Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Poetic T Oct 17
We may give them all of us,
                          but they are cheap,
                             ******* around like were
worth 5 cents and not the diamond that we gave them.

But they end up broke,
                                broke up,
                 broke as there on the street.

Clothes on the pavement.
And we were richer without them, no ******* around,
                          begging like were paupers.

But were prosperous without them,
                            there begging on the street.
The only thing they get is middle fingers,
             and your trash your love isn't even worth

the 2 cents to recycle...
basil Oct 7
i beg my lungs not to let go
as they hold in the million scents that make up

i wish your smell was like muscle memory
always coming back to the tips of my fingers

like those songs i still know how to play on the violin
that movie wasn't long enough, blue eyes.
Jordan Gee Oct 3
The pendulum is a bull shark.
The hour of the savior is a pregnant bride's swan dive into the water.
The mighty mile is a figure 8 in the scoot of
non slop socks across the bare linoleum.
Blood and bright are the redness of the blanket.
divine terror at one hart beat per hour.
Finger nails green and black against a back drop
of the brightest, bluest eyes you've ever seen;
deep pools of liquid light that will shine when least expected.
And the obligation isn't one at all,
for when i breath in,
you breath out.
And when I gave consent 1000 years ago times 10-
you performed the exorcism under the shroud of my amnesia
and the spotted light from a crystal disco ball.
Shards of light moved upon the face of all the space between the stars.
My heart was in the highlands but now its in your hands.
post equinox Sep 2020
Erian Rose Apr 27
his fingers fidgeted with the stars
comets flying like racing cars
when he glanced above, all he hoped
to sing a lullaby to the one
he loves the most
Strying Feb 29
Some days I feel like getting up,
I don't.
I lift my finger off my bed, and I say,
not today.

Sometimes I wonder if people notice the small things,
like my eye bags getting bigger,
or the slight limp in my walk.
Maybe they do and maybe they don't,
that's not up to me.
It's all up for grabs.

I like to think I'm in charge,
but I know I'm just drifting.
People around me are just carrying me along through life.
I'll never be the person they all look to.
The "Imma 2020 president candidate," tik tok that people actually support.

No love, no nothing.
Drifting. Drifting. Drifting.
Some days I do my homework,
some days I can't even open my laptop.
It's not up to me, it's all up for grabs.
idk if I really believe that I don't have control, maybe sometimes.
no Feb 26
poetry is stupid
oh so dumb
I like to finger cats with my thumb
once i did it after  I played my drums

pleas do call me Shane
I just like to finger its plane
I was all consensual
I also did it with a pencil

but the court date is soon
I not  really over the moon
Caron  I'm pleading let  me see my son
I  only finger my cat with my thumb

I have not seen him in years
but  yet I am not in tears
because  I have  my cat
and I wish I could see my son Matt
I'm  sorry Caron but  it fet  so good
Robert L Jan 28
Like a switchblade my ******* flashed out
Angry, self righteous, without any doubt.

A weapon or protest stabs innocent air,
skewering injustice and all things unfair.

Well oiled and oft used it stands at the ready,
Resolute, on point and ever so steady.

It leaps forth with such speed I could swear the air sang
with defiant rebellion and an audible twang.

It appears on the seen without much provocation,
except for my own insecure invocation.

Ah those were the days with scalpel like ease
and Errol Flynn skill I’d carve all that I please.

A happily buoyant juvenile revolution,
which had much to do with my evolution.

But now quiet and still in its scabbard it sits.
Tired, wrinkled and dull like my wits

Slightly arthritic and just a tad slower,
My weapon of choice now a disdainful glower.

Are there simply less things that annoy me enough
to expose prodigious digit with a great huff?

Do things matter less with the passing of time?
My insurgent uprisings reduced to sad rhyme.

Has peace come at last to this humble shell?
Tranquility now no more raising of hell?

My memories defiant and still fresh, they do linger.
But now it’s unlikely that I’d lift a finger.

© Copyright 2017 Robert C. Leung
© Copyright 2017 Robert C. Leung
You are the cover of my favorite book.
& when you open up I am at peace
There isn't a spot of you that I won't
From your open arms to your open legs.
We are spontaneous.
In the places we travel.
My fingers but a mark to hold the page.
From my eyes to my hands
I always have time for you.
We are spontaneous
No matter where we are.
No matter who is around
From your open arms to your open legs.
You are the cover of my favorite book.
Your spine stretched against my hands
Capriccio Dec 2019
Hey little fiddle
I drink too much
You smoke too little

I met your mom
And your dad
Your little sister is EMOtional
Groundhogs day sad

I talk without reason
Left a bad man
For his treason

Let go of obscurity
To find the one thing I gotta be


So hey little fiddle
Your moods swing from
American Rag-Tag

So play your notes
Take your tallies
I'll count votes

Hey little fiddle
Check out this finger
For you, right here
In the middle
Jim Davis Oct 2019
The Moving Finger writes;
and, having writ
Moves on:
nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to
cancel half a line
Nor all thy tears
wash out a word of it.
Apropos for our profession of poetry I believe!  

From Wikipedia:  Omar Khayyam (/kaɪˈjɑːm/; Persian: عمر خیّام‎ [oˈmæɾ xæjˈjɒːm]; 18 May 1048 – 4 December 1131) was a Persian mathematician, astronomer, and poet.[3][4][5] He was born in Nishapur, in northeastern Iran, and spent most of his life near the court of the Karakhanid and Seljuq rulers in the period which witnessed the First Crusade.

The Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics quotes the tradition that the Persian quatrain-form, the ruba'i, originated in the gleeful shouts of a child, overheard and imitated by a passing poet.
Next page