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Brent Kincaid Apr 29
His head and his body were
Bald as an egg for all to see.
His parents named him Harry
But he did not turn out to be.
As an antonymic masterpiece
His name is rife with humor
But in poor Harry’s opinion
It was taken as a social tumor.

Every joke that would be said,
No matter how crass was made
At work, at play by everyone
Beginning in the seventh grade
When his baby fine blond hair
Began to hide on back of head.
It hurt his feelings to frequently hear
The things his peers all said.

By the time he reached maturity
He learned to accept his fate;
Everyday friends could not resist
Making light of his name and pate!
While it’s human nature all of this
It’s a constantly rather bitter pill,
And though he learned to smile
It kind of hurts his feelings still.

Bare Harry, bald as a shaved baby.
Plenty of tacky hairless jokes to spare
Shouldn’t we cut him some slack maybe
And focus on something besides his hair
Or the obvious lack thereof on his head
And point out his forgiving personality?
But sadly, that is just not the way
Of the reality of the world’s humanity.

Brent Kincaid
Perdue Poems Apr 8
Whispers fill the air
They fall on straining ears
Who want to hear the reds and blues
Of those who are not there

Smirking with delight
They draw close and near
Looking at the figure lone
Their snickers left in night

Crafting yet smiling
They turn and greet their (friend)
Loner, who is statue still
Is warmed by their lying

but unknown to the figure lone
His friend had drawn his blade
And left it in his back
For everyone to see.
A tender voice.
Dulcet tones reach tingling ears.
I soak in the details no one else hears.

Teasing blue eyes
A secret song

Unpinning my heart,
- In a flash it was gone.
Johnny walker Feb 26
I love It when darkness
falls when all the stars come out to play teasing there a way around the moon that hangs so deathly quite In the pitch  black
For Its fluorescent glow bouncing off Its surface to light the vastness of the darkened sky filling so much emptiness of
To where the stars come out to plays and dance
teasingly around the moons bright fluorescent surface
Florescent glow of the moon where all the stars come out to play and dance around teasing the moon
nd Jan 30
I know that feeling,

When you're angry
    but dont want to hang up.

He makes you mad
    but still, you dont want to hang up.

He says something that annoy you
    yet still, you don't hang it up.

We tease each other
     and still, you dont want to hang up the phone.
S O P H I E Jan 27
touch teasing
tongue twisting
taste tempting
tension taming
trick telling
toxic timing
tear tumbling
timid tieing
tranquil tripping
B Sonia K Dec 2018
The rays of the sun
Shines through the transparent glass window
Illuminating the room
Sunbeams playing around
With shadows on the ground
My gaze upon a golden figure
Glowing in the standing mirror
Teasing me
Into a world of timelessness
And endless whispers
Roaring within me
With laborious vigor
It’s heat most appealing
In this dry cold.
Shadows appearing on the edges
At the end of the sun’s rays
Dancing on the edges
Taunting me
Yet teasing me
With unspoken words
A glamorous invitation
To a sonorous congregation
In the shadows
Beyond the rays of the sun.
Connor Dec 2018
Slam the door shut
And push me against
The wall.
Bite and suckle my neck
In-between sloppy kisses
While I whimper softly.
Use my body like an
Instrument you've mastered
****** me and smirk when
I melt into your touch,
And bite your lip playfully.
Punish me, keep me teetering
On the edge, begging for release;
Whilst curling your skilled fingers.
Refuse my pleas, force me to wait
Until I have satisfied your desire,
And have filled me completely.
Make me yours, and
No one else's. Suffocate me
In your sinful love.
Something I wrote yesterday.
Sharon Talbot Dec 2018
Old Harold lived on the second floor
In a darkened room with an old locked door.
My cousins and I used to tease him there,
And he’d chase us out, give us a scare.
I didn’t know exactly who  he was,
“He’s a mean old man,” said my favorite cos’.
“Grandma let him live here after Grandpa died.
She doesn’t even like him and we don’t know why.”
When he was out we would take a peek.
Around the ocher walls and his bed we’d sneak.
There was nothing but an iron bunk
And a glass-front chest filled with lots of junk.
One day Old Harold must have complained
About our pestering…we really were pains!
But no parent’s lecture could keep us away.
And Grandma’s yelling at him not to stay.

Old Uncle Harold disappeared for years.
We would make up stories for littler ears.
But one day my father had news of him.
He lived with “a harlot” and his checks she’d skim.
I was old enough to know what it meant
And asked Dad why uncle Harold seemed bent.
“He was gassed in the War in a field at Verdun.”
Dad told me in a tone that left me stunned;
“And was then sent around to pick up the dead.
With the gas and the horror, his mind just went.”

Now I recalled all the times we had teased
And agonized him when we should have pleased.
But now it was too late to apologize,
He was so lost, he wouldn’t recognize
His grown tormentors, when he hardly
Knew my father, the kindly mentor,
Who visited him every week,
Who paid for anything to make him last,
And reminded him of better times past;
Telling him of the time he caught a butterfly
And brought it to show the girls and guys.
How he wanted to let it fly away,
But when the boys had killed it anyway.
He cried and was called a coward then,
And as my father spoke and wept again.

Old Uncle Harold died alone
In a sterile, cold-floored nursing home.
None but Dad came to grieve
And I, only an hour away, shunned
the feeling and just felt numb,
Until Dad called and told me the story
Of Harold’s death and only then
Could I say, “I’m sorry!” to his ghost.
I should have said it long ago; the one who
Maddened him least repented the most.
If I could say “Sorry” for the times we made him shout.
I realised he’d just have yelled, “Get the hell out!”
This is about my great uncle, a casualty of WWI, who was the "bogeyman" of my youth and then the sad story of a forgotten veteran.
You show me that little bit of skin,
that gets the blood flowing,
and then you look my way with your little smile and a wink,
and then keep on walking,
with just a hint that there will be more,
but you know you won't be giving it up soon,
so you just look over your shoulder with that typical,
sorry not sorry,
as you always planned too.
The next day you were going out,
and then you decided to flash,
me a little ***,
and then put that away too,
because you knew,
we were already running late,
and it would have to wait,
so you turn to me and say again,
sorry not sorry,
as we go out pushing it back again.
We were playing around,
and as you were going down,
you were feeling frisky,
and a little risky,
as you look up at me,
while on your knees,
and asked, "Which hole would you like?,"
and at that moment I felt the sweet release,
and saw your little grin again,
with that short little phrase,
of sorry not sorry,
again and again.
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