Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Michael Hole Sep 2019
P
Penguins painted pink,
peacefully practising pragmatic pebble placement.
Perfectly pointy piles, please!

Profoundly pious Pandas ponder pancreatic problems,
predict potential palsy.
Prognosis? Perilously poor.

Pale porpoises proudly plunge purple pools,
placidly pasturing petrified plankton.
Poor protozoans perish.

Portly, paunchy, plumpish, porcine, porky pigs
populate putrid puddles,
Pulverizing pumpkin pies.

Purposely Prickly porcupines pursue palatable plants,
pin-pointing precisely.
Puce petunias preferred.

Pill popping puppet people perpetuate planetary perdition,
pardon profuse pollution.
Pretentious ******.
Linn Hernried Mar 2018
Hej jag heter Kalle, jag är 17 vårar

och
jag är trött på att tårar faller ner från min kind.
Det hände senast i torsdags morgon i klassrummet när nina skapat ett
instagram konto
som hette kalle balle kalle balle är ful.

Jag tyckte det var töntigt för vi är sjutton år,
men alla andra skrattade så vad ska man göra då ?
Läraren sa inget fast han allting såg
han bara twittra på om något som jag ej kommer ihåg.

Även om dem flesta mobiler är på surr
så hör jag allt twitter som pågår i detta ***.
och jag vet att det mesta inte är om mig
och jag vet att man inte borde bry sig men
jag bryr mig.

och det känns så motsägelsefull
för jag har alltid hört att det är någonting fint i att bry sig
att bry sig,
men nu när jag är större är det som att världen har växt med mig
och nu finns det för mycket att bry sig,
att bry sig om.

Hej jag heter Kalle och jag mår inte bra,
jag får notiser om att det är så ungdomar ska ha det.
Jag sitter i min plats längst bak i klassrummet till vänster,
när jag plötsligt ser en bild,  
jag tror jag ser ett mönster.
här uppifrån som utanför vårt fönster.

för vi är ett *** fullt av instängda fåglar,

det finns svanar som alla anar kommer växa och bli kända som alla vill vara
det finns kråkor som är stolta över att ta andras lycka/ det andra har , och det finns hackspettar
och duvor
gökar
ugglor,
och jag

och jag är rädd att jag är en pingvin eller en struts
jag vet inte om ni vet men av alla 10000 fåglar är just dem de ända som inte kan flyga
och jag tror jag är en pingvin
men kanske är det bra för jag är jag.
a swedish one ...
Star BG Jul 2017
Two penguins meet on a day,
under sun so bright.
Flapping wings and singing song,
to make them feel so right.

They sang with hope and sent it far,
to all for change to be,
integrated in humans,
love songs would set them free.

They carried songs of sweet love.  
It rang to world so fine.
Their music was a grand gift.
The two were so divine.

And when they met the stars watched on,
from deep inside days sky.
They knew inside love shifts yes come.
In poem I tell no lie.

So send out inside of your prayers
gratitudes sweet toast
to those dressed in black and white,
who live near island coast.



StarBG © 2017
Catarina Pech May 2017
It’s the Stanley Cup Finals, The Penguins are doing well
So I’m a hockey widow but on this I don’t dwell
My man is as tense and excited as a first time Dad
So they better kick ***, or he’ll really be mad
If they lose in game seven, I’ll get my husband back
To make him feel better I’ll get nasty in the Sack
Go Penguins!
Em MacKenzie Apr 2017
In this rule book I carry till the day I die,
first lesson is; you have to learn to lie,
and cover those wounds with a wistful sigh,
'cause penguins wouldn't be loved the same if they could fly.
Martin Narrod Jan 2017
The cold is my commander, it taunts me, while it steals my sheaths of warmer cleaving skin sections exposed by its notions and collected conscious. The sounds are complicated, the moons azurean hue resembles the coldness of my cigarette's embers blue, and then the commander shucks my final breath away. It isn't something that I barely feel, but rather something that lightly see. It's hoarfrost births its fickle shell of hardrime on the last of those interstices I once called my fingers. And from this choke, this frozen voice is detained by the vox ice amplifier that steals each noise. Besides, in an interruption I hear our whorish neighbors score of shouting scripted shouts, and screaming scripted screams. Each day she becomes less and less like any real human being. It's hard to believe that behind these walls that shield me from the albicant and atrocious heraldry winter casts me through, these sounds are concentric like limited Earth words written in the prompts that some ill and wanton succubus would. If only to lure herself from the pains she gained while lying to those amidst her closest ties. I am further distressed, though fully dressed narrowly watching bits of frozen water interlace themselves beneath freezing in the corners of my mind. When until the shaking and commandeering of my mortal sounds, disperse amidst the ferocity that Spring white snow absconds. The tremulent vocal chords are hailed by a hard-rimed ****, who ensuingly rips the cantering spirit from each last place it stood. Only those who know this wind could speak about the way it genuflects and obsesses on these rules. This freezing genuflection hails to every servant of its rein, I can barely exhale the inspiration that rises from the head, until any skin exposed to air is reclaimed by my commander for good. Then each neighbor's head may lilt upon the piste, and pray for something more balmy than negative eleven degrees.
Martin Narrod Oct 2016
Your parade makes me purple, it makes me thin as an alphabet, I don't know, I don't wanna understand. I'm an estimation, I'm over and not in great abundance. Don't defend me, I'm not the header atop your letter.

Open me, I'm like your chimney, inside your mouth I am the lips you dip your tongue through, growing with sensation. See me and seam me to threads and tow me through your ****** lines-

little piece of flesh
Just a little dance, Just a little romance
Keep me in your pants let me be your postcard
I'll float across your eyelids.

Let me know your name
You can ******* skin. You can see my seams bend, my hours grow a little tired
Lifting up your dress, I can taste your pastes, your pastel belle comes floating at me sideways.

Ours and again, you ask me, "is it a nightmare?"
You ask me, "is it a car crash?" You say, "I can feel you breathing." This is not a spell, there's nothing left, not even a little lie I can play with in my fingers, you say, "is it the moon in the stars." And I stop you from ruining the sound of words to preserve a moment. Something a silence and a dollar doesn't buy you. I ask, " is this you my love? You're an imaginary process I'm never going to be interested in prosecuting perfectly. I'm not- an extroverted invert, a spirit floating in the corner of your eyes. I'm over zealous, a zealot, full of youth, using grief to keep your eyes
The worlds gone to ****
Its as simple as that
The beacons are lit
Gondor calls for aid!
What was I saying
Im too high for this

Every continent
All 7 of them
They all got problems
Wait, Antarctica...
So most of Earths ******
Great job everyone

The penguins are beating us
They're not building walls
To keep out those fleeing war
They're building bridges
Well like not actually
Its a metaphor
But you get what I'm saying

Do they have **** in Antarctica?
Martin Narrod Apr 2016
White bird
Half Intrascope
Alerted by fire
hypnotic Sapphire Realm
Shifting Snow Shape starling
In this for that for This
Chirp Chirping
In Deluxe stereo
Daylight reliefs, lights of my ethereal France

Dance, dancing
Like soldiers, rock rocking
Heavy, eiderdown beaten Shadows
In temporary ride
Into temporary flight
JR Rhine Nov 2015
The left wing and the right
Well you need both to fly
This bird of black and white
Tearfully looks up to the sky
And you know why.
I'm not very political, but at some point I think I will be, because things seem pretty bad.
Next page