"indecent" poems
When I was just a little girl,
And as little girls were taught then,
I played with dolls and a teaset,
Made mudcakes for food,
Wore skirts, made my hair into ponytails as I was let.
I saw the boys with the abandon which comes with free wear and play,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.
When I was older, a teen
and as teen girls were taught then,
Walk, talk, rock softly
Don’t draw too much attention
Or attempt to explore too much.
I saw the boys then with the abandon which comes with freedom to play, sit, be as they want ,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.
When I was sixteen, oh sweet sixteen,
And as sixteen year old girls were taught then,
Don’t wear clothes that show your frame,
That’s indecent and you will be in another home and will incur alot of blame.
Don’t wander, argue, or express an opinion,
You’re a girl, being humble, quiet and gentle becomes you.
I saw the boys then with the abandon which comes with freedom of movement and speech,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.
When I was older, and passionately sought a particular career,
I was admonished as many other girls in my time,
It’s not a career for women, late nights, more men to be around,
When you get married, that’s not going to work and troubles will abound.
I saw the boys then with the abandon which comes with the freedom of pursuing their dreams,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.
When I was married, and setting a home, working and raising a family,
I left my work as many other girls in my time,
For my husband to follow his work path,
Unquestioningly, unflinchingly, resolutely.
I saw the men then with the abandon which comes with freedom of being in control of their lives,
And I thought to myself, why am I a girl.
But this is just the surface of my questioning being a girl,
When boys and men around tried their stunts on girls and women,
I questioned my existence.
When many girls and women I know,
Were told to stay mum on men close who took advantage of them
I questioned my existence.
When In the workspace,
Women got paid less than men because their salary were subtly looked at as secondary salaries,
Or needed to speak louder to be heard,
I questioned my existence.
When the onus of keeping a relationship working was the woman’s responsibility largely,
I questioned my existence.
When a woman got hit by her spouse,
Its she who may have provoked him.
When a man strayed,
Its she who was not a good enough wife that he had to look elsewhere.
I questioned my existence.
The atrocities many men are capable of,
The filth many men spread,
**** hate, aggression, manipulation and more
Abuse, gaslighting inside closed doors,
Wearing a mask of sophistication outside
Animalistic and entitled beings to the core.
My apologies to men who are not,
And I know some,
But they are but a handful,
Too insignificant in the larger way the world works.
But then I see me,
A harbinger of change,
In my home and around.
Raising my son differently,
Advocating for change purposively,
Actioning resolutely what’s right,
Woman for women with all my might.
I see so many more women now who retain their selves and are beacons of hope,
They don’t sit around and just mope.
And I am glad I am a girl,
And I question no more,
I question no more.
Feb 16, 2020
Feb 16, 2020 at 4:28 AM UTC
(Ruining Steely Dan concerts since 2013)
Parrot Dave
you can go
straight
to
hell.
lumbering up
and
down
the ******* stairs
47 times -
for christ's sake
SIT DOWN
with your lovely wife
(let's call her linda)
and
enjoy the show.
you may think
i am being overly
harsh
but let me explain:
Parrot Dave
doesn't even have
the decency
to wear a
proper Hawaiian
shirt,
the indecent ****
******* parrots?
why, dave?
they repeat endlessly
too large
too bright
too primary
they are clones
all facing the same direction
and you can hear
the sound
of the parrot voices
in an unholy union
"It's a Steely Dan concert, man!"
"Listen to the horns," says the horror of parrots.
Parrot Dave,
you're a real *******
have some ******* class.
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 10:22 PM UTC
The times here, mind clear
removed fear, mind fully-aware
they can’t calculate my circumference
they try-angle-hate to encompass
i’m too persistent
consistently consistent
my philosophy brilliant
they’re mindfully malignant
plots thicken and spots pigment
perfect gentlemen, acting indecent
handed them knowledge, didn't keep it
then peep game, telling secrets
I’m sure they’re getting seasick
its been written, still going off the top
the deep-end, the stuck on the plot
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
*Quintessential charmer, libidinous crow pheasant, has an eye on him,
thinly disguised mating calls disclose her keenness of intention,
protruding derriere, provocative walk, her amour leaves
nothing to guess, 'what you fancy is my desire' her acts yell out to him.*
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 9:20 AM UTC
I am not the master of my writing
-
my writing masters me,
seizing me when the seizure is a sure thing,
it dictates to its enslaved scribe
what it desires this utensil to reveal and expel -
the contraries
who having battled to a ****** draw leaves the battlefield trembling with indecent indecision; the optimal conditions for its macrobiotic invasion of my brain stem;
the she-muse offers me two choices:
she wants a poem writ forthwith
on the lyrical expression
of depression and refusal is
non optional
so I fantasize escape and that becomes
her property as well;
evidence against me to be used at my trials,
the one where there is no statue of liberty
from the limitations of prior bad acts;
I offer the she-muse two choices:
give me a cabin with WiFi
and self-enforcement of solitary confinement and
tie me up with the rope remainders of broken bonds,
bonds that tied me up worse
when they were broken
and the peaceful withering
that won’t disrupt disturb nobody
from a distance
my other choice is to bury me
forthwith next to my parents
and shutter my constant tearing eyes which are drop-resistant
muse says that’s no choice
I own your voice stilled or not,
will bill your soul’s account for
denial of poetic services
weep; i don’t want the noises that curse this troubled
bodyship don’t want recollections good or bad
the muse-bitch cackles with insanity of delight
for she accepts this writ as partial payment
on her commission, whispers I love your
lyrical expressions of depression
that ****** recognition algorithms
alert me that seizing time is nigh
there is no on/off switch for one like you:
father son and holy ghost
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 9:31 AM UTC
Corruption and Seduction, twins living in discordant harmony.
Firstly, Corruption lives in a crowded home, in the lamplit living rooms and in the starched collars and sore legged dining halls.
Seduction lives in the attic, and ghosts from room to room, leaning on others as it passes, like an injured soldier.
Guiding into places seldom spoken of and rarely trod.
She asked him how he could change his mind so quickly.
I think his mind was never made in the first place.
Be it Corruption or Seduction, they live as synonyms and antonyms.
A promise broken, words thrown aside or forgotten, a trust crumbling to dust.
Credit this, not to one or the other, but to both, working for each other to accomplish the objectives laid at their feet by the gods.
Moments of weakness, burdened with fear and doubt, belong to this indecent pair.
Scoffed by most, yet intimately known to all, Corruption and Seduction manipulate and corrugate.
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 1:23 PM UTC
The kite gets high, stays aloft-
quite some time displaying
enviable dexterity, for fun
do spectacular somersaults as much times
as it could, climbs up in air with a loud swoosh
then look! how the wind gets *****
with her, if she has something
of a skirt, it goes up, up to an
indecent height, she doesn't have
that balance a player at such
heights should have kept always.
Its absurd, all these acrobatics silly kite
displays before the world at high altitudes
with a unholy interest
to show herself more accomplished
than what she really is, could you
pardon that frivolity, because she
has many more colors than clouds.
He admits abashedly that he too was
once in love with her frivolous attractiveness,
but he never could understand a kite;
in spite of the lightness, that makes
it easier to travel heights, has kite a significance?
After all what is a kite? her merit?
a strange arrangement that defies
common sense, all it can do is aimless flying.
Isn't it a charge serious enough?
even a dry leaf, or a falling feather
can do these acrobatics for a while.
What is the meaning of a kite,
kindly someone notify , if it has any,
meaningless flying is not for anything
of substance, what kind of play
is it, if it is perceived as one, by any one
why the folly of someone take us
for a ride all these years, without
a second thought, he wonders
who might have promoted it, had some
ulterior motive, some point to prove;
wind, mightiest of forces is made to look weak
in everyday life .
He would suspect, in the bargain many
generations too spent their time
in this vein pursuit without any thought.
Any kite display a greed to go up and
stay there, till the time it is possible to float
don't want to be back, when wind is on her side
unless force is applied, what does it signify?
Kite has a hunger to touch wonder with its fingers
he knows, and he can't but appreciate it
and when the occasion arises she fly up to the cloud,
play with him as if he is her secret lover, that hurts
could such a liaisons are to be be tolerated
she knows how a cloud tastes at different times
Yes, sky certainly intoxicates her,
she want to move closer, doesn't it spell danger?
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 1:09 PM UTC
What's happening to hello poetry?
I don't need to know when the next soccer game is
And if I can watch for free.
Only football I know is American like the pride that's in me.
My blood doesn't boil the native sounds of my country.
Since my motherland is the Dominican
But America my step motherland won custody and raised me, since the age of three.
Don't forget is not who made you but who you fed you, who clothed you, who saw your first shot to a basket, who saw your first catch, who kept your body warm when you got another cold, and so on.
This is "Breakfast for Champions"
Just ask Kurt Vonnegut
What's happening to hello Poetry?
Show your art
Get your due diligence
Don't sell us your dreams don't broadcast your business unless is a story, book signing or deal.
I don't need a spell to make a girl fall in love. I got these words
For and to whom I might propose
Love or an indecent occasion of lust.
Let my words be the for front on this site but they're second to my actions.
Since I don't speak much b'cause my Latin accent.
What is happening to hello poetry?
Private messages by strangers who don't write or speak words.
Claim is urgent and as a poet
You know kind hearted, love lost, And so on...
You just might want to message their Hotmail.
Sad story under prosecution
Sad story the relation is abusive
Mocking the painful truths of some of us artist.
Just wanting a piece of the pie
But when I order I even eat the crust and never leave crumbs.
Take offense or not I just don't give a ****
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
You ever wish that you were a wild animal?
Sounds a bit indecent, but reckoning the sense of freedom, order, and understandings
;then, you'll look at it through a bird's eye
Doesn't it seem like animals have no issues at finding their purposes?
They seem to know exactly what is it, in which what they are living for
Oppose to us humans, they seem to be less frightened by death
Do you think animals have religious beliefs?
Some divine stranger they must let control their life.
Or are they responsible enough themselves?
And/or only have faith in what it mean to live
...Just live
The things in which they used to do is still their tendencies today.
Give me one lion that don't hunt anymore?
One pack or tribe that is ran by female?
One chimpanzee who think swinging from trees is out of style?
One shark who think blood is disgusting?
I never met a gopher who wasn't hip enough, who didn't "dig"; digging wholes
Every cat I know rub their skull, ribs, backbone, tailbone and tail; in one motion against other creatures for what I figure as comfort.
Shepherd, Yorkshire, or hound; however, they all get on the mailman's nerves
Humans... We just seem lost
Not knowing where we belong
Steady trying to figure out right for wrong
Attitudes always going up or down
Need to much to crack a smile
The slightest ordeal can make us frown
A successful human is visioned as having access to the whole world
Do you ever see a honey bee left behind in a swarm?
Or a polar bear climbing a tree when it's warm?
Their world has no critics
No trends
No high expectations
Just eat, sleep, and ****
Is that it?
Or there's more to it?
Two separate lives
But I'm influenced
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 3:55 AM UTC
Somewhere in the lake
of deep sleep
is an island, dark and mysterious,
entangled mangroves here, resist movements
where I snake in like a thief
excitedly breaking in to own house,
pretending to be an alien
and find
a body double living there
acting out one's secret-
fantasies and voluptuous desires.
I won't dare to speak aloud here,
where, the overpowering smell of
too ripe fruits of indecent passions waft.
The dark chamber,
the smoke filled ***** den of my mind,
is to take secret refuge and be one
with a dream that flies me
to the border lands of psyche.
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
A holy dip in a river, revere you may,
Or any philanthropic act may it be,
Only wisdom finds divine salvation,
From cynic cycles of birth and death,
Believe in boundless bliss beyond ….17
Relish respite in temple serene,
Cherish in the shadow of a tree,
Squat or lie on a flat ground,
Renounce worldly comforts,
Peace prevails in plenty.
Believe in boundless bliss beyond ….18
Dwell you may, in ecstasy,
Of fanfare and fortitude,
Attached to materialism,
But, to revel in the divine bliss is;
The only redemption of lingering life.
Believe in boundless bliss beyond ….19
Delve into the divine discourse of deliverance,
Sip the holy drops of sacred rivers,
Worship the lordship of Almighty
The Lord of Death dare not pinch you.
Believe in boundless bliss beyond …20
Pangs of birth, panic of death,
Over and over, again and again,
Make one and all sick and sullen.
Cultivate divine diary of deeds,
Enroll the ultimate bliss of eternity.
Believe in boundless bliss beyond …..21
He who cogitates cool inward,
Be content with what he has,
Contempt to what he has not,
May look like an innocent child,
Or an indecent mad cap outward.
Believe in boundless bliss beyond …..22
Question yourself –
Who are you and me?
And other kith and kin?
There lies delusion in delight,
Of experience and exposure,
Of trials and tribulations,
Ending up in ****** dreams.
Believe in boundless bliss beyond 23
Almighty is all pervasive,
In you and me and all around,
To be furious is to be foolish,
Drop ego; uphold equality& equanimity,
As the best way to sacred sanctum
Believe in boundless bliss beyond 24
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
I had to disassemble it
Our world
Take it apart
Bit by bit
Word by word
Those words
Letters
Full of meaning
Could no longer exist
Anywhere
My friend, my lover
And my refuge
Suddenly turned
Traitor
Turned foul
Deceptive
Dangerous
My friend, my lover
My language
So I began the demolition
Of clandestine concepts
Tearing apart nouns
And adversary adjectives
violently, I separated verbs
And adverbs
Thus impairing indecent interjections
Until our grammar
Finally collapsed
Now there is only silence
Safety in signs like
Minuscule monuments
All bereft of meaning
And I am in mourning
For I have no words
To throw into the void
Only memories
Of distant dialogues
Dreams
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
Dont Try To Overthrow Me,
This Is My Territory,
Don't Try To Touch Me,
You Fraile,
Cold Hearted,
Tantrum Throwing Annoyance,
Don't Speak,
About The People Who Are Better Than You,
Dont Speak Lies,
Which Only Some Believe
Dont Try To Crush Me,
You Foul,
Demonic Child,
Don't Glare At Me,
I Have The Strongest Stare,
Don't Say You Want To **** Me,
You Would Never Succseed If You Try,
You Are Simply To Weak
Dont Try To Take Over Because,
You Are The Opposite Of The Human Spirit,
You Are The Flip Side Of Incredible,
Trying To Break Through The Wall,
I've Been Forced To Rebuild,
Over,
And Over,
I'm At Full Strength,
And Yet You Try To Break Me Down,
You Make Me Laugh
You're The Omega,
You Misquito,
Constantly Buzzing Around My Ear,
Telling Me What A ***** I Am,
And You Are An Angel?
You Are Demon
You Reddheaded Brat
Shut Your Mouth,
You Disease,
No One Wants You,
No One Wants To Taste The Hate You Hide,
No One Wants To See The Side I've Seen,
At One Time,
You Were Funny,
Bubbly,
Let Me Pop Those Bubbles,
Just Like You Popped Mine
I Am Indecent?
Because I'm Ugly?,
Only In You Crap Brown Eyes,
Tell It To My Face,
Not My Friends,
I'll Break Your Nose,
How Will You Feel Then?
You Are Nothing To Me,
A Waist Of Space,
I'm Tired Of Getting Pushed Around By You,
I Am Your Alpha,
I Have The Power To Hurt You,
Injure You Permanently,
But I Wont,
Just So You Know,
I'm Strong,
Physically,
Intellectually,
And You Are,
The Frost Who Wishes To **** My Rose,
But Good Luck
The Climate,
Is Getting Warmer
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 8:27 AM UTC
May I have your attention?
This information is for you.
Put this in your dictionary,
****** doesn’t mean ‘let’s *****
It might do where you come from
But some of us were raised better.
We recognize and accept
The Constitution to the letter.
It guarantees our freedom as
Citizens of this fine nation.
Nowhere does it say nudists should
Be treated with degradation
And blocked from freedom to be
Who they really are at heart.
Denying natural freedoms is
Where fascism gets its start.
If you have been trained in a way
That genitalia is abomination
You’re the one who is indecent
And needs some repatriation.
It’s not like someone naked is
Automatically getting it on.
That’s just inside your mind, so
Only you can make it be gone.
A lot of what you are thinking
And the very thing you are fear
Is not real, it’s irrational
This is what you need to hear;
Some may not find you ****
When they see you naked
But those are not nudists.
They’re unclothed bigots that fake it.
May I have your attention?
This information is for you.
Put this in your dictionary,
****** doesn’t mean ‘let’s *****
It might do where you come from
But some of us were raised better.
We recognize and accept
The Constitution to the letter
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 10:18 PM UTC
Long walks, long talks under the south sky, we knew it was love
December, snowflakes, cold night but you made it warm
White gown, black suits, sweet vows, but that’s not how it ends
Black lies, midnight fights, angry cries, we know it’s not love (not anymore)
This is the morning when the French man curses Paris
This is the morning when the sun loses its light
This is the morning when promises become lies
This is the morning when are love kisses the lips of goodbye
Chorus:
Because on the eighteenth, summer turns to winter
All that we have withers
Everything warm and bright fades on the arm of September
I can taste my tears, I can feel my fears
You walk away with no words of love to remember
Whiskey, dancing under the night sky, I have heard you died
November, tears fall, sorrow cripples like a thief
Ugly box, pale cheeks, another goodbye, I pray to see you breathe
Regrets, lost love, indecent goodbyes, you left me twice
This is the morning when the French man turns to dust
This is the morning when he takes his life
This is the morning when memories fake the aches
This is the morning when even fears and tears can’t bring you back
Chorus:
Because on the eighteenth, summer turns to winter
All that we have withers
Everything warm and bright fades on the arm of September
I can taste my tears, I can feel my fears
You walk away with no words of love to remember
Coda:
Your awkward smile, your deep blue eyes
Old photos will remind they’re once alive
Your broken dreams with an unfinished song
No more Tuesday nights for you to sing along
Because on the eighteenth of September there’s no morning, only mourning
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 12:32 PM UTC
My dear miss Able asked me about a hidden place.
A place where words go to find lovers.
A Tinder for f̶o̶r̶e̶p̶l̶a̶y̶ wordplay.
Where "She" swipes right on "Him" to create "Them".
Where "Un" and "Faithful" got together and made "Faithfulun"
Because "Faithful" is also seeing "Dyslexia"
Where my friend "Alone" swept left on "Everybody"
And never changed.
And "In" became "Indecent" when he, infatuated,
Increasingly indulged
Into "Inappropriation" while dating "decent" and then Indiscreetly descended into "Insanity".
Where "Baby" got "Back" after "Laid-Back" split when "Laid"
got "Off".
Miss Able doubted this place even after her first son,
"Question" who took her surname.
But this place does exist-
Where gold is mind inside a poet.
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 4:04 AM UTC
The wild green tree speaks
to her lovers, all through the day,
flirting innocence she was
to the gentle breeze,
those lovely foliage
swaying side to side.
With the indecent demands
of the rowdy wind,
she was rumbustious
not to be left behind even a bit.
Then, the long persistent buzz,
of honey bees, theirs was
an intense affair,
with the inviting white flowers.
The tree was still, as if in goosebumps,
though impetuous, isn't it a diversion lovable?
**I was the lover, hope personified,
the tree, in my dreams I wished,
was waiting with all these
momentary engagements,
for that one great love that thrills her,
from tips to the roots, deep down, unique,
in its intensity, when it happens.
The green leaves, white flowers,
the cacophony of roosting birds,
under the shade was a world,
moving on its own pace,
all the while waiting for the magic love brings.**
The tree was a song of love, wind's whisper,
sweet exchanges inspiring to many lovers around,
all through the day and night.
At dark lonely nights, an oily moon appears,
very late, as if it is reluctant,
the tree stands silent,
looking wistfully at a winking star,
as if her true love was finally found,
though light years away.
**I stand lost in thought,
in my garden, where flowers wilt,
looking at the flickering light,
at your window, getting engulfed by mist**
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 7:26 AM UTC
Poked & prodded at
Everyday Everyday Everyday
I walk outside naked regularly
(The only one, too)
A shady pornstar they've
Made me out to be
Every corner of flesh, Every corner of flesh
It's indecent to be clothed.
Spread open my legs to
A gaggle of flashing camera bulbs.
Express critique
Save a pic
Jot down notes
'Move it, kid.'
Spread open my legs to
A pod of alien queens
Scalpel wrenches, protozoan logs
I'm the life of the party
As their oval heads crowd around
My *** things
Experimented-on weird-o's meander
The halls of this wherever-I-am
Free to leave at last
I sometimes go home after
A day of that
And do an odd thing:
I cocoon myself in blankets
And sleep for long stretches of time.
May 21, 2012
May 21, 2012 at 7:33 PM UTC
The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.
Some would be devoted to acting against consciousness,
Like the flight of a moth which, had it known,
Would have tended nevertheless toward the candle's flame.
Others would deal with ways to silence anxiety,
The little whisper which, though it is a warning, is ignored.
I would deal separately with satisfaction and pride,
The time when I was among their adherents
Who strut victoriously, unsuspecting.
But all of them would have one subject, desire,
If only my own -- but no, not at all; alas,
I was driven because I wanted to be like others.
I was afraid of what was wild and indecent in me.
The history of my stupidity will not be written.
For one thing, it's late. And the truth is laborious.
Berkeley, 1980.
Trans. Robert Hass and Robert Pinsky
2.3k
Igor was torn between casting
the body of a girl
or young woman,
that was merely sexually attractive -
or whether to employ a procession
of young nubiles as secretaries;
now that Natalia had thrown him over for Ivan,
he needed a girl or young woman
who was sexually mature;
possibly even suitable for marriage;
sexually mature; sexually attractive,
desirable, **** luscious; marriageable;
informally, beddable:
Ivan constantly surrounded himself
w/ a posse of nubile young women,
to forget, that's what Eli needed to do;
mid 17th century: from the Latin nubilis
‘marriageable,’ from nubere,
to cover or veil
oneself for a bridegroom;
from the nubes the ‘puffy cloud-like nips’
of a child bride;
[risqué]
photos of coeds of the
fifties & those of
| _sex-trafficked nubiles_
from last week; |
glamour isn't glamorous;
as GMO skanks get injected
w/ female growth hormones
just in case they
decide to
to be mothers someday
slightly indecent or liable
to shock, especially by being sexually
suggestive; "risqué humor" ribald,
rude, ***** Rabelaisian, ***** ****
earthy, indecent, suggestive,
improper, naughty, locker-room;
****** ***** ****** crude, adult,
coarse, obscene, lewd, ******
blue, raunchy; off-color
"risqué stories": mid 19th century: French,
_past participle of risquer ‘to risk’_
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 3:04 AM UTC
Nashville lights, twilight sights
The dancer's dream, the faded stream
perfumed ally, vagrant sally
The words that call, the deadly fall
Embraced indifference, padded surveillance
The silent dreams, The nightly screams.
Whispered messages, diluted references
Fresh bound hopes, depravity copes
indecent alliance, vengeful compliance
dressed for show, momentum's flow
A southern will, the bitter pill
These little flickers that embrace
The dreams of fame's tormented face.
Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 1:23 PM UTC
I have always aspired to a more spacious form
that would be free from the claims of poetry or prose
and would let us understand each other without exposing
the author or reader to sublime agonies.
In the very essence of poetry there is something indecent:
a thing is brought forth which we didn't know we had in us,
so we blink our eyes, as if a tiger had sprung out
and stood in the light, lashing his tail.
That's why poetry is rightly said to be dictated by a daimonion,
though its an exaggeration to maintain that he must be an angel.
It's hard to guess where that pride of poets comes from,
when so often they're put to shame by the disclosure of their frailty.
What reasonable man would like to be a city of demons,
who behave as if they were at home, speak in many tongues,
and who, not satisfied with stealing his lips or hand,
work at changing his destiny for their convenience?
It's true that what is morbid is highly valued today,
and so you may think that I am only joking
or that I've devised just one more means
of praising Art with thehelp of irony.
There was a time when only wise books were read
helping us to bear our pain and misery.
This, after all, is not quite the same
as leafing through a thousand works fresh from psychiatric clinics.
And yet the world is different from what it seems to be
and we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings.
People therefore preserve silent integrity
thus earning the respect of their relatives and neighbors.
The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person,
for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,
and invisible guests come in and out at will.
What I'm saying here is not, I agree, poetry,
as poems should be written rarely and reluctantly,
under unbearable duress and only with the hope
that good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument.
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I sat by the window side at the bus
And ate some chocolate cake with gusto
Headaches from last night's partying
And suddenly I dozed off while eating
How strange...
Someone tapped me on the shoulder
I ****** and opened up my eyes
And saw you with your gentle smile
My face with smudges of chocolate
How embarrassing...
You asked if the seat beside me was vacant
I nodded unable to speak for shame and fear
Of opening my mouth full with chocolate cake
Too conscious how my teeth would look like
How pathetic...
Side by side, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder
Instantly felt the warmth of your smooth skin
You glanced at me and smiled again very slowly
My cheeks were blushing of my indecent thoughts
How pitiful...
You asked softly if where my destination was
I answered politely afraid of looking directly
Too distracted by the musky scent you have in you
I wanted to ask what perfume you were wearing
How awkward...
The journey was tediously long and I had hangover
We sat there for five hours in companionable silence
But my insides were screaming with excitement
By your mere presence, I felt I was safe and sound
How weird...
"Excuse me sir, may I pass?" I nudged you respectfully
Your eyes widened a little bit and nodded in silence
I got off the bus and stared as it continued on the road
Regretted that I never even dared to ask for your name
How hopeless...
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 11:56 PM UTC