#rhymingpoem
People gag, they pinch their nose,
"It tastes like sorrow!" — sure, I suppose.
Yet here I stand, a licorice freak,
Eating the candy that whispers bleak.
It slithers in darkness, a snake made of sweet,
A villain's dessert, deceit in a treat.
While others seek sugar that's sunshine and bright,
I'm licking the shadow that conquers the light.
You all want chocolate, soft and sweet,
I crave despair that I can eat.
While your treats sparkle, pink and tame,
Mine hisses softly, calling my name.
Hand me a rope of that inky delight,
My soul's snack of choice, pure gothic bite.
The blacker, the spongier, the more I consume,
Like candy dredged fresh from a villain's tomb.
Salty, squishy, midnight chew,
Each bite corrupts my soul anew.
The edible evil, dark and slick;
My darling sin, my favorite trick.
"It's gross!" you cry. Oh, bless your heart.
Weak taste buds fear tasty art.
Give me that brine, that tar-black kiss,
I'll dine with demons over this bliss.
It's rubber and bitter, and gloriously vile,
One chewy strand makes cynics compile
Lists of desserts they'd rather endure,
But me? I'm devoted, deliciously impure.
Your candies flirt; mine plots a bloodshed.
You crave delight, I crave the dread.
Licorice laughs, a spiteful bite,
My candy crush, the taste of night.
So mock if you wish, o bland brigade,
My tongue's found delight in darkness displayed.
Let sugar saints keep heaven's gate:
I'll dine with the devil; edible hate.
Feb 25
Feb 25, 2026 at 3:19 AM UTC
Fresh from surgery, dazed but fine,
Half boy, half noodle, sort of mine.
His eyes were fogged, but wide with fate:
I handed him a single grape.
He held it close, the sacred bead,
The fruit of God, his only need.
Then whispered low, with dreamlike sigh,
“You’re so…so beautiful!” - No lie.
He popped it in. The deed was done.
Then horror bloomed, "I ate the one!"
He wept, distraught, the guilt immense,
For eating beauty made no sense.
The tears flowed fast, a sticky flood,
As grape juice mingled grief and blood.
Yet through the sobs, the hunger stayed:
He ate again. (A moral trade!)
Each grape a ghost, a fallen friend,
The feast of tears would never end.
And I, the monster, bore the blame,
A genocide now to my name!
He raged and sobbed, my fruitless knight,
A sticky-fingered soul in flight.
The orphaned stems, in silence, bled;
A kingdom gone. All grapes were dead.
Feb 23
Feb 23, 2026 at 2:54 AM UTC
He flirts with swagger, tough and sly,
Until one cotton ghost drifts by.
His lungs collapse, his pupils shrink:
The Red Sea's there - and he can't think.
A harmless wrapper hits the floor,
He screams in fear - out of the door.
Brave soldier gone with trembling knees:
Retreat! Retreat! Ovaries!
They mock our pain, but drop like flies,
When faced with proof of girl supplies.
The sight of pads or 'monthly doom'?
They'd rather face some deadly gloom.
A tampon's launched - a weapon, sleek.
His courage folds within 'the week'.
Men run from blood, though not from crime;
The irony just bleeds in time.
So girls, take notes for future use:
No ghosting texts, no lame excuse.
Just toss a ****** aim with flair,
You'll clear the room, the field, the air.
And when they ask what brought their fall,
Say, "tampons, honey - that is all."
He thought it's death, disease, or pain;
Nope - Cotton catching ****** rain.
Jan 3
Jan 3, 2026 at 4:27 AM UTC
He sighs, the tragic, aiding knight,
He is no help - although he tried.
A shrug, a grunt, a fleeting moan,
Then you do it all alone.
He doesn't know where sponges hide,
Or how a trash bag must be tied.
He's baffled by that thing - oh, soap!
Then stares at socks like quantum hope.
The vacuum next, a beast of yore,
Its switch a puzzle, mythic lore.
He taps it twice, declares it dead,
Then mourns its loss and goes to bed.
He gives his all to change the sheets,
Then gives up - All defeats!
The duster follows, no perseverance.
What's he good at? Disappearance!
He cannot cook, but burns with flair;
He followed steps - "Babe, I swear!"
He loads the washer upside down,
Then acts like he deserves a crown.
He ruins laundry, floods the floor,
Brings wrong items from the store.
The towels pink, the plates still greasy
Chores are "hard, and not so easy."
He cries, "I tried!" - his noble part,
His martyrdom? A work of art.
His helplessness? Weaponized!
Each clueless blink? Memorized!
Each time you ask, he does it worse,
The smirk rehearsed, his tone perverse.
"Oh Baby, really, I'm no help!"
He acts hurt, lets out a yelp.
And as you clean his tragic art,
He whispers, "See? You're just so smart."
The curtain falls, the trick's complete -
A genius act of planned defeat.
Jan 2
Jan 2, 2026 at 2:17 PM UTC
If identical twins both bang the same chick,
And she’s knocked up and due in May,
Science throws up its hands really quick
'Cause of Schrödinger’s DNA.
Now both of these dudes stand there in the dock,
Saying "Not me," with the cunningest grin,
The judge pours a whiskey and stares at the clock,
thinking, “Hell, no one here can win.”
Forensics are useless, the experts are spent,
The lawyers double their pay.
Those two get off clean, no support or rent
'Cause of Schrödinger’s DNA.
The bar’s full of cheers as the twins toast their luck,
While the judge rolls his eyes at the mess.
"Two fathers, one baby? Oh, what the ****
This family’s doomed, I guess!"
Come birthdays, Christmas, or Easter along,
The kid spends these days in dismay,
Two fathers, two uncles, but actually none,
'Cause of Schrödinger’s DNA!
DNA can be fun (though not for this kid)
And it can go a ridiculous way,
So far that even the scientists quit,
Except Schrödinger - It would make his day!
Dec 25, 2025
Dec 25, 2025 at 9:27 AM UTC
Schadenfreude is a word
That many may have never heard.
The German language has its perks,
And it comes with many quirks.
You see, this term just can’t be found
In English dictionaries 'round;
There truly isn’t a translation
For such a really strange sensation.
Schadenfreude is what you feel,
A guilty joy that seems unreal:
The laughter you just can’t contain
When someone else is in some pain.
Or if they slip, or if they fail,
You try to hide it - no avail.
It brings you such a guilty pleasure,
A secret joy, a hidden treasure.
It’s not just someone that you hate,
Could be your sister or your mate.
Someone stumbles, and you laugh,
Having fun on their behalf.
Is it good? Of course it’s not.
Do I feel it? Yes, a lot.
Am I wicked? Naaaaah, am I?
I wouldn’t laugh if they would die!
But people failing is hilarious,
And their ways are quite various!
I chuckle, giggle, just a bit,
And my heart does a little skit.
For me, a bit Schadenfreude’s fine,
As long as no one breaks their spine.
And even though they may get hurt,
I love the feeling. Love the word.
So every time you feel delight
At someone tripping in your sight,
Remember, there's a German word
For laughing at someone getting hurt.
Dec 25, 2025
Dec 25, 2025 at 4:09 AM UTC
A kingdom built on fear and lies,
They called it law before our eyes.
The orange king still plots his game,
But truth outlasts a tyrant’s flame.
They cage the lost, the poor, the scared,
Then preach 'bout love, they never cared.
ICE hunts them down, spreads hate and spite,
But we record each shattered right.
Yes, we will move; we fight, don't pray,
We block the roads and say, "No way!
No peace for those who hunt our own,
We'll come for you, and take his throne!"
The diners slam their doors shut tight,
No coffee for a parasite.
The horns don’t stop, the lights don’t fade,
Revenge looks good in neon shade.
They thought the world forgot the past,
But guess what? The truth will last.
The trials come, your names are penned,
And justice waits around the bend.
So run while dawn burns through your lies,
Your paperwork won’t save your lives.
We’ve kept your faces, crimes, the work:
We’ll see you tried like Nuremberg.
Dec 24, 2025
Dec 24, 2025 at 3:10 PM UTC
He clears his throat, adjusts his tie,
Declares, "Now, let me clarify."
You've studied this? He's read a tweet!
And he will tell you in a beat.
He says, "Your thoughts are interesting."
But you're the peasant, he's the king,
Then he goes, "You couldn't know,
But, no worries - Let me show."
His facts are wrong, his tone divine,
What he just said? That was YOUR line.
Repeat, rephrase, sigh in despair,
"Thank God, my love, that I am there."
"Now look," comes next, a grin so sly.
"Well, surely, I can tell you why."
"Don't take it wrong," his face will plead,
"I'm just explaining what you need."
He calls you "dear" to sound mature,
Repeats himself, "Just to be sure."
Won't let you speak, no questions asked,
Fragile pride, so barely masked.
And FINALLY, that man is done,
He'll smirk, believing he has won.
You tell him off, a deadpan face,
Middlefinger, perfect grace.
This was YOUR thing, not his, oh no,
So you tell him, WHAT you know,
Embarrass him? He asked for it!
And if that man should throw a fit,
Just remind him who YOU are,
And that you didn't get that far
Without your knowledge and your brain!
All of this? YOUR domain.
Tell him off, or kick him out,
Don't be silent, no, be loud.
Mansplainers stop only when,
You call them out, these fragile men.
Dec 21, 2025
Dec 21, 2025 at 3:35 AM UTC
He once was named Möp, tiny and cute,
But soon in the tank, we had a dispute.
Möp went berserk, and even though small,
That ******* fish tried to **** them all.
There were seventeen, then suddenly not,
A few were missing, then more, then a lot.
Yes, Möp, the fish, was in for that slaughter,
The real reason for the reddish water.
So he went to jail, a tank on his own,
Here I am, watching him with a frown,
That ******* fish glares right back at me,
With a look just as evil as evil can be.
I really don't understand his demeanor -
Now, that ******* fish fought the gravel cleaner.
And last night I saw in the gravel some pits,
Plus there was a plant: now shredded to bits.
That ******* fish tore a plant apart!
But I can't **** him, I have a heart.
So he stays alone until he dies,
While I give him all the supplies
That he needs to survive, even though
He doesn't deserve it, because as you know,
That fish is a killer; he murdered eight!
So there is just him. And of course, his hate!
Dec 17, 2025
Dec 17, 2025 at 2:54 PM UTC
We wait at the crossing, my boy and me,
Just learning manners - he’s barely three.
"Say thank you, wave!" And there we go:
He lifts his arm. The right one. NO!
The driver freezes. My veins combust.
My boy smiles like 'in Mom I trust.'
The stranger’s face drains white as chalk.
I’m halfway ghost, too stunned to talk.
"Put down your hand," I hiss, half-dead,
My brain is reciting world-war dread.
Kid hums a tune, looking so cute,
After doing a full-on **** Salute.
Heart skips a beat, soul takes a dive,
My kid reenacted nineteen forty-five.
I melt into asphalt, my brain short-circuits,
Muttering prayers and moral frameworks.
I bow, I stammer, I fake a cough,
"Oh, kids - ha ha - not mine!" I scoff.
Her eyes say 'ma’am, your spawn’s possessed.'
I nod. "It's just... He... tried his best."
And as my shame cements its throne,
Let history mark this moment known:
The scene, the quake, the catastrophe,
Of course had to happen in Germany.
Dec 8, 2025
Dec 8, 2025 at 1:47 PM UTC
Search for topics, deep and vast,
Something tragic, mildly cursed.
Scroll through trauma, lovers past,
Pick the one that hurts the worst.
Start by thinking of a rhyme,
And be prepared to bleed for art.
Two lines in, you’re 'bout to whine,
Nothing rhymes with "vile ****
Try again, the pen feels grand,
But "love" won’t rhyme with "hanging tree."
Could "dove" or "shove" yet take a stand?
No! Welcome, first catastrophe.
Existential dread sets in,
"What am I doing?" echoes loud.
Pace the room, caress your chin,
Feel the void - and make it proud.
Frantic now, the hunt’s begun,
Scraping rhyme from corpse and tome,
HA! "Fun" fits "none" - the battle’s won,
Now your mind can freely roam.
But next verse, doomed by rhyme again,
Futile scribbles stain the night.
Brain cells dropping, one by ten,
Art and madness reunite.
Second crisis. Question all:
Insanity - the cost of art.
"Why rhyme at all? Why write? Why fall?"
Because endings crave a start!
Next verse, fresh delusions bloom,
Sure, this one will change your fate.
Three lines in, familiar doom:
Nothing rhymes with "craving hate."
Third crisis comes, so nice and raw,
"Why are my poems always odd?"
Contemplate some cosmic flaw,
Blame it on some absent god.
Search once more. Despair’s a trend.
There's no rhyme for "angst" or "doom."
Maybe that's how muses end:
By dying in a poet’s room.
The last verse starts with manic cheer,
"Now I’ve cracked the code at last!"
Then the rhymes just disappear,
All your genius drains out fast.
Fourth crisis, full warning sign:
Brain says, "Stop or you’ll combust."
Put the pen down, pretend you're fine,
And let the words gather some dust.
Take a break and close your eyes,
Let the clock do all the work.
Sip some wine, romanticize
Every half-abandoned quirk.
Fight a squirrel, eat some cheese,
Or whatever brings you joy,
Sing a song, or paint some geese,
Or watch the show "Siegfried and Roy."
Sleep at last, let silence grow,
Wake to words that feel less tight.
Rhymes won’t come by push and tow,
They walk in when you stop the fight.
Nov 27, 2025
Nov 27, 2025 at 5:43 PM UTC
I wrote some books - a darker spree,
A series of blood and play.
It's wicked, wild - a mystery!
The series is named DAY!
The seventh book will close the reign
Of terror, charm, and dread.
For Wanda Day's no saint - she's pain;
A goddess dressed in red.
Runs a hotel far from the sun,
In the Alaskan woods, so still.
But Wanda's hobby isn't fun,
She just loves to ****
She built a club, a twisted crowd,
DAY! - her deadly crew.
Each year they gather, fierce and proud,
To celebrate what they do.
Yet this year's feast turns cold and grim,
The Queen of Fear was ended.
The candles flicker, chances slim,
And everyone's offended.
Now cops invade the misty pines,
With questions sharp as knives,
While Colin, drenched in scarlet signs,
Vows vengeance while taking some lives.
He's aided by his closest mate,
Chris: calm, but cut with fire.
Both stalk the truth, both tempt their fate,
Through blood, deceit, desire.
Who killed the duchess of the dead?
The town begins to fray.
The murders breed, the fear is spread:
Who silenced Wanda Day?
A thriller of blood, of guts, of jest,
Dark humor through the grime.
Not for the soft or faintly blessed;
It's chaos, with a rhyme.
Think Desperate Housewives gone to hell,
Meets Hostel's bleeding art.
Entrails fly, fists strike as well.
Weak souls, best not to start.
So, if your nerves can take the fray,
And madness makes you stay,
Then start the tale that lights the way:
Read "Who Killed Wanda Day?"
Nov 21, 2025
Nov 21, 2025 at 4:15 AM UTC
They sneer, "You're tough, it can't be real,"
As laughter drowns his cracking tone.
Society's smirk, that poison seal,
Declares his pain sure stands alone.
They preach no shame's a man's décor,
Then mock him for not being strong,
Yet silence seeds a rotten core:
It festers loudly - feels so wrong.
He's told his scars should hide and rest,
That real men bite through bitter pain,
But trauma stitched beneath the chest
Still bleeds where pride's supposed to reign.
The myth that pain must wear a bra:
**** never cared for gender's tag,
The pain's the same - unfiltered, raw,
Yet men are forced to wear a gag.
Dismiss the tale that hurt must hide
Inside a body built to oppose;
Pain's badge is worn with fractured pride,
Battlescars, he never shows.
So tell the world to drop the mic,
And let the truth cut through the mess,
For real strength isn't ***** or ****
It's bearing wounds the world won't bless.
Nov 9, 2025
Nov 9, 2025 at 6:04 PM UTC
Dear leafy diva, bane of my shelf:
What twisted mood are you in today?
I water with hope (and doubt myself),
You curl up ****** or wilt halfway.
Is it rain you seek? Or a desert drought?
Should I move you out of the sunbeam's glare?
You shrivel with power, then sprout with clout,
I swear your needs change midair.
Did I botch the soil? Too peaty? Too bland?
Is my tap too hard? Are the minerals mean?
I Google with frantic, trembling hand;
You pop a fresh leaf, then lose seventeen.
Your roots are a riddle, your spots are a curse;
I check for pests, I squint for mold!
Each symptom's a plot twist, each week gets worse,
You throw tantrums that legends foretold.
But wait! One morning, a sprout unfurls,
And I dare to believe I'm not deranged.
It gladdens, it curls, my hope unwhirls!
Then you ****** a leaf. Oh, nothing's changed!
So here's my confession, you vexing green brat:
My patience is spent, my sanity frayed.
I'm one wilt away from moving out flat,
But you're lush, so you win! Well played.
Nov 2, 2025
Nov 2, 2025 at 2:08 PM UTC
My child said, "Let’s get fish, it’ll brighten our day."
Now four tanks later, the light’s burned away.
We started with one, a serene little pond,
Now we bankroll Atlantis - a watery bond.
The fish came first, naive and adored,
He said, "Let's add frogs!" - Sure! I'm fiscally bored!
But fish eat like monsters: fast, smug, obscene,
While frogs starve politely - amphibian cuisine.
So tank two was born, a symbol of reason,
Splitting chaos by glass is somehow in season.
Then Möp declared war, his fins full of spite,
Chasing poor Tröt through the day until night.
Exiled to tank two, a solitary fiend,
He broods on revenge, unnervingly gleamed.
We packed for vacation, escaped for a week,
Returned to discover the frog plan was bleak.
So tank three arrived, a relic of grime,
Scrubbed with regret and industrial crime.
No equipment? The shop sealed our fate, all slick:
"Buy a bundle - it’s cheaper!" (Economics’ trick).
So tank four joined in, the final decree,
My home's now a shrine to watery spree.
Möp floats in silence, plotting coups in his bowl,
A monarch of madness, no subjects, no soul.
The frogs croak in corner four’s algae-plagued gloom,
The fish swirl in tank one, plotting my doom.
I water-test daily - existential despair,
While bubbles rise slowly like prayers to nowhere.
So, four tanks hum softly, absurd and profound,
My living room glows, but my sanity drowned.
Each hum reminds me, in rhythmic refrain,
That tank three's still empty - and I am insane!
Nov 12, 2025
Nov 12, 2025 at 4:01 PM UTC
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.
Oct 29, 2025
Oct 29, 2025 at 2:40 PM UTC
Halo-filtered frauds parade,
Holier-than-thou charade.
Perfection is bought and sold,
Souls reduced to views and gold.
Private jets on borrowed cash,
Sponsored morals, hashtag trash.
Selling wellness, faking fears,
Renting lives while drowning peers.
Pranks of cruelty, staged abuse,
Laughing while they cut the noose.
Grandma's fall? A reel to trend!
Human pain's the means, not end.
Kids for clout - paraded bare,
Posted wide for creeps to stare.
Stolen moments, likes accrue,
Childhood sold for one more view.
Grief performed with flawless hair,
Coffins streamed with ring lights' glare.
Shedding tears for grandma's wake,
Monetized with ads to bake.
ICU's the perfect scene,
"Pray for me - but like the screen!"
Doctor's whisper, deathbed near,
Haloed lies that sound sincere.
Faux compassion, pimped like ****
Virtue's dead, but likes are born.
Whored-out kindness, brand as crown,
Clout's the gospel, cash the gown.
Keep on scrolling, feed the beast,
Every lie becomes a feast.
They look vacant, husks of fame,
Dead inside - yet scream your name.
Oct 22, 2025
Oct 22, 2025 at 3:00 PM UTC
Klaus Störtebeker sailed the sea,
A pirate bold as bold can be.
Hanseatic League, he made turn grey,
Their goods and gold would slip away.
Yet scholars argue, doubtful tone,
If Klaus was real, or legend grown.
No proof is left, no signed report,
Just tales of plunder and of court.
On April’s day, fourteen-o-one,
His ship, "Toller Hund," was overrun.
With seventy-two rogues at his side,
To Hamburg’s chains they all were tied.
By autumn’s chill, the axe was raised,
October twenty-first was blazed.
The sentence: death! So harsh, so grim,
But Klaus had bargained fate with him.
He begged, "Let comrades live, I pray,
Free those I reach along the way.
Head severed clean, I’ll walk and prove,
The breath of mercy yet can move."
The blade came down, his head was gone,
Yet still he staggered bravely on.
Passed eleven - marched in line,
Till trickery unstitched the twine.
The headsman tripped him with deceit,
(Klaus couldn't see down to his feet.)
Is the tale true? None can decide,
But still it drifts on history’s tide.
So myth or truth, no man can say,
A legend born of sea’s cruel play,
The tale survives both doubt and time,
Whispers told in seafarers’ rhyme.
A pirate’s march without a head,
Passing friends - though long dead.
Störtebeker was his name
His headless stroll a walk of fame!
Oct 8, 2025
Oct 8, 2025 at 5:43 PM UTC
So, I wrote a book, a novel so long,
One hundred and sixty K words.
My heroine’s fierce, immortal, and strong,
Hates humans so much that it hurts.
5000 years old, and Aria's done!
Wants to kick the bucket - just die!
Living forever has long lost its fun,
She’s worn of the ancient lie.
With stress piled up, she goes to a shrink,
And rants for an hour straight.
She paces his office, sour, on the brink,
Mood split between rage and hate.
But Jacob (the shrink) believes her somehow,
A miracle, strange and new!
So off they journey together now
To an oracle - their only clue.
The oracle whispers the cure is found
Within "The Book Of Life,"
They learn it’s kept on sacred ground,
Guarded by a nun with a knife.
The book reveals there’s a curse to reverse,
And relics they’ll need to find.
But things keep sliding from odd to worse,
And Jacob unsettles her mind...
The pile of artifacts grows quite insane,
New travelers join the group.
They share the laughter and the pain;
All over dried noodle soup.
Jacob falls first, and he falls hard,
Knowing there’s no real chance:
Aria’s immortal, he is scarred,
And his shyness blocks the romance.
Will she fall as well, or keep up the wall?
And will she go through with the curse?
Will she go on and end it all?
Would it be better or worse?
If this teaser worked and you’re on the hook,
It would mean a lot to me,
If you’d take a look at my snarling book:
Named "How to End Eternity."
The book brings romance that sneaks up slow,
Adventure in every scene,
People from a long time ago,
And more for the in-between:
Action ignites, with relics and quests,
The secrets of archaeology.
No **** - the scenes in locked up chests,
But humor - I guarantee!
And best of all: it’s free to read,
No cost, no, nothing to pay.
Just send a DM, I’ll take the lead,
And send the link your way.
Sep 19, 2025
Sep 19, 2025 at 4:21 PM UTC
A week ago, I saw the doc,
He sighed and said, "You're done."
His gaze was sharp, his mood was stock
Of doom that weighs a ton.
According to the doctor, who
Did the tests - left me in rage -
And I can say, he did a few,
I now have reached a certain age.
"Congratulations! To the grave!
Your warranty's expired."
He squinted, acting bold and brave,
And jotted, uninspired.
Now, I'm not old, I'm still alive,
Mid-thirties, barely used!
He acts like I cannot survive
And I'm not even bruised.
"This number's grim," he softly spoke,
And slid the labs my way.
"Prepare for cracks and brittle smoke,
The slow decline's display."
This sentence left me in a rage,
It brought me close to tears.
If I have NOW a certain age?
What am I in ten years?
Will I then be fossil folk?
Geriatric garbage, yes?
A day away from my first stroke?
A muddled medical mess?
A certain age? What does that mean?
I am just mid-thirty!
Yes, I know, I'm not eighteen,
But I'm still strong and sturdy!
A certain age, what does it say?
I'm only halfway through.
A ticking clock that won't obey?
A joke I never knew?
A certain age! - Oh, should I laugh?
Who was I consulting?
I am more than just a graph
Or number! That's insulting!
A certain age! Doc, **** yourself!
I count myself as young,
Now go, read books from your big shelf,
While I show you my tongue!
As long as I don't smell of mold,
Nor creak with every step,
I'll dance defiant, young and bold,
Not ready for death's debt.
Aug 30, 2025
Aug 30, 2025 at 1:45 PM UTC
Last night I dreamed about a man
I've never met before.
He held fresh flowers, smiled then,
Right there, at my door.
We spoke a bit, then I woke up,
The morning cut the scene.
But questions overflow my cup:
Who was that man I’d seen?
So, I am now pondering
The strangers in my dreams,
And why they are conquering
My thoughts - that's how it seems.
But are these strangers in my visions
Really strangers though?
Or did we have short collisions
A long, long time ago?
Maybe we have met before?
A passenger on the train?
A customer in a grocery store?
Profiles saved in my brain?
Does my mind perhaps contain
A secret store of faces?
Of people passing through my lane,
Leaving unseen traces?
What if we dreamed the same strange dream,
At once, in secret time?
He saw me drift upon the stream,
As I saw him in mine?
Neither of us will ever know,
‘Cause we have never met,
And we can’t talk about the show;
How interesting is that?
And one last question chills my mind,
The thought just makes me scream:
How often have I been assigned
A role in someone’s dream?
Aug 23, 2025
Aug 23, 2025 at 5:11 PM UTC
Goethe's ballad - spooky and weird,
About a dad and his feverish kid.
They’re riding through forests, boy pretty scared
Of a ghost king who won’t stay hid.
The boy sees the Erlking, all creepy and such,
Dad: “It’s fog, you ***** just sleep!”
But the spirit keeps talking, a bit too much,
Oh, what a sly little creep.
“Come play!” says the ghost, “I’ve got cool stuff!”
The kid’s like, “Dad, he’s being weird!”
Dad’s still in denial, acting all tough,
While his son’s getting more and more scared.
The Erlking’s persistence is quite absurd,
Lures the boy with his daughters and more.
The dad keeps on riding, not hearing a word,
Kid is shaken right to the core.
Dad blames the nature, keeps talking crap,
For him - the story needs proof.
Eventually, they make it home, but oh snap!
The kid’s kicked the bucket, gone ****
So what did we learn from this creepy tale
Besides, "don’t ride sick through the night?"
That Goethe loved drama on an epic scale,
And making dads look not so bright.
In short: It’s a story of fever and fails,
Denial, and a ride through the night.
The forest plays tricks, the creepy prevails,
And a kid giving up the fight.
Aug 20, 2025
Aug 20, 2025 at 4:44 PM UTC
Philippa Foot, a thinker wise,
Proposed a moral game:
A twist designed to make you rise,
And act to earn your name.
A train runs wild; it will collide,
With five doomed on the track.
You're standing - watching from the side,
No way to call them back.
But near your hand, a lever waits:
One pull will shift the rail.
You change the train’s relentless fate,
But is this choice a fail?
It now will strike a single man,
But leave the group alive.
Yet he was safe before your plan,
Now HE will not survive.
To save the five, you claimed his life,
Was that the better plan?
A noble act, or something rife?
A group against one man?
So ask yourself: are five worth more
Than sacrificing one?
Or would it haunt you at your core,
No matter what was done?
If you had simply walked away,
The five would surely fall.
Yet choosing death for him that day
Still leaves you bearing all.
The lesson is no verdict clear,
No answer cast in stone:
The trolley’s track runs ever near,
And leaves the choice your own.
Doing nothing is not right
But neither is intervening,
You're always the killer - and the knight,
And THAT is the only true meaning.
Aug 17, 2025
Aug 17, 2025 at 3:35 PM UTC
A poem for the men out there,
Those making jokes without a care,
'Bout bears and women - why we choose
The bear; not possible abuse.
You see, ten guns here, in a row,
Pick one out, and then, you know,
Put the gun right to your head,
Pull the trigger... are you mad?
What do you mean, not reassured?
Most guns are usually secured!
Most are empty; just one is loaded.
I'm sure no guns have yet exploded.
What do you mean - you don’t know
Which ones are safe? Really, though?
"NoT aLl GuNs" - I just said that,
The chances here are pretty flat.
Oh, you had an uncle who
Got shot while handling guns? You do?
Your grandpa, brother, friends, and dad?
All of them? Oh, that is sad.
Some are dead? In a grave?
But still... most guns are pretty safe!
It doesn't mean you'll end up dead,
So put the gun right to your head.
Pull the trigger, it's not bad,
And if it is, you should have had
Thought about what you wear!
And that's why women choose the bear!
Aug 17, 2025
Aug 17, 2025 at 9:11 AM UTC
awkward questions, awkward stares
told that i'm putting on airs
written out of all the prayers
i don't fit into the squares
Sep 8, 2020
Sep 8, 2020 at 1:15 PM UTC