"boggled" poems - Hello Poetry

"boggled" poems

A new day, press play, a challenge for one. Solo for I, never won. Spawned like magic, 100 people? That’s tragic. Less would I prefer, From the bus, I jump and glide From the wailing heights, I go to a bush and hide. Found a camp, a player I’ve tramped, One closer to being a champ. Many people less, beginning to stress, Loot everywhere, what a mess! In this battle, I thought I would be fine, But in the distance, I saw a white line, With the numbers of sixty-nine, A soccer skin! A soccer skin! Oh God, oh why? Building fast as the speed of light, All I knew that it could be a hard fight. Because, with death in my mind, I didn’t know what to do, Thoughts boggled up, like the texture of goo. I placed a trap on the wall of wood, I waited suddenly, wondering when they would, Yes! I caught them with my trap! One closer to being a champ. Found a vehicle of an interesting shape, Bouncy like a ball, all around, on the landscape, A Baller! Yes! Now I’m glad, But no need to use it, I got a launchpad! However, I could bounce around, Boom! Bam! and Pow! Then I could tell them, “who’s laughing now?” However now, I’m in the final two, I shot his build down, if only he knew, Now it is over, show off with a ramp, Now I’ve become the champ.

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May 23, 2019

May 23, 2019 at 8:26 PM UTC

A new day, press play, a challenge for one. Solo for I, never won. Spawned like magic, 100 people? That’s tragic. Less would I prefer, From the bus, I jump and glide From the wailing heights, I go to a bush and hide. Found a camp, a player I’ve tramped, One closer to being a champ. Many people less, beginning to stress, Loot everywhere, what a mess! In this battle, I thought I would be fine, But in the distance, I saw a white line, With the numbers of sixty-nine, A soccer skin! A soccer skin! Oh God, oh why? Building fast as the speed of light, All I knew that it could be a hard fight. Because, with death in my mind, I didn’t know what to do, Thoughts boggled up, like the texture of goo. I placed a trap on the wall of wood, I waited suddenly, wondering when they would, Yes! I caught them with my trap! One closer to being a champ. Found a vehicle of an interesting shape, Bouncy like a ball, all around, on the landscape, A Baller! Yes! Now I’m glad, But no need to use it, I got a launchpad! However, I could bounce around, Boom! Bam! and Pow! Then I could tell them, “who’s laughing now?” However now, I’m in the final two, I shot his build down, if only he knew, Now it is over, show off with a ramp, Now I’ve become the champ.

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*** Way to fleece… A taxpayer They’ve got us singing the blues And we’re not down for all that jazz*… leave that to the Sax player We remain mind boggled by these selfish ‘leaders’ I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again… ‘Dude! Way to bleed us!’ We’re already scraping the floor for crumbs… are they trying to run our finances into the ground? “You work for us you pompous ********** it’s not the other way around...” Midnight meetings in secretive silence We preferred it when their nonsense made a sound We’re ashamed and infuriated But what makes it worse is that we’re not surprised It’s like they strive to be truly hated… and yes, they've gotten themselves despised More and more by the day As each day goes by We would throw them all out if we could And our actions would be understood Unfortunately we can’t do this for they are skilled at defiance Masters of political science And at it they are that good Liars Cheats The campaigning politician... Seducing us with deceit when he comes out on the street To make his energetic speech And then... The elected Member of Parliament... Only campaigns for his financial gain Once he’s assured that for a whole term his position is permanent That’s where they've slipped up, and I thought they were a smart lot Schemious at least Such a wrong move in an election year Do they not fear… getting dropped by the voter? Two hundred and twenty four MP’s… dead weight in deep water And can’t swim Should they have asked for my advice prior, I would have told them to simply cease and desist “Do not dive in…”.

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Jan 11, 2013

Jan 11, 2013 at 3:53 AM UTC

WTF!(Of the Kenyan MP and gratuity)

*** Way to fleece… A taxpayer They’ve got us singing the blues And we’re not down for all that jazz*… leave that to the Sax player We remain mind boggled by these selfish ‘leaders’ I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again… ‘Dude! Way to bleed us!’ We’re already scraping the floor for crumbs… are they trying to run our finances into the ground? “You work for us you pompous ********** it’s not the other way around...” Midnight meetings in secretive silence We preferred it when their nonsense made a sound We’re ashamed and infuriated But what makes it worse is that we’re not surprised It’s like they strive to be truly hated… and yes, they've gotten themselves despised More and more by the day As each day goes by We would throw them all out if we could And our actions would be understood Unfortunately we can’t do this for they are skilled at defiance Masters of political science And at it they are that good Liars Cheats The campaigning politician... Seducing us with deceit when he comes out on the street To make his energetic speech And then... The elected Member of Parliament... Only campaigns for his financial gain Once he’s assured that for a whole term his position is permanent That’s where they've slipped up, and I thought they were a smart lot Schemious at least Such a wrong move in an election year Do they not fear… getting dropped by the voter? Two hundred and twenty four MP’s… dead weight in deep water And can’t swim Should they have asked for my advice prior, I would have told them to simply cease and desist “Do not dive in…”.

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(I hate poets. They annoy me deeply.) I. There are the balladeers, Working in service of their inner Service, (Though, despite the seeming impossibility, Their hackneyed verse is even worse) Creating tortuous rhyme Which slows down labyrinthine narratives Ending up in some deus ex machine So implausible that it would make Euripides blush (Most often courtesy of some unforeseen projectile Or sudden viral contagion; Would that their creators meet such a fate!) II. I come not to praise the so-called sonneteers, But to bury them. They are an earnest lot, (Lord knows that they are earnest) And they will make their fourteen lines rhyme (Though sometimes the rhyme scheme screams for mercy) And hang the cost. Though their narratives are head-scratching things, And their iambs proceed with the steadiness Of a nonagenarian church pianist Doing her damndest to fight the wedding march to a draw, They are content, nay, proud of their work Because babble rhymes with Scrabble (Though they are not particularly proficient with the latter, They have the former down to an art.) III. Let us not forget the Buk-zombies, Those apostles of aphorism, Most of whom speak of their departed deity As if he were an old drinking buddy (Never mind that most of them were two or three Or perhaps not even a bad idea In the back seat of some mom’s Buick When he exited this mortal plane, stage left, even.) One’s mind is boggled whilst considering The expanse of the bar required to accommodate Everyone who would like to (Or worse, have claimed to) Buy old Charlie a beer, not that he’d stand for a round. They are a sullen horde, this lot, Best dealt with by aiming for the base of the skull. IV. Ah, the confessionals, Lord have mercy upon their souls (For they shall have none upon ours.) They feel so many things so deeply As such things have never been felt before (They have not read their Sexton, their Snodgrass, Their Lowell, their Pl--well, no, They have all read their Plath.) It is, from the moment they arise in the morning Until such time they set aside their fears and let sleep take them, All too much for them, And they bravely face the days Until such time they care bear to take action And fling themselves from some convenient precipice. We should, as a service to them and ourselves, Ensure the soles of their shoes Are sufficiently worn and slippery. (I hate poets. They annoy me deeply.)

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Jan 12, 2017

Jan 12, 2017 at 11:22 AM UTC

Poets (A Hate Song)

(I hate poets. They annoy me deeply.) I. There are the balladeers, Working in service of their inner Service, (Though, despite the seeming impossibility, Their hackneyed verse is even worse) Creating tortuous rhyme Which slows down labyrinthine narratives Ending up in some deus ex machine So implausible that it would make Euripides blush (Most often courtesy of some unforeseen projectile Or sudden viral contagion; Would that their creators meet such a fate!) II. I come not to praise the so-called sonneteers, But to bury them. They are an earnest lot, (Lord knows that they are earnest) And they will make their fourteen lines rhyme (Though sometimes the rhyme scheme screams for mercy) And hang the cost. Though their narratives are head-scratching things, And their iambs proceed with the steadiness Of a nonagenarian church pianist Doing her damndest to fight the wedding march to a draw, They are content, nay, proud of their work Because babble rhymes with Scrabble (Though they are not particularly proficient with the latter, They have the former down to an art.) III. Let us not forget the Buk-zombies, Those apostles of aphorism, Most of whom speak of their departed deity As if he were an old drinking buddy (Never mind that most of them were two or three Or perhaps not even a bad idea In the back seat of some mom’s Buick When he exited this mortal plane, stage left, even.) One’s mind is boggled whilst considering The expanse of the bar required to accommodate Everyone who would like to (Or worse, have claimed to) Buy old Charlie a beer, not that he’d stand for a round. They are a sullen horde, this lot, Best dealt with by aiming for the base of the skull. IV. Ah, the confessionals, Lord have mercy upon their souls (For they shall have none upon ours.) They feel so many things so deeply As such things have never been felt before (They have not read their Sexton, their Snodgrass, Their Lowell, their Pl--well, no, They have all read their Plath.) It is, from the moment they arise in the morning Until such time they set aside their fears and let sleep take them, All too much for them, And they bravely face the days Until such time they care bear to take action And fling themselves from some convenient precipice. We should, as a service to them and ourselves, Ensure the soles of their shoes Are sufficiently worn and slippery. (I hate poets. They annoy me deeply.)

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Some say we all live in a “Multiverse” – A myriad of universes All parallel to one another Invisible to us Apart from our own universe Wondrous as it is. So in some other universe there is Another version of yourself, Where you turned right at some junction Instead of left And had a serious accident Instead of winning the lottery. Or nothing much happened Or Everything. Even my own fertile imagination Is floored By the endless possibilities here. My mind is truly boggled Fit to explode. For every tiny insect in our universe Might fly right Or left Or not at all To thus create another universe. I could write an epic poem on this. To think that somewhere out there I may be Immortal, or a King, or Rock Star Or even about to be Executed If not already dead. And you might be these things too. Versions of ourselves might live in universes That echo those of fiction In worlds such as Narnia, Middle Earth And that of Star Trek, Star Wars And Stargate SG One To name but a few. Oh to have a TV Remote Like the fictional “Sliders” To take us from this realm To any other of our choice. Or a “Uniscape”: A machine like a Tardis Which can take us to any place Or time Or universe Or Other Multiverse??? My head is aching now. My mind explodes Like The Universe And The Multiverse Or Multiverse of Multiverses. So I’d better stop Before this becomes an epic And my head explodes. But, meanwhile, in another universe I didn’t stop!!! Paul Butters © PB 18\9\2023.

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Sep 18, 2023

Sep 18, 2023 at 3:34 PM UTC

Some say we all live in a “Multiverse” – A myriad of universes All parallel to one another Invisible to us Apart from our own universe Wondrous as it is. So in some other universe there is Another version of yourself, Where you turned right at some junction Instead of left And had a serious accident Instead of winning the lottery. Or nothing much happened Or Everything. Even my own fertile imagination Is floored By the endless possibilities here. My mind is truly boggled Fit to explode. For every tiny insect in our universe Might fly right Or left Or not at all To thus create another universe. I could write an epic poem on this. To think that somewhere out there I may be Immortal, or a King, or Rock Star Or even about to be Executed If not already dead. And you might be these things too. Versions of ourselves might live in universes That echo those of fiction In worlds such as Narnia, Middle Earth And that of Star Trek, Star Wars And Stargate SG One To name but a few. Oh to have a TV Remote Like the fictional “Sliders” To take us from this realm To any other of our choice. Or a “Uniscape”: A machine like a Tardis Which can take us to any place Or time Or universe Or Other Multiverse??? My head is aching now. My mind explodes Like The Universe And The Multiverse Or Multiverse of Multiverses. So I’d better stop Before this becomes an epic And my head explodes. But, meanwhile, in another universe I didn’t stop!!! Paul Butters © PB 18\9\2023.

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only because northern ireland was originally liverpool. yeah... i’m an anglo-slav, he’s an afro-saxon and that guy is a fairy with clover petals for wings - watch him fluster and flatter cheeks turning green into pink! well, nothing really educational in essex, just a barge of the usual escapees from middle class opinions, esp. escaping opinions as if onion tears of the integrating migrants who flawed the first rule: your father purposively forgot your mother’s tongue (but your mother kept it for the earth and her hope for you to till it), you’re ******** with a body and no soul: the irish fairy countered interrupting me - i kept my gaelic in speaking english drunk, **** you! that’s a trinity that i see. and i saw it, spoken across new england and washington state (hey, price up the ***** liquor of thieving a sympathy, i wasn’t going to be nice writing poetry, still me, the remnant of the masculine root liking rugby and the diminishing psychologies of the players of the losing team - watch them applaud loss rather than sing victory prior without listening to a wwe fake warrior entry music they boggled up with dr. dre’s venture into # therearenomotivationalspeakersinthenationalanthem). i kept my masculinity watchings the sports just so i could write poetry and not womanise - now the escorts and arias i hear you claim? no... finding nemo, frozen, brave, no arias and escorts, just enough morals for enough of horn inches and cartoon coloured shoes.

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Oct 3, 2015

Oct 3, 2015 at 7:20 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

scenes in a pub

only because northern ireland was originally liverpool. yeah... i’m an anglo-slav, he’s an afro-saxon and that guy is a fairy with clover petals for wings - watch him fluster and flatter cheeks turning green into pink! well, nothing really educational in essex, just a barge of the usual escapees from middle class opinions, esp. escaping opinions as if onion tears of the integrating migrants who flawed the first rule: your father purposively forgot your mother’s tongue (but your mother kept it for the earth and her hope for you to till it), you’re ******** with a body and no soul: the irish fairy countered interrupting me - i kept my gaelic in speaking english drunk, **** you! that’s a trinity that i see. and i saw it, spoken across new england and washington state (hey, price up the ***** liquor of thieving a sympathy, i wasn’t going to be nice writing poetry, still me, the remnant of the masculine root liking rugby and the diminishing psychologies of the players of the losing team - watch them applaud loss rather than sing victory prior without listening to a wwe fake warrior entry music they boggled up with dr. dre’s venture into # therearenomotivationalspeakersinthenationalanthem). i kept my masculinity watchings the sports just so i could write poetry and not womanise - now the escorts and arias i hear you claim? no... finding nemo, frozen, brave, no arias and escorts, just enough morals for enough of horn inches and cartoon coloured shoes.

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~for she who will know~ the Mother of Muses came to me on bended knee come for to confess a lie so grand it boggled the heart *we bring you nothing more than what you already possess, the jewels of rose gold are emplaced in your dual ventricles, the veins stained with blue green sapphires to feed the right and left hemispheres, where the emerald heat and the yellow gold, raw melt the alpha word-finery awaiting, the pinpointed pinprick of an eyed glimpse to release the oxidizing words atmospheric we are not needed, just proceeders, *** stirrers? no. *** watchers? oh yes. all contained within, this then, the art of the human heart, where the external stains rest awaiting, completing, complimenting, coming to fruition in a reforged new birthing see how the child looks with adoration, perceiving the art of the mothers heart, the spilling of time at the precise moment when the exchange is as long as an eye wink and as short as an entire lifetime We the Muses, not teachers, nor inspirers, just peddlers, collecting thimbles of words, polished with hued syllables of tarnish, experienced watchers discerning the exacting, the interactive interactions of the cells, the DNA concoctions of singers and sinners, priests and the unforgivable, trying to tie what deserves untying, which is an everlasting poem that needs, laughing, an original act of the art of the heart, yours, permission to say The End* 11:14pm nyc Sept. 18, 2019

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Sep 18, 2019

Sep 18, 2019 at 11:22 PM UTC

The Art of the Heart (The Mother of Muses)

~for she who will know~ the Mother of Muses came to me on bended knee come for to confess a lie so grand it boggled the heart *we bring you nothing more than what you already possess, the jewels of rose gold are emplaced in your dual ventricles, the veins stained with blue green sapphires to feed the right and left hemispheres, where the emerald heat and the yellow gold, raw melt the alpha word-finery awaiting, the pinpointed pinprick of an eyed glimpse to release the oxidizing words atmospheric we are not needed, just proceeders, *** stirrers? no. *** watchers? oh yes. all contained within, this then, the art of the human heart, where the external stains rest awaiting, completing, complimenting, coming to fruition in a reforged new birthing see how the child looks with adoration, perceiving the art of the mothers heart, the spilling of time at the precise moment when the exchange is as long as an eye wink and as short as an entire lifetime We the Muses, not teachers, nor inspirers, just peddlers, collecting thimbles of words, polished with hued syllables of tarnish, experienced watchers discerning the exacting, the interactive interactions of the cells, the DNA concoctions of singers and sinners, priests and the unforgivable, trying to tie what deserves untying, which is an everlasting poem that needs, laughing, an original act of the art of the heart, yours, permission to say The End* 11:14pm nyc Sept. 18, 2019

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. What rhymes with orange, well I was surprised I checked all around till it bothered my eyes Scanned every page of the books I could find Still there was nothing, it boggled the mind Went to the internet, searched for a site Still no words rhymed, it just didn’t seem right Finally I gave up, it’s all I could do Except write a poem with the color blue

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Jun 24, 2016

Jun 24, 2016 at 5:43 PM UTC

What rhymes with orange?

. What rhymes with orange, well I was surprised I checked all around till it bothered my eyes Scanned every page of the books I could find Still there was nothing, it boggled the mind Went to the internet, searched for a site Still no words rhymed, it just didn’t seem right Finally I gave up, it’s all I could do Except write a poem with the color blue

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Tonight while I crawled about another dimension I stopped too long at a stop sign and was mind boggled at how easy it can be to follow rules though were all rushing to get to the dinner table to eat with those who drop dead among us and plummet into caskets that need handlers too weak to lift a finger to show the direction that they look upon us if they look upon us at all

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Aug 10, 2015

Aug 10, 2015 at 11:45 AM UTC

Tonight while I crawled about another dimension I stopped too long at a stop sign and was mind boggled at how easy it can be to follow rules though were all rushing to get to the dinner table to eat with those who drop dead among us and plummet into caskets that need handlers too weak to lift a finger to show the direction that they look upon us if they look upon us at all

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My Thoughts are so heavy- too heavy for real sleep to take me- thoughts boggled- trapped without rest. I try to sleep, but can't seem to achieve it. I lay awake- I think I fall asleep, distracted by the radio, but then that hour is up and my thoughts over take me. And yet, once again; or still yet, I lay there- awake. Thinking.... thoughts, dreams, hopes, and fears- all dancing, with angels in my head. always there; constant thoughts. need time to shut down- always feelings trapped by lack of sleep- Wanting to be alive again. needing to feel a part of something whole. too many thoughts- not enough sleep. missing a piece- can't find it? am I whole? or torn apart? is it in my dreams? or do I have to yet find you? are you lost in my thoughts? trapped by dreams? longing to be set free? feeling empty inside- thoughts over take my sanity- always feeling lost- where do I truely belong? do I have a 'belonging place' for me? show me, in my dreams- the key is misplaced? or in someones' dreams? hey come to me, in my dreams- I will hold you; if only for a while- but only til I awaken by thoughts- too many thoughts; where is my place? 2006 COPYRIGHT; Sabrina Denise Healey, ~Angelmom~

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Jan 16, 2015

Jan 16, 2015 at 7:27 PM UTC

Time, Dreams, Thoughts.... Broken Hearts~

My Thoughts are so heavy- too heavy for real sleep to take me- thoughts boggled- trapped without rest. I try to sleep, but can't seem to achieve it. I lay awake- I think I fall asleep, distracted by the radio, but then that hour is up and my thoughts over take me. And yet, once again; or still yet, I lay there- awake. Thinking.... thoughts, dreams, hopes, and fears- all dancing, with angels in my head. always there; constant thoughts. need time to shut down- always feelings trapped by lack of sleep- Wanting to be alive again. needing to feel a part of something whole. too many thoughts- not enough sleep. missing a piece- can't find it? am I whole? or torn apart? is it in my dreams? or do I have to yet find you? are you lost in my thoughts? trapped by dreams? longing to be set free? feeling empty inside- thoughts over take my sanity- always feeling lost- where do I truely belong? do I have a 'belonging place' for me? show me, in my dreams- the key is misplaced? or in someones' dreams? hey come to me, in my dreams- I will hold you; if only for a while- but only til I awaken by thoughts- too many thoughts; where is my place? 2006 COPYRIGHT; Sabrina Denise Healey, ~Angelmom~

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When the lights fade, when the curtains withdraws and hides me, will you leave or try to find me? When all is said and done, will you stay strong, even if everything goes wrong? Just actors on strings, drifting on stage portraying something we are not. After the show, will we be together, or will we act out differently when we walk onto the worlds stage? I never asked for much, nor did I expect anything, but it felt so real when I gave you that wedding ring.After all the singing, after all that we went through, I thought that our love would remain true. After all the thanks and the bowing with our phoney little smiles, I wished that it would never end. It felt so real, it's was like we were living a real life fairytale. The beauty and the beast; polar opposites brought together by mere fate. I implore you to hear me out, instead of constantly shutting me out. You can call me a freak, you can call me a geek, or even call me a liar, but no matter for I'll gladly hang by a wire if I am deemed a liar. They're calling for the curtain to collapse and take us out of peoples view, for how can I be myself if I am not with you? Blurred lines, but no matter. I'll cross it anyways, because seeing you just brightens my day. This interlude is now beginning to conclude, and I sit here boggled on what I could do. Stage exit, black out, for when that curtain falls, in my heart of hearts I know that were done.

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Sep 4, 2016

Sep 4, 2016 at 4:11 PM UTC

When the lights fade, when the curtains withdraws and hides me, will you leave or try to find me? When all is said and done, will you stay strong, even if everything goes wrong? Just actors on strings, drifting on stage portraying something we are not. After the show, will we be together, or will we act out differently when we walk onto the worlds stage? I never asked for much, nor did I expect anything, but it felt so real when I gave you that wedding ring.After all the singing, after all that we went through, I thought that our love would remain true. After all the thanks and the bowing with our phoney little smiles, I wished that it would never end. It felt so real, it's was like we were living a real life fairytale. The beauty and the beast; polar opposites brought together by mere fate. I implore you to hear me out, instead of constantly shutting me out. You can call me a freak, you can call me a geek, or even call me a liar, but no matter for I'll gladly hang by a wire if I am deemed a liar. They're calling for the curtain to collapse and take us out of peoples view, for how can I be myself if I am not with you? Blurred lines, but no matter. I'll cross it anyways, because seeing you just brightens my day. This interlude is now beginning to conclude, and I sit here boggled on what I could do. Stage exit, black out, for when that curtain falls, in my heart of hearts I know that were done.

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another night with you consumed in my thoughts I never really thought I could feel this way and I'm somehow unashamed of my want of you of my craving to think, at home, there's the sweetest of any man- waiting for me? I'm boggled blown away I want to grasp your hair soft, pleasant, lovely I want your hands on me strong, skilled, hungrily you just know how to woo me- I'm getting breathless right now, writing this just thinking about your leg touching mine and then my hand on your cheek then my lips on your lips and my pelvis on your thigh oh god you make me want to scream your sly sweet eyes look me over pleasantly without greed and I know you want me as much as I want you I hate PDA, but I would kiss you anywhere

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Feb 21, 2014

Feb 21, 2014 at 11:07 PM UTC

kiss you anywhere

another night with you consumed in my thoughts I never really thought I could feel this way and I'm somehow unashamed of my want of you of my craving to think, at home, there's the sweetest of any man- waiting for me? I'm boggled blown away I want to grasp your hair soft, pleasant, lovely I want your hands on me strong, skilled, hungrily you just know how to woo me- I'm getting breathless right now, writing this just thinking about your leg touching mine and then my hand on your cheek then my lips on your lips and my pelvis on your thigh oh god you make me want to scream your sly sweet eyes look me over pleasantly without greed and I know you want me as much as I want you I hate PDA, but I would kiss you anywhere

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Oh you feel pain? Took me and my love for granted and now see the error in your ways. I feel no remorse for you reaping what you sowed. You should have been a real one like you proclaimed instead of a complete joke. How badly does it sting to see me officially moved on and living abundantly? Does it crush your heart to pieces knowing had you just been true you would have been right beside me? God clearly had a better plan for me. Using the pain and shame you brought on me to propel me towards my destiny. The damaged baggage of a broken heart and unfaithful love you left me, fueled my art that led to my healing. So I guess I should thank you for all the tears you made me weep and the endless nights you wrecked my mind where I couldn't find sleep. Because of you I became wiser and stronger. No longer boggled down with the sadness and rage. I'm up and onward to greater things. And you're finally feeling the rippling effects of your deceitful love games.

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Oct 26, 2016

Oct 26, 2016 at 6:03 PM UTC

kennisha-l-crawford

Karma's Her Name

Oh you feel pain? Took me and my love for granted and now see the error in your ways. I feel no remorse for you reaping what you sowed. You should have been a real one like you proclaimed instead of a complete joke. How badly does it sting to see me officially moved on and living abundantly? Does it crush your heart to pieces knowing had you just been true you would have been right beside me? God clearly had a better plan for me. Using the pain and shame you brought on me to propel me towards my destiny. The damaged baggage of a broken heart and unfaithful love you left me, fueled my art that led to my healing. So I guess I should thank you for all the tears you made me weep and the endless nights you wrecked my mind where I couldn't find sleep. Because of you I became wiser and stronger. No longer boggled down with the sadness and rage. I'm up and onward to greater things. And you're finally feeling the rippling effects of your deceitful love games.

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Ambiguously, he was boggled, beguiled by garbled goggles while giggling out the squiggles, to wiggle the signals free. Deliberately dallying in the Plato piety of proprietary philosophies, he, dastardly deemed, disaster to be, damaging, to the laughter in the chatter of the baggage handlers to another plane. Manhandler of a plastered paradise, partly in slices, of silly little vices of sacrifices, that shall suffice with vice grips on the lips of the negative with the spices of nicety. Lavished in lividly living uP the misgivings of lesserly lessons, blessing the blasphemy, in passionate tuck ins, snuck in, upon drunken hunkering in the bunkers of spunkier spiels. Languid longevity's of luscious lettering, lest will we, count our kills, never ever to leave a life festering in lectured structuring, besting the busy debuts, of flukless frugality, lucidly, counting the calories of calamity, and randomly rhyming without reason in season-less rain clouds, only allowed to put the umbrella away, and fade in play to the part, where we impart patience on the persona from the coma of commonality. Immaculately conceived, perceived as a ***** who adores hollow hearts, as we, haphazardly heap on the hilarity, in hepatidal waves, through fazes of the common wealth. Smile in stealth, love no one else, but self and end up in health, at a lonely age in staged stimuli, reminding me why i'm alive, and not allowed to die, while on rewind through the hard times, to smile on the last lines of laser driven lifelines, laughing at the fragile signs on the finer wines, as they break on the bowes of holy boats in bouts against the sea. Spewing randomly, he, finds satisfactory solutions to the strengthening of his constitution in loosened blue spells, to dispel his ruthless tendrils from your ears. The fears fueling the finality in his fractured mentality of maniacal travesties laughing at me. Its just me, unjustly adjusting for the combustion of the build. Its lovely here. Laughing in the lashes. Signing my entrapment's. Lapsing out the masses and forming from the ashes of smashed happiness, as it unclasps before my eyes. Sometimes It just feels right to be alive.

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Dec 24, 2012

Dec 24, 2012 at 2:26 AM UTC

Flipwordly Fiasco

Ambiguously, he was boggled, beguiled by garbled goggles while giggling out the squiggles, to wiggle the signals free. Deliberately dallying in the Plato piety of proprietary philosophies, he, dastardly deemed, disaster to be, damaging, to the laughter in the chatter of the baggage handlers to another plane. Manhandler of a plastered paradise, partly in slices, of silly little vices of sacrifices, that shall suffice with vice grips on the lips of the negative with the spices of nicety. Lavished in lividly living uP the misgivings of lesserly lessons, blessing the blasphemy, in passionate tuck ins, snuck in, upon drunken hunkering in the bunkers of spunkier spiels. Languid longevity's of luscious lettering, lest will we, count our kills, never ever to leave a life festering in lectured structuring, besting the busy debuts, of flukless frugality, lucidly, counting the calories of calamity, and randomly rhyming without reason in season-less rain clouds, only allowed to put the umbrella away, and fade in play to the part, where we impart patience on the persona from the coma of commonality. Immaculately conceived, perceived as a ***** who adores hollow hearts, as we, haphazardly heap on the hilarity, in hepatidal waves, through fazes of the common wealth. Smile in stealth, love no one else, but self and end up in health, at a lonely age in staged stimuli, reminding me why i'm alive, and not allowed to die, while on rewind through the hard times, to smile on the last lines of laser driven lifelines, laughing at the fragile signs on the finer wines, as they break on the bowes of holy boats in bouts against the sea. Spewing randomly, he, finds satisfactory solutions to the strengthening of his constitution in loosened blue spells, to dispel his ruthless tendrils from your ears. The fears fueling the finality in his fractured mentality of maniacal travesties laughing at me. Its just me, unjustly adjusting for the combustion of the build. Its lovely here. Laughing in the lashes. Signing my entrapment's. Lapsing out the masses and forming from the ashes of smashed happiness, as it unclasps before my eyes. Sometimes It just feels right to be alive.

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Don’t read this. Scroll down from it like you usually do. Well, most of you. Unless you are one of the faithful few. But the words keep coming. My Voice will not be stilled. Free verse keeps pouring A persistent stream. Now, though, I am haunted by this thought: That nearing seventy I have but twenty years to live, Thirty if I’m lucky, God willing. And like everyone else I hide in distraction, Eating and drinking, Finding entertainment, Indulging in meaningless competition Pointless projects And generally playing out time. Others do likewise, Building great empires Or just idling away Those passing hours. Yet my mind reaches out Beyond the Time-Space Continuum To a place where everything has already happened Our lives have already been and gone. The Universe as such has lived and died. And when my brain returns Back into this Realm It encounters the sheer Science Of an endless Cosmos Endless in all dimensions All directions All times. The mind is boggled By Existence Bringing substance, time, infinity and eternity All impossible Yet inevitable Once something happens to Be. Wherever you go There is something further Always a here and there. Always a past, present and future. Indeed, all impossible. But I have to concede There must be some Ultimate Intelligence somewhere Even Sentience That we might call God. And maybe what The Ancients called “God” Was but the nearest “god” we know of! Yet don’t expect Him or Her or It To come running To our aid Especially as There may be no such thing As an “Ultimate” And no way to escape From the Space-Time Continuum. We are lost in the impossible, So maybe all we can do After all, Is make the most Of what we’ve got. Paul Butters © PB 12\4\2022.

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Apr 12, 2022

Apr 12, 2022 at 5:56 AM UTC

Don't Read This!

Don’t read this. Scroll down from it like you usually do. Well, most of you. Unless you are one of the faithful few. But the words keep coming. My Voice will not be stilled. Free verse keeps pouring A persistent stream. Now, though, I am haunted by this thought: That nearing seventy I have but twenty years to live, Thirty if I’m lucky, God willing. And like everyone else I hide in distraction, Eating and drinking, Finding entertainment, Indulging in meaningless competition Pointless projects And generally playing out time. Others do likewise, Building great empires Or just idling away Those passing hours. Yet my mind reaches out Beyond the Time-Space Continuum To a place where everything has already happened Our lives have already been and gone. The Universe as such has lived and died. And when my brain returns Back into this Realm It encounters the sheer Science Of an endless Cosmos Endless in all dimensions All directions All times. The mind is boggled By Existence Bringing substance, time, infinity and eternity All impossible Yet inevitable Once something happens to Be. Wherever you go There is something further Always a here and there. Always a past, present and future. Indeed, all impossible. But I have to concede There must be some Ultimate Intelligence somewhere Even Sentience That we might call God. And maybe what The Ancients called “God” Was but the nearest “god” we know of! Yet don’t expect Him or Her or It To come running To our aid Especially as There may be no such thing As an “Ultimate” And no way to escape From the Space-Time Continuum. We are lost in the impossible, So maybe all we can do After all, Is make the most Of what we’ve got. Paul Butters © PB 12\4\2022.

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Blood is not thicker than water Just harder to wash out Me the perpetual messiah Trying to fix all broken things The never-ending, savior complex- Like that bird we found in our backyard When I was five; And I had to learn that "All living things die-" I wish mom would've taught me that "You cant save everyone" Instead. You are not a bird You don't suffer from broken wings Your wound's are internal Invisible Forever perplexing the mind of thousands of boggled doctors Like I was supposed to pick up What an X-Ray couldn't. And inject you with some secret serum That escaped from my lips I spent so much time Trying to clasp your wounds shut So much energy But you bled out Right in front of me You aren't a friggin' bird. And I cant save you.

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Jan 3, 2012

Jan 3, 2012 at 11:44 PM UTC

You are not a bird

Blood is not thicker than water Just harder to wash out Me the perpetual messiah Trying to fix all broken things The never-ending, savior complex- Like that bird we found in our backyard When I was five; And I had to learn that "All living things die-" I wish mom would've taught me that "You cant save everyone" Instead. You are not a bird You don't suffer from broken wings Your wound's are internal Invisible Forever perplexing the mind of thousands of boggled doctors Like I was supposed to pick up What an X-Ray couldn't. And inject you with some secret serum That escaped from my lips I spent so much time Trying to clasp your wounds shut So much energy But you bled out Right in front of me You aren't a friggin' bird. And I cant save you.

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Metaphysical Mathematiciantional Sensational Unbelievable Conceivable Reasonable to be believable Cuz I tried to get past it I mean it boggled my mind to the point I tried to find some meaning in it So I try to think positive thoughts It's like moving through layers of forestry moss I'm trying to bra boss of my own trade Gettin what I got cuz I got it made No more shade Shining in the light Constant battle not even a fight 300 men in a war Tryna make the next score Gimme gimme more So I can soar to higher heights Catch that next bite Oh yeah it's outta sight Metaphysical Cataclysmical Sociable Moveable It's all metaphysical

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Jun 20, 2013

Jun 20, 2013 at 6:26 PM UTC

Metaphysical Mathematiciantional Sensational Unbelievable Conceivable Reasonable to be believable Cuz I tried to get past it I mean it boggled my mind to the point I tried to find some meaning in it So I try to think positive thoughts It's like moving through layers of forestry moss I'm trying to bra boss of my own trade Gettin what I got cuz I got it made No more shade Shining in the light Constant battle not even a fight 300 men in a war Tryna make the next score Gimme gimme more So I can soar to higher heights Catch that next bite Oh yeah it's outta sight Metaphysical Cataclysmical Sociable Moveable It's all metaphysical

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Ambiguously, he was boggled, beguiled by garbled goggles while giggling out the squiggles, to wiggle the signals free. Deliberately dallying in the Plato piety of proprietary philosophies, he, dastardly deemed, disaster to be, damaging, to the laughter in the chatter of the baggage handlers to another plane. Manhandler of a plastered paradise, partly in slices, of silly little vices of sacrifices, that shall suffice with vice grips on the lips of the negative with the spices of nicety. Lavished in lividly living uP the misgivings of lesserly lessons, blessing the blasphemy, in passionate tuck ins, snuck in, upon drunken hunkering in the bunkers of spunkier spiels. Languid longevity's of luscious lettering, lest will we, count our kills, never ever to leave a life festering in lectured structuring, besting the busy debuts, of flukless frugality, lucidly, counting the calories of calamity, and randomly rhyming without reason in season-less rain clouds, only allowed to put the umbrella away, and fade in play to the part, where we impart patience on the persona from the coma of commonality. Immaculately conceived, perceived as a ***** who adores hollow hearts, as we, haphazardly heap on the hilarity, in hepatidal waves, through fazes of the common wealth. Smile in stealth, love no one else, but self and end up in health, at a lonely age in staged stimuli, reminding me why i'm alive, and not allowed to die, while on rewind through the hard times, to smile on the last lines of laser driven lifelines, laughing at the fragile signs on the finer wines, as they break on the bowes of holy boats in bouts against the sea. Spewing randomly, he, finds satisfactory solutions to the strengthening of his constitution in loosened blue spells, to dispel his ruthless tendrils from your ears. The fears fueling the finality in his fractured mentality of maniacal travesties laughing at me. Its just me, unjustly adjusting for the combustion of the build. Its lovely here. Laughing in the lashes. Signing my entrapment's. Lapsing out the masses and forming from the ashes of smashed happiness, as it unclasps before my eyes. Sometimes It just feels right to be alive.

0

Apr 9, 2013

Apr 9, 2013 at 11:37 PM UTC

Flippwordly Fiasco

Ambiguously, he was boggled, beguiled by garbled goggles while giggling out the squiggles, to wiggle the signals free. Deliberately dallying in the Plato piety of proprietary philosophies, he, dastardly deemed, disaster to be, damaging, to the laughter in the chatter of the baggage handlers to another plane. Manhandler of a plastered paradise, partly in slices, of silly little vices of sacrifices, that shall suffice with vice grips on the lips of the negative with the spices of nicety. Lavished in lividly living uP the misgivings of lesserly lessons, blessing the blasphemy, in passionate tuck ins, snuck in, upon drunken hunkering in the bunkers of spunkier spiels. Languid longevity's of luscious lettering, lest will we, count our kills, never ever to leave a life festering in lectured structuring, besting the busy debuts, of flukless frugality, lucidly, counting the calories of calamity, and randomly rhyming without reason in season-less rain clouds, only allowed to put the umbrella away, and fade in play to the part, where we impart patience on the persona from the coma of commonality. Immaculately conceived, perceived as a ***** who adores hollow hearts, as we, haphazardly heap on the hilarity, in hepatidal waves, through fazes of the common wealth. Smile in stealth, love no one else, but self and end up in health, at a lonely age in staged stimuli, reminding me why i'm alive, and not allowed to die, while on rewind through the hard times, to smile on the last lines of laser driven lifelines, laughing at the fragile signs on the finer wines, as they break on the bowes of holy boats in bouts against the sea. Spewing randomly, he, finds satisfactory solutions to the strengthening of his constitution in loosened blue spells, to dispel his ruthless tendrils from your ears. The fears fueling the finality in his fractured mentality of maniacal travesties laughing at me. Its just me, unjustly adjusting for the combustion of the build. Its lovely here. Laughing in the lashes. Signing my entrapment's. Lapsing out the masses and forming from the ashes of smashed happiness, as it unclasps before my eyes. Sometimes It just feels right to be alive.

Continue reading...

Bubbles bobbing, balancing beneath solid, slick surfaces; bewildered as to if they're to fall up or down. "Up" makes the most sense one says to the other, do we not float? "True", the other says, "we rush like white water twards the light." "Our last glimpse of hope and freedom frozen before our eyes." Spheres of air pearched precariously between two worlds. Bubbles bobbing, balancing beneath solid, slick surfaces.

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Feb 13, 2010

Feb 13, 2010 at 3:34 PM UTC

Bubbles bobbing, balancing beneath solid, slick surfaces; bewildered as to if they're to fall up or down. "Up" makes the most sense one says to the other, do we not float? "True", the other says, "we rush like white water twards the light." "Our last glimpse of hope and freedom frozen before our eyes." Spheres of air pearched precariously between two worlds. Bubbles bobbing, balancing beneath solid, slick surfaces.

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Do you think that when first presented with that enclosed heaven above the Pope, Michelangelo stopped for a moment, then maybe a longer one, and still more, as he attempted to count how many strokes it would actually take to paint that sky? How many times his arm would have to conduct an arc, from down to palette, back above his head, again and again and again and again and again. Did he think about how the brush would stay in his grasp? The pen is slipping away from me into horizontal weariness as I write this, contemplate this one single, un-fluid flow. The autistic part of me is not going to be happy until it can at least guess some sort of recognisable answer to such an insane question. We can even begin to construct a formula: x strokes per hour times days times years minus whatever the assistants did. Haven’t you yet boggled at the still way-off number this crude estimate puts out? If I was a girl, I would always demand a portrait. That’d be a real sign, true effort, devotion; not just some words scribbled down on a page while he’s probably thinking of some other girl he’d like to write a poem about, in which in which she’s having her picture painted, her soul pinned.

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Nov 23, 2010

Nov 23, 2010 at 11:47 PM UTC

Do you think that when first presented with that enclosed heaven above the Pope, Michelangelo stopped for a moment, then maybe a longer one, and still more, as he attempted to count how many strokes it would actually take to paint that sky? How many times his arm would have to conduct an arc, from down to palette, back above his head, again and again and again and again and again. Did he think about how the brush would stay in his grasp? The pen is slipping away from me into horizontal weariness as I write this, contemplate this one single, un-fluid flow. The autistic part of me is not going to be happy until it can at least guess some sort of recognisable answer to such an insane question. We can even begin to construct a formula: x strokes per hour times days times years minus whatever the assistants did. Haven’t you yet boggled at the still way-off number this crude estimate puts out? If I was a girl, I would always demand a portrait. That’d be a real sign, true effort, devotion; not just some words scribbled down on a page while he’s probably thinking of some other girl he’d like to write a poem about, in which in which she’s having her picture painted, her soul pinned.

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And thus, from his spaceship, the spaceman heads off Surrounding him nothing but stardust and sun He just told ground control that he had a cough From that day on, he was only with one Years had passed with no sign of him The ground control declared him dead But among the inky void he swims As he was all but one step ahead Two figures, both wearing white, came close Their silky gowns flowing like words in a book He stared, he boggled, he had seen worse All they did was give him a calming look Ground control received an epistle soon Startled look as they saw the ink in blue A few scribbles of stars surrounded the words: "I'm happy, hope you're happy too."

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Aug 30, 2014

Aug 30, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC

And thus, from his spaceship, the spaceman heads off Surrounding him nothing but stardust and sun He just told ground control that he had a cough From that day on, he was only with one Years had passed with no sign of him The ground control declared him dead But among the inky void he swims As he was all but one step ahead Two figures, both wearing white, came close Their silky gowns flowing like words in a book He stared, he boggled, he had seen worse All they did was give him a calming look Ground control received an epistle soon Startled look as they saw the ink in blue A few scribbles of stars surrounded the words: "I'm happy, hope you're happy too."

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Divided by the staff lay seven, long years. Touching and experimental moments boggled and wrestled playfully with cognition: systematic and jointed. My left hand still holds the day I changed *** My being, new to my knowing. I was supposedly cursed, but later I confessed to King Zeus the truth: women, be there pleasure rarer, feel the sweetest flowers of ********** I digress, my strike against the serpent lovers did curse me, but trapped for seven years behind soft, shifting ******* were utilized fully as I found myself wrapped in blankets of wheatgrass and sheathed in the starlight permeating ceilings of tree branches. I could be touched in every carved ***** smooth and soft. I could never tire of searching and wondering why, as a man, blind and sensed, I had never seeked true self efficacy. In those moonless nights, I’d moan my old name, sexing myself, “Tiresias, feel this and remember,” I’d say. Some crevices so soft and silent it would take me years to discover, as I found myself shouting and begging for freedom, but then would surrender to the burning that blazed anatomical layers I once conjured in my youth. Tucked between pangs of hunger and ease of the past, I found rippling serpents that once brought me womanhood and with another strike of my staff, I morphed in regression. I believed the seven year dream, I honorable to him with my experience in this truth. I’ll continue to remember. My body, an adventure - I discovered with myself for years.

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May 15, 2014

May 15, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC

Cursed Contentment

Divided by the staff lay seven, long years. Touching and experimental moments boggled and wrestled playfully with cognition: systematic and jointed. My left hand still holds the day I changed *** My being, new to my knowing. I was supposedly cursed, but later I confessed to King Zeus the truth: women, be there pleasure rarer, feel the sweetest flowers of ********** I digress, my strike against the serpent lovers did curse me, but trapped for seven years behind soft, shifting ******* were utilized fully as I found myself wrapped in blankets of wheatgrass and sheathed in the starlight permeating ceilings of tree branches. I could be touched in every carved ***** smooth and soft. I could never tire of searching and wondering why, as a man, blind and sensed, I had never seeked true self efficacy. In those moonless nights, I’d moan my old name, sexing myself, “Tiresias, feel this and remember,” I’d say. Some crevices so soft and silent it would take me years to discover, as I found myself shouting and begging for freedom, but then would surrender to the burning that blazed anatomical layers I once conjured in my youth. Tucked between pangs of hunger and ease of the past, I found rippling serpents that once brought me womanhood and with another strike of my staff, I morphed in regression. I believed the seven year dream, I honorable to him with my experience in this truth. I’ll continue to remember. My body, an adventure - I discovered with myself for years.

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Confusing it is that taste between passion fruit or **** ant My mind is boggled which way this is leaning Your unsavory parts are being completely outweighed presently by a tangy **** yet sweet delivery It's just I always am bird-dogging but coming up with the wrong duck not noticing I've brought home the wooden decoy until I'm already sopping wet wearing stink of the marsh Why am I wired this way? Got to get out of this yard but the lessons are hard learned So I keep climbing the fence and now it's you on the other side Waggin' that **** tang! Lordy, the chase is on.

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Mar 19, 2016

Mar 19, 2016 at 11:41 AM UTC

Instinct Or Chain Link?

Confusing it is that taste between passion fruit or **** ant My mind is boggled which way this is leaning Your unsavory parts are being completely outweighed presently by a tangy **** yet sweet delivery It's just I always am bird-dogging but coming up with the wrong duck not noticing I've brought home the wooden decoy until I'm already sopping wet wearing stink of the marsh Why am I wired this way? Got to get out of this yard but the lessons are hard learned So I keep climbing the fence and now it's you on the other side Waggin' that **** tang! Lordy, the chase is on.

Continue reading...

We question why is it that life, Has a beginning, middle and end, Yet space seems continuous, Could you please help me comprehend? A small spec of dust we are, On a sea of psychedelic abstract, Our universe is quite mediocre, Comparing it to its extract. Everlasting... what, What is it that we seem to admire, A lack of carbon energy, Requiring us to wear glass hoods? Why oh why is it existent, Why does it ever be, I still am boggled by this infinite setting, Can it possibly be part of me?

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Apr 26, 2017

Apr 26, 2017 at 3:50 AM UTC

saint_francis422

We question why is it that life, Has a beginning, middle and end, Yet space seems continuous, Could you please help me comprehend? A small spec of dust we are, On a sea of psychedelic abstract, Our universe is quite mediocre, Comparing it to its extract. Everlasting... what, What is it that we seem to admire, A lack of carbon energy, Requiring us to wear glass hoods? Why oh why is it existent, Why does it ever be, I still am boggled by this infinite setting, Can it possibly be part of me?

Continue reading...