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emily mikkelsen Apr 2017
between the concrete river
& the park where the bums share a bottle
wrapped in a brown paper sack,

there is a cul-de-sac of plastic houses
holding hands & sharing manicured lawns
wooden cars that don't even make any smoke
drive down gray asphalt streets.

fathers that tell mothers they have jobs
wear down street corners sharing beers with the bums,
like they already are one.

all these paper families rubbing shoulders
until everyone has paper cuts.
going home to dinner around a table full of paper love.

suburbia is flimsy
paper towns shining white
smiling neighbors & shared lawns
paper people slowly falling apart.

couples with their tongues down each other's throats,
midnight in supermarket parking lots
dribbling beer in the backseat
they bought off the bums.  

they say,
I love you, I love you, I love you.
until she leaves for a paper husband
& he leaves for a paper wife.

now they live on two separate cul-de-sacs
with the same cutout love,
as the parents they despised.

& when they have kids one day
they will tell them
never kiss before driving,
never befriend bums,
or guzzle cheap beer in backseats,
or on park swings.
& never settle for a paper husband
or a paper wife.


remembering the love
that was flimsy,
but never paper.

100,000 miles away from where they grew up
& 3,000 miles away from each other
3 kids each & plastic houses
rubbing shoulders & sharing lawns

living in a paper thin suberbia
chafing under their paper love.
inspired by "Paper Towns" by John Green
L B Jul 2018
Writing,
for you
--is a river
a revelation
a sleepless constant gift-- so out-to-see
in a flimsy boat
you built by mathematic rote and laced with ivy
to hold together ******* boards of crazy
with the ease of breathing
Your giant storehouse
wealth-of-words
Your granary of data
the grist of
Music
You imagine wine
from mind
almost without limits
You command it all!
Dancing
in the grapes of moonlight
with tides of words
Their endless-- almost blind
come-ons and gone
in waves!

(my sullen heart)....
still stays

I am digging here
in a low spot
seeking water
with robins and a sparrow
in the puddles
Awaiting rain
Flipping-off the muddy shallows with our wings
I suppose their songs
will count for something
Tasting happenstance
of bugs in flight
maybe catch a firefly or two
at the edge of day
Tearing half a worm
from weeds...the brown of drying grass
near the small lagoon
collecting
'neath my car
Hiding
in an afternoon
too warm for flight
resorting to a place of shade
to smell the fresh-mown
sweet grass

Riding with my training-wheels
in the parade
Like a fool between those bikers' “Hogs”
Turning down my street
by mistake
laughing at the dead-end
of it all

Pulling poetry out my ***
_
This was not meant to make fun of you.
I so admire your writing (you know who).
I appreciate all you do for us, poets here.  
It was only meant to contrast
all our differences, and point out that anything can be
a poem, given a moment of insight and time.
This one took a morning into afternoon.


Items for a high school test:

1. Compare and contrast the two poets in this.

2. Find and explain two allusions/metonymies in this piece.
Lot May 2017
Every queen must have a throne,
but mine is cheap and flimsy.
A plastic chair made in China,
worth less than a dollar,
swaying under my weight.
To stay from falling,
whenever I sit,
I keep myself light and fit.
I stay perched in reticence,
balancing the paper crown
upon my jaded head.
As tendrils of brown hair,
fall to the floor in plain.
Hands and feet crossed,
bound in leather and chains.
Try not to be your own worst enemy.
JayceeJellies Nov 2014
I put my head down on my pillow at night,
I smile as I close my eyes.
Because I know that I don't have to feel frightened.
Because Slendy's peeping, keeping close eyes on me all the time.

Slendy knows, I'm only five.
Just like he knows my brother Johnny is nine.
But Johnny doesn't like Slendy too much.
He says he's scarey and frightens him to the touch.

But I like Slendy.
I've told him every time.
Slendy means no harm!
That's why I don't hide.

"Come now child"
I hear Slendy call,
He's waving his arms,
So flimsy and long..

They don't scare me though.
Because I know that Slendy's my friend.
Not a ******.

"JANE!"

Slendy starts to move away,
I move towards him in such a sudden daze,
But I hear my mommy keep calling my name.

"JANE!"

I look away from Slendy to see her running to me.
"What are you doing?" I asked her as she picked me up,
As she held me Slendy vanished.
He was gone.

That was the last time I saw him.
But I know he's watching me,
Slendy always talks to me.
So, I felt like writing a story and a poem at the same time. This sort of just came out. Feel free to tell me your opinions.
Homunculus Jul 2016
A few days ago, North Korea said that the imposition of sanctions by the United States amounted to an open "declaration of war" and went on to state that in response to military exercises to be carried out by the US and South Korean armies, that they are "fully ready to cope with them with nuclear weapons any time,” Okay. Let me just make one thing abundantly clear: these jokers have been talking this game for the last four decades, and it has all amounted to precisely nil

As regards Kim Jong-Un, I will ask that I be excused by my reader for the brief detour into contemporary African-American Vernacular English that this piece will now take. (crack knuckles, clear throat, hawk phlegm, adjust junk) Dear Kim: You ain't ****. *******, and your little ***** *** on some old *******. You ain't ****, you ain't never gon' be ****, and you never was ****. Furthermore, you ain't standin' on **** but a failed state and a fast-fading personality cult. All we hear is talk, talk, talk, talk, every year from you and your decrepit, syphilis riddled father before you; and quite frankly, it's getting old. Boring, even.

Do it, we dare you. See what happens, you glorified, overfed man-baby. You blurry greyscale xerox of Mao's bloated corpse. You, who have mistook a flimsy house of cards for an ironclad fortress. You naked emperor. You, whose very 'empire' is the deformed and emaciated plant which reluctantly sprang from a salted and desolate earth. You, whose 'hermit kingdom' constantly shrinks toward zero while the entire world watches, laughing!

We rest assured of the emptiness your threats. We can topple your house of cards at the flick of a wrist. In one fell swoop, our elite tactical urban forces will subvert and destroy your poorly trained, weakly organized, and honestly pitiful excuse for a nation. Why, if we wanted it, you'd be gone in a New York minute. And don't even try to come at us with tough talk about nukes. *****, we been had nukes, and here's the thing: ours are bigger, better, and more numerous than yours. You push that button, and we bomb your sorry little ***** back into the stone. You EMP us, our allies bomb you for us. Bearing all these considerations in mind, I once again reiterate:

WE AIN'T SCARED OF YOU. COME TEST US!

(drop mic, walk away)
But in all seriousness: There's just something deep down in the collective consciousness of this country, perhaps even humanity generally, that secretly yearns, that requires, desires, and *pines away* for the glorious spectacle of the theater of war, isn't there? Something in us seems, beneath a surface layer of fear, to ask, nay to *implore* with all the swaggering braggadocio of a drunken frat boy: "Fight me. I dare you. See what happens." That subconscious, primal need to attain brute superiority in outward, tribalistic displays of dominance projects itself onto the global stage: But how, then, are we to understand this mechanism, and what are some of its consequences? Upon closer inspection, we will find the practical consequences of this act to be twofold. On the one hand: By generating this spectacle, the media are able to use it as a tool for maintaining within the public a mixture of frenzy at one pole and detached complacency at the other. By giving them a violent conflict to participate in vicariously, the war at once (a) creates for them an abstract, nationalistic identity, (b) sublimates their violent impulses, and (c) distracts their attention away from the material conditions of life in the country where the spectacle is being broadcast; effectively stifling the imperative to rebel against those conditions where they might otherwise have been taken as unjust. War pacifies, war stupefies, and above all war unifies. On the other hand, the previously mentioned tendency to outwardly display dominance serves as an effective means for geopolitical elites and those striving to be such, to affirm reaffirm their hegemony on the world stage by making ****** examples of those that would presume to cross them. In this regard, there is perhaps no greater or more apt an example than the twin bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki in the second world war.

There is much more to be said about these matters in seriousness, but for the sake of brevity, I leave it here.
DuBray Aug 2018
The mist
Presses
On my chest
Like omnipotence
While I'm a blank thesis
With a flimsy existence
Tommy Randell Mar 29
Confidential friends
Accidental Lovers
No coincidence then
We stopped calling each other

Started cryptic texting
So no-one would know
Families unsuspecting
Our perfect dumb-show

Until in the end
Even we were fooled
As confidential friends
We broke our own private rules

When being together
Was no longer enough
When the rooms we shared
Became prisons of Love

Sad to relate
It was a flimsy affair
Joy turning to hate
Impossible to bear

A story long old
Of confidential friends
The heat gone cold
Just a game of dare in the end
Ben Jones Apr 2017
When the funding is cut
So the hospitals shut
That’s a Tory
When the poverty bites
And you lose human rights
That’s a Tory
Such excess
Better reassess
Better repossess
Better get yourself private healthcare
Overtaxed if you work
Unemployed? Then you're scrounging on welfare

When there’s bigoted views
Blatant lies on the news
That’s a Tory
When the biggest and best
Are too rich to arrest
That’s a Tory
But they’re lax
Covering the cracks
Never paying tax
Claiming everything on expenses
They can steal with a smile
While they peddle their flimsy defences

When they're guilty of fraud
And they're banking abroad
That's a Tory
If they're selling your school
When 'austere' means 'cruel'
That's a Tory
Too much spin
Slogan and a grin
Wearing pretty thin
Bussing people in to applaud them
Any law can be bought
If you're well off enough to afford them

That's all folks and remember, you can't spell Theresa May without heresy

**
Sheldon Dsouza Jul 2016
This one time I entered a store,
Something to better my body sore.
Partied a little too hard the other day,
Oh so in bed I wanted to stay.

I worked my way to the green aisle,
Sunglasses on, I walked in a zombie style.
Searching for lemons with bloodshot eyes,
Always dreaded “the morning after” exercise.

As I tried to hold myself my rather flimsy frame together,
I heard a sweet voice say "Can I help you sir???"
I raised my head in a confused fashion,
Limes I said spinning my fingers in a circular motion.

She chuckled at me in a rather bubbly way,
This little miss handed me lemons right away,
"Have a cup of coffee it'll do you better!" she said,
Smiling at her over there I stood as my heart bled.

Her apple red cheeks soft and plump,
And her wavy hair was enough for me to stump.
She wasn’t the prettiest of all I agreed,
As she picked up the limes I dropped, I paid all heed.

She seemed to have noticed me right then,
Handed me the limes and blushed again.
I was so charmed with her welcoming nature,
"Let’s get me that coffee?!" I said like a hopeless creature.

Perplexed she stood there for a while,
"I'm working" she said with a hesitant smile.
I knew the store owner there, a good old friend,
For a day's off he agreed to lend.

I told her to get her apron off and grab her bag,
"Let's go" she said as she got off her name tag.
I adjusted my glasses as we crossed the sunny street,
We brushed hands occasionally as we smiled at passer-by’s to greet.

We got our coffee and grabbed a corner seat,
I smiled at her as my heart skipped a beat.
"What do you see in me?", she asked.
"You're beautiful Sunshine!”, I said as in her beauty as I basked.

"But I’m not all that slim and pretty", she mumbled in a sad tone,
"It’s just extra layers of cuteness sweetheart", that’s a fact known.
She cried and cribbed telling me about her situation,
How she tries to fit in a society that treated her case as a deformation.

She stood out of the crowd for me though,
The more we talked the more she raised my brow.
My thoughts and hers were an exact match,
Like old long off friends we did attach.

Intact our frequencies matched oh so quick,
We were left to wonder if it was some kind of sorcery or trick.
I understood her and she understood me,
May be we were meant to be.

I had searched in all the wrong places,
Investing my time in lean figures and noisy places.
Right then I learnt that love is not determined by rules nor is beauty by figures,
It’s that tingly feeling in your toes and in your fingers.
Caio Consoli Mar 2018
She is Dark
Just like Night
Left a Mark
In my Heart
~
She is Art
As a Dove
Took a Part
From Above
~
She is Love
With no Hate
It will Shove
In my Fate
~
She is Great
She’s not Flawed
Through the Gate
I will Laud
~
Is she God?
That's not Fair
I'm not Odd
There's a Flare!

~

With Black Hair
I shall Loath
She won't Care
If i Growth
~
With Black Clothe
Guess who'll Lose
I'll Quoth
''Red and Blues''
~
With Black Shoes
She's my Goal
Her I Choose
For my Poll
~
With Black Soul
She'll get Crazy
In a Whole
Gets me Flimsy
~
When I'm Drowsy
We'll Freakout
And in Frenzy
Gives me Blackout.
My lover
"You're cold."

  He said as he took her hands and he couldn't be more right and wrong at the same time. Her gaze simply fell to her feet as she let the silence envelop her. She felt cold, her soul quivering somewhere in the corner of her heart, obscuring its rhythmic beat and creating a swell of off tempo chaos in her veins. Her memory of his whispers were akin to the sudden rush of wind that hit her skin, wet with the storm of tears and caused chills to cascade their way across her body.
  
  But he was wrong, it wasn't she who was cold, it was him who was stealing everything that made her warm. Coaxing her with his silver tongue, murmuring the words he knows she wants to hear, testing his skill and bringing her to the edge of the flimsy fortress she calls defense, to where she's just barely out of his reach, a paper thin wall separating his will from hers, and he nearly giggles in delight when he causes her to tear it down herself, like a spider tearing down its own web.
  
  But of course that isn't enough, not when she's standing there, all walls down, vulnerable and tender, her heart so soft he could cut right through it with just his fingernails, and Hell be ****** itself if he wasn't the slightest bit temped to try because he knows how easily he can, like shoving a pin through a butterfly, simple and smooth, and it'd be so interesting to see her squirm. But instead he's interested in how far he can cause her to do it to herself.  
  
  All he has to do is let a few of his venomous words drip from his teeth, promising he isn't like everyone else (because he isn't of course, no one else would be this thrilled to watch her crumble so slowly ), that he understands, understands that she's so incredibly weak, and that her heart is so big it oozes to the surface of her skin for everyone to see, and it's so **** easy that she must be begging for it, and suddenly he's caught her and he loves it.
  
  She's hanging on every word as if he's holding happiness over her head, but this is boring him, he wants to see what makes her tick, how she is the way she is, so it's time to step up his game. He moves his hand from hers and slides it up her arm, resting ever so gently on her shoulder as his other hand moves to her waist, and as if to further prove his point about how she basically wears her heart as her skin it turns a rosy shade of pink, and sends its pulse so strongly he can feel it. He lets his breath ghost across her susceptible ears and pulls her against him as he gives his orders.

"Strip."
  
And she does.

First go the clothes, but her skin isn't what he's interested in, and he makes it very clear with the expecting look he gives her, so she goes again,tearing skin from muscle one piece as a time. He knows it must be painful, from the tears pouring from her eyes and how the exposed muscle throbs with its raw appearance, and yet the look of concentration on her face just pulls him in more, and yet it still just isn't enough, and finally that red disgusting throbbing ****** mess is pulled away to expose her shining ivory bones. He can't help but marvel in how gracefully they curve, the very core of her frame standing before him, she's completely bare with nothing left to expose, and that gorgeous  pearly figure before him is only more defined by the red  heart that's left behind those ribs, as it pulses and drips and beckons him with each flutter.
  
  It glistens like a slimy rotting apple, and it couldn't be anything more since it belongs to her. But you know what they say, fruit is always the sweetest just before it goes bad, and it's too tempting for him to not take a bite. And he couldn't help but marvel at how warm it was, or the sudden chills dancing down his spine.
the hurt you give her won't bother her tranquil mind
nor will it take away the happiness in her heart that resides

she has practiced this way too many times
she's numb to the touch of silver piercing the flimsy flesh time by time

no wonder why she's unfazed by irreverent lovers
she's always been dependent on her needles
to clean up her gloomy mess

she sews every broken bit
until there's no piece left

she likes playing with needles
to relieve emotional stress

letting the pointy tip caress
every hurt that left her a wreck
Mohamed Nasir Oct 2017
A
balloon
flimsy and flat
when I blow and I blow it'll grow
and grow
till
balloon
full and fat
fastened by a thread
full of air fat as a cat
balloons
bouncing in the wind dancing like daffodils
bumping one another never cease to thrill
never knowing each other and never will
when I let
a balloon go
it'll float up up far into the air
until I can't see it floating any more
anywhere
I take
another one
and I blow and I blow it'll grow
and grow
as fat as a cat
then I let the air out
and watch it go
like a rocket
swiveling all around
swoosh hiss and shout
and fall on the ground
flimsy and flat
balloons are good at that
I love to play with balloons when I was a small boy I'll blow it and let it go
and I'll do it again and again
GulRukh Apr 2018
He is long gone
but I am here, right here where He left
at the same place where we first meet
where our love grew
where we look at each other from far corner
where He stole my number from record room
because He was too scared to talk to me
where we always walk pass each other like none of us exist
where I envy His intelligence
and He love my attitude
where He told me that He love me when the first time He lay His eyes on me
where I fight Him over little things
and He say sorry for my mistakes
where I wait for little glimpse of His presence
where He protect me from bad people
where I can rely on Him with my eyes close
where I woo perfection of His athletic body
and He make fun of my flimsy existence
where we make promises
where He leave me because people talk about us
because people will talk **** about me
because we have no future together
because we belong to different worlds
because our religions were different
but I am still standing there
waiting for Him
where we first fall for each other
Endless waiting for the Love of my life and I can wait forever
Juhlhaus Jun 14
You neatly told me
That your muse is more a student
Of mountain writing
Than of poems; the way they go in
And out, all natural and deserted.

How otherwise can one know
The heart of the matter than
To isolate the heart, at least
For a moment or several, with
What remains of earth and air?

Leave it alone without water.
Send it into the woods with nothing but
A flimsy packet of beef jerky,
No swimwear, and hope
That the sky doesn't pour itself in riot.

So be ready for anything with
The grace to let the self be
Washed, dunked in a lake
Of coffee to emerge what it could
Have been from the beginning.
Written as a round-robin with one of my favorite fellow poets.
Light my fuse
I won't refuse
when drowning in hues of blue
Don't accuse
this ain't a ruse
just diffuse this abuse
I will unloose
from this slipnoose
get rid of your flimsy excuse

-Esther L. Krenzin-
-Roguesong-
Ashley Kaye Jul 3
Your beauty may birth from shaved legs
red clown lips, gaudy eyeshadow
flimsy black crumbles beneath
your eyelid
You are ****-sun-kissed;
I am opaque.
Blotches of color
Lighten my smile

cheekbones never as sharp
as your words
July 2019
In my New Day I arose from my
screen-tent-squirrel-hole-flimsy-bomb-shelter-for-my-soul
and walked down to the banks of the Missinabi River
at the Mattice Landing
with dog’s leash in one hand and my right hand
leading lady’s in the other, hearing and feeling tall grass
swishing against my pant legs
and the crunch of course sand under my feet
that once trod fields of green tall grasses swishing
against my pant legs in the meadows and rocky woods of
my childhood and youth where I spent summers working

at my Aunt and Uncle's farm in
New Liskeard, Ontario and in the woods and along the banks
of the Lackawanna River just over the **** behind
the house of my childhood and youth in the Anthracite coal
country of Northeastern Pennsylvania, which is light years away from the land of my birth where I now live in this Northern Ontario port in the middle of a deep
                                     cold sea of countless
                                     converging
                                     never-ending
rivers
lakes
trees
swamps
bogs
muskeg
and mountains of snow
where snow white and black flies freely fly.

I am always trying to go deeper into the trees and bush
burning deep inside my heart of hearts to follow the Moses
that is in all of us. This eternal Voice in pebbles crunching
under foot and tall grasses swishing and canoe parting
water that flows deep in my mind and spirit once only
winding past burning villages where man rapes and pillages
but now also following a more
pastoral             idyllic             and super-natural course.?

A vagabond never quite understands the working-class
woman and man living their small dream with their offspring and slice of land. I thought they were all ostrich with head in sand. But I now see that we can't all afford to brood as I often do over the daily news. They must rise early the next morning, alarm clocks not set on snooze.                                             
Work ethic
Family hearth and home?
Days of scent
of freshly mown grass  ?
barbeques                                          
camp­fires  ?
coffee brewing  ?
children playing  ?
TV and music blaring ?
dishes rattling
in sink or
swim in the lake.?

Loosen the watertight mind drum and just dive into the
crunch of pebbles under foot treading fields of green tall
grasses swishing against pant legs. Not only wishing
but going deeper into the trees and bush burning
speaking to our primeval consciousness.
This eternal Voice in pebbles crunching and tall grasses
swishing . . . ??
The whooshing sound of wading in a stream streams
through my soul as I savour the body taste of wet gritty sand ?
between my fingers and toes, crouched down wet-crotch deep waiting long enough for minnows to tickle fingers and toes as mosquito’s pin-prickle skin.
Watching creatures much smaller than I gliding,
even walking on calm still water that we humans can only dream of doing in our motorised  sleep.??

I think I now understand . . . to not be constantly mourning the plight of man isn't being ostrich with head in sand.
I must keep gunning-off addictions alluring stare.

I must taste life
    Smell and feel life
        Enjoy life outside of my troubled mind

against the backdrop of the latest holy war
and the imploding creations of our kind.

--Daniel Irwin Tucker
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