"ers" poems
People say they want to live in a small town,
but when I look out my window
all I see is
Zero.
I look out my left window,
Zero.
I glance out my right window,
Zero.
The daily routines,
an Act Without Words.
We go through the motions in a small town,
get up, smile at people we hate,
hope for something more,
repeat.
In a small town
you bite your tongue,
just to keep the peace.
Did you bleed today?
There’s no point in asking
how someone is
because we already know.
Each new piece of gossip
strings us along,
Beckons
teases.
The small town will hold
anything over your head.
It will dangle a divorce
suspend a separation
and hang up a hook up.
In a small town,
the space between people’s teeth
revealed by their fake smiles
serve as cre-
Nells
People rave about the
fields of grass, and the trees.
In each patch of green
lies un lucky Clov-
ers
The fresh air is fetid.
The stink of the town’s
***** laundry is
enough to make
any argument for the town Null.
Zero.
It’s almost genetic,
the little Nagg-
lings in the school yard,
slicing, dividing, cutting
people like cake.
Settling for small town life,
is a fate worse than Hamm-
lets think about it.
No excitement.
No privacy.
No trust.
Zero.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 3:35 PM UTC
God ****** God ****** God ****** depression is a ***** like why TF this **** gotta sneak up on me like this, **** I'mma go to bed and not sleep I guess I'll lay with my lonesome till 3am and listen to my heart beat while I think ignoring the voices in my head telling me things like i’d be better off dead like as if despite the fact I wish my ticker would stop ticking
But it won't, I wish I could c u t my own heart out with a knife but that's sounds boring so I dont I wish a niger could cry a nigers burdens away but a.nigg*rs tear ducts are dry so I guess ill roll a joint and burn it away and then when I run out I'll break out the razors is in a slice in a way that will make the sane wonder how but what the **** is it to you who are you to say that I'm important to you who are you to say that I'm a lovely human being just ******* please, i didn't ask your assistance no offense just leave me to my being because I disagree I wish you would ask me if I thought that I was as important I wish you'd ask me if I thought I was lovely cuz I'd say no I'm autistic trash and to me that **** is ugly cuz despite what I can do I can't do most of it mother ****** I thought I was a man, well I guess I was born with most of it I just want to ******* die no letter no notes no reasons why cuz I told you when I told you then I told you again did you think that was a lie you must have presumed that it's a cry for attention are you out of your ******* mind don't worry its okay to make the jokes it doesn't hurt at all it's okay to mock me it doesn't phase a bit, but I guess you will you learn to shut your ******* mouth when you find my body its wrist slit but I guess it's kind of my fault because I smile every time they ask me if I'm fine god ****** god ****** god ****** Depression is a ***** like why the **** this **** got to sneak up on me like this
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 3:42 PM UTC
.
**•••• ••••••••• ••••
•our wrin- kled hides only co- nceal the
anguish•that resonates with conviction amongst
my herd•this humanly greed that might cause us
to perish•what's valuable to you, we find incredu-
lously absurd•embedded in our trunks lay mill-
enias of lineage... • hidden in our eyes bec-
koned the change in history •in our
•• beating hearts is ••
the longing to
turn the im-
possible
page•of
hapless
chapt-
ers w-
rit-ten
with the
points**
of
bloodstained
ivory•
.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 10:27 AM UTC
To Ezra Pound
These are the names of the companies that have made
money from this war
nineteenhundredsixtyeight Annodomini fourthousand
eighty Hebraic
These are the Corporations who have profited by merchan-
dising skinburning phosphorous or shells fragmented
to thousands of fleshpiercing needles
and here listed money millions gained by each combine for
manufacture
and here are gains numbered, index'd swelling a decade, set
in order,
here named the Fathers in office in these industries, tele-
phones directing finance,
names of directors, makers of fates, and the names of the
stockholders of these destined Aggregates,
and here are the names of their ambassadors to the Capital,
representatives to legislature, those who sit drinking
in hotel lobbies to persuade,
and separate listed, those who drop Amphetamine with
military, gossip, argue, and persuade
suggesting policy naming language proposing strategy, this
done for fee as ambassadors to Pentagon, consul-
tants to military, paid by their industry:
and these are the names of the generals & captains mili-
tary, who know thus work for war goods manufactur-
ers;
and above these, listed, the names of the banks, combines,
investment trusts that control these industries:
and these are the names of the newspapers owned by these
banks
and these are the names of the airstations owned by these
combines;
and these are the numbers of thousands of citizens em-
ployed by these businesses named;
and the beginning of this accounting is 1958 and the end
1968, that static be contained in orderly mind,
coherent and definite,
and the first form of this litany begun first day December
1967 furthers this poem of these States.
December 1, 1967
3.8k
PRAYER IS A TEAM SPORT
[In the voice of your favourite over-excited rugby commentator.]
We're inside the final quarter. We've seen a bone-cruncher of a contest today and there's no sign of a let up, the pray-ers gather for the next engagement, positioning themselves with practiced confidence, skillfully supporting each other, ready for the push. You can see every knee and each hand bears the marks from this long muddied pray, red and brown staining every inch of their entwined limbs; - arms and hands holding fast.
Front row.
Second row.
Back row.
Digging in for the big push.
The opposition has played an intelligent game, taking advantage of any lapse in concentration, any sign of tiredness, looking for any weakness to exploit. The pray-ers know they can't afford any slips now, they need to keep up the pressure, maintain their advance deep in the opposition's half. Every yard of gained ground needs to be defended.
The pray-ers' Coach looks on - look at his smile! You can see the pride he has for his team, he's schooled them on every tactic of the opposition and now that training, that practice has paid dividends. This is a team of pray-ers that so clearly know each other well, supporting each other every step of the way. You can see their coordinated pray, their sustained effort and the sheer pleasure they feel when they are praying together.
The pray-ers drive on. The sound of their groans and deep breaths merge into one. There's a rhythm to it, a cadence as together they push and PUSH.
The opposition's footing is slipping, the pray-ers' momentum gains pace and, YES! the resistance collapses. Oh, that must have hurt!
But there's no time for complacency, the pray-ers re-form their line looking for the next opening, the next opportunity to push forward.
This is a joy to see. The Coach shouts his encouragement - this was never going to be an easy struggle; you can't dismiss the opposition - they are a seasoned though sometimes disorganised team and they can take you by surprise. But as we've seen here today, the Coach knows that if his team of pray-ers keep to the plan and pray to their strengths, the opposition are surely in for a hiding. The pray-ers will triumph and they will take the winners' crown.
- Now back to the action.
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 2:14 AM UTC
Once upon a time in a far off Village lived a Tribe of people called the "WITH-ERS". next were the Tribes named *Nearest, *Nearer, *Near, *Searchers and the *Lost.. The WITH-ERS LIVED in the very Center of the Tribal Areas. Each Tribe had it's boundaries marked by Barbed wire, Concrete blocks, Electric fences, Guard dogs, Warning signs, Armed Patrols, Flashing Lights and Laser beams... The *WITH-ERS Tribe Boundaries were marked by Every tree that GOD has ever made. Each Tree was always in full bloom and showing the brightest of Green.. Sweet, Soft Music came always from the Center of the WITHERS community, YET NO BAND could be seen.. The LIGHT from the EYES of each of the WITH-ERS tribe members seemed to glisten to ANY OBSERVER. When standing next to a WITH-ERS one could feel the Energy, love, fellowship and helpfulness that always seemed to be present. The WITH-ERS were envied, hated, despised, loved, adored, threatened, praised, and Talked about by ALL the Surrounding Tribes and they especially liked to call them "PECULIAR".. THE WITHERS* GLADLY ACCEPT any who "WOULD-CHOOSE" to join them...BY THE WAY,,,Which Tribe should we decide to JOIN,,,,THE CHOICE " IS OURS ".......
Aug 23, 2010
Aug 23, 2010 at 4:38 AM UTC
When I was twelve,
my uncle told me that
when I got older,
I would only have enough
"best friends" to count on
one single hand,
and they would be the
best best friends I'd ever had.
And I can count my five
best friends,
but they are not
my best best.
Because they tug
and twist
and ****
and pull
on my heartstrings
in ways that could make
a grown girl cry;
and they do.
So I can tell you the names
of my best friends
that rip me to shreds
and throw my heart
onto a floor covered in
broken glass;
and you will be able
to identify the names,
because they might be your
best best friends, too.
Wanderlust
the beast to slay them all,
pushing my desire
and reinforcing my disability,
reminding me that I have
nowhere to go
and everything to see
Disorder
in my bedroom,
in my essays,
or in my brain;
all of them causing
someone (me)
to explode in a fit of
unwanted emotions.
Apathy
Towards my schoolwork and
busywork handed to me
by middle-aged "can't-do-so-teach-ers"
that need a handful of capsules
to numb the pull to leave
just as much as I do.
Dysfunction
in my brain's chemical makeup,
and my family's emotional one,
not to mention the relationships
I attempt to handle like a
one-handed juggler.
Imagination
creating scenarios in my heart
that could never come to be,
leaving me in a perpetual state of
disappointment.
So now I will tell
my nieces and nephews,
sons and daughters,
or countless grandchildren
to never trust the ones that
try to make something different
of your heart,
because they don't really love you,
they love what the can make you become.
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
.
** | | |
| | |
| | |
| •arches |
| up top bef- |
| ore tapering |
| down to |
| the |
| ooo
| ooo bottom•a sym- ooooo ooo o
| oooo bol that holds my en- oooo ooo
| oooo tirety for ransom•a hos- oooooo
| ooo tage situation that made ooo
ooo me so willing•truss me
ooo up, bound... i am not
oo fighting•call this in-
oo sensibility... name
ooo this foolery•i am
... but a branch
dangling off
| a tree• |
| call thus |
| me an i am |
| idiot... la- the doll, |
| bel me a from oth- |
| nitwit•for ers, set far |
| i only apart• |
| have my i am the |
| strings... marione-
i am but tte who's
a limp after
pup- your
pet• heart•**
.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 12:08 PM UTC
lonely moths -
black and white
and in-betweens
navigating
by the same light
spiraling -
adapting
- changing
traits
moth-ers know
no need to race
- we are one.
r ~ 10/28/14
http://anthro.palomar.edu/vary/vary_2.htm
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 5:04 AM UTC
beep beep go the cars
beep beep go the SUVs
beep beep go the trash trucks
beep beep go the busses
beepeeeee beepeeeee go the fire engines
beepeeeee beepeeeee go the ambulances
beep beep go the shovelers
beep beep go the snow trucks
beep beep go the Fed Ex guys & UPS ers
beep beep go the watches
beep beep go the alarms
beep beep go the microwave ovens
beep beep go the washers & dyers
beep beep go the beepers
that are driving me beep beeping insane
beep beep
beep beep goes the Road Runner
but that one does not
drive me beep beeping insane!
beep! beep!
beep! beep!
beep! beep!
beep! beep!
Okay, now, really,
you have driven me beep beeping insane.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 6:38 PM UTC
I walk the streets,
Passing by strangers,
Exchanging glances and awkward smiles...
My arms wrapped around my own body
Trying to give warmth to myself,
Trying to stop the intense wind from blowing me away...
The street lights flicker and...
your scent...
your scent... ling-....
-ers...
Lingers....
Memories flow with each foot step.
Your scent lingers...
Your scent lingers...
Your scent lingers...
My eyes brightens,
My heart beats wild,
My mouth curls into a smile,
Sadly followed by a sigh...
I sigh as your scent lingers,
And I cannot hold you....
Not even your fingers.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 2:11 PM UTC
downpours in june are expected in london
like the rushing to the tubelines at closing time
the warmth of the morning undone
raining in june is nothing short of a crime.
like children in suits the 9-5ers
leap from raindrop to raindrop
with umbrellas writhing against eachother like tethers
only for the briefest connections can we stop.
there's no point looking into a rain-battered soul
its only when we move apart can we truly be whole.
Jun 15, 2019
Jun 15, 2019 at 6:08 PM UTC
My heart is the robin's egg that fell from it's nest.
Delicate, cracked,
the prettiest shade of blue
Not pulled away by the gasp of the wind,
Not scooted out by an unforgiving orange feline
My heart tried to fly before it's robin had hatched.
Even dreams(ers) have their limitations
Emerging from the blue shell the creature is wounded
very much alive,
very much curious,
newly cautious.
Wings unfolded but yet to soar.
Perhaps one day the wind will guide.
Perhaps one day the dreams will be suited
Perhaps one day I'll fly
but first I will heal
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 11:36 PM UTC
A drab drop drips
Downed casualty
Down casually.
A sulfuric gust cycles
In three fly-by nights.
A gust hoping,
A breeze yearning to dab a wet tear off a moistened spring cheek.
Floating by on a wisp of breath,
Breathed once by the blessed. Now irreparably tainted, then incomprehensible anew:
Treated by the respirations of the perspiring, expending breath on czarist ears, aspiring;
Cured by the tongues of the insatiably dying
And by those primary soothe-ers, invisibly crying.
Alveoli gripping that sine qua non of civilization
Until they must release the once-oxygen into the hills of Kyivan Rus.
A first breath and second
As much as a penultimate and final.
And witness to the chronology that led to such a
Bloodbath-blessed blast
As this.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
When people say they're tired of a person, often a friend—
Do they mean, exhausted with the idea of submission to their actions
Responding to their preferences
Falling prey to all their ways
Or hearing them drone loquaciously
Putting down disagree-ers gratuitously
Speaking of themselves, about very little else
Until all hope and faith in them has deteriorated beyond all mercy?
I am yet to confirm
What is true beyond all else
Gone through the Rubicon,
Universal to all nations
But why must I tolerate a monk
That devoutly praises himself to the depths
Beyond all fierce comprehension,
His devotion remains a quandary
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC
.
**•point
our fing-
ers to the
nearest a-
vailable s-
uckers• to
take respo-
nsibility a-
nd be acco-
untable....no
one really bothers•we
do it so well unlike any other•al-
most a skill that never gets duller•shit hits
the fan, we all look for someone to blame•it's a
hapless situation when we partake in such a ga-
me•it's become a norm that simply never ends •
it's a nasty situation that makes enemies out of f-
riends•i look at myself and realise that i am no
different•for i too, have my finger pointed si-
lent•i too, have erred...warranting reproach
•milling over transgressions my words
dare not broach•sigh...why is it so
that such a habit we can never
sever•think no further...let's
just blame it on......................**
human nature•
.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 10:11 AM UTC
The difference between you and I
Is that I cannot tell a lie
Yet you live one
The difference between you and I
Is that I accept everyone
Yet you judge them
Then you get mad at the liars and judg-ers
And hope and pray that you don't meet another
Yet you are one
The difference between you and I
Is you don't care about feelings
You cut people open and keep peeling and peeling
Until there's nothing left
Yet you claim to advise
One day it'll all arise
Your deception, manipulation and numerous lies
One day you'll be the object of despise
& that's the difference between you and I.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 2:24 PM UTC
And I suppose my pretty daisy that I've been far too lazy
Laying amongst all the flow ers of the breeze
The children of the trees
Jumping blindly and landing on our knees
I waited all night listening to your piano riff
As I star gazed and began to float a drift
All the places that I flew above
Were gleaming from the most purest love
And all together in their own way they all just gently swayed
Bumped back to back, soaked in their familiar bath
Inquires of broken beats and tongues speak of those too weak
The mind an instrument to rewind and cut up
Taking and tossing all these miles of deceit
Files for free feet
Piles of pleasure peaks
Stacked them high for all to see and we all laughed in a joyous symphony
This waiting line had choked our minds
And now we leave it all behind
To float in the sky, using only our mind's eye
Living in the depths of our heart's cry
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 7:46 PM UTC
Heidi Williams
If I edit language, call me poet, a word-smith if I pro it.
But if I edit music, there's no such name, no tags of respect
just beats to collect, sometimes trash that collects.
I'm a trash collector, musical dumpster diver,
producers dump their trash
I turn their trash to treasure.
Treasure hunter, trash tuner.
There's beauty everywhere
to the eyes of see-ers, the the ears of hearers.
Seagulls see trash and turn obsessive, possessive.
And we feed the other birds, but shoo them away,
but once winter comes,
we hear seagull sounds, and we feel the beech.
We listen for summer in seagulls.
We listen for oceans in seashells,
but I can hear waves in my headphones,
and I can change the tide when the trash comes.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 4:38 AM UTC
one--two--covered streams,
staining palms of the undiscovered,
they have holes in ears--for you--their mouths are wide--wide--open--!
yet they hide 'neath tender shield.
peekaboo, I don't see you.
for the flowers cry not for the see-ers,
but for the cut and tears.
bite into your wrist,
and watch the ache and finished work flow,
into ******* and tired vocab,
as it is merely zilch you're destined to grow.
wide--wide open,
yet you bawl not,
how will you get your food now, O dear?
simply let the ocean run hot.
they will not bother with whiners,
whose lips that starve,
the words now old timers,
and the blood that was carved.
dig deep--dig deep, my love,
and find nothing but ash.
die penniless--die penniless, O dove,
and thrive on the sunken ****
they drink eulogies,
from soft gray tongues,
and murmur carelessly,
for the young-uns.
the world won't wait--
forever moves it--
**** the weak--the hard workers,
and take up the one shot-ers.
simply how the horse drinks it's water,
and how the earth soaks in rain.
nothing--nothing--nothin' but minor,
and disappointing.
simplicity rings the loudest bell,
and thought sings drooping tunes.
for the world hides not and tells.
and blossoms melt in places anew,
merely brainless--brainless--!
and the shield slips from blue.
for now the world is clear,
and doesn't care for the sanguine ruin in those eyes,
let your work fade--let your work fade, my babe,
play peekaboo a little longer, and drag the sword between the lies.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 1:59 PM UTC
In this modern world of seldom proper and overused punctuation
the smallest of them all seems to leave the biggest connotation
the dot, or period, as some would say under the proper observation
has given text-ers and type-ers of this technology driven generation
and easy way to send a message in a short-hand communication
One dot can signify the end of the certain conversation
and three dots can lead one to believe that there will be continuation
Five dots can relay the writer's growing frustration
as he believes the recipient might not've read his brief annotation
and with growing anger at the recepients subtle procrastination
he can send the word 'hello...' as a sign of quizzical agitation
Three dots can be used to signal a reader to use insinuation
as in 'They went into the bedroom and then...(use your imagination)
Professionals use the multiple dots when invoking exaggeration
by skipping parts in a speech to warp the innocent quotation
such as 'The senator voted against the new... school legislation'
We know that dots after every letter are a definite implication
that the word is an acronym, and there's one for every situation
such as O.H. P.O.O. means Overly Happy People Offer Osculations
Yes, the period can be used so freely, with such adaptation
depending on the context, it can symbolize a sigh of exasperation
It is a punctuation so versatile, it has almost no limitation
and more than one of its forms can be found in every publication
I don't hesitate, as you can see, to submit this postulation
flexibility will always be in the period's reputation...
Jun 29, 2011
Jun 29, 2011 at 7:52 PM UTC
Stacks of memories
In a recycle bin
Pulling 'em out
Putting 'em in
Remember whens
Where we like to go
Never forget 'ers
Imprinted on soul
Lost in piles of files in flesh
Moments we were not at our best
Dark nights come and slowly fade
Until grey matter triggers spark replay
Up front the nows
The essence of living
The thankfuls to be
The resentful misgivings
The never forgets
Forgives and regrets
All the wins, the losses
The deaths
Yet there's still plenty of room
For those good memories
We haven't made yet...
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 7:37 AM UTC
twitters and tweets
pictures are sweets
keeping you hooked
on the tabloid elites
just out of bed, hair on his head
matted and messy, way better than said
your public is waiting and verging on vexed
"stay tuned for more selfies", you casually text.
stand by the mirror and pose for your followers
leading them into the worship of men
drawn to the sight of your bare naked belly
this bowl full of jelly is quaking, and then
this one, her *** just after the baby
she's worked out like crazy, perhaps she just clazy
spray-tanned and bare butted
tattooed and nare studded
back in the crack but her tact has been share gutted
no worries, it all comes around
in some hotel bathroom you click at your Iphone
like all of the rest of us, yet so alone
trying to snap one both **** and manly
the wife beater t-shirt, the boxers and phone
we can't really blame you, your business, your life quest
but fashion is funny right down to the jewels
both earlobes sport earrings, just like mommy dearest
whatever your pleasure, some little girl drools
and she scantly clad there, for all of her viewers
could not give a **** about "ahhers" or "ew'ers"
but don't stop, you're on top and making your money
and laughing right back, since we're also quite funny
we once wore our hair all pulled up or with mullet
thought no one was laughing, we knew we were cool
and now all the stuff which we wore gone forever
or passed off as costume, just vintage, old school
where somebody bought it from some smelly thrift shop
and wore it again with a sense of true style
the polaroid pictures we took at the bus stop
that camera is back and will be for a while
Stand at the mirror and smile for your camera
not really getting that folks can be odd
some are perverted, while others disturbed
and still others are cranky and smelling like cod.
Someday you'll grow up, a mommy or daddy or maybe
a granny once shaking her *****
or maybe a pop-pop
and scoff a their moptop
and laugh with your grandkids
it all comes around.
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC