"fluently" poems
I have a bit of a lisp.
It's not too noticeable,
but sometimes it catches my tongue
and the next thing I know
i'm linking my words together
as if I fluently speak one of the 'love' languages.
Let me tell you,
there is nothing attractive about your S's and th's
blending together as if you were a snake.
When it happens I just want to lower myself to the floor
and slither away on my belly
and go and hide.
But I will take the embarrassment
of getting tongue tied
as long as I never have to tell anyone,
a final good bye.
Because good bye's are forever.
To be continued...
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 8:08 PM UTC
to the hometown i hate,
i miss seeing the october sunrise while taking the train to school every morning
to the hometown i hate,
i miss being able to wear uggs, hats and scarves already at the end of september,
to the hometown i hate,
i miss being able to buy 90 cent face masks and my favorite protein bars at the drugstore 10 minutes away from me
to the hometown i hate,
i miss seeing the porsches and mercedes c-classes parked on the curbes of our sidewalks
to the hometown i hate,
i miss the quietness of my area
to the hometown i hate,
i miss being able to speak a language i know fluently, not worrying about the anxiety i get if i get into a complicated situation
to the hometown i hate,
i miss running in the quiet, clean, green forest next to us
to the hometown i hate,
i miss sleeping in my own bed, in the room i did not like
to the hometown i hate,
i miss being able to go to my fully-equipped kitchen and bake whenever i want to, which i complained was too small until i moved into my dorm
to the hometown i hate,
i miss you
Oct 31, 2021
Oct 31, 2021 at 3:26 AM UTC
I want you in your purest form
celebrate your freedom, Goddess
because
what's the perfect gift, if its never been unwrapped?
maintaining my composure
only to align my truths with your contour
see, I prefer you **** and clothed at the same time
Bare it all to me
without removing a single article of clothing
reveal to me
those beautiful scars
that you got centuries ago
although
they never fully healed at all
Guide me to those beauty marks in the most unseen places
until now
I Imagine myself
carefully kissing careless bruises
left by shameless past lovers
Be real **** for me
no where to hide secrets when you're completely naked
There is a canvas between your thighs
it brings out the artist in me
and the art of your naked soul attracts me
to want to know more
Sentiments of what you've learn to conceal
from others
you show to me
transparency in your bareness
as you impose
fearlessly
carelessly
freely
fluently
in your 'NUDITY'
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 1:45 AM UTC
a quote of Bernard-Henri Lévy
~~~
the divers’ recovery, diverse,
shipwrecked salvage from different locations,
auctioned to the highest bidder,
tho the excised excerpts are exceptional,
none come to do the bidding,
for the provenance of words
belongs to all, and to none
~~
“so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction”
“the addicted pleasure words granted to we privileged few,
like every enslaved soul to the mind, which I am, I am,
evening dreams, midnight thinkings, sunrise seeings,
how can I infect and thus protect the young to the liberty
to love the crafted content of our human essence to better
comprehend that a moment caught on tape of our shared
words is a holiday, a celebration for the ages...and every molecule,
becomes a human tuning fork in concert, in pitch identical, in blood tainted with the simplicity of we are all the same, only words, this will transmit”
“murmur me, with soft downy charms,
these words discovered
recoursed and intended well to
pointedly offset and contradict
their very own tumultuous discovery uncovering,
tear tongue me
with calming, lapping word wages,
hymns harmonious and fine homilies,
a call, a request,
a bequest
to sedate my shrill life
“some cells, microscopic, preserved digitally,
aged to imperfection, thrash my eyes,
making me speak in tongues I do not recognize,
but fluently possess, no wonder there,
the memory place fairly empty,
room aplenty for passerby's and the imagery
of the vaguest of dearly departed
skin is not the only mot shed,
sloughing of woeful words”
“speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor these words at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them”
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 4:55 AM UTC
I read your body like a language
one I spoke so fluently
it could have been my native one.
Your eyes held codes I longed to decipher
and your mouth patterns
I wanted to trace.
I saw your skin like it was a map drawn just for me
every mole an indication
of where my lips were to travel next.
But you were still growing and soon you were out of my reach,
a new map replaced the old
and a new lover was found to match.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
I was three years out of high school and finally getting
the chance to grow up. I’d been ready since before
graduation day. Everybody in the world was certain
that I would fail. I couldn’t succeed. Thanks for the vote
of confidence. I am proving them wrong. I’m succeeding,
maybe not thriving, but succeeding right before their very eyes.
Success is living on my own. Being able to do every household
chore on my own. Success is getting myself to and from where
I need to be in my broken down, beat up wheelchair. Success
is budgeting my money each month. Success is not getting killed
and ***** on my walk home from work in the dark. Success is
living up to their standards and way of life. Success is faking a smile.
I’ve learned more about life in the last eight months than ever before.
I’ve made mistakes, just like they said I would. What they didn’t count
on was me learning from those mistakes and picking up the pieces.
They told me I wouldn’t last more than a month, six weeks at the most.
I would ***** up, fail miserably, get hurt and hospitalized. Thank you
for the boost of self-esteem. It’s made me tougher than steel.
I may not be the perfect student, skinny blonde ***** award winning
page designer or most eloquent writer. I may not speak Spanish fluently,
have loads of extra cash lying around or a motorized, state of the art
wheelchair. Stop telling me what I need. I don’t need or want any of them.
Success is living how I want to live. Success is a productive day when I want
nothing but hot tea and soft music. Success is having the confidence to ask
for help when I’ve been told I shouldn’t. Success is making friends who can
read through my masquerade. Success is facing the consequences. Success is
found through red ink marks and piles of papers. Success is not letting those
who don’t believe in me get the best of me. Success is sunshine on a cloudy day
Aug 9, 2010
Aug 9, 2010 at 9:29 PM UTC
I'm jealous of Anna
Green with envy
But as they say
Green is not a creative color.
Why can't I be as pretty as she is
Why can't the boys fawn over me
Why can't I play
Three different instruments
Why can't I speak five languages
Three of which fluently
Why can't I be good at
Volleyball, Tennis, and Running
Why can't I look as good
In a bikini as she does
Why can't I realize
That the truth is
Anna is jealous of me too
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 8:39 PM UTC
Or, at least what you might think.
Judgement hurts in too many ways to count.
I stand in the local thrift market
looking for trinkets and such with my father.
He came here to look for vintage picture frames,
to put up on our pastel coloured walls.
He brought me to be a translator,
of his broken english.
I see the looks some give him,
but I am proud of my father.
And mad at how our society works.
Looking at my father you think,
he probably only knows his own mother tongue,
no education,
bad manners,
had lived in poverty before.
But you are wrong.
An Italian man sits by this booth,
selling picture frames.
I point and tell my father, and he walks over.
"How much for frames?"
I taught him how to say that well enough.
The Italian man says fluently,
"$40 a piece,"
but behind it you can hear a faint Italian accent.
My father hears this and his face lights up,
and he replies in Italian,
"Great, but can you lower it to $30. For me, man?"
The man seemed shocked to see a dark-skinned man,
speaks such fluent Italian.
The man got up with a smile on his face,
and told my father,
"Man, I was born in Italy, but you speak it better than me,"
My dad laughed.
Next time you see,
a strange man,
struggling with his english,
stop to think,
he might be able to speak to you in,
German. Italian. French. And in a tiny bit of Spanish.
And of course, his mother tongue.
He might have learned the culinary arts,
in a world-renounced school.
He might be able to do anything.
And he might even be a little more impressive,
than you will ever be.
Judgement hurts.
But all it takes is you to stop it.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 6:25 PM UTC
On the first day, he was pushed
robust in his stance, the other forced,
this boy down the spiral staircase
of the Catholic church, the school
had renovated, the Spring before
Isaac had begun his studies,
at the high school.
Ballet was his passion, Latin was the
language that so effortlessly, fluently
was spoken from his lips in class
as he smiled at his Professor, another
victory accomplished in academia
so proud were his parents, of their
blue eyed boy.
Jonah was the reject, the older brother
he had been kicked out of school,
not once, but twice, and was often
found with a joint, his unshaven face
wrapped around one of the girls,
from the all girls school that ran
alongside Isaacs all boys.
Issac was hurt, a further blow to his
stomach, rendered him broken
as a waterfall of tears ran down his
bruised and cut face, so ashamed
as other pupils laughed, staring, pointing
until the final bell rang as they fled from
the high ceilings and narrow corridors.
Wrapped in a ball, he waited for all
halls and students to clear, and as
he rolled over, picking himself up
he took to the washroom, knowing he
needed to be presentable for his mother
waiting for him at the school gate
brimming with pride, at her boys scholarship.
All his dreams, mystical and serene, Romeo and Juliet
fluid streams of poetry of Elliot, Poe, Hughes
and of course Wilde and those love letters of Beethoven
math, biology, all paled into insignificance
he was born a writer, a dancer, a drawer,
sketching and typing his heart to a page,
prose a future love would read.
Johan saw his mother's car pull up
as he raced and giggled with Saskia
leading her astray, he promised her all
the things those boys always did, and of course
not to break her sweet sixteen heart, unlike other boys
as his mother smoked another Camel, the two lovers
jumped into his truck, Johnny Cash blaring from speakers
laughing hysterically, the world at their feet.
By 4pm, Isaac was ready to leave school,
tentatively walking out the main door, down
concrete slabs as steps, no predators in sight
he couldn't hide the dark circles under his eyes
that formed as bruises, knowing he was fortunate
to have not been damaged further
by the haunting before last period.
Walking to the gates, he listened through
headphones; Tchaikovsky
his release
his home
his saving grace.
© Sia Jane
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
Dear Black girl
I love the graceful like movement of which you twirl
You are One of the only Real jewels in this delusional world
I love the Density of your mind and how it adds volume to the thickness of your Beautifully defined curls
I love the way The infinite comic skies glow within your diamond filled moonlight eyes
It’s like Watching the Sun set and Rise
You embrace your Inner G You speak your colorful native tongue in vibes
So fluently
Pure Energy
You Are A frequency and you flow to the wave of your own ride
Black Girl I love the way your bodacious figure carries that sacred space called heaven safely between your thunderous thighs
I love The way your skin gives life to that blissful Melanin that let’s the world know you were sculpted and crafted straight from the Divine’s hands and placed into the womb of heaven
You are A Joyous Blessin’
There’s No Guessin
A whole Garden, a Goodness Of Perfection
There’s no word or picture that can capture the Power of your Magnificent Essence
You carried this deep within the fibers of your being every since you were just an adolescent
A Temple Of Gold
Walking Tall and Bold
That no naked eye could behold
Just So **** Mesmerizing and Beautiful!
You’ve been chosen from the vine like grapes to unfermented wine.
Never to age but the savoring flavor of your nature’s nectar it just gets better over time!
Jul 16, 2019
Jul 16, 2019 at 9:48 AM UTC
Black & Yellow
– for Wiz Khalifa ✌
*“Stay high like I’m supposed to do, that crown
underneath them clouds, can’t get close to you.”*
On the first day, he was pushed.
Robust in stance, the other forced,
this boy down the marble stairs
of the Catholic church, the school
renovated the Summer before
Khalifa began his studies,
in junior high.
The ballet was his passion,
Latin was the language that so
fluently was spoken from
his lips. The Professor smiled,
another victory accomplished.
Khalifa’s mom was so proud of
her blue eyed boy.
Rapped in a ball, he waited
for all students & halls to clear.
Rolled over, picked himself up
took to the washroom, knowing
he needed to be presentable
for his mom stood at the school gate,
brimming with pride.
All of his dreams, mystical.
Don Quixote & The Nutcracker,
fluid streams of poetry;
Elliot, Poe, Wilde. The love
letters of Ludwig van Beethoven.
Born to dance all Principal roles,
a lovers’ prose.
By four, he was ready to
leave school. Tentatively walking,
no predators in sight, out
the main door. Leaving behind
a haunting first day. Listening to
Tchaikovsky; his release, his home,
his saving grace.
© Sia Jane
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 10:38 PM UTC
White and woolly
Cotton clouds
Fluently floating by
I take my time
I take a ****
Smoke rings
In the pines
In laughter free
Among the trees
Where echos begin to rhyme
Come and play
Long in the day
The Oak is in his's prime
.........
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 7:06 AM UTC
Strangely, your existence feels familiar
I think I've seen your face somewhere,
or was it your voice that I heard?
or was it your skin that I touched?
Are you sure this is our first meeting?
I'm not quite sure, though, but if it is,
why do I feel like my soul has known you forever?
why do I feel like my heart has been longing for you?
Well, I can't help but wonder,
when your deep brown eyes met mine anxiously
when your tongue spelled my name fluently
do you, by any chance, recognize me too?
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
I was just 16, nothing as it seemed, wasting days away, living in a dream.
Hands clasped tight, long walks through the night, the look in her eyes, I knew I had chosen right.
Took her in the field, kissin, coppin feels, decided it was time, oh god it was so real,
The rain beating down, clothes scattered around, and there under that old pine, tangled naked on the ground..
Her body rose and fell, and the aroma of her smell, the way she climbed on top, and rode me straight to hell,
The heat was raw intensity, and the scratches left on the back on me, juices flowing fluently.. I see it still so vibrantly.
Beauty still unmatched, oh my god what a catch, took over a year for me to get her on her back
But ohh was it ever worth the ride, I still smile inside, whenever I close me eyes
Still lights a fire inside..
Hard to believe it was both our first time, but I knew it was she was so tight inside, tangled, naked slip n slide.. My god that girl knew how to ride.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 8:46 PM UTC
I wish I could party with Leonardo DiCaprio
We'd be crazier than "The Wolf of Wall Street"
Johnny Depp would be there, too, riding in the backseat
He would come up and sit with Leo and I, at the party on the couch
And say "Arnie stop it, you're doing too much coke. AHA, just kidding now scoot over and let me have a blow."
After we'd wipe our noses, up we go
To dance, dance, dance and drink drinks that glow
Hours on end we would spend our money brutally
Because our money basically speaks english fluently
Yeah, Leonardo DiCaprio would be a badass friend
Johnny Depp too, we'd have too much fun in the end
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
or In One of the Bars in the City
You remind me about the brightest
spots here in the city. The spots that used to be your
memory, lavishing into the thought of the moon,
how it chiseled itself for the night to claim
it as its smile. So, this night, perhaps,
is a freckled smiling face. Your face
to be exact. How the stars scatter
correctly to form your freckles because
of your genes. Beautiful, sparkling
on the clean sheet of your skin.
Yes, this is how you remind me
about the city that seen and told
our story. How each wall of each skyscraper is
a page to tell a chapter. The flashing headlights
of each vehicle, how they became our crayons.
We are merely children playing, drawing pictograms
on counter doors. I mentioned skyscrapers. I was wrong;
there were no skyscrapers in Manila. Only in Makati.
But that never changes the fact
of this city, an open book for all of those
muggy nights when you religiously
places your lips against mine and eventually
against my skin; when you first made friction
talk. And it spoke every language I knew so fluently
that even our moans are words fit
for a poem. Ridiculous, jaded, fading,
but still, this mug of beer sparkle against the spotlights
of this bar. And yes, you are
sparkling like a city so alive
at the dead of night.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
I love love, I love hate, I love love before it's love, I love love after it dies
I love sunny days, I love rainy days, I love overcast , and I love the snow
I love walking, I love breathing,
I love listening I love speaking
I love interactions with factions upon factions and I truly love being alone
I love the rich, I love the poor, I love Liberals and Conservatives
I love they got meanings of the terms twisted and preach so vehemently about the superiority of their ideology
I love those who speak logically, I love those who listen, I love words that were written to be spoken, and those that were just to be written
I love racists, I love blacks, I love whites, and every ethnicity with any pigmentation that falls between them or against them
I love all cultures equally, And I love cultures that hold themselves to a higher esteem than other cultures
I love Cops and I love Criminals, I love Order and alcoholics and crack addicts who just keep gettin back at it with bare minimals
I love Devote Christians, I love Krampus, I love Christmas,
I love Baphomets, I love Marvin Gaye, I love The Doors Greatest Hit list
I love Batman, I love the Joker,
I love marijuana, and both those who are and are not avid smokers
I love the freedoms I enjoy everyday and I love that men are systematically taught to hate me on a spiritual level with such passion that they would strap a bomb to their chest just to end my existence
I love the Persistence, Of time, Life, Movement, The Cosmos, and I love that it keeps on existing so fluently that we feel almost lucidly that our existence is significant =)
I love the inquisitive look in the eyes of babies asking questions without the means to ask questions that, in due time, will only be answered by questions and answers that evoke much larger questions. And I love both those questions and the appropriate answers.
I love those with and without an appreciation for the nonsensical
I love you
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 7:22 PM UTC
I do not mean you as a metaphorical you, however "you" as in an undoubtable "you".
"You" may not see the panes it break. When "you" say my name my heart does wince with sweet, sweet soliloquy. When you hark my name, I turn away from the audience of strangers, and direct my speech unwavering toward "you". Now "you", with unwavering focus, hear my words back, ringing in "your" ear. "You" are the one. "You" my new-soul does love to hear speak. In silence "you" are a beautiful picture: with "your" hair long and brown, "your" eyes glowing green, "your" lips like pillows for my lips to dream. And when my dreams do meet their reality, "you" will fill my soul with sweet, sweet music.
Syllables leep and frolic off "your" tongue as children do play, in adolescent beauty and wonderment, in the fields of sping-time. They seem to adhere to "your" mind in both articulation and in reckless abandonment; they flow from "your" mouth like sweet, sweet sound in waves unbroken by thought (though I know "you" think before "you" speak).
Other me's may not hear the sounds that I do when "you" laugh, and giggle, and emote your beliefs. They may not believe me when I say I hear, no feel, "you", but if they would open their hearts, no minds, to true beauty I believe that they would, too, feel. Now I mean feel as in the most unbridled sense the senses can bare.
"Your" voice pangs on the strings of my heart's neck, the curvature of my being. It, "your" voice, still plays fluently in the drums of my ears; like a beautiful symphony "your" ways of speech. "Your" patterns they flow like notes on a staph. I will never know another human who can, through speech, evoke such emotion from I as "you".
I would give everything I owned to hear "your" voice play for hours, days, months, years; until "your" voice grew outdated and changed with the seasons. However, "your" voice will never grow outdated or change to me. It, "your" voice, will remain as beautiful as it was in its prime in my ears. Just to hear "your" chords play my name once more I would give it all. My heart longs to feel "you" again.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 10:13 PM UTC
i can fix anyone except me
bring me your problems
i can put them to sleep
its nothing special i just say what i see
you see it too or you wouldnt be talking to me
its just a form of devils advocacy
i see your demons and i speak their language fluently
let them talk through me
occam would approve
as deeply incised insight like mine
is built on a life in ruin
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 6:08 PM UTC
I'm a rap game prodigy
irony like Socrates
that I could spit this philosophy
so flawlessly.
Unmatched like I'm scalene-
scaling my way to the top
so high like I'm a scaffolding
go ahead fold and scowl at me
and watch me cackle sarcastically-
while I tell the masses to become appealing
the apple of my eye is hip-hop do you feel me?
Massive attacks while the males become *****
and subject to the ways of misogyny
oh **** here we go again, this bothers me
what? equality?
Misuse the muse and move through your mind
makeshift mammals mimmicking media monkeys
no wonder half the world's a ******
like you when you see-
the way I spit so fluently
second language, feel the anguish
anger within me resentment
followed by residuals
the world is red and we're all cruel
consumed by corporate corruption
no function left to the fiction of fascism
so fasten your seat-belts and see me belt
way more than 16sixteens, it's sickening
how sick this flow can be so ambiguous
hip-hop is bigger than us-
it's luck, it's lust-
it's a **** you when there's a lack of trust-
it's **** it's love
it's touch, it's ****
it's drugs and grudges
and beef and *******
it's empowerment, cowards
and records strictly to deflower.
it's appreciation and admiration
and it at one point shook the entire nation-
i'm complacent at the placement of this prophecy
that hip-hop has engrained into me
I'm grateful for the grandfather's
and the sons and the daughters
the step-fathers and mother *******
cut throat music industry
if you don't **** with hip-hop you don't **** with me.
*****
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
Acceptance to become a introvert forever,
Became a oath under my broken tongue.
Only spatting out short and simple words I can fluently produce..
" Its going to get better "
" You won't go through this long "
The therapist said,
As my body language feeds yes,
But my eyes screams no.
" I don't ever want that feeling again ! "
Said my spirit in compliance with my eyes
I'd rather, be my own best friend than to make friends..
I'd rather, close my mouth about my fears than to be judged by all my peers
I'd rather, walk home by myself than to walk with someone else.
Not knowing I was walking towards my innocence to the B L I N D.
Step,
By,
Step..
I'd rather say no.
I made the decision to become trapped inside my own world.
©MH
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 10:26 PM UTC
Start with a tin box guitar—
plucking tortured notes like
he’s known this kind of agony all his life.
Stretching bluesy licks
that bend and overlap—
braiding every bunch of heart strings.
We listen.
Tune into something that seems to be
cooing fluently in a language
only the involuntary celibate can speak.
No, we’re not getting any.
But at least we get this.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
~
This love is so exclusive
That turns me too illusive
When I am in a dream
She builds the stream
When I write a poetry
She recites the piece fluently
When she sings a song
Dreams longing me too long
So my heart is under lock and key
Which could only open by she
~
@Musfiq us shaleheen
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 1:54 PM UTC
We made love
through poetry
our lips touched
and our bodies moved fluently
as your words poured over me;
Beautifully.
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 1:52 PM UTC