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Styles Sep 2015
stop with all the yip and yap
this is just rap, that i spit back
from the back of a snapple cap
then i told jack, he didnt know jack
and flipped off a blackjack and throw it back in the stack
for talking smack he got smacked
like Pat Sayjack i'm spitting all writtens
so these cats cant say jack
i'm going Inn outlining lions lining
furlongs longer than fur lining
twisting tongues with twisted rythming
my words and rythmes colliding with perfect timing
haters slip and sliding like
Poseidon riding down a slip-n-slide, end slipin-n- sliding
two worlds collide-in
line with the silver lining
i'm in line with you online
your outlining --
stop and rewind, end
your mouse crawl -in,
for you two view what i can do
with rythmes so fly they caught the flew
i got so many styles I thought you knew,
i'm a trending topic, what else is new?
i can flow for miles
spit rivers too --
Michael Kreitman Sep 2015
One of the hottest tattoos I have ever seen on a women is her grandmothers numbers.
Styles Sep 2015
She - devil
with the eyes of an angel
a fierce look that will tame you
amazing from any angle.
too hot to handle,
even for a candle.
She's a heartbreaker ---
break your heart and let it dangle
weaves a web you can't untangle
She'll wear your heart on her sleeve,
and put your love on a mantle.
Styles Sep 2015
Her stare;
         penetrating my clothes
         riveting through my body,
         touching my soul
         seducing my flesh;
                               Savoring,
                               every second,
                               of her gaze.
Athena Aug 2015
"Life was a punch in the jaw and you were the pack of ice I needed."
But remember, we have a very complex relationship.
We are both poets, destruction is what we are known for.
But in reality,
They should call us carpenters.
We tear down, yes, but we also rebuild.
Better, stronger, our feet planted on the ground.
Your feet planted on my mind.
Frostbite,
That is what  you gave me when you just would not let go.
Yes I needed an ice pack but not everything can be cold.
Your veins frozen solid,
Antartica in your heart.
I was so used too being frozen over that when the sun came out I thought I was burning.
I was burning.
The frost already bit me,
But all I want is for you to hit me.
Hit me with your words one last time.
I do not care if you spit razor blades,
Your poetic phrases will fill the room.
Coat me with metaphors and philosophical ideas like I am the Aristotle too your Plato.
When you are done I will spit fire like a dragon.
After so many years of being frozen,
Im sorry baby,
I do not know how too treat a burn wound.
Please do not take my words, they are the only thing I have.
GGA Aug 2015
We count hours slowly
Hot humid air hangs leaden
The days thick and course
Persistent, overbearing
So eternally August
Martin Narrod Aug 2015
Luke warm bath verse. Can your fingers live on my thumb peninsula forever I hope. You groom me and I'll dump the water over your head. Sit in front of me, I like the way it feels when it pokes your back awkwardly. It's weird to me, only your toes wrinkle. I can be the hot towel and kisses on your eyelids. The morphine calls my veins, while you don't call my name. Ours was unlike anyones. It still is to me and the trailing cries of women who I tried to **** my heart out of your hands. Like shucking emptiness from already emptied containers. I'm living for the day I feel your hands on my face again. Again.
Little Azaleah Aug 2015
I couldn't forget of your warm touch on my skin.

{ E.I }
I couldn't even forget about it.
BoF Aug 2015
Lipstick stains
Finger prints
Just ****** hair
Skin on skin
We Loved in sin.

B.oF
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
This morning I put the apostrophe in
and this afternoon I took it out.
Oscar Wilde's comic wit
about the writer working hard.

Revision has lately become the sign
of seriousness, as in I revise
some poems a hundred times,
maybe more. A word of praise here,

a critical word there.
Before that there was the debate
if poems not stitched with end-sounds
were playing tennis without a net.

Late summer, August, hot, but
chickadees forming platoons.
Three months until the snow flies,
sure as the June my father died.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
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