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Check - work nine-to-five, eat, sleep, draw again.
Surviving the day, nothing more, c'est bien.

Or call - easy choice for the hand you were dealt.
Just settle for average; win, lose; both unfelt.

If you need to, just quit; to accept it, just fold.
Be resigned to your fate; easy just isn't bold.

If not, you might lose, see pain, heartbreak, and death.
Bracing for blows that will knock out your breath.

So you didn't call a bluff, didn't sees players who cheat?
Or they raised you too much, now you're feeling the heat.

And life may be a *****, she deals hands unfair.
She's the muscle who beats you; detached, doesn't care.

But here's the kicker, dear life's only tell -
There's so much more out there; fight right to the bell!

'Cuz quitting the game after one bad beat?
You'd risk every win, for fear of defeat?

Not even one pair? Means no partner for life?
No falling in love, no taking the dive.

I guess if you're scared, that's a dangerous risk
Probably not worth the bet.

No three of a kind? No partners in crime?
No best friends for life, no slowing down time?

I guess that you're busy, with your job, for your cheque.
Probably not worth the bet.

And no full house? Means no family to kiss...
No building your future, no dogs, and no kids?

I guess it's hard work to lay down those bricks;
Probably not worth the bet.

No royal flush? No laughter, no tears?
No joy and no sorrow, no fun and no fears?

I guess if the bad scares you more than the good,
Probably not worth the bet.

For you, at least, that all may be fact.
You'll hold back your gambles, buy-in if you're backed.

You save up your chips for just the right hand,
And don't see that they are all equally grand.

For life may be cruel, but she gives loans for chips,
So keep playing the game until your luck flips.

So, me? Hit me, life. I'll stick out my chin.  
In this game we're playing?
****, I'm all in.
My problem with rhymes is that they always seem forced, and it takes away from the effect of the poem. But I love the challenge of playing with words until it fits. More or less.
Shea Nov 26
Don't bet the Devil your head
You'll end on the crossroads
Where you met
Asking for it back,
But he'll never return your favor.
Better savor sanity while you got it
Cause you sure glorified insanity,
Bettin' the Devil your head.
Saturday.
He fondles his roses
as little Beth walks by,
holding her mommy’s hand.
When mother and daughter
are up the street a bit,
he palpates petals,
lets thorn press into his crotch.

He is that nice old retired preacher
from the middle of the block.
He babysits Beth while her mommy
goes to the gym.

His predilections are private...
secret...
No one knows.
No one knows but little Beth...

and all the little girls before her.
Not everyone is who they seem
and evil can live forever hidden.
I despise child abusers and often rant about same.
aih Aug 31
A chip, a chance
Same deck of cards
Bet.
All in with a poker face
I saw through you
Now you lost me
You didn’t even have me at all
You got it all twisted from the start
Thinking I’d fall for your game
Pulling the same exact card on everyone
But I’m not just anyone—
I’m someone—
Who couldn’t and wouldn’t be played the Joker.
I’m a Queen waiting for my King.
I will go away
The time is not for me
The sky is not for me
The luck gives me
His back
The name of me
May be changed
As they called me
Lucky
I was in the past
Runner in fast
Smartest and strongest
All females wanted to see
All females wanted to approach
My beauty is example
As well as my power is able
To change any result in competition
I got first at run
I am the first at the bet
All wanted my satisfy
When I grow up all were away
My happiness was disappeared
And I heard them saying
I must be killed
As I grew up enough
That made me lazy and tough
In everything
They said," I am hopeless"

"There were the notes of horse"
everything is good when it has power and smart. when it has author. it will be prefable. when all go, it will be forgootten
J Jul 4
I write to forget.
I write so I won’t forget.
It’s a losing bet.
A losing bet.
**** it.
How ironic.
Pulling the cards from the table
reading the players around
not that any are able
all cards dealt facing down

Playing the deal like a pro
no hint or give in my eyes
no-one can tell or know
wearing my ****** disguise

Betting based on the players
not the cards that I've got
winning despite the nay-sayers
scooping up money from pots

Came the day when I lost
raising with heart so unplanned
she took me at ultimate cost
somehow knowing the cards
in my hand
Love is like a game of cards
if you've got a full house
she's got four of a kind
:D
the upshot constituted a figurative straw
     that broke the virtual camels back
where yours truly fingered as scape goat,
     who meekly, passively, and subserviently
     felt the stinging *****
of wooden, smooth,
     and oblong paddle and stands pat,

     asper innocence, though now
     (myself more than two score years
     orbitz around sun) remains more defiant
     for purportedly causing Roberta -

not her real name flack
and clears that blot (now a composite
     of petrified spitballs) as a hack
writer of poetry, feels jilted like Jack

donning many major protagonistic ruffian knack
nursery rhyme roles, which fables never didst lack
for upstart precocious, kickstarters impish grin,
     as if he just wolfed down a swiped Bic Mac

and goose that laid more than one golden egg
McMuffin running from the Giant,
     with spindle shank for each leg,
and sliding down the beanstalk, which didst peg
world wide web Marathon record
     suddenly the envy of Queequeg,

which way word ness
     far off course from the theme of this work,
hence hold tight
     to hazmat bag of **** pin jay dreck,
     while poetic license allows me to twerk

intended story aye (captain...
     oh captain) moost not shirk,
lemme reel yar attention
     back to the classroom of missus Labosh,

     hood didst whistle and perk
unbeknownst to me, my scrawny derriere
     unaware what quaint, hence danger didst lurk
for letting passivity
     find me singled out as the bona fide ****

wishing Moby **** could swallow
     hook, line and sinker
     with a slight even Steven crane
of his neck, every mother plucking bird brain classmate
     deemed Scott free, and Chutzpah didst gain

while this smart *** wannabe took a crash course,
     sans weltanschauung "Artful Dodging
     Spitball Shooting Maven" in the main
quite heavy on Physics and Trigonometry as became plane.
but
not
really
?


















...
..
.
wanna
...
..
.
ok
wanna play
here is
an
*****

my nuts are to big for you



are you gonna be
ok
?

























...
..
.
taking another walk
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