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Yenson May 27
Look at Prince Charles' profile
see the high forehead and receding baldness
the jutting nose, a  strong noble Grecian look
take a look at Prince William, same features
his is even more defined
so our plebs on the Clapham omnibus
declares quite seriously that
these lovely royal profiles resembles a horse
neigh, neigh do not scold the plebs
they see only what the lower plebs brains sees
and perhaps
because Royals have a strong historical link with Horses
a royal maiden had at one time taken a horse to bed
Come to think of it, Catherine The Great
Empress of Russia
reportedly did take a horse for a bit of jiggery porky
so maybe there's  a bit of equine bloodline in all royal lineages
after-all the horse is considered a handsome proud and noble beast
So I embrace my horse ancestry and can also confirm
that I am packed as a horse in the lower region as well....
Any clean and disease-free female wanting a ride is welcomed
please contact me at Buck house and bring a big hat along
NO, not for my head...you silly twit......
I really must stop laughing at all these absurdities, but I can't. every day there's some nonsensical developments, statements, act or omission that leaves me breathless from laughing so much, its quite a job keeping a straight face when outdoor, never knew there are so many certifiable nutcases around, it must be something in the water...
Cana Mar 2018
At one point in time
When all is said and done
The only things that remain
Are the ashes of good intentions

It is a general rule that
People maintain an underlying
Need for gratification
A facade of “I don’t”

No ***** given

This is false
We’re all liars inside
To your friends, families
Selves.

To look in the mirror
Whether model or mould
Is a painful reminder
Of this stark reality.
Writing in this state of mind is a dangerous thing. And doesn’t make sense. Don’t misbehave and write people :D
Natalie Feb 2018
I can taste him in certain air pressures
I can see him through the fog
When it gets too dense, I feel his hands around my neck again

And God, does it feel amazing
How he takes my breath away
tamia Oct 2015
my mind is a painter, thinking of colors in the form of stories and scenes
thinking about the brightest of city lights  
streets teeming with foreign language
people passing by with stories i'll never know
silent seas along the coastlines
mountains towering above us, old and wise
cabins in the forest with little firesides  
trains full of strangers to fall in love with
airports with people, greetings and goodbyes
postcard-perfect towns and friendly rivers
neighborhoods showered with pretty autumn leaves...

these are the stories painted in my head, the stories i'd love to paint with my own hands.
the places i'd love to see when i'm alone in my bedroom, the stories i want to see for myself.
and sometimes, i fear i'll never reach these works of art,
but with a brush and some paint, what's impossible?
syg
febrilsk stilhed
     te og treoer

i skole og
fremlæggelser med 38 i feber, stoffet
     der     omringer    min krop gør ondt

en syg pige,
et sygt samfund,
et sygt uddannelsessystem som konsekvens

giv mig bare fuld narkose,
eller et koma? kunne det ikke gavne lidt

med at slappe af, koble fra


fatal uvidenhed; dørene lukker
giver stress over de fremadrettede adgangskrav

slider sig selv ned i et desperat forsøg på
at overleve,      at drømme

av
og øv
tamia May 2015
I walked through avenues
Finding a quiet place
As the weather disappointed
Rain gets me down sometimes.

And somewhere, you sat all alone
Coffee and ash trays and months old issues
Of the New York Times.
New York City, the mess you were hopelessly in love with.

I dropped loose change
You helped me pick up every coin
And I was taken by surprise.
I was wise,
Wise enough to know not to speak to strangers
But I couldn’t help and dive
Into the thrill of your danger.

All it took was a single glance
You reeled me in, and then there I was
Seated in front of you, my coffee becoming cold
As I listened to your strange, revolutionary thoughts

And I was young, devil-may-care
You were charming, disillusioned.
But the pieces of the puzzle of you and me
Slowly turned out to fit together
Once the hours passed and we watched the sun set for the first time.

Then this went on for days, an unspoken agreement
Like a connivance between secret lovers.
Each day we sat in that same, dim corner
You showed me your little journal, photos
Of the foreign lands you once wandered,
Even taught me I could dream big things for myself.

And again and again, we watched the clouds move and the stars swirl
Through foggy glass windows.
We never left that dying coffee shop
Because you and I lit it up
With the way we were so curious, so eager
To listen to each other.

Leaves turned golden, snowstorms came, and flowers bloomed
Yet there we spoke, on and on
Until we unmasked each other,
Painfully honest. Truthfully beautiful.

Darling, does anyone ever tell you how lovely you are?

Then one day, I came in a summer dress
The cafe seemed darker than ever
And I was left with the ghost of you
Hunched over your cup of coffee,
Waiting for me so you could tell your stories.

A teller of tales gone astray. A lonely spectator.

And now, you are but a story too.
The most beautiful kind.
Would you send me a post card sometime?
Poppy Jan 2015
He possessed an alluring aura
Weakening my soul and heart

Brilliant aquatic eyes
Dragged me closer
Unbeknownst my will

His hand lunged for mine
Scarlet lips stretched thin
A mellow brush against my blush

His stroke closed my eyelids
Fingers serenely entangled away from mine
Encircled my body
Slithered along my back

My breathing stopped.

Buh dum.

Buh dum.

Buh dum.

A heat rising on my cheeks
Imprisoned onto his chest

Buh dum.

Buh dum.

A voice roused upwards in warning.

Then suddenly at the moment.

I threw up.
I've been wanting forever to write this. Haha
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