"chafe" poems - Hello Poetry

I'm a flame Can't you see me burn? I'm a fire When will you ever learn? I'm a match Ignite me and feel me chafe; I'm a blaze Can't touch me and stay safe.

0

Apr 30, 2014

Apr 30, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC

ashley-somebody

Flame

I'm a flame Can't you see me burn? I'm a fire When will you ever learn? I'm a match Ignite me and feel me chafe; I'm a blaze Can't touch me and stay safe.

8

Soft wooden pews and the white dogwood tree, Arched ceilings and Mother’s whisper Tetelestai Making surprise harmonies with the sinner beside me. Black preaching robes saying Grace is for free, Now pass the gold plate so the Church can supply, Soft wooden pews and the white dogwood tree. Regenerated through love-on this we agree, Shouting Hymn 22 children’s voices blend high, Making surprise harmonies with the sinner beside me. Drunkards and Deacons with Thou and with Thee, Starched shirts and white pearls all standing by, Soft wooden pews and the white dogwood tree. Released from all of our chafe and debris, With roars of repentance and relief we reply, Making surprise harmonies with the sinner beside me. I am whole I am new through His ministry, I know I can never this truth deny. Soft wooden pews and the white dogwood tree. Making surprise harmonies with the sinner beside me.

0

Aug 28, 2012

Aug 28, 2012 at 11:40 PM UTC

cyril-blythe

Blood White Villain

Soft wooden pews and the white dogwood tree, Arched ceilings and Mother’s whisper Tetelestai Making surprise harmonies with the sinner beside me. Black preaching robes saying Grace is for free, Now pass the gold plate so the Church can supply, Soft wooden pews and the white dogwood tree. Regenerated through love-on this we agree, Shouting Hymn 22 children’s voices blend high, Making surprise harmonies with the sinner beside me. Drunkards and Deacons with Thou and with Thee, Starched shirts and white pearls all standing by, Soft wooden pews and the white dogwood tree. Released from all of our chafe and debris, With roars of repentance and relief we reply, Making surprise harmonies with the sinner beside me. I am whole I am new through His ministry, I know I can never this truth deny. Soft wooden pews and the white dogwood tree. Making surprise harmonies with the sinner beside me.

19

O’Silky smooth ballsac Stuck to my leg Ever-presence defines manhood As tree defines fruit And as fruit defines tree. Ne'er such a sense Overwhelmed my hot-spot As this dangling (oval, skin and nerves of) Oily pouch I cream. Yet A line as destructive As the San Andreas Fault- O divine chafe You reduce me You erode me As if we rented ******* Bikes

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Jul 26, 2015

Jul 26, 2015 at 6:44 AM UTC

Michael-Cassio

Scrotal Wound

O’Silky smooth ballsac Stuck to my leg Ever-presence defines manhood As tree defines fruit And as fruit defines tree. Ne'er such a sense Overwhelmed my hot-spot As this dangling (oval, skin and nerves of) Oily pouch I cream. Yet A line as destructive As the San Andreas Fault- O divine chafe You reduce me You erode me As if we rented ******* Bikes

18

45 There’s something quieter than sleep Within this inner room! It wears a sprig upon its breast— And will not tell its name. Some touch it, and some kiss it— Some chafe its idle hand— It has a simple gravity I do not understand! I would not weep if I were they— How rude in one to sob! Might scare the quiet fairy Back to her native wood! While simple-hearted neighbors Chat of the “Early dead”— We—prone to periphrasis Remark that Birds have fled!

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4.8k

Emily Dickinson

There’s something quieter than sleep

45 There’s something quieter than sleep Within this inner room! It wears a sprig upon its breast— And will not tell its name. Some touch it, and some kiss it— Some chafe its idle hand— It has a simple gravity I do not understand! I would not weep if I were they— How rude in one to sob! Might scare the quiet fairy Back to her native wood! While simple-hearted neighbors Chat of the “Early dead”— We—prone to periphrasis Remark that Birds have fled!

17

When I was a child, I thought, Casually, that solitude Never needed to be sought. Something everybody had, Like nakedness, it lay at hand, Not specially right or specially wrong, A plentiful and obvious thing Not at all hard to understand. Then, after twenty, it became At once more difficult to get And more desired - though all the same More undesirable; for what You are alone has, to achieve The rank of fact, to be expressed In terms of others, or it's just A compensating make-believe. Much better stay in company! To love you must have someone else, Giving requires a legatee, Good neighbours need whole parishfuls Of folk to do it on - in short, Our virtues are all social; if, Deprived of solitude, you chafe, It's clear you're not the virtuous sort. Viciously, then, I lock my door. The gas-fire breathes. The wind outside Ushers in evening rain. Once more Uncontradicting solitude Supports me on its giant palm; And like a sea-anemone Or simple snail, there cautiously Unfolds, emerges, what I am.

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4.9k

Philip Larkin

Best Society

When I was a child, I thought, Casually, that solitude Never needed to be sought. Something everybody had, Like nakedness, it lay at hand, Not specially right or specially wrong, A plentiful and obvious thing Not at all hard to understand. Then, after twenty, it became At once more difficult to get And more desired - though all the same More undesirable; for what You are alone has, to achieve The rank of fact, to be expressed In terms of others, or it's just A compensating make-believe. Much better stay in company! To love you must have someone else, Giving requires a legatee, Good neighbours need whole parishfuls Of folk to do it on - in short, Our virtues are all social; if, Deprived of solitude, you chafe, It's clear you're not the virtuous sort. Viciously, then, I lock my door. The gas-fire breathes. The wind outside Ushers in evening rain. Once more Uncontradicting solitude Supports me on its giant palm; And like a sea-anemone Or simple snail, there cautiously Unfolds, emerges, what I am.

32

Some days are like that, you don't stop, Too bad there are no time management cops, But are we not, to police that ourselves. From the degrees of the compass we find our, interests, which give energy and power, to our lives, or stay on those dusty shelves. Catalog and label with modern library code, move over, Or scan, a bar code on any book, judged by the dust on the cover, Are you like a book not opened, imagine, delve... Deeper, kick out the chafe that holds you down, holds you back, Look and ask why are there strings, to your head, heart, smacks, of a conspiracy, we know, your joy, your love will not be squelched.

0

May 10, 2013

May 10, 2013 at 11:35 PM UTC

darrell-wade-elverum

Busy

Some days are like that, you don't stop, Too bad there are no time management cops, But are we not, to police that ourselves. From the degrees of the compass we find our, interests, which give energy and power, to our lives, or stay on those dusty shelves. Catalog and label with modern library code, move over, Or scan, a bar code on any book, judged by the dust on the cover, Are you like a book not opened, imagine, delve... Deeper, kick out the chafe that holds you down, holds you back, Look and ask why are there strings, to your head, heart, smacks, of a conspiracy, we know, your joy, your love will not be squelched.

12

Five minute street artists and insomnia mongers. ****** drunk blondes and finger snapping phat booties. Street geniuses bred by Machiavellian philosophies cypher dreams over tokes of marijuana smoke. Color worshipping narcotic traffickers, and bread winners parole corners sporting fitted caps and twisting fingers. Senile war veterans beg for change in cardboard boxes from the American dreams they afforded. Hard workers with every ethnicity molded into each pore of their face, rub shoulders with tourists at traffic stops barely escaping tires crushing their feet. Sartorial geniuses with no pants switch hips in knock-off stellos heels, selling the origin of the world on avenues next to Arab Halal food. Cooperate ties and blue collars chafe ***** on subways. nodding in and out of Daily News articles while oxygen blessed by asparagus **** pump through their noses. Summa *** laude number runners dictate economies From sky-crapper offices, And powered rain swallows their concrete each winter, With no apologies.

0

Jun 2, 2011

Jun 2, 2011 at 11:01 PM UTC

ugochukwu-charles-onyewuchi

New York.

Five minute street artists and insomnia mongers. ****** drunk blondes and finger snapping phat booties. Street geniuses bred by Machiavellian philosophies cypher dreams over tokes of marijuana smoke. Color worshipping narcotic traffickers, and bread winners parole corners sporting fitted caps and twisting fingers. Senile war veterans beg for change in cardboard boxes from the American dreams they afforded. Hard workers with every ethnicity molded into each pore of their face, rub shoulders with tourists at traffic stops barely escaping tires crushing their feet. Sartorial geniuses with no pants switch hips in knock-off stellos heels, selling the origin of the world on avenues next to Arab Halal food. Cooperate ties and blue collars chafe ***** on subways. nodding in and out of Daily News articles while oxygen blessed by asparagus **** pump through their noses. Summa *** laude number runners dictate economies From sky-crapper offices, And powered rain swallows their concrete each winter, With no apologies.

32

In a Strike Lightning in Dice I'm no Psych Just a Mice ~ With a Slice Be the Treasure There's no Rice But whole Pleasure ~ It's a Measure To be Safe Y'all Immature Learn to Strafe ~ You a Waif Me a Pure Don't you Chafe You Impure ~ Sea is Azure Trust my Gut But I'm Sure I can Cut ~ Battle will Begin Their's no Mercy Who can Win With no Thirsty ~ Don't be Nasty Ships will Fire They are Classy Like a Choir ~ With no Tire We will Roll Do not Retire That's out Goal ~ Burn the Soul Fight with Urge Do your Role Let's Purge ~ We won't Merge Enemy is tricky To the Verge Give them Hickey.

0

Mar 25, 2018

Mar 25, 2018 at 4:08 PM UTC

CaioConsoli

See Bass

In a Strike Lightning in Dice I'm no Psych Just a Mice ~ With a Slice Be the Treasure There's no Rice But whole Pleasure ~ It's a Measure To be Safe Y'all Immature Learn to Strafe ~ You a Waif Me a Pure Don't you Chafe You Impure ~ Sea is Azure Trust my Gut But I'm Sure I can Cut ~ Battle will Begin Their's no Mercy Who can Win With no Thirsty ~ Don't be Nasty Ships will Fire They are Classy Like a Choir ~ With no Tire We will Roll Do not Retire That's out Goal ~ Burn the Soul Fight with Urge Do your Role Let's Purge ~ We won't Merge Enemy is tricky To the Verge Give them Hickey.

49

HaHA, I've done it! I've created a device That can tap into my subconscious and translate it for all to hear. I will win the Nobel Prize! I will be rich beyond my wildest dreams! People will LIKE me! So let's see here....I put on the cap, set the throttobombulator to 8. Adjust for fuzzy dialation...set the circuit threshold to .79, make sure the lucid translation synapses are firing...and yes. The next words you hear will surely be written in History books one day, much like Thomas Edison's first phonograph recording, or the first telephone call! Neural connection is active. Transmitting **TRANSGENDERED KANGAROOS FORNICATE IN THE PURPLE SHADE OF BETTE MIDLER'S THIGHS. PLEASE PERFORM ******** AT THE BEHEST OF BUDDHIST MONKS WITH LISPS. COUNT TO TEN AND BECOME A BUXOM BLONDE ***** WITH BOUNCY ******* WHEN THE CLOCK STRIKES TWELVE, CINDARELLA IS ON HER KNEES AND ELBOWS BECAUSE IT'S ****** HARD TO GET LOW ENOUGH TO PLEASURE A DWARF** Oh dear. This can't be right....now where's that 'off' switch? **JACK AND JILL WENT OFF THE PILL SO JACK COULD BE A FATHER. JACK WENT DOWN TO LONDON TOWN AND PUNCHED THE DALAI LAMA. EDIBLE ******* GIVE YOU INDIGESTION. DO YOU KISS YOUR MOTHER WITH THAT MOUTH, BECAUSE YOU SHOULD. (AND USE SOME TONGUE THIS TIME)** Oh My...Ladies and Gentlemen, It's clear that my invention is experiencing technical difficulties. If you would please be patient--- **SATIN BRAS DON'T CHAFE. NONE OF THE SMURFS HAD BLUE ***** THANKS TO SMURFETTE. I WONDER WHAT MARY MAGDELINE WAS LIKE IN THE SACK? ** STUPIDSmashPieceSmashof GARBAGESMASH DoNT LikE iT? tucK iT bAcK!! Connection Lost I...erm...clearly have some more work to do before it is ready for the pubic--er..public. I have run into some...translation errors...and need to re lubricate--CALIBRATE a few things. Please don't tell my mother.

0

Feb 8, 2012

Feb 8, 2012 at 12:12 AM UTC

j-a-doetsch

The Dam is Breached

HaHA, I've done it! I've created a device That can tap into my subconscious and translate it for all to hear. I will win the Nobel Prize! I will be rich beyond my wildest dreams! People will LIKE me! So let's see here....I put on the cap, set the throttobombulator to 8. Adjust for fuzzy dialation...set the circuit threshold to .79, make sure the lucid translation synapses are firing...and yes. The next words you hear will surely be written in History books one day, much like Thomas Edison's first phonograph recording, or the first telephone call! Neural connection is active. Transmitting **TRANSGENDERED KANGAROOS FORNICATE IN THE PURPLE SHADE OF BETTE MIDLER'S THIGHS. PLEASE PERFORM ******** AT THE BEHEST OF BUDDHIST MONKS WITH LISPS. COUNT TO TEN AND BECOME A BUXOM BLONDE ***** WITH BOUNCY ******* WHEN THE CLOCK STRIKES TWELVE, CINDARELLA IS ON HER KNEES AND ELBOWS BECAUSE IT'S ****** HARD TO GET LOW ENOUGH TO PLEASURE A DWARF** Oh dear. This can't be right....now where's that 'off' switch? **JACK AND JILL WENT OFF THE PILL SO JACK COULD BE A FATHER. JACK WENT DOWN TO LONDON TOWN AND PUNCHED THE DALAI LAMA. EDIBLE ******* GIVE YOU INDIGESTION. DO YOU KISS YOUR MOTHER WITH THAT MOUTH, BECAUSE YOU SHOULD. (AND USE SOME TONGUE THIS TIME)** Oh My...Ladies and Gentlemen, It's clear that my invention is experiencing technical difficulties. If you would please be patient--- **SATIN BRAS DON'T CHAFE. NONE OF THE SMURFS HAD BLUE ***** THANKS TO SMURFETTE. I WONDER WHAT MARY MAGDELINE WAS LIKE IN THE SACK? ** STUPIDSmashPieceSmashof GARBAGESMASH DoNT LikE iT? tucK iT bAcK!! Connection Lost I...erm...clearly have some more work to do before it is ready for the pubic--er..public. I have run into some...translation errors...and need to re lubricate--CALIBRATE a few things. Please don't tell my mother.

40

five years ago, June 2018, I, poet Sir Humbug, wrote:that the job of the artist was to be luminous and dangerous <> *the job of the artist is to be luminous and dangerous luminous to others by being dangerous to themselves when the words are ripped from the chest, atmosphere disbursed by the body’s projectile messes, starburst fireworks, luminous and dangerous, luminating the shared night, laminating your truths, in poems disguised and so the job, our work, begins* <> five years on, somethings have changed, indeed, the dangers of being luminous, clarifying and exposing, the requisite badge of courage, need-be more desperately earned the work is more risky, as the rules of now are none, and the risk of good taste, thoughtful caring, exposing you innards outwardly, so easy to demean and sadly that titillates the iliterati like a fire-working fireflies flashing, their in-concert of ligh attracts the oohs and aahs but too, the restless for glory, opinionated blowhard, whose critical boundaries of ill will are boundless yet, write on, right on to be where courage be the sticking point! your verbs must be pointy, your direction true, adjectives of modest innovation, craft harder, then harder again, for the work must be honest in a manner most delicate now is the time of subtlety - if one must bang pots to be heard, that you to are but a noisemaker, a loser, an addition to those lost in the din quiet passion, thoughtful insight to inside, to the tender parts, will rule the day and the blow smokers will rue the day, as their pretenses chafe and flail wayside, and your words, be like sightings of new lands where you take us utterly beholden, willing explorers to places most wonderfully luminous and dangerous!

0

Jul 10, 2023

Jul 10, 2023 at 11:25 PM UTC

sir-humbug

5 years later, the artist returns to his first job: being luminous and dangerous

five years ago, June 2018, I, poet Sir Humbug, wrote:that the job of the artist was to be luminous and dangerous <> *the job of the artist is to be luminous and dangerous luminous to others by being dangerous to themselves when the words are ripped from the chest, atmosphere disbursed by the body’s projectile messes, starburst fireworks, luminous and dangerous, luminating the shared night, laminating your truths, in poems disguised and so the job, our work, begins* <> five years on, somethings have changed, indeed, the dangers of being luminous, clarifying and exposing, the requisite badge of courage, need-be more desperately earned the work is more risky, as the rules of now are none, and the risk of good taste, thoughtful caring, exposing you innards outwardly, so easy to demean and sadly that titillates the iliterati like a fire-working fireflies flashing, their in-concert of ligh attracts the oohs and aahs but too, the restless for glory, opinionated blowhard, whose critical boundaries of ill will are boundless yet, write on, right on to be where courage be the sticking point! your verbs must be pointy, your direction true, adjectives of modest innovation, craft harder, then harder again, for the work must be honest in a manner most delicate now is the time of subtlety - if one must bang pots to be heard, that you to are but a noisemaker, a loser, an addition to those lost in the din quiet passion, thoughtful insight to inside, to the tender parts, will rule the day and the blow smokers will rue the day, as their pretenses chafe and flail wayside, and your words, be like sightings of new lands where you take us utterly beholden, willing explorers to places most wonderfully luminous and dangerous!

74

It's in your eyes The magnet that pulls me in Draws me closer to the breath The pulse The need Fuels and pushes Drives God your hands Rough and strong Gripping so tight Bind ****** Enthrall Chafe shivers along my skin I dream you Up against me Bringing me back Need Desire Release And I dream you again

0

Apr 24, 2013

Apr 24, 2013 at 3:37 PM UTC

johnny-agape

Intimate Confliction

It's in your eyes The magnet that pulls me in Draws me closer to the breath The pulse The need Fuels and pushes Drives God your hands Rough and strong Gripping so tight Bind ****** Enthrall Chafe shivers along my skin I dream you Up against me Bringing me back Need Desire Release And I dream you again

21

Pearl Jam Sheets of empty canvas, untouched sheets of clay Were laid spread out before me as her body once did. All of five horizons revolved around her soul as the earth to the sun Now the air I tasted and breathed has taken a turn and all I taught her was everything I know she gave me all that she was And now my bitter hands chafe beneath the clouds of what was everything. Oh, the pictures have all been washed in black, tattooed everything... I take a walk outside, I'm surrounded by some kids at play I can feel their laughter, so why do I sear? Oh, and twisted thoughts that spin round my head, I'm spinning, oh, I'm spinning how quick the sun can drop away And now my bitter hands cradle broken glass of what was everything All the pictures have all been washed in black, tattooed everything All the love gone bad turned my world to black Tattooed all I see all that I am, all I'll be. I know someday you'll have a beautiful life, I know you'll be a sun in somebody else's sky, But why, why, why can't it be, can't it be mine?

0

May 14, 2014

May 14, 2014 at 3:41 PM UTC

calpurnia-mockingbird

Black

Pearl Jam Sheets of empty canvas, untouched sheets of clay Were laid spread out before me as her body once did. All of five horizons revolved around her soul as the earth to the sun Now the air I tasted and breathed has taken a turn and all I taught her was everything I know she gave me all that she was And now my bitter hands chafe beneath the clouds of what was everything. Oh, the pictures have all been washed in black, tattooed everything... I take a walk outside, I'm surrounded by some kids at play I can feel their laughter, so why do I sear? Oh, and twisted thoughts that spin round my head, I'm spinning, oh, I'm spinning how quick the sun can drop away And now my bitter hands cradle broken glass of what was everything All the pictures have all been washed in black, tattooed everything All the love gone bad turned my world to black Tattooed all I see all that I am, all I'll be. I know someday you'll have a beautiful life, I know you'll be a sun in somebody else's sky, But why, why, why can't it be, can't it be mine?

22

Ah, but you know naught Of the traipse of indignity Ever so staggered in advance By the chafe of love and lust Oh to wander amidst These crowds of judging eyes Known by the happenings of a night After a sip (or two) of wine

0

Jun 15, 2014

Jun 15, 2014 at 9:54 AM UTC

amaranthine

Impurity

Ah, but you know naught Of the traipse of indignity Ever so staggered in advance By the chafe of love and lust Oh to wander amidst These crowds of judging eyes Known by the happenings of a night After a sip (or two) of wine

8

Gene and Jenny Taylor Had long been man and wife But a heinous disagreement Took a hold upon their life For each bemoaned their tackle It was Gene who started first He justified why dangly bits Were easily the worst “They tangle in your underwear And twist themselves about If I sit down in football shorts They try to wriggle out They chafe on nearly everything They’re difficult to dry And when it’s hot an humid out They’re welded to your thigh” Jenny swiftly countered him “Well ***** are surely worst For shaving is laborious And not all lips are pursed The periods are painful With a week of aggravation And we use three times the toilet roll And cause deforestation “ But Gene had more to muster “Well the ***** is a ******* And hiding an ******** Is a skill each man has mastered They lead us into jeopardy They always take the **** And first thing in the morning They’ve a tendency to miss” So Jenny said “Vaginas Are a curse between the thighs And lady bits look monstrous To anyone with eyes They’re prone to thrush and fondling And embryo gestation ***** are only any good For use in aviation” Gene and Jenny caught their breath The stalemate was called For genitals, the lips and ***** Or **** and hairy ***** Are vital to our species More useful than they seem And you’ll see a marked improvement When they’re working as a team

0

May 15, 2014

May 15, 2014 at 7:14 AM UTC

ben-jones

Knobs and ***** A Comparative Study

Gene and Jenny Taylor Had long been man and wife But a heinous disagreement Took a hold upon their life For each bemoaned their tackle It was Gene who started first He justified why dangly bits Were easily the worst “They tangle in your underwear And twist themselves about If I sit down in football shorts They try to wriggle out They chafe on nearly everything They’re difficult to dry And when it’s hot an humid out They’re welded to your thigh” Jenny swiftly countered him “Well ***** are surely worst For shaving is laborious And not all lips are pursed The periods are painful With a week of aggravation And we use three times the toilet roll And cause deforestation “ But Gene had more to muster “Well the ***** is a ******* And hiding an ******** Is a skill each man has mastered They lead us into jeopardy They always take the **** And first thing in the morning They’ve a tendency to miss” So Jenny said “Vaginas Are a curse between the thighs And lady bits look monstrous To anyone with eyes They’re prone to thrush and fondling And embryo gestation ***** are only any good For use in aviation” Gene and Jenny caught their breath The stalemate was called For genitals, the lips and ***** Or **** and hairy ***** Are vital to our species More useful than they seem And you’ll see a marked improvement When they’re working as a team

48

my ***** Little Secret, symbolized by ***** words and little idiosyncrasies and secret secret liaisons; je c'adore, laying Control alongside cast off clothing and kicked off wet ******* heartbeat aflutter beneath your oh so deliberate ministrations and thighs aquiver beneath your oh so deliberate teeth. my wrists chafe; bound by bitter steel to demure wood, powerless or rather entirely in your power. you've always loved it, the thrill of exploration, of Newfoundland, of conquer and subjugation and ravishment; your tongue flickering against my **** like eiderdown, fingertips tracing spirals and Möbius Strips upon my *******

0

Apr 19, 2014

Apr 19, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC

perlucidum

conquistador pt. 2

my ***** Little Secret, symbolized by ***** words and little idiosyncrasies and secret secret liaisons; je c'adore, laying Control alongside cast off clothing and kicked off wet ******* heartbeat aflutter beneath your oh so deliberate ministrations and thighs aquiver beneath your oh so deliberate teeth. my wrists chafe; bound by bitter steel to demure wood, powerless or rather entirely in your power. you've always loved it, the thrill of exploration, of Newfoundland, of conquer and subjugation and ravishment; your tongue flickering against my **** like eiderdown, fingertips tracing spirals and Möbius Strips upon my *******

22

Incontinence of Pseudo-emotion has engulfed us from the 3rd grade. It festered dormant for a little under a decade before it’s vessel popped. A pore filled with ***** media which dehumanizes and objectives human beings While making a spectacle and esteem of being promiscuous. All that Dirt Lathered in an oil of misdirection. A misunderstanding of affection, empathy and apathy. Those who contrive the most emotion are perceived as actually possessing the most emotion. Nothing can be farther from the truth. This is the death of morality. A birth of Nihilism. The miasma of the rotting corpse of ethos and emotional connection. Is one that sits in the stomach and contracts illness not curable due to our understanding. We have been taught that promiscuity will bring us happiness, and yet it is the most depressing. Without understanding of that we are incurable from this ugly affliction. Momentary bursts of relief chafe the most sensitive areas of our skin. Without treatment. We will be encased in our handmade carapace which will indefinitely block us from emotion. Luckily someone invented lotion, soft tissues, and silicone.

0

Mar 11, 2019

Mar 11, 2019 at 11:29 PM UTC

ClayFace

Rubbed Rawng

Incontinence of Pseudo-emotion has engulfed us from the 3rd grade. It festered dormant for a little under a decade before it’s vessel popped. A pore filled with ***** media which dehumanizes and objectives human beings While making a spectacle and esteem of being promiscuous. All that Dirt Lathered in an oil of misdirection. A misunderstanding of affection, empathy and apathy. Those who contrive the most emotion are perceived as actually possessing the most emotion. Nothing can be farther from the truth. This is the death of morality. A birth of Nihilism. The miasma of the rotting corpse of ethos and emotional connection. Is one that sits in the stomach and contracts illness not curable due to our understanding. We have been taught that promiscuity will bring us happiness, and yet it is the most depressing. Without understanding of that we are incurable from this ugly affliction. Momentary bursts of relief chafe the most sensitive areas of our skin. Without treatment. We will be encased in our handmade carapace which will indefinitely block us from emotion. Luckily someone invented lotion, soft tissues, and silicone.

16

Head to limp head, the sunk-eyed wounded scanned Yesterday's Mail; the casualties (typed small) And (large) Vast ***** from our latest Haul. Also, they read of Cheap Homes, not yet planned, 'For,' said the paper, 'when this war is done The men's first instinct will be making homes. Meanwhile their foremost need is aerodromes, It being certain war has but begun. Peace would do wrong to our undying dead, - The sons we offered might regret they died If we got nothing lasting in their stead. We must be solidly indemnified. Though all be worthy Victory which all bought, We rulers sitting in this ancient spot Would wrong our very selves if we forgot The greatest glory will be theirs who fought, Who kept this nation in integrity.' Nation? - The half-limbed readers did not chafe But smiled at one another curiously Like secret men who know their secret safe. (This is the thing they know and never speak, That England one by one had fled to France, Not many elsewhere now, save under France.) Pictures of these broad smiles appear each week, And people in whose voice real feeling rings Say: How they smile! They're happy now, poor things.

0

2k

Wilfred Owen

Smile, Smile, Smile

Head to limp head, the sunk-eyed wounded scanned Yesterday's Mail; the casualties (typed small) And (large) Vast ***** from our latest Haul. Also, they read of Cheap Homes, not yet planned, 'For,' said the paper, 'when this war is done The men's first instinct will be making homes. Meanwhile their foremost need is aerodromes, It being certain war has but begun. Peace would do wrong to our undying dead, - The sons we offered might regret they died If we got nothing lasting in their stead. We must be solidly indemnified. Though all be worthy Victory which all bought, We rulers sitting in this ancient spot Would wrong our very selves if we forgot The greatest glory will be theirs who fought, Who kept this nation in integrity.' Nation? - The half-limbed readers did not chafe But smiled at one another curiously Like secret men who know their secret safe. (This is the thing they know and never speak, That England one by one had fled to France, Not many elsewhere now, save under France.) Pictures of these broad smiles appear each week, And people in whose voice real feeling rings Say: How they smile! They're happy now, poor things.

26

Wake up! It's morning, you know it, the world around you says so A chorus of beeping: the clock, the coffee *** the first cars with impatient drivers, the shrill door chime of the store at the end of the block with its first customer of the day, the microwave saying your hastily-made oatmeal is done, the phone alerting you to your first message of the day, the computer screaming about the emails that piled up overnight. Wake up! It's morning, you know it, it's time to get up. Rip yourself up from the sheets A horse throwing its rider Tear those silken sheets that have for so long enveloped your mind Wake up! Do you smell the coffee burning, feel the changing seasons, see how that old woman's orange scarf flickers in the wind like a flame? Do you? Wake up! Hear the music playing, dance along with it, make some cupcakes, read that book you promised Amy from accounting that you would read months ago but never did, feel the chafe of those shoes against your dry heels, poke around in an antique store that has a scent of ancientness. You've done all that? You're awake? Good, now go write a poem.

0

Oct 17, 2012

Oct 17, 2012 at 5:00 PM UTC

enya-costa

Wake up!

Wake up! It's morning, you know it, the world around you says so A chorus of beeping: the clock, the coffee *** the first cars with impatient drivers, the shrill door chime of the store at the end of the block with its first customer of the day, the microwave saying your hastily-made oatmeal is done, the phone alerting you to your first message of the day, the computer screaming about the emails that piled up overnight. Wake up! It's morning, you know it, it's time to get up. Rip yourself up from the sheets A horse throwing its rider Tear those silken sheets that have for so long enveloped your mind Wake up! Do you smell the coffee burning, feel the changing seasons, see how that old woman's orange scarf flickers in the wind like a flame? Do you? Wake up! Hear the music playing, dance along with it, make some cupcakes, read that book you promised Amy from accounting that you would read months ago but never did, feel the chafe of those shoes against your dry heels, poke around in an antique store that has a scent of ancientness. You've done all that? You're awake? Good, now go write a poem.

15

I told you I don’t lie I told you I don’t cry I told you "Keep me safe" I knew that warmth would chafe Sounds, melodies strangle My bones of worthless angles My humiliation, an accessory You heart a treachery But tomorrow I still pray That It's tomorrow is the day Where it could stop the roam Because your sea is home

0

Oct 31, 2012

Oct 31, 2012 at 1:20 AM UTC

shay-ruth

A Rarity

I told you I don’t lie I told you I don’t cry I told you "Keep me safe" I knew that warmth would chafe Sounds, melodies strangle My bones of worthless angles My humiliation, an accessory You heart a treachery But tomorrow I still pray That It's tomorrow is the day Where it could stop the roam Because your sea is home

12

I have been wanton and too bold, I fear, To chafe o’ermuch the virgin’s cheek or ear. Beg for my pardon, Julia: he doth win Grace with the gods who’s sorry for his sin. That done, my Julia, dearest Julia, come And go with me to choose my burial room: My fates are ended; when thy Herrick dies, Clasp thou his book, then close thou up his eyes.

0

1.6k

Robert Herrick

His Last Request To Julia

I have been wanton and too bold, I fear, To chafe o’ermuch the virgin’s cheek or ear. Beg for my pardon, Julia: he doth win Grace with the gods who’s sorry for his sin. That done, my Julia, dearest Julia, come And go with me to choose my burial room: My fates are ended; when thy Herrick dies, Clasp thou his book, then close thou up his eyes.

8

I snuck into the party with an ID I hastily made and stumbled, out of step, into the poetry parade. In this beautiful country club, I'm surrounded by my betters. I wave my kindergarten rhymes to show the men of letters. In the echo of the learned men who came this way before me I hear the patterned minuets, that if followed, lead to glory. I chafe in those traveled ruts and I long for something varied and I hope to spark a unique verse, between school and the cemetery.

0

May 21, 2023

May 21, 2023 at 8:48 AM UTC

anaisvionet

fake

I snuck into the party with an ID I hastily made and stumbled, out of step, into the poetry parade. In this beautiful country club, I'm surrounded by my betters. I wave my kindergarten rhymes to show the men of letters. In the echo of the learned men who came this way before me I hear the patterned minuets, that if followed, lead to glory. I chafe in those traveled ruts and I long for something varied and I hope to spark a unique verse, between school and the cemetery.

8

THE SHADOWS PALMS STRETCHED IN THE EBONY ROADS MUSING ON THE BLOCKS OF RUGGED STONE STEPS GARNERED AND GATHERED BY CHAFED PALMS. STRADDLING OVER THEM THE DEEP FURROWS AND HEATED BROWS NOW BROWN AND TANNED WEARING A RUMMAGED MOUSTACHE OF CLIMBING VINES. EVERY STEP AMUSES, A MUSE THAT DOES NOT CEASE TO AMUSE, IN THE HEAT OVERDOSES. AND WHEN THE ARECA PALMS PALIPATING IN ARRAY HOIST ABOUT LIKE ROWS OF MEN DOPED IN CEILED BANKS OF DISTRUST A CYNICAL NILA CRIES , HER PLUNDERED SANDS. NOW THE SUNKEN FERRIES , HAVE APPEARED AT HER BAY, AND PAINFULLY CHAFE EACH OTHER. A ***** FROM THE BOTTOM STIRRING THE BELL FOR THE REQUIEM PAY THE FERRYMEN. FOR THE WAYFARERS WAFFLED WRITINGS ARE ADDRESSED TO THE MEN WHO PLASTERED HER WALLS ALONE

0

May 20, 2012

May 20, 2012 at 1:31 AM UTC

allan-harold-rex

the shadows palms

THE SHADOWS PALMS STRETCHED IN THE EBONY ROADS MUSING ON THE BLOCKS OF RUGGED STONE STEPS GARNERED AND GATHERED BY CHAFED PALMS. STRADDLING OVER THEM THE DEEP FURROWS AND HEATED BROWS NOW BROWN AND TANNED WEARING A RUMMAGED MOUSTACHE OF CLIMBING VINES. EVERY STEP AMUSES, A MUSE THAT DOES NOT CEASE TO AMUSE, IN THE HEAT OVERDOSES. AND WHEN THE ARECA PALMS PALIPATING IN ARRAY HOIST ABOUT LIKE ROWS OF MEN DOPED IN CEILED BANKS OF DISTRUST A CYNICAL NILA CRIES , HER PLUNDERED SANDS. NOW THE SUNKEN FERRIES , HAVE APPEARED AT HER BAY, AND PAINFULLY CHAFE EACH OTHER. A ***** FROM THE BOTTOM STIRRING THE BELL FOR THE REQUIEM PAY THE FERRYMEN. FOR THE WAYFARERS WAFFLED WRITINGS ARE ADDRESSED TO THE MEN WHO PLASTERED HER WALLS ALONE

26

By: Cedric McClester Saudia Arabia Protectors of the Islamic Faith Is kingdom that’s not safe Whose behavior makes one chafe Under MBS it’s anybody’s guess Who’ll be killed or at best Locked away in a hotel Until their wrists and ankles swell Although the evidence is murky In a motion that was jerky At their embassy in Turkey They killed Jamal Kashoggi Before he could light a stogie And chopped his body up So as not to interrupt Their plot to cover-up How about the war in Yemen That has no predictable ending Seems to have ‘em hemmed in And what they cannot hide Is that it’s clearly genocide Which the US is complicit in In the name of King Salman Look at the weapons that we send What we can’t ignore Are their actions we abhor Which they must answer for Or is it business as usuall? Because of our refusal To make them conform To accepted norms Which should set off alarms Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2018. All rights reserved.

0

Oct 12, 2018

Oct 12, 2018 at 8:29 AM UTC

cedric-mcclester

SAUDIA ARABIA

By: Cedric McClester Saudia Arabia Protectors of the Islamic Faith Is kingdom that’s not safe Whose behavior makes one chafe Under MBS it’s anybody’s guess Who’ll be killed or at best Locked away in a hotel Until their wrists and ankles swell Although the evidence is murky In a motion that was jerky At their embassy in Turkey They killed Jamal Kashoggi Before he could light a stogie And chopped his body up So as not to interrupt Their plot to cover-up How about the war in Yemen That has no predictable ending Seems to have ‘em hemmed in And what they cannot hide Is that it’s clearly genocide Which the US is complicit in In the name of King Salman Look at the weapons that we send What we can’t ignore Are their actions we abhor Which they must answer for Or is it business as usuall? Because of our refusal To make them conform To accepted norms Which should set off alarms Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2018. All rights reserved.

34

I sway from side to side. Floating, hovering above the ground. My heart beat is starting to slow down. My vision fades subtly. My eyes feel like they're going to pop out of my head. The cold leather coiled around my throat, starts to chafe my skin. No feeling of air inside my lungs. Not breathing feels comfortable, it feels right. It feels peaceful. My mind casually slips away from me. Sweet serenity graces me with a final kiss I've been waiting for. Black. Everything is so fuzzy, and so shifty. I can't see straight. I collect the fragments of my mind. Above me hangs the remains of my neuse, frayed and torn. I lay on the floor. Unbelieving at this sight. This attempt has failed. Hopefully the next won't.

0

Jan 23, 2016

Jan 23, 2016 at 5:35 AM UTC

A-delusional-psychopath

Always incomplete

I sway from side to side. Floating, hovering above the ground. My heart beat is starting to slow down. My vision fades subtly. My eyes feel like they're going to pop out of my head. The cold leather coiled around my throat, starts to chafe my skin. No feeling of air inside my lungs. Not breathing feels comfortable, it feels right. It feels peaceful. My mind casually slips away from me. Sweet serenity graces me with a final kiss I've been waiting for. Black. Everything is so fuzzy, and so shifty. I can't see straight. I collect the fragments of my mind. Above me hangs the remains of my neuse, frayed and torn. I lay on the floor. Unbelieving at this sight. This attempt has failed. Hopefully the next won't.

1