#tonic - Hello Poetry

Mnemonic devices, Order entices. Yet, what drives the daily thirst? What directs what we hunger for? Strange tonics, Concordance appetizes. But who bottles what they distill? What facts in feed do we receive? Rough slough, Sloppy knowledge. Mayhaps, where few are not free pastures? What cages themselves in self-battles? Petty sows, Birds that cuckoo.

0

Apr 18, 2025

Apr 18, 2025 at 11:55 PM UTC

manx-kronos-pragna

That's A Rap Of A Rhap Of A Wrap

Mnemonic devices, Order entices. Yet, what drives the daily thirst? What directs what we hunger for? Strange tonics, Concordance appetizes. But who bottles what they distill? What facts in feed do we receive? Rough slough, Sloppy knowledge. Mayhaps, where few are not free pastures? What cages themselves in self-battles? Petty sows, Birds that cuckoo.

14

I wanted to relish ***** but WHISKEY drowned me in it.

0

Oct 4, 2019

Oct 4, 2019 at 5:12 AM UTC

Zombie192

Alcoholic

I wanted to relish ***** but WHISKEY drowned me in it.

2

The cost of TRUTH may at times burden our mental energy and our wallets, especially when we are delivered so many cheap, comfortable lies. TRUTH, however, is the tonic that heals and fortifies our minds against the constant flood of toxic oil that pours from the gullets of poseurs and profiteers. The few who summon the courage to embrace TRUTH are transformed into angels of light. They rise above the sewage of violence and hatred of so many polluted minds, the diseased souls condemned to whither in misery.

0

Jun 23, 2018

Jun 23, 2018 at 5:33 PM UTC

ron-gavalik

Embrace TRUTH

The cost of TRUTH may at times burden our mental energy and our wallets, especially when we are delivered so many cheap, comfortable lies. TRUTH, however, is the tonic that heals and fortifies our minds against the constant flood of toxic oil that pours from the gullets of poseurs and profiteers. The few who summon the courage to embrace TRUTH are transformed into angels of light. They rise above the sewage of violence and hatred of so many polluted minds, the diseased souls condemned to whither in misery.

17

Pardon me, I've been thinking My friend, what if I could save myself? Your intoxicating scent on my neck has seemed to have kept me anticipating my gasping last breath but, pardon me, I've been thinking what if I could reach in through steam in the mirror and remove your ******* tongue so you can't taste me anymore? If these dreams I keep really are so sweet, you'll forgive me for keeping the sanctum away from nightmare

0

May 23, 2017

May 23, 2017 at 11:19 PM UTC

ZeroNine

Fashion Me|Salve & Tonic

Pardon me, I've been thinking My friend, what if I could save myself? Your intoxicating scent on my neck has seemed to have kept me anticipating my gasping last breath but, pardon me, I've been thinking what if I could reach in through steam in the mirror and remove your ******* tongue so you can't taste me anymore? If these dreams I keep really are so sweet, you'll forgive me for keeping the sanctum away from nightmare

19

My sweetheart for me you are real love tonic I can't survive without, for life you are logic I do know all our rivals are our staunch critic It is you who snatched faith to make aesthetic If you do not want to be with me I will leave This transitory cruel world you must believe **** me with your beauty and please relieve I am your appraiser please never ever deceive Love is a medicine of just all incurable diseases It is like a magic which cures with its real auras Gives pleasure to the body even if full of bruises With all inherent drawbacks it definitely pleases Col Muhammad Khalid Khan Copyright 2016 Golden Glow

0

Jan 17, 2017

Jan 17, 2017 at 5:04 AM UTC

col-muhammad-khalid-khan

Real Love Tonic

My sweetheart for me you are real love tonic I can't survive without, for life you are logic I do know all our rivals are our staunch critic It is you who snatched faith to make aesthetic If you do not want to be with me I will leave This transitory cruel world you must believe **** me with your beauty and please relieve I am your appraiser please never ever deceive Love is a medicine of just all incurable diseases It is like a magic which cures with its real auras Gives pleasure to the body even if full of bruises With all inherent drawbacks it definitely pleases Col Muhammad Khalid Khan Copyright 2016 Golden Glow

14

Sipping tonics on toned bellies. Elbows soft from jasmine lotions. White skin painted in deep caramel. He held his sweaty palms out, Begging, a penny for his meal. She kept the dollar for a Starbucks latte.

0

Mar 31, 2013

Mar 31, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC

aparna

Basic

Sipping tonics on toned bellies. Elbows soft from jasmine lotions. White skin painted in deep caramel. He held his sweaty palms out, Begging, a penny for his meal. She kept the dollar for a Starbucks latte.

6

A young man with tattoos walked in to the café. He examined two chairs at the empty table in front of me. He cupped his chin with one hand. He silently compared the older chair with the torn, dilapidated seat cushion to the newer chair that still had a black metallic shine. He picked up the beaten chair and carried it to the table behind me to join his friends. That’s how we define ourselves, our class, our place in the world. Some people believe they deserve the best seat in the house. Others believe themselves second class, commoners whose insecurities run rampant. We do it to ourselves. No matter which seat we take, every one of us knows love and hate. We all fight and struggle. We are all unique. We are all the same.

0

May 30, 2015

May 30, 2015 at 3:46 PM UTC

ron-gavalik

Second Class

A young man with tattoos walked in to the café. He examined two chairs at the empty table in front of me. He cupped his chin with one hand. He silently compared the older chair with the torn, dilapidated seat cushion to the newer chair that still had a black metallic shine. He picked up the beaten chair and carried it to the table behind me to join his friends. That’s how we define ourselves, our class, our place in the world. Some people believe they deserve the best seat in the house. Others believe themselves second class, commoners whose insecurities run rampant. We do it to ourselves. No matter which seat we take, every one of us knows love and hate. We all fight and struggle. We are all unique. We are all the same.

25

After too many years of mom’s psychiatric issues, whose pendulum of unpredictable emotions swung between fits of violent rage and victimized hatred, I gave up the struggle many of us try and fail to endure. Some people who love the insane fall into the pit of personal torment, an anxiety or depression of inner madness. Others choose eye for an eye revenge. Headlines of such retaliation steam over social media: ‘Wife Murders Husband Over Cold Turkey Complaint’ I made the completely selfish choice of maternal divorce, to spend Christmas with a neighbor friend who had endured much of the same abuses and learned the same lessons years earlier. Ana and I spent several merry Christmases at one of those all you can eat seafood buffet joints. The restaurant was simply a massive room. A trough ran the 100 feet length of the back wall, where the cattle lined up to feed. Each year, we looked forward to our glorious feast, not for the quality of the food, but the friendship and the king crab legs neither of us could afford any other time of the year. We’d trade laughs and stories of the year. We reminisced about friends and family passed on. For 2 or 3 hours on a cold winter’s night, there was no poverty, no family, no hardship, no greed, no fuss…only laughs. Except for the year I asked myself, ‘What would Jesus do?’ Standing in the long, sweaty buffet line, a mumbling buzzed about a **** up front taking too many crab legs. Even though the restaurant claimed unlimited portions, in reality, the kitchen workers played a good game, only filling the large metal bin every 30 minutes. The unwritten rule among buffet veterans is to take 5 or 6 crab legs and leave some for the others behind you. The poor must look out for each other because we all **** well know rich ******** only care about themselves. After a couple minutes of the crowd grumbling, a heavyset woman in a moo-moo screamed, ‘Look at that guy! Look at his plate!’ The slicked-hair office drone the moo-moo pointed to confidently strode past the hungry patrons in his business casual golf shirt and khakis. In one hand, he balanced a plate stacked with at least 20 crab legs. His other hand carried a cereal-sized bowl of butter. The apparent jeers of shame from my fellow wretches, whose bellies would go empty for another half hour didn’t affect this guy’s silent march, his corporate attitude to loot, to conquer. I stepped out of line in the guy’s path. ‘What the are you doing?’ I said. ‘It’s a free country.’ He tried to squeeze around me, pressing his hip against the orange chicken buffet station. I moved to block him again. ‘Free for you, but no one else, huh?’ ‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘Just move.’ His empirical entitlement inspired me to perform a little Christmas justice. With both hands, I lunged for the man’s plate and wrapped both hands around all but four crab legs. ‘What the hell, buddy?’ he shouted. The guy had become a moneychanger in our temple. ‘Do something,’ I said. A woman in line looked at me, her eyes wide, startled. I handed her a crab leg. The coward ran his mouth in an emasculated mumble, but skulked back to his table. I then walked down the line, handing each of my fellow diners a single crab leg. Old men formed expressions of confusion, Young mothers and fathers laughed. Children pointed their single crab legs to the ceiling in a show of solidarity to the cause, victory against a great evil. A short Asian man approached me in line. ‘You must leave,’ he said in broken English. ‘But I paid for the buffet.’ ‘No troublemakers. You go.’ I’d become a scourge to the Roman power structure, an immoral bandit of Nazareth. Being bad never felt so good. After all, one can remove the boy from madness, but without intense psychiatric treatment, one rarely removes madness from the boy. Ana wasn’t happy that we missed our annual feast. I drove us home quietly content. Another Christmas celebrated.

0

May 15, 2015

May 15, 2015 at 10:20 PM UTC

ron-gavalik

Revenge of the Crab Legs

After too many years of mom’s psychiatric issues, whose pendulum of unpredictable emotions swung between fits of violent rage and victimized hatred, I gave up the struggle many of us try and fail to endure. Some people who love the insane fall into the pit of personal torment, an anxiety or depression of inner madness. Others choose eye for an eye revenge. Headlines of such retaliation steam over social media: ‘Wife Murders Husband Over Cold Turkey Complaint’ I made the completely selfish choice of maternal divorce, to spend Christmas with a neighbor friend who had endured much of the same abuses and learned the same lessons years earlier. Ana and I spent several merry Christmases at one of those all you can eat seafood buffet joints. The restaurant was simply a massive room. A trough ran the 100 feet length of the back wall, where the cattle lined up to feed. Each year, we looked forward to our glorious feast, not for the quality of the food, but the friendship and the king crab legs neither of us could afford any other time of the year. We’d trade laughs and stories of the year. We reminisced about friends and family passed on. For 2 or 3 hours on a cold winter’s night, there was no poverty, no family, no hardship, no greed, no fuss…only laughs. Except for the year I asked myself, ‘What would Jesus do?’ Standing in the long, sweaty buffet line, a mumbling buzzed about a **** up front taking too many crab legs. Even though the restaurant claimed unlimited portions, in reality, the kitchen workers played a good game, only filling the large metal bin every 30 minutes. The unwritten rule among buffet veterans is to take 5 or 6 crab legs and leave some for the others behind you. The poor must look out for each other because we all **** well know rich ******** only care about themselves. After a couple minutes of the crowd grumbling, a heavyset woman in a moo-moo screamed, ‘Look at that guy! Look at his plate!’ The slicked-hair office drone the moo-moo pointed to confidently strode past the hungry patrons in his business casual golf shirt and khakis. In one hand, he balanced a plate stacked with at least 20 crab legs. His other hand carried a cereal-sized bowl of butter. The apparent jeers of shame from my fellow wretches, whose bellies would go empty for another half hour didn’t affect this guy’s silent march, his corporate attitude to loot, to conquer. I stepped out of line in the guy’s path. ‘What the are you doing?’ I said. ‘It’s a free country.’ He tried to squeeze around me, pressing his hip against the orange chicken buffet station. I moved to block him again. ‘Free for you, but no one else, huh?’ ‘Whatever,’ he said. ‘Just move.’ His empirical entitlement inspired me to perform a little Christmas justice. With both hands, I lunged for the man’s plate and wrapped both hands around all but four crab legs. ‘What the hell, buddy?’ he shouted. The guy had become a moneychanger in our temple. ‘Do something,’ I said. A woman in line looked at me, her eyes wide, startled. I handed her a crab leg. The coward ran his mouth in an emasculated mumble, but skulked back to his table. I then walked down the line, handing each of my fellow diners a single crab leg. Old men formed expressions of confusion, Young mothers and fathers laughed. Children pointed their single crab legs to the ceiling in a show of solidarity to the cause, victory against a great evil. A short Asian man approached me in line. ‘You must leave,’ he said in broken English. ‘But I paid for the buffet.’ ‘No troublemakers. You go.’ I’d become a scourge to the Roman power structure, an immoral bandit of Nazareth. Being bad never felt so good. After all, one can remove the boy from madness, but without intense psychiatric treatment, one rarely removes madness from the boy. Ana wasn’t happy that we missed our annual feast. I drove us home quietly content. Another Christmas celebrated.

95

Sipping midnight whiskey behind the typer, staring at a blank spot on the wall, fingers frozen to the keyboard in mid-sentence, another wave of anguish floods the mind. The spot on the wall is a sounding board to rail against enemies and debate ideas, and howl the cries of a madman who will forever ponder damaged souls left in his wake. Sins committed once belonged to others. Then I learned how to inflict pain in my own style. Now, regrets languish in booze-soaked reflections. They stir quiet torment, a just retribution for honest men

0

May 11, 2015

May 11, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC

ron-gavalik

Cries of the Madman

Sipping midnight whiskey behind the typer, staring at a blank spot on the wall, fingers frozen to the keyboard in mid-sentence, another wave of anguish floods the mind. The spot on the wall is a sounding board to rail against enemies and debate ideas, and howl the cries of a madman who will forever ponder damaged souls left in his wake. Sins committed once belonged to others. Then I learned how to inflict pain in my own style. Now, regrets languish in booze-soaked reflections. They stir quiet torment, a just retribution for honest men

20

My glass reminds me of your smile Sipping, I taste the lime Slipping, I close my eyes Pull me back to you Remind me How I got here, the mess I’m in Remind me where I’m going, where I’ve been I circle your wrist and I circle my ring You are the tonic for the key that I sing

0

Oct 23, 2014

Oct 23, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC

sarahj

Tonic

My glass reminds me of your smile Sipping, I taste the lime Slipping, I close my eyes Pull me back to you Remind me How I got here, the mess I’m in Remind me where I’m going, where I’ve been I circle your wrist and I circle my ring You are the tonic for the key that I sing

13

Addictive you linger like a drug in my vain’s your touch is my ecstasy your breath my ****** Your words are narcotic with a bitter sweet taste my heart is on speed when i look at your face Addictive you are right down to the bone ill want you ill need you till its time to go home your touch is my ecstasy your breath my ****** your words are narcotic and you are my tonic.

0

Aug 14, 2014

Aug 14, 2014 at 3:43 PM UTC

amandalee-patience-wilson

Addicted

Addictive you linger like a drug in my vain’s your touch is my ecstasy your breath my ****** Your words are narcotic with a bitter sweet taste my heart is on speed when i look at your face Addictive you are right down to the bone ill want you ill need you till its time to go home your touch is my ecstasy your breath my ****** your words are narcotic and you are my tonic.

16