#alliterations - Hello Poetry

I love to loop lines laced with sly sounds, Sassy spins of sharp, sneaky speech, A dark delight in daring rounds, Where twisted tones teach tongues to screech. Words whirl wicked, wild, and wry, Crafting curses cloaked in charm, I'm queen of quips that quietly pry, With blithely biting words that calm. Alliteration's my artful vice, Fierce phrases, flawless and fast, I'm hooked on the hiss and the ice, Where haunted humor's spell is cast. That's me: a master of mirth and malice, A siren singing in sly suspense, Playing with patterns, prose, and palace, A twisted token of tense nonsense. In snide scripts, I slyly sneak, Sardonic sounds that slice and sting, A sharp satire that's bold and bleak, With every eerie echoing. I chase the charm of clever crime, Cunning crafts of cruel intent, Where rhythm rips and reasons rhyme, And meaning's masked, maleficent. So here I hail my twisted tune, A mistress of the midnight's mirth, With wicked words that wound and swoon, I'm alliteration's dark rebirth.

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Oct 29, 2025

Oct 29, 2025 at 2:40 PM UTC

EloFranklyn

Queen Of Quips And Quarrels (Alliterations Are Amazing!)

I love to loop lines laced with sly sounds, Sassy spins of sharp, sneaky speech, A dark delight in daring rounds, Where twisted tones teach tongues to screech. Words whirl wicked, wild, and wry, Crafting curses cloaked in charm, I'm queen of quips that quietly pry, With blithely biting words that calm. Alliteration's my artful vice, Fierce phrases, flawless and fast, I'm hooked on the hiss and the ice, Where haunted humor's spell is cast. That's me: a master of mirth and malice, A siren singing in sly suspense, Playing with patterns, prose, and palace, A twisted token of tense nonsense. In snide scripts, I slyly sneak, Sardonic sounds that slice and sting, A sharp satire that's bold and bleak, With every eerie echoing. I chase the charm of clever crime, Cunning crafts of cruel intent, Where rhythm rips and reasons rhyme, And meaning's masked, maleficent. So here I hail my twisted tune, A mistress of the midnight's mirth, With wicked words that wound and swoon, I'm alliteration's dark rebirth.

28

I sat atop the roof so high, And sang my mournful lullaby. Years went and the tears went Pouring down my face. A crier At heart, emotions run my game, Though I was never taught how to play. When the going gets tough, Pull yourself up by the bootstraps, Making sure not to hang yourself In the process of “equality for all”. There’s nothing equal about love, and There’s nothing fair about emotional reactions. Both happen spontaneously, subconsciously, And Suddenly You’re living a life you never imagined. I’m tired of singing this sad soliloquy. It’s time to leave the roost.

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Jun 23, 2024

Jun 23, 2024 at 10:04 PM UTC

colleen-brown

Singing Sorrow

I sat atop the roof so high, And sang my mournful lullaby. Years went and the tears went Pouring down my face. A crier At heart, emotions run my game, Though I was never taught how to play. When the going gets tough, Pull yourself up by the bootstraps, Making sure not to hang yourself In the process of “equality for all”. There’s nothing equal about love, and There’s nothing fair about emotional reactions. Both happen spontaneously, subconsciously, And Suddenly You’re living a life you never imagined. I’m tired of singing this sad soliloquy. It’s time to leave the roost.

18

I pen this powerful piece of prominent prominence in praise of my passion I power these powerful words To empower your purpose Your presence, presents And presentations presented to us a privilege to profit from your priceless And precious prizes Weak people prefer power But powerful people prefer to empower weak people I am pleased and proud And promise to provide partnership to your projects Precisely, I picked and puzzled these powerful words So particular people can see and pluck from this precious plant The plain plan of the poem is to paint pretty pictures in pixel This piece is not a prequel Though I see the “pre” in the “quel”, I’m trying to recall The purpose of this prequel Only for my parents to tell me Patrick, Pause and play this piece in a sequel.

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Oct 4, 2019

Oct 4, 2019 at 2:23 AM UTC

Zerben4all

P PEEEEEEEE

I pen this powerful piece of prominent prominence in praise of my passion I power these powerful words To empower your purpose Your presence, presents And presentations presented to us a privilege to profit from your priceless And precious prizes Weak people prefer power But powerful people prefer to empower weak people I am pleased and proud And promise to provide partnership to your projects Precisely, I picked and puzzled these powerful words So particular people can see and pluck from this precious plant The plain plan of the poem is to paint pretty pictures in pixel This piece is not a prequel Though I see the “pre” in the “quel”, I’m trying to recall The purpose of this prequel Only for my parents to tell me Patrick, Pause and play this piece in a sequel.

17

in this stressful society we have, so much slanders, sins, scandals have been scrutinized *over and over again* for the satisfaction of sardonic, scornful, "sacred" disparagers. nothing shocks me more than the so-called "spectacular" sculpturing of others based on the dehumanizing standards of mankind. shackled by the scalding hands of screeching vermins, why do we keep on letting ourselves be scarred-- stuttering, shuddering, screaming *for help* because simple succors are never, have never been, will never be enough? why do we keep letting ourselves be singled out as stigmas when "failing" society's endless scans for superficial perfection? (how sickening.)

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Feb 24, 2016

Feb 24, 2016 at 6:19 AM UTC

catherine-v

S.O.S.

in this stressful society we have, so much slanders, sins, scandals have been scrutinized *over and over again* for the satisfaction of sardonic, scornful, "sacred" disparagers. nothing shocks me more than the so-called "spectacular" sculpturing of others based on the dehumanizing standards of mankind. shackled by the scalding hands of screeching vermins, why do we keep on letting ourselves be scarred-- stuttering, shuddering, screaming *for help* because simple succors are never, have never been, will never be enough? why do we keep letting ourselves be singled out as stigmas when "failing" society's endless scans for superficial perfection? (how sickening.)

32

i think a part of me will always love being six years old— love being tiny, unassuming, cold in my reactions, bowled over by my peers, told to be bigger, brighter, better. i am largely the same now— but i am no longer six. no one tells me to become any bigger or brighter or better, being small means being crushed, and if i am overlooked, no one cares. if i were six, this would sadden me. but i am no longer six, i no longer care, and i am alone in my acquired apathy.

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Aug 22, 2015

Aug 22, 2015 at 2:27 AM UTC

kai-kashino

acquired apathy

i think a part of me will always love being six years old— love being tiny, unassuming, cold in my reactions, bowled over by my peers, told to be bigger, brighter, better. i am largely the same now— but i am no longer six. no one tells me to become any bigger or brighter or better, being small means being crushed, and if i am overlooked, no one cares. if i were six, this would sadden me. but i am no longer six, i no longer care, and i am alone in my acquired apathy.

20

This burden of breaths Takes its toll at times Conjunctions cloud these corollaries For fog to float further And away, and away..... And away

0

Dec 1, 2014

Dec 1, 2014 at 7:37 AM UTC

ishani-pant

As

This burden of breaths Takes its toll at times Conjunctions cloud these corollaries For fog to float further And away, and away..... And away

6

I don't know what to write, because my mind is white. A walk would be in order, to get thoughts out of disorder. As I'm trekking through the forest, I get an idea! A florist who goes to Vegas and...encounters writer's block.

0

May 14, 2014

May 14, 2014 at 4:52 PM UTC

abstractcolleague

Writer's Block

I don't know what to write, because my mind is white. A walk would be in order, to get thoughts out of disorder. As I'm trekking through the forest, I get an idea! A florist who goes to Vegas and...encounters writer's block.

8