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All the vinegar
has drained out of you,
along with **** words
and acid anger.

Asleep, you are—
curled into the ball
of infant dreams.

You are ending,
it seems
as helpless
as you began.
Julia Aug 2020
"They" are the reason I put
gin in my vinegar.
I am light years ahead,
a misfit.
"They" crush my very existence
into tiny white lies. 13 stripes,
50 stars in the wide eyes of
time’s bride:                              
Now is not the place
to erase history deface
Its story.
Meditate to medicate
To my reader: you are full of beauty, and so is this world.
Z Jun 2020
Vermouth turns to vinegar
Her sweet youth imprisons her,
A reverie soured with age
Bitter anger and confusion
like vinegar
won't stop love from flowing.
They are both liquid
coursing together
through the great channels
carved by passion.
When dammed,
these too overflow.
I must, somehow, create culverts
and new places to go.
PoserPersona Apr 2018
Thy honey's taste turned sweet to sour,
  though continuing to stick
Ne'er would a starving old black bear
  indulge itself one lick.
Bee Apr 2018
Dear, Sweet, Damascus,
Even your vinegar will
attract hungry flies.
Blois Oct 2017
Destiny is a miserable creature
with a mouthful of sharp teeth
hiding behind your smile.
Yes, you. Unsuspecting.
With a bit of happiness hiding
behind your adorable smile.

If only it would bite.
As I said, miserable,
cruel creature.
All this blood wasted,
turning into vinegar.
It burns.
kneedleknees Sep 2016
when he says he wants to put you
in a poem, don't believe he'll
put your petals to his nose, inhale gently,
and enumerate the tickling scents
waltzing in his nostrils.
believe he'll put your stem to his tongue
lick the thorns slowly
to open his masochistic
metallic blood.
believe that he'll spit
that blood on the floor
or in a teacup to
sit out for hummingbirds.
believe he'll paint you
naked in verse
clothe you in meter
and strip you once more.
believe that no poem
is refuge
and that your ugliness
and his ugliness
will not make a poem
Lindsey Grace Aug 2016
I have never seen such a blue sky
on the rooftop after a long shower outside
Drinking hot chamomile tea

I am happy
In a new top
the color of the trees that surround the cottage
I pity any being who isn't me at this very moment

Though hold on...
My chamomile tea has been polluted
with vinegar
I try to accept the new taste
find pleasure in it
but the vinegar comes back to snap the back of my tongue

This moment has been altered
and the neighbors don't know how to use their quiet voices
my phone is dying
and I spent the majority of my time up here trying to get the perfect picture for Instagram
See the Critical Juncture for an extension of this poem.
neth jones Nov 2015
there's vinegar on my fingertips
from the time we spend in bed
from the way we rub together
and the friction in our head

© Jon Thenes 2008
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