"bloggers" poems
3-2-2017 (unknown date of origin)
Something's wrong... you don't belong here.
I said, looking down at the pineapple on my pizza.
I said, looking down at the ketchup on my macaroni.
I said, looking down at the cream of mushroom soup on my meatloaf.
He said, looking down at me and my boyfriend, holding hands in public.
Like I'm a creep. I'm a ******
What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here.
You see there's these things that we learn at the dinner table.
When we're kids we have certain items served to us on our plates.
Whatever doesn't end up there, isn't a part of the discussion.
After all, they say if you don't have a seat at the table, you are likely to be on the menu.
So, when ****** orientation and gender identity aren't seated at the table of childhood, they get served for the first time in unexpected places.
Like an avante garde celebrity chef's designer meal, prepared for critiques by the food bloggers.
They get served in college classroom debates or in dorm rooms with freshman roommates.
They're on the menu in in some movies but served with a side of stereotypes and silly trope toppings.
They get grinded into glitter dust sprinkled on the annual PRIDE Parades like an overly salty seasoning mix.
They're on the menu in workplace diversity trainings, but too little too late - they get lost in the marginalized buffet.
They get served at the oppression Olympics, or actually at the Olympics unwillingly by a journalist who only pretends to eat a well-balanced diet, but really has LGBT food allergies, if you know what I mean.
In reality, these should be staple dishes consumed by commoners, consumed by you and me, consumed by children along with their healthy daily dose of broccoli and cauliflower, squash and zucchini, even eggplant.
They should be in every ******* cookbook with pictures and all different kinds of recipes!
I want every child to have gay on their dinner plate, lesbian lunch, gender nonconforming on the brunch menu, and bisexual breakfast.
And everything in between in the queer spectrum served during snack breaks.
I want every child to look down at their plate and see pineapple pizza and say, gee that looks great!
I love all of the pizza toppings, no matter whether gay or nay.
... except for anchovies, of course.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC
In highschool
You fell asleep
The hair falling in your face
Your lips agape
And eyes shut gently
What would you dream, this time
Would it be about lost loves
That could have been
Like late night bloggers
Or 4am writers
Maybe even the boy
In highschool
You always cracked a joke
And you always curled your lips
Always smiling and always laughing
Your bright white teeth glimmering
Like the northern lights
What caused your smile, this time
Was it your current love
The always texting
Or the never replying
Maybe the haven't talked in years
In highschool
You'd tell stories
Your eyes lighting up
And your smile big
Your heart beating rhythmically
What was this story about, this time
Was it about the faceless distant love
Or the fateful long love
Maybe even the past love
In highschool
You were the light of the day
No matter what
You dreamed
You smiled
And you told your stories
In highschool
You were strong when everything inside you was weak.
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 9:48 PM UTC
Bombers & bloggers
Tragedy is triumphant
Traffic gathers in a tweaked intersection divide
Wreaking of those fuming with exhaustion
Speed, cause you prefer the highway
Political in place of partial
The news carries dismay
Where is such trouble in this world you say?
Posing proposing, regulating;
Marijuana laws are changing
Complaining of taxing & weighing
Football, do you recalls, & puppy dogs,
Amber alerts & nostalgia where it hurts
Once again the news contright
Cut short cause it draaaags
Ruthless the truth is;
Everywhere you go, there the news is
You can't lose it, tied around your neck the noose is
Bed bugs It has;
Talking of spread shoots, ***** mags
This celebrity, the new 'fad', & that old hag
Throw up on the rag;
Forget it
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC
On old mainstreet, sits an old café,
Where home-town-grown musicians play.
Sometimes they like to change its name,
But the clientele stay just the same.
When times are tough down in the town,
You know you can’t get the Black Dog down.
Rednecks and faux-necks and used-to-be-loggers,
Crafters and rafters, and activist bloggers,
And poets and hippies and mystics and fools,
And outcasts from the secondary schools,
And gypsies too: you’ll find them here,
Drowning in local, hand-crafted beer.
At night, locals sip organic tea,
And turn up the menagerie
Of lights and mics from another age,
Pieced together to make a stage.
And there, the guitarists waste their breath
Beating the Same. Four. Chords. To. Death.
There are some new lyrics, there and here,
But all of them memories of yester-year:
A year spent in the same **** space,
With others who’ve never left this place.
They sing of their dear loves and pasts,
And how much longer the wandering lasts.
And on they wail, and on they moan,
And twang the antique, rustic tone,
But their faces show they like it here,
This breaking haunt of yester-year,
And after the set, they carouse with cheer,
And smile contentedly to their beer.
On old mainstreet sits an old café,
Where home-town-grown musicians play.
Sometimes they like to change its name,
But the clientele stay just the same.
When times are tough down in the town,
You know you can’t get the Black Dog down.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 3:17 AM UTC
There are bloggers and selfie-takers,
Know the difference.
There are noisemakers and peacemakers,
I can show you the evidence.
There are admirers and haters.
Be especially mindful.
There are well-wishers and supporters.
Be very careful
The are naysayers and yeasayers
Always be aware.
There are brothers and brother's keeper,
Always ready to take care.
There are destroyers and fixers,
Separate them.
There are mixers and blenders,
We need them.
There are writers and publishers,
They need each other.
There are readers and proofreader.
Both read for different reasons.
There are bystanders and onlookers.
Both will be watching.
There are movers and shakers,
One of them has the edge.
There are dreams snatches and vision busters,
Be on the lookout.
There are ghost whisperers and Ghostbusters,
Both have connection to a ghost.
There are buyers and sellers,
Each one benefits.
There are singers and there are dancers.
Everyone provides some entertainment.
©IvanBrooksPoetry
21/8/2018
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 1:59 PM UTC
I went to close the window because it was getting windy and rainy. "can't leave this **** window open anyhow, without aluminum dust settling over the room"...Grrrr! ******* f-f-faggot factory!"
Oh **** I said ****** To myself, out loud. I felt something coming up in my chest! Laughter! Why, that factory doesn't even have a ***** besides the one it uses to **** my environment. I guess that's gay. Not in a happy or homosexual way, but in a way I am against.
So, what does this make me? A gay basher? Someone who has hit it off with almost every gay man I ever met? I always felt like they get me, which makes me feel good. I did find out a couple really did want to get me in the pooper, which made me feel even better than "getting me".
Just because it's not my lifestyle or I don't believe in it, doesn't mean I hate gay people. Does it? I mean I don't believe in *** with women either.
{Just leave this here so kids don't go to xhamster, which is uncensored. I wrote this after seeing a blogger talking about how a guy said an amusement park was gay, and not as good as his favorite park. An amusement park should be gay! Anyhow, there are actually people fighting over this crap. I know words can hurt, but so does being burned 5 times on the face with a cigarette. Yet, I don't blame everyone with a cigarette, just the guy who burned me. I bet if you dug up the men from the gay 90's they would feel a certain way about how gay is used now. I wish we could dig them up and send them after the bloggers who do nothing really, and **** sure have no gay fun. I believe that the use of bad words in poetry shows a weak vocabulary. Sometimes it's needed.)
Aug 25, 2021
Aug 25, 2021 at 2:11 PM UTC
******* white people;
hide their racism behind
vapid "opinion".
******* white folks will
argue you can't argue with
results and numbers
because white people
can strip race from the issue
and swear it's "equal".
White people without
culture or identity,
strip it from others.
Call you naked as
they strut in stolen clothing.
Full of silicone.
**** with white people,
find out they know the struggle
by the article.
They can sweat big stuff,
but their racism is in
the cracks and seeping.
Disappointingly,
you can't trust white people for
**** not even me.
Not Bush, not Clinton,
Donald Trump, Bernie Sanders,
******* Macklemore,
Not Bill O'Reilly,
and not Jon Stewart, and not
viral feminists/
white feminism,
Taylor Swift's white sisterhood,
their artists, music,
writers, poetry,
actors, authors, painters and
sculptors and bloggers,
their politicians,
obviously, but also
their lawyers, doctors,
their engineers and
scientists and businesses,
economists or
pastors, preachers, religion,
programmers, products,
video games and novels;
They will let you down.
The rich or the poor,
it really doesn't matter.
They will let you down.
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 1:53 PM UTC
it's sorta kinda my birthday today.
and i know i should be happier than i am right now.
but truth is, i'm not.
i'm pretty much depressed to be honest.
but not that it matters though.
i really just wanted to thank all you bloggers for giving me pieces of your heart,
the kindness and motivation that makes my world seem like a better place at times.
because if there's one good decision i've made in life,
it would be opening up myself to all of you.
this space has made me feel heard.
this space has made me feel wanted.
this space has made me feel loved.
and just in case you didn't know,
every one of you,
makes a difference,
every time.
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 6:47 PM UTC
It’s 1:49 AM, I’m eighteen and I have classes tomorrow morning at 9 in the morning and I’m going to turn nineteen on December, that means one more year until I become a twenty years old, useless adult that’s leeching off my parent’s wallet, because I don’t have a way of living and I need internet.
It’s 1:51 AM and I’m getting older and older by the second and I’m here wasting my time ranting on a blog that nobody cares about. I am so frustrated and that’s probably, because I’m on my period and I’m starving, but I don’t want to eat.
It’s 5:53 AM and I’m thinking, am I fat shamming if I say I don’t want to be fat? because I don’t. I personally don’t find a fat ‘me’ attractive. No it’s not about a fat person, it’s about a fat me. I don’t want to see a fat me.
1:58 AM, it’s almost two, I should sleep, but I wont, I feel restless and I suppose that’s normal, because I am eighteen going on nineteen and soon I’ll be twenty, a *** and a shame. Where is my life heading?
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 2:01 PM UTC
Mexico is a great gift. But there. Good services (male / female / people). The founder of the Boston Market has 300 boxes. Many adults make mistakes. In the Philippines (4), prostitutes, many doctors are wrong. In Brazil, France and Brazil it is difficult to reduce the 600-100-1. Brazil 300 300 pure white, new regions of Russia, Morocco, Wilson, Brooklyn, Harlem, George Washington and at least four. 40.82 300 + 8: Mobile, Google solves the problem with Greece, Macedonia, South Africa, South Africa and Sweden. Mexico is the name "William". Mexico, color, 300 years without other black ornaments for horses or card assistants. Russia, Russia, Russia and Russia. "For 600 years Brazil has 600,000 dollars, 600, many teachers and many other things and bloggers," Sugar, Sugar ": Events: 8: 8 however, Ricky 40.82 South Africa with Joseph because he does what is right for China Africa click on Google Toolbar was and will not ruin Julius Caesar's school, it is above all the foundations of Alkcal's alkaline, the way of life of the child. (4) in three years, 82 Peter Kirkland, George Washington in the White House, Nazarene introduced by Tom, has two dogs, Brazil, Brazil, 600 and 600-600 600-600 games, so thank you for your government that 1000 F-Oh-rty-two children 8 + 8 and 8 women 8, 40, 82, South Africa , Northwest Africa, the continent of Africa Good service (male / female / people) Lotus Boston Trading is the latest version of the 300 Sleeves 600-100-1 Brazil 300 300 pure white regions of Russia, Morocco, Wilson, Brooklyn, George Washington and at least four others. 40.82 300 + 8: Mobile, Google solves the problem with Greece, Macedonia, South Africa, Ica Ica, and Sweden. Mexico is the name "William". Mexico's color for 300 years; There are no more black horses or carts. Russia, Russia, Russia and Russia. "There are 600,000 doctors in Brazil, Brazil, Brazil 600, who do not crash it". Stories, Teens 8 8: South Africa: 40.82 Ricky, African Football, Mother, China and Africa, click on Google Toolbar Jumper Alkashams to protect the house or destroy it. Georgia responds with jelly beans and head piercing each girl's skin to study the words of a group as well as the salivation of young men and women. (82) 82 82 (4) in three years, 82 Peter Kirkland and George Washington back in the White House introduced by Nazareth. Tom has two dogs. Today is a good team. The flight chooses this option in California. Good public security services, public offices and other names. 1.1. Brazil, Brazil, 600 and 600 to 600 600-600 games. Thank you for your head? And everything in the world is great. women. there are many problems at home. The sons of forty victims will come. 8 + 8 and 8 women, 8, 40, 82, South Africa, North-West Africa and the African continent. In fact, click on Google. Mexico is a great gift. But there. Good services (male / female / people). Traffic in Boston. Lotus is the latest sleeve version of 300. In many adult mistakes. In the Philippines (4), they commit many doctors who are wrong. In Brazil, France and Brazil it is difficult to reduce the 600-100-1. Brazil 300 300 pure white, new regions of Russia, Morocco, Wilson, Brooklyn, Harlem, George Washington and at least four. 40.82 300 + 8: Mobile, Google solves the problem with Greece, Macedonia, South Africa, South Africa and Sweden. Mexico, whose name is "William". Mexico, color, black kits 300 years, and other helmets of horse trolleys. Russia, Russia, Russia and Russia. "There are 600,000 doctors in Brazil, Brazil, Brazil 600, who do not crash it". Events: 8: 8 However, Ricky 40.82 South Africa is good for the Tully Halls in China and Africa, click on Google Toolbar and delete the school. Glass bottles with nitrogen oxide come from Alkasham.
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 8:39 AM UTC
Like cigarette burnt to the stub,
Like an empty bottle of Jack,
Kinda the way it's been.
Like reruns of Seinfeld on a Saturday
1a.m. slot.
And nobody notices, yeah my days
Have been like that.
Like bloggers on a subject like
Star Wars and little
Pimple faced teens arguing lightsabers....
Pertinent subjects have lost
Their way out of my life.
There is a whole lot of nothing,
But like cigarettes burnt to the stub and
An empty bottle of Jack,
Like days fading on a memory card
With 300 pictures,
And the ashes that get swept
Just this side of the puke
Of the armchair.
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 7:28 PM UTC
calling IV
calling all truck drivers
calling all car dealers
all scuba divers
all potato peelers
all mothers
all sons
all brothers
calling all who’ve won
all losers, users, and just
all perusers of rusty lust
calling all criminals
all those who’ve tussled and cussed
calling all mechanics
and all whom, in them, trust
calling all politicians
for i must
beg of ye to see this infinity in we
calling all ministers of high finance
all fragile tendencies toward your dance
with your blossoming children
and their salty breezes
their blown into kerchiefs
and their seizing sneezes
seeing you as you carry them toward
our unifying dust
i hold no ill will toward that soil you till
i’ve passed around your notes, your bonds,
and your bills
i’d thought i’d be one of you ‘til i met a few untils
love your children, and love yourself,
for they shall carry your ashes
into a box upon a shelf
that dust behind all wealth
calling all foxes, dogs, cats, chickens, and beetles
all sages, rosemary, spikes, and needles
all wages, incendiaries, wallops, and weebles
all pages, all poets
all police, all panthers
all those battling fires
without and within
all those atop towers
all whom are twins
calling all wheels
upon all surfaces
all of those mired
in a sense of worthlessness
calling all kings
calling all nations
calling all jordan’s, americas, and native stations
we’re writing too much blood
into not enough ground
we’ve survived our flood
and are forever bound
calling brother abel and brother cain
father abraham and mother pain
you’ve traumatized me
from all this blood you’ve lain
i see peace in all your eyes
blown to pieces in terrorizing replies
calling all consumers, producers, unionizers, and managers
corporations, and not for profit planners
all doctors, nurses, clients, and programmers
advertisers, marketers, bloggers, and spammers
all engineers of damns, bridges, and destructions
those who fell they’re ****** due to their suctions
i’ve sensed a fragile beauty in your moistened orbs
you all carry
i beg of you all to come from love
lay down your swords
i beg you not tarry
come women laying into asphalt
come scientists predicting san andreas’ fault
come widows, charlatans, and poets of trite
all ye poets weeping into ye hands
all ye poets of darkness and light
perfect light and darkness are myths upon this earth
just as perfect black and white
are myths spun from history’s dearth
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 7:27 PM UTC
Trolley lost with abandoned rage
Car park full an inverted cage
Wind and rain oh what a bore
Loose trolley smashed into your door
Ketchup bottle top, tons of crud
Sink full up from your best bud
Jobs not finished or badly rushed
And toilets stinky left unflushed.
Don't get me started on internet bloggers
Or motorway madness middle lane hoggers
At roundabouts waiting, sitting keen
Folks turn off no indicator seen
Another thing that gets my gaul
Are those that drive with no lights at all
And later patience is almost gone
Come home to find all lights left on
Don't get me wrong I do complain
When the tv's drowned out with a plane
So tonight I'll sit down with a beer
And wish you all, Happy New year.
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 7:14 AM UTC
Take a few deep breaths, then tell me what you felt.
It was a few short weeks before the invasion.
At least one had to concede the possibility of such a thing.
I denied it; I’d have known.
Yes, there is one, and this year, it falls on a Wednesday.
Four more hours until I get a break
I’m going to, uh, go and, uh, find something to eat.
the first streaks of the morning sun began to dry the dew from our decks
The breath of man and horse mingled, steaming, in the cold morning air.
He'd been careful; he was trying to prove that was possible to live without killing.
What was she doing with this new guy?
And in that second, I began to understand her.
Every lover admires his mistress, though she will be very deformed of herself
She was growing a little stout, but it did not detract an iota from the grace of every step, pose, gesture.
She was cute, in a child-like way.
From where I sit, you look more like a kitten.
So if anyone mysteriously hates me, that's why?
Get out of my way, *****
You always say that,
Don't you dare leave this room,
That's not what I would do.
What the **** was that?
I was gonna go with 'unexpected', but 'cluster fuck' works, too.
You fell out of the sky,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
It seemed like it lasted a long time, but it probably didn’t.
the decline was punctuated by some major rebellions.
This period is believed to be the time when souls of children visit the earth.
Conservative bloggers sparked a national controversy.
Since that time, information about the heavens has been visible.
The clinical importance has yet to be established.
And that's been well over a hundred and fifty years.
My heart skipped a beat.
I tensed, because I knew what that meant.
There was more at stake.
If I failed, I could hardly blame the tools.
Just try and make me go back.
I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time
She waited, hearing nothing but breathing during the pause on the other end.
As if he was making sure I was real this time, and not another dream.
But the kind of dreams they have; those end when we die
But this wasn’t the time to pick apart my obituary.
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 11:33 PM UTC
@niamornimo
Its funny that writers live their lives on pen and paper,
Bloggers, poets, journalists even preachers.
I say this not because I've seen them but because I'm one.
The thing that people call content is an outlet of our lives as writers expressed.
There are days when words flood out of our minds to paper like geniuses with numbers in the cloud,
Then days when it's radio silent. Our pen and paper are distant like the home built in the suburbs visited once for Christmas.
Yeah we seek for mojo in literally everything and when life hits you with a pause then...
Finding words is hard like saying ;I love you to a crush who vowed never to love again,
Like telling your parent I love you because you forgave them without them having to ask,
Like buying a birthday gift for an ex who told you, you're never good enough for him,
Like looking at yourself in the mirror and saying I Forgive You meaning every word coz as you go around gifting everyone handouts of Love and embrace the one you come back home to is YOU.
Yes the dilemma of a writer is not finding words or expression but
Stillness in life, that radio silence when all hell has broken loose.
The shell you cave in just numbing all the feels that bombard your normalcy.
Don't get me started on getting out the shell to find out everyone else moved on but You.
Coming back is brutal the pen and paper feels like an oasis in a dessert and you're not thirsty.
Jul 8, 2025
Jul 8, 2025 at 4:44 PM UTC
for now, i am only focused on
recognizing the girl in the mirror
she sometimes looks like a boy
her rotting skin draped in doll clothes.
sometimes her body expresses itself
gagging and shaking from fear
seizing like it forgot stillness.
other times her body expresses this massive monster thing
it's deep and thick and blue
on some nights she tells herself its the ocean
over and over again she tells herself
that he is the ocean.
she wanted to tell them about the men.
the poets and songwriters and fashion bloggers and computer programmers
the hours and days stolen from her
trying to find some meaning within their violence
the men that had ****** her everywhere.
the men that had touched parts of her that belonged to nobody.
pulling slapping tugging choking bruising scratching
owning pieces of her with more aptitude than she ever could.
in sickness and in health
she could only recreate the memory
of their throbbing, drooling penises
pulsing with the aggravation of power
in her bed she shivers and gags
she's come to realize that this is how men love.
on other nights she is the ocean
deep and embodying
open and consuming
feminine and destructive
Mar 13, 2021
Mar 13, 2021 at 1:42 PM UTC
Some ‘bloggers have ‘blogged thus:
All teachers trample the Constitution
All teachers promote contempt for the Flag
All teachers should be in an institution
All teachers are weird (and that one’s a f*g)
All teachers despise the military
All teachers should be slowly microwaved
All teachers hate meat; they’re vegetary
All teachers hate Jesus; they can’t be Saved
All teachers are evil; the children are harmed
And now they ‘blog: All teachers should be armed!
Feb 24, 2018
Feb 24, 2018 at 9:36 AM UTC
my red lace lust
breaks your laws
and is
scattershot through
fantasy woods
that busts open the door to your perfect, creamy thighs.
red blooded bloggers
caught up in a writing spree
are sealed away in private rooms training to undress you with
the
brush
of
wildflowers
along your neck,
down your
back,
three kiss charmer:
one to ear lobe
one to upper thigh
third,
somewhere in between
the other two
maybe along your side.
your green eyed shake
rattles my roll right off the ledge of
Table Rock.
You stir tomorrow's dust in the red lace lust of A perfected sunset.
My eyes are locked in lasers from space spotting your graceful movements like a predatory beast.
she runs in my head
no off button
for mountain springs
she falls in my dreams
a heavy, sweet torrent
smoothing rocks with constant rush.
her red lace lust
a raging sun
forced to shine
and
trample everything with light.
She paws at my glass
begs me with those longing
cat eyes
she wants to pounce in
moonlight and frolic with
anything.
I must be rid of her desire.
She drives a cool sleek midnight blue Cadillac of
Temptation.
She doesn't stop to pick me up
I am invisible
and she isn't even real
but I know she is out there
driving smoothly down some siren filled boulevard hoping
for a catch.
I must be rid of her desire.
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 1:13 AM UTC
A puper young man
was plugging
in his field.
A puper king was
not wanting to be
king again
where bloggers
irritating in internet.
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 10:36 AM UTC