"motar" poems
slaying playing
member of the ******** clan 4life
hashtag no life
wannabe motar so i can potar
******* trying to motar boat
punch em in thoat
picken them little kids with thee
HEY I GOT SOME CANDY
work everytime and i always say evrytime
*** baker4life
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
Uma casca solta, prisioneira de uma falha perfeita,
Perfeitos são o mitos, aos olhos de gente fechada,
Explicações são fraquezas, de acções de fachada.
Não sei mais quantas vezes eu repetirei, a ceita!
O peixe escorregadio, que vadio desaguou do mar,
Se esconde na toca do Coelho, que é toca desafeita,
Num segredo moribundo, de computador de aldeães,
Segundo um mito motar de um braço partido ao luar!
Essa vaquinha que pastou, pintada de vermelho corado,
Desfeita tantas vezes no pasto, moribundo da praia vazia,
Era apenas um segredo, pintado nas veias do tal marado,
Que mais ligada que a mentira à realidade, produzida, diria!
Que se fodam os mitos, que se lixe o correto, porque certo?
Estou eu, e eu, segundo os mitos que considero correctos,
Não tiro nem ponho, continuo caminho fora, boquiaberto,
Enquanto penso, na esperteza dos enxames concretos!
Na sementeira alheia, vanguardeira cairá tão perto,
Seu ***** espaço de terra, de um vazio moribundo,
E eu cumprida a missão, estarei bem melhor decerto,
Porque tudo como nada, tem um preço de vinda ao mundo!
Escolhas guardadas comigo, desde o dia que nasci,
Cabe ao meu cérebro processar o dia, é costume,
Que de tão leve vive meu lume, que ela não teme,
Limpeza de água, que cai e faz fumo, e aprendeu!
Autor: António Benigno
Código de autor: 2013.07.25.02.10
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 5:08 AM UTC
Homeless love.
Tattered looks
Paper back books
Stolen moments of peace in a jungle of brick and motar
Stone and deep seeded money
We are the pennies of the society dropped and looked over spared a glance we are blighten a blight on a commericial society of prada bags
But we wear the tattered rags of humanity best left overlooked
Blaming it on the overlooked
They see us as they overcooked but they come to us in need place your order,but dont give to us
Pack mauls to your desire your disgust pale only to your addictive desire.. but i dont live here im just white girl passing thru.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC
Until today
I could not see you
too afraid to look in a mirror
Skin loose
Jaw tight, a motar grinding teeth
A confused looking man,
already?
Are you ready?
Adrift, we alive are dizzy, mad, confused, or blank.
Stroking our nostril hair,
portraying different parts,
one a banker, a father, an assassin
Once even a sort of Irish troll, slash, Quasimodo,
do you regret the metaphor?
How it happened...
akin to looking back
And thinking nothing,
black on black
Whiteshade in light
Static void (smiling cow).
Who was chaufeured around Paris in that film anyway?
That girl, you know, the one who won't wear shoes
Or socks
She plays in several scenarios,
once a mother, a nurse, a nun on the run,
a chemist, a voluptuous ventriloquist,
pregnant, humming, doing the dishes, going to church,
staying up late to feed the cats
can you imagine
playing all those lifetimes on a raft
an inventive vehicle wouldn't you say?
I'm a nobody
Arranging words so they align with thoughts
Uneven and impure
These poems are like living on snack food
What I want to say is,
half of me is out the door
Living with the ants.
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 3:05 AM UTC
love is not made
from charity but
speaks
with clarity
you feel
the gravity
thus
love is made
from
brick and motar
contructed
through
the entire
soul
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 6:40 AM UTC