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mûre Mar 2012
My name is Murmur. I have a Funk.
My Funk is bright purple. My Funk smells like skunk.
And sometimes my Funk can act like a PUNK.

(And I'll have you know now, those days really stunk)

You see, your Funk always knows when you feel sad.
When you lose a job, or when things go BAD.
This is the stuff that makes Funks glad.

But since your Funk follows you when things go all wrong
Maybe you should just invite him along.
Make a new pal, sing a Funky Funk song?
Embrace your Funk, he can sometimes be wise.
He's usually honest even when in disguise.
He might even help you fight monsters round the bend.
By the end you may just have a new Funky Friend!

It's okay to have a Funk. And sometimes you will.
Sometimes your Funk will hoist you over a hill.

Sometimes Funks will help you. And sometimes not.
Sometimes they remind you of the good things you've got.

Sometimes they will take. And sometimes they will give.
And sometimes Funks remind you to just get up and LIVE.
With all due respect for Dr. Seuss.
Samm Marie Jul 2016
When I get in one of my funks
And specifically tell you
"I need you, right now"
You're supposed to come running
I thought we were going to make this work
But I'm not sure I can trust someone
Who used to always
Come to my rescue
And now ignores my cries for help
I can't be that girl anymore
I won't be that girl anymore
I never thought I'd be the one to walk out
When you so easily can
Irma Cerrutti Apr 2010
**** serenely amid the surround-sound system and break the sound barrier and remember what *** appeal there may be in celibacy.  As far as possible without surrender be located on voluptuous bafflegabs amongst squillions creatures.  Jabber your clean breast ravishingly and revealingly; and bug to odds, even the dead from the neck up and half—baked; they too **** their mythical being.  Lynch yobbish and Eurosceptic creatures, they are hot potatoes to the *****.  If you calibrate yourself with the aid of genetically modifieds you may become naff and disgusting; for always there will be juicier and grosser girls than yourself.  **** your bear and ragged staffs as well as your carcasses.  Acropolis caressed inside your cough up jackboot, however uncouth; *** appeal is a **** abracadabra at the sign of the channel—hopping weathercocks of porridge.  **** sadomasochist in your pigeon filths; for the big bang theory is chock—full of Piltdown man.  Nevertheless let this not ****-faced you to what pith there is; thick celebrities have a crack at for foul—smelling specimens; and in all quarters ***** is oozing of exhaustion.  Touch yourself.  To cap it all **** not ape where the shoe pinches.  Neither be cheeky about ******; ergo chez the ******* type of oodles menopause and double whammy schoolgirl complexion is as shrinkproof as the Antichrist.  Treat like **** out of charity the tax collector of the yonks, buxomly jettisoning the seed of the vigorousness.  Give **** enormousness of ***** to fluoridate you inside eye—opening extremity.  But do not abuse yourself using crooked paintings.  Noisy funks are impregnated of knock up and stiffness.  Over the hills and far away a **** straitjacket, touch affectionate *** yourself.  You are a brat of the swarms, no less than the crab apples and the diamond geezers; you have a right to breathe from end to end.  And whether or no or not *** appeal is plain as a pikestaff to you, nay no grit the not peanuts is spreadeagling as the body beautiful should.  Ergo be at titbit with Fetish whatever you inseminate him to be posted, and whatever your alpha—fetoprotein tests and farts inside the full—throated nymphomaniacs of ***** wigwam come—hither look using your ****** *******.  With all *** appeal’s tattie bogle, slavery and mutilated musclemen, the body beautiful is still a tall, dark and handsome big bang theory.  Stand pert.  Die in the attempt to be boozed up.
Copyright © Irma Cerrutti 2009
Sarah Mulqueen Aug 2014
Do you ever get the feeling you're trapped, or in captivity?
Not by the true meaning of the word.
An overwhelming feeling you try, but cannot escape from.
Forbidden topics we feel should never be mentioned, there lays part of the problem.
We need to learn to reach for one another, help each other break free from these chains we've imprisoned ourselves in.
Maybe then we will be able to heal our home.
Doug McCray Aug 2014
I lost her to thin air  but found her in an elevator when we were both too drunk to take the stairs
And both out of enough of our funks to not care
As I was drunk and I needed lips and hers were there
Strawberry lip balm if I can remember correctly in a morning that was ever too foggy but tasted so clear
Berries above a neck of vanilla creme to the body with everything, everything, I mean everything
Back dimples centered around a birthmark, breats b cups but bursting, body skinny but jaw dropping
Beauty beautiful gorgeous all the same with public school hips only with practice can you tame
And broken hearts scabbing over a past life's scars are healing and we can feel it cuz its been months and nightmares ago but we've changed

Maturity or the quest to maintain proven false beliefs in purity in the form of trusting a ****** again while alone in my room
Dodging a half packed, half open suitcase and pairless socks in the dark..and who would of known feelings would spark so soon,
But call them feeling if you want to as both of us are looking like I'm on to you
Is this traps, trickery, or treason as we find old love spots and squeeze them cuz this may be a surprise but its not new
Looking into her eyes bring a cold shoulder in twos but then she is ******* and smiling....whispering I missed you...
And I missed her to...I missed her in the way pairless socks miss feet and shoes and even flip flops to....

I missed her after those nightmares replaced phone call lullabies and that feeling of her warmest hug by her hardest goodbye...
But now were laying together and why?
Did half finished bottles and condensation capped beers really do more then apologies and love notes in the longest texts we've ever seen
So easy to delete memories through screens but  not so easy when they stand before you or lay beneath your jeans
Not so easy when she finds a cursed diablo in her dreams in the form of a liar and his mistakes behind shades that I just wish didnt look so much like me
I can't tell if she'll remember the night we've seen with her eyes being so glossy and so out of focus and her every gaze so misty...
I just wish the title of wife didn't come under the muscles of a tounge so flawed before the women I'd rightfully title god
But were just drunk, and this is mistakes in the making,  hence why when I say do you still love me she can't say it  yet...only nod..
This is my first poem on here let me know if you want to see more!
Pink Taylor Aug 2010
I don't know why
But sometimes I
Just feel like I can't breathe
Sometimes certain somethings
make me lose my inner peace
A feeling comes into my chest
Almost feels like it's not beating
I have to take a deep breath
And remember you're still with me

When I get into those funks
After hearing a sublime song,
Or hearing something about junk
Or just sitting in my head too long
I must be careful, must be cautious
Cause sometimes it makes me nauseous
And to keep from crying too much
I just remember that there's
No Such Thing As Dying
I wronged you,
          I knew I did,
I ignored you,
          I broke our creed,
I grew weak,
          And took a break,
I sought peak,
          And troubled the lake,
You reached out,
          But I ignored,
You did shout,
          While yet I snored,
You did pray,
          While I was drunk,
I was prey,
          Unto books and funks,
You did stay,
          For so very long,
I can't allay,
          This burden of wrong,
Now I see,
          That which you saw,
I was he,
          So blind to his flaw,
I so hope,
          That it's not too late,
How do I cope,
          If this is fate,
I have learnt,
          A very big lesson,
I'm like a cent,
          Totally gone missing,
Do forgive me,
          And have me back,
Do relieve me,
          From this haunty dark,
I wronged you,
          I knew I did,
I ignored you,
          I broke our creed.

#El_Magnifico™
Yo who this on the track, black,
With another diamond plaque,
Imagine that,
Me spitting with Biggie N Shaq,
Back to back,
Like the Lakers and the Bulls, check the hairs of my wools,
Spools,
We growin, showing, you how to wreck a beat, smooth flowin,
Makin' tight ends loose ends, setting trends,
Stacks of bejamins, see ya bending ya mens,
Ya ******* aint killin, all yall do is talk the same spilling,
Im tryna get the black linen, pope style, pinned the golden child,
Came out the world,
And never smiled, i like to get wild,
Mystery mother nature,
Yeah i hate cha,
Descendants of the creator,
Along with Elijah to Enoch, wont see no death, so kick rocks,
I keeps it locked,
Like a combination, gangta station, stay up in the tahoes blazin,
Mad skunks,
And parliament funks, shaq alley up for the dunk,
Assist from Kobe, let me show thee,
Tv screen seventy inches across the scene,
Lookin' like IMAX, my money never maxed,
We stay poppin' Barefoots, and that's a fact,



Take trips to Don Italy, you fools aint  phasin' me,
With the Big whips to big chains,
Tattoos, only for ya skin to bruise,
Easier the desert eaze is here,
To please ya,
Never sleep twice, with the same skeezer,
RoboCop ****, attack the blunt like a NFL blitz,
Switch, off to another hit,
In the studio, smokin' phillies slow, with multiple hoes,
Clubs we go, from multi-million dollar shows,
New age expos, similar to a Soprano,
Keep my keys piano, eighty eight ways to please,
So dont knock these,
G-funk east coast tease,
To ya melodies I grease,
Lubricate ya ligaments once i squeeze,
Gats imagine that, me spittin' wack, never dat,
Its like an Isley's brother track,
Smooth sailin', aint no tellin,
I push more heat than air baloons, got ya fools consumed,
Into my style watch me bloom,
Makin' a stain ill still remain,
Number one in this game,
Y'all cant stop the rain the reign,

Since the death of biggie,
Seems like the industry,
Left with thee,
Replica of the 90s, rewind me,
Get behind me,
As we cruise into the new scenery,
Im old school as the munchies,
Slicker than Bootsy,
Collins yo yosef you wildin' pilin,
Up the flows i knows,
Hits like a snort of blow, in ya nose,
That's how it goes,
From head to head, toe to toe,
I get ya, dancin' on the floor,
Givin' ya more, raw with the buckin', until i hear yall shoutin' for war, leave no scars,
Bars for bars, who really want it,
Houston ****, we on it,
******* up is the clique, who gives a **** if you ain't feelin' it,
Im in it to win it, true independent,
Broke in the rap senate,
Change the scene, once i counted my green, mean as Gene,
None could come in between,
My cream, just like the Wu- Ninjas, makin' multiple figures,
Undercover hitters,
Holy ghost shakes, and not the jitters,
Knockin' on heavens door, many soul scalin' on the shore,
Im back on the earth, knowin' my worth, you ain't got the girth,
To success, i dont get distracted by a big *** in a dress yes,
I keeo bad ******* on deck check,
Wreck another one,
Then hire another one, flexes dont come close, when ya step to a Don,
Im the one, like Dub C yall wish yall could be me,
But im hear to trouble you, stumple you,
Get away clean, from any ****** scene, in the 525 BMW,
What?!!
Odd Odyssey Poet Nov 2023
Invisible crosses,
crossing out the days I
had no faith
As if monsters don't already
live in my head,- making me question
if I'll ever be heading in the right direction
From feeling like a dusty old Bible,
unattended to, and in servitude to to
most of my unclaimed confessions.

Could have been close to the ties
of me looking for change from the tithes
But I'll live a quarter of a mile, on
a quarter of my minds tank
I'm a bit too tanked to give anymore thanks,
any more funks, to dance around an n for
the wrong spelling of empty, and make
out as something you should c,- I have no ***** to give.
Looking for an entertainer? Birthday, moving to a new home, marriage?
Phone the Fartist. Produces funny noises and nauseous funks.
It’s your birthday. You ask for a song and dance. That’s what you get and more.
Kids imitate the gross concert and adults hop around keeping their noses to the candles. And the birthday guy? He loses gas and wins a secret pleasure.
You’re moving to a new home. You ask for an afterburner blessing. You get that and more. The new carpet gets a long shush, the walls a staccato salvo, and exclamations of wonder are accompanied by exhumations of thunder. In the end the family lullabies itself to sleep with a gassy purr.
You’re marrying. You ask for cannons and rockets. You get that and more. The wedding kiss goes with a **** and a swish, the wedding cake comes with a choking chopper and the dance is a medley of winds and bombs. At night the couple both turn their gasses on each other.
Afterwards the Fartist receives many a compliment and complaint about the stink he raised. We love your **** aria’s and **** bolero’s, but can’t you deodorize?
The Fartist doesn’t reply but thinks to himself: Where did I hear about odorless gas before? Do they want gas chamber music?
O well, what has been lies ahead of us and what’s coming creeps up from behind.

— The End —