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MalakF Jul 2018
I feel the need to apologise for the way that I am.
I have no control, as if I was a computer programme.
I’m sorry that the slightest thing can shift my mood,
I’m sorry I can be impulsive and have a bad attitude.

This inappropriate anger is not intentional
and I swear to god
I know it’s unacceptable.

My friendships are a rollercoaster,
it’s practically bipolar.
One second I’m all lovey dovey
and the other second it will be as if you were never my buddy.

This is who I am and I hate it.
I’m sorry I’m like this,
I’m sorry I see no bliss.
Auroleus Oct 2012
Once not long ago
In the vile state of Utah,
An evil wizard
Impregnated a feral cat with
Mormon seed.
In no time at all,
A litter was born
And all of them died
But one–
Mittens the Kitten.

Mittens grew up with a sense of entitlement
Because the evil wizard filled his head
With the Mormon scriptures.
When Mittens would catch and **** a mouse,
The evil wizard would pet Mittens
With a vigor that was borderline
Inappropriate.
Mittens was bred to ****.

In the evenings,
Mittens would enjoy a bowl of warm blood.
Sometimes it would coagulate,
But Mittens loved his blood.
He lapped it up
With a a vigor that was borderline
Inappropriate.
Mittens was bred to ****.

The evil wizard was a Harvard Business Grad,
And since feline-humanoids were not accepted
At Harvard Business School,
The evil wizard taught Mittens
All that he knew.
Mittens soaked up the knowledge
With a vigor that was borderline
Inappropriate.
Mittens was bred to ****.

Some years went by and Mittens
Became a successful business owner.
He would lap up bowls of
Other people's business
With a vigor that was borderline
Inappropriate.
Mittens was bred to ****.

Fast forward to the present tense
(My personal favorite tense)
And Mittens is running for president.
He uses his magical smirk to cloak his lies
So that naive voters might believe that
They should vote for this cat.
He smirks and he lies
With a vigor that is borderline
Inappropriate.
Mittens was bred to ****.
Jenay Jarvis Nov 2012
I want to sink my teeth,
Into your lobes-
I want you now,
I want you close,
Inappropriate behavior,
In the back of a car,
You’re just not here and
Four hours is too far,

Thoughts of scenarios;
Like,
My leather jacket,
Thigh highs and,
Your skin; like magnets,
Your teeth and,
Clinging to cabinets,
Your tongue- THAT jaw,
Come closer,
I’ll un-cage my bra-
And arch my spine,
If you restrain my wrists,
Scraping my nails across your back,
And yours sinking into my hips,
You can watch,
The back of my head pull up from,
Generic damask sheets,
100 thread count and I don’t give a ****-
I won’t be discreet.

You can rip into my hair,
And I’ll rip into your pores,
With uneven nails,
Leaning on all fours,
We can always take it slow,
Yes, we can keep it sweet,
I just want you so badly,
I can’t contain the heat.
Kenji Nov 2015
Classic princesses, all elegantly beautiful and charming...
All irresistible and disarming...
Like a dandelion, a rose, a tulip and a lilly,
All hold such meaningful characteristics and lovely culture.

Belle, her gorgeous yellow dress and her most adored beast,
A red rose petal drops, the more she falls inlove with him,
A love so true, everlasting and has no clue.

Aurora, beautiful golden hair and lips as pink as a Bonica rosa,
a delightful melodic voice and a heart as pure as gold, this love story will never get old.

Snow White, lips as red as an Ingrid Bergman rosa, skin as luminous as pimpinellifolia rosa, and hair as black as an ebony crow...
Naive yet loving, a spark of faith and unharming.

Jasmine, long ebony hair and beautiful big brown eyes, a magical love story with a thief she goes away with, as the magical carpet flys.
Tanned skin and an exotic Arabian look, she is a stunner, Aladdin is hooked.

Mulan, courageous and simple, strong, but elegant and delightful, brave, determined and insightful...
A love story that is oh so wonderful.

Ariel, pure red locks and soft pale skin, a tail as green as the water world corals, exotic and girly, illuminating and fiery.
She saves her true lover, she is the hero in the aqua story.

Another princess, who is bound to become a queen, deep big brown eyes, tanned brown skin, lips ever so luscious, and skin ever so soft and delicious...
Caring and loving, yet boastful and inappropriate, a love story that has no happy ending, just heartbreak and pain, and feelings of soul drain, a beautiful tragedy, lost, but is still writing her story, she loves with all of her metaphoric diamond heart and touches your soul with her cupid love dart, she touches you so magically, her soft skin is like a baby's.
She is elegantly ****** in her speech, yet thoughtful and innocent...
she just needs a main squeeze...
This princess is me, Kiara.
A soon to be indian queen.
My world
Laura Labno May 14
Cause it's like living----
Looking at
        Unreadable pages

which you still attempt
to read
         In

A state of constant
Confusion

(Occasionally meeting a sudden
Enlightenment---- usually misleading
Or meaningless after all.)


Its Mostly Not Knowing
And from time to time
          choking with --- 'why?'

You go and you don't know
And yet you carry on
          Cause

After all it gives you
This inappropriate

              Kind of pleasure

That only deeply
unpleasant things

              Can give.
Poetoftheway Oct 2018
how do you know (when a broken human can be fixed)


https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2644586/how-do-you-know-when-a-human-is-too-broken/

supermarket checkout line, so lazy broken down dressed,
I’m probably arrestible for disturbing the peace,
my haired piled, and held together by a broken clip,
makeup at home in
a drawer labeled ‘why bother’
my t shirt, don’t please look too closely,
yesterday’s coffee spillage outline
only mostly gone,
and the skinny jeans that felt inappropriate
ten pounds ago,
now looking semi-completely ridiculous

is this a tv show?
wallet, a twenty and a single,
who knew a pound of ground blue mountain
cost the better part of the the twenty
in that case no need for a gallon of milk
and *** a box of chocolate frosted donuts
silently slid far far away,
evidence of a guilty plea of irresponsibility resignation

short $2.42 (cut up the credit cards)
and no convenient pit to fall into
when the teenager cashier snickers,
when a sam elliot voice says here ya are,
stammering a no, a thank you, and thinking getaway direction

truck safely, made it,
knock on the window
sam elliot soundalike is a lookalike as well
standing outside with my wallet in hand,
two heads taller than my ex-petite figurine

more stammering ******* could I look any stupider

but inside a piece of brown shopping bag torn
with ten whole digits
I’ve never seen prior to this disaster
saying call when you want to return my $2.42

turns out he got, no, he is glue and paste,
an eraser man for fine lines and sad times,
and a lasso to keep me held together,
a pocket red handkerchief hanging half out
of his back pocket, never without, calls it his tear catcher

pulled out that too tight blues-blouse
from back of my closet
that still complements my complexion,
wear it ever time that day rolls around

just dumb luck ain’t much of an answer
so I’ll rephrase, dumb luck is in the everything
cause his number was 917-242-2424
and he is a gambler in matters of the heart

bust his ***** when he says he’s a lucky man,
reply he ain’t got no luck at all
compared to me on that daft day

and every daft day thereafter
I glue his lips shut to mine, no escaping,
and paste a new $2.42
into his wallet
when he is sleeping mine,
no erasing our lines,
just redrawing them deeper and finer,
just making sure my
dumb luck is working overtime
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2016
<>

for the early morning teach

<>

she's young, beautiful and thinks her life is cursed,
in the past, subject of some of my poems, her health to nurse,
yet, as is normative, you fall into & out of a well of touch,
until you accidentally once again path cross,
she provides a precision mathematical status update

"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."

it is 1:38AM for you,
the not unnoticed ironic minute and hour
when the night ether has prematurely worn off,
rising time close but not nearly close enough,
a dark dose of a sleeping nurse's aide seems inappropriate,
and TV reruns seem like an insult to your brain

instead you turn on some belle string musique,
a Grande Messe des Morts,
a chorus,
singing a high mass for the dead,
while opening all your various email luggage and baggage,
smiling as you read a poetess's message of
laughter behind tears

"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."

and Mississippi ******,
your uncontrollable mixed drink of her emotional
Grenada grenade cocktail,
flavored with musique, paintings, and words and a nearby beloved's
gentling sleep sounds,
has you writing your own protest poem,
your very own,
oy vey, grande messe,
about lives that were supposed to be
pictures of perfect artistry
and for but a word or two,
instead, a painting of a life that got hung upside down,
and indeed,
leaving a grand mess and no one to help clean up


alternatively weeping, laughing as you are thinking,
smiling recall
Laurel and Hardy's summary definition
of living a life's of ill begotten, misventured adventures:

"Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into !"

but 38% worse?

not an even-steven rounded up 40%,

should I write you only 38% of a poem, teach?
or more accurately, more mathematically,
138% of what was writ before?

and you recall your older, prior words
about the love hate affair between
you poet,
and the beauty of written brevity
(her style)

and you give her this then,
this rambling, scrambled, attention paid notification,
word attentiveness, a summary of your readings
of her cheddar sharp and honey mustard sweet retorts of
pained poetry,

it is insufficiently but perfectly sufficient,
a summarizing phrase that opens
and yet
briefly encapsulates all that
you are feeling for her

"thinking of you"

or the 38% larger version thereof -


*"Well, here's another 38% more
nice poetic mess
you've gotten me into!"
2:44 AM,
of course
Traveler Sep 25
Inappropriateness
Well some insist
The cures of a Poet
The blessing of his gift
My body well normal
My mind evolved
There is no problem
A Poet can't solve

I inter the store
Smile on my lips
A big interruption
But I always insist
Excuse me I say
In an inquiring growl
Do you sell stuff here!?
As the crowd turns around

I'm never lost for words
I'm a poetic clown
Being a Poet lifts me up
When I'm down!
Traveler Tim
Jaden May 2018
why am i to spend 12 years of my life
learning the same history 12 ways
each year getting more into depth
about how straight, white, and cis,
"all" of history just happens to be
when in reality anything that was ever
deemed abnormal or harmful to america's image
just doesn't get taught.

all these years of being sheltered from the truth
about america the great
has left me with questions i'm scared will go unanswered
and so

I'd like to know which group of old white men
decided erasing history was a good idea
If i'm stuck learning about these so called achievements and revolutions which only came from the self proclaimed superiors
i'd like to know whose idea it was to forget about
The whips cracked in to bleeding black skin
Making it known that my ancestors were no more than a tool
No more than what white men, white masters made them in to
No more than a slave until 1865

I want to know who made it possible for my history teacher to ask me what my opinion on slavery is since i’m the only black kid in sight
When will they teach me why it’s okay for the 20 white kids in my class
To call me their ***** but it’s not okay for me to get mad about it

Please tell me how these people figured out
who all they should kindly choose to silence?
maybe they thought it's too much to cover in class
Since we have to have time to be taught about manifest destiny
And how Americans had every right to take land and lives
Because white men deserve to take what doesn’t belong to them
or maybe it's been deemed inappropriate
because they're too scared to admit
That America would rather hose down black kids
waiting for our skin to become clear and
praying for our melanin to wash off just so they would stop having to look at the skin they deemed sinful
than admit that America loves to make black people fearful.

When are we taught about who chose to write about all of
america's triumphs and good times but
somehow seemed to forget about the scars passed on to me from over 100 years ago
But didn’t know i had until i was ten years old.
And honestly that no longer surprises me i mean
America only speaks of cishet white guys.
and I bet you didn't know about very first *** pride.
It was a series of riots started because America decided
Loving who you want makes you unequal
And the only way to fix that is using force that’s lethal
Force that would leave lovers lives laying in the street like the never even lived
Force that led to June 28th through July 1st becoming riots that didn’t need to happen but the police couldn’t keep their privileged fingers off of *** people
But it’s fine because ignoring that part of history has become an American steeple.

At this point I know all the answers to every test asking about the history you feed us
In attempts to hide the truths of this country that wishes it never freed us
so stop teaching me the same
cis, straight, white history I've already
been taught 10 going on 11 years of my life
because i don't care about the men who wanted to keep my ancestors bound
Or the country that keeps trying to tell me that my love isn’t allowed
i care about the history they'll continue to ignore and erase.
i care about the history America begs me to forget.
Zombie May 18
Love always stinks u in an inappropriate time,
Making u a prisoner of someone else reminiscence.
When u have nothing left other than the memories which fills your life.
Wk kortas Nov 2017
Three days, is what the HR rep said, somewhat sheepishly,
As if she was fully aware that boxing up one’s grief
In a span of a few dozen hours
Is a matter of wishful thinking
And certainly she sympathizes
(Indeed, as she speaks,
She spreads her hands in such a way
As you half expect doves to come forth in full flight)
Empathy being their stock in trade,
But the law and the handbook say three days,
And then you need to have your head
******* back on and looking forward.

Eventually, the mail brings fewer envelopes
Marked with embossed flowers
And subdued and tasteful stamps,
The usual flow of solicitous inquiries,
Pre-stamped and pre-sorted,
Inquiring as to your credit needs,
The condition of your windows and siding,
Resumes apace, and more than once,
In fits of inappropriate black humor and frustration,
You scribble, in bold thick strokes of a marker,
The addressee no longer resides at this location*.

You return to nine-to-five,
Though your ghosts keep their own hours,
Stopping by to visit on their own schedule alone,
Prompted by the tiniest of things:
The dog scampering to its feet in a hurry,
As if someone was at the door,
The discovery of a long-unused pitching wedge
Standing expectantly in the back of the closet,
A song from long ago which was beloved
When you lived in the pairing mandated by Noah
Before you entered the shadow world of ones and nones.
Sometimes you give into the giddy madness,
And rise to waltz around the room,
Careening about unsteadily, clumsily
As you have yet to completely master
The difference in weight shift and distribution
That is required of a solo act.
The timing of these visitations
Often disrupts your schedule and sleep patterns,
And you think that perhaps tomorrow you’ll call in.
“It really sickens me that you can’t take this life straight,” she said.

Her eyes were afire with a pink halo of hatred that smote her compassion. She reached for her coat and wrenched the cheap motel room door open. It made a small dull thud as it hit the brittle plaster wall. (I hoped my deposit would cover the damage.)

She was one surreal moment’s breath away from leaving me there for good.

“You’re a lonely old man because you’re a selfish old *******,” she said.

She disappeared down the walkway like some direful wraith caught in the night wind. The curt sound of her red highheeled shoes clicking the worn concrete. The inexplicable proof of her existence ferried away in a sea of incandescent tail lights that shown from the highway.  

Maybe she was right. Maybe I can’t take this life straight and never hope to. And, maybe I am selfish. But, I’m only selfish because I’m so **** lonely all the time. That’s the ***** of it. Life is a never-ending toilet bowl flush of selfishness, drunkenness, *****, and utter loneliness.

It took me too many years to figure out that the problem wasn’t her, or even with other people for that matter, it was with me.

It’s only when we figure ourselves out that we realize that we’ve been doing a lot of things wrong with our lives. Listening to the wrong voices in our heads. Taking the wrong advice from strangers. Avoiding the admonitions of those who really love you. These things happen all the time. None of us has the answers. I don’t know anything.

In fact, after all the years I spent searching for meaning in academia perusing dusty libraries and old bookstores for that gem of knowledge, I can tell you definitively that only ignorance is bliss. That it’s even true when it comes to dating. The less you think you know the better you are.

I guess this is where the train stops for me. Time to get off. Try something else. Take to the woods and grow a manly neck-beard like Thoreau did in Walden. Adhere to the early American philosophy of rugged individualism and all that. Too soon would I realize that life isn’t about solitude, or a separation from others; rather it’s about the connections we make. Solid connections.

The hedonistic Epicurus tells us to live a life of pleasure through the temperance of desire, and warns us not to seek what is inappropriate for us mortals, but to enjoy our mortal needs.

I do not know if Epicurus ever found a mate, a friendship, or even a partner to share his most intimate thoughts with besides his raucous audience, but I do know he died in isolation away from society. I’ve never been a hedonist. I’m far too traditional for all that.

My sordid love life is more akin to Ovid’s Metamorphoses and the tragic story of Echo and Narcissus.

I’ve been Narcissus for too many years to count and what’s worse I was in oblivion. For too long have I been unto myself. Admiring only myself. The time has come to choose. Either die like Narcissus or live and love with Écho.

I’d like to walk in the sunlight, drink from the cool springs, and with a Shakespearian passion bask in it’s eternal glow and live inside the warm,  but ever ethereal, love of another’s heart.

To love another with such Shakespearian passion would lead me to realize that the only thing my love can save is myself. And, all the time this duality would haunt me—to unequivocally know that without the tenderness of Echo in one’s life there is only the vain Narcissus.

For now you know the duality, that is also the tragedy, of this man. Let that echo in your ears and see if it does not ring with the truth of all men.
Omni Winters May 2018
Friend: a person whom one knows and with whom one has a bond of mutual affection.

In some instances, we do not choose who we are going to be friends with. It just kind of.. happens. We may be sitting alone reading a book or staring off into nothingness, and then someone walks right up to you. You don't know if you are going to be friends with this stranger. Sure, they could be attractive, have a nice personality based on what you see and hear from others.

But when that first conversation starts, there is no way back to peace and life without them.

From stranger to a weight that keeps pulling you down.
"Get rid of them! If they cared about you, they would take the time to talk." , says my brain and logic. "They have feelings too! They're really nice!", says my heart. "What did they ever do to you?"

Nothing. They did nothing.

Friends don't back-stab you, or ignore you. They don't ignore what you say or send to them. It doesn't matter how weird or inappropriate you act or speak, as long as you know where the boundaries are and you have a good heart and soul.

As Snow White takes a bite out of a poisonous apple, I too have had my share of poison apples that continue to stay by my side.

© 2018 Omni Winters
May 5th, 2018
drey Mar 25
I am a woman
I wear lacy black underwear under my skinny jeans
When I feel empowered
And sip black tea whilst basking in the morning sun
Occasionally accompanied by my beloved,
Who often comes and goes.

I am a child
I enjoy board games with my loved ones
And I giggle at inappropriate times
I tell silly jokes when uncomfortable,
Then laugh as if they're not coping mechanisms

I am a lover
I long for such deep romance
Though enjoy being alone
I love, with such noticeable passion
Though never showing such love to myself

I am human
I represent frailty for weeping,
But emotionless for not
I am gratifying when I give into destroying my body
But dull when I choose health
I give
And I give
Though somehow it will never
Be enough.
acceptance seems to be a stranger to me.
impervious to experts
untouched by suffering immigrants and workers
heaping vile insults onto all opponents
remarkably ruthless in praising himself
at every inappropriate occasion

a man only in love with his own self
of whom many hope
he'd soon follow
the story of Narcissus
to its classical end
[Even Narcissus might  turn green with envy
facing such a ruthless egomaniac]
An amorous robot asked her out for a date.
One 'inappropriate touch ' by him,
No doubt, would have sent her up in smoke.
Yet, avoiding the danger of  war with humanoids
For spurning one of their kind, was
Uppermost in her mind: she thoughtfully gave the nod!
In an E world fraught with disasters of unimaginable kind caused by science,unanticipated dangers at every turn and desires without restraint,love as it is known to us now, often would have to walk through forced paths..a futuristic reveire
Lawrence Hall Sep 24
Predatory ads from the N.R.A.
Site-blocking ads from them throughout each day -
O obtuse Google, make them go away
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is: Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com

It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  THE ROAD TO MAGDALENA, PALEO-HIPPIES AT WORK
exst Aug 21
Bpd is bouts of extreme
Impulsivity and hypersexuality
Saying and doing
The most inappropriate things

#confessionalpoetry
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