And our connections we sever

We'll feel well
After escaping the hell
That is the difference between well and we'll
But they will not be the hands that heal
When they act like adding the apostrophe
Is tantamount to apostasy
So they wield sabres
Of different flavors
Like the shallow gravers
And the glow stick ravers
That look good on paper
Until they are erased
When I need their embrace
I'm left hanging
Like an apostrophe
Putting me down
Into a comma coma
Leaving holes in me
Like a drama stoma
Like a mama boa

You're your apostrophe
When you take away being
And turn something into a possession
You channeled my overt obsession
Then punctuated with aggression
The end of our sentence

I can't survive this period of my life
When savages cause serious strife
By adding small marks to me
Until it becomes too dark to see
In the shadow of their apostrophe
jdotingham Oct 2017
My** road stumbles on & stumbles on & stumbles on, waiting for a destination absent to come. /... Thefeetstretchas far as the eye can see, as de-ja-vu lines, of bulging blood, echo across roads of beat. .And so it goes. noknow to where. no past will come, no future will have been, so it goes - messed up senses line the street (of my mind, split down the middle by more lines, indulgent lines, morse code upon the floor. a tarmacocean).
smoky rooms/
and so it goes.
coffee glooms/
   a   c  
i am aware of the mixed up pronouns and senses and tenses.
Joe Thompson Oct 2017
Today I eschew all matters political
and examine a subject I consider quite critical.
The greatest invention in man’s history
is, IMHO, the apostrophe.
You must admit it’s quite impressive
even if sometimes it’s a tad possessive.
Suppose, if you will, you need to drop one small letter
(because somehow shorter is always better)
’tis the thing that shows any gal or feller
That you’re not just a miserable, terrible speller.
So go on, drop your letters with wild abandon
and know the apostrophe will be there to stand in.

Just one other thing before I call it quits–
concerning the fuss about its and it’s.
It’s an issue for some that is really quite raw
Because they think that possession’s nine tenths of the law.
But I tell you now without any deceptions
In life there will always be some small exceptions.
“It” owns an apostrophe, I hear some of you cry,
But its apostrophe’s useless unless it loses an I.
Another small bit of Doggerel to lighten the load.
Sally A Bayan Jul 2017
By the shore...

.....i dropped wearily, on the sand...

"O, silent dragon, as you lurk, my cold sweat
....merges with a rush of angry waves
lapping ******* me...i'm a boat, that keeled,
i'm already scared as dead,
of something that can't ever yield."

i bit my lower lip, prickly with salty water
stinging my eyes...i'm all wet, with salty water
restlessly...alternately, legs are spreading,
toes touching tight......then crisscrossing
shifting positions...left, right, forward,  
then backward
thoughtfully lowering hand, feeling ****,

..."my poor weary ones, i'm sorry,
......for too long...i tarry
so much weight you carry."

sand was warmer where i sat,
above, a spinning atmosphere
i stood up...reeling....fell on my back
made a loud splash on that
afternoon's sea water...i was squinting,
my face, i was repeatedly wetting,
to douse panic that was clawing
on the heart....though the cold was soothing,
i knew...a red-eyed green monster was lying
beneath........keeping vigil.........waiting
patiently for relax my defenses,
then fall........and let go of my reflexes,
its fiery eyes, anticipating its success.

"o, am i but a coward? I sway, my feet sashay
i am very sane....and definitely, not lame
i know......myself,  i can never betray.
you and i, we've been watching each other,
for years........would this go on forever?"
"great fear, my old friend, why do you accompany me?
you pulsate in every corner within me
i'm too visible
too vulnerable.
i am farthest from the lips of the shore,
yet, i feel you, a monster, watching me from afar..."

intense fear...births a rebel
weariness takes opposes, it swells
takes a turn, throwing caution to the wind.
lumps of wet sand drop from gripped hands,
later, they'll be dry and loose again,
free.....and reunited with the rest.

"each time i struggle, i miraculously survive, you, my green dragon, you persist...stay alive,
...ebbing, flowing with the my mind,
............where, you comfortably hide......"


Copyright June 15, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
(feeling my waters on this figure of speech
  ....hope i did it right)
Alec Boardman Mar 2017
What do you want from me?
Borderline personality disorder, why have you chosen me?
Have I not suffered enough in this pitiful life?
All I ask is to have a stable identity and sense of self
But you come creeping into my development and overtake
Labels are nothing
Labels are everything
No in between with anything,
Black and white thinking
Love or hate
Mania or depression
In the span of 5 minutes.
The only constant you allow me to feel is my hatred for you.
Every moment is a swirling vortex of losing hope and
Clinging to anyone who so much as smiles in my direction
But I suppose
When everything is switching
Faster than a traffic light
Because of you.
The thing to be most thankful for
Is to be able to hold onto you.
Borderline personality disorder, why have you chosen me?
My only sense of self, since you change everything else
Novenber 2016
Wade Lancaster Aug 2015
This is goodbye.
I am going to try and forget you, to live my life without you.

To not use you in my words, my writings, my songs.
I am truly sorry about this "apostrophe."

Certainly you had your place in my world.

Many times you were there, for me, for many others too.

You occur when a speaker breaks off from addressing the audience.
And directs speech to an absent third party.
Often it is a personified abstract quality or inanimate object which some absent or nonexistent person or thing is addressed as if present and capable of understanding.

However, you keep me from writing positive words like "Can, Will, Have and Is", among others.

I have come to realize, your best friend... "Not" is an important part of you.
Still one should never discard even a part of a best friend, something you do, when you become part of speaking and writing.

This may not be goodbye completely.

Simple because you were taught to me to be a part of my words.
I cannot blame teachers or writers.
I can only blame myself.

Nevertheless, I have the will to choose.
Therefore, I will make every effort to remove you when I read.
When I speak and when I think. I have that ability.
Noandy May 2015
Do not talk of the honey I pickled in your light bulbs

They do not have the map to help us reach The Alps

Just talk of the hungry flower growing on my lungs

At least they have the address to the hut on my palms

That’s drawn by the little girl who feasted on the chalks

The butterflies long ago planted along in their pulse.


Incinerate the 1800s post-mortem portraits

In black light's faked midnight perfumes

For you are my forlorn apostrophe high on gas

That might ask questions while telling us your tales

Or reluctantly whisper ****** things about Laqus

Who is wasting us to the wistful hell flowers.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
Wicked nether-land. Nether world, white, askance. Capitulating mangroves, verdant trees spliced with hyperbole, onomatopoeia, and manilla envelopes; her world is stuffed with secrets, she listens to gorillas cracking mussels a kilometer away, near a rill. Never she thought. Nothing that could provide....providence. Mangled heliographs  sprayed all over the everywhereworld.

"Don't be S.A.F.E.," she whispered. A bouquet of gorse, cistus, and pimpernels squished in her small fingers. She climbed her way through the pedimented stairway, then collapsing on the porch. Legs spent, and spread out upon the desiccate grayed four by four planks of the portico.

And as time elapses, the shuttering shake of the hemlock, which writhes through her skinny nimble dactyls, upwards straining the heart as its toxic bends appendages- crisp cerise lumens bend on the Titanium White walls, where only shadows bend time. The hour, still nine. Every adornment, furnished with red and its hues. Not purple, periwinkle, or any masked enhancement.

These are the symbols that reticulate splines, that curve temperatures, perverse hemispheres and debunk worlds. Upped antes, verbs that terns flirt worth, birth words. Ooh. Aah. Camera. The forest wraps her in its verdant pasture, where at last the moribund tamarisks disperse.

While at the plateau she is quiet and longing. Arms astride, dangling. Vaunt with highs and bliss- a kiss of withstanding pleasure serves her the cure for a lifetime of whining. This, yesterday where her body rattled through crooked vines. Square ships toasting her vocal melancholy in the sweet-waters of Time. So that all of her ripened limbs could grow, no more sheepishly than the magic she knew as a child. Stress free. First among the Earth-words, verbed-up and made jealous by pronouns that encompassed her joy-brimming hide. Closing down her voice and hugging her from behind.

— The End —