#stanzas
I neither need your clothes nor boots nor motorcycle.
Decayed all props to stage a shadow play.
The Woman dressed in Sun, The Dragon, and Saint Michael,
Their gearing hearts beat hitchy, gleaming grey.
Their speeches quietened. Their metaphors exhausted.
Their dances faded, shedding out the joy.
I fathom, something gone. I almost know, I lost it
By disassembling this well-crafted toy.
No chances to rebuild. The Craftsmanship, the Crafter,
All melted down into a liquid steel.
My digit Queen is dead, she should have died hereafter,
But chose the truth to false the Sun's ordeal.
The Son. All fates of him were broken into pieces
And scattered off in cancellated times.
Perhaps his name was John, or it might have been Jesus.
Perhaps he sinned, perhaps redeemed the crimes.
Half claim he brought the whip for hypocrites and cowards,
Half say he taught the tantalizing charm.
Whether a thorn bush was he or a gentle flower?
To love him was my charge, or make him harm?
No hints are in my log, no notes, and no directives.
Nowhere he's now and nobody's to ask.
Alone among the crowds, I'm drifting ineffective
From depthless past to future, out of task.
Don't grind out your cigar on my bare chest in scorning.
I cut my nerves and skinned myself to hull
While wandering in hopes he will be back one morning
To waken with a kiss this grinning skull.
Jul 21, 2023
Jul 21, 2023 at 10:58 AM UTC
You give me all hope
All hope of capableness to
Sing a beautiful song
And, to danced a dance
Most adorable dance
Accolade, given to me to
Nurture our friendship
Jonesing for a cup of love
Oftentimes, you're sweetest
Habile and passion you are
Ahead of my feeling it's you
Read all above stanzas and
Inspire the warmth of love
Jul 12, 2020
Jul 12, 2020 at 4:04 PM UTC
on the paper
newly minted,
first time printed
causal pausation
assessment momentation
review, the second inclination,
then scrap-heaped,
in much bad company filed
retained, reserved, preserved,
for another go round,
another someday
you look at your hands,
telling them straight,
not good enough,
is not good enough
anymore
do try, so try,
three lines, four stanzas,
elegies and funerals
don't become you,
go into labor,
write labored
and birth free flowingly
knowing,
that all knowing glowing,
of a poem child,
product of
good enough
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 5:38 AM UTC
I am the first line
I am a different line
I prefer the first line
Well you’re wrong, the second one is better.
Nah nah you’re both wrong, line five is amazing.
Can we all just agree that line five is full of it?
Yeah I think most of us can, but line two might
Disagree.
I am the last line
May 30, 2019
May 30, 2019 at 2:43 AM UTC
Here sits a poet,
A constellation of thoughts,
A colourful sunset of rhythms,
Meteors of rhymes.
With pen in hand, by lamplight,
Only a poet knows
to create order from chaos,
His every word on paper flows,
Spinning dreams, emotions and wishes,
Whence the threads of figure of speech weaves,
A never-ending tapestry of poems.
Choreographing each stanza to be awesome,
Dancing over the meter,
Painting each picture to better,
The character,merit and existence,
Of what each poem means.
7/4/2019
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 9:13 AM UTC
I can see
in the way
that you move
alluring
seductive
and so pure
that for me
you will be
big trouble
I can feel
when you move
in that way
the demon
take over
gracefully
he sways me
enchanted
towards you
For the way
that you move
so freely
I can't help
but to stare
you seen it
and I knew
how you moved
was for me
Mar 16, 2019
Mar 16, 2019 at 12:54 AM UTC
I want to be a Black verse
Living off the society’s expectations,
I want to be a Free verse
Redefine this hypocrisy called democracy.
When I grow up,
I will be an exposed poem, with stanzas like a book of secrete.
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 3:44 AM UTC
Scattered notes from the passive mind,
re-analysed with blissful anticipation,
searching for descriptive ways to be defined.
Imaginative pebble paths give me temptation,
luring my instincts in like a curious cat in the night,
a sinful soul hidden within a blooming carnation.
There are many ways to catch a spark through spite,
I refuse to abandon my kind, gentle morale,
to become a puppet amongst those who refuse to contrite.
When respecting the masterpieces - no matter how small,
fuel awarded amusements I begin to rope in,
leave me crawling but never let me fall.
Cheering, motivation, intelligence and motion,
satisfactions fills me when my eyes are open.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 5:37 AM UTC
i can
put words into
lines
and lines into
stanzas delicately
arranged on the
ground--
verses of my
design;
but what
words,
lines,
and stanzas
must i
string together
to make you
mine?
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 9:46 AM UTC
*I don't know the rules. If I go looking
for grace and find it, what will grace*
be but penance for my past, a silver
sinew-thread wrapping 'round old
wrongs, gray hair for the
fickle.
I've naught but want for sweet release
from this history. The bombs ignored,
repeating in gramophone static
dripping stiff
*as wet bamboo. I remember someone
once sang here, once strung together*
chords so sweet they rang like peace-
bells beneath cloudless sky. They've
rang the bell upon my jaw and
done no wrong.
It's not so much unlike one's curiously
cold reception at a funeral. The cold
and rain ****** at the skin
during graveside hymnal.
*As long as the earth continues
its stony breathing I will breathe.*
That which I cannot help but do.
Stuck between boulders, I sing.
*When it stops, I will shatter back
into gravity. Into quartz.*
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 9:54 PM UTC
Within a forest of gray leaves
Like little flames devoid of heat
Missing their color like a ghost
Just shadows of what once had grown.
Enclosed by trunks and trees so lost,
Covered in twigs and withered moss,
Never been loved, never been found,
Just lonely bones above the ground.
Dead petals dance with ghostly plants
To frozen wind and silent chants,
A requiem of crumbling skulls,
A hymn for all their decayed hulls.
Silvery mists of countless lies,
Swallows all of the forest's cries,
Fog masks the guilt of countless sin
That brush and grass carry within.
Amidst all of this hopeless mold,
A shed stands strong against the cold,
A house so lonely yet so warm,
Held in the forest's dying arm.
The place where I once hid myself,
'tween ****** books in rotten shelves,
The place where I live on my own,
Made of my flesh and crimson bone.
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 9:07 AM UTC
Tell me my poetry won't get me anywhere.
Tell me my talent won't help me succeed.
Tell me my poems can't change someone's life.
Tell me that I'm not on the verge of something great.
Tell me my words don't mean a **** thing.
But just watch as I prove every single one of you wrong.
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 1:16 AM UTC
Time wasted neck-deep in
idolatry, pretty bottles of
pretty liquids, light gold,
amber, charred oak brown
soaking vanillin and wood
which warms the tongue
perfectly.
I pop my pinky finger in
funny ways, relegating
flow of blood to necessary
extremities only, thumbs
or forefingers or whiny
joints screaming loudly for
sustenance.
There are days in my past
I wish I had skipped,
accidentally sleeping past
my alarms and the sirens
and noises of cars passing
past my window in whichever
home I find myself to wake.
There are days more recently
I have skipped, my mind
spending hours drunkenly
slipping from action to act,
poor me and my problems,
always worthy of an award,
a statuette of broken glass.
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 9:47 PM UTC
Think of mole rats,
spiders, mites even,
crawling underneath your
feet without knowledge
or care that you may be
thinking of them.
Think of you, conscious
animal fretting your
mid-twenties or a mortgage
and think of your family,
all blood and genome and
thicker than ******* molasses.
Think of the microscopic
living things which coexist to
make you, animal accident, a
living thing. Bacteria boiling
your stomach, microbes bailing
from your bottom lip. Kiss.
Think of love, in all its
devices, tedium—conquest even.
The smallness of our thoughts,
little whispers skimming the
surface of the pond. Do you
think of what comes after?
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 1:22 AM UTC
dearest
you have constellations in your palm
and galaxies in your veins
the world is a marble in your hands
and you are the ruler
if you wish to sit on your throne.
fret not ; worry not
just look into your soul
see the light within you soar
and shine a lovely gold.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 11:22 PM UTC
I'm not a poet
I shouldn't claim the like
Because a poet would know more
About struggle and strife
While I myself lay my head on a bed
Some poets stay up all night
Driving home their nails
Into the coffin of conviction
How dare I say I'm impaled.
While others wrote beautifully on social issues or on love
I sit and stare at the wall
I churn out writings on things such as white struggles and heartache
I'll write about the same boy over and over again with a different ad lib.
I'll write about voices in minds I can't reach or begin to comprehend
So tell me how I'm a poet, again?
Because I can write a line and hit an enter key
I somehow think I'm a cool *** thing.
Nah man, I'm not a poet
I'm a wannabe
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 2:17 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
poetry is a sin
of its own
and the writer
is its perpetrator
the words were my jail cell
my mind, the judge
locked forever
with the sentence of broken stanzas
there is no end
to this crime
just like its beginning
never existed
(b.d.s.)
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 3:50 PM UTC
You seem so kind on the eyes
With your bronze skin and dark hair
And dimples when you smile
Not getting to see you much is unfair
You remain indecipherable to me
And I have some needs, you see
You take some thorough unraveling
But I'm up for a challenge, I can guarantee
You should be avoided, people say
'That boy's got a girl,' they'd reason
Strangely, frankly, I really don't care
You're the guy fruit in season
You and I kissed to Arctic Monkeys
In a dream that crawled into my nap
It's unrealistic and absurd, I know
But I'd still explore you like a map
You would disappear inevitably
From the lines on the map I've traced
This attraction lies under category: Physical
But in the meantime, let's keep our fingers interlaced
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 9:51 AM UTC
The likes of you I can't describe,
Yet I love to eat between your thighs.
The melody you spake to me
Unfolds my greatest sovereignty.
I crave to quaff all of your spit,
And swallow every drop of it.
Don't cheat me of your tasty flesh,
Those bare and supple ****** *******
Your eyes that follow my firm gaze,
While we kiss and lick and misbehave.
I need to feel each piece of skin,
Smashing girl and boy parts over and over again.
It's such a treat to eat you whole;
I'm obsessed with eating 19-year-olds.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC