"euphoriant" poems - Hello Poetry

I've learned my ABCs at one, learned to read by four, constructed my paragraphs at six, a know-it-all reciting parts of speech by seven. Letters assembled themselves ready for scrabble. Rocks, paper, scissors, I never learned to let go of the paper. And grew up with dry fingers caressing books. Breathing in language and literature. They say you can only love something so much until it leaves you empty. But I've only ever truly loved a few things about life, and first was how words strung empathy. The way I wrote about tying yellow ribbons on trees for a hero at eleven, wrote about anything that won me passports to a passion I had to sacrifice a few years later after fourteen, wrote about the boy who broke my heart at seventeen, wrote about the monsters in my head at nineteen. I don't know how words always found me whenever I tried to run away from the world; how they kept my sanity along with melodies for as long as I can remember, and made countless others feel less alone. What I love is a weapon that has sparked revolutions, waged wars. What I love is art that built acropolises from embers and most the world's wonders. It rushes euphoriant through my veins as much as it does through yours, yet it is neither blood nor oxygen. It is all the words burning as we keep them hidden, dying for us to give them meaning.

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Aug 29, 2017

Aug 29, 2017 at 11:54 PM UTC

jnellet

Affinity

I've learned my ABCs at one, learned to read by four, constructed my paragraphs at six, a know-it-all reciting parts of speech by seven. Letters assembled themselves ready for scrabble. Rocks, paper, scissors, I never learned to let go of the paper. And grew up with dry fingers caressing books. Breathing in language and literature. They say you can only love something so much until it leaves you empty. But I've only ever truly loved a few things about life, and first was how words strung empathy. The way I wrote about tying yellow ribbons on trees for a hero at eleven, wrote about anything that won me passports to a passion I had to sacrifice a few years later after fourteen, wrote about the boy who broke my heart at seventeen, wrote about the monsters in my head at nineteen. I don't know how words always found me whenever I tried to run away from the world; how they kept my sanity along with melodies for as long as I can remember, and made countless others feel less alone. What I love is a weapon that has sparked revolutions, waged wars. What I love is art that built acropolises from embers and most the world's wonders. It rushes euphoriant through my veins as much as it does through yours, yet it is neither blood nor oxygen. It is all the words burning as we keep them hidden, dying for us to give them meaning.

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You are incipient brilliance, I eagerly covet, unendingly ebullient, seems to be in boiling point, evidently prurient, an unfailing euphoriant, for me a constant element of wonder day and night, But yes I must not forget this; you aren't an organic compound sans side effects. More of a a kick *** designer drug, that adds an extra sense yet, without a legitimate name to call it. Aren't you a hallucinant, though yet to be invented, I am hopelessly addicted to.

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Mar 19, 2016

Mar 19, 2016 at 1:23 PM UTC

k-balachandran

That kick *** cutie pie

You are incipient brilliance, I eagerly covet, unendingly ebullient, seems to be in boiling point, evidently prurient, an unfailing euphoriant, for me a constant element of wonder day and night, But yes I must not forget this; you aren't an organic compound sans side effects. More of a a kick *** designer drug, that adds an extra sense yet, without a legitimate name to call it. Aren't you a hallucinant, though yet to be invented, I am hopelessly addicted to.

37

***** AND GOMORRAH A perverted city Whose occupants Unseats the natural order Wonderful city of mysteries Where truth smells martyr And falsehood wallow in legitimatecy A ***** Where sodomites ******** Hookers bookers We find solace in our deeds Smokes from hose Fills thé house Yet we call on the lord of host So in empyrean we might get a post Skulls as Cups Bloods as wines Sacked bills Paralysed our conscience We never got to understand The temporality of the temporal Our city, The euphoriant Which makes the ticket of empyrean Slipped away from our palms In the temporal space We will rest but not in peace we are sodomites Forever we will be By LAWSON À MICHAEL

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Apr 20, 2018

Apr 20, 2018 at 3:31 AM UTC

Lawmyk2208

***** AND GOMORRAH

***** AND GOMORRAH A perverted city Whose occupants Unseats the natural order Wonderful city of mysteries Where truth smells martyr And falsehood wallow in legitimatecy A ***** Where sodomites ******** Hookers bookers We find solace in our deeds Smokes from hose Fills thé house Yet we call on the lord of host So in empyrean we might get a post Skulls as Cups Bloods as wines Sacked bills Paralysed our conscience We never got to understand The temporality of the temporal Our city, The euphoriant Which makes the ticket of empyrean Slipped away from our palms In the temporal space We will rest but not in peace we are sodomites Forever we will be By LAWSON À MICHAEL

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A perverted city Whose occupants Unseats the natural order Wonderful city of mysteries Where truth smells martyr And falsehood wallow in legitimatecy A ***** Where sodomites ******** We found solace in our deeds But the opportunity of the second phase eludes us Skulls as Cups Bloods as wines Our existence grace dwindle We never got to understand The temporality of the temporal Our city, The euphoriant Which makes the ticket of empyrean Slipped away from our palms In the temporal space We will rest but not in peace Because we are sodomites By Michael A Lawson

0

Apr 18, 2018

Apr 18, 2018 at 11:28 AM UTC

Lawmyk2208

***** AND GOMORRAH

A perverted city Whose occupants Unseats the natural order Wonderful city of mysteries Where truth smells martyr And falsehood wallow in legitimatecy A ***** Where sodomites ******** We found solace in our deeds But the opportunity of the second phase eludes us Skulls as Cups Bloods as wines Our existence grace dwindle We never got to understand The temporality of the temporal Our city, The euphoriant Which makes the ticket of empyrean Slipped away from our palms In the temporal space We will rest but not in peace Because we are sodomites By Michael A Lawson

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