#penguins
Penguins are adorable animals,
that live in snowy environments,
They're known for their uniqueness,
Penguins love playing in the snow,
Penguins relax in the cold,
When they're outside they love to eat
fishes, squids, and krills,
Penguins fall in love and be romantic!
Apr 25
Apr 25, 2026 at 11:00 AM UTC
Penguins painted pink,
peacefully practising pragmatic pebble placement.
Perfectly pointy piles, please!
Profoundly pious Pandas ponder pancreatic problems,
predict potential palsy.
Prognosis? Perilously poor.
Pale porpoises proudly plunge purple pools,
placidly pasturing petrified plankton.
Poor protozoans perish.
Portly, paunchy, plumpish, porcine, porky pigs
populate putrid puddles,
Pulverizing pumpkin pies.
Purposely Prickly porcupines pursue palatable plants,
pin-pointing precisely.
Puce petunias preferred.
Pill popping puppet people perpetuate planetary perdition,
pardon profuse pollution.
Pretentious ******
Sep 4, 2019
Sep 4, 2019 at 11:22 PM UTC
Hej jag heter Kalle, jag är 17 vårar
och
jag är trött på att tårar faller ner från min kind.
Det hände senast i torsdags morgon i klassrummet när nina skapat ett
instagram konto
som hette kalle balle kalle balle är ful.
Jag tyckte det var töntigt för vi är sjutton år,
men alla andra skrattade så vad ska man göra då ?
Läraren sa inget fast han allting såg
han bara twittra på om något som jag ej kommer ihåg.
Även om dem flesta mobiler är på surr
så hör jag allt twitter som pågår i detta ***
och jag vet att det mesta inte är om mig
och jag vet att man inte borde bry sig men
jag bryr mig.
och det känns så motsägelsefull
för jag har alltid hört att det är någonting fint i att bry sig
att bry sig,
men nu när jag är större är det som att världen har växt med mig
och nu finns det för mycket att bry sig,
att bry sig om.
Hej jag heter Kalle och jag mår inte bra,
jag får notiser om att det är så ungdomar ska ha det.
Jag sitter i min plats längst bak i klassrummet till vänster,
när jag plötsligt ser en bild,
jag tror jag ser ett mönster.
här uppifrån som utanför vårt fönster.
för vi är ett *** fullt av instängda fåglar,
det finns svanar som alla anar kommer växa och bli kända som alla vill vara
det finns kråkor som är stolta över att ta andras lycka/ det andra har , och det finns hackspettar
och duvor
gökar
ugglor,
och jag
och jag är rädd att jag är en pingvin eller en struts
jag vet inte om ni vet men av alla 10000 fåglar är just dem de ända som inte kan flyga
och jag tror jag är en pingvin
men kanske är det bra för jag är jag.
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 1:05 AM UTC
Two penguins meet on a day,
under sun so bright.
Flapping wings and singing song,
to make them feel so right.
They sang with hope and sent it far,
to all for change to be,
integrated in humans,
love songs would set them free.
They carried songs of sweet love.
It rang to world so fine.
Their music was a grand gift.
The two were so divine.
And when they met the stars watched on,
from deep inside days sky.
They knew inside love shifts yes come.
In poem I tell no lie.
So send out inside of your prayers
gratitudes sweet toast
to those dressed in black and white,
who live near island coast.
StarBG © 2017
Jul 29, 2017
Jul 29, 2017 at 9:37 AM UTC
It’s the Stanley Cup Finals, The Penguins are doing well
So I’m a hockey widow but on this I don’t dwell
My man is as tense and excited as a first time Dad
So they better kick *** or he’ll really be mad
If they lose in game seven, I’ll get my husband back
To make him feel better I’ll get nasty in the Sack
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 10:31 AM UTC
In this rule book I carry till the day I die,
first lesson is; you have to learn to lie,
and cover those wounds with a wistful sigh,
'cause penguins wouldn't be loved the same if they could fly.
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 7:00 PM UTC
The cold is my commander, it taunts me, while it steals my sheaths of warmer cleaving skin sections exposed by its notions and collected conscious. The sounds are complicated, the moons azurean hue resembles the coldness of my cigarette's embers blue, and then the commander shucks my final breath away. It isn't something that I barely feel, but rather something that lightly see. It's hoarfrost births its fickle shell of hardrime on the last of those interstices I once called my fingers. And from this choke, this frozen voice is detained by the vox ice amplifier that steals each noise. Besides, in an interruption I hear our whorish neighbors score of shouting scripted shouts, and screaming scripted screams. Each day she becomes less and less like any real human being. It's hard to believe that behind these walls that shield me from the albicant and atrocious heraldry winter casts me through, these sounds are concentric like limited Earth words written in the prompts that some ill and wanton succubus would. If only to lure herself from the pains she gained while lying to those amidst her closest ties. I am further distressed, though fully dressed narrowly watching bits of frozen water interlace themselves beneath freezing in the corners of my mind. When until the shaking and commandeering of my mortal sounds, disperse amidst the ferocity that Spring white snow absconds. The tremulent vocal chords are hailed by a hard-rimed **** who ensuingly rips the cantering spirit from each last place it stood. Only those who know this wind could speak about the way it genuflects and obsesses on these rules. This freezing genuflection hails to every servant of its rein, I can barely exhale the inspiration that rises from the head, until any skin exposed to air is reclaimed by my commander for good. Then each neighbor's head may lilt upon the piste, and pray for something more balmy than negative eleven degrees.
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 2:25 AM UTC
Your parade makes me purple, it makes me thin as an alphabet, I don't know, I don't wanna understand. I'm an estimation, I'm over and not in great abundance. Don't defend me, I'm not the header atop your letter.
Open me, I'm like your chimney, inside your mouth I am the lips you dip your tongue through, growing with sensation. See me and seam me to threads and tow me through your ****** lines-
little piece of flesh
Just a little dance, Just a little romance
Keep me in your pants let me be your postcard
I'll float across your eyelids.
Let me know your name
You can taste my skin. You can see my seams bend, my hours grow a little tired
Lifting up your dress, I can taste your pastes, your pastel belle comes floating at me sideways.
Ours and again, you ask me, "is it a nightmare?"
You ask me, "is it a car crash?" You say, "I can feel you breathing." This is not a spell, there's nothing left, not even a little lie I can play with in my fingers, you say, "is it the moon in the stars." And I stop you from ruining the sound of words to preserve a moment. Something a silence and a dollar doesn't buy you. I ask, " is this you my love? You're an imaginary process I'm never going to be interested in prosecuting perfectly. I'm not- an extroverted invert, a spirit floating in the corner of your eyes. I'm over zealous, a zealot, full of youth, using grief to keep your eyes
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 10:15 PM UTC
The worlds gone to ****
Its as simple as that
The beacons are lit
Gondor calls for aid!
What was I saying
Im too high for this
Every continent
All 7 of them
They all got problems
Wait, Antarctica...
So most of Earths ******
Great job everyone
The penguins are beating us
They're not building walls
To keep out those fleeing war
They're building bridges
Well like not actually
Its a metaphor
But you get what I'm saying
Do they have **** in Antarctica?
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 7:32 PM UTC
White bird
Half Intrascope
Alerted by fire
hypnotic Sapphire Realm
Shifting Snow Shape starling
In this for that for This
Chirp Chirping
In Deluxe stereo
Daylight reliefs, lights of my ethereal France
Dance, dancing
Like soldiers, rock rocking
Heavy, eiderdown beaten Shadows
In temporary ride
Into temporary flight
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 1:51 PM UTC
The left wing and the right
Well you need both to fly
This bird of black and white
Tearfully looks up to the sky
And you know why.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 12:02 AM UTC
I'm heaving prose at you and you don't even know it. Like fish jumping into a boat that's empty. Having risen before, being brave would seem easier, lighter maybe. Like great fluff or a fugue of an earthy red wine. My tear ducts are hollow drums, if I could I'd give you a metaphor about weeping, but I'm wept out and worn out. I'm not tired or worn down. I'm an obelisk, or a saber perhaps. I'm good coffee from a specialty roaster, but I come in a to go cup. Coffee should never be consumed from a to go cup.
You're one of those pennies people pay one dollar and one cent for, stretched out with new print on them. At the zoo they can be bought. At places where the middle class can be classless they can be bought.
You were once a starlet. A golden and imperfect deity. I'm still worshipping you. You're my startling ****** but the rigging is busted. Now I'm onto acid washes and back on ivory. Maybe you didn't mean to leave cue cards and question marks like keepsake memories under our bedroom duvet.
I'm only asking for you.
While I **** around each new city in the jargon of a Calder sculpture. I've punched door mice and killed rattle snakes with the heel of my foot. Step on with the right and bring your fingers to your lips. I've been calling good luck for decades now. Julys Septembers and Novembers too.
Just a regular guy with a big ******* rooster.
Some girl said we're swimming for each other in the dark, but I know your eyes have adjusted to the light. Don't compensate for ordinary experiences. Realize what I realize and taste the snow.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 2:25 AM UTC
Well now I am aware
Of the newest anarchy towards your reasonings
An enterprise of not feeling anything
This practise of not making a sound.
Even the hollowest, little laugh, catapulted up
Through the roof of your mouth, and reflecting
Off the top of your tongue, can still be too much.
In earnest, even if it's an eighth of a sound, its apex
Is too much to drown out, I hear it everywhere that
It throws me towards. Holds me by the throat and it
Knows me now like it wants me to find out but then
Hides itself, like the chime of a bell, ringing off the hem
Of the dress you wore on October 30th of 2012, it is a
Sound that'd I'd never be able mute out, that comes
To me unexpectedly, and it takes the rest of me to keep cool.
Now the inches grow, and the moon men climb inside of
My mouth. I want to yell. Scream! But I can't even shout.
The words inside of my hands write, but the ink has dried out.
I wasn't sure but now I'm sure that the time has come and
That time on the clock is now. Call up the whales, undress for
The moon, I'm making Rice Krispies because the penguin girl
Is coming home soon.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 7:52 PM UTC
what is more gentle,
than this pillow of the light?
a life narrowing,
in a bright feather dance
that sweeps across the sea
or covers our faces in shadows.
where do you go when you leave me?
now I am nocturnal,
a bliss bandit,
cooing at stars
one thousand miles high.
shaking like a tea kettle,
I am the black *** black,
shaking,
shivering.
Swallowing pieces of your light,
in the back-room jungle where I sew,
tears to the bottoms of my eyes,
where no one ever goes.
I know days,
hours,
one minute
where I gambled time
and stood behind you
with my fingers
on your shoulders
and my mouth on your neck.
What it takes to be apart,
split in half,
shucked from birth;
it takes every thing I
ever owned,
every note I ever sang,
each breath that I will make-
some thought I stand up on,
my knees quivering below me.
five kinds of drugs
just to see straight, to hold
my hands steady or
sleep at night.
your lavender flavor
is still in me.
you in me.
one.
two.
soaking in this forgotten city,
Earth's heroes drifting away.
I could never eat again, or
cast a spell, or touch the same.
while burning I may never
stand
on these same two feet again.
four years,
a photograph.
one voice,
softening into my skin,
that I never may forget.
that this beard is of
an old man, should I never
count again
blessings or songs.
I dive into the flame
and study this journey backwards.
so I should never forget,
everything so serious
as this
as you, in me.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 6:58 PM UTC