"cribs" poems
She was never sure it was what she wanted,
arguing with a man who wanted her to carry a piece of them both.
But sure enough a small bump formed,
and from the first heartbeat she fell in love.
Everything from then on was tiny socks in tiny shoes,
fluffy cribs in shades of pink and blue.
Excitement and worry and fierce protection,
arms curling on top of her belly in intense affection.
But when the time came, something went horribly wrong,
when there was no screeching and crying to break the calm.
A child, still, unusually peaceful and serene,
she held the tiny shell where her baby should have been.
Everything in her life reminded her of her pain,
and nothing inside her could ever be the same.
Not even he could understand,
how she was stranded in her ****** wasteland.
Clothes and toys quickly packed in a box,
her body still creating milk for a being that would never grow.
she'd have to find a way to move on, living with the constant ache,
of the loss of a person she would never know.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 11:58 AM UTC
well
there's plenty of cutesy names to
call one's children
but his was 'unlovable trash'
He remembered it from the time he was in the crib
They held him there
for longer than most parents
held their kids in cribs. Though only dad
called him so
because he constantly claimed he wasn't his
unlovable trash
he had the wrong skin tone
was too pale
with curly orange hair
and freckles
but mom always pretended she didn't
hear
the words
unlovable trash
she would act as if they were never uttered
and growing up
he thought
unlovable trash was a good thing
thought it was how you show love to your loved
ones
"Mom, you’re unlovable trash."
she was so happy to hear it
she burst into tears and went into the
kitchen and uncorked a bottle of wine
and drank it all by herself. What an
unlovable trash she was
Unfortunately
by the time he could pronounce the lovely
words
father was no longer in his life
but father too
was an unlovable trash
Oct 26, 2019
Oct 26, 2019 at 9:58 AM UTC
Somehow I ended up poor,
Ended as mere dream my world tour
Fancy cribs, fast cars, model wife
Dinner with kings and good life --
Just me and my ****** ol' guitar
Needless to say, it's out of tune.
Oh! I have a dog - wagging its tail
Go to sleep, june
Tonight, no midnight tale
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 10:56 AM UTC
133
As Children bid the Guest “Good Night”
And then reluctant turn—
My flowers raise their pretty lips—
Then put their nightgowns on.
As children caper when they wake
Merry that it is Morn—
My flowers from a hundred cribs
Will peep, and prance again.
3.1k
i hate it when you have a hangnail but it is mostly a piece
of skin that is really steadfast about not detaching
from your finger. it’s like the piece of skin has
separation anxiety and you can’t get it
to leave ever
all you want is for the piece of skin to move out.
today is your twentieth birthday and you are thinking
about your mortality a whole bunch and how you have provided
the piece of skin with a comfortable home and now
you want it to move on and make a big life
for itself so when you’re old and more carrot-like
you will have the piece of skin to take care of you
until you are ready to make the big trip to hamilton
known as dying alone and feeling okay about it
because hamilton is a nice place to die alone
hamilton is a port city in the canadian province of ontario
you dream of hamilton and you are already a little bit more
carrot-like on this day, your twentieth birthday. we want the
piece of skin to get its **** together so we can all be happy
for you one day when the amount of carrot-like
characteristics you grow into becomes immeasurable
and creamy. the piece of skin smiles and says
it does not like your conservative-minded nonsense
the piece of skin feels as though it has a right to
prosperity and a new season of hey arnold
and its own episode of mtv cribs.
you say the piece of skin is too liberal and you
get out a pair of scissors and cut of your finger
the finger with the piece of skin that was too clingy
is now resting peacefully on the hardwood floor
of your apartment in a pool of blood that you are
proud to say is something you made on your own.
the piece of skin quotes hemingway as it dies
the reference goes over your head and the reader’s head too
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 1:56 PM UTC
Jean, death comes close to us all,
flapping its awful wings at us
and the gluey wings crawl up our nose.
Our children tremble in their teen-age cribs,
whirling off on a thumb or a motorcycle,
mine pushed into gnawing a stilbestrol cancer
I passed on like hemophilia,
or yours in the seventh grade, with her spleen
smacked in by the balance beam.
And we, mothers, crumpled, and flyspotted
with bringing them this far
can do nothing now but pray.
Let us put your three children
and my two children,
ages ranging from eleven to twenty-one,
and send them in a large air net up to God,
with many stamps, real air mail,
and huge signs attached:
SPECIAL HANDLING.
DO NOT STAPLE, FOLD OR MUTILATE!
And perhaps He will notice
and pass a psalm over them
for keeping safe for a whole,
for a whole ********* life-span.
And not even a muddled angel will
peek down at us in our foxhole.
And He will not have time
to send down an eyedropper of prayer for us,
the mothering thing of us,
as we drip into the soup
and drown
in the worry festering inside us,
lest our children
go so fast
they go.
1.8k
By: Cedric McClester
Bang bang
***** die slow
There’s more to hip hop
Than that ya know
It’s more than the bling
Some ****** show
More than the cribs
The cars or the dough
The culture’s diverse
And you need to know
It’s more than the **** shakin
You’ll always see
On certain shows
On the cable TV
It’s more than the dissin
The fights and braggin rights
Bang bang
***** die slow
I’m only sayin
What ya already know
Bang bang
***** die slow
We’re checkin for content
As well as for flow
You’re pimpin the game
And the homies know
You’re talkin ‘bout places
That you’ll never go
Talkin ‘bout crimes
You never committed
And it’s about time
To fess-up and admit it
Here is the deal
You need to yield
Cos it’s gettin too real
In the field
Bang bang
***** die slow
I’m only sayin
What ya already know
Bang bang
***** die slow
Ya namean
Let me give ya the low
Some name themselves
After I-talian criminals
Sending public messages
That attacks the subliminal
Then start complainin
Once they get popped
And the uninformed
Blame it on hip hop
And it’s not fair
That hip hop takes the blame
For some of you out there
That I could name
Bang bang
***** die slow
I’m only sayin
What ya already know
Bang bang
***** die slow
It’s about to be a rap
For the rap game (yo)
Rap is spiralin further
Out of control
And the government now
Sees itself in the role
Of overseer or regulator
Ya knew it would happen
Sooner or later
If you go on trial
You won’t be around
That’s their way of keepin
The Black man down
All you have to do is jus look around
Bang bang
***** die slow
I’m only sayin
What ya already know
Bang bang
***** die slow
All it takes for you to be
Good to go
Is a mouth full of platinum
And a video **
There’s more to life
Than that you know
Don’t let me be the one
To say I told you so
Cos the seeds you’re plantin
Are kinda rough to ***
But you’re convinced
That you are it
And a ****** like me
Can’t tell you ****
Bang bang
***** die slow
I’m only sayin
What ya already know
Bang bang
***** die slow
There’s more to hip hop
Than that ya know
It’s more than the bling
Some ****** show
More than the cribs
The cars or the dough
The culture’s diverse
And you need to know
It’s more than the **** shakin
You’ll always see
On certain shows
On the cable TV
It’s more than the dissin
The fights and braggin rights
(c) Copyright, 2015 Cedric McClester. All rights reserved.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 10:42 PM UTC
With a hint of Otis I say:
"Sittin' on some steps by the...ocean,
"Watching the people of today,
Puttin' on that lotion...
Couples walk by
Never say hi.
Pondering the meaning of life,
Woah! My god, look at that girl!
I really like her...shirt.
Wow my sunburn really hurts.
Ah, the beach. What a soothing feeling
The ocean can reach...when one can
Hear it over screaming kids. Parents
Smoking as they push the cribs.
Foreigners ...Probably judging us Americans. Finding
Importance in life by being more tan.
Hey look there's a seagull. So free
To fall in the air. It's just not
fair. I wish I could steal fries from
Strangers and get away with it.
Just made awkward eye contact
With a runner. She was cute
But what a ****** I couldn't
Catch her if I tried. There's a
Rent-a-cop. He may yell, "Stop!"
But a nerf-gun can only do so
Much. What a job. Authority and
Such. This boardwalk is repetitive.
Needy kids and whiny parents.
I might need a sedative...there's
A choir of noise in the background. Arcade
Schemes...games...some bells, the ocean and
The screaming kids that are yet to be tamed.
Smh @ r generation.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 1:20 PM UTC
'Cotton Candy Tree'
Colored clouds in the sky,
Bird nests held by the trees,
Only if I could reach that high,
I would swirl the sky to make a
cotton candy tree,
Flowers growing ground up,
All the baby birds nestled in their cribs, made of floss,
Incredible spiders on the ground, Then they go round and round,
in webs that look like invisible rainbow gloss,
Mother Nature does love,
I love her from the lowest to the highest above.
written by @author_venjarnold
Dec 31, 2021
Dec 31, 2021 at 2:03 AM UTC
Colored clouds in the sky,
Bird nests held by the trees,
Only if I could reach that high,
I would swirl the sky to make a cotton candy tree,
Flowers growing ground up,
All the baby birds nestled in their cribs made of floss,
Incredible spiders on the ground, Then they go round and round,
in webs that look like invisible rainbow gloss,
Mother Nature does love,
I love her from the lowest to the highest above.
-Author Ven J Arnold
Mar 26, 2022
Mar 26, 2022 at 9:40 PM UTC
It took humanity thousands of years to evolve into a society. A place where our thoughts would be heard. Our words could be shared, and we, as a whole moved past the barbaric creatures that we used to be. Few have stood up to the whole and screamed, “WE MUST BREAKOUT OF OUR WAYS! We cannot treat others as if they were dirt! Just because that’s how it has always been does not mean that it is right!”
Their words have inspired, humanity has come so far. We have created an illusion that the more we have the better we are. We have cried and died just to say, “We broke out! We are different and have changed.”
And how perfectly we lie as we say it.
If we have truly evolved, then why are we fighting over love? Does changing mean lining the pockets of politicians so oil companies can make the rules and destroy the Earth?
Is breaking out of our barbaric ways tying down and torturing our mentally disabled? Putting them in cribs so the age of twenty seven looks like a deformed four year old. They are not perfect as the media says that they should. So we hide them away like the Hunchback of Notre Dame was hidden. How can we say that we have left our ****** past behind us when we drug those who are different and condone the torture of the abnormal?
It is not true! Some have screamed at our accusations. It will be changed… and we believe it.
We believe every beautiful lie.
Society bleeds peace from the skin of nuclear weapons. We scream for equality for those who are exactly like us and no one else who doesn’t fit the mold. Gangs run our streets like kings, their drugs flowing through our cities like blood in our veins. Hate is the skeleton with which we thrive and the beautiful lies we whisper are the muscles that keep us moving.
How can we say we have broken out when ****** run the streets free and the pregnant victim is the one society assaults? How can we have broken out when colors that shouldn’t matter are the soul basis for the death of an innocent fourteen year old girl, who just happened to be riding her bike. How can we say that we have changed when families are starving to death because the price of living has gone so high that their stagnant jobs can’t support them like it once did.
Society… Oh society how wrong you are with your honeyed, poisoned words. Do as you say and breakout. Change. Because you’re taking a long walk off a short cliff and those words will catch up to you. Breakout now, no one will do it for you.
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 4:39 PM UTC
GIVE me your anathema.
Speak new damnations on my head.
The evening mist in the hills is soft.
The boulders on the road say communion.
The farm dogs look out of their eyes and keep thoughts from the corn cribs.
Dirt of the reeling earth holds horseshoes.
The rings in the whiffletree count their secrets.
Come on, you.
1.5k
It started as a joke we all laughed at the thought
of slanging coke
or passing cops with a whole bag of thizz
cheesing out ya window, just like Andre and Mac Dre in the Bay and Valley Joe
But now the game got real
I'm broke and choked for skrill (skreel) and this sandwich place can't even contend with the dough I'd make if I dealed
But who could I trust and who would squeal, make me have to peel out in my whip as I dipped
moved cribs and changed homies
Do I have a soul of a drug dealer or one for slapping on pepperoni to a sandwich for another zombie
Do I have the soul of a drug dealer?
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
1991
I realized
We were both born
in rotting soil,
plastic toys fed
by Arabia's oil.
Eyes closed,
ears behest
to broadcasts, we,
could NOT protest.
That was the beginning
of our mass destruction,
but cribs offsides,
we slept soundly,
thanking our stars,
proud to be Americans.
10 years dormant,
the lyrics laid,
enough to stick,
but their irony to fade.
Until grade school,
recess goaded,
as burning buildings
on our side exploded.
The imminent threat preloaded,
in airports we shed shoes,
forever coded.
The broadcast — our center
was the theorem
that planes, oil, and Arabs
risked everyone's freedom.
But when we raised hands,
to ask why, teachers said
hail red, blue,
and especially white.
We forgot our roots,
because the Ellis Island trip
was obviously cancelled.
So we read headlines,
instead of Orwell,
the day 911
called for a police state.
Trusted the government
and ****** Muslims,
the day turbans
meant hijacking planes.
Pledged allegiance
disguised as freedom,
the day war
was declared
on Saddam Insane.
Our flag revealed
a sham feeding flames,
angst-ridden
teenagers
we became.
With raised middle fingers,
instead of hands,
to Green Day lyrics,
**** Amuricans.
Because only idiots
press a red button twice,
when mass destruction is the price.
And only villains
make children orphans,
while victims drown
in New Orleans.
And only gluttons
eat caviar with silver spoons,
tainting forever
a nation's youth.
Entrenched in dunes,
we boarded blind,
to debt,
death, and
jaded minds.
Blamed by perpetrators
in dollars and change,
for a guerrilla war
fought in vain!
Voted Obama,
with Osama slain,
and soldiers withdrawn,
we hoped for change.
PLEASE, we cried,
JUST STOP!
We are CHAINED —
to a bulldozer
that has NO BRAKES!
…
So the broadcast said recently:
We are losing control
of the Middle East. And
Al-Qaeda is far from weak —
ISIS: THE PHOENIX OF HUMAN GREED,
We just turned off our TV's
and looked up,
the kids who gave up,
thanked Musk — our atlas,
not yet shrugged,
whose vessels of stars
will rocket toward Mars,
from this godforsaken
civilization
built on hate.
And when you tell me, ***
"We were both born in 1991,"
I can only sigh,
and breath sympathy,
for our dark history.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 8:57 PM UTC
The holding of his joyful trembling arms
will clasp no more pink feeble fingers
for even blood betrayed its passing.
The most beautiful cry
vanished without a single tune
unheard by the looking grandparents.
No unfamiliar friends in white
giving genuine smiles
and congratulations to the dad
but the unacceptable shaking of heads
and unwanted tap at their backs.
Suppressed get-the-hell-out-of-heres.
And the mother?
Nothing is more hurting than to never touch
a thing that she sheltered all her life
To holler in pain of delivering would have been divine
to scream, wonderful
to roar, magnificent
to rip bed sheets
and curse the father while letting it out into world
are mostly gratifying
than to remain silent while the cannula
forces its entry to the abandoned world of unborn.
No stupid peek-a-boos will ever echo in this
haunted crib.
No tingling of rattles
will ever irritate ears in smelly midnights
No nursery rhyme will hum.
School bus will never blow its horn
To call upon the school child.
No stars on a hand.
No you’re-the-best-mom-in-the-worlds.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 10:28 PM UTC
Maybe thugs aren’t shooters,
They all need to decompress.
Calling themselves gangsters,
Never should they be blessed.
Thugs don’t get all their girls,
They pay them just big bucks.
Killing like they own all worlds,
Murdering with all their Glocks.
Blood gangs, where are the Crips?
Crip gangs, where is the Bloods?
They are fake owning their cribs,
Murdering just to own any goods.
Gangsters don’t own their swags,
It’s the Rap Game, it’s the G Code.
They rob and steal, filling all bags,
Man, these gangsters seem all old!
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 4:54 PM UTC
“Two possibilities exist: either we are alone in the Universe or we are not. Both are equally terrifying.”
That's Arthur C. Clarke.
My wife always believed we are not;
She was convinced we are not alone.
11 months ago,
My sweet wife said to me,
“Wouldn’t a pair of tiny feet
Pattering around the house
Sound so sugary sweet?”
10 months ago,
The doctor told me how
My count was pretty low and
Asked my wife about a bike accident
From when she was 10.
My wife cried a little, and then
At home, she cried
More than I’d ever seen her.
“I don’t want to be alone,” she said,
But I told her we’re never alone,
As long as we have God.
She told me, in one of the worlds out there,
We are complete.
The ‘S’ in universes keeps her hopeful,
And content.
8 months ago,
I sat in the waiting room
With my sweet wife who had
Been puking and aching for weeks.
The doctor called it a miracle
And said our lonely days were gone.
My wife said she was glad
We weren’t going to be alone,
With just her and me.
7 months ago,
My wife ate right, and exercised,
And sang to her belly, and
Did all of the things
She was told to do;
But it was not enough, because
1 month ago,
My wife — my sweet, lovely wife —
She tripped on the staircase-
That last creaky step I swore I’d fix-
And fell, and bled and bled.
The doctor said he was sorry,
That my wife, she’d be okay, but
That there was nothing to be done
About the young one.
My wife cried much more
Than she had cried 4 months before.
She said she didn’t want to be alone.
“But we are not alone,”
I held her and I said,
“We have God in our midst,
we are not alone.”
A week ago,
I put out a sign
That declared ‘Garage Sale’
(Unabashedly, as if mocking us)
And lay out a motley of miniature clothes and objects-
Unused cribs and
Tiny, unworn shoes.
One day ago,
I said all the right things,
And loved and supported her,
And held her through her tears, but
Right now, as I cry
More than I’ve ever cried before,
And ask why I couldn’t be enough,
She is packing up her trunk,
Saying she can’t take it, saying
“I just want to be alone.”
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 8:40 AM UTC
life is on sale
but always paid with flesh
a ship that sinks
in an endless stream of pretty
unforgiving things
play with fire
every chance you get
whoever told you to grow up
were insanely jealous
stare at the sun
wear your lack of a brain as a disguise
forget umbrellas
**** always attacks from below
cross the line
never look back
time machines are called money
you had wings once
but lost them twice
reflections chase mirrors
because they're alone
cradle machine guns like
newborn babies
turn off the TV and
burn the books
even hell has Instagram these days
the only castles worth the candle
are the one you built as a kid
but that doesn't buy any press
or a spot on MTV cribs
followers are up
life is on sale
but always paid with flesh.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 3:01 PM UTC
**Our eyes meet
it's electric , almost magnetic
we look at each other as if we are
the only people on earth,
and in our minds we are the gods
of the universe,
our souls are united , we are not
two hearts but one,
we are the love couple's in folk tales
uniting in this life time**.
*We exchange words that
sound poetic while we sit
and feel them course through
our every vein. The love we
share is a bit chaotic. We sit
at night up in our attic. Watching
the silver moonlight from the
window frame. Counting the
stars like it's the only game.
We tangle our hands as if they
are tied with shackles and chains. The only thoughts that come
to our brains are thoughts of
our love and how it all happened
as it was unarranged. Sitting
in the attic you touch my skin.
Making it feel like a wild flame
that's being put out by rain.
Looking in your eyes i see the prettiest sunrise. Holding your
hands feeling ocean waves. I
listen to your heart as its beats
rhyme with mine. I want you
curled under my skin and always
in m mind. I want you standing
safe and guarded behind the
cage of my ribs. Just like babies
do at night in their cribs. We are
the lovers that the poet's mentioned back in the old age*
We are the lovers whom are destined to meet each other in every life time again and again ~
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 12:20 AM UTC
I have to hold back my tears. No one can see me like this, vulnerable and not in control.
They think that i can fend for myself, what do they know? Truth is im in need for their help, for their opnion and inspiring words.
For a long time it was me in the middle of the sandwhich. My older sister covering me, and i protecting my ypunger twin.
Its funny how the sandwhich turns into how my life is today. My older sister takes up all the spotlight, claimig it allfor herself. Absorbin all the attention until there is none left. I shake at the words she wont utter, like a simple please or thank you. How she would never help my mother how she leaves my mother fighting so hard, as she sits on the couch and jist watches. When my mother asks for her help she will make it more like a burden then helping out of respect. I will do any of those thigs in a heart eat just to take the stress off of my moms shoulders. But again thats how we differ...
As for my twin the one that i had felt the need to protect since we had been in the wound together 16 years ago. How can i put in words all the feelings she leaves on me? She is so irritable yet i yearn to watch her succeed. She is as slow as a turtle, yet sometimes shes as sharp as a knife . Some nights ill catch her talking to herself, it pains me to see her over think things. After so much effort of tryin to help her all i can do now is make beleive im sleeping, pull the covers over my head and let the tears roll down my cheek, burning it under their touch. She has this problem and the tendency to ovetthink thongs from the stipidest things to the most important. She lays them all on the same scale not considekg the dfferences betwene them . As muh as she overthinks , when she has an idea she lets it cloud her judgement.l
I remember thst one time in our cribs its blurr but i still feel it in my blood. Diane had my moms attentiom absorbed for she was alsay a cryer even when her head hutt a lottle bit. Michelle was sick with strep having my moms also and my dads granparents. Then my head throat and whole body was killing .. All i remmeber was keeping my mouth shut. And waitig for someone to come ask me how i was feeling. Which no one did.And still as i cry typing this no one will ask me how im feeling, for i have middle child syndrome
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 6:29 PM UTC
I will hold my breath,
Still with anticipation of the day
When children sleep soundly in their cribs,
When hounds stand poised and alert at their master's side,
When high school friends recognize each other after years of separation,
When the mendicant wanders a cold city after dark,
When the ever-thirsting stock broker buys the American dream with stolen money,
When a sorry little girl embraces a once furious, now placated mother,
When a college student spends days in a library and nights drowning in cheap beer,
When a cozy red hand knit scarf protects an old man in the unforgiving snow,
When I finally find what I've sought for so long,
That will be the day I stop writing and start singing our song.
Jul 23, 2010
Jul 23, 2010 at 10:59 PM UTC
The room is clear and the air is filtered
Two chairs for me and her, to separate and segregate
I grind my teeth and I clinch my fist, to the point where
I experience near sudden paralysis in my right hand,
and I think to myself, "I didn't love you because you were rich".
No such things as unaccepted apologies.
Between the two pillars of our own truth, there stands 32 Dr. Phils,
and each one attempts to explain to me
on how to be a reasonable and rational man,
so I can grow old with her, and learn how to fly without having any mosquito wings.
As I sit impatiently in this draconian chair of imprisonment with no restraints,
I think of what we once had and what we can still accomplish
by not believing in things such as unaccepted apologies.
By realizing that we are no longer on training wheels,
That the jagged surface that bridges us,
From a love that can shave diamonds and convert children into angels after death.
And when we get to that bridge, we will see ourselves with our children
as they walk and crawl to our bodies,
infesting their love across our fat bellies with their eyes and their drooling mouths.
I want our children to learn their first words that signify the exact representation
of our relationship;
their vivid sounds of "mamas, dadas, goo-goos, ga-gas"
hanging to our ears like raindrops on windshields,
like a mobile softly swinging over their cribs.
I relinquish myself from this seat as I run to hers,
to grab her, to tell her how ****** this situation is.
How our internal and legal battles are astronomically indifferent
To the spheric gift from God that has shun His light to your tiny stomach,
like the flickering spark of a dying flash.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 8:47 PM UTC
I
I'm trying t' find my ID.
I think I'm missing it.
This thing,
This bright, shining light,
It's hiding in my blindsight.
I'm swimming in mist,
Trying t' find ... "I"
First I'm living
In my crib;
Clinging wrists.
Flitting my crib,
I'm Shy
Crying, whiny twit, missing bitty,
With stinky kids, kicking kitty.
I'm missing my crib.
I'm piling thinking bricks with big kids.
Slimy, smirking ***** hiss 'n' spit.
I'm sitting still in ill-fitting shirts,
shirking sight.
Hiding might blind ****** kids crying, "It's billy!!! Skinny **** 'n' smiling in fits.
"Try finding kind kids x"
Finding "whys" in rising minds.
My mind grinds.
I'm kicking tins, spilling drinks.
Sitting in IT,
Sir chillingly insists "it isn't "fly" spilling drinks! "Shy" brings skills. "Why" brings ills."
I'm still shy.
This crib's tiny.
Tiny minds, blind by bling.
Fit chicks with big ****
Thick ****** thinking with *****
I flit this Brit ****
Brisk flight,
I find "I"
Simply shimmying "ir(o)n lik(e) li(o)n in zi(o)n".
In Brit, I'm still shilling it,
Finding thrill in it,
Hiding 'til it lifts.
I'm brisk fixing it,
I'm hiding in drinks,
Finishing in clink.
Trying things,
High by night,
Slinking by, finding light.
Thinking "this is it!! I'm in!"
Tricky light. Light trick. Sight trick.
Lying in my mind
It's still ****
Is it?
His birth...
This child is my kid!
This brill kid!
I'M in this kid!
Big grin :D
First kid is big kid,
Mid kid is silly kid,
Quickly hitch my Miss.
Third kid. This kid, this girl is my girl.
Brill kids!
I bring my bling by flipping kids thinking bricks;
Fixing bits in thinking ink;
I'm finding it stinks.
Kids drink slick skills.
My mind chills with mind filling drills.
Kids grinding, crying spills -
"Sir, it's **** innit?
With missing mining, missing mills,
Im plying skills by filing bills."
I'm plying skills with mind pills.
Mrs "I" is criticising my id
Im minding my Ps n Qs
Biting my lip
Fists tight, shifting slightly
Slinking nightly
This is ****
Hit slight hitch
Hit BIG hitch
"'kin *****
I finish with my Mrs
Kids split 'twixt cribs.
Kids trips fix splits.
Kiss lips ***
"Night night x"
"Light?"
Click light.
Right, "night!"
I'm hiding my ills in girls.
IT pimps, swiping right.
Primp ****
Minging swill.
Fit chick.
Swift flirt.
Flirt, kiss, flirt, kiss.
Big ****
Tight slit.
Milky spit.
Wiping ****
Hiding ***** sight in mind,
I find it sticks.
I drift
Stick tight
Fighting my plight
Grin
"It's 'right"
Missing my crib
My ID
I'm finding my mind
Sticking with it
Fighting silly flirting ****
Try finding inspiring sights
My kids
My crib
My Inking
My Writing
My mind
My eye
I'm kind
I'm "I"
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 8:03 PM UTC