#babble
A poem weaves lyrics to thoughts,
the fortune that destiny brought,
the wind that the words caught,
... just enough, never a lot !
It is when, the flowers shout out,
... the birds sing aloud,
bees buzz together in a clout,
hooray to the dancing village lout.
Or, if it is the charm of a maiden's eyes,
hold my hand and tell me a lie,
as truth will only make me cry,
give me a promise, till I die.
Or, if it is for a social reason,
an anarchist on revolt season,
a dab of red, a call of treason,
a poets verse can take to prison.
Or, if words seeks the minds-speak,
psyche is for the daring, not the meek,
... a work at hand, not a walk past the creek,
can you read my thoughts at a poet's streak?
Or, if it is for war protest,
in Guy Fawke mask and a black vest,
for the plight of those in peace who rest,
catchy solgans and a chorus to test.
... then there is the drunk babble,
verses on a high, writing for a fable,
realm of the bar's loony rebel,
few moments just too incredible.
Few who talk of life ...
... and the universe, past time's swipe
thoughts never too naive,
a philosopher's table to wipe!
A poem will always try,
to make verses not too dry,
a worth of truth laced with a pinch of lie,
a flutter for the heart to fly.
Aug 9, 2019
Aug 9, 2019 at 4:23 PM UTC
Let the babble stop
Let the brain farts cease
Let pleasure be your guide
And the poet slip into their persona,
Like a performance uniform,
A slip dress
An existential throw up of thoughts like
Bad Chinese food.
The kind that climbs out of Tupperware,
slippers ready
Of Tupperware and ready slippers
***** out takeaway rice.
Performance uniforms sit up in bed,
Babbling about existential poets.
The bad Chinese food
Waltzes with its guide,
Brain dribbles out of nostrils.
Dear night-shoes,
This babble has ceased,
Pleasurely.
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 12:31 PM UTC
It's not them, It's you
Your not like them, more like you
Like you to defend yourself
You sit on a shelf
haunted by ghosts
Gather dust, to spite yourself
In spite of what you want
You spit in spite at your want
Stunted your growth, always fall short
Don't change, don't grow, selling yourself short
Pathetic and sad a dying man feeling glad
Think you're tall, think you're small
Unstable, you don't grow you'll fall
Your not perfect, your not even great
Think your perfect, don't even try to be great
Great greatness gets greater
It grates greatly the grating gratifier
Ego stroker a chronic masturbater
Losing sight when everyone will cater
Man of masks an avid actor
Nice in summer
Friend in fairweather
See you later
When the sky is clearer
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 11:39 AM UTC
i am a ****** ryhmist
for i arrange words in a bouquet
in hope that flower of syllables would bloom
to give you fresh-cut flowers scent or unsavory stench
but again, who cares?
they said
words are meaningless
and forgetable
so here i am
trying to make sense out of nonsense
saying nothing more than cries for help
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 10:58 AM UTC
There’s a coil in me.
It likes to wind itself up.
The only thing that eases
This…
Tension…
Is these words dribbling,
Down and out of my mouth.
Babble…
Nonsense…
Not the words I’m trying to use,
Nor the meaning
I’m trying to convey.
I’m…
I’m sorry I’m this way.
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 2:14 AM UTC
Tower …by Jessie 11/05
Busy people run aerie
Build a tower up to the sky
Communication at it’s best
Working hard, accomplish tasks
Do just what the foreman asks
Everything is running smooth
Soon, the foundations laid
Blood, sweat and all have prayed
Another layers up
It’s not long and heavens close
But all the people start to boast
God looks down and frowns
Angry that they build to him
Looking upon it as a sin
He waves his arm and sends it crashing down
Snaps his finger, numbs their tongues
Fathers can’t communicate with sons
Every ones dispersed and quiet confused
Never again will man contrive
To sit right by his makers side
Nor will man understand the other man
Which one was wrong? It’s hard to say
But I’ll tell you this…from that day
Its no wonder, man can’t get along with man
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 11:01 AM UTC
Somewhere
In a twisted
Loop of time
Separate from yesterday
We were left behind
Popping in
Mostly out
Of sight and mind
A whispering shout
Echoing rhymes
Mere memories
Imprinted strong
Desperation thrives
In the early dawn
When real were things
Larger than soul
Mightier where misfits
Dared to roll
To bitter end
And back again
Inside of cave
Where meaning descend
In darker places
We all have been
And so we put
Our two cents in...
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 7:52 AM UTC
Back to the others.
The sun gives louder compliments.
We cherish those with words so wrecked.
May we move.
Be free.
Continue to disappoint mother nature with our
idiocy
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 1:23 PM UTC
And on these strings, I write a symphony of Eskimos,
Of love
Of regret,
Of sisters,
Of mothers,
Of happiness,
Of the unknown.
I write a ballad of rhymes, almost-rhymes
And nonsensical ********
I spill a little of my soul
Drop by drop
Into a song that no one will fully understand.
Not even I understand these things.
But they just seep out of me like sweat from a pore.
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 1:46 AM UTC
I'm sorry baby but you can do that for you so I don't have anything for me anymore and you have no worries I love it tho lol okay I'll text your mom if she wants you too but she is still a little too bad she said okay good night but she is so happy I got to see her tomorrow morning so she could have a great time she said thank goodness for you so I don't have anything else for me anymore lol okay so sorry to say I don't want to do that but I'm sorry for you so much but you have a great day and you will see it all together again.
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 11:12 AM UTC
my mind is huge and difficult to get in,
i know what it's like
so i close black holes
and show you beautiful constellations
and brave planets
that linger there
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 12:53 PM UTC
To be fair, this superstitious stuff
Goes a helluva long way back.
It was around the time of Babel
That the Israelites lost all track
Of logic and reason in the books
They were peddling as God’s word.
Oh, okay, they were just passing on
Mesopotamian stories they heard
But then to start calling it all
The voice of the spiritual over-mind
Means we are expected to be
Sort of intellectually deaf and blind.
Even if one can accept things like
A snake that talks and wheedles
I think accepting talking bushes
Requires stuff in hypodermic needles.
I think you have confused
Your Jehovah with Santa.
They are not the same thing.
Let me hear you say hallelujah!
Some of your traditions are
Verging on the weird and funny
When you peddle stories
About an egg-laying bunny.
And that basket of fishes
To feed a thousand was dumb.
In prehistoric Israel, just where
Did those freeloaders come from?
That strange ‘water into wine’ thing
Would be banned by law today.
Jesus, as evangelical moonshiner?
The authorities would put him away.
But that’s all fine and good if
One personally deems it to be so,
This claiming to run daily life
By words memorized long ago.
Since some of it makes sense
It may be easier to just ignore
Things like wizards and magic
As something from long before.
Evidence today says nobody lived
For eight hundred years and such.
But things like facts don’t seem
To bother religious people that much.
So, have at it, you spooky folks
With your symbols and mystery
Just save your breath if you think
You’ll get acceptance from me.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 2:11 AM UTC
Costume clowns
And closet clones
Clutter up my world.
Simulated simians,
Both boys and girls,
Ricochet like rifle shots
In the hallways of my dreams.
Honeyed hectoring
Always more than it seems.
Missing messages
And mumbled grumbling,
I find it quite humbling
That my rhetoric is glistening
To discover nobody is listening.
But be assured, at its root
Disdain will not make me mute.
Despite the confusion
Created by collusion,
And the babble of rabble
That grapple inside my brain
What will remain after
This noisy war is done,
It will definitely be won.
The race will be run
Because I am number one!
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 6:01 PM UTC
Together, we springtime saunter through a busy cities with pink dancers and naked cowboys cluttering the street. The buildings are towering above us, but we don’t bother looking that high; we maintain straight gazes towards ordinary people. Lady liberty waves to us and expresses fondness towards our interlocked fingers. He casually wonders how sharp the spokes are on her crown and how tall the real statue stands.
He learned to love himself through me and someone called that misandry. It was utterly absurd so I paid her no heed, but it made him realize where he’d go if I broke him. “I promise I won't break your heart,” I say, but he tells me, “You can’t know that .” He doesn’t yet know that I always keep my promises. He doesn’t yet know that if anyone has to fear a broken heart, it’s me. When he learns to spin in pulsing neutron stars and sees that I am but a sad cloud of collapsing solar dust, he might decide he would prefer to love something a little more radiant than I am.
“Stars burn out,” I think, “and solar dust can turn into a galaxy one day.”
Together, we lie on crispy summer grass that brushes our spine as the sun tickles our collarbones. Our ribs ache from laughter and I know I belong to him as the stars belong to the sky. “I’m glad we got to spend much of vacation together,” he says. I mutely agree because I have no cliche metaphor to contribute. I just try to stare at the sun, convinced that it wouldn’t damage my eyes because I didn’t go blind the last time I tried. “Youth is invincible,” I finally say and I let him ponder what I mean until he puts it in the back of his mind with a long list of phrases I uttered to him, all of them just short of poetic. Still, I know he plans to write a song out all the babble he thinks I mean.
He grabs my hand and traces circles around my knuckles. We’re only sixteen, but he thinks that if people aged backwards, teenagers would realize they were wrong when they were parents, so he doesn’t think high school love is insignificant. They told us we’re in our prime, but he doesn’t think people in their prime are always staring at sharp objects and read Ecclesiastes for fun.
“The others are wrong,” I think, “it can only possibly get better from here; it definitely can’t get any worse.”
Together, we watch as colorful nature is scattered across the sidewalk and piles up in the road in mountains of autumn. Squirrels gather the acorns that we are trying not to step on since we are barefoot. You can’t see the mud on his feet because his skin is so dark.
We discuss how the universe is a place too vast to fit within our logical comprehension, too vast to understand. We both know that infinity isn’t something to grasp, even if physics said it must exist. Since we’re just a little pinprick in a universe we’ll never draw on a finite piece of paper, we see we’re lonely people staring at lonely stars. “All we can do is hope that company of others will prevent all this loneliness from consuming us all,” he says and I’m impressed, so I say, “I’ve learned that it is possible to find the right company.” He smiles because he thinks I mean him, and maybe I do.
“I love him,” I think, “and I’m lucky that he somehow loves me too, even if we can’t understand love.”
Together, we jog to the place where the moonlight shimmers in melodic zigzags over the bronzing sea and the night is thinner than it is in the city of a million lights. Our jaws are clenched because breathing heavily in the cold is painful to our chins. He tells me secrets and the words empty from his throat into the atmosphere, where the water in his breath freezes into the night. “You’re a dragon,” I say, but I mean, “Winter is turning your voice to smoke.” As always, he doesn’t understand what I mean, but I have learned not to worry about it. He says, “You’re also a dragon,” and he means, “We have a lot in common.” I’m sorry that he doesn’t understand me the way I’ve learned to understand him.
He litters the air with secretive water droplets; the night gets thicker with his words. I want to tell him that I’ve never cared about a person more than I care for him, but I’ve learned to say nothing explicitly, because the art of finding metaphors in the simplicity of meaningless chatter is what convinced me that he cares about me.
“He can play the same treasure hunt that I played,” I think, “and when he wins, he’ll be the happiest person in the world.”
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 3:53 PM UTC
Tiger eyes behind
Silver lines and
Nonexistent badges of authority.
Your somewhat of a
minority without a voice
nowhere to turn,
But turn fierce.
Your teeth sharp as ever
Never better!
Your coat is Fancy,
Your story isn't
You ****** with some guy
to get where you are.
Not very far from where
you started .
So you started to pout
and pour your spout on
Someone else for 200 dollars
Incums great you
roll in the bills(dollars)
Smile is fake, but you make it
because you faked
your "O" face and recited
The other vowels
on their lips.
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 5:33 PM UTC
**** me, my mind
said so. Heart doesn't
like to talk anymore,
since she's been beatin' one
to many times by nervousness.
Anxiety and Depression
like to have threesomes
with me, ******* me
from all ends.
I'm so sore, they do
it raw and sometimes I bleed.
Whenever I talk Anxiety's
*** still lingers in my mouth,
it reeks. He made me swallow hard.
They told me
if I said anything
what would be
the point.
They're not
real.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 10:51 AM UTC
You say i am angry
And then say don't share your love
you say don't love me
And do everything that i love
contradictions to what you say
Don't stop your babble
This confused state of yours
is a pleasure to my spirit and being
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 6:46 AM UTC
Flinger fargen
Bo kindres parben
den randf er morgen
blenk ting er horfen
JORP! Ein blaord fa
Rands er yozard dentra
parben bo floken wretha
O borben er tien jorta
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 11:52 AM UTC