#punks - Hello Poetry

Wasted youth? In role and dote, the done Proud to accept your who'th... Come and compare, a soul for fun Tale of the option, many And few make such famous shade For friends and enemy's, asking any Who would notice, a price for legends Powers of particular, 'if not history'... Where has a clash with purpose been, sincerity Patience for a canny wish, the fate of epistolary Notion in a heed we due, your way or may yet, of visionary... Was this, that in lead of those? Couldn't a heard difference, defer to a wiser anarchy? Straight to you, seldom was a fate for the better moment? We have made in a notorious heat, with when to tell, a sight's vanity?

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Apr 27, 2023

Apr 27, 2023 at 5:20 AM UTC

david-hilburn

Can you see a genius keep a pet ghost?

Wasted youth? In role and dote, the done Proud to accept your who'th... Come and compare, a soul for fun Tale of the option, many And few make such famous shade For friends and enemy's, asking any Who would notice, a price for legends Powers of particular, 'if not history'... Where has a clash with purpose been, sincerity Patience for a canny wish, the fate of epistolary Notion in a heed we due, your way or may yet, of visionary... Was this, that in lead of those? Couldn't a heard difference, defer to a wiser anarchy? Straight to you, seldom was a fate for the better moment? We have made in a notorious heat, with when to tell, a sight's vanity?

16

When the light will tell the thickness of poems, When the rain washes the letters, I will come from ancient times past A mechanical rusty doll. On the wall nakalabay a few words. I even will not be enough. About the others, gone before, fighters, The ones that are gone. It won't be the eternal "punks not dead". We're not that ***** We're stuck with corks in our stomachs., We're just tin cans. If someone reads my text on the wall, The creak this song will. But there's no difference in footprints. The prints of the feet of we the people.

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Mar 17, 2019

Mar 17, 2019 at 2:57 AM UTC

ilyakri

Mechanical doll.

When the light will tell the thickness of poems, When the rain washes the letters, I will come from ancient times past A mechanical rusty doll. On the wall nakalabay a few words. I even will not be enough. About the others, gone before, fighters, The ones that are gone. It won't be the eternal "punks not dead". We're not that ***** We're stuck with corks in our stomachs., We're just tin cans. If someone reads my text on the wall, The creak this song will. But there's no difference in footprints. The prints of the feet of we the people.

16

My friends and I are forlorn fabrics haphazardly stitched into a quilt. Comprised of different textures and fabrics, frayed at the ends, rejected pieces meant for the trash, not good enough for made-to-wear mall clothes. My friends and I fit like a puzzle consisting of pieces from various other puzzles-- found under coffee tables, between couch cushions, tossed into the bowels of forlorn toy bins-- forming a collage of something disoriented and ambiguous. Crammed together, smashing our appendages, leaving crooked gaps, wrinkled, torn, ****** up, but feeling better here than in our small contribution to the bland image of our factory's design. My friends and I, outcasts, rejects, punks, convening in the junkyard heap where we dance and laugh among trash that makes us feel clean. Pure when we're filthy. Quilts and puzzles, to instill and befuddle; ****** treasures.

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Oct 12, 2016

Oct 12, 2016 at 11:53 PM UTC

jarjarrhine

****** Treasures

My friends and I are forlorn fabrics haphazardly stitched into a quilt. Comprised of different textures and fabrics, frayed at the ends, rejected pieces meant for the trash, not good enough for made-to-wear mall clothes. My friends and I fit like a puzzle consisting of pieces from various other puzzles-- found under coffee tables, between couch cushions, tossed into the bowels of forlorn toy bins-- forming a collage of something disoriented and ambiguous. Crammed together, smashing our appendages, leaving crooked gaps, wrinkled, torn, ****** up, but feeling better here than in our small contribution to the bland image of our factory's design. My friends and I, outcasts, rejects, punks, convening in the junkyard heap where we dance and laugh among trash that makes us feel clean. Pure when we're filthy. Quilts and puzzles, to instill and befuddle; ****** treasures.

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