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Carlo C Gomez Feb 28
Never forget that TV commercials
are the offspring of Dracula.

Connect the dots...

They have a lot at stake,
shrouding their true intentions in

The primary reason they exist
is to get you to buy into them,
to stick your neck out,
to believe they have your
best interest at heart.

They don't.
They could care less
who you are or
what you and yours really need.
So long as you allow them to
hammer more nails into your coffin.

They want your blood.
They want your money.

Plain and

And they will stop at nothing
to **** it out of you.
Carlo C Gomez Dec 2019
This poem is brought to you by the following:

Stick 'N Yank
The do-it-yourself Brazilian wax kit.
Guaranteed to leave you bare down there or your money back!

Recommended only for those with high pain thresholds. Keep out of the reach of hippies.

Cosmic Wafers
Blast off any dull lifeless party with the snack chip that's the equivalent of drinking a six-pack of beer. And it's gluten-free!

Remember to snack responsibly.

My First Hornet's Nest
Forget ant farms. Your kids will have an even better time learning about these flying insects, up close and personal. They can hang it from a ceiling, a tree, or underneath a car!

For ages 10 and up. Hornets sold separately.
Inspired by fellow HP poet BLT.
Note: none of these "products" actually exist...yet.
Kewayne Wadley May 2018
I needed this so much.
A little alone time.
Designer jeans.
T-shirts printed with out the blue sayings.
A moment to ourselves home alone.
Wasting time just you & I.
Causally stretched across each other on the couch.
Commercials filled with Wal-mart families.
Insurance companies. Lawsuit claims.
Your sugar fills the space between shows.
Your head leaned back on my chest.

Neck twisted in a kiss.
The TV more so watching us.
The wait of working all week for this moment of relaxation.

The anticipation of butterflies, late night texts. 
The vintage shows we grew up watching, still our favorite.
I really missed you.
Your shoulder my favorite pillow.
The extended twenty-first question of our 21 Questions.
Sitting here with you.
Soon to fall asleep with you in my arms.
To wake up and do the same exact same thing.

To let you know that I made it home safe
Caidyn Jan 2018
To adolescent girls
We know infatuation as love.
A cute boy, paying attention and being kind
Unlike our mothers and fathers.
Or a handsome young man
Showing just enough distance, and disinterest,
That it is familiar, but we do not yet know why…
So the starving soul craves more, more, more.
So our stupid hearts say love, love, love.
I do not know about you,
But in retrospect I do not think that I loved these boys.

I would sit up late, plagued with an insomniac’s depression.
Thinking of these boys that had left me in the dust,
Commercials playing loudly over an old box television.
My impressionable brain unaware of the absorption of utter *******.
But the logical fallacies of consumerism and capital leaked into my psyche,
As I begged to be noticed.
Rebranding myself every so often
Once even under a different name.  Always new labels;
A cheerleader, an emo, a stoner, a scholar
Trying to find some sense of self,
Trying to sell my soul (subconsciously) for acceptance.

No one ever understood me like you,
And I dare to say, perhaps out of ego, that no one has ever understood you like me.
You've had friends for longer than me now,
You are happy, without me, clinging to your side.
Maybe you are understood once again
Maybe you are the chameleon that I once was.
Either way, I want you to be happy, do as you do.
Although I can no longer be the chameleon,
I cannot change my colors as life goes on around me, fitting in whatever life throws at me.
I feel old, I am deeply tired.  
I know that I am young, but I have seen too much.
I threw my life away for a self-titled happiness extract,
Isolation and degradation became all I knew.
Cynicism rose up inside of me, and when I heard the commercials I once fell asleep to
I decided that not only the advertisements,
But the world was *******.

I remember young adolescence,
I recall kisses and uncomfortable fondling in basement bathrooms and crawlspaces with these boys in which I thought that I loved,
That never cared for me like I cared for them,
Even so it was infatuation and not love.
I remember a kiss in your bed.
I remember the absolute terror when it occurred to me, years later.
I never loved anyone softly,
I loved viciously, desperately, and even loved just to cling on for life.
I loved you softly, I loved you dearly, I loved you deeply.
I always told myself it was platonic, but it was neither platonic or romantic.
I just loved you, like I had never loved anyone else.  Without fear, without sacrifice, without dereliction.
I did not realize this
Until a state-assigned therapist pointed out in the basement of the facility I resided
“When you speak of her, I see love in your eyes that I don't ever see.”
I hated her for that,
“Dumb *****, I love writing, I love music, I loved Xander, I love my family!”
“But Caidyn,” she said
“I have not ever seen this kind of love in your eyes.”
It occurred to me then, and not until then
That when I held you, as you slept
In a hotel room after a concert
As infomercials bellowed violently into my soul
That I will never feel that sense of warmth, happiness and belonging ever again.
Not to say I won't find love,
But the innocence and naïveté
The faith I had, that we would escape side by side
And always remain side by side.
I know now,
That your first love
Never works out like that.

I dream of days where ridiculous advertisements filled my sleepy brain without judgement,
Because for any glimpse of hope I get
I am devoured by longing.
I remember how “everything is *******”.
And feel guilty for my bitterness.
I realize I am no longer young in spirit
I am not the demographic for any meaningless advert.
I am a forgotten human, not an outcast, but a memory to those I cared for.
I can no longer avoid it.
I think of when I held you,
and didn't even think anything of it.
Sammy Durrant Aug 2016
+commercials play in my head on loop forever
Francie Lynch Aug 2015
Do I believe
There's been a breakthrough
With some significant findings
Through time-released research:
Using study groups,
Control rats,
And free range monkeys?
The announcement's delivered
By a team of thesbians,
And once I was convinced,
I took a decisive step
To get the Japanese water filter.
I almost felt philanthropic
Knowing third world countries
Benefit from my purchase.
I was, I think,
Deceived by a soporific placebo.
Ena Alysopriono Nov 2014
This world
Is not the world our grandparents lived in
We are less connected with the natural world
Separated by televisions and computers
People who spend their lives online
Distracted by flashy adverstisements
Bombarded by commercials
Telling you why you aren't good enough
Or your life isn't easy enough
And how they can make you look better
Feel better
Be smarter
Have an easier time getting places
And doing things with less effort
We forget that how we look
And our intelligence
Might just be good enough
For you and the people around you
We need to take a break from all the consumerism
And reconnect with ourselves
And each other
To become human again
Watching tv so....
Sam Knaus Oct 2014
Every generation
has the leaders and the followers.
The popular kids and the geeks,
the kids who get high on the streets
and the kids who get high on cloud nine.
The artists and the poets,
the skaters, the stoners,
the musicians and the actors,
and we all have the kids
who are all of the above.
We all have the kids
who are none of the above.
Times change, yes
and trends come and go
but don’t tell me that I’m exceptional
not because of what I know
but because of the children
that surround me.
Don’t tell me to speak my dreams
and release my strife in the form of rhyme
because “few others you know do it”.
Passion is limitless,
passion is ageless
and while I’m being raised
in a generation of technology
and dramatic social media,
yolo and swag, pregnant teens
and 55-hour marriages-
I’m growing up
in a generation of artists,
a generation of dreamers,
a generation of doers,
and a generation
of freethinkers.
Freethinkers whose words
drip from their tongues like honey
and stain their pages in the world
like wine.
Students who get bored
with teachers wanting them to think
in 1’s and 0’s,
fit into standards,
speak in slanders
and begin to hyperventilate
because they can’t translate
what they think.
Kids who haven’t forgotten
that breathing in binary isn’t healthy.
Apparently, those that find
enough creative destruction in life to cheat the system
are going against the greater public’s
better judgement,
feeling free to sit and glare
at those who swear that they’re normal,
but I’m not growing up with those kids.
People who sit back and cry crocodile tears
for those who don’t know
what to think of themselves,
sitting back and laughing
at those who shudder and shake
at the thought of being caught in between
different sides of their minds
that they don’t know it’s okay to have…
but I’m not growing up with those people.
I’m growing up in a
group of rebels,
a group that will one day
run the nation-
a nation of tenacious activists,
wearing their minds
more professionally than
politicians wear their suits-
and with better ideas.
Because we have voices,
we have pens,
but most important
we have ideas,
ideas that can change the world,
change the world more
than poker-faced suits
and hate commercials
and picket signs
ever could.
Irate Watcher Aug 2014
O Debussy,
I run home from the bar
to hear the sssssound
of those sssssyllables
the ripplesssss of
fingersssss that will
ssssshudder my
sssssheltered sssssoul.
Your soul
too beautiful to write
but a *******,
I must try...

indecipherable terms and conditions


That's better.

O Debussy,
your accents strike
me like the moon,
Clair De Lune.
Shine your genius
upon me and
light my way
forward through
the next bus ride.
I will imagine the
silver grass pastures
that inspired you,
through the ***** window
that inspires me,
with buildings.
more buildings.
still more buildings.

Wow. These cheap headphones
really corrupt Reverie...
you must have sounded
awesome live,
at the piano,
by your side....


Then SHUT THE **** UP
and let me write.

O Debussy,
your chords set
free souls  —
caged birds that **** less.
Well souls don't **** at all,
but that isn't the point.
But seriously you...


I give up. Debussy, you're great.
I ****.
Inspirational music with commercials plagues the writer who claims she is too poor to buy a subscription or the actual tracks.

— The End —