"mye" poems
lokt dikshuneri
kipin eet, kees laustt
diss iys hardd
lokt mynd
kent tingk
wer diyd mye
spelink en mynd gaw?
awt da weendoe
nid napp baad
Sep 8, 2011
Sep 8, 2011 at 5:04 PM UTC
1-english
I gargled solids much like boulders of the throat.
Upon a dreadful goat,
the lamb was slain in name of said reign.
To diminish the waters
drenching fields of green and brown,
rugged earth, and jagged cliff.
Up nor down no liquids found.
I am placed to flummox the hard matter
of dirt and swallow whilst hurt.
2-norwegian
Jeg gurglet tørrstoff mye som blokker i halsen.
Etter en forferdeliggeit,
ble sauene drept i navn sa regjeringstid.
For å minske vannetgjennomvåt felt av grønne og brune,
robuste jorden, og rufsete stup.
Opp eller ned væske ikke funnet.
Jeg er plassert for å flummox denharde spørsmål
om skitt og svelge mens vondt.
Jan 12, 2011
Jan 12, 2011 at 10:47 PM UTC
The tree is dancing and flickering
Like some computer glitch,
ANd the sound of fpptstops trail me,
Doors shutting,
Chairs scraping,
Dogs barking in an otherwise empty house.
I do not know how to sav myself from this
Remix of unreal and reality,
Just hiding blasting music
Trying to drown out the sound of someone trying to **** me.
The figurine of the pink power ranger rests under my pillow while I try to sleep,
Guardian, protector,
Save me.
I do not want to listen to my thoughts.
They hurt adn conjure things,
Enamored of death or a way out of this hell.
At night I dream
Of people stealing the earrings out of mye ears
And hundreds of people chanting my name.
No matter where I run, they call me.
Even hiding amongst the frogs brings no relief
As their Ribbits shout my name from behinf the bushes.
Save me from this hell, my mind.
I don't want to listen to it.
I don't want to die.
May 13, 2021
May 13, 2021 at 2:15 PM UTC
Wherds Wirds
Arrgh our
At Rat
My Mye
Mer, sea mercy
Words Whords
Ah are
Rat rhat
Meye Mie
Merci mer see
Whirds Wurds
R ar
Hat hgat
Mye mai
Myrhh c murse sí
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 2:57 AM UTC
I fantasyse a fodder/
who myght feeed mye goost/
amende it atnyght/
when thee darke nd dreade onlee drenche/
nd drowne my hart in sorowe/
I am lost/
softlye now tale me/
all thee preteee thyngs I wont to heere/
tale me/
you love me/
that I am evrythynge u’ve wonted neer/
that mye prestencts dose not
alarm you/
that thes sun is bryght/ yellow/
fool of energee nd lyfe/
that you are proud/
of me/ not ashamed/
of my bryght colers/
tell me you love me
Dec 27, 2019
Dec 27, 2019 at 11:14 PM UTC
Her står jeg i all min nakenhet
Skriver dikt på norsk og greier
Jeg vet ikke helt hva jeg skal si
Hvordan jeg skal sette ord på det
Engelsk ville fått dette til å se fancy ut
Med kompliserte ord og uttrykk
Men her kommer det rå og nakne
Rotete formulert, uten rim og slikt
Du får fram en helt ny person i meg
En person jeg selv må bli kjent med
For dette er ikke likt noe jeg vet om
Dette er alt helt nytt og rart for meg
Følelser jeg ikke har hatt før
En tvil om hva jeg egentlig vil
Jeg vet ikke lenger faktisk
Noe jeg alltid har trodd jeg har gjort
Det er mye du ikke vet
Mye du ikke bør få vite
Jeg vil ikke ødelegge deg
Livredd for at det skal skje
Gi det tid, så vil jeg skjønne
Hva jeg selv innerst inne vil
Jeg vet hva jeg vil ville
Men det er ikke alltid rett
Dette er som en ny sang
Som jeg må lære å synge
Og spille på piano perfekt
Før den store framvisningen
Er det mulig at tiden vil si
At solo er formen for meg
Eller kanskje det er på tide
Å gjøre det til en duett?
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 4:44 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
Avon Man and the Mystery of His First-Best Bed
I gyve unto my wief my second best bed…
-Attributed to Shakespeare in his will. Or Churchill. Or
Milton. Or Elvis. Or Some Famous Man. And Shakespeare
was secretly a Catholic. (No, he wasn’t.) (Yes, he was.) (No, he
wasn’t.) (Yes, he was; I read it on the InterGossip.)
That second-best bed doesn’t matter a pop
Those anyones whoever slept in it are deads
Memorialized as dashboard bobbleheads
At Ye Olde Anne Hathawaye gifte shoppe
Kinge Richarde nevere cryede, “mye kyngdome fore ye bedde!”
Yea, goode olde Sirre Erpinghame joked, “Now lye I like a kynge”
So what’s the deale withe the firste-beste bedde thynge?
Thatte seconde bedde is where the Widowe rested hir hedde
Ande thusse ye scholares maken withouten cessatione
Unsupportede argumentes and allegationes
Jan 25, 2024
Jan 25, 2024 at 9:31 PM UTC