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Robyn Nov 2014
I can't wait to get a toaster
My own toaster
I really enjoy toast, especially with the peanut butter that's bad for you
And sometimes with cinnamon
I usually make myself scrambled eggs and bacon
With a couple pieces of toast and chocolate milk
Toast and I have a special relationship
So I'm looking forward to the day when you and toast meet
When your step uncle in law twice removed buys us some cheap Wal-Mart toaster
Wrapped 20 minutes before the wedding with a card where my name is misspelled
And I use it a week or so later to cook you bacon and eggs the way YOU like them
With a side of apple juice and toast
I've loved toast all my life
When I marry you, you'll know I love you just as much
So, you and toast should probably meet
Joe Workman Aug 2014
The radio alarm is a bit too strong
for his afternoon hangover taste.
He goes downstairs, sets the coffee to brewing,
rubs his hands through the hair on his face.
As he sits and he smokes, he can't quite think of the joke
she once told him about wooden eyes.

The coffee is ready, his hands are unsteady
as he pours his first cup of cure.
He tries to be happy he woke up today,
but whether being awake's good, he's not sure.
Outside it's raining, but he's gallantly straining
to keep his head and his spirits held high.

As soft as the flower bending out in its shower,
fiercer than hornets defending their hives,
the memories of sharing her secrets and sheets
run him through like sharp rusty knives.
He decides that his cup isn't quite strong enough,
takes the ***** from the shelf, gives a sigh.

He goes to the porch to put words to the torch
he still carries and knows whiskey just fuels.
Thunder puts a voice to his hammering heart.
Through ink, his knotted mind unspools,
writing of butterflies and of how his love lies
cocooned under unreachable skies.

From teardrops to streams to winter moonbeams
to a peach, firm and sweet, in the spring,
he writes of pilgrims and language and soft dew-damp grass
and how he sees her in everything.
He rambles and grieves, and he just can't believe
how much he has bottled inside.

He writes how the leaves, when they whisper in the breeze,
bring to mind her warm breath in his mouth,
how when walking through woods he loves the birdsong
when they fly back in the summer from the south
because she would sing too and he always knew
he wanted that sound in his ears when he died.

He writes even the streetlights, fluorescent and bright,
make him miss the diamond chips in her eyes,
how the fountain in the park plays watersongs in the dark
when he goes to make wishes on pennies
and while he's there he gets hoping
there will be some spare wishes
but so far there haven't been any.

He writes that the cold makes him think of the old
hotel where they spent most of a week,
lazing and gazing quite lovingly,
and how he brushed an eyelash off her cheek.
The crickets and frogs and all of the dogs
sound as mournful as he feels each night.

He writes about chocolate and fun in arcades,
he writes about stairwells and butchers' blades,
and closed-casket funerals, and Christmas parades,
then sad flightless birds and tiny brigades
of ants taking crumbs from the toast he had made,
and political goons with their soulless tirades,
old-timey duels and terrible grades,
strangers on  buses, harp music, maids,
the weird afterimages when all the light fades,
the pleasure of dinnertime serenades,
sidewalk chalk, wine, and hand grenades.

He writes of how much fun it would be to fly,
and saltwater taffy and ferryboat rides,

sitting on couches, scratched CD's,
pets gone too soon and overdraft fees,

the beach, the lake, the mountains, the fog,
David Bowie's funny, ill-smelling bog,

jewelry, perfume, sushi, and swans,
the smell of the pavement when the rain's come and gone,

and shots and opera, and Oprah and ***,
and tiny bikinis with yellow dots,

stained glass lamps, and gum and stamps,
her dancing shoes on wheelchair ramps,
that overstrange feeling of déjà vu,
filet mignon and cordon bleu,

bad haircuts at county fairs,
honey and clover, stockmarket shares,
the comfort of nestling in overstuffed chairs,
and her poking fun at the clothes that he wears,
and giraffes and hippos and polar bears,
cumbersome car consoles, monsters' lairs,
singing in public and ignoring the stares,
botching it badly while making éclairs,
misspelled tattoos, socks not in pairs,
people who take something that isn't theirs,
the future of man, and man's future cares,

why people so frequently lie
and bury themselves so deep in the mire
of monetary profits when money won't buy
a single next second because time's not for hire,
and that he sees her in everything.

Lost and exhausted, he sits back and reads
He barks a mad laugh when he suddenly sees
After such turmoil, just one words he needs.
Everything.  
She’ll always be everything.
Akira Chinen Aug 2018
I start to write into a
puddle of metaphors
meant to be a love poem
and as I write down
the word love
for the thousandth
of the thousandth time

I accidentally misspell it...

...with the letters
of your name...

and I know visually
that it looks wrong on paper
but when I hear it in my head
it sounds right
and now I can’t quite remember
any other way to spell it

and thats not really the worst of it
because I’m really just rewriting
the same poem over and over again
somehow hoping that rearranging
the letters and the words
will somehow align the stars in heaven
causing my heartbeat to sync with yours
and somehow you will just know how I feel
and I won’t have to stutter
and stammer and choke on the words

because every time
you’re are sitting across from me
or standing anywhere near me
or being anywhere out there
in the world breathing
while just being you
causes my mouth and my hands
and my body
and the whole world around me
to tremble
as I begin
to feel so dangerously close
to not feeling so alone

and alone is a thing
I have grown to be
incredibly comfortably with
alone is a safe heaven
of quite and peaceful solitude
where pain is a thing
easily stitched away
inside secret pockets
of regret
that nobody knows about

alone is something that has
become the best friend
my heart has ever known
a secret companion
no one can steal away from me
the person that knows everything
about me that is too embarrassing
or strange
or heartbreaking to talk about

it knows things that
I don’t even know about myself

I am sure that I am
about to be swallowed
by some armageddon level event
and be forgotten by history
because this isn’t the kind of story
that i get to be a part of
except for the character
that no one notices
so there is no need to remember
who I was
or how when I thought
I misspelled the word love
with the letters of your name
was the first
and only  time
I ever actually got it right
Tell her in another world you're close enough to hold her
Tell her about your affinity for that which is not manmade but is still breakable
Tell her she's malleable in a way that makes things afraid to touch her
Tell her how you misspelled "perfection" using the letters of her name
Tell her you don't want to drink unless it's from the dips of her collarbones
Tell her she's your favourite China shop
Tell her you knew she liked it rough
Tell her she'll shatter under the weight of your softness
Tell her she's not like the other girls before her
Tell her she's the question and the answer
Tell her she's more light than tunnel
Tell her she's art
Tell her she makes you believe in God
But just don't tell her you still call me when you're drunk
Butch Decatoria Feb 2017
defined as "existing or being everywhere at the same time; constantly encountered."*

_______________­


he craves online hook-ups.

...but this isn't me
or that intrepid,          
torrent trampoline
                   on wireless ether engines
zone on in  .nets & .coms
                   searching fiber-optics for sight
browsing rooms of M4M to fantasize delights
to itch to fix
to sit transfixed as if
subliminally attached
                           umbilically
digitally to a electronic felatio
                                  soundtrack
yet all the while detached
                            lurking
reading pretend profiles  explicit
with ***, sexified,
dreaming up new fetishes
with misspelled texts
                        tandem testimonials as if written
by a Compaq-machine-head
or Microsoftened lust
                        as now we are turning to dust
with iBooks & faraway Dells on our laps
scrolling lists and Adams with "anything goes"
remonstrating our vicious
                           cycle - blank with un/trust

this isn't me...
where is the warmth
       of feelings, emotions,
love??
I am not that talented
          to be in two places at once,
but he has the faces
and genius of multiple personalities
facets
   of sabotage with grace.

he says it isn't him.

my anger has only one trait. two eyes.
velvet
rope-burned
limbs...

and he has too many faces
doppleganger hatreds
where  does  one

begin??

(The rubble or the sin?)

_____________

DOPpLEGANGER­ (2016)--[Rewrite]


he craves online hook-ups.


But this isn't me
nor am I that intrepid        
a torrent trampoline
                   on wireless ether engines
                   cyber silver surfin'
zone on / in  .nets & .coms
                   searching fiber-optics for sight
browsing rooms of M4M / in-fantasized delights

an itch to fix
to sit transfixed
as if
subliminally attached
                           umbilically
digitally digitized digi-man
                            to a electronic felatio soundtrack

yet all the while detached
                            lurking duplicitly
reading pretend profiles  explicitly
for ***, sexified mind
dreaming up new fetishes
with misspelled texts
                        tandem testimonials as if written
                        by a Compaq-machine-head
                        Microsoftened lust
currents electric now as we turn into dust
with iBooks & faraway Dells on our laps
scrolling lists for Adams
status' with "anything goes"
                        remonstrating our vicious cycle
alive & blank with un/trust
gone viral...

this isn't me.

where is the warmth
       of feelings, emotions,
malleable and infallible / love??

I am not as talented
as he
          to be in two places at once,
but he
          has the many faces
and genius of multiple personalities
Cybil
facets
   of sabotage with Mommy Dearest grace.
        Beautiful strangers his acquired
              taste...

he says it was not him
(doing ****)

my rage has only one trait.
two eyes                              (once wide asleep in the lies)
and velvet-rope-burned
wrists
my feet learn to fly
my heart un-breaks
my wings reanimate...


he has too many faces
doppleganger hatred
none to care for or embrace

When did I go blind,
         and leave my many strengths?
Where do I now
again
begin??

(The rubble or the sin?)


Every night adieu
Every day anew
                                        once again...
L B Feb 2018
Two poems got away last night when I was dozing
bolted out the door
before I knew it
laughing like fools
Stole my last two beers
and they were gone

“Ya see, officer,
They didn't have their names yet
so they don't know themselves at all
or to answer if I call
They misbehaved and
Never learned there's rules out there
I'm a lousy poet parent, yeah,
I know
I shoulda been tougher on 'em
Half their words 'er scattered
twisted, misspelled, unreadable, inept
with rhythms all askew 'n weighted wrong

They will surely fall over their own lines
and into big ****-trouble
***** little scribbles!
sorta clumsy like their mother"

Meanwhile, the grammar cop is thinking,
“They do not pay me enough for this!
I'm looking for children of the village idiot and a *****”

"...Across the yard and down the alley
They must've run
Hopin' they didn't figure out the stick
on the Toyota

I'll never see 'em again
Pretty sure they got my keys"

The cop is nodding, bored, polite
but I notice
He's written all this down
Honey why don't you ever write me something romantic?
Those eye's of my once teenage wife looked at me in that same way whenever I knew I better cave or the fun time factory was going be closed for awhile.

Well honey you know that's not really my style and especially after getting back form the war and all it just seems like something inside me died.
But you weren't ever in the service.

Yeah I know that's what's so ****** up about it.
What?
Once again my use of choice yet altogether confusing ******* had worked  kids there so easily impressed  with *******   no wonder those ******* twilight books sold.

Gonzo !
*******.
Huh?.

Dam you Jedi mind trick you never ******* work!
***** you George Lucas for mind ****** me as a child  not that I watched those films.
What do you think I am some kind dork who post's **** all over the net  for cheap
laughs cause he has no true life?
Okay that was a bit harsh I have a life well kinda.

Gonzo! Are you listening?
My demented little ****** with a heart of a gold card asked?
Of course I'm listening duh you know I'm a artist I'm like always deep in thought
about serious ****.

Okay like what?  

Well if your a hand model and you book a gig is it called a *******?
Are you ******* nut's.

No sweetheart I'm a drunk.
Seriously?
Your right I've always been insane with a chance of brilliance in some misspelled ideas.

Look Gonzo I'm not joking just listen okay.
My little ****** just went speaking and like any good man I paid no attention and just shook my head in agreement it's a trick I learned from my grandfather.
Course now it's no longer a secret being I've let all the chicks no ******.

She kept rattling on all the while I thought pure sweet thoughts while staring at her *******.
I was lost on a sunny meadow  where all was soft and gentle.
I'm kidding it was more like a ***** involving  Jennifer Aniston ,Rihanna , and that total **** who was all the rage you know that former kids star you know Betty White.

It was all going pretty normal well aside from the pool of ranch dressing and Justin Bieber's
head on a goat's body I always knew he was into devil worship.
I just hate we have something in common.

I couldn't take anymore so I ran I ran so far away.
But still I couldn't get away.

So we have a deal?

Yes what dear lord what had I agreed to?
******* Betty White that Hanna  Montana **** ******.
Oh thank you baby so much  I just know it'll be great.

Yes it will.
I had no clue what this strange little female was speaking of for one I was lost
and I felt all naked and vulnerable to bad no hot stripper ****** were in the vicinity
yeah I know that's a big word for me thank you Dora the explorer sure I was disappointed
it wasn't a **** at first but you really have opened my horizon's.
That just sounds wrong but enough with the foreplay kids.

I was silent deep in thought and finally before I could ask my semi faithful
****** spilled the beans once always beats cutting them yeah girl farts they just take
all the fun out it.

Baby I cant wait to read your new romantic write.

What dear lord!
It was a nightmare from which I couldn't wake it was impossible task
a myth like if you take yoga you can blow yourself.
Gonzo cannot write romance.

It just doesn't happen hell I'm Gonzo and even I know that.

Baby after I read it   I'm going to give you the best gift ever.
It's something you always wanted.

My mind went spinning as to this want that would be worthy.
Hmm lets see .
So you mean were going to ****** Justin Bieber  and bathe in his blood ?

No baby even better.

What could be better than that ?
My mind was working overtime ****** I hadn't thought this much sense
that old teacher asked me what I wanted to do with my life.
Course then  I realized when he asked me to find his candy bar in his pocket that he was just a perverted janitor.

Yeah it's a long story don't ask.

You know baby you me and my friend  and her other friend and this time you'll actually
get to join in.

It was like Christmas for a pervert.

So looks like I was going to be writing a romantic story.

I could do this especially for some twisted freaky ***  hell it's what are country was founded upon.
Duh I mean bribes people they didn't invent freaky *** until the 60's.
You know right around the great depression.
Yeah I bet whoever invented the ******* put a smile on someone's face.  

See not only in my long winded writes do you get ******* you get culture and that history ****.
yeah I know your welcome high five to *******.

I was selling my soul but it's okay it wasn't anything I hadn't done before.
To create this masterpiece I had to get alone with my thoughts yet still have a good
internet connection duh  how else would I write this *******?

What do you think I am some dinosaur that writes on paper.
Do I look like I'm Amish yeah that shows about as real as my crystal **** operation
I have in the garage.

I'm kidding I don't have a garage but my grandmother does yeah like I'm going to blow up my own house.

I was off to my secret hiding place to be alone and write the greatest romance story off all time.
It would surpass all the greats of the past.
Like Gone With The Wind or that story of those two **** pirate cowboys you know
they made a movie about it called Wayne's World.

Will Gonzo be able to concentrate for more than a half second.
Avoiding ***** and freaky things on the internet like I didn't know you could fit that up there dot com.

Will anyone actually get to the end of this without falling into a coma or getting more **** not that my readers smoke ****.

Will little Timmy make it out of that well to find grandpa and lassie having a quality
peanut butter session  don't ask.

All this and more will be answered in the next exciting  and even more long winded
episode of Go **** Yourself A Love Story. Part 2 coming soon to poetry site near you.

Yeah I know I'm not right .

Cheers kids.
And if you think this is offensive just wait till the next installment.
Chaos over sleep.
You supply the torches, I'll supply the mob.
This bed's too big for the one of us.
The maggots already ate through the moose, leaving two yellowed-white anchors made of bone to sink into the floor.
Bologna; The meat that lies straight to your face.
The news is getting olds.
Analyzing bags and trashes. Paralyzing eyelashes snap shut, trapping the fly.
Thus, the death of an ego was born.
Reading is kind of like smoking except you don't burn the paper.
The quickest way to burn a bridge is to kiss it.
Don't be a stranger now. I'm strange enough for the both of us.
The ins and outs of the whens and wheres I do and do not belong.
That bar fight with the bathroom door really did a doozy on my eyebrow.
You know I will hunt whatever, you pra(e)y.
Blessed by lowercase god and misspelled Amerika('Merica).
Same message, different bottle.
My dreams are too loud before I fall asleep.
The first possibility that you jump to write off has the highest probability of containing the things that will set you right off.
My teeth may not have any layers of skin left to ride by.
From poverty to profanity; proverbs to insanity.
A serpent a day keeps the apples away.
Growing weary of the definitive abstracts, I curl up somewhat uncomfortably numb in the cracks of the curbs and sidewalks...
And with that the last thought of the night twisted into the air and joined with the wisps of smoke pouring from the final cigarette. The odyssey in mind sends our hero sailing from the shores of "I know how to do it all" into the vast and turbulent waves of "I do it all."
The bird who clipped its own wings.
The Jack of All Trades, the Queen of No Hearts, the King of Nothing, the Ace of Idle. Faceless cards.
Just a chess piece on a checker board. Maybe there's less to figure out than there is to understand.
Always on the brink of making things right. Don't let it slink away in the middle of the night.
I had an uncomfortably close call with life. What some would call a near-life experience. I swear I was inches away from living...
Insomniac dreams
samantha neal Feb 2015
if i were to write you, you'd be
misspelled words
sloppy handwriting
slashed out sentences
unformed thoughts
and simple ideas never fully pulled together
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
Songs of Oregon: No 5 no general impressions specifically

For the Poets of Oregon, each a unique travel guide

no salt n’ pepper shaker of general impressions for the offering,
for now, ubiquitous generalities means inclusionary which means
likely accidental to be exclusionary,
so specifically,
no ‘all in' clauses

just a few specific eye-sights, hoary words, new birth canals,
to be either eaten, resurrected, van-slaughtered, backyard buried,
all are filed nearby in the seed cabinet or the garage freezer,
or on the C drive of your brain

awaiting ideal planting conditions, and the rest,
a series perhaps,
Songs of Oregon?
Someday

someday, when all the big brief poems are fully formed,
earth ripened, mind fomented; oak barrel aged,
harvest-reading-ready,
green trees shoots busting thrusting through
misleading sandy looking soil,
needy for quenching from
aquifers that are gold geyser plentiful,
a hundred feet deep, needy only for a
“please sir, may I have some more,"
they’l be writ

but for now, these below are,
some easy to be specifics,
reveling and revealed, useful takeaways,
specifics pacifics
for those who might be traversing upon
Lewis and Clark’s Oregon Trail:

them multicolored redneck
full bearded boys
and those of the
vinnie, millennial hipsters and aging ex- hippies, also,
full bearded boys  
are indistinguishable!
many of both wear matching bib jeans,
so be careful who you be calling
a hillbilly in open carry country

the forever refilled coffee mug still exists though the price
is now $2 but the coffee is sustainable (I am evidence)
organic, from a rain forest from Timbuktu,
so it gets planted in your bloodstream and then replaced
in the soil & land,
the loam of the soul
by you

in Milwaukee,
they know how to spell Milwaukee but
not in Portland

don’t be shocked at the town naming,
these borrowers got no  i-magination,
that’s surly lacking in Oregon; mthey’ll steal your
Nor’easter or Indian
town or city’s name
with no shame
or comp-unction,
claiming it’s different cause
they made it organically and
then misspelled it,
correctly

think that pointy poem point well made,
god made only one coast (theirs) and
just forgot to put Shelter Island NY  upon it;
threw it up randomly skyward, landed on some
atlantic backwater body

getting there or anywhere in Oregon traffic
about the same as in NYC traffic, thus
the heavens balance the scales of justice with
dramatic automotive irony

in some counties, the school week is a
four day affair, for the children need to repay
their parents birthing labor, by laboring beside them
in the vineyards, on the tractors, learning from
the book and look of their parents
sun aged faces and hands,
life learning
that man must earn his sustenance
with the sweat of ones own brow
and that word;
week,
can be spelt in contradictory ways
but only one is acceptable
out here

do be careful though Oregonians are very willingly to lam it,
(Willamette) if you ask nicely,
pick up normal looking weird hitchhikers
and drive many a mile
in yours, not theirs, but sure,
“going-the-same-way direction”
if you ask polite with just a smile

and the river salmon have hired their own governmental advisors


like I said,
no general impressions
just a private’s brief recollections
from his first tour of duty
abroad
where he was purple heart medaled shot
through ‘n through with
Oregon kindness

some juicy real specifics to follow eventually
someday
songs of oregon No.5
I wrote you a letter she said as we were walking hand in hand upon the gravel road leading to the bridge with its dark waters below. She says this so nervously and with a small smile upon her lips. I didn’t mean to, it just sort of happened. She says almost guiltily. She pulls it out and awkwardly hands it to me as if she is worried she wont be able to give it to me later because she would lose her nerve. In that moment my heart breaks and I am a small child again. Oh, I say, thank you, I say, but really I want to pick her up and kiss her face and tell her I love her more than any other before her, either that or run away and hide from her. We walk to the bridge in the night and we climb down its bank and find a spot in the darkness beneath it. I set my bag down and take out the spray cans and began to paint hell and heaven and earth upon the bridges concrete underbelly by the glow of a flash light we had brought. Here, I say, I got this color for you, and as I hand her the can she says she just wants to watch me for a while. After a few minutes she picks up the can and begins to carve out her own piece on the bridge. I am secretly proud of her for doing this but don’t say anything. She paints a heart and then her initial. She is pleasantly surprised by her own skill and lets me know it. I continue my own work and had forgotten all about the letter until I hear her voice softly in my ear. I want you to read it she says. I want you to read what I have written to you. Oh yeah? I say, you don’t want me to wait? No she says, I did want you to wait at first but I cant wait, I want you to read it now. She is impatient, and nervous, and amazingly beautiful. I take it out and unfold the pages, she moves around nervously as I begin. Her words speak of love and trust, of never feeling the way she did now. They cry out with her heart and cut my soul in two. The whole time she watches me as I am ripped to pieces in the dark, underneath that bridge. She spoke of all the things I never wanted to hear because I could not love her in the way that was laid out upon that pale, white page. I wrote you a letter she said, to tell you how I feel. I am brought low by the unbridled honesty on the page. With all the misspelled words and clumsy attempts at expressing what she felt so strongly in her heart. I am destroyed by her love. Its so hard ,she says to me then, to watch you walk away, and so easy to let you back in. Later as we lie awake in her bed, I stare into her eyes and see only sadness. What baby? I ask, whats wrong? Im just waiting she says, waiting for you to leave again. I wrote you a letter, she says. And I want you to read it right now.
This is a moment I shared with someone special to me. Someone who I will always remember and love.
Kate Feb 2013
I like sending you notes
in my fast
misspelled scrawl
yet you always so elegant
with perfect grammar
oh such denotation
who knew? punctuation could make me swoon

-Katherine Baldwin-
Samantha Ellis Jan 2015
i crave the taste
of stale cigarettes and beer
cuz it was the taste of your mouth
what happened here?

i long for
the misspelled drunk texts
that once annoyed me
phone buzzes i flinch, reflex.

i ache for
the feeling of your chest
under my head as i fall asleep
only way i could rest

i hunger for
your love
-all to myself
we never should of.
Stephan Aug 2016
.

Shaking a fountain pen’s
syrup from fizzing wounds
scarred with another’s words
misspelled of meaning
flavored in temperance
swallowed with pride
flowing through a straw
of sugar-free regrets
K Balachandran Nov 2011
1.  shout a fish

a shout-
the size
of a dog's snout
before our eyes
transformed
to a trout!
it was caught by the
very shouter
who ate it
without any spice!
    *
*
2.  Mysterious eater
         *
this person
equivalent to a
misspelled word
lost meaning for ever
to what he does
take for example this:
when he did eat anything
the thing remained
as it is, as he could eat
only the process of eating.
       *
3.   a life on- line
        *
in a desk top villa, nice
he lived with his wife,
photo shop perfected,
and kids, googled and found.
the search engine took
them everywhere
though all the while
they were there where
they were,but in fact
they where nowhere
that's why in cyberspace he was free from care.
  
AlanK Jul 2014
In the beginning was the word
The ideas flowed like wine
Grappling through the night
We explored
The ramifications of the past,
The indentations of the present
The permutations of the future.
We delved the endless font
Of our literal lives
Page after page we turned
Swallowing chapters, misspelled loves
Grammatical wastelands spread across the crumbled sheets,
All could be corrected.
Those words, I can still remember
Embossed on my brow
Like Braille, I’m blind enough to read.

In time the words went dry.
Perhaps we said it all.
Or chose to say no more.
The questions were replaced
With smug complacency.
The river of curiosity slowed,
And trickled between our toes.

In the end there were no words.
Passion took the podium
In tender speechless quiverings
We pressed the meaning on our flesh
Somehow it was enough
As we devoured our silent summations.
The unspoken proclamations
Confirmed my doubts
Reaffirmed my hopes.
As the last page was turned
The rising sun filled the empty room.
Lee Dec 2012
She asked me how I was doing.
She had a look to her, a sincere and open look, a look that invited honesty and expressed compassion.
It painted her face with invitation.
But it didn't just sit thick and flat like paint does.
It didn't just hang itself dull and useless around her head like a dollar store party banner.
It beamed out.
It reached a comforting hand.
It spoke, and so like a fool I told her the truth.

I told her that I was thinking about the universe.
That I was thinking about my significance as a human in its whole scheme.
My importance on this little rock.
This little rock floating as lonely and forsaken as it does around that star we named the sun.

I said I was thinking about how lonely and forsaken I felt.
Just me,
and how could a single person feel like this.
Swimming in an icy pool of his own thoughts.
Maybe these where the only things isolating me from all of my fellow men;
wrapping me in a blanket of isolation;
a blanket as thick and unforgiving as a strait jacket.
A shield.
A shield surgically attached to me,
and the weight of it's breaking me,
if I cut it away it would **** me.
The open wound bleeding out thoughts and emotions
into a ruby pool filled with letter and symbols
misspelled words and distorted swirling grease slick memories
an alphabet soup of insanity.
Maybe this is why I am alone.

I said I was thinking about love;
about who I could share it with;
about why it's important;
about why I don't feel it;
about why it makes me cry,
just as much as it makes me laugh.

I said I think about fantastic nights of true splendor;
about road ways paved with gold;
about endlessly open and kind people;
about everyone i ever cared for being with me:
Happy.
Laughing.
Like they describe the heaven I don't believe in.

I said I think about god.
About a sad man in the clouds who looks down on us in our darkest hours and seems to do nothing.

I said I think about evil,
or Satan,
or sin,
or abominations.
All of the things that seem to show up just when I feel safe to shake me and tell me to run;
run away from my comfort;
run away from my happiness;
run away from the truths I thought I found.
All of the things that shake me and tell me not to trust:
not to believe,
not to give in.

I said I think about other people.
How beautiful and serene some of them seem to me.
How some of them seem just like I am.
How I wish there was something I could do to make them feel better.
How I could sacrifice.
How I could bring them to a better place than I find myself.
How I could make myself useful, or decent.
If not in anyone else's opinion at least in my own.
How I could have an effect,
at least on this tiny rock spinning jut as alone and scared as I am
around a sun destined to destroy me.

I said I think about ending it all,
or starting over.
Becoming a different person:
a different face,
a different voice,
a different name,
a different body,
in a different place,
with different clothes,
knowing different people.
Knowing people who know nothing of who I really am.

I said I think of how I describe myself
and how its irrelevant to who I actually am.

I said I think about sadness:
and anger,
and chaos,
and i cant keep it strait anymore.

Once I was done spilling these things.
Once I had peeled back my shield and bled out for her.
She looked at me with those open loving eyes,
and without wasting a moment,
or displaying hesitance;
She Said:

"I know just how you feel"
The Trumpoet Feb 2017
A tweet sent out at three A.M.
Another misspelled rant,
with sketchy claims so full of blame,
your trumpists, you enchant.

So little thought before you type,
no need to check or vet
your message with the experts
or with your own cabinet.

You cannot stop nor help yourself,
because you are no quitter.
Like some half-wit, having a fit.
The greatest twit on Twitter.
You can also see this and my other Trump poems at: www.trumpoet.com
Link to video of this poem: https://youtu.be/No_4p_l_8-g
Written January 17, 2016
A hamster walked in the pub yeah you remember that was that group that has a ******* collection but no ******* group anymore  yeah that makes as much sense as me cheers Hello your truly more ****** up than I.

She was broken fragile and me I was a ***** poetic ******* who was always trying lend some umm comfort cause I'm a strictly well I'm kidding hey if I can take advantage of someone and see some ******* in the process it's all good in the hood.

Gonz give me one shot and a beer .
Of ***** right?
What she replied ?
The shot you mean like *****.

The woman looked at me as most do like I was a pervert they would never be near unless I was running bar within my mind on a poetry site yeah I know ******* freaky **** right?

Look Gonz I swear just for once stop being a perve and get my dam drink and just shut the **** up okay ?
I was in shock not from being snapped at from a female that happens all the time I'm used to being yelled at by my teenage wife skeeter .
Yeah just cause she catches you watching **** she gets all bent of shape .

Well sure I guess it was a little reckless going down the interstate but duh don't fall asleep while I'm driving I mean a girl has her needs  what can I say .

No the shock was more from getting my ding ding caught in my zipper hey you know how many ***** movies start out with a woman asking for a beer and a shot yeah I know I'm seriously ****** up but hey I'm fun.

So after some manly tears shed and a few stiff ones hahaha that just sounded wrong can you guess I write this **** while I'm drinking?
Anyways after this emotional hamster finally calmed a bit and put away her tazer  I had get to just what was or wasn't eating at her .

I thought deeply how I should speak to this fragile little hamster and the most caring sense I asked.

So ***** what the ***** eating at your ***?
Yeah I know I'm a charming ******* aren't I?

Well Gonz honestly it's just the way guys are on this site I mean why cant they judge my writing for just that instead of act like total horn dogs and send me messages and get all weird?

This was a deep question asked to a shallow ******* like myself .
Well honestly heres the truth and I know it's going to be  shocking so prepare yourself  ready?
Umm I guess this hamster replied .

Guys are all ***** ******* .
Really no **** Sherlock she replied .

Hey look sure some dudes can be nice and not act all weird but duh there probably gay .
I mean yeah writing sights should be about writing but duh who cares about art if you can get laid let me tell you the reason I became a writer.

I wasn't good at sports and I cant dance worth a **** okay  so if I make chicks think I'm deep them maybe I can get to see there ******* and ******* are ******* awesome okay .

Are ******* twelve this unnamed hamster asked me as she kicked back another shot of Jack Daniels .
Mentally maybe I replied but honestly what is age but a marker to say hey your to old to date this person or for people put you in prison for there judgment of your unconventional lifestyle .

You are one strange man Gonzo but at least your honest .
yeah I know its one of my biggest flaws other than that I'm ******* awesome well I mean besides the drinking pills and other pending cases all of which  I'm not guilty well kinda.

We laughed we joked and when she wasn't looking I looked down her shirt yes it was a awesome night .
Well until she caught me and hit me with a beer bottle .

The night flew and so did are conversation .
You know gonz your really not half as much a pervert as people think you are .
Yeah I know don't tell anyone I have a bad reputation to uphold .

The hamster laughed and my goal was reached cause at the end of the evening I'm a joker and a pervert bartender but even I know how to treat people and I don't treat a writing site like hookup .com cause if I want to get laid I will do it the old fashioned way pay for it.

The hamster went on her way and once again I was left to work on my misspelled scribbling's and to look up freaky **** on the internet .
really what else a internet connection for?

Until next time stay crazy Kids .

Gonzo
Tiger Striped Sep 2019
sand drifts down deserted beach
leaves float off once vibrant trees
lashes left untouched on cheek
curtains shut the bright sun bleak
endless hours of midnight sound
bruised knuckles on dark wood pound
sound of sheets sigh on mattress
second-hands strike drum and miss
misspelled words, soft spoken steps
lonely rose, the last one left
no air in two burning lungs
dead garland on mantle hung
dust dances for aimless wind
sunflowers to ashes bend
salt vacates a brackish sea
empty woods hold silent plea
never-ending days to come
deeper nights, but brighter sun
Jasmina Nov 2013
I let the words slip,
down my rosy sweet lip.

I free the horses from my hair,
to run down my Sahara pristine back.

I drop my necklace
on your pillow, and let her ****** you -
whispering, touching your inner caves with echo.

I tear my dress,
as if I want to write a misspelled poem.

I hear that sound of destruction.
I open my eyes.

He is still here.

(Breathing heavily...)
“Everything is fine. It was just a bad dream ***...”.
I think to myself.

But my sweat tells me away.

I wish I never wake up again.

Here.

But,

There.

                                    ­                                                       (Turns on the other side and leaves again)



                                                       ­ 
                                                               ­                             ...Walks and disappears into the wood...
JP Mantler Dec 2014
Can you not see me with the lights on?
Am I better to be seen in the dark?
When coolness creeps in our warmth
Is something wrong?

When the winter woods start to creak
And the fiery kindling cracks
Will coolness collect our souls
From the beautiful, burning fire?

And will my sunshine continue
To beat down on your darkness
And will I start to shiver from
how much sun I get
Deliver, deliver

How much more do we have?
I'll build you another home
And lock myself in the canister
So I can live in my work
Play with my work
And never stop to sleep, think, or feel and I will squeal at the edges hurt my shrunken baby head and bang on the edges with my shrunken baby head and I will scream for revenge and hurt my soft, soft voice and I could have bled but I won't because of you, Because I love you, So I will choose another day where work becomes a drug of choice and my illiteracy becomes my democracy, and how I feel that I am misspelled
But how you can right me just fine. How do you do that?
What is your magic?
Where is your rabbit?
I can feel canister's heat melting me
Gluing me onto it's surface
Your smile serves purpose

And your angelic blonde intrigue
Lets my fingers weave and weave
Through every shape and form
Of every sailing ship's storm
And the seashores sunny-blue welcome
Had spotted my loved one's realm

Her and I, we had sunk before we could swim
But we enjoyed drowning in ourselves
The Coral Reef was purple and orange
It had glistened with depth

But sharks had shown us how to swim
And now we swim in blood
We'll learn how to sink again
I know we will
Axion Prelude Jan 2021
I am the conduit
When feelings hit, they strike deep
Like lightning, unfathomable strength More fleeting than the jaded moments
It comes to fade like shallow breaths
But the scars remain
Reminding me of a forever, lost

Misspelled shadows
A creeping psalm of hope
I am the line crossed
I am the light lost
I am the entity that can't be found
Scorned by solemn apathy
I become the withered and unbound

Ransom unjust fate
Just to feel okay by yourself
You are the silence I seek
Courageous and unfettered by longing
My love seethes in empty corridors
Wandering past each frame of mind
Doorways leading to crippled lines

Threads unjust, no beginning or end
This woven featurette is yours to weep
Watch me dance hollowly on screen
Stepping over each piece of glass
Like the ghostly waltz of yesteryear
Find me there, underneath the crown of hate

I am the conduit
I am the fateless misery you strive to hate
Strike me down, fell my cause
Bring me to my knees
Misery seems to be my favorite mistake
The taste of your lips a listless waste
Randy Hanson Jul 2010
Fighting Sleep, Fighting life,
When? How will I rest my head tonight?
Breaking in the sky, I will see sunlight.
To these weakening eyes, it's far too bright.
Morning breakfast's first bite
Restlessness is an uphill fight.
Misspelled words, a writers fright
Untamed thoughts, rage incites
A kitchen chair provides no respite
Another day of waiting for twilight.
ash Aug 18
breaking:
a poet's try at uncovering the depths of conveying,
will they be able to—
or die and turn missing?



they've messed up what the actual book looked like,
now it's become 101 ways to show and disguise.
it's methodological,
not worth following,
yet they've become walking fools,
need people to guide them.

it starts like the flicker you feel
before a moment that begins,
opening up to a new feeling,
like before starting a book you don't know yet—
will it heal, hurt, or stay with you
as a memory or the haunting truth?

one whose ending isn't so clear.
i haven't read the summary,
or the genre,
or what people might think of it.
i still hold it dear.

the unpredictables are exciting.
i walk through chapters,
pausing on the torn pages,
moving on hoping it'd make sense,
stitching my own words during the lost stages.

what is this blurb of my story meant to look like?
i wouldn't write my own prologue,
if you handed me the choice.

keeping egos aside,
only if they'd talked to listen,
it wouldn't have seemed so childish,
couldn't have ended as a lost forbidden.

i'll start ignoring the truths
the moment it becomes one among psychology.
finding reasons, of all the felonies we commit,
it only spoils it—
whatever does seem to exist.

and not to mention,
reasoning tires me out.
i could save your name,
only you've promised to drain me out.


trend o' one:

the language over screen
is hard to be read unless you think like me.
so i say and regret,
knowing it isn't seen through.

the irony of being looked at the surface,
and never tried hard enough to find depth into.
it's comical, how we tend to give up—
half written, still typing, just deleted,
the unsent parts carrying all the weight
that eyes can't seem to convey or confess.

we'll just profess an undying nature of this bond
over stories and over chats.
it's messy, it's disguised.
turns out it's fake,
only for the time.

trend o' two:

"hold me close"
but i let go.
the grip slips,
my hands between yours.
our palms are sweaty,
i stare at you
as you look behind me,
and i know this is how it has turned out to be.

i'll look over your shoulder,
you'll give me a glance.
suddenly it's detachment fighting
the whatevers that kept us attached,
slowly you let go, and i can't seem to mend.

sweaty, slipping, holding, missing—
if there were only hands that existed,
would you convey through the grip,
or the phantom of drawing?
touch, absence, pull, drop—
is it a game,
a give and take,
or something worth yet despised?

trend o' three:

i sleep most nights alone,
often feeling you slip right behind me,
holding me close,
from isolating all i am,
all that i want,
and all i can be.
you leave behind breadcrumbs—
half spoken text,
misspelt jokes,
questions i ought to answer to.
words that are never meant to seek
so suddenly you fade,
then you return.
the messages are spammed,
the glances double up.

you look at me
and i know you're trouble.
from being sole to being bombed,
your love seems more like a time ticking machine,
and less of something i truly want.

i speak in fragments,
leaving behind unresolved tension.
and it doubles up,
accompanies you and i everywhere we go.

cut-off speakings,
you don't let me continue.
you need the attention,
i deny letting yours deter,
wanting it on me whole.

i hide the truth,
give away half-baked details,
keep what would help me feel understood.

for i know it doesn't stay.
heard from one ear,
you push it away,
keeping close whatever could help you.

might make you make me steer closer.
you ought to learn close,
if you wish to hear
what i don't speak of.

trend o' four:

halfway met conditions
and broken promises,
ones never spoken out loud,
but i'd kept them,
for they'd existed in the silence
and in the meanings.

turns out,
we're dolls hooked to puppet strings,
being controlled, our every whim.
the decision is theirs,
as the society directs and clears
whatever pathways you and i ought to take and wear.

it wasn't ever love,
a broken, chosen, inevitable belief
that simply had to come true.
this is a stage play.
we're dressed up,
the puppeteer is you, me, society, family—
or mere glitch of time
and faint suicidal memories?






every belief over up
hid a secret,
an unspoken acrostic,
reading it backwards,
ones that didn't match the tone.

it's rightly unsaid,
meant to say,
i said so.

i'll reframe it for the ones reading cosmic.
we orbit, they eclipse,
the satellites mispronounced,
the black hole is ridden in misspelled.

the coordinates almost always missed,
make it seem bigger than just reading—
a piece so intellectual, so pronounced,
it feels like leaving.

i'll anchor it down.
what's your love language?
is it pronounced?
convert them to the seven sins—
would you relate,
dare to point them out?

i've got the comfort book,
the dictionary of dreams,
a brief history of time,
and the tale of the grimms.

none of them hold anything close
to what i write.

there's five proven languages,
and i put forward them parallel to the seven sins—
warped, distorted, weaponized.
this isn't my doing,
but of the one who said
it ought to be humanized.

love o' sin
pride, envy, gluttony, greed, lust, sloth, and wrath
and so i take them on, put them to map.


i.
affirming what's meant
to make you feel better,
compliments dipped in honey,
serving echoes of how you didn't wish
to let it tether.

then why does it feel more like a chain
and less of a bind?
not so delicate either,
why do you force me out of this mind?

like there's pride in owning,
every you're mine,
isn't loving.



ii.
i'll do this for you
acts of service
seems to be fantasized.
but would you—
why it seems almost like masking, neglecting.

saying you care and you would,
i see you avoid and distance.
and when you can, so you do.
a way to not show up in emotions.

you seem vacated, distance,
almost like a sloth, speaking ******.



iii.
and perhaps giving and receiving—
thought of you, bought this.
is it the opposite?
bought you, thought of this.

equating all that i feel with possessions,
not having to describe,
oh i'm left with devotion.

the tokens feel like proofs,
but to whom?
the world doesn't care,
yet you demand i hold.

is it greed, pride combined even more?
where feelings could have spoken,
you exchanged presents as bespoken.



iv.
and then i skip to spending—
anchoring  time's quality, the clocks,
all of them stopping at the same pointed dots.

jealous of the hours
spent so further apart,
yet when it's together—
why does it feel forced,
suffocated, you and i?

we hold despite the minds,
as if it's envy,
from those who find it easy.

wanting every second of yours,
possession tying inescapable knots.



v.
and what of touch—
hold, grip, grasp, bite,
until it bleeds,
and suddenly it's a good night.

reducing it to hunger,
like gluttony
but i know yet another.

there's connection, there's the threads,
the white ones turning red.
it has become consumption.

i need to breathe you in,
lust devours affection.


vi.
shall i add another two?
silence, existing without having to show,
or to prove—
not performing but you stay.

except it's withdrawal,
and the need of wanting it sole,
like the perfect doll.

greed, pride,and unmistakable wrath,
detachment has become a weapon,
punishment you give through absence.



vii.
attending to me over the notch,
consuming it all, in excess,
and watching it get lost.

the meanings, everything fast forwarding,
love-bombing—too much, too fast, too hollow.

living in the extremes,
gluttony—does it ever feel too narrow
of a path to take?


it ends like a flicker you feel
after a moment that has reached its ending,
closing into the final moments of the beginner’s feeling,

like after ending a book,
one where you realised just where it stood
and it hurt, it healed, it definitely stayed—

both as a memory,
and a haunting truth.


zooming back out on you,
a little cynical,
little fragile,
little clinical.

i'm merely dissecting the trends online,
you term it the seven sins of love.

a matter of hours multiplied with days.
what's promised to hold shouldn't disappear,
yet it leaves like a ghost,
of all the phantoms that promised to reappear.

so i get night terrors
of finding it incomplete.
and it hasn't gone along as i hoped.

where did it go?
honest is the best policy.
have i poured it in,
a little lethal?

would you go as far
as to call me illegal?

you make it seem so seasonal,
as if it's meant to come and go.

but affection has always been
one that ought to be pursued—
only if you find it enough to build a home.

and it gives into a lot,
a lot more messy.
they term it love,
it's just situations encompassing.

a cherished another,
your seemingly only forever.
so why give in to the trends,
when you could hum it over the radios,
find it in the stars,
and preach it to the gods,
making sacrifices
to make it and them, solely yours.

breaking:
flash mob,
house with no mirrors
and a broken door.

it has been proven time and along,
trends of affection as they are,
for the time being, a rotten core.

so the poet sits and smiles
as they follow and play—
make believe.
hoping they'd stop the disguise,
marking, copying
and simply agree.

taking a respectful dig at the modernized beings preaching of love & devotion
y'll need to get an understanding of what truly is affection


cue genz.
claire Mar 2015
Their violence. Their fire. Their beauty.
Their clenching, unclenching. Their bedlam.
Their silence.
Their toes squirming in their shoes. Their sobs. Their seventy-mile-an-hour fury.
Their eyes. Their glimmer. Their construction paper dreams.
Their insecurities. Their melanin.
Their rapture. Their forgiveness. Their twisted-up mouths.
Their screaming.
Their laughter. Their spoiled innocence. Their decent.
Their wilderness of wit. Their barbed future. Their ineloquence.
Their noise. Their stretching limbs.
Their vigor. Their hair spurting out of their scalps.
Their secrets echoing and singing through low-ceilinged halls. Their desire.
Their chipped orange fingernail polish. Their belly aches.
Their misspelled crayon messages. Their ghosts. Their audacity.
Their fear. Their braids. Their arms tight around each other.
Their torn jeans. Their longing.
Their possibility.
Their harpoon words. Their blood. Their bursting hearts.
Their walls. Their art.
Their endlessness.
Their airplane arms and their shrieking and their streaming outside into the yellow ache of a sinking sun.
Their rhythm. Their nonsense.
Their hands cupped around their mouths.
Their reverberation. Their chapped lips. Their love.

Them.
Daydreaming Jan 2017
Narrow shoulders,
Small figure,
Skinny legs,
with big hands,
long fingertips,
tight grips,
Black hair,
thick eyebrows,
somewhat pale for your peers,
Red cheeks,
Small lips,
Wide toothy smile,
You seem so fragile,
But then you carry heavy words effortlessly ,
You seem so familiar,
But then you still hid behind those walls,
You seem so smart,
But then you misspelled,
You seem so serious,
But then you laughed,
You seem so  mature,
But then your eyes lit up as soon as you talked about your favorite movies,

For all i know,
you are nothing like what people seemed you to be,
you are something more,
something deep,
As if a void,
almost swallowed me whole.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2014
**** she your momma
misspelled your name
shoulda been Raygun
or Learjet

I sure wish you were a
physicist
so you could help me write my
General Theory of Poetry

teach me calculus
so we could prove Newton
was all wrong

but I posit a theory:
you must be an electrician
of the human body

well my circuitry is all ****** up,
if you read your way crack back to my
October, my doc told me I was a dying
and he didn't want to doctor me no more

so you see my bits done byte me good,
but named me a "dead" line in human fashion,
Nay, by May Eighteen, got finish my theorem,
cause I'm black hole'd and ******* myself

so have Leah bring a coffee refill,
let's get to collaborate,
I will operate in the ether of fudge factors,
you, will solder circuitry thru modern chemistry
and I will have my theory but no answers
but then I can give up this hopeless
poetry gig one lazy time and just
live your New York dreams

Read http://hellopoetry.com/raygan-keller/
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2014
The truth is I never cottoned to that name, no sir, no how. Maybe it was a reference to the Dead Poets movie, which is now just an old teen movie.

Maybe it had to do with all the troubles you seen in your life, and that bad part was dead and over.  Ok that I understand.  But you can write about it, but if you really gonna claim you left it behind, which by the way! you have, the name keeps bring it up fresh and that is just plain sad and makes me madder than hell.  

Even still I always say oh look its the
Deed Poet
writing me about a a life and a world, I got no clue about in a way I could never do, don't got the  heart, the eyes to see the  way you do brother.  Yup.  You just misspelled it Ded and Not Deed, cause you write on a stupid smartphone in the dark and is that any way to write beautiful poetry, dummy?

But I don't like pretending though I do it plenty, but comes along a day, a thing, don't know what to call it any more, and I said to myself,
Deed Poet, that's like making his mistake permanent, and I don't like that.  

So I cast about for a new name for you, for what is a man and a friend for, but to make sure the world knows you for who your are...so with out further ado, addoo, adoo, I aint sure I know how you write that word, but what I am sure is from now on I am gonna address you sir as the
Unbreakable Poet.

don't like it? Too **** bad. That is what you are, and that is what you will be now and forever, *******! don't go arguing with me, cause I am close to blubbering as it is...tried to write some poem which half started ain't half bad, no, it is yo totally awful, so I quit it in the middle and instead I am gonna throw back at you your own words,
for none, bar none, coulda said it better...
so I don't give a good ****** if you change it or not, cause I already done the tinkering in my head to make it so...

Your wisdom is massive,
But I see your invisible signals,
And I know you fill the emptied heart.

I am Poet for you,
And the words will be eternal,
As you have stayed in all the hollow
Places of your children.

Live as an endless nebula,
Birthing stars in a prophetic vigil,
My stainless blood, immortal,
You live on in the tears on my window....

Sustaining me.


P.S. Let get that mentor ***** put to bed, I am ready to take lessons from you!
---------------------
Unbreakable Poet

he keeps company with a
society of the living,
such is,
as it should be,
tho an ancient order,
t'is composed of only his
breathing brethren

he orbits in a special galaxy,
as we all so do,
one sun amongst many,
but in this, his cluster,
no scientist can well predict,
his trajectory, his course,
or any of us
whose company
we keep,
but one company,
we are,
one company,
near and dear

but he errs grievous
if he thinks,
his universe is but
an isolated fragment,
a world slipping into darkness


He is much mistaken

the one moon we share
rises nightly
in different shapes, mystic always
but
it is
Unbreakable,
Forever True,
it is there as long
as poets like him
make it so.

make it so.
for the man , for the man

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/772173/unbreakable/

"The DedPoet  4 hours ago
Better. It was the moment i was angriest in yhe hospital and looking at my daughter. She had no seem me yet. I didnt know what to expect, then she smiled at me and simply said "Hello Daddy".
I melted within myself, crying, then smiling.
I realised I'm not that killer anymore.
I saw a new man, a new beginning, and I saw the rest of my life, All with her two little words."

— The End —