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Ian Beckett Nov 2012
Narrow single fall-out bedroom fear,
Four poster dreaming fantasy love,
King size suite is playing-field empty,
Twin queens wondering if just for queens.

Hard or soft, big or small, no fun alone.

These sleepless thoughts caused,
By ever increasing jetlagged jetlag,
Which now feels more like hangover,
But incurable with a walk or hair of the dog.
annmarie Dec 2013
It's almost two in the morning
and I miss you
like a lot
and I'm not sure exactly
how even to express it
because lately it's been weird
but I haven't been very inspired.
And for you,
it's almost six in the evening
and I hope you miss me
but not too much.
But I've learned a little bit
that being even father apart
from your smile
isn't all that difficult,
until I'm falling asleep
as you're starting the afternoon
and you're falling asleep
as I wake up.
And so it's just a bit harder
to tell you I love you
as often as I want to,
but as it's two in the morning
while it's six in the evening,
I hope that you know
how much you really mean to me
and how much I hate missing you
but I absolutely can't help it
at two in the morning
when I think of you laughing
and try to recreate
feeling your hand in mine
with my own fingers,
hoping that at six in the evening
you're thinking of my teasing
and wanting our kisses
just as much as I do.
Since we won't be together
tomorrow at midnight,
I guess I'll be sending
my New Year's kiss
over a text message,
relying on
my slow wifi
and your bad reception.
Think of it as a placeholder, I guess,
at least until the next time I see you.
Cause even at my two in the morning
or even at your six in the evening
it's the very best thing

I can think of to be doing.
Robin Carretti Jan 2019
Only paper to feel our
secret lips sealed to expect
something posted
money is what it is
The blessing Sweet Lord yes
Well I have news for ya

Haha Tra la Oh La La
The laughing stock
Having any luck the
fortune teller 
Tick tock birds
in a flock
His cards race timing
clock
He's so dapper
The double bond of paper
Further apart or closer
_ what?

What did you expect
Oh! what the heck
Tip of the hat  "You Rock"
paper scissors
All resisters fingers scratch
Round paper another match
Did we see the black cat
The movie cut no time
for losers so ****
Out of our head zigzag

On the plane paper card
and I somewhere over
the rainbow
Prepare yourself for the show
Judy's turn and Johnny
be good taking flight
        jetlag
_?

In life, if you play
your cards
Eyes so set to win
Just begin don't dig your
own grave expect to
be saved
The invitation the best
Scotch and match her
Gin standout grin
The Queen of the Ball
Oh! God Godmother
Expect another brother

From strangers to lovers
From birth expected
I will always love my
Mother
The lucky number
Fathers birthday January
13th I remember

Morning glory flower
"Robin-September"
Other peoples money
"The Bee's A= Honey
"Law of Attraction"
Time at birth
Does money grow on
trees
How unexpected
I saw you on your knees
The new year online

The--- world--- we--- all-- shine

Showing your good heart
writing in your diary
He is so loyal his
wedding finger just mastery
Knows her hand and fingers
New lyrics to your song
A card to nose falling
snowflake
She tingles like the keepsake
"Robin Remake" jitterbug
jingles

The silk ribbon heart card
for singles
If its only paper you could
rip to tear
What do you really fear?
The whole world
trigger happy
If your happy and you
know it
Clap your hands
SunFace to Dark world
 Hitman
The Wizard of Oz
It's in your stars
Who is your
biggest fan?
The movie card Tinman
If I only had a heart
or brain
Expect Robinhood train

You better be good
He acts like he's God
Smell the orange zest
Expect your New Year to
be the very very berry best

If its only paper
money flies down
to zero
You're bigger than life
Expect a hero
So many good ones
in poverty
The rich what do
they need
to confess?

Everything goes bam
Uncle Sam chances slim
What's left for
her Social Security,
She-devil with patience
The "Grand Entrance"
The door goes slam
Your health insurance
truly your protector
In paper cutout heart
forged signatures
Camera light fourteen carat
card like copycats
High cheekbones you love
Your I tunes

Whole world feeding lies
Apple computer like a virus
just dies
Your best paper card
remained in your head
Thinking of Valentines day
Its hot Red red red

Like Moms delicious
Nutritious Apple
Paper card coconut- lime
Not a crime "Mon Cherie"
Hear it for the boy's
boysenberry
Taking the New York ferry  
The right words to a card
What you got way beyond
ambition you worked hard

Then smile when your heart
is aching New year we are
expecting you
You will find your words on
the paper card

Some people have no regard
Like poem words so strong
believing who you are
God is not a paper moon
Expect a card real soon
All in the family everyone's
happiness stack of cards
It's in your smile you touched
Someone's heart inside there
card and met "Godliness"
What we expect to stay happy when its hurts stand tall don't pick up the paper if you feel not the person you so really have the best spirit love you for who you are  without such high expectation to only fear
Emma B Jul 2013
living on two hours
of "sleep"
groggy doesn't even begin
to describe
the disorientation.
how do i walk
It's midnight!
not noon!
Someone get me a latte.
Incoherent ramblings from a jetlagged traveler. ugh.
Ray Aug 2013
silent defeat
down rosy worn out cheeks
once my moon has risen
to its highest peak;
where are your rough fingertips
to wipe away my storm?
pulling back the blinds
to block out your sun.
Sleep now before they wake
for your night has reached its end
and mine has just begun.
Idiosyncrasy Aug 2016
The feeling I had
When I crossed
The time you loved me
To the time you left me.
maudy Dec 2016
talking about last night dust
i can promise you
miles of sand dunes
only to fill
your empty lungs
breathless.

or we could
move our souls away
to the north
so the loss of time
will be forever
painless.
Lottie Jun 2015
To be awake for thirty six hours and it not be strange
My most persistent friends
have become six hours of jetlag
and the fading buzz of airline coffee--
as black and unforgiving as our red-eye flight,
as we wander German streets-- Füssen,
where the air is always crisp
and graceful, even awkwardly emerging
from an ugly winter.
Neuschwanstein castle sits mockingly
in the horizon-- the locals pass it by,
as I, some baffled foreigner
from Nowhere, Ohio,
where the streets bear gas stations
and the shameless scars
of recent construction (always
building, nothing built)
stand in disbelief.

Our thirst brings Jenny
and I to a Getränkeladen --
I sip on my first taste
of Apfelsaftschorle
as a roaring crowd
of local teens barge in,
with the violence of
a tornado we'd see in Xenia...
They speak in a crude,
indistinguishable slang
that Frau never could have
taught us
in room 322

Jenny hovers mindlessly
by the door-- contemplating
a bottle of Coca-Cola,
as the teenage stampede
shoves her off to the side--
fleeing out the door,
having bought nothing,
as the storekeeper sighs in disbelief.

They tore through
such a quaint little shop
with such an aimless recklessness,
one wouldn't think
a centuries-old castle
looms nonchalantly in the distance...

I was thirteen years old
and clueless--
Ben, who I believe is now
in juvie, and Ryan
stand on either side--
dumpy teenagers
in baggy clothes,
speaking in a crude,
brutal slang
that was invented in its usage.
We loitered every street
that would tolerate us,
in these exhausted Ohioan
suburbs, we tore through sidewalks
bearing unremarkable houses
in a sleepy neighborhood
with no grand castles nearby.

Our lazy strides, our ******
banter-- from Füssen, Germany,
to Who Cares, Ohio--
whether there's Neuschwanstein
or a Speedway to conquer,
there's never anything to do at home.

*So wie ist das Leben...
-Getränkeladen: beverage store
-Apfelsaftschorle: carbonated beverage containing mineral water and apple juice
-"So wie ist das Leben" roughly means "such as life." I'm not sure if that translates well; if you happen to be proficient in German, constructive criticism on that would be appreciated. (I'm only somewhat fluent)
miso Nov 2013
Time and space unidentifiable
Afloat midair—hands and feet
Reasons and instincts, a hazy distance
Focus.

Stumbling awkwardly—a dull thud—all faults are revealed
On one ankle, a societal ***** tightens
Calloused by sharp emotions, numbed on hardened skin

I, on show behind the glass case—but that isn't me
All the truths became fiction, therefore I became a lie
Cake this mind of mine with makeup, don't let the sadness smear
A whirlpool, a hollow core, conflicted once again
At this point—although overdue:
Can this muddy rock still become the promised pearl?

A lurking presence of my fading self
In an unknown place, out of reach
There's the brutal wind, crashing-
Stumbling again, trampling in dust

Did the colours just fade?
My vision has never been this grey
That vibrant self of mine, where has it gone-
Is it gone

"Without conditions you must struggle,"
Those people aren't my enemies, don't misunderstand
There simply was nobody by my side
Walking this place alone so no one could hurt me—backfired

The world looks so noisy from the outside
Better readjust that person of mine
So I can at least fall asleep some day, even if by accident
To recover from this senseless jetlag of emotions
Traveled within the strict space of a room

I'll breathe it well—the last cold gush of air
To those creatures who coexisted within me
Have you all been well?
Suitcases get tagged, prepare for jetlag
  As you mount the stairs to the plane
Four layovers on your way over
  You hope it doesn't drive you insane

Announcements vague as your house slips away
  Leaving for another country
You flew the globe and moved your home
  Five times before you were twenty

Now the transit stays just can't faze
  Your ******* travel attitude
You never feel sick with the seats you pick
  And adjust well to the altitude

But something inside nags and asks why
  You're always in constant motion
You wonder how it would feel now
  If you'd never crossed that ocean

You forget the feeling and just quit dealing
  With memories left behind
But the thoughts come back, you've got some packed
  In the luggage of your mind
c quirino Jan 2011
My jetlag had finally bid adieu in a land,
republic and former colony the size of my thumb,
but with the strength of bulls on steroids
running through
a field of democratic china shops.

and your money's no good here.
your name,
that silly outfit from little oz.

I have no pictures of myself here.
only a porcelain-plated version in orchid hues,
dwarfed by my favorite ivory window.

from which the fall would most certainly be glorious for
5
4
3
2
seconds.
© Constante Quirino
My most persistent friends
have become six hours of jetlag
and the fading buzz of airline coffee--
as black and unforgiving as our red-eye flight,
as we wander German streets-- Füssen,
where the air is always crisp
and graceful, even awkwardly emerging
from an ugly winter.
Neuschwanstein castle sits mockingly
in the horizon-- the locals pass it by,
as I, some baffled foreigner
from Nowhere, Ohio,
where the streets bear gas stations
and the shameless scars
of recent construction (always
building, nothing built)
stand in disbelief.

Our thirst brings Jenny
and I to a Getränkeladen --
I sip on my first taste
of Apfelsaftschorle
as a roaring crowd
of local teens barge in,
with the violence of
a tornado we'd see in Xenia...
They speak in a crude,
indistinguishable slang
that Frau never could have
taught us
in room 322

Jenny hovers mindlessly
by the door-- contemplating
a bottle of Coca-Cola,
as the teenage stampede
shoves her off to the side--
fleeing out the door,
having bought nothing,
as the storekeeper sighs in disbelief.

They tore through
such a quaint little shop
with such an aimless recklessness,
one wouldn't think
a centuries-old castle
looms nonchalantly in the distance...

I was thirteen years old
and clueless--
Ben, who I believe is now
in juvie, and Ryan
stand on either side--
dumpy teenagers
in baggy clothes,
speaking in a crude,
brutal slang
that was invented in its usage.
We loitered every street
that would tolerate us,
in these exhausted Ohioan
suburbs, we tore through sidewalks
bearing unremarkable houses
in a sleepy neighborhood
with no grand castles nearby.

Our lazy strides, our ******
banter-- from Füssen, Germany,
to Who Cares, Ohio--
whether there's Neuschwanstein
or a Speedway to conquer,
there's never anything to do at home.

*So wie ist das Leben...
-Getränkeladen: beverage store
-Apfelsaftschorle: carbonated beverage containing mineral water and apple juice
-"So wie ist das Leben" roughly means "such as life." I'm not sure if that translates well; if you happen to be proficient in German, constructive criticism on that would be appreciated. (I'm only somewhat fluent)
Sean Hunt Sep 2018
I'm leaving this
a little late
I hesitate
procrastinate
but soon
I'll see my son
across the sea
I'll see him
he'll see me
Jetlag is
a horrid hell
but then we'll have
some tales to tell
I wonder what
those tales will be
when I return
across the sea
We'll have to wait
and see
Aditya Roy Aug 2019
Have no pillow
I take my heart in a coroner
Report
Leave my tools on the gold mine
Fools can take my fold
Sting my ray
Lark my lackey and strike my bow
I need come and take me away
Live in the east wind and lasso my west wind
Keep my odious gold here and there
Ladle on the minor Asian, and Odoriferous gold
Report
My mortared soul
Take my breath away, with lava lamps
I'm just here in the right fast lane
I need a deluge, a guy needs a space
My ghoul, my Tokyo dream, breathlag
Jetlag
Ian Beckett Mar 2014
1,000 miles from the Merry Christmas muzak in Port Moresby
Fat Brisbane taxi philosopher’s poor mouth moaning season
Navan road Sydney AMEX girl pining for the cold in Dublin
Along with traditional stuffing of turkey ham and trimmings.  

10,000 miles to London via sticky Bangkok “Merry Clistmas”
And cattle class envy of First class lounge showers mid-flight
But Jetlag is the same nightmare at both ends of the plane
As we fly across the universe to be home for Christmas.

1,000,000 people flying to their friends and families
Do all those sad, glad, bad, mad once-a-year reunions
Make it to Happy New Year without killing each other
Resolving to be prosperous, viceless and happy again?
Luka Love Feb 2011
10 hours, 2 hours, 4 hours, 9

Stop, start, wait, eat,

Can’t sleep

Fall in a heap

At the terminal



Feeling terminal

As time zones shift beneath me

Rearranging sequences on a metaphysical scale

Flight fail

Stuck here again now

Another 2 hours I’ll never get back



Meetings here and yonder

Time to ponder

Falls victim to jetlag

As I sag under the burden of my workstyle



A carousel of different faces

Fleeting encounters of disparate races

But it’s all worth it

When I can drop the charade

And wrap my arms around

My welcome home parade



*~ L. Alexander Carlé
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2021
X
i quiet simply adore London when it's windy...
flimsy £125 Viking road bicycle...
but the ergo (anatomic) shape of the handlebars...
well: you can be equipped with at least 3 cycling
positions... but i can come up with 4...
from (circa) Havering-atte-Bower
to the lake in Hyde Park...
roughly 20 miles one way... but i imagine it's more:
there and back? over 40 miles most certainly:
and on a day such as the one i was presented with:
where the wind was so harsh i was
swerving: being thrown side to side...
a chance to sit on a bench: giggle a while
while admiring the birds... and the water...
my god... the water... the water on the lake
inspired me to conjure up the times i'd admire
Kamienna River: a river of stones...
and Heraclitus...
just sat there: drinking a Heinekken
reading a little... smoking two cigarettes...
a stork... a swan... some other birds i don't know
the names of perched on stilts erected from
the depths... spirit: 12 dreams of dr. sardonicus...
oh the best part of the journey is from Startford
across the Bow overpass through to Mile End
& beyond...
i'm sure you can get to 25mph type of speed...
when London is this windy...
it's unbelievably realistic:
reality... and all their counterpart pockets of:
what i need...
well... as per usual... a man sitting on a bench
alone: grinning at nature will evidently come across
several women walking past...
in London that's implicit of at least one
lesbian couple...
god... they looked so miserable...
the single girls looked so miserable...
even this one woman pushing a buggy with a child
in it was muttering something under her lips...
oddly enough two gays were captivated by
feeding a colt of a swan... they seemed rather
content...
also: it's fun cycling through these supposed
"no-go zones" in western society...
what... you think that the face i pull when cycling
for over 40 miles doesn't look
like the face i have when... ahem...
i might be having ***...
thank god i don some Lycra shorts under some
proper cotton balloon wide shorts...
it's the most fun when approaching the Sq. Mile:
the financial district...
oh sure... all of these men look "donning: the look"...
of importance...
but once you cycle past this area
you enter the territory of the sugar babies...
and the happy... hip... shoppers...
if i saw a vinyl shop: i'd go in...
but all that seems to be sold is...
mobiles... sneakers... clothes...
i get a thrill when i put on piece of clothing
and the label reads: MADE IN BANGLADESH...
i still have a shirt that has a label that reads:
MADE IN IRELAND...
anything made on China is... well... Chinese...
it has to be readily replaced...
of all the places i visited:
if it wasn't for the French speaking... well.. French...
Paris... it's the city to be alive in!
Edinburgh? i imagine it's the city best disposed
to entertaining ghosts...
i'd love to live in Paris...
                  i'd rather be dead in Edinburgh...
i've been allocated Loon'don...
even from the outskirts i can make a 4pm
shuffle of peak-hour traffic with great ease:
i don't usually pat-myself-on-the-back
with compliment: but i reckon i'm a decent cyclist...
not even swimming can afford me
the sort of freedoms that cycling does
in an urban environment...
here's to: no gym bro...
            traffic... go! go! go! at the roundabout...
miserable women walking past a guy
drinking a beer on a park bench: who's also
grimacing... why is it that all the loveliest of the lot
end up being prostitutes?
i never understood that... is it that
there's a conundrum concerning beauty:
it must be shared... it must be experienced by
the greatest number of admirers?
all the beautiful girls end up as prostitutes...
hell: there are outliers... obviously...
but in my vicinity...
the ones with motherly "responsibilities" are...
well... if i had to? i still wouldn't...
sorry... it's not cruel when it's being... what's that currency
of "cool" these days? ah... BASE...
the women breeding: from what i've seen...
it's like those few things i heard when
first arriving in England circa 1994 - 1997 before
i was kindly asked to leave...
for a year... never mind...
the beast from the east...
(it wasn't about jetlag) and...
look busy... Jesus is coming...
but this final hearsay i picked up on the street...
the mentality of an Anglo-Saxon...
i was a child: i simply overheard...
make sure you pick an average looking woman
for a wife...
with that scenario in play
you will not have to worry about other men
desiring her...
well **** me! what's the point of the ninja niqab, then?!

chicken / egg..
what came first? the ninja attire or the niqab?
seriously... they could start by revising the fabric
to make it white...
oh... right... Islam... hot topic these days
with the politician in Essex... the bow & arrows...
sure...
i'm glad that Islam had a schism so early...
so early that the son-in-law contested
the integrity of Muhammad...
i'm glad Islam had a schism in its infancy:
without all the Christian delayed bureaucracy...
council of Trent... etc.

ergo? Islam is not a true religion...
it can't be if it had a schism...
a true religion would be immune to... schism...
oh ****... well: that boat sailed...
from my reasoning...
side with the heretics...
the ****'ites are your best pick...
of course i'd side with the Iranians...
after all: they retain their pride in also being
of the heritage lot that was once known as Persian...
side with the ****'ites and...
well... the best prostitutes are Turkish...
but the cream of the crop concerning the aesthetic of
****** hair: being tended to?
no barber is better than a Turkish barber...
Turks... sort of Muslim but sort of:
not really... they drink!
- and since there is this long history of
their presence in Europe...
it's not like... "my" people did spar frequently with
them on the debate of: who's to own Vienna?!

hell: i'd join the Janissary corpus if i even could...
problem with history:
sometimes too much daydreaming gets invoked...

oh... right... slight impromptu...
as much as i adore exploring the country-lanes
of Essex... by comparison...
walking into a forest at night to admire
the moon... or walking into a graveyard:
also at night: to also admire the moon...
there this massive volume of creatures
in an urban environment...
i call it... the wilderness of humanity...

i wish i could have pseudo-echo's his eyes
blasting from my headphones when
i pass queen mary "professors"
crossing the street when
the light in green for me:
but red for them...
i passed so close i could almost stroke
their cheeks...
am i not traffic? am i a pedestrian
walking at 5mph?!
the ****?!

of course i tend to abuse the rules...
if there's an ambulance coming from behind me
flashing its lights and signalling with a siren...
i'll latch onto it to bypass traffic!

this is not airy-*******-fairy
cycling akin to the Pata-physician:
jarred, alfred...
this is... you're trying to get home:
i'm "sort of" also going home...
beside those solipsistic autistic "miracles"
of traffic... who... seem oblivious to
themselves: let alone others...
RETARDS...
no... they are retards....
given the potential for manslaughter...
oh sure... the inglorious & subsequently
sanctimonious cyclist: like... never...

come into the dark forest with me
let me put on a hockey mask...
or... i don a William Shatner latex and subsequently
say:                RUN...

care: in terms of traffic: has to be the most
universal rite of passage...
it should be a right...
more: it ought to be argued for...
but never use a much larger vehicle when inserting yourself
at the blind-spot end...
on the outside lane...

                  see that the truck driver sees you in his mirror
like you're overtaking traffic...
come on! the basics!
get to grips with unconscious arithmetic pf spacing!
you can't fit through: slow down...
slow the **** down!

no... no one's listening in the choir...
compared with: you can have the optimum experience
of cycling in heavy urban traffic: indicate! indicate with
your hands... to... hello ******: you're dead...
i think there's a "difference"...

with the current climate of killings...
let's be frank...
old age is the most cruel mistress of all..
a sudden death seems almost like a sanctity..
come old age: you wait... and you wait...
and wait... nothing happens...
this supposed wish of(f) Caesar is...
somehow a blessing..
to die: suddenly...
thunderstruck....
               mein gott...
                               to depart this world in the same
way one arrived in it?!
can you imagine the luck?!

hier: die großnacht hat kommen...
einfach wörter: einfach: ladung!
We sweat out our jetlag on the streets around Thanjavar.
Here graceful GrandMothers sit in dusty lanes.
Tiny girls scurry out of school laughing
They are caught in embrace,
Tucked between the legs of parents on scooters and two wheeled away.
In India 2023 December
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
/         it's almost like an antithesis of ****,
given this english heatwave -
a woman's brag rule:
i.e. she can give any man a hard-on,
any time of day, any place
on this, currently, godforsaken earth...
even a somali living in england
says: it's too hot...
                   well ****-me-timber!
i thought i was becoming
trans-racial for a second there -
             because if it's not a former
friend of mine, in highschool
(great footballer potential -
succumbing to a ****** insecurity,
aged 16)...
   what next? a walking ***** analogy?
oh the shame of actually
being wet while... having *** forced
upon you -
   like modern ****, and the imposed
self-**** (samo gwaɫt) on men
(*******) - ****** dissonance...
limp **** elsewhere -
   where only prostitutes can break
the curse of making synchronißation
of the two artefacts of ***:
in private, and in the doubly-private...
but you somehow notice -
women have this brag law "jetlag"
composite to them...
    and i have slept with prostitutes
that bypassed the dry-****
smearing ****** scream onto their
  genitals -
           but i've also slept with
a south african atypical boers woman...
who... somehow forgot to lubricate
her genitals... my my!
   what a joyous experience for "little richard"...
seriously...
          a woman of her stature,
teaching mathematics in an all-boys
boarding school?
      given an ongoing "pension"
   of having her accommodation paid for,
living on campus?
        *** like circumcision in real-time,
       without any anaesthetics...
and then they mouth of prostitutes -
or pretend to "defend" their rights...
   the same women who do not possess
the same sensibility of prostitutes -
who... whether they want to ******* or not...
will add an extra tier of lubrication -
perhaps because they have exhausted
the natural resources on the fifth client
in one night...
     hence... ****...
          yeah... why would a ****** suddenly
**** a non-lubricated ****?
subsequent reaction from women?
   masochism...
                        utter self-loathing...
a schizophrenic multiplication complex,
where once there was a quasi-understood
ego, comes the algebraic (X)...
     and what's with this *******
under bedsheet, like a larva of a butterfly
emerging from a, ******* cocoon?
here's a schematic:
1. walks into a brothel, asks for a glass of water
2. the one who gives him a glass of water
   he takes into a bedroom
3. asks how much for an hour,
pays her, she walks out with the money
4. he quickly undresses,
  and lays his naked **** on the bedsheets
5. she walks in: huh? and casually undresses
6. and they lie on the bedsheets
7. **** me, that enwrapping leg,
that thigh! across his torso.
8. the end.
it's not funny being "*****" on a casual
date...
              not when she hasn't the decency
to lubricate herself,
  if she, nonetheless wants to
             have *** in a cocoon fashion...
would there be any rapists
if all the women *****,
   had an evolutionary instinct:
   to not be aroused?
                what... like otherwise -
putting your phallus between sandpaper?
paradox numero uno.
Veni May 2018
Just sitting here laying in the bed
Can’t focus
Got so many problems crying inside my head
Long night
Well my day will be longer
My jetlag and regret just continue to grow stronger
As I grow older and my nights are even more cold
I don’t know what’s darker a cemetery or my soul
I wish I knew how to cope
I wish I knew how to get it off
I wish I knew that life wasn’t gone be ****
I guess I’ll just eat another lost
******* still hoeing but I’m paying the cost
For respect
But still consistent neglect
I want to embrace a check but instead
I just hate my ex
And sit in my room and cry
Then ask what’s next
Get over one obstacle just to hope the best
And then that check turn to an x
Like a 45 to ya chest
*** can I expect
After 21 years of ridicule and disrespect
That’s why I come so vicious and at ya neck
So if you come to me COME correct
You don’t know **** about me to assume your comments as direct.
I may act perplexed but really
I’m just being you in full effect
See people don’t like when you become the reflection of what they run from
I don’t run
I lived my life through so much ****
I eat a loss and whomever threw it
Ain’t never gone be mad, as long as you look me in my eye when you do it.
NOT a soul has.
All comments shall pass
And worthless opinions
Keep them , they won’t last.
Can’t eat no more *******
I must fast
Maybe ain’t praying hard enough
That should always be the first thing to do
And never the last.
Veni May 2018
Hells guardian angel
Paradises past
Clothed majestically with No mask
No more white
Just all black
Need more love but she doesn’t have that
So she just tends to the wicked as heavens reject
Stuck in the middle ,between two worlds
Feeding the hands of another soul
To soon leave and leave her cold
She knows
And so does heaven
Legs and visions parallel; like the number 11
Dig deep
The root of stimulation and pleasure
Why must I continue to repeat
My own decision to spare the wicked has left me in deceit
As i continue to spare such narcissist, I wonder when God's mercy is going to spare me .
Not so blind anymore but I still can’t see.
I want to see what God sees in me.
My flesh had suffocated w ignorance
Left my faith in a state of squander
Black
Emotions collide
hope evaporates like a rainbow after the sunset
The light of million suns couldn’t revive hell’s angel
She waits
And waits
For a feeling that’s more than genuine
less affecting
Less toxic
She consumes and carries the jetlag of the wicked
Uses her selfless spirit to convey passion of philanthropy
Although she knows everyone’s intentions before displayed
Mans game and trick is not what leaves her in disarray
Who’s left to feed her soul after she’s lent her spirit to one who are ignorant to love itself
Permanently Stained by flesh
my earthly doings are not enough
Done w wicked spirits And their earthly bluff
I remain the Earth as God is Love.

— The End —