"disclaimer" poems
Could I be any lamer?
This is the disclaimer
of an avid pc gamer.
The original doom sayer.
Not your average KrakPott priest
Resurrecting the deceased.
Carrying raids to keep pleased.
And a night elf none the least.
While your out chasing hoes.
I be on my MMOs
Healing tanks of heavy blows.
Mind controlling enemy foes.
Check me on my youtube channel.
In an epic arena battle.
My heals to great to handle.
Got the horde all screaming 'Scandal!'
My reality was so droll
that I decided to re-roll.
Maybe next I'll be a troll
to fill this empty hole.
Could I be any lamer?
This is my disclaimer.
An avid PC gamer.
The original Doom Sayer.
The End Is Near!!! 0o
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
Songs of Oregon: No. 1 “Gonna Make You Crazy, That Place”
nuts, crazy peeps
whomever wherever,
regardless of race creed color or gender (did I get ‘em all?)
current state of residence (geo-identified)
a poem - the very same recited,
as a disclaimer, a yellow finger wagging warning:
“Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back”
now kids, I’m a veteran of foreign travel,
many continents, cold and hot, rivers and seas,
some living, some dead,
some so big they named it Endless,
been to the great cities, Swiss villages,
pyramids, climbed Masada,
danced on grapes (why can’t I recall where)
skied the Alps, trekked the Sinai Desert,
clubbed in Rio, and danced till morn,
on a certain Greek Isle that rhymes with Mickey’s Nose
even been to L.A and San Fran, left poorer
but in sync,
always came home
with my mind decently reshaped
me/ a product of gritty unpretty grime,
streets of normal humans
acting like normal escaped mad persons,
this brutal city island instilled a
layer of fat and smog neath my skin,
a kind of migrating duck-like survival kit,
came with a homing beacon included
the those of you who know me,
perhaps too well, ken we citified islanders
love our beaches (fire hydrants)
cherish our sun dappled blessings
upon on farms (window sill herb gardens)
and sunning settlements (rooftops)
they say our tap water is secretly bottled,
sold in places where the springs purportedly
run crystalline
though we don’t got no pinot, just sweet concord grape,
so sweet, the wine of children and street nodders,
needy for instant sugar highs
so as we new Yorkers proudly
say on our license plates,
prove it or stfup!
so a first hand investigation for which
the taxpayers won’t be charged even a lousy mill,
deemed necessary to put to rest this crazy claiming warning
“Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back”
guessing must be something in the water and the wine
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 9:00 AM UTC
Warning: Use dis list in context.
You decide on which side you fall.
disappear
disregard
disaster
displace
disqualify
disrepair
disturb
dissipate
disability
dispose
dismal
distribute
distrust
disturb
discriminate
discuss
disdain
disguise
dishearten
disinherit
disown
disparage
disagree
disgruntle
disclose
discolour
dispute
disarm
discover
disassemble
disadvantage
disallow
dispossess
discontent
discontinue
disrespect
disincline
discomfort
disrepute
dishonest
disillusion
dishonor
dismiss
disobey
disjoin
disappoint
discipline
discord
discern
discrete
disfigure
disconnect
disapprove
discharge
disbar
disease
discord
disfavor
disengage
disassociate
discipline
discount
disembody
displace
dissaray
disembowel
discombobulate
discredit
discourse
disentangle
disenfranchise
disembark
discard
disburse
disbelief
discover
disable
disagree
disintegrate
dismay
dispense
dislodge
disclaimer
disapprove
dissatisfy
disrupt
dispel
dislike
dismantle
disloyal
disbatch
disrobe
disperse
display
disaprove
disciple
disavow
disconcert
disinfect
disorder
dismal
dismember
displease
dissemble
disunity
dislocate
distort
distrust
distress
dissolute
disassociate
distill
discect (?)
distemper
distain
distasteful
distraught
dissolve
dissonant
dissuade
And dis isn't de end.
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 12:06 PM UTC
*** is like a game of bridge
How you play is jointly planned
But, if your partner isn’t reliable
You must count, on a good hand
DISCLAIMER
My partner in bridge
Can be a women or a man
My partner in ***
Also can
But, for self gratification
We each, must use our own hand
WIZDUMBs BY JA 628
P.S. for QTWABoOty -your one directional conversation, only leaves you talking to yourself. Do you really like yourself that much.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC
It hurts to love someone and not be loved in return. But what is more painful is to love someone and never find the courage to let that person know how you feel.
Maybe God wants us to meet a few wrong people before meeting the right ones, so that when we finally meet the right person we will know how to be grateful for that gift.
Love is when you take away the feeling, the passion and the romance of relationship and find out you still care for that person.
A sad thing in life is when you meet someone who means a lot to you, only to find out in the end that it was never meant to be and you just have to let go.
When the door of happiness closes another opens but often times we look so long at the closed door but we don't see the one which has been opened for us.
The best kind of friend is the kind you can just be with.. never say a word and then walk away feeling like it was the best conversation you've ever had.
It is true that we don't know what we've got until we lose it but it is also true that we don't know what we've been missing until it arrives.
Giving someone all your love is never an assurance that they love you back. Don't expect love in return, Just wait for it to grow in their heart, but if it doesn't, be content it grew in yours!
There are things you'd love to hear, that you will never hear from the person whom you'd like to hear them from. But don't be so deaf as not to hear it from the one who says it from their heart.
Never say goodbye if you still want to try. Never give up if you still feel you can go on. Never say you don't love a person anymore if you can't let go.
Love comes to those who still hope, although they have been disappointed, to those who still believe, although they have been betrayed, to those who still need to love, although they have been hurt before and to those who have courage and faith to build trust again.
It takes only a minute to get a crush on someone, an hour to like someone, a day to love someone but it takes a lifetime to forget someone.
Don't go for looks, they can deceive you; don't go for wealth even that fades away. Go for someone who makes you smile because it takes only a smile to make dark days seem bright. Hope you find the someone that makes you smile.
Disclaimer: Not my POEM, so feel free to spread it out :)
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 9:40 AM UTC
DISCLAIMER
I wrote this a very long time ago and it wasn't originally a poem! I just separated it into sections so it was in a more poem-like format. I felt like it had emotion behind it, so I decided to post it. Here's the "poem" -
It really hurts.
It hurts like hell.
It's hurts more than a thousand needles piercing my skin.
It's a sinking feeling.
A sinking feeling in my stomach, in my heart.
I don't know what to believe anymore. My mind tells me one thing and my heart tells another.
I'm at war with myself, and I'm completely losing. I've lost myself. Utterly, and almost completely.
I can smile, I can laugh. But that's only when I forget. And as soon as I remember, I'm knocked right back down again. And no one seems to care. No one cares enough to ask.
Because, who cares about ME? None of my friends, none of my family. It's hell on Earth, because I know it's not their job to notice! It's my job to tell them!
But I'm petrified. I'm scared I'll disappoint them. Make them run away. Make them think I'm weird. Make them feel like I've gone crazy.
Maybe that's it.
Maybe I've gone completely crazy!
But who cares anymore?
Definitely not myself.
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 11:20 PM UTC
Disclaimer: I did this as a creative rewrite for one of my university lit courses, and all the inspiration and quotes belong to Robert Browning the original writer of "My Last Duchess"
HIS LAST DUCHESS
ARRIVEDERCI
_“That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive.”_ (I’m not)
Alas! Me, “a wonder.” He calls.
Now wretchedly refined and pasteurized.
To be consumed, now, for genteel eyes.
Pity! Should you ever see me roll mine.
Behind those curtains, you might have been surprised
To see my countenance whimpering
At you Sir; and seething, at _Him._
Must you not be fooled by that sickly decorum
Upon which his manly pride resides.
The Duke—what rich talent in envy he has,
And of pithy idiosyncrasies! Pardon me now
As I speak of his infamies: Is it not,
Too preposterous of a Duke, to sulk
And take offense, over a blush?
(As if the blush was his to wield and shun.)
Am I not allowed to flush _at all?_
And must I be ashamed of being swooned
By the casual offers of life’s grandiosities?
Each and every, dropping of the daylight,
Ripen cherries in May and chivalrous gentlemen,
my dear white mule; must I then weep
at them all, only to prove my fancy for him.
And when does gracious gratitude itself
become in vain: a finite honour—
deemed excessive elsewhere?
Never had he plucked me out, for censure,
Before he gave commands, I knew he did
To pluck the smile out of my face.
Utterly clueless—he thought I was
To find myself throttled, for immodesty.
A wife, an appendage to a Duke,
Loosely felled, to stroke a green-eyed ego.
My fault it seems, is a mere generosity
Of affection: falsely opined, if not
Misread, to fare a defect of temperament,
A chronic malady, doth be cured by death.
To cement the farce he will, soon, bring you
Downstairs to meet a friend. (a fiend)
A prized possession: Neptune, taming a sea-horse.
His hubris incarnate, cast in bronze.
But you must know the truth, for the sea-horse
Did not perish for naught, she is freed from him
At last.
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 3:26 PM UTC
We love to chase the wind through streaks of blinding bliss,
Tagging the glorious ideals of love, peace, friendship, even
The meaning of life, to weeping willows and pensive pebbles.
We admire the monochrome sky in all its barren blue or pregnant purple;
Hues of burple and plue are dismissed as being tedious, or just confused.
Fear not, photoshop will rectify this pigmented aberration.
We giggle at clouds that resemble kitchen utensils or mystical creatures;
“Hey look a teddy bear in a spacesuit with a flowerpot on his head wielding the Sword of Gryffindor!”
We declare sagely, with the acumen of a legendary bird watcher.
We resurrect grass angels by launching into horizontal jumping-jacks, and,
Just as a disclaimer, no flower was harmed in the process. Not that it matters,
As long as we did not soil our Lacoste and Burberry.
We spin a mixtape out of the torrential downpour, our tracks pitting
The pitter of regularity against the patter of inconstancy, synchronizing
The symphony of splashes to an undercurrent of nostalgia.
We kiss against the bark of an elm, and if a tree is not available in the vicinity,
We throw ourselves down a nearby hill, tumbling into a ball of moist romance,
Panting, as we bask in the studio lighting of the approving sun.
Every still is captured by a Lomo,
Every scene arrested in sepia motion,
Every moment ravished by the chichi Bohemian in us.
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 4:03 PM UTC
*all poems write themselves, following plans that are drawn only
as the poem goes along, neither leading or following, but
carrying the writer along as first violin, a VIP passenger,
the first viewer, a consultant but not a conductor*
***a poem is written based on what has happened
a poem is written based on what was hoped to happen
a poem was written based on what could never happen
but is so well imagined that it is more real than if it happened***
*I willingly tell you I will not tell you which is what, for there is no difference between them for the writer, the first passenger,
though undeniably fully aware of the quality of the ware
that is proffered, plottered or just perchanced
perhaps you are thinking, but of course,
this is the way,
the way of all of us,
the way it has and will be and no
disclaimer needed for no believable claims are made
perhaps
for the weave is oft tight, tight as near-truth, and so well imagined, it wraps the first passenger in a cloak of skin
that actually feels, though cloaks cannot feel,
but belief is easily eased
there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth
Therefore,
my poems are splats and drips.
you make them into paintings that hang
in your own private museum
but authenticated by me as
first viewer,
3/13/18
1:09am
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 2:21 PM UTC
The Doctor has a Sense of Humor!
<|>
give a surgeon a scalpel
and an excuse,
and the artist emerges,
for creativity is a good surgeon’s
natural habitat
Sure, sure, there’s a plan,
with best and acceptable outcomes,
but when messing with a real heart,
a sly ***** with numerous deceptive guises
at its disposal, you never for sure never know,
despite all the advanced imaging techniques,
exactly
what you will find once you go
spelunking
in caves of life and death
so, he takes a bit from here,
and a bob or two from there,
there a cut, here an incision deep,
Old McDonald provided a body,
or a canvas, and the Doc
is happy.
So I uncover holes where he
probed, redeploying the healthy,
like a good designer, Doc rearranges
and repairs, a travelogue of splicing and dicing,
his handiwork
Now standing over you for many hours,
can get tiring, though each ***** be
different, unique even, but leaving
a little marker, a stylized signature,
is well, is the rightful discretion of the artiste!
So you can imagine my surprise
when the tubes removed (ouch!)
the bandages ripped off in a
signature move of a delighted nurse whose
loves seeing grown men cry from lesser trivialities,
you cannot imagine my surprise
when I discovered my new tattoo,
upon my chest front and center!
*Herein please find your heart repaired,
and revitalized:
Please Note!
We guarantee our work for minimum 15 years
(Aug. 3, 2038),
but our disclaimer
we assume NO responsibility after that
if you should
happen to live for 30 YEARS or more*
Dr. P.
Sep 21, 2023
Sep 21, 2023 at 7:58 AM UTC
Disclaimer: I don't own the song "Little Do You Know" by Alex and Sierra. All rights go to them for this poem. I simply used their song and changed up some of the words because this song is special to me and the person this poem is about. (If you haven't heard this song I highly recommend btw).
Little do you know how much you truly mean to me
Little do you know I'm so attached to our memories.
Little do you know I feel my heart break piece by piece
Little do you know I
Can't stand saying goodbye.
Underneath it all, I've learned how to hide the ache inside
I've been counting down the days until you're by my side
I've loved you for so long but these feelings are so hard to hide
Little do you know I
Can't stand saying goodbye.
I'll wait, I'll wait
I'll love you even if it leads to pain
I'll wait
Just promise me you'll never change
I'll wait
I promise we can stay the same
So let me hold you tight.
Little do you know you're my last thought before I fall asleep
Little do you know your smile is my favorite sight to see
Little do you know my time with you is so bittersweet
Little do you know I
I've loved you for all this time.
Just wait, oh wait
I love you and I'm not afraid
Just wait
As long as you can let me stay
Everything will be all right.
I'll wait, I'll wait
I'll love you even if it leads to pain
I'll wait
Just promise me you'll never change
Just wait
I promise we can stay the same
So let me hold you tight.
All will be all right.
As long as you stay my light.
Cause little do you know I
I've loved you for all this time.
https://genius.com/Alex-and-sierra-little-do-you-know-lyrics
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 1:51 AM UTC
It's the first time we meet.
I can't get a read on that sweet summer smile, or the words that drip like thick robes of gold honey; soft-spoken and seemingly slow motion, a quite complicated question pours viscously from your lips.
You ask me, "What is your name?"
Now honestly, I considered honesty. Truthfully, I prefer anonymity, but it's considered rude to not share some glimpse of identity. Albeit reluctantly, I must decide: Do I introduce myself as "Chelsea"? Or as "A Window-Pane Made of Glass Too Thin"? Well honestly, honesty isn't always the best policy.
It's our first date -
Instead of worrying about which outfit I choose, I worry about the disclaimer I wear on my arms. I worry about the first time your gaze inevitably falls upon the self-inflicted displays of pain that dress my paper-thin skin. I worry, will you see a warning sign that reads "DANGER: Do not touch"? I wonder, will you listen?
Or will you choose to swallow me whole, a bitter pill with a list of flaws longer than the side effects of your favorite antidepressant. Do the benefits outweigh the risks, do you take a trial of me to see if I'll make you feel better or feel worse? Do you pour me down the drain when you find out I'm not good enough?
It's our first kiss -
A moment tainted by guilt that the sweet taste I leave behind on your lips is not saliva, but antifreeze. Drink me down and I'll poison you from the inside-out, and there will come a day that I'll be the taste you'd do anything to erase from your mouth.
It's our first fight -
And then our second, and our third...
The sand is slipping through our hourglass too fast, as we drag our blood-stained feet through a wasteland of eggshells and glass. All that remains is a crimson trail of mistakes, meandering back to the spotless place we started at.
It's the first time we meet, and
You ask me for my name. Silence.
Should I introduce myself as "Chelsea"? Or as "A Window-Pane Made of Glass Too Thin". If I'm being honest with myself, I go with the latter...and you'll walk away to avoid the mess that comes after.
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 2:49 AM UTC
As with everything else in American life, the national government is just another commodity packaged for mass consumption. We're all being spoon fed a spectacular narrative which by its very nature is designed to evoke the passions.
Every day, someone gets on TV and says or does something which provokes outrage, drawing the viewer in like the iridescent lure of an angler fish, and keeping them hooked just long enough for the hypnotic messages of the corporate sponsors to burrow their way into the collective consciousness between "newscasts."
It is precisely for this reason that these frivolous displays SELL like hotcakes. There's no government going on here. There hasn't been for who knows how long? All that is left is BUSINESS. Raw and unfettered. The United States of America is now nothing more than a 'reality' show, and boy, I tells ya, the revenue stream is OH, SO LUCRATIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Feb 7, 2019
Feb 7, 2019 at 12:13 AM UTC
Disclaimer. They already have this.
God **** where was i
what happened to pokemon go,
I mean wouldn't it be cooler if
the pokemon you caught could battle later
and train them and do tournaments
that's the pokemon go
I woulda wanted
battle in an augmented reality,
virtually with strangers
I mean wouldn't it be hot if you said to some chicik
or dude,
hey my charmanders in close proximity of your squirt\
I uh mean squirtle
battle?
whilst wasted at the pub
Jun 25, 2019
Jun 25, 2019 at 7:49 PM UTC
This will be just one more ****** love poem
to ***
to drugs
to rock n’ roll.
You think you’re too young to die, huh?
well, everyday my facebook feed
fills with people who were
too young to die.
Everyday people they loved post
on their walls, memories and pictures,
writing how their hearts ache at the passing
of one too young to die.
People who the dead disliked or even hated
also post on their walls, RIP, sad to see you go,
etc. empty ******** like “only the good die young,”
please.
I try to watch from afar, for if I get too close
I fear I am the next to go.
You think it can never happen to you, until
you wake up in a hospital bed with an IV in your arm and
a head awhirl with Narcan.
But still, it couldn’t happen to me, because
it’s happening to the people all around me.
The last girl I ****** off of Tinder
I stole thirty dollars from to buy
black tar ****** in Colorado
then saw a **** jam band
play their **** music,
it wasn’t rock n’ roll.
The last girl I had *** with
because I was in love with her
won’t hardly speak with me, anymore,
because ***
because drugs
because rock n’ roll
….That was like four years ago.
I miss the rock n’ roll in ***** Philly basements
that felt punk even when it was folk.
I miss doing drugs without ending up
homeless, broke, and emotionally destitute
immediately after.
I miss the *** that meant something,
but more so miss the idea of *** being related
to love, which was it ever even in the first place?
I don’t know.
I like the tenants of pop punk music,
example: I like my friends, I remember that time you were drunk and spilled the apple juice in the hall, I like the ideal of that one girl all the Jesse Laceys of the world write about, most importantly I like the thought that none of this is really my fault…when it is.
I had a therapist, more than one, ask me
to write a break up letter to drugs,
I could never get very far with it
because drugs dumped me a long time ago
and had since moved on.
If I was honest I would write, “Take me
back, I can handle you again and
things can go back to how they
were when we first met.”
But, I know this can never be,
as drugs are busy seeing other people.
Do you remember the day the lightning bugs
began to disappear?
Now, in the stead of those tiny glowing insect dots
is only the sense of a faintly felt fear,
of growing old
and
losing our illusion of safety.
Bring back the insects,
bring back the
***
drugs
and
rock n’ roll
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC
you were a packaged deal
and came with a disclaimer
claiming emotionally unstable
and jittery
with minimal ability to balance
book and art and poetry
with your overactive *** drive
and unquenchable thirst for intoxication
and I kept you in mint condition
barbie
as best as I could while you kept mind
and we matched
and interlocked
and soon were inseparable
but barbie i can only keep you so long
your hair is fading
and so is the loneliness that once made me praise you
and barbie you are a burden
and are weighing on my glass display
and leaning and tipping
and are making no effort to support your own weight
i may be your plastic stand
but i am more than moral support
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 8:49 AM UTC
Expect miracles every minute
Not.
Go away children if you want
Uplifting,
This is a dark adventure
Composition.
Gloomy the mood,
Gorgeous the day,
You have received my disclaimer,
Scurry away.
I scribe smoke that is uncontainable,
Smoke that suffocates, not for decoration.
You are the unrighteousness, not on the list,
Peekaboo voyeurs who read and dismiss.
Why I pen this or this.
Lost in the shuffling cards,
Luck is not inexhaustible,
Mine, bottled in the bin labelled,
The last recycling.
Dark is the blue sky,
White clouds just clothing to disguise
Morose is the vision,
Of eyes that have not seen a miracle
In decades of waiting.
Let us divorce today,
Find good cheer and company elsewhere.
From my finger these words fall freely,
No waiting, from me to you instantaneously.
What ails thee smoke scribe?
I have given and been taken, leeched and bled
and now wasted the last of my
Nine lives.
This is where I stand, edged and ledged,
Miracles are not shown to me anymore.
My quota, used, I'm not us-confused,
Cause I wrote the disclaimer,
The warnings, the risks, well understood.
Write of the good, the bad, of the
Beautiful that does not last,
Wonder if this is the poem
shall be my Epitaph?
Poetry craft, was the sword I breathed thru,
Unlike you, my motet is completed,
The music, the canon smoke, here, come, then
Gone.
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 7:30 AM UTC
as a disclaimer -
to you,
to everybody -
my poems capture, in a permanent way,
my temporary feelings.
as a disclaimer,
i am bombastic and aggressive
and prone to melodrama,
and honestly,
we're actually fine,
and we actually get along really well,
and i'm actually not as tortured and pained as i sound.
in fact
i really only feel the way i feel in my poems
like,
0.2 percent of the time.
i'm actually very happy.
and not angry.
and,
well.
just for the record.
just so everyone knows
and no one has me institutionalized.
i'm great.
he's great.
this poem is a piece of **** but
i had to say
something.
ignore me.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 7:12 PM UTC
~
Bala^ comments:
"alignment - any which way one can if possible to make
****** and *********** simultaneously happen,
without any best position plan"
~
*may all the gods bless you, Bala,
for waking me at 4:33 with this poetic induction
coaxed from my spinal fluid sanity
with perfected clarity
my own circadian rhythm masters internal,
the most reliably unreliable human container technology teachers,
semi-skilled in the entrainment arts for this impoverished body mine,
deem it appropriate that early morn messages of
propitious possibility be greeted immediately
entrapped, awaken me at four AM with great glee,
because these elusives^^ know exactly what stirs
this being's cochlear cockles into birthing a
poetic cookie ******** ***********
your message meme provoking, inducing,
be honest man - simply seducing, my within
by your teasing words from without*
"without any best position plan"
*not to confuse the mere appearance of a routine
as worthy of the entitlement of "plan,"
much as the poem's own vanity chooses it own alignment
the relationship, the relativity -
always the
flexing flummoxing freaking insatiable pleasuring
when your thrusting unplanned message
****** and bests my brain,
releasing a fully formed, instantaneous parrying poem
from an aroused, passing, unsanitized, second of sanity
for no better *** than this...
as per the unplan?
this tissued life,
this in and out
of punching and counterpunching continuous,
but rarely contiguous,
for we are never aligned for more than a moment,
the moment that almost always goes unnoticed,
for the heart's ***** tissues,
are mostly torn by how life
uses us roughly
so here is an aligned confession fecundity
this poetry gig, my salve,
to tenderize the daily redness,
the irritation residual of having no plan
however these fingerprints decided for you,
to present, upon completion,
this soft-spoken loud ***********
a peaking, not a leaking,
** ** ** - a screaming
hallelujah, i'm aligned!
the man found albeit briefly
a beat, a plan and its verbal, herbal,
best solution
may all the gods bless you, Bala,
for waking me at 4:33 with this poetic induction
coaxed from my spinal fluid sanity
with perfected clarity
the man and his plan, for a mega-second
his best,
unplanned but got and given,
in poetic planetary alignment
positioned
as are you and I -
the thousands of miles of distance tween us
as you read this
collage collapse
into a singular synapse
of ****** and ***********
hallelujah, we are aligned!
~
**disclaimer:
anything you say to me, can and will be used
for a poem**
~
5:55am
April 1, 2017
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 4:16 PM UTC
You ask me to enter to the tilt of your head towards the computer screen
and see, in two words my definition -
bipolar disorder.
You do not look at me, just talk at me
medication? last relapse? severity of episodes?
You count failings, the moments in which I have lost my mind
and you reproach me for them.
You, as you two-finger-type a cold clinical echo of me,
I, on command, recite the past transgressions of my sanity
and you have me – three inches tall on my knees,
in a disease that thrice almost cost me my life
and in your Jobsworth view you tell me I will get ill,
as if this weren't a fact I fight and fear daily.
You with your tunic, blue, cold as your indifference,
announce this, as if calling time -
self-important, unfeeling, with one eye on your watch.
And I smile at you apologetically,
honestly offering up my faith, prayer, medication compliance,
self awareness, begrudged reliance on those I love to wave the red flag
if the waters I get into are too deep.
You are curt with your nod - as if all this is folly between now and the inevitable.
My recovery, my striding, my passion and profession -
All folly.
You are doing the last offices on quick time
because your time is precious and short
and not to be wasted on crazy dreamers with barely a shot in hell
But even with every mental regression, psychotic expression
manic obsession and abyss of depression -
still, still, the world needs more of mes and much less of yous.
So make your disclaimer and write your reports
I'll chant, share the truth in the streets and courts
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
He's good at writing
He's good at dancing
I'm not sure if he's into singing
but for sure he's good at guitar playing.
What else can he do that could make him better?
What can I do to know that I'm way better?
He can get your attention by doing this
Speaking so smart like he's the bigger piece
He's that tall thin guy that she liked before me
What is in him that makes him so much better than me?
I dance good, not that great
I write literature almost like it's my middle name
I'm in the band, I play the bass and sing
Why is he so much better than me for fck sake..
Disclaimer : Im just bored. So I came up with this.
/feb.17,2012/
Apr 6, 2012
Apr 6, 2012 at 10:47 AM UTC
*this company is heading straight to the top
with our new improved line of fairy farts
soon our catch phrase will be all over the place
a slight touch of magic in a jar
first and foremost a disclaimer though
in the making of farts not one fairy was harmed
we house and feed, take care of their every need
so there's no need for alarm
once we discovered how the ***** could be used
down here on fairy farm
we've had all our men chase after them
capturing bottom barks into a jar
then by hand we transfer them
from pint up to gallon size
to be used all the way from laundry detergent
to a line of makeup that's soft on the eyes
we even have samples of candles
bath and body works just bought the whole lot
plus it runs machines cheaper than gasoline
so far the highest bid is from Exon
we're also in talks of a contract
with a highly secretive govern(mental) agency
who wants all the gas with no questions asked
but on that we'll have to wait and see
in the mean time our workers continue to bottle it up
all the fairy farts from all the fairy butts
it's a job that flatuates deep to the heart
but with this job what's not to love
as you watch the fairies flutter to and fro
hearing the cute little ***** wherever they go
who would have guessed who could have known
how much a business like this would grow*
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 9:12 AM UTC
His mother always told him to throw away broken toys
to make room for new ones
and maybe thats why they never keep me around
I've become an acrobat
balancing my self confidence on the tight rope of his words
It’s hard to walk when your legs are killing you.
My knees didn't always creek like this, I promise.
My smile didn't always come with a disclaimer
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 12:35 AM UTC
Disclaimer to Elizabethan democracy
It hits it's head on the chamber table
My hangman, eyes rolled up behind his mask dry lips hurt the ear drums
Least this broken bridge burn under our feet
Least it broils into rainbows, blood letting its comatosis
We'll replace fear with release
And suffer this karma like a detox struggle
When the tv glares blue a displacement glares right back, legs badly scarred taken by a strong hand
Patches must be missing, infra rave lights up hollow
I couldn't even draw the pentagram
The scales had fallen on my feet
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 4:13 AM UTC
ONCE UPON A CRICKET
Once, a cricket
Hopped along
Stopped beside me
To chirp his song
He chirped and chirped
While I sat and read
So I stomped on him
And killed him, dead
DISCLAIMER
Now, I’m not always
A mean old ****
But that freaking cricket
Drove me, berserk
BOEMS BY JA 31
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 12:02 PM UTC