Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
it's called the Mt. Everest of cuisine
without food critics...

- so i gather the chinese are not
   too keen on deserts, esp. chocolate?
   that fake aphrodisiac of feminism's
   excuses of eager beavers in early
   age trying to find a dumb schmuck
   later on in life and making him
   docile, effectively curbing his
   ****** appetite, translated as
   domestic violence after they went to *** parties
   with rich boy sons of billionaires?
- well the chinese do like sweet & sour
   and sweet & salty cuisine.
- indeed... quiet the deviation.
- and if it ain't sweet & sour or sweet & salty...
- compared with indian cuisine, it's quiet bland.

yes, today got cooking orange chicken,
what a playful, but a mysterious glutton dish...
the marinate was not like the marinate
i'm used to, it was so diluted...
orange juice, caster sugar, soya sauce,
malt vinegar, orange zest,
ginger and garlic paste,
finely grated onion - a bit of chicken,
half the marinate content soaking up
the chicken refrigerated for 1/2 an hour,
the rest heated to a boil, cornflour added
to thicken in...
then the marinated chicken taken
out of the marinate, dipped in egg
then cornflour and fried (mini schnitzels
of the east), in three batches...
then coated in the remaining marinate
of prior heated with cornflower,
a custard too thick that orange juice had to be
added, then evaporated so the essence
got soaked up... mm... a playful, but a mysterious
glutton dish... yummy.
manicsurvival Sep 2013
just another day
that i'll marinate in the pain
that brings me all this heartache
and no matter what
i'm still a **** up
i'm still another disaster
so i'll marinate
in the savory tears
that won't stop rolling down my face
so i'll marinate in your voice
your horrible words
your careless face
so i'll marinate in the smell
of my mother's food
that I wont eat
because i dont want to be nourished
and I question if i want to live
i'll marinate in the grievances that i've listed time and time again
i'll continue to live this life
that i hate so much
that i question every day
and sometimes
the only thing that keeps me holding on
are the words of a singer who doesnt know that i exist
sometimes the only thing that keeps me holding on is him
but he's farther away every day
and i've loosened my grip
because it feels like someone is punching me from inside out
and the pain in my brain hurts so much
that i want to stab myself with an edge so sharp that this punching feeling
wont feel like anything
I hate myself
i hate everything that i am
i dont want to be here anymore
in this sea of fakeness
i want to be with people who understand
i want to rewind three months
but that's not possible so what's the point
**** my life
there are people who love me
and i wish
that i could love myself as much as they do
but no one understands that my lack of a mask is masking
my anger and despair and angst
that kills me more and more every day
that makes me want to take 50 pills instead
of the 1 that i'm prescribed
someone take me away
to a place where the broken souls go
everything I am is too shattered
there's no putting me back together
these shards of glass
have fallen so hard
that they can never be pieced together again
A Psalmist Jun 2016
He knows so many techniques
He has proven his recipes
The ingredients are there
And he's ready to create
But instead of waiting for his ideas to marinate
Sometimes it's better
To just go raw.
Because like any good chef
he can make things up on the go.
And like every chef
He is the first to taste
and first impressions dominate.
For better or worse.
Elizabeth Zenk Jul 2018
As a slob, I see no reason to pick up my own messes.
I’d rather just sit amongst my problems
allowing them to marinate
in a puddle of negativity and self-hatred.
I’m such a pathetic slob.
A mess.
A disgusting freak just
bathing in my own
filth and *******.
Decaying along with
my grime and trash.
disgusting
Karina Jan 2015
How did you get here?
Perhaps there was a big bang, and so you were.
Maybe you hit the ground running as fast as your legs could take you.
Was it so that you opened you mouth and words poured out perfectly?
Perchance all that was obtainable was already yours.

My journey was not of such ease.
I was birthed after hours of labor.
For every step I walked I fell six times before.
For months my tears and laughs were my only way of expression.
My parents, as many, knew patience.

Our parents, our teachers, our siblings, even ourselves: we had patience.
We are here because of it.

Now we can marinate our meat for flavor, but we pop diet pills for fast results.
Now we can slow cook our meals, but we abuse drugs to erase our sorrows.
Now we can raise a baby, but we let go of precious relationships too easily.
Now we can be a teacher, but we give up on ourselves.

Patience is putting in the effort for results, even when we don’t see the results for weeks, even months.
Patience is choosing the narrow road, even when the wide one is less lonely.
Patience is taking all the loops, kinks, and bumps as they come; and not giving up after the first couple roadblocks.
Patience is to love unconditionally, even if we have to step back for a little while.

Patience is all rage; we all need more of it.

We are all patients for patience, but we get too sick of waiting.
Our doctor was there, our remedy too, but a cheap high walked past and we chased it.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
only today i felt this strange fear from boredom, i don't expect housewives to feel it, although i'm certain they do, brain-draining watching some Jurassic adaptation where man's imagination really did a runner - not into the fantastical but into the absurd - like in science fiction, did a runner, completely off the mark given chemists making shampoos and toothpastes and fertilisers... ethically-free science fiction - but this housebound fear from boredom, greater than a fear of death it seized me and rattled me, i had to go out to buy a few beers; just like it happens to really rich people, they make their homes into micro-units of what's out there, in society, a swimming pool when there's a communal one elsewhere, a massive library of unread books, when there are plenty of those elsewhere, home cinema, snooker table... it's the entire spectrum of social pastimes condensed into a single household... anyway, i got hot and bothered, i'm starting to think it was not a fear of boredom, but what to do with the piri-piri chicken i was marinating: tomato puree, 1tbsp balsamic vinegar, half a large lemon squeezed, 1sp sugar, 1tsp paprika, 1/2 tsp cajun pepper, 14g of parsley, mint, oil, 2 chillies, 2 tsp of garlic puree, salt to taste - whisked in a food processor; ~1kg of chicken - because i thought whether i should shove the chicken marinate in an oven bag and cook it for a while, or whether to take the chicken out from the marinate and place it on a baking tray... ****!

poems and book reviews these days, nothing more,
get someone else to do the legwork -
a thoroughly modern malaise -
social anthropology - titled *tribe
-
the pros and cons of modern life and our
search for tribal mythology -
the 8x more chance of depression and
other mental deviations in wealthier
societies than poorer ones -
once it was called adventure, now
it's called tourism - after a while you sort
of get bored of the naked ego
and the clothing range your thought
provides you - unless you keep thinking
out the same thing, over and over again,
dressed like Armani, all black, nothing else -
odd, isn't it? they're playing the cat game,
cat wakes up, same ****, different cover,
well, the same cover - same fur - can't
change - the paradox or parody of
the fashion industry, i.e. that the designers
wear the same thing over and over again
and insist people require a spring collection,
the latest autumn trend.... parody.
so back to this piri-piri chicken      n'ah, not really,
i was thinking about what we already did,
this anti-tribalism, to have given ourselves
the opportunity to experience the least
amount of pain, the anaesthetic, sleep inducing
on the butcher's table more or less -
but we also created another anaesthetic,
this anaesthetic is not so subtle - it concerns beauty -
ever see it? ever walk into Tate Modern and
think about Raphael or Michelangelo?
you could tell me i'm overly nostalgic -
but what i see in plain sight is an anaesthetic in place,
against beauty, esp. in architecture -
who'd think of building a new Coliseum or
a St. Paul's - the Tate Modern (as you might
or might not know) is inside a power station,
big massive chimney - would have worked
better in the Battersea (Pink Floyd's Animals
album sleeve), but then St. Paul's is right opposite
and what a staggering dichotomy it is -
i'm sure that's what you call an anaesthetic in art,
the sort of art you have to get or not get
because, frankly, admiring a tin-can of tomato soup
even by Warhol's standards isn't exactly appetising -
i know, conveyor belt necessity and all, once
artists painted on commission for some duke or
duchess, or king to be adorning lavish palaces,
but as according to Walter Benjamin - the work
of art in the age of mechanical reproduction
-
some could once claim the original to be worth
a stupendous amount of dosh, but with the above
mentioned essay, the original is worth diddly-squat,
because there is no actual original these days,
because artists don't necessarily have to invest
in raw materials - and the copying process is 100%
perfect, what with photocopying and all...
but **** me over once more, how am i going
to cook this piri-piri chicken?
the few beers took the problem off my hands,
i ended up marinating the chicken in a bag
but then shoved it into a baking tray
an covered with aluminium foil, forty odd
minutes and the chicken was tender - ~5 minutes
without the aluminium foil covering while
the oven was switched off and the temperature
was descending - the carbs? couscous -
alt. North African semolina - and extra cucumber
in tzatziki - a few hours later and i'm a little
buddha not thinking an ounce or a continent's worth
of suggestion... one of those rare albums
salmonella dub's  inside the dub plates,
i'm a real provincial with this album,
tumble **** here, tumble **** there,
never settling for a ****-garden -
i told you i'm just borrowing the language, in fact,
given my alcoholic and status as vermin among
the bulldog rigid British (Londoners can have
their little gay pride parade, whatever, they
better give me up for surgery to a veterinarian than
a human doctor, after all, i'm all ******* gerbil from
now on in, it doesn't take enough pacifists to turn
my attitude into a Neo-**** and bulldozer the Union
Jack into a shallow grave, i don't expect the Caribbeans
and the Pakistanis to usher words of: it's how it is,
a rite of passage, **** your cumin and your ****,
battle of Britain, who among the R.A.F. flew and spat fire?
us) i'm more Apache in a bigger zoo than the one in
Reagents Park, i'm in a conservation zoone -
i'm Aboriginal - shaman of the fire water -
i'll be as ******* ridiculous as i want - go chant
you little kirtan get together mantras going,
i'm sure you'll *****-fight-those-pigeons dead without
a single coo being ushered in - and your little yoga stints
asking questions about the flexibility of the skeleton
not pulverised by scientific eyes for a schematic and
a schooling rubric to domino up the cranium with mandible,
ulna and radius etc. -
but at least i know what sort of country i live in,
and what country is wandering into political apology that's
too late, in ratio 27:1, soon to be Turkey + the Yugoslavian
gape, Albanian and Macedonia by 2020 -
>30:1 - great Welsh ratio that is, oh ****, wait, Scotland too?
i never thought about it coming - there's my 2 cents
on the topic, and that England is becoming more American
by the day? that's good? really?! i thought the
aim of England was to inspire America rather than
vice versa... what a ****-storm these few days ended
up being; ol' McDonald didn't have a farm, but
had the slogan - *i'm lovin' it!
Ston Poet Dec 2015
I wanna taste ya, I wanna take you away girl..(away from all the **** ****2)...all the **** ****..that you gotta (deal wit2)...me girl Yeah..(I wanna taste2)..I wanna (take you away girl2).(away from all the **** ****2)..all the **** ****..that you gotta (deal wit *2)...me girl Yeah..Just (deal wit me girl Yeah2)..(just deal wit me2)..(deal wit me2)..(just deal wit me2)..Shawty.. Yeah..

Deal with me girl so what's the deal girl, what is real girl..what is real love girl,..What is true...What's happening..What's up..wit you..baby me &  you..that's what's good.. Uhh, Young Ston Babygirl you need a soulja baby I'll be the  whole troop for you if you want me to..girl, I'm willing to do whatever I need to do for you, Yeah baby so..(you believe Dat
2)..Imma be there whenever you need me, best believe Dat Imma treat ya, how you supposed to be treated..(Yeah
You best believe girl2)..best believe Yeah..you best believe me. Yeah believe Dat..Uhh Aye..best believe girl..you best believe girl, you best believe Yeah..you best believe me....(best believe Dat, Yeah you best believe girl2)..believe dat..
I won't tell you no lies baby..I will never cheat on ya..(you best believe Dat2)...believe me..Aye..Baby  Yeah..


(I wanna taste you, I wanna take you away girl
2)..away..(from all the **** ****,yeah2)...that you gotta deal wit..Uhh..,just (deal wit girl *2)...Yeah,.. You (best believe girl2)..I wanna taste you,..I wanna take you away girl..(away from all the **** ****2)..,that you gotta (deal wit2) me girl..(just deal wit me Yeah2)..Deal wit me girl...

I'll protect you like you my Louis Lane boo, baby Yeah believe dat, believe in me, Dat your heart won't be in pieces no more baby & if it is already baby I'll be a mechanic & fix it..forget them other worthless man, that you have been wit, I'll put them in their place, if you need me to, Babygirl Aye..Imma keep it real, Imma keep it gangsta wit you..You gone need me, best believe Dat, yeah best believe girl, baby Imma put it down on you daily,..every chance I get..Imma give you love baby..Yeah true love girl..Imma have you screaming, Imma have you moaning, like "Young Ston you the man, like "**** Daddy you the best ..I ever had".. Uhh..Yeah I know dat already baby..girl just take this **** yeah, take it all in like some good kush babygirl, don't exhale it, just let the good smoke marinate  in yo mind & yo lungs for 30 seconds, then cough it all out..

Aye Shawty being wit me..is like being in another dimension baby being wit me is a new reality, Aye..Its another universal feeling being wit me girl , you (best believe Dat..
2)..I ain't like another man, they so regular that's so unoriginal, & I ain't even tryna spitt no player **** to you baby..boo, I'm rhyming from my heart girl, Yeah this song was written  deep down  from my soul girl..I really love you girl..This song is only dedicated to (you2), know who you are , You my (boo,2)..You so sweet, you my favorite candy, girl..Oo..Oo.., (best believe Dat2)..you my only woman too..Oo..Oo.
It's just (you
2)..the only one dat I think about girl...boo, its just (you2)..the one when I fall asleep, I dream about (you2..)..Aye & when I wake up  Im still thinking about (you2)..(just you2)..

I lust after you..& only (you2)..is all I really care for girl.. (Yeah you2)..(just you,Yeah2)..
I  adore..(you
2)..girl Yeah..Yeah..just (you2)..baby..Yeah..Yeah..
Best believe it's just..(you
2)..(just you2)..be on my mind so much Shawty..,I'm so crazy in love wit you..****, I gotta put a ring on you soon, when I find ya best believe dat..(you best believe girl2)...you best believe.. (Yeah2)..Best believe me, best believe (Dat2)..

I wanna taste you..Yeah..I wanna take you (away girl2)..(away from all the fucc ****2)..Yeah..from...(all the **** ****2)..that you gotta (deal wit2)..me girl..deal wit me girl..deal wit me Yeah...just (deal wit me,girl2)..(deal wit me2)..,you best believe girl..,(deal wit me girl2)..(deal wit me2)..,you best believe girl..,(deal wit me3)..girl, Yeah you best believe girl, you best believe, (deal wit me..3)
stonpoet.tumblr.com
Cameron Haste Sep 2014
Marinate me in sterling serendipity;
a lace handkerchief blowing in electric blue
Chinook.
Howl and twist your obsidian spit down
her leather throat until she reproduces
glass golem.
Clang & the brass of the thunder,
muffled underneath a Reith that was last
lathered
in hathgraven gatherings.

**** him with your sour tongue
&
rag water whistle .
Cut him down from that arugula suspension
&
let gravity fold into him,
like an aluminum foil gargoyle,
crush to the core.
Tallulah Jan 2014
Mix hormones, sprouting hair, and teenage angst  in melting ***

Add 2 cups of Varsity Sports

Blend in at least 3 leadership positions

Sprinkle AP & Honors classes liberally

Acquire obscure talent such as playing a Theremin

Add long-term anxiety disease

Brag constantly about how you helped Jakito, a small African child, on a mission trip

Drain all traces of possible love connection

Substitute sleep for academia

Bring stress to boil

Add spoonful of “legacy”

Separately mix “White Guilt” with a cup of diversity (Native American if available)

Marinate in SAT classes

Spread 2300mg of SAT on top

Shake Well

Ice decoratively with essays about Jakito

Most batches must be rejected
Recipe Poem

(I've been playing around with different styles)
Pen Lux Mar 2012
one

we're intertwined
         in imagined concepts
and we've got the same layout.
some sections colored the same
but we still look so different.

two

I feel like a story basket
locked in a casket,
avoiding spitting on graves.
you're the foam at the bottom:
           all I have left and I want more.
I'm just a foam hound daddy,
             a locked foam hawk.
you open your face, intoxication pouring out.
too much stimulation leads to lack of stimulation.

three

through my fingertips
budding beneath my eye lids.
I see what you're saying.
translate what you're feeling through my skin.


four

slabs of meat for hands,
place them on the stove.
(I feel better with my head close to the oven).
you've gotta soak in the seasons
or they'll fry off so fast,
it'll be all chew and no taste.
all **** and no chase.
I'm simmering
let me marinate.

five

social stimulation starts simmering smoothly.

six

okay,
I'll let my body make the decision when it remembers how to move.
too much to touch and not enough to stay away.
Dolores L Day Aug 2014
Words are ****.
They make me want to rip a pillow with my teeth
Or marinate in a sensuous heat.
Where you'll be, sitting there.
Waiting to kiss my spine and touch my hair.
Tell me regaling tales of what you think.
Of what is rational or obsolete.
Worlds like Suggestive, Sarcastic.
Forlorn
and Bombastic.
Makes my skin melt and heart palpitate.
I will no longer settle for those who are adequate.
I need substance. I need someone (you) to say.
That you're enamored and beg me to stay.
I want that learned passion that only we
could portray.
Vocabulary lists are almost as good as ****.

...almost.
Maddy Sep 2021
Dream in words and lines
They marinate
Black and white
Colors unimagined or named
The words awaken us and accomplish their feat
Do we dream verses?
Do they talk with us as if to say Write me down?
Record me
Take me to a higher level
Your fault if you forget
Sculpt me and find a fresh new way with me
My forever friend
Somehow you will accompany me now and forever more
So it goes and continues
Anatomy of a poem

c@rainbowchaser2021
Emily Madeira Aug 2010
I like to let the words sit
Marinate inside my soul
I need the rhymes to be good
So people swallow them whole

I want tears to pour out their eyes
To cry, to sob, to laugh
I want them to ask for more
And never stop coming back
See it's easy to rap about
The ghetto
When u don't live in ghetto
We got blacks raps
Takin us back
And got whites makin fun
Of our slacks
You see it's apart of plan
To destroy society
Without the use of hands
Instead words laid over instrumentals
Once the voice is planted
It can become influential
Or detrimental
See thirty eight years ago
The ghetto was bout surviving police
Brutality and violence
And uprising of black unison
But it wasn't until ****** crack ******* from our beloved government
Entered the scene it became
A reality nightmare
Far from King 's
dream pushed away from teams
*** we wanted to be the next dope king
Pin enjoyin sin punishing pur women men and children
But we're helping the establishment
With the destruction of our race
We can't even look each other in the face
Yet we cry its about race
Yes socially mentality and economically
But in actuality the hood locality
Is where most of the hatred be
I see my folks walk around
Looking at me
Like I'm the reason behind slavery
And they mugg me
But don't mug the p-o-l-i-c-e
Feel me so duck the ghetto
The pimps the hoes
The dope the jewels the clothes
Its nothing but holes
In a womb far from being patched up
Wake up and let's abrupt
And stop letting stereotypes corrupt
Our mindset
We natural born warriors
our existence is fearful
Enough towards them
So let this marinate to ya temple
And stop being so love struck
By the
**** luxury of the ghetto
Alif Imran Jan 2016
I am hungry for some
Love
From you
Kiss me, in the bitter light
Of the sun setting,
With the sour wind blowing,
And let me taste
The sweet taste of your lust,
Bite the hotness out
From my body
Endeavour yourself
In this spark of
Marinated relationship.
Keith J Collard Nov 2012
After the battle done did rage,
my spoil of war, a frenchman,
I put in my basement in a cage,
this rarity I would not relinquish,
my personal love adviosr and sage.

He called me a " fatty american"
even though I was slim,
and said it was torture that
I kept bothering him.
He counted time like Louey Pasteur,
that was how he pronounced "hour."

I told him I was french in lineage,
and he said " I don't think so,
" the french are biologists,
perhaps your mother was a fungus
that grew on oak."
so I sprayed him with some water very cold,
" be nice, or you'll get the hose."

I told him, for his advice I would pay,
his currency was cow's milk from Calais,
he brightened even more after
I installed an *** tickling bidet.
and he would make, then nibble cheese,
as he was lecturing me.

" If you want the girl, you must always whisper,
and she will lean closer, and then you kiss her,"
such advice, this frenchman delivered.

We became bon amis, with each other pleased,
but he needed more than a bidet and cheese.
" You can either have a french wife,
or an oven for cooking bread,"
before I  even finished what I said,
" Oui, a bread oven I'll have instead."

So every night, I spent by his iron side,
Descarte and Victor Hugo we would recite,
" and against the british we helped you fight"
" and you still owe us money," he said calmly,
as he offered me a baget and I took a bite.

" We french, know the power
of the mushroom and the bedroom,
that is why we avoid the scuffle,
would rather marinate our truffle."
I gobbled up his words,
so sweet and sauteed,
and admired the clothes he made,
and he made me some
so I  "could get laid."

Then the news came, a peace treaty,
war and my personal frenchman were finished,
the United States were now
at war with the Finland,
" Right when we just started to begin,"
I yelled and he nodded his chin,
" What the hell am I gunna do with a Finn."

So I released the frenchman back into the wild,
crying like a mother seeing off her child,
I had to push and shove, he would not go,
but we had to part for the sake of love,
he dillied and dallied and bent low,
picking mushrooms that wild grow.
" For the sake of love, just go,"
I yelled, and threw a baget at him,
and he retreated into the woods,
and I wiped the tears from my eye,
and everytime I see frills or  fungi,
I think of that time, I had a frenchman in a cage,
and as I talk to the finn,
****** ,.it just ain't the same.
Aaron LaLux Dec 2018
Backpack strapped back to my back packed up ready for the next destination,
got a train then caught a plane from Lisbon to Budapest but got no rest,
now it's time to go again & I’m all out of answers but I do have a question,
if I’ve been awake in this American Dream for so long then when do I rest?

See,
people on the outside say my life is great & they say it with a hint of envy,
they say that I’m who they want to be or at least that’s what they say to me,
& honestly I'm too tired to thank them nor have the patience to engage them,
because I'm racin' to the next destination on a spaceship with a window seat,

daydreaming awake & gazin' out the window wow this view is amazin',
see it's more about what you leave in than it is about what you came in,

but honestly,
I’m depressed,
& honestly,
now that I've got everything else I'd like to finally get some rest,

I'm upset,
still having a good time though I must admit,
because I'm blessed with the rest of the best of the Jet Set clique yes,
but must confess I'd like to find a nice nest where I can get some night rest,

because I’m tired of going whichever direction I'm pulled,
tired of going wherever the wind blows,
& I know it's an honor to receive all these invitations,
to all these events all over the world,

but it's as exhausting as it is awesome,
so I'm searching,
for redemption & as God's son,
through my sins I am praying,

God,
please take me home,
if life Itself is a prayer,
& we bless everywhere that we roam,
then it shouldn't matter that I never made it to church,
it should only matter that I'm a Believer that believes in redeeming his soul,

oh no here we go,
I wanted to take the time to marinate & elaborate,
but I'm writing this at a fast pace with haste because I’ve got a flight to catch,
& if I stay here any longer to take the time to elaborate I’ll be very late,

& once again I put down the pen in order to make my next date,

so I’m back packing,
I’m backpacking as backpacker not a back tracker,
so I'm moving forward because I've got a feeling that I can’t ignore anymore,
which is that there's more in store to explore & everything's still exciting,

& I want to share all of these experiences with you,

but I can't take you with me so instead of inviting you I’m writing cues,
to help you find the clues in all these experiences I'm going through,
as I live it up to the limit of the sky no gimmicks I'll admit to you why,
it's because I’m only living this life & visiting these towns for you,

so come spend some time with me,
so we can be together before we both go away,
because we all know what They all say,
baby tomorrow isn’t promised today,

tomorrow isn't promised today,

& that’s why I’m back packing,
getting ready for the next destination & always ready for action,

backpack strapped back to my back packed up ready for the next destination,
got a train then caught a plane from Lisbon to Budapest but got no rest,
now it's time to go again & I’m all out of answers but I do have a question,
if I’ve been awake in this American Dream for so long then when do I rest?

∆ Aaron LaLux ∆

New Book FREE:
www.scribd.com/document/388173677/The-Holy-Trilogy-Volume-2-Mandalas

Bio HERE:
www.amazon.com/Aaron-La-Lux/e/B00ODPJAOK
WARM WINTER Dec 2014
Music is a free spirit roaming round,
freeing souls and stealing souls.
and the funny thing is,
we're all meant to pay for it.

Just let that marinate, before its too late.

   Tori Amos - Bells For Her
Rhea Sheilah Jun 2015
I need a real man...
A man with real eyes..
A man that can see beauty in and outside
A man that is strong enough to handle these
thighs
Sometimes guys say the dumbest ****...
I'm like what the world...
Such as Ayyyy yo, you'r fine to be a big girl.
I try to look laugh and push on... But a part of me
instantly felt resentment.
Where are the real men that know how to compliment....
He had to be mistaken thinking by his approach I
was pleased.
I guess to him for a big girl I had skinny girl
qualities...
I was NOT impressed by his senseless comment.
His ignorance has caused my shoulder to have a
chip.
Why not address the long natural curly length of
my hair my clear skin, or brown eyes or even my
virtuous hips.
He could even acknowledge the New Mac shade
on my lips.
I'm smart intelligent well spoken and I speak my
mind quick.
Don't ever address my beauty in saying to be
thick.
Then he had the nerve to request my number. I
gave him a BIG rejection.
I let it be known the next time come to a woman
correct, if he doesn't want disconnection.
Truth be told I am a mere image of God's
reflection.
NOW let that marinate in your soul.
Men please learn the right compliments...
SamBee Jan 2013
I find myself hidden beneath the moss infested trees of the forest that chatters
Noisily in the air behind my house.
Sunlight mockingly sings on my legs:
Dances between my bloating, crooked knuckles.
I am compelled by its glow,
As well as a low rumble that quakes my whole body with hunger,
To suddenly grasp at its illumination.
I shall catch the very speed of light,
Pop it on my tongue
And swallow its jellied consistency:
Fleshy fruited sweetness
Down my gullet,
Allowing it to marinate in the oceans of acids of my gut
Festering in the tender walls
Of the chambers of my stomach,
Fighting against decay and erosion -

Causing my brow to sweat,
My hands to tremble
Mmm-my ss
sss peech to stut-
tt t
t
er
A-and my belly to ache with agony,
Oh, this agony!
Throbbing beneath the seams, stitches,
Threads of my clothing
Drawing blood away from my heart
Toward my stomach, pulsing and pumping
Pulsing and pumping -

I feel as if I have reached my limit:
B e  n
-----  d
      |  i
      | n
     |g
    | o
     | v
   | e
    | r,
                  \  Re
        g   \         \      c
         n  \        /   o
       i    _   /i
      l
in defense
Cringing and crinkling my eyes
Scrunching my nose
Lips pursed in vile disgust
Begging, pleading for a speck * of relief;
For an ailment for this hideous torment!

I feel as if I may perish on this very spot
Below the trees that birthed this demonic,
Deceivingly attractive sphere of heat
That I so daringly consumed.

I feel it now,
Inching its way up the tunnels,
Reaching the depths of my throat,
Rolling its way past my molars.
My jaw feels as if it may erupt from this
Ignited stick of dynamite that is lodge under my tongue.
My eyes are tearing-
My claws tearing-
My face sneering-
My moth searing-
AHHHHH!

And who knew something once claimed so divine,
So pure
Could cause such a build up of anger
And distressful disease in the pit of my being?
And I blame it all on you.
Ahhh, love. Hahaha
Mary McCray Apr 2017
(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 2, 2017)

A fresh attitude (sautéed with butter and either garlic or onions) is hard to find in certain climates. Serve with any choice of greens.

Folded like divinity with pure cane syrup.
½ Tbsp of honey drizzled in the pan.
To caramelize is entirely your option.
Peel 6 or 7 tenets and shred.
Add a pinch of the herb mixture on page 11.
Knead out the narrow of the marrow.
Start to fricassee some fresh foliage.
Do not pare down or skim the concoction—
You will starve the recipe and the starter will fail.
Toss in some mettle instead.
Let the mix marinate overnight, uncovered.
Have a cooling rack handy to the side.
There will be stewing. There will be steam.
Add the hot sauce of your municipality.

This soul *** is a food staple worldwide.
Serves 7.49 billion.
Napowrimo 2017: Write a recipe poem.
Salmabanu Hatim Dec 2018
Marinate my heart tenderly with your love,
So we become beautiful soul mates.
Poetoftheway Jan 2018
this one, this one poem,
this old birth, renascent,
is not in the file

the file place where the
half started, nearly done,
but never truly satisfactory
fester, marinate, awaiting confrontation,
some kind of contentment of a sort,
final solution of annihation or completion

many a bare-***** title,
that the lords of hosts of
itinerant peddlers seeded,
notions await coating, stroking,
full flesh embodiment,
awaiting perhaps peepholes
for a someday poem

but not this one

this one I possessed,
better said, better reflected,
it possessed me,
rooted so deep, thick limbed,  
it, larger than my life,
though of my life,
cut, diced, sliced amd muddled

no confession of the cheapside here,
this, more a rescission, breaking of a contract,
annulment of a reputation in ten thousand words earned,
now comes, the longest day apology

why now,why ever?
there was a trigger that flipped the lock,
to open and accursed,
keys that filled the keyholes,
opened them peepholes,
that prior asked to kindly be
left let to rust in peace

this one composed itself,
asking no permission,
in the sense that I am more
recorder of the disorder,
than author

don't beg to differ, do not countenance opposition to
what here exposed, as the only witness,
I yam the guilty poet party, the jury, the prosecutor,
the fool client, all one and the same
who must perforce defend himself,
for no counsel needed for one
who guilty pleads
to charges of high crimes and misdemeanors, that
he himself created, so numerous,
no ear could tolerate the hear,
the alphabet of sins committed against
man and God*

of course you want details,
you wish enablement, the *** of the
simple syrup of satisfaction of the
titillation of the knowing

pick a letter any letter
and I will supply the action, or worse,
the inaction


for the greatest pockmarks that Cain marked this man,
were the failure to be brave,
be there when needed,
the shaming of thinking
instead of instinct reacting,
tiny inconsequential fears
that work word whisper
why you? not you?  somebody else?
when so clearly you
were the anointed one,
but stayed behind as
the one who disappointed

each grass blade censures,
each water sun sparkle accuses,
our prior direct line connection,
now ******
the winds voice shocked unto summer stultifying stillness
and you, still here, still reading?


cheated lied even murdered,

told to crank away the cranky somber,
unmistakeable,
but this shaming don't know no quitting time,
having surfaced, it is
my burnishment, the polished gloss
of rubbing off the now vanished varnish


who knew truths so foul could gleam,
my side listing, so angular lengthy,
that I walk unrighted,
signed below as,
this is the poet of the way, the who l am
June 6, 2017
OnwardFlame Sep 2018
Do you remember the way
That we'd act before anything happened
I remember our first couple of texts
And when we talked on the phone
The sound of your voice made me nervous
Typing in notes, trying to match your level
I felt like I had so much to prove.

You are tall and lean
Your hair swings when you let it down
I can look up into your face
But we are pretty neck and neck
In life
In our careers
In where we reside
In the way we look at art
Life
Maybe love, a little bit
At least.

I wore a purple blazer
The glow filling my face
You set up lights
I sit at tables and delegate
You dream of visions and lenses
I dream of
I'm not entirely sure actually.

You dangled high expectations before me
In my baseball cap I'd leap up and swing
Right into ownership, a self proclamation
It was you and your crew
Versus me and my crew
We sat on a bench
I remember the way we communicated
It was strong and direct
Whirling through long days
I started to enjoy standing by your side

I wanted to do whatever I could
To make sure that you felt cared for
A tug of war where I would secretly
Boomerang back and forth.

I wore red, long, sparkling eyes
We sat together, texting before
I grew to like you
I grew to favor you
I liked that we had something no one else had.

I remember the way we left the party together
And the way I danced with and away from you
Sometimes now, I'll play music and we'll get up and move together
I think to emulate that first night.

I don't want to think of myself as an interruption any longer
And I sometimes wonder when you think on me
If you marinate on the words I've given you
Or when your eyes meet mine
If you remember some of the lines
I fed you with an iridescent spoon.

You are very special to me Alex
Gratitude drifts up through the vines that entangle my bones
Like a flurry of flowers that cascade in and out of my spine
Glad that you can soak in and take in all the letters--
With your antics and the way you get nervous
Your solid colored t-shirts and your desire
To reach out and express
Attempting to give yourself what you want
I drift in my own cloud of holographics and paint.

The window you reach through
I've opened it
Though my heart and my legs do not
Relish in one place with you
And with you alone.

But even still
When we return to the well
And think on the water we both wanted to drink
At least we'll know
We gave each other a good lovin'.
Risha Nicole Jul 2015
A broken mirror of my reflection
A shriek of pain from repeating rejection
A complex scheme
To learn a lesson

****** palms as I play psalms
Picking up the pieces of a life at risk
Started out with pricked fingers
Now I'm avoiding a ****** wrist

A deteriorating gas is pressing to exit my mind
It eats away at every sane thought left inside
Where do I go when it's my true self that I have to hide

Everything I say is a constant mistake
So I grit my teeth till they ache and I mumble words until they marinate
Working on self love but the moments like these that are within myself are the ones that I hate

I search for repression but where do I begin
When this is all I know
When there's always the question of an end

Save me from myself because Lord knows I've sinned
I'd take it all back if I could run it again
I hope he doesn't lose faith in me
He's my only friend

It seems like ever since this has began I've been blessed with a beautiful curse
I ask God for the best but I still expected the worst
Maybe this is what happens
When everything is diverse

See it in my eyes
See the rift in my soul
See the angry love
Burning a hole
See the ache for expectance
Taking a toll
Skins red but it's feels cold

For the content that makes up me
It grits down like sand
All I ever wanted
Was a loving hand

They tell me I'll be okay
But I don't think they understand
For this is not a human quality
I am merely man

I am left to supply
When commitment was my only demand
Two judges and one man
Will I be enough when I take the stand

(r.n.)
Dan Kipp Feb 2010
Now
read this aloud, mind the punctuation,
and, finally,
enjoy.


amethyst eyes alight with nighttime lightning, clapping lashes spark ruminations rumbling across the savannah of memory imprinting in me the afterimage of Now.   Now, Now makes me hers -- though i’m more willing a captive than she imagines: imprisoned in the present, tasting the electricity resounding in this soundless cell () deafeningly solid --
she grooves before me.
slowly rolls me
me rolls slowly  
molasses boiling tongues twisting towards me
ba-da doom ba-doom doom doom.

i don’t know if it’s the fireflies caught in midnight-amber jars suspended by strands of suicidal curls tumbling down the pitch of your back,
or
your touch, come tentatively, but nonetheless titillating, for it softly pleas me to get grounded, stay a while in the timbre of warm fireside conversation and cocoa,
or
your teacup of a navel compelling i to lift laughter, fish up reminiscences, and transcend time,
or
when you lean close and lick me with your eyelash, as if a butterfly’s kiss,
or
your soft voice smoothly singing songs of four-lettered blues .   .     .

.     .   . my god you’re gorgeous.

dance with me, Now     for two more turns of the moon let’s defy posterity and traverse the curves of each other’s words and purge our selves of self     let’s anesthetize Now, marinate in the moment, savor the silence and become sap-trapped fossils left for the future     let’s live a lifetime together in two more turns of the moon, Now,     so that I may memorize every quark of every electron of every neutron of every proton of every atom of every ion of every molecule of every cell of every sinew of every tissue of every ***** and every system of all your beauty, Now, you are perfect because you are am is and will never be anywhere else but here and nothing else but Now.

feel me?
   feel her?

      feel here?


Now.
Odi Jul 2016
A marinate was played
Full of granite and fine rings
A bathtub of nosebleeds Danny and a bathtub of kings
All the cards that were dealt all the hands that we played pulled the curtain bell
Of my sleeve up to delay what I'd say and
All the cards we swept under the rug Danny all the music we screamed
From my sore throat and broken hands came the sound of suffering on a silent note in an empty room a bell jar and a piano and a single key being pressed in time to the sound of my weeping Danny
My friends ignored my cries
But here we are now with a new drum set and two sets of sticks for hands and we break everything we try to touch Danny thinking it can be played like the single key in that lonely room
Listen there are vultures in my throat in all my baby teeth and landlocked blues
I know that's the name of the song but I wanted to play it for you
Just in case you forgot I could sing out my suffering
And it doesn't sound so horrible now does it Danny
Because you don't know the story it tells
The blood diamond behind the curtain
Well it glimmers just as well
And I'm sure we can find a way to forgive ourselves for everything that was done
But I'm in a two step programme
Where everything gets reversed
And no I haven't slept in weeks Danny you're right I know I look like ****
I just haven't had time to think about what I'm putting in me
When I try to scream and I come up on a single static piano key
Listen there are ways we broke each-other and I'm sorry I tried
But the sound of my suffering
Doesn't mean waving goodbye
A poem inspired by a series of bright eyes songs.
Poetoftheway Sep 2017
parse and praise the phrase,
checkerboard fraction,
appréhendé immédiatement,
a poem title!
put aside to marinate,
stamped "will not expire,"
doing the research legwork,
**** it is a real thing!

toujours,
where the best words and titles come from,
if one listens well
romantic notions swell the chest,
all the love affairs over so many decades,
all checkerboard games
with Kings a-crowning and Queens a-moaning,
poet, no way, never planned ahead,
always lost by a fractious split,
more than a fractional loss,
losing
most triumphantly!

each lover took and left a fraction behind,
a numerator, a denominator, never a whole number,
for then there would be no poetry need

you want,
have need for
une idée fixe
whom I should be, but i could be a
multiple choice answer
a three scoop ice cream treat,
or perhaps, a mix of forty favorered flavors
a new one,
chaque coup,
why not?

our first disagreement
both of us wish to nominate the other to be the nominator

the denominator is a definition of what is the whole
because i am gracious,
foolish and less than whole
already
I concede cause I am in already in retreat,
conceding comes supernaturally nowadays,
so move me forward on the checkerboard
and triple jump me, and any way
I am pas de nom
we close today with an American
yay...
https://www.scribd.com/doc/200770223/decimal-checkerboard-lesson
Julie Artemov Jun 2014
Hey you
ignorant uneducated
prideful loathsome
self-righteous glib
donkey

Take your opinions
Dice em up
Marinate them
Throw em in a ***
Bring to a boil
And simmer on low

Plate it
With bias on the side
Stare at your meal
And salivate
Like the dog you are

Chew it slow
Taste every bitter
Gritty crumb

Maybe then you'll
See your reflection
In the bottom
Of your dish

And be just as
Disgusted as me.
California....I love to hate this place,
Gas prices high people getting high on a false sense of reality....lets get it right

Exotic cars and intellectual flaws
Riding down the boulevard

****, can I drive without the admonishment of getting far..?

Dreams of impacting the world one country at a time
Schemes of people full of vanity, fallacies that aren't mine...

Can I dance with the moonlight like King Harvest and not be sued for human rights...?

The waves of excitement once stimulated my thoughts, Filled with nightmares and dreams a southern jezzabelle once taught...

What can you do for me and what I can't do for you; the nightlight just caught...

Yet I remain humble, though I stumble through the golden coast that boast dreams a civil war couldn't  fault...

Dreams of californication....with laid back sentiments and pornification...

Can I wake up from this guitar riff of fornication?

Yet I Vibrate....And marinate on this pointification...
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
the humble sloth sees no morning and no worm in the sun -
nor the chittering of a few eager sparrows,
either -
             he sees everything square in
rhombic - squinty eyed, sorta:
should i bother it, or will i wait long
long enough till it bothers me?
that's me, right there, a young man will
idealise women, until he finally idolises
them in the naked form at-moist
sensual... and this will go on and forth,
he'll pass the corridor of a few
teenage pregnancies, because there
was no *****-Nilly & the Eager-******
scenario for him to scream and moan...
until dawn.
                      the natural contract is there
and it will knit & pick out the most
useless lions... until a few lionesses start
to congregate and do what the lion
does... every lion's statue akin to man's
is not even in a state of contemplation...
strange how man glorifies life and sacrifice
and indeed sacrifices the worth of life
by burning incense, and selling goods,
and running around the world
for a worth of a scalpel's worth of
a barber overdoing it... calling the forehead
a man's chin, and bluntly stroking it
until a dentist can take part in the wreckage...
might i say: i am sometimes like a sponge,
i read a bit of e.e. cummings and act on paper,
i don't plagiarise as such,
i merely focus on how one might repeat -
he said, she said,
       and return to: nonetheless, it said
for both of you: without a neuter pronoun:
she'll say eve, and he'll say eve,
    he'll say apple, and she'll say apple,
and you're still both, both! going to sit on a
******* chair... deemed obscure for
the sistine chapel, but indeed worthy to
scribble the lesser findings of graffiti into
a classroom table, like GD GV M GD CCK...
       so i i dabble a lot, in much of what
really is testing the young men who begin
with misogyny comparisons of genitals
at Billingsgate... and later try to find
one and only monocle to a bowler hat and moustache...
that train? long gone...
     so let us find people like me...
who idolised women, who made them divine in
supposed grace, and... well... eventually
all babies look similar, as do old people...
women chop of their locks (unless
they want to be deemed Merlin's brides)
   and the fat embodies them and they all turn out
alike... we all think heaven is the pinpoint -
    governed by an aesthetic democratisation of
all our faults... i just don't trust a world to be
wandering a forest of oak, while in the background
man settles matters of what dwarf eye of the beholder
should be asserted above the immortals' arrogance...
         but there i was... idealising women...
what a horrid affair...
     the moment you encounter woman
you already know she eats, she farts, she snarls
and she stares... after all: what woman is a woman
who isn't building a cosy abode?
            the moment you begin from a fascination
with women, that you state your anti to a misogyny
well... try wiping your nose with paper
   and even bothering debating feminism with anyone
except a homosexual... you haven't got lunch,
you have this seemingly 1970s film from Polish cinema
that states that feminism is equally transcendent
to encompass Aristotle in the present age,
       as it is not encompassing some frivolous
   ancient Greek joke... why women have less teeth
than men... i guess they hide them... then they
practice felatio... n'es pas?
                    i have a wriggly worm, she has a
hollowed out bone to fill with juices of the marrow...
     then she's practical enough to call Aristotle
an autistic astronaut... i say: give the woman! a time-machine!
         why? she has no sense of humour,
or no historicity concerning humour,
    or how there are necessary fluctuations...
men these days tell rapes jokes...
           because the one joke they are afraid to say, is:
at a ceremonial altar, with the punchline: i do.
               i do is hardly synonymous with the more
appropriate: i will.
                i do is a stagnation coordinate:
how can i do all of that if i say i will do such things
only account of mere ceremony? surely
the chaplain gets paid... but what do i get?
alimony checks, court-hearings and how
        i have two testicles, she has two *******
  and we debate the 2 to 3 ratio of d.i.y. holes
     for inviting sinister sergio to do the plumbing;
cos the ******* cobwebs got in the way by way
of leeching on the purse.
              see where misogyny comes from?
not getting an Aristotelian joke... or basically not
getting an ancient Greek joke right...
because off they go! mistaking dualism as a dichotomy...
   you start idealising women, you encounter
a woman and ****! the dream is gone, and out
pops shaggy and ******-doo...
                   and if you retract from idealising women?
you begin with Billingsgate and genitalia...
me? personally? i always thought of marinating my
chicken thigh in a warmed marinate of yoghurt
and tandoori spice - mix the two: you get Coronation
pink... all fluffy and unicorn and wonderful...
           idealism can be hard to shake off...
unless of course you tell either Americans or Russians
how finicky things can get in the bridal-chambers
of Essex on the Grecian isles of Cos,
   or Ibiza (I-beef-ah), or anywhere where there's
contrary speed-dating shakiness that's bound
to be representative of Essex, once upon a time,
when great music played a key-role in merely
utilising all body parts when dancing, i.e. snogging,
and lo and behold... when satan averted his
eyes composing the two serpent composition,
he looked into the mouth of man and a mouth
of woman, and found no resemblance unto his
original investigation: speak no ill of tongues:
for the tongues of men are merely ill-fated
         against themselves: for they revel in
other parts of their anatomy bearing the sting
and quickened step,
   but whether it's politics or uniting two tongues
in a dance: they're sluggish about it
ever becoming fruitful quickly enough to
            sediment into a snail's shell worth of
chattering teeth into old age, for the slug of both
sexes' tongue, having no such allowance,
         and subsequently left wriggling into their
daily trough of the competitive: first come,
first served.
                   but then man want's clarity!
if i idealised women, have i not become a gimmick
to such idealisation in the first place?
              how can i display this with all but words,
well, i can, all the more simpler...
                 by idealising women i have conceded
to a contest that has brought me against my fellow ***...
              and all because by having idealised woman
as a concept: i cannot see any of man's achievements,
i cannot see any achievements worth striving for
   in what could be translated as creating a reverse
idealisation of woman, in that other men might idealise
me, to later idolise me... all saints were fools in
idealising jesus, which is why he's strung to a crucifix
made of termite-wood... the minute they hang him
upright on mt. golgotha the crucifix collapses...
                        how could he be an ideal if
  the obscurity of righteous judgment be so-far removed
from the people? is this the construct of the pharisees
appealing to the reason of the greeks to save them
from the roman "oppressors"?
         can this really be the case? just because the greeks
had so much more to think about, and so many more
things more interesting than the romans to think about
that they would have rather written the "new" testament
in greek?
    i am indeed graced by an incompetence
   of having begun with idealising women, experienced
a woman, and thus begun idealising myself
    to a status of idol, or a moral example of plagiarism
worthy of imitation...
               does a crucifix imply a metaphor of
marrying a difficult woman? how many poetic
angles has a man have to write to rob these filthy
philistines of taking things too literally
      and provoking Islam?!
                      when it comes to the old testament
poets only exploit the book of genesis...
   but with the new testament... it's almost like
this need to create a poetic attack on the established
order... and when the book of revelation appears
as the exodus-equivalent book...
       we get: a democracy of poetics...
           which accounts for escaping the health
of the body, and an inherent illness of the abstracted
brain: the mind, and then that becomes
     cubed and encompasses nothing quiet
once more able to take literalism mind's experience
of the world: back into it.
             sheltered man of civilisation can take
a painting more seriously, and then explore it in
his dream factory, than the man pledged to the land
with no galleries, and instead given a canvas
that might swarm with tornadoes and give him
absolutely: no luxury to dream.
   dreaming is a luxury... the last remaining luxury
most people have these days...
   i don't think people can be artists by simply
dreaming... i think they're luxury hobbyist,
       call them the ones standing in line
            as Joseph's Travel Agents... 7 years in Tibet
     (lean years).... and 7 years in a district of Beijing -
where have the "blind" prophets disappeared to?
      and why do so many seem blind
      and blindingly obey to the prophets of "sight"?
nonetheless: frivolous questions...
                 i idealised woman to the extent that
upon encountering a woman: i could not find
an ideal to suggest idol worship for other men...
or create a continuum of dialectical embedding
or the sight of following the cause toward becoming
a sacrificial lamb: whether under the bachelor's
ideal of becoming a martyr - or indeed
                      the idea of becoming a martyr:
bound to old age... and woman - for where did
the wooing of man recede to?! farting into an armchair
and arthritis... much aplenty about that much
could be said about me too: solo.
Hank Roberts Dec 2012
I only spit shine our hikes
in the woods and I marinate rain drops
in melted wax so we can peal

it off our skins when we get bored later.
I only exfoliate on lost time while
maneuvering around false hope

you seem to deliver from an eternity
void, stamped and all. I must jump its
sound and skip a couple staircases

to find its Jonas Salk.  I only go mad on
the colors I write about the clown who keeps
his nose on a rounded cliff and

his acts in prepositions. I invest
verbs with the future and liquidate  
past futile nouns in denial.  

I plunge the toilet of the oppressed
monk who never gets the good and
rough *** those mornings the birds sing.  

I sew fellowship when viscosity
is at maximum and the sewage
ruptures four feet from the prince

of mercantile who ends up
building a wall to protect himself
and others from the foggy morning.
Marinela Marie Nov 2012
Ok

Ok...not so good today
Two steps forward
One step back
Sometimes three
And when I do
Alas, the difficulty
So what. Who cares?
Do you?
This is me. I don't care
At times I stumble
At times I detonate
At least I do....
And not just marinate
You judge me?
You're no one
That matters to me
Ahhhh! That is the key!
No care for you
I am to be free
No one shall tell
How I will rule
MY life, we'll have no duel
You live yours
And I'll live mine
We will see
Who, in the end, will shine
You cannot touch
What you have not known
Don't dare to know me
I will be alone
And love that I am
Strong without you
No more I shall I need
No more I shall rue
How I love that I have no more
The chains that had choked me
Restraint I abhor
Leave me! I scream
My heart full of glee
Begone! Stay away!
How I love to be me
Endya Tremese Aug 2016
Get that hate off your heart and get me off your mind
No longer your concern so lets move on with time

Cuz there's No time to go backwards, we tried this before
You made it all clear that the real you is sore

Your ego had shown and your prides on the floor
But you took so **** long, now your prize out the door
...
Im not trying to boost but you could have lived lavishly
Cuz no matter our bank account, no matter what tragedy
We kept our heads up, and your soul was so attached to me
But that one last night i had you, you had did me savagely

And i accept that, matter fact i respect that
I told you to stand up for yourself and helped you grow, U can't neglect that

But when your fam ask what happened, do you tell them all the truth,
tell me what words did you really use to reflect that?

Tell me what words did you use to help you think that
What you said was how u felt cuz if u think back

Just one day before, we walked out by the shore all in love but i guess you didnt sink that

I guess you pick and choose what you want to marinate
But thank god, cuz this really could have been a later date
We were three years deep in and i let it sink in
That with you i could never see my heart break

But that broken heart and shade that you threw was never worth it

And im not playing innocent, i threw shade, i got my word in

But that really does nothing
So can we please stop the bluffin
Cuz the both of us knows we dont deserve it

The both of us cant really bare the burning
The hate in us cant stand to feel us hurting
Breakups can literally go from date to hate within hours

— The End —