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Reece Jan 2013
O how I loathe him, hideous man-child
Bounding down the steep stairs of our house
Barging through that shambles of a door,
and leaving it open, the brute
Clattering about the kitchen, cramped and yellow
Rustling sweet wrappers as he raids the cupboards
O fat disfigured son of mine
I pray you leave this house for I love you no more
The odour of a dying rat, the face of stoicism and sadness
Leave, O leave disgusting boy, I love thee no longer
My patience is tried, your mannerisms crude and vile
Leave this domicile at once, for it is no longer a home
Matthew Harlovic Oct 2014
The Star-Spangled Banner are Our Mangled Mannerisms

© Matthew Harlovic
Anderson M Jul 2013
Beneath the facades of meticulous composure
Rehearsed   mannerisms that are etiquette conformist
And Mechanized body language are underbellies
Immune to society’s manipulation
Storms rage continuously and incessantly
To one’s chagrin and no recourse to assuage
The emotionally grim state of affairs
In sight on the expanse horizon of chance
Feeling and emotion
Have a mind of their own
Which society with its immense
“Instruments of power”
Can’t effectively control
But still the bird’s wings are
Clipped
Whether by chance or design
Is an issue reserved for the deities
That’s if they do exist.
*I just wish
I lived in a time
when circumstance allowed
my outpouring of raw emotion
without being branded
unethical...or in contravention of etiquette*
Micheal Jan 2019
Imperative it is that my true face remain hidden.
For eternity my identity must remain a mystery.
Externally I display composure.
Internally exists a warzone.

Can I ever live without this mask?
Until I become like everyone else it seems.
My status as the odd one causes constant ridicule.
Be it my interests, mannerisms, or appearance, it’s always something.
Pointing and laughing are the only forms of acknowledgement I receive.
Apparently different is taboo.

I look forward to a day when acceptance becomes normality.
Maybe then I can take off this mask.
I may then be worth something to this world.
Until then, I must preserve this façade.
Chaotic Angel Jul 2015
I still love you even if you have a weird voice, wide smile, messy hair, bad posture & strange mannerisms. Your flaws made me love you even more.
Too bad you didn't know
When it's there, it's there.

Firey passion
Intense love
All of it.

It's there.

But when it's not there, it's gone.

Cute mannerisms become annoying habits

Awkward silences and nothing to say become a norm

You feel lost an empty around a person who used to make you feel whole and complete.

You begin to watch your steps, bite your tongue, and hold you breath because you Never know if it's going to be a good day or a bad one.

All you can do is hope for a good day.
Trying to define yourself.
Through other things like art that you like.
Or music.
Or books.
Somehow.
Everyone finds a fit.
They can describe themselves
through these mediums.
I can't even describe myself
through my own words.
I can't even speak clearly.
I trip. Trip. Trip up on what I try to say in everyday conversation.
Anxious. Anxious. Anxiety wells in my throat.
I'll draw a blank.
I feel empty.
Like a nobody.
Worthless shell.
With nothing to say.
I just don't really have an opinion.
I am one of those.
But who are those?
Is there more like me?
Stuck without a way to express oneself.
Except through acting like others?
I'll take on your face.
Your hair.
Your walk.
Your motions and mannerisms.
Let me wear your mask.
I am the ultimate sponge borrowing your books.
Listening to your music.
Eating your foods.
And finding your favorites to be mine as well.
I am the ultimate façade.
A faceless leech with nothing to say.
I will bring nothing to your table because you do not accept me.
I am too easily bored to stay long anyway.
So there I'll go.
I'll just wander around.Soaking up your life.
And leaving a trail behind of every mask I've worn.
"I am just a copy of a copy of a copy."
Emayne Jun 2014
For the young who want to

Talent is what they say
you have after the novel
is published and favorably
reviewed. Beforehand what
you have is a tedious
delusion, a hobby like knitting.

Work is what you have done
after the play is produced
and the audience claps.
Before that friends keep asking
when you are planning to go
out and get a job.

Genius is what they know you
had after the third volume
of remarkable poems. Earlier
they accuse you of withdrawing,
ask why you don't have a baby,
call you a ***.

The reason people want M.F.A.'s,
take workshops with fancy names
when all you can really
learn is a few techniques,
typing instructions and some-
body else's mannerisms


is that every artist lacks
a license to hang on the wall
like your optician, your vet
proving you may be a clumsy sadist
whose fillings fall into the stew
but you're certified a dentist.

The real writer is one
who really writes. Talent
is an invention like phlogiston
after the fact of fire.
Work is its own cure. You have to
like it better than being loved.


Marge Piercy
XxX May 2015
Late nights in your car, listening to turnover and drinking coffee.
For the longest time I was that girl in the Paramore shirt and converse.
Eventually you asked me my name and to be friends.
Friends didn't last long due to the fact that we clicked instantly.
From music to mannerisms we were in sync.
When I think of you, I smell coffee and cigarettes.  
I feel warm knowing I'll always have your jacket and arms to keep me warm.
I'm always cold because I know we're both terrified to lose each other.
But when I started to drift from you for the first time, you didn't say anything because you didn't want to be over-barring.
After a while you caved and finally told me you missed me.
But what I miss, is the way it feels when you hugged me and i breathed in your scent.
When you touch me, I have no thoughts, all I hear is complete silence.
I'm always nervous but more calm than ever with you.
You know my struggles and have seen my scars but still tell me its okay and I'm beautiful anyways.
I like the way your eyes light up when you talk about the new sextape single; your smile is contagious.
You say I make you jealous when I talk about all the boys who've touched me,
But no one is more jealous than me when I think about all the girls you've held and told THEM that you LOVED THEM.
I don't think I can handle us being "friends" much longer.
Every time I'm with you I go to grab your hand but never reach it because I'm scared for your hand to slip out of mine.
I never thought of my future because I'd rather be dead, but if you're with me, being alive doesn't sound too bad.
about a boy
-For Kerry-

Gone are the days
Where we can talk about
How heavy the weight
Of the world is.
No longer can we insult
The mannerisms of the
Hoi-poloi
And how weird it'd sound
Escaping falsetto tones.

Gone are the days
Of violence and wrath
Behind crystal displays
Sharp as the culprit's dagger.
Or our remarks on how dumb
The teenagers are in the film,
With their over-sized *******
And miniscule minds.

I've heard about how you'd cry.
My heart can't ever bear to see it.
But it relishes every opportunity
To smoke cigarettes with you.
Good medicine always
Goes down bitter.

If we are ever to meet once more,
May the links of the world be
Loosened-- at least just a little.

-Juan Carlos Gomez
Del Maximo Apr 2013
the ground shakes as she approaches
rotundly trudging forth in petite gentility
hairy arms flailing
nostrils flair with the bray of her speech
the odor of ignorance on her breath
lies spew like educated honey
expressed in sweet smelling
Snow White delusions
beady eyes the color of ignominy
assess mannerisms and etiquette
seeking softspots to expose and exploit
carrying a large plastic bag on her midnight meanders
she collects the load she lays on the road
she always keeps her **** together
she claims to be the life of the party
but her grunts, snorts and oinks betray her
who can she be but the beast?
Molly Nov 2013
I don't know what it is I like about you.

I like your mannerisms, your politeness
and your willingness to chat to my mother
with a smile on your face that says you aren't scared
of the world, and welcoming arms that embrace
the unknown and death.

I like your warmth, how you complain
that I'm always cold but my house is too boiling hot
and that you strip down to your underpants
as soon as you walk in. But there is no half
dressed for you. It's nakedness or done up to the boots.

You'll even lie in bed with your boots on, smoking,
and I hate when you do because I know you're
texting. Waiting on a lift. And that's it for
a month or more. I like how you're so unpredictable,
how irritating you are. I like your stupidity

but I hate you and I don't know what I like about you.
Laurel Elizabeth Nov 2013
I spent today reeling you in.
                     threads of your silk love
fluttered through the air  
                     like broken, escaped spider webs

                                                  how can you be at once everywhere and nowhere?
                                                        ­            on an old voyage moment
                                                        yo­u rebuked me:
            “You’re looking with the wrong eyes,
my dear”
              But my eyes don’t dart differently.

                            I sit with the innumerable knots of your
                                                                ­         miscellaneous elations.
                                                       I sift for the ends to start
                                    unraveling, adapting
                         but maybe you are just one continuous
Idea

             as lo
ng as we’
     re
tan
         gled,

                              Bind
                the­ fibers of my physical being
                              catch
                   ­       the flapping petals
                                         falling from my
          composed mannerisms

                      stitch
                 your whimsy
                                          into each atom
                                     of my salient figure-

fuse your feathered fabric
into my most raw elements.

                               My life is a matted disarray
                                  of your truest notions-

A yarn Mount choreographed from
the diminutive strands
of your blinking captured freedom

                                    I spent today reeling you in-

So- entwine me, Love,
net me forever, Sweet,
my dearest jumble to disentangle
Vivian Jul 2014
the death
of self, exhaled, borne upon
wafts of
air, and
I, with my self-conscious
prose and pretensions
of intellectualism,
and I, dreaded I -
there is a beauty in
ideology; even wastrelism,
being the muck of the earth and
much reviled by Proper Gentlemen,
has its allure and adherents
those disciples of Dionysus,
bacchanalia becoming banal by
sheer repetition:
*****, *****, *****, shotgunned beers, and then-
TEQUIIIILA!!
crowed at the top of their lungs,
memory expunged by
hepatic-processed organic compounds.
of course, these mannerisms are simply
beneath you, disdainfully
catalogued by keen eyes:
no, your form of forgettance
is much more forceful, much less
fanciful and romanticized:
your amnesia is
absolute,
it required nothing less than
total dedication, mortification,
death of self as you
expatiated lusts, loves,
aught but ambitions remain,
and now, you have triumphed:
you stand solitary, skyscrapers
shining for your personal
pleasure, yet you can find,
none.
B Berres Oct 2012
Altruistic mannerisms,
developed from skewed senses
outlined by a greater power,
gives me anger, and greed first.

So that I might know
that I arrived on my own.

Base it on my ability
to develop self
and not my ability to obtain as I have been directed.
Eliza Jane Apr 2012
Who could ever love an Eliza?
Awkwardly a little too tall,
Possessing a dorky laugh,
Silly mannerisms,
And,
Above all,
A dream of love.
An Eliza writes poetry,
Crying to God for answers to life's questions,
Asking for God to provide some form of companionship.
An Eliza,
Is impatient,
Her largest downfalls,
Impatience,
Caring too much.
An Eliza is an Eliza,
But,
Is that a good thing?
Sarah Mann Mar 2018
"bleed·ing heart"
a person considered to be dangerously softhearted
feeling sorry for everything and everyone and giving in to emotions quickly.

“My heart bled today.”
Nothing new, same old routine, same old unremarkable usual thing.
They say over and over, Repetition is key. The key for what, I may never know.
Things often moving quickly halt and take on the slow.
The same people, the same faces, the same air, the same places.

I’m a person with a bleeding heart.
It’s dangerous to lead a life like mine,
Sadly you can’t escape the family bloodline.
Constantly stuck in a place between the planes.
I can’t help what’s running wild, pumping through my veins.

No rest for me. The others are already gone.
My logic quickly left along with the dawn.
My bleeding heart might just be the death of me.
I would show you I am hurting but we can’t seem to agree
I am all alone surrounded by nothing but my own suffocating thoughts.
I can’t breathe and continue to find myself at a loss.
A new beginning. The strong will live, the weak will die.
It’s tattooed into the minds of the people in the city as a nearby excuse for people like me.

Yes, there are others, but they are far out of reach, conveniently unavailable.
The rest of us have been wiped out and deemed unfavorable.

What am I?
Just an unnoticed vessel of the human soul
and all of it’s dangerously soft-hearted mannerisms.

I have a bleeding heart. I do not deny.
Left alone for the beasts to tear apart.
But I cannot help but look to the sky.

I despise my nature, my being even,
Curse my benignant soul,
And my lack of self control
What’s left for me in this cruel world?
Run by unintellectual imbeciles running off their own flawed reasoning

A divergent past, lies in ruins which was once filled with memories and happy experiences,
I was once just a kid lost in her own place, drowning and begging for help but no one came.

Perhaps, I’m not as much of a person with a bleeding heart as I possibly could be.
Perhaps, the legacy I leave behind will be nothing but a life of running away.
Perhaps my bleeding heart only bleeds in contrast to the reality around me.

“Because it is mine, it will always bleed”.
I am stuck in this life of heartache and unwelcome spilled blood, but it will be alright.
Because I won’t give up, not until I succeed.  
I will make it one day, even if there is no destination, I’ll go just to see the sights.
Bleeding heart and all, I will fight the war, not backing down, but disappearing at midnight.
Last revised May 23, 2016
This poem was originally written for an assignment and took two lines from a poem entitled "Bleeding Heart" by Carmen Gimenez Smith, and to create a completely different story from a couple of lines.
Kissamos Council

They arrive in the afternoon with their faces tanned by the Cretan sun. Vernarth in his Alikanto pass to a first instance that presents them with a chronological table and a map where the archaeological sites of finds from the geometric period and the historical development of one of the oldest and most important areas in the area would be located; Polirrenia and Falasarna. Searching as usual if any evidence of knowledge of any news from Etréstles would be presented in the various necropolis of the city. They crossed Chania to reach Heraklion, arriving at Arjanes unexpectedly.

The Minoan necropolis of Furní was present to them, as an archaeological site located on the eponymous hill, on the island of Crete that contains remains of the Minoan civilization. The archaeological site is located near Arjanes, where there was a Minoan settlement on Mount Juktas, where there was an important sanctuary. It is a necropolis that was in use for a long period of time, 1200 BC. C. Excavations have uncovered a wide variety of funerary monuments, hundreds of burials, and rich grave goods. Vernarth pursuing the nose of Etréstles, knew he would control here the remains of the trousseau, monuments and precious jewels. Before leaving for the Castelli hills, to which he had to guard the relics. Etréstles is the celestial jurist abbot of the Koumeterium of Messolonghi, and of all the necropolis of the world, mainly Hellenic until the death of Alexander the Great 332 a. C., and perpetually.

As usual Etréstles always transmigrates for each intraterrestrial city, beyond all expression. "He is the supreme minister of the moldy wall, of whose solid stones he still continues to reside beneath those as a simple abandoned mushroom." … These are the ominous words that Vernarth emits when they began to take flight to Kalymnos.

Raeder hung with both hands over the jasper-plated iron hoops that come from reiterating the Greek "iaspis", which means "stained stone".Which was now stained green, like the stripes on Alikanto's hooves. He had to go to the ancient lands of Raeder's parents, where his ancestors came from; Kinaros, between Leros Island and Kalymnos. Vernarth jumped with joy knowing that his supernatural little friend would take him to those lands unknown to him. He takes Alikanto and leaves, behind and turning in circles, he was escorted by Reader, clinging to the golden rings that the pelican Petrobus invested.

Kalymnos

They land in the lavish waters where the Pelican Petrobus originated. They descend on an afternoon of great hot festivity. The peasant people celebrated having had a good harvest. Also not to be happy about the novelty of being fortunate to have no misfortune to have to regret tribulations for some charm of other maidens towards the Cave of the Nymphs, and where Apollo was the patron god of Kalymnos. This sanctuary was the political and religious center from the beginning of the first millennium BC. C.until the first centuries AD. The inhabitants of Kalymnos were the first Greeks to convert to Christianity thanks to their proximity to Asia Minor since Saint Paul and Saint John made a stop on the island, in the Christian era, building numerous churches decorated with mosaics. They enter the island's port, they walk in unbridled revelry after being greeted at the port. At dusk they arrive at Jorió, to find the Venetian castle of the knights of the order of San Juan completely covered in blue olive oil (a phenomenon that had been caused by the previous visit of Etrésltes and her entourage). In the same way they make the anteroom to the northeast, finding the Grotto of the Seven Virgins or Nymphs. Whose satire succumbed to some incredulous neighborhoods, hiding some of his younger daughters after denying their consummation. This is not a minor narrative legend of how seven young girls disappeared into the cave when they fled from pirates. Noticing depending on whether it could be so, also the clues to find Etréstles who had been here recently.

Petrobus the Pelican resorts where the colonies of his ancestors. He had the gold rings on his neck. He had no contact with his native colony since the last day they helped with water in the fields due to the lack of fresh water. It is worth noting their property of converting salt water into fresh water, but even more so the quality of Petrobus, in addition to where they step on their feet they will all shine and rejuvenate. It decentralizes its wings with allotropic tints, which made it turn colors, in addition to strengthening and relieving its body in long periods of flight. He lifts his beak and flies vertically to meet Reader and Vernarth in the Early Christian Necropolis of the funeral chapels. Here they meditate and offer their submission to the wind that flows with great power under the catacombs, pulling and moving the spirits that want to relocate with their placebo presiding over their doubts. .

They leave the port, boarding a Triacontero that would take them to Kinaros before night falls and is seized by the coastal fog that does not resist rope that holds a ship whatever it was; many times these ships were maneuvered by rowing sailors. But this time it was only consigned to them, it would only move without anyone having to intervene; only the eternal and kind wind will have to take them to the island of Reader's parents.

Kinaros
Triacontero Ship

On the transparent waters sailing in the Triacóntero were the Three. Vernarth at the bow, Petrobus at the main mast of the canopy, and Raeder next to him a few meters from Vernarth, remembering his parents when they emigrated from this island. The name of the ship that was named was "Eurydice". Every certain space of advance, she approached the mask to empty the tears that this Nymph emanated from her semi-open eyes. Vernarth took a cloth of sacred linen and dried the flows that should not have been more than for some reason that he wanted to know?

When they arrived near Kinaros, a rainy cyclone increased, raising them above the surface of the island, when they were less than 5 km away. Vernarth takes his Xiphos sword and cuts the ropes. Then Raeder, noticing that they were in serious danger of being shipwrecked, tells Vernarth to get out of the ship quickly. Vernarth runs to the bow and covers the eyes of Eurydice's Mascaron and leaves the ship. With his epic metaphysical thinking, he acclaims his magical steed Alikanto, he flies over the ship and picks them up, and Reader takes hold of the hoops on Petrobus's legs, reaching solid ground.

Kinaros is a land of fishermen and farmers. Long-lived land of ancient inhabitants that do not age. There are no cemeteries or monuments here. There is only eternal spring for those who can be grateful for a place that gives them peace and melancholic love from those who do not live there. Here, from this generous land come the Raeder Fathers. They migrated to Kalimnos; being this lands the one that saw it born and immortalizes it. So remember...:
"In the Dodecanese islands subdued by the carmine dew that falls in the morning on its crystalline waters, on sandy or gravel beaches of important archaeological remains and scenes to compete in athletic leisure, Raeder ran naked after the clothes that his mother had readymade. It was covered by crystalline Byzantine monuments and medieval architecture due to the long Venetian ******* in its mannerisms. What unites it to these islands, their history and their occupations: that of the knights of the crusades to that of the Turks, the Italian occupation to the Greek annexation with their volatile useless attire to dress? Patmos is very popular with pilgrims from the moment his work was raised in one of the caves on the island of Saint John the Evangelist, a disciple of Christ, writing the Book of Revelations.
Astipalea is the westernmost island in the archipelago and has architectural features from the Dodecanese Cyclades. It is also related here in the Etréstles de Kalavrita novel matter of his victorious boast to Patmos, when he resorts after the reverie of the Laziko Dance in which they seized the little finger and circulated in commemoration of the stripping of the rebirth of spring with La Sousta of the Dodecanese. These dances were generated on the ocean floor of the Ionian Sea, generating the power of the ethereal emananation of Etrestles from Kalavrita by daring to put Eclectic confrontation on the invisible portal of Evangelist Saint John in his sacred basaltic cavern in the Patmos archipelago (Koumeterium Messolonghi, Chapter 16 / page 114. Editorial Palibrio - USA)

In the Chapel of Ministers

They were seconded by the high representatives of Kalimnos, among them the curious immortal serpentine Raeder. Son of farmers, natives of Kinaros belonging to a group clan of six small islands and six small families. Some islets used to flaunt the genealogical beams of the Antigone challenges and documented inspirations found between Leros and Kalymnos in the east and the Cycladic island of Amorgós in the west.

Raeder always got up before dawn, and a petite blue bonsai Pelican always appeared on the threshold of his window; called him Petrobus. In the mornings, he ran, beating this Olympic bird in a quick dispute. Sometimes he could not say goodbye to his friendly bird, because he ran so fast that the days used to be weeks in a row, while Petrobus snorted through the skies with his wings of Hellenic Artificial Intelligence. With his hyper exhalation he moved large rocky cliffs, even moving and disorganizing the geographical nomenclature of these twelve polygonal islands of the Dodecanese.
The least known and uncontaminated islands are Leros or Pserimos, while Rhodes and Cos, the largest and most cosmopolitan islands, are the target of migrant Blue Pelicans throughout the year. Before returning home, Raeder stretched out on the grasses sheared by the heels of the Petrobus migrants and their minions. In this dancing grass I could feel the dances with gag bread dancing on all the hips of the damsels of the Sousta dance by his arms. He ran after Petrobus with his golden mask and hung on the legs of his bird (Wings Mate), the art of flying with golden magic birds and his Ancient Antigone Mama.

When he sometimes flew by the feet of Petrobus, he thought..
"My ground ... a thousand times I will lift you with my arms, do not hesitate my arms believe it ...
Oh my revered Ionian, I will apnea to please you a thousand times to become your Ionic molecule...
Wind by Kalimnos himself ..., I will make the Oda flute that travels through the twelve pierced epitaphs of my ancestors in Dodecanese asleep of paroxysm in the chapel where I was baptized for the ninth time!
And by the fatuous lavish Fire I will put the ceremonial ribbon of the Sousta Dance in the siesta of the new migration of my transparent Pelicans…. ”.

Raeder tells Petrobus visibly excited imagining crying with his imagined friend. "The little Raeder from the Dodecanese region", he tells his magical imaginary friend; what was the most missing Petrobus of ground breadcrumb paste for next winter?
Petrobus tells him not looking at him ..., just placing his palm-legged heliophylloid leg on his other one like ...: Nothing, fear Raeder, God does not exist!. Now He and you are the same. You will be able to lift the sphere of the flat earth with your arms and convert it into a healthy land of milk and honey from our Kalimnos that runs like mud over the mountains of your Life turned into a new House dressed in a new house”.

When Raeder finishes thinking ..., Vernarth tells him that they had to set sail for Patmos. Curiously in the bay was the ship of Eurydice. They believed that this ship had capsized and sunk somewhere on the wide Aegean high seas. The three boards the ship Eurydice, Alikanto stays in Kinaros grazing in good safety from the peasants who took great affection for him. Later she would join him in Patmos for the service and pantry of the offices for Saint John the Evangelist. Alikanto will take a great contribution and role in the prophecies of Vernarth on the Isle of Patmos.
Vernarth  Ciclades passage
Bogle Jun 2013
Is it his origin?

His Physique?

  His mentality?

   His mannerisms?

    Or is it something deeper,
something harder to explain?

We all have a goal,
a mind as strong as the body,
or a body as strong as the mind,
few have both in this world.
In response to 'Hell Boy, Here To Protect'.
Zaira Diana Jun 2013
i. I’d tell them of the moment you spoke about your favorite cartoon characters, and the way your face flashed when you described them to me. How innocent that brilliance was and how guileless your mannerisms were. And I’d wish they understand why I fell in love with the feeling of your innocent enthusiasm about some nonsense cartoons no one else cared about.

ii. I’d show them all your worries and troubles stacked on top of one another in a carelessly balanced house made of playing cards. And while they were appraising these I’d point out how selfless you are. How your troubles were never centered around your own joy. And I’d wish they see that the house of cards I showed them is a reflection of the person you are. The kind of person who’d knock those cards down if they had your name on them instead.

iii. I’d paint them a picture of your mind as I see it. Full of intricate ambitions, contradictory emotions, unreasonable doubts and absent-minded memories. I’d use black and blue pen to dot your journey here. And bright red to show them the great places you are destined to go. And I’d wish they stand back and appreciate the amalgam of colors instead of questioning why. There isn’t a single spot on the canvas I seem to fully understand despite being the artist.

iv. I’d take them on a walk to the place we first met. I’d make sure it was a sunny day first, just like that one. I’d tell them I didn’t think much of you at all when I first met you. I’d make them sit in that same spot, and feel the same way we felt as indifferent strangers. And I’d wish they understand that despite the seeming insignificance of that moment, I look back and am convinced I see a halo of light above that place and the beguiling simplicity of that day.  

v. I’d tell them how tightly you hugged me when I was sad. How softly you touched my arm when you assured me that nothing was wrong. How quietly you showed me an overflowing friendship that’s waiting to combust  And I’d wish they understand that it’s not just how wonderful it was breathing in the smell of your old jacket. It’s how wonderful it felt, feeling the weighty presence of a thousand words unspoken.

vi. I’d warn them before they meet you, this is what I’d say: “It’s easy to make that boy laugh, but it’s hard to win him over. His love is not on display, his mind has been sent to the dry cleaners. His laugh has been blocked with by caution and logic. But don’t ever say you don’t understand that he’s a wonderful human being”, I’d hope they understand your appearance is all pretense.

vii. And if someone asked me why I love you, this is what I’d say: It is hard for me to imagine going through the rest of this life and meeting another singular human being like you.
John Bartholomew Jul 2018
A flitter, a flutter, whats a few quid on a bet
the folly broke its leg on that run, better call that final vet
much like the creature that ran its last race
there are certain things in this life that I cannot face

Her high pitched scream of a laugh is almost a squeal
such a pretty face but her mannerisms and depth I cannot deal
I laughed, tagged along, at first it all seemed so great
but it ends up so weary, solemn yet teary, its day has had its final fate

She had her ups, I had my downs, to be away was my final curtain
had to leave the house, crept to the bookies like a sneaky woodlouse, that divorce was almost certain
but I prefer a bet to her hair, and to always be there, hold the phone, there's a tip at the 3:30 in Ripon
my friends said I must be mad, to leave that beauty, oh so bad, well yes, I must be ****** trippin

But that's life i'm afraid, we all have plans that must be laid, some leading wholly in the wrong direction
she's with some other man now, almost the size of a baby cow, I'm sure their bubba will be perfection

So the bookies it still calls, if its horses to Saturdays goals, those dice will always for me be thrown
for it is what it is, a life as a quiz, what will tomorrow bring, as it really is,

nobody's fault but my own

JJB
Eat your betting money but don't bet your eating money - Anon

The best throw of the dice is to throw them away. –Unknown

The safest way to double your money is to fold it over once and put it in your pocket. –Kin Hubbard

A gambler never makes the same mistake twice. It's usually three or more times. –Terrence "VP Pappy" Murphy

I love blackjack. But I'm not addicted to gambling. I'm addicted to sitting in a semi-circle. –Mitch Hedberg (1968-2005)

You know, horses are smarter than people. You never heard of a horse going broke betting on people. –Will Rogers
WHY
Because I'm happy. I'm very happy.
WHY ARE YOU TALKING TO ME?
Because my dear we're happy!
My love, we don't need to do this anymore. We don't have to feel this way.

You're afraid aren't you.
Yes my love, afraid you're going to do something I'll regret.
Whatever it is love. Stop.
But I'm lonely can't you see?
I'm happy. I'm going to make you happy too.
My love calm down.
Being calm is how we got into this mess dear.
Familiar shadows are closing in.
Why not greet them again?

This isn't you, these aren't our actions.
But it feels so good, it's the only way to get to normal.
SMILE. Like its the last day of your life.
My love, don't distance yourself anymore.
Stop hurting yourself.
****** traitorous ****.
I know my words seem to contradict but please know I want whats best for you my love.
It's only momentary you know, this emotion.
I feel so happy, happy, happy.
My smile that has been crafted by gods to make others happy, at this moment it is my misinterpreted pain.

Let her go
I want to take her hand, hold her close and slice her throat.
So this is how the desire, the need for revenge feels... indignant.
This is how you cry my love. We've been tortured so much, this is how we do it.
Smile. Laugh maniacally and terrify the masses. But don't twist yourself anymore my love.
I don't enjoy putting your snapped personality back together

Oh please. You're hurting too. You finally met a girl who could understand you, and she left.
I am designed, self made by taking mannerisms from others.
YOU CALL ME MY LOVE BECAUSE SHE DID ******!
And it's blatantly obvious, we're only speaking because you hate this.
You and me, we need someone to talk to but we have noone, so we settled for talking to ourselves.

My love.
Why are you comforting me.
Because you want me to my love.
Am I alone?
You've never been alone. I'm glad she's gone so we can talk. This needed to happen so I could make myself blatantly obvious to you.
I know you've always been there, I guess without anyone there's no point in keeping you locked away.
I love you so much.
As do I.
You'll never die alone as long as I'm here.
Amanda Griffin Jun 2016
He knew it when her curves became art when her mannerisms became poetry when the look in her eyes became sunsets he knew he loved her more than any creature he had ever known .He whispered ever so softly so only she could hear "My god you are beautiful into her soul ".
preservationman May 2017
What happened to love, respect and appreciation?
This poem has no occasion
It’s observation detail
The thought of mannerisms that fail
Let me give a history lesson, it was back in biblical times is when the Lord created the Earth later it became generations upon generations
The Lord saw the world being good
Yet the Heavenly Father went through deep struggles and be bared being could
However, person to person doesn’t even have respect in would
Yet life is about living in how you should
What would it take for us to have respect for one another?
Appreciation is a blessing
There are lessons to learn
You might need me to hand you a drink of water
Perhaps a health issue, but maybe not in that order
But I am sure you get my point
We are not sheep where we need to scatter
I know some of you are thinking it doesn’t matter
The world needs embrace one another, and welcome and appreciated each other
A plain simple please and thank you goes a long way
A good morning is what starts the day
A good evening that ends a hard day
No need to give negative looks
The man in the mirror is the picture that took
Respect, Love and Appreciation is what the world needs to strive for
The Lord brought us all together to fellowship
The Heavenly one is the tip
Let’s greet one another
You do not have to be negative like the other
Yes life is rough
But to survive you must hang tough
Now I think I have said enough.
Perri Jun 2015
I love observing a stranger's mannerisms,
they tell a story of their own.
I watch them wherever I go, I find it cute noticing their little habits. I love seeing character in people I will never talk to or even see again.
I remember our first date vividly you had your lustrous black dress on that displayed all your curves supermodel figure, shoe game was serious fashion killer had your hair in them short curls smelled like coconuts eyes were sparkling reflecting the moonlight with that red lipstick you were so gorgeous

GOD'S canvas painted in that melanin you could have ruled the world evident you a Queen in my eyes a future bride, I was more nervous than you when we shared our first kiss floating butterflies got me feeling like a little kid, you stuck in my head like a lullaby

Girl what's not love about you got me feeling like Dwele, you such a down the earth chick sophisticated not simple minded girl you stay educted, you into them old school tunes sung you that old Jays hit you're darlin darlin baby, you everything I hoped for in a woman can't be compared to no hoes you a strong Queen with goals, I love the way you get goofy when you start laugh but that's only when you comfortable, or when your eyebrows twitch when you get ****** I study your mannerisms, ain't nobody eles I love this deep you make me complete other girls just can't compete

Girl U got me
Girl U got me
Girl U got me
Girl U got me  (voice fades)
CH Gorrie Oct 2012
So...there's this girl who's rather smart
that, when her lips begin to part,
drives me up the wall in a good way.
I sort of want to see her everyday.
She's usually busy though,
so I occupy
time with one constant sigh
until she calls and then I go.

I don't really know too much about her ---
she's Aphrodite's caricature! ---
no,no, that's a bit rash and inflated,
but in my stomach butterflies've congregated
each time her face comes to mind.
Severely interesting,
her hands are often clean
and she's never proved less than kind.

I think it might be good to write her a song
(I should've been writing this all along)
so that she'll feel sublimely delighted
and is happy, though consistently derided
by the upkeep of her garden's flora.
She could use a lot
of things uncommonly wrought,
like poems stuffed with anaphora.

      In time all the snowflakes will evaporate.
      In time the sun will sleep under an iron leaf.
      In time acetylene darkens human hate.
      In time all time will seem quite brief.


So, in honor of her I have created
this mediocre song so dominated
by use of the Yeats-stanza's rhythmic-rhyme,
offering it to her as ends to the crime
of my deplorable mannerisms.
I hope it's well-received,
being arduously conceived,
but I'll openly accept criticisms.

Coral, though you must (and do) work a lot,
work harder at those things which can't be bought
(i.e. relationships, love, and empathy)
for even the natural workaholic bee
requires mutual love.
Even while working
find a small moment to sing
this song. I hope it's enough.
growingpains Nov 2017
He looked at me with disgust
I was surprised he had the guts
But in the midst of my tears
I was struck with a sudden realization, a question had appeared
Was he disgust with me become of who I am?
Because of the way I carry myself?
Or was he disgusted with the creation that was his?
Was he disgusted to think that I had a little bit of him, that we shared similar mannerisms?
entropiK Nov 2010
i.

a girl once told me that sad people close their eyes
so they do not see the world anymore,
and that i should count sheep when i cannot fall
asleep and that her favourite flowers were azaleas.


she also told me that she keeps scabs
on her knees, and on sundays
she comes to me with bleeding wrists.


another girl paints artifice out
of artlessness and human flesh. she
has scalpels for arms and a tempest on
her thighs and she lives in the
mirror and when i blow



ii.


on her i understand, through air condensation
and self- anathema, that i am the girl that she  
de-fleshed maliciously herself, slit out of the cardboard
and painted out in artifice and artlessness and


i am the girl that once told another girl to ******* cut
her arm off and i meant it so she would not hurt herself
again because


i am the kind of the girl with scabs on the bone
of her halo, because i believe halos are made of
nothing but cartilage and helium bones, and a heart
as transparent as a vampire and its split opened like a monarch
butterfly, ******* off


azaleas or malarias or other pathogens
giving infants cancerous proclivities and my eyes are
swollen in mauve from divestiture because i know too well


those sheep won't jump over the fence
anymore because they have been ****** raw
in the *** by inhumane prospensity and i understand that


sad people close their eyes because it reminds them of death.




iii.


death is a scientist that theorises the
duality of elusive particles in artificial marrows
and mediocre decolourised melancholia in discordance,
it is the finger forced into our tiny vein and
it is nothing but a dream within a dream


but i could care less and this poem
is not about death, it is about how i
like ugly girls and how i'm just sorry
that i do not taste as corrosive
as the bleach in her mouth.




iv.


when people are dying, they almost sound poetic.




v.


i am the girl humanised by ribbons of
flesh and bile and atrocity, and i am the girl who
understands that a 'broken heart' is
nothing but a metaphor for utter
disappointment.  



i am the sleep that dreams long for,
hope for, phlebotomise for
  
and i am bitter.




vi.


i am bitter because i will not believe in sundays
unless one day, fortuitously, the sun osscilates,
in the most serene of all mannerisms, down the earth
and kills us all.


i am bitter because semantics does not authenticate
the abiding human apathy towards death
and all the flowers in her hair.


i am bitter because people only read my poetry
because they think it is about them.


i am bitter because of other horrible
reasons that words can simply not express.


vii.

ugly girls are always prettier
because god loves ugly
girls, because he ***** them harder than the
rest,  and because they know how to
make others feel ugly.
OLD; but its amazingg.

— The End —