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Bobbie Longo Aug 2011
The pieces of me
Were falling through the cracks
The pieces of me
Shattered from the past

These pieces I've
Been missing so long
You've put them back
Where they belong

In your shirt pocket
Grazing your chest
Where those pieces are safe
And can be loved best

You've found those shards
Where someones thrown them away
You're now who will
Keep them safe

Be careful because
My thinly severed parts
Hardly resemble
What once was a heart

They may embed
Themselves within
And splinter you with
Broken passion

I may not give you all of me
But I can share my pieces
A bite of me is all you need
The bite that never ceases
Ignatius Hosiana Apr 2015
Someday I'll hold you like you me charms
Look you straight and deep in your eyes
And let you know how much I lust for you
I'll pull your soft body with me masculine arms
Dead close to mine so that you realize
How glamorously my  **** tightens for you
Someday I'll touch your neck with my teeth
I'll graze it so softly that you won't quit
And then pour magical whispers into your ears
The much I've dammed up all these years
I'll place my hard palms beneath your shirt
To softly hard caress your skin so that it'll sweetly hurt
Then I'll place my head onto yours and sigh
Because by this point I'll already be high
Someday I'll be this close and I won't miss
I'll peck your forehead but your lips kiss
You'll shut your eyes and savor my taste
I'll take it one step at a time with no haste
I'll patiently unbutton your outfit
You won't stop me for you'll feel me heat
Someday I'll **** at your beautiful *******
Draped like two cute oranges on your chest
You'll mourn like you're grieved at the pleasure
You'll beg me to quickly find my way inside
But I'll try and keep my control and decide
when to partake of your juicy treasure
Someday I'll explore further down your thighs
Me whom you much loathe and despise
You'll arch like a bow at every touch and laugh like a clown
Yet mourn as I navigate every street of tuna town
You'll beg me to pass through the tunnel of love
And just then I'll swiftly embed myself into nature's glove
I'll place myself above you,I'll be a long awaited burden
You'll hold my posterior as I plough through your garden
Since you say there's no love around here
Further apart your thighs will obediently split
While we make it
Someday we'll walk a thousand miles with no rest
We'll surf the ****** waves till we hit the viperous crest
ryn Dec 2014
Cradle my emotions in the gentlest of whispers
Lace my heart with sultriest of ribbons
Fill full my sail with the worthiest of winds
Engulf my being in the sweetest of notions

Colour me beautiful with the most vibrant of rainbows
Propel my universe into the farthest reaches
Soothe my aches with the most abundant love
Carry my vessel to the sandiest of beaches

Embed my thoughts within the fluffiest clouds
Let soar my dreams on the bravest of kites
Set my destination in the furthest horizons
Present me with life's buffet with the tastiest of bites
ryyan May 2011
Once upon a time.
In a land far far away.
Their existed a rhyme,
About the greatest game ever played.
This is the said rhyme 
preserved from the acclaim the game has gained.
Passed on to generations about the game at it’s prime. 

A game that should be reclaimed from the fame its gained at the present time.
This game came from the brain of a person
who aimed to have the time of his life. 

Town ball was for all. In any season: spring, summer, winter, or fall.
Town ball was a ball for all: no despair, grief,  or strife, could spawn.
The rules were simple
Hit ball: bases touch all. 

Teams were never full. 
And the field could sprawl.
Everything was in play just like everyone could play.
No obstacle was in the way, no direction out of play.
Yet, according to the natural law of capitalistic America,
An evolution began to make money.
**** you Jean-Baptiste Pierre Antoine de Monet!!
You may have nothing to do with baseball, 

But you spawned the evilest idea of them all. 

That evolution is caused by natural law, 

and the evolution of baseball is the downfall of all that is America.
Baseball was at one time a game of fun; 

good times shared with one another under the sun. 

Eventually they agreed to decree the official rules, 

And it was not Abner Doubleday who would have the last say in history,
for that story is a myth that we should flee from like fools.
Instead it was Alexander Cartwright who penned the knickerbocker rules.
These rules spread to the rest of the clubs,
and eventually it was coined the New York game. 

No longer could anyone play but only the ones who could slug.
If you wanted to win, it would be a sin,
to put in the has been who brought the game shame.
This game spread during the civil war. 

In down time to escape they played for fun instead of being bored.
The game spread like never before,
and soon the game covered the entire eastern shore.
The N.A.A.B.B.P was formed and by 1867 four hundred teams were born,
and in 1870 the Chicago Cubs actually won!
They actually were good before 1908,
heck some people might even say they were great. 

I don’t mean to taint their slate or bait your hate.
I just wish to point out that its been some time since that date,
and you Cub fans still must await.
Meanwhile these gentleman clubs would compete in the heat,
for they wanted to prove they were the ones to beat. 

Yet promoters wanted money so they charged the food you eat.
Then they fenced in the meet.
No longer could you watch the teams compete from the street.
If you wanted to know who would defeat you must enter with a receipt
to show that you payed for your seat.
There you would meet, eat, and greet,
and keep track of the game on your score sheet
Eventually the wood frames turned to concrete

in order to hold more people inside their games.
And the players started to earn fame.
And eventually everyone knew their name.
No longer was the game a game for games sake,
instead it was meant to entertain the fame-craved.
All that matter was the money made at the gate,
and since then the game has never been the same.
Before players would score more and their would be less of a bore.
Fielders caught with their fingers the stingers thrown,
but for catchers that was absurd.

Before, fans would abhor to the idea of a fielder with a glove adorned,
but eventually the planted seed, grew steadily, and the fielders glove was born.
At first their was no web extended between the finger and thumb.
Because that would make it so easy to catch it would be just dumb. 

Yet, somehow the web spread and eventually it won. 

Now any *** could catch between finger and thumb
and the hand would not become numb.
This lead the dead ball era dread at the start of nineteen hundred.
And ego went to Owen Wilson’s head as he lead the league with triples.
Thirty six triples the record was set
and will never be broken it has been said.
But instead its embed into the unread
record book for others to go ahead and try to break with dread.
There were several reasons that lead to the dead ball.
First of all, the same ball was used until it started to unravel.
Second, was that you would draw a strike for every foul ball,
And lastly was the spit ball which would dance to any squall.
All these reasons made the pitchers un-hittable. 

And batters seeing their batting average fall
would take a bar crawl and bawl.
But then a savior came to us all. 

This man hit the ball so far that it would fall somewhere past Senegal.
The claims were esteemed that this man was best of them all. 

Yet, he was traded for money to fund a curtain call. 

This man’s name was George “the Babe” Herman Ruth. 

A pitcher turned outfielder because he was a great hitter is the truth.
The great bambino or Sultan of Swat,
nothing could stop him when he was hot. 

And he hit the dead ball era out of the park and it was forever lost. 

He had more home run’s as an individual, than any team,

Except for the Phillies who were good it seems.

Babe was the hit man

Pitcher he was no longer

The same change came

With this emphasis:
Babe Ruth symbolized what was

the rest of the game. 


They said pitch no more.
Sluggers are what fans adore
outfields became small. 


Power was the talk

Every team must have a guy
who hits with power. 


George “babe” Herman Ruth
and Lou Gehrig, the Yankee’s
became the very best.

Then the depression came and rained on the parade of the baseball game.
Yet, families with radio’s would listen to the games as a sort of hope. 

To escape from the world that they known. 

To escape to a game that reminded them of better days.
Then WWII came and stole away the players. 

Baseball’s talent level was now in multiple layers. 

and because of lack of talent Ted Williams batted over .400 percent
and Joe Dimaggio hit the ball again and again. 

for 56 consecutive games he hit the ball back to where it was sent.
Yet, eventually the players would return and baseball would mend. 

But not before the ladies got their own league. 

and men it did intrigue.
Is this for real?
Or a joke?
They would laugh.

Then they would choke. 

When they saw that this wasn’t just an act.
The girls continued,
“Everyone used to be able to play the good old town ball game!
“This is no longer town ball,” the men said, “the present game is not the same,
Instead its now played for money and fame.”

Oh how the good old days always change.

“Give us money” the women exclaimed,
“We’ll take your fortune we’ll take your fame!”

Some men said, “you complain! Its not the same,
you have to be good to play this game,
you can have your separate league if you need,
But this game of fame is only for white men of age!”

Oh how problems never change
Instead they always stay the same.
Yet, it wouldn’t be long
Before the trumpet would sing its song. 

That segregation would possibly end. 

Not for women but for African Americans. 

Segregation had always gone on. 

***** leagues rose up, but finally segregation’s time was gone 

due to a man named Jackie Robinson. 

And in 1947 he broke through with the Brooklyn Dodgers.
Because his team was convinced they’d make more money by Lou Durocher
Yet it came with its troubles because Not everyone on the team was happy 
And some fans were just down right ******.
Some teams such as our beloved St.Louis Cardinals even threatened to strike. 

They were not going to play if Jackie played because they had that much dislike. 

But Jackie and the Dodgers pushed through all the hate that spewed. 

Other players, managers, and fans  were rude, crude and would start feuds. 
Then they would brood every time Jackie’s name the roster would include.
But after awhile people would conclude that he was actually very good.
And after review others would start to include rather than seclude,

But this integration was long over due.
30 years till segregation could be totally subdued.
The lessons we learn are hard ones that is true. 

And it takes awhile for an entire nations perspective to take a different mood.
Now with baseball integrated the game be televised. 

This allows the money in the game to rise. 

The league now expands west; 

New markets they must test.
But hey! the players want some of this. 

They want to start a free agency. 

But this is the last thing the owners need! 

But the players want to be able to move between teams.

The players want money. Oh how things never change.
But the players got what want. 

They now can negotiate and the owners this does haunt. 

The game now is wrapped inside this twisted shame of money. 

Thats all any body wants so they find ways to scheme. 

Thus steroids came to the scene. 

Players now could be payed more if they played well. 

This meant that to hit the ball far, big muscles they would have to build.
In order to get that edge over everyone else. 

These players used steroids to get their help. 

Yet that was not cool with the public 
Because steroids put you at risk. 

They are dangerous at best,
and the league didn’t want to run the risk. 

Plus what about records that have stood the time test?
Are they going be broken now and no longer exist?

All because someone drugs themselves to have a bigger biceps and chest?
Someone please lay this all to rest! 

Baseball today is such a shame. 

Its boring with all of the commercial and pitcher change breaks. 

Something needs to change. 

Because its been turned into a sideshow. 

Thats the only reason why kids even go. 

To see the park, get hot dogs,
and baseballs that when put in the dark they glow. 

Then when you get home. 

you ask them what they remember about the game 

and they say, “I don’t know”. 

This game used to be interesting. 

But now I find my channels flipping. 

Even Golf is more fun to watch. 

at least they hit that ball a lot!
Baseball should but I doubt ever will, 

Get rid of all the pitchers it has to refill. 

No more pitching changes; That would increase the thrill!

Maybe players could hit the ball if wasn’t coming 100 mph every throw. 

and instead of pure talent pitchers had to use strategy,
of when to and not to throw 

That 100mph hour fastball.
Get rid of the sideshow. 

Then maybe kids would go. 

Maybe then we’d go back to being enthralled. 

Back when Baseball was actually Baseball. 

But I doubt it will because money is what matters now.
Sideshows make money so its always going to be allowed.
But I’d like to disavow
I’d like to dropout. 

I never really watched it much in the first place. 

but now I know of a better game.
Oh and one final thing to say. 

We should just go back to town ball. 

That game sounds so much cooler than baseball. 

You could really make some unique obstacles

Put in a fountain or maybe even a wall.
It just sounds like a lot of fun. 

I plan to play it this summer some. 

Everyone will be welcome. 

And we’ll have fun under the sun. 

And it won’t really matter who will win. 

Because its about having fun, building character,
and growing relationships
The end.
Brycical Jul 2011
Goddess of virility suckles me
to ******—

Her legs stiffen…
to acute angles.
Toes, ballerina firm
make her
body—
                         levitate from the bed.


A smile reveals…fangs
the tips of which
          are barely…touching
                   my ear.
The lizard tongue hisses in ecstasy
revealing ancient—spiritual…bliss
mystics could only
           speculate of.


Her anaconda legs
wrap—
        around my back
as her fingernails
           embed into
         my            spine.
   When I yank
Her hair
                    Her             eyes
Scream                   inside                out.

Our bodies—
Swimming             in
An ocean      of         ravenous
                  Liquids pulsating from       our pores.
Sopping hair clings
          to our        foreheads        
we suddenly realize—
                 A new shape is            invented.      
We make a sound         so         primal
inside each other’s mouth
as her jaws snap down
to my neck—
both bodies rigor-mortis stiffen
       as the mountains collapse around us
and        the   sky is ripped open      as a tsunami
billows down into a wave of exhaustion.
The wind cradles us,
Back to the earth
    We split,
Admiring a new continent
We created.
      Our limp bodies—
numb from the velocity and suggestions
resign to the crater
we call a bed.
We smile, simultaneously,
looking past
our brains,
realizing…
in         this        moment
we, are one.
when the moon  writhe and crawling the silent night..
it was time to layover yearning  who clotted for sweetheart..
when the sun excited to greet the morning ..
it was time to embed cheerfulness on the idol of conscience..
sprinkle knitted heart turmoil and dew drops each cavity of jasmine petals ..

i greet to you,  my dearest sister..
each twist will crease beautiful crowded heart longing ..
so that  relieved you feel full carefree breathing..
with the presence of me,
i will fulfill your every drought in the lake of your worries ..
i will treat every your petulant  in lap with more  excellent attention ...

return back to you  as always,  my dearest sister..
to pulling  the curtain  the recesses of the heart that always hiding ..
to wrapping blush smolder desire in your heart arms ..

because your bliss,  my dearest sister..
it's  most beautiful thing that can i enjoy ever ..*

-the poetry is dedicated to a sincere friend of mine, Ha-

┈┈┈┈┈»̶·̵̭̌✽✽·̵̭̌«̶ ƦУ »̶·̵̭̌✽✽·̵̭̌«̶┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

adinda

kala sang rembulan menggeliat merayapi malam sunyi..
tibalah waktu untuk menyinggahi gigilnya kerinduan sang kekasih sanubari..
kala sang mentari bersemangat menyambut pagi ..
tibalah waktu untuk menyematkan kecerian pada sang pujaan nurani..
menyemaikan untaian gejolak kalbu dan meneteskan embun disetiap rongga kelopak melati..

kusambut darimu, adinda...
setiap simpul lipatan hati yang sesak akan indahnya kerinduan..
agar terasa lega engkau bernafas penuh riang..
bersama hadirku,
kan kupenuhi setiap kekeringan ditelaga keresahanmu..
kan kumanjakan setiap rajukanmu dipangkuan perhatian nan syahdu...

berpulang selalu kepadamu, adinda..
untuk menyibakan tirai pada relung hati yang selalu bersembunyi..
untuk membalut rona kerinduanmu yang membara dalam dekapan hati ..

kerena bahagiamu, adinda...
adalah merupakan hal terindah yang dapat kunikmati..
whatever it's you're seeking won't come in the form you're expecting..
that's why they said,  "man purpose but God dispose.."
****** up along with it, then..
asia Aug 2018
my heart is broken but open
fragile but closin.
my heart tht you chosen
will you embed it?
my stomach is turnin
it is fckn hurtin.
ig im overdosin...
so many emotions
how could you cheat.
the hole in my heart
my heart is explodin
ig were now opponents
blood is now overflowin...
and now tht i think.
why did i open?

now im completely broken...

but open.
a.l
Smiles May 2014
I wake up every morning with this feeling of dread
Can't escape this groggy feeling left in my head
So I continue to just lay here in my bed
I don't even get up to eat I just sleep here instead
I lay and decompose as my skin starts to shed
Wasting away all the blood that I have bled
My arms dangling off the side drenched in red
My existence is pointless I might as well be dead
I don't care about anything I'm unmotivated this feeling embed
Sew my eyes and my mouth shut with needle and thread
Tie me down and pump my stomach with meds
Take a gun to my skull and fill me with lead
My sin is sloth you haven't misheard and you havent misread
I'm not okay don't believe those lies you've been fed
My deadly sin.
Lucas Feb 2016
Color your darkness
embed your glistening gloss
the best secrets
are those untold
a thief with a house key
unheard words
are those desired most
so color your darkness
a black rainbow
is still a rainbow
they may not see the beauty
But that's what makes it yours
Twinkle Aug 2014
I am not sure anymore
How to tread the ground with you
It's like walking on broken glass
The shards embed deep

But it's not the glass that hurt so bad
More so the wounds your words inflict.
King Tutankhamun Aug 2018
I'm a Kool g rockin' coogis poppin' coochies
Haters get murked like Colhese my rap lease
Debutin' numero uno the heavy weight sumo  
Born on Jupiter raised on Earth my heart's colder than Pluto
Mic judo flows stickin' of ya corticals
Check me in the articles I be the broken particle
Of the universal ya need rehearsal **** goin' commerical
I lay raps like a hearse flow for rappers funeral
I a criminal none keep gats by the abdominal rhymin' phenomenal the mighty Apollo
Blazin' my cocoa flippin' crime like Bardellino
One luv to my nino got it locked like a Vegas casino
We checkin' ya dough at the front door so stop ya show
Fronting and stunting once my nines get the hunting
Bullets spikin' like kickers punting raw taunting
Game hungriest similiar to the lochness
Mon-star far from subpar rhymes ride bizzare
A pharcyde takin' ya into a spiritual homicide converged to the angelic hide


Still a crime shame all of 'em say the same
Thing flexin' diamonds on they pinky rings yet another sad soul that sings sub siblings
To the underworld debators contract initiator so you can create a
Pace between the stage and the audience face
**** that rather keep a gat tucked in the front or the back
With wisdom to rack
Imagine that fools breakin' for stats? see where my heart at?
Diggin' reachin' into the minds of the youth with the brutal truths
Chippin' my tooth
From killin' booths once I plot ya will ya loose
bringin' the ghetto blues and cruising *****
Still a sober jealous God am I call me Jehovah
Tactics of a Cobra one strike it's over
Venomous ridiculous hataz so conspicuous
Hatin' us only to anger my artillery surplus and who bust?
More rounds than Matt Dillion coatin' ya brains
With my lyrical penicillin stealin'
Back the spotlight
Catch the bright sunshine that stares into my mind
A Pharoah prophecy laid in the back of me
Head til I touch my final resting bed I'll embed
The realist **** ya ever heard shooting a bird
To all my enemies I blast at 'em with as the bullets herd
ryn May 2016
.

*estrate the          
orc-                       opus           
ong•                                  of right        
     of s-                                            and wr-            
      gh power                                        ong•k-         ⚫️  
    tales throu-                                       eep me             
   tell me...                                           ground-      ⚫️
                                                 ­            ed throu-          
                                                         gh lyrics          
                                                     worded          
                                                strong•        
                                          embed  ­      
                                       solid b-        
                                 assline-        
    ­                   s that        
              guide        
      me a-          
lon-            
     g...                          
•                              *


.
The soundtrack to life deserves the most wicked of baselines.
.
Mystic Ink Plus Aug 2018
Till that time

When
No space left inside the mind
They keep on collecting
What touches the life
Close enough

Till the threshold
When words can’t resist
And finds peace in Ink
And words start to embed
And the thoughts get its way
And the soul feels calm

When
Everything, Everybody
Nothing, Nobody
Sense like a word
Which gets pass through
The Ink

And once started

They find
A good reason
Not to stop
Or forget
How to stop.
Genre: Autobiography
Theme: May be so many somebody passes through this
Everything is on Earth tonight.
Our grandioso perspective sheltered.
I take my beagle on a mock hunt.
The sky is closed for business.
Wet dog nose on the back of my knee.
There is no moon to bay at.
If I could wish one thing for you:
It would be that you lose yourself
in a sea of your self.
Children enclose themselves in crevices.
Shrink wrap the world into a small packet.
My dog is pretending to hunt.
I am pretending to encourage him.
There is no sky, just the smell of Earth.
Beagle ears scrape ground,
moist drops embed in fur.
Light is just floating particles,
water, and dust.
If you catch a rabbit
this night will end.
Jillian Elcie Oct 2015
Do not fall in love with an artist;
Her mind is both a framework
And a disarray
Of jumbled sentiments.
And once you embed yourself
Within her horizons,
She’ll fathom you into a masterpiece.
She’ll draw the way your lips form words
With mesmerizing hues
And bind your love
Into a collection of poetic utterances
And she’ll make an inconsequential language
Into an unconventional expression.
She’ll pluck strings
To embody the way your chest
Rises against her ear with each breath;
She’ll make you fall in love with creativity.
And one wrong move,
And you’ll become a masterwork in her array.
Timothy Oct 2012
Gone are the birds and flowers too,
They dormant lay as if they're dead;
Those dried up fragments are the head,
They have done all that they can do.

Gone are the leaves upon the tree,
Thy vestments scattered here around;
Still covering the hard cold ground,
The sleep of Winter, let it be.

Yet all my hopes and wishes lay,
Wrapt up in frozen crypts of dreams;
Ev'n tho' I try so hard it seems,
My ambitions wilt and decay.

O let these dirges of my mind,
Embed themselves some other place;
Grant me rest for a little space,
  O Lord, help me some peace to find.

Lord lift me out of these grey walls,
To brighter golden happy hours;
And see the beauty of Thy pow'rs,
And to accept whatever falls.

I am o'er come with grief and pain,
For all of those which left me here;
And sometimes I will shed a tear,
But this often is all in vain.

For like a thief Death shows its face,
Unveiling just before the blow;
Before the living are laid low,
Ye come and go without disgrace.

My happiness is quickly o'er,
I feel it come and feel it pass;
Just like sand in an hourglass,
I hope to cultivate it more.

O God I know that Thou art nigh,
Bid those gone to the realms of day;
And help my members ne'er to sway,
O wing my soul to Thee on High!

**~Timothy~
© Timothy 18 October, 2012.
Francie Lynch Feb 2015
I hear a motor
In my head,
Cranking, moaning,
Turning, turning...
Nearly dead.

I have an onion
In my head;
Has it a seed
I can embed.
So I keep
Peeling, peeling...

I have a pencil
In my head,
An HB2
With blunted lead,
Scratching on
A blank cortex,
Itching to put
Thought to text.
Scratching, scratching...

I have dough
Inside my head,
Needing kneading
Just like bread.
When it's baked
Sliced and spread,
I'll serve it up
Outside my head.
Alaina Moore Aug 2018
Your words spin in circles
around topics that never change.
One place to the next,
everything stays the same.
Compress every minor inconvenence
until they shine like diamonds
in a pitch black sky.
Embed them in your skin.
Wear them like badges of honor,
even though they're scars.
Would have been better,
to just let the coal burn.
Love is love.
There is no definition to say you ' cannot be this way ' if you love a man or a woman or both or none at all - whoever you embed your heart within  has nothing to do with anyone but you.
Love is love.
Fall for the sunset in her eyes and the laugh she has on autumn evenings, find a world within her soft skin.
Love is love.
Choose his comfort, the way your frail frame mirrors in his body and like a portrait; you're a work of art.
Love is love.
Dance in the compassion of both genders and be a stream of a purple in a world of blue and pink  paint.

Love is love, regardless.
Chelsea Nov 2012
The hourglass stands empty
and cracked
Sand merging with tears to form
salty mud
A girl made of glass vibrates with
the violent
energy of rejection and sighing,
she implodes
Sends pieces of herself flying
jaggedly
To embed deep in the blinded eyes of a swiftly
moving fish
Like fire clarity sweeps through him and filled
with remorse
He turns to find her already broken
and ruined
Hayleigh Feb 2015
Take the word enough and graffiti it across the walls of your heart
Stamp it under your eyelids
Make a short sharp scratch in your skin
And send it shooting through
Your veins
Weave it in and out of every doubt
Scrawl it in a letter
And send it first class
To all of your insecurities
Embed it in the curves of your smile
Carry it gently in your tears
And catch its salty taste on your tongue

Take it out to the shore
And dip it in the ocean
Watch as, finally, it sticks to you,
Like wet sand.
Jimmy Desire Jul 2014
(A freestyle off of Revenge of the Dreamers / J-Cole)

Lost in a world
of a word
or a combination of which entrances me
onto rants such as this
Do you understand the feeling?
losing yourself in the rhythm
and imitating or recreating your favorite song,
in your vision?
What’s amazing is, what a large world this is…
and how much of it truly influences the music we hear
I mean, I can use my memory to remind me of her beauty
or instead I can bring together the words that will explain to you
how every morning the sun’s rays ever so lightly kisses her face
just to compliment the amazing glow that only amplifies the radiance of her smile
and her warmth,
is a treasure to be cherished as I do
Everyday, the sweet serenades of “sunday morning” remind me of you.
and how my lips graze and embrace her skin,
often I simply allow them drag carelessly along her valley of silky smoothness
as my tongue sends chills thru her spine
just to hover above her ear and remind her that she’s mine
this love is divine,
but something this great takes time
patience — most aspects of life ask of it
and these words let me pace it out
mediation for the mind
for the days where my eyes may glaze over a shade of red
and things don’t seem so easy
I let the creativity flow thru me
as history and THC embed my bloodstream
focused but my mind races
past the similes and metaphors that lay hidden in the borders of the margin
and the bridge echoes,
“Can you feel the buzz?”
my body trembles to the beat
I end up singing along…
“Do you believe in love?
What’s your drug?,
What’s your drug?”
as the smoke escapes my lungs and lingers in the atmosphere
I allow the meaning of the words to sink in
Can I get you to understand?
how the music inspires me to speak
on what it is that I care for or desire
from the need of perfection I feel once the idea is bred,
to the hours of lost sleep trying to avoid the clutches of defeat
when it comes to end,
I feel complete
as if these words fulfill my wishes
to bring back a little substance to our lives.
Although to some, I know this is simply nonsense
well then,  let me try to make it make sense
this time spent has been for my love of music
then simply writing off its influence,
poetry, more than just an art form
I’m just trying to reach your mind and touch your heart
Because you and I can’t be that far apart?
We live in this world together don’t we?
This is the human experience
It's in our nature, let’s connect.
Let’s spread peace and love throughout the land
with a little positivity and encouragement
vibe with me to the beat,
Tell me what it is that you seek,
Do you believe in love?
A piece I'm very proud of. Thanks for reading.
Frank Ruland Oct 2014
My Brethren in Ink, b l e e d!
B l e e d and be known;
Fulfill thy need--
Carve your name in stone!

Spill your soul into verses;
Embed your hearts into pages!
After Death rolls in the hearses,
We will be known down through the ages!

We won't die!
Rhymes and lines do not suffer time;
Mortal boundaries they deny;
Immortality, so divine!

Our words b l e e d through transcendence!
Where life is subject to dying breaths,
Our words are not so evanescent--
They'll never know a poet's death!
Jimmy Desire Nov 2012
Introduction [The Ride]
-Jimmy Desire

The Ride
Its journey is amazing
The process is sensational
Man, where I'm from
Who knows the destination though?
Constant names being learned
Forgotten while I go
I yearn to keep a few of them in memory
But only time will tell who comes and goes
So I continue on forward
Trying to understand the confusion that the world insists is normal
Meanwhile battling the emotions that you insist does not exist
Well then, what is this?
Bliss from ignorance
Then anger from your partner's diss
Not sure who to call friend or foe
And yet you claim this **** doesn’t exist?
Must’ve been blinded, there has to be something I missed
Because "dog eat dog" ain't nothing new
And yet I continue to resist as if someone will assist
Instead I'm hit with this metaphorical fist and left behind in the mist
Wondering what the hell is this?
The Ride

Of all the women
The last two knew me best
Taught me more than I'd like to admit
Especially because I did my best to help them
Something I never omit
But somehow along the way things happened to go amiss
And even if our eyes don't ever meet as often
Or things never seem the same
I continue to pray for their success
Because regardless of how they see it
It’s my life they've blessed
And there are two more that will never leave my side
Even if I were to decide to take a leave of absence
Forever my balance
I swear their voices took over my conscience
As if to lend me guidance
So honestly it may just be science
That these two incredible females remain a constant
Arevalo and Martinez how I adore the two of you
And although at times I may seem distant
I miss the two of you
And the fiascos that would ensue
Like hopping the border for dunkin'
Or attempts at grand theft in JP
Just the memories of those moments reminds me
That our equation is incredible
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world


The Ride
Where do I go?
Who will I be?
My future still a mystery
But the days pass by so quickly
And I’ve been living so peacefully in the present
That I’ve paid no mind to what awaits me
Even now I seem to forget the importance of it all
Like how time and money rule everything around me
And that in time, I’ll have love ones who depends on me
And that in time, I can no longer live carefree
So in time, I wonder who I’ll be
Because too much was sacrificed to see me succeed
To my parents and those who helped raise me
I understand and I promise to make you all proud
And I know I was quite the handful in the years that have past
But now in the years to come,
I plan to show you the admiration you deserve for the lessons you’ve taught me
So that it’s known that you’re involvement made a difference
So in time, I promise it’ll all be clear
The vision is near,
Desire Enterprises CEO
It was all a dream…
The Ride

Life is bittersweet
For it blessed me with a brother
But stole him away before I had any chance to get to know him
So in time I was introduced to three kids,
Ralph, Myke and Medrano, they would end up becoming my brothers
And in time my mother decided it was time for her to have another
So at the age of seven I was introduced to a young child named Jason
A few months before him, Ralph, Myke, and Medrano welcomed a young tyke named Billy
Now there were six
And for years, we were each other’s friends, bullies, teachers and rivals
But I often wondered what came about the first
However I often ignored it
Because that period and time of my life was so vague
That I started to doubt it
And as the period of change seemed to settle,
I was informed of the return of the prince himself,
The young Max Saint-Eloi

The Ride
In time it will all subside
My ***** told me life is too short
So I guess it’s time to shape up
Stop slacking, wake up!
For so long I’ve clung onto this cliff
Too afraid to fail
I want it all
But I’m too afraid to fall
But decided to let go cause who knows I won’t land on my feet?
Fear is just an obstacle we must defeat
And I rather have a fighting chance
Than to turn tail and surrender
So Here I Stand World
Test me
My name is what I cherish most
Because my mother taught me
It’s the one thing I really own
And to make sure to never taint it
D-E-S-I-R-E
What may be a word to you, means much more to me
All my life I’ve been told that I have great potential
That I was something special
Never meant a thing to me then
But now I’m working hard to achieve what I used to think was impossible  
And these words mean nothing without the actions to reinforce them
So I pay no mind to those who may judge me,
Care for those who appreciate my presence
And lend an ear to those who feel they need some guidance
Because it happens, like the morning fog that shades what’s in the distance
Or how perfect things change in just an instance
Life leaves us troubled with uncertainty and mystery
So the purpose of these words is to remind me
That if I should ever find myself lost or confused
To look back and remember the people and events that enlightened me
And my love for poetry
The Ride

The sands of the hourglass continue to slip through our fingers
Yet I try to catch some and embed them in my memories
Poetry, my method of preserving those moments I deem important enough to save
My name is Jimmy Desire,
Welcome to my story.
Amanda Small Dec 2011
A modern day Henry VIII
You royally ******* me over.
We get ****** up and my head starts spinning

You giggle out an apology...
                                                      ­                                                                  *******.

I k-k-k-keep re-reading the line above your eyebrow
Stupid, stupid boy.
I gag on the taste of your breathing,
Your face so close our eyelashes interlock.

Strumming your fingers on my rib cage,
you crack my chest wide open.

****, ribs, and heartbeats.
You embed yourself between my lungs
Pressing palms into my spinal chord.

You fill me until I threaten to fall apart, only to gingerly remove yourself.

                                                      ­                         *I think I'm growing up
Ciel Oct 2015
I wanna throw the dinner plates to the floor,
hard so they crack,
pieces shatter and explode,
across the tiles of my flat.
They’ll embed themselves in the wall,
or in the couches, or in skin,
They’ll embed themselves in me,
So I feel the impact, the sting.
The pain would register, I would scream
until I have no voice left to be released.
I would smash down all the others,
and won’t be satisfied until porcelain covers my skin,
glass blankets the floors,
and all the cupboards are empty.
My brain will feel so blank
that I won’t know what else to do but
slowly clean the mess I’ve made.

I've edited this one
I found some grammer of the universe:
Not easy to catch, but easy to find,
as it is simply everywhere.
In the navel and in the fridge.
In a teacup and in a dream.
In a memory and in a grain of dust
as much as in a withering biography.
Sometimes I mix up prepositions,
so that I my beloved feels demagnified.
But I will take the effort to spell lovable meaning in that language.
And it happens that I use wrong keys
- and I don't get the meaning of sentences
that couchsurf my mind - but it's all furnished
with such a beautiful mess. Oh dear,
let me play on you(r) combinations.
And embed the failure in the long run of light.
I know, everything is meant to glow.
Furthermore there is the challenge of silence,
t h e   a b s o l u t e l y   s u p e r c o n n e c t i v e
muting the noisy pain of opposition.
Let us meditate on that.
Nicole Alyse Nov 2013
I have spent most of my twenties,
living out of suitcases and shacking up with
madmen.

A gypsy, on an eternal search
for four walls,
that smell of
fresh paint.
And a warm body--- to press against mine,
if only (and usually)
temporarily.

As the months pass by in my
fancy, new cage---
I become restless, stifled and stagnant.

I’m a like a leaf on a branch,
waiting to blow
aimlessly in the wind
and a footprint,
waiting to embed itself into the soil
of places
I haven’t yet walked.

I am a pair of eyes
waiting to penetrate their gaze,
onto the symmetrical features,
of foreign faces,
I haven’t yet seen.

I am a nomad,
who cannot grasp,
the conception of home.
All I know how to do
is pack my bags
and
          keep
                         moving.
Scars and scabs
Come leaking out in drips and drabs
After events that occurred  
And events that shouldn't have
Sand on soles go walking into shoes
And embed themselves there within
Shards of glass buried deep under the skin
Wiggle their way to the surface again
And when life warms to the call of the sun
We pack it all back, for morning has come
Old things get beat down until purple and plum
For newer less blue things to be squeezed under thumb
I worry about my mind and its multitude of storage rooms
Filled with undealt with boxes and musky fumes
Now stuffed to capacity
Those come leaking out too
They tare through the surfaces that have long since been plastered  
And sawed down and painted and polished afterwards
Now my body, heavy and ***** with these returning things
Sheds them part by part in painful rebirth
And after I've been made naked of these morsels in my mind
I'll pack new boxes in my empty  storage rooms from time to time
For a peaceful heart is a dozen a dime
But none is as interesting and messy as mine
Edward Coles Dec 2013
To bed I took, in habitual slumber,
cursive prayers die at my cynical tongue,
all pinned badges of the day cast-off
to the floor, only for my sorry soles to
impale upon, come morn. ‘Come morn!
I called, to the chasted walls;
‘come morn!’ I sang,
hoping to fill the thinned curtains
with a filter of light.

In oil paints, old dreams coloured themselves
in patient, kaleidoscopic hues. Though
withered of form, they delight in me,
promise to deliver in utero joys,
connection to the Great Mother;
all that was lost in the fall.
The fall of man,
so gravely reported, and so
limiting to humankind.

I fell. I fell to sleep as Romans did peace.
With grudge, with dissonance; mind-silence apparent
only upon the death of the day.
With stubborn regard, my ears tarried in vigil,
I awoke to each pine of the hallway,
each tremor of heart, pulse of thought,
and Lord of sound.
‘Come death!’ I sighed,
to my life’s rushing blackness,
‘come death!’ I cried, to my stars.

In cannabis, I attune, only to calm;
to bask in the light of some meadow-less dawn,
and in pains, I pray only for dullen thoughts,
to poison my days in some indolent mess.
And of Ávila, Teresa
shelters my mind. She comes to me
in sorry demise.
‘My child,’ she calls, voice echoed since,
‘fellow child,’ she pines, entrusted sphinx.

Spawn of Thebes, she riddles through centuries,
all panicked pores, all sickening spirals,
forgotten in the present, all-eternal.
A shepherd am I, amongst my thoughts,
she calls thus that I am not my mind,
rather, a chosen observer,
the sum-of-parts;
to be confused not upon the
idiocratics, more, ‘what is.’

A lowing at my window, she calls unto me
in reverberated tongue, nutritious tone,
a cyclone of holistic power.
Bright glimmer of light, she calls once more, ‘my child!’,
she cries, ‘my fellow child of the Lord!
Please, rain unto me your sorry state,
lack of appetite,
cooling plate. Oh, you that live so solemnly,
you who knows not of the arbour of life.’

I call not in terror and I call not in my fright,
upon the window, that ghostly glimmer,
she heals the walls in half-light, swimming
in opal reflections of ripples and chimes.
And, she is calling for beauty,
she is singing unto me,
‘come morn!’ she weeps,
‘come morn, and with it, the tidings,
of your blessed life to be!’

Stumbling, I trip over the apparition’s words,
she speaks not in life’s shadows and sinister plot,
but only in those that speak like a God.
In the awful haze of light-polluted skies,
auspicious streets and government plot,
her prophecies fair, but yet
not practical.
‘Come now!’ I say, in no hope, ‘come
now,’ I say, an adult.

‘There’s no space for me here in this lifetime,
there’s no soil for my roots to embed,
in painful years past, I’ve been in sorrow,
and I’ll be expecting them in all the years, hence.
So what, if I’ll join the army,
or some other capricious,
malicious intent?
All tributaries lead to the river,
as all humans to their torturement.’

Teresa, she radiated with colours,
and Amy, who lived within my chest,
they called out as one in my silence,
as a union, a conquest of the childhood mind,
to abolish the present tense.
As one, they sang unto me,
They sang, ‘be born!’
under the moonlit streets, ‘be born
to all that you are, and ever you could be!’

And from this dream I came out in denial.
From this dream, I appeared to awake. I awoke
to the song of the starlings, and to
the precious pleasure of life’s augment.
With this groggy thought I’ll admit that,
in separation I fell apart,
I call, ‘come out!
‘come out and greet me!
Old Eden, my eternal womb.
The union of mankind and nature,

and the union of our pasts combined.’
myrrh Jul 2018
His best friend was his subconscious
To request an audience with his accomplice
Loneliness he had to accept, alone he was,
I digress. Nevertheless, he kept his pain in silence
Feeling trapped in his own head, like a mental asylum
Instead of unconcealing the sorrow
He kept things unsaid, so his state of mind would remain unread
And would embed the notion that life has stopped dead
And would endlessly pray for a better tomorrow
If a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound?
If not, is a lonesome man who is crying in pain not exist because no one is around?
The thought of waking up to another day of isolation
Drowning in his misery, he needs help to breathe
Rehabilitation would be as simple as love and attention
To help give this man a life where he can believe
Kayla Jan 2016
By now, you have probably read a handful of warnings about falling in love with writers. About how they can take you to the brightest moons or bury you to the core of the earth just by spilling their ink. About how they can forget about mundane things such as your anniversary or what time they should pick you up at work. But they remember the most intricate details such as how your freckles align on your nose or how you stir your coffee when you’re too nervous to start the day. You must have an idea about how they can build a pedestal for you to step on as if you were born to be glorified. Yet the moment you break their hearts they will write you so cruel, the history will remember your name as synonymous to tragedy. Don’t fall in love with writers, they always say. As if your life depends on it.

By the time you meet me, you will know right away that words are my way of becoming. You will sense it by the way I phrase my thoughts or how my eyes light up when talking about strange but fascinating ideas such as alternate universes or the other side. I will reference quotations from the books which pages I rummaged on every single night that I couldn’t sleep and share to you my theories about the lives of my favorite characters as if they are real. I will hold your hands and take you to bookstores and coffee shops and look at you as if you are the loveliest view. I will watch the sunset with you and listen to the sound of the waves crashing to the shore and I will stargaze with you as I confess all the wishes that I only whisper to every constellation. And I will write to you. My text messages will be like love letters that are meant to translate my heartbeats. I will whisper poetry in between our calls. And I will write for you, write about you, write like you are the destination to my unending journey.

By the moment you feel like maybe, just maybe, you are falling for me, will you run away? Will you recall every warning that you have ever read and cringe by the thought of becoming a poem? Will you struggle to break free from my embrace for you are afraid that I will strangle you when the time comes that you decide you don’t want me anymore? Will you look at my love as a hurricane and run for shelter elsewhere because you are terrified of drowning? Or will you welcome my kisses and surrender to my every touch because you don’t want to let go of this feeling? Will you hold me like you will never drop me? Will you put your arms around me and protect the world that I created for myself from the harsh bits of reality? Will you read my words over and over again, memorize every line, embed every sentence in your mind and bury them in your heart like precious treasures that others don’t have the right to get hold of?

If you are going to fall for me, fall not for the flowery meadow that I grow using my proses but for the way I caress your skin just to ease your tiredness. If you are going to stay, stay not because of how I paint you with the most vibrant words but because of how I understand you and accept you beyond all your flaws and imperfections. If you are going to hold me, hold me not because of the warmth that the blanket of my sonnets that can give you but because of the comfort that my presence can cause you even if we are surrounded by silence.

Forget all the warnings that you have ever read about not falling in love with a writer and love me. Love me not because of how words anchor me to myself but because I am human who deserves to receive love and who was born yearning to give it away just like everyone else. Love me as I love you and make me realize that the reality of you and I is so much greater than all the universes that I have penned down, combined. Love me without words. And we will be enough. We will be enough.
Lunar Oct 2016
no one would love me for these scars and scratches and tears on my skin.  worry, stress and fear embed themselves under my epidermis and i struggle to live a normal  life by wearing my favorite sweaters on most days outside to hide the marks. most of them don't realize or see it. that is good. only at night when it turns itchy and yells to be touched again, to be scratched again, to be bled again, and a fresh wound opens up. i have lived with this for almost seventeen years. and it only surfaced in its prominence at the dawn of my twentieth year. it must be a sign for a premature, impending doom. it keeps me up at night and even my brain wishes to stop my entire system but what can it do? it can only speak and think for so long. it keeps me tired in the day and my suicidal heart pounds in beats of "NO" in my chest, blood rushing faster when i scratch once more. the heart can't even stop itself from feeling the itch, the pain, the anger, the remorse, the pity.

i don't know when this will go, just as i don't know how it came to me.

i just want rest. i just want peace. with others and myself. peace within myself.
my thoughts are just as sickly as the eczema i have right now, and it's raging on and on and i can't seem to live properly anymore
Clara Dec 2013
Oh, glistening Prince:
We are all so happy you have come (though we may not realize it).
We thank you for your million presents (though we have not opened them).
We know you seek to help us (though we may not want it).
Happy fault and blessed Barrenness,
embed a single snowflake in our hearts.
That we might always hold a dear token of
the transformative power of anguish and death.
Because you alway testify that with new life:
"My cup runneth over".
Ted Jun 2018
Running to catch an unraveling sphere,
Always running,
Running after my leaving siblings,
I trail in their laughter
As it rains on me,
me,
so easily left behind,
Everyone waits with a blank face around me,
Till they know nothing worthy will follow,
I follow,
They laugh at
the joke with no punchline.

I will stand at the chair in front of my father's empty desk.
The one place I know,
that he truly wants to be at in this house.
I wish I could garner the attention he wants to embed to these inanimate objects.
I stare at them,
wondering how to become that important.
Maybe it's something that comes with age.

My family is always so capable,
I can't even skip a stone on still water,
How pathetic.
So easy
they make it seem.

I am always waiting to be their age,
To finally matter,
I wait,
In total wonder of their capabilities,
I'll never be fast enough to catch up in age.
Forever waiting behind.

The baseball falls in the grass, the red stitching coming undone.
My father pleased that we're together, playing ball.
Not an interest of mine,
just the generic thing a father does with a son.
So obvious,
that he wants to be back in that empty chair.
Edison Manuel Dec 2016
Entice on its flavor
Suffer and adore
Topsy-turvy yet happy
Afflicting, coffee can be

Sip it, be contented
Linger on its power
One must adroit to embed
Coffee is hard to endure

One touch, be wary
There’s no hope exit
Pain through coffee, defeat
A synecdoche of a story
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
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