"implausible" poems - Hello Poetry

"implausible" poems

The good times and the bad, Are both located in my past. I've watched you cry, I've heard you laugh. That doesn't mean, I always have to come back. You've ripped my heart out, In the worst ways possible. You think you're the best, But that's just not plausible. You use to be my best friend, It turns out that was implausible. I've spent hours crying over you, Denying that I ever felt anything. But the truth is that I admired you. I swear that I would've died for you. But that was thirty-four hours ago, I've cried my eyes out now though, So goodbye my new nemesis, Thanks for giving me a new therapist.

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Dec 24, 2014

Dec 24, 2014 at 7:22 PM UTC

You've Crushed Me

The good times and the bad, Are both located in my past. I've watched you cry, I've heard you laugh. That doesn't mean, I always have to come back. You've ripped my heart out, In the worst ways possible. You think you're the best, But that's just not plausible. You use to be my best friend, It turns out that was implausible. I've spent hours crying over you, Denying that I ever felt anything. But the truth is that I admired you. I swear that I would've died for you. But that was thirty-four hours ago, I've cried my eyes out now though, So goodbye my new nemesis, Thanks for giving me a new therapist.

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It’s been said to cause success, Yet its’ face is boldly grim. Some even say it makes or breaks you, Kills your soul, or fills the brim. It’s been deemed the roughest test, Where preparation meets implausible. Whenever passion makes a breakthrough Sounds of hell’s end become audible. It’s received reviews of stress, Of endless torture tearing through. Leaving good men self-departed, For they had no will to make it through. It’s been seen in years of the past, The trials of Job denote it well. As Satan crushed his joys, Job consummated to prevail. It’s been said, “show no regret!” When you look deep into your mind, For this test is truly an artist Creating a man, from pure divine. So why let discouragement corrupt Your trip through the abyss? For it’s been said to cause success, And that’s one hell of a gift.

0

Nov 20, 2011

Nov 20, 2011 at 1:03 PM UTC

It’s been said to cause success, Yet its’ face is boldly grim. Some even say it makes or breaks you, Kills your soul, or fills the brim. It’s been deemed the roughest test, Where preparation meets implausible. Whenever passion makes a breakthrough Sounds of hell’s end become audible. It’s received reviews of stress, Of endless torture tearing through. Leaving good men self-departed, For they had no will to make it through. It’s been seen in years of the past, The trials of Job denote it well. As Satan crushed his joys, Job consummated to prevail. It’s been said, “show no regret!” When you look deep into your mind, For this test is truly an artist Creating a man, from pure divine. So why let discouragement corrupt Your trip through the abyss? For it’s been said to cause success, And that’s one hell of a gift.

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I read an account of a small girl today "Crunching beneath her feet Like a thousand stars twinkling in the faint light of Potsdamer Platz Father holding her hand so tightly it hurt Sick children chased over broken glass The Jewish children's hospital ransacked While staff beaten for tending to the unworthy sick" You can feel the fear in her words The darkest November Hatered had now found a new form, a face, a sign The ******** Men paraded and followed ****** Revered like a demi god They worshiped an ideal. MIEN KAMPF It seems now implausible that one mans belief and struggle that he apportioned to a race could be bastardised into a purge of races that divided mankind and almost ended it From that night to this there have been many acts that again raise that spectre. Sarejavo Iraq to mention but a few. Tonight Jews Gentiles and others will shine peaceful lights at Potsdamer Platz. What have we learnt in 75 yrs The world watched the **** machine grow The world did not act What do we now watch Who are we now failing...

0

Nov 8, 2013

Nov 8, 2013 at 7:34 AM UTC

I read an account of a small girl today "Crunching beneath her feet Like a thousand stars twinkling in the faint light of Potsdamer Platz Father holding her hand so tightly it hurt Sick children chased over broken glass The Jewish children's hospital ransacked While staff beaten for tending to the unworthy sick" You can feel the fear in her words The darkest November Hatered had now found a new form, a face, a sign The ******** Men paraded and followed ****** Revered like a demi god They worshiped an ideal. MIEN KAMPF It seems now implausible that one mans belief and struggle that he apportioned to a race could be bastardised into a purge of races that divided mankind and almost ended it From that night to this there have been many acts that again raise that spectre. Sarejavo Iraq to mention but a few. Tonight Jews Gentiles and others will shine peaceful lights at Potsdamer Platz. What have we learnt in 75 yrs The world watched the **** machine grow The world did not act What do we now watch Who are we now failing...

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(I hate poets. They annoy me deeply.) I. There are the balladeers, Working in service of their inner Service, (Though, despite the seeming impossibility, Their hackneyed verse is even worse) Creating tortuous rhyme Which slows down labyrinthine narratives Ending up in some deus ex machine So implausible that it would make Euripides blush (Most often courtesy of some unforeseen projectile Or sudden viral contagion; Would that their creators meet such a fate!) II. I come not to praise the so-called sonneteers, But to bury them. They are an earnest lot, (Lord knows that they are earnest) And they will make their fourteen lines rhyme (Though sometimes the rhyme scheme screams for mercy) And hang the cost. Though their narratives are head-scratching things, And their iambs proceed with the steadiness Of a nonagenarian church pianist Doing her damndest to fight the wedding march to a draw, They are content, nay, proud of their work Because babble rhymes with Scrabble (Though they are not particularly proficient with the latter, They have the former down to an art.) III. Let us not forget the Buk-zombies, Those apostles of aphorism, Most of whom speak of their departed deity As if he were an old drinking buddy (Never mind that most of them were two or three Or perhaps not even a bad idea In the back seat of some mom’s Buick When he exited this mortal plane, stage left, even.) One’s mind is boggled whilst considering The expanse of the bar required to accommodate Everyone who would like to (Or worse, have claimed to) Buy old Charlie a beer, not that he’d stand for a round. They are a sullen horde, this lot, Best dealt with by aiming for the base of the skull. IV. Ah, the confessionals, Lord have mercy upon their souls (For they shall have none upon ours.) They feel so many things so deeply As such things have never been felt before (They have not read their Sexton, their Snodgrass, Their Lowell, their Pl--well, no, They have all read their Plath.) It is, from the moment they arise in the morning Until such time they set aside their fears and let sleep take them, All too much for them, And they bravely face the days Until such time they care bear to take action And fling themselves from some convenient precipice. We should, as a service to them and ourselves, Ensure the soles of their shoes Are sufficiently worn and slippery. (I hate poets. They annoy me deeply.)

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Jan 12, 2017

Jan 12, 2017 at 11:22 AM UTC

Poets (A Hate Song)

(I hate poets. They annoy me deeply.) I. There are the balladeers, Working in service of their inner Service, (Though, despite the seeming impossibility, Their hackneyed verse is even worse) Creating tortuous rhyme Which slows down labyrinthine narratives Ending up in some deus ex machine So implausible that it would make Euripides blush (Most often courtesy of some unforeseen projectile Or sudden viral contagion; Would that their creators meet such a fate!) II. I come not to praise the so-called sonneteers, But to bury them. They are an earnest lot, (Lord knows that they are earnest) And they will make their fourteen lines rhyme (Though sometimes the rhyme scheme screams for mercy) And hang the cost. Though their narratives are head-scratching things, And their iambs proceed with the steadiness Of a nonagenarian church pianist Doing her damndest to fight the wedding march to a draw, They are content, nay, proud of their work Because babble rhymes with Scrabble (Though they are not particularly proficient with the latter, They have the former down to an art.) III. Let us not forget the Buk-zombies, Those apostles of aphorism, Most of whom speak of their departed deity As if he were an old drinking buddy (Never mind that most of them were two or three Or perhaps not even a bad idea In the back seat of some mom’s Buick When he exited this mortal plane, stage left, even.) One’s mind is boggled whilst considering The expanse of the bar required to accommodate Everyone who would like to (Or worse, have claimed to) Buy old Charlie a beer, not that he’d stand for a round. They are a sullen horde, this lot, Best dealt with by aiming for the base of the skull. IV. Ah, the confessionals, Lord have mercy upon their souls (For they shall have none upon ours.) They feel so many things so deeply As such things have never been felt before (They have not read their Sexton, their Snodgrass, Their Lowell, their Pl--well, no, They have all read their Plath.) It is, from the moment they arise in the morning Until such time they set aside their fears and let sleep take them, All too much for them, And they bravely face the days Until such time they care bear to take action And fling themselves from some convenient precipice. We should, as a service to them and ourselves, Ensure the soles of their shoes Are sufficiently worn and slippery. (I hate poets. They annoy me deeply.)

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hearing feet pound the cement sidewalk, seeing cars and drivers pass by talk- ing on cell phones, silhouettes, shaped by street lights lit as darkness drapes, at the feet below these aging knees the shadow moves ahead and is chased down, falls behind as the body and face- less shape with feet that slap the ground not as a delicate dancer, because they pound the run into submission, at times the breath would better, if it were louder, and with a rasp then it would be easy to grasp why this impossible implausible delight seems so pure, in the dark and in the night, I invite one, I invite all, drop by any night and we see our foot falls and hear who steps could crack where they land and whose breathing would be better if banned, for disturbing the peace legs with muscle straining from the training, not getting the enough rest to prepare for the raining and the run, the stuff that tests, a rare human quality, can you finish what you start, arteries clear and how is the heart, do you know pace, do you know no quit can you find peace, can you give a squirt of water in your mouth without out choking and having to stop, do you know the joy that a child knows as they run can you find that place where activity was and is fun hard sidewalks, hard life lessons to learn heavy steps, heavy heart, hear the sorrow shadows, follow the mind multiplies and borrows fear from the shelf breathing in, hoping to be at ease, breathing out, hoping to release All The Tension Handily Exacting Every Nerve Damaged

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Jan 30, 2015

Jan 30, 2015 at 12:53 AM UTC

darrell-wade-elverum

Observations: Hard Sidewalks, heavy steps, shadows, breath

hearing feet pound the cement sidewalk, seeing cars and drivers pass by talk- ing on cell phones, silhouettes, shaped by street lights lit as darkness drapes, at the feet below these aging knees the shadow moves ahead and is chased down, falls behind as the body and face- less shape with feet that slap the ground not as a delicate dancer, because they pound the run into submission, at times the breath would better, if it were louder, and with a rasp then it would be easy to grasp why this impossible implausible delight seems so pure, in the dark and in the night, I invite one, I invite all, drop by any night and we see our foot falls and hear who steps could crack where they land and whose breathing would be better if banned, for disturbing the peace legs with muscle straining from the training, not getting the enough rest to prepare for the raining and the run, the stuff that tests, a rare human quality, can you finish what you start, arteries clear and how is the heart, do you know pace, do you know no quit can you find peace, can you give a squirt of water in your mouth without out choking and having to stop, do you know the joy that a child knows as they run can you find that place where activity was and is fun hard sidewalks, hard life lessons to learn heavy steps, heavy heart, hear the sorrow shadows, follow the mind multiplies and borrows fear from the shelf breathing in, hoping to be at ease, breathing out, hoping to release All The Tension Handily Exacting Every Nerve Damaged

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Finding something on the road And serving it for dinner Buying dresses far too small And thinking you look thinner Solar powered submarines Broken ribs or ruptured spleens Driving cars and drinking beers Lightbulb licking, bad ideas Knowing where you shouldn't be And being there despite Going out in thunderstorms To fly your iron kite Sharing needles with a shark Going to Mansfield after dark Setting fire to someone's ears Telemarketing, bad ideas Not deploying gaffer-tape When doing D.I.Y. Believing the implausible While branding truth a lie Replying to Nigerian Princes **** bleach and ******* rinses Tabloid papers touting fears Voting UKIP, bad ideas Impersonating ****** Before nineteen forty-five Catching a train on Sunday And assuming you'll arrive Turning lights on with your nose Eating food that moves or glows Listening to Britney Spears Marmite Pringles, bad ideas **

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Feb 11, 2015

Feb 11, 2015 at 7:20 AM UTC

Really Bad Ideas

Finding something on the road And serving it for dinner Buying dresses far too small And thinking you look thinner Solar powered submarines Broken ribs or ruptured spleens Driving cars and drinking beers Lightbulb licking, bad ideas Knowing where you shouldn't be And being there despite Going out in thunderstorms To fly your iron kite Sharing needles with a shark Going to Mansfield after dark Setting fire to someone's ears Telemarketing, bad ideas Not deploying gaffer-tape When doing D.I.Y. Believing the implausible While branding truth a lie Replying to Nigerian Princes **** bleach and ******* rinses Tabloid papers touting fears Voting UKIP, bad ideas Impersonating ****** Before nineteen forty-five Catching a train on Sunday And assuming you'll arrive Turning lights on with your nose Eating food that moves or glows Listening to Britney Spears Marmite Pringles, bad ideas **

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1.i took a breath, punched the door. he asked if it helped at all, rubbed his temples when i did it again, told me to call him when i felt like talking, we havent spoken since. he isnt important to this story. what matters is how unsafe i feel just saying your name, how unreal you make me feel. imaginary and implausible. wish fulfillment so blatant im amazed i ever thought i was something more than a myth. 2. i can't give you what you want/couldn't give you what you want. something like a romance film, candles on the shore, not blown out by ocean winds. something where i cry your name or kiss you when you shout instead of screaming back, perfect plaster queen crumbling for no one but you. where i sing and you sigh. where at least one of us cares. 3. im still not sure who's to blame my heart is swollen my hands are bloated there is motor oil pooling in the hollow of my palms, did you do this to me? did i unravel you? im still not sure what happened. i stopped asking for help a long time ago 4. i do not feel safe. you are behind me always. i am sweating bullets and you are loading your gun. you are a breakdown waiting to happen. you are my genes planning treason. 5. you're a fake.you're a fake.you're a fake. buying me coffee and spitting down my throat like it evens out in the end.you're so kind.you say youd never hurt me as if i couldnt see my ******* intestines in your fist. you're a fake. you're pyrite, fool's gold, costume jewelry cutting off circulation to my hand. 6. i know everything sounds the same. i know i give the same speech every time. i know repetition is getting old and six breakdowns in the same month is overdoing it. i was trained from birth to **** up my life and im exceeding expectations. 7. [image: memorial day card, 'we had nothing worth remembering' inside, hallmark logo on the back] 8. i didnt really want to be real anyway

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May 14, 2014

May 14, 2014 at 3:41 AM UTC

robin-goodfellow

8 reasons im smoking, 8 reasons im shaking, 8 reasons my knuckles are bruised

1.i took a breath, punched the door. he asked if it helped at all, rubbed his temples when i did it again, told me to call him when i felt like talking, we havent spoken since. he isnt important to this story. what matters is how unsafe i feel just saying your name, how unreal you make me feel. imaginary and implausible. wish fulfillment so blatant im amazed i ever thought i was something more than a myth. 2. i can't give you what you want/couldn't give you what you want. something like a romance film, candles on the shore, not blown out by ocean winds. something where i cry your name or kiss you when you shout instead of screaming back, perfect plaster queen crumbling for no one but you. where i sing and you sigh. where at least one of us cares. 3. im still not sure who's to blame my heart is swollen my hands are bloated there is motor oil pooling in the hollow of my palms, did you do this to me? did i unravel you? im still not sure what happened. i stopped asking for help a long time ago 4. i do not feel safe. you are behind me always. i am sweating bullets and you are loading your gun. you are a breakdown waiting to happen. you are my genes planning treason. 5. you're a fake.you're a fake.you're a fake. buying me coffee and spitting down my throat like it evens out in the end.you're so kind.you say youd never hurt me as if i couldnt see my ******* intestines in your fist. you're a fake. you're pyrite, fool's gold, costume jewelry cutting off circulation to my hand. 6. i know everything sounds the same. i know i give the same speech every time. i know repetition is getting old and six breakdowns in the same month is overdoing it. i was trained from birth to **** up my life and im exceeding expectations. 7. [image: memorial day card, 'we had nothing worth remembering' inside, hallmark logo on the back] 8. i didnt really want to be real anyway

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*** 101 by Michael R. Burch That day the late spring heat steamed through the windows of a Crayola-yellow schoolbus crawling its way up the backwards slopes of Nowheresville, North Carolina ... Where we sat exhausted from the day’s skulldrudgery and the unexpected waves of muggy, summer-like humidity ... Giggly first graders sat two abreast behind senior high students sprouting their first sparse beards, their implausible bosoms, their stranger affections ... The most unlikely coupling― Lambert, 18, the only college prospect on the varsity basketball team, the proverbial talldarkhandsome swashbuckling cocksman, grinning ... Beside him, Wanda, 13, bespectacled, in her primproper attire and pigtails, staring up at him, fawneyed, disbelieving ... And as the bus filled with the improbable musk of her, as she twitched impaled on his finger like a dead frog jarred to life by electrodes, I knew ... that love is a forlorn enterprise, that I would never understand it. Keywords/Tags: first, love, *** lust, passion, desire, school, bus, foreplay, ********* odor, musk

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Apr 27, 2020

Apr 27, 2020 at 4:29 AM UTC

michael-r-burch

*** 101 by Michael R. Burch That day the late spring heat steamed through the windows of a Crayola-yellow schoolbus crawling its way up the backwards slopes of Nowheresville, North Carolina ... Where we sat exhausted from the day’s skulldrudgery and the unexpected waves of muggy, summer-like humidity ... Giggly first graders sat two abreast behind senior high students sprouting their first sparse beards, their implausible bosoms, their stranger affections ... The most unlikely coupling― Lambert, 18, the only college prospect on the varsity basketball team, the proverbial talldarkhandsome swashbuckling cocksman, grinning ... Beside him, Wanda, 13, bespectacled, in her primproper attire and pigtails, staring up at him, fawneyed, disbelieving ... And as the bus filled with the improbable musk of her, as she twitched impaled on his finger like a dead frog jarred to life by electrodes, I knew ... that love is a forlorn enterprise, that I would never understand it. Keywords/Tags: first, love, *** lust, passion, desire, school, bus, foreplay, ********* odor, musk

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~The sensation of experiencing everything Everything is never nothing; worthy of remembering ~ Beauty surrounding your senses, inhale with every breath You're invincible, the outline image of mystery ~ Looking over with increased anticipation All words are shuffled with variation ~ Confident in your surroundings, anywhere and everywhere Thrilling vibes, never realize a judgmental stare ~ Only recognize the unrecognizable, every detail Every aspect of life, all in different realities ~ Immortal visions, images sufficient for a lifetime Liberating memories, sensational at its very prime ~ Gleaming within the mind, I feel the feels you feel With intertwined consciousness, we debate on what's real ~ Implausible explanations, never impossible excuses To acquire this forever, would inflict internal bruises ~ This level of fun, fundamental producer of freedom For, this prosperous feeling rids you of being numb ~Meagan Williams 1.15.13

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Jan 21, 2013

Jan 21, 2013 at 5:49 AM UTC

~The sensation of experiencing everything Everything is never nothing; worthy of remembering ~ Beauty surrounding your senses, inhale with every breath You're invincible, the outline image of mystery ~ Looking over with increased anticipation All words are shuffled with variation ~ Confident in your surroundings, anywhere and everywhere Thrilling vibes, never realize a judgmental stare ~ Only recognize the unrecognizable, every detail Every aspect of life, all in different realities ~ Immortal visions, images sufficient for a lifetime Liberating memories, sensational at its very prime ~ Gleaming within the mind, I feel the feels you feel With intertwined consciousness, we debate on what's real ~ Implausible explanations, never impossible excuses To acquire this forever, would inflict internal bruises ~ This level of fun, fundamental producer of freedom For, this prosperous feeling rids you of being numb ~Meagan Williams 1.15.13

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Promises are words, Not bonds. As with other words They can be shallow Empty Sarcastic Meaningless. So beware of promises, Especially the implausible. Fortunately, Everyone can promise, Even you. So promise them back, Give what they deserve. Promises are words, Not pacts.

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Sep 29, 2010

Sep 29, 2010 at 2:45 PM UTC

Promises are words, Not bonds. As with other words They can be shallow Empty Sarcastic Meaningless. So beware of promises, Especially the implausible. Fortunately, Everyone can promise, Even you. So promise them back, Give what they deserve. Promises are words, Not pacts.

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~ Believing what is real, is not easy to do Everything I feel, is not always real ~ To undergo change, to have every 'hello' reversed Never what I want, for better or for worse ~ Circumstances change, feelings stay the same Obstacles change, mind never sane ~ In need of that love, in need of that care However demonstrated, my mind will only stare ~ These expectations may be implausible Closely examining them seems only impossible ~ I understand the effects of my choices When given them I simply rely on other voices ~ My own self isn't what I express in my appearance At least I’m myself here, with no interference ~ Expressions support life values, interpreting the thought process A damaged train of thought interprets incorrectly ~ My body language is irrelevant to what I'm assuming For one trying to comprehend, It's complex and amusing ~Meagan Williams 1.16.13

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Jan 21, 2013

Jan 21, 2013 at 5:50 AM UTC

Missing Components~

~ Believing what is real, is not easy to do Everything I feel, is not always real ~ To undergo change, to have every 'hello' reversed Never what I want, for better or for worse ~ Circumstances change, feelings stay the same Obstacles change, mind never sane ~ In need of that love, in need of that care However demonstrated, my mind will only stare ~ These expectations may be implausible Closely examining them seems only impossible ~ I understand the effects of my choices When given them I simply rely on other voices ~ My own self isn't what I express in my appearance At least I’m myself here, with no interference ~ Expressions support life values, interpreting the thought process A damaged train of thought interprets incorrectly ~ My body language is irrelevant to what I'm assuming For one trying to comprehend, It's complex and amusing ~Meagan Williams 1.16.13

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Dubious sense of unresolved ambivalence Given to implausible suppositions of fragmentation That distinguishes itself in well meaning solemnities Of delicious incompetence that evaporates distance In its poignant lament of darkness That shadows words of cruelty, indifference and rage Oh how unbearable those misadventures of piteous overthrows That cram into brief utterances more meaning Than language can hold and force a confrontation Of unresolvable contradictions hidden in such speech That are the stilling of time, those words that find expression In a mystic power that transforms darkness into intense light Whilst blocking out the harsh unforgiving light of everyday And causes mutation and change of place in disorienting fashion In seeking a loyalty of angers by shifts of dramatic register Views its own meaning unstable and problematic In defense of its own legitimacy

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Nov 4, 2012

Nov 4, 2012 at 5:52 PM UTC

edgar-whitman-wilde

Dubious sense of unresolved ambivalence Given to implausible suppositions of fragmentation That distinguishes itself in well meaning solemnities Of delicious incompetence that evaporates distance In its poignant lament of darkness That shadows words of cruelty, indifference and rage Oh how unbearable those misadventures of piteous overthrows That cram into brief utterances more meaning Than language can hold and force a confrontation Of unresolvable contradictions hidden in such speech That are the stilling of time, those words that find expression In a mystic power that transforms darkness into intense light Whilst blocking out the harsh unforgiving light of everyday And causes mutation and change of place in disorienting fashion In seeking a loyalty of angers by shifts of dramatic register Views its own meaning unstable and problematic In defense of its own legitimacy

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I'm bending at an impossible angle. Over backwards, to appease such erroneous behavior. An implausible feat, to gain a few meager feet. Eye contact As our bodies touch. Once again, I've become the malleable traitor. Bending over backwards, placating your itchy trigger finger. That's why I'll take you back. Oh no, that's the price I must pay. With nothing else to give. I'll spread my confession. I could almost taste the anger, lingering on my tongue. A paper thin relationship, ripped with a flick of the wrist. I should leave you with nothing, instead I'm giving you my heart on a silver plate. Oh no, that's why I'll take you back. Oh no, that's the price I must pay. Oh no, it will be alright... if I give you nothing to shake off... I'll be alright. Just have to remember, your words cut like knifes. Into my skin, carving lines. Ownership marks. MINE There's several ways to thinking about. Deriving it according to principles and theories. Remembering there's tomorrow, and a day after... No matter what happens, will you take responsibility? Oh no, that's why I'll take you back. Oh no, that's the price I must pay. Oh no, it will be alright... Fading into a blue ball of anxiety...

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Aug 25, 2014

Aug 25, 2014 at 1:46 PM UTC

Erroneous Angle.

I'm bending at an impossible angle. Over backwards, to appease such erroneous behavior. An implausible feat, to gain a few meager feet. Eye contact As our bodies touch. Once again, I've become the malleable traitor. Bending over backwards, placating your itchy trigger finger. That's why I'll take you back. Oh no, that's the price I must pay. With nothing else to give. I'll spread my confession. I could almost taste the anger, lingering on my tongue. A paper thin relationship, ripped with a flick of the wrist. I should leave you with nothing, instead I'm giving you my heart on a silver plate. Oh no, that's why I'll take you back. Oh no, that's the price I must pay. Oh no, it will be alright... if I give you nothing to shake off... I'll be alright. Just have to remember, your words cut like knifes. Into my skin, carving lines. Ownership marks. MINE There's several ways to thinking about. Deriving it according to principles and theories. Remembering there's tomorrow, and a day after... No matter what happens, will you take responsibility? Oh no, that's why I'll take you back. Oh no, that's the price I must pay. Oh no, it will be alright... Fading into a blue ball of anxiety...

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It's knocking. Inviting me to come in. Not demanding. That won't happen till later. Right now, we're all on best behavior. It's calling me, The satin, silk, and cashmere of well chosen words. Painting a picture of possibility and promise. Implausible pay, promotion and perks Pursuing the path, pursuant to plan. It's inviting me in, And reminding me that this was my idea. But to what, I am not as certain as I was. Or perhaps I'm just a little afraid. Are those tingles excitement or premonition? Warning or inhibition? It is calling me. It 's calling me forward, or so it says. I think it's forward; hard to tell direction some times, amidst a fog or bright lights. But I hear voices behind me too. Calling me back, whispers of doubt, hints of inadequacy. That's weird, but there's cheering too. Oh, the blessings of being loved! It sounds familiar. Those voices have been quiet for some time. Are they mine? I think it's about time both choruses were heard again. It's knocking. I'm walking. Headed for the door.

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Jan 8, 2013

Jan 8, 2013 at 12:29 AM UTC

russell-william-johnson

It's knocking. Inviting me to come in. Not demanding. That won't happen till later. Right now, we're all on best behavior. It's calling me, The satin, silk, and cashmere of well chosen words. Painting a picture of possibility and promise. Implausible pay, promotion and perks Pursuing the path, pursuant to plan. It's inviting me in, And reminding me that this was my idea. But to what, I am not as certain as I was. Or perhaps I'm just a little afraid. Are those tingles excitement or premonition? Warning or inhibition? It is calling me. It 's calling me forward, or so it says. I think it's forward; hard to tell direction some times, amidst a fog or bright lights. But I hear voices behind me too. Calling me back, whispers of doubt, hints of inadequacy. That's weird, but there's cheering too. Oh, the blessings of being loved! It sounds familiar. Those voices have been quiet for some time. Are they mine? I think it's about time both choruses were heard again. It's knocking. I'm walking. Headed for the door.

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On Monday you are sponges Squeezed empty by Pokemon tournaments and Supernatural Watchathons On Wednesday you are dictionaries lexicons of hyperbolic histrionics thesauri of sturm and drang and angsty angsty goodness But Friday you are IMDB airbenders and Fassbender and light bending across the sails of a ship bound for the unreal implausible impossible unnatural illogical while Monday you are rabid like word-eating mongrels and Wednesday you are 1930's radios spewing never-before-heard myths and mysteries but Friday you are careening between the moons of Jupiter ungrounded unfettered untethered unrealistic imaginative but Friday you are gone gone gone gone gone

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Apr 10, 2015

Apr 10, 2015 at 5:06 PM UTC

suzanne-wilson-regalia

. . . But Friday

On Monday you are sponges Squeezed empty by Pokemon tournaments and Supernatural Watchathons On Wednesday you are dictionaries lexicons of hyperbolic histrionics thesauri of sturm and drang and angsty angsty goodness But Friday you are IMDB airbenders and Fassbender and light bending across the sails of a ship bound for the unreal implausible impossible unnatural illogical while Monday you are rabid like word-eating mongrels and Wednesday you are 1930's radios spewing never-before-heard myths and mysteries but Friday you are careening between the moons of Jupiter ungrounded unfettered untethered unrealistic imaginative but Friday you are gone gone gone gone gone

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Deny yourself; deny everything. There is no reason for which you should be real. Your existence is very implausible. **** yourself so you can finally live! Good news: If your therapist asks when was the last time you cried, shame-crying doesn't count! "Oh, she's so cute. I bet she doesn't wake up screaming in the middle on the night, and can get through a day without doubting her own existence three times. I wish I were that attractive." It is true what they say, highschool is the best time of your life. However, nobody said it would be any good, they just said it'd be better than what comes next. He knew, even as he befriended BatteriesPlus on Facebook, that his life had hit rock bottom. It pained her to set her clocks back each Fall, knowing she couldn't set them back far enough to undo all her failures. His doctor stopped asking if he was sexually active years ago. A reason to live is at the same time a great cause to die for, so it is better to just go about life despondently, constantly sighing. I'm just two iPhone Apps away from never having to talk to a human being in real life again. You can also make a difference in the life of a child by killing their pet in front of them. He'd always believed that death wasn't the end of the journey, but then he took a basic biology class. Can't sleep. But at least now I can tell all of you from experience that an identity crisis and stabbing anxiety mix wonderfully into an energy-giving pernicious compound. Especially at 1:30 am. mix wonderfully mix wonderfully mix wonderfully mix wonderfully mix wonderfully mix wonderfully

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Oct 18, 2013

Oct 18, 2013 at 12:09 AM UTC

ian-off-nazarehth

It's More of an Obituary Than a Facebook

Deny yourself; deny everything. There is no reason for which you should be real. Your existence is very implausible. **** yourself so you can finally live! Good news: If your therapist asks when was the last time you cried, shame-crying doesn't count! "Oh, she's so cute. I bet she doesn't wake up screaming in the middle on the night, and can get through a day without doubting her own existence three times. I wish I were that attractive." It is true what they say, highschool is the best time of your life. However, nobody said it would be any good, they just said it'd be better than what comes next. He knew, even as he befriended BatteriesPlus on Facebook, that his life had hit rock bottom. It pained her to set her clocks back each Fall, knowing she couldn't set them back far enough to undo all her failures. His doctor stopped asking if he was sexually active years ago. A reason to live is at the same time a great cause to die for, so it is better to just go about life despondently, constantly sighing. I'm just two iPhone Apps away from never having to talk to a human being in real life again. You can also make a difference in the life of a child by killing their pet in front of them. He'd always believed that death wasn't the end of the journey, but then he took a basic biology class. Can't sleep. But at least now I can tell all of you from experience that an identity crisis and stabbing anxiety mix wonderfully into an energy-giving pernicious compound. Especially at 1:30 am. mix wonderfully mix wonderfully mix wonderfully mix wonderfully mix wonderfully mix wonderfully

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Once by Michael R. Burch for Beth Once when her kisses were fire incarnate and left in their imprint bright lipstick, and flame, when her breath rose and fell over smoldering dunes, leaving me listlessly sighing her name . . . Once when her ******* were as pale, as beguiling, as wan rivers of sand shedding heat like a mist, when her words would at times softly, mildly rebuke me all the while as her lips did more wildly insist . . . Once when the thought of her echoed and whispered through vast wastelands of need like a Bedouin chant, I ached for the touch of her lips with such longing that I vowed all my former vows to recant . . . Once, only once, something bloomed, of a desiccate seed— this implausible blossom her wild rains of kisses decreed. Published by The Lyric, Writer’s Journal, Grassroots Poetry, Tucumcari Literary Journal, Unlikely Stories, Poetry Life & Times. Keywords/Tags: kisses, fire, incarnate, lipstick, dunes, ******* heat, lips, breath, sighs, passion, desire, lust, *** bachelorhood, recanted

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Mar 26, 2020

Mar 26, 2020 at 3:14 AM UTC

michael-r-burch

Once by Michael R. Burch for Beth Once when her kisses were fire incarnate and left in their imprint bright lipstick, and flame, when her breath rose and fell over smoldering dunes, leaving me listlessly sighing her name . . . Once when her ******* were as pale, as beguiling, as wan rivers of sand shedding heat like a mist, when her words would at times softly, mildly rebuke me all the while as her lips did more wildly insist . . . Once when the thought of her echoed and whispered through vast wastelands of need like a Bedouin chant, I ached for the touch of her lips with such longing that I vowed all my former vows to recant . . . Once, only once, something bloomed, of a desiccate seed— this implausible blossom her wild rains of kisses decreed. Published by The Lyric, Writer’s Journal, Grassroots Poetry, Tucumcari Literary Journal, Unlikely Stories, Poetry Life & Times. Keywords/Tags: kisses, fire, incarnate, lipstick, dunes, ******* heat, lips, breath, sighs, passion, desire, lust, *** bachelorhood, recanted

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Looking to the west I see a perfect rainbow Tucked under and lifting a symphony of cloud The sun beams in lay-lines from its horizon. Yet, the scientist who explains this phenomenon Cannot describe my feelings for such a spectacle Cannot describe the song in me that dances The miracle of light and spectrum. —- You are mighty, you are ethereal Your many fingers rake aberrant their spatulas of light Your beauty makes all else ghastly or at least ordinary. The trifles of each day’s turnings are insignificant in comparison. A conscience of orb, mist, shadow, light The Gods derive pleasure from your presence Else their thunderous growls bemoan your magnificence. —- There is no darkness just the absence of light There is no cold just the absence of heat There is no disbelief just the absence of your benediction. Uncapturable, delicate, infamous portent. In the implausible silence you are where I worship Without beginning or ending Yours is an ultimate mantra.

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Aug 12, 2011

Aug 12, 2011 at 4:13 AM UTC

Looking to the west I see a perfect rainbow Tucked under and lifting a symphony of cloud The sun beams in lay-lines from its horizon. Yet, the scientist who explains this phenomenon Cannot describe my feelings for such a spectacle Cannot describe the song in me that dances The miracle of light and spectrum. —- You are mighty, you are ethereal Your many fingers rake aberrant their spatulas of light Your beauty makes all else ghastly or at least ordinary. The trifles of each day’s turnings are insignificant in comparison. A conscience of orb, mist, shadow, light The Gods derive pleasure from your presence Else their thunderous growls bemoan your magnificence. —- There is no darkness just the absence of light There is no cold just the absence of heat There is no disbelief just the absence of your benediction. Uncapturable, delicate, infamous portent. In the implausible silence you are where I worship Without beginning or ending Yours is an ultimate mantra.

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IMPatiently he waits for mischief to arrive Always keen to show IMProper conduct It is IMPossible for him to abstain from lies And other IMPlausible deviant conduct. Sometimes he may IMPlode with anger Preferring to keep this energy within When trying to bargain with a stranger An IMPasse inevitable to him. Although small with a cunning tongue The IMP knows how to make an IMPact He will play, tease and mock for fun You can't help love him, that's a fact. There's one within each one of us That IMPerfect side to everyone That devilish inner child within us That pushes every boundary for fun.

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Feb 17, 2014

Feb 17, 2014 at 7:23 AM UTC

christopher-doyle

IMPatiently he waits for mischief to arrive Always keen to show IMProper conduct It is IMPossible for him to abstain from lies And other IMPlausible deviant conduct. Sometimes he may IMPlode with anger Preferring to keep this energy within When trying to bargain with a stranger An IMPasse inevitable to him. Although small with a cunning tongue The IMP knows how to make an IMPact He will play, tease and mock for fun You can't help love him, that's a fact. There's one within each one of us That IMPerfect side to everyone That devilish inner child within us That pushes every boundary for fun.

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(Who wants to know whether my heart is scalding still in this cold where lungs breathe melted snow every so often, crystal air caught in twin glasses) -Who wants to uproot the depths I turn over, weaving days into life worth living and cherishing people worth the worry in mind- [Who claims to be here like a break in the tide of grander things, forever in motion? whose persuasion stops those hands' spinning for a single implausible moment?] Oh, it's you! well, that's alright then.

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Oct 30, 2012

Oct 30, 2012 at 10:07 PM UTC

samuel-the-poet

The Bottom Drops Out on Indignation

(Who wants to know whether my heart is scalding still in this cold where lungs breathe melted snow every so often, crystal air caught in twin glasses) -Who wants to uproot the depths I turn over, weaving days into life worth living and cherishing people worth the worry in mind- [Who claims to be here like a break in the tide of grander things, forever in motion? whose persuasion stops those hands' spinning for a single implausible moment?] Oh, it's you! well, that's alright then.

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~ for Sara Bareilles ~ deuce driving nowhere for no reason, wasting time, purposely, meticulously, Otis singing the timelessness of no time, wasting gas, polluting the future, should I be caring, of coursing not, that’s the purpose that needs no explaining but ya know, surely knowing, it’s not about the going, but tapping on the breaks, hoping they’ll close up the painful spaces, bandaids of near silent footfalls, pauses of pressure, implausible discarding the empties cause a love story, is now more about the chapter breaks, heart aches thus looking out the window thinking-gazing you’ll spot her knowing you won’t but still go on driving until you no longer can and tapping on the breaks is helping and that is all that you are really doing minding the gaps that yet gape open them pausing breaks so time can suture them 4/17/18 8:43pm in a Master Class with Sara B.

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Apr 17, 2018

Apr 17, 2018 at 9:01 PM UTC

tapping on my breaks

~ for Sara Bareilles ~ deuce driving nowhere for no reason, wasting time, purposely, meticulously, Otis singing the timelessness of no time, wasting gas, polluting the future, should I be caring, of coursing not, that’s the purpose that needs no explaining but ya know, surely knowing, it’s not about the going, but tapping on the breaks, hoping they’ll close up the painful spaces, bandaids of near silent footfalls, pauses of pressure, implausible discarding the empties cause a love story, is now more about the chapter breaks, heart aches thus looking out the window thinking-gazing you’ll spot her knowing you won’t but still go on driving until you no longer can and tapping on the breaks is helping and that is all that you are really doing minding the gaps that yet gape open them pausing breaks so time can suture them 4/17/18 8:43pm in a Master Class with Sara B.

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Least said and nothing to mend nothing to defend and no one to lend you an ear and light continues to bend around the posts of the day,so whatever you say is distorted,reported by magnates controlling the press and however much less there'll be more, and the implausible causes of any decisions are picked over by vultures and revised into later editions. Free press get your free press depression read about free press aggression and say what you will,we'll all read our fill until we can all read no more and no less than no more. Barons in Wapping now moved and Wapping will be another new century, of debatable consumables sold in charcuteries and pharmacies and no more free press to distress the dressing rooms in boom towns and where once printers stood they will now sell returnable (deposit required) wedding gowns it's no wonder I feel down and need a little lift as I sift through the remnants of yesterdays news,my own views irrelevant as I ride on another elephant all painted in white another bending of light which we fall for. There's always more than is less, more to depress and distress me and drinking Darjeeling leaves me with the feeling that it could always be more another front page to enrage me another bent light to distract and if you don't know it we're all being attacked by the news that we pay for I think that's a bit more than I can take I can fake things myself and don't need some gnome or some elfin in Tooting or Fleet Street to sell me a rag that tells me of nothing that I want to know. So I'm going We're all being snowed by the establishment gurus whose raison d'etre is only to abuse us I've had enough of their bullshine if light's going to bend I'll make sure that it's my light that glows and not some nosepicking,cityslicking, lickspittling critter who couldn't see beyond his... ..well enough of that I'm out of the next deal if you want to get real you will be too.

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Jul 11, 2013

Jul 11, 2013 at 1:12 PM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

Least said and nothing to mend nothing to defend and no one to lend you an ear and light continues to bend around the posts of the day,so whatever you say is distorted,reported by magnates controlling the press and however much less there'll be more, and the implausible causes of any decisions are picked over by vultures and revised into later editions. Free press get your free press depression read about free press aggression and say what you will,we'll all read our fill until we can all read no more and no less than no more. Barons in Wapping now moved and Wapping will be another new century, of debatable consumables sold in charcuteries and pharmacies and no more free press to distress the dressing rooms in boom towns and where once printers stood they will now sell returnable (deposit required) wedding gowns it's no wonder I feel down and need a little lift as I sift through the remnants of yesterdays news,my own views irrelevant as I ride on another elephant all painted in white another bending of light which we fall for. There's always more than is less, more to depress and distress me and drinking Darjeeling leaves me with the feeling that it could always be more another front page to enrage me another bent light to distract and if you don't know it we're all being attacked by the news that we pay for I think that's a bit more than I can take I can fake things myself and don't need some gnome or some elfin in Tooting or Fleet Street to sell me a rag that tells me of nothing that I want to know. So I'm going We're all being snowed by the establishment gurus whose raison d'etre is only to abuse us I've had enough of their bullshine if light's going to bend I'll make sure that it's my light that glows and not some nosepicking,cityslicking, lickspittling critter who couldn't see beyond his... ..well enough of that I'm out of the next deal if you want to get real you will be too.

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I'm a ******* wreck. Call the Captain, his ship's hit shore harder than anyone expected. There are times when I don't want to break up lines; I think it's more poignant as a whole. Hole Heart-shaped Boxing belongings Following the followers of the followed Allotting allowances for the anonymous I have books overdue And talks long past stale We could stay up for eternity, and not touch... and I'd be fine. I'm slowly realizing how much I don't want *** Not that it's not a desire, Don't misconstrue I just don't seem to need it as much as you, or you, or you Call it implausible impossibilities Dear Billy the Opossum I'm watching over shoulders That are not my own Sitting in abandon cabins Crying for home And with every red streak on my face Is another mistake I'm attempting to erase Suicide sounds best in depressive tonalities If I played the xylophone would you still be proud of me? I'm loved for reasons unknown And spiritual for reasons I don't speak of Intimacy A part of me I'll soak you in Like fine atmosphere Or finer wine I'm white carpet You are Pinot noir

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Apr 23, 2013

Apr 23, 2013 at 2:01 PM UTC

Worse than the Chipmunk's reboot times three

I'm a ******* wreck. Call the Captain, his ship's hit shore harder than anyone expected. There are times when I don't want to break up lines; I think it's more poignant as a whole. Hole Heart-shaped Boxing belongings Following the followers of the followed Allotting allowances for the anonymous I have books overdue And talks long past stale We could stay up for eternity, and not touch... and I'd be fine. I'm slowly realizing how much I don't want *** Not that it's not a desire, Don't misconstrue I just don't seem to need it as much as you, or you, or you Call it implausible impossibilities Dear Billy the Opossum I'm watching over shoulders That are not my own Sitting in abandon cabins Crying for home And with every red streak on my face Is another mistake I'm attempting to erase Suicide sounds best in depressive tonalities If I played the xylophone would you still be proud of me? I'm loved for reasons unknown And spiritual for reasons I don't speak of Intimacy A part of me I'll soak you in Like fine atmosphere Or finer wine I'm white carpet You are Pinot noir

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We never say, "I love you." The words always get stuck somewhere between our hearts and our tongues. Forcing us to swallow our affection, and replace the phrases that seem so hard to say with words that are much easier to get out. Instead of "I miss you." we say **** off." The distance makes us distraught, as we toss knives at the one person we never want to push away. Instead of "I trust you." we ask each other to check our phones, because there's nothing on there I don't want her to see. Instead of "I need you." we look at colleges together. The idea of leaving each other is so implausible that we spend our time designing our future apartment. Each draft has one shared detail- a wooden bunk bed, so we can fall asleep to the sound of the other's breathing, the reassurance that we will never have to be alone. The reassurance that I will never have to live without my other half. We never say, "I love you." We do not need to. We say it with every sarcastic comment, every inside joke, shared memory, favorite song, every inhale, and every exhale. I miss you. I trust you. I need you. We never say, "I love you." Either that, or we never stop saying it.

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Apr 18, 2014

Apr 18, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC

We never say, "I love you." The words always get stuck somewhere between our hearts and our tongues. Forcing us to swallow our affection, and replace the phrases that seem so hard to say with words that are much easier to get out. Instead of "I miss you." we say **** off." The distance makes us distraught, as we toss knives at the one person we never want to push away. Instead of "I trust you." we ask each other to check our phones, because there's nothing on there I don't want her to see. Instead of "I need you." we look at colleges together. The idea of leaving each other is so implausible that we spend our time designing our future apartment. Each draft has one shared detail- a wooden bunk bed, so we can fall asleep to the sound of the other's breathing, the reassurance that we will never have to be alone. The reassurance that I will never have to live without my other half. We never say, "I love you." We do not need to. We say it with every sarcastic comment, every inside joke, shared memory, favorite song, every inhale, and every exhale. I miss you. I trust you. I need you. We never say, "I love you." Either that, or we never stop saying it.

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