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SWB Aug 2011
I'm shakin' hands with the trees,
High-fiving their leaves,
leaving both of us silly and genuinely pleased.
and by 'both' I mean ten.
We were wrestling zen-
Buddha pinned, nearly sinned
till he slacked, touched my back, bought a drink for my friend-
I'm remembering now what I couldn't then.
Carly Two May 2014
M4W - Seeking young **** 17 year old to objectify and kick out of high school prom - must have womanly figure but only be a teenager - fingertip length dresses are OK - must be a child but still able to make me envision having *** with you - will be on the balcony ogling my daughter's friends and high-fiving other dads with my ****.
Copyright C. Heiser, 2014
Kathleen M Jul 2016
Twisted brain shiver spine tickle
Morbid curiosity has the wheel and lead feet
The torch is melting your face
Death beats you with a fire extinguisher
Death keeps screaming "it's for the irony"
You high five with exuberance.
Ellen Piper Sep 2014
The bicycles were a forged parent-permission slip
But well-forged.
I lifted myself over the tear in the truck's seat cover, not sliding
Not perforating further for today.

The road was short, short enough to have ridden the bicycles from first start to real start.
But that would not have been exotic
Connection is exotic, and channels must be followed through an antfarm
Proper etiquette must be observed with touch-me-nots

The bicycles were easier to lift from the bed with two
I gave him that, passing a front end, and jammed the wheelspokes with a jabbed finger
So that the damp spinning would not flick his face with groundwater
I expected it to hurt. My expectation tapped lightly.

That narrow pock-marked blacktop was my windtunnel
The air stroked its thumbs over my eyelids and I ached to push, breathe, push further
He held me back with his slow handlebars,
His slow kickstand clicking.

Pedaling slowly is more difficult than flying.
One finds gladness in choosing leaves to crunch with an inch-wide tire
And high-fiving low-hanging branches is socially satisfying.
He smiles behind the white mustache, and I don't mind.
onlylovepoetry Jun 2018
you have the formula

A Love Poem Recipe:
  Fij = G(Mi x Mj)/Dij.

This formula, simplified, means that trade between two markets will equal the size of the two markets multiplied together and then divided by their distance.
(The model gets its name from its mathematical similarity to the equation in physics that describes gravitational pull.)

~~~

long ago, swore off
the love poem business.
lying that this
the last poem ever published

moan not,
statistically, for sure be
a heart-infected sick teenager
bemoaning/high fiving
their  fated status
but I don't need to add to
that smoldering pile

the excellence, the richness,
the virtuosity
of the formula
a metaphor,
for the bounty and the risk,
in any love affair, thus love needy
for a diagrammed explication

two markets, soft upon each other,
multiply their trade in love and kisses

can you kiss her (him) but once?
nonsense!

saying I love you
but once a day,
like it was a vitamin,
preposterous!

no, love expands like a gas
(a distant cousin to our formula),
filling in the empty spaces,
escaping through crevices,
spilling, oft filling up
the nearby bystanders

in love,
there is no thing as
one touch clicking
but one touch
reveals the genetic marker,
the initial intimacy injection

Let the addiction begin!

ten thousand grasps,
some soft, some hard,
upon each other,
till fingers go lifelong contented numb

desire and affection spread like a
positive infection,
the curative powers
elegiac,
but never prosaic and though
formulaic
think more
voltaic and paradisiac

electric heaven

go forth and scribe
you got the secret
recipe
9/5/15

uncovered and recovered from the X file today

and found the short version  as well
<•>
The Last Poem Ever Writ
the last poem ever writ
by the dimming light of virtuality
and the laws of statistical probability,
shall surely be,
a teenager wail and bemoaning,
of a lost love yet smoldering,
a chest pain ember peaking,
then fire forever, last glow eliminated


who can weigh the greater apocalypse,
tragedy that none will remain
to glean and savor this last fling,
or that worldly existence has come to end
Jammit Janet Aug 2021
I'm self actualizing
Vibing
High fiving
Myself
As I cross the finish line
Thriving in success.
Natalie Jul 2015
Her mind was in Hawaii,
Dancing under waterfalls,
Wandering through rainforests,
Picking tropical flowers and
Braiding them into her hair,
Simmering on sandy beaches,
And gazing at the stars.

Her heart was in Normandy,
Eating crepes and sipping lattes,
Strolling through spring green fields
And along lazy river banks,
Kissing the walls of castles,
And scooping up scallop shells,
Soaking up French syllables.

Her hands were in her pockets,
High-fiving friends and
Running through her lover's hair,
Sewing, cooking, washing,
Punching, tearing, scratching,
Caressing and confessing,
Catching the very first drops of rain.

Her feet were on the streets of Seattle,
Tapping to the rhythm of the bass,
Shuffling in and out of the rain,
Dodging puddles and strangers,
Observing art and sculptures,
Chasing down a taxi or her dog,
and embracing the crisp autumn air.

Her lips were on the edge of a soda can,
Singing along to her favorite songs,
Whispering sweet nothings into the air,
Empowering the impoverished
And scorning the injustice,
Kissing a forehead, lips, and hads,
And stonecold silent as her mind does the work.

Her eyes were fighting back frosty tears,
Swallowing scarlet sunsets,
Painted in yesterday's make up,
Tracing your stoic silhouette,
Rolling like thunder before the storm,
Lapping up dizzying moonlight,
And buried in words, and words, and words.

Her body was in Los Angeles,
But, she was on a metanoia,
Breaking free of past and future
To find herself a presence
That would always be worth fighting for,
To reach sophrosyne, namaste,
And to put her frantic body to peace.
Enigmuse Nov 2014
My friends all think I'm crazy because I stand in the middle of the street and talk to a God that doesn't exist while high-fiving the windshields of passing school buses. I stopped taking my medication again because guilt taste a lot better than artificial happiness, and I stopped wearing that cross you bought me for my eight birthday because it contradicted the sense of uselessness I received for my twelfth. Life seems a lot less precious when you're talking to your parents in the TV room of a psychiatric unit and look them in the eyes while they tell me not to cry and say that 'pain is only temporary'. All I do is write letters to a man on the moon about the time I realized how hard and easy it is to die. Send me to therapy and make me take pills. I'll smile, but I'll always remember how to tie a noose
Enlighten Me-
I’m always underestimating self-master bating-
Graduated-
At the top of fund frustration-
My motivation needs money relations-
The contemplation of money making has my mind at a constant hating-
My breaking patience-
Has my mind like a **** relating-
Regulations of all my banking-
See my bank account disintegrating-
I’m suffocating-making payments-Late fee statements-
Debit-Credit-Cash-oking
Debit-Credit-Cash-oking
Racki­ng bills my back is breaking-my nerves are shaking-
Shaking more than I anticipated-
Now I’m here with a life to fear-
Writing till my mind is clear-
Writing till I feel what’s real-
Writing till I seal a deal-
Multiplying-
Adding-Subtracting-and dividing-
Signing more checks than providing-
It’s suicide I’m not denying-Rhyming trying its crucifying-
Clocking in before the sun is rising Grinding flying hoping griming-living life nine to fiving-
Its re-revising-Re-defining-Rectifying-
More so that I think I’m hiding-
Killing with finical violence-Violating my banks alliance-
Maxing plastic so fantastic now I need some re-advising-interest rates have a grown man crying-Million dollars seem so un-winding-
Now I’m whining-
Constant buying-
Gas rates got me into biking-riding-fighting-
Just surviving-any discount seems so delighting-winning lotto seems o-so-righteous-buy one get one is so exciting-
Boot leg buying I ain’t lying-
Being broke is constant rewinding-It’s reminding-so relying-over drawing is my new binding-it’s confining-so I’m finding-Making takings of my disliking-Making takings that are so dang freighting-dollar scratchers are so inviting-
But this realization is so enlightening-
Moving as fast as a bolt of lighting-
I’m asking you G-d to help me like this-
I’m feeling the pain and I think I might just-
ROB ME A BANK-
BY:
RICHARD ITSKOVICH
I want to be
wrapped in your arms
how the tree's branches
intermingle with the wind;
how the peaks of the hills
tumble over
one another's shadow at dusk;
how mist clings to dew
on grass wisps
whistling a good morning tune
back to the roosters' song at dawn,
the silent clap of two hearts
high-fiving
amidst the storm's handshake
with forest fingertips,
complimenting eyelash bats
and butterfly kisses
under the Moon's pupil;
how the stars trip
over their two left feet
and come crashing down
into your atmosphere
intertwined with mine.
Antino Art May 2019
The moves you made against your fear moved me to faith.
I watched through tears as you were saved -
the heroine of your own fairytale
facing nightmares to awaken the beauty they slept on.
You were candle-flame and made darkness your element,
quivering formlessly in all directions, then still
the moment you found your center to be where it burned the most.
You turned pain into a glowing power source.
You were my favorite self-love poem in motion,
one that dates back to 13th century Persia
about mirrors, and how the polisher of which took on the form
of moonlight itself, giving all it has
when no one was watching.
You poured yourself into that night
in a waterfall of polished movement,
shattering glass, dancing your way out of a distorted
reflection in a carnival funhouse of illusions
you were grown enough to see past.
From a distance, I watched you
transcend technique,
bend and shift through countless forms
as if through a kaleidoscope.
You filled my mind's eye.
I saw myself in your mirror,
coming face to face with every side of you
past and present, high-fiving one, embracing another
in celebration of your conquest.
There's a fighting word beyond our known language
for this: masakatsu agastu
or, "true victory is self-victory".
Fight the battles you need to finish.
I'll be waiting at the edge of my seat
until the house lights come on and the show
ends and the audience disappears,
leaving only us
in front of the mirror
you are no longer afraid of.
Simon Soane Apr 2016
There are a lot of important things needed to be happy in life,
that stop the dark rising and save the mind from strife,
like hilarious acts and moments we find funny
and as much as it pains me to say a bit of money
so we can do other fun things like go on a night out,
singing the hours away with a beam and a shout,
or a sweet song that glistens around the head,
or an engrossing book to read in bed,
ordering a take away and gorging can give a thrill
or back to back box sets on a Netflix and chill,
and just as crucial as having a top mate to phone
is having a place that one can call home.
Having an abode to go to when employment is done
or a domain to grab some water to quell the heat of the sun,
a space to collapse when infused with inebriation,
when getting tired of tracks, a warm safe station,
a place to get ready when revving to go out in the mix,
yeah, you were all of the above dear Flat Six.
Yeah, I’ll hold my hands up, you've been a ace place in which to live,
okay you were full of damp and the bathroom wall flimsy enough to give,
and when the verdant Eden outside was chopped down it made me mad
but you were only a short walk from my Mum and Dads.
You had plenty of perks,
fab tree out back and close to work,
a 24 hour garage a stone's throw away,
that sold the ***** at night and day,
you were near a cracking paper shop that had had 2 bottles of wine for six quid a go,
suffice to say, el vino did flow.
Your living room was massive enough to play big with a cat
"always a good time here" etched on your welcome mat.
Under your roof was awesome, you engendered joy with ease,
effortlessly making great, just like the cleanest breeze.
Now although you as a building yourself is a important component in amaze
other factors also make a simply brilliant phase,
Like when friends came round for fun and revelry
after we had left the club just after three,
we'd all pick up the ingredients for a ***** do
and jump, and groove with soothing coo,
the ether resplendent with "I love you!"
finely balanced between boom and cautious,
chatting committed, gabbing voracious,
sunk into fun under your light,
the wonder of spun on Saturday night.
Now, it wasn't just at the weekend when friends came to say okay,
there were some sweet gatherings on a Wednesday,
no women, no, just a range age of men,
it could only be mid week Breadren,
we could be having a conversation about how New York seems most tourable
when a voice pipes up, "by the way bel ami my cousin has cancer and it's incurable."
There could only be one guy who brings such depressing roars
the harbinger of gloom known as Two Doors.
He'll bleat on about how his niece has no womb and is totally barren
and next to him lives a kingpin drug baron
"they are shifting units at a furious pace
and ski in more in more wizz than ******* Scarface."
He'll change the subject in the blink of an eye
and go from talking about love to who's going to die,
he doesn't like most women, thinks they are a squawking flock,
he loves men though, yeah, he really likes ****.
A mate can come out and say sobbing he doesn't want to be with a lass
while Iain does think, "Ross, let me in your ***."
His friend could weep and cry with a whimpering cough
while all Iain thinks, Ross, **** me off!
Never mind Grinder, get on my fleshy old man log."
The third guy Martin is off shooting up in the bog.
Yeah, lots of people talked in your four walls
but you provided the space for those stupendous *****,
you were brill in December, springing in May,
really awesome in September, probs cos that's when Louise came to stay.
You held our pre festival clutter with happy behest
and often covered in bottles on Monday, a big glassy mess,
oh you had everything, simply one of the best.
As I’ve said, Flat Six you as the area were great
But a paramount importance in that was housemate.
You see some people can bond and connect in the hub of a club
but when sharing an address each other up the wrong way they can rub,
although they can go to a gig and have the most divine of laughs
when they abide in the same abode they go together like low ceilings and giraffes,
arguments start over the heating not being turned off
or who hasn’t took the bins out or who’s had some of the others food to scoff,
they bleat that “you shouldn’t have gone out for that night on the *****
And then made noise when you got in as you knew I was trying to snooze!”
or “why did you have that night on the coke, you see more of Charlie than an oompa loompa
and have World War 3 over a borrowed jumper.
So yeah, it's sweet when you find a shared space dweller
and who you think is swell and you get on really well,
as when after a day at the office and you perhaps want to chill alone
when they rap on your door to discuss the day you're glad their home,
skating through conversations with the p of pace
raucous at pontificating and waiting in the listen space,
bringing the talk with dazzling natter,
singeing the fork with frazzling chatter
to ensure the words cooked go down warm,
go down a treat, go down a storm,
discussing that wowing tomorrow is pay day thrill
and who was to blame for the initial breakup of Ross and Rachel,
top gabbing, it was brill!
Someone who when the elephant in the room is sniff
you both realise it quick and score in a jiff!
And never entertain the waste that is a tiff,
not for us the sign of a rift
simply super, a kind of bliss,
see I love Joe Flat Six, I love him to bits!
Although, like you  and your constant mould
he wasn't perfect (like everyone), if the truth be told,
you see if you follow all the biblical teachings you've been taught
you'd think he would have thought,
"I can help myself to the dental care and washing hygiene, it don't matter that I haven't bought,
I can use what I deem, Si's not the selfish sort,
he'd give me the last drop of his shower gel if he could,
he defiantly would,
so do unto others as they'd do unto me
and as I’ve got this human cleaning fluid for free
I’ll leave him some plentiful dollops on the side so he can bathe in a Lynx Africa infused sea
and I can leave some mouth polish laid in the shape of a cleansing leaf
so he can keep the fillings to zero in his teeth
then I can take the rest as I’ve been true to my sacred beliefs."
Yeah, that's what he could have done.
Instead he grew horns and committed a Luciferian act
and thought "I'm taking all of that!",
Sartini, you Devilish ****.
Nar, I bet you didn't even think that at all,
you were too busy imagining going out and having a ball,
beautifully bouncing off every wall,
riding the waves of Wet Dreams with total aplomb,
spinning tunes while high fiving Tom,
cool as ice cream and hot to trot
country hopping and swigging spirits by the tot,
at least Shannon seems to have diminished, that ****** robot!
she had more wires than C3PO's thighs
and glazed over R2D2 eyes
fair dos you digged her metallic allure
but did you really want to make love with the Terminator?
Ahh but who cares about a bit of shower gel and your cyborg fawning
it was great singing along as the day was dawning
And obvs I know every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end
But it’s only natural to miss living with one of your best friends.
So far be it from me to encourage your narcissistic gaze
but Joe you can add top housemate to your list of fortes!
So dear Flat Six to summarise
I’ll miss sitting out your back in summer rise
looking through your big tree with my eyes
at the Saturday sun azure blue skies,
I’ll miss that whatever there is to unfold
won’t happen over your threshold,
I’ll miss coming in your space with loads of beer
And chill with tunes while mates appear,
I’ll miss the midnight moving across your floor,
miss my key going in your door,
miss that it’s not your clock telling my time
miss that you’re not mine when I say “who wants to go mine?”
But now you’ll always be more than an address and a collection of bricks
I’ll always love you,
dear Flat Six!
Andrew T Jun 2016
INT. WILL'S HOUSE - NIGHT

Andrew walked inside of his best friend Will's house, carrying a six pack of Stella, and moved to the beer-pong table, where Lauren and Erica were playing with Daniel and Marcus. The girls turned to face Andrew and Erica mumbled something to Lauren. Lauren laughed and nodded. Andrew hoped she wasn't laughing at him, but when he saw her smiling at him, that was when he knew he would end up falling in love with her. Well maybe not in love with her, but he hoped he would at least get to know her. He took off his jacket and set it aside on the couch next to Will and Carrie. Will looked slimmer than usual, his arms skinny, and his clothes baggy on him. He didn't like seeing his friend look like a stick-figure, but he didn't really know how to approach the subject. Instead, he hugged him and felt Will's skin and bones, wondering how long could his friend go on like this.

ANDREW
Will, wanna get next game?

Will considered it for a moment and shook his head.

WILL
I would man, but I'm feeling pretty tired. Going to take a dab in a minute, you want one?

ANDREW
Ha, not tonight man, I got to drive back home after this.

Andrew turned around and caught Lauren staring at him. She looked away and shot the ping-pong ball into one of the red solo cups. All Andrew knew about Lauren was that she moved here from Florida. She was here for the summer, perhaps longer. She was good friends with Will's girlfriend Carrie, but Carrie had told him the other day over Facebook chat, that Lauren was talking to some guy named Peter back in Florida. Good for me, he thought. He wanted to be single for a while, but there was something uncanny about Lauren that drew him in closer to the pong table. She was wearing a black cardigan and a white blouse underneath with jean shorts and flats--typical NOVA ****, but he sensed she was deeper than her appearance. She had blue eyes, blue as the sky in the current summer month of July.

ANDREW
Hey do you guys mind if I get next game?

Erica looked at Lauren. And she looked back at Erica and shrugged.

LAUREN
Are you good?

ANDREW
I can be.

Lauren considered him for a moment.

LAUREN
Great to hear. You and Erica are going to go against me and Daniel. Cool?

ANDREW
Yeah that's cool.

Andrew found a spot next to Erica and stood beside her, high-fiving her.

ERICA
Don't worry about Lauren, she's just super competitive.

ANDREW
Let's show them some competition then.
preservationman Jun 2016
Hang Five
A poem with a lot of jive
Surfing over the waves with a couch
Being an absolute slouch
Just went over a small wave
As a Couch Potato, I must behave
But I am hoping my couch will stay afloat
Hopefully I won’t drown and choke
But Hi Fiving on a couch might be considered a joke
Yet I am standing on my couch being ready for the big wave
Come on wave and show me your best shot
I am waiting for you wave at the right spot
Now I am riding the wave out
I am on the water wave making a frightening shout
However, I have landed precisely on the shore
Being a couch potato, it will be sleep I can’t ignore.
Stepping forward, I curl my toes over the edge.
Gazing down, I breathe in the expanse that lay before me.
Limitless – almost frightening because there is no end.

I feel it calling deep within my being.
I hear it in my blood.
The peak of my inhale.
The void of my exhale.
It lives.  It breathes.  It bleeds.

In my dream, I lean farther forward and fall.
The rushing wind encompassing my body
With a million tiny fingers holding me tight.
I feel safe in this embrace and close my eyes.
Oh, what a lover the wind is…

Awake, I recoil at the limitless expanse before me.
It's too big, too large for words and thus too much to take.
I am so tiny compared to this world of worlds out there;
It will consume me, no questions asked.
Better to thrive in a limited existence
then to perish among greatness never attained.

So around I go, placing my back to the eager wind
and the edge of imminent destruction
And into the warmth that now lay before me.
Ah, my familiar friend, your rays soothe my soul
as my mother's soft hands did so long ago.
If only you could sing me to sleep,
into a dream of sweet possibilities.


I could soar through that rushing wind
with my arms outstretched as wide as my smile
surrendering to the invisible currents of afar.
I could reach peaks so incredibly vast
where even the clouds bowed below
and the warmth of mother sun is so strong
that I would never again go hungry for song.

Instead I lay stranded in this purgatorial wasteland
Afraid of what's right and discontent with what's left.
Which would be fine if what's right here and right now
was even near to the perfection I crave.

Ha, perfection, what a sweetly packaged lie
Served on a platter plated with gold, made from mold
And crafted with tears from countless, unfounded but treacherous fears
driving even the insane to redefine the limits of insanity, it's crazy
how something that does not exist can drive us so mad.

You know what's also crazy?
Standing here with my arms outstretched as wide
as my mesmerized, sunburned and dehydrated eyes.
What does this stagnation prove?
What do I gain from this over exposure of familiar muck
besides a cancerous vocabulary and an ill-fated mind?

No, this warmth is best felt on the move.
Running, jumping, dancing through trees
and high-fiving leaves with my face
focused fiercely forward towards
that limitless expanse
I so fervently feared before.

Well, these idled hands
have had enough twiddling thumbs for this lifetime.
They were made, instead, to soar beyond
the greatest and most distant horizon ever seen.
It is time I set aside this melancholic diatribe
and rise from these two dimensional sewers.
I do not thrive on a sheet of paper
constricted to one direction or the other
void of the peripheral magnitude that actual life affords.
I am a 3D, no 4D, no Unlimited-D Being
And I will settle for NO leash.

So around I go, placing my back to
this victim-clad paradigm of "I can't" and "they won't"
(I've should enough on myself for one day)
and into the rushing wind that now lay before me once again.
A smile creeps upon my face as I realize the
Eager wind that was once my foe is not taunting me
But cheering me on, promising the secret of everlasting flight.

With the warmth caressing my now sun-kissed back,
I step forward and curl my toes over the edge.
Gazing out, in all directions at once,
I breathe in the unlimited expanse unfolding before me,
Outstretch my arms even wider than my smile,

And I Fall.


- BPW
Softly Spoken May 2017
Simple things, like a slow start to a late morning
Like listening to old disco waft over the scent of Arabic roasts
The slight insistence of last night's indulgence not quite crawling across my brain
Like watching my capering daughter with her joy in a small rainbow umbrella
Small hands wanting to help with tasks only a little too large
The company of bright minds in Similar states of satiation
Full of the richness of hollandaise, eggs, the sharp oiled smoke of salmon
Simple things like hi-fiving as we collapse on the sofa, space cleansed, evening sun sprawled a crossed the wall
Golden Berlin sunset calling a riot of houseplants into soft violet contrast, shadows long
Simple like the way the sun catches your profile, and my breath catches in my throat..

Simple things
For Jan **
2016
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
Please retain this document as proof of your induction.**


you are an inductee,
part of the tinkering crew,
high giving, high fiving
globally is your locally!

we know where you live,
Google mapped and sleep kid-napped from under that
shady radiata pine tree

more than sufficient,
your poetic revelations,
to know the you and the where-hereabouts of the
lives you handle with
wondrous word-care.

care taken, if you want hide deep,
but to late for thee and our world,
your name on the roster
of poets by night,
tinkers, soldiers, and some who tailor
poems bespoke for the ones who
dare not reveal their true (s)elves
in the words they write.

but you do.

so the
ticK tocK
(never forgot the Special K)
of your clock
synchro us
so too late,
we can call you anonymous,
if that be your preferential suffice,

If that makes you happy.

but what we need to know,
already planted by you,
in our soiled heart,
growing steadily cotton-higher.

When you are ready,
you will dispense with
your leafy nom de plume,
tell us what we don't need to know,
tell us what we already knew,
three boxes checked,
you are
poet, wife and mother,
suffice suffice suffice
the three stripes thrice
sewn on your skin,
inductee into the army of the
fly-by-night,
word~tinkers

guess you can say,
you are a tacker now,
tacked onto this crew,
watching over its
individuals,
therefore, say no more,
but write
a poem a day,
that, your tinkering dues.
Z Atari Aug 2012
5 in the morning
Caffeine in my veins
That one and only restraint
lashes high fiving my brows
Curtain call
Have to stay awake.
Sarah Bat Sep 2013
I was talking to my therapist
About how much the two sides of my brain hate each other
About how scared and alone one side is
And how bitter the other one is that she had to be the one to do the growing up
And she told me that every time I hate myself
Every time I think how stupid I am for crying over dropping my hairbrush on the floor
Or over the death of a loved one
How ridiculous it is that I miss my boyfriend after talking to him ten minutes before
Any time I think anything negative about myself
It's like giving my father a high five
It's like telling him he did a great job when he set out to **** my head up so badly
That even years later I can't even think his name without feeling my entire being freeze up in terror
My father is like a snake and his words
His words are like venom that creeps through my veins paralyzing everything I might like about myself
For every time I think '**** I look good today'
There are a thousand other days where I heard his voice in the back of my head
Shouting all the things that have ever been wrong with me

But I'm done high fiving my father for making me hate myself
I'm replacing the shouts he left reverberating in my brain like an echo chamber
With the things my boyfriend whispers to me in the morning when we wake up
Because he thinks I'm beautiful before I brush my teeth, or do my hair, or drink my coffee
And I will replace them with the way he says my name when we have ***
Like I am a gift unto this world
Instead of a misbehaviour
Kali Aug 2010
Smiling laughing High fiving
Giggling grinning Washing our hands
Finding new ways to have so much fun

Dropping stuff, we're caught, don't worry we're not
Climbing, finding, the universe is conspiring
Against our good times, against our laughs

This is tons of fun.
This is the best.
I don't want to leave you, with all the rest.

Knives foil paper
Things to make-shift, all our high times.
It blows that we've got to bring it to an end.

So smile into the wind
Smile into your hair
Smile at the days, when we used to play truth or dare.

Smile at the future, in hopes we'll play again.
A poem about drugs.
There's also a song I've written called Amphetamine Machine.
Simon Soane Jun 2015
I'm glad when humans were new they walked about
and didn't just sit and stew in their own juices,
they got up and toured the hue of places,
and saw unfamiliar faces;
"Hi, how are you, are you a person too?  Fancy setting up camp?  If you need a light I've got a lamp!"
So cities emerged and created verges
and separate surges,
blossoming splurges,
in concrete or tent,
which is great.
The only thing is that means our location
can kinda pre ordain our destination,
as in I can't say...
"I'm going now Mum, just having a walk to the Hanging Gardens of Babylon."
Or
"Cheers my friend for the afternoon talk, i'm now going to stroll to the sunset in New York."
If we are not there we need plans to get there,
bus, then a train, then, maybe, a plane.
Our want can't just be unravelled,
if it's distant we need to travel.
As much as I want to say, "hey Lou, what you doing today?
Feel like a dally in the park with thundering larks and then when the light goes dark come to my room and create our own spark?" i'm restricted, constricted by distance, our distant dance.
But
distance is not just measured in geographical far,
not every journey requires a car,
sweet synchronicity ignores miles and yawning gaps,
especially when there's high fiving in our synapse;
ahh, to spend Sunday drifting in and out of naps,
without eyes on the time,
intertwined in the sunshine.
Yeah, distant may seem a trial
but galaxy hopping is nothing
if it's really worth the while.
Yenson Mar 2019
A car owner in Nairobi Accra, Ouagadougou or any African city
would, as one drives through potholes and ancient ragged tarmacs
be approached by beggars, street urchins and the poverty strickens
all with hungry faces and rags reeking of miseries and street lifes

With arms outstretched they beg pennies or two for a meal to survive
in the blazing sun hopeless lives look to the cars and those who drives
meal tickets wheezing past impervious to painful rumbling stomachs
in air-conditioned splendor they glide quietly past unmoved as stones

The poor wretched would hiss and snipe in ringing tones and anger
look at you useless person, you stink and you **** that dog you have
your mama is a *****, your father is a donkey and we **** your wife
you can't read and you **** yourself, you are a worthless *******

Some hunger crazed ones will throw stones and spit as cars speed on
again, again these desperados will exercise their right to free speech
Mister, you wet your trousers, you're fat like hippo and you smell
you and that woman, you look so ugly like charcoal and mud statutes

As they hurl insults and jipes at these car owners they found relief
with wide eyes and foaming mouths and rotten teeth they laughed
each cheering the other and high fiving as an original curse spews
it's the frustration of the wretched, it's the anger of those without

But worry not for we have these same forlorn and desperates here
angry, powerless, insignificant people watching successes drive
hating all those they feel is above them, hating those they envy
hating those they wish they could be like, hating their mediocrity

But they don't mill about on dusty roads screaming asinine insults
they go on computers and troll their targets, projecting their pains
flinging defamation and putdowns, hurling demented idiotic slurs
casting doom and despondencies,  accusing others of insecurities  

So like their African kinfolks, the wretched and the poor find relief
mediocre needs to release pent up frustration and pained anger
they need targets to hate and blame, they need distractions to ease
and the troll screen warriors and haters have the computers to thank

Their African kinfolks just want a meal not to waste time and energy writing **** to their envied, that is nonsense ****, they say!
These people too full for their bellies, what is wrong with them
them crazy, maybe their ***** done fall off, maybe they **** dogs
crazy western poor people, no wonder God give them long noses!

Who are we to judge, I'd say...it must be horrible to feel inferior....!!!
CE Green Nov 2018
Slipshod Tender guffaws aloud
Breaking endlessly high fiving crowds
The error of our ways lead us around
Like horses by a hand with nothing endowed.
No settlements or dowries
No soldiers of clay
No back breaking memories
Or vertebraes remain.
When Eliot said: “it ends with a whimper”
It troubles me to think, it was said in a whisper.
#rhyme
Kendall K Mar 2017
I realize that questioning your purpose is a part of life. But it breaks my heart to see so many teenagers and young adults, or really anybody for that matter, truly believe that they mean nothing—that they are nothing. One thing I’ve really begun to notice is how much light we lose from the time we’re very young, to the time we’re in highschool, to the time we’re elderly. Something in us just goes out. That spark dies.

But I don’t believe that. I don’t even believe it when I say it. How can a piece of ourselves just simply vanish? It doesn’t make sense.

I don’t think it’s gone. I think it’s just lost.

Remember those days as a kid growing up? And I’m not talking about the happy-go-lucky, hopscotch, high-fiving kind of days, nor am I talking about the sunny, swingset, sugary sweets kinds of days. I’m talking about those days where you truly felt alive. Those days where you had this empowering feeling of happiness and those days where you could honest to God look in the mirror and tell yourself, “I am living a life that I love.”

I don’t know about you, but I am willing to do anything to feel that hopeful and that invincible again. Even if it’s just for one day.

I think one of the biggest problems we all have as people is that we don’t know how to be equal. We don’t look at someone above us and strive to raise ourselves to that level. We strive to drag them down to ours. It’s like...human nature to compete. And that frustrates me. The question always seems to be, “What will everyone else say/think?” Not, “What do I think/want?”

And I think that’s a big reason why we see that shift in ourselves and our attitudes. We lose ourselves in everybody else. We don’t ever do what makes us happy, so we never feel happy. But who cares what anybody else has to say about it? Who cares what anybody else’s opinion is? You do what makes you feel fulfilled and whole and complete until you are fulfilled and whole and complete. And one day, you’ll wake up, and you’ll see that their words don’t mean anything. They never did. They never will.

And I hate that we as humans are so capable of tearing one another down. I hate that we have so much power and we use it in such a negative way. I hate that we learn so much from the hard times and so little from the good ones.

I just want people to remember these things when they feel sick to the stomach about life. Just because you lost something at the bottom of your bag, doesn’t mean it’s not there anymore. We all have a purpose. You just have to find it again. You may have to find it many times again.

But you are not nothing. You never were, and you never will be.
2.27.17
Lxvi Jan 2018
High fiving lips
Fist bumping hips
And we'll continue as friends

Though it unsaid
Break over bread
And we will never end.

Drink of my faith
While I cover in face
Of the message I'll never send.
Excited
Bailey Mar 2016
Boredom is a rabbit hole
that we walk around
day to day

Until we fall
and let out all
that routine hides away

Our minds are open and wanting
“Feed me, feed me now!”
so our desk-drawer minds
are rummaged inside
and flipped over
upside down

The piece of the conversation
that you overheard last vacation
turns into the song that
they sing along to
and makes you a hit sensation

What a mess this
success is
You’ve left them wanting more

So where’s your sound?
you climb out of the ground
and wait again ‘til you’re bored.

Boredom is a wet, white wall
you could wait until it’s dry
but if you lick
the paint that sticks the
fumes will get you high

Floating, floating
rock the boat we
sail on eggshell seas

‘Round off-white pass
this high won’t last
we reach for rainbow trees

The colors fill our irises
we’re left with small blank canvases

Blown out pupils
let the light in
four walls dry but
we’re high fiving
right out of this boring room
destined to return so soon.
A lot of people think I was on drugs while writing this:P but really I just appreciate boredom, because without it we wouldn't have creativity.
Brian Rihlmann Sep 2018
It’s Art Fest downtown
and I’m wandering
along with many others,
among the white tents
set up in the street,
looking at metal sculptures
like mangled insects,
and paintings of fragmented people
with chopped up faces
and body parts strewn
like puzzle pieces.

A shrill voice
draws my gaze:
a woman with matted blonde hair
sitting by herself on the sidewalk,
having a conversation
with at least two
other people.

“What did you do to my son?
Where is he?”
she yells,
turning to face one,
then the other.

I’m watching this,
unsure what to do,
unable to look away.

People walk past,
headphones in,
looking at their screens.
Two cops show up,
begin talking to her
and for once,
I’m glad they’re around.

Walking on, I turn down
a quiet side street
away from the main drag,
back toward the lot
where my car is parked.

A man covered in
faded blue prison tats
is walking toward me
with long strides,
looking around,
arms swinging in big arcs
with fists balled at the ends,
his jaw working sideways
like a crackhead on a ******.

The back of my neck tingles
as I take my hands
out of my pockets,
remembering the video
I saw last night:
two scumbags in the Bronx
knocking some poor guy
out cold just for kicks,
high fiving as he lay
unconscious in the street.

A few steps away,
he nods, says
“What’s up bro?”
I raise my chin, “Sup.”
We pass.
I throw a glance
back over my shoulder
as he rounds a corner
and disappears.

Here’s my car.
I get in, turn the key,
and roll the **** out of here.

— The End —