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uv Mar 28
A Labyrinth is enjoyable when you know there is a way out
Its colours are enticing when you know they will fade out
The glamour might intoxicate
The novelty might instigate
But as time passes
The colours, the glamour, the novelty of it starts to suffocate
In "Labyrinth," I delve into the fleeting nature of allure and novelty. The labyrinth serves as a metaphor for life's journey, where the initial excitement of finding an exit is soon overshadowed by the realization that the vibrant colors and glamour will inevitably fade. As time passes, the once-thrilling novelty begins to suffocate, highlighting the transient nature of superficial attractions. Through this poem, I invite readers to contemplate the importance of seeking lasting fulfillment beyond fleeting pleasures.
Anais Vionet Jan 2023
Coffee, I adore thee,
somehow you never bore me.
Bold and dark or mild and smooth,
you get me up and on the move.

In warm embrace or cool frappe,
mocha, french roast, or tall latte,
crema, sospeso or con panna,
you never fail to make my day.

It’s the best thing ever manufactured,
without it, my mind is slow and scattered,
for a quiz or formulating I’d be knackered,
every morning the Keurig is where we gather.

You pick me up and keep me keen,
in complementing any cuisine,
by delivering a dose of sweet caffeine,
you are the original magic bean.

In doses quick or lingered over,
on mornings with a hangover,
I reach for you, your warm embrace,
the morning fogginess to erase.

The flavors, the scent, which is the best?
They are of compound interest.
French press or espresso - take your pick
- they all provide that delicious kick.

Jitter juice, rocket fuel, cup of joe,
cuppa, morning brew or ristretto,
your flavors please, your scent rouses,
a coffee shop is where the crowd is.

In slang they call it Mormon-crack,
but sugared up or with a snack,
with creamy art or straight-up black
once I’ve got it, you won’t get it back.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Knackered: “very tired or exhausted.”
Zywa Dec 2022
I don't spend money

on pleasures, because not one --

of them can be bought.
"La mano del malato povero" ("The hand of the poor sick man", 1917, Luigi Pirandello)

Collection "On the fly"
Radhika Krishna Apr 2022
You see,
I seem to have caught
the deathly hug of hubris
I know everything
But what does it all mean?
The pleasures of life go right above my head
And time drips from my fingertips
Plip, plop, plip
I am a blip
And this hug,
Why does it make everything so sad?
Jade Dec 2021
If you think about ***
while getting your eyebrows threaded,
it doesn’t hurt nearly as much.
Yenson Jun 2021
Let's face it
its more ******* warfare
culturally they are used to faking it
as thimbles and chipolatas in ninety seconds
do not reach first base much less seeing stars on cloud nine
hence they woke and fake the reality they chose be it feel or fright
in woke solidarity against frustrations they cloned their made-up foe
what better than sturdy shining Mandingo loaded and *******
there for the having to your heart's content
presented to you the untamed beast
the wild moor tooled hot and ready
raw animalistic unfettered passion
rock hard we can name him Rocky
that goer that delivers every time
the one that is all your men aren't
and can never be cause he's gifted
sleek like dolphin in rhythmic glide
tasty like fresh clean mushroom
Arabian stallion if ever there's one
with absolute pedigree and class
take a break from the mediocre
from the wham bangs no can dos
from the floppy quick-draws saps
imagine the dark horse with the most
in smooth soft pink leathery velvet
tis your secret your guilty pleasure
tis the obsession you made into a war
the fantasy that plays in your heads
tis behind fervours that haunts you
that you so well disguise in hatred
telling metaphors slip out Freud
hold him down, grind him hard
wear him out, let's wreck him so
the sado masochistic 'punishing him'
give him a hard time, it all says a lot
you twist innocent sentences into
****** innuendos and innocent actions
are falsely given ****** meanings
as morn noon and night you toil
you troll and agitate for attention
yes you twist turn  bite and nibble
in Freudian throes you talk love
you glaze unrequited love relentlessly
you close your eyes and dream sweet pain
yeah! get real, its no psyche warfare
its a flutters obsession, it's the classic '
"The lady doth protest too much, methinks."
its how you float your boats and and get yer thrills
you better face it you're all addicted
It's an ******* War-fare and you all know so.....
How do we define a peace land?
And where is the home, craving to return?
Listen, what did the birds and trees say?

The true pleasures lie beneath the mountain
A single bound will take us there
It is our first homeland where we were born free.

Seagull migrates well,
Pine tree wouldn't move
Look, they reunion in one home garden

They imagine that all their 
Woes, hurts and indignities
Would not exist
in their imagined homeland.

Where we learnt justice at our mother's knee
return is easy, we just have to dare
The true pleasures lie beneath the mountain

In their minds, homeland
is in stasis.
The life they left is lingering
waiting for them to return.
Dedicate to a double festival in China 2020-- Chinese national holiday as well as Mid-Autumn Festival
Simon Jul 2020
Tasting pleasure is not my fault for one reason, and one reason...ONLY...! I am ecstasy itself! Ecstasy that is not within my own choice to choose from. I merely tether my own choice towards the pleasure I hope to tether towards my ecstasy as tasting it with pride. That's why I tend to fail sometimes when knowing it's my fault for who I am... But fail (all the same) to see through the lies of my very delusions tell me so, simply! I'm a failure to my own structural design! As I'm also a failure to my own choices among the same decision-making my actions enforce. As I'm not going to lie about such things, but... I don't truly want to taste the pleasures my own inner "ecstasy" demons want from me! They want to mutually **** me dry! Only for myself to last long enough by the hand that want's to be free of them...ALL! I want them to stay and torment me for the pleasure of such tastes! I want to devour my own inner "ecstasy" demons...for I HATE what I've become. (Triggering forevermore something I could NEVER control!) Not to mention the torment I pose upon myself and those very demons! I want respect where respect can't (ever again) be given, when I've eaten myself up long ago! This simple passage is a given guilt upon the makings of an apology that I could come to grips about getting it out there into the BIG BAD open world! Who would come to appreciate my suffering (first and foremost)? A curse that will spread like wildfire! Where in time...the whole world could forgive me for what I've done to myself, and to others. Since what this passage reeks of, is the after-effect of the incident that is clearly behind the scenes doing GOD KNOWS WHAT!
Curses define pleasures, whilst curses than redefine those very pleasures like an epidemic!
PS... I hope such conclusions force you to realize what's become of you?!
Last-ting Pleasures (Leonard Cohen)

“Morning coffee on the balcony of this old duplex, the cat at my feet, and a couple of biscuits. Notebook near by. No one coming over.“

Leonard Cohen

aging with graces saved from so many spectacular failures, I took droplets of wisdom where they were free to drink, yet  
the best, were the most costly, for which you never end paying

but here I sit, well traveled, in Los Angeles sunshine, do my calculations, my final preparations, memorizing the blessings
so they flow easy, no stumbling, unbefitting a poet-writer lover

obligations diminished, bills paid, goodbyes said and spent, so long Marianne, lines of jewish buddhists wisdom seekers not too long, a few women come, last looks, a reminiscence for themselves

lovers seeking preservation, a signatory on their diaries, proofs, of what I know no longer know to state, sated, the statuary
sentence almost served, and last scribbles, to notebook dispatched

It is His Will, and yet here I am, asking forgiveness, as tradition demands and more, understanding, for it was all transcribed into praise of You and your god-sparked creatures, ah, bon chance, until we meet again, bring your robe and tallit, let us recite psalms

for if there was ever a wilder king, finer poet, lusting for life and god, all of us just birds on the wire, gambling which course to fly, where to, so waiting patient, resolution of the only remaining unanswered question, who by fire?

anyone, each of us, who first asked ourselves why not! before we ever thought,

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