"fibber" poems - Hello Poetry

Mirror mirror on the wall Why must i be so tall and slim Mirror mirror on the wall I dont even go to the gym Mirror mirror on the wall Why do i look like waist Mirror mirror on the wall Im so shrunk and defaced Mirror mirror on the wall Why do i have a double chin Mirror mirror on the wall I just wanna grin Mirror mirror on the wall Why do you lie to my face Mirror mirror on the wall Making me displaced Mirror mirror on the wall Why do i have no friends Mirror mirror on the wall Im looking through your lens Mirror mirror on the wall Why do you say fairest of them all? Mirror mirror your a ****** fibber Why are you even hanging on my wall

0

Feb 12, 2014

Feb 12, 2014 at 5:28 AM UTC

I was A little girl Who loved dolls I had a collection Of storybook dolls Some with beautiful dresses. Also a cowgirl, Whose name was Irma. Whenever my grandma Went on a trip, She would return With a special doll, Just for me. One time my dad Stopped at a bar On his way home from work, And the bartender Was a lady Who made a doll With a beautiful crochet dress. Yellow, and full. I was so excited To think that my daddy Would buy me a doll At a bar.... Mom not so happy... My collection grew. The only disadvantage Was Every Saturday morning Before noon I had to take them off my large shelf And dust them... But the advantage Was I listened to Buster Brown, Fibber Magee and Molly, And many other radio shows. But I still hate dusting...

0

Jul 20, 2014

Jul 20, 2014 at 7:42 AM UTC

judypatooote

Storybook dolls

I was A little girl Who loved dolls I had a collection Of storybook dolls Some with beautiful dresses. Also a cowgirl, Whose name was Irma. Whenever my grandma Went on a trip, She would return With a special doll, Just for me. One time my dad Stopped at a bar On his way home from work, And the bartender Was a lady Who made a doll With a beautiful crochet dress. Yellow, and full. I was so excited To think that my daddy Would buy me a doll At a bar.... Mom not so happy... My collection grew. The only disadvantage Was Every Saturday morning Before noon I had to take them off my large shelf And dust them... But the advantage Was I listened to Buster Brown, Fibber Magee and Molly, And many other radio shows. But I still hate dusting...

38

It is of my opinion that you have desisted in truthiness. And as such, you will hence forth be known as a 'Teller of Untruths.' As a result, I do believe your trousers have combusted. You are a blaggard and a rapscallion. Good day...

0

Jan 11, 2016

Jan 11, 2016 at 6:28 AM UTC

littlebear

Fibber Face

It is of my opinion that you have desisted in truthiness. And as such, you will hence forth be known as a 'Teller of Untruths.' As a result, I do believe your trousers have combusted. You are a blaggard and a rapscallion. Good day...

8

I realized to my despair that I am a terrible liar, notorious fibber, and compulsive embellisher. I deceive without my knowledge For my empathy is so pervasive, so consuming that when another is experiencing grief and suffering and vexation of the spirit That, like the tissue I offer for their tears I soak up every gnawing sorrow and suddenly I become in sync, In belief. Twinned disturbance leads to expression of experience And soon I'm telling others of what has just happened to me when nothing has actually happened at all. Could someone please relieve me of this torturous empathy? Its turning me into a fallacy

0

Jul 29, 2013

Jul 29, 2013 at 2:48 PM UTC

lucanna

Fallacy

I realized to my despair that I am a terrible liar, notorious fibber, and compulsive embellisher. I deceive without my knowledge For my empathy is so pervasive, so consuming that when another is experiencing grief and suffering and vexation of the spirit That, like the tissue I offer for their tears I soak up every gnawing sorrow and suddenly I become in sync, In belief. Twinned disturbance leads to expression of experience And soon I'm telling others of what has just happened to me when nothing has actually happened at all. Could someone please relieve me of this torturous empathy? Its turning me into a fallacy

25

for reasons unknown to me, the urgent need to commence this one with the words: Oh man, this is, this be, challenging, but these words were found on the drying rack in my abattoir, my nickname for my unending Draft Day filings and kept poking despite another overnight splash, the product pool is full of creativity's synaptic junctions, a wild night of up~writing, from god knows when, and here it is 7:18, there are obligations, needs that a demand a face to face meeting, tho the troops are in their boarded beds, gently snoring… so quick, to the sizable task at hand the search is perpetual, not eternal, for no one comes forward, willing to admit, they have been around since King David's time, practicing this verbal chicanery game of using words to guide the perplexed, unless, of course, unless someone you might know might be a big fat fibber right about now, you're exasperatingly seething, "where the heck is a poem gonna show its face?" well, and now, some struggle mightily, to ascertain who and what is their uniqueness, oft turned and twisted, caught between competing entities, asking quests that take lifetimes to resolute, and when you look at the typewriter roll silently choking the white cloud surrounding it, you, you want to cry/pray out aloud, who, who shall I be, to make a completion between the person inside of me. the person I think I want to be, dream of be-coming, and yes it is too, eternal, for as long as humans can think dream, create and anticipate, we all will nonetheless perpetually search for the other someone, sometwo in us…

0

Sep 23, 2025

Sep 23, 2025 at 3:46 PM UTC

nat-lipstadt

the eternal search for the someone else inside, who me?

for reasons unknown to me, the urgent need to commence this one with the words: Oh man, this is, this be, challenging, but these words were found on the drying rack in my abattoir, my nickname for my unending Draft Day filings and kept poking despite another overnight splash, the product pool is full of creativity's synaptic junctions, a wild night of up~writing, from god knows when, and here it is 7:18, there are obligations, needs that a demand a face to face meeting, tho the troops are in their boarded beds, gently snoring… so quick, to the sizable task at hand the search is perpetual, not eternal, for no one comes forward, willing to admit, they have been around since King David's time, practicing this verbal chicanery game of using words to guide the perplexed, unless, of course, unless someone you might know might be a big fat fibber right about now, you're exasperatingly seething, "where the heck is a poem gonna show its face?" well, and now, some struggle mightily, to ascertain who and what is their uniqueness, oft turned and twisted, caught between competing entities, asking quests that take lifetimes to resolute, and when you look at the typewriter roll silently choking the white cloud surrounding it, you, you want to cry/pray out aloud, who, who shall I be, to make a completion between the person inside of me. the person I think I want to be, dream of be-coming, and yes it is too, eternal, for as long as humans can think dream, create and anticipate, we all will nonetheless perpetually search for the other someone, sometwo in us…

42

Gloom rocks back and forth in that old rickety chair, Weaving a noose in her lap when Perfection draws near Singing a song of cheer. "Hello, Gloom!" he greets. "Hello, Perfection." Gloom greets. "What may I do for you today?" "No, Gloom." Says Perfection, "What may I do for you today?" Gloom sighs. "Well, Your fingers will do well to weave this noose for me, Won't they?" "Aye! They will! They will knot a noose so fine and well It will be the finest noose ever woven!" "Well, yes, I suppose so. Here, the noose. Have a seat, While I go to snooze." And upon getting the noose, Perfection weaved... And weaved... And weaved... "Curse it! No good!" I must unravel this!" And unravel this, he did. And his fingers went to work a while. "Ahhh...look! A piece of fiber! If not perfect, I will be seen a fibber! I'll weave this again!" "And again!" "And again!" "Oh, no! Not quite yet. Argh! my brow has broken a sweat!" Time and time I have spent! Why will this noose not be perfect?" "Oh, Gloom... Her work imperfect be And now mine alike. Oh no... I cry. I cry. I'll tie this noose and die!"

0

Apr 27, 2018

Apr 27, 2018 at 7:05 PM UTC

Nuelle1_

Perfect's Noose.

Gloom rocks back and forth in that old rickety chair, Weaving a noose in her lap when Perfection draws near Singing a song of cheer. "Hello, Gloom!" he greets. "Hello, Perfection." Gloom greets. "What may I do for you today?" "No, Gloom." Says Perfection, "What may I do for you today?" Gloom sighs. "Well, Your fingers will do well to weave this noose for me, Won't they?" "Aye! They will! They will knot a noose so fine and well It will be the finest noose ever woven!" "Well, yes, I suppose so. Here, the noose. Have a seat, While I go to snooze." And upon getting the noose, Perfection weaved... And weaved... And weaved... "Curse it! No good!" I must unravel this!" And unravel this, he did. And his fingers went to work a while. "Ahhh...look! A piece of fiber! If not perfect, I will be seen a fibber! I'll weave this again!" "And again!" "And again!" "Oh, no! Not quite yet. Argh! my brow has broken a sweat!" Time and time I have spent! Why will this noose not be perfect?" "Oh, Gloom... Her work imperfect be And now mine alike. Oh no... I cry. I cry. I'll tie this noose and die!"

43

*Here's to folly, to the great valley called love Which reminded me of forever through imperfections, Hardships and disappointments, of falling deeply Into discovery from self-doubt, of reaching freedom, The bore of a goal like contentment. Here's to pain, the antithesis of the stars, Of pretensions and incompletion, the middleground Between the starts and the endings, the covert catalyst, The grand surrealist, as we dread to know The fullness of our sanity, of our souls, Our fragility, of our very being. Here's to the machinery, the agitation Called dreams, the sweet fog of distant memories, Or the dark smoke of passion sometimes, Cunning as ever, like a freight train, Like wind, like havoc, like thypoon, Oftenly deprived of conclusive destinations. Here's to art, drama and poetry, the mystics, The sons and daughters of the grand mystics, Of philosophy, science and religion, not to mention History, the grand infidel, and mythology, the fibber. Answers overwhelm us, test us, and divide us, They appear when we're most not ready, Yet the questions keep us sane, ever growing, Ever sun, ever moon and ever cloud. Only time will tell and would not, The old grey, the clear dark, the pale light, It never learned a language, It only learned to live, noticed But never quite understood. How diaphanous. How vague. So here's to the confusion, to the uncertainty Like love always has been. Here's to us, to our ambitions, Our possessions, the treasures which speak Permanence in our hearts. Here's to the violent, the meek and the indifferent. Here's to the society and the humanity That's left in it. Here's to those who hate me. Here's to our faith and our fate. Here's to the poems that will never be written again. Here's to you, my love, my true. May we stay kind, mad, and human, Or something more, whatever that means, Despite the opposition, and deception and progression. So here's to the Universe. Here's to the grand riddler called existence.* © 2015 J.S.P.

0

Feb 21, 2015

Feb 21, 2015 at 11:00 PM UTC

jspua

Unimagine

*Here's to folly, to the great valley called love Which reminded me of forever through imperfections, Hardships and disappointments, of falling deeply Into discovery from self-doubt, of reaching freedom, The bore of a goal like contentment. Here's to pain, the antithesis of the stars, Of pretensions and incompletion, the middleground Between the starts and the endings, the covert catalyst, The grand surrealist, as we dread to know The fullness of our sanity, of our souls, Our fragility, of our very being. Here's to the machinery, the agitation Called dreams, the sweet fog of distant memories, Or the dark smoke of passion sometimes, Cunning as ever, like a freight train, Like wind, like havoc, like thypoon, Oftenly deprived of conclusive destinations. Here's to art, drama and poetry, the mystics, The sons and daughters of the grand mystics, Of philosophy, science and religion, not to mention History, the grand infidel, and mythology, the fibber. Answers overwhelm us, test us, and divide us, They appear when we're most not ready, Yet the questions keep us sane, ever growing, Ever sun, ever moon and ever cloud. Only time will tell and would not, The old grey, the clear dark, the pale light, It never learned a language, It only learned to live, noticed But never quite understood. How diaphanous. How vague. So here's to the confusion, to the uncertainty Like love always has been. Here's to us, to our ambitions, Our possessions, the treasures which speak Permanence in our hearts. Here's to the violent, the meek and the indifferent. Here's to the society and the humanity That's left in it. Here's to those who hate me. Here's to our faith and our fate. Here's to the poems that will never be written again. Here's to you, my love, my true. May we stay kind, mad, and human, Or something more, whatever that means, Despite the opposition, and deception and progression. So here's to the Universe. Here's to the grand riddler called existence.* © 2015 J.S.P.

48

Never trust a man who tells you he has never measured his *****

0

Feb 17, 2018

Feb 17, 2018 at 4:04 PM UTC

kdellefemine

Fibber

Never trust a man who tells you he has never measured his *****

1