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She’s the girl at the party
reading ****** in the corner
instead of conversing the idle
she never learned how to read books with blank pages
She has a heart of gold
it’s just a bit broken
Can’t you hear it?
It’s beating for you already
She’s looking to be soaked in safety
not just comfort
She thinks she may find it
in your dry sense of humor
She wants you to untangle her twisted mind
She’s searching for someone to understand
the evocation that is her soul
that she’s a black hole
yet a ray of sunshine
That she desperately yearns for attention
but burns under the spotlight
Beautiful and tortured like the sea
Don’t judge her for the too many sips she takes
She’s just trying to forget
the things she never deserved to know
She’s using liquor to put out the fire in her brain
No one ever told her that it just helps it grow
She doesn’t want to feel alone in this crowded room anymore
She wants to run through the forest chasing butterflies
the way she always has to feel alive
She’ll make a paintbrush out of her own hair
if she has to
and paint her words on the moon
just to feel special for a minute
something she’s never been able to prove to herself
Because it’s hard to hear her echo
underneath the ocean
even though you can see her reflection in the sky
She’s the girl at the party
reading ****** in the corner
Don’t be afraid
Stars can’t shine without darkness after all
Hurry, before her lungs fill with water
Won’t you listen to her song?
She will learn the chords to yours too
Accept her because she’ll always accept you

- Unicorn
Louche tang of the berthafly ink on your nape
has me flushed glutton for its underclass umami.
'Cross a Newkie Brown kristallnacht-scape,
you: hither, blacken ballet pumps from Primani.

No rugbytackle on a hungry subtle jackal,
but it's risky (tho', tbf, not that risky)
to smuggle rumpled, prisonrolled rosepetals
int'a Dean Rhetoric afterworld for Daddy.

Whilst lukewarm ****'s a phoenix's acronyx,
asbestos gelos defervesces not, my frisky
alderliefest ticklish like Chi-nickel crucifix.
Life's too brisk: fake a risk (in itself quite risky).

A poet's the kinda herbert in Herbert Pocket's pocket,
who thinks risque lagniappe from Aganippe
is lock of autumnal pubarche from Humbert Humbert's locket,
in sink where gooseberries were electrolysised lately.

Flightless bard 'mid diorama of nephograms
(steppensheep nebula, staffage in matteshot sky),
*****, erm, Withwords, who broadsides how wrong I am:
'Heart's excrescences risk poesy's arty chokey'.

In rejectionslip braille hail, papercut rain
of masterpiece confetti do we live dangerously,
in mastertape conshreddi of 99 bandnames.
But headliner suicides win poetry lottery.

Shelley stunt of dying strangely, strangely young
cures a vocabullinachinashoplairy,
becomes Voynich manuscrap of Symbolist shantung.
Full circle: silk wormfood determines vellumworthy.

Vicious circle: rosa rosa razor est est.
Vicious Coriolis: life plugholing w/ the hoary
sullage, balneal bisnatchizzle, a stringvest-
al Virgil's dregs refresh t'highwater Dante.

For what BBQpid matchmakes man w/ Beatrice,
Stonkahontas tormeting an odd 'n' furry
berk, poet whose amrita is thridace
strain of th'infidelity toxin, Beauty.

Which is how the risky Manic defined the
entartete source of fishy fiances,
la beaute du diable. But hybristophilia
to scorpions of Venus, to Hell on a tray,

is flipbride of poet wailing to be her DWEM lover,
a foxynoxynihilipilification proxy
for transfiguration by association w/ bete noir
of Beauty: beta noir bards are Death's humerus candy.
bisnatchizzle = a *****'s ***** hair
Tati Oct 2018
Why hello my names ****** and I really wanna die
I’ve been telling all my friends about it
They said I should try
So when I got home I slit my wrists and blood shot really high
And when I was done I got so scared that I just sat and cried
Oh my
I really wanna die
I wanna die
Cuz I got nothing left in my life
All i dream about is suicide
Cuz I wanna die
They say it’s a crime
How could someone with a face so strikingly divine wanna commit suicide?
But I do
I do
Because you left me my love
And I’m nothing without you
So I cry
Abby May 2018
they call me a nymphet
my narrow hips budding *******
my glowing skin rosebud lips
in the sun where i rest...
older women are fat and cold
with porous skin and dyed hair
they haven't their blades like gold
salient and bare
they haven't their thighs like ivory
of thin ivory are mine
i'm british and brattish
they're just fine
they call me a nymphet
with my schoolbag hanging
from my frail shoulder
decadent and delicate
please just for a while
not a nymphet
but a hurting child
Dim Apr 2018
to stay young in your heart you first should have one
and you better fill it up with some love
just a bit
because love is the secret ingredient
the pursuit of justice without love makes you cruel
the pursuit of truth without love makes you a heckler
the pursuit of god without love makes you a bigot
the pursuit of beauty without love makes you Humbert Humbert
power without love makes you a tyrant
honor without love makes you arrogant
wit without love makes you cunning
work without love makes you tired
care without love makes you brusque
talk without love makes you annoying
seriousness without love makes you boring
tenderness without love makes you mawkish
friendliness without love makes you fake
so
you better spice things up with some love
just a bit
helena alexis Sep 2017
she glossed her lips
to prove to him
that she was worth it

- seduction
wrote this ab the teacher I had a crush on in high school
Sharon Talbot Sep 2017
Favorite word: “nymphet”, but no!
Halcyon, a kind of drug, you know.
Searching through the pages’ mist
And imagined deeds
Of poets’ needs…
I found my favourite word,
As asked,
Neither sacred nor profane
That describes the Venetian rain
In my beloved’s eyes
And the Florentine sun upon her hair:
“Auburn, russet, mythopoeic”.
Oh, it is not fair,
To liken an object
Of my lust and love
To anything as mortal as autumn air!
Nor “October’s orchard Haze”;
She had her own
Inscrutable, premeditated ways!
Rather let me say that she was perfect,
Though her eyes, pale and myopic,
Her shuffling gait and
Graceless limbs, to them Grace lends
Fey charm, the power to mend
My suffering and
Delusions of a poet’s end
As anything but pathetic,
(Her mother’s fondness for vague emetics)
And I left softly hanging,
On a girl’s new taste,
A tang of russet apples on her face,
But no, not that, the sum
Of my love, My Lo!
Then her bleak demise, partly by my hand
That none of you brutes could understand;
The pure love,
So sadly consummated,
Between a lover
And the one she hated
Yet loved once with inexplicable delight,
On one stolen, frightened night…
In which the two of us agreed
To satisfy a simple, yet maniacal need,
And then depart…
But I could not,
You see;
She was my life,
My love, my heart.

Humbert Humbert 1950

Sharon Talbot ca. 2005
Obviously inspired by Vladimir Nabokov's controversial and perfectly written novel, ******. So many people fail to realize that, behind the monstrous deeds, there is a love story, however profane. Is it a tragedy? Perhaps. I just wanted to revel in some of Nabokov's prose and imagery, that changes so well into poetry.
はなろ May 2017
Seeing those lips give a smile
wild and wet
while you are licking your heart-shaped loli
in the middle of the Eucharist
seductively

God is faded
Your body comes so real
My soul gets blackout
Lust shines so fine

Hail satan, you said
I'm dead
Why do lolitas have a good taste in style and become more sensual?
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