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Emma Barlow Nov 5
Never should
One person

Themselves in
Regard to an
Idiot who is a
Nuisance that
Suspicion while

The most
Accredited kind of
Edifying their
Star BG May 3
World is full of lost souls
needing to anchor love.
Pull them
to your love dock.
If they resist let them float away.

knowing.... a big love fish will tickle their stomachs
and make them transmute
into their true soul selves.

OR... Knowing they will float to a dessert island
where they will be alone
till they learn
that love is the answer.

OR Knowing that Moby **** will swallow
them whole and perhaps they will meet Geppetto
who will than share wisdom about love
and maybe Pinocchio will come
to rescue them both
Jim Davis Inspired me with my poem. He is very gifted and I am very grateful.
Adler Feb 22
I feel like Pinocchio
made of wood,  held up by strings,
hoping to be a real boy
but never reaching my goal.
Wishing for my own fairy godmother.
To be saved from the whale inside of me.
This darkness in my soul
Devouring every good thought.
And every speck of light.
I have water filling up my lungs now.
No land in sight
I am driftwood,
Floating in the sea
I strain to see past the darkness
Still wishing my impossible wish
Hoping to be a real boy.
I'm ftm, and I'm having a bad dysphoria day. I feel like I'll never be who I want, and Pinocchio seemed the the best metaphor.
Demonatachick Mar 2018
I always try too hard to make everything I do look effortless, I am my own puppeteer, too scared to cut the strings incase I crumble to the floor heaped and pathetic.
Was in the mood for a puppet theme just some old work I've been playing with, thank you everyone who liked my work when I was inactive :)))
jiminy-littly Oct 2016
I got no strings

to keep me here

though born of earth

of mother brown and father white

bored I listen to music:

"you're so natural - you're so free" "I'm seeing red'

"thats when I reach for my revolver"

it happened in Southampton
("say you don't want it").


holed up in

brick and stucco prisons that last

a lifetime

there wasn't much to do
when there was time to do it
It was spring
—there was a boy,
And with him was his father.
They sat along in rooms
That smelled of kerosene
And buzzed with machineries,
Their hands smudged black
With grime and plaster.

It was spring
—and his head was a golden halo.
How he was created,
I suppose we’ll never know.
So often the boy would ask,
“Father, father, what am I?”

(For if the father was trapped in his cage
With only a forge as his company,
Then what else could this little boy be?)

It was spring
—and the boy grew tall and proud.
Hair like fire and eyes like quicksand,
“My son, you will reach heights no man
Has ever reached before.”

It was spring
—and the father’s smile grew tired and weary
“I will not be caged,” and yet he was, he was.
Thus he took feathers from god-knows-where
And built wings from wax and cinders.

It was spring
—and my son, do not fly too close to the sun;
See there?
That is freedom—just do not fly too close to the sun.
And the boy nodded,
Little long nosed liar that he is.

It was spring,
—they say, when Icarus fell.
And here was freedom:
Wind sharp like glass
And the sun too warm,
The world minimal between his fingertips.
He burned bright, burned fast, died quickly.

(And they say the waves were gentle,
As clockwork spilled.)
Shruti Atri Feb 2016
She is dead,
Now I am free;
She had a will
And her eyes on me.
Her will had strings,
But can't you see,
I tore her strings
And I broke free...

She fought me hard,
But still she fell;
She kept me in,
While I gave her hell.
I was her nightmare
She'd never tell;
As weak she was,
She loved him well.

Her will is dead,
And so is she;
The one she protected,
Is no more free--
The one she hid,
Is now exposed;
The one she loved,
Will be disposed.

It cannot be,
She shares my stage;
She cheated death,
And turned the page--
She's alive inside,
Fighting the wars I wage;
She did not die,
*She's crying in the birdcage...
PaulSta SA Sep 2015
This is no Lament,but an
Ode.I'm on my last hook of
The tune,as I hear voices hollers
On my back.this positivity keeps me
Locked on my de javus.

I'm livin' life like a video,
Onto press forward to my
Ambitions.I'm too proud of

I'm on my utmost,every dream
Ends a picture perfect,as I imagine
Myself holdin' a throne at my

I'm no Pinocchio but I iPaulistic 'til live to the birth of
Next century,'cause I'm the
Third World War Soldier.

I'm a wanderer in disguise,searchin'
Triumph at night.
Guess my dreams ain't real,
Just livin' greatness of my fantasies.
Oh!!this is an omen.

I'm no Osama,but still a Pisces
I vandalize world of neysayers,
Forfeit negativities.

I separate dark and light
'Cause these street lights
Still shows me life on
My grind.

I'm down floor to my knees,
Bow down to all loved,losted
Zulu warriors,for Shaka to
Flourish my greatness.

Dear God,may you please sprinkle
Blessings upon my life,my path
Is grey a winter season.

'Till death takes me,but my
Dreams will forever last.
And if i die today tell me
I will make it through hell,'cause
Heaven is where the heart is.
Meteo Aug 2015

They were not statues
and now you see what they see
looking back at you


Her tongue, was so sharp
dissevers men from their ******
kisses them goodnight!

Our blind date went well
Next time leave my mask at home,
and her eyes attached.

Scratched, stained, double locked.
Basement corner, light bulb off.

Won't let him hurt you.
I promise, now go and hide,
Daddy is coming...

I don't remember,
I keep having these blackouts.
Sorry I hurt you.


Make-out Point, moonlight...
Turn their car radio on,
leave my hook behind.

50 ft. Woman,
dreams of a fifty foot world.
Curse my two left feet.

Empty, shiny man
His axe hacks you limb from limb
You hear a heartbeat

Wound too tight, tied down
Whisper lies, impale your skull
What is a real boy?

"Last person on earth,
dif'rent faces in mirror."
- Frankenstein's Monster


appeared as a zit
it grew, no concern for it
it spoke! *******!

Lamprey fingertips
Coarse hair on infected tongue
Lotus seed ******

My beast sounds like love,
vanity to a monster,
hero to a ghost.

from Horrors Grotesque,
the existential monster
fears little carpals.
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