Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Äŧül Apr 2013
It was nightfall,
I felt very sleepy,
And I dozed-off
To the stud in my
Dreams-Dreams.

Oh how strong he was!
All muscle unlike my body,
Stiffer, stronger & ***** he was!

She gave a bath,
And a massage too,
To the stud in my
Dreams-Dreams.

She caresses it sweetly,
And she kisses it too,
Yes, the stud in my
Dreams-Dreams.

She kissed my stud,
A bit too much and,
The stud spewed its stomach
Out on her face,
In my most wild
Dreams-Dreams.

The girl's eyes were,
Teeming with tears,
To the stud in my
Dreams-Dreams.

As she was happy,
Tears were of joy,
To the stud in my
Dreams-Dreams.
111 Words Of
My HP Poem #150
© Atul Kaushal
James R Apr 21
We, at various points in life,
draw a line
in the sand.
Marking where we've been,
where we stopped
to never venture forward.
Winds bring change no lines
can withstand. And we draw
them again in defiance.
We eke meaning from this sand
that would otherwise
mean nothing to us. Imparting
our own ideologies
onto an unresponsive medium
as a testament
to ourselves. Our independence.
The sand is most susceptible to change,
shifted constantly
by the sea, our feet,
the wind.
Still, we draw our lines anyway.
Thank you for taking the time to read this. :)
I'm lead lined
        but you always


see through me.


My secrets concealed
                beneath me.


But you will always
                   see within me.


I never want to hide anything
       from you, I'm lead lined.



But you always see what others cant.
Molly Nicole Oct 2017
Cracks in my character
Lined with silk
Lovers touch
Like a sharpened blade
Gliding smoothly
Only painful when removed
I'm a story book of unfortunate events and cliches
And the morbidly curious find their way
Into my arms
A comforting fear
A lion taming circus

I'm not sure anymore if this gun
Is still loaded with flowers

But you
Hold me so tight
Squeeze out the anxiety
Catch it
Make me a balloon animal with its breath
The most beautiful rebound.
King Panda Jan 2016
I walk through campus wearing
black leggings and those faded, leather
boots. I’m even wearing an
infinity scarf I bought full price at
Anthropologie and a pair of tiger-striped
cat eye sunglasses. ****, I look good.

On top of it, I’m smoking a Parliament
menthol, my red-lined lips whipping
smoke into the dead air, creating
a grey cloud that some would call cancerous and
others, ****.

But no one notices me, and, candidly, I
am okay with that because I notice me, and
I am a big red dance button that demands to
be pushed. So, I push myself and
groove down the brown brick road all the way
to classroom 114 in the science building.
Mae May 26
Topside and turned over,
rising yeast fills the skull with soft wheat.
The rabbit ran dripped in innocence,
mother sat in her chair,
ankles crossed and placed close to its wooden frame.
When the world spoke its truth, no, sang it,
all that pushed through to solidify her words were mused was a timestamp,
A personal account of all that time wasted.
Looking at this reminder of where you haven’t been,
the earth spat in your face
“Vivir y Dejar Vivir!”
But to live means to fight,
maybe not with fists,
words and money will suffice.
As the rabbit ran,
her hands grew sharp,
maybe the time clock stopped,
mother licked her lips
snatched the hare up and said,
"Yes, sure,
born into a life of deceit,
can you see your defeat?"
Plucking meat from her teeth in her cherished, chair seat.
Reflecting on growing up and the unsavory truths it brings.
ryn Jul 2015
Lend me your eyes.
So I could fill them
with the bursting stars.
Telling tales of the spellbinding universe,
singing songs of exploding suns...
and of splintering quasars.

Lend me your thoughts.
So that if I may,
write of them.
Fantastical scribbles of love
and praise.
Meticulously lined
and carefully stitched...
with immaculate lace at the hems.

Lend me your breaths.
I'd catch them as they fall...
between the words you would say.
Merging mine with yours...
introducing colour...
and vigour
to my monochromatic world of
black, white and grey.

Lend me your heartbeats...
for mine thumps erratic.
As if beating in silent mock.
I depend on the steadiness in yours.
So they could usurp
the ticks of worldly clocks.

Lend me your hands.
Palms up as a sign,
perhaps as an invitation...
for me to take them.
And maybe...
hopefully fill them...
with mine...
MeanAileen Oct 2018
You are just so toxic to me
of that I surly know...
But try as I might, I simply can't
ever seem to let you go.
Your lips are laced with venom
killing me with your wicked kiss...
Burning a path straight to my heart
but the taste, I just can't resist.
Your eyes hypnotize like voodoo
trapping me in a trance...
Utterly powerless against their magic,
never did I stand a chance.
Your hands are lined with kryptonite
weakning me with one touch...
Never has something so paralyzing
made me crave it so much.
Loving you is straight poison,
the ****** to my vein...
So very hazardous to my health
but the ultimate high to my brain.
Ugh...
King Panda Oct 2015
we are monsters
from the boutique to the
embroidered throw pillows the
pen dashed around the neck
stage 5 bone cut
sawing ossification to the
hollow core

we are monsters
hooting in tunnels lined
with bats coming out to feast
creation
to scrape the streets
shimmy the walls
bust the coffin and
succckk

we are monsters
who can't enter under the
doorframe
fearful of being burned by
the sun silver stake
rat poison holy water sickle
and windmill ash

we are monsters
sewed stapled dead meat
skin hair plugs ceramic
teeth tested and tasted by
rats

we are monsters
jumping high over white
fences frenzied explosion
running through corn
angrily bled in a field shot and
hunted like embarrassing
waterfowl in the jaws of
mammalia

we are monsters
of flaming brilliance flashing
in your inbox
read us and gnaw
braised
roasted
grilled limbs
watch
as we watch you
be scared and
stab
I promise we don't die.
Split May 2018
a bean like no other
bitter and white;
a microscopic dynamite,
peristalsis using all its might

my cave so suspenseful and hollow
ridges lined along its curves
churning to my so-called mental benefit
those gastric juices now released,
microscopic dynamite
simply had one more muscle to defeat

a match at last perceived
microvilli yearning love ,
in, it took the dynamite.
yet confused it became as
micro relations only last a short while.

"Nutrients" absorbed,
betrayal on its way
the bloodstream sent in shock
oh such bloodless atriums
oh such vaulted ventricles.
oh how my blood flow met its end.

Although deceiving it had been
no promises were riven
the dynamite exploded
and at last
no longer was I broken.
Antino Art Feb 2018
South Florida
if you were a body part,
you’d be an armpit.

You’d be a bulged vein
on the side of a forehead
forever locked in a scowl
behind sunglasses.

You speak the language of horns
middle name, finger
blood type, combustible

You're a melting ***
that's boiled over the lid
sweating salt water at the brows
eyes red as the brake lights
in the maddening brightness,
you’re torrential daylight
heating nerves like greenhouse gasses
waiting for a reason to explode.

You’re a tropical motilov cocktail
no one can afford
2 parts anger, 1 part stupidity
melting in place, thirsty for attention
full of yourself in a souvenir glass with a toothpick umbrella
You're all image

You’re the curse words breaking out the mouths
of the angry line mob at Starbucks in the morning
You’re the indifferent silence
in the arena at the Heat games leaving early,
showing up late
due to the distance
from Brickell to Hialeah,
West Palm to Pompano
the gap between the entitled and the under-paid
a skyline of condos in a third world country
You’ve always been foreign to me.

You’re winterless, no chill
you attract only hurricanes
and tourists,
shoving anything that isn’t profitable
out of the way like the Irma storm debris
into the backyards of the Liberty City projects,
onto Mount Trash Can off the side of the Turnpike
hidden beneath Bermuda grass, lined with palm trees
you’re cold blooded
crawling with iguanas
blood-******* mosquitos
parking lot ducks and people not afraid to get run over
you get yours, Soflo
and you'll go as low
as the flat roofs of your duplexes
and the incomes that can barely pay the rent to get it
latitude as attitude
temper as temperature
if you were a body part
I swear you’re an *******

south of the brain, one hour
in all directions,
I’d find you.
You’d impose your way
onto my flight to the Philippines,
to Seattle, to Raleigh
You’d follow me like excess baggage,
like gravity,
bringing me back when asked where I'm from:

That area north of Miami, I’d say
(the suburbs, but whatever, we are hard in our own way)
I'd show you off on their map
as if some badge of grit,
certificate of aggression
I know how to break a sweat
walk briskly thru Walmart parking lots, drive evasive
ride storms in my sleep
I know you, I’d say,
“He’s a friend of mine.”
and I’d watch them light up
and recount
the postcards you've sent them
of the sunrise
welcoming brown immigrants
onto white sand beaches
You were foreign to us
yet raised us as your own
in the furnace of your summers
edges sharpened, iron on iron
the forger striking softness into swords
built for survival
I'm made of you

my South Floridian anger cools down
in your ocean breeze

if you were a body part,
you'd be a part of me
a socked foot in an And1 sandal
pressed to the gas pedal
as my drive takes me north
of your borders, far from home
You in the rear view mirror
tail-gating
like a sports car on the exit ramp
the color of the sun
Cindra Carr Dec 2010
Fat blats fill the humid, night air
Chromed up machines ride tonight
Leather clad bodies with slick lines
Long legged, lean ladies rev their smiles
Black lined lips glossed smooth with red
Blood red fingertips scratch their pleasure
Nails run races up the backs
Smirked smiles know where they long to flit
Lip curling snarls as shivers run out
Sloe eyed partners strut by the line
Flicking their tails like bashful does
Paired up pretties ride out in squeals
Tires spin flashing through the lamp light
Paired up pretties hang tight tonight

cc1210
In case my Letter had not been read Clear
That for these Fourteen-Lined Girls I retweet
Was never to demean you; Nor pout Fear
But hope to contribute your Youthful Beat
Killing this Concept of Bleeding Bat's Tongue
Which asks nothing more but Maliciousness
The Fabled Book, not just its Cover hung
But Pages worded with the Prawn's Intent
You pound the Hammer; My Thoughts stick my Claim
Which only Un-Conditioned Fortune lies
To Jolly remove your Third Condition's pain
And bring that Heart back to you in Disguise.
You are Raised well, with Thought and Prayers bear
To Live in Great Response; And be Aware.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Bus Poet Stop Sep 2017
the bus poets

we are the modern day chimney sweeps,
the ***** black faced coal miners of the city,
digging up its grit, toasted with its spit,
the gone and forgotten elevator operators,
the anonymous substitutable,
still yet glimpsed occasionally,
grunts of urbanity
provoking a surprised
whaddya know!

once like the bison and the buffalo,
we were thousands,
word workers roaming the cities,
the intercity rural routes and the lithe greyhounds
across the land of the brave,
free in ways the
founders wanted us to be
us, the stubs and stuff,
harder working poor and lower cases

we were the bus poets,
sitting always in the back of the bus,
where the engines growls loudest,
seated in the - the most overheated
in winter time, so much so
we nearly disrobed,
and then come the summer,
we were blasted with a joking
hot reverie from the vents,
but vent, no, we did not!

no - we wrote and wrote of all we heard,
passion overheated by currents within and without,
recording and ordering the
snatches and the soliloquies of the passengers,
into poem swatches;
the goings on passing by,
the overheard histories,
glimpsed in milliseconds, eternity preserved,
inscribed in a cheap blue lined five & dime notebook,
for all eternity what the eyes
sighed and saw

books ever passed
onto the next generation in boxes from the supermarket,
attic labeled, then forgotten beside the outgrown toys
with our names writ indelible with the magic of
black markers

if you stumble upon a breathing scripter,
let them be, just observe,
as they, you,
these movers and bus shakers,
as they, observe you

tell your children,
you knew one in your youth,
then take them to the attic
retrieve your mother's and father's,
teach your children
how to read, how to see,
the ways of their forefathers,
the forsaken,
the bus poets.
dedication: for them, for us, for me
L B Sep 2016
Burgundy, the color of a dress I’ve never worn
to an occasion that never occurred

Velvet lined
coffin
Where lies the violin
There lies its song

The heart of fiddle strings
that bare of arms
That heart that sings, speaks, no, yells
to the hands that can’t respond!
to a mind that can’t remember
I was drowning in some future
not a violinist’s

“Alive with Pleasure”
read the billboard slogan for cigarettes
behind the happy couple
running out into their future

Forcing the hand of marriage
Waving goodbye to my life
from a rooftop in Scranton
as the wind hauled my laundry three city blocks
dumping my unders on Saint Luke’s sills
sailing my sheets up Wyoming Avenue

I lay on the tar and pebble roof
watching pigeons swirl
listening to traffic pass on the street below
The moment you know you’ve made the mistake
you can’t return from....

Wherever my towels have blown?
I wish them well....
Love cannot grow where none was planted.  I tried.
Valsa George May 2016
With the peak of spring in the month of May
In the early hours of a pleasantly sunlit day
Two kids sat cuddled on a swing
Feeling as though they were taking on wing

Swinging in the air, they began to sing
Their sweet lay breaking the silence with its ring
They kicked their legs in rising delight
And felt like thistledowns ever so light

Up and down on the swing was fun
They closed their eyes on being face to face with the sun
Felt the swish and sway of the buoyant air
And knew the light tug of breeze on their curly hair

As the air got caught in the frills of their frock
Their eyes gleamed bright in delightful spark
Imagining themselves to be astronauts in space,
An ebullient excitement lit up their face

From a raised angle, they saw the Earth in green folds lie
Watched the surrounding hills standing awfully high
Saw a small stream flowing as a slow moving train
With trees lined up on its banks in unbroken chain

Longingly I watched these children free of all worry and pain
Also their aerial feats, not tainted by any melancholy stain
How I miss these childhood days of innocent fun
As my hours, towards the sunset, quickly run
I envy little children and their care free days......! They leave me immensely nostalgic as I had a joyous childhood in a large happy family !
Arby Aug 2018
Stone columns lined the nave,
graced by a stained warmth.
Yet, as I stood in the crossing
the silence was coarse.
absinthe Jul 2018
sat next to the man with two phones
i asked him to hold my hand
and he laughed  

sitting in his ‘96 civic
for three hours we fell asleep
till six since three

he’s one of the many men
whose substance
far from the moral field
leaves many men with little substance
and you and me victims
of victims of you and me

he’s the type who feeds fiends
and he’ll keep making a killing
off children we perceive
as grown men and women
living to **** themselves
it’s how he makes a living

don’t him you belittle
for you are no different  

i know the thought makes you livid
you wish he was lined up and shot with the likes of him
but your white lies are their white lines
and the front lines in his line of business
so you would lie alongside and
wrong right
where you were digging

as far as i’m concerned
he’s not a man without substance
and one of much substance
one of few and far between
and certainly could you defeat

because while you let savages ravage me
he held my hand for free
and never demanded their standard fee
of an arm  
and a leg
and everything in between

.
arubybluebird Mar 2018
About you
Inspired by you
You've never read them
I've considered compiling them
Hand-written, blue-lined notebook paper
Slipping them in manila folder
Handing it to you
On our last encounter

Yes, I wrote poems for you
And you broke my heart

Perhaps I wrote poems for you
Because I knew you'd be the one
To break my heart

And here you are
As you started
As you'd end with me
Tangled in love and ache and poetry
Miko May 2013
I love to sleep
I pretend I forget
I take it in doses
pretending I’m dead
and as I awake
It’s a shun just to know
that I’m ****** into the next day
with nothing to show
except empty lined pockets
turned out just to tell
running from this life
with soles smooth as hell
I neglect all ambition
and travel on foot
a shadow for companion
and at nights I take note
that this is not the last time
that I will fill this void
with ripped up repeats
and pieces that don’t fit
into my life
I’m a traveling band
that plays music so solemn
a soundtrack to my days
spent reused and for joy
written on misuse
and caution signs beware
that one day ill find you
and you won’t believe
the way my eyes scream for help
and you’re the air that I breathe
I’m more than depressed
more than they say
and your time won’t be wasted
on a misfit like me
I’m more than broken
I’m more than just the surface
because I used to lose control
I misplaced the intentions
but now I’m waiting here blind folded
bracing my self
waiting for the gun to go off
hoping ill be blown away
and I’ll wake up
look into that mirror
and know that someday
I’ll hear someone whisper…
“You’re the one”
The flat earth is flatter
   Than the round earth's a sphere,
And what's all the matter
   Is very unclear.

The world is a caper
   That's made of illusions.
I use white lined paper
   To draw my conclusions.
Robert G Page Dec 2011
by
rgpage

in times long past young lovers dashed
to reach their secret space.
to kiss and ***** and plan and hope
their future's goals are placed.

never mind their path be lined
with unknown strife and pain.
their love is strong they'll carry on
with carefree youthful gain.

they don't see their life to be
past cupid's hot embrace.
as hot breath blends with kiss' deep
young lovers start their chase.

young love is hot and secrets not
shall block their youthful nest.
when young men dare and young girls share
young lovers start their quest.

its saturday night, dad's packard's right
with half a tank of gas.
with comb to hair in the bathroom mirror
he's thinking 'bout his lass.

its only been a week gone past
his greatest dream came true.
he staked his claim, with hopes on high
and pinned his Peggy Sue.

they talked of passages young men take
to cross that great divide.
to walk the way of their father's
and yes to take a bride.

in the grown up world so long past school
the grown ups just don't see.
teen love is true and made to last
the way it was meant to be.

he got on base with his varsity pin,
the base is numbered two.
this place before he'd never been
he hardly knew what to do.

his body went through changes great
his thoughts a swirling brook.
he cupped his prize with shaky hand
when before he could only look.

tonight's the night he's waited for
yes perhaps go all the way.
to walk with those who've beat love's quest
to become a man this day.

the time is ripe as is the night
it's planned in every way.
she won't resist his manly charms
WHAT MONTHLY FRIEND?
how long does she plan to stay?

and what's her visit to do with us
away from the lights of the city?
who is this friend to ruin this night?
his plans be dashed more the pity.
Carter Ginter Apr 2013
A small child
Only 6 or so,
Runs inside from a long day's play.
So young and full of energy.
Shouldn't have a care in the world,
Except for the specks of mud on the floor,
Left by his own foot.
His father, a large and logical man,
Raised the boy right;
Manners and all in tact.
Yet when he walks into the kitchen,
While the boy is at the kitchen sink, washing his little hands,
He sees the mud.
And the boy sees him,
Smiles up at him with his missing-tooth smile,
But the dad doesn't see;
He only sees mud.
He storms over in two strides,
Grabs the boy by the collar and drags him to the spot on the floor.
The boys heart is racing,
A mile a minute.
Never seen his father so terrifying,
So horrifying;
Until a moment later.
As his grip released him, he fell to the floor.
He wasn't hurt then,
But he would be,
As his father's fists raised and fell upon his small body.
Impossible not to feel the bruises already beginning to form below his immature skin.
"Stop it! Why would you do that?" My mind screams at the man not worthy of being even called a father,
and for the boy as he crawls away into the next room and collapses at the foot of the stairs in tears.
"How could you do that to him?! He doesn't understand! He's just a little kid! He doesn't understand.."
My heart and mind scream together,
lined with hatred, through sobs of tears.
And then I see his future:
Self hatred.
Yeah he'll go far in school, he's a smart kid, but his emotional damage is irreversible.
Quiet because he forgot how to talk,
Never smiling because he knows what people are capable of.
He sees the world in a negative light, but it's his reality.
No trust, no love,
Just alone with his thoughts.
And that's when he's finally safe.
This is what happened when I took a TAT test, a psychology test where you make up a whole story for an ambiguous picture. This is what my mind did with the picture and it's disturbing but my reactions were the same as I've written in here. It's a terrible tragedy, but it happens every day to someone. R.I.P. to the lives lost to these terrible people. Even to the ones who survived but live with the consequences. I can relate. And I'm sorry if this was a little much for some people. But it really is the sad, terrible truth for some unlucky individuals.
Next page