"mocks" poems
*
Hindi lahat ng prinsipyo ay tama gaano man ito kapositibo. Ang kawastuhan ng bawat prinsipyo at pananaw ay naaayon sa: panahon, tao, katangian at kakayanan nito, konkretong kalagayan at kung minsa'y kasama pati ang kulturang kinabibilanagan.
Kaya ang sabihing "wag **** masyadong seryosohin ang buhay" o kung ano pang mga kasabihan, ay maaaring tama at mali, ayon sa mga nabanggit.
Ano't ano pa man, ikaw pa rin ang huling magpapasya. Ano man ang maging pananaw ng ilan sa iyo, ituring **** ito'y bahagi lamang ng buhay...ng buhay mo at hindi nila.
4/1/2016 - Hindi porke nagiisa malungkot na. Dahil mas malungkot kung nakiki-high five ka sa lahat pero pag talikod mo fina-fuck u ka na pala.
4/4/2016 - kahit ano pang sabihin nila, mas masarap pa rin sa pakiramdam yung umiintindi ka ng kapwa kesa sa naninira ng kapwa. kaya sa tingin mo sinong may mas masarap na pakiramdam ngayon?
4/11/2016 - napag-alaman kong hindi sa lahat ng pagkakataon ang iyong pagpapagal ay may mabuting kapalit...na ang iyong mga inaasahan ay may balik. hindi sa lahat ng panahon ang polisiya ay nasusunod.. ni ang itinakdang panukat ang siyang ginagamit na panukat.
4/21/16 - kahit ginawan ka ng masama ng iba, nasaktan ka, 'wag kang gaganti...dahil hindi mo trabaho yun. 'wag **** agawan ng trabaho ang Diyos. Dahil alam mo sa sarili mo pag ang Diyos ang gumati, mas sakto at perpekto.
4/26/16 - Those people who mocks prayer entertain curse to their lives.
4/27/2016 - "ang position nilalagay sa puso, hindi sa ulo." - M' Avie
5/11/2016 - Alin ang mas pinaka-nakakapagod, ang magtrabaho gamit ang isip o gamit ang pisikal na katawan? Kasi sa totoo lang, wala naman talagang nakakapagod doon...mas nakakapagod makitungo sa mga katrabahong mahirap pakitunguhan...
6/6/2016 - Duwag lang ang nagpaparinig.
7/12/2016 - Wala naman talagang absolute fairness, dahil ang tao minsan nagdidesisyon sa ngalan ng "fairness" nilang tinatawag pero ang totoo, ito ay nagsisilbi pa rin sa kanilang interes dahil may integridad silang pinapangalagaan. Doon masasabi ng iba, "fair" ang taong ito.
7/28/2016 - monologue at bugtungan
"Ginagawa ko naman ang trabaho ko pero habang tumatagal ako sa serbisyo hindi ako nadadagdagan kundi nababawasan." - Lapis
"Tingin-tingin, maghapong nakatingin. Kahit pa magdamag, 24/7 walang kurap." - CCTV (tao, bagay, hayop?) :-)
"Gusto nila sa akin laging mabilis dahil pag bumagal ako sasabihin nila "nakakainis", "walang kwenta.", etc, etc. - BAGP network*
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 12:55 AM UTC
1377
Forbidden Fruit a flavor has
That lawful Orchards mocks—
How luscious lies within the Pod
The Pea that Duty locks—
22k
To **** or not to **** that’s the ******* question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the bowels to suffer
The twists and turns of outrageous rumblings
Or to take action against a bellyful of gas,
And by farting pump one out? To strain, to bloat
No more; and by a mighty outburst we’ll end
The gut’s ache, and the thousand natural stenches
That the **** is heir to, 'tis a resolution
Right devoutly to be wish'd. To **** to ****
But perchance to **** there's the ******* problem;
For in that mighty **** of doom what turds may come,
When we have let the little beauty out from mortal tail,
Must give us pause; there's the danger
That makes calamity of the farter’s life;
For who would bear the sneers and mocks of men,
The neighbour’s shock, the lover’s curling lip,
The pangs of horrid stench, the ******* o’erflowing,
The leaking **** orifice, and the drips,
Impatient strainings that the tragic farter makes,
When he himself might sweet easance make
With a careful prodding finger? Who would a ******** wear,
Grunting and sweating with noisome convulsions,
But that the dread of solids after air-release,
The undiscover'd oozings, from whose delivery
No toilet visitor recovers, puzzles the will,
And makes us bear the bellyache we have
Than fly to others we know not of?
Thus indigestion does make cowards of us all;
And then the native heave of constipation
Is sicklied o'er with the pale fear of defecation;
And enterprises of both ******* and crapping
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of exciting toilet action.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 2:25 PM UTC
*Casting spells in a song of lust
with such beauty undenied.
He's chased her half a lifetime
and have lost but all his pride.
Sailing all the oceans blue
He's left his ship dashed on the rocks.
Begging for that enchanted kiss
from his mermaid as she mocks.
Her voice to call within a gale
scent heady upon the waves.
Nets shredded trying to capture her
yet every night he craves.
To nary catch a fleeting glimpse
of her golden hair or tail.
He's chased her 'cross the storming seas
as winds and rain did wail.
Forever calling out her name
He's come to rest in every port.
On moonlit nights he hears her song
attempts to see her, she does thwart.
The scent of salt does show his years
but still he sails to her song.
Forever on the shifting waves
is where his heart belongs.*
Aug 3, 2017
Aug 3, 2017 at 9:36 AM UTC
Since you've been away
I've trailed the wake of the clouds
Just crumbling clay...
That lay in the shade that enshrouds
Depending on the ifs and mays.
Wake up, my love...
Since you haven't been here
The sky did nothing but only sang
Ambient translations of mocks and jeers
As the green blades of earth bared their fangs
Mischievous songs that I've held dear.
Wake up, my love...
Since you've been gone
I've realised that I'm not moving
And you too, haven't moved since last dawn
A reality all too disheartening
Bits of me all cut up and sawn.
Wake up my love...
Since you've been missing
I am never whole, and never will
A lifetime of endless chasing
Bottomless jar without a seal
Void clustered emptiness in need of filling.
Wake up, my love...
Since you've been absent
I could only hope for this lungful
To lead me to subsequent
Ones that taste like bitter pills encapsuled.
Mind full of drugs running rampant.
Wake up, my love...
Since you wouldn't have known
What these days are like...
Time induced tumours have grown
The hours impale with temporal spikes...
Inseminating malignant thoughts soon to be sown.
Wake up, my love...
Since you've been away
I'm a player hoping for a fair game
Nonetheless still crumbling clay...
That lay in the dark just the same
Choking on the what ifs and what mays.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
I've written about the wind
More than countless times.
I've always been so envious
Of it's freedom.
But now more than ever
The jealousy burns me
The air
How it moves and turns
It's free
And it can touch you.
It gets to brush those lips I miss,
And swirl around in your lungs.
It's ubiquitous limbs
Brush up against your arms
And weave between those fingers
it can hold your hands like I used to
it can do everything I can't.
but what I'm most covetous of
how it can watch you
and rest it's head against you
how it can twist in between the cracks in your smile.
the wind is my enemy
she is the temptress that mocks me
she laughs while I cry
because she lives in your lips
and you have no idea
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 9:36 PM UTC
The mirror mocks my every move
Every lump I try to smooth
The mirror cons me of my happiness
Knot in my throat, stuck like this
Dysmorphia
I feel the corners of my mouth
Like they're tied to the ground
I try to fix it, try to heal
I try to replace it, the shame I feel
Dysmorphia
Feeling visceral
Indescribable
If only I could find
Something comparable
Dysmorphia
Jul 17, 2022
Jul 17, 2022 at 3:13 AM UTC
Sweet gentle daughter of dreaming blue eyes
Reflecting visions from some distant sphere;
Untainted by nightmares of icy fear,
Nor saddened yet by fate's mocking disguise.
Unopened book of fickle tomorrow,
Not certain of how future may unfold,
With hours of lead or hours of molten gold;
Unenlightened yet by unknown sorrow.
Sands rush through the hourglass of wasted years,
While breaking our young hearts with shattered dreams.
The clock of life wrings disappointed tears,
Unhampered by our plans and clever schemes.
Beware grim reaper swinging ***** blade
Who mocks thee as childhood days slowly fade.
~Hilda~
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
How this **** fable instructs
And mocks! Here's the parody of that moral mousetrap
Set in the proverbs stitched on samplers
Approving chased girls who get them to a tree
And put on bark's nun-black
Habit which deflects
All amorous arrows. For to sheathe the ****** shape
In a scabbard of wood baffles pursuers,
Whether goat-thighed or god-haloed. Ever since that first Daphne
Switched her incomparable back
For a bay-tree hide, respect's
Twined to her hard limbs like ivy: the puritan lip
Cries: 'Celebrate Syrinx whose demurs
Won her the frog-colored skin, pale pith and watery
Bed of a reed. Look:
Pine-needle armor protects
Pitys from Pan's assault! And though age drop
Their leafy crowns, their fame soars,
Eclipsing Eva, Cleo and Helen of Troy:
For which of those would speak
For a fashion that constricts
White bodies in a wooden girdle, root to top
Unfaced, unformed, the nipple-flowers
Shrouded to suckle darkness? Only they
Who keep cool and holy make
A sanctum to attract
Green virgins, consecrating limb and lip
To chastity's service: like prophets, like preachers,
They descant on the serene and seraphic beauty
Of virgins for virginity's sake.'
Be certain some such pact's
Been struck to keep all glory in the grip
Of ugly spinsters and barren sirs
As you etch on the inner window of your eye
This ****** on her rack:
She, ripe and unplucked, 's
Lain splayed too long in the tortuous boughs: overripe
Now, dour-faced, her fingers
Stiff as twigs, her body woodenly
Askew, she'll ache and wake
Though doomsday bud. Neglect's
Given her lips that lemon-tasting droop:
Untongued, all beauty's bright juice sours.
Tree-twist will ape this gross anatomy
Till irony's bough break.
8.6k
At the back of the noisy cafe
bent over a table sits an old man;
a newspaper in front of him, without company.
And in the scorn of his miserable old age
he ponders how little he enjoyed the years
when he had strength, and the power of the word, and good looks.
He knows he has aged much; he feels it, he sees it.
And yet the time he was young seems
like yesterday. How short a time, how short a time.
And he ponders how Prudence deceived him;
and how he always trusted her -- what a folly! --
that liar who said: "Tomorrow. There is ample time."
He remembers the impulses he curbed; and how much
joy he sacrificed. Every lost chance
now mocks his senseless wisdom.
...But from so much thinking and remembering
the old man gets dizzy. And falls asleep
bent over the cafe table.
8k
Proud little peacock
Plumage up for display
No need for repeated mocks
No need for you to say
I can clearly see
For we may be quiet but we have eyes
Strutting conspicuously
Showing off your prize
We already know you have it
We all do
On the sidelines we sit
Seeing you through
Tell me little bird
What do you get
When you say your words
Were your objectives met?
Everytime I hear them
Just makes me gag
I'd roll my eyes
Just hearing you brag
People'll give you
When accolades are deserving
But I suppose they're never enough
'Cause I still see you parading
Well I know I may be unpredictable
A tad bit capricious
To be honest, you...
You're simply being ostentatious
...and it's annoying the hell out of me...
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 8:12 AM UTC
World is given through her womb
Life by her love
She's a shooting star
Fulfilling the dreams of others
Forgetting her ones.
We don't dare to appreciate her
We don't care to her feelings,
Nor her dreams.
She swallows her pride
To serve us might.
Love her, she loves you tonnes
Ignore her, she loves you loads
Ignores our ignorance
And tolerates our flaws
Complaining never
Her cries are often unheard
With tears invisible,
Trauma a smile
Patience at infinity
With words unspoken.
She's a ocean
Vast to explore
Hard to understand
But plain as river
With thoughts deeper.
Her self respect
Often misspelled as ego,
Society mocks her down earth
And she raises like a tree
From a buried seed
Her every move
Is judgemental,
With several eyes poking her
And so she became unpredictable.
Never try to understand, rather love her.
She gives life. She is a mother.
She makes home. She is a wife.
She is a sister, a savior till the ends.
She is precious because she is a daughter
She refuses to retire because she's born a woman.
And do you feel she deserves just a single day!?
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 9:50 PM UTC
Basking in postcoital bliss, talking between the sheets
catching our breath, giggling with laughter treats
Laying in the afterglow, tangled in the sheets
sweating cooling skin, and completing greater feats
Blissful in post euphoria, feeling quite appeased
finding comfort in warm arms, putting me at ease
Still sighing, touching, tasting, nuzzled in content
reveling in the splendor, our minds and bodies, spent
Let me drink, this moment in, before we turn to clocks,
wishing only to start again, as seconds ticking mocks.
Snuggling together, eyes and hands so locked
wishing for ourselves, more hours, on the clock
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 2:21 PM UTC
Secret wish
stands hidden
in
cliché riddled
green patch
this neon bird
mocks
red capped
garden dwellers
serenely seated
bookish girl
half-dead fern
leans towards
hot pink beacon
salvation bent
crescent moon
casts
feathery palm shadows
with curved arms
against the
bamboo fence
lifting
earthbound desires
skyward.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
BY ARCASSIN BURNHAM
waitin for the mornin to open its eyes,
Shes waitin for me,
but dosent know that dawn has found me,
she mocks the sun,
your ignorance is a bliss,
one step from a kiss,
i guess i should have known better,
so beautiful as love itsself,
But inside,
evil as sin,
when,
when will the morning come,
love aint going anywhere,
im always here.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 8:28 PM UTC
Happy as something unimportant
and free as a thing unimportant.
As something no one prizes
and which does not prize itself.
As something mocked by all
and which mocks at their mockery.
As laughter without serious reason.
As a yell able to out yell itself.
Happy as no matter what,
as any no matter what.
Happy
as a dog’s tail.
5.9k
With a smile the martyr ascends.
Killing for peace.
Dieing for peace.
Thrives for peace.
With a smile the martyr ascends.
Paradise in eyes they die.
Tears in eyes they die.
Twisted ties of us all seem to die.
With a smile the martyr ascends.
As he ascends he lives on.
Everyone mocks the martyr and where he will live on.
Some claim he will not live on.
Martyr martyr I believe you live on.
Your cross can carry you,
Into the caressing arms of your dreams.
Martyr martyr can you take me?
I've wanted to be happy for so long.
With a smile the martyr ascends.
They all laugh.
Shunning him they all laugh.
Mocking his one hit or miss chance to finally find peace they all laugh.
With a smile the martyr ascends.
They all think less of you I am sorry.
They all hate you for your sacrifice I am sorry.
Your god will reward you because it too will be sorry.
Martyr martyr I believe you live on.
Your cross can carry you,
Into the caressing arms of your dreams.
Martyr martyr can you take me?
I've wanted to be happy for so long.
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 11:55 AM UTC
this is a poem dedicated to distance.
to every time i have wanted to kiss you, but couldn't.
to every time i looked at my empty hands and thought of yours.
to every time i was in a crowded room and secretly hoped that i'd find your face.
to every happy couple we see that inadvertently mocks our inability to be near each other.
to every time i've played your laughter over and over in my head to drown out the silence.
to every time you just wanted to hear my voice, but i was busy.
to every missed call and every undelivered text and every time your internet was down.
to every miscommunicated statement and every typo.
to every time that one of us was asleep when the other needed them.
to every time you wept and i wasn't there to hold you.
to every self-destructive tendency we share.
to every pill your mother has hidden and every razor blade i have flushed.
to every worry that plagues my consciousness whenever you take long to reply.
to every night we have been together through a screen, but alone in our beds.
to every, "i miss you" and "i wish you were here".
to every broken-record apology that never makes it better.
to every makeup stain that mars the sweater you sent me so that i could
feel like i was sleeping with you (and to the fact that it doesn't smell like you anymore).
to every hour, every minute, every second of difference in the time between us.
to every dollar i don't have, and every time i wished for your chest against my back.
to every, "why are you even with me?" and "you could do better".
to every spectator and cynic that has told us we'd fail.
to every doubt of mine and to all your jealousy.
to every ounce of water in the pacific ocean.
to every ******* mile between my head and your chest (i checked, and there are 9,752).
you will not win.
- m.f.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 2:45 PM UTC
*Whispers surround me,
I can't understand them,
I can only hear the voice.
The voice who calls,
The voice who mocks,
The voice who laughs,
The voice who haunts.
I can't stop it,
I try to ignore it,
Only for the voice to scream,
"YOU CAN'T WIN!!"
I always wonder.
How long will i have to face this torture?*
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 9:17 AM UTC
i'm unable to understand.
goosebumps prickle methodically up and down my arms, and i
look at the wall opposite me, eyes small and watery,
and smile.
my face mocks me.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 2:04 PM UTC
People keep asking me how I’m doing.
If I’m getting better or if I’ve taken the time to process what’s happened.
If I’ve sought professional help for the metal percussions induced by my career-ending injury.
In all honesty though, professional help is futile. It can’t save me now.
I’m walking through hell and sitting in a ring of fire discussing the temperature of the searing flames would be idiotic.
Why would I allow the flames to dance along my already seared skin longer than necessary?
I know they’re hot.
I know I’m in hell.
I know the pain I feel every day is real and crippling.
Talking about this pain wouldn’t end it. It wouldn’t diminish the heat. It wouldn’t help.
I need to keep walking.
I just need to keep walking.
My crippled body can’t run anymore, but I’ve got to keep walking.
Others continue to rush by. Frantic because they’ve never felt the flames.
They aren’t familiar with the burn. The idea of being in hell is novel.
They are novices.
But life hasn’t been kind to me.
These flames are familiar with every curve of my body and they dance around with trained feet.
I’ve been in hell for years.
People continue suggesting I find the light at the end of the tunnel, but that’s near impossible here.
I’m too blinded by the brightness of a vehement flame.
Sizzling with an angry vigor for the lack of gratitude I bestowed on my past life.
It mocks the speed at which I used to be able to run. It laps sardonically at the feet that used to run cheer-inducing speeds without thanks from their owner.
But crowds don’t cheer my name anymore.
I now stand on the sidelines and watch my team play.
I burn alive for the game I used to breath and as I watch each and every game, the deep breaths of oxygen only continue alighting the fire.
There’s no way out it seems, but I will try to keep walking.
Because talking is futile.
Note:
Spinal diseases are crippling mentally and physically. Watching the body you've sculpted for years turn to mush because you can't workout is dilapidating .
The despair and helplessness are unfamiliar feelings, feelings that can't be overcome. Disease is disease and sometimes it can't be stopped. Sometimes, it just becomes a burden to bear.
And sometimes people aren't strong enough.
It's different when careers end after four years of college. An expected end, an anticipated end. But when things you love are taken from you abruptly, before your finished. The pain is exponentially worse.
Exponentially. Worse.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 1:41 PM UTC
What is this
Satirical mask
That weeps self-deprecating tears
Through plastic slits
Down over a contorted smile
That mocks society
In pictoral flagellations
Of an aching conscience.
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 1:11 AM UTC
**Moving past the shuttered mind
that shuns imagination
I seek a stimulating thought
a cause for exhultation.
It hovers there
like hummingbirds
whose entry I deny.
And yet
I see the imagery
and heave a heartfelt sigh.
It teases me
and mocks me
as it dodges
every grasp
Laughing at my efforts
to retrieve it
with each clasp.
Yet empty air is my reward.
My snares are all in vain.
I close my eyes and meditate
for inspiration's gain.
An empty net
a vacant trap
the target still eludes.
Perhaps tomorrow
try again
away from darker moods.**
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 10:16 PM UTC
the rook mocks all in its path
as metaphor, worthless
symbols symbols too many damn symbols
they out number most folks reality
the angels on high
slug them when you see them
from eternity comes the haymaker
play the zero sum game
kick below the belt
cook a rook
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 10:42 PM UTC
The puzzle is never solved.
They are looked at and pointed at
by children who don't know
that we're supposed to pity them.
*Oh Son, Oh Daughter
they have Autism!
Oh, I feel so bad!*
The straight jackets and shocks
have turned to stares and mocks.
They didn't to choose to be born this way
a piece of a puzzle that doesn't fit.
We look at them and thank God that its
not us.
Its not me.
But the indifference doesn't work.
We thank God that its not us.
But do we ever feel any empathy?
If you could imagine having a retardation
never really fully understanding anything
A chromosomal abnormality that would
affect your whole life forever.
Having to be watched
always having someone taking care of you
you would never have any independence.
Autism seemed to be their name
"he's Autistic"
It wasn't their name.
There is much more to them.
These people used to be tortured
people thought that they had a demon inside of them
that we had to get out.
What we never realized was that
the real demon was us.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC