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Shall we lock our fingers and make a truce, that forever we shall be poetry friends.
Come what may thru thick or thin..
Should I ***** my finger with a pin.
Till a drop of blood pours from within.
I'll sign on paper with my blood instead of pen.
That it will never fail that we shall always be Poetry kin.
Insert a image with this poem.. Showing a Pad and a pen, along with a finger pricked with a cute blood drop.. To sign on dotted line that Poets are united . They are a special Blend.. poet people are Poetry kin.
Bill Nellist May 24
Every so often glows a fine light,
ebbing life with a unique frequency,
us, arranged as beacons set to ignite,
signalling our love and humanity.
kinhanyon May 15
These words againts no one,
except me

Mind your own pleasure,
dont convince the other
Diljeev Apr 8
Where oh where is it in me
you still reside,
where is it you still hide,
irony in it's full stride
sees an outsider
on the mirror's inside.
I am but a corpse of our dead kin,
this is how it has always been
and always will be.
Bhill Nov 2020
there once was a land that was rich with things
everything working with no broken swings
about 4 years ago it started to fail
the spirit of the nation was turning quite pale
some thought it was good and just went along
others were appalled and knew it was wrong
what was the reason many of us asked
it appears that our rights are questioned and tasked
we rambled about and fought from within
losing some friends and a few of our kin
we need this to change we said in a vote
but the man at the top, he started to gloat
he ate up the laws and turned into a grinch
casting people about and not giving an inch
we elected in another to take on the task
to cast the grinch out and peel off his mask
well grinch wouldn't budge and sent out his saps
to alter results and further the collapse
what do we do, can we take on more ****
I for one am just done, and the grinch has to quit....

Brian Hill - 2020 # 319
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
by Michael R. Burch

O pale, austere moon,
haughty beauty ...

what do we know of love,
or duty?

Keywords/Tags: moon, pale, austere, haughty, beauty, goddess, love, kin, kinship, duty
Michael R Burch Feb 2020
Tell us what you lack ...
the ability to love,
your flesh so slack?

Will we frighten you,
grown as pale & unsound ...
when we also haunt
the unhallowed ground?

Keywords/Tags: Halloween, skeleton, pale, haunt, grave, graveyard, unhallowed, ground, thin, kin, frighten, frightening, scary, horror, terror, slack, flesh, fleshless, bone, bony, unsound, haunting
TIZZOP Nov 2019
tizzop is the lover of
a single mother  

years ago tizzop
knocked at our door
nighttime the remains of
day splattered across the floor

when you think of tizzop:

think of your last
déjà vu and what you
think of early immigration:
the german belt

tizzop: a combination of
people lovin/people hatin'
pride of a nation yet
last letter standing in a
poem without ending

long time ago tizzop
knocked at our door
nighttime the remains of
day splattered across the floor

tizzop hungry; he asked for
food while slowly taking his hat off
to my mom; she delighted since she
saw into the eyes of a warrior acting
quite politely

then tizzop fainted and fell on
the floor obviously he was starving
mom fried some chicken

later at the table tizzop gobbled
the more i looked at tizzop's
traits the way he moved his
cheeks and chewed his food
i sensed that we were  

nobody talked: familiar
silence filled the room

the more i looked at tizzop's
bossy smile and his
black teeth i was
reminded of something

like the déjà vu of a  
déjà vu

strong connection between
tizzop and me: he
stayed at our place and soon became

my brother
little by little mom turned him
into her lover

wanted to **** him but
**** it this poem gotz to be
a tizzopish report
neth jones Oct 2019
kinder to kidnap

expand on the family

to have crime in bind
inspired by movie : Shoplifters
Anti Haiku
Left Foot Poet Nov 2017
surprise surprise I read between the lines,
gobbling up the bread crumbs youse guys leave in;
yours and hers in the edible empty spaces and
hints and clues from other lines from other places

grew up in a family of storytellers, historians and book writers:
we did not play Scrabble in my house; was too contentious,
and besides, someone excelled in literary obscura and
Ancient Poets,
which made it most unfaira

instead we read the dictionary for fun and
broke into the unlocked local library at night,
were called The Borrowers in our little town,
I think affectionately

The FBI employed my momma,
the Original Literary Profiler,
cause she could see the signature of the same writer,
no matter how many names or disguises he tried,
in everything they had written

  the skill was transferred genetically,
which is visible in all my escapades poetically:
I live here under many names so superciliously,
but I never have yet, fooled myself^
I did read a first chapter of my sister's book published in a newspaper many years ago; thinking it was a well written review,   when I discovered the true author's identity, my family teased me mercilessly
11-29-17 13:18 est

^ sometimes I read an oldie and think not bad, which  makes laugh when I say out loud,  
did I write that?
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