She cheated on me
With a guy that
Could speak Russian
Then he left her broken hearted

The lady I am falling
In love with
Is Russian
My heart once again repaired

It’s strange how an American that spoke Russian ended my last relationship and my girlfriend now is from Russia

What makes a good poem?
Is it the rhythm? The structure? The carefully placed similes like dog treats and the restricted use of rhetorical questions?
Oh.
If that's the case,
I think I failed the test.
Oh please! Don't leave! Let me try this again!

(A cough to clear the throat)
Ha-HEM.

When one writes iambic pentameter
Doth that make his good prose the worthier then?

...No?

If I write a witty couplet in a rhyme
Does that make this utter shit more worth your time?

Have I got the tempo right?
I need an exclamatory tone!
Rhyming feels better somehow
But it doesn't make trombone.

My jittery jilted stream-of-consciousness different-line-length punctuation-less word-vomit onto a page-
Pause for breath-
Can never match the likes of Donne or Keats;
But I've bled my soul and fire onto this page
And surely, that is worth more than conceits?

This is my attempt at humour. Apologies. The title is a play on 'A Good Friday, 1613, riding Westward', a poem by John Donne, who I was studying at the time. This was prompted by reading all the great poets and realising that, technically, I will never be as 'good' as them. But I like to think that art isn't quantifiable, and that so long as you write with truth and emotion, you'll create something beautiful.
Lady Grey Sep 25

I've had this crush on my best friend in my class for years
Years and years and i never told her
Why you ask?
Well, i laugh
It’s because she doesn’t like girls

The problems of being bi

mornings--
they aren't always
pretty.

sometimes,
it's grey
like the rain
going over
your head.

at other times,
it's complete
darkness,
like the difficulties
of life.

how ironic it is,
that bitterness
can make it
better.

Peter Balkus Sep 14

Waiting for war,
not wanting it,
but knowing
that it will happen one day.
Having no choice, but waiting,
chilling,
not loving the war,
hating.
Watching news,
where men in suits
overdebating
and shitting themselves,
not knowing what to do
to stop the war.
You can't stop the war, can you?
It's like a hurricane,
happens from time to time,
all you can do is chill,
hide,
and wait.

I'm waiting
for the bad news from out there,
I'm waiting for bombs in the air,
not because I love it,
I totally hate it,
I detest it,
and forbade it,
but it doesn't matter what I say,
I'm too small to play this game,
so I chill,
I'm not Winston fucking Churchill.

Oh silly Kim,
he'll be having fun
watching sinking Japan,
and America,
what they gonna do, man?
Will they shut the fat guy down,
before he shuts down everyone else?
Interesting,
while you're resting
and wanking, I'll wank
watching as Japan gets sank,
not because I love it,
but because I can't stop it,
I can only spill it,
and then quickly mop it.

I can do nothing
to save the world,
not a single thing,
I can write poetry,
be new Pete Doherty,
but it won't stop the war.
I can call them cunts and shout
at my tv screen,
but I can't stop it, I wish,
so I chill,
I pray to satellite dish
for more news, bad news on war,
not because I adore war,
no, I abhore and I am a man of peace,
but it doesn't matter, if I'm on my knees,
or if I'm on my sofa, manspreading,
waiting for the bad news, I'm more than ready,
so bring it on,
Kim and Don,
it's gonna be huge, lol.

You can't avoid the future,
no.

JAC Aug 27

Every time I feel close to you,
I feel like running away,
which is exhaustingly ironic
because every time I run away,
you try to get closer.

As it is Aug 2015
Am.

I am the words here, written in pen.
I am words you hear recited in your head.
I am this and that at the same time.
I am a hundred hammers making a rhyme.

The shout that never raises its voice.
  The scream that cannot contend with all of the white noise.
    The immobile rock that will not hear a sound.
      The never ending ticking of a clock counting down.

I am measured in madness.
I am forgotten before found.
I am hope, hopeful, hopeless, hopelessness.
I am a square that is round.

The challenge put before us all.
  The sharpened pencil, ready to draw.
    The countless times someone was kind.
   The ugly bat, not deaf, but blind

Hannah Jul 19

I can't even say a somewhat mean joke without thinking about it over and over
I don't wanna be that type of lover

It's funny to poke fun, it's mad how it makes me mad. Relationships allow for that gray area of jokes, but it's so easy to revisit and use it as a weapon.

Remember when you said?  I was joking

It's not funny then, and the jester becomes the prisoner, and the muse becomes the victim.

When you and your man or girl roast each other jokingly it's funny when it happens but then y'all fight and someone wants to say, "oh but you said..." and you're like...you laughed when I said it.
Aaron LA Lux Jul 14

The City of Demonios

“Why are some people waiters,
while others are waited on,
why are some people Haters,
while others are hated on?”

I was awaited on,
before they knew they were waiting,
snatched from my cradle pinched from my dreams,
or so it seems because it appears the people are awaking,

I’ve awaken,
in some sort of dream awakening,
and I’m trying to not let Them get to me,
but it seems They get to everyone eventually,

preyed on by hungry Demons,
Fallen Angels that haven’t found peace,
from the hills in The City of Los Angeles,
to the beaches in Long Island in the East,

and this indigestion from lost intentions is getting intense,
so we throw up everything from inside the Belly of the Beast,

a feast,
I offer up my body for Death,
like they do on Himalayan mountain peaks,
when they offer eagles the bodies of the dead,

see only through the death of the physical,
can the Soul truly ascend,

ascend,
do not fear the Reaper,
hey friend,
let’s make them all Believers.

I see her,
like a nightmarish dream,
I love Her I hate her I don’t want her I have  to have her,
she quietly stares in my eyes loudly and makes the Silence scream,

scream,
isn’t that a painting?

A dream,
isn’t that an awakening?

Let’s not,
let our,
hopes only be hopes,

manifest,
all of this,
before Death ties His rope,

around our necks,
bringing about suffocation,
please let us be free,
we all need some liberation,

but for now,
I’ll just take a glass of water,
I’m parched it’s a desert out here,
and I’m wondering if this trouble’s worth the bother,

“Waiter,
please a glass of water.”,
I order a glass of water after saying all of this,
then turn to you and say “Isn’t it ironic?”,

“Why are some people waiters,
while others are waited on,
why are some people Haters,
while others are hated on?”…

No answers only questions,
ah well stay calm and carry on…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

from 777: Alphas & Numerics
available worldwide 7/7/17
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1548700746

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