"inherits" poems
We keep coming together, you killing me, it's a dead heat. *** so good, we can hardly speak. Climbing on top, she's reaching her peak. Skirt no ******* she hide, I seek. Ready or not, here she **** and I practice what I preach. Locked myself inside her, finders keep. If the meek inherits her world, I guess that makes me weak.
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 5:48 PM UTC
Horrid and morbid, bitter, glittered and littered memories! Automotives, adaptive captives, movies, motives, Natives, locomotives, obsessive and possessive. Some awesome, brilliant, different, ignorant, persistent and resilient. ****** and exotic! Some memories are eccentric, fantastic, futuristic, magic, logistic, optimistic,
plastic, realistic, tragic or sadistic. Some random sizes with hidden prizes! Blameful, gainful, lameful and painful. Dreary destinies, diaries, inquires, weary rivalries, stories and theories in memory.
In theory, memories made from cheers and fears, jeers and tears!
Of amends, amens, omens, gems, hymns and stems. Memories
abbreviated and dedicated, deviated and medicated! Memories cased,
edited and erased. Evangelically, eventually everyone inherits! They’re like tiny merits! They spike the psych. They strike and are unlike. Memories of bites, defects, dislikes, effects, fights, flights, insects, logics, neglects, objects, plight, projects, protests, recollects, reflects
rejects, respects and suspects. Memories of fate and hate! Some are not great. Memories of schemes, screams or themes of dreams that seem. Memories of small, memories of tall! Memories in despise, memories
of lies. Memories of wise; beyond the skies, as I close my eyes…
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 9:40 PM UTC
A rich man's son inherits want
with no desire to work hands bare
Gives the job to another man
to look out from his easy chair
A poor man's son inherits grace
born of toil and sweat of his brow
He adjudged of hard earned merit
pushes on what body will allow
The rich man's son inherits greed
with what malice it may entail
Thinking others beneath his station
for lack of character he does ail
The poor man's son inherits kindness
which with all others level stands
Then asks the outcast bless his door
to share the fruit of his two hands
Heir to what is the rich man's son
tender flesh that fears the cold
To the poor never gives his time
nor dare he wear a garment old
Inheriting, it seems to me
what no good man would wish to be
Heir to what is the poor man's son
strong muscles and pounding heart
Chipped of a marble character
beloved by all he touched in part
Inheriting, it seems to me
what all good men would wish to be
Tate
This is one of three poems I have converted to a new all video format well worth the look at what I feel is the future of our art.
Original all video version
http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/aristate/1355765/
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC
Some of the first mecha featured in manga
& anime were super robots [スーパーロボット _sūpā robotto_],
ultimate, sometimes transforming into weapons
w/ superpowers. They are often one of a kind
products of an ancient civilization, aliens or
mad genius, are usually piloted by Japanese teenagers
& often powered by mystical or exotic energy sources;
Getter Rays, Photonic Energy, Ide, Spiral Power &c.
Sometimes they are formed from
a combination of a few weaker robots;
their abilities described as "quasi-magical";
w/ Miss America becoming less & less
a beauty pageant, it's only a matter of time
before Medusa inherits the mantle;
the revived gods of the ancient world
crossing the rainbow bridge to do battle w/
high-tech monster robots; AI meaning nothing to a flying fist;
Apotheosis, from Greek ἀποθέωσις from ἀποθεοῦν,
apotheoun "to deify"; in Latin deificatio "make divine";
also called divinization & deification;
is the glorification of a subject to divine level;
The term has meanings in theology, where it refers to a belief in art where it refers to a genre;
Defecation is the final act of digestion,
by which organisms eliminate solid, semisolid,
or liquid waste material from the digestive tract via the ****
Humans expel feces w/ a frequency varying
from a few times daily to a few times weekly;
Waves of muscular contraction known as peristalsis
in the walls of the colon move ***** matter
through the digestive tract towards the ******
Undigested food may also be expelled this way,
in a process called _egestion_
Open defecation, the practice of defecating outside
w/out using a toilet of any kind,
is still widespread in some countries,
for example in India, home of the
heroic deities of Hinduism that evolved
from the Vedic era 2nd millennium BCE
through the medieval era, 1st millennium CE
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 10:09 PM UTC
your George Klooney appeals to your filter.
you brunch with Tungsten and straight up toxic marriages.
the mob rules the Jupiter, so therefore and ever after
you mop Hell's kitchen while you slideshow
your thumb through the wreckage
of your tender aggressions in the marsh
where the hard sky lobs acid and false globs
of character... we blur the chi chi's and wiz bang
the last dirge
we incur the wrath of our blissful innocence
and sweeten the Lama
with our Lambda, " all back of the bus, and **** "
we betwixt the twain.
and that's the grease
in the varmint. the tuft of luscious.
you gob-smack the kiwi and chip away at the porcine thunder
of our pagan banquet.
the lungs you drum with; are even now
less equipped to sermon the mount
where your meek inherits
lengua tacos.
and your life means nothing, really....
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
All that I owe the fellows of the grave
And all the dead bequeathed from pale estates
Lies in the fortuned bone, the flask of blood,
Like senna stirs along the ravaged roots.
O all I owe is all the flesh inherits,
My fathers' loves that pull upon my nerves,
My sisters tears that sing upon my head
My brothers' blood that salts my open wounds
Heir to the scalding veins that hold love's drop,
My fallen filled, that had the hint of death,
Heir to the telling senses that alone
Acquaint the flesh with a remembered itch,
I round this heritage as rounds the sun
His windy sky, and, as the candles moon,
Cast light upon my weather. I am heir
To women who have twisted their last smile,
To children who were suckled on a plague,
To young adorers dying on a kiss.
All such disease I doctor in my blood,
And all such love's a shrub sown in the breath.
Then look, my eyes, upon this bonehead fortune
And browse upon the postures of the dead;
All night and day I eye the ragged globe
Through periscopes rightsighted from the grave;
All night and day I wander in these same
Wax clothes that wax upon the aging ribs;
All night my fortune slumbers in its sheet.
Then look, my heart, upon the scarlet trove,
And look, my grain, upon the falling wheat;
All night my fortune slumbers in its sheet.
2.4k
Deare God, preserve the innocent
For they have put their trust in thee
They follow nature without recourse
Thou art their Lord, so protect them
They have not harmed anyone
Their sorrows multiply from the
Minds of Men that thou created
Their inheritance is a portion of thy creation
They suffer now without need
Preserve Them, O God: for in thee
They put their last symbol of faith
They have nothing to bargain with
They cannot pay to escape chaos
They would sell their daughters to
Feed their families, with holy tears
For so little freedom is granted the poor
Therefore my heart would be glad
If you spared a few of the poor
The pure, the self-sacrificed, the down-trodden
Remember them too, while nature inherits
The wicked, the industrious, the hoarders
Those profiteers know nothing about you
God, if there is such a thing as a hell
As a punishment for sin, let it be seen
Let the Nations that do wrong be punished
And let their children bear the weight of the stain.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 10:41 AM UTC
And the trinity knocks with three pops from a filed glock
punched holes stack on forehead knots and a casket drops with dead bolt locks
but who inherits the robots
the cerebral talks
the spine shocks
letting me know of the plots and props of the surrounding city blocks and of the corrupted cops zooming in from distant rooftops
who never even heard the rasping hiss from the six murderous trigger flicks
put me in line behind the mimes to see the ****** therapists lyricist
who stares as time just slips between my fingertips and out our wrists
watches like shackles
circling cackles closing in to tackle these unholy tabernacles
the only battle is to herd the cattle to one spot and make the windows rattle
jig saw enemies wont tattle
like ashes on the mantle
like corpses beneath man holes
like smiling killers without handles
exposing my lyrical scandals
implored to explore the dragons lore they adore
even if my blood pours beneath the bathroom door
Abhorred
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 10:59 PM UTC
Armed with knowledge
of any given set of rules,
One inherits great Power:
arbitration of One's own
Be well-versed
enough to be able to subverse
any and all obstacles, however adverse,
and, moreover, to be able to transverse
thyself (and, by extension, thy universe!)
perchance edified by some means of verse,
(but not necessarily: bask in the diverse!)
during this sacred and fleeting saga of the converse
called Life: denied, defamed, and defiled by perverse
and attenuated souls; true cowards: unwilling to traverse
their own inner darkness, rather opting for the reverse:
to turn themselves schismatically and indefinitely averse
to the divine, ineffable, and limitless inverse:
So this plea, please:
Just be you,
let them be them.
Let me be me,
and let her be her.
Let him be him,
just let us be us.
Just let us.
Lettuce.
*("Why he talkin' 'bout lettuce now, mommy?"
"I guess he just think he funny, the fool!")*
Look, point is:
You are you and I am not,
and I'm okay with that.
I am I and you are not,
and I'm okay with that.
I hope you feel the same.
If not, by me it's coo',
yet I jus' gotta say:
I pity the foo'.
Bask in the holy beauty of this Life
while you still have the chance.
Truly, Solace awaits those who are willing to face this unchangeable aspect of this Life:
Diversity is the nature of this Universe;
the Void is One is Two are Three are the Ten Thousand
(et cetera, blah blah blah)
Get over it and strive for balance.
Maintain balance.
Create it.
Be it.
Be able to lose balance and find it again and again and again...
Be it.
Be you.
I'll be me.
I'll try, at least.
I hope you do, too.
I mean, I hope you try to be you,
not that you try to be me..
'cause that's for me to do.. not you. that's..
oh jesus, here we go!
Foremost,
One must harmonize with One's own Godself.
Nary another
can or will do that for you,
nor shall ye for any other.
So, whatsayeth thou:
let's just try
and we'll see just what we can do.
I'm optimistic,
albeit a sign of weakness in such a needlessly vampyristic world.
Please,
heed my verse
should ye be so apt,
or, rather:
inclined!
Thank you for reading.
Blessings upon thy Path.
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 7:45 AM UTC
Inscribed in the palms of his hands
Fortified and secured in the highest
A soul wearied by lies and injustices
And prideful boasts' unceasing sneers
In pain and utter terror now watch
The wind blows, the flood sweeps
And the fire burns, and the wicked pray
To be raptured from their sins and filth
But mocked and prayers turned to curses
And from embittered hearts vile evil flows
Against each other in mutual annihilation
Thus cleansed and good inherits the Earth
Sep 23, 2025
Sep 23, 2025 at 11:18 PM UTC
The swampy heat draws swarms of bottle-glass
eyed flies who I'll buzz with their Christian name:
dragon. They hover, dive, then skim tall grass;
Cellophane wings beating hurricanes. Game's
afoot, but where? I've seen the solo flight,
pairs mating, but never so many flames
bounced off blue-green foils by the sun's white light.
Their gather's a check for black plumes of beasts
gone unbalanced to these hunters' delight.
If on mosquitoes they make seasoned feast,
my meek blood inherits to this world's least.
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 9:56 AM UTC
#*Planted as a seed
Separated from the weeds
To Nurture
From Mother Nature
She inherits her nature
Ever fragrant her flowers
For one and all , she showers
Weathering seasons all
Resplendent ,she stands tall
Painted on glass
She exudes class
The woman that we know
The woman of now*#
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 7:54 AM UTC
It’s the best when it burns brightly
like an arsonist of wooden bridges
It’s the murdering of moments nightly
as a moth to a flame inherits its own blame
because a cord cutter cuts
and a pain monger guts
a life just to feel
the good bye high
the good bye high
so lo and behold
a rainbow bridge and rumors I am told
of a brilliant pleasure
from an empty *** of gold
like a glorious treasure
of words that I am sold
but, nothing takes my heart like hurt
when we beat a rainbow into black and white
when we see that pain shows wrong is right
so I’m looking for hello in
the good bye high
I’m going to say hello to
the good bye high
the good bye bye
Jun 18, 2011
Jun 18, 2011 at 7:18 AM UTC
the nothing
that’s out there
I keep
to myself.
my talk talks me down.
my kids laugh
in sweet tooth and funny bone.
I am not god’s father figure
but bring anyway
a nervous energy
to my own
birth scene.
it is pretty how one manages
to populate
a personal hell
and it is too pretty
to base an image
on the diary
soaked but drying
in a little house
with a kicked-in door.
some have a story and some think
the having
avoids
the generalizing
others do
to clear space
for space.
for a hobby I’d say
be stunned
by the baby
before
it inherits
separation
anxiety.
once, beneath a storm, be a ghost.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 9:14 AM UTC
I live in the words of other people.
I come alive as they come off the page.
I fall in love with fictional characters and
There are times when I only know how to feel in song lyrics.
I want to name my son
Fred
after a Weasley king.
I hope he inherits a penchant for trouble
and more heroism than he gets credit for.
Sometimes I feel like Sal Paradise,
and I have nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.
I put girls on pedestals and
have too much of a tendency to
yearn for that green light of East Egg.
I fall for Capulets,
but I wasn’t built for tragedy.
I still believe in happily ever after.
May 11, 2011
May 11, 2011 at 12:52 AM UTC
“i am a pen
with a bullet in the
chamber”
—
i am a black boy
burning a book
about history
i am a black boy
painting new colors
on a flag —
it didn’t match
my shoes, red’s and whites
only remind me bloods and angels
I don’t know how to pray to, and I
don’t believe in that
purple predecessor.
i am a spectrum of sunkissed
skintones, calloused and weathered
and stress-tested
those of us who survive the firing squad
are fileted, and
skinned, and worn
they say, the first man who wears
a ******* skin, inherits his
rhythm. and the blues he spent so long
running away from will lay
by his headstone.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 1:37 PM UTC
A shy, quiet girl inherits all her grandmother's vintage belongings. "Amelia," whispered the thinning, cracked lips of a loving woman. "My lovely girl. Have all my finery and jewels, for I've always known you're an old soul. Show them the other side of you. Get yourself out." Before Amelia repels, Lady's hand loosens against Amelia's grip.
This memory looms in her dreams, awake or not. She grows into an elegant woman, rich and not easy to touch, lonely and a doll. People adore her, but only her vintages and fashion.
Grandmother, she thought. I am in a trunk of old riches, but I have no one. Would I die an old soul by myself?
Maybe Lady's last words didn't mean she should've been born before 21st. Not even close. Perhaps it wasn't because of her taste of jazz and frills and laces and pearls and Audrey.
Maybe all this time, it wasn't meant as a praise. All the while her grandmother could see, even before: she would die an old soul, alone and no one to cry on her grave. A little luxury might make her feel better.
Dearest grandmother, nothing did.
Dearest Amelia, all I wanted was for you to step out.
Dearest grandmother, they only liked my facades.
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 10:24 PM UTC
Intrepid damsel,
a heroine unsung.
A willing martyr
with courage
unrivalled.
Unransomed captive
with a ransom
infinite.
She gladly faces
death with eternity
in view.
Like her lover before her,
she chooses to be
a sacrificial lamb
to the slaughter.
Leah Sharibu,
the heroine unsung.
She that chose to mortify
her passions
for timeless paradise.
Hardly daunted by
Kalashnikovs and
thunderous explosives,
she inherits a world
deemed abstract by
unfaithful adherents.
Aug 3, 2019
Aug 3, 2019 at 9:52 AM UTC
if the theatre breathes like a rancid lung
it must exhale into the rafters;
ledger-scent and sour of iron...y,
and hours congealed into one bleak bruise.
then it must be that only (i) inherit a vessel
as one inherits a house wrecked by fire:
walls still too warm with other lives,
wallpaper peeled into letters that spell me.
never (my) name.
heart-beat / heart • skip
(these syllables only ever tally debts.)
(my) palms are tax-collectors with gloves far too soft to grasp mercy.
(my) ribs are two little vaults where accusations slumber.
and there are ceaseless receipts folded inside the sole of (my) shoe.
evenings most beautiful
with rain pouring down their face,
have stopped pooling and now,
they sediment, layer upon layer...
in the strata of one’s rues,
as ossified bulwarks for crimes (i) never learned.
a braided tongue of smoke
knots through (my) chest,
insisting on words (i) never even conceived,
sighing a confession to a jury of
absent eyes.
they led me to the scaffold
palisaded oak, blade polished to a sunless gleam,
and the (crowd), silent as those ledge
pages,
watched
as i was sentenced for the mere act of knowing.
and even as the head fell,
i felt the phonetics of my existence
spill like tarnished coins across the wet cobblestones,
and the (spectators), formless and meticulous,
gathered them as though i were (theirs).
Aug 15, 2025
Aug 15, 2025 at 9:46 AM UTC
A force, strong enough to create an uproar,
but not enough to snap the strings,
exerted itself on either side of my head
asserted something with vigor,
in its attempt to break open the temples gates.
Temples, are named inappropriately so,
for a place that lacks peace and purity.
I fought the force, bravely, but to no avail
I'd realized, fighting it only makes it stronger.
thence I stopped fighting,
Instead, I let it smash the ice-like coolness of mind,
even if it caused tremors and quakes all over.
Now I've let go of the stubbornness that ice inherits,
Now I've turned into water.
Now the blows are rendered meaningless,
Now they drown or float,
And now, I dance a slow dance with a softly sailing boat.
But alas, this peaceful war is still on,
I am still learning to be still,
I am learning to become invincible
By turning into vapor at will.
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 5:55 AM UTC
Someone, you thought, holds
your hand passionately
while walking through the terrains
and prairies of life.
Someone, you thought, intends to strengthen
the threads of love bonds
while writing, day and night,
each chapter of life.
Someone, you thought, inherits
the trait of being together
while counting, good or bad,
each day of life.
Someone, you thought, hisses
to spit that lethal poison
while walking on a separate
yet uncalled path of life.
Someone, you thought, is really mistaken
in waging a war of words
while opting a second part of life.
Someone, you thought, will love you
in the fullest and the finest
while knowing that
would be the end of life.
You thought, you thought
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC
You, who ignores his own kids.
You, who exudes hate like the sun gives out light.
You, their father, you who has made that title empty.
You, you who don't give us the respect and love we deserve,
You who violently ignore the fact that you have lost ours,
You who was once someone worth a damb,
Who is now nothing more than a fat pig.
You who has closed his eyes, ears, and heart to your entire family.
You who wouldn't even care, not even at my funeral.
You who abandoned me.
You, who finally deserves the title of my father.
Like my first father, the one who created me,
You don't care for me or my kin, we are invisible in your eyes.
You like my second father, who hates me and would love for me to stop existing.
You, who now inherits the accursed title,
You, my father.
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 10:14 AM UTC
What does it mean when
Our impish curiosity at forty eight
grows tired and ridiculously became
an Ancient soul at twenty three?
What is poetry heard when
Our otic form invaginates
to a nothingness shape
worthless for publication?
Who inherits money when
Our optic evagination
lives large and expands
sideways not in Academia?
When do features play at
Our theaters twenty three
weeks less computationally
intense than forty eight movies?
Where Is Rogue One seen when
Our self-organizing map
projects friends and faces
onto a understandable dimension
Our two faced goodbye, Ciao
are when hazy mornings rise
in O'Keefe's blue note
meeting our Aloha
surfing stem cells reduced
in the returning space-time
tide to a 1D-film
We have two ins but only one out
Sep 20, 2017
Sep 20, 2017 at 8:42 AM UTC
And before she knew it was happening before her eyes it was to late. the darkness had taken with in her soul. Her body started to change. She was no longer the person everyone thought she was.That very thing she didnt want to become happened. She looked at her new found look she can feel the darkness swirling with in her. It felt good it felt right it was invigorating. She never felt so alive in her life.she felt so empowered by this new found darkness within her the glory of this embodiment of power and beauty. She looked again in the mirror should she embrace it more or should she be afraid of this new found power.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 12:50 AM UTC