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"atter" poems
The puppeteer is the fool, delivering drugs like a mule, unaware of his crime, he will pay a price of time. The puppeteer approaches his boss, in a room with some moss. A man with two tears tattooed on his face, holds out the his gross overpay and hands him mace. The Puppeteer walks with what he believes is just cheats, not hearing the sound of foot beats. to late to block, he is clocked. The puppeteer protects what is his, the boy beats him without a single miss, out comes his hero in a baseball cap, threatening the boy he tries to leave the map. The puppeteers pride is damaged, and takes the bat hitting his atter leaving him in bandages. paying off the right people the man with tear tattoo's make all the charges become taboo. The puppeteer reads the news, the boy he attacked might be set a new, sitting by the rail on valentines day, his friend approaches with a blush like a bae. The puppeteer hears the boy say love, he pushes his into the wall not wanting to be his dove, though secretly he feels different, and his hero can tell and kisses him not ashamed he is indifferent. The puppeteer panics he is set a miss for he never expected to receive a kiss, he shoves him off and yells queer, his heart is set with fear. The puppeteer sees him sit down next to him, his girlfriend near he won't mention it Kim, looking for justice an older brother show up, though he is ignored as his opponent sips from a cup. The puppeteer hears a shot be fired, he realises he is deaths desire, when all went black, his eyes open to see the gunman be pushed a back. The puppeteer smiles for he has won, till his hand touched someone, looking to the side their lies the hero, and the puppeteers sanity hits zero. Complete our dream that is his last call, before the hero's eyes will fall. an unmarked grave is mentioned through my rhyme, nothing can heal the heart not even time. One goal is set in mind, and he will accomplish it in do time, to become an artist of the written word, only then can the puppeteer become a bird. The puppeteer lives no more, for now he closes the past's door.
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Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
The Final Day Of The Pupeteer
The puppeteer is the fool, delivering drugs like a mule, unaware of his crime, he will pay a price of time. The puppeteer approaches his boss, in a room with some moss. A man with two tears tattooed on his face, holds out the his gross overpay and hands him mace. The Puppeteer walks with what he believes is just cheats, not hearing the sound of foot beats. to late to block, he is clocked. The puppeteer protects what is his, the boy beats him without a single miss, out comes his hero in a baseball cap, threatening the boy he tries to leave the map. The puppeteers pride is damaged, and takes the bat hitting his atter leaving him in bandages. paying off the right people the man with tear tattoo's make all the charges become taboo. The puppeteer reads the news, the boy he attacked might be set a new, sitting by the rail on valentines day, his friend approaches with a blush like a bae. The puppeteer hears the boy say love, he pushes his into the wall not wanting to be his dove, though secretly he feels different, and his hero can tell and kisses him not ashamed he is indifferent. The puppeteer panics he is set a miss for he never expected to receive a kiss, he shoves him off and yells queer, his heart is set with fear. The puppeteer sees him sit down next to him, his girlfriend near he won't mention it Kim, looking for justice an older brother show up, though he is ignored as his opponent sips from a cup. The puppeteer hears a shot be fired, he realises he is deaths desire, when all went black, his eyes open to see the gunman be pushed a back. The puppeteer smiles for he has won, till his hand touched someone, looking to the side their lies the hero, and the puppeteers sanity hits zero. Complete our dream that is his last call, before the hero's eyes will fall. an unmarked grave is mentioned through my rhyme, nothing can heal the heart not even time. One goal is set in mind, and he will accomplish it in do time, to become an artist of the written word, only then can the puppeteer become a bird. The puppeteer lives no more, for now he closes the past's door.
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altho                   ugh i push y                                          ou away, yo                                                 u have alw                                                                      ays see                                                                                     med to kno                                                                                                             w that the truth of the m                               atter is, i will alwa                                                                 ys need you more and yet poets are flagra                             nt wastes of space hem                          ming the edge                                                   s of this society confining it with hed           onistic needs and wants and all t                                       he ridiculous feeli                                                                                           ngs assoc                                                                          iated with the fu                                                                                                                         cked system of emot    ional intelligence emascu                lating the blac                                                     k and wh                                                                                       ite i des                         ire of Alas, Alas I seem to have drowned myself into Kool-Aid. "Poets are shameless with their experiences; they exploit them" said Nietzsche once. I wonder how you are today.
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Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 2:45 AM UTC
Wordy Mess
altho                   ugh i push y                                          ou away, yo                                                 u have alw                                                                      ays see                                                                                     med to kno                                                                                                             w that the truth of the m                               atter is, i will alwa                                                                 ys need you more and yet poets are flagra                             nt wastes of space hem                          ming the edge                                                   s of this society confining it with hed           onistic needs and wants and all t                                       he ridiculous feeli                                                                                           ngs assoc                                                                          iated with the fu                                                                                                                         cked system of emot    ional intelligence emascu                lating the blac                                                     k and wh                                                                                       ite i des                         ire of Alas, Alas I seem to have drowned myself into Kool-Aid. "Poets are shameless with their experiences; they exploit them" said Nietzsche once. I wonder how you are today.
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Here's their "knowledge" Here's the scoop NOT scuttlebutt... the REAL **** Be ye Popeye or Betty Boop They will draw you in their loop... This rope will hold you... it ain't loose You will find it is a NOOSE. This is interesting to read Though it's crazy... that's agreed You'll think these people smokin' **** In the beginning there were some *thetans (Interesting that rhymes with SATAN)* They were bored with all the waiting They were bored. Nothing to do. These thetans could be me or you Then... VIOLA... right on cue... Here's an idea! The other shoe! YES! Let's PLAY! We'll play a GAME! It will be FUN! IT HAS A NAME! M atter. E nergy. S pace. T ime. The MEST universe! How sublime! To find it's secrets will cost no dime But thousands of BUCKS! Should be a CRIME. So these thetans all AGREE. IT WAS THAT AGREEMENT, you see. The M. E. S. T. Universe. *(Smokin' TREE? Was Ronnie Hubbard on LSD?)* We were AGREED you & me That this game would then just BE. Dynamite brains blow off my HAT? It don't need no S.A.T. My mind needs no extra watts To figure out the problem with THAT. **Can you think of ANY COUPLE Whether married for 60 years WHO AGREE ON EVERYTHING??? RIDICULOUS.** So there you have it. Their Genesis I'll bring you more. There's quite a list. But I think you have the gist. SCIENCE FICTION!!! Not M. E. S. T. but MISSED! Catherine E Jarvis SoulSurvivor (C) 2/23/2017
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Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 2:58 AM UTC
SCIENTOLOGY GENESIS
wander abaht atter a home as av no bairns ad Tek us in so the living hereabahts rush inside early doors afore sunset lock doors pull down shades, turn mirrors to walls do all to stop me seeing em for if I did I'd carry 'em off. *** named a monkey after us, the lemur cos we big eyes are aht at neet and mek ghost noises so bairns bang *** lids howl like wolves joined by tarn dogs, to frit us away while nannans spin abaht, splash boiling watta rahnd rooms with a wooden ladle . Am one dead al not find a home. I'd carry 'em off.
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May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 6:00 AM UTC
Homeless And Dead
pigen der tavst traver gennem skoven der efterhånden er helt nøgen og iagttager de gyldne blade der er faldet med hendes rødvinsfarvede læber suger *** grådigt på den sidste cigaret *** kunne finde i lommen og vinden hiver i hendes lange lysebrune bølgede hår men *** er ligeglad, for *** kan kun tænke på at en dag, snart, vil *** forsvinde fra dette sted i ørene danser der stille toner komponeret af engle og sunget af Bon Iver pigens øjne er store og runde, og vidt åbne for *** prøver at sluge så meget af denne følelse før det er for sent igen og lyset der titter igennem de spinkle grene atter er forsvundet og erstattet af en grå tåge hendes tanker står så stille, samtidig med at stemmerne aldrig nogensinde stopper med at hviske til hende de hvisker, at en pige som hende aldrig vil blive lykkelig pigen griner da lyden af ordene giver genlyd i hendes hovede, *** havde nemlig for længst affundet sig med at lykken er den nøgne skov, gyldne blade, rødvinslæber, cigaretter, de sidste solstråler og Bon Iver
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Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC
pigen med de rødvinsfarvede læber
No where to go. Lost in this Open field, of life, and it's just me.    Here.                    Alone. Been searching for that place to call home. Only, what is  home? Don't give up! You can do it. Just believe in yourself! You got the Strength to go on. Home is where the heart is--that's home. Open and free, loving and caring. No Matter where the road takes you; Remember Everyone will struggle in life and we will all get through it.
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Jan 28, 2011
Jan 28, 2011 at 6:00 PM UTC
Nobody's Home
I can only make myself write about the people who don't hurt, those that don't matter. I can't wait for the day that I can write about you.
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Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 11:59 PM UTC
Bold
Når jeg tænker på dig er det kun et spørgsmål om tid før du vil sidde fast i mine tanker bestandigt og vandre til dine sko er slidt. Derefter vil jeg give dig nye sko og lade dig atter vandre. For så længe jeg tænker på dig ved jeg du stadig eksisterer. For så længe du atter vandre og ikke stikker af fra mine tanker da kan jeg stadig leve og tro at alt er godt fra min tanke-boble. (Marolle)
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Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
Evighedens vandring
So much of what we do or say makes a difference- Either good or bad- so choose wisely And you'll see that your voice does Matter! That no matter who you are, your Life is important and you're worth it! Everyone gets an equal chance in life So make the best of it and Spread the LOVE! End the hate!
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Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 11:36 AM UTC
Seamless
IDO NT MATT ERID ONTM ATT ERID ONTM ATTERID ONTMA T TER IDON TMA TTE RI DON TMA TE RIDON TMATTE RIDONT MA TTE RID ONTMATT ERIDONT M ATTERI D ON TMAT TERI DO NTM AT TERIDO NTMA TT ERI D ONT MA TTERID O NTM ATTERIDONT M ATTERI DO N TMA TTERI D ONTM A TTE RID ONTM A TTE RIDO NTMA T TERIDONT MA T TERID ONTM ATTERID ONT MATTE RIDO NTMATT ERIDON TMA TTE RI DONTM ATTERI DON TMA T T ERIDONTMA TTERID ONTMAT TER IDONTM AT TERIDON TMA TTERI D ONTMA TTERID DONT MAT TERID ON TMAT TER IDONTM ATTE RI DO NTMA TTER
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Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 1:51 AM UTC
Untitled
"This is a collect call from: 'Darlene Ryder', at the Nielsen County Sheriff's Department, press '2' to accept charges and be connected." beep "hello? Bill?...you there?" **** Darlene, how many times we gotta fuckin' do this?!", he threw his voice at her through the phone like a fastball wrapped in firecrackers. "I dint do nuthin' wrong! they jus got sumpn' against me s'all!" "uh huh, the **** d'you do, huh? "the ***** had it comin', I was jus tryin' to have a few 'n relax then she come 'n talk 'bout how I was lookn' atter funny but I watn't- I was jus mindin' my own talkin' to Charlie. So all's I need from you is to get yer lazy, belly-picken', beer-guzzlin' hole fer a face down here and unpinch this fuckin' mess!" and hung up the receiver on her end of prison.       The guards shoot each other a look then raise their eyebrows.  They'll be recounting this over beers tonight beneath the monstrous glow of 47 90" TVs in between attempts at the waitress young enough to be their daughter.  They'll shovel in the wings of a total of 18 birds drowned in hot sauce and butter before the sports bar stops feeding them.  Then they'll all drive home drunk with hot breath and testosterone like molasses, ending their nightly routine with their ***** in their hands and their pants around their ankles drooling at tiny glowing screens.         Long live the American gods of New Olympus.
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Apr 3, 2020
Apr 3, 2020 at 11:04 AM UTC
modern pantheon
du var som den pollen der fik mig til at nyse hvis vi endelig var ovre og pillerne begyndt at virke duftede jeg atter et træ af birke.
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Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 1:53 PM UTC
afhænginghed
Du spurgte mig aldrig Hvorfor jeg ikke tog med til festerne Du havde vel travlt med dig selv Som altid Men det var du ikke den eneste, der havde At gå alene gennem villakvarterene klokken 3 om natten var forfærdeligt Alene i kulden, vente på perronen, alene Tanken om, hvorfor jeg atter var alene Tanken om, at I lå trygt i din seng Og sikkert ikke skænkede mig en tanke Dagen efter Med tømmermænd og ensomhed Atter engang Ingen opkald, ingenting Kun 4 hvide vægge, der endnu engang minder mig om, hvor ensom jeg er, og hvor ligeglade og selvoptagede folk i virkeligheden er
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Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 1:42 PM UTC
07/04/2015
føler mig atter gennemsigtig med hud lavet af nylon et punkteret hjerte der bløder igennem den sarte overflade så jeg kan ikke skjule at jeg stadig elsker dig det er tydeligt for alle med blod der drypper ned af maven på mig du står bare der og lader som om at jeg ikke eksisterer for det er nemmere så gør det ikke ondt du lader som om at du ikke kan se at jeg bløder at du ikke kan se at det stadig er for dig dine øjne er stadig grønne som smagrader så dybe at jeg kunne forsvinde i dem på ny og din mund er stadig sart og fin minder mig om dengang den rørte min så mange ord jeg gerne vil høre den sige men tavs er du og du kiggede lige igennem mig som om jeg ikke fandtes som om du ønskede at jeg ikke fandtes min hjerne krøller og spekulerer om du overhovedet stadig syntes at jeg er smuk nu hvor du ikke vil se på mig trods der var engang hvor du slet ikke kunne lade vær kun du har set på mig med de øjne ville ønske at du kunne læse mine utallige digte der fortæller historier om en dreng med et skrøbeligt sind en kompleks psyke som egentlig helst ville være alene men havde brug for en at holde om så han forelskede sig i en pige der løb lidt for stærkt og snakkede lidt for meget og lidt for højt historier om langsomme søndage forsvundet under grå dyner kroppe der lidenskabeligt var flettet ind i hinanden din hud mod min dit hjerte der bankede min tungespids på din mave dine kys i min pande hænder overalt på nøgen hud som jeg stadig kan mærke selvom det ikke længere er dig der rør mig vil ikke være gennemsigtig mere så jeg maler min krop i regnbuens farver jeg vil ses jeg vil betyde noget og det kan du ikke hjælpe med længere
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Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 3:26 AM UTC
historier om det der er sket
føler mig atter gennemsigtig med hud lavet af nylon et punkteret hjerte der bløder igennem den sarte overflade så jeg kan ikke skjule at jeg stadig elsker dig det er tydeligt for alle med blod der drypper ned af maven på mig du står bare der og lader som om at jeg ikke eksisterer for det er nemmere så gør det ikke ondt du lader som om at du ikke kan se at jeg bløder at du ikke kan se at det stadig er for dig dine øjne er stadig grønne som smagrader så dybe at jeg kunne forsvinde i dem på ny og din mund er stadig sart og fin minder mig om dengang den rørte min så mange ord jeg gerne vil høre den sige men tavs er du og du kiggede lige igennem mig som om jeg ikke fandtes som om du ønskede at jeg ikke fandtes min hjerne krøller og spekulerer om du overhovedet stadig syntes at jeg er smuk nu hvor du ikke vil se på mig trods der var engang hvor du slet ikke kunne lade vær kun du har set på mig med de øjne ville ønske at du kunne læse mine utallige digte der fortæller historier om en dreng med et skrøbeligt sind en kompleks psyke som egentlig helst ville være alene men havde brug for en at holde om så han forelskede sig i en pige der løb lidt for stærkt og snakkede lidt for meget og lidt for højt historier om langsomme søndage forsvundet under grå dyner kroppe der lidenskabeligt var flettet ind i hinanden din hud mod min dit hjerte der bankede min tungespids på din mave dine kys i min pande hænder overalt på nøgen hud som jeg stadig kan mærke selvom det ikke længere er dig der rør mig vil ikke være gennemsigtig mere så jeg maler min krop i regnbuens farver jeg vil ses jeg vil betyde noget og det kan du ikke hjælpe med længere
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