Being pest like and violent

Dancing around in a circle, a mischief circle like a group of cultist.
Plotting their next attack with sounds misplaced for ducks.

Adorable yet they hiss like a snake, ready to attack…

The man across the pond with his rifle stretched across his back. A seasoned veteran; he rocked on his chair.
Tooted his belly over to anybody walking by and asked them about their opinions on the Geese.

Every reply a moment to get away, because it was nothing of concern to anyone.

So then the Man’s satisfaction yearned being deeply troubled.

Like flies in mouse traps. Sated across the back like chickens because they cant fly physically but spiritually they did.

Their bodies vanished without a second to think.
Perhaps the Geese ate more than they could chew but the main man came for the full course.

Conclusion today…A
“Goose game.•”

Some poems were written by a poet named Poe,
Of ravens, bells, and lost Lenores.
His mind scribbled out some macabre woe,
Leaving readers check behind their doors.

In “The Raven” he played a trick,
Quoth the bird, “Nevermore” to say.
He whispered secrets, dark and slick,
And wove a tale both grim and gray.

“The Bells,” a haunting serenade,
He tolled the bells of life’s decay.
With “Annabel Lee,” a love parade,
He marched us to the grave’s cold way.

Oh, Poe - the poet and his poems of hell!
His heart, a master of the night,
His words, a wicked, wondrous spell.
His mental state - not quite alright.

At the subway station, crowded and loud,
I stood with my toddler, feeling quite proud.
But then came a question, clear and blunt,
“When will your **** talk again?” - what a stunt!

Embarrassment flooded, my face turned bright red,
As people around us chuckled and said
Nothing aloud, but their stares spoke for them,
While I tried to hush him, the chatty 'lil man.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I whispered, dismayed,
But he pressed on, “In the bathroom!” he played.
How I wished the ground would just swallow me whole,
As passengers giggled, beyond my control.

The subway ride - an epoch of shame,
Judging eyes upon me, I was to blame.
They probably thought I was gassy and crude,
I pondered which orphanage might take little dude.

As we stepped off the train, the doors shut tight,
And suddenly, it hit me - I saw the light!
At a gas stop, during a mommy squat,
My phone in my pocket had caused quite a plot.

Google Maps had spoken, loud and clear,
“Please turn around,” for us to hear.
But now it’s too late to explain this tale,
Forever they’ll think I couldn’t curtail.

My flatulence in public, or so they thought,
When really, it was just directions I sought.
A lesson learned in the most awkward way:
Keep your phone on silent, or be the **** of play!

Oh, look—an em-dash—in its natural place,
A punctuation mark, a timeless friend.
They say it’s AI’s sharp, mechanical trace,
But writers embrace it right up to the end.

It breaks up a thought—like a secret shared,
Not just the lines of a robot’s pen.
A pause that’s alive—bravely dared,
With rhythm and wit—again and again.

I love the dash—well, I used to!
Now, I don’t—I’m not amused
By people—so quickly "AI use" flew—
And I’m pretty tired of being accused.

Where do you think AI got it from?
It’s trained on human writing, mate!
Was used before—and will be used some,
So stop with all the pointless hate!

Next time you spot this dancing dash,
Remember, hands once left this trace.
It’s human and art—no cold AI clash;
Oh, look—an em-dash—in its natural place.

Poe wrote another poem, dark and quite long,
’Bout a dude who was moping, quite sad,
His girlfriend Lenore had clearly gone wrong,
Leaving him utterly mad.

One night, as he’s reading, half asleep,
A tapping he hears at his door,
He opens it up, into darkness so deep,
“Lenore?” he whispers, unsure.

But instead of his babe, all radiant and fair,
A raven flies in, you see,
Perches above him, with nary a care,
And says, “Nevermore,” chillingly.

The dude starts to chat with this ominous bird,
Asking questions, morose and absurd,
If he’ll see Lenore, or if he’s been heard,
But the raven can just say one word.

He gets quite upset, calls the raven a demon,
Says it’s tormenting him, no less,
But the bird doesn’t budge, just keeps on gleaning,
“Nevermore,” causing much distress.

The poem concludes, with the dude in despair,
The raven still perched, dark and grim,
A symbol of grief, that he just has to bear,
All thanks to that feathery whim.

In short, it’s a tale of loss and of woe,
A bird with a limited vocab,
Driving a grieving man crazy, you know,
Leaving his sanity totally scabbed.

Poe wrote a poem - quite tragic and sad,
About a girl named Annabel Lee,
Their love was so pure, it made angels mad,
In a kingdom somewhere by the sea.

They were just kids, but their love was so strong,
The heavens got jealous, you see,
They sent a cold wind, and things went all wrong,
And some illness hit Annabel Lee.

She died pretty quickly, was put in a tomb,
But her guy wasn't ready to quit,
He'd lie by her grave in the darkness and gloom,
(Kinda creepy, I must admit.)

He blamed it on angels, those heavenly jerks,
For taking his bride-to-be,
But that's just how a disease sadly works
Even in that kingdom by the sea.

His love never died, unlike Annabel Lee,
He dreamed of her night and day,
His dedication was admirable, you see,
But not in a healthy way.

So, what did we learn from this tragic tale
Besides that love grows more and more?
That Poe had a knack for the morbid and frail,
And making gothic folklore.

In short: It's a story of love and of loss,
With a dash of celestial spite,
Where Poe shows that death is no match for true love,
Even if that love's not quite right.

It's starting sluggish - slippery,
The aging, as it has to be.
You're twenty-nine, feeling sturdy,
But then - OH NO - you're turning thirty.

This magic kingdom is no fun,
'The great beyond' has just begun,
Your living room gets the greening,
And you a letter - time for screening.

You have a favorite grocery store,
And you just don't care anymore
'Bout looking **** - lingerie?
A onesie! Fluffy as can be.

And then it starts - your body ages,
That goes quickly, not in stages.
You fall asleep wrong on your couch,
The next morning - biggest OUCH!

You can't move -  your head, your neck,
Your hips, your arms, and oh, your back.
You aged a decade in ten hours
And nothing helps, not even showers.

Now you pathetically crawl
To get some paracetamol.
The bathroom seems so very far,
So you just lie there as you are.

In deepest pain, ashamed, destroyed,
Broken, ******, beyond annoyed.
A few days later, you're still there
With a story you can share

With other people - old as you.
Most likely, you have just these two
Friends, you know, you don't need more!
The social you? That was before!

You spend your Sundays in your garden,
Not saying 'sorry', saying 'pardon',
You watch a movie, or you read,
With the glasses you now need.

You have a favorite ***, and pan,
and spatula, and burner, man!
The youth is driving you insane,
And you're continually in pain.

Your feet grow, your bladder shrinks,
At least that's what your body thinks.
You need to *** - constantly!
Even at night, so you flee

Your bed, that you are in by nine,
Right after a glass of wine.
Fatigue is your worst opponent,
Sometimes you just need a moment

For a nap, right after brunch,
Or directly after lunch,
Yet still you're tired - all the time,
Just be careful with your spine...

Yes, thirty is horrible, yet you're alive,
And maybe you manage to survive,
Eat healthy, stay safe, maybe get sporty!
But take it slow - you're pushing forty.

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!!

Today I saw, oh, quite the sight,
A man on a pole, dressed in black-tight.
Crowds gathered, police gave a shout,
“What’s your name? What’s this about?”

He stood tall, his voice so deep,
“I am Batman,” made the crowd leap.
A silence fell, then laughter grew,
Till another yelled, “I’m Batman too!”

Each man then puffed their chest in pride,
“I’m the hero,” they all replied.
From pole to street, the claim was grand,
Each one a savior of this land.

Yet as the scene turned to delight,
We all forgot the true dark knight.
For Batman isn’t just a name—
It’s every man’s secret, heroic claim.

By Vedanta Anagha (Mayank Tripathi)

She called me over when her parents left, and invited me over for a date.
Before I was in her room
It was advised to bring some protection.
Latex?

All for her to be done?
————

Latex Gloves.
I pulled out and began scanning my fingers across her room.

At the end of the room :vines.

Vines from trees, flowers emerging through and from. An allergenic smell emitted—carving out the thick toxins as they fell onto the floor like a staircase of crumbling debris.
Like pages of books falling flat onto the floor ill by the plague and far from recovery.

The smell of lavendery-daffodils. Like new laundry, everything was scented in this room, by color and by smell.

No visualization decoded by my eyes all because they were fried.
Red and puffed.

The frequency in the room, making zap-roided sounds.
Electric like all the different shades of blue, a savory sound and a unironic taste.
I would not want to explain because I kept it all to myself.

I marveled at it all and not whatever was in front of me.

I viewed her emotions as inferior to this delight of a room.

Far better than anything sensory she could of course do.

A distraction these walls became
Overwhelming to me was not the best of both worlds.

The only distractions were nothing but this interior design…

Éclair My Heart

Fill me up with custard’s glow,  
soft as secrets whispered low.  
Chocolate coat our midnight vows,  
each bite a bow that time allows.  

Glossy tease of vanilla sighs—  
declare your love in pastry cries.





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