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Justin Lai Dec 2020
squelched between bodies spiralling into escalators,
my trained eye couldn't help hovering a little left

right there, coming into view at the watch store,
though never caught dead anywhere near M·A·C

but neither should my stares, blatant without restraint,
fixed on a trio chattering like keys jangling

to the beat of a million other stolen glances,
only for them to slip away for some froyo.

rather than melt into a fruity confection myself,
I steel my eyes back into the spiralling masses

blocking out three gym bags marked 'WATER POLO',
my untrained heart pulses still for their suntan

and the bleachers of yesterday, the sight and sweat,
jocks jangling for position in glistening waters —

only then did I dare scream my lungs out,
safe in the crowds of a high school roar.
the bj stands for bugis junction, it's a local shopping mall okay xD
A B Faniki Jan 2020
there was once an ordinary man named bobby
who felt like he's three in one body
when he is asleep he feel
like a spirit with holy soul
and yet in real flesh he is no clergy.
© A B Faniki 1/02/2020 salvation is for all not just for the poius religious one we could draw strenght from out spirit and soul to make it possible for salvation to reach us.
july hearne Apr 2019
filth compiles
with the lights on
all these letdown sunday nights

what's in this dust now
a forgotten name
that ruined my life

there was just no other door
to walk through at the time

i stayed and stayed
called your name
forgot i was a woman too
when my savior came
to save me, i didn't go with him
he wasn't you

i stayed and stayed
called your name

until i was nothing
until i was no one

he was my stolen sun,
a stolen sun , a savior came
to save me, i didn't go with him
he wasn't you, no he wasn't you
forgot i was a woman too

until i was nothing
until i was no one.
I Wouldnt Treat A Dog (The Way You Treated Me)

a stolen sun, a stolen sun
stolen from the poor
there was just no other door
to walk through at the time
Cat Fiske Apr 2016
Baby Bobby is free,
No more whips, from amish men,

Baby Bobby is free,
You kicked and screamed on the glue truck sweetie,

Baby Bobby is free,
A nice lady Cathleen rescued you for me,

Baby Bobby is free,
She Cleaned you up and healed your wounds,

Baby Bobby is free,
Bobby baby, why are you scared of me,

Baby Bobby is free,
Bobby baby, I'd never hurt you, I just want to love you,

Baby Bobby is free,
Bobby why do you kick and scream?

Baby Bobby is free,
Bobby I love you, what's wrong baby.

Baby Bobby is never going to be Free,
Bobby is trapped inside his fears, much like me.
My horse Bobby has PTSD no wonder I love him so much.
Cat Fiske Feb 2016
My horse Bobby is trapped in horse hospital,
Bobby kicks at things that make sounds like the whips used to beat at him,
so Bobby is behind a wall with a window for his head to poke out,
and he pokes it out all time when I stop by,
and I hate to leave because goodbye leaves me to cry,
I'd of never seen Bobby's body,
if it wasn't for the spaces inbetween the bars on the wall,
Bobby back used to be nothing more then ripped up flesh,
Bobby lives in his own world of fear now,
in that little stall,
in that little box he is safe, yet trapped in his past,
Bobby reminds me of my past,
and how my room is like his stall,
and sometimes I get to stick my head out,
but I will always be reminded of those sounds of fear,
like to Bobby those sounds that scare him as if he was getting whipped,
I have my own fears,
I keep hold of,
never to get rid of,
Just like Bobby,
and like Bobby no matter how many times you tell us it's okay,
we still are fearful of the wrong that was done,
and easily could become done again.
Bobby, I may not be able to own you,
even if I could,
they wouldn't let me,
because you're in horse hospital,
so I want to make you and myself get better,
so I would be able to take you home,
and not cry when I leave you in the stall,
as you stick you head out,
and watch me leave the horse hospital,
Bobby my horse has ptsd, just like me.
Mark Parker Jul 2015
Love is the sanity we all keep,
the feeling from others we all seek.
Love is a feeling that gives you life,
despite the fact she's not your type.
Even though it can be used to hurt much,
nothing heals more than the human touch.
Bobby Fischer, insane world chess champion from America, died at age 64, one year for each square on a chessboard. Despite his hate of many countries and peoples in his old age, he still knew something that much of the world has yet to grasp. Give someone a hug a non-pervy way.
Captain Scarlet
Had a weakness for harlots
Who always wore scarlet as well.

This could sound
The death knell
For the show
Thundered Gerry.

It's so deleterious
I'm deadly serious
Less of the hoes
And more Thunderbirds Are Go.

Captain Scarlet's
Favourite starlet
Was no harlot
Even though
she always wore
Scarlet as well
But it was quite difficult to tell
That she was not so
Even if one was very clever.

Unlike Bobby Shafto.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
The plane is emotion.
The form is a gentle rider,
she pushes bullets off cliffs, she hugs the stars.
Catches the moon eyeing her with one
great big hand wrapped on its ****;
spins the bell of her dress
round and round.

Sifted from the Earth, man moody
cleft in heaps of his entrails,

no progress has been made.

My metal mother pulls hula hoops for zulu,
she rips down the shelves and pulls
Bobby Dylan from the wall. She says,
"grrrplleeopzhrka." And the smoke gets into
my eyes and burns my nostrils too.

In the great wind screen, footprints of man,
Native American blood weeps on my bright
Summer burning, no regency cleared. The
outlook denied. It sits stagnant, maddening
with its blockhead on sideways. Heavy, old
mutter hubbard wilting gold in her stare.

Mess comes. She spoils, her skin is loud
and anointed, her fecund white placard
is thinner than air. People look at each other,
a goblin, two trollops, the green woolen winter-wear
of a soldier in despair. Only a putrid noon, escaping,
cuts the flesh from the garden. Cuts out all the weakness,
the hope, the love, every thing owned, every one cleared.

The skin trap and oyster flap. The rich mixture of voices,
nothing holds common that bond, that few could look upon,
that youth could-

none of the old things work anymore.

Just a wicked boredom trickling in blood down her legs, just
the lust trickling down her legs, dear mommy, I obey.
And when the summer months set in mahogany, and the icicle
feat swallows us up, dear-
moths buzzing
your sweet bomb
bon bon
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