"grammatically" poems - Hello Poetry

"grammatically" poems

The love of darkness or night This is precisely what I adore The dark is where i erase my plight Where my dreams and aspirations take flight Where I undress my conscience and make love to my thoughts I don't quite know how or why But everything seems right when it's dark It's a hidden land of castles and fairy tales Where everybody is loved the way they should and everything makes sense And that's all I ever really craved So even when it's daylight My mind is as dark as the midnight sky with infinite thoughts like the stars Nyctophilia - grammatically a noun but could it be used as an adjective? Ask me how I'm doing and I might say "I'm feeling very nyctophiliac today" Nyctophilia- it's ironic how at night when most humans are sound asleep it's the time when I feel most alive Nyctophilia- it explains more of me than I'd ever be able to So with that being said Let darkness fall.

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Dec 18, 2013

Dec 18, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC

The love of darkness or night This is precisely what I adore The dark is where i erase my plight Where my dreams and aspirations take flight Where I undress my conscience and make love to my thoughts I don't quite know how or why But everything seems right when it's dark It's a hidden land of castles and fairy tales Where everybody is loved the way they should and everything makes sense And that's all I ever really craved So even when it's daylight My mind is as dark as the midnight sky with infinite thoughts like the stars Nyctophilia - grammatically a noun but could it be used as an adjective? Ask me how I'm doing and I might say "I'm feeling very nyctophiliac today" Nyctophilia- it's ironic how at night when most humans are sound asleep it's the time when I feel most alive Nyctophilia- it explains more of me than I'd ever be able to So with that being said Let darkness fall.

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Firstly, I'm not a body-shamer. To each their own (a good phrase, though grammatically incorrect), But sometimes I find it hard to understand The tatoos, the piercings, the colors and placements. The usual answer, if I dare ask: I'mhxpressthinmythelf. Good for you. Does the diaper pin through your cheek Tell us you're a Dad or something. Na. The quarter inch bolt and nut through your ear? Are you a machinist or a plumber, or something? Na. The doll-house plates in your lips? Are you a Duck Dynasty fan? A member of the Audubon Society or something? No. I'mapontingxprschmyselpth! Sorry, what was that? I'mapontingxprschmyselpth. I'm sorry. I don't quite get what you're saying. I don't mean to be rude, But could you express those plates for a minute... I... I get it.

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Feb 13, 2017

Feb 13, 2017 at 1:45 PM UTC

Express Yourself

Firstly, I'm not a body-shamer. To each their own (a good phrase, though grammatically incorrect), But sometimes I find it hard to understand The tatoos, the piercings, the colors and placements. The usual answer, if I dare ask: I'mhxpressthinmythelf. Good for you. Does the diaper pin through your cheek Tell us you're a Dad or something. Na. The quarter inch bolt and nut through your ear? Are you a machinist or a plumber, or something? Na. The doll-house plates in your lips? Are you a Duck Dynasty fan? A member of the Audubon Society or something? No. I'mapontingxprschmyselpth! Sorry, what was that? I'mapontingxprschmyselpth. I'm sorry. I don't quite get what you're saying. I don't mean to be rude, But could you express those plates for a minute... I... I get it.

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"I love you" should be a little more difficult to say. There should be advanced language classes revolving around complex sentence structure, advanced clauses and arrangement, complicated syntax, so that "I love you" means more than loving anything else. Ich liebe dich. Te amo. Je t'aime. I love you. Saying "I'm sorry" in German is more difficult than "I love you." Why is it that in order to apologize for something, I first have to learn about reflexive pronouns, and reflexive verbs, and that the same word for "the" can also stand alone as the subject of the sentence? Das tut mir Leid is more grammatically complicated than Ich liebe dich. And yet one wonders why love seems to have become so clichéd.

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Sep 13, 2013

Sep 13, 2013 at 12:55 AM UTC

"I love you" should be a little more difficult to say

"I love you" should be a little more difficult to say. There should be advanced language classes revolving around complex sentence structure, advanced clauses and arrangement, complicated syntax, so that "I love you" means more than loving anything else. Ich liebe dich. Te amo. Je t'aime. I love you. Saying "I'm sorry" in German is more difficult than "I love you." Why is it that in order to apologize for something, I first have to learn about reflexive pronouns, and reflexive verbs, and that the same word for "the" can also stand alone as the subject of the sentence? Das tut mir Leid is more grammatically complicated than Ich liebe dich. And yet one wonders why love seems to have become so clichéd.

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there's no point writing out what poetry is... if you don't actually write it. a whiskey prior noon, too soon, too soon, too soon? i'll be cooking a turkey curry later, a whiskey prior noon, too soon, too soon, too soon?! rhyme or rhythmic, perhaps the latter in Dante's trinity of rhymes - poetry of the near-illiterate, who never read as much as could have been - thinking it out as origin and originals - a man without influence is not worth reciting - he'll still have to borrow the life of a Henry VIII somehow, whether he has or hasn't read a book concerning the man - while the Vatican emerges as the gossip library of all the European royal families, and indeed Henry VIII dubbed Anne Boleyn's cow dangler ******* duckies - i think it's due to the fact he quacked while he suckled the ******* like a pre-mature **** not producing ***** - seriously, no milk; and as honesty goes, ********** literature does it for me, patron saint kenneth rexroth - self-education moulds the self into a pristine sequence of surprises - there the pop of a balloon, there the weeping clown... there the giraffe on stilts! indeed even at university entry point where i deposited my self i came back with debts! idiotic treachery of teaching the politicised version of language, as language per se simply called grammatically sound, in politics simply versed "correct"; two satans from Syria while Solomon had his harem, a third from Poland, they say the holocaust, 6 million if not more citizens of the world with polish passports - mind you they took the Diogenes quote into left and right parallel readied for a march - Apollo listened then laughed at the failures counting to 13 - laughing while the words 'too the moon!' were eased out from his helium filled lungs.

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Apr 28, 2016

Apr 28, 2016 at 6:11 AM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

if i can't strut like a peacock, i'll croak like a crow

there's no point writing out what poetry is... if you don't actually write it. a whiskey prior noon, too soon, too soon, too soon? i'll be cooking a turkey curry later, a whiskey prior noon, too soon, too soon, too soon?! rhyme or rhythmic, perhaps the latter in Dante's trinity of rhymes - poetry of the near-illiterate, who never read as much as could have been - thinking it out as origin and originals - a man without influence is not worth reciting - he'll still have to borrow the life of a Henry VIII somehow, whether he has or hasn't read a book concerning the man - while the Vatican emerges as the gossip library of all the European royal families, and indeed Henry VIII dubbed Anne Boleyn's cow dangler ******* duckies - i think it's due to the fact he quacked while he suckled the ******* like a pre-mature **** not producing ***** - seriously, no milk; and as honesty goes, ********** literature does it for me, patron saint kenneth rexroth - self-education moulds the self into a pristine sequence of surprises - there the pop of a balloon, there the weeping clown... there the giraffe on stilts! indeed even at university entry point where i deposited my self i came back with debts! idiotic treachery of teaching the politicised version of language, as language per se simply called grammatically sound, in politics simply versed "correct"; two satans from Syria while Solomon had his harem, a third from Poland, they say the holocaust, 6 million if not more citizens of the world with polish passports - mind you they took the Diogenes quote into left and right parallel readied for a march - Apollo listened then laughed at the failures counting to 13 - laughing while the words 'too the moon!' were eased out from his helium filled lungs.

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A flow, a pen, an ink stained palm. A life, a story, all gone wrong. A spark of hope in the night, maybe? No, your hope is grammatically incorrect. "This is where your sentence could have ended but it didn't," see? Nonetheless, it wants so desperately to end. An incomplete thought, a fragment - A fragmented existence with an expired due date. Can you pick up the forlorn pieces? Use your calloused fingers to avoid getting cut. You continued the sentence, But you used the semicolon wrong.

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Apr 26, 2021

Apr 26, 2021 at 11:22 AM UTC

You used the semicolon wrong

A flow, a pen, an ink stained palm. A life, a story, all gone wrong. A spark of hope in the night, maybe? No, your hope is grammatically incorrect. "This is where your sentence could have ended but it didn't," see? Nonetheless, it wants so desperately to end. An incomplete thought, a fragment - A fragmented existence with an expired due date. Can you pick up the forlorn pieces? Use your calloused fingers to avoid getting cut. You continued the sentence, But you used the semicolon wrong.

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Promises A linguistic signature to your word, as binding as cursive I'm never sure if your tongue knows which curves to merge Swerving across defining lines Dyslectic joy rides, is it still considered homicide if you hit and run when the ink dries before you have the ties to derive a sentence. Sentences Time served. Grammatically speaking, Your word Is the act of dramatically seeking the exact adjectives and verbs to Purge every truth from the definition of true. Tell me why, in your book of synonyms is Promise handcuffed to Lie... When spoken Words fly free, gravity is defied When broken Words are deceived, credibility dies Words have weight and time is heavy.

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Oct 31, 2013

Oct 31, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC

*when people break promises*

Promises A linguistic signature to your word, as binding as cursive I'm never sure if your tongue knows which curves to merge Swerving across defining lines Dyslectic joy rides, is it still considered homicide if you hit and run when the ink dries before you have the ties to derive a sentence. Sentences Time served. Grammatically speaking, Your word Is the act of dramatically seeking the exact adjectives and verbs to Purge every truth from the definition of true. Tell me why, in your book of synonyms is Promise handcuffed to Lie... When spoken Words fly free, gravity is defied When broken Words are deceived, credibility dies Words have weight and time is heavy.

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Alphabet soup I could never tell their order, for they all came out so fast All the letters in the alphabet, all came with a blast Words I did not recognise, words I did not choose All of the letters they kept scrambling All of them amused. I see them all before me, A vast ocean full of glee. Words becoming sentences Grammatically painting pictures For one and all to see. I see pictures from the present I see pictures from the past I see pictures in natures many guises Some of them cast to last I read of the mystical meandering, that comes from within Pandora’s Box I read of the mythical dimensions, of Devinci his ruse that seekers seek to unlock I read of the magical new beginnings, in nature as seasons produce its flocks I read of the wonders of the universe, bequeathed by scientists since time started the ticking of its clock All the wonderful letters bequeathed to those that note, All the wonders of the mind, its senses from which the stories float. All these special visions’ artists choose to collate, All these special pictures writers choose to paint. (c) 12.14

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Oct 10, 2015

Oct 10, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC

Alphabet soup I could never tell their order, for they all came out so fast All the letters in the alphabet, all came with a blast Words I did not recognise, words I did not choose All of the letters they kept scrambling All of them amused. I see them all before me, A vast ocean full of glee. Words becoming sentences Grammatically painting pictures For one and all to see. I see pictures from the present I see pictures from the past I see pictures in natures many guises Some of them cast to last I read of the mystical meandering, that comes from within Pandora’s Box I read of the mythical dimensions, of Devinci his ruse that seekers seek to unlock I read of the magical new beginnings, in nature as seasons produce its flocks I read of the wonders of the universe, bequeathed by scientists since time started the ticking of its clock All the wonderful letters bequeathed to those that note, All the wonders of the mind, its senses from which the stories float. All these special visions’ artists choose to collate, All these special pictures writers choose to paint. (c) 12.14

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there are two sides to every one sided story yours and yours you're always ugly when it ends not so pleasent grammatically incorrect not so great perfectly imperfect in every way your words dont cut they slice small parts of my ****** ego bringing me down to earth touching basis with home base why are you mean? why do you have to hurt me the way you do? you waste so much energy and recieve nothing in return feuling the fire burning this forest we've tried so hard to create so, yes we must finally part the red sea we made and divide these piles evenly and learn to embrace the world without eachother because thats the way it was meant to be you and i seperately

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Oct 22, 2012

Oct 22, 2012 at 4:20 PM UTC

my last farewell

there are two sides to every one sided story yours and yours you're always ugly when it ends not so pleasent grammatically incorrect not so great perfectly imperfect in every way your words dont cut they slice small parts of my ****** ego bringing me down to earth touching basis with home base why are you mean? why do you have to hurt me the way you do? you waste so much energy and recieve nothing in return feuling the fire burning this forest we've tried so hard to create so, yes we must finally part the red sea we made and divide these piles evenly and learn to embrace the world without eachother because thats the way it was meant to be you and i seperately

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The sun, a blazing circle of celestial fire Hangs low upon the horizon, Its fiery glory reflecting orangely On the wind-whipped, blue-green sea. The late afternoon sees my love and I, Arms and legs entwined, ******* naked on the beach, Rapt in appreciation of that blest moment When sun and sea join in mystic communion. And yet, all is not golden: When one mentions the word "legs" Once is certainly grammatically correct, yet One does not convey the true situation to the reader. You see, my lover is the sad possessor Of a fifty percent deficit in the podial department, Whilst I have a full double complement. And thus to so-called act of generation (Most times mis-named, for which I thank the gods) Is a feat requiring great dexterous equilibrium. However, my love's club foot (speaking candidly, An admitted visual defect most times) Now comes to the rescue of Eros' urgent needs, With the aid of a little mutual ingenuity. Balancing carefully on my dear one's abbreviated podex, Supported carefully by the discarded surgical boot, A passable **** can usually be achieved. Only the halitosis appears irremediable.

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Jan 5, 2015

Jan 5, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC

The sun, a blazing circle of celestial fire Hangs low upon the horizon, Its fiery glory reflecting orangely On the wind-whipped, blue-green sea. The late afternoon sees my love and I, Arms and legs entwined, ******* naked on the beach, Rapt in appreciation of that blest moment When sun and sea join in mystic communion. And yet, all is not golden: When one mentions the word "legs" Once is certainly grammatically correct, yet One does not convey the true situation to the reader. You see, my lover is the sad possessor Of a fifty percent deficit in the podial department, Whilst I have a full double complement. And thus to so-called act of generation (Most times mis-named, for which I thank the gods) Is a feat requiring great dexterous equilibrium. However, my love's club foot (speaking candidly, An admitted visual defect most times) Now comes to the rescue of Eros' urgent needs, With the aid of a little mutual ingenuity. Balancing carefully on my dear one's abbreviated podex, Supported carefully by the discarded surgical boot, A passable **** can usually be achieved. Only the halitosis appears irremediable.

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After what feels like a plethora of years I've fallen in a hole that may be love, but I'm not really sure about it because once in a while after a plethora of days or hours I am pulled apart by emotion. No, not emotion-- the repercussions thereof The repercussions, the repercussions of those repercussions, and the repercussions of those-- A plethora of consequences Have you ever been so stressed out that you actually vomited? Me... neither? Instead I sway from side-to-side like a swing pushed in the wrong direction and as the sky turns I make corrections only hoping my wisdom is "grammatically", structurally sound-- unlike a skyscraper pushed in the wrong direction-- As my eyes begin to burn I wish the sky would just stay dark and that morning would never come so I wouldn't have to meet my daily migraine nor the time of day when I have to stop wait listen learn work negotiate, speak, drum, impress, produce, create, multiply add and subtract all in one sitting all in one hour every **** hour Nor the time of day when I start to think about you. That's when my mind finds my heart. They don't speak-- They just listen to one another smiling sweet as Tupelo honey I can almost imagine it through the blood rushing in my ears when I close them-- But it just feels like a fist fight in my chest, and the rage of it burns in my throat and the spectators cheer them on which resonates in my hands which are then unable to write which is a sad fact that keeps my eyes from shutting at night, at least not as soon as I want them to-- You don't have to tell me I'm crazy-- It screams at the back of my head when you stare at me like that thinking a plethora of things that I can't keep in a jar so that I can spread it on my toast in the morning-- Saying a plethora of things I misinterpret to silence this plethora of thoughts that fall from my eyes without ever reaching the ground and the plethora of grass-roots who wouldn't know how to drink them if they did The plethora of times I passed opportunities without saying a word, disguised them as reasons not to say a plethora of phrases in reply-- The plethora of plethoras that communicate through an alphabet of more than twenty-six letters so that, in the middle of the night-- when I don't know what to dream about and therefore must think instead-- it can irritate me in more words than belong in a dictionary. But sometimes there's just one word and the word that haunts me tonight is: Plethora... Plethora... Plethora... That's the flat sound of Pl-, a soft, tender eth- and the gasp of an -a Plethora-- Plethora-- A hundred things yet to be said Plethora-- So many crises so much time Plethora-- Not quite enough to make you mine Plethora-- Plethora-- Plethora-- Plethora... Plethora... Plethora... Plethora... Plethora...

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Mar 9, 2016

Mar 9, 2016 at 3:35 PM UTC

sarah-sad-matcha

Just the Repercussions

After what feels like a plethora of years I've fallen in a hole that may be love, but I'm not really sure about it because once in a while after a plethora of days or hours I am pulled apart by emotion. No, not emotion-- the repercussions thereof The repercussions, the repercussions of those repercussions, and the repercussions of those-- A plethora of consequences Have you ever been so stressed out that you actually vomited? Me... neither? Instead I sway from side-to-side like a swing pushed in the wrong direction and as the sky turns I make corrections only hoping my wisdom is "grammatically", structurally sound-- unlike a skyscraper pushed in the wrong direction-- As my eyes begin to burn I wish the sky would just stay dark and that morning would never come so I wouldn't have to meet my daily migraine nor the time of day when I have to stop wait listen learn work negotiate, speak, drum, impress, produce, create, multiply add and subtract all in one sitting all in one hour every **** hour Nor the time of day when I start to think about you. That's when my mind finds my heart. They don't speak-- They just listen to one another smiling sweet as Tupelo honey I can almost imagine it through the blood rushing in my ears when I close them-- But it just feels like a fist fight in my chest, and the rage of it burns in my throat and the spectators cheer them on which resonates in my hands which are then unable to write which is a sad fact that keeps my eyes from shutting at night, at least not as soon as I want them to-- You don't have to tell me I'm crazy-- It screams at the back of my head when you stare at me like that thinking a plethora of things that I can't keep in a jar so that I can spread it on my toast in the morning-- Saying a plethora of things I misinterpret to silence this plethora of thoughts that fall from my eyes without ever reaching the ground and the plethora of grass-roots who wouldn't know how to drink them if they did The plethora of times I passed opportunities without saying a word, disguised them as reasons not to say a plethora of phrases in reply-- The plethora of plethoras that communicate through an alphabet of more than twenty-six letters so that, in the middle of the night-- when I don't know what to dream about and therefore must think instead-- it can irritate me in more words than belong in a dictionary. But sometimes there's just one word and the word that haunts me tonight is: Plethora... Plethora... Plethora... That's the flat sound of Pl-, a soft, tender eth- and the gasp of an -a Plethora-- Plethora-- A hundred things yet to be said Plethora-- So many crises so much time Plethora-- Not quite enough to make you mine Plethora-- Plethora-- Plethora-- Plethora... Plethora... Plethora... Plethora... Plethora...

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i always wanted to try listening to the debut album of a british goddess while ironically killing my own pair at sunrise -- but as plans often go south for mice and men equally, so do my own; languid wakefulness ran down my gullet like seconds on a smooth cocktail seasons too late, and moreover, my addled brain forgot the catalyst the night before last when i was trudging along in the dark and some saviors in a cheap white chariot pulled into the parking space beside me, telling me to get in -- like they knew or i knew, or we all had some odd mutual feeling of positive vibrations; like reminiscing about early in last august when a mysterious scarf- clad traveler with sacred arabic etched into his hands slipped me an equally sacred slip of paper with nothing more to give it purpose, reason, definition, or validation, than that single glorious and grammatically incorrect pairing of expressive awareness. i don't plan to meet the pilgrim again, regardless of our unfinished affairs, but sitting on that little square of cloth on top of manicured lawn in cosmic harmony with strangers, new friends, serenaded by sigur ros and kept company by grouplove, i've never felt more enlightened, more awestruck, more tuned into those frequencies above human perception, broadcasting the only message we deny ourselves indefinitely -- happiness.

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Dec 5, 2012

Dec 5, 2012 at 3:42 PM UTC

wednesday, december 5, 2012

i always wanted to try listening to the debut album of a british goddess while ironically killing my own pair at sunrise -- but as plans often go south for mice and men equally, so do my own; languid wakefulness ran down my gullet like seconds on a smooth cocktail seasons too late, and moreover, my addled brain forgot the catalyst the night before last when i was trudging along in the dark and some saviors in a cheap white chariot pulled into the parking space beside me, telling me to get in -- like they knew or i knew, or we all had some odd mutual feeling of positive vibrations; like reminiscing about early in last august when a mysterious scarf- clad traveler with sacred arabic etched into his hands slipped me an equally sacred slip of paper with nothing more to give it purpose, reason, definition, or validation, than that single glorious and grammatically incorrect pairing of expressive awareness. i don't plan to meet the pilgrim again, regardless of our unfinished affairs, but sitting on that little square of cloth on top of manicured lawn in cosmic harmony with strangers, new friends, serenaded by sigur ros and kept company by grouplove, i've never felt more enlightened, more awestruck, more tuned into those frequencies above human perception, broadcasting the only message we deny ourselves indefinitely -- happiness.

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I’m so nice, I’m so nice Poppin’ ‘bout life and poverty Saluting freedom, then liberty Barbering ‘bout broken homes Police brutality and fake politics Then, puttin’ one shoe, upon a petal stool Next day, breakin’ da number one rule Shakin’ da jewellery, just like a toff Makin’ the op-po-sit-ion, just take it off I’m killing them, I’m killing them Soap operas, sports 24/7, real life reality What has dat done, to da young ones mentality Expect da government, to pay for their new home Pupils wide open, but grammatically **** Blaming Putin, instead of Democrats cockiness While Trump and Republicans, are gettin’ on with business Wake up USA, land of da free, but nothin’ without a fee Be yourself, respect your elders, dats wat ya wanna be

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Feb 27, 2020

Feb 27, 2020 at 4:52 AM UTC

I’m so nice, I’m so nice Poppin’ ‘bout life and poverty Saluting freedom, then liberty Barbering ‘bout broken homes Police brutality and fake politics Then, puttin’ one shoe, upon a petal stool Next day, breakin’ da number one rule Shakin’ da jewellery, just like a toff Makin’ the op-po-sit-ion, just take it off I’m killing them, I’m killing them Soap operas, sports 24/7, real life reality What has dat done, to da young ones mentality Expect da government, to pay for their new home Pupils wide open, but grammatically **** Blaming Putin, instead of Democrats cockiness While Trump and Republicans, are gettin’ on with business Wake up USA, land of da free, but nothin’ without a fee Be yourself, respect your elders, dats wat ya wanna be

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i find the fact that you edit out little mistakes in typing hilarious. you get high out of your mind and say the weirdest ******* **** i've ever seen all over facebook but it is ******* grammatically correct brian, you complain all over the internet about how in love with me you are you whine to anyone who will listen but you are so unpredictable irritable ******* out of your mind that i can't love you you're like loving a flippant breeze and i don't have time for you get off your marijuana horse

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Nov 5, 2013

Nov 5, 2013 at 12:16 AM UTC

i find the fact that you edit out little mistakes in typing hilarious. you get high out of your mind and say the weirdest ******* **** i've ever seen all over facebook but it is ******* grammatically correct brian, you complain all over the internet about how in love with me you are you whine to anyone who will listen but you are so unpredictable irritable ******* out of your mind that i can't love you you're like loving a flippant breeze and i don't have time for you get off your marijuana horse

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He’s a ***** of in- tellectual acumen. A real conveyor of post-modern acuity. What he has to say doesn’t make sense to me. No one understands his esoteric complexity. He speaks of Aristotelian “virtues”, Platonic Forms, and other “practical” participation by the particularities. Part of all that not even he fully understands. Juxtaposing Quniean “webs of Knowledge” with Davidson Coherantism He is challenged by McDowells 2nd nature Bildung. His conventional English is thus un-sung, while meta-physical abstractions are then hung Out to dry, in the abstract realm sky. What color is that sky? “Unfair Question” he cries. “Tell me about God” I ask, “very well” he replies. My brain is numb after one question, and a few words. He continues, “Do the God(s) agree upon what is good?” Yes is my reply. “If so, do they love what is good?” Again yes. “Then, is the Good whatever the God(s) love, or do the God(s) love what is Good?” He must be on drugs. A little philosophy makes a man an atheist. A lot makes him a believer, just not in God. He praises Reason, his room is a shrine. Within four walls one will not find, no not any sign Of conviction. What? All this time thinking, reflecting, meditating, abstracting, observing, weaving grand tapestries of thought and still he does not find a foot hold in reality? What the hell were you thinking about? He responds. A stream of consciousness is all that is, past is a referent future is a predicate. I am not the “me” I refer to when I say “my book.” No sir, I have never spoken to you any knowledge of me. For that I have none of, but knowledge I am not without. If it is one thing I know, it is that I know nothing. I tell him certainly my English teacher would know something to defeat him, I am soon disenchanted, for he has ammunition for her. “Ask her”, he says “to ascertain the truth value to this grammatically perfect declarative Sentence.” Colorless green ideas sleep furiously.

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Oct 23, 2011

Oct 23, 2011 at 11:29 PM UTC

Freestyling Philosphy

He’s a ***** of in- tellectual acumen. A real conveyor of post-modern acuity. What he has to say doesn’t make sense to me. No one understands his esoteric complexity. He speaks of Aristotelian “virtues”, Platonic Forms, and other “practical” participation by the particularities. Part of all that not even he fully understands. Juxtaposing Quniean “webs of Knowledge” with Davidson Coherantism He is challenged by McDowells 2nd nature Bildung. His conventional English is thus un-sung, while meta-physical abstractions are then hung Out to dry, in the abstract realm sky. What color is that sky? “Unfair Question” he cries. “Tell me about God” I ask, “very well” he replies. My brain is numb after one question, and a few words. He continues, “Do the God(s) agree upon what is good?” Yes is my reply. “If so, do they love what is good?” Again yes. “Then, is the Good whatever the God(s) love, or do the God(s) love what is Good?” He must be on drugs. A little philosophy makes a man an atheist. A lot makes him a believer, just not in God. He praises Reason, his room is a shrine. Within four walls one will not find, no not any sign Of conviction. What? All this time thinking, reflecting, meditating, abstracting, observing, weaving grand tapestries of thought and still he does not find a foot hold in reality? What the hell were you thinking about? He responds. A stream of consciousness is all that is, past is a referent future is a predicate. I am not the “me” I refer to when I say “my book.” No sir, I have never spoken to you any knowledge of me. For that I have none of, but knowledge I am not without. If it is one thing I know, it is that I know nothing. I tell him certainly my English teacher would know something to defeat him, I am soon disenchanted, for he has ammunition for her. “Ask her”, he says “to ascertain the truth value to this grammatically perfect declarative Sentence.” Colorless green ideas sleep furiously.

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I don’t want near your pre-k rhyming stanzas, your backstabbing friends, your sky-scraper tall tales, your hopelessirrevocableunrequited “love”, or your non-beating heart. I don’t want to know why it breaks when your significant other of one week ends your relationship with a three worded grammatically incorrect sentence without punctuation. You aren’t a magazine and I do not want a subscription to your issues. You want to cry? Fine, but don’t do it here. I wouldn’t touch your “Feelings” with a ten foot poll, not your heart, not your head and most certainly not your soul. So don’t ask. I might actually punch you in the face. Find somebody who can stand reading the words “u r mi luv an now I h8 u” more than once. You want expression? Go find an art room. This is the English language. There are rules. You don’t like rules? They don’t like you either, but they’re the reason you’ll still be alive when you’re thirty and not in the bottom of some ditch. Don’t come at me with your this and that, your purtty, purrty words or your excessive, use, of, commas, because I will tear you apart. And it will hurt. You want to whine? Do it somewhere else. I couldn’t care less for your 2-d crisis. I am not your mother. Don’t make the mistake of thinking otherwise. Tell me “but-but-but he said please” or “my heart is a dark pit of shriveled mushrooms” and I will jam a pencil in your forehead. You will probably cry (and bleed. A lot). I will laugh. You want to brag you cut yourself? I want to cut you too. Sit down, shut up, and stop. You’ll find yourself loudest in the quiet. Breathe in. Breathe out. Think, listen, hear, see. Are you still alive? Can you still hear me? Is it still the end of the world? I don’t want your problems. I want your quiet.

0

Oct 11, 2011

Oct 11, 2011 at 8:56 PM UTC

rachael-p-presley

High School Horror

I don’t want near your pre-k rhyming stanzas, your backstabbing friends, your sky-scraper tall tales, your hopelessirrevocableunrequited “love”, or your non-beating heart. I don’t want to know why it breaks when your significant other of one week ends your relationship with a three worded grammatically incorrect sentence without punctuation. You aren’t a magazine and I do not want a subscription to your issues. You want to cry? Fine, but don’t do it here. I wouldn’t touch your “Feelings” with a ten foot poll, not your heart, not your head and most certainly not your soul. So don’t ask. I might actually punch you in the face. Find somebody who can stand reading the words “u r mi luv an now I h8 u” more than once. You want expression? Go find an art room. This is the English language. There are rules. You don’t like rules? They don’t like you either, but they’re the reason you’ll still be alive when you’re thirty and not in the bottom of some ditch. Don’t come at me with your this and that, your purtty, purrty words or your excessive, use, of, commas, because I will tear you apart. And it will hurt. You want to whine? Do it somewhere else. I couldn’t care less for your 2-d crisis. I am not your mother. Don’t make the mistake of thinking otherwise. Tell me “but-but-but he said please” or “my heart is a dark pit of shriveled mushrooms” and I will jam a pencil in your forehead. You will probably cry (and bleed. A lot). I will laugh. You want to brag you cut yourself? I want to cut you too. Sit down, shut up, and stop. You’ll find yourself loudest in the quiet. Breathe in. Breathe out. Think, listen, hear, see. Are you still alive? Can you still hear me? Is it still the end of the world? I don’t want your problems. I want your quiet.

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What's with this phrase, 'come at me bro' What does that really mean? People use it to provoke, but why? There's nothing particularly threatening about it, And it's not even very grammatically correct One could just as easily say 'Get thee away from me, ye dark angel of hell' And it would be equally offensive Or more so, if a bit befuddling. But why not say 'come at me bro' As a request for affection? I know I would much rather say this And receive, instead of a flurry of blows, An armful of sweet affection

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Apr 17, 2013

Apr 17, 2013 at 2:56 PM UTC

What's with this phrase, 'come at me bro' What does that really mean? People use it to provoke, but why? There's nothing particularly threatening about it, And it's not even very grammatically correct One could just as easily say 'Get thee away from me, ye dark angel of hell' And it would be equally offensive Or more so, if a bit befuddling. But why not say 'come at me bro' As a request for affection? I know I would much rather say this And receive, instead of a flurry of blows, An armful of sweet affection

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You said, in small text: <p>OKAY. Let’s talk about this. </p> <p>✨CW: transphobia, mental health stuff, strong language✨</p> <p>[Reblog the hell out of this post. It’s about to be important].</p> <p>I woke up this morning to my girlfriend, my partner-in-crime, my best friend, my favorite bean, sending me this photo. She couldn’t believe that it was real and thought that I was playing some sick joke. </p> <p>Good ******* morning. </p> <p>Listen up, whoever you are, you entitled little **** Your opinions, attractions, desires, whatever they are - they DO NOT MATTER. Assuming, based on the context of your post, that you identify as a guy, let me just say this: </p> <p>You are a small man. You’re using the guise of anonymity to objectify a radiant woman whose depth and breadth you can’t ever begin to comprehend - and I’m not just saying that because she’s mine. You’re also transphobic as **** - and clearly don’t understand that trans-ness and genitalia are actually (and often) far removed from each other. </p> <p>I’d like to think that I don’t need to explain why the comment “your girl ain’t a girl no more” (in addition to being grammatically terrible) is NOT acceptable, but in case I do, here is MY two cents on the matter of MYSELF. </p> <p>I fought for this body. I bled for this consciousness, I shined light into places in me that I didn’t know existed and found depression, dysphoria, trauma, and loads of anxiety. I nearly died for this body. If it hadn’t been for a select few people who saw me for the love I was worth, I wouldn’t be alive to write this post. That’s not an exaggeration, it’s a fact. </p> <p>I’m telling you, stranger, this because there is more behind your words than you know. Each time you take your privilege and cishetero advantage for granted and allow misguided, bigoted words to fall out of your disgusting face-hole or fingertips, you’re reminding me of how I almost died for this body and consciousness. How my girlfriend and countless others like us have been subject to vast physical and mental torment for our queerness, our trans-ness, our SELVES.</p> <p>I’m addressing you not as you, but as the mass of people you represent. I’m posting this on behalf of the 22 trans people who were murdered last year because of ignorance like yours. I’m posting this on behalf of feminine-identified people everywhere who deal with the wrath of objectification, sexism, and violence that your very actions embody and permit. </p> <p>

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Jul 17, 2016

Jul 17, 2016 at 9:29 PM UTC

Old Retaliation Message II.

You said, in small text: <p>OKAY. Let’s talk about this. </p> <p>✨CW: transphobia, mental health stuff, strong language✨</p> <p>[Reblog the hell out of this post. It’s about to be important].</p> <p>I woke up this morning to my girlfriend, my partner-in-crime, my best friend, my favorite bean, sending me this photo. She couldn’t believe that it was real and thought that I was playing some sick joke. </p> <p>Good ******* morning. </p> <p>Listen up, whoever you are, you entitled little **** Your opinions, attractions, desires, whatever they are - they DO NOT MATTER. Assuming, based on the context of your post, that you identify as a guy, let me just say this: </p> <p>You are a small man. You’re using the guise of anonymity to objectify a radiant woman whose depth and breadth you can’t ever begin to comprehend - and I’m not just saying that because she’s mine. You’re also transphobic as **** - and clearly don’t understand that trans-ness and genitalia are actually (and often) far removed from each other. </p> <p>I’d like to think that I don’t need to explain why the comment “your girl ain’t a girl no more” (in addition to being grammatically terrible) is NOT acceptable, but in case I do, here is MY two cents on the matter of MYSELF. </p> <p>I fought for this body. I bled for this consciousness, I shined light into places in me that I didn’t know existed and found depression, dysphoria, trauma, and loads of anxiety. I nearly died for this body. If it hadn’t been for a select few people who saw me for the love I was worth, I wouldn’t be alive to write this post. That’s not an exaggeration, it’s a fact. </p> <p>I’m telling you, stranger, this because there is more behind your words than you know. Each time you take your privilege and cishetero advantage for granted and allow misguided, bigoted words to fall out of your disgusting face-hole or fingertips, you’re reminding me of how I almost died for this body and consciousness. How my girlfriend and countless others like us have been subject to vast physical and mental torment for our queerness, our trans-ness, our SELVES.</p> <p>I’m addressing you not as you, but as the mass of people you represent. I’m posting this on behalf of the 22 trans people who were murdered last year because of ignorance like yours. I’m posting this on behalf of feminine-identified people everywhere who deal with the wrath of objectification, sexism, and violence that your very actions embody and permit. </p> <p>

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I seem to pass time in a daydream, Waiting for the hour to pass, the day to end, the night to be over My movements drift by as smoke My mind, is always on you. They poster their images in the foreground And try to distract me and my thoughts But you're always there, always. They feed on sadness and loneliness, and I find it hard to fight But the never ending struggle adds beauty to our love And perseverance to my cause. You complete me As if we were destined, mind mates as it were I feel invincible when my mind allows your entering And I save the strength of our union when they rip you from my thoughts. In time I know we will be together We will live out the future I have envisioned a thousand times. I told you, mi amor, I will never stop loving you And that is set in stone But there is so much more to say And I've yet to find all the words I promise to you our future, our family I vow to you that I will always try to be the best me I swear to you I will never give up. I will never give in. They will never have me. I love. I am yours.

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May 21, 2013

May 21, 2013 at 5:32 PM UTC

A Note to mi Amor- *this is more of a letter, so all those literature vultures, don't worry, it's unintentionally grammatically incorrect*

I seem to pass time in a daydream, Waiting for the hour to pass, the day to end, the night to be over My movements drift by as smoke My mind, is always on you. They poster their images in the foreground And try to distract me and my thoughts But you're always there, always. They feed on sadness and loneliness, and I find it hard to fight But the never ending struggle adds beauty to our love And perseverance to my cause. You complete me As if we were destined, mind mates as it were I feel invincible when my mind allows your entering And I save the strength of our union when they rip you from my thoughts. In time I know we will be together We will live out the future I have envisioned a thousand times. I told you, mi amor, I will never stop loving you And that is set in stone But there is so much more to say And I've yet to find all the words I promise to you our future, our family I vow to you that I will always try to be the best me I swear to you I will never give up. I will never give in. They will never have me. I love. I am yours.

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We were up in the air, Or it was love, Maybe the heat rising as the night set into place. In the parking lot that glowed with the moon reflecting on the cars, He brushed the hair from my face with the tips of his fingers, And cradled my head in his lap, While Bright Eyes serenaded the night, Kissing my tired eyes in the middle of all the songs. I felt specks of lust in my heart, But more of a sense of adoration, Affection, Which is rare for me, The girl of stone. I stopped thinking for a good three minutes about how I couldn't offer myself or even a part without the constant anxiety of possible loss, How the words he would write in the morning love notes weren't always grammatically correct, How earlier he grabbed my hand without knowing it held a coffee and led it to spill on my sleeve. He buried small pecks in my hair, Taking breaths of the floral scent still present from yesterday's washing. I sat there in the humming of the car radio with a rapid heart beat, And soon, a feeling of guilt. "I don't deserve someone who is this good to me." And while I couldn't think of the reasons why, The statement stuck in my head, Forcing me to sit up and stare out the midnight window as if I was expecting a familiar face to show on the other side. Abruptly leaving was my only option before eating myself alive. I drove the whole way home missing the eighteen goodnight kisses I ran away from, And the brightly lit possibilities that hung from the stars. All because I didn't think I deserved them. But I did. And I do.

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Jun 17, 2015

Jun 17, 2015 at 1:49 AM UTC

We were up in the air, Or it was love, Maybe the heat rising as the night set into place. In the parking lot that glowed with the moon reflecting on the cars, He brushed the hair from my face with the tips of his fingers, And cradled my head in his lap, While Bright Eyes serenaded the night, Kissing my tired eyes in the middle of all the songs. I felt specks of lust in my heart, But more of a sense of adoration, Affection, Which is rare for me, The girl of stone. I stopped thinking for a good three minutes about how I couldn't offer myself or even a part without the constant anxiety of possible loss, How the words he would write in the morning love notes weren't always grammatically correct, How earlier he grabbed my hand without knowing it held a coffee and led it to spill on my sleeve. He buried small pecks in my hair, Taking breaths of the floral scent still present from yesterday's washing. I sat there in the humming of the car radio with a rapid heart beat, And soon, a feeling of guilt. "I don't deserve someone who is this good to me." And while I couldn't think of the reasons why, The statement stuck in my head, Forcing me to sit up and stare out the midnight window as if I was expecting a familiar face to show on the other side. Abruptly leaving was my only option before eating myself alive. I drove the whole way home missing the eighteen goodnight kisses I ran away from, And the brightly lit possibilities that hung from the stars. All because I didn't think I deserved them. But I did. And I do.

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When everything is said and done you logged on and went straight to my page of poems the one, you thought was grammatically incorrect verses of encouragement, verses of noticeable texts I am a poetess: I am the daughter of a man who chopped down mahogany trees just to earn a living to feed his big family: a mighty man was he he was a person not to be reckoned with: A wired pressure cooker: a ***** with a switch I tell my story in form of words I will compose them quite clearly, just follow the lines Because, the tongue is more to be feared than my words I am afraid of the ocean, it doesn’t speak my language It’s has a long history of chemical: Sea salt Who’s to blame not the ocean, only me? I go to visit it; it never comes to visit me: So when everything is said and done, Who logged on and came to visit who?

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Nov 1, 2016

Nov 1, 2016 at 10:34 AM UTC

darknbeautiful-1

Why Come And Visit Me

When everything is said and done you logged on and went straight to my page of poems the one, you thought was grammatically incorrect verses of encouragement, verses of noticeable texts I am a poetess: I am the daughter of a man who chopped down mahogany trees just to earn a living to feed his big family: a mighty man was he he was a person not to be reckoned with: A wired pressure cooker: a ***** with a switch I tell my story in form of words I will compose them quite clearly, just follow the lines Because, the tongue is more to be feared than my words I am afraid of the ocean, it doesn’t speak my language It’s has a long history of chemical: Sea salt Who’s to blame not the ocean, only me? I go to visit it; it never comes to visit me: So when everything is said and done, Who logged on and came to visit who?

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I shake with every cell Oxygen does not easily flow Dancing in indiscretion Inhaling every woe Cancerous to nose Infected by smokey lips Adorned in selfish prose Doctored with defying quips Acted out in Fable Characterized in yellow stone A sure thing to bite Pieces lost in clothes Hiding in a wake Eyes of goopy pus A manmade offense The anti-verb of us

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Jan 27, 2017

Jan 27, 2017 at 12:48 AM UTC

Grammatically Incorrect

I shake with every cell Oxygen does not easily flow Dancing in indiscretion Inhaling every woe Cancerous to nose Infected by smokey lips Adorned in selfish prose Doctored with defying quips Acted out in Fable Characterized in yellow stone A sure thing to bite Pieces lost in clothes Hiding in a wake Eyes of goopy pus A manmade offense The anti-verb of us

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One's and Three's Grammatically obscene To be one and to be three To be it and to be them A me and a we A lonely menage a trois Natures experiments gone wrong The beast dances with man And the man cries in awe But the man shows the soul And the soul feels it all But cannot take it in It’s conscious wails within The beast thinks he wins But without purpose is he To the soul he will reach But with the hopeless he sleeps So the animal is free The man lets us see And the soul makes us wonder But all three suffer For each others role we fiend In silence i scream So jealous are we

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Apr 30, 2013

Apr 30, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC

One's and Three's

One's and Three's Grammatically obscene To be one and to be three To be it and to be them A me and a we A lonely menage a trois Natures experiments gone wrong The beast dances with man And the man cries in awe But the man shows the soul And the soul feels it all But cannot take it in It’s conscious wails within The beast thinks he wins But without purpose is he To the soul he will reach But with the hopeless he sleeps So the animal is free The man lets us see And the soul makes us wonder But all three suffer For each others role we fiend In silence i scream So jealous are we

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I don't think that I have the power to relate what I know of you through the prism of a narrative. I tried to tell your story yesterday in my carefully constructed grammatically correct way. Failing miserably at a proper biography, as you deserve, I must recount what I know in the only way I can. Within my heart live a series of images, memories burned into me by the intensity of our meetings and the ferocity of the late night phone calls born of that chemical with no name, equal parts sorrow and flame. It was easy to find you, but God it was hard to leave. From the first kiss to the last and everything in between. I don't know how many times you called me crying so hard that you couldn't even speak. How many times you told me that you wanted to die without even a second thought for what those words did to my heart. I accepted it all though, every single strand of you, gave you all the love I knew how. There is no word for the sorrow that comes with knowing that I couldn't save you from yourself. It didn't matter how many razors I took from your trembling hands, how much blood I wiped from your thigh or how many tears I shed for you. At the end, that last night and morning just a week ago now, you looked right through me with eyes that didn't see. I took you in my arms and there was nothing. The girl I knew and loved doesn't exist anymore. I'm sorry that you had to die in my heart, but know that I loved you enough for it to be killing me inside. I guess that the boy in me is gone now, since I walked away anyway. I didn't cry, I don't regret it. You're just one more ghost after all.

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Jun 8, 2015

Jun 8, 2015 at 11:11 PM UTC

jon-daniel-shierling

I don't think that I have the power to relate what I know of you through the prism of a narrative. I tried to tell your story yesterday in my carefully constructed grammatically correct way. Failing miserably at a proper biography, as you deserve, I must recount what I know in the only way I can. Within my heart live a series of images, memories burned into me by the intensity of our meetings and the ferocity of the late night phone calls born of that chemical with no name, equal parts sorrow and flame. It was easy to find you, but God it was hard to leave. From the first kiss to the last and everything in between. I don't know how many times you called me crying so hard that you couldn't even speak. How many times you told me that you wanted to die without even a second thought for what those words did to my heart. I accepted it all though, every single strand of you, gave you all the love I knew how. There is no word for the sorrow that comes with knowing that I couldn't save you from yourself. It didn't matter how many razors I took from your trembling hands, how much blood I wiped from your thigh or how many tears I shed for you. At the end, that last night and morning just a week ago now, you looked right through me with eyes that didn't see. I took you in my arms and there was nothing. The girl I knew and loved doesn't exist anymore. I'm sorry that you had to die in my heart, but know that I loved you enough for it to be killing me inside. I guess that the boy in me is gone now, since I walked away anyway. I didn't cry, I don't regret it. You're just one more ghost after all.

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Why can't I do anything right? I can feel the rope around my neck getting tight. I am not sure if I am having an anxiety attack, but my vision is fading to black. I should shut up! Seriously I don't know why I keep talking, but my breathing is getting balking. My heart is going the speed that my fingers are flying over the keyboard and I can feel cramps starting to erupt, and I am trying to hold them tight, trying to press everything right. But with shaking hands it's not so light! All I did was drink 2 glasses to be precise and the next thing I know is that I wake up to apologize to a girl that I love which I called a **** for fun And that's where the drama begun. She asked if a was already down the drain And even with a clouded brain I saw the mistake in her spelling and thought it would be fun to be the one telling: “Are you grammatically incorrect?” And all I hear this morning is the loud voice that yells at me “You are rekt” And she is right, I am. I hurt the one most precious to me Just by saying something that I thought was funny. Running my mouth is like running a train. An unstoppable force until it rolls of the rails. But from now on I'll keep quiet, I swear to you, my dearest one, because I can't see you being gone.

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Mar 18, 2018

Mar 18, 2018 at 8:08 AM UTC

A Promise is not good enough

Why can't I do anything right? I can feel the rope around my neck getting tight. I am not sure if I am having an anxiety attack, but my vision is fading to black. I should shut up! Seriously I don't know why I keep talking, but my breathing is getting balking. My heart is going the speed that my fingers are flying over the keyboard and I can feel cramps starting to erupt, and I am trying to hold them tight, trying to press everything right. But with shaking hands it's not so light! All I did was drink 2 glasses to be precise and the next thing I know is that I wake up to apologize to a girl that I love which I called a **** for fun And that's where the drama begun. She asked if a was already down the drain And even with a clouded brain I saw the mistake in her spelling and thought it would be fun to be the one telling: “Are you grammatically incorrect?” And all I hear this morning is the loud voice that yells at me “You are rekt” And she is right, I am. I hurt the one most precious to me Just by saying something that I thought was funny. Running my mouth is like running a train. An unstoppable force until it rolls of the rails. But from now on I'll keep quiet, I swear to you, my dearest one, because I can't see you being gone.

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