"flatters" poems
slave is someone who does not have authority over their own lives slave is someone subservient controlled dominated by somebody something slave works very hard for little or no pay slave is property of somebody something slave is someone forced to obey
sycophant is someone servile who overly flatters more powerful individual for personal gain sycophant is bootlicker brown-noser fawner flunkey doormat lackey lap-dog yes-men parasite toad-eater (pause reposition) somebody possessed of excessive vanity may cultivate sycophant swarms
side by side they stand clothed in black not quite similar the one slightly taller possibly because the other suffers poor posture perhaps they are related because in odd way they appear alike or of same ilk yet upon closer scrutiny it becomes apparent they have very little or nothing in common the taller one with troubled sad eyes the other smiling obsequiously the taller one more muscular ***** from working menial labor the other with curved spine slumped shoulders because of undue bowing and crouching while blowing smoke up other people’s *****
sadist is someone who attains ****** gratification by inflicting physical pain shame to other people sadist is someone who delights in excessive cruelty degradation to others
********* is someone who achieves ****** pleasure from being hurt humiliated abused dominated punished often self-inflicted ********* is someone who enjoys being harmed misused mistreated ignored by others
sadomasochist is someone who gets ****** gratification by alternately or simultaneously enduring hurt causing pain to somebody else sadomasochist is combination of sadistic masochistic tendencies in someone who obtains ****** pleasure from inflicting submitting to pain cruelty
sycophant slave snakes up leg of movie actress dictator who gains pain through pleasure 2000 miles from equator IED cell phone detonator sycophant dilettante ***** up to sadistic art critic or publishing editor on escalator while below on main floor of shopping mall ice rink figure skater pirouettes bows to nominator surreptitiously bribed by infiltrator mutilator
Feb 27, 2011
Feb 27, 2011 at 4:38 AM UTC
A translucent blouse of yellow covers her *******
Black skirt, sliced from foot to hip.
Discreetly covering from all but imagination.
The imagination provides the words.
To conjure image of this bird.
Five feet ten.
Womanly hips.
Sparking witchy fingertips.
In black ankle boots.
She stands.
Makes no demands.
Nobody matters.
Those she just flatters.
Lest those who wish.
Wishes which, can only be met by magic wand.
Only sleight of hand can convince her.
That love will e'er be worth having again
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 8:40 AM UTC
Teach me, if thou can-forgetfulness!
Teach me how to forget thee, for I ain't
worthy of these feelings. I am undeserving of
thy love-for I can only dwell in and cherish it-
I cannot give thee yon pleasure, my love. Pleasure-
and its affectionate satisfaction-t'ose two-o but
amusements, the ones whom thou so dearly adore-
are but a sin to me, a sin so brief and beautiful
but even more ungrateful then the unblinking
foliage-into which I am unwilling to sink. Aye,
forgetfulness shall be a mercy to me. For in
such idiocy have I dreamed-dreamed of being
in thy lovely arms, absorbed in the mist of thy
charms. But I can never be so! Even dreaming
shall I be refrained from-I can never hug
thee-even in my deepest tempestuous fears.
Thou are t'at bizarre light that roam the stones
of my pernicious dreams. But Thou despiseth me-
how thou hate me, thou who shall never glance back
in my last breath, thou who but condemn me-I,
should t'is world be altered, shall still remain
thy sudden wound; I am but a flawed work of
insulting wretchedness. Then teach me-
teach me, my love, invade my heart-and grasp
my veins, rob my of my dearly, dearly affection-
for thee, yes, which was born only for thee-
and leave me loveless, just as no-one flatters me
and endorse my feelings, in t'is very loneliness.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 6:13 PM UTC
words in my mouth
Democracy
is like poetry
only nice
when it flatters us
French culture
is about the female believing
she is beautiful
Perfume
even the expensive one
is not about cleanliness
the Louvre
had everything
except a proper loo
Small hotel in Paris
hot water for shower
only on Saturdays
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 6:50 AM UTC
Thou tangle the mortality
And seek the mourning of its course,
With an outrageous cloak that falls adrift
To have its custom afloat.
The decorations, thereof flatters this turmoil
That has its doubts and moments,
A longevity beheld upon the chores of the subject,
Never cognizes its everlasting trials,
For those of which handles the elation
Of successive falsification.
I know not of the clumsiness of hymns,
That sighs the mourning of a course,
The chaotic iteration of single pauses
And the faltering of a mere slope.
I know not of the turmoil
That bedecks the frostbitten clavicles,
Onto which no sigh wavers
A petition of no faze and any dome.
I know not of the cloak
That nestles around a haze;
Bringing confusion that betrays every vivid sense.
Let it be the matter, ‘tis a matter of time(!)
Would it morph itself around the mourning mould,
When it dries away with the mud?
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 6:17 PM UTC
The Hummingbird
The golden egg, an Owl put
In the nest of nerd,
Out of which came then
The Hummingbird.
A gemmy nestling saw nerd,
the sooty Raven
He was terribly shocked and
in grief driven.
Aware Peahen asked Raven
Eyes aren wet?
Seethingly he answered her
The little I hate.
The restless little flatters,
As a bee unstable
And hovers above flowers
Which do wobble.
Belated Peahen took Raven
To Peacock White.
The incident she explained,
And story did recite.
Let my wisdom penetrate,
In thy empty brain,
Love begets love; hate hate
Said Whitish sane.
Take care of her, no her liberty,
The little be free.
Wish she pearches on loyalty;
A branch of Tree.
S. Bharat
Apr 10, 2019
Apr 10, 2019 at 1:03 AM UTC
I hear the noise about thy keel;
I hear the bell struck in the night:
I see the cabin-window bright;
I see the sailor at the wheel.
Thou bring'st the sailor to his wife,
And travell'd men from foreign lands;
And letters unto trembling hands;
And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd life.
So bring him: we have idle dreams:
This look of quiet flatters thus
Our home-bred fancies: O to us,
The fools of habit, sweeter seems
To rest beneath the clover sod,
That takes the sunshine and the rains,
Or where the kneeling hamlet drains
The chalice of the grapes of God;
Than if with thee the roaring wells
Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine;
And hands so often clasp'd in mine,
Should toss with tangle and with shells.
2.3k
Little boy, listen closely
'Cause no one told me
But you deserve to know
That in this world, you are not beholden
You do not owe them
Your body and your soul
All the youth in the world will not save you from growing older
And all the truth in you is too precious to be stolen.
It's just the way it is
Maybe it's never gonna change
But you've got a mind to show your strength
And you've got a right to speak your mind
And you'll gonna pay for this
They're gonna burn you at the stake
But you've got a fire in your veins
You wasn't made to remain hidden
No, You wasn't made to remain hidden, no
Show some skin, make him want you
'Cause God forbid you
Know your own way home
And ask yourself why it matters
Who it flatters
You're more than flesh and bones
Know your own way home
And ask yourself why it matters
Who it flatters
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 7:13 AM UTC
Yes , I let it go ,
my words will flow ,
cutting time in two
into seconds from minutes
from hours , even days
turning time inside out
so it is no longer real
Take me away to reason . . .
where time is a myth ,
a fifth season , a place of non-essence
Time falters , flakes , falls ,flatters , fetters
away into oblivion . . like
everything known to man
T - all TOMORROWS , are never to be
I - in my INNONCENCE , my IGNORANCE
M- MANIPULATION of mind
E - ENUMERATION , numbering my way to
ETERNITY
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 6:25 PM UTC
Shutter of Polaroid glamour
Smile for the world, curse the camera
Hide the bruises with sequined satin
The limelight flatters skin of cold, hard stone, you the latter
Liz you marble statuette
Maril you glitt'ring diamond
Regal laugh & darling, another glass of 'champagne'
Douse your bones in Chanel
Put on your lipstick
Pull the curtain
...Start the show
We're their golden circus- "watch the beasts, tame the women, hear the showmen."
Whips, rings of fire!
Top hats & show lights...
Which's your favorite ring: the songstress, the cad, the dream?
Pour yourself a drink, repaint the mask, shining glitz & gleam.
Children of the Golden Age, driver start the Cadi
Hollywood front-page, plaster royalty.
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 12:58 PM UTC
I love you
Pretty amazing mantra you see
But what does it mean
We all have ideas of what love is
That's why we create songs about it
That's why the heart flatters when the one say it to us
Our mind fetching from it's Databases of ideas of love how it should be
Thinking this is it Love has arrived
But am sorry love Logic gets the best of me most times
The ideas fade on quick
No love is not supposed to hurt like this
Love does not lack a spark like this
Love is not Lust
Love is not this suicidal
So someone please tell me
How does it feel like to love
Let's see if your ideas of it fade quick
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 4:30 PM UTC
The greater masters of the commonplace,
Rembrandt and good Sir Walter--only these
Could paint her all to you: experienced ease
And antique liveliness and ponderous grace;
The sweet old roses of her sunken face;
The depth and malice of her sly, grey eyes;
The broad Scots tongue that flatters, scolds, defies;
The thick Scots wit that fells you like a mace.
These thirty years has she been nursing here,
Some of them under Syme, her hero still.
Much is she worth, and even more is made of her.
Patients and students hold her very dear.
The doctors love her, tease her, use her skill.
They say 'The Chief' himself is half-afraid of her.
1.4k
Debilitating laughter
at the hands of a master
a ***** minded *******
who knows what he’s after
The ever subtle asker
he caresses and flatters
his clever patter shatters
cares that should matter.
Finally, we moved to extract her
the wobbling girl from Nebraska
from a drunken fraternal disaster
and the junior poised to shaft her
Uhh, sorry to interrupt
Anna, pick her up her stuff
We gotta go home *** get up
Hey bud, touch ME and you’re ******
*** you’ve had too much ***
when tomorrow comes
if you still want to slum
you can still bed the ***
We’re waiting for an Uber
Are you starting to sober?
No babe, you didn’t screw-up
Ughh, yep, she threw up.
Feb 2, 2022
Feb 2, 2022 at 5:03 AM UTC
Beloved atrocity flatters me by any means
Dearly dishonored twist in the mind creepily transmits chills down the spine
Alter-ego of eerie grotesque underneath opposites where lay secrets kept
Wicked distortion of rise and fall like morning and night
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 12:03 PM UTC
After the movie, when the lights come up,
He takes her powdered hand behind the wings;
She, all in yellow, like a buttercup,
Lifts her white face, yearns up to him, and clings;
And with a silent, gliding step they move
Over the footlights, in familiar glare,
Panther-like in the Tango whirl of love,
He fawning close on her with idiot stare.
Swiftly they cross the stage. O lyric ease!
The drunken music follows the sure feet,
The swaying elbows, intergliding knees,
Moving with slow precision on the beat.
She was a waitress in a restaurant,
He picked her up and taught her how to dance.
She feels his arms, lifts an appealing glance,
But knows he spent last evening with Zudora;
And knows that certain changes are before her.
The brilliant spotlight circles them around,
Flashing the spangles on her weighted dress.
He mimics wooing her, without a sound,
Flatters her with a smoothly smiled caress.
He fears that she will someday queer his act;
Feeling his anger. He will quit her soon.
He nods for faster music. He will contract
Another partner, under another moon.
Meanwhile, 'smooth stuff.' He lets his dry eyes flit
Over the yellow faces there below;
Maybe he'll cut down on his drinks a bit,
Not to annoy her, and spoil the show. . .
Zudora, waiting for her turn to come,
Watches them from the wings and fatly leers
At the girl's younger face, so white and dumb,
And the fixed, anguished eyes, ready for tears.
She lies beside him, with a false wedding-ring,
In a cheap room, with moonlight on the floor;
The moonlit curtains remind her much of spring,
Of a spring evening on the Coney shore.
And while he sleeps, knowing she ought to hate,
She still clings to the lover that she knew,-
The one that, with a pencil on a plate,
Drew a heart and wrote, 'I'd die for you.'
1.2k
This pareidolia grips me
with fingers made of nothing
Clouds can’t lie, just are
and what I choose to see is mine
Whether this weather flatters or chides
is all inside, inside
Jul 18, 2021
Jul 18, 2021 at 10:24 AM UTC
When you know it's not you
Then you’ve known another
But is it friend or foe
For you or against you
Your saviour or jailer
Your master or helper
It may oppose but it's not enemy
It rather flatters for pride leads to fall
Perhaps it's neither for you nor your foes
But for itself as it befits its own
If asked it will say it is what it is
And what another may say I don't know
Aug 8, 2024
Aug 8, 2024 at 1:04 AM UTC
"I am so proud of you."
It's been a while since I've heard those words directed towards me.
I am truly touched.
I walk away, with a confident grin stretched across my face.
I'll seeya tomorrow buddy!
The truth is that I am proud of him for even being around to stand there and say those words to me, as cliché as it sounds.
I am also incredibly grateful that he took the time to share his secret with me.
He is one of my best friends, regardless of everything that's been happening lately.
I know that he will be there for me in the years to come, as I will be there for him.
What's two years of difference with a connection as strong as ours?
He inspires me, he flatters me.
He makes me feel better about myself, in my moments of weakness.
He supports me, he cares about me.
He embraces me, in multiple ways, so I hug him right back...
And, suddenly, I don't feel all that weak.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 5:45 PM UTC
After the movie, when the lights come up,
He takes her powdered hand behind the wings;
She, all in yellow, like a buttercup,
Lifts her white face, yearns up to him, and clings;
And with a silent, gliding step they move
Over the footlights, in familiar glare,
Panther-like in the Tango whirl of love,
He fawning close on her with idiot stare.
Swiftly they cross the stage. O lyric ease!
The drunken music follows the sure feet,
The swaying elbows, intergliding knees,
Moving with slow precision on the beat.
She was a waitress in a restaurant,
He picked her up and taught her how to dance.
She feels his arms, lifts an appealing glance,
But knows he spent last evening with Zudora;
And knows that certain changes are before her.
The brilliant spotlight circles them around,
Flashing the spangles on her weighted dress.
He mimics wooing her, without a sound,
Flatters her with a smoothly smiled caress.
He fears that she will someday queer his act;
Feeling his anger. He will quit her soon.
He nods for faster music. He will contract
Another partner, under another moon.
Meanwhile, 'smooth stuff.' He lets his dry eyes flit
Over the yellow faces there below;
Maybe he'll cut down on his drinks a bit,
Not to annoy her, and spoil the show. . .
Zudora, waiting for her turn to come,
Watches them from the wings and fatly leers
At the girl's younger face, so white and dumb,
And the fixed, anguished eyes, ready for tears.
She lies beside him, with a false wedding-ring,
In a cheap room, with moonlight on the floor;
The moonlit curtains remind her much of spring,
Of a spring evening on the Coney shore.
And while he sleeps, knowing she ought to hate,
She still clings to the lover that she knew,--
The one that, with a pencil on a plate,
Drew a heart and wrote, 'I'd die for you.'
999
#Preface:
*This is not a lullaby. This is not a soft whisper meant to soothe. It is the fire of wholeness, burning away the fragments, the lies, and the false comforts that keep you small. There are voices that call shadow safe, that wear the mask of care, but scatter you with every syllable. There are whispers that paint the Light as harm--
when all along,
it was only asking you to remember what you were before you broke.*
---
There is a place within the soul
where silence sharpens—
a thin line
between what heals
and what holds.
Dark does not storm the gates—
*it whispers.
It flatters.
It fragments.*
It wraps comfort around confusion
until the soul forgets
what it was made for.
It comes dressed in care—
as though it exists for her well-being.
And once she believes this,
its voice becomes the plumb line—
and the Light begins to look like harm.
Light does not chase.
It stands—
unyielding,
bright,
asking only that you come whole.
But she could not rise
without tearing
from the softness
that held her shattered--
It came not with fury,
but with hush..
a hush that mimicked care,
whispered warmth
into her wound,
and called itself safe.
Its words made her flinch from clarity,
taught her to turn
from the ache
that never lied.
So she sat
at the edge of her wound,
fed on honeyed lies,
unable to stand
before the fire
that would have made her whole.
The venom stayed warm.
The light remained still.
*And the silence in between
was not yet a verdict—*
***only the shape
of a war still being named.***
#
May 1, 2025
May 1, 2025 at 2:48 PM UTC