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That Girl Aug 2020
“Don’t take this the wrong way,”
I tell him.
I look off into the distance.
“Just stay away from me.”
I begged him.
Sadness laced my voice but it was also firm.
He knew I was dead serious.
I looked into his eyes.
Hurting.
Confusion.
More hurting.
I was glad I hurt him.
I felt no guilt.
After all, that’s how he’s made me feel for the past three months.
But when I told him to stay away my intent was not to hurt him.
I told him because I want to stop hurting.
The way he passes glances my way,
his kindness,
his mannerisms…
It all hurts me.
Hell,
even hearing his voice stings my soul.
I can’t do it anymore.
I don’t want to hurt anymore.
He needs to stop looking at me,
stop being kind to me,
stop being a gentlemen,
stop talking to me.
He has another girl to look at,
be kind to,
be a gentleman to,
to talk to.
And that girl is not me.
I walked away.
I didn’t look back.
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
Ich am of Irlaunde ("I am of Ireland")
(anonymous Medieval Irish Lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I am of Ireland,
and of the holy land of Ireland.
Gentlefolk I pray thee:
for the sake of saintly charity,
come dance with me
in Ireland!

Original text:

Ich am of Irlaunde,
Ant of the holy londe
Of Irlande.
Gode sire, pray ich the,
For of saynte charite,
Come ant daunce wyth me
In Irlaunde.

Keywords/Tags: Ireland, medieval Irish, translation, holy, land, good, sire, gentlemen, pray, saintly, charity, dance
Poetic T Mar 2019
Woman have
                  more ***** then men
most of the time.

       It's pity that

men are bigger *******
                      all the time...
Stan Gichuki Aug 2018
Beard don’t make you a reasonable man.. even goats have beards and all they do is meh.. meh.. all day
Diana Garcia Aug 2018
Man, all you ******* start out the same
Oh honey I can appreciate you, is all you claim.
Where’s the chivalry, why can’t y’all be gentlemanly. It’s such a shame
Can’t even walk around without being hounded by one of these ******* lames

Yes I said hounded cause y’all can be bunch of dogs.
If I look good, politely let your glasses fog
Try not to stare, a quick glance, don’t stare maybe you’ll have a chance, that’s fair.
I don’t expect perfect Prince Charming
But the lack of manners is ******* alarming

Ask me how I am, whatever you do dion’t say how you can give it to me
Or how you can make my day.
A nice conversation can go a long way.
Don’t ask me about my man, or why I don’t have one
All I’m gonna say, this would of been nice but now that fool won.
If he was putting it down I wouldn’t be hanging around.
If he asked how my day was
Id be all kisses and hugs
Yes I have a man but his selfishness
******* bugs
I thought I wanted a sweet man
Now I’m more attracted to thugs
At least now Im familiar with the ***** made
I don’t even feel right throwing his mama shade
She treats him like he’s a gift from god
The way she coddles him makes me ******* nod.
I’m done talking about this!
**** is making my sob.
TD Apr 2018
Feather soft
the gentle spikes
pierce the morning light.
Their dapper clothes
cloaks of star-kissed dew.

The mute of green
like an Irish evening
shadowed by a
propensity to shine
as tipplers on parade.

Gentlemen
top hats skewed
they lean this a' way
or that a' way
rarely minding
their P's and Queues.
Picture prompt and credit: https://all17.deviantart.com/art/wet-morning-387293261
Cana Mar 2018
I took that train again
The one that doesn’t stop
This time it took me to a land of blondes
A veritable tree.
With many things that a gentleman
Should not write about.
I’d like to think that’s me
Though I’ve proven myself wrong in the past
It’s quite the opposite.
None the less. The train was boarded
And the riders were comfortable,
Smiling and laughing right into the collision.
And why the hell not.
Alan S Bailey Dec 2016
She sits upon her royal chair,
eating a donut, drinking coffee, smoking a plume
smoke rising like a phantom menace in the air.

She calls upon her royal friends she sees,
the batting false eyelashes to a perfect stranger
asking the "gentleman" only for his "hand" by all means.

She drives in her royal chariot,
A red and orange one, flaming stripes at the sides, singing
Songs about the battles and triumphs of wartime's "great" merit.

One day this lovely newborn bird will fly the coop,
the child I know by rights was a born queen! She'll
win first in pageants and then we'll drink to soul's soup.
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