"approves" poems
Don't tell,
your lips speak only the truth
I'll understand you better,
reading in between the lines.
The
bottom lines,
never lies.
Your flesh approves of our ties.
the way you react; you can't deny
Your skin's reaction to your action.
You couldn't hide it if you even try.
Hard commands demand your attention,
like a distraction; our chain reaction
crossing the line; drawing attention
to our raw attraction
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 5:14 PM UTC
Please, may someone save my country?
Save it from the guy that says he would beat up any gay couple he saw kissing
Save it from the guy that says ugly woman don't even deserve to be *****
Save it from the guy that says he approves torture
Save it from the guy that says his son would never date a black woman cause he was raised well
Save it from the guy that says people should be fuzilated
Save it from the guy that says he weakened and for that he had a female child
Save it from the guy that says parents should beat up their kids if they started "acting gay"
Save it from the guy that says it's okay to put rats inside of teen girls' vaginas as a way of punishment
Save it from the guy that says women should be paid less than men
Save it from the guy that says the mistake of the military regime was to torture instead of killing
Above all
Save it from all the people that voted for him
Save it from the 97.290.000 that voted for this man today
Save it, or else I don't what to do
Where to hide
Where to cry
Actually,
Above all
Do not save this country
Just save those people
Those minds capable of agreeing with such terrible things
Save them
And you'll save my country
Save them all, worldwide
And you'll save this planet
Do it otherwise
And we're all dummed
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 9:38 PM UTC
Fiery soul with emerald eyes,
Listen close to my words and what therein lies
Dear sweet thing with dancing sliver hues
A stormy grey or seeping blue
There's nothing more I need than both of you.
So I'll tell you now, I cannot choose
And my dear lover supports, approves
Soft uncertain smile, now please don't shy
Listen close to my words and what therein lies
As for the large bubbly boy holding my hand
Intimidation is not his plan
I would only love one if I found I can
Instead I want to be you gentleman
So I'll approach this gently then
Long-full boy, wishful sighs
Listen close to my words and what therein lies
Because I love you both and hope you'll love me
I want to write a love song for three
Please listen closed
And do respond, darling
It's for my love of you both I'll sing
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 5:45 PM UTC
The officer said it was illegal but I've never been punished thusfar.
I knew it was wrong, but desire consumed me.
I grabbed the man and dragged him into my van.
He screamed and I laughed.
Brutal company.
It was going to hurt, of that I was certain.
His lack of consent did not stop me. I was on a mission, and James Bond always thrives.
I got in and drove as fast and as far as I could.
Speed bumps bring my daughter joy.
She giggles, I smile, he writhes in pain. My smile grows.
A pain bubbles in my clavicle but I digress.
But, I don't digress because it HURT.
I locked the angels in my closet for safe keeping. My mother is proud.
Blood is my favorite accessory. Hashtag period.
My friend always said I was cunning but I never believed her father was a good man.
After all, a good man would never commit such acts.
I threw the empty toilet paper roll at his grave then shouted at his wife's cat.
Meow. Meow, meow. Meow.
It sings the song of the hummingbird so I put it in a collar and walk it to the pound.
The pound sings the song of death, my song.
My student tool box is full of unfortunate goodies, and yes, my English teacher approves.
But I would rather she not. This is my journey, not one I shall share.
I aggressively slap the keys of life, hoping yogurt will seep from the cracks of destiny.
It never does, and I starve.
My granola is friendless.
Life is bitter, like the skin of a plum.
Fierce as a seahorse. But again, I digress.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 10:20 AM UTC
Virgo ♍️
~~~~
Virgo needs be a person advocating virginity
I know because I have fusion and experience.
Realistically fusing together two personalities
God knows n loves my approach and approves
Of Peridot,Carnelian, Blue Sapphire,Tourmaline
Of Green ........
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Philip.
17th December 2018.
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 9:24 PM UTC
I really want to thank you.
Whether I'm being sarcastic or not,
You'll never know.
I feel like every time I write something,
It's for someone to read.
Spooky government guys,
Or girls who really like fries.
But sometimes it feels like I don't want to.
I don't want you to read about
Who or what affects me.
Sometimes I worry because my friends can read these things.
My friends, they enjoy poetry too.
My English teacher's on here.
She says she approves.
It's weird, isn't it?
How small the world is.
Yet I never see who I really want to.
I see uncles and aunts
And really long lost cousins.
I see my grandma's friends everywhere.
At weddings and all affairs.
But the only way I can see
Who I really want to.
Is through writing and pictures,
And trust me,
I do.
But it feels like it can't be real,
not yet.
I have eight months to go,
And I fret and I fret.
I can't wait to see those
Amazing blue eyes.
The upturn of blond hair,
And your shirts like the skies.
Your sense of adventure keeps me going.
It's weird,
I know,
how these words keep flowing.
You'll never read them.
But if you do,
Hi,
I suppose.
I miss you.
With your laugh,
So infrequent,
And your entrances.
Through fire escapes?
That's perfectly normal to me.
From under a table?
That's pretty normal to see.
To scare me on a staircase?
Of course, why not?
Hanging off a balcony?
Fine, but keep your thoughts.
But the one entrance you have yet to make.
Is the one I want you to most.
The one that leads you back into my world.
The one that makes the legend unfurl.
I have documents upon documents
I'd love you to read.
But you never really will,
It's not hard to believe.
Poems and lists,
Monologues galore.
But wait and look,
Here's one more.
And you ask,
What is it truly for?
A thank you,
Dear friend
For being who you are.
And simply to ask you to look up at the stars.
For I can see the moon,
And so can you.
And I just wish,
I could see you too.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 4:14 PM UTC
I long for the animal you hide
Won't you come out to play?
You won't know unless you've tried
This space is safe, promise it's okay
I am going to leave my mark
One way or another
Raw untamed fervid spark
It is you I am going to smother
Let the voracious hunger mount
Escalating each minute
Primal breathlessness paramount
You are your own limit
I'm not going to make love to you
I utter rather sweetly
Neither am I going to **** you
But own you...... completely
I want to tear you apart
Don't make any sudden moves
Pulsating beat of your heart
Every inch of me approves
I want to forget my own name
While I'm busy moaning yours
I promise to start quite tame
Until you are out of your drawers
My body I do herby bestow
Let me show you how
I whisper in your ear and let you know
The time is Now
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 1:52 PM UTC
A curve of satin sits idly beneath a sight so deeply moved
Amid the stillness of a hope that longs to rise
The moon smiles down, as if he approves
A dream pursued by the eyes
The softest sound takes flight in a voices sweetest tune
In a misty stream of pale moonlight
Hands are clasped in a curving spoon
A taste of hope in sheer delight
Thrilled hearts sigh, dreaming of a blissful hour
Weep with joy as their wonder shows
The perfect bloom of a dream filled flower
A curve of satin did bestow
Hope shines in the misty moonlight, on the sweetest tune
A constant vigil in a dream pursued tonight
Swells inside two hearts which spoon
Deeply moved in their delight
Nov 20, 2010
Nov 20, 2010 at 2:23 AM UTC
and she walks the heart’s road
one more time
the known letter becomes unknown
last time the first time
she allows vapors of thrill shape
as much as wisdom approves time
Know your place she says
don’t fly up too high
that’s uncivilized far
See I am standing calm inside
hear me?
on the ground
body feet well aligned
agreed ?
yes and no agreed
you anyway cannot disagree
It's only my politeness that asks
She walks like the wind blowing pure joy
a gifted natural balance of posture
being one with the time
of man and of woman and of child
whatever she becomes
at once the crowd
Their laughter makes summer
like a hypolimnetic volume in the temperate
reflects to universe as a place to perch
amongst stars (when you sometimes pass)
while they seemingly cross traffic lights
led by a black dog
and a red cat (hiding in a mysterious plant)
as if she knows us
from somewhere
or I her
as if this has no consequence
as if
she says
and the sound defines
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 6:42 AM UTC
I know I'm
Not good enough for A team
Not fast enough for B team
Just quick enough for C team
Just barely above D team
I know that you say
He's not good enough for me
You don't approve
No one approves
He's not good enough for me
I'm not as gorgeous as you
I'm not as pretty as her
I'm not your average cute
On the verge of unsightly
My parents say I've changed
My friends say I'm different
I'm sorry I'm not your little girl anymore
I'm sorry I'm not perfect forevermore
I'm showing a few cracks
I know what I lack
You say I'm not good enough
Tell me something I don't know
Tell me of your imperfections
Tell me I'm not the only one
Tell me what you see in your reflection
Tell me of the wrong you've done
Tell me something
Tell me anything
Tell me it's okay to change
Tell me it's okay to be different
Tell me something I don't know
I know I'm
Not confident enough
Not tough enough
Not loud enough
Tell me something I don't know
Because I already know
I'm not now and never will be
Good enough
So now, tell me,
Something I don't know
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 6:42 PM UTC
Poetry is a hard life. Writing is a hard life. Art, in any way, shape or form is a hard life. But we do it because we feel it in our souls. We might not necessarily be good at it. It might not be able to earn us a living, and all the words in our heart may threaten to tear us apart, or to overflow and drown the world. It may seem like too much of a burden, to have the power of the pen, to feel like you're drifting out on an ocean of emotions that flicker so quickly past you don't have time to grasp it and put it on paper, thoughts and feelings too beautiful to ever be captured by words. And so many times we want to walk away, to stop, to give up. But I think what makes it worth it isn't the result. It doesn't matter what happens in the end. Whether the words are clumsy or not. Whether anybody publishes it or not. Whether or not anyone else approves, even. It doesn't matter in the end. What matters is the journey. And honestly, for people like us? The journey itself is enough.
Sep 17, 2024
Sep 17, 2024 at 5:14 AM UTC
Forget about London, forget about LA
Or some sunny exotic island you visited last May
And flashback to that winter of young hopeful romance
Of our days strolling around the cobbled streets of France
Key into the Seine, our love sealed by the locks
Feeding bread crumbs to pigeons as they come by the flock
Lourdes's faith and divinity approves of our entwined hearts
Cannes opens its arms for our new united start
But London sticks to your mind
And now you live in LA
Surfing and lying in the open sun
The sunlight is your summer sleigh
Concrete streets and tall palm trees
There's no more chilly winter breeze
And back in France dies our last chance
Didn't you hear? They're removing the locks
They weigh down the bridge, puts people in danger
I guess love can't always last forever
Sometimes the burden becomes too much
And you burn everything that you touch
The time has come to extinguish the flames
And that's the end of our little French game
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 6:18 AM UTC
Hate is so hard to conquer, every single day
When half of my hate is sent my own way
Love is hard to acquire, when I lack a face
That keeps the pride to tie my own lace
I cannot wake up in the morning
With a valid reason
So, I bide my time adorning
My mind’s acts of treason
The seasons fly
And I will be conquered
Like a fly
Beholden to its scroll of anatomy
Dissecting its brother
And niece
And now I careen
Cajole myself
Into callow hedonism
Shallow as it may be
It is profound in its posture
And depraved at a glance
I will conquer the palms
With every ligament that moves
With every rotten tree groove
While my mother approves
I can only improve
My lonely psalms
The Qabalah balms
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 7:03 PM UTC
July 2011
The arrogance of creation,
the need for accumulation,
tis a satisfaction that
new is a justification,
for anything
requiring us
to believe that:
I am worth this,
this is a thing
I deserve.
This is mine,
therefore
I am more than human,
I am special.
In Texas
the oilmen put their initials
upon the sides of a sleeve,
so when rolled up,
you'd still know that this man,
his name, these wells,
his landscaping tombstones,
are his labored gain
upon fruited plain.
All hail my work product,
its insights are worth money,
I know someone approves,
cause my garage parking
ticket was validated.
We labor for sustenance,
labor for validity, in order
to collect, shed, replace,
accumulate ego,
glory or gain.
Some labor to survive.
This knowledge creates,
within a great sadness,
a hallowed, hollowed ache
that hurts, but does not
explain soully, this poem.
Pins in a map, mark battle lines.
Midnight tally, where are the
pins to be put at the
close of business this day?
Is this even the correct map?
I am so blessed in so many ways,
but compulsed by needs
I can't define,
to write this,
Part manifesto, part preamble,
part poem, part bill of rights.
part green eggs and ham,
a scrambled product of
clotted plots, shower songs,
salt and peppered by a
conscience that rambles on,
cause it
just don't speak the language of the day,
so moderne, it is called,
shut up!
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 12:39 PM UTC
the casket was open for the duration
of the service
a black hole beckoning, a step through the door
the great unknown
a muffled cough, a sigh, unease hung in the
air, a cloying fog
i sat near the back, observant of the dry eyes
the looks of disgust
the gathering - most here out of a sense of requirement
than true feeling
the few who knew, eclipsed by the underwhelming
apathy
even less approached the pristine coffin for
a final goodbye
those with a thirst for the morbid (likely)
heartfelt (doubtful)
"daddy always said - be committed in what
you do"
words taken to heart - evident in the cracked void
left by the .44 exit
disinterested in the false emotions of the living
i leave - unnoticed
a ghost at my own funeral
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 4:48 PM UTC
Put past
The pretence of protection.
Propagandising
her preciousness
is prohibited -
proprietorial
preparation
for ***********
Parents paw
the pretty pretty
Pa approves the partner
partner plucks the petals,
proclaiming
‘She pleases me,
pleases me not’ -
matters not one jot.
Pet and preen
her perilous perfection
a prophylactic
precaution,
in place
of progression,
promotion,
professional appreciation.
Proud paternalistic patter
imprisons.
Presidents pronounce
on *****
parroted by ******
and pissheads.
Petty, pathetic
and petrified
of power,
placing people
in parentheses
participating
in playground politics.
I’m sick
that this
paralysis
persists.
Past to present,
passed down
passed over
passed off
as perfectly
practical, natural,
a place for everyone
everyone
in place.
Please.
Parade our pride
in pyrotechnic protest
in partnership perpetual,
productive, progressive
people
as people
as people,
powerful
and equal.
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 12:36 PM UTC
Is this what it's like to be a poet?
To taste every goodbye, to feel every moment?
To feel every detail, to see every flaw?
To kiss every star as the night starts to fall
To fall in love with the way the sunsets
To dream of the birds from dusk to dawn
Is this what it's like to be a painter?
To find it captivating the way the earth moves
Mesmerized by your very own torment
Never caring if anyone else approves
Ingenious, stamped across your forehead
Is this what it's like to be an artist?
To find beauty in the pain that transcends
From the demonized garden growing within?
To find something alluring in the way
People walk away
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 10:02 PM UTC
Horror
It is the moment
When one culture
Decides
It is superior
To another
It is the moment
When life
Is devalued
To the point
That extermination
Can be done
Without feeling
But instead
With moral certainty
The certainty
That the God
Of the dominant culture
Approves
And
When the screams
Cannot be heard
Because
They are not real
To you
And even if they were
It wouldn’t matter
Because
Insanity
Does not recognize
Itself
And because
Fear
Justifies anything
And because
The reality that has been constructed
In your mind
Is that you are normal
And they are not
So they must die
And you must live
No matter
The symptom
Of the disease
You have been taught
To love
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 1:11 PM UTC
That yellow lightning bolt
“You have new notifications”
truly; like my personal brand of ******
my personal, digital addiction;
I eagerly log in
to see which stranger now approves,
of the turmoil deep in me
to see which stranger considers me worthy;
worthy of “following”
worthy of paying attention to
“Your poem started trending”
Which one? True Love?
OH WOW! Strangers like my work?
should it even matter?
does it even matter?
**** straight it does!**
Why?
I’ll tell you why;
People liking my poems means I’m not alone
if I’m crazy, I’m not the only one,
it means that somewhere in this upside down world
understands something about me
Following me means that my voice matters
if in ”real life” I don’t matter
if in ”real life” I’m stepped upon
at least here, people think me worthy
Others can at least identify
it means that I am not alone
it means that I might not be that crazy
it means that somewhere on this Earth
another heart beats –
another flame flickers
against the cold, dark of the World
Really, it communicates that I matter
that I too, have a place in the world
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 9:01 AM UTC
Til twinkle pinkie rosebuds turn shrubbery so wild
wilder than the fume upon which the moonglade
climbs gloomy tide to make welcome of the night
until the little birds sing your name
then times be as happy as flame
One goldfinch and 3 white pigeons
a colourful macaw parrot and falconet
or the black crowncrane of large pinions
soul's fleeting harbinger of the lorikeet
type, as i await the little birds sing
The whole of my being approves
by the star shining in northerly clime
as in clinging on tight to a feeling so true
of grim death in moment so prime
until the birds vocalize your name
only then shall I not feel the disdain
Patience robs the clamouring chest
heels are still weary and cold in rest
and soon little birds send me tweets
by the dawn chorus of early birds' beats
shall one become happy and gay
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 2:47 AM UTC
He watches; quiet, reflective.
No doubt he detected
The weight of my
Body-shaped shame.
My name similar to his,
Who now rots under sunlight,
Unabashed in his righteousness
To which I was blind.
I find myself here,
In a garden once perfect,
Now tainted with ******
I heard the scratching,
Faint at first,
So I turned and saw him.
The raven watches;
Quiet, perceptive,
His gaze so effective.
His foot scratches the ground,
Making a sound that feels
Almost peaceful.
He unearths the freedom
That I need him to show me.
Just below me,
The earth is opening up.
I grab my brother's limp arm,
Drag him away
From the evidence of his harm.
Further away
From the judgment of God.
The raven approves;
He quietly nods.
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 1:07 PM UTC
The journey of memory mealtime lane.
First stop, let’s get it over.
The painful place of supper time tension.
Watching the clock, start the race
To produce the evening prize.
Another plate – protein, vege,
A third of carbs is wise.
Table laid, stage is set,
But there’s a stomach-churning silence,
I’m staring at the wooden spoon.
His sallow face swallows and the
Fork shuffles, napkin placed on the pile.
His footsteps leave, we try to ignore
The deserted plate - talk and smile
Come on now, memory mealtime store
Fill me a tasty smell –
Grandmas’s larder – whole room devoted!
Crinkled brown paper nesting
Squares of brownies, gingerbread.
Eyes behold, like moons of light
Boubon biscuits, french sponge fingers.
Other worldliness, such a sight!
Now take me back to nice school dinners,
Waiting down the hall, up the playground steps.
Will treacle cake all have gone,
Just leaving rice and prunes?
Dreadful cold white mash potato scoops
Neatly spread apart.
My favourite - dark chocolate sponge
And jam pink marshmallow ****
Join me to sitting round
My family kitchen table,
‘Best bit is the skin,’ Dad and me agree.
He approves as I eat
My little sister’s potato jacket.
I’m good and there’s plenty
And we’re all feeling full.
Every plate eaten clean, completely empty.
I remember secretly sneaking
Opening tins and picking out pieces
Of chocolate from choc chip cookies.
By the window, our Kenwood soda stream,
It’s bottles like shop bought fizzy pop!
And Dad’s homemade wholemeal loaf
Unlike any bread from the shop.
My Sixth form packed lunch –
Two Ryvita sandwiches with a kipling cake,
A calorie counting diet
Eaten by morning break
Whilst writing the stove is forgotten
And now the smell of overcooked stew -
Burnt pan supper – a frequent memory.
I think I can save it, definitely cooked through.
Arriving at the end of mealtime lane,
A message to hang in the kitchen high above
Something I’ve learnt to remember,
That the food in our lives must be all about love.
May 23, 2021
May 23, 2021 at 5:09 PM UTC
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says
we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph
and death i think is no parenthesis.
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 9:12 PM UTC
drank straight
god above
level heaven
contagion.
remember:
lazy approves
of room for error.
snoring counts
as blatantly losing.
blank stare
blank slate
upstairs neighbors
they were making
what could only be
violent love or
beautiful music.
either way
the whole blueprint was shaking,
the sound breaking
a vacant space.
& there was a cloud.
there was
always
a cloud.
sometimes he be spinnin
round & round & rounded
but he usually clucked out
fore ever touching ground.
uhh, shut his mouth.
not saying so long to luck
but the ***** wanted to run.
how he long to get loud
& lost in the crowd
of tired brown-
grays & blacks,
boring blues.
nature,
mother,
lackluster,
satan
kept a written record
of the whether's mood
& heavy surveillance of
his movements
as seen through
***** rear view mirrors.
she said
never better,
never clearer.
so, tomorrow
if we're still
our own & each other's
dearest,
we'll need to find the nearest payphone;
call all world leaders, demand appearance,
then apologize for all our static & interference.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 1:43 AM UTC