"hilariously" poems
And when you give
Give like the widow would
Quietly and thoughtfully
Wholeheartedly and consciously
Like you know the value of costly
The value of giving til you laughingly
Really hurt in your fund for a holiday.
And when you give
Keep your other hand wondering
If it's sufficiently
Not knowing if it was slight of handedly
Or open handedly
So you're tempted into giving more
Than you intended previously.
And when you give
Give hilariously
Generously
Be gutsy til angels agree
On the degree
To which you plunge
The depths of your karki jeans
And if in doubt
Just focus on the tree
And the costly sacrifice
He willingly made
For you and me.
Give like the widow would -
Like it's just between you and God
And then you'll be free.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 5:14 PM UTC
Wouldn't it be weird if
JFK was reincarnated
as Monica Lewinski?
Buddha probably
ate better butter
than Ghandi.
If we keep fighting
the divine fellows
we pray to
will be too afraid to return.
This isn't ******* Highlander.
Christ, what a hilariously insane movie.
They probably show that
to people who drink caviar & say things
like "pip pip!"
Either way,
we're all related.
Otherwise than that,
let's all be
LOVE.
Except for people
who commit genocide.
May they be reincarnated
as Hitler's final excretion
as he killed himself;
including ******
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 8:58 PM UTC
My perfect guy
Is the kind of boy
Who is always a gentleman
He opens doors, pulls out chairs
And is polite to my parents
And yet when he wants
He can be so hilariously fun
He's not afraid to wrestle
Or play games, even have a nerd fight
But when the day is done
We can sit and talk for hours
He listens to every word
And says more than "okay"
He will smile and act intelligent
Helping with my problems
But he's not too serious
To put up with my insanity
My perfect guy
Is the kind of boy
Who is always there for me
I will never feel shy or scared
In his protective hold
He will back me up
Even if I'm wrong
And when we sit together
He will wrap his arms around me
And sit tight and perfect
And he is always there for me
When is about emotions too
He will be my steady rock
To comfort if I cry
He always try's to make it better
No matter what is wrong
My perfect guy
Is the kind of boy
Who is thinking of me
He pulls special surprises
With flowers and romance
He never forgets a special day
But he's not the kind of guy
Who is crazy about anniversaries
He might give a gift once a year
To keep it real special
He plans dates
And makes special days
Just for the two of us
And while he keeps them
Perfectly romantic he lets them
Have fun too.
My perfect guy
Is the kind of boy
Who compliments me now and then
Even if he doesn't mean it
Just to make me feel nice
But he isn't all worried about beauty
He notices me for me
And isn't afraid to joke around
And say what's on his mind
My perfect guy
Is the kind of boy
Who likes the things I like
The kind of guy who
Shares my dreams
And relishes in the insanity
He wants to make the impossible come true
Without forgetting about now
He will think about the Future
While we banter with each other
My perfect guy
Is the kind of boy
Who doesn't see me as just his girl
He is protective and strong
Yet easy going too
He isn't afraid to get *****
To roll around in the mud
He is always up for a game
Of road hockey or paintball
He will play video games
And sports
Without going easy
He will keep things fun
And won't cry about losing to a girl.
My perfect guy
Is the kind of boy
Who gets along with friends
Who is always charming to new people
And who my friends like back
The kind of guy who
Gets along with a group
Yet doesn't mind to be alone
My perfect guy
Is the kind of boy
Who I write this incredibly long poem about
He is the kind of guy who is perfect in my eyes
He is the kind of guy who likely doesn't exist
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
To some she is a shining light
A flash of hope amongst the dark
An optimistic helping hand
To pull you from the dark
And cheer your sorrow
To some she is a black hole
Pulling the world down with sadness
Reliving the past that broke her
And stabbing others with the shards
To some she is simple words
plastered on a white canvas painting a picture.
never more
but never less
To most she is unnoticeable
A tiny footnote scribbled in the corner of a forgotten notebook
A wall flower whose thorns push away all but those with the key to her locked heart.
When you ask me what she is
The answer is impossible
Because I don't know
But I can tell you what she's not
She is not a beautiful face, to stop you in a crowd
She is not a chatting girl to talk you into a date
She is not a innocent flower
Welcoming with open arms
She is not a genius to create the next invention
She is not a musician, an author, a designer, a star, a doctor, or a hero
She is not a loving companion for you to hold, and remember your every need
She is not a great friend, always there in a flash.
She is not a friendly person, starting up the conversation
She is not a good cook, making meals that are edible
She is not an unscarred girl, unscathed by the past
She is not a beautiful figure
That draws your eyes
She is not hilariously funny
Ready for stand up comedy
She is not someone to remember though she will remember you
However she is not fazed by judges
Changing ways to suit them
She is not perfect
She is not stopped by her imperfections, only pressed farther to become something more.
And though I can not say who she is or what she will be. Here's what I can say
To me she will always be the girl staring back in the mirror.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 1:04 AM UTC
As I lay beside my darling
On an early Sunday morn,
I could feel her rounded softness
Sleeping under blankets warm.
My mind caroused the memories
And loitered on it's way
And found itself deliciously,
Immersed in golden play.
I remembered something special
In the way my little boy would look
As his eyes rose up in wonderment
When I read his favorite book.
And the joy involved in feeding
A hungry little mouth
When the porridge spooned all over
From the eyebrows heading south.
A tantalizing moment
On the beach down by the sea,
In the warm December sunshine
With my happy family.
We were running in the black sand
Drawing circles with a stick
As the surging waves approached them
Laughing little boys were quick.
Laughing, happy moments
And some sad ones like the day
When dear old Meg, our Labrador,
Got sick and passed away.
Young Boaz in his sadness
Climbed the big tree to it's crown
And it took a lot of pleading
To persuade him to come down.
And young Solly played the taniwha
At the Cornwall Park school play
And a better taniwha has yet
To grace the stage today.
A natural in his element
This young comedian
So hilariously funny
As he drew the audience in.
The tender, loving moments
As we both strolled arm in arm
Through the verdant Ferntree Gully
With it's sunlit grace and charm.
And the towering eucalyptus,
Hanging wood smoke in the air
And the whiplash resonation
Of the lyrebird hidden there.
Of Buttercup's wild parties
When fancy dress was king,
When everyone would whoop it up
And laugh and dance and sing.
When mum's and dad's and little kids
All joined the happy throng
With spud mashing as a ceremony
And a night of fun and song.
Of sitting in the garden
With your feet up and a book
And a cold beer at your elbow
And a barbecue to cook.
With the easy feel of family
As they go about their day
And the joyous sound of summer
When two noisy tui's play.
Memories of yesterday
Moments in the life
Of ecstasy and agony
And wonderment and plight.
And the ordinary ness of everything
And the magic everywhere,
Like the auburn in the sunlight
As it strikes my darling's hair.
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
10 October 2009
May 8, 2010
May 8, 2010 at 7:36 PM UTC
I could cry at any moment
tears pouring deep and wide
from the everlasting well of heart and soul
buried in the dark depths of my uneasy chest
I could smile at any instance
Joy spreading like butter
smoothly and easily from one side to another
as I remember the light rays of happiness who's shadows once graced my face
I could yell in a heartbeat
at the Fierce Ferocity gaining momentum
from the bottom of my toes obtaining speed as it overcomes my earthly being
I could laugh at the corny attempts of your mistaken humor
or at the twisted path you push yourself to follow
—hilariously distraught with comic ambition
I could dance in the silver sprays of moonlit grace
ignoring all but the life within myself
listening to the music of the rhythmic unknown
unsure of what song to play next
I could hide—
from fate, from love, from lust, from fear
Refusing to be powerless
Refusing to be broken
in a world made whole by imperfections
I could run
my body to the ground
the world to oblivion
Fueled by Passion
or none at all
but I don't
I just sit here
waiting.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 8:15 PM UTC
Is he being serious?
I can't tell
Am I being serious?
I'm not sure
feeling on the brink of something
am I dying?
is this what it's like to die?
I had a lot of good words to say
they were going to come out like a sickly ball of ectoplasm
like a desperate clawing scream up from the floor
but now I don't know what they were
everything I consume is somehow related to who I am as a person
I've spent a lifetime
modeling myself after words, images, phrases, sounds
they are like little helpers
but they are not me
"don't be afraid to care"
"what did you see while you were there?"
I am bursting with joy
I want to laugh, dance, be free to love
my love is all ************ right now
it's all I know
the moon & sky so beautiful this strange winter
deadly sunsets and snow
crystalline space and stars
"how does it feeeeel?"
he asks & rolls over drunk, uncaring
I slipped her something mid-conversation
what was it?: a hint, a look, an eye?
I don't even know really
Was I being myself or not?
"the joke is come upon me"
at last, the irony is concrete
hilariously, beautifully tragic
& yet not at all; more like a lighthearted pun
"we all shine on, like the moon & the stars & the sun"
why & how did it become so difficult?
this is the struggle of every man
this is not my father's insanity, nor his father's
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 5:32 PM UTC
Zenia Argos is tired. Tired to her ventricles, but still curious. She might possibly have told the right person on a certain type of night in the right kind of bar that she defined herself by her curiosity. Now she felt that her strange mind and her odd ways probably overwhelmed her and had thereby come to define her.
~^~
Zenia not only felt undefined, she felt amorphous.
Like a ghost in a black silk raincoat and black patent leather stiletto heels, she stalked through airports and the gutters of various cities. She forgot to ask herself meaningful questions. She forgot to ask herself any questions at all.
~^~
One day in some unbelievably high-numbered floor of a high-rise hotel in a city whose name she had forgotten she woke up in a luxurious enough bed with a body on the other side of it, face turned away from her. Her brain tossed up only this inane phrase, which repelled and fascinated her at the same time.
"Age has it's privileges"
First thought after that was a silly image of an actual ledge, outside of a high rise building such as the one she found herself in at the moment. With a cartoon cat and a cartoon Zenia fighting to stay on the edge, and comically slipping, hilariously falling, and hanging on, in fast forward and then reverse, and she lay there with her eyes closed and watched the vaudeville show for as long as it took to run through it's loop several times.
~^~
Then she wondered why she was thinking in perfume ad cliches, especially ones from decades, perhaps many decades ago?
This prompted her to jump, catlike, from prone, to alert, and holding her gun from beneath pillow, scanning the room.
Nope.
Not a perfume ad.
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 8:04 PM UTC
Falling in love is mutilating and murdering yourself.
Sharing your love is carrying the dead body, showing it off, all around.
For God’s sake, burn the book or leave it on its shelf.
Or at least hide that horrendous corpse; bury it underground.
But it’s a ****** cemetery, this witty world is.
Every one bragging of decomposed dirt.
Yours surely is more rotten than his.
So smell the rot, you asinine little flirt.
Life should come with a warning label.
WARNING: DEAD BODIES EVERY WHERE.
Ironic, to be born on a doctor’s table.
Then die, massacred in deathly affair.
But we can’t live without love, it’s hilariously tragic.
For death lurks, immortal, in our hearts.
Yet our minds, gullible, believe it’s magic!
Beware, beware of Cupid’s darts.
**** it up, Romeo, move on with life.
Cleanse your soul; stop being sadistic.
Sure it’s beautiful, but not when she’s your wife.
It’s a dead body, you’re stupid and unrealistic.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 9:24 PM UTC
*"More squirrels"
She exclaims
And I wonder what
In the world
Could it be
This particular time!?*
It usually starts like this...
Every once in a while
I find her
Lost
In her own thoughts
Gazing
At nothing in particular
But everything
At once.
At times
Like these
She is a genius
Gone crazy.
I catch a glimpse
Of those star-bound eyes
And try
To guess
The stride
Of her imagination
Without
Much luck.
Could she be thinking about…
A universe made entirely out of glass?
Why humans don’t have a tail
Anymore?
Reasons behind love at first sight?
Or what to name the 3rd butterfly
She saw today?
In her picture perfect
Stillness
I can viscerally sense
A divine flow
Of thoughts
And it evokes in me
The wonder
That one experiences
While watching
A calm river flow
Knowing
Turbulent currents
Are ever present
Just hidden
Deep inside.
If I
Shake her vigorously
I know for sure
At least 23 ideas
And 47 musings
Will fall around
And we will
laugh hilariously.
But I dare not
For the fear
Of my life.
She is an artist
Painting
With her imagination
And you
Don't disturb artists
Do you?
Once she’s back
To the material realm
She comments
Randomly
About how we need
More squirrels
In the world.
I almost always
Immediately concur.
Then slowly ask
“why?”.
She gives me
One of those looks.
Like the ones
You give your dog
When it’s looking
At you eating food
And you’re deciding
If you should
Give it a small bit
Or not.
If I am
persistent enough
She gathers
All her thoughts
And illustrates
With one of the most
Amazing stories
The important role
Of squirrels
To save our
Doomed world.
After listening
To her
Seemingly logical
And
Completely weird
Stories
I nod obediently
Then carefully
Check
If her coffee
Has something mixed in it.
The gesture
Makes her
Burst out in laughter
Every single time.
And we repeat this
Day after day
Night after night.
I'm so used to it
That now
Even if I hear
"Cement flowers"
"popcorn candies"
Or
"balloon bullets"
I am mentally prepared
To understand
The story
Behind all of it.
That’s how it is.
She keeps daydreaming
About stuff
And I keep dreaming
about her.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 2:00 AM UTC
I told you after I ate all those wild mushrooms
"I will kick that bowl over...I'm sorry, but I will do it and I don't know why I can't force myself not to."
And the bowl tumbles over, and out spill all your secrets and emotions.
I didn't expect the carpet to soak you up so easy.
You're sinking in like water in skin, an IV drip with ivy grip
I got no reason to fight this, but it's gonna happen.
So I stand here listening to you unravel yourself
And it starts slowly, like your hair falls out
And then your nails begin to peel back
And your skin disintegrates into human ash.
Your muscular system falls off like wraps from a mummy
And then you tumble apart.
So here I am, I told you I would do it,
And I did it. And I didn't want to.
Because now I am picking up all the pieces.
Do you have any idea how long it takes to put a person back together again?
This is a lifetime project.
I have to put it on the backburner.
Otherwise I'll starve to death, because hilariously enough
We live in a place where we must pass the buck,
Like some other things...
Enough. I don't want to last here
I don't want to keep myself in a state of hypocrisy
I haven't had enough time for change
As drastically
As I hoped to have done
I haven't
Had
Fun
In Years
So much sorrow for someone so young.
I feel dumb
Sort of like a dream
Asleep but I can't see
Only hear the random speech
Muffled like I'm in the deep end
Listening up.
I haven't had enough
Yet
But I don't want any more.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 2:00 AM UTC
each and every moment
some one, some thing
is either coming into
this world
or departing
shall we join in prayer
for those hovering at the edges...
babies not sure they want
to come into this hilariously
convoluted crazy gross
plane of existence
and those hovering at the edges
of leaving it...
om mani padme hum
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 11:54 AM UTC
I wish heartbreak
came with a manual.
But honestly,
would it even help?
I imagine it would
be contradicting and maybe
go something like this:
"You may experience
the feeling that you are walking away
from the rarest love you'll ever experience...
But don't you worry,
because even if you stay a little longer,
eventually you'll convince yourself
you don't love them anymore, just enough to finally
end it.
Give it a week.
Oh, there it is... You feel that?
THAT feeling is the numbness wearing off
and only remembering the happy parts."
Or some ******** like that.
Probably nothing that specific though...
Only enough to have the majority relate.
I imagine the narrator would sound
overly enthusiastic...Which is hilariously inappropriate ...
But, really, is it that hilarious?
I thought getting older and
having experience in dating
would result in all of this
**** becoming less confusing...
But it really just feels worse
every time for me.
At the end,
I couldn't even differentiate
the pain and anger from the source.
Did he create this suffering?
Was it my reaction that set the course?
Was this all in my head and I was just overeacting?
Or was I justified to feel this ******
Even if I was justified, would it have even made a difference?
It really got lost in translation,
and I feel like I got lost in identifying that.
Was this a hypnotic trance from narcissism manipulating the narration or was it using my reaction as an excuse to self-sabotage?
I just want to know what really happened.
I think that's the scariest part.
Am I so broken, I convince myself it was them?
Well, ****
What are you still reading for?
I don't have the ******* answer.
Oct 13, 2023
Oct 13, 2023 at 2:29 AM UTC
I am merely a poet
a writer
an igniter of fire
the designer of a prior desire to admire the harmonious choir
but quick to tire of contriving liars
as the potential buyers hold strangulation wires
about to lay me in a pile of blood soaked fliers until my life expires
and all this illusionary harmony is alarming me
stalling me in its comedy
they think they're disarming me with talks of peace and prosperity
as i hilariously smash their conspiracy theories
as i am seriously furious when i deliriously remove the sanctity from your sanctuaries
sketching lucid rhymes in obituaries as corrupted school kids watch me curiously
i see your timid hands when you approach me nervously
as i hiss cyphers murderously
while you atrociously fumble satisfactory rhymes
i miraculously summon these mumbling mimes
ducking before the holy and unholy shrines
no god but father time
laying low tumbling dimes
still ducking swine from misdemeanor crimes
making local news and the seattle times
as they run and hide with their nines
im packing verbal calibers of all kinds and splitting minds with my lines
enshrined
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 10:57 PM UTC
Someone has defaced my library book.
Gone to the trouble of reading, pencil in hand,
ready should the opportunity arise again.
The graffiti is hilariously specific:
at every mention the author makes of England,
my fellow reader has added angry punctuation -
question marks, exclamation marks or,
at moments of presumed frustration,
simply scored the word through.
The book is by Kurt Vonnegut,
an American humanist
who would doubtless have sought to avoid such deep offense
but who would have had no earthly reason for imagining
that a Scot somewhere, years after his death,
would ignore the story,
the tragedy, the humour and the beauty in the prose
so fired up was he by his conviction
that Kurt should have written 'Britain' instead of 'England'.
You see,
proud Scots are often peeved
when the rest of the world pays as little attention to them
as they pay to the rest of the world.
So it goes.
Apr 18, 2011
Apr 18, 2011 at 1:57 AM UTC
I write everywhere
on paper, on stone, on skin
what's the difference?
Each one an be erased
desecrated, torn
nothing is forever
much less this shell
with words as its framework
curses and promises
in the hollow of its bones
what's the difference?
Heart's walls paneled with mirrors
everything is a mere reflection
ribs are splinters with serrated edges
a prison of blades, pain and anger and hate
mouth is a cavern of stars
emptied of illumination to see the lights
fingers are claws of the beast inside
always turned against its owner
mind is a labyrinth of fiends forming walls
against fragility, pierced and perceived
when did it get so complicated?
I just wanted to say I write everywhere
how did it come to this?
why would I want to write about that anyway
about paper and stone and skin
ink smeared with demons from inside
the body is hilariously breakable
words seep through skin as if it were paper
what's the difference?
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 5:52 AM UTC
The restlessness of the people
The elegant city
Along with the formless game of our nervous and sporadic games
I admired the gardens
And the pale gold odor of the kiss-me-at-the-gate
It certainly was lovely
And I, a beautiful little fool
Hadn’t ceased looking
The astounding presence
And his well-loved eyes
And we danced while the church bells rang in the village alongshore
The world and its mistress
Twinkled hilariously on the lawn
And living an illusion never felt so extraordinary
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 4:46 PM UTC
There's a point you pass,
It's when you know that no matter how hard you try,
You're not going to sleep.
No matter how much you want to,
You've passed that point,
That point of no return.
You're no longer tired or exhausted,
You're just hyper.
Then the hyperness turns into boredom and restlessness.
As the hours drag on and on
And you stay up later and later,
You hit the emotional breakdown.
You hit the point where everything
Goes from hilariously funny
To tragically sad.
The final point comes
When you everything that comes out of your mouth,
Is unfiltered!
Raw emotion,
Words tumbling over each other,
Not making sense.
And then all of a sudden,
You don't know how it happens,
But out of nowhere,
You're lying down somewhere,
Waking up from 5 hours of sleep.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 6:55 AM UTC
I see it as from outside a window,
Myself walking fast, head bowed,
Life happening all around me without sound,
Distanced even then, not sure I know why
The paces of development grow hazy around that line.
My heart was soft,
My head curiously empty,
A balloon floating along,
Not certain where she might belong
It was the best of times,
I still go there in my head,
I don't remember the feel of the wind on my face,
But the feel of the wood I sat on in my classroom
The urgency every time the bell rang for lunch hour,
The acrid taste of isolation when I hadn't enough for the tack room
It was the best of times,
I still go there is my head,
My friend had a bag of coin in the desk nearby,
I saw her put it there and,
I took it, I don't know why,
They found me out, hung me dry,
From then on I tried not to pry,
Kids really know how to crucify.
It was the best of times,
I still go there in my head.
When my child's eye was pure,
Boys hard-wearing, still demure,
I used to think I would never be self-assured,
I'm still not,
Confrontation ties my insides in a knot,
But I live for those days,
When Saturday mornings meant cartoons,
Followed by hilariously misguided cooking attempts at noon,
That would get you later whooped past sense
All your friends watching from the fence.
It was the best of times,
I still go there in my head.
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 4:53 AM UTC
Don't call Trump a chimpanzee.
Chimpanzees can't talk.
Don't call him a pile of ****
A pile of **** can't walk.
Don’t call Trump an Orange
That would be indiscreet.
You see, different from an orange
Trump is in no way sweet.
Don’t call Trump a swindler
Take his fat *** to court
Because when he needs proof
He will always come up short.
Don’t accuse him of bribery
Unless you have the proof.
He’ll just change his residence
To another unlisted roof.
Don’t call him a squanderer.
He’s not if it’s his money.
Trump likes stealing from other people
He finds that hilariously funny.
Don’t accuse him of gross lechery
He feels that is his right.
Don’t appeal to Trump’s conscious.
He doesn’t have one quite.
Don’t expect Trump to speak the truth.
He doesn’t know what that is.
When they were passing out ethics
He was off taking a wizz.
Don’t whine to us about that ****
And how he disappoints.
He’ll claim you heard him wrong
And that is his only point.
Don’t hope everything will work out
In any way in your favor.
Doing what’s right for regular folk
Is not Donald Trump’s flavor.
Don’t look for anyone in authority
To rescue you from the dump.
And, of course, most of all
Don’t call Trump.
May 27, 2017
May 27, 2017 at 11:29 PM UTC
i've never been
happier.
because last night (everything i waited for).
where do i begin?
i suppose with the way that
lying in your arms
laughing at the scary movie flashing from your tv,
i felt so incandescently perfect.
i suppose with the way that
our first kiss (if you can call it that)
was the most hilariously, adorably, endearingly awkward thing
that has probably ever happened to anyone ever
(i could taste your nervousness)
and i suppose with our smiling whispered teasing conversation
about how much better we'll get.
i suppose with the way that you told me i was beautiful.
i suppose with the way that your stubble scratched against my forehead when you would talk.
i suppose with the way you laughed at me, quietly, when i would get scared
(there were ghosts on the screen
and i don't believe in them, but **** did they look real)
and the way you laughed at me, loudly, when i would babble to your sister,
uncontrolled and verbal-vomit,
because i just want her to like me
(my quirks?
the reason you love me,
you said.)
i suppose with the way that our fingers twined together.
i suppose with the way that you stroked my hair.
i suppose with the way that you told me
how long you loved me
how long you tried
(and all of it
paying off
now.)
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 8:35 AM UTC
It's hilariously funny to see
That being random and crazy
Has become such a norm to be
I yearn to see the ordinary folk
Being unique by being themselves
Not cheap imitations of popular 'quirks'
Never spouting stupidly bizarre phrases
And shrugging it off on their peculiar freakishness
Thinking it cool to obsess over rainbows and unicorns
When in fact its just sad to see them all become
The same shade duller inside; monotonous gray
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC
The sludge seeps into my marrow.
Filling every pore, every entrance until I’m suffocating in it.
It roils and slurps with its oppressive heat
And gurgles and spits until it wraps me up completely.
It hardens.
The shell so thick nothing can penetrate it.
You chisel, and chisel away and I watch you
And I laugh at you.
I laugh so heartily at your futile efforts to get to my center
I watch you grow frustrated
I watch you get angry
I watch you try by force
I watch you give up and walk away
And I laugh.
Because I drank the hate you poured
And I let it consume me.
There is no hate more hilariously poisonous than yours.
The delicious malice of armor created by you.
Does it make you feel weak?
Does it make you feel inadequate?
Does it make you feel hopeless?
I swim deep in those feelings until I bottom out in the ecstasy
Of their prison.
Bitter.
My return to the present is bitter.
The aftertaste of your shot of hatred is putrid.
It festers and infuriates me.
I want to bathe in its luxury of intoxicating drama
And shoot you down where you stand until there is nothing left
Of the bottle but puddles.
Forget?
I’ll forget when you perish. When I watch the heat
From the sludge devour you inside and out.
When I see the steam rise from your burnt ashes.
When I pull the trigger and see the fire melt your hateful eyes into the
holy oblivion of uninterrupted agony...
When the world burns you as I stand unfazed in your corroded armor of hate...
Then I’ll forget.
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 3:13 AM UTC
i hate you.
i hate every single little thing about you.
the way you laugh way too loud,
and smirk way too much.
the way you flirt with other girls,
and dress like a ***
the way you are hilariously unfunny,
and just a tad bit to mean.
the way your hair is unkept,
and your room's never clean.
sadly, i'm mistaken.
it was once said there's a thin line between love and hate,
and i really don't hate you at all,
quite the opposite actually.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 11:46 PM UTC