"grovel" poems
is not a disability to me
be it PTSD
or Bi Polar
or Anxiety Depression
or just riding Solo
it's not a disability to me
it may play havoc
with my everyday life but
it's not an impediment
or an indication
that you lack ability
to deal with living strife
it's not a disability to me
it's more a heightened empathy
a conscious awareness
not a disease (some cases can be)
but not a disability to me
it just means your fortitude
takes you to the next level
when the ground falls
beneath your feet
you don't lay down to grovel
you find ways to make
a near endless day
better than it was yesterday
you praise all tomorrows
because you made it today
your mental disabilty
has never been a disability
to me
in any way
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 4:14 AM UTC
I wish I could give you this beautiful pain
Its captivating to endure
To watch it unfold inch by unbeatable inch
Its long
Makes you hard and callous
And makes you grovel in gravel begging for the end
And it becomes a road
A winding, twisting road that wraps around your throat
A gorgeous asphyxiation blurs the smiles of the passengers in the cars on the asphalt
And you blur into unreality
The road ends
The film in your head stops
And your left sitting unblinkingly...
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
So I'll have mine
and you'll have yours?
who could ask
for anything more!
grey beards march
the union jack
build a wall
and send them back!
Grudge, sludge
a sanguine view
****** off
and take the cue
hide, plunge
aristocrat
run the field
like an old tom cat
Narrow pass
and capital flow
falling crude
and currency woe
deep depression,
mutineers
the mastermind
of project fear!
Silver spoon
at Hampton court
madness waits
in Davenport
divisible
and off the grid
**** it up
100 quid
Helen’s horsemen
unified
the springbok club
will never hide
plebiscite
in deep despair
an open scroll
Trafalgar square
Grapple, grovel
sentry shame
along the shore
of river Thames
king of wankers
lord of beat
break the rule
of old elite!
Stone the posse
bullets bare
load the chambers
fists in air
voices, faces
haunted souls…
should i stay
or should i go?
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 2:21 PM UTC
Pity
I truely hate that word
Its so weak
So absurd
You can grovel all you want about your neglect
Or you can shut the hell up
And earn some respect
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 6:46 PM UTC
dark blue spring sky
sitting high above my head
yet i can barely remember how
yellow the slide was where
id watch my parents sit and smoke
as my youth would flash down
into the dirt
watering the grass became a sport
less a chore
as bumblebees would spring out
of the blades only to
be shot down by a rush of
water
cut up knees and cigarette burns
erected a time of what i thought
could be but definitely was not
total bliss
i still feel the very pain
of falling face first into
the gravel
only to grovel at the
streams of blood and dirt
flowing from my very body
thats it, my 6 year old self thought,
im dirt
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
If I told you I could love,
Would you finally be happy?
See me grovel at your feet, submit to your delusions of
The perfect world in the palm of your hand.
If I told you I could lust,
Would I satisfy your thirst with my lies?
Sweet drops of honey covered deception, the sting solely in my heart.
Could I live like this, I wonder.
If only I could face the road of rotten land, live in the shadows and the muck of sweet lies,
Of honey covered poison.
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 1:10 PM UTC
Born screaming small into this world-
Living I am.
Occupational therapy twixt birth and death-
What was I before?
What will I be next?
What am I now?
Cruel answer carried in the jesting mind
of a careless God
I will not bend and grovel
When I die. If He says my sins are myriad
I will ask why He made me so imperfect
And he will say 'My chisels were blunt'
I will say 'Then why did you make so
many of me'.
3.4k
In a generation where few are brave,
why must you sit alone in your cave?
You have your television.
You don't make a single decision,
the media controls your opinion.
You are just their minion.
Does nothing bother you?
Or do you just not know what to do?
Except sit on your Lazy Boy throne
and grovel with pained moans.
You want to change it,
but you don't want to commit.
Can't you see it will never be fixed?
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 1:36 PM UTC
This morning a great big pile of ******* occupies the road in front of your building,
Powdered wigs and hand grenades,
The remains of a slaughter the night before.
All the medicine, text books, car keys, credit cards, shoes, head phones, computer chips, DVDs, chairs and trucks.
A smoldering heap of help from friends in factories.
None of it had been spared during the death of civilization.
Still they pile it.
Your neighbors and parents and friends.
They’ve been convinced that these things are evil.
They will force solitude upon all of us.
They will make us vulnerable and frail as though naked in the night.
They will prove to us that we did not know what it was to be alone.
Standing atop the pile their god is yelling:
“We must sacrifice for the good of life!
We must destroy for the good of creation!
We create ignorance for the sake of realization!
We incite suffering for the good of happiness!.”
Left alone we must grovel at the foot of our fallen god,
Mourning a murdered child.
Crying out for fairness and LAW.
Systems and sciences.
All lay at the very center of the mound.
The head of a rotten body,
Decapitated without mercy by those who had been deceived by it.
Death and darkness come next,
Creeping as wolves do where we fear them most.
I can’t tell you what comes next,
But you must not trust those who began the revolution.
They have abandoned you to your own devices.
Left you naked in the shadow of the mound.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 4:29 PM UTC
Why is it that
this present moment
is never enough
Who you are
Where you are
What you have
is never enough
It’s as if every day
we wake up saying
“If I could just be that,
If I could just go there,
If I could just have this,
then I’ll be happy”
Yet this allows us
to sabotage our ability
to feel content
in the present
To look around
and grovel in the beauty
of progress and growth
that gets us through
each passing day
It’s hard to not let the yearning
for an unknown future
overpower the appreciation
for today
But maybe if I open my eyes
a little wider
and open my mind
a little bigger
every day
I won’t always be waiting
to be happy
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 1:36 AM UTC
The cauldron bubbles and sputters and pops.
Odors from a foul witches' brew
Fill the mansion. It's called the Nightmare
On Pennsylvania Avenue.
A ghoulish warlock babbles gibberish,
Spreading deceit, anger, and fear.
He summons his lackey ghouls to his chamber.
They bow to the ghastly profiteer.
Their incantations reverberate
Through the rooms and down the halls.
The din stifles the voices of reason
And bounces off the windows and walls.
Witches assisting the grisly assembly
Grovel and spew nonsensical chatter,
While friendly ghosts, horrified,
Grab all their belongings and scatter.
The leading warlock raises his staff
To silence all the ear-piercing shrieking.
"Our work here has barely begun,"
He shouts, "in a manner of speaking.
"We have a lot more poison to spread
To circulate anxiety and doubt.
All we must do is stir the ***
To give them something to worry about.
"Fan the flames of division and discord.
My techniques are tried and true.
Keep 'em guessing; then you've got 'em.
And then you cater to the chosen few.
"We have more rivers to poison,
Coastlines to alter, lands to sell,
Coffers to fill, coffers to rob,
And voices to quiet. Welcome to hell!"
The glowering sycophants dance and cheer--
Thirsty for blood, eyes agleam.
"Dishonesty is the best
Policy," they fervently scream.
Oh, it's a frightening Halloween night
When one's worst nightmare comes true:
The gruesome, macabre, spine-chilling Nightmare
On Pennsylvania Avenue.
-by Bob B (10-31-18)
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 9:53 AM UTC
When no one is there for me, where do I turn?
Why must I grovel for what I have earned?
How I seek and find you - you who always cares!
When no one else is there for me, will you still be there?
I come to you in sorrow, in anguish & in pain
hoping a solution from you I will gain.
We've been together in sadness and in joy.
I come to you because you know: the heart is not a toy.
You know when I am joking and when I am not.
When in depression I am soaking, by you my happiness is sought.
You're always there - through thick and thin.
If I had a "friend contest" you would win!
You're always there - day after day
When I have a problem, you know just what to say.
When I need someone, I turn to you
When I want to share my joy or when I'm feeling blue.
Will you always be there for me though?
If our lives go through changes, please don't go.
When no one else is there for me, will I still turn to see
your caring, loving, friendly smile loyally there just for me?
© 1998
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 11:17 PM UTC
Calling
(Calling)
Calling out for .........you
••
(I)
••
••
••
Ah
Satan
Yea
Satan
Takin you away
••
Satan
Satan
(You
Are
Satan's
Slave)
•••
I see you !!!
I see you !!!
You grovel at His Feet
••
You get your Power!
(You call it LOVE!!)
From Satan
••
From Satan
••
God is your Enemy!!
•••
We know we know we know
We know we know we know
We know
We know
Yeah
WE KNOW
••
••
••
Calling
(Calling)
Calling out for .....you
••
(I)
••
Why do you want to ****
Why do you want to die?
For Satan?
Satan
Satan
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 11:05 PM UTC
i am the boss, and pay the cost
of your life every week
i'm upper class,so kiss my ***
twice daily on each cheek
you are my slave,until your grave
depend on me for pay
you must obey,all i say
eight hours every day
my status rules,you grateful fools
that grovel to my money
i demand, your grafting hands
feed me milk and honey
yeh, but......
i work for you, and listen to
the ******** and the crap
because i've got two kids to feed
along with mortgage trap
but you don't see, where i ***
when you demand a cuppa
laugh aloud, feeling proud
each time i eat my supper
you spit your **** i laugh in fits
recall your furrowed frown
the night i painted your new car
and let the tyres down
shout your clout, boss me about
don't care how i'm feeling
but you don't see, where i ***
and everything i'm stealing
Mar 11, 2010
Mar 11, 2010 at 10:37 AM UTC
The acrid smell of darkness
"Permeates me"
I am surrounded by the skies
Of hell fire,
Brimstone,
Sulphuric,
Odours
Breathed as if air
Burning with each inhale,
This is a place of eternal penance
Why do I sit on a thrown of spines
Those around grovel
Hungry as if to taste my milk,
I look down, hot coals are under foot
My thrown room blacker than sin,
I am jested towards the window,
Torture,
Screams,
Souls
Bound to instruments, some scream in
Redemption, why'll others ask for more,
Broken, crazy lost souls that once
Screamed as the souls now bound to
"Smouldering coals"
I glance as heavy doors open,
Skin,
Bone,
Muscles
Entwined with black stitch
No words permitted,
As stich tightly woven
Upon blooded lips
I felt enticed at her vulgerness
She approached as if to touch my Hand, I
Repelled,
Declined,
Opposed
Her advances, I cut in to her muscle
she moaned as if ecstasy,
As black droplets burnt upon the floor
"She again ushered towards my hand"
I let her grip as she cut the
Stitches
From her bleeding lips,
"I smelt her breath"
A thousand souls decaying within her,
Breath
Exhaled,
Putrid,
Odour that was irresistible,
Lips meet, flesh burnt and the
Mists of what was clarity was ushered away,
My reaper of souls beauty of the underworld
I tasted with that kiss corruption, hatred
"He who shall never be named"
"At his tricks once again"
"I sit o my throne of spines"
My horns ignite once more
The light that shined briefly now
Extinguished,
Smothered,
Obsolete
Feelings from a place one stood upon,
"I am that which others need to fear"
As all will pay for this
"Moment of Clarity"
As I engulf souls, redemption
Is for above, below there is just hatred and misery
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 9:47 AM UTC
Child Child! I beckon
Cometh to my feet.
Giveth your spirit.
May your eyes heat.
From the tears that poureth
Down vicously
Giveth your spirit
Whilst laughing deleriously
I recieveth affection
From foreign hands
That giveth their spirit
From foregin lands
Child! Child! I beckon
Cometh to my feet
Grovel 'til I'm laughing
Your pain makes life complete
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 3:46 PM UTC
I followed
When you lead;
If you leave
Should I plead,
Will I grovel
On my knees,
Press my hands
In supplication,
Live my life
In degradation?
No.
Should you leave
A floor outline,
I'll dance on it,
Pen a rhyme
To embody you
And your crime.
A tragic love
In pantomime.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 11:39 AM UTC
well... between listening
to the INFO WARS ban...
by the mainstream...
and listening
to Greig's
perfecto
in the hall of the mountain king...
and john williams...
london symphony orchestra
for *the emperor's throne room
scene*?
youtube was always my
testing alternative to
****** megastore listening
booths...
like replacing my ears with
a tongue...
i never actually tuned
in on youtube,
for the indie commentators...
i was always there for the music...
listening to these
content creators,
grovel a penny,
like some Oxfam offshoot?
not cool...
i was always there for
the foraging of music...
never the commentaries...
who said anything about
the commentaries?!
can't be bothered,
won't be bothered,
given that i've been doing this
scribbling for over 10 years,
and hven't been paid a
barnado's penny...
can't be ******* bothered,
mate...
burn in hell;
at this point, you don't dictate,
and... i don't tell you
what you must do...
welcome! free fall!
oh no... like my english neighbor,
he doesn't tell me when i can or can't
light my barbeque...
just so he can hang his washing!
**** off!
the only respected violence is
that against private property rights...
i'd cut his limbs off,
and then hang him off in a noose
composed of, his ******* tongue,
the next time,
he tells me i'm to inform him of
when i do my next barbeque,
prior to him doing his washing...
PRIVATE... PROPERTY... RIGHTS...
YOU ******* ENGLISH! ****
nor king, nor Buckingham Palace
janitor!
**** OFF!
you even know what itchy teeth
implies?
i beg to differ:
you don't want to know,
but i'll let you know;
it implies a desire to own
a pig farm;
and we known what the economics
of pork looks likes...
now apply that in reverse,
to hide, cannibalism.
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 11:13 PM UTC
Work your fingers raw for a pittance
and you wish one day to bid good riddance
to your destiny,
good riddance to your destiny
Looking up you see them grinning down
but ask why they keep winning
and they'll label you the enemy
they'll label you the enemy
So you've got three kids and you're ******
because your salary's been cut
and you're burning up the furniture
you're burning up the furniture
Well they can trace their ****** blood generations
and their current lordly station
is their holy primogeniture
it's their holy primogeniture
You can sing and dance apologise and grovel
You can mark your x and **** off to the hovel
that you'll never own
the hovel that you'll never own
Meanwhile they will never leave the school
that tells them they are born to rule
till we vote the buggers on the throne
we vote the buggers on the throne
This land ain't your land
this land ain't my land
not the Glasgow dockyard
nor the empty Highland
this land is their land
it's bleed you dry land
and you'll be laid to rest here
beneath the wonder why land.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 2:47 PM UTC
Preacher's Son
You spoke like a preacher,
Marble mouthed messenger
Of the rules of your domain.
You let your tongue slither words,
Voice deep, booming, bass thumping
Coursing through my chest, beating.
This was your weapon of choice -
Each syllable a warning
Of what was yet to come.
Your pulpit a collection of your vice,
Beer bottles, ***** jugs, remnants of snowfalls.
You are nothing more than
A false idol,
And I will no longer cling
To your drunk speech
Or grovel at your feet.
Go crack your hammer hands
The ones that nailed my praise-song
Shut to my throat to make me meeker
But these hands were still free,
Free to write silence across your lips
And I hope these thoughts pierce you like darts,
Like spears of defiance.
This is no longer your church,
And I no longer your son
Worshipping the verbal lashings as Godly,
Laudable. No longer seeing bruises as adornments
Of unabashed, deep down spooky love.
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 6:42 PM UTC
forced to wake up
do things for others that I don't want to
not obliged to, feel condemned to.
another persons mistake and I'm pushed to my knees
with a hand slapping at my face trying to get me to eat
out of the other one:
dog food.
of course I can always leave
not that the important ones will chase after me
they'll lay on rooftops to get closer to the stars
enjoy the silence,
the freedom, they had not to shake themselves
it's not an earthquake of a morning
it's slower than a sunrise
perhaps no sleep has been.
night's enchantment has caressed you
softly.
ideas curl around your restless mind,
eyes piercing morning's pallet
with all it has to bare before it's been sought out by others.
dreaming
I am
lost in thought
a parallel universe of myself
this is where beautiful thoughts bury themselves
so as to later reveal what I need
to say or to do next
I am
healing
a force
grows stronger when impatient
insistent and intrusive
my love
is
blind
my love
is
weary
my love
is
endless
it
expands
my love reaches to the tips of your fingers
which scream for embrace
and release.
you want to write
you write
I want to read
I read
no such thing!
procrastination has the gravitational force of an addiction
I'm breeding consequence through my actions
focused on expression
feeling, it's all I can
empathy shocks me
until the lightning rays melt my heart
and my mind becomes somewhat of a battle ground for healing
one hole repaired is another dug
a filling is digested to a semi-satisfactory state
a poison is a temporary cure
continue to feed me
the poison
I'd rather feast on my own self
than grovel for what
evil offers.
again
my love is blind
my love is torture
my love is peace
if I let it be
my love is curious
my love is hiding
my love is wishful
cautious
frightened
yanked
crushed
held
my love is you
my love is the moon
my love is wondering
and wonderful
wants attention.
I want to give my love
without
rejection.
my love is loved.
take it,
you can keep it for as long as you want.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 1:46 PM UTC
you are the words that breathe through me. lift, move me. the item for a shopper's perusing; for use and abuse-ing. i'm your bend over barbie doll, your late night ***** call, the push over & the fall. i scrape myself off your boot; keep waiting for trees to bear fruit. it's funny how you can **** me til i'm lame & i still believe i deserve more pain.
how can i believe i'm worth your while when i know you don't care about proving it to me? it's so much sexier for you to see me beg, watch me grovel & worship your **** as if you are my only hope (for all intensive purposes, i mostly believe you are; you save me from facing myself at night. seminated distraction as masochistic salvation).
leave me mangled gasping hair tangled in your fingers grasping & you're lingering by the door, contemplating whether to leave me or take me on the floor. this is all i am to you: tested tried wrong used. bleed me until you stop seeing red, drag me willing or indifferent back to your bed.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 3:59 PM UTC
This is the poem where she stays.
This is the poem where her hand grazes
the doorknob, turns 45 degrees
then stops.
She stands still staring at a spot
just above the doorframe.
(What is that—a water stain?)
She bites her lip and waits;
listens
to your apologies stuck
like a lump in your throat.
And you watch her hand twitch
and you pray
that she doesn’t turn the doorknob
any further.
This is the poem where she turns around.
This is the poem where she gives
you an icy stare
but she stays; sits
in her favorite chair.
She crosses her legs and she waits;
listens
to your frantic explanations
about why you did what you did and
how you’ll never do it again.
And she wonders
if you really mean it.
This is the poem where you kiss her.
This is the poem where she doesn’t resist,
but doesn’t quite reciprocate.
She takes her bag back
to the bedroom to unpack
and you stand there and wait;
listening
to see if she starts putting her stuff away
where it belongs, or if instead
she puts the packed bag by the bed
incase she changes her mind.
This is the poem where you come home late
from work the next day.
This is the poem where she pushes you away.
She screams and makes threats
about the bag by the bed.
She’ll leave you—she swears it.
Just give her a reason.
You calm her down with words
like “I love you,” and “Trust me.”
****** forth your phone
“Call the office, if you must, babe.”
She walks towards the bedroom
and you stand there and wait;
listening
to see if you can hear the exact moment
when she stops loving you.
This is the poem where she leaves, anyway.
This is the poem where she doesn’t look back
as you beg and you plead
and grovel on your knees.
You paint a picture with your words
of your life before this.
How you wish it never happened!
“What if it never happened?”
She stops and she drops
her bag on the floor
She turns and she stares
at you in the door.
“You can’t change the past.
You can’t wish it away.
It’s just not that kind of poem, babe.
This is not the poem where I stay.”
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC