"avid" poems
Can I have a word, please?
It can be any word.
Just give me a word.
We can all share the rest.
Just let me have one.
It can be anything.
I'd take canteen or avid.
I'd even settle for timely.
But you can't use my word,
whatever it is,
without asking.
Because it's my word.
And I'll almost always let you use it when you ask.
Unless, for example, my word is wonderful
and you want to use it to describe a movie I haven't seen yet
or a movie I saw already and didn't care for.
I really want everything.
That's my first choice.
Flabbergasted is a close second.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 10:48 AM UTC
Could I be any lamer?
This is the disclaimer
of an avid pc gamer.
The original doom sayer.
Not your average KrakPott priest
Resurrecting the deceased.
Carrying raids to keep pleased.
And a night elf none the least.
While your out chasing hoes.
I be on my MMOs
Healing tanks of heavy blows.
Mind controlling enemy foes.
Check me on my youtube channel.
In an epic arena battle.
My heals to great to handle.
Got the horde all screaming 'Scandal!'
My reality was so droll
that I decided to re-roll.
Maybe next I'll be a troll
to fill this empty hole.
Could I be any lamer?
This is my disclaimer.
An avid PC gamer.
The original Doom Sayer.
The End Is Near!!! 0o
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
The memory of you emerges from the night around me.
The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.
Deserted like the dwarves at dawn.
It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one!
Cold flower heads are raining over my heart.
Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.
In you the wars and the flights accumulated.
From you the wings of the song birds rose.
You swallowed everything, like distance.
Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!
It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.
The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.
Pilot's dread, fury of blind driver,
turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank!
In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.
Lost discoverer, in you everything sank!
You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire,
sadness stunned you, in you everything sank!
I made the wall of shadow draw back,
beyond desire and act, I walked on.
Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost,
I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you.
Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness.
and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.
There was the black solitude of the islands,
and there, woman of love, your arms took me in.
There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.
There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle.
Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me
in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms!
How terrible and brief my desire was to you!
How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid.
Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,
still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds.
Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,
oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies.
Oh the mad coupling of hope and force
in which we merged and despaired.
And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.
And the word scarcely begun on the lips.
This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing,
and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!
Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you,
what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned!
From billow to billow you still called and sang.
Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel.
You still flowered in songs, you still brike the currents.
Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well.
Pale blind diver, luckless slinger,
lost discoverer, in you everything sank!
It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour
which the night fastens to all the timetables.
The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.
Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate.
Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands.
Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything.
It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one!
14.2k
Today, the words came to me
Wrapped in their exclusive finery
Ready to take me with them
On a tour of the unknown alleys
Of my heart, not visited by me
Each word is a guide, leading me
Towards the core of gratitude
Being an avid traveler
I was yet to take this journey
With childlike glee I read each word
Feelings which lay unexpressed
Were touched by the magic message
Like each new day brings fresh hope
Each word spoke with such grace
The roots of joy are rejuvenated
And springs to blossom eternally
To greet me with varied colors
Of happiness, gratitude and hope
Living each day in wonder
Soft morning light ushers new day
Gratitude in my prayer
Before I start a brand new day
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 9:04 AM UTC
*Another "randyhornbag" poem for all avid fans of *******
rip off my dripping *******
and part my waiting **********
sniff my fresh-scrubbed ****
then rim me ******* senseless
taste the sweet-sour tang
of my recent defecation
force your ***** mouth-prick
past my eager sphincter
seeking to engulf me
in my ****** cum-lust
and now for our delectation
shove your huge **** up me
and fill me with your hot *****
or fist me till I scream
my ******* brains out and
then **** myself in terror
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 10:54 AM UTC
My avid gaze
spoke to the rosary
of your flesh
My heartsick tremors
marked me as a wanted man
and burned the villages
of my ancestors
I was a refugee
from time
a friend to no man
My tears washed the blood
from my hands
my eyes withered
the tender bud
So when did I read poetry
on your lips?
Did your mountains fracture
and disintegrate into
sparkling shards
as mine did?
Was the moon an egg
in your basket
as it was in mine?
Little do we know
of the other
when first we clasp hands
and agree
In time
and with luck
we learn.
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 6:33 PM UTC
School is over. It is too hot
to walk at ease. At ease
in light frocks they walk the streets
to while the time away.
They have grown tall. They hold
pink flames in their right hands.
In white from head to foot,
with sidelong, idle look—
in yellow, floating stuff,
black sash and stockings—
touching their avid mouths
with pink sugar on a stick—
like a carnation each holds in her hand—
they mount the lonely street.
6.2k
hello my name is dyed red hair
hello my name is infj
hello my name is having a love hate relationship with different music genres
hello my name is crying during sad or happy movies
hello my name is an avid just dance player
hello my name is wearing black all the time
hello my name is liking the color blue best
hello my name is b math
hello my name is canadian
hello my name is sometimes not so happy with my weight
hello my name is a writer
hello my name is being afraid of being left alone
hello my name is captain of the volleyball team
hello my name is a christian
hello my name is q
hello my name is fashion lover
hello my name is making bad decisions
hello my name is loving to travel a lot
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 11:05 PM UTC
Never have I seen such an Avid Score
Then draw your Players back to your Credit
Once Clocks have wrung your Springs tight before
Now ring Best Conclusions to your Debit
So your Tendons ripe and joined Model Bro
Each with Burned Spectacles for Thigh's attract
And he taught you well; A Flame burning so
**** Timbers do kiss your Tongue's Good Act
The Green Elf was right. If you could agree
That Advanced Levels only stunt your Mane
But just Read the Play; And Scripts follow free
Your Lion-Born Instinct is one and the same.
Chelsea has Won. And wore Arsenal's Shirt
The Meaning of which, Tie's Variance still hurts.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 2:15 AM UTC
I show the world my flowers,
daisies flowing from my fingertips,
smiling with the brightness of tulips,
and leaving a trail of poppy footprints
with each step I take.
I present this spring-themed Monet masterpiece,
careful to conceal the chaotic overcrowding
pushing, building pressure beneath the surface.
This rootbound torture belies the floral illusion,
and if you peer closely at the pretty pastels,
you'll see they're nothing more than
brush strokes and broken hopes.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 7:34 PM UTC
"So the pen is mightier? who'da'thunk'it."
He said to the bleeding man tied down
to a messed, stained, bed.
The bound man figured,
even though he just got
to an LA plagued
by criminals, killers, and copy-cats,
that he wasn't getting out of here whole,
finally.
Holding a pen knife,
red-faced and sweating,
was his captor.
It had been a struggle
to awake and realize
who stood before him:
Quill.
The exact killer he'd been looking for.
He had heard about him in the Halo Herald,
An LA pun, it's not very popular,
but he liked the funny section.
"Are you just going to stand there?"
The bound man says, eagerly,
"Hey bud, you're the hanged man,
I'll do the talking."
"It's about time!"
"huh?"
"I'd been waiting.
heard you'd be at that
open mic. Knew you liked
the mealy type."
"Shuddup or I'll write you off."
Quill runs his pen knife over the bound man's right cheek.
"Stings a little.
Usually, I start with a rufie
and emotional damage.
But it looks like you
want to cut to the chase.
I'm a man of a similar mind.
spirit.
problem."
"Nobody's like me dude."
The bound man locks eyes with Quill.
"What're your trophies? huh?
I read you like to drain your victims,
cook'em dry.
don't you use their blood and powdered remains as ink?
Short stories or something?"
"Oh, an avid reader?! it's your lucky day:
you get to be part of the collection!"
The lamp nearby tumbles
to the floor as Quill lunges,
ready to ****
"Wait! Don't you want to know who I am!"
"Not really."
"I'm a ser-"
The sentence is finished by
nothing but the sound of blood
and air
gurgling
into places it was never meant to be
as Quill's blade passes through flesh.
"Pfft, what, you think you're special?"
Quill saunters over to the sink.
"I'd hate to waste ink.
but there'll be more.
there's always more.
isn't that right, Celine."
he says to no one
and stands there with a smirk
as if listening to her.
Oct 15, 2022
Oct 15, 2022 at 2:22 AM UTC
Sometimes I feel like that broken china doll
you found lying in a garage sale last summer.
Blackened eyes, busted lip,
and threatening to shatter at the slightest touch.
I oftentimes struggle to remind myself,
it's not my fault I ended up this way—
—for even the most avid of admirers
will occasionally drop their toys.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
Are you out there?
That perfect someone.
Taller than 5 feet
With your disheveled hair
And your imperfect good looks.
I don't mean you pretty boys
I want the beautiful ones
With all the flaws.
Inside and Out.
I love your flaws
Will you love mine?
Do you feel pain
do you embrace it
and let it wrap around you with familiarity?
Are you open or listen to good music?
An avid country music hater.
You are out there
Perfectly Imperfect Boy.
Where are you?
Because I have yet to find you.
So you can kiss me unexpectantly
and make me laugh.
So you can break my walls
Piece by piece
Till I am nothing left but myself.
Come rescue me
On your black horse
In anyway you desire.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 7:31 PM UTC
"You can join our group," he says,
"But only if you look everyone in the eyes."
I freeze.
Surely he is aware by now that the words
Autism Spectrum Disorder
In my chart were not placed there for fun?
Surely he is aware by now that finger twitching, body rocking,
gaze avoiding
Are not for my frivolous pleasure?
Surely he is aware by now the absurdity of what he asks?
I am autistic.
Burning irritation of the eyes and panic aside,
Staring creepily into another human's eyeballs
Would render group a waste of time, no possibility to listen.
He knows this.
It is his prejudice that keeps him rooted to the spot.
I can feel the weight of his expectations boring into my forehead.
Explaining what it is to ask this of me,
I remind him that drawing this line would be excluding me because
Of my autism.
I tell him he would be losing a valuable participant,
A deep thinker, a creator, an avid listener.
I tell him he would be discriminating,
That I am protected by law.
Oh, no.
He budges not,
For he does not dislike autistic humans
So long as they act like they are Neurotypical,
So long as I pretend to be
Someone I am not.
Sep 11, 2019
Sep 11, 2019 at 12:22 AM UTC
to hold a photograph in my hand
and believe what is presented,
take is at it already is – why not?
if I close my mind’s shuttering eye,
will you be as candid as before?
unrestricted, unsorted from the hullaballoo,
you, freer than what is imagined, closing
in like a bullet from yesterday shot out
of the sky’s contrived clearing –
to hold a photograph in my hand
and tug closer by the mouth of the fringe
as if to pour water on a broken glass,
slithering now, a shadow of moon
at the very dull end of my cup;
you are closer than any rehearsed moment
ready to catch the inner canthus of the eye:
this relentless picture-passing, tense and
fervent, avid like bankiva to air,
water to chrysanthemum: behind thick shrub
of crepuscular, an arboreal locomotion
shatters loose, your frantic figure.
to hold a photograph in my hand
and size it down to the dimensions
of this home – there is potential in this
comparison: flaring out like smoke from
where it infinitely burns, I seek an ache
and hence place a finger to shush,
to hold this photograph in my hand
and confabulate a soft blow to the gut
and feel it realer than any dagger or berretta
held at one’s life-edge: this delusory intimation,
a slipshod work of feeling. to feel it rejoin
me somewhere I ought to be back again.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 2:48 AM UTC
Muelle de Binondo Street,
Barangay San Nicolas,
Old Manila.
My dad's fate
Will always be muddled
With nostalgia:
The mid-afternoon
Traffic of fruit vendors,
The toothless strains
Of my grandfather's voice,
Bouncing off
The warehouse walls
Like folding cardboard,
The ceramic gallops of horse-
Drawn kalesas taking him
From school to
My grandfather's offices,
Every day and back,
Up and down
The cardboard box river
To Tondo. There, he hurriedly
Buys ten
Asado buns
From a stall across the
Street from their
School - a voracious
Schoolboy
Forever late for class, forever
Putting on basketball jerseys
Too wide for him,
Basketball shorts too
Short; body
Always too gangly,
Too long-limbed, wide eyed
And fleet footed
For his dreams to catch.
He once could dunk.
He is still a baby boomer -
Scared of firecrackers,
Weird penchant
For popped collar shirts,
Pointed shoes, and
Sequins - he, was an avid
Lover of stars - his old
Dust-strewn bed posts
Giving way, I imagine,
To iron bars caging
The luminous starry night,
Floating high above
The sewage
And the freight trucks
That weigh him so.
They sang to him.
In the tune of
My mother's voice -
The only album
He ever possessed.
Song set from
His favorite band.
"Apo Hiking Society."
His favorite word,
Was "leap."
A disciple
Of MJ, Dr. J,
And Magic,
Samboy, and Jawo,
Icarus on hardwood
And leaping
From the free throw line.
"Son," he once told me,
"You gotta leap
"If you wanna live."
He was always afraid of heights.
It wasn't until 41 that
We made him ride a roller-coaster,
That he had even seen a roller-coaster.
"You gotta leap
"If you wanna live."
I think my favorite
Memory of my dad
Is still him wringing my fingers
At Space Mountain with
Eyes so tightly shut
That we forgot
Our fears,
And screamed instead:
So.
This,
Is how the stars look like
When unbolted
By folding cardboard,
And iron bars.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC
With Good Business brewed is Good Business told
Confirmed the New Mentor who taught us well
Such swig a Sterling Medicine behold
But knowing our Skills his Avid Trust spell
Forsought this Blue Trade our Clients rely
Was that our Webbed Gifts can reciprocate
That within those Months our Service apply
To increase the Bank's volume aggregate
Such now our Eagle wears; Tri-Coloured Schemes
Weaved in pleats forth to Genious unique
And if we can prove to maintain those Seams
Will he be Proud of our Learning oblique.
Once that's done, to the Pub he tips his Zest
All the more content our Minds would not guess.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC
Tender strength, sender's excuse
A sneeze to reach to tomorrow
Avid, we determine a silence was...
A house of compromise, sincerity, and willfulness, to borrow...
Burden yourself with a memory, some other dainty...
A question thought liberty, driven by the wind
Has visited me, in the couth of decency's charity
Simple lessons of anger, and the angel of succumbing kin...
Redoubt is my only defense...
Pied, or provided a callous soul, the taint?
I seek is a lip with no meaning, meant in the essence
We direct to such, a season of wishes, we compare to ain't...
Anarchy in love, the thought to reason
Anarchy in though, the times found me a shown few
Anarchy in decision's, a guarantee of blinder moments
Anarchy in ascertainment, a host of wisdom to look at you
A yawn with no future...?
As shrewd as furious days make a prayer, a seclusion
Catching mine, in measure and deliberate other, is a cure
Forces in voices, and the rationality of mercy; loves only intrusion?
Psyche
Can I have my weight in gold, a tarter heaven?
So wished for, so washed of another fight...
With heaven, to remember succor in forms of resolve to come by, loving...
Dec 12, 2023
Dec 12, 2023 at 12:14 PM UTC
The goats were wrong
the grass never changes
the building up of hope and dreams
creates the need
for fulfillment
when the curtain is drawn
the show has finished
was it successful in its goal
or fall short leaving
avid disappointment
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 1:34 AM UTC
If trees be poems by the earth
In avid joy I read each one
Florets writ in fragrant verse
Inked with beams of the morning sun
In shade, a fruit, a whiff of air
I rest beneath wide branches spread
A cavort of emerald canopy
Bestows comfort upon my breath
I lean against the bark, recline
And think of how it stands in time
Through tunneled years it's stoic trunk
Stands proud against frost and rain
Drops it's leaves to nakedness
Till spring dresses in green again
On but an arm, the koel sings
'Tis home to birds that weave a nest
Haven to sojourners ache
Clasp around, hold close to breast
I trace the names of love engraved
Now forgot; asleep in graves
On felled bark my soul I pen
On papyrus the past I feel
The murmured songs of sentiments
In susurrus as branches kneel.
Nymphs would hide or fairies entreat
With fireflies in silver light
Creatures tip toe on their feet
Lithe, in the darkness of the night
In engraved lines meaning I see
What better song, what poetree?
Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky - Gibran
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 9:38 AM UTC
School is over. It is too hot
to walk at ease. At ease
in light frocks they walk the streets
to while the time away.
They have grown tall. They hold
pink flames in their right hands.
In white from head to foot,
with sidelong, idle look—
in yellow, floating stuff,
black sash and stockings—
touching their avid mouths
with pink sugar on a stick—
like a carnation each holds in her hand—
they mount the lonely street.
2.7k
The place where the oceans meet the shore
our lips met,
yours dilapidated, ancient;
mine freshly squeezed orange.
We lived,
Avid, weightless for a few days
Giant red, argon balloons floating
Under a velvety, green sky.
Yet when the time came,
You stayed at the Hamptons
I chose a lonely cottage by the bay.
All that remained of our kiss
was broken beer bottles
In sandy beaches turned stony
Angry waves disappearing
the shards everyday.
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 2:45 AM UTC
After feeling like this, to my lowest low and my highest high
You made me realize what it’s like to die, not emotionally but physically
A new thought I never had in my head,
To have my breath shortened, just because I let you into my bed.
This is a new extreme for me, which is hard to beat.
For you filled my life with guilt, shame and deceit.
You pushed me to the ground, deteriorating every little ounce of me
Testing me with trivial questions. I should have recognized the warning sign, bright yellow and shiny black titled “hazard”. Like the reflection of a roadwork sign, saying slow down, danger, caution, this is the borderline.
My instinct was right, No honour go back I said.
You had something over me, like a beautiful grey moth entranced to the light, but deep down inside I knew your world burned too bright. Your personality just stuck to me,as if I was ants attracted to the sweet honey that dripped off the honey comb.
Inside, I knew I should go home.
Words fly, tensions get high.
Why did I not go back to Vendome?
His hands strong hands wrapped round my soft neck, pushing me into the bed, I felt my heart pulsating.
I closed my eyes wishing that he would push harder and longer, to actually feel something other than this pain and misery that he placed upon me.
He looked at me in gratification, that smirk said it all, as he accomplished sometime great like an encore at curtain call.
A look of a great man, big and powerful now its time to take a shower, as what he did was nothing the matter.
My state in shock. What has happened? Is this really unmasking his disguise?
For the mask he wore was unforeseen, like a child at halloween.
The tears in my eyes was not avid, until he clenched his hand to play rock paper scissors,
but little did I know that his rock would cut through my paper.
leaving me with bruises and now a traitor.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC
i’m dying soon
on the side of a highway
as cars pass like comets
and trucks rumble by
to stir the gravel
as avid teeth sniff
me out to pull
at my porcelain skin
before the bird beaks leap
from the sky
to peck at what’s left
of my brushfire bones
i’m dying soon
and it may just
feel
like any other day
that i’ve known
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 10:25 PM UTC
I am your number one admirer
And your number one believer
I will always be your avid fan
I will support you to the best that I can
I admit, I also see something beautiful
My eyes would also look to others as wonderful
But your words will stay as the best for me
There's no other words as awesome as you let me see
I will always be your avid fan
I will support you to the best that I can
You would tease me that I am unfair
But baby, to you, there's nothing I can compare
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 8:32 AM UTC