Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
M Dec 2015
christmas lights have a smell
as does freedom, hatred, and ugliness of heart
headaches have a smell, clarity has a smell
home smells like new wood and sand,
both growing up and childhood smell like smoke,
fear smells like my sister's old bathroom
sleep smells like my mom's perfume
love is warm and smells like sleep
anxiety smells like Pure Sport Old Spice deodorant,
work smells like a gym,
familiarity smells like the locker room when the trash
hasn't been taken out,
lost love smells like grass on the lakefront,
nostalgia smells like a cappucino,
comfort in isolation smells like the fur of a dog,
purpose smells like a church,
platitudes smell like mildew,
tears smell like rotten wood but joy smells like that too,
jubilation smells like a fire crackling,
discomfort smells like that attic smell
when the Halloween decorations are taken out,
new beginnings as well as things we leave behind
smell like airports and morning dew,
risk smells like a hot tub,
liberty smells like a public pool,
a broken heart smells like the mountains,
but a healed heart smells like them too.
Angie S Apr 2015
you’re my cup of coffee at 6:45 AM
smell dancing like incense in the middle of pooja
warm as the sun peaking out shyly behind the horizon
richly sweet caramelized sugar pearly cream
and bitter like the small things i dont know about you yet.

but when you touch my lips
the bitterness i can swallow with the sweet
and the sweet i savor with every taste bud on my tongue.

before i head out the door at 7 AM
i kiss your forehead and wash out the emptied mug
but the taste of cappucino lingers at the corners of my mouth
as i wave good day to you.

and when i return at 5:30 PM
limbs pathetically sown on with prayers
empty rivers landfills of worry time ticking like a heartbeat
the aroma wafts around me again like a scarf.

in your embrace
i fall asleep with dreams of whipped clouds and
love at the cafe.
today's brew is magic
Poems Mar 2016
Her hair smelled of
Rubber erasers
Late nights
Spilled cappucino
But somehow still looked beautiful.

She was like her grades, a perfect 10/10
Sharp eyes denoting a wide mind that
Every day I wanted to dive into.
I was wrapped around her finger
Like the pen she'd always chew on
When she'd look at me with fire in her eyes.

I love you Bienne.
give me the ****
ughhhh b0ss pls
can i habeda pu$$y pls
Ey b0ss
Where the ******* at man
they ain't ****
***** *****
baby
give me the ****
( I have posted this poem of mine on several different international poetry sites everytime there is a school shooting in the U.S as I care about all children deeply and feel for innocent lives lost.
This time in Uvalde, Texas, USA)

https://youtu.be/40KtlqpCN0I

TELLY TROUBLE AND DANGERS
What kids are watching on telly
are crimes and crimes in all variety!
Crimes of hate
crimes of passion
acting it out at shocking rate
thinking in some wild fashion
then ending up cell mates
TV can **** their compassion
Their coffins enter cemetery gates

When kids watch their movie heroes
shoot down people with the gun
they are incited to do the same
to achieve some thrill and fun.

When they see their very film star
slash someone's throat in a fit of anger
they think well of crimes of rage
and plunge everybody else into danger.

The tendency to portray the violent scene
luridly and shockingly on the Big Screen
Ah, even for the small screen, tis the gory
that makes for the dark and thrilling story.

Now that technology's long opened
this wily pandora's box,
the dispersal of amplified social ills
just ain't no hoax

The rowdy hoodlums and reckless gangsters
are simply by-products of Tv influences
The world watches the thriving of the bully-boy pranksters
passively in helpless terror of their offences.

It's all portrayal of the ******, the obscene
by that devious Silver Screen
And the horror movie
though it may seem groovy
begets the horrendous
and drills evil thoughts subliminally
into the subconscious!

Viewing those gruesome swashbuckling films
gives rise to morbid sadistic whims
Flipping through the TV channels just ponder
if the telly's the perfect channel
of information is it a proper panel?

Dad always tells me, 'fear ye the roaches' flicking antennae?
While you oughtta fear the influence of 'em' flickering images by dish antennae'.

It's an unrestrained dark faking
of real life reality exaggerating
Whether it's Bollywood in the East
or it's Hollywood in the West
they don't merely impart tactics of defence
but rather those of aggressive offence

Just verbal tougher gun laws couldn't halt
even underage shooting sprees
Rather it's stringent scanning of Tv content
and banning citizens from acquiring guns
that might make it forever cease

Parental supervision too tis gravely essential
should've been of parental code quintessential
So the next time you catch your youth or teen
absorbed and engrossed while glued to the screen
Just sleuth a bit just to make sure
that for the ******* he's not too keen!

Only a mere single merit that I dug
as I drank cappucino in my mug
that atleast one couldn't live in a bubble
daily watching this bubblebug.
https://youtu.be/MttSW45ren8
AuburnRose May 2018
I’m nervous to be with you,
Little fireworks dancing in my stomach.

I’m nervous to speak to you,
Afraid that I’ll end up speaking in a different language.

I’m nervous to hear you,
Something so foreign yet so familiar in my dreams.

I’m nervous to smell you,
Will you smell more like the cappucino you swirl in your cup each morning
Or more like the panettone you help your mamma make on Sunday’s?

I’m nervous to look at your eyes,
To see those beautiful chocolate brown occhi stupendi stare right back into mine,
Little do you know I’m swimming them.

I’m nervous to see those perfect lips,
Lips that I would drink in like the red wine I swallowed like a pill,
To try to forget about you.

I’m nervous to see your face,
A face that I would recognize with my hands if I were ever blindfolded.

I’m nervous to touch you,
Even the slightest brush of hands would make my body tingle.

I'm nervous for you,
what will you think of me?
wordvango May 2016
I recall , on a trip through Chicago, I was aboard the express train, and this young 30 year old blonde sat across from me on the trip to St' louis1:53 AM
'twas so long ago and by the way my past life, so1:55 AM
She seemed enamored  of my conquests in the market. She leaned forward listening with youthful exuberance
running her hands through her hair , suggex=stively
what did you say I asked her?
over seventy my hearing was not top rate1:58 AM

my smile beamed and my head nodded with her every word, whether or not I heard 2:02 AM
I heard of her tales of woe on her travails from Ohio across every border fighting off the  groveling men
and how her one true love had left her for another 2:15 AM
she lifted the hem of her long dress so I might gain a peek of her white frilly garments as she put one leg upon her other knee
I caught a glimpse of a pearl handled deringer in a holster on her ankle
and she smiled knowingly 2:45 AM
right then I got up and bowed and went to get off , for we had arrived in St louis 2:47 AM
I took three steps , then turned and said, madam, I see we are quite a pair of matched scoundrels, I so like your apparel and your airs, might I buy you a cappucino here down at Louis ?  2:50 AM
she pulled the pearl handled gun and before she had taken aim I kissed her hand and squeezed. We were married the next day! at high noon!
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2018
only that the poles don't know how similar
they are to the Russians,
in Poland the priests receive the major
scorn, the paupers the minor scorn,
while stray dogs run with the ghost
of diogenes of sinope,
        there's hardly a work ethic by
merely talking,
              woe to the scribblers under
the umbrella of technical labours,
woe to the dreaming aloud with
a horizon as wide as a breath,
     but the feet of a drowning man...
woe to no rigour and to the waiting
game of sighs, woe admiring
                            sand blocks playing
like children beneath the gaze at Giza.
now i can understand an angry voice
aged 17, 18, 19...
         8 or so years later and i have
no shame: which is more useful than
to cherish honour...
      like might be said of what Nietzsche
looked for and what Diogenes likewise
did, with the same lantern at noon:
far easier to find god, than an honest man,
gesticulating is plentiful,
     but in what deed is man to unlearn
blabbering like a baby?
unrepentant or remorsless, whichever,
but when the fire is poured
    and there is laughter in this aloofness
and no sulking for a breadth's worth
of night, only then: hardly a reason
to drink in company, or to keep any,
the barrenness of sulking,
       no tender shoulder to hide into,
morbid cold gravestone and the howling
moon, smile and scythe and
the perpetual harvest of man,
    somehow too much lunacy goes
into this religiosity to simply allow
material absolutism of this here and now...  
too much lunacy and in grief
excused, as a man might be found
hunched over a grave talking,
   far beyond god willing...
        because the heart is already invested
far beyond paying a deity its
supposed "dues"...
          sidewinding back into politico,
who are these non-cis non-this-that-and-the-other,
or rather the this-that-and-the-other?
back east i am still an abnormality for
a life of a bachelor, pseudo-cenobite,
suburbia and among the living
it's hardly a convent to mirror silence,
yet still the norm to take a wife,
but as i have only this for my defence:
YOU CAN'T MAKE SOMEONE HAPPY
BY FORCE...
                         perhaps the customs
of Kazakhstan are to forcibly take a wife
as is their ancient custom,
           not by force not by genetic
existentialism, frankly not via the Anglo
lineage of argument,
            patron saint of bachelors Emmanuel
and a new church where but a thought
is enough to give motive, watching
lunatics gesticulate beside themselves,
    slaughterhouses of critiques
and far from the atheistic notion surrounding
it as some sort of debilitating conjuring,
a sign of a low i.q., intellectual fallacy,
immaturity of seeking manna from heaven,
or reading the books with a dusting over
with poo'ems...
                   fixations on a fidgety metaphor,
certainly, some might think they're
the best poets in the world,
    but if they don't have something to stand
on, a heavyweight reading list:
   you can see them, glaring in spring's
sunlight like the mirage of seeing a puddle
of water, when instead a bed of shining platinum.
censorship-in-reverse:
    just like the awkward moment when
a novelist shows his extra limb by using
the thesaurus: suddenly the flow of lexicon
hits a hydroelectric blockade...
     stuttering, stut' stut' stut', stuttering
presence... already Atlas and the strict
take on Sisyphus, who, could have just
sat there at the foot of the hill and looked
at the smoothness and lack of: flip flop
in-grooves and promises of flint knives.
anatomical atlas and his brother,
        the bottom-most vertebra of the backbone,
toy: standing vertical,
                  brother Ccyx, two sugars, brown,
cappucino -ye'bood'yed'ka'put!
   imshi, y'allah!
                      twice removed from kicks,
      and thrice from: sick 'em!
                past all meaning and back into sounds,
that subtle layer of freedom
known only to dogs barking, crows harking,
and sparrow jittering and chatting
up to the high heavens...
         past st. Peter's street to watch
            the golden calf and the crucifix contend
for the laurel crown of ceasar...
            hardly a time to start performing
tango on your knees...
               and when all these horrible,
horrible, cis white men will die,
   and no more children of God are born,
when in vitro overtakes in vivo...
    and when the norm from cis will
shift to bi etc.,
                 comes the snowman and
overshadows the new norms,
                            gateway in the attic,
pampered closet, and what some might
call closet intellectuals...
                             atlas and his titan
brother Ccyx, depicted wearing nothing
but chinos, chiseled brain fudge to perfection,
who holds the weight,
     of the entirety of the human lexicon...
**** it, some random dictionary cascade
to deviate from the Ítálıano:
   chambers of gold chiseled by churning
butter, da da da... charcoal harvest
       of night from a vacuum with an echo
looking for its charitable cavern...
          chasing checkers at Chequers,
we you i: cue queue, and the inexhaustible
chasm of cameos...
           a dream of two chairs
    and a curly ginger imagining gelato,
in later life oral goes out of the curriculum
and it's back to man on top of a woman
as depicted in movies,
   loss of adventure in the bedroom
translates into trips to the amazon
and photo-tics at the taj mahal...
                                  and her name was
Tamara and she lived with 3 gay guys
and i still don't understand why she
wanted to do it under the bedsheets
rather on top of them...
                                hard to get a *******
when you're finding it hard to breathe
in a cocoon like that...
                            elsewhere otherwise...
i always thought you tended to sleep
under the sheets rather than play a game
of ken & barbie...
                                   i was 7 and she was 6
and we were trying to figure out why
we had the parts that the dolls didn't have...
and we inspected each other while taking
a bath, as children of neighbours do.
Steak and fries.

South of the river
and
I thought we were
West of the Pecos
because
there are a lot of cowboys
out on this range.

Maltby Street,
was
once a place of
tanneries and
ropemakers,
now
its been beefed up
and a cup of
Cappucino
(  cappuccino? oh! for god's sake )
costs nearly four quid.

nice place though.
Days out in London.

— The End —