"bugbear" poems - Hello Poetry

There sits a certain love for a being, An animal that dwells in caves at night. Could naught compare to the act of seeing Something as beautiful as such the sight Of you, my darling, sweet, and cuddly bugbear? You feast only in the glow of the moon, But your victims’ cries of pain, I can hear* Tearing limb from limb, you care not to swoon. Peeping through a hole, I spot your brown hair, It is grimy and splattered with some blood. Once I strip your skin, I shall have a pair, To hang lovingly over my mantle to brood. My darling, sweet bugbear, should you exist, You would be the greatest game, I insist.

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Jan 20, 2014

Jan 20, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC

jack-staub

Lust for the blood of a bugbear

There sits a certain love for a being, An animal that dwells in caves at night. Could naught compare to the act of seeing Something as beautiful as such the sight Of you, my darling, sweet, and cuddly bugbear? You feast only in the glow of the moon, But your victims’ cries of pain, I can hear* Tearing limb from limb, you care not to swoon. Peeping through a hole, I spot your brown hair, It is grimy and splattered with some blood. Once I strip your skin, I shall have a pair, To hang lovingly over my mantle to brood. My darling, sweet bugbear, should you exist, You would be the greatest game, I insist.

14

Harvest be gone Welcome to starvation Ruins of Babylon Maypole rivets for fangs Parse the tricky argot, Mr. Bugbear You speak such pretty thangs Adagio for strings Cry me a mare Thundering rockets of pain Life is a factory of scares

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Jun 29, 2020

Jun 29, 2020 at 12:23 PM UTC

Carlo-C-Gomez

Year of Famine

Harvest be gone Welcome to starvation Ruins of Babylon Maypole rivets for fangs Parse the tricky argot, Mr. Bugbear You speak such pretty thangs Adagio for strings Cry me a mare Thundering rockets of pain Life is a factory of scares

10

The bird song anchors my soul, Soothing any quiver of anxiety Keeping my ship stable and steady. Sweet shrills and cheery echoes soften my breath, As my limbs gently fall to rest. Innocent symphonies rippling through the air, Offering divine headspace Detoxifying unwanted bugbear. I'm at one with the earth Alive in the moment My stronghold of calm A serenity so potent. No drug can emulate this untarnished moment of peace A gratifying tension release. So pure and still I can hear the rise and fall of my chest, Like blissful waves lapping onto virginal marble sands.

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Sep 1, 2017

Sep 1, 2017 at 2:41 AM UTC

lucythepoet

Mindful

The bird song anchors my soul, Soothing any quiver of anxiety Keeping my ship stable and steady. Sweet shrills and cheery echoes soften my breath, As my limbs gently fall to rest. Innocent symphonies rippling through the air, Offering divine headspace Detoxifying unwanted bugbear. I'm at one with the earth Alive in the moment My stronghold of calm A serenity so potent. No drug can emulate this untarnished moment of peace A gratifying tension release. So pure and still I can hear the rise and fall of my chest, Like blissful waves lapping onto virginal marble sands.

16

One could argue that as you get older, you become a better stoic. Masking your whims, desires and pleasures with logic, reason and meaning. Taking the less scenic route, becoming more utilitarian and the stick that’s up your **** plunges a little further.. And What about the artist that emotionally abuses the kid within and constantly exploits its innocence. Strumming the strings of vulnerability for relatability. Lusting over Monet clouds as painted tears conjure real ones.. Apologies for the preachy undertone, I too buried my cornea in the conneries without a veil, with chin to palm Coveting a utopia. However The dance around the bugbear has since become medieval. I gave it a good hug, tears of tranquility as we initiate the coagulation.. But I need a good light, one that outdoes a good filter. Sending shadows to the creases of the crater. The eclipsed sun carves the frame for a Godlike aesthetic and then I forget to write. Sometimes I forget I’m alive.

0

Sep 12, 2020

Sep 12, 2020 at 11:52 PM UTC

innocent-tata

Remind me

One could argue that as you get older, you become a better stoic. Masking your whims, desires and pleasures with logic, reason and meaning. Taking the less scenic route, becoming more utilitarian and the stick that’s up your **** plunges a little further.. And What about the artist that emotionally abuses the kid within and constantly exploits its innocence. Strumming the strings of vulnerability for relatability. Lusting over Monet clouds as painted tears conjure real ones.. Apologies for the preachy undertone, I too buried my cornea in the conneries without a veil, with chin to palm Coveting a utopia. However The dance around the bugbear has since become medieval. I gave it a good hug, tears of tranquility as we initiate the coagulation.. But I need a good light, one that outdoes a good filter. Sending shadows to the creases of the crater. The eclipsed sun carves the frame for a Godlike aesthetic and then I forget to write. Sometimes I forget I’m alive.

4