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Esther Krenzin Jun 2018
(For Eric Killmonger)
A little boy stared in the clouds
Forgotten tales screaming loud
His word small and nothing wrong
It all shattered after too long
Stories of cities that touched the sky
Clans of people untouched by time
Hope soon filled his boyish dreams
But not everything was as it seemed
One night he came home and saw
His father dead, struck down by claw
Weeping over his fathers head
He begged him to stay, not leave him instead
Shattered dreams and shattered hopes
He held the myth achingly close
Alone, no one there to guide
He locked his humanity deep inside
Battling for a way to free them all
Seeking power and in deaths thrall
The world had taken everything away
And all in one single day
So he would take everything away from it
His soul a star no longer lit
Now he lay there quietly dying
His enemy close, no longer fighting
The world it seemed would take him too
His glittering eyes full of rue
There was nothing left for him here
Breathing ragged and full of fear
Finally he took his very last breath
And slipped away as his life left
And as the sun left the sky
The night descended with a sigh
The little boy was dead and gone
His life a sad and weary song.
-Roguesong-
-Esther L. Krenzin-
I loved this Eric in the Black Panther movie, and I felt so bad for him.
His whole life he believed in a dream.
His whole life he believed that he could make a difference, and fight for those who are oppressed.
He just wanted to help.
my loneliness evaporated
via a boyish yelp
when OK Google woman
asked how she could help
It's true!
That boyish heart rescinds,
Others call it growth,
What of worth has he,
If not the love he's known?

Now here stands the man,
Or that is what's supposed,
Whatever happened to,
His storybook betrothed?

The way we touch no longer lingers,
With butterfly tipped and desperate fingers.
We kiss here on the dotted line,
Rent will pay in full on time.
This is not what he has read of love.
So simple to refuse,
The art of growing up.
Would be nice to be 15 again kissing a love for the first time but alas, life only goes forward. (I usually ****** it up anyways. /shrug)
karin naude May 2014
you shower me with affection and rose water words
ever so subtle blind siding me
yesterday you threatened me
today you grabbed my wrist, hard enough
tomorrow, i am not waiting to find out
true no visible bruise
baby i was just playing, covered by a boyish smile
that devilish smile i struggle to resist
but i was not having fun, enough for a wake up call
the love you planted and carefully watered in my heart
are slowly suffocating under the weight of fear for you
trust died the moment the pain signal from my wrist reached my brain
what a pity for us both
this had the potential of a great love affair
the kind legends are made of
Alan S Bailey Aug 2018
This is the other side of sanity!
I think to myself,
a riddle in the middle of chastity, vanity?
what is it that I have to say?
Is this not another day or is it a play?
Vaguely we are tossed into this
post hence I have seen the other side-
this day with you...this day that never came.
I will not be able to tell the difference of pleasure
or pain.

I am still lost dreaming on to the memory,
you stood there in the middle of high school square
doe-eyes intent, hidden behind you're intense
endless hidden truth, your boyish youth.

A dream of gazing into those eyes some day,
I never wanted to say goodbye or go away,
this world carried me to the "other side" and it was
"too late," I was unable to "succeed." Who am I
to seek this "other side?" In the sky?
What we never do? Call this "side" what you will,
but in the end I would have gladly battled madly
through hell for a chance to share your world with you.


Oh, here I go again, blithering sadness, sad poem!
Look to the skies when you're alone, then maybe
on the clearest of nights when this whole world
they've built of stone is gone you will finally find out
how beautiful you are so.
Even if I never got to see you understand this or
spend another day with(out) you...you are all
I can't get off my mind no matter how hard I try
I will continue to see you can't forget you
Even in my wildest
Austin Morrison Feb 2015
A smile to make me blind
eyes to control my mind
You have a soul so pure and so kind.

You are the girl I never wanted to live without. But now the words I speak, you do not care about.

I see you holding someone else's arm, falling for his boyish charm. Watching puts my soul through harm.

A voice like an angel
Lips to cure my sadness
A touch to calm my madness

You are the...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**** this poem, the words I am trying to say are unable to be spoken, being away from you has made me broken. I know I was the one who left, but what you did to my heart was theft.

You are a girl I don't want to live without, a girl I truly love I have no doubt. And there is one thing I can't stop thinking about. When you left my house that night and looked me in the eyes, you said I will always love you. This is the only thing I wish to undo.
duane hall May 30
The predator was hungry, he was on the prowl
No one would suspect that something was afoul
Could it be he was abused as a young  child
Or maybe as he grew his brain became defiled
He wasn't on the radar, he didn't fit the profile
He could melt a young girl's heart with his boyish smile
But behind his façade and his mask of deception
He expertly concealed  his incurable infection
His brain's on fire,  he's  got snakes in his head
If you fall for his treachery you're gonna wind up dead
It's not just the young women who are the prey
It's the relatives and friends that deal with the tragedy
How does society deal with such a deranged psychopath
And the carnage created by his insatiable bloodbath
The death sentence was created precisely for such monsters
This is a matter that should be taken up with Congress
I won't apologize not even a little bit
The Ted Bundy's of this world are psychological ****.
This poem is dedicated to Shannon and Diane(s)  Three local girls who died at the hands of a local serial killer.
Chris Apr 2017
They called him Grandpa, even though he had no grandchildren and was younger than most of them. And he knew it was going to be a rough one.

The ship was spitting tunes like cracking knuckles, bending under the slams of waves. The air cradled a smell of ***, alcohol curling into the wood on the deck from a fallen bottle.

Sea spray eroded at the hull, sharing the ship’s contents with the sea bit by bit. From a glance one couldn’t tell, but if you stared long enough, you’d notice the wear.

Today the sea was a slow knife sinking into the ship, anyone knew that.

Waves were volcanic today, unable to keep their excitement contained within the Pacific as they jumped into the hull of the ship. The clouds were a different story. Drunk old men bumbling about, bumping into each other as they took turns spitting electric chew into the bucket.

The wind screamed out a tantrum, ripping at the sail. We all knew the sea was a cruel lover, didn’t you read enough sailor’s stories to know?

Boots squeaked and slipped a lonely sloppy dance on the empty deck. Grandpa knew she was angry with him today. The sea, that is. He could see faces in the clouds scowling at him. Her footsteps echoing off the sky; play-pretend thunderclaps. He looked out in the sick-gray ocean, while she frothed at the mouth. Grandpa scratched the boyish stubble on his face, unsure what could be done. It was a bad day to be married to the sea.
Jenny Gordon Mar 24
THIS:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jCHL9b6nBXA



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCII)


Watch Paul McCartney's erm, debut of thence
That soulful number "Yesterday." and they'll
What, eh?  If's not the song itself t'avail,
How 'bout John Lennon's snide remark for sense
To Ringo, was't?  As if there was fr'intents
This rivalry which could not in betrayl
Be satisfied to have Paul up (sans bail?)
Alone on stage where all the girls cooed hence.
As if they did not cry for John in tour,
And that by name, he must begrudge it too?
I'm just a child in sheer compare as twere,
Yet "all grown-up" now to effect, see through
Their boyish ways and fall in love, though's poor.
While "Yesterday's" notes never fail to woo.

22Mar19b
--what I prefer about the full performance over this mere clip, is the tiny details, ie all John's behaviour.
The Full Performance:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EE11Zp_KWtg  
The Beatles Blackpool Night Out, ABC Theatre, Blackpool, United Kingdom (Full Performance)
I’m witty and contrite
It’s true I am quite daft
With a charming sense of humor
And a plethora of laughs

Boyish good looks
Intelligence in spades
Ambitious as they come
It’s true I got it made

Living for the fun of it
In every kind of way
Minute after minute
Living for today

And if tomorrow comes
I’ll be there for the race
Send me off to college
Or into outer space

I can be an astronaut
The stars to which I pray
Our galaxy, the universe
Vanished without a trace

I can make you happy
When we’re face to face
There’s no other way around it
The thrill is in the chase

And when I contemplate it
The suspect in a cage
It makes me feel nostalgic
Way back in the day

I try to be convincing
Read what’s on the page
A steaming locomotive
Superseded by the train

My heartbeat pumping fast
Allow me to explain
But first let’s grab a drink
I didn’t catch your name

Tell me all your secrets
I’ll prove you’re not insane
My heart, it goes unwanted
Do you feel the same?

I’ll never cheat or harm you
You’re deserving of only praise
You’ve made a real impression
Inducted to the hall of fame
ollie Oct 2018
They call it dysphoria
When I was ten it started
I cut my hair because we were going on a summer trip and didn’t want me to get too hot
A pixie cut
I was only allowed to get it after I stopped referring to the hair as “boy short”
I let it get messy
The tousled, boyish look felt right on me for reasons I couldn’t explain
They called me “he”
“Him”
“Sir”
“Will your son want an adult menu?”
I was ten or eleven
At a fair we went to every year
I don’t remember what the man said
But I do remember he referred to me as my mother’s son
And she did not correct him
She ruffled my messy enough hair
And said “my little boy”
I should have known something was wrong when my chest inflated
When I felt happier than I had in weeks
And all I had wanted was for her to say it again
Because I did not know that I wanted so badly to be my mother’s son and not her daughter
I wanted to **** myself when I was twelve years old and she made me grow my hair out
It went to my shoulders
And it felt so wrong
It wasn’t me inside my skin
I cut it when I was thirteen
To my ears
Then shaved half my head
Then shaved most of it and cut off most of the top
Begged to shave my whole head
Because the less hair there was the more likely they’d call me what I saw
“Ollie” someone suggested one day
And new air
All over
“Ollie” they called me
As if it took no effort
As if it meant nothing
How could it ever mean nothing when it finally felt like someone was saying my name
“Oliver” they started to say when I was too energetic
“Oliver” they said when they had a serious question
Like they knew
Like they didn’t care who I was
And it was me
So me I wanted to cry
So unnatural I wanted to break off the tops of mountains and bury my embarrassment in the rocks
Some days it’s my jaw
I know that’s odd
But when you want so badly to be someone you tend to study their features
My jaw is pushed back an inch farther than it needs to be for a girl
Sometimes when I push it forward my jawline sharpens
It feels more masculine
More square
Some days it’s my height
They tease me for it
My 5’0
‘Cause you can’t find anyone shorter than me anymore
And I know just nine more inches would be average if I were who I wanted to be
My hands
And how my wrists fit in everyone else’s
Because they’re too skinny
Sometimes it’s my voice
And though I know it’s lower than most boys even
It’s wrong
It speaks like a woman wants it to
My hips
Too wide
My shoulders
Too narrow
My hair, somedays too flat
My chest
My chest
I want it to be flat
Like my hair
Somedays
I press my hands down in an attempt to push it off of my body
Because it does not belong there
These two lumps I’ll never use
I subconsciously started wearing baggier shirts
Not because they were more comfortable
Partly because they didn’t carry clothing in my size
Partly because if it were baggy enough, no one could tell I had *******
I want so desperately for them to be gone from my body
Because until you know what it feels like to only be able to love yourself when you’re looking up you can’t understand
But the worst part
Is the name
They call me a name that makes me flinch when I hear it
I want to cry sometimes
Because it’s wrong
It’s not me
Boys don’t cry, they say
But do you want to know a secret
We are the boys who flatten our chests and cut our hair
Who run along the train tracks in the hopes our legs will build the muscle the average man has
We are the boys who want to be strong and do not know how
We paint our faces in the colors they do not respect and let our tears streak through
We are the boys who cry
Boys will be boys
Even if they have to pay thousands of dollars
And fight for the right to call themselves such a thing
Boys will be boys while we have the chance
We did not when we were younger
SC Nov 2018
It's not your looks, your wit
your walk or
your talk -
You're danger!
For the unaware
with unencumbered hearts.
Causalities-
of your boyish charm!
Disguising what should be
a heart
but instead -
is a skull and cross bones.
Poison!
No reciprocation-
your shell of a soul
has been left
devoid,
vacuous,
unavailable.
For She who lies, deceives-
manipulator extraordinaire!
Holds your heart captive
and you-her schlemiel-
poor you -
are but a proxy
of the man
you could be -  
you used to be-
reduced to
a living, breathing
heartbreak-
simply waiting to befall
poor fools
like me.
acacia Aug 17
my soul* is maternal and acts as a supplicant to her star-bearded Son; my soul is maternal like the smell of yeast rising, like the feel of folded laundry, and like the shine in cassia-toned hair.

My Soul is the mother's taut reaction to the whine of her baby: she writhes in pleasure of coining the perfect creation from her yarned womb. High-sunned stalks stem from his thousand-petaled crown, mewls, howls, and whiffs of love splash into creation of the babe’s anatomy: he is purple-faced, dipped eyes, marbled hands, endowed with his early-born mother’s atypical jewelness and his skyey father’s aptitude of royalty.

The babe tastes her malt-like milk and grows beyond the mass of my skull’s matter, hoping for the growth to cease in a stature of yore, to cease in a phase long passed.

My saturated maternity yearns for the inch length finger and inch width palm to cling to her, for she misses when she was the trellis for the vine.

Now, she must persist in her swerving non-linear growth, conceding her child was a Morning Star and drew further from Spica even faster than he did from her: but she must perpetuate his growth and her own. For there is no more stasis, only expansion, and because of this, their flights are to cross again somewhere,

there is no line and no route; she will walk in the footsteps of her precocious-boyish man days and years after he did, and he will walk over the hills of The Mother in days to come, (before she even realizes it) and sprightly sprint over the footprints fading in the cosmic snow, wanting to go back and sink in the imprint, hoping to burrow himself in it to be in her holding once again.

No thing is parallel, no thing is construct, all-one are we, and we are made to watch ourselves amplify and quieten.
FOOTNOTE:
*I use soul without a capital S because individuality is the ego. I might as well have put 'ego' or 'ego-soul' (??) but, um, stylistic reasons (I guess?). So, I guess this isn't really my Soul, but my mind. Or my heart. It’s my heart talking. Heart? It’s my flesh talking. The heart is a treacherous thing! I have bad articulation.

This is heavily inspired by an experience, a song, and from a poem by Saint-Pol Roux. The title, "My soul is maternal like a native country", is a direct quote from Saint-Pol Roux's "The Magdalene with Perfumes".

How verbose of me.
TheStartOfMyEnds Nov 2018
**** that smile
Reminds me of the beach
Bright hot sand
And clear open waters
Gets me swimming with butterflies
And delusional with heat

The uplift of his lips
Something so simple as a boyish grin
Wraps my thoughts around beds!
Beds and blankets...
                  Doritos and a series of comedy shows on screen

Just to hear him laughing

That would be ****** illegal for my heart
His laugh
His star fire eyes so full of life

Like a deer caught in the headlights
All so new
That's what he does to me

And I don't even know his name
He's real, but he's like a dream, my little secret
It’s night
I’m sitting in a bar,
Sipping a foreign strange tea
That makes my tongue numb,
And my brain calm.
There’s faint tribal music playing
Incense burning
Evaporating
The raw feeling
In the back of my head
From picking apart my brains.
There he is,
Silver hair,
Twinkling boyish laughter,
And eyes that I catch wandering.

After a few drinks
I recline in one of the arm chairs
My head tilts back
Over the cushion
Neck stretched
Hair tumbling down behind the chair
In a red waterfall,
Loose shirt
Falling down my body
Exposing my *******.
He walks by,
And lingers just an extra second.
He told me he was looking
And that I have beautiful skin.

A free drink,
A heavy handed pour,
Feeling his gaze
Burning into my body,
Down my head,
Neck,
Shoulders,
Small of my back,
Everything,
Drinking me in
As I walk away.
He told me himself.

Silver hair,
An eighty’s rocker,
Singer songwriter,
An interesting story
In a tempting binding.

If I have daddy issues,
Maybe he’s how I explore them.
Nyx Jul 2018

Piercing blue eyes
As though you can see the truth
A wide boyish smile
Barely at the prime of youth

Brown freckles that cover your face
I could trace the constellation
A void of stars coating the night sky
Creating whats deemed a wonderful sensation

On your 18th birthday
A year away from now
We shall cook ravioli together
You said you would teach me how

You wear fingerless gloves
Each and everyday
They double up as mittens
"I love them"
I would always say

Warm and cozy
Far to large for my hands
But they fit yours perfectly
Then again they are made for a man's

I'll still call you Smol boy
Even though you tower over me
I'm sure your use to it by now
After all I'm pretty crazy

Pure black coffee
With no sugar at all
A little bit of milk though
8-10 teaspoons if I recall

Too bitter for my liking
I'll have enough sugar for the both of us


You're an insomniac
Barely 2-3 hours a night
Its quite concerning
But you say your alright

I know your a lil over the edge
you're a fair bit mental
But your a dear friend of mine now
I'm sure you're actually quite gentle

I'll support you still
Even though I've barely skimmed the surface
There is still much more to uncover
And sure I'm a little nervous

Even maybe a little scared
But you're my Lil ravioli boy
So there is no reason to fear
Try not to be coy

I'll be there for all your sketchy antics
And all the mental breakdowns
And I hope you will be there for me
When my heart occasionally hits the ground

Though whatever happened through this
All the highs and the lows
I'll stand by you through it
No matter how steep the road

Lil Ravioli Boy
Peyton L Aug 23
My lovers have always been like cough drops.
Sweet, soothing, addicting even,
but never enough to solve the problem.
Never enough to clear my damaged throat.

And I don't know if you'll be any different.
From how we started,
it seemed as if I was in for another dose of
acesulfame potassium,
but there's something about you.
That makes me think
you'll be more like a cigarette.

Instead of sweet,
you'll be bitter.
But you'll make me woozy at my first drag,
and mellowed out for the duration.
You'll make my otherwise shaky personality
smooth.
But like rain in the summer,
you won't last long.
At least, I don't think.

There's also something about you
that makes me
want to tell you everything.
You're like a priest,
and I'm in the confessional.
I wouldn't confess my sins to anyone,
but you...
I just might.

What is it about you, huh?
Is it your boyish charm?
Your people skills?
Or is it something more menacing?
Maybe you're a psychopath
who's been studying me and my tells
to see how to get me to open up.
Maybe you're a serial killer and I'm your next victim.

I won't lie, I don't trust easy.
Maybe you're a perfectly good person,
and I just fell in love abnormally quick.
Maybe you really do love me.
But there's something about you I don't trust.

Something about you
that makes me want to run
and never look back.
You have something of a record when it comes
to girls' hearts,
and I'm not so naive as to forget
what you did to Maru,
but I can see
why they forgot to warn me
about you.

It's almost as if
you cleaned their mind
of all the atrocities you've committed.
But I won't be so easily tricked.

I won't forget what you've done.
I won't lie and say I don't love you,
because I do.
I love you with my whole heart.
But, I will not let my guard down.
I will not let you so close
you will never break my heart.
'Cause baby, you ain't no cough drop.
You're a black mamba
in the chicken's coop.

But darling, I'm the farmer
with the gun to your slick little head,
finger on the trigger,
ready to fire.

Do don't underestimate me.
Don'y you dare underestimate me.
'Cause I'm a **** assassin with my aim.
And I'm not gonna miss.
So tread lightly, little snake.
Don't bite my chickens
or swallow the eggs
and I won't shoot.
Inspired by the bag of cough drops on my desk and an old lover I no longer speak to.
acacia Jun 16
Not these nymphs, but you,
I would perpetuate.
Not these boys, but you,
boyish man. (Fresh-faced men like you.)
You hit me with your stubborn clanging fists, and I sit
watching you with my round doe eyes, and you stay
standing.

Your scruff burns me, but you keep
sliding on me. The breeze swirls around your ears, the leaves sweep
itself over your feet, the rain are flutes.
I conduct the ruins of what used to be, into the castle
of now,

I take some wild clovers
and some green vines from here and there;
weaving into the wheat, the wheat sewn into the doors;
the thresholds lined with sugar to keep you here,
lined with salt to keep me here.

You,
my fruitful man, gazing at me from your rocks,
(the rocks by the water, which if followed, would get pulled down deeper and deeper, until you've awash unto his shore)
penetrate me with your stoney eyes;
skyey you are not, limpid you are not,
tangible you are, my innocence you do not wish to keep.

You hold my sugar in a cup,
you drink from the tears of
my callow face.
("Too innocent," you say I am. You say, "I need to violate.")

You string your words on a ribbon of silk, and
your eyes hop from person from book, because they all bore you --
and you lean on your elbow with your chin resting in your palm,

with twiney fingers and veins;
you, my opaque man:
let me get lost in your waves, in your dew, in your fog.
You, my boyish man, my devilish god, I would perpetuate.
Was it a dream I loved?

inspired by The Afternoon of a Faun by Stephane Mallarame
Enough
I know they said love is tough

Get to my phone
10 messages about how you felt alone

Miss a day to say hello
Now you think I wana take things slow

My soul is still young and free
Why can’t you let my adventures be

Why try to change who I am
I’m just a man

Why can’t I go out with the boys
Or play with my boyish toys

Why should I grow old
And do everything I am told

They say love is a two way game
I can feel it’s just my heart feeling pain

So this is enough
I got to be tough

This was fun
But
I got to go back to being young
                                                        Mic­hael J Fourie
If all your love does is bring you pain  and you have to change the parts of you that make you,well you.Rather wait and go be part of the adventure out there.Be free and find someone that shares the thrill of adventure.
Eva Aloezos Mar 12
Michael carried on with the ruggedness of a mountain man,

a specter in the night
for our most sacred moments haunt me,
they refuse to let me be

Michael soared past the trenches of sadness,
yet it lurked closely behind

never was there a man who carried his demons with a spine so *****

no prospect,
yet for his boyish charm
never could I inflict any harm

to see him once again,
lost in guitar strings
mesmerized by the tunes

pale as a dazzling crescent moon
kirk Oct 2018
Who owns Jack Jones, is he part of your clan?
Does Mr Jones actually exist, is he a real live man
Why does he resemble Boyd, is this part of his plan
Jack is such a manly name, but so is Phil and Stan

Don't use "Boy" within your name, you'll impose an adult ban
Boyish names are not much good, there not like John or Dan
You wouldn't call grandfathers boys, or say girl to your nan
Stop abusing ol' Jack Jones, and avoid Boyd if you can

Boyd is easy to avoid, its easier than we thought
An alteration has took place, but that's what Boyd has sought
Elusiveness is not too smart, because already you've been caught
We've worked out who Jack Jones is, and it accounts to nought

Your lacking iron clad alibis, nothing is set in wrought
It's criminal to own Jack Jones, so please would you abort
No rights to use another name, your being a bad sport
Is Boyd considered as a name, or is it "boy" for short

Intellect is not too strong, that's only what you think
Using an alias is unwise, if you show a photo link
Why bother changing to Jack Jones, how low you gonna sink
Your mother's been kept in the dark, about releasing your white ink

Is Jack Jones the one, who's been sinking in the pink?
Wasn't it Boyd's low ***** count, that went inside the mink?
You are skating on thin ice, when there's cracks in the rink
Just who owns Jack Jones, when Boyd's back from the brink

Identities are broken, just what did you think you'd gain
Your just a ******* imbecile, to think you'd relieve the strain
You can't hide yourself away, you must be quite insane
It's not as though your mother lives, in germany or Spain

Everyone knows who you are, it's in your face and plain
It is just pathetic to make Jack Jones the main
Jack Jones is just too common, you should try a name like shane
Just don't **** about with names, or Jack Jones will be jocks Jane

Your ashamed of what you've done, you try to skulk and hide
You didn't mind the ******, or having your fun ride
Be a man and not a "Boyd", it's time to turn the tide
Come on Boyd you did not avoid, legs that were astride

Morality is in pursuit, but you have no sense of pride
Who's Jack Jones supposed to be, now  sperms slid down the slide
Other aliases may exist, do you have bits on the side
Or are you only interested, when things are open wide

Is Jack Jones the father, or is he born from rubber clones
Boyd is the spitting image, he's been seen on mobile phones
Hostile namesake takeovers, do you have *** slaves and drones
There's no sense in your deception, because this isn't Game of Thrones

We don't want identities stolen, you borrow names like loans
Jack's already being used, it's a name that someone owns
Maybe names can hurt you, as well as sticks and stones
So cease in your activities , you don't know who owns Jack Jones
This poem is dedicated to Mandy who influenced its writing
Lost in this sea of voices, conflicting choices
Feeling boyish, light on my feet for once
Like all the blood rushed to my head
Existential dread, avoiding the color red
Heavier than lead in my shoes, just another fool
Warped and molded by partisan worldview
We simmer and we stew, little voices laughing
Talking about chemo and card games and Colorado
Where oh where do we go now, that the roads have all flooded
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