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Aaron LaLux Jul 2016
Was boxed in,
so I had to make a way out,
a way out with words,
I don't like being boxed in,
so box me in I'll knock you out,
way out with words,
in nights on a day out,
boxed in so I wrote a way out,
wrote a way out with words,

road way out on roads,
stayed paid out in shows,
had hate gave love,
took the thorns with the rose…

The H Trilogy
Volume 1
7/7/16

Brent Kincaid May 2016
While sleeping in my bed
Rhymes escape my head.
I maunder them around
Then write them down
And publish them instead.

That is, those worth keeping
That I write while sleeping
That often turn out to be
Happily approved by me.
A poetic parrot peeping.

An internal rhyming thing.
Almost an eternal ping
That runs through my brain
There to sometimes remain
And bubble back upon rising.

Sometimes it wakes me up
And I brew myself a quick cup
Because at that time
In search of a rhyme
That goes with boxer pup or buttercup.

I haven’t made a dime from this
My middle-of-the-night muse’s kiss.
I just gleefully scribble
And sometimes I giggle
No matter it’s a hit or a miss.

Far be it from me to complain.
For so many poems remain
That turn out terrific
That I’m labelled prolific.
Either that, or poetically insane.
Damian Murphy Apr 2016
There was a man who wrote poetry,
There were none more prolific than he.
And all that he wished
Was to be published
But alas it was never to be!
Never give up!!
iamtheavatar Mar 2014
Ode to Self

Walking on my own in this road to nowhere
I have thought my life was a whole lot better
Without the things that I used to consider
Superficial like love that made me bitter

Then an angel came to me in a jiffy
Dressed in golden feathers with lips like ruby
Suddenly I was enthralled by her beauty
Misery left me then came my love story

She gave me her heart and I found my shelter
At last my cry was like the rushing river
Can’t imagine why God put us together
Only to be with another’s arms sooner

It’s hard to live in the shadows of her past
Happiness gave company yet left so fast
I don’t have the clue of how long will I last
Like a fracture in a sculpture with a cast

My hopes have faded like the stars were aligned
Like prayers answered like proposals declined
Bursting with ideas from an empty mind
Beauty of irony which left them behind

I have heard limericks from my broken heart
Pieces of memories being torn apart
Mosaics of truth that built a fancy art
But I don’t want to go back from where I start

Ode to Beloved

Sassy lady how lovely you shine so bright
Blind me, come and take away my precious sight
Do you want me to go on a solo flight?
Or be a tool for another man’s delight?

Oh ears of my dearly loved can you hear me?
Draw closer to me please respond to my plea
Heed the sonata of my melancholy
It feels like I’m falling with no gravity

You‘ve lost your sight from the dimness of the dusk
You’ve fooled your own heart when you wore on that mask
Love was next to you even if you don’t ask
Like a machine with an automated task

Hey girl do you see a man from your future?
Do you know that he would stitch up your suture?
From sorrows that have caused your heart to rupture
Which made you weak and soon became your nature

If metaphors can be like reality
And reality can foresee destiny
I don’t know how happy it would be for me
If you could make sense of my allegory

Just gaze at nowhere but only in the front
Disregard the pasts that persist as they haunt
Like carcasses in graves so ghastly and gaunt
Walk with me make sure it isn’t just a jaunt

iamthe_avatar ©2010
Written in perfect Hendecasyllabic meter.
ConnectHook Sep 2015
†           †           †    

A quorum of biblical scholars
turned their doubts into thousands of dollars.
Armed with Document Q
they revealed nothing new
but the dirt neath’ the white of their collars.

A proud “health & wealth” Oklahoman
was renowned as a gospel-tent showman.
While the scriptures he twisted,
their tithing assisted
his rise from poor hick to rich Roman.

A sexually diverse professor
(assured he was not a transgressor)
spoke only of openness
glossing sin’s brokenness;
rainbows and tolerance—yes sir.

A Mormon, who lost his own ephod
Realized he was running quite slipshod
and invoked Joseph Smith.
(Yes, it may be a myth—
but it’s not like misplacing your I-pod…)

A Christian whose faith was prophetic
held to views that were truly pathetic.
This crazed Pentecostal,
not quite an apostle,
had taken an End-Times emetic.

A sober and staid Presbyterian
was distrustful of thoughts millenarian.
After smoking some bud,
he awoke with a thud;
in his sleep he’d become Rastafarian.

A preacher who fleeced his disciples
overdrew his own balance of scruples.
He was finally captured
(defrocked and un-raptured)
and rent by his destitute pupils.

A sister who waxed Pentecostal,
mistook herself for an apostle.
Speaking pure glossolalia
she sure could regale ya’
with prophecy; crazy—but docile.
What's wrong? Too hard to LIKE me ?
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha  

         †           †           †
Edna Sweetlove Feb 2015
I once ****** a ******* a bus;
She had pimples, all oozing out pus;
She said, feigning shock,
"My, what a huge ****!"
But she never noticed my truss.

I once ****** a girl in a train;
She was short, rather fat and quite plain;
The smell of stale *****
Which arose from her bunk
Obliged me to **** her again.

I once ****** a ******* a boat;
She smelled awful, worse than a stoat;
I fingered her ***
Which made us both come
And I wiped the **** off on her coat.
Edna Sweetlove Jan 2015
COUNT ORLOK (my alter ego) gets light-hearted in Poem #9*

I'm a vampire who likes to drink blood
And I drink more than I really should.
(I think biting necks
is better than ***).
I'd drink yours if only I could.

The blood of a ****** is best
(it wins every possible test);
But I still like a tipple
From a bite of a ******
On a hot nymphomaniac's breast.

I'm Count Orlok the black vampire bat
And blood-******* is where I am at;
I'll cause lots of pain
To your jugular vein;
I don't care if you're skinny or fat.
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