"igloos" poems
I.
A louse in a house
or a mouse on a blouse.
A bell that goes ****
or a gong that goes ****
A gap on a map
or a cap on your lap.
A drink in the sink
or an ink that stinks.
A spleen on a screen
or a queen who is green.
A bow in the snow
or a crow that glows.
II.
A wash or a whip,
a lip or a lop,
a top or a tip,
a car or afar,
a bar or a war,
a door or a snore,
a bore or a nail,
a flail or a whale,
a run or a bun,
a sun or a moon,
a spoon or a bus,
a fuss or a sigh,
a cry or a cheer,
a fear or a smile,
a while or a pen,
a den or a cat,
a mat or a hat,
a bat or a glass,
a vase or a weight,
a mate or a fork,
a cork or a mop,
a cop or a stop.
III.
Apples and artichokes, ants and antelopes,
bees and beers, books and brains,
cucumbers and chimneys, ***** and coats,
dogs and drains, dots and dominoes,
ears and eejits, elephants and exams,
flies and flutes, files and friends,
grasses and guts, giants and gyms,
horrors and hiccups, horses and hills,
igloos and irons, irises and idiots,
jumpers and jackets, jodhpurs and jellies,
kings and kettles, kites and kittens,
lions and lamps, lemons and lunches,
mums and monsters, mosses and moths,
noses and notes, nightmares and needles,
oblongs and orang-utans, organs and oranges,
paintings and pennies, ponds and pants,
quiches and quizzes, questions and queues,
rainbows and rings, rascals and rabbits,
snakes and sprouts, sweets and salts,
trumpets and trains, tables and toasters,
umpires and ukuleles, umbrellas and uniforms,
violets and vests, violins and vials,
wheels and wings, windows and weeds,
xylems and x-rays, xylophones and xysters,
yachts and yoghurts, yards and yaks,
zigzags and zephyrs, ziggurats and zombies.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
Antsy aardvarks all
accept ants accordingly
as an addiction
Bamboo bayonets
bought by barbaric, beastly
barons bite beatniks
Cloistered cobblers can
color candy-cane conches
concealing crooners
Daffodils doodle
daydreams down, debauchery
demons deafening
Every eon each
electric elephant eats
eleven elk eggs
For fun fantasies
file films filosophic'ly
filling filaments
Go get greens
Get grass grayer gal
goonie ghoul
Hello high hammock
how hooligans heave haddocks
heathenly hecklers
Igloos ixist in
icy islands interning
internationally
Jello jam jizzy
Jacks jostling jewels juney
jump jump joop jail
Dec 27, 2009
Dec 27, 2009 at 9:11 PM UTC
Shroud, encompassing
The blanket over my head I am the twin of
The sleeping spring, hers is snow my sister
The one I actually like
The unending winter, blank white
Now I see why animals hibernate, in the winter there is
No color to paint your thoughts on The sky is spliced with the ground, blazing white unending no limit to ponder
No sky to ponder the limit of (lim as x approaches 2, calculus, my bane)
You tip-toe through pure white banks, your soul is ***** in comparison you are old ugly jiggly and soft in comparison
To sharp clear fractals, individuals sparkling even in the whitesky's frank stare whiteground whitesky white
I don't add up I don't add up I don't add up I don't add up
They say this is the longest winter ever recorded for Canada
People joke we're Canada we live in igloos anyways I can confirm
This is wrong; I have distinct memories of spider-holes in damp dead grass
Furious water rushing down rock blasted for a highway
Warm sun damp air damp grass rubber boots and most of all
Bluesky greenbrownground an imperfect world to wonder in
To not feel incomparable to
Mud as jiggly and soft as fat and muscle layered on bleach bones, bone marrow chunky porous redbrownred
No white to speak of, even my pale skin is pinkish dotted with islands of moles
When I wake up the blanket is a shroud over my head to block out the light and now I understand what I must do
Hibernate and forget like the bears I miss
Let the white light filter through colorful sheets I will feed off the blue light instead
Remember, it can't last forever somethings gotta give
Express sympathy for the car crashes and wait.
Patiently.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
So pretty to see everything in white
Making all things look very bright
Everything was covered for as far as I could see
Nothing but eerie silence for a while I felt free
Everyone venturing out should wear their snowshoes
Their cars stranded on the road look like icy igloos
The weighted down evergreens have a glow
For they are beautifully blanketed with snow
Schools, roads and businesses are shut down
And no one is allowed out about in the town
Should get out and have some winter wonderland fun
Build a snow man and go sledding some
Make a snow fort or snow angels and snow-cream
Better hurry up before it's plowed, for now, it’s not a dream
Copyright 2013
All Rights Reserved
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 9:07 AM UTC
Your life is linear, but your mind is sporadic.
You could be anyone, anywhere.
Time stands still.
Suddenly you're seven.
Tugging on your mother's floral print dress and begging her for ice cream money.
Time speeds up.
Suddenly you're behind a register trying not to laugh at the bitter old man cursing you to the seventh layer of Hell for your purple hair and tattoos.
Time freezes.
Suddenly your ten and your mother is shaking you.
She wants to know, *where is her son?
Where has her baby boy gone?*
It's the middle of the night and she won't stop shaking you.
She stares out your window and mumbles something about drugs.
But you don't know what drugs are and it's three in the morning.
You're ten.
You blink twice and click your heels.
Suddenly you're sitting behind a desk,
And the school system is trying to tell you how to feel.
You don't buy into it, but you learned early on that fighting them will get you no where.
You play the game.
A snap of your fingers and once more you're seven,
And your mother is making you swear.
Not the "f" bomb or the "c" word.
No, she's making you say something much worse than that.
Swear you won't tell your father about the man she kissed on the park bench.
But you're only seven so the words flood out of your mouth.
Before you can even finish your story,
Your father smacks your jaw so hard that your head spins forward until you've turned fourteen.
Fourteen, and now you know exactly what drugs are
And why your brother does them so much.
Fourteen, and you hate your mother for making you lie,
And you hate your father for punishing the truth.
Fourteen, and the only way you can cope with all of the ******** that's written in the fine print of being a teenager is to annihilate your brain cells.
The memories swirl around and all you want to do is burn them down, but there's no more matches and the butane's run dry.
It's all happening in flashes.
Christmas cookies.
Late term papers.
Igloos.
Glass bottles smashed to pavement.
The day you got contacts.
Flip flops.
The icy chill of pumpkin guts on your skin.
Her overdose.
Hot tea.
New York.
London.
Maui.
LSD.
Alcohol.
Vicodin.
It all whizzes by, and you barely know who you are anymore.
Or where you've gone.
Or who you've disappointed.
And these people are still trying to tell you how to feel.
And then you're dead.
And all the memories add up, but it's not enough to fill your coffin.
There's all this space floating around.
All of those lives you could have lived if you just stopped for a moment.
Stopped letting them tell you how to feel.
Such a waste.
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 8:43 PM UTC
You know how people always build homes
in the people they love?
Me being the silliest architect there could be
Built a tiny igloo in you
With little if not no certainty,
Within the bountiful depths and crevices
In your mind of a maze and icy darkness of your soul
I found a spot for myself amidst the craze,
to keep myself warm and cosy from the cold.
In this little safe haven I seek comfort in
I established a place I called my own.
My tiny space of refuge I call it,
but in it I live alone.
As loneliness kicks in
I slowly explore outside of home,
In search of a getaway retreat
Nothing too fancy, nowhere alone.
And then I realise how homesick I get
When I dwell in the heart of another
All I want to do is to return
Back into a pair of arms that wont falter.
Did I mention how I built an igloo in you and called it my home?
Igloos melt in heat
and my love, so did you.
My home no longer.
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 11:10 AM UTC
This little guy is pretty chill
He lives on top an icy hill.
He can go sledding on his belly
Without turning into jelly
After he crashes and smashes
Into igloos or leaves gashes
In some poor eskimo’s ice
Sculpture that used to be very nice.
He can have epic snowball fights
When the polar bears don’t bites
And the seals decide to join in
On the fun and they all grin
With excitement and wonder.
He can also go under
Water and swim with the whales
Or slide down their massive tails
In short, for that is what a penguin
Truly is, not to mention
Cute, pudgy, and the coolest
Animal that lives life to the fullest
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 5:59 PM UTC
Talk to me, talk to me of Old St. Nick
Talk to me of Sinterclaus
Of Mikulas, Pere Noel, or Babbo Natale
Talk to me of candles, christingle and a silent night
Talk to me of crackers, carols and calamities
Talk to me of snow, sleighs, and stars
Talk to me of Christmas cards, wrapping paper
Talk to me of gold, old spice and mice
Talk to me of icing, icicles
igloos, ivy
Holly
Oh sweet Hollie
Tots of Drambuie
Marmalade and toast
Talk to me of Philip Scholfield
Carols From Kings
Mary Poppins
Scrooge
Festive films
Radio Times
And things that are too pretty
Lights, nights
Hark, Dark
barking dogs
tinsel
Tinsel Town
Wolves at the door
Salvation Army playing once more
Talk to me
Talk to me
Cream Crackers, cheese
Frosty mornings, old knees
Talk to me of snow covered alpine forests
Gateaux
Cherries
walnuts and berries
Festive fun,
A seasonal run
Of All Gold telly
With a full belly
Farts, sprouts
Turkey that tastes just like chicken
Oh talk to me of
Terry Wogan
Rosh Jogan
Grogan Josh
Last minute deals
Black Friday
White Friday
And all the Cyber Mondays
Talk to me of
Happy Mondays
Dancing Bez
In a Festive Fez
Talk to me
Talk to me
Of Festive time
Late nights
Early mornings
Beer
Cheer
All in entertainment
Oh talk, TALK to me
Of hangovers,
sleep overs
gloves
mittens
and cute kittens
Oh talk to me of
fake Chanel
Faux Fur and underwear
Celvin Klein
Talk to me , Talk to me of
Jonah Lewie
Bony M
The Pogues
and all those rogues
Fairy tale of New York
Stop the Cavalry
Mary's Boy Child
And the
Spaceman who came riding by
Oh talk, Talk , Talk to me
of places, and spaces We all know
Christmas markets
Tesco, Aldi and John Lewis Adverts showing
Christmas is coming
Christmas is coming
Christmas is coming
Chris
Oh talk to me
Oh talk to me of old St. Nick
Talk to me
Talk to me
Eggnog
Talk to me
Talk to me
Bah humbug
Talk to me
Talk to me
Happy Christmas
Dec 19, 2019
Dec 19, 2019 at 4:54 PM UTC
Can I keep you in my pocket,
And bring you around everywhere I go?
I have a wonderful little idea for you and me,
Do you want to know?
We meet eyes across a dark world,
And we cause an explosion of light.
Our bodies shiver, that warming, joyful kind,
And the feeling rushes from our hearts, just like a plight.
Our hands fit together perfectly,
And we kiss like Eskimos in their igloos.
We can build up a small house on a hilltop,
With a glass ceiling, if you choose?
I know how much you love the night sky,
And you know I love it too.
I would lay there with you always,
As the skies turn from blue to black, and black to blue.
On our hilltop, we'd be surrounded by green grass,
And flowers would grow between each blade.
There would be a tall tree overhanging our small house,
And, on hot days, we would sit under it for some shade.
I'd make you laugh just to see that amazing smile,
And your eyes would twinkle brighter than the moon.
You'd pull me closer and let me stand on your toes,
As we both danced to our favourite tune.
You'd whisper words no one has ever told me,
Three words that mean so much more.
And you'd wonder as we get lost in each other's eyes,
If our hearts had once known each other before..
If I keep you in my pocket,
My dreams may one day come true.
You'll meet my eyes across the dark world
And then I can live happily, in the light, with you.
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 8:50 AM UTC
I lay my head down
On the pillows of our past
Your indentation hasn't yet shifted
And I can still smell your essence
A twisted mix of shampoo and cheap cigarettes
Inhale.
It's almost like you're still with me
Blackened vision
The ghost of your arm wraps around me
Tighter than you ever had
Let me go.
You let me go.
Exhale.
The months fade like carbon paper etchings
Over time, I can't tell what you used to say
But I swear your voice
Still echoes down the hall
This isn't normal
And I'm proud now
That's half the problem
Inhale.
You breathe in daisies now.
Like I don't know how she smells.
Coconut and sunshine
Run off with your summer dream
While I'm stomping through
Snow angels
Hot boxing igloos, the way we used to
And you pretend to forget
Those nights we died between the stars
Exhale.
Pulse racing.
Suddenly I expose myself
Rip down the walls
Allow the hurt to spew into my vulnerability
Only a fool would miss you
This much
Well, color me brainless
As I breathe you in once more
Darling, I've been abandoned
For the thousandth time
And you'd think by now
I'd keep away
But that's the thing about
Fools in love,
We never learn.
We always think the ones we adore
Are worth the hurt.
They're not,
They're not.
But still,
I'll be waiting at your back door.
Knocking twice with a kick.
Our signal from 1997.
The street lights will gleam in our eyes.
As we try for the last time.
Exhale.
Just stay.
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 5:55 PM UTC
Hey Trump!
Yes you ...
You colossal donut you!
A fact is a fact
because it's a fact,
not because you
say it's a fact.
You may say:
"Nobody better ... "
but elephants don't
fly south in winter,
"The best, the very best ... "
but spiders cannot
navigate through
heavy seas,
"Immense numbers, immense .. "
but zebras will not
snuggle with lions.
"Honest man, so honest ... "
but igloos are not
built by three-toed
sloths,
"Mess, its a mess ... "
but Mitch McConnell
is not the most
handsome man alive,
"Fair, very fair .. "
but rich white guys
don't work hard
& pick tomato crops.
A fact,
is a fact,
yes it most
definitely is.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 1:19 AM UTC
The green dies.
Never totally, but effectively.
The shadows reach across the land,
increasing their span.
They spill and run off edges like paint that never dries.
Yet you can step in it and never leave a print.
...Or never have one in the first place,
never leave your mark, just crush the foliage:
**** whatever life is left.
The air steams your breath:
A lesson in mortality.
Look! See what makes you tick?
Let me take it, freeze it, condense it,
put it on display, and leave none for you:
the one who made it...
just to make a snowball
(which is really just a fight waiting to happen.)
(Who stockpiles ammo with no intention of using it?)
(Who bites their tongue with nothing to say?)
Too many snowballs grow to be an igloo:
fallacies you can live in for a while.
It's better to just be rid of them.
Let them fly, let them fly...
Relinquish your breath back to its element:
say what must be said, even if it kills you.
It's all the same in the end:
the land will thaw,
the shadows recede,
the snow will melt,
the air will fill with argument.
Why make so much noise
if you can just throw the snowballs
as you make them?
I'll tell you my frozen friend: shelter.
At least then, we can hide for a while.
Mold it to our will.
Sure, we could let it accumulate naturally.
Unformed and unmolded, it's just a burden:
unfocused feelings, drifts of words,
letters, and sounds.
It's better put to use as shelter than mud.
At least igloos are useful for a time,
(Mud still has to be dealt with in the spring,
Why start early?)
and snowballs are at least manageable:
little bites of envy, jealousy, suspicion.
Woe betide the sun who made THIS winter!
Leave US in the cold, why don't you?
Shower US in discomfort!
Leave US to deal with blessing after blessing
in the worst way possible!
It's in our nature to throw the snow,
to waste our respite, to fight with words.
If we don't, in our igloos,
we're washed away every spring
when the thaw takes our shelter,
our words,
our breath,
our loves,
our lives.
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 11:37 PM UTC
The northern lights flicker bright
across the igloos where all is quite
the fires do burn in magical glows
but only women and children
are now left at home
for the seal hunters that learned,
are now on the frozen ice packs
ready for their mammalian attack
With just flaming touches in hands
and harpoons at their command
they peer into the darkness
hoping for the call of the seals
and a reaction of eyes
in this unforgiving cold
this unkind world
of the polar abyss
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 8:14 PM UTC
Old ways, new habits
Probably out of balance
I hit up my best friend
Invite her to my palace.
I'm the king of cold
I'm building igloos in the sand
How you hate me when I talk
but love me when I tan?
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 9:03 PM UTC
There once were four brothers,
Who looked just like each other.
They lived together,
On the hills of heather.
Together they worked hard every day,
To bring back their daily pay.
Although they looked alike,
They each had the likes and dislikes.
The first brother by the name of Summer,
Who loved the sun and the bee's hummer,
He would sit by the stream,
Eating ice cream,
And enjoying the nice hot weather.
The second brother by the name of Spring,
Who loved the flowers and living things.
He would watch the flowers grow,
And feel the wind softly blow.
The third brother by the name of Autumn,
Who loved the leaves as they sink into the lake bottom.
He would sketch the leaves as they fall,
As he sat along the garden wall.
The fourth brother by the name of Winter,
Who loved the snow as it starts to fall bigger.
He would make igloos and snowmen,
And watch the pond's water go frozen.
When the four brothers had gone and went,
They named the seasons their events,
For theres a time where you wish to be cold,
And other times where you wish to be warm!
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 4:30 PM UTC
The cold gloomy clouds
pouring down snow
The harsh winter today
with its frigid glow
Looking at beautiful snowflakes
outside the windows
Everyone cuddling
in their cozy warm homes
The smell of hot chocholate
Children throwing snowballs
Ice block Igloos
This is the picture of cold
By all these lovely snowflakes
Winter days are here
With Autumn best wishes
and Spring best cheer
- Dhwanit Sheth
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 8:35 PM UTC
tattoo the word Holocaust
onto the palm
of every African-American....
and wait...
Apache!
hood crux pixie...
heroin addicts in Westplate....
and wait for a century...
give it 100 years in Auschwitz...
or give it ***** hope for
a pear....
and then i'd too
coagulate into custard phlegm...
auf wiedersehen lenin...
contort hippie named contra...
armed boa:
and that handshake...
hoarce Horace!
shatayin bigger, bottom-blob
bound into eminem....
and it was always
to be dirtied by luck...
fetish...
dodged and the dog and cameod
the crucifix...
igloos in egypt:
senf (mustard) gaz (gas): khaki
diarhhea.
gravitas in the grün...
mein iris... regen bonne hund!
volphren kind...
prunes of y in iota said: dried out
kynd...
and pirates toward a je - taime calculator:
taming the berserk stierhund...
bison-knirschen:
hans klaus -
myth-gate ᛋᛋ...
bolt and Zeus...
i am: heritage +.
Croatian nazis....
nicht, nic, die volk.
annehmen steuern... katakombe denken...
ᚠᚨᚱᛟᛖ ᛁᛋᛚᛖᛋ...
told: by a hobbit... or originating from Dublin:
fuck's sake!
Jan 8, 2017
Jan 8, 2017 at 9:03 PM UTC
We don’t belong here
Among people who see
Only red in the kaleidoscope.
People who will burn down the candy store
To keep a foreigner’s kid
From maybe getting a lollypop.
People whose good will
Ends at the top of
A concealed leather holster.
We don’t belong here
In a place where the scenery
Goes off limits 97 days a year.
A place where the wind
Is often angrier than me
And covers things with talcum powder dust.
A place where no humidity
Parches eyes and nose and mouth
And water gives you kidney stones.
A place where those with shrunken purses
Huddle down in freon igloos
Longing for the place they left.
We don’t belong here
The shadows of our spirits do not match
We sing our songs in foreign keys.
We hide the face of who we are
And wear the mask of fitting in
No, we really don’t belong here
But here we stay because
There is no other place to go.
ljm
May 28, 2019
May 28, 2019 at 6:56 AM UTC
igloos of burning reveries
we hid in to save ourselves
it was a simpler time, indeed
but for a greater cost, to bleed
our emotions for a fast high
it was a lasting paradise
but for a hastened goodbye
to send off our love, again
into the wild blue yonder
no, i won't pretend to know
just how it all seems
i only hope we'll meet again
in another dream
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 2:12 AM UTC
i used to write about scars i can't see anymore,
i would tear open and salt wounds in hopes of a piece that i could but would never fully be proud of.
these pieces i wrote held me down and made my feet drag throughout these hallways and,
i'm not doing that anymore.
i'm starting to remember who i was at birth,
who i am when i'm in my happiest state and not even my demons can drag me back down to the hell i used to light.
i love,
and i smile.
i used to write so much about who i used to be that i started to miss it when i couldn't write anymore.
my mind lived at more than four years back,
i relived my darkest days over and over when i couldn't see the sun in the morning.
i'm not doing that anymore.
last year, i lost my best friend,
my favorite person in this entire world,
my sun and my moon and my stars,
i believed the earth spun for him and solely him and i still do.
losing him made me lose my hope.
and for that time,
there were more dark days.
there were fresh wounds and igloos made of tissues and blankets.
i will miss him forever but i will live in his honor.
i'm holding my head up high and i will love and admire the earth until i meet my Everything again.
i used to write about the bad days,
the cloudy days,
the days where i cried on my bedroom floor,
the days where i burst out in tears during a normal day in class because i just couldn't do This anymore.
i'm not doing that anymore.
i've learned and seen how beautiful this world can be.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 4:06 AM UTC
an inner conflict dust brew
within this scribe, who offers ye to chew
(like sweet treats metaphorically) thee do
tee incumbent, when Doomsday clock
counts down minutes few
according Al Gore rhythm
unstoppably ticking,
when life gets turned to global goo
tenderized viz Doctor Zeus
if not Horton Hears Hoo
then most definitely The Lorax
(couching urgent morals underscored
by satellite photographs
showing melting icecaps or igloos,
which planetary sos, sans in extremis
requires joint effort of Gentile and Jew,
plus every other sectarian credo,
dogma, ethos...knew
clear family, and whatnot
to become linkedin with Linda Loo
yes, we moost not forget
Old McDonald with his moo
moo there bovine creatures
agedly hobbling along, or new
lee born, cuz juiced one day
per three hundred and sixty five
(six with leap year -
imagine dragons festooned leotard
with brand name Oroblu)
or poor ole Whinny The Pooh
eternally stuck in Rabbit's
hole sum Hutch as a queue
doth loosely form dreaming up and rue
mien hating solution
(burning the midnight oil) true
lee trying to remedy plight
of said bear character,
perhaps unstated message being woo
king in tandem solutions to resolve
wretched condition of world wide web
possible by bridging differences
between me and you, and you, and you...
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
If it were winter forever, I would be happy.
I would wear sweater’s and sweat pants every day.
If it were winter forever, I could hide my scars more easily.
If it were winter forever, I wouldn’t have to make excuse of why I’m wearing a long sleeve shirt or covering my arms with Band-Aids.
I have a feeling that you know I self-harm but you haven’t said anything to me.
If it were winter forever, I could make snow angels.
If it were winter forever, we could play in the snow all day long.
If it were winter forever, we could make igloos and drink hot chocolate made by your mother.
If it were winter forever, we could wear snow boots and have our skin be cold.
If it were winter forever I would be happy.
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 1:35 AM UTC
Call me ******* to your mother because I cuh-cuh-couldn't feel the trembling heat reaking havok on the in thigh stubble. Ow! **** sorry stub my toe. I'm moving slow enough to double dutch with a couple couple cookie crisp. Ishy on the in dispute. Grarly upon the laudry booth smoochie smooching on farting fairies flarping from the ex-haust.
Sorry my brain feels soft ffrom the rock salt. Hoochie snoochie snooting snorks slimey nap-cloth. Froze from the several palms second had palsy freezing in the eager eggnog. Ice over sire's searing sultry silken sick souly sullen franklin flame Bob. Billy will wally dilly Dally caught a fifty fatty rattle ****** daddy daddy daddy daddy, Fat Father igloos freak me father freak me father freak me father Im chuching my maugwa. Ma saws my mucho munched muddy crusty killer toes rain, ***** Are you hearing me gravel up your ****** hairs hurting from the rusty ****** clamps. I'm krusty crab freaking funk got me wondering why? okay wize guy wicked wonder wall watch my quest for questioning Ghostface Killah. I'm Slaid Cosby I ****** your daugher younger than the fury from you first tooth.
I wish you spat my drizzle from the furry foster the kids frontporch pistol grip.
Hop scotch?
Jun 10, 2019
Jun 10, 2019 at 4:41 PM UTC
Mortified
I stare at the half dead birds
With wings of smoking coals
Fly into igloos made of plastic
And leave a trail of blood
On the blue paper sky
Mortified
I close my eyes
And drift into dreamland
To escape this astronomically nonsensical nightmare
Of a half dead reality.
Sep 26, 2020
Sep 26, 2020 at 9:36 AM UTC
About animals, abortion, and abilities
About bouquets, Buddhism, and bilious people.
About cats, cars, and caring about others.
About depression, death, and the process of dying.
About eating disorders, evil step-mothers, and ecstasy.
About fattiness, fear(s), and the trait of being friendly.
About goats, ghosts, and greetings in different countries.
About happiness, healthy diets, and humanitarian rights.
About intimacy, icicles, and igloos.
About jack-in-the-boxes, the juvenile system, and justified ******
About kindness, kissing, and kitties.
About love, living, and ladies.
About moms, mediocrity, and medicine.
About no meaning no, feeling naked, and nature.
About ovulation, October, and court orders.
About periods, peskiness, and perverts.
About quirks, queerness, and qualifying for college.
About **** razors, and reading.
About *** Sudafed, and scandals.
About taxi drivers, tables and what they hold, along with thoughts
About UW-Madison, unfortunate circumstances, and unemployment.
About vehicles, valuable objects, and violence.
About waistlines, waitressing, and what a waste of time homework is.
About xylophones, xanax, and xanthous.
About you, younglings, and yellow flowers.
About zoos, zanies, and zaps.
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 4:12 PM UTC