"lana" poems - Hello Poetry

I hope I don’t see anyone I know I need to be high to enjoy the show It’s wearing off can we please go? Come back to my place we’ll snort some blow

0

Jul 19, 2018

Jul 19, 2018 at 1:02 PM UTC

Sadsadboy

Lana Del Gay

I hope I don’t see anyone I know I need to be high to enjoy the show It’s wearing off can we please go? Come back to my place we’ll snort some blow

4

Palkein bhi ankhiyon se karti hain shikayat, Aayi hai kaisi kayamat, Kyu mujh par bin mausam barsaat karti ** Jaanti hu dard bhara hai seene mein par mujhko kyu bhigati ** Sikhati hai bahut hua paani barsaana, Dusro ki khushiyon mein apni manzil hai pana, Dusro ka marham bankar Hriday mein deep jalakar Khushiyon ke geet gaana hai, Apni jhopdi jali ** bhale kisi aur ki nahi ujadne dena hai, Kasam hai khayi, Haaregi jaroor burayi, Aag lagi hai dil mein Khade hue hain fir se Log kehte hai paisa hai khushiyon ki chabi Galat, bilkul galat wo sirf hai jaroori Paisa khushiyan nahi khareed sakta Dusro ko khushi dekar is masoom dil ko sukoon milta, Pochh do kisi ki bheegi palkein Milengi anekon duaein Antaraatma bhi hogi paavan Khush honge bhagwan Dua hai dil se hamari Bhale le lo hamari khushiyan saari Par is dil se kisi ka dil na tute Warna ruth jayenge khud se, Hamare ruthe chehre bhi khile gulaab ban jate hai, Jab kisi ke chehre par hamari wajah se muskan aate hai, Ab Naa koi dard, Naa kisi gum ka saya hoga, Hume khush dekh dard bhi akele me muskuraya hoga, Dusaro ki muskan lana hi hamari khwaish hai, Na kisi se koi bair, Na kisi se koi numaish hai, Jo log kisi rote hue ko insaan ko hasate hai, Wo log khuda ko bhi bahut hi bhate hai, Khuda unlogo pr kripayen aapar kar dete hain, Unki jholi sirf khushiyo se bhar dete hain, Ek sadharan insaan bhagwan budha, Mahaveer tabhi kahlata hai, Jab kisi ke berang sapno me sunhare rang bhar jata hai, Hamari apni khushi bhale hi humse ruthi hai, Ab tou dusro ki khushi hi hamari khushi hai, Hamari khushi hai..... Collaboration by Shrivastva MK and Sonia Paruthi

0

Apr 2, 2018

Apr 2, 2018 at 6:55 AM UTC

ShrivastvaMK

Dusro ki khushi hamari khushi

Palkein bhi ankhiyon se karti hain shikayat, Aayi hai kaisi kayamat, Kyu mujh par bin mausam barsaat karti ** Jaanti hu dard bhara hai seene mein par mujhko kyu bhigati ** Sikhati hai bahut hua paani barsaana, Dusro ki khushiyon mein apni manzil hai pana, Dusro ka marham bankar Hriday mein deep jalakar Khushiyon ke geet gaana hai, Apni jhopdi jali ** bhale kisi aur ki nahi ujadne dena hai, Kasam hai khayi, Haaregi jaroor burayi, Aag lagi hai dil mein Khade hue hain fir se Log kehte hai paisa hai khushiyon ki chabi Galat, bilkul galat wo sirf hai jaroori Paisa khushiyan nahi khareed sakta Dusro ko khushi dekar is masoom dil ko sukoon milta, Pochh do kisi ki bheegi palkein Milengi anekon duaein Antaraatma bhi hogi paavan Khush honge bhagwan Dua hai dil se hamari Bhale le lo hamari khushiyan saari Par is dil se kisi ka dil na tute Warna ruth jayenge khud se, Hamare ruthe chehre bhi khile gulaab ban jate hai, Jab kisi ke chehre par hamari wajah se muskan aate hai, Ab Naa koi dard, Naa kisi gum ka saya hoga, Hume khush dekh dard bhi akele me muskuraya hoga, Dusaro ki muskan lana hi hamari khwaish hai, Na kisi se koi bair, Na kisi se koi numaish hai, Jo log kisi rote hue ko insaan ko hasate hai, Wo log khuda ko bhi bahut hi bhate hai, Khuda unlogo pr kripayen aapar kar dete hain, Unki jholi sirf khushiyo se bhar dete hain, Ek sadharan insaan bhagwan budha, Mahaveer tabhi kahlata hai, Jab kisi ke berang sapno me sunhare rang bhar jata hai, Hamari apni khushi bhale hi humse ruthi hai, Ab tou dusro ki khushi hi hamari khushi hai, Hamari khushi hai..... Collaboration by Shrivastva MK and Sonia Paruthi

42

Sucede que me canso de ser hombre. Sucede que entro en las sastrerías y en los cines marchito, impenetrable, como un cisne de fieltro navegando en un agua de origen y ceniza. El olor de las peluquerías me hace llorar a gritos. Sólo quiero un descanso de piedras o de lana, sólo quiero no ver establecimientos ni jardines, ni mercaderías, ni anteojos, ni ascensores. Sucede que me canso de mis pies y mis uñas y mi pelo y mi sombra. Sucede que me canso de ser hombre. Sin embargo sería delicioso asustar a un notario con un lirio cortado o dar muerte a una monja con un golpe de oreja. Sería bello ir por las calles con un cuchillo verde y dando gritos hasta morir de frío. No quiero seguir siendo raíz en las tinieblas, vacilante, extendido, tiritando de sueño, hacia abajo, en las tripas mojadas de la tierra, absorbiendo y pensando, comiendo cada día. No quiero para mí tantas desgracias. No quiero continuar de raíz y de tumba, de subterráneo solo, de bodega con muertos, aterido, muriéndome de pena. Por eso el día lunes arde como el petróleo cuando me ve llegar con mi cara de cárcel, y aúlla en su transcurso como una rueda herida, y da pasos de sangre caliente hacia la noche. Y me empuja a ciertos rincones, a ciertas casas húmedas, a hospitales donde los huesos salen por la ventana, a ciertas zapaterías con olor a vinagre, a calles espantosas como grietas. Hay pájaros de color de azufre y horribles intestinos colgando de las puertas de las casas que odio, hay dentaduras olvidadas en una cafetera, hay espejos que debieran haber llorado de vergüenza y espanto, hay paraguas en todas partes, y venenos, y ombligos. Yo paseo con calma, con ojos, con zapatos, con furia, con olvido, paso, cruzo oficinas y tiendas de ortopedia, y patios donde hay ropas colgadas de un alambre: calzoncillos, toallas y camisas que lloran lentas lágrimas sucias.

0

12.2k

Pablo Neruda

Walking around

Sucede que me canso de ser hombre. Sucede que entro en las sastrerías y en los cines marchito, impenetrable, como un cisne de fieltro navegando en un agua de origen y ceniza. El olor de las peluquerías me hace llorar a gritos. Sólo quiero un descanso de piedras o de lana, sólo quiero no ver establecimientos ni jardines, ni mercaderías, ni anteojos, ni ascensores. Sucede que me canso de mis pies y mis uñas y mi pelo y mi sombra. Sucede que me canso de ser hombre. Sin embargo sería delicioso asustar a un notario con un lirio cortado o dar muerte a una monja con un golpe de oreja. Sería bello ir por las calles con un cuchillo verde y dando gritos hasta morir de frío. No quiero seguir siendo raíz en las tinieblas, vacilante, extendido, tiritando de sueño, hacia abajo, en las tripas mojadas de la tierra, absorbiendo y pensando, comiendo cada día. No quiero para mí tantas desgracias. No quiero continuar de raíz y de tumba, de subterráneo solo, de bodega con muertos, aterido, muriéndome de pena. Por eso el día lunes arde como el petróleo cuando me ve llegar con mi cara de cárcel, y aúlla en su transcurso como una rueda herida, y da pasos de sangre caliente hacia la noche. Y me empuja a ciertos rincones, a ciertas casas húmedas, a hospitales donde los huesos salen por la ventana, a ciertas zapaterías con olor a vinagre, a calles espantosas como grietas. Hay pájaros de color de azufre y horribles intestinos colgando de las puertas de las casas que odio, hay dentaduras olvidadas en una cafetera, hay espejos que debieran haber llorado de vergüenza y espanto, hay paraguas en todas partes, y venenos, y ombligos. Yo paseo con calma, con ojos, con zapatos, con furia, con olvido, paso, cruzo oficinas y tiendas de ortopedia, y patios donde hay ropas colgadas de un alambre: calzoncillos, toallas y camisas que lloran lentas lágrimas sucias.

45

i need it: the concrete floors that send electricity through the soles of my shoes, the ascent up stairs, cold metal under my palm as lana sings to me and i give her my own words in return and the pillars of my past rise up before me. i need the now-familiar halls, the gleam of wood and glass appropriately placed. i need the embrace of cold air, heavy with home smells: vulcanized rubber, sweat, fresh ice. i need my wall, my stairs, my home address: 112, 3, 12. i need my family, related by blood and ice, by joy and frustration, by elation and tears. i need the ceiling off its trusses, the pitch black, the red lights, the resounding bass, the cold and reverent silence as the bulbs sizzle back to life-- the opening face-off, teeth gritted, fists closed. i need the smack of sticks against ice, pucks stinging red pipes, blades scraping up snow, the crunch of the boards, the red light and the deafening horn, six thousand people erupting in screams, one entity, every hand pointed to one end of the rink. i need the urge to bite my nails, an adrenaline rush, i need to clock-watch, i need to ***** and laugh and yell and grin, i need to collapse and breathe when the buzzer sounds, three more points, closer to the penrose, closer to the ncaa's-- i need hockey. i need home.

0

Aug 23, 2014

Aug 23, 2014 at 3:28 AM UTC

enpointephoenix

homesick

i need it: the concrete floors that send electricity through the soles of my shoes, the ascent up stairs, cold metal under my palm as lana sings to me and i give her my own words in return and the pillars of my past rise up before me. i need the now-familiar halls, the gleam of wood and glass appropriately placed. i need the embrace of cold air, heavy with home smells: vulcanized rubber, sweat, fresh ice. i need my wall, my stairs, my home address: 112, 3, 12. i need my family, related by blood and ice, by joy and frustration, by elation and tears. i need the ceiling off its trusses, the pitch black, the red lights, the resounding bass, the cold and reverent silence as the bulbs sizzle back to life-- the opening face-off, teeth gritted, fists closed. i need the smack of sticks against ice, pucks stinging red pipes, blades scraping up snow, the crunch of the boards, the red light and the deafening horn, six thousand people erupting in screams, one entity, every hand pointed to one end of the rink. i need the urge to bite my nails, an adrenaline rush, i need to clock-watch, i need to ***** and laugh and yell and grin, i need to collapse and breathe when the buzzer sounds, three more points, closer to the penrose, closer to the ncaa's-- i need hockey. i need home.

25

"And then taking from his wallet an old schedule of trains, he'll say I told you when I came I was a stranger I told you when I came I was a stranger." --- Leonard Cohen I'm the most surprised person on the planet. Your coming to see me off at the airport has my mind scratching glass seeking words. Why is it that in this relationship, you seem to have gotten all the speaking parts? You're well aware that I have loved you for the better part of two years, bottling that emotion, afraid to pop the cork. Your eyes implore mine, rotating like a searchlight over Baghdad seeking the stealth laying carnage to your heart. Twice in the last week you've made it evident, the Grail was mine, but for the drinking --- That and finding a shorthand for adultry. I'm guilty courting the love of a married woman, made worse, you're here at my departure telling me we aren't free to choose who we love. I know my desire must die of thirst, so I turn, boarding pass in hand, the last words I ever hear from you, Write me! --- Thirty-five years later I have.

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Jul 2, 2012

Jul 2, 2012 at 12:54 PM UTC

brian-oarr

For Lana: Wherever This May Find Her

"And then taking from his wallet an old schedule of trains, he'll say I told you when I came I was a stranger I told you when I came I was a stranger." --- Leonard Cohen I'm the most surprised person on the planet. Your coming to see me off at the airport has my mind scratching glass seeking words. Why is it that in this relationship, you seem to have gotten all the speaking parts? You're well aware that I have loved you for the better part of two years, bottling that emotion, afraid to pop the cork. Your eyes implore mine, rotating like a searchlight over Baghdad seeking the stealth laying carnage to your heart. Twice in the last week you've made it evident, the Grail was mine, but for the drinking --- That and finding a shorthand for adultry. I'm guilty courting the love of a married woman, made worse, you're here at my departure telling me we aren't free to choose who we love. I know my desire must die of thirst, so I turn, boarding pass in hand, the last words I ever hear from you, Write me! --- Thirty-five years later I have.

26

Her face, flawless and filtered, flows over my chest, ribs, stomach, hips, fitting the curved mounds of my body, and even within simplicity of thread and dye, I sense her presence as her face hangs from my frame, a statement louder than pillow-lips, Nancy Sinatra-hair and a glamorous 60’s ***** face. When paired with leggings and an artfully-distressed denim jacket, I become a member of the “freshman generation of degenerate beauty queens,” a hipster fallen to the circumstance of youth, but I wear her face and the romance of it all reminds me: we are not defined as Lolitas lost in the hood, or distant, airy voices in a sea of crude jokes and half-baked skits meant to highlight shortcomings of a person who doesn’t give two ***** Lana fits me better than my ribbed, red sweater and even amidst gods and monsters, this T-shirt makes pretty last, and I am just as cool.

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Apr 8, 2015

Apr 8, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC

b-wynn

Ode to My Lana del Rey T-shirt

Her face, flawless and filtered, flows over my chest, ribs, stomach, hips, fitting the curved mounds of my body, and even within simplicity of thread and dye, I sense her presence as her face hangs from my frame, a statement louder than pillow-lips, Nancy Sinatra-hair and a glamorous 60’s ***** face. When paired with leggings and an artfully-distressed denim jacket, I become a member of the “freshman generation of degenerate beauty queens,” a hipster fallen to the circumstance of youth, but I wear her face and the romance of it all reminds me: we are not defined as Lolitas lost in the hood, or distant, airy voices in a sea of crude jokes and half-baked skits meant to highlight shortcomings of a person who doesn’t give two ***** Lana fits me better than my ribbed, red sweater and even amidst gods and monsters, this T-shirt makes pretty last, and I am just as cool.

16

to be young and beautiful is desperate and dumb! to have it all to get nothing, none! to need it bad anxiously wanting some. sleepless nights, dreams of *** pain is promiscuity at bedrest. angry abstinence shouts this is a cruel test! pretty doll face, glowing of grace. why have this body? and not share its joy why be a good ol' girl If you cannot love a handsome bad boy?

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May 1, 2014

May 1, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC

zinalisha

Inspired by Lana Del Rey

to be young and beautiful is desperate and dumb! to have it all to get nothing, none! to need it bad anxiously wanting some. sleepless nights, dreams of *** pain is promiscuity at bedrest. angry abstinence shouts this is a cruel test! pretty doll face, glowing of grace. why have this body? and not share its joy why be a good ol' girl If you cannot love a handsome bad boy?

18

I paint my nails black I dye my hair a darker shade of brown 'Cus you like your women spanish, dark, strong, and proud I paint the sky black You said if you could have your way You'd make a night time all today So it'd suit the mood of your soul Oh, what can I do? Nothing, my sparrow blue. Oh, what can I do? Life is beautiful but you don't have a clue. Sun and ocean blue Their magnificence It don't make sense to you Black beauty Black beauty I paint that house black My wedding dress black leather too You have no room for light Love is lost on you I keep my lips red To seem like cherries in the spring Darling, you can't let everything Seem so dark blue Oh, what can I do? To turn you on Or get through you Oh, what can I do? Life is beautiful but you don't have a clue Sun and ocean blue Their magnificence It don't make sense to you Black beauty Black beauty Black beauty Black beauty Black beauty Black beauty, baby Black beauty, baby Oh, what can I do? Life is beautiful but you don't have a clue Sun and ocean blue Their magnificence It don't make sense to you.

0

Dec 22, 2015

Dec 22, 2015 at 10:40 PM UTC

alli-michelle

Lana Del Rey- Black Beauty (Lyrics)

I paint my nails black I dye my hair a darker shade of brown 'Cus you like your women spanish, dark, strong, and proud I paint the sky black You said if you could have your way You'd make a night time all today So it'd suit the mood of your soul Oh, what can I do? Nothing, my sparrow blue. Oh, what can I do? Life is beautiful but you don't have a clue. Sun and ocean blue Their magnificence It don't make sense to you Black beauty Black beauty I paint that house black My wedding dress black leather too You have no room for light Love is lost on you I keep my lips red To seem like cherries in the spring Darling, you can't let everything Seem so dark blue Oh, what can I do? To turn you on Or get through you Oh, what can I do? Life is beautiful but you don't have a clue Sun and ocean blue Their magnificence It don't make sense to you Black beauty Black beauty Black beauty Black beauty Black beauty Black beauty, baby Black beauty, baby Oh, what can I do? Life is beautiful but you don't have a clue Sun and ocean blue Their magnificence It don't make sense to you.

46

Retail-hunter gatherers pick clean processed bones, digging graves with their shiny teeth, studious in their reveries as they drone past worlds dumped in the thresher; the trucked-in fields of film-wrapped gore splayed lustily before the managers wound tight in Machiavellian design. A shepherd herds his flock of wreathed iron back to its pen, its skeletal tangle lit in riotous gold by swords flung from lambent eyes of pre-dawn’s shunting chariots Cages shunt and bobble like tugboats chugging stoic up swimming pool lanes of nondescript tile, cheered on by shouting colours to float through archipelagos of paper towel and chocolate blocks past the vegemite diaspora, and the arctic wastelands cased in sliding glass fields of perfect steady storms as wraiths baked in halogen ask silent questions of the silverbeet, while Lana Del Ray’s voice falls like nightshade—slutty and serene—coating shelf stackers in a Piaf sadness as the shelves reach their arms out for more. The check out chick hatches a sense of déjà vu as carrots and biscuits drone towards her mind berEFT of any twitching sense of POSsibility that wised up and flew this leering coop and deep in her catalogue of grey folds something stillborn and waxen is perched on gleaming steel, reeling out her guts like cassette tape with jerky nightmare arms and laughing like a banker watching ***** films, mornings dull cerise an invocation through auto-jaws as she bursts out to warble with magpies in car park’s climbing fire.

0

Jul 25, 2013

Jul 25, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC

dj-goodwin-1

supermarket

Retail-hunter gatherers pick clean processed bones, digging graves with their shiny teeth, studious in their reveries as they drone past worlds dumped in the thresher; the trucked-in fields of film-wrapped gore splayed lustily before the managers wound tight in Machiavellian design. A shepherd herds his flock of wreathed iron back to its pen, its skeletal tangle lit in riotous gold by swords flung from lambent eyes of pre-dawn’s shunting chariots Cages shunt and bobble like tugboats chugging stoic up swimming pool lanes of nondescript tile, cheered on by shouting colours to float through archipelagos of paper towel and chocolate blocks past the vegemite diaspora, and the arctic wastelands cased in sliding glass fields of perfect steady storms as wraiths baked in halogen ask silent questions of the silverbeet, while Lana Del Ray’s voice falls like nightshade—slutty and serene—coating shelf stackers in a Piaf sadness as the shelves reach their arms out for more. The check out chick hatches a sense of déjà vu as carrots and biscuits drone towards her mind berEFT of any twitching sense of POSsibility that wised up and flew this leering coop and deep in her catalogue of grey folds something stillborn and waxen is perched on gleaming steel, reeling out her guts like cassette tape with jerky nightmare arms and laughing like a banker watching ***** films, mornings dull cerise an invocation through auto-jaws as she bursts out to warble with magpies in car park’s climbing fire.

41

rihanna and lana del rey please don't become her one day dorothy dandridge whitney houston marilyn monroe anna nicole their sadness I did know beautiful and broken the pain never let go the men, the drugs, the heartache followed they were all a living example: misery is captivating and beauty is shallow

0

Apr 7, 2014

Apr 7, 2014 at 9:28 PM UTC

zinalisha

American Idol

rihanna and lana del rey please don't become her one day dorothy dandridge whitney houston marilyn monroe anna nicole their sadness I did know beautiful and broken the pain never let go the men, the drugs, the heartache followed they were all a living example: misery is captivating and beauty is shallow

15

Name: Falen Acon Residence: San Diego California Age: 15 (almost 16) Birthday: Jan 4, 2000 (Capricorn) School: Don't worry about it! Grade: 10th (Sophomore) Class Of: 2018 Favorite Color: Ballet Pink, Gun Metal Gold and Burgundy Favorite Flower: Wild Flowers, Roses & Sunflowers Hobbies: Dancing and Poetry Favorite Food: Pizza Favorite Drink: Strawberry and Root Beer Soda Favorite Dessert: Ice Cream (Shakes) (any flavor) Happy Place (place that makes me happy): Beach or Dance Studio Career Path: Professional Dancer Lucky Day: Saturday Lucky Number: 3 Favorite Number: 7 Friends: Christan Zeal, Elsa Angelica and Drevon Young Goals: Find true love, Find happiness and Travel World Favorite Artists: Lana Del Rey, The Weeknd, Drake, PartyNextDoor, Post Malone, ILoveMakonnen, Rae Sremmurd, RDGLDGRN, Kyle, A.$.A.P Rocky, G-Eazy and Zayn Malik Celebrity Crushes: Zayn Malik, Justin Bieber, RED (from RDGLDGRN) and Steph Curry (GSW) Favorite NBA Team: Golden State Warriors (GSW) Favorite NFL Team: North Carolina Panthers Favorite MLB Team: Chicago Cubs Favorite College Football Team: LSU Tigers Favorite Nascar Driver: Kasey Kahne Future College: Texas State University (TSU) or Something :) Future Sorority: Delta Sigma Theta (DST) /_\

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Dec 6, 2015

Dec 6, 2015 at 11:56 PM UTC

Bunhead17

About Me (Bio- Non Poem)

Name: Falen Acon Residence: San Diego California Age: 15 (almost 16) Birthday: Jan 4, 2000 (Capricorn) School: Don't worry about it! Grade: 10th (Sophomore) Class Of: 2018 Favorite Color: Ballet Pink, Gun Metal Gold and Burgundy Favorite Flower: Wild Flowers, Roses & Sunflowers Hobbies: Dancing and Poetry Favorite Food: Pizza Favorite Drink: Strawberry and Root Beer Soda Favorite Dessert: Ice Cream (Shakes) (any flavor) Happy Place (place that makes me happy): Beach or Dance Studio Career Path: Professional Dancer Lucky Day: Saturday Lucky Number: 3 Favorite Number: 7 Friends: Christan Zeal, Elsa Angelica and Drevon Young Goals: Find true love, Find happiness and Travel World Favorite Artists: Lana Del Rey, The Weeknd, Drake, PartyNextDoor, Post Malone, ILoveMakonnen, Rae Sremmurd, RDGLDGRN, Kyle, A.$.A.P Rocky, G-Eazy and Zayn Malik Celebrity Crushes: Zayn Malik, Justin Bieber, RED (from RDGLDGRN) and Steph Curry (GSW) Favorite NBA Team: Golden State Warriors (GSW) Favorite NFL Team: North Carolina Panthers Favorite MLB Team: Chicago Cubs Favorite College Football Team: LSU Tigers Favorite Nascar Driver: Kasey Kahne Future College: Texas State University (TSU) or Something :) Future Sorority: Delta Sigma Theta (DST) /_\

29

& so my nightly routine begins... 1.) I turn on my unreleased Lana Del Rey mixtape 2.) light my last cigarette 3.) turn off the lights 4.) crawl into my unmade bed 5.) cuddle up to my favorite stuffed animal 6.) and I begin to cry 7.) then finally... sleep comes for me. 8.) & the nightmares begin.

0

Oct 24, 2022

Oct 24, 2022 at 11:18 PM UTC

MorbidKisses

the girl who cried herself to sleep

& so my nightly routine begins... 1.) I turn on my unreleased Lana Del Rey mixtape 2.) light my last cigarette 3.) turn off the lights 4.) crawl into my unmade bed 5.) cuddle up to my favorite stuffed animal 6.) and I begin to cry 7.) then finally... sleep comes for me. 8.) & the nightmares begin.

9

Tory Lanez Drake The Weeknd PartyNextDoor Post Malone ILoveMakonnen RDGLDGRN Kyle G-Eazy Rae Sremmurd Future Travis Scott Lana Del Rey Bryson Tiller Jhene Aiko Cal Scruby Twenty-one pilots The Neighbourhood Zayn Malik Jimi Hendrix Nina Simone Damian Marley ft Nas Stephen Marley ft Wyclef Jean ft Nina Simone (Song:keeper of the flame) No-Maddz (Song: Shotta) Jesse Royal

0

Dec 29, 2015

Dec 29, 2015 at 8:51 PM UTC

Bunhead17

You know who is awesome (r&b/ rappers/singers)

Tory Lanez Drake The Weeknd PartyNextDoor Post Malone ILoveMakonnen RDGLDGRN Kyle G-Eazy Rae Sremmurd Future Travis Scott Lana Del Rey Bryson Tiller Jhene Aiko Cal Scruby Twenty-one pilots The Neighbourhood Zayn Malik Jimi Hendrix Nina Simone Damian Marley ft Nas Stephen Marley ft Wyclef Jean ft Nina Simone (Song:keeper of the flame) No-Maddz (Song: Shotta) Jesse Royal

25

I will love you even when you're no longer young and beautiful as Lana del Rey once asked. I will love you even when we are working our ***** off the pay bills we shouldn't have. I will love you when you can't wipe your own **** and when you're grumpy and old. I will love you when you hate me and tell me I drive you crazy. When the passing sun and moon go right on by... I will still smile and think how I've loved you all the while. When the earth stops rotating and our world starts to end... I will remember the days we shared together. But just remember I will love you when you're no longer young and beautiful.

0

Aug 4, 2014

Aug 4, 2014 at 1:05 AM UTC

BriannaB4mf

Lana del Rey- young

I will love you even when you're no longer young and beautiful as Lana del Rey once asked. I will love you even when we are working our ***** off the pay bills we shouldn't have. I will love you when you can't wipe your own **** and when you're grumpy and old. I will love you when you hate me and tell me I drive you crazy. When the passing sun and moon go right on by... I will still smile and think how I've loved you all the while. When the earth stops rotating and our world starts to end... I will remember the days we shared together. But just remember I will love you when you're no longer young and beautiful.

6

Inside this Cocoon of night nu jazz plays competing with Lana del Rey tracks amidst the dim shadows outside, the broken light of stars & you ask how foxes became urban I do not know maybe their wild soul recognizes that like them, a city can't be tamed entirely or maybe they're just lost I do not know

0

Nov 15, 2015

Nov 15, 2015 at 7:40 PM UTC

dreams-of-sepia

Cocoon

Inside this Cocoon of night nu jazz plays competing with Lana del Rey tracks amidst the dim shadows outside, the broken light of stars & you ask how foxes became urban I do not know maybe their wild soul recognizes that like them, a city can't be tamed entirely or maybe they're just lost I do not know

12

when i write i always find myself wishing that i wrote like Lana del Rey, making even the simple things seem extraordinarily grand, to be able to glamorize what is sometimes a painfully normal life i want to touch someone's skin and write about it in a way that makes someone feel as though they're touching velvet i want the kiss we shared to linger on someone's lips like the taste of their favorite chapstick i want to write about love so that in turn someone will lust for what i already have i want to write about my years of pain and isolation in a way that makes someone want to rip their own heart out and offer it up to me on a platter made of shimmering, sterling silver which, of course i'd have to refuse because what would a writer be if surrounded by love and admiration they knew was real, that they didn't doubt for even a second although, the sensuality of the circumstance might be tempting an artist without eternal, incessant suffering is merely a wolf in sheep's clothing or a fool who thinks he's a king they simply aren't built to last i want to write about my mid-night thoughts and for someone to think: Lana would be proud

0

Jul 27, 2022

Jul 27, 2022 at 11:46 PM UTC

mhk

lana

when i write i always find myself wishing that i wrote like Lana del Rey, making even the simple things seem extraordinarily grand, to be able to glamorize what is sometimes a painfully normal life i want to touch someone's skin and write about it in a way that makes someone feel as though they're touching velvet i want the kiss we shared to linger on someone's lips like the taste of their favorite chapstick i want to write about love so that in turn someone will lust for what i already have i want to write about my years of pain and isolation in a way that makes someone want to rip their own heart out and offer it up to me on a platter made of shimmering, sterling silver which, of course i'd have to refuse because what would a writer be if surrounded by love and admiration they knew was real, that they didn't doubt for even a second although, the sensuality of the circumstance might be tempting an artist without eternal, incessant suffering is merely a wolf in sheep's clothing or a fool who thinks he's a king they simply aren't built to last i want to write about my mid-night thoughts and for someone to think: Lana would be proud

19

flower child. so soft spoken and sweet. you are my hippy sister. fashionista you set trends. I love your vibe. so calm and carefree. with a creative mind and unique soul you are art. I can imagine you with a big curly fro. paint cans, brushes and canvases cluttering your NewYork flat as sounds of Lana del Rey and Jhene Aiko fill your apartment and posters of Aubrey Graham grace your walls ten years from now. O.Rob.

0

Nov 8, 2013

Nov 8, 2013 at 4:18 PM UTC

olivia-robinson

poems for friends series; nini

flower child. so soft spoken and sweet. you are my hippy sister. fashionista you set trends. I love your vibe. so calm and carefree. with a creative mind and unique soul you are art. I can imagine you with a big curly fro. paint cans, brushes and canvases cluttering your NewYork flat as sounds of Lana del Rey and Jhene Aiko fill your apartment and posters of Aubrey Graham grace your walls ten years from now. O.Rob.

20

I am not the kind of boy who fits the mould of it's social stereotype: Does sport perving on girls has the tendency to treat girls like a piece of meat No, that isn't me. I never liked sport. I was a boy who didn't like to watch or play with Action man or Power Rangers, Instead I was the kind of boy who would tell his friends that he was going to football club, When in fact I was going to dance club. At school I studied dance. "What lesson do you have next, Lew?" "History" Dance. As the school year rolled on it was revealed, When I had to perform in front of the whole school, Nerves Butterflies Terror After that I rolled with the punches: Gay Queer ****** It angered me that because I didn't stick with the 'traditional' ideology of a boy I was an outcast, labelled with a stereotype that also didn't fit me. I like Lady Gaga In fact, I adore her. Because I support the LGBT community I am misunderstood as a person. To this day I struggle to overcome constant attack of prejudice and disrespect that people show me, I struggle to hold on to that last thread of self confidence. I don't dance any more. I am too scared to try it again I don't tell people that I listen to Gaga and Lana Del Rey. They'll laugh at me Whenever I say I like a girl people think it's a lie All of this because I am a different kind of boy.

0

Jul 1, 2013

Jul 1, 2013 at 1:39 PM UTC

LJChaplin

A Different Kind of Boy

I am not the kind of boy who fits the mould of it's social stereotype: Does sport perving on girls has the tendency to treat girls like a piece of meat No, that isn't me. I never liked sport. I was a boy who didn't like to watch or play with Action man or Power Rangers, Instead I was the kind of boy who would tell his friends that he was going to football club, When in fact I was going to dance club. At school I studied dance. "What lesson do you have next, Lew?" "History" Dance. As the school year rolled on it was revealed, When I had to perform in front of the whole school, Nerves Butterflies Terror After that I rolled with the punches: Gay Queer ****** It angered me that because I didn't stick with the 'traditional' ideology of a boy I was an outcast, labelled with a stereotype that also didn't fit me. I like Lady Gaga In fact, I adore her. Because I support the LGBT community I am misunderstood as a person. To this day I struggle to overcome constant attack of prejudice and disrespect that people show me, I struggle to hold on to that last thread of self confidence. I don't dance any more. I am too scared to try it again I don't tell people that I listen to Gaga and Lana Del Rey. They'll laugh at me Whenever I say I like a girl people think it's a lie All of this because I am a different kind of boy.

33

*"No one's gonna take my soul away I'm living like Jim Morrison... In the land of Gods and Monsters I was an angel"* Lana Del Rey Innocence lost, made her crazy her smile forced, living twisted lies bitter sweet memories, captured in death defying detail waken by the same song bird who only blessed hope in the darkness of a new dawn, singing from the soul, with filtering movements across a chipped wood window ledge enough to keep this young girls heart in place, making her sad even cry, with solitude, mixed with an urgent sense of joy a window ledge looking out to grand oak trees, squirrels playful in flight, shaken autumnal leaves drop whispering stories to the blue **** chaffinch, swallows a lowly stray cat jumps chases leaves that swirl mini tornados, whistling winds chasing his tail a thief of his prey he captures a baby bird of first flight racing off into bushes hiding his feed for the day A cacophony of deafening sounds forces their noise up the narrow stairwell pounding feet; her father he frightens the song bird away, and a silence forms In her nightdress Emily grabs the soft torn eared teddy, lays flat to the dusty wooden floor and hides under the four poster bed silent as a ghost she is filled with the same fear, she faces each and every day. © Sia Jane

0

Jan 13, 2014

Jan 13, 2014 at 12:30 PM UTC

sia-jane

Gods & Monsters

*"No one's gonna take my soul away I'm living like Jim Morrison... In the land of Gods and Monsters I was an angel"* Lana Del Rey Innocence lost, made her crazy her smile forced, living twisted lies bitter sweet memories, captured in death defying detail waken by the same song bird who only blessed hope in the darkness of a new dawn, singing from the soul, with filtering movements across a chipped wood window ledge enough to keep this young girls heart in place, making her sad even cry, with solitude, mixed with an urgent sense of joy a window ledge looking out to grand oak trees, squirrels playful in flight, shaken autumnal leaves drop whispering stories to the blue **** chaffinch, swallows a lowly stray cat jumps chases leaves that swirl mini tornados, whistling winds chasing his tail a thief of his prey he captures a baby bird of first flight racing off into bushes hiding his feed for the day A cacophony of deafening sounds forces their noise up the narrow stairwell pounding feet; her father he frightens the song bird away, and a silence forms In her nightdress Emily grabs the soft torn eared teddy, lays flat to the dusty wooden floor and hides under the four poster bed silent as a ghost she is filled with the same fear, she faces each and every day. © Sia Jane

50

Okhrangni nijwm bikayao Birbainai jwmwi ranini mohorao Angni ransrao gwrbwa Lubwiyw bininw okha bilainai Besedi hainari jwmwi anjali Besedi ansuli jwmwi hainari Sohainw hayi sun rwdakhou Gaoni dokhona phaili arw gwswm khanaijwng Pangte pangte ladwng Jaini jahwnao angni ransrao gwrbwa Aseblabw sudem mwndwng,dwimuni dwiaosw jenoba. Birbaiyw nwng udangwi Baidi moho lana nujatiyw Som arw bwthwrjwng gwbalaina Onsainai gwrbw gwrbw,nwngni guwar bikha.

0

Jan 11, 2016

Jan 11, 2016 at 5:10 AM UTC

bidindra-basumatary

lubwinai

Okhrangni nijwm bikayao Birbainai jwmwi ranini mohorao Angni ransrao gwrbwa Lubwiyw bininw okha bilainai Besedi hainari jwmwi anjali Besedi ansuli jwmwi hainari Sohainw hayi sun rwdakhou Gaoni dokhona phaili arw gwswm khanaijwng Pangte pangte ladwng Jaini jahwnao angni ransrao gwrbwa Aseblabw sudem mwndwng,dwimuni dwiaosw jenoba. Birbaiyw nwng udangwi Baidi moho lana nujatiyw Som arw bwthwrjwng gwbalaina Onsainai gwrbw gwrbw,nwngni guwar bikha.

15

I want to sneak out and meet you at the end of my street and risk everything just to spend my time with you and be able to glide your hands up and down my body again. Would you be willing to do the same? However,Darling while were falling inlove to Lana Del Rey's"Born to Die" in the pitch black at 2 am I don't want you to stop loving me for the night just becasue you are scared of me telling you I love you, wich I do, and even my loneliest words can't explain how I feel without you by my side during that moment in time.

0

May 15, 2014

May 15, 2014 at 11:47 PM UTC

lauren-14

without you there

I want to sneak out and meet you at the end of my street and risk everything just to spend my time with you and be able to glide your hands up and down my body again. Would you be willing to do the same? However,Darling while were falling inlove to Lana Del Rey's"Born to Die" in the pitch black at 2 am I don't want you to stop loving me for the night just becasue you are scared of me telling you I love you, wich I do, and even my loneliest words can't explain how I feel without you by my side during that moment in time.

1

Oh, my God, I feel it in the air Telephone wires above are sizzling like a snare Honey, I'm on fire, I feel it everywhere Nothing scares me anymore

0

Feb 25, 2013

Feb 25, 2013 at 11:11 PM UTC

amt

Summertime Sadness by Lana del Rey

Oh, my God, I feel it in the air Telephone wires above are sizzling like a snare Honey, I'm on fire, I feel it everywhere Nothing scares me anymore

4

Sometimes, I imagine I'm some mourning starlet who sings Lana Del Rey at the club every Saturday night. A honeyed halo of stage light tangles itself about the curled labyrinth of my hair, sparkles gold against my tearing irises. My mouth parts and the war cries begin. In the moments that the melody offers my voice repose, I pound shots to the beat of the drummer's ramblings. The crowd applauds my tipsiness, their hoots of praise shaking at the depths of my eardrums like an intoxicated tambourine. My neuroticism fascinates these people, I think. Not in an exploitive, let's-glamourize-depression kind of way, but in an it is a truth universally acknowledged kind of way--in a ******* cuz I've been there too" kind of way. See, within my little, concocted fantasy of stage light and music and ***** the people don't judge me the way they do on the outside. Here, I am not melodramatic or overly sensitive or disposable. Here, my war cries sound a little less like death and a little more like poetry. Here, they love me in spite of the sadness. Here, we share a song-- here, they sing with me.

0

Jan 16, 2019

Jan 16, 2019 at 11:24 PM UTC

VinylPoetry

Unison

Sometimes, I imagine I'm some mourning starlet who sings Lana Del Rey at the club every Saturday night. A honeyed halo of stage light tangles itself about the curled labyrinth of my hair, sparkles gold against my tearing irises. My mouth parts and the war cries begin. In the moments that the melody offers my voice repose, I pound shots to the beat of the drummer's ramblings. The crowd applauds my tipsiness, their hoots of praise shaking at the depths of my eardrums like an intoxicated tambourine. My neuroticism fascinates these people, I think. Not in an exploitive, let's-glamourize-depression kind of way, but in an it is a truth universally acknowledged kind of way--in a ******* cuz I've been there too" kind of way. See, within my little, concocted fantasy of stage light and music and ***** the people don't judge me the way they do on the outside. Here, I am not melodramatic or overly sensitive or disposable. Here, my war cries sound a little less like death and a little more like poetry. Here, they love me in spite of the sadness. Here, we share a song-- here, they sing with me.

64