"manumits" poems
Which variation do you choose to throttle blows
Squeeze your nostril collect that head fluid
Your mental eradicates nasal liquid
Nose running swinging like a bungee jump
Panicking searching for the tissue clump
Dangling like the Tarzan on a jungle vine
Hand eye coordination catch that snot on time
My nose got that stutter drip
Watch when i sneeze flying lighting manumits
When the nose pouring stops
I was only dreaming pops
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
Which variation do you choose to throttle blows
Squeeze your nostril collect that head fluid
Your mental eradicates nasal liquid
Nose running like a bungee jump
Panicking searching for the tissue clump
Dangling like Tarzan on a jungle vine
Hand eye coordination catch that snot on time
My nose got that stutter drip
Watch when I sneeze flying lightning manumits
When the nose pouring stops
I realise I was only dreaming pops
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC
The clearing in the woods is where
I find solace and solitude
I call it “the glade” as it caresses
The covert, ceaseless, controlled calmness
That captures my core and character
Like a meditative mantra,
It manumits the melancholy misery
Of mundane mortality
Quiet and still, the glade is an asylum
For amnesty, absolution and
Apology of the mind
Jun 29, 2023
Jun 29, 2023 at 11:09 PM UTC
To walk in the path of those footsteps before me,
Those that led to gilded gateways of valiant hope and glory,
Where freedom manumits fierce hands chained to death
And heroes' tales are written in martyred blood, stolen breath.
These stories shall follow me where'er I go.
Their basilic faces would make kings of us all
And shed away the wrongdoings of supreme,privileged blood.
Yet what makes us privileged than our deeds and our thoughts,
And the labors that brought us to what we have naught.
These stories shall haunt me where'er I go.
This certain romance that exists between future and past,
The tales of the old coincide with grieved souls that have left.
Those who were soldiers and battalions of fearless digress,
Have etched into memory the words we shall never dispossess.
These stories shall guide me where'er I go.
These stories, the ones that spur the emotions,
And tug at the heart, with all the dead's devotion,
Have reminded us of wrongs that remain and are kept,
Locked away in the deepest part of the cage evils profusely *****
These stories are remembered where'er I go.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC