"brunettes" poems
You say I'm controlling and a sneaky ***** but you don't really know me, you only wish.
You want your freedom, your brunettes, red heads and blondes.
All your beauties keep you love drunk and high strung.
Go ahead and write them your lyrics & sing them your songs.
When you realize you miss me
I will be long gone.
You think one of them will bring you happiness but guess what? Your wrong.
One day you'll wake up reeking of ***** smoke and *** and you'll realize that the hole you're trying to fill is not full yet.
You'll think of my love then, this I bet. How I gave you my heart, all the memories of me you've tried so hard to forget.
Eventually all your beauties will tire of your ******** and mind games and you will be left alone with nothing but your aging face, regret and shame.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
*blondes, brunettes and redheads,
the goodbye colors of the
street's tree choir members
and their leafy gowned denizens,
the good stiff chill upon them,
the selfsame chill
in my anguished mind
now hiding,
sing a comfort food song
heard above the quiet terror of the
noises of a fall winters-wind precursor
"once we green,
once we were renewal,
life everlasting emblems
once,
you were wee,
green uncaring and free,
presuming that you too,
were in possession of
life everlasting
your colors have changed as well,
endless is the process,
only slower than
a tree's scheduled maintenance,
moreover,
returning you to your first
crayon drawing youth
unlike us, an impossibility
we will turn young again
for many seasons more,
you
never will
new eyes will feast upon our
glories refreshed and love our
cast shade cast
yet special are you the man,
poet who was chosen
to see and tell,
witness to our resurrection,
during our overlapping,
parallel continuum in time
when to the shade of hades
you physic sent,
our limbs, our leaves,
our perennial lives,
for-as-long-as-they-shall-last,
will cover thy remains and
give your poems back to the
sultry summer breeze from
whence they came
and the colors
of your words
will be the colors
of a free life everlasting"*
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC
When brunettes see me stop and stare
I wonder what hides beneath their glare
Under by and by smiles
I'm pathetic,
And watch
Walk through each like an aisle
Beauty, hair,
It's everywhere!
Long, long summer length
Bold of shine and full of strength
It's been so long, I've watched mine grow
But it still won't reach down to my toes
Hair, Hair, Hair
Blonde here, red there
Straight impossible thick or fair
I like men,
Not the latter
But that doesn't matter
Because the locks of men cannot compare
To a brunette that makes me stop and stare.
Aug 30, 2011
Aug 30, 2011 at 6:48 PM UTC
The Doll House
I stumble, I tumble into a house of prostitution,
well it is the oldest professional institution.
I stare, I sit and I look around,
suddenly my tongue dropped to the ground.
Had my choice of fifty ******
each room had curtains for doors.
Plenty of blondes, brunettes and red heads,
laced satin sheets on all the beds.
Fat girls, skinny girls and ugly ones too,
with only twenty dollars my choices were few.
They sent me back into a room,
a blow up doll and a plastic broom.
After an hour, I was very confused,
doll had a smile, but my ******* was bruised.
Walked out of the place with a limp,
dressed up my broom, just like a ****
I kept the doll free of charge,
ugly desperate men kept me living large.
I charged sixty dollars an hour with the doll,
hundreds of men were giving me a call.
Making thousands of dollars every week,
pretty good for a doll that doesn't speak.
Now I've cornered market on dolls that are inflatable,
one for any occasion, I have available.
Birthday parties for the geeks and nerds,
nothing like ******* who say no words.
Handicapped and retards love my prices,
I even supply them with special devices.
I even get women with their strap on dildo's,
some girls even like to pick my nose.
This went on for many years,
when I retired, millions were in tears.
My doll house is now a famous museum,
I call it the Blow Up Coliseum.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 11:46 PM UTC
Some people think I make rash decisions
Like I'm not aware
They tell me I should be more careful
I shouldn't assume such positions
That I should use more precision
But am I the only one aware of the time we have here
And how important it is to live without limitations
I don't want to be old and look back in regret and fear
I don't know the repercussions of what I may do
And who I may hurt, may end up hating me too
But sometimes I'd rather have that than never knew
And it's sad, really sad to look back
And see all of your mistakes piling up in stack
And saying hey, things would be different if I hadn't have ****** up so bad
But sometimes funny things happen in life, and can lead you to the right people
And if that's the case than maybe the others were wrong
Maybe life is more than just a sad song
When everybody's all bent from the throng
The song can take a variety of pitches and tones
It's the sound of opportunity that I'm trying to hone
It's hard to keep a clean slate when you're all caught up brunettes and blondes
And alcohol in the name of the yesteryear
All caught up in love and song and you can't seem to grasp the time like it's sifting through an hourglass
Just trying to enjoy my time here, so please don't hold my decisions too seriously
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC
I draw on lilac cigars
through my mask
so her journey in neon stays
safely as a highlight
in gas filtered clouds
the faulty starter judders the light
flora scented
and in the flickering clouds
an attempt at landing
reveals her girdle red
in a flash of steely eyes
and suddenly mine were blinded
just as she rubbed against the dark
combing her strands wildly apart
she shook blonde roots and brunettes alike
I'm a sucker for hair turned hydrogen
peroxide mixed with air to make stars
startling amidst malefactory dye
metal booms swung away at each other
in the distance
building her model oxygen tanks
for pin up flower cuttings
and garlands on picket fences
she kissed the ground
and I gas peddled
a stomp on the glowing end
to the stub
only to drop like a skeleton
with lead hands
to follow any seeds
******* burnt rain
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 2:41 PM UTC
The female temple.
Hollow shell in the minds of men.
An autoclave
for a belly, a copy-and-paste mind
of blasphemies. A page
in man's contradictive bible. Just blondes and brunettes.
Just virgins and non-virgins.
Nothing more than breathing incubators.
I am a person, I have a brain, I say.
They smile at me with a condescending
wink. A nod. Good girl, well done.
They tousle my hair. Well fine, boys.
Watch me climb the ladder with one hand,
backwards, in heels. When I reach the top
I'll ram these six inch Louboutins
straight through your hearts.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 3:13 PM UTC
A woman called for you today said Max’s wife.
Oh said Max who was she?
She didn’t say Max’s wife replied.
Well dames that don’t leave names
Aren’t worth worrying over Max said
Lighting up a cigarette and sitting
In a chair by the window.
She seemed to know you Max’s wife stated stiffly
Seemed quite put out when I told her I was your wife.
Dames are always put out over something or other
Max said noticing his wife’s beauty spot
And how it moved as she spoke.
She was a brunette.
Ah a brunette huh?
Yes a brunette his wife said.
Well? She said after a minute’s pause.
New York’s full of brunettes.
This one came to the apartment and rang our bell
And stood at the door asking for Max.
There are plenty of men called Max in New York Honey he said
Comparing in his mind his wife and the brunette
He’d met at a bar the other night.
She seemed your type his wife said sulkily
The type that sways her hips and sticks out their ***
Yes I know the type Max said and sighed
They can never leave me alone.
I tell them I am happily married to the best dame in New York
But they seem not to hear Max said
Watching smoke rise upwards.
Best dame in New York huh? His wife said.
Sure you are he said taking in his wife’s plump ***
Hanging over the side of the chair like melted cheese.
She smiled and said must have been a mistake
On her part coming here and asking for Max.
Sure it was Max said dames sometimes make mistakes
They have no sense of direction.
His wife smiled at him sexily hoping.
Max smiled back and hoped for ********
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 3:04 PM UTC
sitting in heavy traffic one day, 4-way stop
radio on, listening to the DJ describe
the excitement of broadcasting live
from a south side strip club
between songs
giggly ****** screech in high pitched
dog whistle voices
trying to entice me
into meeting wild red heads
georgous brunettes, ***** blondes
yellow, then red, then slowly traffic
moves on
continuing the maze
blockades block, jackhammers
tear up half the street, change lanes
the heat of asphalt, a constant barrage
of noise
straining, amplifying
I turn a ***** off in mid-squeal
looking around I realize
I had arrived
this was the world of grown-ups
I so desperately longed for in my youth?
no bat mizvah, no tribal rite of passage
but if I'm lucky
I'll make that green light
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 7:57 PM UTC
I've always thought that I hated people, I was mad at the world.
I hated it all and everyone was ugly to me.
Today I had a thought. I realized that I fall in love with certain things about everyday people.
I fall in love with the scrawled writing of the person sitting next to me in Spanish.
I fell in love with the hands of a boy who sat in front of me on the bus.
I fell in love with the pretty cheekbones of a girl with short hair, and a stubborn attitude.
I noticed these things no one else did, like the raindrops in a brunettes hair or the way someone talked as if they never got to before.
Maybe I am not as cold as I thought.
And maybe some people aren't so bad.
Maybe there is something good to be seen in us all.
It's just not always seen first.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 6:07 PM UTC
little creature
little creature
little creature
You talk the talk, all sunken-eyed from a not-so-scant dilaudid habit
but you are a dilettante and can't straight walk the walk
compared to she and I, the comparable brunettes.
You go to the bathroom and snort drugs off your lap b/c u r v sick.
When your girlfriend goes to rehab, don't call me to **** you.
You want to **** me because you like the idea of being loved
and you are two-years-too-late out of touch with being a scene queen,
draghino druggies into bathtubs and baking with Lil B.
You're slipping
and I know that, for sure,
because you tried to kiss me
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 3:06 AM UTC
You could have reached here Wednesday by last choice
Perhaps your mood shifted. All the calm nights
you had now lay awake. You explore the city
built by the perfect people, white cathedral
stands upright on a slant, a compass buried in plain sight,
the gibberish of art students from painting lullabies as sirens.
Only children are asleep. The university
grows younger each year. The best teacher
is always late, not realizing her impact.
The person I’m most comfortable with
stays in bed. Security found indoors
the couch allures, security in the capsule,
The deafening whispers, the genuine friends
who live nearby and can’t talk straight. The blessed temple
building worshiped by advertising majors.
The lucid potential, morning sprints round the track,
a library sustained by crushed Adderall —
glowering orbs rotating back counter clockwise,
out of chimneys the black spirits climb,
detectives bicycling, the honor students rummaging
for class notes in the deep end of the dumpster.
So this is college? That frontier plateauing
before you can dive off a cloud? So this utopia
was a dollhouse, the daily on the doormat
camps in the hallway: waits while the child watches
a sit-com?
Don’t apartments stand still? Are abstract paintings
and basketball supposed to nurture a city,
not only Richmond, but also other lonely cities
of misunderstood brunettes, dank **** and dubstep
the weekend will seldom put out
until the city you moved to shuts its eye?
Just tell yourself, “live.” The best teacher, eighteen
when she moved to the university, still grins
even as she coughs out fiberglass. Any day now,
she sings, I’ll take a drive and leave this place.
I pull her close and say. You haven’t slept in your own bed.
The boy who you’ve always loved still thinks about you.
The books you read before breakfast,
whoever the author may be, inspires
and your least favorite student who raises her hand
is judged but her posture never falters.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 4:29 PM UTC
I once again write this poem in time,
as the hands tick with the clock.
To take a stand and declare, that surely
"Redheads Rock!"
Blondes may have some fun, and
brunettes can put up fight.
Now we come more bold and brave,
as our flags wave "Gingers Unite!"
Don't think we will be bullied.
We will defend our honor as our duty.
Too all the coppers, golden, orange,reds...
and to I - the "Auburn Beauty!"
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 3:45 PM UTC
Five minutes together
before the bell rings.
What can I say
to make her heart sing.
Here are blondes and brunettes,
short ones and tall.
All of us single-
seeking dates for the ball.
Speed dating's a challenge,
the whole thing a blur
Does she root for my team?
Do I play on hers?
the little ones cute
and I do like her smile.
Some minutes are shorter
when your dating speed style.
I look back in longing
she catches my eye.
Now I'm stuck with a Red head
who looks like a guy.
It's all musical chairs
matching circles with squares.
Just who is the maiden
who can answer all prayers?
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 1:18 AM UTC
With the clocks aligned center
And the candles melting off my eye sockets
And the fingers of my lovers intertwining down my spine
And the thoughts of crows affecting the coffee that I spilled down the floorboards
And the mental images that blow through the TV screen
The imposition that breaks my messed up fingers,
pounded by misogyny that I named a hammer.
Greatness awaits the brunettes
And the fine
Unbeknownst to me,
There's nothing in my mind worth words.
There's nothing in my mind worth words,
Unbeknownst to me.
And there's nothing left in these nerves
And my bones decorate the walls
And my mind is plastered where my head lays
On my bed
And, oh, as tears leave the ceiling
Dripping on passersby
I silently hope
For unbecoming.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 12:01 AM UTC
Coming down with something
blame summer
point a finger at the city
worn-down pizzazz
drunk trumpets
and I hide in my coat
trees look better without leaves
is it just me?
see the sun bellow
into buildings
student affairs
like heat rash
bounce along hallways
foreign mumbo-jumbo
mishpelt words
they say *him met her
saw six pictures last night*
I haven’t met me
books know truth
not brunettes
good poetry
better than ***
they’re running running running away with it
between spritzers
and sandwiches
now snooze until Halloween
brown back in fashion
caught in the middle
piedra de aguacate
I handle guitars
they fiddle with women
now
let apple juice trickle
from my lips
and a man gets out a taxi
drops his phone
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
So many things to look at – pretty
Girls with short hair, long hair,
Brunettes and blondes
Short and tall – they have secrets
They’ve got them all
The nice ones, too stuck on plans
To ever be free, college and marriage
Is all the dreams the see
The tall ones, those with
Beautiful smiles and smoking bodies
Their lights blotted out by insecurities
But who of them will look through me
And who can see the person
That I’d truly wish to be
I stand here, waiting for something
In between it all; someone who
Sees me for that which I am
A girl that doesn’t run from the skeletons
In my Titanic-sizes closet
And doesn’t die from boredom
When I sit still, when times get calm
But I’ve been here before
And I loved my time here, yet
How could I even sit still
With the cries I hear at night
I'm clueless as to how to fall in love
I think it should have happened
At this point, or maybe even long before
My mouth and lips are on someone’s thighs
The cheap guitar I own, neglected in the corner
You and me, for now, is all there is
It won’t last long
Until I won’t see you
Just like you never
Truly saw me.
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC
Welcome to my basement
there are plenty of things, toys and tools
play me a song of dismal fools...
You are welcome, but can never leave
I need your parts for the puppets I weave...
It's a place of madness, messes and mayhem
as my machine sews limbs into marionettes...
Dead bodies galore, that I shall resurrect,
as i work diligently to delicately intersect.
drilling holes and threading string
"creep" plays in my mind as I violently sing...
Replacing your eyes with the brightest of blue
wiring your mouth to move on cue.
mechanical hinges and formaldehyde a plenty,
you'll love your new look as will many...
My workshop my joy, my happy place,
except for the stench a horrid disgrace.
look at the walls and all the pretty puppets
lined up in a row like the famed Henson Muppets...
A vast collection of blondes and brunettes
redheads not allowed they're crazy at best.
don't mind the blood it congeals so fast
unlike your beauty it's essence won't last...
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 12:25 AM UTC
The brunettes want to be blonde ,
and the blondes want to be brunette.
The tall want to be short,
and the short want to be tall
the petite want to be curvy
and the curvy want to be petite,
she wants to be her
and her wants to be she
he wants to him
and him wants to be he
we want to be someone else
but someone else wants to be free
J.M
Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 11:38 PM UTC
Usually acerbic Moyra's banner
read "Stop the Rain".
The cultured Men blushed
at this Brunettes moment,
a clear case of mis-direction
" Speakers's Corner" to blame,
too many seasonal Svengalis !
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 5:46 PM UTC
Copyright Louis Brown and Warner Baxter
***I only like the young ones the beautiful and tall
the brunettes or the redheads, or the bleach blonde Barbie doll
head over heels in love again and I spin into a daze
but love can't last forever, 'cause we got too different ways
I get bored way too easy no woman loves me long
it's incompatibility and sad to be alone
it's just the natural way of things, these matters of the heart
and with all my insecurities it always falls apart***
*and tonight once more, I'm out of love again
back out in the cold cold night with that familiar icy wind
summer days are memories and winter's just stormed in
and tonight once more, I'm out of love again*
***I only like the young ones, the beautiful and tall
if they've got it all together, it's for sure I'm gonna fall
where there's spark there's fire, it burns up in a blaze
but love can't last forever, 'cause we got too different ways***
*and tonight once more, I'm out of love again
back out in the cold cold night with that familiar icy wind
summer days are memories and winter's just stormed in
and tonight once more, I'm out of love again*
***I get bored way too easy, no woman loves me long
it's incompatibility and sad to be alone
so as I travel down this road I sing my sad love song
I'll keep rollin' town to town, 'till this road finds me a home***
chorus
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 7:09 PM UTC
You wake up to the sunrise.
whose bed is this?
Her back is arched against your chest,
I wonder what her name is
Your face feels burried in her hair
drunk me likes brunettes
Your glasses on her nightstand
please dont wake up before I leave
The door creaking while she sleeps.
I'd hate being her drunk mistake
You wonder the streets to your home.
*I wonder who wakes up in your bed in the morning.*
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 8:26 AM UTC
------------------------------------------------------> I felt his perfect, plastic hands
| As they touched my bleeding lips,
| My broken arms
| My blood-eagled ribs
| He put me in the chest
| Buried me six feet under
| And never dug me up again
| Each pair of hands has its own set of Barbies or Kens
| Just to play with every day
|-------------------------------------------------------------------
I found this room once |
In my secret home of dreams |
The room looked like my childhood |
Just like it |
And these dolls |
They lined the walls |
Ken dolls |
Dozens upon dozens |
Of my pretty little Ken dolls |
My dears |
Beautiful, each one |
Blondes, brunettes, even one or two redheads |
Some brand new |
And some showed little signs of wear |
Little signs of having been loved by me |
Tiny marks of minor hurt |
Some with little scratches on their arms |
One with wing-shaped claw marks on his back |
Many with bleeding lips |
In the middle of the room |
There was a dirt hole in the floor |
A chest, |
And a pile of broken dolls |
Oh, these were once my lovelies too |
Four little beautiful Ken dolls |
Bleeding lips, open chests, and broken arms |
One by one |
I placed them, gently as I could |
In their tiny coffin |
And buried them deep in the senseless earth |
Beneath my feet |
Standing, wiping dirt from my hands |
Hoping I could never have cause |
To dig them up again |
But I glanced around the room  
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 4:03 AM UTC