"conquests" poems
Ever felt like life is unfair to you?
Ever felt like you've no true friends?
That the world is very cruel to you?
Got confused among who's your best friend?
Made bunch of friends but no one there in time of help?
Ever felt that way?
Ever felt mopey and dim-witted without a SLR , because everyone's busy changing their Dp's on FaceBook with one.
Ever felt like buying those 6 inches shoes ,though we'll never walk in it , but people got to see it ,right?
Ever felt like cutting internet connection from your house, because of that we're not able to achieve all the great conquests of life.
Ever felt like ,you've wasted all the opportunities life had given you and now you're futile , plus it's too late to start all over again?
Ever felt scared of telling that person that how much you like them?
Ever? Ever felt like you're ugly?
Ever felt like you're not one of those magical school guys or gals of Hogwards.
Ever felt like "No, you're not awesome." Ever felt like "I'm not in a relationship , am I that ugly?"
Ever felt like no one loves you?
Ever felt like the whole world is happy , but not you?
Ever felt like you **** in everything?
Ever felt like killing that person because ***** is flirting with the person you love?
Ever felt like to know what you're from other people's view? Well , that's life.
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 8:55 AM UTC
Man needs little to endure life's hardships
Gold, silver, and jewels plunder a man's soul
Water, food, shelter, and companionship
Despite life's conquests, must remain the goal
Water quenches what possessions cannot
A custom carriage fails as a life source
Nor does it quench when August days grow hot
Nor nourish folks when seasons fall off course
Look for umbrage, safety from barren land
Shelter to the pains of nature denied
Yet, man's elemental resource reigns man
The shipwrecked, fed and quenched, unsatisfied
Possessions, wealth, and even basic need
Can't provide the nourishment humans bleed
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 8:34 PM UTC
I was fairly drunk when it
began and I took out my bottle and used it
along the way. I was reading a week or two after
Kandel and I did not look quite as
pretty but
I brought it off and we
ended up at the Webbs, 6, 8, 10 of
us, and I drank scotch, wine, beer, tequila
and noticed a nice one sitting next to me -
one tooth missing when she smiled,
lovely, and I put my arm around her
and began loading her with ********
when I awakened at 10 a.m. the next morning
I was in a strange house
in bed with this
woman. she was asleep but looked
familiar.
I got up and here was one kid running around in a
crib and another one running around the floor in
pajamas. I picked up a letter addressed to one
"Betsy R.", so I went back and said,
"hey, Betsy, there are kids running around all over
this place."
"oh Hank, **** it, I'm sick. I want to sleep, not
rap."
"but look, the ..."
"make yourself some
coffee."
I put the *** on and the little boy ran up in his
pajamas. I found a shirt and some pants and some
shoes and
dressed him.
then I cleaned a bottle with hot water, filled it
with milk and gave it to the kid in the
crib. he went for
it.
then I went in and squeezed her
hand. "I've got to go. are you all
right ?"
"yes, a little sick. but please don't feel
bad."
I called a yellow cab and we went back across
town.
is this what happened to
D. Thomas ? I thought.
if a man didn't think too much he could be proud of his little
conquests -
except that the women were better than we - asking nothing
as we squirted our poetry
our ******** our
***** to
them.
we were sick poets sick
people.
across town I knocked on the door of my host and
hostess.
"what happened ?" they
asked.
"nothing. got
lost."
they sat a beer in front of me
and I drank it as if I were
wordly:
a piece-of-ass
any-night
anywhere
type.
"somebody got a
cigarette ?" I asked.
"sure, sure."
I lit up and asked,
"heard from Creely
lately ?"
not giving a **** whether they had or
not.
4.3k
She's a selfish lover, armed with stunning beauty.
She hunts joyfully for an innocent & caring heart,
She wants to satisfy her longing spirit.
Self validation by conquered hearts.
Conquests, like trophies on a night stand.
Each victory validated by a wounded spirit.
Her potent satisfactions soon dwindles.
Repeated victories, must be obtained.
Scores of bleeding hearts form rivers of tears.
Each conquest screaming from nearby roof tops.
Her Reputation becomes known by many.
The walking wounded,
They protect their dulled spirit
With raised eyebrows and gently shaking heads,
With muffled voices they warn, she is trouble waiting to happen.
I have been bitten by her kind of love.
The sting lingers in my heart,
The scars noticeable in my spirit & in my eyes.
I have her disease now.
My heart longs for love.
Not for Revenge!
But, for recovery and for self validation!
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 5:19 PM UTC
I am worth being valued for existing
Not only in the moments
That I become relevant, necessary, or useful
For lustful, celebratory or inspirational insanity
I am not a lollipop or an exotic destination
Stop exploring me *************
Because you salivate over this Hispaniola
Beautiful island desecrated and decimated
How many beautiful spirits will you make savages
How many pure rivers will you **** blood on
How many conquests will you claim a stake in
How much balance will you disturb and subjugate
to the trauma of your transitory exploration
There's no impunity for conquerors
Who taste, plunder, disguise disapproval in their apologies and move on
There's no impunity for conquerors
Who pick and choose who's worth
Of validation, when, & how
There's no impunity for conquerors
Who play with men and women
Hierarchize their prey
But fail to acknowledge
Their man-child whitewashed
Hidden agendas & rigged market values
Conquerors haunted by the trauma they've caused
Will not be absolved by the revolution
Neither will the revolution be the breast
That heals conquers who are traumatized
By the realization of their own fuckery
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 5:29 AM UTC
Quietly the shadows grew one into another as the day withdrew
softly from the hollows of the trees until at last it stood
far away. The night crept up the lawns and rested
on the porches and peered into the windows.
The night came through the screens with the easy Summer breeze
and made us idle with its foreign song, chords of gray,
melancholy dissonance, its song that makes an end of songs.
Then we wanted nothing of the stuff of life however dear.
Yes, it pried the pens and hammers from our hands and wrought
with them nothing. It took our many conquests and made
one of them, shared by great and small alike that one ambition -
sleep. We were turned like strings around our newel posts.
We climbed the stairs and darkness followed, and darkness waited
while we bared, and darkness swallowed our last light.
We lost possession of our world tonight, sold it for a song,
rid of it as long as we could sleep.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 11:37 PM UTC
Gloating before the unrequited,
We find the dashing, sanctioned, and corrupt.
Their brave hearts undeserving,
Granted only by the conquests of their fathers,
And the favoritism of Nature's *****
There were countless sleepless nights spent amid your memories.
Your cruel indifference, the Nightmare on my chest.
You are unworthy and wretched. Disgraceful and dishonorable.
Unfit and useless. Discordant and dissident.
Your true love is apathy.
And still, despite a noble effort,
I always find my thoughts ...
Returning to you.
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 7:15 PM UTC
From sleeps sweet embrace
To become realities eyes
Clouded with a dark imagination
Set forth in a torturous rhyme
Insanity my love
Premeditated thoughts undisclosed
Revealed the prophecy
Attired in woe
Each long night when dreams turned to sand
The delicate soul lay bathed in tears
Doing battle protected by the amour of loyalty
Overcoming the conquests of fear
Nightmares emerged from sleeps sweet embrace
Memories became realities stark face.
Morning comes and ends the assault
A peace that is gained
At a terrible cost.
This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby Jan.7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 3:25 AM UTC
by J.M. Romig, Ryan P. Kinney, Morgann Blackwood, and Aaron Kasunic
Here’s to vices and virtues
To living without apologies or regrets
To breaking in order to heal
This old bird no longer caged
She gets to look on the other side of the bars this time
He gets another stumble in the hallway
A headfirst dive into a bottle of pills
Purple sharks and goats
That glow in the dark
Banana dimpled belugas
Swimming wildly asunder
Then I met God
The most beautiful of all my conquests
I knew no one else would quite match up to her
Her hair in the porch light
Looked like the thunder god had an ******
Her face still cannot be manifest
This woman,
The most beautiful thing I’ve seen
She lingers in my conscious
And has a major role to play in what will be my swan song
If experience has taught me anything (an unlikely assumption)
It is that if a woman ever tells you
-Straight up-
That she is a *****
She is not lying
There are exceptions to that rule
As I myself am quite exceptional
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 8:39 AM UTC
O saw ye bonnie Lesley
As she gaed o’er the Border?
She’s gane, like Alexander,
To spread her conquests farther.
To see her is to love her,
And love but her for ever;
For Nature made her what she is,
And ne’er made sic anither!
Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,
Thy subjects we, before thee;
Thou art divine, fair Lesley,
The hearts o’ men adore thee.
The Deil he could’na scaith thee,
Or aught that *** belang thee;
He’d look into thy bonnie face,
And say “I canna wrang thee!”
The Powers aboon will tent thee;
Misfortune sha’na steer thee;
Thou’rt like themsel’ sae lovely
That ill they’ll ne’er let near thee.
Return again, fair Lesley,
Return to Caledonie!
That we may brag we hae a lass
There’s nane again sae bonnie!
2.9k
You may search for kin in the blood that binds,
The haemoglobin of heritage entwined.
Or you may wade your way
Through the rich and meek
To find those of whom you speak,
Those so oft' hidden in plain sight.
Trust not all that you can see
For disguised treachery
Can lie in the softest of smiles.
Devious plans of mental mockery
Executed with cunning and guile.
Look instead then to the conquests!
Not to those we won outright,
But to the ones that fall to unions
Under starlight, under night.
Perhaps even then we will find
With our silent siege of time
That the Kinship sails on blind.
When the mindful heart
Meets the heartless mind.
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 5:24 AM UTC
Sometimes I think I love best
from afar,
observing impossible conquests
from behind crowds
of maniacs on sidewalks.
Sometimes I love through written notes
to people in far away places.
When up close, reality stops
the imaginings.
I dream of far better love
than I live.
-Ron Gavalik
May 6, 2018
May 6, 2018 at 9:09 AM UTC
His heart was kept in a babooshka-doll
that released memory smells
with every layer that eroded.
The wooden fences faded
to damp brick in the corner
of his head reserved for the harmonica
that played through the microphone
in his neck till the sound got lodged
in his maudlin march
that had him running like he
was angry at the road.
His Echostep
vibrating in
the kremlin skin
and marrionette heart strings
that kept him.... him.
Despite broken wings
he made the air around him dance
with the resonance of each
broken crystal ball shard used
to predict the past.
Each chime raised a mountain,
folding back on itself
hoping the hallucination would end,
till tired hands
batted away golden hawks.
With rocks for claws.
It was all the fights with the wind
that had the clouds leaving the moon's
Picaso skies,
and sailing towards him on warships of
rain and frozen effigies.
They arrived, astronauts
from outer space
burning from the lips
outwards revealing grey
intent and red mists.
He fought back with false start
epiphanies and the falsetto
prophecies that stung the air
with pitch raining down.
Leaving bare branches where once
green hands applauded
everything but empty air,
like listless typewriters furiously
trying to find their voices.
Feirce winds and fake faces
left blinking with closed eyes
in the vastness of battlefield.
Turning stomaches and
blank canvas whirlpools,
storms of anti-peace
scarring the last conquests
of the flightless ape lizard,
and all his gorilla warfare.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 4:23 PM UTC
My beloved friend, i miss leaning my body on yours.
I can still feel your hands caressing my hair while you kissed me affectionately. We touched when our hearts sought for vague eanderment.
Those cups of wine we shared defined how i felt toward you.
Your silhouette in the morning had awaken my passion for romance.
I miss your hands on my face.
Your strong hands, my love.
Your love for me tasted like the last drop of a cup of summer wine that lingered on the tip of my tongue.
I want to share that one drop with you.
My friend, i miss your scent.
As i breathed you deep into my soul each time you put your hands on me.
When i stared at the blue sky today, i felt your eyes looking into mine heavenly.
I miss those summer days, your bed of nakedness and purity.
Your sunburnt skin of youth reflecting the touch we shared.
My beautiful friend...
My long-lost love...
You touched me as i cut my skin and let you in...
You gave me love nobody had ever given me.
Pure and passionate.
You touched my youth like my father had.
He taught me to love like he had.
He showed me the way to conquest when he kissed me.
My beautiful friend, my love, my youth...
I long for your kiss to set me free from this torturing passion.
A passion for journeys, conquests, and love.
My heart, my love, my friend...
Andrea...
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 1:38 PM UTC
She's a selfish lover, armed with stunning beauty.
She hunts joyfully for an innocent & caring heart,
She wants to satisfy her longing spirit.
Self validation by conquered hearts.
Conquests, like trophies on a night stand.
Each victory validated by a wounded spirit.
Her potent satisfactions soon dwindles.
Repeated victories, must be obtained.
Scores of bleeding hearts form rivers of tears.
Each conquest screaming from nearby roof tops.
Her Reputation becomes known by many.
The walking wounded,
They protect their dulled spirit
With raised eyebrows and gently shaking heads,
With muffled voices they warn, she is trouble waiting to happen.
I have been bitten by her kind of love.
The sting lingers in my heart,
The scars noticeable in my spirit & in my eyes.
I have her disease now.
My heart longs for love.
Not for Revenge!
But, for recovery and for self validation!
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 11:39 AM UTC
Recently I've grown to see
the weakness in my mind.
I'm challenged by the ordinary
resentment I always find.
For I have the great power
to forgive and be forgiven,
but I am lacking in drive and manner,
of which this action can be taken.
I will call myself a blamer
upon myself and many others
my hopeless romantic is a failure
but the lack of hope is from my lovers
they caress control and swindle
and leave me broken poor and ******
it leaves the torn up hard to mingle
and the forgotten hard to miss.
So I'll take stock in my conquests,
despite how little they may be,
I will be reborn a celibate
and set my libido free.
Nothing good belongs in deviance,
sinful, ****** or more,
I will retain what is left of my innocence
and forget all from before.
Apr 20, 2010
Apr 20, 2010 at 12:45 PM UTC
Shhh. Tell no-one. The dragons are sleeping
like baby lizards in their caves. Breathless from
a day of pillage. Restful after a time of destruction.
Somewhere, on the other side of the hill, a boy
is playing in the woods. Caressing his manhood,
he becomes a symbol of self appreciation.
Be quiet. Don't disturb the boy in his game.
It is his only means of achieving satisfaction.
A reaction would disturb the molecules from
their expected conclusion.
The boy does not realize how close he is
to potential danger. If he awakens the
dragons, he awakens his death.
Shhh. Tell no-one. The dragons are dreaming
of future conquests. Illusionary REM's of human
body parts dancing in their heads. Helpless
after a day of mass frustration. Hopeless
after a time of complete desolation.
The boy is finished his game. He smiles
to himself at his clever disguises. Yesterday he
was a soldier in the war of indifference. Today
he is a hero, a legend in his own mind.
He screams in abandoned pleasure. He
yells because he can. Racing through the woods
until he comes upon the entrance to a cave.
Takes a breath, than slowly enters in.
The dragons are no longer sleeping. They are
preening their scales in preparation. Their red
soul-less eyes look at the boy. The boy, with
his brown empty eyes looks at the dragons.
None of them make a move.
Each of them recognize the emptiness of the other.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 1:23 PM UTC
"Who am I, mother?
Who am I and what do I do?"
–Norman to his mother Norma, "Bates Motel"
And so it goes, a split self - the protagonist defending the darkness as
Bizarre murders satisfy obsessions of a mothers love, taking a
Chefs knife, stabbing victims to death.
Dualistic wars within, a helpless man whose mother taught him of the
"Evils of women," instilling her own moralities of their wickedness.
Fostering the antagonistic personality of his mother
Giving to his incomplete soul a sense of wholeness.
Hidden behind the boy next door innocence, a terrified man
Incarcerated; locked & bolted
Juddering with fear - promising to adhere - set free said to be "cured."
Kleptomania returns; unearthing bodies from their graves, stealing skulls; a comforting souvenir, as
Loving anyone meant destroying them also.
Multiple personalities dominate him
Norman Bates becomes Norma; his mothers persona, crawling into her skin
Originating from their very kiss, kick starting a timeless love affair
Paraphernalia of skins tanned, butchered conquests -keepsakes turned to art & now protecting an un
Quiet mind
Reasons pertaining to mental insanity
Sectioned to institutions
Taxidermy as a young boy fascinated his mind
Urges to **** & fill, feeding euphoric highs, & even
Vertigo.
Women thrilled him; their smell lingered on each garment he kept.
Xenos to himself; who, am I mother?
Youth denied, cried away
Zenith ended; his final resting place behind the bars of Mendona Mental Health Institution, 1984.
© Sia Jane
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC
Well, I've written two . . . sonnets . .
first ones from the point of view of a typical twit youngish bloke . when he realises his latest conquests a bit keen like . . . He writes a poem . . . Leaves it lying around carelessly
So I'm to meet .your mum and dad ? . . .
But I thought this . a one time **** . . .
Not children planned or Sunday roasts
I dreamt no champagne wedding toasts . . . !
They're coming round for tea . . tonight ?. . .
This ***** no longer feeling right . . !
In epic terms this now's a fail . !
I think . it's time for me to bail !!
Though . . something sparkled in your kiss,
A luscious tingling of lips . .
Add alcoholic lust fuelled hips
Whose groovy moves I know I'd miss . .
So . . . If I meet your mum and dad .
Then that gets me . . another ****
She finds the poem . . And replies . . .
Dear silly boy . who left behind
His hopeful sentimental rhyme . . .
Who fancies meeting mum and dad
Just to secure another **** . . .
Well pretty boy . . KEEP DREAMING ON . . .
Since any chance you had . . has gone,
I found your rhyme upon the floor . .
Now ******* closed . . as is my door
It's such a shame . . you'll never know
How far down I can really go . .
Nor that my naughty little hand
Is worth your golden wedding band
My poet lad . . you've well derailed
All future chance . . of getting nailed
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
They repeatedly boasted aloud
of conquests and victories
for a short period between
their palmy days of youth
and unexpected quick death;
a mad rush of adrenaline
before thought could wake up reason,
nothing more than a basic need
for impulsive violent action,
few drops of poetry could have changed direction,
a death wish triggered by moments of darkness
that invites a chain of tragic consequences.
But thoughtful they were
to hire overzealous writers,
being aware of their need of arming future.
The writers extolled the futile deaths
embellished words, made it look heroic
which really pointed only to a ****** end.
Look at each tomb stones lined
here in the cemetery, once more
see, if the names extolled once are still not eroded.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 1:59 PM UTC
Awake, awake, my Lyre!
And tell thy silent master’s humble tale
In sounds that may prevail;
Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:
Though so exalted she
And I so lowly be
Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony.
Hark, how the strings awake!
And, though the moving hand approach not near,
Themselves with awful fear
A kind of numerous trembling make.
Now all thy forces try;
Now all thy charms apply;
Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye.
Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure
Is useless here, since thou art only found
To cure, but not to wound,
And she to wound, but not to cure,
Too weak too wilt thou prove
My passion to remove;
Physic to other ills, thou’rt nourishment to love.
Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre!
For thou canst never tell my humble tale
In sounds that will prevail,
Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire;
All thy vain mirth lay by,
Bid thy strings silent lie,
Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die.
2k
the female form haunts me, always
running for the hills, toward new ****** conquests and away from the love that i only wished i had
i breathe and sigh until i find the one that i could breed with, although i won’t ever breed
until then, i’ll swim through *****
i will fall in love for nights at a time, cuddling, ******* pillow-talking, waking and leaving
i’ll then roam the streets, wandering into bars, flirting, glaring at women, the way i glare at a fine meal
i’ll eat them and be done with them in one sitting, i’ll enjoy it, i’ll love the way they taste, but once the meal is done, there is no ‘re-eating’
and, then i’ll think about why i’m doing this all, aside from the fact that i crave it, but the underlying reason,
the fact that i strive for the pale, white spotlight to shine down on me and point me out to the woman of my dreams
and she’ll find me, easily, and we’ll strip down and running as fast as we can, we’ll forever hold hands, until the end of days.
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 5:34 PM UTC
*This phenomenon does indeed
Circumvent logic and render the cliché
‘LOVE IS BLIND”….a defunct concept
Almost alien in societies replete with
People savouring the blows
Of emotional tug of wars.
It’s a thorn in the flesh…..
An enigma that’s so audacious
It dares defy the very essence of the human existence
Which undoubtedly is Human intellect
It surely does wreak sweet havoc
And leave in its wake
Irreversible destruction
Care not to be featured in its myriad “conquests*
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 1:42 AM UTC