I am a royal potato whose shape is a perfect oval,
My fame is so widespread that everyone knows me from the stars to Mars.
This uncontrollable charm I exude is so novel,
that even the queens and kings before me grovel.
Even though this tale may not seem real,
I would still appreciate if you would go to my palace just to say hello.
These days, times have been hard, for the invincible McDonalds has
been winning countless victories.
My young comrades from the north have been skinned and stripped to pieces.
My amazing xylophone that would make the zealous moon jealous has been
burnt in the fire and trampled in the mire.
We must push for the rights of potatoes
Just like the tomatoes
Whose fire and concept of equality
Has driven hungry humans to see reality.
If it was them in the frying pan,
Would it still excite them to ignite
The fire that burns so painfully bright?
Should I go right? Where nothing is left.
A barren land, a thirsty sea.
Or should I go left? Where nothing is right.
A world of hate, a void of love.
Empty buildings, vacant eyes,
They stare at hope -
Despair gazes back
Nothing to breathe, all is still.
Chaos ensues, a riot of colours.
The drunk are a haze.
Let your lust run ablaze
All is good, don’t dampen the mood.
Will you get busy living?
In a world full of sinning?
Or will you get busy dying?
In a world not worth trying?
Not born of the same womb yet
You call me bro, a family of no
blood relations yet you act like
it doesn't bother you so.
Cuzz cuzz you say like I know what you mean
son of my aunt you aren't nor daughter
of my uncle. What is your relation to me -
I'm sorry I don't know who you are.
Fam fam in the text you spam
Does it look like I care, if you're
a stranger or simply someone fair? Stop saying
that cuz a glance for you in life I'll never spare.
Not your bae, you don't say
not your bro, I'm so cold
Not your cuzz, it's just us
Not your fam, so stop the spam.
Woke up on the other other side of the bed I guess
Are poems all about riddling rhymes and
suffocating structures that weave around
The minds of those that would simply want
to know the meaning of your plain platitude?
If the form shapes its meaning then
Does this poem then have no meaning?
For it is neither lyrical nor romantic,
not an ode neither a paean.
If poetry is just a glorified way of speaking words
What then is the point of fabricating beauty,
whose threads of silk have no meaning
In holding the luscious fabric of words together
Unless they be first understood?
Wouldn't it be easier if I just told you what I meant?
That poetry is something I do not understand.
I think I woke up on the wrong side of bed today
I do not know how this will end...
perhaps, I should not even lift my pen -
A ghost you were in the year before
Nothing about you did I adore.
What could have happened then?
descend did I, into sinking sand?
I never knew about you
Yet here I am.
Speaking of days buried in the past
In my mind, in vain, they were left to rust.
Your smile was bright. Your soul a light.
The piano was your voice, a voice I liked...
My words are flowing out, but here they must
end. For these memories, shall be my past.
If the sun were to forever shine...
And were we to bath in its eternal light,
One day we would look up in cynical wonder,
Asking if the nightless days were actually a plight.
If laughter filled my every day...
And to sadness and despair I refuse to fall,
What would the meaning of my life be,
But a life of a mindless thrall?
If I could find one whom I so love -
And wake to each day the sound of her voice,
Would it not lose it's sweet, mystical splendour
And eventually I would start to regret my choice?
Life so precious, this priceless gift
We cling to it, we run from
Is that really how we want to live?
Awaiting that day with
I love I lost, I gave it cost,
Sing in echo unending songs
Tell them of my beautiful wrongs.
Remind me of that painful frost,
Her icy words on me they fell
My fiery passion relentless to quell
I grasped for stars,
But opened my palms to dust.
O Aphrodite! Goddess of love,
Take me into your bountiful hearth.
Remove from me this beloved curse.
That I may be free to write my hate for her
To recompense this painful thorn filled crown
With a desecrated sonnet written upside down.
— The End —