"header" poems
From Potent Treasures despite Five Months past
The Sixth Great Angel suddenly appeared
Reminding my Lost Voice which Virtues last
And preached the Sermon of True Self revealed
How Wonderful must your Header advise
Being the Younger of your Sister's sprite
From there Unknotted Loyalty devise
Though snubbed by Pink Dandelions in spite
Now I can see why he chose over you
His Charming Sense knew your Heart was that Pure
And please keep on; Keep that Silver Disc blue
Coat them with your Wings from being demure.
Yes I Agree. Of your True Coating's stand
Thank you so much for reminding me at hand.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 5:27 PM UTC
I’m not the one who sails with grace
Tempestuous seas
broad as the moon
I’m not the one who stood in her firm legs
Sorting waves of ambition with equilibrium
I’m not the one who resisted equable
before unearthly weather
I’m not the one who faced bravely
A simple stormy header
I’m not the one who surfs
oceans of emotions
I’m the one who swims from dot to dot
I’m the one who knows who I am not.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 10:41 AM UTC
The demons just want me to be dead,
They want to bury the secrets in my head,
Sunlight kills their dark souls,
And there's no light to hold,
I'd give anything for a savior,
Give my firstborn as a favor,
I just want to not fight for every breath,
To not fight inside my own head,
I'm so tired, so tired, so tired,
And the voices multiply like a choir,
They tell me what to say,
To make everyone think I'm okay,
But inside I'm punching myself over and over,
And I try to quiet it by not being sober,
But you can't stay high forever,
I always nose dive and take a header,
Straight into the ground of which I bleed upon,
This life just seems played out and done,
I'd pray to God if I didn't think he'd forsaken,
This child of which followed him with other children,
But then I found the dark side of life,
The kind that has no spark of life,
Who's dull eyes stare out from sunken skulls,
Knees aching on basement floors,
Don't be fooled by the bible,
The devil is a female,
And she takes innocence,
While faking she's innocent,
So beware of golden hair,
And skin that's fair,
Because it'll make you wish for death,
For the rest of your entire life,
But you can't stay high forever,
I always nose dive and take a header,
Straight into the ground of which I bleed upon,
This life just seems played out and done.
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 12:06 AM UTC
The game is played on a pitch,
or a field if you will.
With eleven players to each side;
some with extra special skill.
There is kicking and passing,
and sliding and tackling.
Three officials call the game
and some players tryout acting.
Shots saved by the goalkeeper
or blocked by a defender.
A corner kick sails in;
leading to a game winning header.
The crowd, so excited,
they shout out and chant.
*Losing is a myth,
we know our club can't*
A glory some know as soccer;
it's football around the globe.
Who will win the world cup,
and head home with the precious gold?
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 7:16 PM UTC
There was a Double Rainbow
in the sky, over my house today,
Any special meaning there you say?
Double Luck, Double Trouble,
Double Dip, Double Bubble,
Double Up, Double Down,
Double Dutch, Double Duty,
Double Play, Double Header,
Double Cross, Double Jeopardy,
Double Negative, Double Genitive,
Double Dealings, Double Whammy.
Double Jointed, Double Hung,
Double Pleasure, Double Fun.
I'm quite sure I could go on like this,
Beyond the ordinary, If only I had
my copy of Mister Webster's Dictionary.
Working this over in my mind,
running it up and running it over.
The best conclusion I can reach,
Two stripe rainbows are nothing more,
than what you see and what you think.
A pretty painting in the sky, and hence
Of no other particular consequence.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 2:17 PM UTC
she sat next to me near the window
at starbucks on
41st and madison with a journal
covered in pastel lines and a black backdrop.
on the top center read “2011 was the year i screamed
**** life’ and **** me”
as a running header. she ran
through my head, tilting this little snippet
of her brain
towards me and i swear that she looked at me
but all i could do was make the sign of the cross
hoping god heard my muffled voice, drowned out by
the sounds of yellow taxis on the crosswalk and
whispers of angels on the corners asking for my pockets.
i’ve never tasted sixty miles
per hour but i can imagine it’s the same
as when she writes “your shirt looks like my thoughts”;
i’m falling in love too easily.
i want to read every inch of your body; your arms
have the bible etched in your veins and a fifth of my poems
are scribbled on your aortas; my mother’s wedding vows
are in my right eye and my father,
my father just takes care of himself. i don’t think my eyesight is
getting any better, you slid the note two spaces down
and i think i shed a tear but i can’t remember whether
you were smiling for joy or the fact you missed my hand.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 11:54 PM UTC
she plants her lipstick
on my cheek
or forehead daily;
her stamp,
she says
leaving her puckered claim,
she says
in case some young *****
with game
throws a slow hanging curve ball
over my plate
and I'm tempted to hit it
like a-rod,
hgh and all,
up and over the outfield wall
then slide into home base
later
like it's batting practice
or
a double-header...
~ P (Pablo)
(8/7/2013)
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 4:25 PM UTC
Rather the clouds were a motorcycle,
Jesus rides up, lowers his sunglasses.
You ride off with him into the sun
not setting, but crashing violently
into the ocean. Rather, you receive
an inconspicuous e-mail, that you write
off as spam. “Save Your Soul Pls Read”
in the subject header was easy to ignore,
easy to delete. Jesus on the other end
of the illuminated screen was trying to reach
you. Even now his hand comes out of the
screen like a cartoon odor, beckoning.
Rather, you hear three thuds on your door
and Jesus bursts through, shattering
the components of your door-knob. He is dressed
in fine clothing, soft, his *** looks great.
“Come on. We are getting you the **** out
of here.” He still has his sunglasses on.
Rather, a firefighter runs down the stairs, turns
the iron on, starts the dryers, and hits the circuit
breaker with his axe. You are on your belly, gripping
smoke in between knuckles, fingers. Emerging
into daylight, Jesus rides your pet Rottweiler,
like a horse, out your front door.
Rather, a 1995 Honda Civic sputters
towards you. A boy in plaid stumbles
out with a briefcase that stumbles
open. Cassette tapes stumble
out. “Would you want to go
for a ride?” There is a moment
where the road disappears over an arc.
You two are falling together.
Rather, it is raining walls of white
foam. Jesus is in a bright yellow poncho
laughing heartily. He throws your body into salt
waves. At first, the shock of cold muted
the harpoon in your gut. Jesus is dragging you
as you spin the harpoon inside you
first horizontal then vertical.
Mar 17, 2011
Mar 17, 2011 at 8:02 PM UTC
They keep ratcheting up the pressure
They keep hatcheting for good measure
They keep laughing at their leisure
They keep blasting guns for pleasure
Creating a series of tubes
Where every which way I lose
There's an existential
Differential
From my potential
That's unintentional
For I want to be better
Than the scarlet letter
That's my resume header
And my pain embedder
But there's a series of events
That keep happening
That leaves everyone incensed
They start attacking me
Until I take my mask off
They uncomfortably back off
Get in their rocket and blast off
Until it's humanity I'm the last of
There's a pattern
That gives me purpose
So I climb a ladder
Of fruitless searches
For a freedom purchase
From a shame merchant
Who offers the joy of fantasy
At the price of a crushing reality
So I can hear Satan answering
As a doctor trying to cure my malady
I feel shame
Then humiliation
This repetitive game
Provides inspiration
To avoid every friendship
Because my love will end it
And bring a torture endless
So either way I'll be friendless
After I reluctantly ask
And they say no
Am I still expected to bask
In their beautiful glow?
I see a range of emotions
From pathetic pity to anger
Always leaving the notion
I live in a city of strangers
And walls of concrete
That can't be beat
One must take a seat
And accept defeat
Then repeat
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 4:04 AM UTC
[one]
love is:
a recipe without quantities, the pages all torn out and set back at random
here you are, take it, put the pieces back together
with no frame of reference
no identifying features
each part has innumerable intricate delicate machinery
that you will break, clumsily.
because you have no idea how to use it
and if you break it
you can neverever put it together right.
it will always be half unfinished
a line with the ending word
- minused
cut
dropped
forgotten or misused
lied to and abused
abandoned or pursued
[two]
this betrayed feeling can't begin to cover
the dismay when reeling from a bitter lover
in disarray fleeing from a sinful tether
bells gently pealing to mourn a death letter
unencumbered kneeling before a cement header
diving, graceless, screaming descent forever
praying without hope to a remorseless deity
something like asking a black hole for salvation
like looking into the mirror and seeing the Void
staring out at you with those self-loathing eyes
and knowing why you let that Beast reside
cupping in your hands the black foam that runneth over
glass teeth disintegrating in a holocaust skull
chewing up love like the last morsel of gristle
drunken tales told to bewitch the last symbol
but you're not bold enough to release the animal
so it rages inside
terrified
alive
cage-eyed
wild
the treaty for your freedom is in your peaceful kingdom
find it and flee from all the things you've become
sit down to rest your weary in the warmer season
but the fear will always find you
when the bravery has lost its reason
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 12:09 AM UTC
Raging on my thunderbolt
Flying through dreamy clouds
And with drunken eyes
I scream aloud
"All you've given me is lies"
Fly close to the sun
Live this life of luxury
It's never ever forever fun
Unread love letters
You're my mind's main header
In glamorous flames
I fall to earth
Wrecking trees & I witness
My birth
Gently murdering silently
Telling in high vocals
Swiftly pass through
To your heart's face.
Keep an open mind.
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 8:39 AM UTC
The Polo Grounds, when first seen,
are a most magical shade of green.
Hand in hand, me and my Dad
head for our seats in the right field stands.
It’s the Cincinnati Reds in town
to play the New York Mets.
There’s a double header scheduled,
How much better could it get?
Cincinnati took the first game
by a score of three to nil.
My hot dog was delicious
Dad had a beer to swill.
The nightcap was a wild affair
The Mets won thirteen- twelve.
You could look it up, as Casey said,
if you should care to delve.
We rode the subway home that night
side by side, me and my Dad.
We reminisced about the game
Like the most knowledgeable fans..
The Q44 from Flushing took us
up Queensboro Hill,,
past Carvel and Booth Memorial,
I remember it well still.
My father turned to look at me
as five decades creased my brow.
Making us the self same age-
What he was then, so I am now.
Thirty years, about, it’s been
Since last I saw my Dad.
The dead don’t get to baseball games,
Which I think is rather sad.
He can’t enjoy a summer night
on the wrong side of the grass.
And an ice cold beer is greatly missed-
He can’t pour himself a glass..
In memory, we still can walk
With those who came before.
So I took my Dad to a baseball game-
What was I waiting for?
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 6:28 PM UTC
A planet with a layer of blue, is it really blue?
A horrid gas in-immune and unbearable to our soft and fragile lungs.
How fragile we are, us humans.
A planet so toxic to us
May be a ****** paradise to them.
The Elite.
Are they really?
Are They Elite?
Or are they simply not as stupid as the human race. . . ?
We do not foresee what our intelligence can do to those around us. What will the future be?
Will we destroy our paradise before the universe's time to do it on it's own? In it's own time?
Ha. We're a joke!
I think that back then a woman's number one priority was to be a good mother and to be a mother because now more than ever is the age in which the human race is farthest away from it's instinctual mentality. Just like your header " Go back.". Humans have built their own mental instincts . How fragile a race, yet how complex the intellect. In the future, nature won't be able to touch us. What once was the need to breed and populate became the need for knowledge and the expansion of the human brain's potential capacity. Man kind doesn't crave the need to populate. Only to satisfy their intellectual and physical properties. The human race doesn't give a **** about the human race. I just wish things were the way they were before...
But I'd be selfish to wish upon a life of strife, illness and pain. I'd be cruel to wish upon us a life of short living - a life of death dodging.
We have it awfully good, us humans. &we; don't even know it.
I love this life, I really do. I mean, when was the last time you had to fight for your food? We desire power, but also love being victims.
We love the bravado but we always know how to be timid.
Don't we all just love being weak? No masks, no muscle, just guns and white teeth.
Corporate monsters rule the world but the world only wants to be ruled. It's easier that way, it easier to just pretend to be fooled. Man loves power, but is disgusted by responsibility.
The human race is ruled by blood lust disguised as lust after power. Must it be so?
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
Your parade makes me purple, it makes me thin as an alphabet, I don't know, I don't wanna understand. I'm an estimation, I'm over and not in great abundance. Don't defend me, I'm not the header atop your letter.
Open me, I'm like your chimney, inside your mouth I am the lips you dip your tongue through, growing with sensation. See me and seam me to threads and tow me through your ****** lines-
little piece of flesh
Just a little dance, Just a little romance
Keep me in your pants let me be your postcard
I'll float across your eyelids.
Let me know your name
You can taste my skin. You can see my seams bend, my hours grow a little tired
Lifting up your dress, I can taste your pastes, your pastel belle comes floating at me sideways.
Ours and again, you ask me, "is it a nightmare?"
You ask me, "is it a car crash?" You say, "I can feel you breathing." This is not a spell, there's nothing left, not even a little lie I can play with in my fingers, you say, "is it the moon in the stars." And I stop you from ruining the sound of words to preserve a moment. Something a silence and a dollar doesn't buy you. I ask, " is this you my love? You're an imaginary process I'm never going to be interested in prosecuting perfectly. I'm not- an extroverted invert, a spirit floating in the corner of your eyes. I'm over zealous, a zealot, full of youth, using grief to keep your eyes
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 10:15 PM UTC
Here lies the body of Jamie McGraph
Who decided to write his own epitaph
Thinking a selfie might make it better
While taking the photo he took a header
Off the edge of a cliff into oblivion
"Came to a sticky end" the fitting idiom
Dec 4, 2019
Dec 4, 2019 at 4:34 PM UTC
There! The boiler is fixed upon the wall
Radiators beneath each window
With another in the hall.
Forty five millimeter pipe
Marches away from boiler
To feed a pump beneath the floor
With warm refreshing liquid.
His look, smile, said so much more
Or was it all just imagination?
The pump beneath the floor
Will circulate liquid to bring warmth
To the radiators beneath each window
With another in the hall.
A touch upon the skin adds mystery
Or was it an accident?
All just imagination?
Forty five millimeter pipe
Reduced to fifteen
That feeds each radiator beneath windows
With another in the hall
With warm luscious liquid.
Words sound a strange suspicious melody
Which fill imagination with mystery.
A fifteen millimeter tube rises in the loft
***** and true
***** to connect
The header tank
Away erected in the loft
Gentle stroke upon an upper leg
A smile that say's so much more
Eyes that enchant to speak a mystery.
Tees Elbows with connectors
Join together lengths of copper tube
Beneath the floor all out of sight
Will all connect to the boiler on the wall
With radiators beneath each window
And one in the hall.
Skin touched by lips that smiled creativity
To circulate a warm luscious, liquid mystery.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 5:07 AM UTC
Don John Shaughnessy
Tamer of the beast
Crasher of the party
Spoiler of the feast
Always in the gallery
Never in the dock
Don John Shaughnessy
Roller of the rock
Don John Shaughnessy
Burster of the bubble
Terror of the timid
Beginner of the trouble
And who's that conducting
Directing at the back?
Don John Shaughnessy
Leader of the pack
Don John Shaughnessy
Rouser of the mass
Thrower of the bottle-bomb
Header of the pass
Never leaves a fingerprint
Never any clue
Don John Shaughnessy
Turner of the *****
Don John Shaughnessy
Keeper of the keys
Lender of the loan shark
Breaker of the knees
Driver of the getaway
Watcher of the coast
Don John Shaughnessy
Drinker of the toast
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 4:22 PM UTC
*life has plenty of bad dreams
realized and foretellable,
predictable, inevitable,
typos that go uncorrected
or cannot be corrected
but from time to time
magic appears in an email header,
mistakes intended
for what would life be without
the occasional,
surprise from him,
a Sirprise apprised....
and her, she, her,
knowing his mind
occupado by life's laundry,
sends him a notice of a
Herprize.
-----------------------------
*To: Him
From : Her
Subject: Herprize
Please hold the evening of April 25th on your calendar
for a Herprize event. Tie and jacket will be required (too bad!).
To: Her
From: Him
Subject: Sirprise
Tie and Jacket, no can do, as all my ties were accidentally
thrown out by some crotchety person on New Years Day, 2014.
Please mark the whole day, May 12th,
as busy on your calendar for a Sirprise event.
Casual formal (casual formal?) dress attire, please.
Popcorn and other refreshments will be provided.
Socks and **** stockings optional
but recommended for the evening portion of day's events*
-----------------------------
the waitress inquires,
"theater tonight?"
She replies,
"oh yes, indeed,
an 8:00 curtain,"
"great, what show are you seeing?"
"that I cannot say, yet,
for it is a Herprize evening!"
the waitress says nothing,
but her smile indicates understood,
and they stupid grin at each other,
at their crazy ways and that the world
appreciates their typographical lives
.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:16 AM UTC
Just as a heads up to any of you readers it may concern, I'm abandoning both projects in the header. The Drama of Miriam Marcus is something you may see pop up again, either in its original form, or perhaps as an entirely different project.
Dark Spells was a project born out of the recurrence of a common, deep depressive state that finds me time and time again, one you may notice without my saying. While I often romanticize themes of depression, anxiety, paranoia, self-loathing, and self-destruction, I must point out that I do so because I'm bound to these feelings regardless of stagnation, regardless of agitation. I romanticize my illness simply as a means to survive, as a means to still feel fulfilled as a human despite the haunting emptiness.
That said, recent developments in my personal life have unchained me suddenly, and I'm overwhelmed with the need to embrace the misplaced. Concepts like happiness, curiosity, and wonder are once again nearly tangible. As such, a project as thematically troubling as Dark Spells is not currently a possibility.
TL;DR:
Yo thx for reading. Shit's about to get a little lighter, a little softer, a little warmer. I succcc.
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 9:36 AM UTC
" The Gentleman "
Say cheese....because sooner or later
I'll be fine writing this header
For i will let you come first
Before i care about my thirst
Let me hold your hand
and together we'LL stand
unshade my sun glasses
eye to eye feel our senses
Undress my hat
Nose to nose
We'LL communicate
Like a lovely cat
Once you capture my image
Every angle of mine serves as your unwanted signage
By that time... it was i, that you don't deserve!!!
Unleash your flash upon the light of your calm!!
And you'LL ever know how gentleman i am!
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 6:12 PM UTC
He starts the day with black coffee and a cigarette
He's on the ground, but that not where his head is at
He writes a poem in his room, on his bed
A memory foam pillow greets his weary head
He types his heart out with every single letter
Ingests chemicals that give him a full header
Inspiration comes from a black bird that he saw
Circling his house with a mouse in his claw
Vultures do what they have to to survive
Just like any man would to do stay alive
The bird swoops down and takes what's his with no question
It's heart beats faster with a geometric progression
A man must do the same if he wants to get what's his
Especially in the time in which we live
He has to be ruthless and swift
And take his own like a gift
The unsuspecting mouse never really stood a chance
And the man must take his opportunity at first glance
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 9:16 AM UTC
I tried to write, I had a whole verse
In the right light, Rhymes kept getting worse
I still won the fight, still such a curse
Out of lyrical might, drop you in a satirical coin purse
I knew I could do better, Couldn't even think of a header
On the brink on my second letter, I remembered a verse I once read her
"No influence would be contempered as long as the wise led the world."
No such fool hints at a long December as it fries and curls.
Though to put ink to page and set fire to an age of all kinds of -ism
simply seems such silly south side sarcastic cynicism
You'd have to be a sage to guide my lines with drastic criticism
Isn't the greatest of knowledge knowing lack of wisdom?
Pay attention all the 905 to 416 crews, we live in a stereotype
Where people only care about your shoes, flair and your hype
Welcome to the show, here's the news, especially not your type
This time I decided to let loose, can't wait til the streets are ripe
Thanks.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 3:42 AM UTC
Like maybe speed.
That way I could run far away
So you aren't the one that has to find me
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 8:02 PM UTC
message "<i>monotheistic agony</i> saved successfully"
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<div id="poem1929646" class="poem poem-left " data-align="left" data-url="http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1929646/monotheistic-agony/" data-text="monotheistic agony by Máteùš Izydor" seepoem="/poem/see/1929646/">
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<a href="/polaroid-scrabble/" class="nocolor poem-poet-name popover-profile" data-url="/popover/profile/662176/">Máteùš Izydor</a> <span class="poem-added s" title="Poem added 3 minutes ago">3m</span>
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<a href="/poem/1929646/monotheistic-agony/" class="nocolor">monotheistic agony</a>
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<p>you know what <br> urinating with<br> a ******** feels like?<br><br>next thing you know:<br>they'll be tearing off their niqabs<br> and implying<br> staples to the fake <em>kippahs</em><br> of the popes.<br><br> and then tribalism from <em>brazil</em>.<br><br> toes are a real agony...<br> fingers are slightly better,,,<br> but do you know alcoholism is<br>such a burden?<br> it's ******* exhausting...<br> once you get to the stage of <br>a litre of whiskey, in between 2 days<br>you're wondering....<br> i'm not being lazy about this....<br>this is the <em>fantastic 4</em> making an entrance...<br>there's mr. fantastic / spastic trying to samba fully<br> extended;<br> <em>limp dick</em> ever come across your mind?<br> i'm thinking <em>squid</em>, or at least something<br>wobbly, or able to juggle, or with limbs <br>that have the consistency of a brain, i.e. fat;<br> then all the bones are in their mouths and could<br>nibble on you twice-over - or <em>ridley scott</em> talking.<br><br>p.s. definite article indefinite article<br> pluralism (simply... es);<br> a very serious english complex.</p>
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Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 2:34 PM UTC