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Big Virge Mar 2017
I ... REALLY LOVE ... *** ...
ESPECIALLY with ... My New girlfriend ... !!!

I Love ... women ...
but really can't be doing ....
with ... Arguments ... !!!

That's why ... My ... " Pen " ...
is my ... New girlfriend ...

We make ... " Love " ...
and Love the touch ...
of pen to page ....

When we ... Engage ...
It feels just like ...
A ... ****** High ...

NO ... NOT That Way ... !!!
You've got a ... SICK BRAIN ... !!!!!

There's Nothing ... quite like
**** ... Feminine Thighs ... !!!
but ... after *** ...
and ... Cigarettes ...

Some girls give ... STRESS ...
to their ... boyfriends ... !!! ...

That's why I like ...
to ... sit and write ...

Because ........

I Don't get stressed ...
by my ... New Girlfriend ...

Her name ... is ... " Pen " ...

NOT ... Penny ...
or ... Penelope ... !!!

Should I ...
say it again ... ?

My ... " Pen " ... is now
My New ... girlfriend ...
and YES ... we have ...
INCREDIBLE ... *** ... !!!!!!

The kind of ***
WITHOUT ... the stress ...
of ...... *** ......
or other types of ... STD's ... !!!!!

*** like this ...
is ... TRULY ... Bliss ... !!!

NO Condoms ...
and NO ... Colons ... !!!!!!!!!

Except ... for those ...
that fit in ... Prose ...

So ... NO ******* ...
and NO ... Mistakes ... !!!

Helping us to ... avoid ...
Long Term ... Headaches ... !!!

But ... EVEN If ...
by chance ... they do ...

Trust in this ... !!!

They're just ... " Removed " ...
Without ... tissues ... !!!

Or ... with trips ...
to ... " THOSE " ... Clinics ... !!!!!

If ... During ...
or ... because of ... *** ...
We make a ... Mistake ...

NO ... Pregnancy tests ... !!!
or ... Arguments ...

Our friend ... " Tipp-Ex " ...
is our ... " Best Mate " ...
Just like ... THAT ...
Mistake ... ERASED ... !!!!!!!!!!

I'm telling you ... Straight ...
Our *** is ... GREAT ... !!! ...

I think that ... Pen's ...
My New ... " Soulmate " ... !!!!!

She's ... " Tall and slim " ...
and at a ... " Whim " ...
Can change the colour ...
of her ... Skin ...

And ............... If I think ...
She's a bit .... " TOO BIG " ... !!!

She Doesn't ... fume ...
if she gets ... Ditched ...
for ... Another Pen ...
I choose to ... " Pick " ...

This simply is ...
The way of things ...
in our ... *** Relationship ...

" IT'S ... ONLY *** ! "

is what she says .........

but makes sure that ...
it's NEVER ... Bad ...
when she's attached ...
to my ... " Notepad " ... !!!!!!

She's ... QUALITY ... man ... !!!!!
and i'm ... SO GLAD ...
that she ... " Found Me " ...
Through ... " Poetry " ...

She told me ....

" Virge, I love your rap ... !!! "

but then ... Of course ...
I answered back ...

"Come on now Pen,
It's not just rap !
Don't get it confused
like certain crews !
This is something
Beautiful !
What we do,
leaves people moved,
just like you,
whenever you choose,
to *** it up,
in my front room !!!"

She simply said,

"Big Virge that's true !
How about this view ?
Your way with words
makes our love work !"

I'm ... Telling You ...... !!!

She's a ... SPECIAL ... girl ...
who makes me feel ...
On ... TOP OF THE WORLD ... !!!!!

She loves me with ...
Her heart ... FREELY ... !!!!!

and chooses to ....
Just .... let me be ........

Until it's time ...
to just ... recline ...
and let our souls ...
Make Love ... through scrolls ...

It's MORE THAN ... *** ...
when this .... Unfolds ......................

NO GIRL ... provides ...
Such ... " Loving " ... vibes ...
WITHOUT ... " Conditions " ...

That's ... THE CRIME ... !!!!!

Whenever I write ...
It's a ... JOYOUS ... Ride ... !!!

Even when ...
My Anger ... finds ...
A place within ....

" Poetic " ... lines ...

But ... EVEN ... then ...
" My Pen " ... Still Shines ... !!!!!

and let's me know ...

" Hey Virge it's fine
I'll Love You til',
the day you die !"

She is ..."  My LIGHT " ...
and my ... SUNSHINE ... !!!!!
and is ... " The Love " ...
that ... FILLS ... My Life ... !!!!!!

When I just .......... sit ...........
and HOLD ........ " My Pen " .......

She ALWAYS sends ...
My brain ... these scripts ...
that ... in the end ...
are ... Celestial Gifts ... !!!!!!!!!!

Negative ... or ... Positive
The balance reached ....

REJECTS ... needless
........... Vanity .........

but Welcomes ... MORE ...
.......... Humility ..........

That;s why ... The *** ...
is ... SO **** GOOD ... !!!!!

because ... My Pen ....
will NOT BE .... " Pulled " ...
Away from ... ME ...
for Cars ... Babies ...
or .... BIG MONEY .... !!!

She just ... " LOVES ME " ...
Through ... " Poetry " ...

Like My Mother ...
did ... DAILY ...

From ... UP ABOVE ...
These days ... My Mum's ...
STILL LOVING ... Me ...
Through ... " My Pen " ...

UNCONDITIONALLY ... !!!!!!

So ... NO WOMEN ...
NO ... Arguments ...

Just .....

Me and ... " My Pen " ...
as .... " ****** Friends " ...

Until ... I FIND ...
within ... " This World " ...

A Truly ... **** ...
SPECIAL Girl ...

Who ... in the end ...
when we're in ... Bed ...

Makes me ... " Feel " ...
just like ... " My Pen " ...

and makes these words ...
run through ... " My Head " ...

Because of her ... WOW ...

I Really ... Love *** ... !!!!!!!!!
As far from *** as you could imagine, but my love for this art is expressed in this piece
Sofia Paderes Mar 2016
You might not remember my goodbye, but there were white walls. Around 9pm, a handful of other people, and the beating of a silent angel’s wing.

You might not know this, but that wasn’t a goodbye. It was too rushed, too ******, not enough space for letters to form, full of run-ons, no commas, no semi-colons, very messy, no— that was the goodbye in my head, but what I actually managed to whisper was full of commas, full of semi-colons, had too much pauses. But no stops. No periods. My goodbye was unfinished.

It went something like,

“I love you… I won’t let anything happen to the place you love most…. I will write about you, about your family; I won’t let them forget about—”

See? My goodbye was an outline. With Roman numeral number one being "I love you..." so,


I. I love you

   A. I love you; what more is there to say?
   B. Here it is: I love you
   C. And I will continue to love you

       1. long after my tongue forgets how to say your name because I know I won’t be saying it out loud anymore

      2. long after your bed exhales the engraving of your body on its sheets and I forget what sleeping beside you feels like

      3. long after the sound of sirens and wars and famines and earthquakes try to push the sound of your radio out of my mind (I will miss that radio)


II. I won’t let anything happen to the place you love most

   A. where is the place you love most?

      1. I hope the place you love most is within reach and not somewhere I can't go to

      2. or maybe it’s the place you call home, or maybe it’s who you call home

      3. I hope the place you love most is somewhere where I’m next to you

   B. I hope I can keep this promise


III. I will write about you

   A. how you
      1. once ate tortang talong everyday for two years — simply because you loved it

      2. keep everything — that eleven year old bar of Safeguard you once showed me, the children’s picture book Bible you’ve had since you were nine, and my letters you never replied to… I remember always writing apologies for snapping at you, now I’m writing eulogies and I don’t know how to stop

   B. how you love

      1. not with your words —  maybe words tired you because people don’t always remember words exactly as they were, but they do remember the way they were looked at, and when you’d look at me like that, I was suddenly fine with the way you kept your I love yous to yourself; they spill from your eyes anyway

      2. with your hands — you liked to fix my messes: from algebra equations to broken picture frames; you liked to answer my questions: where is north? who were the other men on the moon? what did you say when you had to say goodbye? I never asked you that last question, but maybe I should have so that I would have been more prepared for this moment and not would not have to have said goodbye to you in the form of an outline

   C. about your family

      1. I will start writing about them once I’ve figured out how to stop writing about you

      2. so I guess I might never be able to write about them

IV. I won’t let them forget about



And here ends my goodbye because I decided that I would be undecided about what I won’t let people forget. Let me remind them freely, without a guide to follow, just things about you I only realize later on actually meant something. And now I realize that that goodbye holds a lot of promises, and I need to tell you honestly… these days… I don’t write about you and I don’t think about you and I don’t see you everywhere anymore. And sometimes I don’t miss you. And I don’t know if that is a sign that I have healed, or if I’ve just simply chosen to ignore the symptoms of something much worse. But these days I swear I’ve been trying. Trying to let you in my dreams again. Trying to write more fragments and phrases and outlines and fulfilled promises. Trying to let you make your way into my words again, until my goodbye becomes a see you later. Until I someday write you back.
I've always regretted not writing about my grandmother more. So here's me trying to write about her again.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
angry men who do not know I do not have a dollar or a cig to spare. Ugly irrefutable contagion-handed howlers. Angry mischievous heathens that pantomime on 6:00a.m. sidewalk, Wicker Park gallow stop-sign, choreographed gutter-punk drunk walk. And of all he wants and could ever want splits down his gooey membrane brain in the outline of a noun shaped fragment of a clause, "Couldja spare 80¢ for the train," but of course I don't spare on the ellipsis or the period. Semi-colons I won't! My rubber-bottomed leather boots lash out, heavy scraping sounds trail this mirrored shadow half an angle behind me.

*****!! Blonde framed sunglasses from American Apparel, a gift from my sister in a folded Ray-Ban case is scattered on last nights bedroom floor, my girlfriend has certainly not noticed, the gloom-coated morning sun spray has not noticed; but I have unzipped a fissure in the ocular lens. My heart skips a beat. Her bedroom might as well have swallowed them whole. Now the house can halt and have the shade, swaying in Spring air in 10:22a.m. shadows. The aviator himself Howard Hughes would strike me with his 488 aircraft. Edwin Starr in his invincible sinister calypso of War would turn me round. I was sturdy as a rock until I began to forget my forgottens. These unknown unknowns I knew I needed. I'm over a quarter-century on to noon going nowhere- and quite blindly.

But then, still she could stand upright and find me. Her neck crooked, looking onward through the East, the gristly roots of rhubarb buried in her searching fingernails. She's threaded worse, and of course if I could just tell her- this is the kind of nursing which requires acute temperament and flexibility. I am thus on a journey to strike nonsense and fear from the idiotic vocabulary that put this nonsense in my head. Split through me like a butter knife into my apotropaic. Perhaps tar water could cure my ails. If not, certainly a sliver of vanilla would set me straight. Or if could just rain rain rain all day, then I'd make do without, but she is at school. My pistons are racked and nervous, and I'm not going anywhere but my rucksack stoop. I am camped in midwestern Spring soup. Fog, rain, and shade. The nightmare of day.
Inspired by William Butler Yeats 'Beautiful Lofty Things'
Gene Dec 2016
I.
This is just another bad poem
Just vomited-thoughts-left-on-paper poem
This is a collection of grammatical errors
This would surely make my English teacher cringe
But no worries, I didn’t write this for her

II.
This bad poem is for you

May my subject and verb disagreement
remind you of all those misunderstandings that lead to raised voices
and nights where I cried myself to sleep

Sentence construction was never my strength, it still isn’t, maybe that’s why you never truly understood me—
called me difficult and bipolar
You said that I was too much

Did it ever occur to you that you might just misread me, like homonyms,
same words but with different meanings
misread my jealousy with accusations,
my concern for excessive affection

You said that I loved you too much
but darling, did you even love me at all?

Did I put too much meaning on your words,
turned them into similes and metaphors?
Turned your literal statements into figures of speech
You told me that you liked me,
so I blissfully interpreted it as a hyperbolic expression— called it love when obviously it wasn’t

III.
I was never good at using punctuations
I put too much commas,
unnecessary, misused, I kept trying to hold on
Afraid of the inevitable end,

Switched to semi-colons in an attempt to make it a few words longer

Because despite all our grammatical errors
no matter how shameful our piece of literature was to the English language

It was beautiful to the untrained eye,
To those who read poetry as it is
To those who don’t dig deep in search of true meaning behind the metaphors
It was beautiful to me

But I eventually learned that infinitives and infinities are different,
in spite of sharing infinite as the root word
Like our love,

started with something so promising
but unlike most novels,
there’s no happy ending

So I accepted defeat,
accepted the inevitable and bitter end
No more committing the same mistakes over and over again,
the same words over and over again,

Accepted the fact that synonyms existed,
words with the same meaning but also entirely different
new and unfamiliar, foreign and peculiar

IV.
I accepted defeat
No more commas or semi-colons
We have reached the couplet of our free formed sonnet—

I was never good with endings, I don’t think I’ll ever be,
So darling I hand you the pen, set us both free.
061016 / 6:36 pm
Steve D'Beard Jul 2014
Practicality is the reality
of ignominious totality
the devices of all sizes
and the grammatical mentality
of systematic duality.

Punctuation is the *******
the ******* of every generation
the permutation and saturation
of wordsmith temptation for re-calibration
the aberration and consternation
that leads to misinformation
and condemnation and annihilation
of the constellation colloquial conversation
the abomination of language urbanization
the fermentation and ionization
of linguistic complications
the desolation of commas and semi-colons
the affirmation of their vs they're
the augmentation of amalgamation
is just the lyrical *******
of a hooded basketball top nation
the culmination of devastation
the gestation and interpolation
that leads to appreciation isolation
and justification acceleration
the modification and assimilation
of poorly-worded implementation
and the contamination of myriad exploration
alienation in illumination
punctuation is the salvation of documentation
against the tides of violation
and the extermination of regurgitation
the classification of discrimination
and last but not least
the liberation of misrepresentation.
Joshua Haines May 2017
They tell me to lay down
and to please look at the fish.
Notice how they glide
in-and-out of the cool-blue
water; how they don't have
a care in the world -- they're
fish: one out of millions;
mindless; alone in packed
tanks; alone, jammed in
metal cans full of corpses
and low-quality mustard.

Putting the mask over my
perfect nostrils, my straight
teeth, they say Don't be afraid;
listen to my humming; how it
will blend with the high-pitch
screech you hear, now; becoming
an equilibrium of torture and
fantastical strangeness, unbound
by Gods, by Persons, by Loves.

Inside this perfect dark,
you cannot think beyond
the giant broad strokes that
is the world sweeping by --
and it is marvelous, the
buoyant miseries floating
above your head; my head
of ambivalent visions;
the Earth's core, a furiously
violent brilliance, ablaze
beneath my feet, under
layers of confounded
deathly masquerade; a
mask much like mine:
an egotistical reflection
brought out by one's
feeling of gigantic import-
-ance, despite hanging
from the vastest of ceilings;
a wannabe church in the sway
of jungle mind; primitive instinct.


***

You know you can wake up
  at this point, or so they say.
What does it all mean, to which
I murmur, I don't know. It's
hard to say what I know; if
anything, all I have is doubts.
All I can muster are regrets;
I wish I could return to that
perfect dark, confused and
semi-philosophical; all-
pretentious: a feeling of
being bound by brokenness.

They tell me to chill out;
you use semi-colons like
they're heartbeats. Focus
on whether your chest
holds validity.
Tim Bustin May 2014
To write a brilliant poem:
Use a concoction of ridiculous words.
Non-sensical message conveyed.  
Show off your manipulation to language.

Stop. And pause. And start again,
your repeated point no longer in tandem.
Then for some unknown reason ignore all logical structure and ask a question?

Darken your mood.
Randomly: use colons.
Where do; you use; semi-colons¿

Only poets admire your work.
The rests are ignorant gits,
who cannot see how your use of a thesaurus can bring upon untold bliss.

Reflect. Unreflect.
One or two words don’t quite make sense.

Finally summarise, your all-knowing point takes flight
Filled with silent anger; you’ve written utter sh**e.
Lou Feb 2019
2019
       was
              the
                     year
                          I was
                             to do
                                  more
                       ­        only
                              to
                         find
                      I
           should
      do 
less


One month in

I sent January flowers on the third day
without even telling him.
He needed it after that last week.

White roses.
To creep out the dead
and question the living stuck inches deep under water.

Thursdays were mine.
Everyone of them,
forever.

Fridays,
I fried colons in grease and became an adult
when I was thrilled to be greeted by the polished grill
adjacent to its elder and a former twin.

I became closer to gambling and God.
Or Mammon?
I am all of theirs at this time
and boy,
does it literally say I am not to love both.
Or all.

Also; January you child.

I know you were angry when you had to leave.
Three days cooped wasn't going to pluck a Buffalo.
All of those times you got away with building walls for fists.
Just target practice and misses every time.

Cut yourself shaving and cry for a month.
I don't shame you,
this is your voice,
only you spoke this long while
I let you ignore the roads of the west side for generations
and complain from the heated indoors of mine.
Staring at a bus stop

I'm singing already with her, February.

I given you addictions both grand and small.

One month of January,
thirty-one says and three now, February.
I Stand still; in frame of a calendar,
Reflecting deadlines on my face.
Dark circles around my eyes and dates.

It is due to be the fourth before I know it.

Twenty-five opportunities reside in secret paths.

I can't find possibility knowing her name other than, February.

Soon March.
My life and thoughts in Jan'19
Irate Watcher Jan 2015
Wake up vibrations,
stroke us kindly,
we’ll all be one someday,
singularity is just a timepiece.
Gotta sell the diamonds
to calibrate the cogs,
we’re digits livin in
clogged colons.
We cure MONOtony,
with medicinal MONOgamy,
mourning the cut cord of civility.

Oh, how I miss the vibrations
of those tribal jam sessions.
Maybe cause I didn’t record them
with voice memo boxes.
We’re living in boxes.
Driving in boxes.
Working in boxes.
Staring at boxes.
But beauty is roundness.
So help me measure the circumference of your face,
because I can’t tell where it begins and ends.
I will knit you a beenie come winter.
And we’ll skate upon this lake,
willing the ice to break.
Cause we are done being fake.
We are done telling people
where they should skate.
We are holding her hand
and his hand
and our own hand
when we hold hands.
Black Red White Yellow
they are all hands
with the power
to give and to take,
not just orate.
So give the politicians
the *******
and then join hands
break down rectangular gates.
Then, meditate.
We will wait for utopia,
but we won’t stand for things being the same.
And come spring when we re-awake,
we'll draw up a new constitution for
a consciousness revolution.
Let's start the year anew.
the Sandman Jul 2014
I punctuate with close precision,
aware of where
I'm placing my semi-colons and
dashes,
using Oxford commas
like a grammar geek.

Your punctuation always bothers me
but you, with your misplaced apostrophes
and oddly abbreviated words
that you cradle in speech marks,
never care.

You were constantly callous in your conduct,
your handling of punctuation marks.
I assumed you never understood
the significance I attached to your words.

I could feel the excitement
and anxiety and apprehension
build in my belly every time
with your exclamation points!

I could feel my brows furrow together
deep in confusion,
every time you sent me just
one little question mark?

I suppose I never did tell you this
but when last month you ended your sentence
(accidentally, of course) with a dash,
well, I knew then that we’d be for ever.

and when last week you sent me
a comma to end your speech
I knew for certain that
more was to come.

but I see now it was silly
to attach such hope to a hyphen
because yesterday you concluded
with the biggest full stop I've ever seen
and let me know that that was all.

I felt that period’s punch
deep inside my gut
like you were trying to make me
throw up my jam and toast.

I had never before known
one small,
simple
dot
to be so powerful
and hurt so much.

It did though,
and you couldn't even tell-
when words turn into worlds
strange things happen

paragraphs bend into globes
continents grow out of sentences
cultures start talking to each other
   clinging to colons and dashes

when words become worlds
these worlds create grammar
and modestly submit to its rules

whereas the real world of worlds
grows ungrammatically
and is more colorful
b for short Mar 2014
Oh, I see—you liked it when I used that big word, huh?
You want me to use some more?
Mm, let me just grab my pocket Thesaurus.
Yeah, that's right baby, I take it everywhere with me—
I find it quite useful in these… situations.

Right now, I could give you seven variations
of the word “****.”
Seductive
         Arousing
                Provocative
                          Se­nsuous
                 Mmhm, you liked that one, didn't you?
                    Libidinous
           Suggestive
Titillating…
You'd like more, I can tell,
but I need you to want it.

Let's go somewhere quiet
and thumb through
my college style manuals for a few hours.
We could talk about sentence variety,
the Oxford comma, some syntax,
and mm, if you're feeling real good,
maybe even discuss the proper usage of a semi-colon.

Just know, I've been saving semi-colons
for, you know, that special someone.

If things get a little steamy, we can go down to the basement
and I'll show you my Scrabble board.
I'll set you up for a triple-word score,
and you can put together some of those high-scoring,
two-letter words that really get me going.
Oh yeah, I think I'd be into your strategy.

When the game is over, I'll lean you back,
come in real close, and whisper some Neruda,
some Cummings,
some Dickinson
softly into your ear.
Afterward, I’ll trace lines of Hughes and Whitman
down your naked spine with my fingers.

I'm sure you know it's only polite
to return the favor.

It's just an idea.
I know it sounds good.
Trust me, I'll be gentle—
But baby, believe me—
I could punctuate you in all the right places.
© Bitsy Sanders, March 2014
Rachel Goad Mar 2013
You spoke to me with your
voice like Mia Farrow’s and
your eyes not at all like
trampolines. A tar twig
bobbed between your lips;
you spoke of self-destruction
and smoked your commas
and semi-colons. You asked me
questions with the least amount
of answers and the most amount
of space, like a widow’s home
adorned in compromise. The six
o’clock sun sprawled through.
You said I reminded you of how
we’re always treating people like
fractions, simplifying where we
should be unfurling equations.
I saw the dawn illuminate your
hiccups and your hesitations. I
took a kiss; I thought there’s
nothing more fleeting than
moments like this, but at least
you can’t run quickly with a
heart so full.
tread Jan 2013
Flashing numbers; this isn't a binary
sequence but the universe has got me
wondering. 01001011010101011
combinations of 2 create infinitesimally
complicated creatures, craters, croutons,
castrations, cancers, colons, concretes,
convulsions, corn-cobs. 'Where is my
mind' by the Pixies; wish I'd never heard
it before. No simile metaphor for what's
next, swooping ultraviolent. Almost like
skin being ripped off so I'm nothing but
bone and muscle. 'With your feet in the
air and your head on the ground,' the
dam snaps and floods my Amsterdam
cheeks like New Orleans; scrambling for
roof I drown. Scrambling for roof I drown.
'Try to trick and spin it, yeah,' polka-dots
and floaters; bacteria in my eye dives into
the ocean and makes me wonder which
flew bottom and rounded-dust to eat *****
on sea-floor. 'Your head will collapse, but
there's nothing in it, and you'll ask yourself,'
mashing cellphone numbers now; mashing
cellphone needed now dad pick up please pick
up worlds end pick up mom pick up I need
to know I'm real I need to know there's truth,
'where is my mind? Where is my mind? Whee
erre is my mind?' the world fades into itself and
what crosses mind is death but no, why? No,
need. Dad picks up to my heaving sobs. Rational,
collected. Collect call. World freezes.
I've been suffering with severe anxiety for the past year and a half. I recently had to request less hours at work as a result. It brings me a measure of peace if I know I can half-explain myself through poetry because otherwise, the panic attack is probably the most profoundly lonely experience known to man. It feels like you're the only person in the universe and the world is a figment of a solipsistic dream you're about to awake from. So I hope if you feel the same you can know that I do to, and we can be mutual in our realization of this-has-happened-before.
Jafer Ali Khan Jul 2018
Living in a different time zone, still reeling from past decisions.

Fighting venemous events to no avail,
not letting go of lasting mass incisions.

Excision of life's excitements.
Removal of my livers, kidneys, colons,
but still, I shiver in the coldness
of the living.

Admitting to the voices in my head,
that the Lord's mercy still extends,
into heaven for the choices of the dead,
who did the devil's bidding.

A foolish folly for a younger self,
to fall afoot amongst a rotten hell,
hellish landscape brought into the realm,
of mortals and the bedroom shelves.

All my dreams upon a table,
and in the dusty drawers there lies the pain.
Honestly I'm never able,
to entrust another lover with my reigns.

To fly I must begin to build momentum,
but something's caught up on me and instead preventing.

And slowing my ascension,

Also did I mention,
that every other moment that I spend here in atonement
is a ticking to a redder deathly sentence.

Repentance, with a mix of learned and unearned lessons, accuses those who lied.
Impresses extra stress especially when the ghostly men attend and lean up on my bedside.

I use to shy away but now I stare them in the eyes.

Fear's been long gone since childhood,
when crazy layovers in hazy places
played a part of strongly breaking bonds with those I thought were good.

I've felt my death a million times and dreamed it millions more.
And yet I never let myself fall victim to the final tricks of it's afflictions.

Meaning it's a situation still remaining unexplored.

I know what I lived for, and I know exists a future still in store.

But god ******* ****** life is such a chore.

Lord,
Give me strength and give me more.
Martine Jan 2013
Intangible computer guy

The one you trick yourself into feeling closest to,

When in reality he is the farthest away.

Hell, an entire ocean separates the two of you.

But none the less,

He has gained importance.

Your life has become so lack luster

That more and more you find anticipation rising

As you near your PC.

It practically singes your fingertips

As you reach for the keyboard

And paw at the mouse.

Your body is

Taken over by an infestation of cyber butterflies;

Flapping their steel bolted wings

So hard,

That they thin your breath in anticipation of his next paragraph

Of small talk words;

Adorned with innocent courtesies

And make-shift smiley faces of semi-colons and parentheses.


Perhaps you’re eager because of the complement he threw in near the end of his last message?

As you scroll slowly down the page,

You see that he has not replied

Even though it has been two days.

In that instant

you realize that “intangible computer guy”

Is only so intangible to you;

For on the other side of the Atlantic,

He lives a life that is real.

Maybe it is you who is intangible?

Your shell of a life has been a bit depressing as of late.

For you,

A 20 year old

Who should be having flings and going to parties,

Has only been kissed once and never been touched;

Stuck living a life not your own.

Maybe “intangible computer guy” is so real

That your pathetic life can’t fathom the fact that he has one too.

You realize this as the mild depression

That has been like an infestation of maggots,

Gnaws at your senses;

Causing your eyes to burn, redden and cry.

Yes.

You realize that with Mr. Computer Guy

You get the chance to be charming

And talk about yourself,

When in reality you can barely get a word in edgewise;

Too busy living for others

That you,

In a sense,

Have begun to fade.

Becoming almost…

Intangible.
Francis Nov 2023
The expectation,
Of you to accept the inhalation,
Of the evaporation,
Of someone else’s waste.

Make it make sense,
How the walls of stalls,
Fail to reach its maximum highs and lows,
For all of us to share what we release.

We listen to the air,
That flubs between *** cheeks,
Just as the **** projects deuces,
Into the bowl that cups the sound of wind.

We hear the moans and sighs,
Of relief, constipation and strain,
As we urinate nearby,
Adjacent to the incomplete **** shack.

Make it make sense,
How tasting the gases,
Of Joe Blow, blowing out his insides,
Is a customary to our community.

A sociological experiment,
Deemed to generate sociopathy,
As we laugh at the flatulence,
And giggle at one’s vulnerability.

Merely a forgotten fact,
That we have been there too,
We go there every day,
And pretend that others don’t do the same.

And without a mere act of courtesy,
The space is left filthier than the last,
Because why be considerate for the next?
Someone’s job is to cleanse my waste.

Furthermore is the neglect,
Of faucets, soap and towels,
Aimed to **** bacteria,
That exits biological passageways.

Why oh why,
Must I be forced to study,
Why this is simply unacceptable,
This concept of oversharing?

Recurring stage fright,
Readily apparent,
When forced to **** beside men,
More than double my size.

I’ll simply never understand,
How by design,
What we wouldn’t do in front of house guests,
Is something we are urged to do in front of strangers.

Bonding,
With a bunch of hairy, overweight men,
Who clear their throats, bladders and colons,
In my personal space.
Seriously, what the ****?
Michael W Noland Mar 2013
Imaginary adversaries are emanating from the alcohol to facebook walls, in temporary solutions for the vibes polluting my constitution, in the willful regrets atop my onset of contempt itching my temples cleft in my futures vision of itself.

I am myself and to no-one else do i answer unto hallow cancers ******* my bones away, and my mind astray in the straight laced fates of the other players who played their cards right, the same.

I go all in with the pocket deuces, atop intrusive verbal abuses, serving useless satire to the tired faces of try hards, bleeding of inadequacy.

Im a runon and on sentence of rambling weaponous vapors from the fragrant flatulence breaking from deflating colons, swollen like Noland's ego, when hes drunk and grumbling about life, lolling as he whines of the wines flavor, savoring the bitter for betterment of the sweet, neatly wrapped in sheets of plastic for later.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2018
that daft, the overworded: implictiness of
                                                                         fakery,
                         what is implictness by relativism,
                     has no explicit
"conversation" / dialectics,
  expressed indirectly via
a dependency of variables...
      as some might say:
we have rules, we have social norms...
the form, ex-,
  either odd or even,
         with regards to reiterating
numbers into words...
              explicit:
             expressed direcrtly via
an independent set of invariations...
        considering that in psychiatric terms
a depression, cannot be gesticulated
as such, "fathomable",
      easily understood / categorised
when an existential focus takes hold
of the "problem"...
             almost all psychiatric diagnostic
terms are shut off from
performing a medical practice,
when stated by: existentialist constraints...
              past the french schools,
and into the feral land of the germans...
the english?
   with their heritage?
              easily at loss with regards to
giving explanations, adequate to
satiate the "sufferer" with a excuse,
or rather, a...
                             a justification.
                my fault at reading more kant
than hegel and not fathoming
any economic model-answer...
                                    just give me a blank
workable canvas,
   and i will give you a vocab that will
probably muddle a few grey-beards
of the sufi community of kabul...
             because i ******* have to mind
this virus, like i might mind
ensuring the bulgarian prostitutes
check themselves to a methodological
clarification of donning the rubber...
well, if there's an explicit ergo libra,
and if there's an implicit ergo libra,
to balance cogito never actually meeting
the sum balance of either argumentation...
       what a funny scenario!
               ergo appears in two forms:
   parallel, similis, consimilis (=),
                       or via-parallel, anti-similis,
                        contra-similis (≠)...
           because thinking rarely
manifests itself in being, but rather:
in beings...
                       the common thread?
deficiency!
                     most of the time
the factum: cogito = sum,
          is actually a fact of:
                          cogito ≠ sum...
which is why the cartesian libra of ergo
is so, confusing with regard to how
the two aspect of consciousness
as governed to "allow" a balance...
  in that they don't...
                    the fact of thought
as thought being the ideal,
never, or rarely, translates into an
ideal existence...
         of simply not-thinking
    but rather over-simplifying life
by a per se,
              of a lack of sensual distrust...
the (1,0), (0,1), (0,0), (1,1) binary
over-simplification
of the cartesian ergo that mediates
cogito and sum...
                  you can't allow yourself
three immediacies of the same fact
in the tri-medium of
variant substance expressions!
              the fact of existence
cannot be grapsed by a fact of thought,
in the same way that a "fact" of either
an explicit, or an implicit application
of the interchangeable of stated fact
can somehow find a balancing libra
                 artefact of a mythological
stature to simplify the argument!
                       i simply find the cartesian ergo
too simplifying,
                   the problem of cogito never attaining
the potential of a sum,
as well at the problem of the sum never
attaining the potential of a cogito!
                given that
in the simplest mathematical grammar
the ergo is either expressed as:
cogito = sum,
             or cogito ≠ sum...
                  is that ego + cogito = ego - sum?
        or is that ego x cogito ≠ ego ÷ sum?
             what's that's 4 to the power of 8
in terms of variations?
              put me against the mathematical
punctuation marks, past the colons,
semis and commas and write it out
in math...
                       to have added to thinking
is to have taken away from being...
  to have multiplied thinking, is to have
divided your being...
                ergo = (= / is), but also (≠ / isn't) -
to have divided your thinking,
  isn't to have multiplied your being...
              to have added to your being,
is to have subtracted from your thought...
         show me the rubric of
the existent variations!
         show me!
                             philosophy per se,
is something that the koran can never teach me,
and never will,
even if in the slightest it only attempted
to teach me how to sing...
                   i have my own labyrinth
to mind,      
   let alone the common citizen of Istambul.
Raj Arumugam Oct 2010
imagine
you are walking in the cool night
and you turn round the corner
and Behold! before you is the open sky
full of glowing punctuation marks
the commas and semi-colons
and the full-stops and exclamation marks
O all so brilliant, so brilliant
O the question marks
and the dashes and the hyphens and the ellipsis
and the dots and the quotation marks double and single
and all marks floating and brilliant in the night sky
Imagine!
O Imagine!
And then what would you do -
O what would you do
when you see these brilliant marks?
these quirky marks...

Would you be astounded
and shout:
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
or would you feel confounded and go:
????????????????????????????
or be silent and say:
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
or be philosophical and muse:
, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,


O what would you do
when you are before the Punctuation Sky
Vincent van Gogh never thought to draw?
Dr Sam Burton Oct 2014
Gone unto Heaven

Unto the Heavens she hath gone
Leaving me with an only bun
My mother has passed away
So got no more time to work on clay
With her death, time recalled all hert past
While I sailed alone in a boat with one mast
I remembered all what she didwithout a fee
And how much she eagerly wished to see me
Her words are still alive in my mind
A lady like her is so hard to find
So mother rest in peace
We all miss you even my niece

Sam Burton


Today is Friday, Oct. 3, the 275th day of 2014 with 90 to follow.

The moon is waning. Morning stars are Jupiter, Mars and Uranus. Evening stars are Mercury, Neptune, Saturn and Venus.f



In 1950, the Peanuts comic strip by Charles M. Schulz was published for the first time.

In 1959, The Twilight Zone, with host Rod Serling, premiered on U.S. television.

In 1967, Thurgood Marshall was sworn in as the first African-American justice of the U.S. Supreme Court.



A thought for the day:



The upward course of a nation's history is due in the long run to the soundness of heart of its average men and women. -- Queen Elizabeth II





Quotes for the day:



A black cat crossing your path signifies that the animal is going somewhere.

------------------------

A child of five would understand this. Send someone to fetch a child of five.

------------------------

A hospital bed is a parked taxi with the meter running.



J. Marx





Every instance of heartbreak can teach us powerful lessons about creating the kind of love we really want.

Martha Beck





"With the exception of women, there is nothing on earth so agreeable or necessary to the comfort of man as the dog."



Edward Jesse



"Efforts and courage are not enough without purpose and direction."



John F. Kennedy



"All you need is the plan, the road map, and the courage to press on to your destination."



Earl Nightingale





Poetry


PLAYBACK



Lauren Camp



Let there be footfall and car door. Let me
be finished with fire. Let
the man get on a plane for his morning
departure, erasing each reverie. Soon
there will be only daylight,
maybe a blue envelope, torn. Maybe bracelets
of color from the petunias. I will need
to know how to recover
the familiar, how to open the door
in the evening. How to again lock it.
Almost everything about me goes unspoken,
but commas and colons. I live with this
heart rate, multiple times, its direction,
its tempo: my 4/4 with acceleration, sometimes
tuned to an alternate signature. Think of Brubeck's
"Take Five." Those blocky chords were the result
of an accident-dead on arrival, they said,
after he smashed to the surf. Think how
he switched it around, made his hands
do what he wanted to hear, and forgive me
for the analogy. May I never
rush a surge for a better experience.
Every Sunday all over the country,
apologies gather. When I'm not in this
small cottage, unreacting, I cascade sound
and a few sentences from a cramped
room to whoever will listen. I know some
people think it is sinful to love such temptations,
but I stay with my face soft against
microphone, announcing my moral
directions. Sometimes, I'm convinced my blood
needs all those crossings. I'm not after
absolution. The man I love taught me to want
without lyrics. Remember I haven't
gone anywhere. I'm in a thirsty way
sort of possessive. I shouldn't show you this
side of myself. Try to remember I'm also praised
for my kindness. We each need to learn
to turn off some dreams so we can play
hours without creases.


About this poem


"Sometimes my poems are clearly focused on a single topic, but more and more they seem to need to be about many things because that's how I experience the w orld-so much going on all the time. Given the chance, I'll always try to make c onnections-in this case between jazz, love, humanity and potential error."
-Lauren Camp

About Lauren Camp


Lauren Camp is the author of "The Dailiness" (Edwin E. Smith Publishing, 2 013). She hosts "Audio Saucepan," a global music/poetry program on Santa Fe Public R adio, and lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

*
The Academy of American Poets is a nonprofit, mission-driven organization, whose aim is to make poetry available to a wider audience.


(c) 2014 Lauren Camp.
Distributed by King Features Syndicate




Health and Beauty Tip



No matter what kind of ****** cleanser you use, check what kind of water you have access to. Hard water can be just as detrimental to skin as plain soap, and can dry it out.



JOKES



Toddler Property Laws



1. If I like it, it's mine.

2. If it's in my hand, it's mine.

3. If I can take it from you, it's mine.

4. If I had it a little while ago, it's mine.

5. If it's mine, it must never appear to be yours in any way.

6. If I'm doing or building something, all the pieces are mine.

7. If it looks just like mine, it's mine.

8. If I think it's mine, it's mine.

9. If I... Oops! I'm sorry, I goofed! Instead of typing in the Toddler Property Laws, I've been typing in Bill Gates' primary business plan.





Phone Call



A young boy answers the phone.

A man says, "Hello is your dad around?"

The boy whispers, "Yes."

The man then asks if he can talk to him.

"He's busy at the moment," the boy whispers.

"Then is your mom there?"

"Yes" the boy whispers.

"Can I talk to her?"

"No, she's busy," the boy whispers.

"Is there anyone else there?"

"Yes" whispered the boy.

"Who?" the man asked.

"A policeman," came the whispered reply.

"Well, can I talk to him?"

"He's busy too," the boy whispered.

"Is there anyone else there then?"

"Yes" whispered the boy.

"Who then?" the man asked.

"A fireman," the boy whispered.

"Can I talk to him?"

"No," the boy whispered, "he's busy."

Annoyed, the man asked what they were all doing.

"Looking for me." the boy whispered.





Hard Working?



A business owner decides to take a tour around his business and see how things are going. He goes down to the shipping docks and sees a young man leaning against the wall doing nothing.

The owner walks up to the young man and says, "Son, how much do you make a day?"

The guy replies, "150 dollars."

The owner pulls out his wallet, gives him $150, and tells him to get out and never come back.

A few minutes later the shipping clerk says to the boss, "Have you seen that UPS driver? I left him standing around here?"



Presidential Quotes



"If Lincoln were alive today he'd roll over in his grave." --Gerald Ford (president, 1974-77)

---

"A friend of mine was asked to a costume ball a while ago. He slapped some egg on his face and went as a liberal economist." --Ronald Reagan

---

"I want to make sure everybody who has a job wants a job." --George Bush





Football and Confession



Years ago, the chaplain of the football team at Notre Dame was a beloved old Irish priest.

At confession one day, a football player told the priest that he had acted in an unsportsmanlike manner at a recent football game. "I lost my temper and said some bad words to one of my opponents." "Ahhh, that's a terrible thing for a Notre Dame lad to be doin'," the priest said. He took a piece of chalk and drew a mark across the sleeve of his coat.

"That's not all, Father. I got mad and punched one of my opponents."

"Saints preserve us!" the priest said, making another chalk mark.

"There's more. As I got out of a pileup, I kicked two of the other team's players in the . . . in a sensitive area."

"Oh, goodness me!" the priest wailed, making two more chalk marks on his sleeve. "Who in the world were we playin' when you did these awful things?"

"Southern Methodist."

"Ah, well," said the priest, wiping his sleeve, "boys will be boys."




Have a super nice Friday and a very dazzling weekend!
Chloe M Teng Aug 2016
I saw you.

Squeezed between sentences,
In semi colons and calibre comas,
On page twenty six.

Smudging word after word
With vagueness,
And I lost track of the story.

Couldn't find a full stop,
Couldn't find you.

Help me.
Darren Nov 2014
Gargling on the film of rain smatter
For what?
Into that blue, carve a square nest
That I can pour bar its clutter
Into my wrist
All but
Ruby blessed

Harrowed koi speckled and spatter
The semi colons
My indecisive pause or full stop
Leaves my head underwater
And the pop
Stolen
To offward hop

Glassy bottles, tubes of black
Know me well
A who that breathes this ending call
Can look and reaching back
From the fall
See fell
The absent bawl

Vanity violet and lied
Face me
The name of bunching petals different
As irises inside their wet ink hide
Back reflect
Come free
What I not expect

Matted layers compact swung panels
Either way
Open, to their cast of prisoned souls
Closed, to continue what may well
Unfold
A lily bay
Or ferric shoal

Jeweller for tonight has set
I am a bearer
Through murky depths resend no fact
And airless suspend the single bracelet
A pact
Sealed to wear
When I am lost in their black
Originally written on November 2, 2014.
Deviantart page: http://monocephalized.deviantart.com
FallingTrilliums May 2015
Nonchalant swipes, a branding spark.
Colons, dashes and asterisks - carefully arranged.
Soft whispers, quiet water, steamy breaths seen.
Smooth bellies, tender lips, musky smells imagined.

Alike paths cross, then twist away.
I miss what I've never had.
Jonathan Witte Sep 2016
I

*******, the blues
were running, the scrum
of seagulls a white cloud
of chaos above the waves.
The water churned and chopped,
teeming with small fish
devoured by bigger fish
ravished by the sharp-toothed bluefish—
all of them darting frenzied toward shore.

And my father screaming
for someone to, quick,
grab the fishing poles
for God’s sake.

My little sister
in her yellow
bathing suit
would not wait
for the poles.
She yanked fish after fish
from the boiling surf
with her small hands,
screaming in delight and victory.
She ran up and down
the beach, between
colorful umbrellas,
pausing only to toss
another writhing body
onto hot sand:
a wild child flinging
silver-scaled sacrifices
to stoic, multicolored gods.

We ate smoked bluefish for weeks.

II

Remember sitting in our first apartment
watching the snow beyond the windows,
listening to records and drinking seven-dollar
bottles of Malbec from juice glasses on the futon,
the narrow hallway strung with Christmas lights
illuminating thrift store paint-by-numbers?
Billie Holiday was singing “Lady Sings the Blues,”
her voice like a lady’s shoe, worn-in, refined.

I remember pondering the present
I would give you a few days later
in Ashtabula on Christmas Eve,
neatly wrapped and hidden under
the bungalow’s sagging eaves
(more vinyl, a Coltrane/Hartman reissue).
The snow would be falling in Ohio too;
your grandparent’s house filled with the smell
of Scottish shortbread and the sound of daytime TV.
When your grandfather died a few years later,
we listened to Vera Lynn’s “We’ll Meet Again”
at the service—your grandmother crying in black.

But what I remember most about that night
was later in bed, the snow subsiding,
the radiators clanking with warmth,
the Christmas lights casting colors on the wall,
your finger tracing songs across my back:
the stylus gliding to center, making me spin.

III

300 milligrams of Wellbutrin,
orange pills arranged in my palm
like hallucinatory ellipses, swallowed
to see where the last sentence will lead.
A bleak prescription: pain has a syntax;
grief, a simple grammar.
A land of blue shadows. An ocean of glass.

But that was years ago now, thank God.
I wrote poetry like crazy then,
on a word processor with a screen
the size of a paperback novel.

I smoked. Skipped class. Slept 17 hours at a time.
I scoured the dictionary for recondite words,
turning sesquipedalian over and over
in my mind, each syllable a sedative.
Like Rilke’s panther, I paced in cramped circles
around a paralyzed center, my winter boots
tracking mud along the brightly lit corridor
that led to the psychologist’s office.

One night I crashed
at my aunt and uncle’s
place in the foothills
and woke up alone with
a sense that the room, the house, maybe
the whole **** world was shuddering,
coming unmoored.
I retrieved my uncle’s .357 magnum
and tiptoed from room to room brandishing
an unloaded firearm in my boxer shorts.
The only sound, diffuse in the darkness,
was the gurgle of the fish tank filter.
I cocked the hammer, watching lionfish
swim in vibrant, agitated circles.
Next morning, I read the newspaper
and chuckled, having never felt
an earthquake before.

With a shock, I think back
to the Thanksgiving break
when I flew home from college
for the first time: the vertiginous
sensation of floating thousands of feet
above the Wasatch range, the mountains’
blue shadows and blinding snow
disorienting, my heart an unspun
compass incapable of pointing true.
The plane’s engines roared in ascent.

Decades later, I’ve landed:
married, with three children,
we drive across the country
in our minivan with the moonroof open,
howling out Tom Waits songs in unison.
Our moments together are conjoined
like tender marks of punctuation—
commas, semicolons, colons:
when the wind washes over us,
it whispers
and, and, and, and, and....
Krithi Panday Nov 2016
I tell him that three of his freckles disappeared today and that I can’t help but notice that his eye twitches twice before he falls asleep.
He sometimes wakes up to an empty bed at 2 in the morning. It is not because I can’t feel comfortable with his legs tangled in mine but, because I found the sight of not knowing where my body ended and his began so poetic.  
Some days, I feel as if I’m living life in the shadows. Always noticing but never seen, are words supposed to scream this loud?
He says that when we kiss, he has to dust the commas and colons off of my eyelid and that he repeats his sentences four times because he knows that during the first I was catching a thought, preventing it from flying away and that when he speaks for the second I’m trying to take notice of the exact degree he tilts his head and that by the third I’ve already crafted a stanza about the way he licks his lips in the cold.
I tell myself that I will not carry a pen wherever I go, but it doesn’t matter because on certain days, even my bone marrow writes poetry about the cells dying and being born in my blood – supernovae of molecule scale.
My brother tells me that my quadratic equations are written in limerick form and that he does not know why I’m taking Calculus and Statistics if I already know a formula for the perfect novel.
The truth is, I don’t know why I notice the way my love wrings his hands twice when I ask him where he’s been – is that lavender I smell?
I know that he tells me the truth, but the other voice in my head can’t help but make me ask him why he drank his coffee with milk instead of creamer today.
He tells me that he loves me by holding me far too tight when I’m sad, so that he can crush the blue out of me and by barely touching me when I’m happy, afraid that he’ll break my spirits, he knows that my pink is a Porcelain Doll – fragile.
*He doesn’t use any words, and for once, this is enough for me.
Part of my "Of love and ..." collection.
Basically about the different thinking style a writer has, and how our minds at times how can force us to believe in our dark thoughts.
Qu'est-ce pour nous, mon coeur, que les nappes de sang
Et de braise, et mille meurtres, et les longs cris
De rage, sanglots de tout enfer renversant
Tout ordre ; et l'Aquilon encor sur les débris ;

Et toute vengeance ? Rien !... - Mais si, toute encor,
Nous la voulons ! Industriels, princes, sénats :
Périssez ! puissance, justice, histoire : à bas !
Ça nous est dû. Le sang ! le sang ! la flamme d'or !

Tout à la guerre, à la vengeance, à la terreur,
Mon esprit ! Tournons dans la morsure : Ah ! passez,
Républiques de ce monde ! Des empereurs,
Des régiments, des colons, des peuples, assez !

Qui remuerait les tourbillons de feu furieux,
Que nous et ceux que nous nous imaginons frères ?
A nous, romanesques amis : ça va nous plaire.
Jamais nous ne travaillerons, ô flots de feux !

Europe, Asie, Amérique, disparaissez.
Notre marche vengeresse a tout occupé,
Cités et campagnes ! - Nous serons écrasés !
Les volcans sauteront ! Et l'Océan frappé...

Oh ! mes amis ! - Mon coeur, c'est sûr, ils sont des frères :
Noirs inconnus, si nous allions ! Allons ! allons !
Ô malheur ! je me sens frémir, la vieille terre,
Sur moi de plus en plus à vous ! la terre fond,

Ce n'est rien ! j'y suis ! j'y suis toujours.
Vernon Waring Oct 2015
theres something so final about a period
which is as it should be

commas always get in the way
coming and going like anxious insects
trying to make themselves important
as they scatter over a page
already overrun with too many words

question marks have a slightly
swooping profile curve just above
a period
theyre kind of elegant
they remind me of a swan
with a regal attitude
i saw once on a pretty pond

parentheses embrace words like **** curves

and brackets are like steel gray bookends
fencing words in

exclamation points are so abrupt
and rude and angry
like an outburst
in a classroom
like fireworks
in a funeral parlor
dont mess with them
they mean business

hyphens dashes colons semicolons
apostrophes
and quotation marks
that surround what we say
and dont forget the ellipses that
take the place of
words we omit

sometimes i like to write stories and poems
with no punctuation no capitalization
no grammatical rationale whatsoever

dare i ask

how did i do
Dayna Halcomb Jan 2014
Here I draw semi colons on my wrist
Over scars that once were bleeding
To show I could have died,
But kept living despite my wishes,
And despite my best efforts.

Here I listen to people laugh
I tell them I’m scared of the pope,
Eating, the rapture, opening doors, and the apocalypse.
I don’t think my anxiety is funny.
Did I miss the joke,
Or is my life the punch line?

Here I fit into a mold of an artist.
While I laugh at the irony.
And I create my own mold of a person
With mental illness and poor drawing skills.

Here it all goes.
Life and love and my anxiety.
Seamlessly blurring around the lines on my wrist,
The lines of her body,
And the lines on this paper.

Here I am.
And here
I think I’ll stay.
Despite my wishes.
Lady Narnia May 2016
Key after key, letters clamor onto my screen
In valiant effort to create that never before seen
Braces and brackets, colons semi or not
It's taking some time, patience and thought

A picture, painted by ten thousand letters
Divinely presented with wonderful CSS headers
And more, this picture will be able to do
For its features will be far from few

Talk to another, quickly and fast
Chat in groups, to make relationships last
Co-authoring easier with dynamic group editing...?
Assuming it all works, I'm still hoping and betting!

Wave after wave, this beach will come together
I'll be darned if I have to say never
The sun will rise, and so too a poet
Where they'll certainly smile, I just know it!

This digital sea by which I float,
a long voyage that awaits this boat
One where I will design the pristine shore
Bringing poet passengers, more and more
May Asher Sep 2016
I'm a jumbled sentence,
With broken words,
Uttered in  gasping stutters,
By mouth of someone I haven't met.
All my punctuation is wrong,
I don't have commas,
Or colons to make sense of me.
I'm standing still,
So still that I can almost,
Almost feel the seconds bleeding,
And my heart burning,
And lungs collapsing and,
Eyes shutting for sleep,
That only contain nightmares.
And I'm wondering,
I'm wondering if,
I might ever touch the sky,
I'll touch it with my broken fingertips.
See, even broken stars can shine.

— The End —