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Jellyfish Jun 2012
I dreamt that I'd tell you,
  I dreamt I'd convince you.
I dreamt you would love me
and I too would love you.
I dreamt of perfection,
a dream so romantic.
I dreamt you would smile
and carefully panic.
I dreamt you would hug me.
  I dreamt we would both see,
together we're better -
  I dreamt you weren't choosy.
I dreamt up the ways
of how I could tell you.
I dreamt up bouquets
and a time and place too.
I dreamt that I told you.
  I dreamt that I could do.
I dreamt that it happened.
  I dreamt of a breakthrough.

instead i told you
at 3am   drunk   on facebook
*and i took it back the next morning
The pain hurts less than regret.
K Balachandran Dec 2011
rich beggar
told poor beggar:
' You sleep well
lucky ******"
Flowers aren't choosy
Which bee which bug
Come one come all.

Bees and bugs
Aren't choosy either
All entries sweetly natural.

Imagine a flower
Closing its throat
Against a bee it thought a bore.

Who said object
Should excite act
That that was moral?

If only the verb
The act acts,
Why call your sister a *****?

Sin and shame!
Abandon the word
Moral. You can see it's immoral.
VENUS62 Jul 2014
Do you want
to hear
a story droll?
About a dog
with a kind
soul

Outside,
that night,
I heard the winds howl
Inside
was the sound
of an intermittent growl

I opened the door and he
slipped out
Some time later, he
came back with a pout

Reprimanded he was
for coming back
with a muddy taint.
Remorseless,
head raised, he
stood there defiant.

“Okay, Scot!
Let’s see what you got”

He gently
dropped
his big scowl
and Out fell,
in my palms,
a baby owl!

Apparently he had
peeped far
from his tree hole
When Scot was
beneath that tree
sniffing a mole

Frightened but fine,
the owlet
was a bit choosy
So we went,
to put him back,
in his tree hole cosy!
I don't really have friends

Because I'm choosy

I'm told I'm weird and crazy

But I rather have fun alone

Than be judged by people

You see the type of people who I call friends

Aren't so judgmental of the extraordinary

I may not have many friends

But I like to think those spots are reserved

For some very special people.
A tale,
Of two pals,
Ego possessed the former,
Self-respect imbibed the latter.

The former faced problems, complained;
The latter solved problems, smiled.
One, choosy and demanding;
Other, suitable and acceptable.

Fortunately,
Acquiring jobs,
In a corporation,
Standing at the threshold
Of promising careers,
Days rolled on
And the day arrived
For promotion.

Self-respect surpassed,
Ego lagged behind.
Thoughts converted into self-realization,
Truth revealed.

Ego satisfied merely the senses
"I want this" and "I want that"
Self-respect implied acceptance
"I respect this and I accept that."

To further proceed,
To reach the summit,
'I' and 'my' be discarded,
'We' and 'ours' be adopted.
st64 Jul 2016
Little Box talks back
With a new set of teeth
And pink gums
A fake nose and a wax mustache
She disguises her voice
To sound like Groucho
  


Little Box opens up
And cries to her psychiatrist
I don’t know why they hate me
I’m such a sweetheart
I volunteer at the zoo
And teach Mandarin
To their bratty children



Little Box is not happy to see you
So she closes herself up for months
Years, decades, and two millennia!
She tacks up a sign that says
Nirvana



Little Box is undead
She sleeps all day in a coffin
Hands over chest
At night she cruises the mall
For juicy victims

She prefers type A
But AB if she has to
What can you say
Vampires can’t be choosy
She likes your stupid brother



Little Box is on the psychiatry couch
Everybody hates me
Nobody loves me
Little Box lies on her side
And spills her guts



What’s in Little Box
A perfect orchid
A chocolate-covered strawberry
A new iPhone
With a glittery sleeve
Amber earrings from Pushkin

Keys to a new Porsche
A retro Chanel brooch
A Getty scion’s left ear
A Czar’s *****
Gifts so rare
Please don’t stare



What’s in Little Box
Rancid chow mein
A sliver of cold pizza
Last week’s hummus
You’re a starving orphan
From East Brooklyn
And you’ll eat it



So you want to **** Little Box
You want to know her secret
She won’t open up
She won’t give it up
And you are genuinely repelled
By her filthy ribbon



You want to DO the Little Box
You are a sorry story
You big creep
Why don’t you get off the couch and find
A real girlfriend!



Boss Box
White, square, and without a soul!



Please don’t analyze Little Box
She’s just cardboard clogging the landfill
Her mother Precious Jade Purse
Has been regifted
howdy :)
100716 #ElNidoPalawan #PamilihangBayan

Sisiksik ka sa eskinitang
Talamak ang mga choosy
Aalukin ka pero ika'y tatanggi
Kasi iba naman ang dinayo mo.

Pero doon ka pala matututong magpatawad
Kasi pag gusto mo't pag mahal,
Hihingi ka ng tawad.

Pero minsan, kahit buo pa ang ibayad mo,
Di ka pa rin masukli-suklian.
At doon mo mapagtatantong
Ikaw na lang ang nasa eskinita --
Gabi na, umuwi ka na!
Mark Tilford Jul 2016
Torn
Without color we all should be born
Because of, all we do now is mourn
As untimely deaths come to our
First born
Second born
Third born
Just because of their skin color
Our brothers
It's time we lay the weapons down
We all come together
Stand altogether
To stop loss of lives because of someone's skin color
(Black skin is not a sin)

This world
Torn
Now all we do is mourn
Terrorist
Evokes, fear across the world
Your neighbor?
Yes, they could be that near
Watch the news
It's something new every morning
They **** with no warning
Then our world goes into mourning
It's time
They lay their weapons down
For us all to come together
Stand altogether
To stop them from going into any town
Let us not back down

This world
Torn
Now again we are mourning
Caused by mass shootings
Because someone thought it was their duty
Not being choosy
In their shooting
Execution
Afterwards people standing behind
( the second amendment )
Of an aged constitution
It's time
For us all to come together
Stand altogether
To change the
Constitution
There is no other solution

It's time
For us all to come together
Stand altogether
To stop
The pollution  
of  minds
!!
Brent Kincaid Dec 2015
A small single apartment
That is all I really need.
The result of low ambition
And a paucity of greed.
A kitchen for cooking
A comfy place to sleep
Just great for meditation for
Thoughts that don’t go deep.

It was close to my buddies
That good old gang of mine
I go there, they come here,
As long as there was wine.
I was serving jug wine
And vintage it was not.
I had to switch to *** when
My stomach started to rot.

I also served cheap beer,
The cheapest I could find.
Between the wine and beer
It’s lucky today I’m not blind.
And food was also frugal
Mostly chips and salsa hot.
Stoners aren’t that choosy.
Gourmands we were not.

Of course we all had our own
Personal marijuana stash.
Its quality depended on
The amount of available cash.
But one of us was a dealer
Or sometimes there were two.
They always brought a supply
To sell, that’s what they do.

We laughed and roared and
Someone always had a guitar
It is nineteen seventy two
And that’s how conditions are.
Some of us had jobs back then
But most were floating around.
It’s hard to be a stable soul
With no feet on the ground.
Between then, choosy bull, and now
When you did throw me apace over
For some smarter and lovelier cow;
I've become the brightest and a killer.
Valsa George Aug 2016
What has come over me of late
The sound of falling footsteps behind
Sends all my senses on a strike
Leaving me with thunderous pounding of the heart
My mind then buzzes with thoughts and I go dizzy
Why this happens to me every now and then
Is this what you call love?

Why I nurse the aura of a beautiful dream
Why I see the Earth wearing new shades
Why I feel the wind whispering to me a new tale
Why I doubt if there is greater melody in the twitter of birds
Why do I feel this moment intoxicating
Never have I felt like this before
Is this what you call love?

Of late I run to the mirror more often
Am I becoming another Narcissus
Falling in love with my own image
Why do I become so choosy in my dress
Why do I look around to see if anyone has seen me smiling to myself
I wonder what has happened to me these days
Is this what you call love?

Why do I see stars on a bare night sky
Why I feel the night air indolently fragrant
Why sleep eludes me even at the wee hours of the night
Making me sit delirious by the window
Hoping to catch the glimpse of a shadow
Why this happens night after night
Is this what you call love?

Why my mind wanders like an unattended kite
I grow excited, I grow restless
I grow impatient with time
Sometimes anxiety grips me
I sink and rise in the ocean of my moods
There is a visible change in me
Is this what you call love?
Vish Jun 2013
The sarcastic talk. Your taunts that flock
The short tempered you! You just make me follow you!
Like the turbulent storm, you’re rough and uptight
But when I look into your eyes, you’re just a small mice.
The agitated you get, with the silliest things around,
The tantrums you throw, like a circus clown
You sure have the energy to take a bear down!
The choosy you get, with outstanding reasons, I bet
Surly makes my stomach upset.
But if I look at you and I see a little frown,
Don’t’ worry baby, I’ll tilt the world upside down!
The witty words, and the pranks you play,
Even kids would be in dismay.
The indecisive you get, with the simplest of choice,
I begin to hear your head voice.
The reasons you give when you get caught
Makes my all senses clot!
But when you know, that I’m upset; you give me that hug…
And then I feel like I’m your love bug.
In the end, all said and done
You’re my favorite, you’re the one…
Damaré M Apr 2013
I can see through your eyes

Dark pigment
Surrounded by a colorless horizon

Lids and lashes act as curtains

But as you become surprised they rise
...
Your eyes are wide

The reflection I get makes me think that I'm in the picture
But reality tell me that everyone else sees themselves within you

I can see through your eyes , but I can't tell who you're looking forward to

Contenders
Applicants
Aspirants

Do we all make your eyes sparkle or is that just the only thing that divorces me from the other prospects?

The other prospects keep looking just as I do, so I know that it is something that they want

...Your eyes

Your eyes become my shining gold when your cheeks elevate and suppress , leaving wrinkles right next

Your upside down rainbow, I mean ... your smile

So kaleidoscopic and polychromatic

Dynamic and emphatic

What creature wouldn't be attracted?
...
Umm
Whatever natural specimen with a good sight that can see through your eyes.

Someone with similar vision, but nonidentical decisions to I

I know your smile is moody
Your heart is choosy
And your eyes are gluey

And yet I dissociate myself from your gallery

Believing some day that you'll just shut your eyes and become blind to all the other guys

How do I disregard the signs that I'm instructed while seeing through your eyes

The signs that show me how you flourish off of all the concentration that you get

I'm posing inside of a picture that I know is framed by faces that do not have placement

Your art steadily draws attention
so as soon as you get glimpses
You start your bidding

Your craft is so worthy but so inexpensive

As if you put your body up for sale and mark down the price, only to stay top seller to the cheap consumers

How do you allow to have a allowance upon yourself; moreover, place yourself on clearance

The real question is why do I window shop knowing that the quality of the product is so unreliable

I don't think I really wanna see, what I really see when looking through your eyes

Wishing you weren't so prideful about your high demand of men

If yu weren't so disdainful maybe you'll blink more often and try to
Shun from keeping eye contact with me

Instead you proudly advertise yourself as the best deal yet

I hate that I can see through your eyes

Because I hate to witness a beautiful woman with such a bargaining mind
Wayne Cheah Dec 2010
Amelia, our baby first,
in nine  months have grown a third;
no speech, no talkie,
all she wants is walkie-walkie.

Being our first we naturally debate,
on how best to educate;
dolls for girls and guns for boys,
what nonsense, toys are toys.

Will she a doctor, lawyer or housewife be,
I live long hope to see;
right now she is just naughty,
and breaks the dining cutlery.

Of food she is choosy,
and eats most daintily;
she is chubby and she is fair,
we only lament her lack of hair.

Every now and then a few steps she takes,
tip-toe grace does not a ballerina makes;
like all parents our hopes high burn,
to a swan, our little Amelia turns.

Knowing games played by Fate,
we have decided, now of late;
to take the profit with the loss,
to let nature takes it's course.

The things of value we provide,
the self-life chart she decides;
this happy burden, we dare say,
is gladly borne, day-to-day.

As we look on her behalf,
down life's long and winding path;
we can only say, with a sigh,
sweet dreams and goodnight.
Martin Narrod Feb 2014
Hours. Back. Tideless extreme. Gaunt. Happy face, good luck, forever ago. A go-go. Breakfast. Preference. Slip stream mock tidal bliss. Humpback seal stardom, infinite provocative immortal. Catches me. In between the teeth. Cool, Mach 3. Sumptuous extravagant human meat, flesh game. The flesh game. Heroes air-freight. Wash cloth. Hot breaths. 'ths' and plastic bag I-280 North ***** and sudatorium.

Pick a pepper.
Cow Palace.
Moth ***** and mouth *****.
Tea bags and sore throats.
Presumptuous candid                                            story-telling anomalies, trite

/masterful caustic limping brick-pedaling life-goers in major metropolis wearing leather sandals, whistling\

Whistling deep cavernous chasm bellowing hollowing, in out in out arithmetic.
        
                                                                                        Sand gathers boulders.

Women gather warmer wethers. The weathered. That ton. One of the asinine                                        

                                                        and aesthete.

Curious. Before
clause. The story god.
                                                        The kick of Achilles

                 and the Satan prance. Bleat of the squeeze.
                                        Course set. Picking up the pieces and going spelunking. French maid syndrome. Wan. Wielding the anatomical dollar of the "this-just-didn't-work" childhood.

                                                                                                Wears gloves. Has colds.

Breaks molds, and reads fortune cookies.

Limps                            lifeless, heavy as a Tuesday and digging its own grave. It owns gray. It

makes
meals
and carries them through broken towns,
over smoky ridges,
helping out and just- helping.

The line wakes it.                                        One traffic light.   Three thousand three hundred lakes.

Steals a cell phone. Goes quiet for days in the forest.

Kills a wild pig. Bares a feral hog.

Opens up a can of sour condensed milk and still makes caramels. The open fire. The children gasping and favoring the brave. The score is limitless.



Hours go by.

                                                        ...    ­                                      ...

                      ­                    ...

                                        ­                                            ...

Mites dig into the skins, and the shins of the subtle. The men come back. The palm fronds make excellent roofs. Raised. Reared. Canned food makes abhorrent constipation forest dwelling; syndrome. And excrement. The crowns carry over.

The bejeweled mid-rim equator

                                                               ­                                                 providence.


Ki­ng and queen.
Prince and princess. Knees bend and over and over. Mirthy trammeled lots. Egg white clouds scurry through towns scurrying through. The bastion wall. A romance connecting. Two lovers. The lot. A burrow in the ground. Short-haired hares: run, jump, skip. Life settles. No one comes back. The skin starts to itch. Gratitude is and is not. Worry steps in. The chimes glow through the rorschach tree tops. Fires and combustion. Great oversized bells. Who hears the ringing?

The canopy overcome with splinters, the eyebrows are furnaces that never spit out the light.

Spectacular plight. Unbelievable nights. Feeling fowl in the palms of another                                                        
                                                                        land where weirs and wilds
and roaring waterfalls
                                                decorated with cowards collecting honey
                                                                                                              combs
through hair-strainers, so brave    soo brave, to brave, to hunter-gatherer
African mission-syndrome types in white long coats and sometimes and dangerously called doctors. Do not stop for lines. Do not stop for lions. Or

                        when stuck in the cauldron of the c t a         & cia

do not weave heavily through traffic, railing divorce into the cellular phone of man        . NO ZHE DOES NOT. NO.

No one eats, anymore.
The pleasure is moved.
The happy have landed.
The girl of my dreams is foretelling, foretold. She climbs into a lunchbox and heads to work. She digs her nails into her skirt and chimes for dinner.

All is sentimental and elementary. No one is everyone. There is something human in the air.

Something cumin in the water. I love in French in English. In Germanic.

I'm in the water. Feet stuck in the mud. Hands flailing, I'm naked contemplating making shark moves, one hand flat-out, vertical, putting on a show for ducks and swallows.

The women return. The girls come back. Catastrophe and the merriment of the seven deadly fellows.

I run around Sue
and move back.                         I come to the coast to see what's the matter. It's blue. A cinder blanketed snow home. An igloo. An ice tale of curiosity, of  

                two cities, twisted cities. Mad dragons and weirder wizards that rear silver and portage the weirs of Elk Grove, thru the elk homes
humming bizarre cantatas, making Raspberry jellish and relishing

inthelast
lightsofthemorning

of an

interruption. The wanton exercise. The carnivorous machismo.
We work out with our quirks out and lead with the flaws. A tailored finite saw. A ringing through the air. Who can hear the ringing?                

Makes the men to swine, to mew muses. And get choosy on cabooses while

saving Moose.

                                                  maybe like Salvatore Dali would have done

He would halve none of it and brim over with it all.
Make cape flight from coastal waters. Riding the thermal winds of

North Africa, Tomato, and Japan;                              

BEARDEDfrogOFprinceGENEALOGYneededTOO     ...  ...  ... ....  .. . . ... ..

To sew buttons. To bring the water from the well. The shrimp from the levy. We all go to war on Sundays. We hate on Tuesdays,





but the women never come with the water.


                         [now you're supposed to ask if they keep it for themselves]

sad-leis         'end nose.'

I can't but we can. You don't and I hate you for it.

I smell you on socks

                                                          ­                          .On pillowcases and bullet casings. I'm hot and hard to handle. I lay down in front of forklifts trying to bulldoze shopping malls. I am too and too sentimental. I have a 25¢ ring from a vending machine. I love it. I love you. I go to the bottom room. Blue carpet. **** carpet. Tilted blinds. I find the moors and the heaven. I put my books and a sweater in a sack and I start moving. No ones ever seen me move like this. It's like I had revolution for breakfast. I sip a small glass of orange juice. Orange colored juice. I'm off like a stereo and walking through and through up into a story. I'm making life easy with my purple crayon. I draw a canyon and a boat too. The boat can't float so I draw myself an ocean, a coastline. I call out for my friends and no one is there, so I draw friends. I draw the seashore, the plateau. I make other ships. I shift in my seat, it's uncomfortable so I make it leather. I write a letter but it flies away with a pigeon. I'm stuck on a peninsula, crying. On the front step of a friend's tenement and I'm sobbing. I'm waiting for the waif and she's not coming. I think her over with coffee all alone in a diner, and eventually I have to leave. I trail like an autumn sun, splashing bits of earth with my tepid light. I plash in the sea and still I'm very alone. I run my fingers through my hair and find a find a crown to make myself king. I'm heir to my own home, but it's not good enough. It never was. I grow curiouser and curiouser. I don't know what to do, I'm without. I'm without use. Eight months on top of six years, on top of the second floor of a third floor building, it's hot, and I'm locked out, I'm fighting off weakness and indecision. I'm starving and I haven't eaten in days. I'm confused and the ******* seems the rite. I've got no one to call and I start swimming. I start swimming in circles. I get verbal. I start crawling and drawling and soon I'm weeping in a brutal drawl. And I can't hear you. And all I have is the coastline and the ocean, a plateau,

a yacht club full of empty vessels. A flotilla of friends but there's


eh                                                            ­                        eve             nobody home.

And I see you. I meet you. I mean to meet you. But I can't. I can't move or be moved. I can't speak or be made to speak. I am gripped by your love and yet wrapped in fear. In the rapture of fear. Its rancor grips me. So I stand up. I'm halved and naked and half naked. In the sea. And I see you.

And I seem you, to me. I seam you to me.
Brent Kincaid Feb 2015
ATYPICAL GAY GUY

I am an atypical gay guy
I don’t match any mold.
I am not young any more
But not in any way old.
Too fem to be a he-man
Too butch to be a queen.
I am neither fish nor fowl
Always Mr. In-Between.

I do love my show tunes
And of course Miss Babs
And I do put a bit of product
In my hair, just a few dabs.
I don’t haunt the health clubs
Flexing on the big machines
Trying to bring to vapors
Our local workout queens.

I do like to cook a little bit
But, my house is usually a mess.
I don’t like angora sweaters
And would never wear a dress.
You couldn’t really peg me
By the way I usually walk.
I don’t lisp or squeal, so
It’s a manly way I talk.

I do cruise quite normally
When hot guys walk by me.
But, I try my best to do so
Undetected, and slyly.
My taste in men does not
Run to muscled guys.
When I see someone pass
I first look at his eyes.

It’s hard to get me into bed,
I am really rather choosy.
I don’t do promiscuity,
Not a backdoor loosey-goosey.
So don’t go giving birthday gifts
Of dildoes and leather goods.
You won’t find me in costumes
Like rubber and leather hoods.


I am an atypical gay guy
I don’t match any mold.
I am not young any more
But not in any way old.
Too fem to be a he-man
Too butch to be a queen.
I am neither fish nor fowl
Always Mr. In-Between.

Brent Kincaid
1/27/2015
atypical gay male butch manly
Manonsi Oct 2013
Choosy, contemplating all options,
or even disdainfully passing
by without so much as a look,

Is how they see her, laughing
awkwardly, when they suggest
spells and love potions.

All is in jest.
But why is she alone?

Always quiet, unfathomable gaze.
Hides worlds in her sighs
when she shields neath a book.

If they knew of the thirst
the fire
bursts

Love is a stranger to her
Daftly escaping everyone's tries
of introduction, under
pressure, nimble lies
when they fail.

Is that why
she is alone?
Bryan Dahl Sep 2013
You understand what suits you,
Choosing from tailors present or past,
Preferring not the uniform.
Whose robes to **** this trip?
Adding their layers to the shadow below.

Fashion a style, accordingly-
Another fearless, determined Oxford man
In a pink suit.

Style a fashion, apathetically-
A filthy, disheveled codger, trudging
From one unmanageable apartment to another,
Writing music in his mind, never hearing it,
Changing the world forever.

Or,
Owning only a pair of each-
Black shoes, tights, and tops,
And seventeen brightly colored scarves,
Wear your heart on your sleeve.
The most priceless accessory for spending
Retirement in Somalia with the children.

Being choosy in dress and shadows,
Remember seasons None too original,
Choose fear or love.
Suit yourself.
Poetic T Mar 2016
I tied you to the boot of this stolen car, what a pile
of rust but beggars cant be choosy, you do beg but I
chose this place specifically don't worry I tied you
to an old fords car door,  let the fun now begin.

I put the peddle to the metal, I hear you screaming in
anticipation of what happens next. Got to love speed
bumps, 30, 40, 60 then I brake just before swerving
so you sail past then you fly. Screaming all the way.

"I found ford doors have the right weight ratio to land
door side up Skoda's, Audi,

"No,
"The mess of so many to clean up road pastry is not the
easiest to clean away, slinters in my fingers hurt like hell ,


They fly through the air I see them just before some with
eyes closed fear etched on the sweat dripping or is that
tears? I put a three pronged circle to see where they finish
up. Each has a consequence, red, orange and green.

"You land in the outer dam, out comes the penalty stick,

Not many survive that, as I am angry for ill landings a lack
off at least trying, I warn them but some just cry till I give
them a good few whacks. I know silly but I do little sound
effects "bang, bang, splat, then silence and twitching

"Bang, "I hate those that just linger and twitch die already,

Now orange that's ok at least the next one tried, but not hard
enough,I give you a two pronged choice, gouge your sight out
with a spoon or a fork "what at least I'm giving them a choice,
now they scream but some got ***** it must be said.

Some do it, see no evil you know what I'm saying hanging tears
of claret weep from there now semi vacant sockets, and still
they try to blink "look at me, as their head rise, but their still
staring at the floor and I prune the with but two snips. Some
survive others just clutch to a chest and like that "DEAD,

Now those that survive, well lets just say I am a man of my
word I put them in the car to the safety I promise, I talk to
them but understandably their not in the talking mood,
I give them water to hydrate and replenish lost liquid that
has others wise bleed slowly out, and some even say "thank you,

Now what can I say luck, skill, survival instinct but so few have
done it, like a four leaf clover they land in the pastures of green.
I jump up and down like a child at the fair who just won the
big dinosaur on the very first try, punching the air and a very loud
"Hell ye that's what I'm talking about baby,
Then kiss um on the forehead, lips are to personal for my profession.

I tell them what skills what entertainment for some as twisted as it
seems liked what I did, a few even asked for double or nothing.
But luck only goes so far and then the regrettably the penalty stick
came out, I do the sign of L on my forehead then their silent once again.

But those who sighed with relief, as I promised were released, at the
end of a gun mind you a bottle of water given gratefully drank,
then on their merry way, I bid them fair well and as that they never
Divulge this incident as I have their wallets, purses even email
you never no maybe bored and recollect our good times past tense
of course for we all must face what is inevitable,

"Life is moments, where death is a breath that will always last,  

But as is death, freedom is a fleeting moment, and a mind changes
like the wind different direction, different path. Trial and error were
key, things that mattered "weight, height, ***, all factors in the
end result of what is like a momentary freedom to the air then
realization as they descend to a finite moment of death.

I always picked those that drove, why easier to cover tracks of
what was perused in my desires for a unique way to challenge
others need to survive. To breath another moment to exist in this
time of now not to pass. But life is fickle and my fun must last.

I always made sure that they drank the water, a necessity of
what came next ever drop drank, if denied then you guessed
it, penalty stick then "Dam, I do love my sound effects.
But released those with sight no knowledge of their ill fate.

Those I killed in the drivers seat pick a place where
gravity would take president in this delicate manoeuvre
so that they would go through what was needed a accident
of fatal consequence. Then on to the living that was next.


Like jack they rolled down the hill till unconscious they fell,
this little automobile swerving,  ricocheting off boundary and
wall till wheels graced air and the reeve of the engine heard.
A little gift of what was left in the boot a full tank of petrol
and the lid so loosely covered, accidents do happen.

I did one more thing I doubt they noticed there cigarette
lighter engineered to be so slightly hot, just like porridge
to hot would be seen and felt, to cold and would be a waste
of battery not enough, but warmth enough to ignite an
accident in the back and I firework of flames birth forth.

Some exploded they were the best, while others tumbled
flame and wreckage spread out what a mess. I always chose
the location, never the same suspicion would fall and my
fun would expire and probably my life snuffed out in a
breath. always cliffs near by and wall was best.

Now I bid you farewell as other circles must be drawn.
New doors must be had, who will hit the bulls-eye or
who will fail the test. I'll try two doors at once spice
up life's fun a little who will hit green and who will
be the one who twitches and then "Bang, silence is best.
Raphael Uzor Feb 2014
Strange woman, cheerful and chase
Charming as cheerleaders, choosy with cheese
Attractive, pleasing, ballsy and proud
But she'll crash you down to the ground.

Strange woman, fine as flour
Free as fire, and fair as flowers
Luring, tempting, **** and all
But she'll break your body and soul.

Strange woman, soft as silk
Sleek as snakes, and sweet as sweets
Alluring, teasing, luscious as oil
But she'll wreck your marital spoils.

© Raphael Uzor
Inspired by Proverbs 5
Dedicated to all married men.
Joseph Perales Feb 2011
I wish you knew me
but you see through me
straight to the other side

I wish you were into me
that you might peruse me
date until the day I died

I wish you'd come to me
but you eschew me
hate me with all your pride

but you're a beauty
who lives so cruelly
so fate just won't collide

being so snooty
and so very choosy
create ugliness inside

thank God you did exclude me
continued to elude me
you'd equate to an awful bride

so I found a new she
one who has renewed me
my mate forever by my side
Judy Ponceby Jan 2011
Out on the town
Looking real snazzy.
Hearing the music,
Sounds quite jazzy.

Look over there,
They aren't so choosy.
Bet they buy a drink,
For this old floozie.

Getting all loopy,
Beginning to schmoozie,
Liquored up,
And feeling quite oozie.

Swaying to the music,
Holding on tight,
Hope to stay standing,
But losing the fight.
Razzy. Jazzy.  Schmoozie.  Oozie.  Floozie. Snazzy.  Choosy.
From the slums and crumbs a knuckle head acting dumb
Succumb to the worlds sinister ways and these days
Fools quick to spray words a verbal arsenal take it personal flashin' pistols
Now another funerals laid cops paid
To do the same thing the hood doing to us
Design for us to die fast and in a hurry bury by drains I'm talkin' Curry deep range thoughts circling as swang in my woodgrain
Steering wheel now tell can me can ya feel the Southside the real
-'ist poets ain't made for rest so test if ya want watch the pain come and haunt
Shatterin' your every move y'all don't wanna duel
Still playin' the hearts of madness yo they stay fools
I play a mule nice but come off cruel
Keep it smoother than a jazz solo
Oh no take another puff of the cocoa so...


Adjust my crown at the top far from a slop
Enemies get the casket prop it don't stop
Rhymes drop keep it movin' like it's hot
Too touch flows I crutch choose women like Hutch
Ya know I'm finna clutch
Victory it ain't a mystery so many haters gall after me cuz I **** em easily
Rollin' rillaz and hang with killaz scrappin' for scrillaz
Skipped school to hang with the local dealers feelin' iller
Than the next man knockin' any **** and who can?
Stop the south side for running and gunning
We'll still keep hunting so keep stunting
Alberta stand up we mobbin' up black Caesar style
Problem child since I seen the devil's smile
Problems pile check my style
Killer rhymes like Mike I'll make ta fadeway once the words I say
Is laid to a track
The man in black with that mack attack so all ya hataz sit back
The world is so big,
never thought it could hold so much
So many places to go,
but I never find my way home

Maybe I'm too picky-choosy
thinking nothing's good enough
Maybe I'm too prideful
or foolish to know that

Your love is my home
Your hands hold my reality
Your peace is my resting place,
                  nothing could replace
The home I have in You.

Even though I was lost
so caught up in my own world
You held my hand
and I knew it was always Your plan.

Your love is my home
Your hands hold my reality
Your peace is my resting place,
                       nothing could replace
The home I have in You.

I'm slowly realizing
slowly figuring out
That all my days of hiding
You were what life was about.

I'm taking responsibility
for the life You've called to own
For the only way I can make it
is to acknowledge Your love is home.
Lindsay Thomas Dec 2015
Who was the first person to decide
what's right and what's wrong?
Not the picky choosy **** we think
Came straight from the Bible.
The book that's been translated across
many languages, cultures, and general
beliefs?
I mean the first person.
The first group of people that decided
having a full life is wrong.
Being yourself is wrong.
Wanting is wrong.
Yearning, dreaming, achieving...
All wrong.
Who decided being a woman
was so wrong that we should be condemned?
I should be able to **** who I want
and not be defined by my "number".
I shouldn't have to be asked that question.
I should be getting high-fived for having
Consensual *** with the guy who
makes my coffee.
I should be applauded for having ***
with multiple men.
I should be shown the same level of
respect as any man out there.
But my number is vital, isn't it?
Well, I say **** all of that.
**** a whole bunch of it.
**** anyone you want.
******* do anything you want to do.
Don't hurt anyone, and it shouldn't
be anyone's ******* business but yours.
Jesus ******* Christ.
**** him, too.
**** any imaginary thing you want.
That's what ******* is for.
**** yourself, for God's sake!
He wanted his people to be happy, right?
Free yourself from the chains of
modern society!
Find people just like you, and don't let them go.
They will be strong for you,
hold their heads high for you.
Defend you against nay-sayers and party poopers.
Stand behind you when confronted with
mass objection.
We are the lovers, and the fighters,
and we are many.
Band together and **** society.
You know,
For God's sake.

lmt
not behind everything is my hand
not everything even I understand
I try to craft from chaos some order
leave some unfinished some on the border.

my home though cosmos I reside within
without being choosy about skin and sin
the good and the bad I have to take along
like I take in my stride all right and wrong.

if you have faith I make some sense
to the faithless I'm just nonsense
so made I'm no grudge can harbor
satan and angel find my favor.

I feel burdened when see the mankind
finding in everything my hidden hand
not realizing if only I had a magic wand
would have made this world an unblemished land.
I don't understand why we're all so young and afraid of getting hurt.
Like **** that fam, we're resilient, we'll heal.
I have no doubt about it- because I've survived so much more than I thought I possible.
You see to me, a young heartbreak is an irrisitible temptation.
Almost as tempting as kissing your lips when you lie next to me,
at night,
smelling of cheap cigarettes and *****.
During the afternoon, when the sun floods my room the way your presence floods into the essence of my being- with no remorse.  
During the times we've choosen not to tell anyone about,
because we're just friends.

I'm not about this thing of loving people with half my heart though -which is why being your friend feels like torture.
You see, I cant love anyone with half my heart,
take the whole danm thing and break it.

Please, I beg this much of you,
because I can handle it,
I can handle so much more than you give me credit for.
I can handle the curve of your naked back
and I know this, not because you've given me the chance to do so,
but because I can handle you when you're fully clothed yelling at me.
And its like you yell louder with each fight, because there's an undercurrent in your voice I've come to recognize as fear,
because I've begun to get too close
and even though you seem strong you're probably more fragile than the bottle of gin that chills on your desk that you emptied a week ago during our last fight.
And it's like you yell louder with each fight because you can't understand why I haven't left yet and in truth I can't understand it either.
I can't articulate it properly but I have a feeling it has to do with the way that you begged me not to leave once,
begged me to stay at 3AM.
Begged me in the most raw way-
I think it was birthed then, my desire not to leave.

See my friend,
I've come to understand your silence more than your words
because you are so ******* choosy when it comes to your words,
and so calculated in your actions,
that your silence speaks to me the loudest.
Your yelling doesn't scare me anymore and neither does your silence.

You were silent that night after our last fight you know,
once you'd calmed down and collapsed into the bed next to me.
You were silent as you pulled me closer,
silent when you choked back tears that night that you thought I didn't see.
I can handle it,
I can handle you
the bird sang to the hurricane.

You see, your silence speaks to me right?
and in your silence you've already left finger prints on my heart ,
so why leave my body untouched?

So I won't be silent around you like I normally am, hear me now babe- take my heart and break it,
break it without fear,
because I don't expect you not to.
What I do expect is for you to understand the fact that I can handle heartbreak
because I'm volunteering myself for the renewal which will come in your wake.

I anticipate you littering your love on the landscape of my heart.
I anticipate the death of our love at your hands,
because I was dead to the idea of loving again before you,
I closed my eyes when I noticed that you'd resurrected empires in the darkest parts of me.
I closed my eyes when you started to breathe life into my brokenness.
I closed my eyes when you started to plant flowers in the rough terrain left by those before you.
I closed my eyes to all your love because you speak to me in ways that I don't quite understand
and have satisfied me in ways I didn't know I craved.

And I crave you in your absence,
not the flesh that you've withheld from me- not for a second.
No,
rather your naked spirit.
Snippets of which you've revealed in moments that you're too drunk to remember.
I crave the love that you're too scared to show me.
Show me your scars
and I'll show you the gruesome ones I've gotten from people I've long since forgotten.
Show me your nature
the winter howled to the heart of summer.

Because you see my love I can't live in fear,
I cant live for the "if only"'s
because they will devour me in a way far more vicious than your love ever could.

So come my love,
come before the Summer ends.
Come teach me a new language of love that only you and I will understand.
Come teach me a new dialect that will die with you and I alone.
Come teach me your ways...
the light whispered to the darkness.

Do me this one favour, destroy me for my art.
Be the hurricane that we both know you are.

And in return I'll do you a favour,
I'll be wildfire,
I'll be a tornado,
I'll be a tsunami,
I'll be a natural disaster,
And my love will speak to you in a way that only you could understand.
Gaye Sep 2015
I wrote them, he did not write back,
The walls of the buildings bore his name
and the jammed rhymes swam
at the tip of his pen,
they did not recall his youth
neither did I.

I sat back on the arms of my pillow,
he has become the city, the
restless street and restoring noise
I ran away from. The first grade corner
and kneeling nostalgia rushed
the doorway, vanished.

He absorbed the flames, lifted
the loops around my legs and my
mix matched shoes. The choosy
memory ripped off my rib cage
and filled it with
deep-deep golden moments.

When did he defictionalize my
September?
I never felt his hands or the mind
or his vertebrated little words but
The city, its lights and the marks
and traces
stagnated my baked brain.

Today I feel uninvited,
I miss the way I mused over his
******* youth, the music of
his wine soaked eyes and
the flawless silence he embraced.
Like always
He has become another cotton seed
Lost after my September.
David Ehrgott Nov 2014
She thinks I'm crazy
but, she thanks me just the same

sez, she's got dance class
and I say "I've got t.v."

She's gone about an hour
Now the bubbles blow my brain

I try to get her out of my head
but it's not easy

Not the friendliest face to look at
but, hey you know what they say

Beggars can't be choosy choo-choo
Climb aboard and ride that train

That crazy train train to nowhere
Oh! that was yesterday

and it's everywhere
Ann M Johnson Oct 2013
I went out with a friend for a night on the town
She said you are single, you should mingle
I know just the place you should try The Lonely Hearts Club
She dropped me off something came up she had to run, she said have fun, call me when your done
I found a seat looked at the menu, saw that prices were cheap and placed an order
The place was in disorder the music was too loud, having dinner for one did not seem to fun
I decided to wait until dinner was through to see if things would improve
I saw that some poor guy nearby spilled his drink all over a gal close to him
To make matters worse he walked up to me, He smelled of alcohol and cheap cigars
  He blurted out that he thought he would take a change and ask me to dance
  He also exclaimed that he was also looking for romance and asked for my name
  I told him I am choosy because I'm no ******  I'm holding on waiting for Mr Right someday he will be in my sight
   I called my friend for a ride home, I left The Lonely Hearts club with my dignity intact
Sometimes when my friend and I go for a night out around town we get bugged by weird guys.
This story/ poem is inspired by that.
Brent Kincaid Jan 2017
When I was a youngster
It was too easy to trust
Older now, I’m choosy
And I feel I must
Pay attention to what
Folks say and what they do
Those who would abuse me
Must prove themselves true.

As I grew I noticed
How much was said was false.
I started then to learn
I had to learn the calls
Of those who were being
Just socially polite
And those who were cheaters
I saw that was not right.

But even the most polite
Of carefully chosen untruth
Seemed a bit off kilter
To the a questioning youth.
I learned I should never
Admit a dress made girls fat.
And I learned one could not
Call someone’s kid a brat.

But I never have gotten over
The strong public insistence
That I ignore their crimes.
To that I still feel resistance.
So, I can’t agree with anyone
When voted into public office.
I find myself being very hard
When so many of them are pompous.

I know I will never agree
To hate people who are different.
I guess the day I was born
I didn’t come with that equipment,
And even though friends
And family sought to teach me
How to be a bigoted ****,
The lessons didn’t reach me.
It's simple but not easy,
I am romantic but not crazy.
I wish I had been a little choosy,
Then my life would have been nothing but rosy.
You must be thinking why am I sounding breezy,
Saying such lines which are cheesy,
And disturbing you when you are so busy.
You want to get some sleep and you're already dizzy.
To you, it might seem a little hazy,
But you don't want to come out as nosey,
And you want us to remain cozy,
One wrong move can be lousy.
So, you smile and say, "she's simple but it's not going to be easy!!!"
Mitchell Jan 2013
The nurse attended the wounded in a damp moonlight
Some shot through the leg, the chest, the head
And the one's through the head she would close their eyes
With gentle fingers for the very last time

War was a way of life for many before it was televised taboo
We are the real thing now, but we forget how days were
Talk to another with a bigger stick who cannot talk the way you do
Go to their lands and try to change the work that is done with their hands
And pray that the graves not be too shallow or too deep for me and you

Death accepts everyone

Death is not racist
Bigoted
Or money-driven

Death is not choosy

And I saw the way he fell through the rocks when they tossed him over
There was a vigilance in the way he soared through the sky
That told me somehow - maybe in his eyes - that he didn't want to die
I ain't living if I'm not with you, but when were together I'm all torn apart
I'm a wicked man with wicked ways
And I know some day, some way, I'm gonna' pay

Take my letters
Their there on the window sill
See that picture?
That's of me
What I was doing there I can't really see
But take it
Take the letters and the picture
You get outta' here too
And don't let the door hit you

I heard a prayer through the crack of my door
Getting up to see what it was
All I saw in the dark was something move
Some people are born with the groove
And other's are born with something to prove
If I cared once, I care differently now
How young I am doesn't matter
Over the beat of the drum I can still hear the chatter

Goodnight to forgiveness and
Good morning to forgetting
Tishka Sep 2017
Someone once asked me
To describe you
They wanted an answer immediately
And they wanted a detailed one too

I attempted to find a way
To summarise your existence
And I asked them for another day
But they lack not persistence

Eventually they granted me
A minute amount of lenience
But quite frankly their request was preposterous
And a huge inconvenience

How do I describe someone
So full and complete
Yet so barren and cold
Someone without a heartbeat

I tried to tell them
I tried to tell them who you were
But my words tripped over my tongue
And their interest didn't stir

I played them some of your favourite music
Songs that meant something to you
But I must say they were quite choosy
They hated all the artists you knew

Perhaps they would appreciate a visual
Something to display your personality
You're such a colourful individual
I simply couldn't convey my thoughts ;        they didn't see what I see

I gave up
No one understood
They didn't know you like I did, dear
They didn't know they should

How could they have known
What they'd be missing out on
And now I'm out here on my own
Still cheering you on

And so I gave them a conclusion
In exchange for my release
"He's ripped at every edge
But he's a masterpiece"

No.
No they didn't get it
How could they ?
Did they ever ?

All I think about now
Is how to capture your essence
How to describe how wonderful it was
In your presence

We always did live in our own world, dear
And I know we saw it as our one
But sometimes I wonder what would've happened
If we let them in on the fun

You left me behind
Like something old replaced with something new
And now I'm left wondering
How to capture you
I've spent the better half of today naked, twisting and turning in front of the mirror, trying to decide why to love myself. Because when I scrunch my rib cage toward my hip on one side it stretches on the other? revealing a line of one-two-three-four protruding ribs I wish to make music on with a drumstick, and follow the curved line south to reveal a sturdy hip bone? eager to be knocked on, choosy on who to open for.
Riley Dec 2014
I think that even if I lowered my standards, I'd still be alone.

It's not my high expectations, my choosy nature that intimidates guys. I'm alone because of me, of who I am. Somehow undesirable.

I've heard it all before - "never find your value in how men treat you," "don't give up on standards that mean the most to you," "you're worth it." It all repeats in the back of my head, losing a bit of it's gravity with every revolution.

I know I have flaws. I'd have to be dim to overlook them. And I have high, impossibly high standards.

Maybe I'm not budging on either of those because I like my own misery. I like to torture myself, saying, if only he were better, if only I were better.

I've set myself so low and the bar so high, daring a boy to take the chance with such small victory in his success. The championship game of his life, and in the end, everyone asking, "that's all he gained?"
maybella snow Jun 2013
the sun            
a burning ball of gas
heating the universe                        
     warming earthlings
sun rays bringing light and warmth
like they always have
when                                                                                  
                                  did the ******* thing
               decide to be choosy                
                                  with who it properly warms?
             or brings light onto?                          

because lately                                                                  
i haven't felt warm
it hasn't been giving me light    

                            when did this happen?
       why is the sun picky?                    
is it something i've done?                                                          
                                               is it possible to offend the sun?
or is it simply protesting against me?

— The End —