"leggos" poems - Hello Poetry

~Poet V-Ink (Viewtiful) Inside my head inspiration wars for territory/ my eyes inviting any and everything in it's path inside with a story that I'll tell it's story My mood doesn't always shelter my desires to be creative but my eyes never stop working constantly supplying me with inspiration... some times I don't wanna write..... so what's inside becomes impatient... So things decide to up and leave through the crevices in my face and.... It spills in its desired form so it's ink my skin is tasting.... I apologize ahead of time my gift and it's vision care nothing of your time it's wasting ~Rebel Flower Inside my head there is a place awaking the purpose to write like incisions on a platter like a golden sizzorr Cutting in time wasted where it could be used in skills practice to free a prisoner of rest Like leggos we stack purpose And speeches never frail There are times of a nothingness for ink flows and poetic thoughts yet naturally words yell at my window for spills a welcoming and re-entering Paving for my souls exertion editing exact details carrying in a song in my psalms I don't live in the gift the gift lives in me touring like a concert to sooth or even to feel Like a record playing on repeat This is my mental obsession. ~Poet V-Ink (Viewtiful) I'm obsessed with all the talent god has left me to possess but sometimes I get upset at the lack of control I have over the information my mind accepts/ granted a gift to project messages hidden in the mess life lessons usually left but I stress because that gift sometimes forces my tired hand to respect I struggle... some much on my mind absent the intention to invest... How do I turn off the switch to how my registry was blessed.. ~Rebel Flower Blessings of such a skill at times may be overwhelming I picture the gift of words a performer When need of pros we feed our drive as well as the audience We plumage into a well of urgent tunes then we tiré, and we are restless poetry never dies it will come back when need of a place of itself to live again and again. Every poet needs a light and the switch will dim in any time I'd worry more when it flips back on How great the light will be. © Copyright 2014 Poet V-Ink & S.T. Rebel of Eden.

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Sep 14, 2014

Sep 14, 2014 at 4:27 AM UTC

fallen-rebel-of-eden

THE STRUGGLE: collaboration w/Viewtifull aka Poet V-Ink & S.T. Rebel of Eden

~Poet V-Ink (Viewtiful) Inside my head inspiration wars for territory/ my eyes inviting any and everything in it's path inside with a story that I'll tell it's story My mood doesn't always shelter my desires to be creative but my eyes never stop working constantly supplying me with inspiration... some times I don't wanna write..... so what's inside becomes impatient... So things decide to up and leave through the crevices in my face and.... It spills in its desired form so it's ink my skin is tasting.... I apologize ahead of time my gift and it's vision care nothing of your time it's wasting ~Rebel Flower Inside my head there is a place awaking the purpose to write like incisions on a platter like a golden sizzorr Cutting in time wasted where it could be used in skills practice to free a prisoner of rest Like leggos we stack purpose And speeches never frail There are times of a nothingness for ink flows and poetic thoughts yet naturally words yell at my window for spills a welcoming and re-entering Paving for my souls exertion editing exact details carrying in a song in my psalms I don't live in the gift the gift lives in me touring like a concert to sooth or even to feel Like a record playing on repeat This is my mental obsession. ~Poet V-Ink (Viewtiful) I'm obsessed with all the talent god has left me to possess but sometimes I get upset at the lack of control I have over the information my mind accepts/ granted a gift to project messages hidden in the mess life lessons usually left but I stress because that gift sometimes forces my tired hand to respect I struggle... some much on my mind absent the intention to invest... How do I turn off the switch to how my registry was blessed.. ~Rebel Flower Blessings of such a skill at times may be overwhelming I picture the gift of words a performer When need of pros we feed our drive as well as the audience We plumage into a well of urgent tunes then we tiré, and we are restless poetry never dies it will come back when need of a place of itself to live again and again. Every poet needs a light and the switch will dim in any time I'd worry more when it flips back on How great the light will be. © Copyright 2014 Poet V-Ink & S.T. Rebel of Eden.

91

I'm a parody to mythology, the northern star to ***** pilgrims with no teeth. I'm a staring contest with Clinton, who lied through his skin about touching someone else's. He wasn't alone the way he thought he was I'm behind the gardenias, ******* to **** them just to spite you. He touched inside my skin. Eyes like raisins or melting almonds, touch like hairy, pointed fingers, snaps so loud that Santa's nose turns red in anger. He can hear the voices of politicians over his music like the roars of cars at night, when you're trying to fall asleep. He sleeps with his round-rimmed glasses on, a bow tied around his ears for beauty. babies' cries twang through his dreams from the strings of a banjo, making his lips yearn to speak, green with envy. I could write for hours; I could write for minutes she caresses his silky hair, his **** hardens in class, and he leaves for cake. He made enough moves on me, I saw them as they fumbled limbs are too long for grace, for lies brain is too tall for truths, and the belt around her neck tightens in winter, like words ringing in your ears as you walk out of the movie theatre. It's true, now feel it. His nose is long, his hair is skin calling through the television in 1993, when he saw a new light like heaven opening up but it was just a practical joke, he's stuck on the stairway, no way up no way down. **** **** **** who can he call? he left his phone at home with his eyes. All he feels are feathers and minutes-- long, dreary minutes. Finally a taxi comes, but he left his wallet. Time passes more quickly than he counted on; he's not ready to leave, he's not important yet, not coherent, clairvoyant. **** humans, **** the world, he doesn't deserve it's kind of behavior, but as soon as the clock is fixed God will let him up. He has no doubt, no dreams just fingers shaped like leggos. He was a comedian with serious jokes, the kind that made you weep solid tears and ice cubes. The wives of men would watch him and frown, thinking of how much money to slide under their sheets for when they grabbed their kids from the shops and left their husbands. Too much mess. No sunlight. Empty corners. Fur coats.

0

Oct 6, 2010

Oct 6, 2010 at 5:19 PM UTC

mary-ann-osgood

Relevance

I'm a parody to mythology, the northern star to ***** pilgrims with no teeth. I'm a staring contest with Clinton, who lied through his skin about touching someone else's. He wasn't alone the way he thought he was I'm behind the gardenias, ******* to **** them just to spite you. He touched inside my skin. Eyes like raisins or melting almonds, touch like hairy, pointed fingers, snaps so loud that Santa's nose turns red in anger. He can hear the voices of politicians over his music like the roars of cars at night, when you're trying to fall asleep. He sleeps with his round-rimmed glasses on, a bow tied around his ears for beauty. babies' cries twang through his dreams from the strings of a banjo, making his lips yearn to speak, green with envy. I could write for hours; I could write for minutes she caresses his silky hair, his **** hardens in class, and he leaves for cake. He made enough moves on me, I saw them as they fumbled limbs are too long for grace, for lies brain is too tall for truths, and the belt around her neck tightens in winter, like words ringing in your ears as you walk out of the movie theatre. It's true, now feel it. His nose is long, his hair is skin calling through the television in 1993, when he saw a new light like heaven opening up but it was just a practical joke, he's stuck on the stairway, no way up no way down. **** **** **** who can he call? he left his phone at home with his eyes. All he feels are feathers and minutes-- long, dreary minutes. Finally a taxi comes, but he left his wallet. Time passes more quickly than he counted on; he's not ready to leave, he's not important yet, not coherent, clairvoyant. **** humans, **** the world, he doesn't deserve it's kind of behavior, but as soon as the clock is fixed God will let him up. He has no doubt, no dreams just fingers shaped like leggos. He was a comedian with serious jokes, the kind that made you weep solid tears and ice cubes. The wives of men would watch him and frown, thinking of how much money to slide under their sheets for when they grabbed their kids from the shops and left their husbands. Too much mess. No sunlight. Empty corners. Fur coats.

53

i cant promise the world or give you the answer to everything but i can pick of some legos because the only word i could find was "sorry". we walked around and spotted a kid who spilled some legos in the small toy section when you compared my life to the pieces scattered everywhere. saying how hard it must be trying to put everything back together or trying to come up with something new when everything was a mess. and how hard you've tried to help me but instead it ended with you stepping on some of the pieces. and at first it was okay but after awhile it got tiring and stepping on leggos hurt more than hearing your mother say, "just wait until your father gets home" and you didnt know whether or not you could keep doing it. i loved watching you leave for all the reasons why your father hated me but this time i found myself counting every step you took back into your house. one for every mistake and every argument we've ever had. i still haven't figured out wheter or not this was a choppy way of saying goodbye or a choppy way of saying you idiot get your **** together or you cant keep being my idiot.

0

Jul 17, 2016

Jul 17, 2016 at 11:20 AM UTC

mythcanon

From a book i'll never write

i cant promise the world or give you the answer to everything but i can pick of some legos because the only word i could find was "sorry". we walked around and spotted a kid who spilled some legos in the small toy section when you compared my life to the pieces scattered everywhere. saying how hard it must be trying to put everything back together or trying to come up with something new when everything was a mess. and how hard you've tried to help me but instead it ended with you stepping on some of the pieces. and at first it was okay but after awhile it got tiring and stepping on leggos hurt more than hearing your mother say, "just wait until your father gets home" and you didnt know whether or not you could keep doing it. i loved watching you leave for all the reasons why your father hated me but this time i found myself counting every step you took back into your house. one for every mistake and every argument we've ever had. i still haven't figured out wheter or not this was a choppy way of saying goodbye or a choppy way of saying you idiot get your **** together or you cant keep being my idiot.

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