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Girard Tournesol Nov 2018
These are interesting times
Blessing cursing each moment
Smelling like the '80s
Rhyming with the '60s
Cringing like the '40s
Gasping at '17

It's The War of The Worlds II
Man versus man versus nature and self
A free-for-all melee, just name it
Where bacteria and viruses
     and gas and atoms
Will be our doom in the end
But not before we've wreaked havoc

on all that we love.
and so it was. .  .
Alex Hill Feb 10
I hate waiting
I always have
It’s become a real ******* issue in everything I do
I move too quick, I leave things unfinished,
If something takes too long, it’s easy for me to get ******
So you can only imagine
How ****** I am about you
You’re taking a sweet **** time aren’t you
Probably running around with other people I can’t measure to
Or maybe you’re like me,
Lonely
Well then all is the better to hurry the **** up then won’t you
I’m tired of waiting for this great love
But don’t get me wrong it’s not standards or the idea of soulmates holding me back
It’s just
I’m still waiting for you
For the person who makes me feel so in love that I’m ******
I want you here now
I want to write ****** sappy poetry about you
I want your dumb smile to be stuck on my mind all day long
I want to hold you and be held by you and just sit there and feel
Feel ******* comfortable for once
I want to kiss your idiotic mouth and fall deeper down the well
I want the want I feel for you to crash over me like the **** tide
I want to ******* until neither of us can breathe
I want to know your name so I can whisper it to myself when I’m alone
I want to hold your hand and imagine what its going to look like, all wrinkled and grey
I want fights and dumb arguments, days spent laying around with the worst of our thoughts
I want to be there for you, with whatever you face and whatever you’re going through
I want to love you, you insufferable *******
I want to fall stupidly and blindly in love
So could you please
hurry the **** up.
Alternative Title, It's Valentines Again and I'm ******* Still Alone
Maia Vasconez May 2018
1.He’d say anything to get me out of my shell.
2. His pupils are hard, black marbles and I want to flick him off of me.
3. He is always shuffling through women like they are a deck of cards.
4. It’s just how the dice rolls.
5. I was afraid of falling, of my arms snapping like wishbones.
6. He waits until I’m swaying like a door hinge.
7. My eyes are wide like 8 ***** and he hits me with that same click, roll, thunk of a pool ball table.
8. You are cursing me. When you yell, you are cursing me.
9. “Come out, come out, wherever you are…”
10. I hope the bruises on your legs turn into birds. I hope you get out of here.
This is for anyone whose ever been hurt by a man
Smoke Scribe Aug 2018
Imagine that
I could write a salve,
compose an ointment of verbal herbs to heal,
even mere protect the already-torn-so-easy mental flesh,
just to disguise/hide the multi-colored bruising our
fickle mistress-in-common provides when you are down so far
another bruise joining the cast like a  floodplain subsuming one more feeding creek bed into the shapelessness of indistinguishability

imagine that

where atoms hide eternal between creation and destruction,
borrow brief the set exact you require to restore the taken years
from fathers/mothers/brothers/sisters,
children,
return that which went unused by the uninvited, unseemly human whim of war and lies for no gain

imagine that

the deep sinkhole of despair that ***** one in, years in the formation, appearing in instance, and worse does not drowns but leaves helpless, unable to climb out, and all our scratching digs us in deeper until we cannot be, seen or heard or just be

imagine that

a check comes in the mail, payable left open for filling-in,
in the amount of full restoration, with no additional fees of guilt needed for deposit and cashing/caching out: and you wake up
and the stony chest is breathing lungs free

imagine that

and I do; for I am the smoke of return and rest, sky inscribing,
knowing precise needs and the screams and the years unfair taken,
they are screened through the five perceptions, and the word weaver
sets the loom for each peculiar requisition, no imagination needed

imagine that

you lament and anger demand verifiable proofs mathematical,
cursing the knights of false hopes with untethered regret

I do not imagine that; hear it and accept; my task, imagine that, making you imagine that, thus commencement of repair begins
when

we imagine that

for this how new healthy cells  are born

quiet-now,  go, imagine-that, now
if you recognize yourself within, it is no accident!
thank u all for the love and appreciation. one writes many poems in many disguises, so it is hard to believe  that an 8 month old poem, sent to you for safekeeping, is shortly thereafter barely recalled.
and then is rebirthed, and wouldn’t change a word...
imagine that!
Bison Feb 2016
When I go out to those crowded nightclubs
I drink far too much
Dance too little
I watch the gentry dance
They spin and pulsate
Like stars through lonely skies
Unaware of my jealousy
Cursing my lack of jubilation
They revolve and shine
Unaware that they are my personal
Constellations
Nazreen Nawi Feb 2016
Such confidence,
To stand as you
Repeling all the cursing
Enduring all the negatives
To be you,
To be different,
Not afraid of the monochrome communities,
Giving opinion that differs from others,
To not bow to the majority,
Just be you.
Have confidence in youself. Be brave and stay firm in what you believe
Bus-riding, crumb-counting hand wringers
Bibble-babbler, channel-flipper slogan slingers
Keep the volume loud enough to drown out the machines
That fill their cupped hands daily with excrement and dreams
These are the ****** of the canon

Button-pushing, lever-pulling product users
Wife-buying, tax-paying alcohol abusers
Emasculated monkeys done up in black and white
Clock in in the morning and flock home late at night
These are the ****** of the canon

Train-conducting, ring-leading hand shakers
String-fingered, queue-cutting, man makers
Drive home, cursing, lonely, breaking bones beneath their wheels
Without the time to diagnose that emptiness they feel
These are the ****** of the canon
Written over the course of a week or so on walks to and back from work.
Austin Sessoms May 2012
here's to a package of
Marlboro Reds
in the hands of
someone other than
the Marlboro Man
standing in
for those slack-jawed outlaws
our heroes now lack jaws
tongues
lungs

I swear it's been too long
since I inhaled manhood
The Great Darrell Winfield
rolled
packed
and filtered
into the only thing I know
that makes a man a man
the essence of
cowboy boots and farmer's tan
in every drag

see I inhale my heroes
all the dusty red-necked
cowboys
Darrell Winfield
and my dad
men whose lives
went up in smoke
to coat my throat
in my own self-righteousness
I'm frightened this
is all that I'll have left
of him
lung cancer
and the lingering stench
of cigarettes

he always smelt
of cigarettes

he'd pull me into these
firm embraces
he held so long
that he'd suffocate me
in tacky business
and cigarette smoke
masked only
faintly
by a poor man's
cologne
still I breathed him in
until I'd start to choke
it was too much man to handle

my grandpa told me
“smoking doesn't send you
straight to ****,
but it sure does make you smell
like you've already been there”
he was
a grown man
cursing
crying
lying
dying by himself
trying to drown out the inferno
with a case of beer
but sobriety finds you sometime
and I'd rather suffocate in cigarettes
than lose him altogether

and even if he smells like ****
at least that means he made it back
Lyn Senz 2 Apr 2018
by Danny Smith

The old man rises from his chair
gently cursing the ache that crept into his bones
when he wasn't looking

His slippered feet scuff the carpet
making a journey they know without him
to the window

He watches down on the cars
as they flash through the rain on an urgent journey
somewhere

Leaning forward to rest his forehead
on the cool damp pane that shields him from it all
his prison wall

The cars seem to softly merge
as fragments like a broken mirror
tease and torment

A lifetime of dreams and tomorrows
that somehow became painful yesterdays
much too fast

Squeezing his eyes tightly closed
he remembers her face and the soft scar on her cheek
a perfect imperfection

The laughter and cries of children
running to him with chocolate smeared mouths
grown now, gone now

All of them to different worlds
ones where he was afraid to travel to
out there

Plenty of time to make it through
but the nights seem to skip the sunshine days
sentenced

he shuffles back to the chair
lowering himself with limbs that can't be his
removes his slippers

Reaches for the polished shoes
years old but hardly worn and still uncreased
laces them

Moves slowly through the house
turning of lights, collecting a wallet
a pack of cigarettes, a photograph
pocketing them

The old man stands at the open door
just a fragment of someone elses memory, as he walks
into the rain


©Danny Smith
one of my favorites. it may be the only
copy on the internet. I couldn't find it.
it used to be on the 'Poemish' website
which is gone now. He had maybe only
12 poems in all that he submitted, and
they were all good, but sadly this is the
only one I decided to save. He lives/lived
in England as I remember.
veritas Jul 2018
girls and boys and girls! its
a sultry summer, swinging, sighing, swishing hips by mine
slipping elusive behind stone arches, cursing on my lips, **** (whispered, softly)
glazed cherries in a glass bowl they drip and melt, and oh ****
my fingers are red and sticky and sweet but i love it i love it and
she's smiling like a dream
she's saying goodbye until next summer
until another year, another dream will find her way to me.
summer vibes
Samantha Cunha Nov 2018
Forbidden fruit

Tasted sweet

Mystical moon

Guiding me

Into the realm

of

Foggy dreams

Nothing was

What

it seemed

The same

hand

Grazing

Leading me

Was also cursing

beating me

Smoky quartz

Day dream

I fell for the tricks

of the fiend
Robert Ronnow Nov 2017
What luxury to get mad
about last night's basketball loss
and watch the full moon descending
at the speed the earth turns.

Things could get worse
personally and for the community.
Bombings, killings, anomie
boiling frogs and witches cursing.

The changing climate,
typhoons in the Philippines,
volcanoes and tsunamis, WWII which I missed,
Thanksgiving nor'easter, Easter twister.

What abundance to fast or feast,
yr choice, stay inside by the stove
or go outside, climb the mountainside.
Live in a city or small town.

So I raged at the coaches
for their lazy zone defense
like an alien in the bleachers
unable to affect the outcome.

When my sons came home
I yelled at them too. What opulence
to be angry about nothing of consequence
neither stopped by the cops nor slipped on the ice.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
fujimountain Feb 2015
Vivid thoughts of you keep revealing themselves as expeditious memories.

How idiotic of me not to appreciate the time shared because I assumed the pleasure was in your company not for your presence but how the thought of your imminent arrival forced a smile before you even entered the building.  

How seconds were lifetimes yet minutes briskly swept by.

Time was our birthright and our only luxury, it was also a curse we couldn't shake off like a birthmark at the centre of my forehead.

Please believe me when I say I recite your name daily yet I find myself cursing at the sky because no matter how valiant my effort. I feel it slowly taking away the little I still have of you.
Will May 3
Honey if God is any good,
he'll reward you for cursing him
and meaning every word.

For nothing is sweeter
than a pain fully felt.



-
It’s true, you know.
Nature as we see it
Maybe the sky isn't blue, it is white
Maybe the stars aren't twinkling, but confused
Maybe the sun isn't shinning, but cursing
Maybe the moon doesn't light up, but filled with darkness
Nature as we described it might not fit
Nature in it self can't be defined
This poem spur from people's believe that  God is nature and anything from God  can't be faulty. So we tend to describes this natural things based on our beliefs. Refusing to see its other end, in which beauty is based on it diversity
Noel Billiter Jul 2018
Resisting your surrender
Like a passionate pretender
Cursing your existence
So unruly cant even believe it
Rehearsing until morning
For a ending to your story
Searching for a reason
Why you’re always out of season
Still wearing those ***** clothes
And swearing at the Her ghost
Living in your furry
Just makes things more blurry
Some drunken thrills
Followed by some healing pills
Staring at the mirror
Thinking it will look clearer

Resisting your departure
And what seems like constant torture
Insisting on the weather
To lead you somewhere farther
Counting on tomorrow
To release you from your sorrow
Leads you to forgiveness
Repenting all your sins and
Starting a new chapter
In this new world that you are  after
Living in the moment
Gives you quick atonement
Walking from the ashes
The past and what it’s taken
Your soul now unbroken from this spell
That had you been under
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