Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
We are tied together by our stories, our history
Tales woven through our ancestry, when our parents talk of their younger days,
When their life was ahead of them,
the future was anything and everything,
they speak of their old friends with ache in their soul,
Of times when their hearts were filled with fire and passion,
running through fields growing memories  planted by the world around them
When they could sprint the wind in their hair,
adventure ahead,
hope in their heart.
They speak of the days behind with woe
Because essentially just their ideas of the future as a young mind, were more enticing than reality.
As dreams failed and hope faded
As their minds wear
and their treasured stories that made them who they are fog over
As threads begin to wear
As tales they once yelled to the world with pride fray at the ends
Your whole world slipping away as the thread unwinds
But they get the joy of passing down the tapestry to their pride and joy,
to the life they made,
Every moment we live with ease of no appreciation for every experience every laugh
Moments we take for granted
Moments we will pine for when they run out
Moments the elderly urge us with fire to cherish
Moments we'll wish we listened about
There is a vast tapestry of memories behind you and infinite thread panning out in front of you, connecting to other tapestries,
visiting at friends,
at enemies,
joining with soul-mates future.
Some cut away,
some ripped from the tapestries too soon before they could weave their own.
A loose thread cannot be fixed once more are made,
and the patterns will never be what you want them to be, savour each stitch
Take time on every thread
You don't want to be sitting there 50 years old thinking about the life you wasted
About the memories faded,
About how every slipping memory's never like the moment you made it.
Don't be sitting 90 filled with regret
Filled with hatred for every opportunity you left
Screaming into the void about how much you hate what your life become.
because they say time flys when your having fun truth is time only flies when you're young.
-Moment of inner freedom
when the mind is opened & the
infinite universe revealed
& the soul is left to wander
dazed & confus’d searching
here & there for teachers & friends.

Moment of Freedom
as the prisoner
blinks in the sun
like a mole
from his hole

a child’s 1st trip
away from home

That moment of Freedom

Cold treatment of our empress
The Transient Universe
Instant communion and

emeralds in glass
searchlights at twi-light
****** streets in the pale dawn
robed in exile
swift beat of a proud heart
eyes like twenty
swift dream
frozen heart
soldiers doom
clouds & struggles

doomed from the start
“That’s how I met her,
lonely & frozen
& sullen, yes
right from the start”

Then stop.
Go. The wilderness between.
Go round the march.

he enters stage:

Blood boots. Killer storm.
Fool’s gold. God in a heaven.
Where is she?
Have you seen her?
Has anyone seen this girl?
snap shot (projected)
She’s my sister.
Ladies & gentlemen:
please attend carefully to these words & events
It’s your last chance, our last hope.
In this womb or tomb, we’re free of the
swarming streets.
The black fever which rages is safely
out those doors
My friends & I come from
Far Arden w/ dances, &
new music
Everywhere followers accrue
to our procession.
Tales of Kings, gods, warriors
and lovers dangled like
jewels for your careless pleasure

I’m Me!

Can you dig it.
My meat is real.
My hands- how they move
balanced like lithe demons
My hair- so twined & writhing
The skin of my face- pinch the cheeks
My flaming sword tongue
spraying verbal fire-flys
I’m real.
I’m human
But I’m not an ordinary man
No No No

What are you doing here?
What do you want?
Is it music?
We can play music.
But you want more.
You want something & someone new.
Am I right?
Of course I am.
I know what you want.
You want ecstasy
Desire & dreams.
Things not exactly what they seem.
I lead you this way, he pulls that way.
I’m not singing to an imaginary girl.
I’m talking to you, my self.
Let’s recreate the world.
The palace of conception is burning.

Look. See it burn.
Bask in the warm hot coals.

You’re too young to be old.
You don’t need to be told
You want to see things as they are.
You know exactly what I do

I am a guide to the Labyrinth

Monarch of the protean towers
on this cool stone patio
above the iron mist
sunk in its own waste
breathing its own breath
Ayeshah May 2010
I counted  the clock
as I watched the small hand slowly tick by

I stared off into space
as I watched the weather change from sunny to Grey-
blurring my vision as my mind drifted away...

Something in the air told me to be still-  listen & wait

but if I'd of known on this day
you'd do the unthinkable so intangibly-
I well I don't know what I'd of done....

I haven't eaten since you left
I hardly slept since I found you gone...

Hard to think as I sit at my dinning table
watching out my bay window as children laugh & play.

I heard a dog bark and watched a girl playing with her hula-hoop

I sit as tears run down my face thinking are you eating are you safe?

Why now would you think to leave
when everything you wanted
is right in front of you?

Is that person you ran to worth
the pain your causing me?

What can you be thinking ?

As I sit hear with my elbows on this table,
head bent low & my hands in my hair.

I hear a knock & my heart skips a beat, butterflies flutter in the pit of my stomach...

That lil girl with her hula-hoop tapped my window and smiles (I thought it was you)

I smile right back but all  I see is you- in my mind
I see you with your tiny hands, your wrapped in blankets,
leaves of many colors  fall down from above as we sat in  Elizabeth Park
me reading  Winnie The Pooh  to you.

You at about 2- running with your very first kite  
saying looky momma look "it fly'ing"...

As you ran you tripped stubbled & fell  sadly your kite flew away...
I chases it but I couldn't reach it in time....
You look up with tears & it breaks my heart I didn't catch your kite
so I cry too and you say to me momma it OK.

I see in my mind you  at 4 laughing with your sister - you both hold hand
twirling round & round in circles   until you fall down giggling all the while.

I wonder where is that smile of yours now?

Where's the laughter & feelings you had way back then?

My tears are overflow- spilling on this dinning table...

I look up and watch
the tiny red hand on the clock tick, tick, tick on by,
it's the only sound in my house.

Your sisters outside playing with their friends
as  I sit watching out the window& all I see is the many blended
children whom now look all
like you- running, laughing, playing...

Being free to be them selves & all I can do is long to have you home for once.
No picture is gonna help
because you've left me watching, waiting once more,
I  been here all this time doing what I seem to continuously do which is
Watch As Time Flys By!
Always Me Ayeshah
Copyright © Ayeshah K.C.L.N 1977-Present YEAR(s)
All right reserved
mark john junor Jan 2014
its a daily bread
wolf it down with your daily grin and bear it softdrink
talk out the night till  you are a sleepyhead
and you mix and match your yawns with frowns
you carve it all out in your journal
little doodles illustrate the page
stick figure men battle
stick figure women try to look ****
and the bird flys free on a paper sky
the bird flys free
like the hopes that this will someway be you
in some incarnation of your
ever changing life spectacle
your ever changing detox from her poison pen tongue
be a bird who flys free on a paper sky
high above the noisesome stickmen
and such dire devils of nervous hands
twitch and fumble through compulsive motions
draw to keep the hand from being idle
draw to keep the mind flowing
and the bird breaks free
of the paper sky
and floats free in a realistic appearing world
in your sleepyhead dreams
paper birds deserve to be free too
just like you and i
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2018
disclaimer: unedited rambling and overly long and frankly, Scarlet, don't give a **** anymore...

Thus spake and quested
another, younger poet to me,
a far better one than I,
but obligations thus provided,
are serious business,
to those who understand
poetic responsibilities, and
under his own Rules of Order,
an answer,
though long in coming, AR,
must be provided.

Well well well
all is not well,
the faucets offers choices....
chrome hot
chrome cold

there is no such thing as
lukewarm truth in
clear waters that
run run,
yet never
run stilled,
birthed at turned-on conception,
to drain death removal,
another daily poetic miracle,
unappreciated by most,
overly consumed by their
own passage on this Earth

peddler wayfarer,
passing through with truth
poem pots and rattling pans
(nowadays, mostly panned),
a historic factoid,
and not what Amazon delivers...
truth is a genetically modified
bitcoin currency, misunderstood,
prone to sometimes useful,
but never ever, to stick or stain,
for I got excuses and who gives a ****,
yesterday is forgotten instantly

The coldest truths,
the confirmation of same
by mirrored image text sent,
(immediacy a necessity,
for though poor, it is 'real')
the twitter that methodically
A-lists your major crimes
B-lists your petty,
hope-you-didn't miss my
exposé of latest misdemeanors

the hot truths,
only whispered,
merely mint hinted
in a hot cuppa,
the heat itself
a cover up,
for what you do not
wish me to plainly speak
or plainly sell,
is accursed truths,
won't sell, even if free

Can't write about moon and June,
alabaster is a fine word,
but white suits me fine,
don't know the diff
tween dragon flys and lullabies

The way I write is
just the way I think, believe,
from my eyes to paper
there is no misdirection,
just silent labor conception

Poor poor real truth
is out of favor these days,
because there is nothing
no one won't cease or hesitate
to expose himself,
flaunt the anguish,
copy other's jive,
but that is real,
but it is not truth

Had a bad day,
You need to know about it
Right away!

Though I meander and excuse,
there is one state of truth,
I need yet to annotate

Too oft when tapped turned on,
it is rusty water and rusted truths
expelled and this, my stuff, my days,
not in vogue, or a top seller

I love the color rust,
overused in my poems,
but compulsion is not a
conditional, but a must

This then is the form
they spill in these,
my final days here

You might think that rust implies
lack of use,
a non-caring
for his voice,
his well practiced instrument

Au contrarie, amigo!

My rust is from overuse,
my eyes don't see
what the popular want nor
could I provide it
even if
it was demanded,
which it is not....

Rusted but unvarnished,
undisguised by fancy words
or silent cries, what you read
is what you get
until I find
a more "authentic" voice,
one that satisfies the world
not just me...he sneers....

Feel for me in the summer breeze,
from whence my best stuff
has always been plucked
sent on its way, to you,
in self-same wind,
to kiss your cheeks,
slap you alert

I used to write
on both feet
then Hillel was asked for
the whole truth
while standing
on just one leg

His reply:
"Love they neighbor as you love thyself"

So I switched
and now compose,
in quiet ignorance,
a wrong footed poet,
left only with his what's left,
and to put his left foot truths
first, forward and foremost,
is what he got, and
what I got, you'll get....

But a cautionary note,
drinking riposte rustys,
bad for the body,
but kindly
for your mental
if your have the
only other element
most needed,
in your pocket posses,

Rambling, unedited, and yet fresh so off to the presses..and at 4:21am,
I frankly, Scarlet, don't give a **** anymore...
Inspiration May 2016
I will tell you a story
In all its glory
Explaining the
****** *****,
Creating much more than
The eye can see

Its a story about a vibrant flower
So beautiful it needs to be to attract the buzzing honey bees

The story goes some thing like this

So you can see the flowers multiply through the years
Make two
Four and many more

The bee
flys along and sees so many Beautiful flowers
Longing to devour
But which one
So many colours
Flowers cascading
So shameless

Stands still

Its a big bright pink one
Circular in shape
Its the one
Open, with so many soft small petals
Glistening with the rain drops
Shining in the sun
Sparkling with beauty from within
Makes the bee meander to thee

The bee needs to reproduce

Stops and fills
Spreads the seeds
Allowed to please

What you dont see is the story
Combined with the
True glory
Of the extra ordinary *****
The beauty
Of the buzzing bee
With the  gold assigned

So free
Frantically to find the
The hive

Taking nectar
Making honey, wax, all kind of f
Fascinating lines
Made from hexagon
They divide into the lines

They are full with precious delights

The story continues
The more you learn
The more you yearn
To see a honey bee

Together the bee and the ****** *****
make harmony
The vibrant flower allowed to duplicate
More beauty for all to see
For all to feel

The special honey bee procreate and makes
creating ambiance
Such a clever bee
A savont; such a worker
Magical tyrant

Buzzing madly yearning to create
the sweetest honey
A honey bee can make

Its like you to me
You're the combination
Make migrations in me
Spreading beauty from within
To others to proceed
And begin

I feel it with you;
Vibrant flower
Honey bee
Coming together
Creating so much sweet honey in me

It's a wonderful story to me
You see
The story of the flower and the honey bee
So my house mate thinks poetry is stupid...he said...let's see if u can do this...write a poem about a flower and a bee and pollination.
Not only that this but the words
****** *****
VIBRANT FLOWER (he mocks the first poem I wrote as an adult, that used this as a description of a naughty part

Listen to The story of the Flower and the Bee by jvalent1 #np on #SoundCloud
SøułSurvivør May 2015
flys south
to warm itself

flys north
for fame and wealth

flys east
to swim the lake



(c) 2/25/2015
The western horizon is
where the sun goes
to lie down

island poet Jul 2020
the osprey flys overhead, but the baby rabbit trembles not

~for any grandparent-poet lurking about~

the osprey overflies, a regularity scheduled patrol over
our backyard emporium and all its hors d’oeuvre creatures,
he/she has parental responsibilities, beaks to feed, PTA conferences,
the pilot, a wary watchful animal-his-rights guy, catalogues their still living  existentialism, for though they are not fish, his diet of preference, but in a pinch a rodent  or rabbit stew will do, if the fish are running too deep for no warming sun beckoning them to the surface.

Motel^ the baby rabbit, who lives with his parents,
(who doesn’t these days?) beneath the deck,
chews the clover overnight sprung, blissfully i g n o r a n t,
unawares or ignoring the poet be-laureating (him-her) but a mere
few feet above and away, pays no attention to the Poppy’s (grandfather) lecture about the rules of the animal kingdom,
who, eats whom, and to be more attentive to flying raptors.

thunderstorms forecast for the afternoon, severe say
the textured textual phone-netical all green messages, which
of course is a signal signal to the sun his job is done and can
leave the untanned poet in his state of original sin, soooo deliciously
white that he earns an appraising glance from eyes of the osprey,
a privilege he would happily tan away to promote equality ‘n stuff like peace on earth.

Motel, with his thermometer-humidity nasal instrumentation twitcher, decides, after chewing it over most carefully, time to go underneath where the white half naked people domicile, in order to avoid bathing, not his fav pastime, but making the osprey quitter le ciel, which is French for get out of Dodge, they got babies of their own to shelter and protect, even feed.

The Poppy, contented, thinks to himself, god couldn’t be everywhere,
so he invented grandpas to be “En Loco Parentis”  which
Does Not Mean Instead of Crazy Parents,
but easily could,
for who else writes
poems like this?
^ Motel, (pronounced as Muttle, as in Motel the Tailor from Fiddler o the Roof,
so named because of his mottled fur and markings
David Nelson Sep 2013
The Raven Flys

once again the Raven has made its nest
leaving you with an empty heart
your mind is flying in a circular pattern
not knowing where to end
not knowing from whence the start

this path has been traveled before
and we are to repeat our mistakes
over again as the talons of the Raven
sink into our eyes blinding us
tears of rain like winters snowflakes

we have tried to capture the elusive
knowing full well that destiny has spoken
the communion has already transpired
it is the full length version of catch 22
the confession of hearts broken

the Raven cares not of your pain
diving full speed into your empty abyss
tearing the flesh away from the frame
laughing at the mess you have left
leaving you nothing not even a kiss

Gomer LePoet...
Inspiration by Dan Fogelberg
Marian Feb 2013
Grace. Grace for me,
She brings Grace forever and eternally,
Grace is like the sunshine;
Forever. Forever mine.

When I was sad she helped me up,
And placed in my hair a yellow buttercup,
She is ALWAYS there for me and I for her;
The cats always love to beside her purr!

Grace is laughter, laughter for me,
Grace is like the graceful waves of the sea,
Grace is mine;
Grace is as pure as sunshine!

She is an angel with wings,
And a kind heart that forever sings,
That sings of peace and love;
And flys upon wings of a dove.

Graceful is my Grace,
She always puts things rightfully in their place,
So things are just as they should be;
Grace forever made for me!

Palm trees bow to her,
And kittens forever purr to her,
She wears a hibiscus crown;
While all the leaves come tumbling down.

Grace loves flowers,
Which sing to her in the long weary hours,
Which comforts her when she cries;
And lifts the burden so she won't sigh!

Grace is amazing,
Grace is saving,
Grace is love;
And she is a peaceful dove!

For Madison Grace!! Madi, you are AWESOME!!! <3 <3
The light is slowly fading from the sky.
There is the steady hum of cars passing by.
The birds are tuning up for their evening symphony,
And as a plane flys by it takes the lead.
A dog snuffles around the corner looking for something to eat,
Or perhaps a bunny to chase then she looks at me.
A beautiful evening no rain autumn is coming in.
Another day is done again with evening creeping in.
RRaaccoonn Jun 2015
Growth measured by constant comfort.
Goal complete relaxation
Not moving till done without thinking
Stopping completely one is not distracted by movement.
Master of nothingness
African Lion
Relaxed Horse with flys around his eyes
occult philosphy
dominic rocky Apr 2012
at the bar
the pub
to be specific

friends get


in celebration
of near

Nat Lipstadt Apr 2014
Thus spake and quested
another, younger poet to me,
a far better one than I,
but obligations thus provided,
are serious business,
to those who understand
poetic responsibilities, and
under his own Rules of Order,
an answer,
though long in coming, AR,
must be provided.*

Well well well
all is not well,
the faucets offers choices....
chrome hot
chrome cold

there is no such thing as
lukewarm truth in
clear waters that
run run,
yet never
run stilled,
birthed at turned-on conception,
to drain death removal,
another daily poetic miracle,
unappreciated by most,
overly consumed by their
own passage on this Earth

peddler wayfarer,
passing through with truth
poem pots and rattling pans
(nowadays, mostly panned),
a historic factoid,
and not what Amazon delivers...
truth is a genetically modified
bitcoin currency, misunderstood,
prone to sometimes useful,
but never ever, to stick or stain,
for I got excuses and who gives a ****,
yesterday is forgotten instantly

The coldest truths,
the confirmation of same
by mirrored image text sent,
(immediacy a necessity,
for though poor, it is 'real')
the twitter that methodically
A-lists your major crimes
B-lists your petty,
hope-you-didn't miss my
exposé of latest misdemeanors

the hot truths,
only whispered,
merely mint hinted
in a hot cuppa,
the heat itself
a cover up,
for what you do not
wish me to plainly speak
or plainly sell,
is accursed truths,
won't sell, even if free

Can't write about moon and June,
alabaster is a fine word,
but white suits me fine,
don't know the diff
tween dragon flys and lullabies

The way I write is
just the way I think, believe,
from my eyes to paper
there is no misdirection,
just silent labor conception

Poor poor real truth
is out of favor these days,
because there is nothing
no one won't cease or hesitate
to expose himself,
flaunt the anguish,
copy other's jive,
but that is real,
but it is not truth

Had a bad day,
You need to know about it
Right away!

Though I meander and excuse,
there is one state of truth,
I need yet to annotate

Too oft when tapped turned on,
it is rusty water and rusted truths
expelled and this, my stuff, my days,
not in vogue, or a top seller

I love the color rust,
overused in my poems,
but compulsion is not a
conditional, but a must

This then is the form
they spill in these,
my final days here

You might think that rust implies
lack of use,
a non-caring
for his voice,
his well practiced instrument

Au contrarie, amigo!

My rust is from overuse,
my eyes don't see
what the popular want nor
could I provide it
even if
it was demanded,
which it is not....

Rusted but unvarnished,
undisguised by fancy words
or silent cries, what you read
is what you get
until I find
a more "authentic" voice,
one that satisfies the world
not just me...he sneers....

Feel for me in the summer breeze,
from whence my best stuff
has always been plucked
sent on its way, to you,
in self-same wind,
to kiss your cheeks,
slap you alert

I used to write
on both feet
then Hillel was asked for
the whole truth
while standing
on just one leg

His reply:
"Love they neighbor as you love thyself"*

So I switched
and now compose,
in quiet ignorance,
a wrong footed poet,
left only with his what's left,
and to put his left foot truths
first, forward and foremost,
is what he got, and
what I got, you'll get....

But a cautionary note,
drinking riposte rustys,
bad for the body,
but kindly
for your mental
if your have the
only other element
most needed,
in your pocket posses,

Rambling, unedited, and yet fresh so off to the presses..and at 4:21am,
I frankly, Scarlet, don't give a **** anymore...
David W Clare Feb 2015
I lived on the city streets of Bangkok Thailand for years, I felt right at home I know Bangkok inside out

...from the sukhumvit in nana klong toey to Khoa San road to Klong Thom market in China town to orient circle at night the most incredible high crimson monolith I ever seen to

Chao Phraya river near wat Sam phraya Buddhist temples to samut prakhon to Sam rong imperial world to bang na to on nut Tesco Lotus to

ekami to BTS sky train to Siam center plaza to Phetcheburi road to Pantib Plaza

I would walk for days nonstop with no money no food no room beat up a lot

knifed gang attacks had two switchblade knifes pepper spray wore wigs and barefoot in age old soot many kilometers on foot through the took tooks exhaust at the cost of lusting for Thai girls ***!

a kid in a candy shop Thai baht sniffed out by lovely Thai ****** they know how to thrill steal and **** a man 10,000 years old bold tradition consumes your soul

Sweet **** teenage Asian girls will ******* to ruin. Black and blue dumbfounded man taken down faster than a sandblaster can

Dilapidated old buildings all rusted.
Sidewalks all busted apart chased by dogs Siamese cats all over at night Bangkok is Halloween every night of the year especially in nana near soi 11-5

The era of the diamond Siamese cats that's the price to pay to come to Thailand!

Silom road explodes with colored gemstones and Thai gold chains to dazzle the girls who entertain you at Pat Pong and deploy joy at Soi Cowboy

Hanuman king God of the monkeys flys on your back to attack your backpack Jack

Sultry femme fatale ladyboys exist to emerge nightly sinister moves to take down the forang old man *** clown

Drunk bar man crawls around to eat kitty girls pink underwear so beware fool dog of the danger lurking at every corner don't warn her she already knows you wanna **** on her cute Asian toes

Signs all over read ... We love our king
He resembles Michael Jackson with a cowboy hat, and gold military jackets

I was in very good health from eating fruits water pad Thai pla mook fish and sangsom and Chang
I could speak basic Thai

Bumrungrad hospital on soi 1 - 3
Is the top rated in se Asia

I was tested as age 18 healthwise

I was not surprised

The environment is superb to health

Nice Thai people nice asian **** slutty girls to hang out with and more so much more
Age notwithstanding

Thailand is indeed...

A whole other world
Krong Thep, Siam became Bangkok in 1769...
Donna Jun 2017
Painting walls light rain
Yesterday's now memories
Time flys so quickly
I Painted my daughters bedroom today x she is nearly 17 and growing up so fast x
onlylovepoetry Apr 2019
don’t leave me!
(the leaving is in the writing)

she whispers in his ear,
after they’ve climbed into bed,
their tiring bodies both embraced,
soft sunken into, by, a familiar mattress,
after a sophisticates city night out seeing stars,
stars, human and astral,
city lights dusk heightened the vocal sparking,
singers singing songs of love from
radio days long ago

don’t leave me

she intones, a prayerful demand,
equally a command and a begging behest,
puzzling what prompted this pressed request,
spoken with urgency born in her breast

don’t leave me
drifting off and into his thin place,
but tugged back by this cri du coeur,
unsponsored and unwarranted,
nothing recalled that justly provoked,
a statement topping of anguish and fear

don’t leave me
he repeats in a rising questioning inflecting
puzzling riddling unbefitting a mellow-toning sleepy ingredient,
whatever do you mean, I leave you only
to dream, to purify, refresh and deep rest reset,
and return come morning with new poems,
what angst comes to stir this asking,
delaying my adventure to nightly restoration?

don’t leave me
repeated and repeated, dressed in urgency,
for I see the little things,
the wavering walk, the slowing of the thinking,
the walls, black n’ blue, whining about your into bumping,
the instant eagerness with which your body accepts
your voyage to dream places where
one goes and gone and must go unaccompanied,
some who are chosen and some who choose, not to return

don’t leave me
for the signs are ample, a certain weariness
dresses your face and crowns thy graying mane,
the slight labored breathing from steps once
bounded and leapt, the seeing and the hearing,
each slightly weakening, two orchestral instruments,
together off key and lessened in their triumphal vigor,
these words of mine, a royal guard,
keep them in your dreams

don’t leave me
minor missteps in the elongated negated of dying gracefully,
my tuning forks are sensitized,
and any slowing motion
both visible and hearable, and filed under inevitable

I will not leave you tonight,
my body warming as per usual,
your cold feet intruders indicate it’s you have left
for your own nightly visitors, occasional terrors,
you’ve woken me from my allotted sleep hours,
many poems now retrieving and in need of scribing,
while the fingertip digit flys across the digital keyboard,

I am more alive than I have ever been;
the leaving is in the writing,
each poem a steppingstone,

but the poems come fast and furious,
sometimes two at a time, the muses are bemused,
the prognosis is for thousands more and warn:

do not wear out your olive oil anointed forefinger,
the lubricated pointer of the way, wherein is contained

through that index
your body of works in the
“yet to arrive, yet untaxed filling station,”,
must be seen to fruition,
for it is only then that,
only love poetry
is ready for long lasting
eternal realization

5:36am 12th April, two thousand nineteen
Nicx Jul 2016
Surrounded by green
The trees whisper their secrets
My heart is light and my mind is free
I stray from the gravel path
And find myself at a pond
The birds are chirping and the sun is shining
I think I forgot my sunscreen
It didn't matter though
In that moment I was alive
And one with the world around me
I breathe in the crisp air
It smells of leaves and the sea
As I watch the fish swimming
In the water beneath me

As the sun sets
and I turn to leave
I hear some footsteps
Catching up to me
And in my slow pace
I turn to see a young boy
His hair is matted
And he looks alone
Lost in the world as tears fill his eyes
I kneel down to speak to him
Ask him where his family is
He starts to cry as he speaks
Very few words but just enough for me

He claims no one loves him
That whenever he meets a new family
They get rid of him
Call him a burden
My heart hurts for this child
He can't be but 5
And yet here he is
The place of my peace
Seems to be his nightmare

I couldn't let myself leave
Knowing this little soul
Had no place to call home
I offer to give him a ride and a meal
While I call to speak to the authorities
His eyes brighten and tears threaten me
The sparkle of happiness is unexplainable
And my heart feels for him
So I lift him onto my shoulders
And we go home

No one knows anything about the child
His name appears nowhere and the police think I'm crazy
They come to check on him
But they can't see
How can you not see?
My mind is racing as I try to comprehend their words
They say I need some sleep
And maybe I'll feel better in the morning
I make a bed for him with blankets
And pillows from the couch
It's not much but it seems he's slept on worse
So he smiles and drifts off to sleep
I wonder what he dreams about

I wake up to a heavy heart
Tears choke my lungs
And I don't understand
Nothing has changed
It's just a new day
I head downstairs and the boy is gone
The pillows and blankets are tucked away
Exactly how they were the other day
Maybe I am going crazy

Days turn into weeks
And my heart still weighs on my chest
My muscles ache and now
I can no longer rest
I haven't left the house aside from work and school
I can't convince myself to do anything
But the weight on my shoulders
And my clouded mind
Beg for some relief
So I drive to the place that was my sanctuary
Until I met him

The grass has yellowed
And the trees have silenced
The sun burns into my skin again
But this time it hurts
I search for the pond but cannot find it
I walk for hours and still there's nothing
But a rustling in the brush peaks my curiosity
And as I break through the dying leaves
My foot sinks into a slurp of mud
A swamp lay before me
The water green and murky
I swear it can't be the same
Not the beautiful pond I witnessed the other day
I scan the water for the fish
Maybe that'd prove its different
But the same golden scales reflect back into my eyes
But there's something else
Something wrong
My reflection

I lean in closer to get a better view
A gasp escaping my lips in disbelief
Bags surround my eyes, which no longer sparkle in the light,
my hair flys in every direction
I see no life
I barely recognize it as myself
But that didn't disturb me so intensely
No, in those waters
The person that stared back at me
Was not alone
They supported something on their shoulders

As I look closer in disbelief
His eyes stare brightly back at me
But it appears we've switched
Because he has my glowing green eyes
And I have his
They're dark.
His arms wrap snugly around my throat
And his knees dig into my ribs
He looks genuinely happy
And I swear I hear a whimsical laugh
Echoing off the water

And I realize all too late
That he was never really concrete
Only a concoction of my mind
A projection of part of me
A part so lost and alone
Playing the victim and
Begging for some attention.
And I opened my arms to him so easily

It's been years and he still haunts me
He weighs on my shoulders
Keeps me awake at night
Because if I sleep he's no longer the priority
While he drains my energy
I cannot imagine my life without him
He represents the deepest part of me
My damaged soul and empty heart
I chose to take on this responsibility
And my entire world has changed
The shadows haunt me on the brightest days
And the beauty i once saw
Takes a new form
as the dead inside of me.
Yet he listens when no one else can
He understand my fears and pain
As burdensome as it is to support him
I know, with him, I am never alone.

His name is Depression
*And now he'll never leave.
I've been wanting to write a piece with this theme for awhile now and I finally got around to doing it. It's definitely different and this is only a first draft. Any suggestions are welcomed and appreciated.
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2013
"Her spirit stronger than the sea's embrace.
Not for her a watery end,
but a new life beginning on a stranger shore.
It will be a love story.
For she will be my heroine for all time."

William Shakespeare (Character)
from Shakespeare in Love (1998)
Written by Tom Stoppard, another British playwright.
Challenged thus, scrape off early morn simpleton ditty dust,
Gauntlet tossed, the speare launched, not a  request, but a must,
I flinch, but the table bare, but for tea and imagery of my love,
The Englishmen have slapped/stoppered my face with his worded glove,
Having thus battle commenced, his fire to be returned,
Complete this arc if you can,
Are you poet or just an ordinary man?

For she will be my heroine for all time,

These words to expand with rhyme and verse,
T'is a welcome task, one familiar, but anew,
Each dawn each dusk, a daily trust, a love poem diurnal-birthed,
As if god created the world, but left upon completion,
With a grievous thirst, a new notion, he did burst.

He created the Eighth Day, for celebration of his
Most cherished invention, the idea of love.
This is where, the secret writ Eleventh Commandment occurs,
Love thy Poetry Gods, Honor them with daily verbs.

For she will be my heroine for all time,

A trap for poets young, for time is a couplet with
Sublime, chime, thyme, come easy these 9th grade raps and rhymes,
Becrusted with a chilly, stale, white **** frosted rime.

But I am a century more a poet-worker,
(In 1901 died and was reborn, you could look it up)
A young'un by compare with old ***** "a tale to tell" most fair,
But a trick or two of the Industrial Age, I can employ,
Advantage me at our Wimbeldon^ match, where I am skilled,
And he, poor fellow, commoner, is not...

For she will be my heroine for all time,

T'is easy, for t'is true, and with truth arrives a companion,
The inspiration flys in the air, like petals of the tost-wind dandelion,
Come to me my distich line, your presence sensed,
Let us to Will back, our repartee sling and send!

Oh woe is me, my boastful heroics, are smoked,
Try try but nothing doth appear but familiar fairies to mock
My speechless eyes and rusted tongue, dry and blind.

But wait! My woman encarriaged returneth,
Her body now supple'd delighted from eastern magic.
Her yogi has bent n' sent her, back to me and my
Eye crust melts and the honey drips and the all clear rings,
***** Boy, you *******, your mine!

*For she will be my heroine for all time,
This simple true and forever complete, need I say more?
^It was popular in England and France, although the game was only played indoors where the ball could be hit off the wall. Henry VIII of England was a big fan of this game, which is now known as real tennis.[8] During the 18th century and early 19th century, as real tennis declined, new racquet sports emerged in England.
I  live on the mountain
Below the silver mist
In the valley, full of magic
Where the sun has rarely kissed

I am called a smudger
I live on what's left behind
I have been here near forever
I'm the last one of my kind

Below the mountain major
Lives a dragon, fierce and bold
Sleeping now, and dreaming
Of it's hoard of stolen gold

Eleventy years plus twenty
I have been here on this earth
Cleaning up the dragons droppings
It's how I justify my worth

The dragon's ruled this mountain
For a thousand thousand years
The silver river that flows through it
Is full of snow melt and of tears

Once a generation
Someone comes from down below
Gets the villagers all riled
Says "The dragon has to go"

They go and fight the dragon
Try to take his hoard of gold
And that is why, it's me the smudger
Who knows how the story must be told

The fighter leaves the village
Full of gusto and incensed
Saying "justice for the village"
or close to that....condensed

The dragon then awakens
Flys around and burns the town
Leaving nothing left but ashes
everything gone or burned down

Now, I, your local smudger
Cleans up the dead and done
It's a profitable existence
Since I am the only one

The dragon knows there's nothing
Much more of value to behold
The villagers were poor folk
Owning neither jewels or gold

I've cleaned up more destruction
Caused by villagers who go
On up to face the dragon
And get killed with just one blow

Now, I make candles with their bodies
I use their skin and body fat
I weave the hair not melted
And I make a nice new front hall mat

The bones I grind and scatter
On the mountain in the trees
It helps the ferns all grow strong
And keeps the trees free from disease

What little money I find
I leave half by the dragons den
Over time I have left there
Money from five thousand men

I've swords I sell at auction
When I travel, but that's rare
There is really nothing for me
That's not near the dragons lair

It's a relationship existing
On destruction and of greed
The dragon burns the village
And I get the things I need

They rebuild and they recover
And a generation may pass by
When once again some young, strong fighter
Wakes the dragon, makes him fly

I guess we need each other
That's the way it's always been
I'm the smudger on the mountain
I'm the one who's never seen
Hal Loyd Denton Nov 2011
Mystical Fire

God is fire holy without equal then you have glory boy that burns with every despicable evil in his favor
Our make up by fallen nature is in the same area and has a willing bent that favors signals that come
From Satan so the need that came about through the cross for the great alignment it works only when
You are truly engaged indentified by actual action of dying to that enemy of your own self then you find
What I will try to convey in this piece giving you the two pictures of this glorious burning then the awful
Burning only hell can stoke and purposely mix among the tender of ready to burn substance found in human nature

A wonderful place to draw this contrast is Los Angeles called the city of angels but the most beautiful is
Its Spanish interoperation Low hovering angels this loses if we say it but let a Mexican say it with his
Inflection most perfect if he is saying it from love. Is there a seriousness here our blessing is not being in
That crucible even New York is called the big apple but those in the know call it the volcano with all its
Eruptions and pressures so does L A fall into this category in fact if you live on Pico Ave it’s a category
Five tornado this is one of the most fought out streets in the turf war for space to sell the Bain to all
Society drugs see the flame it consumes the guilty and the innocent view this common occurrence way
To common how many small neighborhood chapels were filling with caskets instead of wedding
Ceremonies look and listen a Mac Ten pistol grease gun thirty round capacity it has just started its
Deadly chatter laying down a withering fire this isn’t battle ground conditions this is a neighborhood
Strafing a car the widow’s blow out the shooter keeps the fire steady it starts plinking metal as it moves
To the front of the car off the car into a white small picked fence wood matching the spray of bullets as
It Flys in all directions Chicago revisited instead of the Tommy gun chopper of probation you got a
Crazed dope fiend punk without emotions the sight of fourteen year old Maria standing on the side walk
Never registered or didn’t matter three red dots appeared on her bright blouse across her back the
Center spot stopped her heart forever now these precious Spanish eyes closed never to see her rightful
Future instead of one day walking the Church isle in a wedding gown now she would lie in repose in
White with the flowers not in a bouquet but neatly fixed in her hair. So robbed of youth and life her
Budding life so filled with promise where angels hover no more demons work overtime however evil is
Carried and delivered believe me they have it more together than the sleeping church self satisfied the
God of mercy and love restricts himself to mans efforts the Devil endlessly prowls about seeking who he
May devour

In the Christian life death is the pivotal point only through this experience can success be found this is
Dumbfounding to our fallen nature I want to show through the natural death of two precious teens it
Seems a stretch but you can disagree but you didn’t see what I saw I don’t desire to take you on a
Journey that disappoints you but just listen to my accounting I didn’t ask to see this scene it was shoved
In front of me by an L A fireman his story deserves telling at a later time the picture to me it seems God
Himself finally said enough is enough the killing of Maria and others have occurred hundreds of times
These teens died and then fire consumed their natural bodies but an intervention the light of heaven
Had to bathe them and in that light fine particles of gold had to enter our world forming this thinnest
Sheen enveloping them in a golden cocoon their spirits ushered into the father’s presence their bodies
Would not be marred disfigured no they would pass from clay to immortal gold comparable to king tut I
Viewed both subjects through the record afforded by photography these two youthful companions in
Life now side by side they are cast in breathless beauty to me one instance of death being over ruled the
Promise given for future times in this case the promise inserted in real time that will be common in the
Heavenly tomorrows the beauty of God had to have a hand in what I saw those precious children went
Beyond the earthly outcome were transformed they had the shinning of a vision that one day will be our
Common experience glorified bodies are the language God who cannot lie says will be everyone’s
René Mutumé Jan 2014
Why’d you get locked up then lad?
Oh. I’m locked up?
I know you. You won’t escape lad
Escape from where?

(Jackie Wilson at her majesties pleasure 1884, West Denton, Newcastle)

The sweat rolled off Dominic’s nose.

Its ‘movement’




Meditation takes a person out
from themselves
so far out, without any need
for any additional charge, toll, or need, that when you come back,
even if it’s within
the same body,
you feel

and the glow comes back
on-coming traffic smiles, dead less grace
the worst, and 7am

without a game.
a drool.
an intricacy within
hope in the sorry soft gas explosions
and death was heavy enough to fly and give
But not in the normal way
one second, and even joy spills
and the cabbies have begun to scream and break down at each other
even though it’s not a full moon
too many people squashed on a tight balcony
drinking us all away
too many hands
not dancing
it all away

Slugs emigrate across concrete when the soil is wet.
When you wonder why they’ve left.
Its pouring
and you think you recognise a name scrawled in the wet trail.

Single, intimate, observations.

And reasons for the evening to be near.
It will be worth it! – I’LL SEE YOU! –
And now we are allowed to be glorious without price.
And now it’s sad as hell.
And the trees know that.
But the squirrels never do.
And now those words don’t matter.
And now we are allowed.
And now we go.

And the laminate floor
has the weight of a cross.
And the thing is,
you know

(It’s all softly bombed)
Not in a horrific
or knowable

But in God’s good loving
******* for ya.

We’re finally rubbed out.

And uncrucifying.

Eyes are useless here.

Blackness first.
THEN that soft


easy blackness.

Meditating, sat middle
the pentagram of a small flat.
blue white board marker, on ‘easy wipe’ wood flooring.

And if I wake, I can wipe all the lines out.

SO, it went the same.
blue colour of cityscape coming-black light flashing always
across the distance from balcony
a beautiful stillness.
Waves first. Sea. The complete sea. Swimming.
ego. Ego swimming. Ego going down. Hello! And ha!
And no more jokes.
And isolation.
And no more months.
But there were gushes.
Gushes of experiences in, and outside, with individual breathes
and the proximity of love, coming closer
like a germinating hand
guiding you down
into the oceans private concert

Not too close to the expensive parts, or the bad parts,
or anywhere too pristine.
Christ, that’d be
a joke. It’d be funny
and then the surgeon would come and operate
on you;
lifting you out whilst you’re asleep

And it would go like this:

Cancer: Hey! What’s going on?!
Get off! I’ve paid my
rent and don’t wet the bed

Surgeon: Don’t care.
Come here...
Oh for **** sake you’re making my day long.
I don’t get paid
for this.
Cancer: Oh yes you do handsome.
Surgeon: Oh yeah!

rest on the long side of your bed.
‘What’d you do at the weekend?’
Where’d you go?


banter broke down into spider web
before fading completely, as thoughts begin
to disappear and fly down
into heavier states
from outside you saw a man still dressed
in formal office attire
tie hanging undone around a white shirt, shoes kicked off
beside strange markings on a polished floor. From in,
the understandings
are quite different
fly gently, like a loved one retiring from life
as the single light bulb watches from your ceiling
tensing one last second time in hesitation
then blowing you out with a blink.  

looked into the well where life is buried
and reached down
arms lengthened like dusty pieces of ham down a hole
touching the foetus as it crawls back up,
and up through the highway lines of his veins,
like a rabbit hunts wolves,
like the peach reacts to your bite.

We smoked and ate apple pie as the autumn tattooed
We snapped small pieces off
then ate the mites.

And then when the well filled we made our arms lassoes;
that churned the grain,
turning the quietness into storm,
and back to parts of spring.

You hesitate, touching the ape
like a clown who’s just tossed his life into the air, and juggles it,
like dead poems and hot boiling yeast.
you looked further into the well and found the figments of the ‘Narwhal’
the sea creature with a prominent horn
that shoots from its head-

Early sea farers
used to think the horned mammal was a type of
magical being
it birthed the idea of unicorns
you let the water well mix and join
as we drink coffee today, and the night is less silent
than that of star of apples and gloom
each tarantula that scatters in the red stars of sand is welcome;
and the honey man and honey woman flicker,
through numberless bank checks and bills as knocks arrive
knock after knock after knock
into long vibrational hum

All that remains
is the bursting punch
near the bottom
of oceanic well

As it tightens your grip into the follicle hibernating bears
that speak eloquent words whilst we eat;
the deep groan of munching hands
in the well helps our arms
pull up the glowing carcass as it turns back
into us within our hands, it speaks easily and slow, telling each
servant surrounding
the hole that they should:

‘Dance casually, dance inside my red eyes’.

Some take advantage of melody, as a trust that funds satellites of globe,
as if no one ever dreamed or broke the yoke of more pleasurable things;
one of your arms
is like the way that a crab crawls past over my nose and into our future home

another asks that you aren’t so violent in February
and that the month is a counting mouth that multiplies zero
beside the arms reaching for a pyramidic beauty
under the ***** shell; aborting its children like blood in the snow,
without humanistic style, more in tune with time
than the army of water lifting your throat up,
spits- that poke at us with antlers, undeterred, no legged, mating in the sand

After a while, otherness takes over, and will comes.
And emotion is long shattered,
easing out,
playing skin game and dissipating need, where all will and human comes back
it takes a while.

And our gender has nothing to do with just lust
We are the almost completely blind, as the cliché remembers
Gender is
the lack of gender and the freedom of paradigm
whilst hands are upon love,
And more night(s) turn within us.
dream like bright black stars.

Weekends. Week. Work. Corporations dancing like butterflies on fire. Gone.

apart from its face and voice

“Heyy, how’s it going?”
“Yes... Lover,
Yes yes yes!”
skull now linked to the lips of a home
“Correct, correct, correct...” The intangible
darkness, over and over

a rushing
and uncontrollable
heaviness of fire.

foxes in back alleys salute
the black sky with a mongrel scream
and all the animals of the world are linked for a split minutiae,
recognising and respecting the breach;

“You’re hurting... mmmmuh-” Dominic tried to say
in the onslaught.

Converging planes that came from the lips of the spirit crowning his mind.

“You’re not Juuu, Juh Juah Juh.”

He tried to say for the next few hours, as the sun spread down
on the city
and felt a deep
empathy for another one
of its children
attempting to free


how right you are...” The spirit said
as Dominic’s head slumped from exertion.

“You see...” The spirit said seeping into his bones
and killing him;
paramedics zip
the bag
over his face.

“You see...” The voice says again
knocking the lights off
and flinging you
by your throat

Each one letting you

landscape sick in multiple elements of confused colour,
parts of buildings, art: growing up in the horizon, new structures
made by thoughts, old flowers inside limbs,

“What...” The spirit

sigh at the strange place,
without looking around.
blossoms of mind and traffic
on a schizophrenic island

two flies ****** invisibly
and grow from the unseen smallness of their passion
and become an instant world
in the Red Mountains.

“What’s up?” Dominic say gloomily,
laugh a little.

“You’re meant to be screaming...
And yes...
Yet another ******* month
without hitting
target.” The nightmare says,

No incorporeal speech
no anger

She might have been about twenty five,
dressed in a shade of grey
that covered her genitalia
and ******* from ankle up to neck

get used to it all.
raise your chin to the sky and try to blink away from the constant lick
of the beast growing
from yourself, or lover, or day

And grow the chimera
throughout numberless
like a beautiful clay
that cant decide

Finally the meer-hawk looked like a Dickensian peasant
with an intricate smile, dressed all in jail rags
stinking of sweat, *****, and time.
And then we change

And her black hair scooped down
into the blackening sand
where the grains accepted her slim weight
through out itself

She was tired and fed up of the back-world today
She left her contract looking around upstairs
and accepted the hit
on her targets

A transference of types in the quaking room.
A quick drop of laughter flys
into the lil bear or a lot; and a snap and a lot of hunger
for us all...

The master of the basement was mostly machine.

The front of his face that we run towards
is a centred and hovering engine
at the far end of the shadow
and the stench
from its thought.

a farce and enough
to turn you away
from a really good

no walls

no matter

a car mouth approaches naked.

dead cats know this, as they lay purring still, licking their paws still,
misery knows,forgetting, and the coldness of the street gave birth

to numberless seedy neon lights
flickering away from the wall less walls
once more

and you know, we
have a prayer
that comes
here was

might as well let you know
whilst we’re at it
that this one comes
out, in some accent~~
but is how it’s meant to go

“ if to prae
inside the rain
as if to move
the moon with small hands
ah cross the yard
and lucky sky

I live in that playce me lass
with ya quiet weiyht
upon me own
of ya li’l voice
that taeks it away

Ya-renuf ta bring
al me Gods back
an pin ‘em te tha walls

Enough ta mayke
al’ me angels breathe
for even an ounce
of ya grace

Ave begged at tha hands
of jesus Christ
for that tayste
of yeh
me sweet bonny lass
an ya the only lass
‘ahve evva met
that mayde us feel
like ah cuhd heal
without bein less

An I’m lookin at ya now
with al me luv
an ah divent need
ney where to ruhn
as am ah freed dog

and in ya charms

An ‘av ney-where left to luk
but I’ll kip alreet the neet pet
cos ya by me side

an in me arms.”

But now it is rather late my friend, and
we all know how long old accents last,
mine, I cherish, I will say it when cursing
and gone
when lit among friends and when
new jobs, that I shall leave, such is
i may
see you
TigerEyes Aug 2015
I have a luck dragon
and, he flys me through the sky
I have a luck dragon that never says goodbye
he flys me on his wings
high up in the sky
through storms, and rain
through all my trauma, and all my pain
I have a luck dragon
he's here to stay
he always wipes
every tear away.
This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Krisselle S. Cosgrove August 19th, 2015
Butterflygirl18 Jun 2020
Everytime she loves , her heartbreaks ,her soul bleeds,the more scars she has ,the more her heart turns black and the flowers in the forest in her garden die, her wings turn black so dark , she begins to not believe in love , she begins to fade away so does her love,her wings turn black and so does her eyes, she flys to her castle and hides away from the sun and never comes out until the sun is gone , no bright colors and her dark black eyes ,her soul bleeding out every time she cries ,this is what happens when she begins to break,everything begans to fade away until All her pain Is gone and everything comes back to life , the flowers start to bloom and her eyes aren't dark but blue like the sky and she begans to stop crying and her heart drys up ,the scars heel but forever there ,her heart turns red and the garden comes back to life, but her belief in love isn't so easy to spark up, her wings aren't dark and either are her eyes , shes at peace and happy again until the end of time .
Jacob Sykes Oct 2013
The Wall Walker
and smooth talker
he, being a ticked off ****** with a knife,
is mostly mole faced
but with an incredible grasp on spacial relations
mysterious mister stalking the barfly's and time flys
endangering a species just for ***** and giggles
the great google hooligans pace rapidly
back and
frothy beer
drowned down by the river kawaii
Deb Jones Oct 2017
I watch my little hummingbird
The **** on my porch

He perches on the nearest branch
Waiting for the worse

His fellow hummers try to sip
And he rushes to bomb them away

I hide feeders
In the hummingbird tree

Where the other hummers
Nestle the precious young

I have six other feeders around the yard
He thinks they all belong to him

I watch him from the window
His fat little body at rest

He has picked a strategic point
So he can see all six

He seems to be more aggressive when I go outside

As if to prove he is doing his work
I never doubted it once

When I read on the swing
He rises silently till he hovers above my book

Like a little Blackhawk copter
Eye to eye, trying to give me an intimidating look

His beautiful breast iridescent
Green and purple in the sun

Little filigree wings
Like intricate ironwork

His wings beat so fast
He flys backwards

He lives with me year round
In the warm California sun

Little nature’s jewelry
Thank you Sir.

You have given me great joy
Over the years
Marian Jan 2013
I have a fairy friend
she is a sweet girl
spreading smiles everywhere her feet twirl
she is enjoying a happy life
in Fairyland
I am glad to have a friend like her
she flys through Fairyland using her satin wings
dancing in the fairy ring
she sits upon a mushroom in Fairyland
beside the creek
she flits through the air and sings me a lullaby
she knows her little sis still loves being her friend
please, dear friend know that
where flowers grow
and daisies blow
that's where I shall go
Madison Grace and I

For Madison Grace I hope she knows her sis still enjoys being her friend!
Standing still
Days pass slow
Looking back time flys
Where goes the time
Is it the future
René Mutumé Mar 2014
I smoked. There was a good hand in the sky. It looked like a peach draped over tatty buildings. Hemisphere broken open at the end of a fist, and then at the end of an arrow shattering the pieces of night surrounding it, as the moon clouds shot, devouring it.

I flicked my cigarette down on the floor of the fly over instead of flicking it into the avalanche of cars below. Who knows what something as miniscule as a flying tab **** might make a person think. It would not be a fly. It would be a tab ****. It would be something that distracted a driver on the motorway, which they traced back to my finger flicking it.

It would be rude and imprecise, a car loses control and then flips over for a second, then paints the carriageway with ten multiples of itself flying and screaming. The driver flys inside the car. And I continued to cross the fly over. Outside the bookies at 10pm there is a dog looking up at me, his head tilts like he is asking me something, as he starts to follow me, leash dragging.

"Oi! Oi! Where the **** are you going?" A mouth from the ****** says, "Oh me, just down here." I reply, "I was talkin to the ******* dog you ******* mug." The gentleman added. The small white staffy was still looking up at me. Well, one of us is going to have to answer him, his tail said. "Oh ******* then." The mouth says changing back again into the building. "I guess we're going down there then." Schrödinger says, or 'Schrö', as he allows me to call him.

I light another cigarette as more arrows are fired from the sky, more like wet arrows now. "Well you'll need to pick up my leash mate; I don't want to look like a ******." Shrö says, "Ah sorry dude," I say picking it up as we continue to walk.

"Most of the people who talk to me are a little mad." The small staffy says. But why am I called Schrödinger? The staffy asks me. Ah come on, you don't get it? Well I do apologise but I am not that sharp on my quantum theory philosophy, and I am also a dog. Oh yes, I concede to him in my flat.  "Do you mind opening the door to your balcony pilgrim?" He asks me next.

"Sorry sir?" I ask him, "Well it either goes on your floor or I do it outside." He says. I open the door as he asks, and then lean against the frame as he takes a ****, and I watch him. He scrapes his hind legs on the concrete as if forgetting that it is concrete and not soil. You remind me a lot of love, I mention to him, smoking.

“You know what pilgrim? I think I prefer the name Otto Gross.” The staffy says looking up at the mixing night and I hatch open a new can pouring some into his bowl on the balcony. Cheers love. He says. He puts his two front paws on the meter high wall where my balcony overlooks a junk yard, and begins to speak.

“There is my lover! As screamed across sense and filled with conjoined gait, of my eye and hand, I am jealous of the city she walks in, by me, as I am half departed, myself, near a fox that gathers in ball, by me and is a better *****, than me, here, so I learn, from vermin, how to hide, how to fight, and how to re-appear. How to have humour, like theirs, and there unplanned joy-“

Woah “*******”, I’m spewing, a poet dog! A pile of dosh in the equilibrium! I rush back into my flat and grab a pencil and paper, shake a bit, take a sip, keep on listening, then nearly fall **** forwards returning to the balcony scribbling. And there’s a ****** dog talking.

“I trit-trot across roads with my last owner, winning jobs only within tasks of cemetery light, inside and on, the wall; so curled so, as I sleep outside, so sojourned within, grey dusk, car rivers- I spit! Not so far as giants can, just a piece of spittle, just shadow puppets dancing, just marionettes laughing-”
Schrödinger sang on my balcony beginning to howl, making the lid of the box open.

“To ******* the rain. To share within it, its fire, its knowable drench, of skin like hymn, that is so far penetrating, and mingled past flesh, opened and quakeless to the onslaught of lightening swans! The quickening fury, of several slow days, and lives, devouring the metronome of salutes, upon heart buildings coming down like tetrahedrons drawn by many hands, of dusk filth opening to the arrays of data goods and gods, and produced from the pockets of gibbous mooned skies, and I whisper to the tsunami: mood unhung, bellowing away from the dog fights, and unpainted streets, I seem: To be praying...”

Monday may come soon I doubted, watching the staffy speak.

“Planets growing teeth, in the stars and the junk-yarded iris, succour comes, and so do the sad journeying flies, flying in the mouth of many gales, as extremities to the planet’s engine, affordable, losses, condensed in- and danced solarlessly -in, dances of mortuary, and wedding sung precipice, the edge of a gale, happy to blow my face, away, just gust gust gust! And yes. I do pray a little, and past holocaust of saccharine tune, our shame is forgotten in the simple, rhythms, of a cup- a hand, a castle flock of gulls, landing in water.”

A dog wags its tail because it has just shat, his owner gone, bag ready below ****, I feel streets clean with loving owners hostile to the madness, of the furious dozen dozen flies- lobotomised drool, ready and alive enough, to laugh, and if you are knifeless, maybe a lil knackered, from work - - we might haul up: eternity, my love, and have a lil more, humour! In our sheets and face and sky, an take a **** holiday, right where you are stood or sat, walking, or resting.

And there are no gods, but the ones that let you see them creasing their soft cheeks and aging beside you, together, letting time die, parapets soak in the weather, and say: ‘hey’, here are my bones, there has been a lot of twisting done, but all they need, is yours.
Dougie Simps Jan 2014
These dull moments, when you wake up with a tired voice
You've done all you can but can't grasp the concept of an individual's choice
To watch people make mistakes, watch em choose a dark path
Only for them to wake up in a sweat of a cold panic bath...
The drugs must of just hit, is this the sign of an addict?
Their eyes are wide open but nothing is going on upstairs in the attic.
The needle drained all their faith,
The pill washed out their ability,
They thought this hit would knockout their problems, thought the high would bring em to a cloud of tranquility.
Only to gain hostility and instinctively clinch their fist, the fight against wanting more, that pure satisfaction of the cigarette burning on the wrist.

The heart can't stop beating, the room suddenly spins...the eyes are seeing illusions of this monster from within.
Your parents warned you about this, you're suddenly getting flashbacks, of a time when you were innocent an how you'll never get that all back!
You're pulling at your hair, screaming at objects that aren't there! You keep yelling at the sky "Why!? Why is life so unfair!?"
Your breath starts to shorten, the cold chill creeps in from the door you broke open, you think you need more to relax so the bag you start to rip open. Your all alone too, no one is there to be outspoken! Your next decision will leave your family in shattered pieces! Leave all your friends heartbroken!
So you wrap up, let the blood clog, prepared to take one last hit..
Say "this is the only way I'll ever stop feeling like ****!"
The needle goes into your veins..and you just watch the drugs inject slow...
Your eyes slowly close, the air starts to hesitate as it's coming out of your nose.
The reaper starts to come in
As he flys over you only to find a note.

I can't believe, I didn't see the signs! I...(crying) it said *"10 Reasons why I overdosed"
Stories I don't enjoy, but teach you a lesson.
Hannah Rae Jan 2012
In two months it will be two years since i saw you last
It's not fair, it's killing me
You deserve better than to grow up without me

I look out the window and watch the rain
These days without you cause me so much pain
I wanna run away from it all
Only thing i do now is sit by the phone and pray that you call

You were so little when I first met you
You deserve better than to go through this too
Five years old and still had a blankie
Without it you would get so cranky

Now your what, 10? you grew up so fast
All I do now is suffer through the days that go past
We would fight, but thats what bonded us together
Remember when you found me that beautiful white feather

I have so many memories with you
I wish i could make some that are new
Now the days go by
As our memories drop like flys
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
Dear Nat,

When I grow up,
I think that my
Wonder Woman cape,
that flys behind
so gracefully,
as I wrestle villains,
intent upon
World Destruction
will morph into a
***** dish rag
that hangs limply
from my shoulder,
as I tend too,
mountains of
folding and training of
hysterical toddlers
to be stable products
in society

Is what shape,
this cape, marking me


Dear Wonder Woman,

(Borrowing from and with apologies to
Arthur Herzog Jr. and Billie Holiday...)

This ball you tossed,
Arrived early morn,
Forcing me tocontemplate
the choice between
Shaving, and /or poetically,
dispelling your
Grand Confusion.

Fancy that, as I pondered
How to best express,
The *obvious
the BS&T; sang the answer
Obviatin' the need,
To discuss your heroics,
The care, the feed,
Those you care for,
Attend their needs.

God bless the child
that's got his own,
God bless' the child
who can stand up and say
I've got my own
Ev'ry child's, got to have his own,
His very own.

I could  be more explicit,
That when I was a child,
A red dish cloth was a
Perfectly good ASAP cape,
That defeating bad guys
Hungry work that needed
Ring Dings + milk, to soothe a
Superhero's Superman
And both arrived courtesy of
Wonder Mom.

So rather than ramble,
Let this preamble

God bless the child
that's got his own,
Wonder Woman*

N.B.  This message has been approved by the
Justice League of America, Australia Branch.
See those fabulous shoulders (banner photo)
BS&T;???  Blood, Sweat and Tears, of course!
Don't ask me why today I bought
That little balsa wood airplane
One like many I had when I was a kid
I want to think that I've grown up
But somewhere inside I never did
I saw it yesterday and I just had to have it
Though I don't know why
So I pulled out a few hard earned dollars
And bought this memory that flys
It has a red propeller
That's powered by a rubber band
And two red wheels attached with wire
To help it safely land
I can't recall how many of these
I've pioleted through the years
I'm sure at least a few or more
Way back in my yesteryears
It amazes me sometimes now that I am older
That the sight of such a little thing
Can bring a forgotten memory back to life
Like a balsa wood airplane

I remember so clearly playing with a balsa wood airplane on many a summer day. If I could go back and be a kid again for just one day I think I'd fly a balsa wood airplane.That little boy from long ago still wants to play sometime, but he's all grown up now.
Wait, I have my airplane and its a beautiful summer day ,"Honey!Ill be outside for a while."
Alice Curtis Jul 2012
Sprites fly through the living room
they glow green with magical dust sprinkles.
One lands on the end of my moms broom.
She blows it a kiss and it flys away.

Brownies climb the desk with little ropes
they sneak off with my reeses pieces
but they leave behind a bag of hopes
that I'll be a famous poetess someday.

Faerys are real, they just hide really good.
If you believe in them sometimes you get to see them.
If you go for walks in the woods
you might get to see faerys play.
This is my first rhyme poem! Thank you to everybody on this site, and your awesome poems. I learn so much from you guys everyday. :)
Eva Rushton Jul 2019
With a suitcase
Of a past
Belonging to
Another of me

Strain keeps pulling
In steps already taken
Scanning the beauty ahead
Looking at the swamp behind

Earth flys with the release
As the baggage crashes
Splaying open
It’s contents no longer contained

Dust devils swirl
As torments fly upward
Upon clearing
Vision magnifies

Movement is smooth
Freedom lunges me
Freeing mind and heart
Allowing achievement

Written by E. M. Rushton
July 2019
You told me you loved me,
a cursed lie from the cracked dead lips of a dead one.
You see your words are rotten and putrid,
flys around me like decayed flesh down to my very bones.
Consumed I am now the living dead,
my eyes are blind, my desire is you,
and nothing will stop me til i taste you.
You told me you loved me,
from eyes that are old and weary.
Seen things they shouldn't have,
they are blind to the living.
Exceptional delusional deceiving wonders of light,
in the darkest deepest most terrible night.
You tell me you love me,
from areas of your body you knew never existed before.
I am black and blue from arms that never held me,
from the *** we never had.
I am consummated by love and death,
my virginity laid within your lifeless, blistered hands.
You told me you loved me,
and there are flames in your words.
They lick the very part of me, like paper, i am ash,
Falling through my own fingers, I am death known,
and to myself i wonder, this is really love?
As i watch love destroyed by love.
a m a n d a Oct 2013
[tater tots, sour cream, & smoked gouda]

i'm deeply afraid
that i am
a kaleidoscope
of shards


there is too much
s p a c e
around me
deafening silence

i want to be
held down
i want to be
i want to be
i want to be
in the sun

i feel like
an exploding star
or a character
in a movie
that gets overcome
and flys apart
into brilliant
shafts of light

i'm sick
of trying
to stifle sobs
because i don't
want my neighbors
to think i'm
a ******

and i've been
thinking maybe
i'm not as old
as i think i am

and that is

it is worse
than being old

because time is
stretching into
a vast expanse
of nothingness

how do i trust myself
when everything
has fallen apart

when all my decisions
have led to this...


...but i've
been falling from


burning through
the atmosphere
like a
bat out of hell

and it is
the only thing that
seems right

i trust myself
in the realization
that plunging
to the earth
on fire
is maybe
the best thing
that has ever happened to me

i'm not trying to stop
in fact, i'm picking up speed
being pulled
by gravity

if i had to be catupulted
into space

to realize that
this *breathtaking
is better

then so be it.

and i will
put smoked gouda
on tater tots
in an effort
to class up
this joint.

and because it's delicious.
jennifer ann Aug 2014
apreciate the world for all of its beauty,
& please dont dwell on all of the negativity,
eventhough society is cruel and ugly,
please remember my love, that you are lovely.

you're too young, to be so broken down and sad.
dont let bad people, make you feel so bad.

& i know, you have a million scars on your broken
heart, but its time to let it go, dont let toxic people tair you apart, its time to move on, be strong and let yourself grow.

lifes too short and too precious,
time flys by far too fast, dont destroy your
future, dwelling on your troublesome past.
hug more, fight less.
relax, and dont stress.
live every day like its going to be your last.

if i had a time machiene.
these are the things that i would tell myself.
at the age of seventeen.
Vampyre Kato May 2016
Elven Heritage
Purity Healing Sphere Carriged In
Sacred Mystical Kin Hint Of A Faerie Mist
Purified Language In
Telepathy With All Interdimesnonal Beings
Love Hugging The Trees
Its Where We Peace
Its Where We Eat
Dance & Sing
Healing Passion Fullfiling Gatherings
Fairys Swing
One Touch From Us Is A Rush
Enough To Make An Angel Blush
All Disease Crushed Into Dust
Whipped Up Into Thus
Purified Trust
Declair Clean Air Is A Must
Our Eyes Are Idolized
Pure Manners Inside
Anything Less Than Love It Flys
Where Its Free From Disguise
Vibrations Rise Then Dies
I Am Elven Folk
My Dearest Heart
Wheeps When You Leave
Until Your Return
I'll Be Gentle When Bleeding Screams
We Are Here To Heal Call Up
Elders Silver Will

— The End —