Pirates in their day,
Were accused of all sorts of debauchery,
Some true,
Others nay,
I read,
"Pirates fer Dummies" once,
And it was enlightening.

But I like seeing it from the pirate's point of view,
So often not explored,
As a quest for the dualistic animal freedom upon,
The rabid seas,
Totally unnatural for these men of two legs,
Sometimes one,
And the subculture that develops as,
Thrown away from the majority culture,
Because of,
Everything gone wrong,
Giving into the darkness,
Driving into the storm.

It makes me shudder,
As I bite into a raw lime.

Awww Anne-y: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n4CpypI7SOo
Nateive Son Apr 14

I could have been a millionaire,
But I pissed it all away,
Sitting in the woods,
And letting my connections drop,
Into the nothingness that the river washes away.

I could have been a millionaire,
Considering that I grew up around plenty of money,
But oh well,
You study the words and then study yourself,
And it becomes more meaningless with each passing day.

I could have been a millionaire,
And fucked plastic girls with Oxycontin eyes,
Or opened a charity to save the wild turtle,
Jump out of planes for the thrill of it,
Eating organic wild jellyfish burgers.


I could have been a millionaire,
But then you know what they say.

More money,
More problems.

To hell with it.

At least I'm not in a corner: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QdA2k6RlZD4
Nateive Son Apr 14

Whitman told me,
To sing of myself,
And when I did,
The song was both beautiful,
And horrendous.

So I'm giving up myself,
And becoming someone else.

Perhaps a disembodied spirit,
Or a chunk of wood.

I hear gold is a stable commodity,
Maybe I can find a balance there.

But I still say,
I'm giving up myself,
I'm going through the wringer,
Out the brick walls of something else.

And when I ooze back out as mortar,
In 250 years,
I'll look you up,
And say,
"Darling, I'm back!"

But by then the world will think,
I'm someone else.

Down back again,
Sitting on the shelf,
Of eternity.

I made you a tuna sandwich, just tell me where to ship it.

Disclaimer: do not eat the sandwich.
Nateive Son Apr 14

I like to watch health shows,
And mainstream media,
For giggles.

Especially when they discuss,
Topics that require,

And they trot out,
The "experts,"
But never explain,
What it means,
To be such a thing.

Does a degree,
Impart the special knowledge,
Of demi god upon ye?

Can I throw my tuna salad at the wall,
For velocity experiments?

And yet,
They are the sun.

Oh hear ye Joseph,
Does King Bradley want your jester?


It should be public record that,
I'm an expert concerning:

Hammock pitching and,
To name a few.

Make my check out to,

That is all.

Sorry ladies, but I live on an isolated island in the middle of the ocean. I'll let you know when I return to the mainland.

Hope you don't mind beards and a wicked tan.
Nateive Son Apr 13

Let it be said,
That big chief Eliot,
Is a man of his word.

Perhaps you'll notice,
Big green lock in left hand browser bar,
Huh huh!

Big Chief Eliot keeping us safe,
Guiding the fire in our hearts,
Or at least trying his very best.

I feel all fuzzy inside.

So imagine if the dollar you found under your bed,
Or out on Blueberry Avenue,
Went into his wallet,
And then fueled this channel,

It can be done,
We have the technology.

All it takes is a dollar,
To make me holler.

Consider donating $1 to Mr. York to help upkeep this site. If everyone donated $1, that would be sufficient for the moment.

All the information to light the fire in Mr. Eliot's heart can be found here: https://hellopoetry.com/about/

If you don't have a PayPal account or want to buy suns, consider using his link when you purchase stuff on Amazon.

If you don't use Amazon, consider sending him a friendly message that you enjoy the site and appreciate his work.
samantha neal Mar 30

I'm lost in the city
But I'm taking my time
The streets keep talking to me
They're asking how everyone can spend so much time looking down and straight ahead
When a whole world grows rapidly above them

Buildings grow into the stars
A new styled solar system
They dance among the clouds
Wisping fluffs of greys and whites
When I look, I know that I want to be where it all connects

I am gliding down hills
I am fumbling through crosswalks
I am slipping past street signs
because I can't keep my feet on the ground and my head from that new world

Bek Blanchard Mar 24

The road to Midland is an ugly one
Dirt and high mile winds make for a dirty lung
Lips feel more and more purple the closer I get
don't want to breathe the rotten egg air seeping through my AC vent
Pump jacks have always reminded me of dinosaur heads bobbing up and down
And they occupy every square mile where worn out blue collars gather round
Another diesel truck taking up a lane and a half just ahead
Observed how most carry nothing in their beds
With exhaust pipes that could fit a small child inside
More black fumes released if a woman drives by
Dead carcasses cooking in the Texas sun
The road to Lubbock is an ugly one

On driving from Lubbock to Midland (oil country),  and back again.
Temporal Fugue Mar 23

Sheriff Jill arrested Jack
and threw him in a cell
Dealing drugs, selling crack
a lazy nere-do-well

His lawyer got him off
a simple technicality
Jill it seems related
an ex, officially

His body found in an alley
outside his supplier's pad
Shot dead, by a large bore magnum
Jill only said, that's just too f_ing bad

I bet Jill curiously owns a 44 mag :D
Jill never liked tumbling down the hill ;D
Andrew Kelly Mar 21

It was the hardest month of my life,
Deprived of what made me whole.
All I had were
The shakes and copious cold sweats.

I had to look at myself
In the mirror everyday.
With the gripping reality
That there was no escape.

No phone, no way out.
Just fellow victims
Of our own self sabotage.
Whom became my family.

With cigarettes and sodas in hand,
We gathered around the plastic picnic table.
I lost myself in their stories,
They lost themselves in mine.

Slowly the insanity left me,
The depression,
It lessened.
It truly does get better.

A poem about my experience in rehab
Jessica Ore Mar 18

Mother I miss you.
Where have you gone?

Your hair was golden and long.

Mother, I miss...

your hair

how it would flirt and entangle with wind.
Your arms
reached across indigo flowering fields,
steaming sunlight,
to cradle and warm my skin.
And oh!
The vast Texas sky that projected from your eye.

Will we ever share that time again?

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