"croaky" poems
She had eyes like a crater,
Innocent as any girl could be.
I think she had some bruises when I met her,
But it never seemed to deter me.
I chased her like a dog chasing tails,
Was only then I started to notice her ***** nails.
And then those Yellow eyes,
Blue and Yellow never look pretty to my mind.
She belled me with croaky breathes of air,
I rushed to her house shook and scared.
She was slumped against a wall with the choker she used to wear,
Strapped around her arm and specks of ***** in her hair.
She's got track marks like a craters,
Darkness lay dormant in her soul.
A once natural and elegant Beau,
Now alone in the world of ****** and Blow.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 2:17 PM UTC
Croaky Karaoke
You poke your eyes out,
you put your eyes in,
you poke your eyes out,
and no vision makes you shout,
You do the croaky karaoke,
and twist yourself around,
people next to you become astound.
You pull your ears off,
you put your ears on,
you pull your ears off,
now you can't hear the applause.
You do the croaky karaoke,
and twist yourself around,
no longer can you hear a sound.
You pull your tongue out,
you put your tongue in,
you pull your tongue out,
the blood starts to pour like a spout.
You do the croaky karaoke,
and twist yourself around,
now it's tough even for a clown.
You yank your teeth out,
you put your teeth in,
you yank your teeth out,
and that's what life's all about.
You do the croaky karaoke,
and twist yourself around,
by now your underwear is browned.
You rip your head off,
you put your head on,
you rip your head off,
people are using your eyes for golf.
You do the croaky karaoke,
and twist yourself around,
now you're dead, as you fall to the ground.
It was a party at the ***** colony,
the croaky karaoke was pure comedy.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 12:18 AM UTC
you are not your age,
nor the colour of your hair,
you are not your weight,
or the size of clothes you wear.
you are not your name,
or the dimples in your cheeks,
you are all the books you read,
and all the words you speak,
you are your croaky morning voice,
and the smiles you try to hide.
you're the sweetness in your laughter
and every tear you've cried,
you're the songs you sing so loudly,
when you know your all alone
your the places that you've been to,
and the one that you call home,
you're the things that you believe in
and the people that you love.
you're the pictures in your bedroom
and the future that you dream.
you are made of so much beauty,
but it seems that you forgot,
when you decided that you were defined
by all the things your not.
/gt
Mar 19, 2018
Mar 19, 2018 at 3:59 AM UTC
I miss the bright blue hair that doesn't stand out.
I miss the croaky voices when we all decided to shout.
I miss the midnight raves in all of their madness.
I miss the people being free and just pure happiness.
I miss just the people and how amazing they are.
I miss the walk to the village 'cause we're all too young to drive a car.
I miss the henna on my arms which instantly washed away.
I miss the pride march and queer disco all of which were pretty ******* gay.
I miss the ****** baloons 'cause why the **** not.
I miss the one ******* girl who I didn't tell was hot.
I miss the political jokes and the question time Q&A.;
I miss the jokes about consent and the woodcraft way.
I miss the workshops on politics, on science, on the war (against fracking).
I miss everything including the café and folk suply store.
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
Looking out, I hear the croaky calls
Of husky-throated birds and the
Frothy licking of sea tongues.
Purplish azure spreading widely,
Timelessly, when once my Father told me
The beauty was infinite and he smiled at the pair of
Big bright brown eyes
Glowing up at him in belief and awe,
Believing the secrets of the sea
All the wonderful things he told me.
Holding my hand, imprinting the sand
With our shallow foot prints: big and small
My chubby hand in his, the other
Collecting the glossy, opaque nails of sea dragons.
Sometimes we found sharp, dull-colored ones
And these were the faded scales of their leathery tough
Skin. Craggy black wings folded jaggedly-
Mountains, the ignorant people called them
Only we knew underneath those folded wings
Lay a sleeping, ancient dragon with its
Golden eyes watching out for its children,
The White Sea dragons that ran along the edges of the waves.
Speeding on rapidly, diving under
Out swimming the run of short brown legs
Decisively deaf to a child’s sunny yells.
When the sky was littered with stars
Before I began dreaming I could hear
The rush of wind as the dragons unfolded
Their restless wings, the gentle splashing
As their children twisted in and out of the water
And what Daddy said, Sweet Dreams,
Arrived shortly thereafter.
Yet today I search vainly for their younglings
Gone in sunlight, in the midst of red foreigners
Coming out of hiding after dragon-hot sunsets and
Only behind closed eyes.
The spikes on their powerful wings
Have melded into dark shadows of trees
The jar of multi-colored sea glass remains
By my bed, reminding me of how when Daddy’s eyes
Could no longer burn bright with belief
In such magic, he placed the spark in new eyes
That were identical to his:
In both shape and color.
Sep 21, 2010
Sep 21, 2010 at 11:17 PM UTC
Remember that one night you fell asleep—
my fingers running through your hair?
I wanted that night to last forever,
To be completely encapsulated in that bubble,
"Mmmm…that feels nice"- a throaty murmur,
And your voice was sleepy, croaky,
"Don't fall asleep or I'll ******* **** you"- a playful threat,
"Mmm...'K...I won't…" eyes gently shut, you were already under
Sometimes memories fade yet still remain beautiful,
like colored lights seen through a foggy window
Gazing upon a perfectly peaceful face,
My fingers continued to caress the silky wisps of your hair,
I kissed you right at the hairline--the place where your slight hair is duckling down feathers,
Incredibly fuzzy and inviting,
I let my lips drift
I curled up near to my pillow and felt Something so strong and warm unfurl around me
I think it was Love.
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 12:46 AM UTC
Call me dour and unimaginative
even say in foggy vistas
that I am numb and thick-skinned
but without mendacity
I duly hand on heart thus proclaim
I just cannot at all relate
to these croaky periphrastic fantasies
of weak disenchanted ghosts
who cursing their opaque transparency
in vacuous bland plasma
crave sojourn in howling and bawling
begging attention and validity
excusez moi mon petite les miserables
but your fantasies
neither resonates nor romanticize
in the sublime realities
of those who walk on solid terra firma
and despite ghostlore
do still see themselves in the dark
and know to keep things real
Jan 12, 2022
Jan 12, 2022 at 6:01 PM UTC
There was a tier in the dark, where everything rode silently below the surface. Where secrets and sorrows never rose for air. In this place, when all light died and the wolves grew old, the crows rode upon their backs.
Crows as black as rotting teeth, they spent the days shrieking in the fields, and at night they gathered in their shadowy roosts, making evil plans and discussing the inevitable fall of mankind. Only there would he come to realize that all men are only as sick as the secrets they harbour.
The crows stank of a different rot. They had been feasting, somewhere, somewhere in the dark and the gloom, in the hidden places, on hidden bodies. They stank and they carried that stink with them. Their eyes had beheld things he dared not imagine, and they gazed upon him with those same little eyes, conspiring with one another in harsh, croaky declarations, as if they really had some awful language of their own. Screaming gibberish.
It was known to all that Christopher Weiher possessed an almost irrational hatred toward all crows. He sometimes wondered if they were now just waiting for him to die.
Aug 19, 2015
Aug 19, 2015 at 3:28 AM UTC
The Prince while
playing croaky on his lawn
did say in a gruff voice
for he had a bit of a cold that day
the secrets of his past are inside his head
I wonder if he will be happy after he is dead
or indeed happy now.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 5:34 PM UTC
You are not your age,or, the size of clothes you wear.
You are not a weight,or,the color of your hair.
You are not your name,or,the dimples in your cheeks.
You are all the books you read,and all the words you speak.
You are your croaky morning voice, and the smiles you try to hide.
You're the sweetness in your laughter,and every tear you've cried.
You're the songs you sing so loudly when you know you’re all alone.
You’re the places that you’ve been to,and the one that you call home.
You’re the things that you believe in, and the people that you love.
You’re the photos in your bedroom, and the future you dream of.
You’re made of so much beauty,but,it seems that you forgot.
When you decided that you were defined by all the things that you were not.
Randy McPeek
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 4:26 AM UTC
there are certain days on the EL
Saturday or Sunday
and the sky is orange and different clouds
and airplane streaks glowing
and all above the city
Everyone is calm
And I look blank
and I feel weeping
For the fat black woman waiting by the doors
never took a seat
her eyes are skittish
like a doe
alert for insults
she shrinks her shoulders
when people enter
or when they leave
For the older white woman across from me
pills **** alchohol something
heavy mascara eyes resigned
seeing yuppies entering at Girard
feeling the contrast
thinking what could have been
croaky voiced and thin
For children laying on seats
staring at ceilings
or plastic windows
white hair beads clacking
eyes like rocks
parent clicking at phone
yelling at phone
all pushed in an EL car
and I love them all
and together we ride
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 8:29 PM UTC
God is no God that seeth only in
The day but gropeth about at night
God is no God that giveth goats
But collecteth comely cows as tithe
God is no God that is unwise
A sort of sucker, stooge and *****
God is no God that knoweth not wrong
From rigth regardless of what's done
God is no God that simply scorneth
And scoffeth at a sinful fall
God is no God that despiseth
A croaky voice or a hollering call
God is no God that doth not help
That succoureth nay in sorrow
God is no God that doth not care
That expresseth no empathy over a woe
God is no God that's carried up and
Down like Dagon, like a dumb toy
God is no God that taketh away
Manhood to become a killjoy
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 6:20 PM UTC
Frankfurt, in a bunker, in 1942
I discovered the injured man
Tended his wounds best I could
Ofcourse that shouldn't have been the plan
He was German, a young solider
But I just didn't follow orders at that time
A picture of a child and a pretty girl
Being German was his crime
I watched him go and breathed a sigh
What had I just done
We were taught to **** another nation
But my conscience had just begun
He looked back and nodded his head
Was it happiness or relief that weighed on his mind
Did he wonder why I'd helped him
Or was I just thinking blind
A conference in Berlin 1992
I started with my talk
On war crimes and dangerous times
And the paths enemies walk
As I stood to take my leave
I felt eyes watch my move
A large hand on my shoulder
I thought oh no someone doesn't approve
There he was an ageing man
But I couldn't forget his face
He smiled and we stood in total awe
And then we hugged with a respectful embrace
I often wondered why you did it
Said his old croaky voice
You should have killed me but let me live
I thank you for my families rejoice
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 5:38 PM UTC
There once was from Okefenokee
A bullfrog who sang karaoke:
He sang with conviction
And a crystal clear diction,
But his tone was a little too croaky.
Mar 25, 2025
Mar 25, 2025 at 11:02 AM UTC
In cage he grew
In cage he flew,
And staring the blue sky,
Was the only thing he could do.
He wasn't sick at heart ,
He just wanted to, taste
The freedom of flight, that awaits.
The day came the doors were open ,
He came out, but now ,
the dreams were broken.
He wept a bit and Turned back
And gave a look,
To the cage and to the man.
He hopped a bit ,
And flapped his wings,
And now in the air ,
He could see, the worldly things.
He flew here, he flew there
Nothing he could find anywhere.
Dreams clashed like a house of cards
Was this the freedom he always asked for.
The clock of the world moved again
The house of the cards clashed again
For now it was the dark shades that was around
No shelter no home
No cage around.
He reached upon a tree
And looked here and there
For now it was the Nightingale
Whose voice he could hear.
Flew to the stage
Stood in front of her
Listening to her voice
Trying to sing with her.
He just lost and forgot
for he is now disturbing someone
She stopped, by his croaky voice,
And laughed till he was awake and alive.
She stood near to him
What a beauty it felt to him,
Apology he couldn't make
As he was lost in the lovers lake.
Nothing she said
And flew to her home,
Leaving a picture of her beauty
In the eyes of our romeo.
The whole night he stood there ,
And watched her sleep ,
Glancing at her beauty
That paused, his sleep.
Madly he banged his head on the trunk
Just to test, if he was drunk
No it wasn't the wine he drank
It was the beauty of her eyes
In which he swam.
The morning came with bright rays
The canopy made a romantic phase.
A beautiful voice
Came to his ears
Yes! Yes! She was near
"Who are you? " she asked
"I am a traveller who is lost "
"What's your name?" she asked again
"Lost my name in the past pain"
She kept quiet for a time
And then made a flight
In between the rays of light.
Dusk came she started to sing ,
And the owl started to stare with out giving a blink.
She saw him and stopped
She flew to a branch and hopped.
He came near and asked
What made you to stop?
Said nothing she stared at moon,
Silence was so high
As if she wasn't here.
And the next moment ,
Yes, she had disappeared,
He searched for her
She wasn't there.
For if now she was lost for ever and ever.
He came to her nest,
Hopped inside, peeped at the moon,
And started to cry .
When he slept he did not know
Little bulb was about to glow.
Morning he woke up
It was a The dark shady place
Yes! It was the cage
Yes! It was the cage
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 4:53 AM UTC
You are not your age,
Nor the size of the clothing you wear,
You are not a weight,
Or the colour of your hair.
You are not your name,
Or the dimples in your cheeks,
You are all the books you read,
And all the words you speak,
You are your croaky morning voice,
And the smiles you try to hide,
You're the sweetness in your laughter,
And every tear you've cried,
You're the songs you sing so loudly,
When you know you're all alone
You're the places you've been to,
And the one that you call home,
You're the things that you believe in,
And the people that you love,
You're the photos in your bedroom,
And the future you dream of,
You're made of so much beauty,
But it seems that you forget,
When you decided that you were defined,
By all the things you're not.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 1:58 PM UTC
Oh how I rejoice
At my fathers voice
All mystic and strong
How can it be wrong
Oh how I rejoice
At my fathers voice
All subtle and mellow
Through teeth painted yellow
Oh how I rejoice
At my fathers voice
All slick and sunny
Like a yolk that’s runny
Oh how I rejoice
At my fathers voice
All angry and loud
Like storms in a cloud
Oh how I rejoice
At my fathers voice
All vitriolic and full of power
Like milk turning sour
Oh how I rejoice
At my fathers voice
All feeble and forlorn
Like a foal just born
Oh how I rejoice
At my fathers voice
All croaky and old
Like mine but gold
Oct 3, 2019
Oct 3, 2019 at 7:07 PM UTC
on the 9th he told her 'maybe',
held her hopes within his fist,
at his grandma's hundredth birthday
was the first time that they kissed-
hands held under plastic table,
he was nervous, she was too,
croaky 'happy birthday' voices,
white-permed hair, retirement crew,
halves of wholes in cheap recliners,
secret photo hoards in rooms,
seven worn and wrinkled ladies,
faded brides and missing grooms.
held her hand beneath the table,
held her hopes within his fist-
at his grandma's hundredth birthday
was the first time that they kissed.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 10:31 AM UTC
Your words trap me in my own body
Your breath on my neck leaves me aching
Your voice when you wake up is croaky
Your hands on my body are bracing
The skin on your chest is like fire
Your arms round my neck is restraining
Your lips on mine give that desire
That I want when I say I've been waiting..
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 8:14 AM UTC
Lizbeth got back home
after seeing Benny in town
as he was there
as usual with his mother
Saturday shopping
and he'd gone with her
to the small cafe
in the high street
and they'd talked
and she had placed
her knee against his
under the table
and wished to do
a lot more
but she couldn't
take him home
because her mother
was there all day
and had no where
to take him for ***
even if he would
so on getting back home
her mother said
where have you been?
out shopping
Lizbeth said
her mother studied her
what did you buy then
you have no bags?
nothing didn't see
what I wanted
well I did
but couldn't get it
she gazed at her mother's
sour face
waste of time
going then
you could have
been here helping me
with chores
the mother said
what chores?
Lizbeth said
make your bed
tidy your room
bring down
your soiled linen
and help me
with the polishing
the mother said miserably
Lizbeth sighed
where do I start?
your room for a start
it's in a terrible state
with clothes
on the floor
plate and cup
and the records
just laying there
and the bed unmade
the mother said
so Lizbeth went up
the stairs
poking a tongue
at her mother's back
and entered her bedroom
and went and lay
on the bed
and lay on her back
and thought of Benny
and what it could
have been like
if he had come
and what they could
have done
had he come
she closed her eyes
and pretended
it was his fingers
walking down her thighs
his fingers rubbing
along her skin
she pursed her lips
and imagined his lips
against hers
and blew a kiss
softly and soundlessly
then she pretended
it was his fingers
lifting her blue skirt hem
lifting slowly
his other fingers
touching her
music began
from downstairs
classical stuff
some dame singing
some operatic aria
and her mother's
croaky voice
joining in
making a din
and she paused
his fingers
just as they touched
her Garden of Eve
and opened her eyes
and he had gone
and the dame still singing
with her mother
and she stared
at the ceiling
with a sad
depressing feeling.
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 2:15 AM UTC
you are not your age,
nor the size of clothes you wear,
you are not a weight,
or the colour of your hair,
you are not your name,
or the dimples in your cheeks,
you are all the book you read,
and all the words you speak,
you are your croaky morning voice,
and the smiles you try to hide,
you’re the sweetness in your laughter,
and every tear you’ve cried,
you’re the songs you sing so loudly,
when you know you’re all alone,
you’re the places that you’ve been to,
and the one that you call home,
you’re the things you believe in,
and the people that you love,
you’re the photos in your bedroom,
and the future you dream of,
you’re made of so much beauty,
but it seems that you forgot,
when you decided that you were defined,
by all the things you’re not.
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 4:12 AM UTC
Have you ever wondered what it's like to **** someone?
I have.
I imagined it being an exhilarating experience.
One I will never forget.
Of course, you have to make sure you do it properly.
You don't want to get caught, do you?
I remember her watery, crystal eyes.
Her violet wrists and ankles.
The way her hair stood up when I touched her.
The way she winced whenever my cool blade touched her.
Was she panicking?
Probably.
I remember her gasps for air.
Her hoarse, croaky voice.
One stab.
A velvet sea laid out in front of me.
Two stabs.
Red, glittery hands.
Three stabs.
It's getter harder to see.
Four stabs.
I fall down.
I smear the blood on the wall.
As if it were a cry for help.
I wanted to do this so badly.
Why am I now regretting it?
Guilt swarms my body.
My head aches.
Have you ever wanted to **** somebody?
Because I have.
Today's the day I ****** a blade into my stomach.
A crimson waterfall.
My final words are yours to read.
On this ****** sheet of paper.
Today's the day I shivered with a blade to my wrist.
Hesitation, but the urge to die.
My final words are yours to read.
On this creme coloured wall in red writing.
Today's the day I
died.
Dec 15, 2017
Dec 15, 2017 at 8:27 AM UTC
"Want/need/feel/blah"
But our bodies makes noises when we are not around
Are mistranslated
misunderstood
misused
mistreated
Crack of the arctic knuckles crack
-The whip on the horse to make it go faster
-The egg on the bowl to keep your hands clean
-The dawn that splices through skinny windows crack
Blue
I have noticed our Shadows
How they snap on the sidewalk
Like high-heeled claps and click
Went my back when I stretched
And I remember when this first started
And I asked if I could lean on your shoulder sweet spot
And I did for a while
And resting next to your throat was noisy
And we don't do that anymore
And I don't do that anymore
And
There you go, that familiar sound
(that same old sigh, that ticklish taunt, that numb noise - croaky crack)
You would think "Anymore"
Is a blah word
Because that is what my feet said
Blue
You are not around anymore
Our bodies aren't on speaking terms.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 1:45 AM UTC
High above the world's hectic tumult
Emigrating doves tore breeze in solitude
Gleaming ***** paused and then resumed
No one to bother or worst intrude
Embracing the gulp of dust and vapour
And riding on their tantalising bubbles
A crass crow came candid with croak
And bashed and entangled with one of those
The collision followed a cat fight
Only during their unison flight
A crass crow and doves and doves
Those doves were weirdly enough
The spectacle highlighted with the impressive shower
Of the feathers of the one that couldn't empower
Gleaming ***** resumed with the cult
Of curses and gloomy ******
Fly high as they with their sarcastic grins
Cracking jokes of the ****** and assassin
"The innocous crow soul rest in peace
This's what we can pray for thee"
Reached they their destination
Without any guilt and confession
The morning kissed their eyes
As they began again flying high
One of them entangled with a crow
This time both breeds were equal though
Lest the history repeats itself
Or there'll be pleads and requests
But the former often occurs
And a cat fight had begun
The croaky crows were the winners
The doves flew away in tension
The next morning embraced the eyes
Of both the groups for their regular journies to skies
History repeated itself
One of both again entangled
Lest the history repeats itself
Or there will be pleads and requests
The former often occurs you know
But not every time on show
A round of pleads and requests followed
And all reached their respective homes..
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 1:47 PM UTC