"heiress" poems
Oh Heiress!
My heiress
You date many men
At the least you've dated eighteen
That's in the last few years
But you're royalist of blood
Makes you special
For you're the heiress
To become The Condescension!
So date who you wish
Be deflowered if you want
But know this
I'll remember this always
Violet's always remember
Especially those who were close
Stay away from Jason!
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC
The moth with newspaper wings sat under the arrow lungs of the eyeless
blood dripped falcon, more whole than the super-glued roman sculpture.
Next door a 50’s con held up church with a roulette table in the kitchen,
and boarded up the massage parlor
downstairs.
The eye of the man was a centrifuge of ducks, mallard and hen, spiraling
outward into evaporated roach-ground
asphalt.
Next door, slits in the picket fence displayed perfectly formed **** & broach,
empty shoes made of feet below, blending
fields.
The marble foundation formed from twine lollipops and fuzzy candy tabs,
ice-etched to the frequency of splintered seashell
angels.
Next door through the forest of knives a spaceship bearing gargoyles peaked
bodies through collages of faces in technicolor sepia
mitosis.
The heiress molted into tiled pieces, her own dog and sunhat caught in blizzard
cuneiform, kaliedescoping again to fractalled inchworms cemented in motion.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 9:55 AM UTC
She was kindness and light
he was the darkness of night
lucky black was her favourite colour
there were no lies he could tell her
she stole the truth from sealed lips
a most unusual friendship
but even friends dip
in and out of courtship
oh such fanciful names
for those wicked games
they would play
☽ ―⊰ Night and Day ⊱― ☀
Chasing each other's shadow
but the night was left a widow
where is the light in mourning
who's lost sight of morning
it's become eternal darkness
since night lost his heiress
no child of light was ever seen
for the Knight had lost his Queen
in the dark nothing grows
as life is set upon by crows
he tried his best to stay awake
but everything had turned opaque
black was his heart
without the light of day
black as the sky
without her rays.
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 12:28 PM UTC
Strange times. When I speak of caressing your mantic lungs
I don’t know what I mean, but I know
I would hurl you under proper circumstances.
Darling, one whisper falls from a tree silently
so as not to wake the ghosts from their siestas.
Your robe has holes I can’t write of. I can fathom
getting there, what that might entail, wrapping,
as I am prone to, my fingers around your furry pincers
while I wait for you to read my rights to the ceiling fan
who whirls above our renovated combustions like the glowering
eye of our Lord upon the teary-eyed wicked.
I am not looking to escape through the window, darling.
I am diving for your diamond-in-the-rough, peeling off barnacles,
making moustaches of seaweed. You threw it into that ocean-
sized trough in which you drown lizards as way of
stress-release. I don’t know what I’ll do next.
The poor man. You give me your hand,
darling, and your robe, your robe is shiny like a pubescent star,
and it shimmies like a wagon piecing itself apart, as you
piece yourself apart, starting with your smile, which was always more
like a photograph of a dune in a textbook.
You give me your hand. It is a blue egg
dusted with microorganisms. I sprinkle it with our fragrance,
what’s left of it. I wish happiness upon your sleep-life, doldrums
upon your late-night haunting. I am tired and these
machines are so convenient, bringing me on all-expenses-
paid visits to the site of your burial. Or is it your sister’s?
I quote, my heart is like a walled onion.
The poor man is tired. It is not 1904 anymore.
You are not smiling anymore, darling, but you give me your hand.
You give it in a basket with parsley and cheese
and cut-outs from The Waterlogged God.
You give it almost grudgingly but I will keep it.
You tell me you’ve been dreaming again of train stations.
I wonder what that means.
I wonder about your eyes.
There are many spiders inside the wall, and along it,
and on the chandelier’s fingers, and inside the spiders.
I quote, a dream is worth a thousand dustpans, but you,
darling, are worth so much more than dustpans.
But I grow weepy, as stated. What do those dark blue lines mean?
Your fingers, darling, smell of a dark cloud in an electrical storm.
Your palm is a circus. Your nails ticket stubs.
That one’s from the alligator show. You dislocated your
throat. I had a plan. If you stare into someone’s eyes for
more than six seconds, you’ll want to lick them.
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 8:20 PM UTC
Oh Darling,
don't sanctify me as a higher being,
your salvation out of your rut.
the world is a green moist sponge,
and I am just another dihydrogen oxide molecule trapped
in it's fibers
crying for salvation
screaming for baptization
waiting for nothing
and although you think in binary terms.
I think in decimal
and yet
we are the stigma
of the guy
and the gal
in this dream of dreams.
a heiress of confession
I am here
surreal and every single inch
made out of stardust
to remind you...
Remember Montague
and the frosted lake?
where we built the blanketfort
among the trees
for the child
and lit her world
with dazzling LEDs,
as she stared in the tent
higher than fools
talking nonsense words
about the world
and her feelings
because she's so sad
and because she's so mad
because no one cares
except her
and her watering eyes.
she says.
I have no one.
And you can't do anything about it, starwhale
because that's the way I like it.
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 1:00 AM UTC
It could be the duchess
Or maybe the CEO
Or the media mogul
Who almost stole the show
Consider the brash *******
(He does look kind of shifty)
Then again there is the gambler
(Everyone calls him "Swifty")
Check out the carefree diplomat
With that fake smile but no charm
And then there's the airhead heiress
With tattoos adorning her arms
My money's on the senator
Always running, always winning
His wife seems kind of suspect too
With her endless mindless grinning
And then there is the debutante
Who flirted with the football star
And don't forget the pro golfer
Who spent so much time at the bar
But after all that guessing
Throughout the suspenseful show
Turns out the butler did it
...As if I didn't know!
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 10:33 AM UTC
My sweetheart is a man's man heiress
Her man must be a carbon copy of Jupiter, her father,
An alpha, a beta, a kappa, an omega male altogether
A carpenter by trade,
The epitome of masculinity
Who could solve any math problem in a second
And knew how to fix everything
A car, electric, plumbing
A family hero, a handy man
Who built houses from the ground up
He could swaddle a baby's nightmare properly
Open doors to the winds of sadness
And pull chairs to the lights of happiness
And he could dress every day to the nines
Infusing in her heiress forever wine 's bouquet
And the love of animals.
So consequently
My sweetheart is an animal 's animal heiress
She eats meat only if it has a label on it
Saying that animals are not caged
Or mistreated in anyway.
Sep 25, 2019
Sep 25, 2019 at 4:12 AM UTC
Thought he would rise to the occasion
And slay all of her dragons.
Take her away to some fairytale land
In a stone-made castle
Built with his own hands.
And there they would stay
To the end of their days....
But there's one thing
Shell never understand....
There's no prince charming
In her helpless little world.
No one's coming
To rescue this poor girl.
She's all on her own
Heiress to her own throne
A princess could be a queen
That's not afraid to stand on her own.
One day she'll realize
There's more to life than this.
He can't wake her up
With his magic kiss.
Life's not limited
To some storybook bliss.
So stop waiting around
For a (k)nights empty promise.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC
I don't know who she is,
but I can make
believe the truth.
She’s a princess
Of an island
Somewhere right outside Peru.
She’s the daughter
Of a grand king
And a lovely queen too.
I imagine
A long line
Of men who’d want to pursue
The fair maiden
the heiress
Of a throne she’ll soon assume.
She’ll rule with power and grace,
A smile on her face,
Kindness in her heart,
She’ll give the kingdom a new start.
Though some may doubt,
I know that's who she'll be.
Even if she's not,
She'll always be a princess to me.
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 11:26 PM UTC
Petals scatter with sweet honey from the hexagonal sun
And drip their nectar unto the heiress’s staff’s bun
Her lips shine with the yellow blood of her little wasp enemies
Disguised with a soft and young smile that’s hidden breathlessly
The young ruler’s snow hair dissolves into sweet sprinkles of canary
And her golden eyes shall unleash a sting into whoever she shall marry
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 11:44 AM UTC
You were an heiress,
inheriting a life time trust fund
from a fortune made
manufacturing waxy kid's coloring thingamajigs.
Your mother drove you each school day,
in a classic powder blue Mercedes coup.
She was beautifully coiffed,
high bred serene, great skin,
And you were blond, blue eyed, smart and smiled.
When I saw you I always felt -
I felt not worthy of living on your planet.
A few years after graduation we met,
I had had a few beers so I told you everything.
I am sorry for causing you those tears.
Jan 18, 2011
Jan 18, 2011 at 6:33 AM UTC
heiress to the strange castle,
Francis ascended the high stone stair;
her ancestors had lived here from the beginning of
the country's history;
her family was older,
its history vivid in the dark of time
to those descendents
who were Francis' immediate family
all fallen to old age & death
except she youngest of the brood;
inheriting Frankenstein's Castle
the first place she went was to her
ancestor's laboratory,
long disused, old fashioned
& out of date, but flipping the
high-voltage switch bringing
the whole place to light & life as the thing
moved on the table & rose;
the doctor's last project
before being driven mad in the arctic sea,
the woman, who upon seeing young Francis
falls madly in love; Francis
seeing the gleam in the monster's
eye takes the time to get to
know her body & the monster likewise
got to know hers;
two beauties came out of the gray castle
looking like a pair of princesses
in the sun broken through the permanent clouds
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 11:26 PM UTC
A woman of sophistication and beauty
Princess Charlotte carried herself with eyes on community with unity
She worked hard all her life
Heiress to the throne and not needing advice
Intellectual being her vibe
I am not telling you a lie nor jive
Princess Charlotte enjoys being her outgoing stride
The beauty in how she maintains the Castle garden
Princess is her own Eden
But what makes Princess Charlotte’s characteristics distinguished is her personality
She gets along well with everyone in the colony
Princess Charlotte never acts like she stands for royalty
As she has respect for herself and others
In fact, you would never know Princess charlotte was of high anarchy
It is only because she lives in Honey Suckle Castle
It is also the royalty attire
Doing the right thing being her desire
Nonetheless, Princess Charlotte is always at her best, as evidence, everyone that comes in contact with her can contest.
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 2:33 PM UTC
I've set my life and you're light years away from my plan,
To my eye,you're real beast.
All you've mastered is to snarl me on most revolting way,
Who cares if you're academic anyway?
I've got last card,once I dance
I looked heiress.
Not to mention you romanticize me like stripper huh?
I knew it,boy!
I risk my life just to chuckled out on you,
But you're aching on million saints
for me to run back toyou.
I must declare now,you're my comfort zone.
Babe,I don't wanna make plans with you
Just out of the blue you became my plan all along
and I just forget life itself.
Jul 6, 2010
Jul 6, 2010 at 2:14 AM UTC
I am just like Robin Hood
Shooting an impossible shot
When everything is lost
To sling that arrow straight
through the arrow of opponent
in my own bullseye.
Kick inside the hornets nest.
Wave to the pretty heiress on the stool next by,
Knowing i'll never get her,
Still the greatest in her life.
Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 2:56 PM UTC
favoring the limelight
but all bets are off tonight
build me a new empire
based on your words
be my mistake again
or prove me wrong
realize i am your loss
i am an improvement over your usual catch
unimpressive, bland
they'll design a lie, just to entice your eye
but i'm real
when will this end?
washing your placebos down
with a conviction that they work
is this the last cancelled reservation?
don't dial in till you know your line
play the boy for his voice
he'll decode in his sleep
preparing for the masses
to carry your message to all
till they become obsessed, too
our love for the heiress to my heart grows
complicated feelings that carry no reason
jealous eyes manipulate
corrupted and articulate demeanors that don't lack in style
exactly what she wants
she will have
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 9:29 PM UTC
amidst cavorting delightfully, enjoying thorough
frolicking gingerly, foreign hick hating slo
hip-hopping insouciantly sustaining row
biological status quo
kvetching lamely moreso mother became pro
naturally physically rumbling,
heard all the way in Oslo
supposedly twerking, undulating vivaciously
wantonly x2c wisely yielded – nada no
zona pellucida anchored byte size ******
potent embryonic fetal moe
newlweds nocturnal merriment
moma's ****** marked march 1959
lovingly joyusly, insemination happened ha low
bullseye clenched diploid fertilization
guaranteed germinating heiress
while squaqking lichen Apache at Diablo
ma late mother did should know
upon awakening upon tautly stretched exertion
during dilating ****** which jiggled like jello
three score orbitz round el sol, warmed cockles
and muscled away brutally cold degrees
tab billed an igloo,
or circa six decades
drafted exuberant ho...ho...ho...
cuz, i.e. thencee at 362nd day
baby in belly did fully grow
December first nineteen fifty seven
sanctioned newly minted papa
to sing a capella for he's a jolly good fellow
quintessential nascent
kickstarter heady everflow
though wintry dark,
a “hi” beam illuminated
newborn girl with dayglow
sans, mechanical engine ear
papa (an honorably discharged army vet)
all spit and shine groom,
who wed a bride somewhat callow
first time parents with giddiness did saul fully bellow
Boyce and Harriet Harriet countenance
twas (like an elf on Christmas eve) all aglow.
--------------------------------------------------------
Dear Sis – I knew not what else to do
thus, this poem crafted fur ewe
a doe ting maternal gal – whose time on Earth flew
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 1:09 AM UTC
I was once a queen in this dress.
Peasant and nobleman, child and commoner I had been, yes,
But never queen.
In this dress, autumn was my station, my birthright, my blood—
I was an heiress of field and stream,
Of tall grass, tree and sky,
Of August leaves bronzed under an Indian Summer sun.
Let me take you to that day; See as I see,
Look to the field all where the trees
Clap their hands, and shake from their branches golden leaves
To crown this small soul, their Majesty.
Standing steadfast as sentinels as they
Watch a life in reverse: I am shrinking, I am becoming
Nothing more than these blades of grass I run on,
This patch of sky I fall from,
This body, this blood, this tiny wisp of memory
In a mind so vast with humanity,
It has to spill over and splash into something like Time.
Silent, they watch as I unfold into this moment:
This moment newly-made,
ancient,
eternal,
To become queen, to become everything, to become
Nothing more than an end-of-summer’s day—
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 11:23 PM UTC
maybe it's just me but the thought of you lately makes me sad. your skin five shades darker than a double-double; you remind me of almonds, hazelnuts, snow and full lips. you've got this little mole about two diagonal inches up from your **** it's the inward sigh i stifle when i tell you i love you that tells me i don't. when we're in bed, the way you look at me makes me feel like an heiress, a goddess. when you pull on your boxers i see you: a spoiled brat. the way you speak to me makes me feel like i should apologize. i guess i'm looking for someone a little less shallow; when i started sinking i realized you didn't have the depth to understand a shipwreck.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 9:50 PM UTC
27
Today I turn 27,
Finding myself not feeling anything,
Recovery is a bittersweet ending,
Sobriety but a lingering telling,
It took 27 lines of ******** drugs,
Not the kind you may think off,
The kind we are so addicted to,
27 lines of the purest lies,
27 lines of the finest mistreatment,
27 lines of the most mindfucking self harming,
27 lines of the most relaxing coping,
27 lines of the most euphoric settling,
It took 27 contracts,
To realize that in this tale as old as time ending,
Is never too late,
To rule over a queendom,
Abandoned by the heiress,
A queen of a lonely poetry,
Fading in the vision,
Chasing fantasies,
Never seeing the clock behind her,
27 years to wake up from a slumber,
A self given kiss,
The curse is broken,
27 years of harcore lines,
The ones that only make you realize,
Delusion is but a poisoned apple,
The side effects but a reflection of the hidden mirror,
For in the end, my world is but an illusion,
The same you wake up to,
An actress of everyone's delusions,
Never given a chance to envision,
The illustrations of a scripture,
A tale written by a lonely heiress,
One that welcomes,
Foes that see the vision,
Wolves wearing sheep linen,
Their masquerade no longer hidden,
27 years of ******** lines,
Rose pink sunglasses the sweetest red wine,
27 years of the finest lines,
Why was it so hard,
To see what was left behind,
A world that is only mine,
Looking, looking, and looking,
For a savior wearing armor and diamond,
Today I realize,
The heaviness in my heart,
Heaviness of armor I looked past,
I had been fighting a war,
To protect what is so precious and not far,
The vision of a lonely child,
Made to closer her eyes,
So she would never realize,
She was the one she was looking for,
Shameless for is never too late,
To open the gates of heaven inside.
Apr 20, 2025
Apr 20, 2025 at 9:11 PM UTC
This night as I lay upon a smoky stone
Seven lines I say, my mantras own.
Adrift in the sky as my prayers atone,
Im alive here, now in the astral zone.
As fear becomes strength my nemesis fell
Tempting my faith, *** heiress, my grail.
Her face became snake like, her skin turning pale,
A wraith to be slaughtered, lust could not prevail.
With powers of godlike capacity,
I take flight over towers immensity.
Propelling me forward, towards destiny,
My unlimmited source of ecstasy.
Beyond what is light, I could never know
Blinded by fright, moralities throne.
Duality is as simple a god can be shown,
For man is both astral, still birthed from stone.
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 2:10 PM UTC
To: Career politicians and insiders
From: The great unwashed rabble beneath your feet
Over the next few years, and into the foreseeable future,
Your past and present performance
Will be scrupulously reviewed
With an eye toward
Eliminating hangers-on and dead weight.
No cow is sacred
When so many are starving.
The heiress apparent to the retiring CEO
has been shown the door;
the head of sales now the head of state.
There will be regular meetings
With the new HR director.
Those of you who've been with us
For a while will know him well.
His name is Howard Beale.
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 10:23 AM UTC
Sealtest was
substantial when
hormones agreed
that faith
did declare
profane minion
if heiress
of ice
cream would
certify a
revival in
social justice
that buries
hatchet to
enhance a
ticket of
wayward soul.
Oct 10, 2017
Oct 10, 2017 at 2:54 PM UTC
It’s the wee things that get to you,
the things that they – the invisible
“they” – don’t think of or deem –
what an egghead word – import.
Like the many languages Pope Francis
speaks to the poorest of the poor – just
books away from Revelation and the
end – apocalypse, they call it?
Like the simple task, simpletons do it
in political campaigns for the simplest
of the simple – cost deferred until a
position be taken if it isn’t ******
Like the contours of the manhood of
the waiter leaning tightly against your
table – as he asks again if you want
your salad with French or Italian.
Like the death of Romano III, a cat of
nineteen, lying alone on a warm rug –
or it was a cold shoulder, the mother
lode of forgiveness.
Like the birth of an heir or heiress of
a circus regnant – a cut above the
silliest of the silly, dancing in the
streets to a playwright’s tunes.
Like the circumcision of a newborn
boy – a social decision on an *****
that doesn’t know itself until puberty,
an unfair decision by a man.
Like the baptism of a child – protection
against purgatory or is it the shoreline
of the Jordan where wading isn’t kosher
when the teenaged lifeguard is absent?
Like the final couplet of the last sonnet
of a poet – her celebration and self-worth
still unrhymed, its meter and iambs
unborn until next week.
Similes slant to the similar, metastasizing
and growing outside the box – oh, ****
the poet says, her wings clipped by a
little thing like a pep rally.
© Lewis Bosworth, 2013
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 7:15 PM UTC