"approve" poems
**** the twin-size mattress,
that cheap indigo color.
Where my best friend’s legs,
her hands and knees,
were entangled in struggle.
**** his barbell body
heavy and cold to the touch.
She had been hunted
by someone that she trusted.
**** the world that assumed
she was kissed. Not gripped,
nor crushed under his pressing force.
**** the cinder block walls
of that college dormitory,
where she stared and refused
to sleep in her own bed
After that night.
**** the catchy tune of breath
rolling over teeth
that play in her head.
**** her father. He would say
he doesn’t approve of her *******
So, she chose to stay quiet.
Forgettably quiet.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 2:09 AM UTC
here is little Effie’s head
whose brains are made of gingerbread
when the judgment day comes
God will find six crumbs
stooping by the coffinlid
waiting for something to rise
as the other somethings did—
you imagine His surprise
bellowing through the general noise
Where is Effie who was dead?
—to God in a tiny voice,
i am may the first crumb said
whereupon its fellow five
crumbs chuckled as if they were alive
and number two took up the song,
might i’m called and did no wrong
cried the third crumb,i am should
and this is my little sister could
with our big brother who is would
don’t punish us for we were good;
and the last crumb with some shame
whispered unto God,my name
is must and with the others i’ve
been Effie who isn’t alive
just imagine it I say
God amid a monstrous din
watch your step and follow me
stooping by Effie’s little, in
(want a match or can you see?)
which the six subjunctive crumbs
twitch like mutilated thumbs:
picture His peering biggest whey
coloured face on which a frown
puzzles, but I know the way—
(nervously Whose eyes approve
the blessed while His ears are crammed
with the strenuous music of
the innumerable capering ******
—staring wildly up and down
the here we are now judgment day
cross the threshold have no dread
lift the sheet back in this way.
here is little Effie’s head
whose brains are made of gingerbread
19.7k
All around me, I see endless fear.
Fear of heights, sure, fear of scuttling things
Fear of darkness, fear of bites
Fear of brightness, fear of fights.
This is the fear we can display
Because it’s little, simple, understandable.
But the fear I really fear
That we all let consume us
Is deeper,
Darker,
Cold.
It’s the fear of friendship, fear of love,
Fear of what’s ahead of us
But even more of what’s behind us
Fear to see what’s really beyond
The faces we all fake.
Fear of the unknowable
Fear of what we know
Fear of speaking out or up or for
Fear of conforming to something more
Fear to test the limits
Fear to taste the truth
Fear of what’s uncomfortable
Rather than the deception of comfort
Fear of what to do
Fear of striving for perfection
When perfection’s so unattainable.
Fear of to leave what has been known
Fear of what has been done
Fear to see past fabrication,
Fear to show the truth.
I’m talking fear of emotion
Or fear of not feeling enough
Fear of silence, but worse,
The fear of candid words.
Fear to look someone in the eye
And say, “I know you,
And I care for you.”
Fear to let someone see the darkness that comes with your light
Fear of rebelling though it’s time someone did
Fear of doing what you want and know
Because of what someone told you you should
Fear of being who you are
Because every day everyone is telling you
What to do and who to be
And what is acceptable
And what is not.
I’m talking fear of having an opinion
Because someone will shoot it down
Fear of defense or service or selflessness
Because someone won’t approve.
Fear to accept because of fear of acceptance
Fear to truly love someone
Because it’s risky,
And you never know
What someone else really feels.
I cry for the fear of
Every person who can’t be
Who they are and who can’t
Let people see them in their entirety
Because after all everyone urges
And persuades and demands and values
And idolizes and expects,
You don’t even know yourself,
Because you've been too busy
With trying to be so many different
“Someone Else"s.
I ache for this relentless fear.
I mourn the stagnancy of the condition
Of the human soul who is so afraid
To let go of fear
And BE somebody,
To do something or say something, or simply believe,
That the only thing they truly trust
Is the familiarity
Of fear itself.
That’s why fear is frightening
That’s why we should be afraid of fear
Because it stops us, cages us,
Bars us behind the façade we display
And muffles the words of our heart.
I see these things and wonder
Why can’t they change?
Why can’t this need to fear be erased
From the human condition?
And I realize it’s because everyone
Is afraid.
And I’m so afraid too.
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 12:06 AM UTC
Are you struck with her figure and face?
How lucky you happened to meet
With none of the gossiping race,
Who dwell in this horrible street!
They of slanderous hints never tire;
I love to approve and commend,
And the lady you so much admire,
Is my very particular friend!
How charming she looks — her dark curls
Really float with a natural air;
And the beads might be taken for pearls,
That arc twined in that beautiful hair:
Then what tints her fair features o'erspread -
That she uses white paint some pretend;
But, believe me, she only wears red
She's my very particular friend!
Then her voice, how divine it appears
While carolling: "Rise gentle moon;"
Lord Crotchet lastnight stopped his ears,
And declared that she sung out of tune;
For my part, I think that her lay
Might to Malibran's sweetness pretend;
But people won't mind what I say —
I'm her very particular friend!
Then her writings — her exquisite rhyme
To posterity surely must reach;
(I wonder she finds so much time
With four little sisters to teach!)
A critic in Blackwood, indeed.
Abused the last poem she penned;
The article made my heart bleed —
She's my very particular friend!
Her brother dispatched with a sword,
His friend in a duel, last June;
And her cousin eloped from her lord,
With a handsome and whiskered dragoon:
Her father with duns is beset,
Yet continues to dash and to spend —
She's too good for so worthless a set —
She's my very particular friend!
All her chance of a portion is lost,
And I fear she'll be single for life;
Wise people will count up the cost
Of a gay and extravagant wife:
But tis odious to marry for pelf,
(Though the times are not likely to mend,)
She's a fortune besides in herself —
She's my very particular friend!
That she's somewhat sarcastic and pert,
It were useless and vain to deny;
She's a little too much of a flirt,
And a slattern when no one is by:
From her servants she constantly parts,
Before they have reached the year's end;
But her heart is the kindest of hearts —
She's my very particular friend!
Oh! never have pencil or pen,
A creature more exquisite traced;
That her style does not take with the men,
Proves a sad want of judgment and taste;
And if to the sketch I give now,
Some flattering touches I lend;
Do for partial affection allow —
She's my very particular friend!
15.3k
In Narcissist Nation
It's all about self
What's in it for me
Forget everyone else
The views you cling to
I do not approve
In this all the above attitude
Without a clue
In Narcissist Nation
Only I have the right
To say what I say
False truth in my eyes
I'll follow the crowd
To the dark side of town
Then light a fire
And burn it all down
In Narcissist Nation
There's no need to discuss
I'll scream at you
While at me you cuss
With new slogans and sayings
On which to feed
As the world continues baking
In insanity
In Narcissist Nation
This will not end good
If we continue forsaking
All that we should
If we only focus inward
In this I, Me, Mine, time
And not see through into
This narcissistic lie
Jun 15, 2020
Jun 15, 2020 at 6:01 PM UTC
Ove
As love remove the glove from my eyes like dark See's the light
In the journey of disprove by true love
So as fox glove can not hold a ladylove from the light in mourning love over me
In a selflove state
I began approve my love with reprove pains in my eyes,
I switch.
Oh your love is sad ,she said "badlove is not mad ,"he replied"
So ,farfad people had no love by their dad
JUST to be grad that my hands is on a footpad or a lush
No love on ove.
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 4:48 AM UTC
I feel bad for her because I know she's hurting.
But does she know how much pain she puts on me.
Making me think he doesn't love me.
Maybe I believe it.
That's the pathetic part.
Her pain causing the problems of my future life with Him.
This is not the love of a mother.
Who doesn't approve of her daughter.
Who she is now.
The person that she loves to be.
This is emotional abuse.
Hopeless
Dauntless
Useless
God get us out of this labyrinth.
Set the generations of past free for the future.
For only the hole in my chest is never going to fully recover with this madness.
This is not good madness.
The repetition of the flash on the screen makes my heart panic.
Alas it should be comfort that the soul encounters.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 12:42 AM UTC
It was early nineteen thirty four
The world was set to change
Europe was on fire
It was time to rearrange
Poland was the first stop
The German Army on the move
So we left for America
I hope you did approve
You came with me to Jersey
On a trip across the sea
You've guarded all my secrets
Known by only you and me
You used to spin quite gaily
Now you just stand there en pointe
You're my clipped wing little angel
That's the name I shall anoint
Thumbelina, Ballerina
Dance your dance for me
We've been together eighty years
You are who I want to be
Thumbelina, Ballerina
Just one more pirouette
We've been together all this time
Our dancing's not done yet
I sit here and remember
All the treasures you once hid
You've still some trinkets in there
Some from when I was a kid
Your tu tu is all tattered
The silk lining frayed and torn
But, you've held together nicely
But, I guess we're both quite worn
Your lipstick isn't red now
I hear your music in my head
It hasn't played for 50 years
I just remember it instead
The music gave up playing
You were slightly over wound
But, you still twirled and kept dancing
Even though there was no sound
Thumbelina, Ballerina
Dance your dance for me
We've been together eighty years
You are who I want to be
Thumbelina, Ballerina
Just one more pirouette
We've been together all this time
Our dancing's not done yet
I've told you more than anyone
Than I have ever known
We've been together now forever
You're the most precious thing I own
You've been with me for two husbands
And you've seen my kids pass on
There's just me and you, my dancing girl
All the rest of them are gone
Your paint is chipped and cracked
Your pony tail is broken too
If I still can recollect now
In the fall of fifty two
Your spring is rusted tightly
You need a hand to stand up right
But, then again, I do as well
And most days it's quite the fight
Thumbelina, Ballerina
Dance your dance for me
We've been together eighty years
You are who I want to be
Thumbelina, Ballerina
Just one more pirouette
We've been together all this time
Our dancing's not done yet
Charms and little trinkets
Plastic jewellery, real as well
Secrets of a child
Secrets you would never tell
I am now moving to December
Of my calendar of years
Soon my life will end and
There's no one left to shed me tears
I sit here and I wonder
What shall become of you
My Thumbelina Ballerina
In your dancing dress of blue
You started as a music box
You are not used as that no more
But, Thumbelina Ballerina
Will you dance for me once more?
Thumbelina, Ballerina
Dance your dance for me
We've been together eighty years
You are who I want to be
Thumbelina, Ballerina
Just one more pirouette
We've been together all this time
Our dancing's not done yet
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 11:47 PM UTC
This is a poem about love
and sticking your ***** in a dove.
Getting married in a church
of Satan.
I went to dunkin donuts
to get some ******* donuts.
A black man yelled at me
so loud that it made me ***
So I unzipped my pants
and put my ding-dong on a table
then said "beat that ******
and he started beating himself while smoking a black and mild with a KFC bucket in his arms full of cow turds.
(I HATE ******* POETRY)
Poetry is the language of love.
No wonder it's full of ********
Lust is where it's at
when I finger bang your uncle's grandpa's cat.
Randomness is fun
especially when you do crack.
I still ******* hate poetry.
You can **** my 20 foot purple headed yogurt slinger full of tar.
I am Bill Clinton and I approve this message.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC
He smiled at me and said 'here, take this'
It was a happy little pill of his and it would feel bliss
I smiled and gave him a kiss saying, 'thank you baby'
But what happened next forever will drive me crazy
Next thing you know I was spinning in my head
Then he wanted to bring me to a bed
His friends walked in and wanted more
So they all called me a ***** little *****
My body was numb and I couldn’t move
I let out a scream but they didn’t approve
Everything went black but then again I woke
But to them it was nothing but a funny little joke
They locked me inside of a walk in closet
So if there was a stir I sure wouldn’t cause it
I blacked out again and woke in a different place
Treating me as if my soul were missing and my body were a case
Still I was unable to move nor speak
But he still said he loved me and kissed me on the cheek
I counted five inhumane beings on top of me moaning
One was even playfully groaning
I was disgusted and wanted it to end
But I knew that after this my mind would never mend
By now it would have been a little past three in the morning
Earlier I should have taken that adorable face as a warning
When they realized I was sobering up
They had an alibi saying they’d call this a hookup
When I could finally move my mouth again
I realized what had happened and felt heavy chest pain
They heard that I was muttering words that were incomprehensible
They saw me as nothing more than a body and that I was dispensable
They came up with a plan to hide my body in a ditch
I even heard one say, 'she deserved it, what a stupid bitch'
I hit my head when they threw me on the ground
I only saw black in front of me and around
I woke up to a woman asking if I were okay
I only said one phrase and it was that 'I was betrayed'
What happened after that is irrelevant at best
All I will say is that I was nothing but stressed
This is my story and it happened two years ago today
Nailing an image in my mind that I was a targeted prey
I know now that I hold so much more worth
And I love myself more than anything on this Earth
Just know that these words have come straight from my heart
No matter how vile and disgusting this memory is, I can never restart
So I tried to make it a poem so it seems like some kind of art.
h.m.w
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 5:57 PM UTC
consider O
woman this
my body.
for it has
lain
with empty arms
upon the giddy hills
to dream of you,
approve these
firm unsated
eyes
which have beheld
night’s speechless carnival
the painting
of the dark
with meteors
streaming from playful
immortal hands
the bursting
of the wafted stars
(in time to come you shall
remember of this night amazing
ecstasies slowly,
in the glutted
heart fleet
flowerterrible
memories
shall
rise,slowly
return upon the
red elected lips
scaleless visions)
10k
i met someone, friend
it's a fascinatingly consuming experience
when you realise that another human being's existence
can make you feel, quite simply,
whole.
she's beautiful
and she's never known it and
i want nothing more than to hold her until
she believes me,
earnestly.
i like her like boys do.
my mom would not approve.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 6:54 AM UTC
What truly is the definition of righteousness?
Is it determined by act or by mind?
They say a good man fights for justice, peace, and prosperity.
But then, can a man of such moral truly remain so
if he turns to violence as an answer?
Does his intent to create marvels render him of moral status
though his methods may empower death and promote war?
Oh, this man is peaceful himself,
taking letters instead of bullets to battle
but his lyrics dislodge society in a manner not all approve
and so begins combat.
Can this soul carry such holy title,
if the repercussions of his strung together words are strung up necks?
Or is the good man the one who turns away from the world's fight
to be his own embodiment of ethical beauty?
For the one who remains silent causes no direct pain;
he himself is passive and tranquil
and moves to inspire such conduct in others without commanding it.
But his silence encourages fierce vehemency and wildness.
Does this fact not taint his name?
The first man had pure intent,
but with his tongue he spit sparks
which others used to ignite a fire and burn the world.
The second did not fight himself
but his chosen hush could never end the blood rain,
and so his lack of sharp verbosity allowed knives to flash and blood to spill.
So I will ask again,
what determines morality?
Though this time with a grounding response;
morals define morality.
Each man's mind renders his own flawless ideal individually,
and so one's perfection will always be another's monstrosity.
In truth? There are no good men,
or at least not one to all.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 10:35 PM UTC
I can be you, or I can be them
I can be she, or I can be him
but why be a con artist of someone else
like a shadow to my best friend, when I
can be my own person, a unique creation
created in the image of God but representin my own reflection
because I don't wanna see you, them, she, or him in the mirror
I wanna see me through my own eyes, 20/20 vision, but clearer
but the more I conform, the image of someone else draws nearer
and I begin to lose sight of myself, look back in the mirror, and see myself in the rear
a shadow to another figure, a copy of a personality
livin' out another person's dreamed out reality
copying what they think, and succumbing to conformity
but that ain't me....
what you see visually and how I appear physically
is what makes me comfortable, that's why I'm an independent, politically
I don't follow the norms and rules of what's most accepted socially
the only commandments I live by are the ones given Biblically
I ain't the best saint though, I mean I do sin every day
but the only one I wanna copy is Jesus Christ, in every possible way
on the other hand, Satan is out there,
trynna tempt me on how to act and even what words I say
he's out offering me drinks, but I reply, "I'm okay"
cause I don't care if "everyone else is doin' it"
I just live how I like to live, that's what makes me a true non-conformist
I dress how I wish and not because it's in style
I keep my hair big, I do whatever makes me smile
I'm not trynna impress you or fit into your clique
I don't give women pick-up lines and act like I'm slick
I'm me, just me, no facades, just real
and if you can't accept that, then move forward but don't steal
the things that make me special, from my poems to my appeal
so don't try to change me and keep my uniqueness concealed
I could care less about your thoughts and any of your judgements
I refuse to give your words power, I can make your points become pointless
I'm not trynna be harsh, I just love to be different
I wanna be an original and keep my vibe realistic
not a second you, but a first me, no counterfeit
I try to keep up with what God said in Matt 26
verse 41, the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak
so pray not to give into temptation and stay on your feet
I encourage us to keep our standards and what makes us unique
and accept anyone else who doesn't wanna repeat
everything you say, and everything you do
sometimes it's the people that are different that come off the most true
because they're not sayin or actin' in ways that you approve
they're given you their honest opinion, you should keep them closest to you
don't conform, forget what people want you to be
just be yourself, not a copy of reality TV.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 10:00 PM UTC
I wear the letters NYU sprawled across my chest as my individuality is asphyxiated.
Lungs choke under the weight of the added pressure.
The thought of college plus my complexion,
Equals complexed looks that ponder my intellectually-heightened direction.
Will you think a little bit more of me, with my conformity?
Attempts to better myself meet enough ignorance to even cloud the vision of God.
Segregation and alienation cause mental spasms the strength of lightening rods.
I guess you're just a product of the environment to which you were exposed.
But I'm always trying to fight the stereotype that black people are ultimately foes.
I am the ant and the kids of rich parents are magnifying glasses.
Cremating me with the solar power of son's who were taught that their existence was worth more than mine.
I lay motionless, in bottomless quick sand pits, itching to alleviate my stomach stitch, engulfed by set standards that could not be met.
I am tired of trying to be what you'd like to see.
Astute, respectable, young black man-just so you can approve of me and hopefully think that we are not all "up to no good."
Say it loud,
I'm black
And I'm,
Not going to lie,
The proud part is kinda hard to say.
Because I walk down the street and see my face in the homeless everyday.
I fill the prisons and I'm famous when the news reports crime.
And when I show up early to interviews,
they look confused to see that I,
Don’t run on Colored People's Time.
I don't hate black but I hate the fact that black means that sometimes I have to find alternate routes to success.
While other people's roads are already paved, I suffer from all the stress.
I try my best but I'm always categorized as less, then a man.
And I'm trying to change perceptions but I still feel like a visitor on American land
And the poor are physically trapped so I relate mentally.
We both suffer from the oppression and accept the hatred like it was meant to be.
Society has led you to believe that blacks are not worthy of equality
But take a long, hard look into my eyes and tell me that you don’t see my humanity.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 1:42 PM UTC
When I think of you it’s cosmos, the worlds in perfect harmony
Then I think what’s the point if you don’t think of me?
The sun shines through your eyes I swear they’re made of gold
Blue stained with crystal, leading to stories of the soul
I think of you almost every hour, nothings really changed
I get scared sometimes though that we will stay the same
The story in the dark, untouched and left untold
Letting our feelings drown, frozen and shattered in the cold
My father doesn't approve, but it seems he never will
If you’re going to run I’ll run as long as we don’t stand still
Seems most of this is terrifying, using words in a mine field
I seize to understand, what’s the big deal?
I’m 17 now, I am not young a naive
Some things I speak you must trust but still you don’t believe
I prove an I cry, and hopelessly wonder
Why am I in a low, with such rain and thunder?
He’s the one I want don’t you get it, can’t you see?
I’m not such a child, let me be free
Seeing you will never change, I’ll wait for him you’ll see
And if it’s truly love, what’s meant to be will be
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 9:55 PM UTC
sometimes it's hard
just to pick up a fork.
i find myself too weak, arms too limp.
excuses
upon
excuses
piled like a house of cards,
one breeze and i’ll blow away with it.
you won’t be able to catch me,
to stop me,
i can’t even do that myself.
my heart is heavy,
stomach empty,
i still struggle to eat daily but i’m trying.
i do it just to spite those voices in my head
when i should be doing it for me, but
it’s hard to block them out
when they sound a lot like my mother.
sometimes it’s hard
just being alive,
hard to get out of bed when
the weight of the world is pressing down on you.
hard not wanting to die
when the sweet release of these demons is all you find yourself
thinking about,
dreaming about anymore.
dreams of floating through the sky
like the clouds passing;
i’m jealous of the way they hang there, gracefully.
i want to be just like them but
i can’t trust myself not to
fall
back
down
to earth.
i’ve done it too many times before.
i’ve got to remind myself that
recovery takes time.
i’ll never unlearn the calories in a raspberry
but at least now i can drink a glass of orange juice
without shedding a single tear.
sure it’s laced with *****
but don’t worry. it’s not a problem
it’s a coping method,
one you might not approve of but one that works, see
over time the scars on my arms have faded.
heart less heavy,
stomach still empty.
well, not completely empty.
but that’s progress right?
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 1:22 PM UTC
This probably isn't what they are called,
And I can't think of the elusive word,
But...I really like bike bells.
You know the ones!
The little diddlydoos on the handlebars of a ten-year-old's bike.
The ones that go
*bbbBBBB
RRRRRrrrrr
iiiiIIIIIIIIIIIIII
NNNNnnnnnn
ggggggGGGGGG!*
God, they're my favorite.
Because, you see...here's the thing:
When you were a ten-year-old,
Riding a bike to some friend's house your mom didn't approve of,
Did you ever bbBBrrIInnGG the bike bell on your bike when you were upset?
Of course not!
Bike bells are a child's way of telling the world,
"Guys! GUYS! I had a really good day!"
And it makes me happy to know some little kid is so joyful they can't help but bbBBrrRRiiIInnNNggGG all the way down the street.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 9:20 PM UTC
you see, i like partying, these celebrities ain't partying, they are popping pills
in the wrong way, you see i have thoughts that athena heals me in my sleep
and sometimes those pills could help, but really dudes paracetaol is good, it's just
that that people want to be so ****** perfect, like, i just woke up from a dream
where an old mate named james taught me all the mistakes i made when i was young
and a bit of mum and dad was thrown into the conversation, when i wasn't paying much attention to what james was actually saying, you see i know i was a crazy mother ******
but that doesn't mean i approve of their partying, but a lot of people don't approve of my partying, but i don't care, athena is helping me, with coke and paracetamol and fluoride
and seroquel and serenace, some people hate partying because they are too old, i just
say, hi, old i am brian and partying is going to community events and dancing by the stage
and i know, that looking and examining this documentary, it shows hos partying can lead
to rotten religion, but i believe in rotten religion i believe if you wanna have *** go ahead and have *** and if you like to party into the night, go ahead, just because you
party doesn't mean you ain't grown up. it just means i like partying and another thing
i am a grown up dude, i loves to party, with coca cola, you see i feel my voices are
trying to make me a fucken moral citizen, what is the hell wrong with partying at community events, my motto is learn about your drug your taking, saying, do you really
want this kinda life that the drug will provide for you and stay with partying with sugar or alcohol and leave illegal drugs alone, paracetamol is a pill you take to release pain
and if you believe it, send spiritual healer athena to you
ATHENA WORKS WONDER, take paracetamoil
let's party at community events
you don't have to look like you party, just say, at least i am out
i don't want to be the kind of old dogie who says no to going out partying
well, i don't think much of nightclubs anymore
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 11:38 AM UTC
My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
Th’ uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as mad men’s are,
At random from the truth vainly expressed.
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
3.8k
I wait, excited for when I see you again.
touch your fingers
kiss your lips
hear your voice.
But you always wanted more.
Because instead of wanting to see me
you wanted to see how the dress you bought looked on my body,
instead of touching my fingers
you wanted to invade the parts of my body i regarded sacred,
instead of kissing my lips
you wanted to devour my mouth
and dominate me to show how weak i am,
instead of hearing my voice
you wanted moans and cries of pleasure
screams for the world to hear that I belong to you.
I sit here on the bed.
After your rounds of happiness and my forced labor.
I ask you who was the girl that you were so clearly flirting with last night and you tell me it was just harmless flirting
and I bite my tongue
because i wanted to scream at you
Is it harmless,
that when you canceled on our date because you said you were sick,
someone told me that they saw you at a club, that you were gripping that girl's waist
and grinding on her like you were her man?
Is it harmless,
that everyday you rub it in my face how immensely inexperienced and timid i am
compared to the other girls you've been with?
Is it harmless,
that you asked me if it's okay if you ***** other girls
and I was taken aback and it was clear that I didn't approve?
You said
"They don't really mean anything, I just need some variety."
I knew right there that even if I didn't allow you, you'd still do it.
And right now
I’m just confused more than ever as I ask you again
What exactly we are and you say
“We're exclusively dating.”
But most of the time it’s more like
exclusively ********
with each other
with other emotions
with our non-existent commitments.
Because after just a mere 5 minutes of you being with me
and I refuse to spread my legs for you,
you have the nerve to lie to my face and look me in the eye and say
"My love for you gets stronger everyday."
And I swoon, being the naive little girl that I am
I am hung up on your words and I say yes when you ask me if we're okay.
But I know that by okay you mean okay with being invaded.
And with every pound, with every ******
The word love is replaced by lust
so now the sentence is
"My lust for you gets stronger everyday
and my love for you decreases the same."
I am so tired and so worn down from the weight of all my insecurities and you come hobbling in with your own bag of insecurities and stick it inside of me which you only do when other girls don't want you to.
Well guess what
For the first time in my life,
I'm
gonna
say
no.
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 11:20 PM UTC
My bathroom,
the bedroom,
my living room and
the kitchen are all
spying on me daily,
seen my nakedness,
more than enough
to describe every
bit of me,
records my every
moment and daily visits,
day and night.
I'm not ashamed to display
my nakedness even
**** without decorum.
My bathroom mirror is the
first to see the show of
my new dance steps,
and i allowed it to see and
record the secret of my life.
So shamelessly I displayed
my secret acts in my bedroom,
doing all sorts of stuff,
things my mouth cannot
freely talk about.
In there in the closet
of my beloved bedroom
I committed all sorts of
crimes that even you will
be ashamed to watch if
you know what I mean.
In the privacy of my bedroom
no holes barred.
What do I say about my kitchen.
I became an alchemist
and a herbalist taught,
groomed and approve
by my mother.
On the cauldron as
a herbalist I mixed up
all kinds of herbs and spices
and come up with my alchemical concoction to help entertain
my family and friends and also
to feed and condition my body.
My living room now turned
into a theatre where I became
an actor to everyone who cared
to watch me display my prowess.
All these I do in quietness of
my small enclave where
my bathroom and Kitchen,
the bedroom and living room
witnessed and spy on my follies.
Did I tell you about Palomar the parrot and Kelly the German Shepard.
They can tell you my story if you
asked them.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 3:29 PM UTC
VACUUM CLEANER TANGO
---Lyrics by Jonathan Caswell
(Some misspellings are due to rhythm keeping)
The Vac…cuum Clea…ner Tango,
Is like…a juicy…mango,
Those fi…bers will…entangle
Your teeth or brushes, pretty quick!
The girls…who do…the cleaning,
Are ev…ver so…well-meaning,
To move…around…guys leaning,
That watch…and approve…the show!
Plugs must…be changed…more frequently,
If lon…ger hallways…decently,
Are cleaned…the most…expediently,
It’s all…a part of…the dance!
The vac…cuum clea…ner tango,
A dai…ly chore…is wrangled,
By clea…ners star…spangled,
Perfor…ming it with…extra class!
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 2:45 AM UTC
I'm sure he'd approve,
but there is something endearing
about reading Bukowski on the toilet.
You even get to wash your hands afterwords.
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 2:02 PM UTC