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annh Jul 2019
You build your nest of pretty words,
Sly threads of verbiage,
Plucked from outworn phrases,
Secondhand sentiments and frayed metaphors.

A thorny simile, a faded pink ribbon,
Of rhetoric woven with silky streamers;
A warp and weft of fond and found,
Borrowed references and stolen verses.

You recycle the shining heart,
Of another’s penmanship,
Modelling it into a tarnished,
Uninspired and untitled composition

‘I get a lot of big ideas, and occasionally I actually come up with one myself.’
- Bauvard, Some Inspiration for the Overenthusiastic
annh Jun 2019
Is it not a paradox that her deception should leave her beauty so unmarked? Her winsome countenance - generously admired - leaves her suitors abject; mere puppets on a string.

Verily, the essence of her is as a tarnished trinket. For to mine own soul she appears as jaded as a ***** house quean. Her eyes which once shone with the light of truth unblemished, a colourless and infinite mire overgrown with the entangled falsehoods she has seeded.

‘Deceiving others. That is what the world called a romance.’
- Oscar Wilde

‘And we all know love is a glass which makes even a monster appear fascinating.’
- Alberto Moravia, The Woman of Rome
Poetic T Apr 2018
Mascara smudges
as snowmen
Sabila Siddiqui Feb 2018
An integral trait
that protected and built
in her, withers.
Curses slowly slithers
off her tongue
leaving her soul stung,
for she swore never to say
on any day.

Reputation tarnished;
label faded;
mind polluted,
for she no longer felt demure
and pure.

Enticed by the modern world;
contamination injects,
mutating and leaving her
not able to recognize herself.
For now she stares in the
restroom mirror,
shedding tears
over her shedding skin.
Justen Davila Aug 2016
The flames that melted innocence
Ravaged my soul uncontrollably
Doused by aspiration of purity
If only I could be clean again
If only I was
Doused Flames
Melted Innocence
You may read more of my work at
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Lady Bird Mar 2016
throat of brass
spirits dancing
wild and free
on puffs of wind
soaring and floating
with each note  
from the depths of
my soul through  
something so beautifully  
my saxophone plays
Its own masterpiece
Halos are a pagan tradition
of hanging a sunlit nimbus
over the head of great people;
it’s a crown of light rays  
to shed an implied importance.

The genuine humility of Christ,
will always shine more brightly
than the human ego, that insists
on sporting tilted, tarnished halos.
For Him, it’s of no consequence!

Our Lord is a spiritual high priest,
attributed with characteristics of
pureness, innocence and greatness;
these halos are nothing more than a…
fashion accessory of shiny nonsense.
Author Notes

Inspired by:
Heb 7:26

Learn more about me and my poetry at:

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2015, All rights reserved.
Poetic T Aug 2014
Rider upon a white horse
She moved like the clouds
Swift her hooves barely touched ground
The rider upon her Back
Amour shone bright
Of the land did they fight,
Betrayed were they
From inside the white ranks,
Tied upon the white steed
And this is where honour died,
Bleed out,
Drained of life
Death seeped in to white
Vengeance was born
Hooves no longer pure
Was the name of one who was once pure,
But now had a coat of crimson,
The rider now but tarnished metal
Inside vengeance burnt,
Was the soul, only retribution
Would bury them both,
Let there tormented souls be free,
The rider,
The horse,
Upon the land, seeking out injustice
Making hooves shed flesh
The hand of justice sought to be
As word travelled, ears heard
What mouths let out,
The man who was white
Not of justice,
Not of right,
Betrayer of integrity took flight,
For retribution was at hand,
And it burnt white hot,
Past, before weary eyes slept,
loomed over was justice
Watching that which had bleed life,
Had tarnished existence
What wasn't death, neither life,
Eyes awoke,
In to Darkness they fell,
As Rider stood tall,
Honour must be dealt,
For injustice bleed red
Screams from below,
Bellowing excuses, of jealousy
No excuse to extinguish life,
Justice was dealt upon the man
For no longer would he have
To live what time was left
To live in darkness
Hearing only his voice,
To know that this was worst than death,
For no sunrise seen,
Only shadows of nothing,
No words ever heard only tormented by inner voices,
Death would have been easy
The torment is life.
Retribution and honour were pasted,
So rider and steed looked beyond the sunrise
And faded in to dust, spread upon the land..
Alena Jun 2014
tarnished child
who the zoo
is not new

time, present, past and
are all

and I ought to
have told you

it's not a heart
but a drumming
from before that
sounds like

a record of
its own accord

30 years,
bare and white
baring, daring, breathing

— The End —