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If I could
be a balloon🎈

I would fly
with my happy
thoughts.

I would
touch the
skies,

And the
mountains
tops across
the globe.

If I could
be a balloon,

Yellow as
the sunshine as the fluttering fields of butterflies.


Frolicking and
hopping upon
the currents
of the warm
wind.

If I could
be a balloon,

I would be
yellow like a
sunflower.

All rights and
Copyright belongs
to ©BSM

5-23-21
Happy carefree
Poem of being a yellow
balloon of happy thoughts and I hope it helps others
struggling with anything
negative in life because
we all have our bad days
and depressed sad tired
days but remember you
matter and your loved
and your worthy to be
loved but love yourself
first as I love myself and
God and family and it took
a long time to love me.
You inflate my heart like a balloon
Filled with all your fake love
The pin you hold is always so dangerously close
Waiting for my balloon to pop anytime soon
Why do I still trust people with my heart?
When it ends up ripped apart
To the next person, I'm on restart
All remaining is the rubber parts
Popping all my love-filled hearts
~20/5/21
Skye Jan 2021
I’m made of rubber
Worn thin over time                        
Used over and over                                            
again.                                                                              
          
My heart is elastic,                                                                                    
It snaps back into                                                                      
Place, but it breaks                                                
When your blade gets                
Too sharp.

I feel like a balloon,
Floating some days                                                      
Then punctured on            
others.                                              

Mend me,                                                              
Breathe me                                
Back to life…
©Skye
Abner Ros Dec 2020
They float and fly,
Ascending to a place
Much higher in the sky
Though little see how they chase
You into yet another cry.
But you accept it, just in case
You fail to come by
And deliver your final good bye.

Purple balloons soar
As he enters an endless sleep
To which escape is no more.

Purple balloons
Much higher in the sky
Coldly whisper;
'Good bye'.
TTodd Oct 2020
one red balloon with dangling string
caught by a breeze
rising, floating free

one red balloon swept on thin air
blowing, going higher still
above the trees in open sky

and far below the freed balloon
an empty hand and upturned eyes

~ ~ ~
Bardo Jul 2020
Out of a **** he made Great Art
It was no ordinary **** no!
It was straight from the heart, that
   ****
It had lain too long in the dark
Now was it's time to start
To make its bid for freedom... and for stardom.

It flew like a dart that **** from the
   heart
Like an arrow strung from Cupids
   bow
Little did it know how luminous it'd
   glow
Becoming one of the Greats in the
   Farting Canon.

It was probably the greatest **** poem
   ever written
In my own humble opinion
It was very daring and it smelt of
   onion
It was certainly the fairest fartiest
   poem I ever seen
If it was one of the three Musketeers
It would have to have been
   D'artagoine.

It inflated like a balloon, blew up like
   a great glass bubble
Then it popped and headed off
   toward England
Flying further afield than any ****
   had ever flown
It touched people's hearts, bewitched
   every nation
Resounded around the world
Yea! was heard in every Kingdom.

It flew long, it rounded the Horn
Like a Lark, that ****, it soared and
   sung
It was no boring old ****
It was far fartier and fruiter than that
It was a King of Farts
Way above the fartiest of farters and
   all the farting Arthurs
It was the real King Arthur
The King Arthur of all farts and
   Farters.

A real Belter was that **** that came
   from the heart
That had all the Angels singing in
   their cloisters,
A real work of Art just like Mozart
Or remember... remember your
   Shakespeare
"Hark! A ****, a ****! Whereforth art ?
    Thou ****"
It played its part, that ****, yea! it
   wielded its Excalibur.

O! there's nothing I'd rather do than lie here blowing sweet bubbles next
   to you
You! on your little flutey flute flute and
   Me! on my big Bass Trombone.
This is the sequel to my other **** poem "Music a la Toilette". A bit of silliness/ fun.
Cherry May 2020
A shiny white balloon gently sways with the wind
Attached at the end is a little girl, she's three.
She swirls and dances, all grace no faults.
She stumbles and giggles, not caring at all.
Her locks of hair cover her eyes, from the danger around.
The little girl is old now..
She does not giggle or sway.
She does not dance or play.
She cares, she cares about what everyone thinks.
The little girl we once knew, is no longer free.
For she has let go of her shiny white balloon.
It floated away, float float float.
Marian Solis May 2020
You’re just like a balloon
That I wanted so dearly
Like a child so amused
With the feeling and its hues.

One day as I watch you
As distant as always,
I didn’t know it was the day
You’ll be wanting to stay.

I’m the child, you’re my balloon
We’ll forever stay in tune;
I dance with you under the sun,
I dream of you under the moon.

One day you flew away,
Another child wanted you to stay.
You left me, empty and lonely;
Feeling the mark from your string.
Carlo C Gomez Jun 2020
Between the envelope and gondola I'm lighter-than-air. Montgolfier-style? Not really. I ascend as a prayer with his eyes wide shut, timid in the feel for heaven. Speaking of heaven, some say it's no longer a gated community, but the association fees have doubled. Really I float like a Yost, flaming onboard for the photo shoot. The morning pass is for the kids with spending power. The noon move, and media darling, catches the Comic-Con crowd just stumbling out of a parent's basement. The night drift, drink in hand, mimics the trigger man who got his days confused from too much killjoy. Laissez-passer both giveth and taketh away -- there is no immunity in the sky, no amnesty to assign my crimes to. I'm just your smiley actor on the Netflix trail. You love me for a season or until my balloon gets popped. Whichever comes first.
skyy omalley Apr 2020
Not slowly, like sand washing up on shore, but rather all at once.


Like a bubble blown up too big,
Like a shaken bottle of soda with a loose cap,
Like a needle on a freshly blown balloon,
Like a KNIFE on a BREATHING RIB CAGE.


A second before disaster.

But the question is,

Who




Will




Push




The




                   NEEDLE?


No one does.

I return home deflated. A needle cannot end me now.
I wish someone would open the cap, pop the bubble,


But there is no knife on my breathing rib cage.
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