"copying" poems
Copycat, copycat.
Mimic all that I do,
Even though
you know
it's not good for you.
Copycat, copycat.
Do not be a fool.
You can fool
So many people.
But not me;
I will not drool
All over you.
Copycat, copycat.
Giveback my life.
No, I do not care if copying me is how you survive.
No, I hate you a lot... so goodbye.
Copycat, copycat.
I shouldn't call you so:
You're a ***** and I hope that you know.
I appoint you head ***** from now on.
Bam! Scram!
It's about time that you've gone.
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 9:21 PM UTC
You Are the Texture
…………………………
**~ for all of you,
you, you poet~**
Impasto
“**is a technique used in painting,
where paint is laid on an area of
the surface thickly, usually thick
enough that the brush or painting-
knife strokes are visible.
Paint can also be mixed right on
to the canvas. When dry, impasto
provides texture; the paint appears
as if, to be coming out of the canvas.**”
<1:47pm>
Cut & Paste
*is a technique used in poetry writing,
we refer back to our visions,
heard words,
the eyeful, the earful, scents,
the reads read,
all in the mind’s palette blended,
thickly, but
when
the merging fused,
every word~in~coloration,
it is unique, reincarnation,
copying impossible.
The imagery, cut and pasted from thy heart and soul,
upon canvas,
your poems~pieces each appear*
***as you-are-texture,
you becoming out of, you,
the canvas.
<2:04pm>
Postscript***
………………
it is not lost on me that the
scars, our words, herein,
as we note all too frequently,
almost casually,
are, can be, those selfsame
words/painting-knife
employed
for our first and foremost canvas we utilize,
ourselves…
our bodies,
our
very selves
salved
Jun 24, 2023
Jun 24, 2023 at 8:06 AM UTC
I can be you, or I can be them
I can be she, or I can be him
but why be a con artist of someone else
like a shadow to my best friend, when I
can be my own person, a unique creation
created in the image of God but representin my own reflection
because I don't wanna see you, them, she, or him in the mirror
I wanna see me through my own eyes, 20/20 vision, but clearer
but the more I conform, the image of someone else draws nearer
and I begin to lose sight of myself, look back in the mirror, and see myself in the rear
a shadow to another figure, a copy of a personality
livin' out another person's dreamed out reality
copying what they think, and succumbing to conformity
but that ain't me....
what you see visually and how I appear physically
is what makes me comfortable, that's why I'm an independent, politically
I don't follow the norms and rules of what's most accepted socially
the only commandments I live by are the ones given Biblically
I ain't the best saint though, I mean I do sin every day
but the only one I wanna copy is Jesus Christ, in every possible way
on the other hand, Satan is out there,
trynna tempt me on how to act and even what words I say
he's out offering me drinks, but I reply, "I'm okay"
cause I don't care if "everyone else is doin' it"
I just live how I like to live, that's what makes me a true non-conformist
I dress how I wish and not because it's in style
I keep my hair big, I do whatever makes me smile
I'm not trynna impress you or fit into your clique
I don't give women pick-up lines and act like I'm slick
I'm me, just me, no facades, just real
and if you can't accept that, then move forward but don't steal
the things that make me special, from my poems to my appeal
so don't try to change me and keep my uniqueness concealed
I could care less about your thoughts and any of your judgements
I refuse to give your words power, I can make your points become pointless
I'm not trynna be harsh, I just love to be different
I wanna be an original and keep my vibe realistic
not a second you, but a first me, no counterfeit
I try to keep up with what God said in Matt 26
verse 41, the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak
so pray not to give into temptation and stay on your feet
I encourage us to keep our standards and what makes us unique
and accept anyone else who doesn't wanna repeat
everything you say, and everything you do
sometimes it's the people that are different that come off the most true
because they're not sayin or actin' in ways that you approve
they're given you their honest opinion, you should keep them closest to you
don't conform, forget what people want you to be
just be yourself, not a copy of reality TV.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 10:00 PM UTC
They say copying is the highest form of flattery
but i think its because you have no originality
always replicating what i do
is it just me
is there any thoughts inside of you
everything you do
is because of someone else
can you really not see it
how can't you tell
we all see right through it
open your eyes and you will too
stop trying to be me
and start being you
copy cat copy cat
annoying little copy rat
copy cat copy cat
mindless spineless poison trap
copy cat copy cat
shady lame copy rat
copy cat copy cat
do you have a brain in tact
Now don't get me wrong i don't think i'm anything that great
not trying to be rude this is not something i want to debate
so now do you get the whole picture
why be a sheep
when you can bite just like a wolf
you've got so much to offer so why be another
a whole entire world out there
so why even care
just be the one you are
with nothing to loose you'll go so far
i know there's more to you
parts i can't see through
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 6:52 PM UTC
As talent drained from every inch of my mind
I found reading other's work only made me jealous
I started to feel unpopular
Not enough ideas left to create anything at all. Not a single drop of inspiration.
As all of theses emotions and realizations mixed together
I became okay with copying your work.
*I can imagine you slaving in the dark
Racking your brain to find the perfect words to finish the last line*
Lucky for me I have it all right here, completed and ready to post
Finished and polished and prepackaged with a message I didn't think of but everyone will commend me for.
I hope you enjoy it.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 9:53 AM UTC
If Doraemon is real,
I'll use his 'Hopter' to go above the clouds
Shout all my pains and get out from the crowd,
Wait for the rain and see the lightning strike the ground.
If Doraemon is real,
I'll use his 'anywhere door' to travel around the world
Oh, I'll bring my wardrobe, my lover, my bed and even my dog
With one step, I can go anywhere and write it on my blog.
If Doraemon is real,
I'll use his 'copying toast' to get different certifications
I'll memorize Merriam, Websters, Harry Potter and have an oration
I'll be the smartest person alive and wait I can feel the mutation!
If Doraemon is real,
I'll use his 'dress up camera' to get all all the dress that I want
I'm going to wear Gucci, Prada, Channel and even Dolce and Gabbana
I'll be more than the Hollywood stars, yeah I don't need Santa.
But Doraemon is not real,
He's not even mine, he is Nobita's childhood best friend.
That show taught me a great lesson - you don't need any gadget
to be happy, to have friends, to be satisfied or to feel loved.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 10:29 PM UTC
My identity was stolen
by God.
I have no sense of self,
no sense of purpose,
every personality trait of mine
is nearly reflecting
from a nearby shiny surface.
I crave individuality,
to feel like I'm a person.
I was born a blank canvas
inside and out.
Whenever I try to decorate myself
it doesn't feel like self-expression.
It feels like plagiarism.
It feels like copying someone
else's hard earned work.
For how can I express myself,
when I have no ******* clue who I am?
Supposedly, I just have to "find myself,"
But along with no identity,
I have no sense of direction.
So I wander,
and I wander,
and I wander.
I think
until my brain bleeds.
I think
until my eyes close.
And it all grows
quiet.
It all grows
white.
It all grows
into nothing.
So maybe,
I found myself
after all.
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 9:03 PM UTC
Walking around like a pack of animals
Following each other
copying what we see,
What really separates us from animals?
We talk, we think, we try to explain
but we also follow, we do as we told, we believe what is said
We work, we build, we have fun
but I'm still not seeing what truly separates us from animals
The only thing that I see different is our power
anything different we try to hurt, **** or experiment on
if any animal behaved like a human
what do you think we would do to it?
We'd experiment, we'd **** we would torture
or put it on TV and turn it in to a celebrity.
So I ask what truly separates us from animals?
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
On the face of it, there isn't much about this bird
To stop me in my tracks.
Brown, oblivious, busy with the ground
It totters along on stilted legs
Probing among the frozen fields.
It's the name that's the trouble.
Childhood hours spent copying pictures
From the Readers' Digest Book of Birds
Call to mind the name, 'Curlew'.
In my house, though, birds had Scots names
and my dad, a linguistic David Bellamy
Urged us to conserve these rare words
or lose them forever.
Goldfinch? Gowdspink!
Starling? Stuckie!
Blue *** Umm...
But the undistinguished gentleman before me
was definitely a whaup.
Curlew or whaup?
Which is it to me?
The English of books
or the fading Scots, maybe closer
to the bird's wild home?
Textbook reality
or romantic poetry?
Or both - can the creature sit
in two states at once?
"Schrodinger's Curlew", I think with a smile.
("Schrodinger's Whaup!" bellows the bit of my dad
that lodges in my head.)
Here, under a cloud of my own breath
In the low winter light,
Neither seems quite adequate.
And then, untouched by my musings
The bird spreads its wings and lifts,
Naming itself, with a long, pure note
And my heart, in two states,
Leaps
and breaks.
Nov 26, 2010
Nov 26, 2010 at 12:03 AM UTC
All these stanzas look alike
they talk about the same things
with the same words, the same poem
written over and over again
like voices, whispers, copying each other
unable to feel and trust experience
differently, socialized for homogeneity
unified but dull, strong but obedient
their writing seemed the narratives
of machines unable to innovate
plagiarizing voices they believed were
their own, authentic, pure
their literary journals were a politics
of masters of arts and agendas of contests
like car commercials without a proper
enjoyment of speed, or our favorite writers
whose names we only knew because
they were the ones who died at the right time
while somebody was looking, reading them
but the bookstores didn’t know their
metaphors were weak, or their life’s work
was merely symbolic, that’s the thing isn’t it
poets are only symbols, as poems are only
fluff, paper, the labor of writers-in-residence
while the rest of the world are more
interested in serial killers and which stocks
might be worth getting into, and when to sell out
investing in words seemed silly to them
and, in my selected works there was nothing
of how to be a Poet Laureate or how to win prizes
exceptional or not, publication was left to amazon
state grants, fellowships, visiting writers
academics who never felt truly how to write
poetry at its heart was a colonization of artists
few could share what that meant, we were
the first illiterate generation, spending more time
with the internet than with books.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC
Verse 1 (Honey *******
***** I'm Honey ******* bout to bring em some pain.
All my haters like a choir, they all singin my name.
Ain't got a heart for a broad that's the rule of the game.
Now you a fool if you aim.
Ill put a tool to ya brain.
I'm bout to get it and spend it.
If I said it, I meant it.
#FuckYoFeelings. Taste my weapon.
Act like a ***** Ill raise your blessings YOW
You are not familiar with me.
If you come makin a move, ***** yo visitor me
Verse 2 (Tyga):
Its that drop top phenom chop.
All gold rolly top.
**** yo fans, **** a cop.
All my ******* Betty bop.
Betty boop, ******* out.
Gangsta **** punch you in yo mouth.
***** I don't know what you talkin bout.
Flossin now you need dentist now Augh AUGH
**** around and Rodney King the beat.
Bout that war like Vietnamese.
Feelin froggy ***** leap.
I'm that ***** you obsolete.
I'm in that game you know P-T
R-E-C My Swa A-G. Only way you copying me ***** Augh
Verse 3 (Honey *******
Asian ***** on another degree.
Give me some space, move out my place, ***** I'm just tryna breath.
Now if you, see me around your way don't holler at me.
I just can't waste all my time cuz I be eatin these beats.
Listen you rats here just a captain me.
You ain't me homie you just act like me.
Well you should watch yo actions please.
Cuz there might be some casualties Augh augh
They about to witness it. Last Kings but I'm still on my Queen **** SCHWAG
Verse 4 (Tyga):
Aim aim at yo membrane just for sayin
I'm insane and your girl give me neck, Hang man.
I ain't playin, I never did lie.
Lay around and open yo thighs
****** gon pop like fish gonna fry
Nggas talkin greasy like the sh*t got slide WOW
High 5. Clap yo face. Change yo disguise, I work hard for the money. Money don't ever come in yo life.
A ******* right. When you lie, everybody wanna be just like.
Middle finger to the middle of yo eyes.
Young young Ty T-Raw need a Heisman Aaaahh
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
someone out in cyber-land
might just be
copying a poem which they'll
attribute to their own tee
unscrupulous replicators
have no qualms
on flagrantly stealing the lines
from genuine arms
when they take a fancy
to your brilliance of verse
they'll naff off with all or part of it
and stow it within their purse
piracy is rife around
online writing dales and dells
it's the pilfering of an authentic
author's heart and soul bells
they say that imitation
is the sincerest form of flattery
but an alternate opinion
would say plagiarists are bereft
of an original wordage battery
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 8:15 PM UTC
Tigers are dope
I want two tattooed on my back
Oh snap...
Really?
I want one on my thigh
**** that's wack
Copying me
No no it's not for you it's for me
Right just like my so called stupid heart emojis
Why are you mad I just like the idea
You like that idea and a million more
Such a ******* ******* *****
Don't snap on me for something so small
So I send heart emojis, you're lucky I text you at all
Mar 25, 2019
Mar 25, 2019 at 12:49 AM UTC
I knew we were in trouble
when they taught the machines to talk
parliament of artificial owls
nocturnal park line pirates
watch and learn
these conspirators
abduct the listening chair
and strap deniability to
another infernal device
so some hotwired pilgriming woman
possesses superior ****** abilities
and a skill with
the violin, the pointy end
camera is king
yet all the negatives
have been destroyed
still somewhere out there
remains a flash card
and a hybrid set of eyes
watching all the people fall to pieces
we're perambulations around
collapsed buildings,
rather than the collapsing buildings themselves
me and the machine
of contradictions
sick as our secrets
with all kinds of shenanigans going on
welcome to the age of copying minds
onto hard drives and cellphones
a future too heavy to carry
and so we plant it deep into the soil
letting the cables sleep
like fading city lights, receding
like strange fractured reactors
at the edge of the world
in lieu of flowers send hope
Aug 10, 2022
Aug 10, 2022 at 6:37 PM UTC
Just once I knew what life was for.
In Boston, quite suddenly, I understood;
walked there along the Charles River,
watched the lights copying themselves,
all neoned and strobe-hearted, opening
their mouths as wide as opera singers;
counted the stars, my little campaigners,
my scar daisies, and knew that I walked my love
on the night green side of it and cried
my heart to the eastbound cars and cried
my heart to the westbound cars and took
my truth across a small ****** bridge
and hurried my truth, the charm of it, home
and hoarded these constants into morning
only to find them gone.
2.5k
History's greatest artists would fail to do your frame justice. Their fingers would fumble clumsily, brushes and pens flustered by the impossible request of copying a face which would shame Aphrodite into seclusion.
Those with mastery of the worlds languages couldn't hope to come close to capturing the magnificence and depth of a soul that burns brighter than our sun, papers crumpled in frustration from futile attempts at capturing a shooting star in a mason jar.
Virtuosic musicians can't comprehend melodies which could equal your soothing atmosphere or complex structure. Theorists would spend eons attempting to find an ordering of notes which could sing harmonies fitting the one that pours from your eyes, each one being broken by the realization that no such string exists, that they have attempted to match the glory of a choir of angels, and that God has found them unworthy.
Reality is ripping at the seams in its vain efforts to make room for an immaculate Phoenix which can not be tamed, corralled, or controlled by a physical world, not when its immortal splendor transcends description or dimension. Moments feel like eternity when blessed with the presence of one who's life illuminates nights which previously contained impenetrable darkness, thick as ink and as all consuming as the fires which now burn so brilliantly and with such calming warmth.
A priceless work of art, surpassing the limits of what can perceived with eyes or ears, and must be experienced by the heart, felt by the soul, and loved by the whole of my being. A greater masterpiece has never been born, and can never be duplicated, for she is the universes greatest achievement, and only a fool could think to improve upon perfection.
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 11:49 PM UTC
Let me introduce myself,
I’m Paul B.
P to the A to the U to the L to the B.
You say Paul,
I say B.
You say Paul,
I say…
I used to teach English, try to inspire.
Least you can say is, I was a trier.
Love this rapping: it gets my feet tapping,
Even though I ought to be napping.
I write poems like a word ejector,
Keep away you Grammar Inspector!
Jay-Z writes in iambic pentameters,
Making out he’s got no parameters.
Honey G just copies off him,
Oh my God she really is dim.
Does her rap like Barbara Windsor,
Do you remember Needles and Pins-ah?
Me I’m copying off them both,
Though it’s only for a laugh.
Whoops a daisy that don’t quite rhyme,
Another case of Butters Rhyme Crime.
Rap is ******* I often say,
Though it rhymes the poetic way.
That leaves me with one thing to say:
You say Paul,
I say…
Paul Butters
© PB 17\10\2016.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
god is the devil and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
you see god triumphs all over poor bob
you see today bob was going to the local bowling alley to reform the messiah, you see
this person believes he is the messiah, and his mate brian was annoying the pants off him
by every time he got a strike, brian copies TV, saying, yes, there is a GOD, about 100 times
and drove the messiah nuts, saying why are you saying this, then brian got another strike
and said it again, yes, there is a god, and the next miss, brian will say 100 times , no there isn’t a god
brian never offended the messiah, but he said, yes there is a god, or no there isn’t a god about 100 times
and at the end when brian got 182 as his bowling score, brian yelled out, yes, there is a god up there
and when someone got the same score, he said, there is no god, it still drove the messiah nuts
and bob delahunty said, why are you saying he drives you nuts, he is a family person, you can
learn a lot from brian, and brian sang we are the champions, the messiah left going
god is the devil, and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
GOD THE DEVIL AND THE MIGHTY BOB
bob delahunty wanted to understand the messiah, so he made brian and the messiah go to a ACT Brumbies game
and brian filled with the simpsons lines in his head, went go brumbies, go brumbies, and when they dropped the ball
brian yelled out we stink we stink we stink, and it happened again, the brumbies ran up the field with brian saying
go brumbies go brumbies go brumbies go, and they dropped the ball, and brian said we stink we stink we stink
and the messiah, who has bionic hearing said, the two islanders behind us, said, why does he keep doing that
and brian said, he was copying frankie j holden on TV, or trying to be the GOOFY homer simpson, which to brian’s
opinion is cool, it was the messiah that has the problem, and the messiah walked away saying
god is the devil and the devil is brian
god is the devil and the devil is brian
god is the devil and the devil is brian
god the devil and annoying old brian
and then bob delahunty decided to follow brian and the messiah around, and it seemed brian had a point
every time the messiah had problems, he would yell out, GOD DOESN’T WANT ME TO HAVE ******* FUN EVER IN MY LIFE
and the messiah would say that again and again, saying god doesn’t want me to that or this or every fucken thing
you see, the messiah wanted to live with some old soccer mates, better than brian because he was a total ****** and brian
said, i am not a ****** i am trying to be nice to you, allowing to go to the coast together, and to the movies
and you still say, and making me say god doesn’t want me to have fun ever in my life, and bob gave brian the messiahs drug to
help him beat the ****** in him, and stop that silly thing to say of god doesn’t want me to do that, it forced brian’s best school mate
ripping into brian’s head after hearing he is a buddhist, saying sit there, buddha doesn’t want you to go on the computer
and i told that voice, buddha wants me to join the next generation, which is better than being a ****** saying, if i eat a banana
god will punnish my family, and force people into rioting with one another, brian knows they wanna party, and bob told the
messiah, the way to make you better dear child, is split this friendship, ok, so the messiah walked away singing
god is the devil and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is god
god is the devil and the devil is god
GOD THE DEVIL AND MY MATE OLD CHUM BOB
god is the devil and the devil is god
god is the devil and the devil is god
god is the devil and the devil is bob
god the devil and BUDDHA AND THE JEWS, makes bobs day really complete
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 3:57 AM UTC
Everyone wants to hear a poem that rhymes from the girl who rhymes
But I’ve got no rhythm tip toe around the precision of other writers
I get lost easily in the waves of patterns and structure
Rupture my skin in the process
Destroying words and phrases in the mess of my skin and blood
Dragging myself through the mud I am a jumble of words that don’t even fit together in sentences
My types of fetish’s aren’t feet or latex, but poetry
Supposedly everyone can rhyme but
My fingers can find the time from the space between pen and paper
Maybe if i cover my room in wallpaper made from failed poems
I’ll finally get there
Rip out all my hair
I’ve never successfully written rhyme worth sharing
I’ve been in this despairing state for a while
Ran miles on my tongue
Wrung myself dry from all my creativity
Found I have a bigotry towards everything I write
Everyone wants to hear a poem that rhymes from the girls who rhymes
I ask for an example
Sample sounds on paper
Ending up with ample amounts of couplets
But its never enough, its always going to fall short
Someone needs to take me to court I’m copying the sound of other writers
Profound thoughts never said eloquently enough
It’s rough to be a writer that doesn’t know how to write
But I’ve never been the type to give up
Cover up all my failed attempts at rhyming with free-verse
Curse me, Or even worse
Coerce me into thinking I know what I’m doing
Because whats worse than blissful ignorance
Hand my a fistful of advice and set me free
But I’ll never be the girl who rhymes rhymes
My fingers will never find the time lost between pen and paper
Everyone wants to hear a poem that rhymes from the girl who rhymes
Sometimes they nearly get their wish
But all dreams parish in jumbles of words in phrases
Blaze through whole journals trying to write two poems
Crumbling my own thoughts in my too fast thought process
Everyone wants to hear a poem that rhymes from the girls who rhymes
I still with pencil and paper
Set out on this caper
With a website that gives me words that rhyme
I’ve decided to let people get their fix
Try my hand at rhymes
Take my time
And slow down my too fast thought process
Soak up all my creativity
A rid my mind of every bigotry I ever had
Because the girl who rhymes
Will always be the girl who rhymes
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 10:45 AM UTC
_New York
after a trip to Mexico, & not finally explored_.
In 1991, shortly before he died,
Motherwell
remembered a "conspiracy of silence"
regarding Paalen´s innovative role in the genesis of Abstract Expressionism.
Upon return from Mexico, Motherwell
spent time developing his creative principle
based on automatism:
"what I realized was that Americans
potentially could paint like angels, but that there
was no effective creative principle around,
so that everybody
who liked modern art was copying it;
Gorky was copying Picasso;
******* was copying Picasso;
De Kooni
ng was copying Picasso;
I mean, I say this unqualifiedly,
I was painting French intimate pictures or whatever:
All we needed was a creative principle,
I mean something that would mobilize this capacity
to paint in a creative way, & that's what Europe
had that we
hadn't had;
we had always followed in their wake
& I thought of all the possibilities
| [ ], [ ]
of free association—because I also had
a psychoanalytic background
& I understood the implications of—let's just say it
might be the best chance
to really make something entirely
new which everybody agreed was the thing to do;"
Thus, in the early 1940s, Robert Motherwell
played a significant role in laying the foundations
for the new movement of
Abstract Expressionism (or the New York School):
"Matta wanted to start a revolution, m [a movement w/in
Surrealism].
He asked me to find some other
American artists that would help start a new movement;
it was then that Baziotes
& I went to see ******* & de Kooning
& Hofmann & Kamrowski & Busa & several other people;
& if we could come with something;
Peggy Guggenheim, who liked us said that she
would put on a show of this new business;
... so I went around explaining _the theory of automatism_
to everybody because _the only way_
that you could have a _move - - - ment_
was that it had some _common_
_principle_. It sort of all began that way."
In 1942 Motherwell began to exhibit
his work in New York and in 1944
he had his first one-man show at
Peggy Guggenheim’s _“Art of This Century”_ gallery;
that same year, the MoMA
was the first museum
purchase one of his works; From the mid-1940s,
Motherwell [ ], [ ]. ( )
became the leading spokesman
for _avant-garde art in America_;
his circle coming to include
William Baziotes,
David Hare, Barnett Newman, & Mark Rothko,
with whom he eventually started the Subjects of the Artist School (1948–49). In 1949 Motherwell divorced
Maria Emilia Ferreira y Moyeros and in 1950 he married Bettie
Little,
with whom he had two daughters
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 11:18 PM UTC
I know this crush can't be anything more,
But when I look at you I see you look at me,
It sends chills down my spine and all I can do Is smile.
I know this crush is kinda new,
But the moment I met you I thought about how cute you were,
and just today I thought about how nice your lips were,
I wondered how they'd feel against mine,
The thought made me smile and laugh,
It made me happy.
I know this crush has just grown
But when your sitting next to me my hands grow shaky,
The words I'm trying to write come out so sloppy,
Your copying my words down though,
I find it amazing you can read it,
I know I barely can.
I know I barely know you
But when I was having my own little freak out,
You tried to make it better,
We're not even real friends,
But you can still make me smile and still make me laugh,
All you have to do is be in the same room,
This crush,
If that's what I'm suppose to call it,
Why won't it go away,
It just stays,
And it scares me,
because my heart is aching less,
and my mind seems to have your name roaming wildly.
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 8:52 PM UTC
How to write an English poem
Well this is what I do,
I listen to my dear friend "Jon"
Then I go about copying him.
He says Good-marrow My to Thy lady
I laugh & reply back Hath thee fared well,
Like I'm in Shakespeare's Macbeth.
I love how
He uses "thou" different then myself
I say thou in sense of "even though"
translations are must
to understanding my friend!
He speaks in
Cockney- crockery riddles
Yet some how I understand.
I doth not speak to make
fun of him
for I love his English gib,
I listen while learning
to write a sonnet since.
How to write an English poem.
I listen to Sir "Jon's"
witty sense of humor
His cloaked sarcastic'ness
as he talks in general,
Saying such this as
Aroin't thee & Blimey ole chap
as if I know'th what he means.
How to write an English poem
Well frankly it's a pickle of a thing,
I say I doth rightly know lets ask'th
Sir"Jon & see!
He say'ith to me
"change your ****** dialect"....
And
when he's spitting made
He yells
O' God Save the queen.
He also talks of frippery
& ask if I'd like a spot of tea
when asking me questions
he laughs & quotes
such things like ;
" cheeky" little beggar or monkey
as "IF" I
know what he means.
Funny thing is though
Sir "Jon'
never really
******* told me
How to write an English poem
(so answers to every-ones question- I'd say walk around & say top of the morning,
ole chap & blimey, Even things like Bristol Cities & things likes this don't forget your "TH" s
addressing your selves a lot & put emphasis on every other syllable & thing!)
Well dear Sir "Jon"
I am not a British Bolk
Just A YANKEE- New Englander
oh & a NuYorican
Ta Boot
So next when I see You
****** Friend tell me-
How to write an English poem !?!
Always Me Ayeshah
Mar 13, 2010
Mar 13, 2010 at 6:29 AM UTC
We are born with luck
which is to say with gold in our mouth.
As new and smooth as a grape,
as pure as a pond in Alaska,
as good as the stem of a green bean--
we are born and that ought to be enough,
we ought to be able to carry on from that
but one must learn about evil,
learn what is subhuman,
learn how the blood pops out like a scream,
one must see the night
before one can realize the day,
one must listen hard to the animal within,
one must walk like a sleepwalker
on the edge of a roof,
one must throw some part of her body
into the devil's mouth.
Odd stuff, you'd say.
But I'd say
you must die a little,
have a book of matches go off in your hand,
see your best friend copying your exam,
visit an Indian reservation and see
their plastic feathers,
the dead dream.
One must be a prisoner just once to hear
the lock twist into his gut.
After all that
one is free to grasp at the trees, the stones,
the sky, the birds that make sense out of air.
But even in a telephone booth
evil can seep out of the receiver
and we must cover it with a mattress,
and then tear it from its roots
and bury it,
bury it.
2k
~Depression plants suicidal seeds, don’t copy hate, instead do good deeds~
◄►◄►◄►◄►
Rhythm and rhyme beats in the heart
Forming musical inspiration in a creative art
Beauty from pain
It lies within, as rainbows bleed a colorful stain
Razor marks tattooed on the skin
Is this a sign or a committed sin?
Learn from past, live the present
Don’t be a suicidal mocking bird who always laments
Copying others, with suicide entwined in imagination
Bleed the pen, and brightly color in your blank emotion
Represent a leader
You were born a survivor
Revolutionary options are provided for you to excel
Grow wings, spread them, and fly beyond this living hell
Skidding across icy obstacles
Wishing for miracles
Live your dream
Let the dying razor scream
No more suicidal mockingbird
Let hopefulness be today’s most used word
◄►◄►◄►◄►
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 12:45 AM UTC
I'm only trying to love myself to make up for me hating me.
I hate the way I hate myself but i just cant escape from me.
Tell myself I'll get it right and I just gotta wait for me,
but me is getting tired, meanwhile I'm just waiting patiently.
Trying to give myself a vision, I'm just trying to make me see,
That happiness is bread and life could really be a bakery.
Got a sweet tooth and negativity is cake to me.
Everybody watching, they just copying and pasting me.
Take the key, I'm trying to lock my thoughts inside a safe with me.
Looking in a mirror just to let myself debate with me.
I just wanna love my life, living, learning gracefully
But how can I uplift myself when all my thoughts are weight to me?
Racing through infinity I'm standing with the Trinity.
Me, Myself, and I, that's a triangle full of enemies.
Me, Myself, and I, in me so tell me where would you hide?
You wanna hear some painful irony? I have to choose sides.
Because I stay fighting myself and hurting me like am I serious?
There ain't enough room in this one body for the three of us.
No we cannot comfort us. Yes it makes us furious.
Screaming to ourselves like, "is anybody hearing us?"
Self inflicted pain. On this shelf I sit in vain.
Telling me about myself cause no one else would think its sane.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 11:58 PM UTC