"nic" poems
i can hear my brain screaming
taking up another mischief
making another sound of hit
adjusting another kind of yelling
what is this? a disease? or another routine?
it got rid of my will and wits!
father i hear it screeching
it's not coming from my ears!
but it's okay since they're not real
or at least if that's what you think
i feel like **** stop with the sense of guilt!
i can hear it screaming
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 2:11 PM UTC
"There's nothing you can do that I haven't already done to myself."
I can dance naked to MSI if I really want to.
I really do want to.
That song awakens my inner stripper.
I'm making a tattoo appointment for this week.
Going to get a semicolon on my suicide scar so I never forget,
That I was once a dumb teenager
Who had more courage than I do right this second.
It makes me panic to think that they don't call english muffins
English muffins in England.
Two types of muffins?
Who would've thought?
It gives me anxiety.
My computer keeps translating all my pages into Polish.
Nie wiem nic.
Strange thing, but I don't mind.
I need more coffee,
Possibly *****
But most likely coffee.
Jacob is going through a new phase,
And I will wonder if it'll last a few more months,
Till he turns four.
"You can't do that"
"Aaaaactually..... I can."
Aaaaaactually you can't munchkin.
But you keep reminding me you're not a munchkin,
You're a boy.
Silly boy.
Silly me.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
What are they to do with their hands if they no longer care?
if they would rather take an iPad over fresh air?
If it’s auto-correct teaching them how to spell words?
when raising your child: is Nicki Minaj doing a better job?
It’s because they now live in that neon-green X-Box glow
blasting strangers from all walks of life online playing Halo.
While Smokey the Bear goes around lighting matches
there are no more sandwiches left in our pic-a-nic baskets.
It’s the Kids!
Because the only toboggan they go through is YouTube
because there are no such things as books in Facebook.
Because it’s behind a shiny screen their ingenuity goes to waste
because it’s the equivalent of dropping Simba on his face.
So lets just Skype instead of meeting up and going for a walk!
140 characters or less to dictate the way we communicate and talk!
Because Clark Kent is not Superman unless his Twitter feed is verified
and behind close doors there's no room to grow a child’s mind.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 1:45 PM UTC
She
so___- she
And__ He__ so
Never ending
She Comma
Do-So
Shop to Soho
Electronics
Like a Saint
Satanic's
His or hers
Nic's and Pix
Never the end
If so_______
Yes Sir
The math flame
Password
To end the
dating game
Hot green
tip
pistachios
Like the long sentence_____,
Your
Nephews
He was
Huh? ,
So compelled
to be sentenced
The time
treacherous
Was so long
At that end is
where
you
belong
Column
his
comma
She comma
Prima Donna
Oh! Donna
A love
should
be in
the
moment
Too
many
Dots?plots/whatnots
You forgot
semicolumn
The head page
Semi-sweet
column
End chair
Kingdom
Knock on wood
Getting
splinters
He used
Plastic
condoms
Braveheart Lion
Twisted sisters
I was
at the
very end
Wella
She -Comma____
The money
Higher up
Society Brianna
Barcelona Cafes
Giraffe ladies
boisterous
drama
Begin now
The beginning
Never met her
middle-section
Which breed?
She-comma
She could
make
Anyone's
bad heart
Drug fix well
The good
heart
Should be ended
Dead end____&
the
morgue
Her long tongue
All She__ Rouge
The question mark
All parts dots here and?
What is
next!!!
You hear
the ring you jump
Off the cliff
the text
Meet me
greet him
Chances
are
never
The front
It was
a front
Fine print
you
could
see
Smitten
written deed
And
left her
money
Heavenly
bliss
This
paper
kiss
Did you
miss
Her
signature,
Never a
good gesture
She-devil
Comma,
Never good
ending
movie
Feature
Never ending
Please visit
and come back
Do I need your opinion?
.,, ... ??
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 9:22 AM UTC
(you will say something today!)
yeah, that isn’t stupid
or maybe she thinks it’s cute
when i fumble over my lines
(you’re losing time just say something!)
hey, how are y-
(too generic)
the weather’s nic-
(it’s raining, stupid!)
I-
(you’re fumbling)
but,
she laughed?
(giggled)
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 4:45 PM UTC
ey yo gurl
you make me hurl
champs back to you
for a sweet alley-oop
Give xerath a boop
right on the head
he prolly shoulda read
this ain't yogi-bear
I fill caskets, not pic-a-nic-baskets
feel free to ask it
You know I got a task it-
Starts and ends with a flip
and a stun
so don't give me lip about this tent
I've got the smores, so don't get bent
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 5:16 PM UTC
Zeptal se dělník k čemu je umění,
když na mojí práci se stejně nic nemění.
Na mý práci se stejně nic nemění,
tak k čemu je umění,
umělci zkurvení.
Umělci zkurvení,
zkuste si umění
a budete tu jak němý.
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 5:46 AM UTC
Sometimes
People
Are *****
And I find myself
Disappointed
With the entire species
Other times,
They do
the damnedest things,
Restoring my Faith
Just in the nic of time
Apr 28, 2023
Apr 28, 2023 at 10:00 PM UTC
Czytać nadzieje w poezji jest dużo jak rozumieć niebieski kolor w niebie,
ona czuje, zna ten perfum, co nie może sama sobie kupić.
Ten wiatr ciągnie, utrzymuje ale nic ujawnia,
koty marzą, a ona ciągle czyta te same książki.
Szuka ten kolor wszędzie, jej farby nigdzie nie pasują,
wysyła pocztówki do siebie z miejsc nieznanych z których
zawsze pamięta dziękowac za piwo.
Lata idą, a ona powtarza sie, ciągle zapomina patrzyć na dół,
nieobecna że niedługo ominie go.
May 19, 2011
May 19, 2011 at 9:27 PM UTC
my love for
her
is strictly
platonic,
because what else
could it be?
I sit on her
couch
and smile at every
single
word she says.
Her soft hand
touches
my knee, exposed
by my shorts,
as she laughs.
Out of nowhere she states,
“I like the
idea
of heaven, but
only
if there’s not a
hell.”
I realize then what
triggered
that statement.
we were talking about religion,
ironic to me is just that,
we were talking about religion
while I worship the
ground
she walks on.
My love for
her
is strictly
platonic,
I worship her,
but only as a
friend.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 5:36 PM UTC
Jedno slunce vládne všem,
feťákům i snům šelem.
Jedno slunce vládne nám
a shoří v něm každý trám.
Jedno slunce vládne výš,
uhoří v něm kočka, myš
Vypaří se zuby s hubou,
pokud v našich nějaké zbudou
Vypaří se moře, tváře
a panenky od oltáře
Odpaří se tíha, směr
a životy na úvěr
Vypaří se ženy, svišti
a jejich děti na parkovišti
Nic nezbude po školách
a světlo bude šířit strach.
Jedno slunce vládne teď
a roste po něm každá sněť.
Jedno slunce pravdu zná
a nikdo jiná nepozná.
Jedno slunce má svou noc.
Kdo mu přijde na pomoc?
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 5:01 AM UTC
What time is it? I don't even know
Lemme just think so you won't let go
Take another drag
'nother hit
never quit
your love is like a drug & I'm addicted
Cause that nic is a tik & a tok
of a clock
so lemme rewind like the sound when you ****
the bullet
the gun
my ***
I'm sorry but I'm not yet done
when you say that you love me
do you really mean it?
Cause this sounds like a movie and I've already seen it.
Sep 9, 2021
Sep 9, 2021 at 7:36 PM UTC
Shifting shifting
Into gear
I'm driving without fear
Vroom vroom
So far I go
Where I do not know
Chit chat chit chat
They all speak
Without them I am weak
Swirling swirling
My Brain is fried
I let out and cry
Nic NAC nic NAC
Give myself a slap
I need to take a nap
Plic plac ship lac
I need a whicky snack
For I am not a bat
I'm losing my mind
It bellows obscenities
Can I still follow the rhyme
I lost track of time
I have no dime ?
Save me save me sir mime
It makes no sense
Too much suspense
My body is too tense
I want it to stop
Please God
Let it stop
I'm tired
It's screaming
Tens of voices
New ideas
So many choices
I forget them
Before I start them
Then I'm off exchanging myself
For a new shelf
I'm talking
I'm dancing
I'm cleaning
I'm
ScrEAMING
It's creamy~
Words words
They don't add up
Help me help me
god above
Help me help me
Ones I love
I'm losing my ****
I'm losing all of it
Am I bipolar
Or just ******* nuts
I cannot contain my lusts
I want it all
I want a nap
I want to fall
And run a lap
La la la la lee do da da
I sing a little song
La la la le do da da
I cry a little long
La la la le do da da
I scream hahahAHAHAHA
I am not an Artist~
I am not a talent
I am nothing much
But leftover lunch
Molding and burning
In the evening sun
My end has begun
I am in need of savior
No chance with my flavor
Throw me away
Let me sleep
I am a jumbled up mess
Trying to count too many sheep
Peep peep little one
I am insane
I took your brain
And set it on a plane
It'll never return
The same
You are to blame
Who are you
Who am I ?
Maybe I'll know
When I die
Mar 2, 2022
Mar 2, 2022 at 1:04 AM UTC
We all have a place
that we keep
(just in case)
our hord
or our stash
our clutter.
Things that had purpose
or by some chance
may be used again.
Oddities and nic nacks
Old candles and keys
obsolete rechargers and batteries
cables and thimbles,
coins of foreign currencies
manuals and letters and lint.
And they are stored
in shoeboxes,
beer crates
bottom drawers
wardrobes,
on garage shelves
or in hearts.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 12:00 PM UTC
every attempt
or play you invent
I've already done
so go ahead and vent
your rage, don't be contempt
yougi and boo boo, we got a tent
cause picnic-baskets don't cant content
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 5:21 PM UTC
it’s so simple
I just have to cry. for a while.
I know heaven is the only perfect place for you to rest now
and met up again with your beloved one
my Granny
hope God do take care of you two in his place.
I do missing the smell of your black coffee
mix with your high nic ciggar
I do missing your deep voice calling out my name
the way you talk
the way you see the world and just try to fix it a little.
you have an awesome kids
my father just as tough as you
and hope that also running in my blood
Sorry gramps I always being a little late in everything
if only I could have a chance to spend another day with you
even just for an hour I’ll be sitted next to you just to watch
and listen carefully to the story of your life.
and I do hate the part of being grow up
I dont have any spare time to spend with my old man
with you gramps
Now I have come to understand
the way it is, the way of life.
you’ve got this look I can’t describe
without a doubt you’re on my side
and it always gonna be my biggest mistake
not being there to give my last honor to you Gramps..
in your honor
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 10:47 PM UTC
Rivers are meant to be peaceful,
But I promise,
I'm no Virginia Woolf.
I'd love to share a moment,
But sharing was never
One of my best skills
When I was a little girl.
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 1:35 AM UTC
My mind goes for a smoke before my body does.
It becomes a pressure just like holding *** if I don't fulfill the mind's intention.
The heart is silenced and prepared for the intake of nicotine even though I haven't moved from my place.
The social joys, the buzz, and relief of smoking circulate through my mind.
My back tells me it will be comforted by smoking, just like a teenager asking for car keys.
The part of me who doesn't want to smoke is portrayed as an over-worried mother, over protecting this teen.
The male aspect that wants to stop smoking is decided as the empty insurance salesman simply concerned with the money.
In other words he is seen as fake.
Next, the Natives remind me that tobacco is a sacred tradition given by White Buffalo Calf Woman.
"It eases tention," She says.
I think about the people I've influenced to smoke, and how others influenced me too.
I think how much more healthy Chloe looks now that she's quit.
My hip muscles now tell me a smoke will relax them.
I'm reminded of the lack of care of minorities by those who don't smoke.
I'm reminded of smoking comradery.
Of Native society centered on the pipe.
A tattoo of my newfound math problems: R^n.
And with this one distraction, all these thoughts of smoking combine and say: "okay, let's go smoke" as if tugging at my seat.
Yet I tie myself to my seat, I theory anyway.
Smoke or sleep? They try the either or question.
I'm staying up for another 11 minutes.
What will happen?
The friendliness of Nic does it to me again.
Mar 3, 2021
Mar 3, 2021 at 7:41 AM UTC
i tyle, reszta na coin flip
twoich ambicji;
mam, po, prostu (nie mazowieckie czy kieleckie)
kichaniem dosyć!
syty jam i z prostatą oddany w mgle pychy;
ja serw memu mieniu i ozora
(tej trzeciej krwi krowy)
poeta!
do końca wasz iglak wczorajszej wigilii
(zmień to a zmienisz czasowność):
rada memu panie... więcej narodu czy tem
racji czy tem dumy czy tem innego stanowiska
na głąbie poza polską ja racze;
ja racze! wilka gniew nad lud!
z resztą, okiem morsa fabryk na tle miganiu
to tylko nic! a mój brat kim?! obcy mocar?!
nie! nie, nie ja ludwig rus czy pruss, niet ich!
oj naród a ja jako atlas, wraz z izraelem,
a ty jako kompas, a warszawa jako kamień tonie
w wodzie hystorji wraz z napoleonem,
a więć kraków raz jeszcze wstanie wraz z mongołem;
tylko anglia może oddalać dume swego rodu
sama mniej dumna swego początku w niemczech.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
In a growling, mixed parts automobile resembling
A scrap-metal Frankenstein
A driver pauses at a green light
Stalling parking lot traffic on its steaming blacktop treadmill
To greet an old friend through a missing window
A father in full camo and combat boots drags a nic-stick
And guides his wife and children through sardine walkways
In ninety degree June heat on a Boston street
His daughter swims in his thick wool, long-sleeved army jacket
Beaming
A lonely teen with fear tears and a pay-to-go-phone
Calls for help, and receives no reply
The frustration drains from his cursing voice
He shakes the hand of the silent one who was with him all along
Sirens wail, cars clear, leaving an empty trail
A snake pilot shoots the gap and ditches his stagnant lane to tail
The ambulance turns off its indicators; the patient didn’t make it
Their apparent apostle gets home a few minutes early
A blue peace keeper sleeping in his loser cruiser
Does not stir as tax dollar drool dribbles from his lips
A speeding truck nearly creams a pink backpack
Somewhere, a woman is *****
A husband and his frail partner leave the office of a medicine man
She walks aimlessly towards a wall before she is redirected
Careful Magoo, he says with love
He spoke with the patience of an ocean
Jun 7, 2011
Jun 7, 2011 at 8:25 PM UTC
Nic fits, the little fluctuations
in my otherwise flat emotional
geography. Twenty fatal hour
glasses daily, dividing the time
filling empty space
with their swirling whisps.
Brown-stained fingers fish
out another from a limp
soft-pack. Another disposable
morsel, tip kissed with another
disposable BIC, torched down
to the filter by another disposable
“I,” then cast into the gutter—
with the rest.
(Then a fit of hacking like steel striking
birch quashes any implicit poetry.)
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 3:17 AM UTC
*and you now see what they made me do? i'd never thought it would come to this, that i had to crawl back to the mainland of europe to find a publisher, because the appreciation of publishing poetry in england is null, nil, zero, nothing, a mustard seed's worth of hope; this mediation of saving the amazon rainforest to save up on paper and the first yawn of the digital age, among cat videos and **** there you have it, a massive blotch on the intended utility of this **** thing - i'm not even angry any more, just ****** nervous - or as the old writer said in his appreciation of poverty and feeling guilty concerning what he deemed to be his riches (a record collection and a private library): happy trails kids.*
Droga Pani Anno,
przepraszam za popszedni email, mianowicie że był on bez poważnej formy i tematyki, taki po prostu skrutem. Lecz przez osiem lat nie-ustannego pisania, pisząc do osoby w pozycji umożliwienia publikacji wkroczyła we mnie trema opisywania rzeczywitości - tzn. kiedy widze śledząc pisanie innych poetow na internecie - i tą marude znaną jako rozczarowanie jeżeli chodzi o szanse publikacji, nie tylko jednego wiersza w magazynie poetickim, a o całej książce własnych wierszy to już ża dużo można powiedziec o aborcji dalszych i utrzymanych ambicji. Myśle wiec ze 100 egzemplarzy nie jest asz tak nie realistyczne, wiem że poezja snuci swą muzyke dla nie wielu czytelkników, określone najlepiej dwoma obserwaciami: w angielskich gazetach można spotkać recenzje książek na wiele tematów (autobiografie najczęsciej), lecz o poezji praktycznie nic, oraz fakt że nie dawno tylko jedna książka poezji osiągneła sprzedaż ~10,000 egzemplarzy w Angli - a mówie że 100 nie jest nie realistyczne poniewarz na jednej stronie (hellopoetry.com) mam około 40 zawziętych czytaczy - 936 wierszy i wszytkie przeczytane przez tą skromną kadre - a na facebook.com mam 178 znajomych których poznałem czy to na uniwersytecie czy też w szkole. Tak, a więc 100 egzemplarzy.
Mateusz Conrad E.
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 12:51 PM UTC
Uvod v padec,
ki ne sluti konca.
16 let minljivosti.
10 kazalcev, ki kazejo
nesmrtnost.
4 zareze v svinjskih
rebrih, katerih srce
kuka iz kletke...
mimobeznica.
begunec, ki seje, a
nic ne pozanje
in 15 dag tirolske.
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 2:48 AM UTC
Here's that song I wrote about you
Instead of lying around, whimpering
I put my pen to the paper again
And I don't even have to pretend
Yes, here's that song I wrote about you
I hope you like how it ends
Because every time I think of you
I write a song again
Like a manic Myspace ******
Reading everything I write
Deleting words you thought were yours
And changing some to fight
It's not your mother dear nic-o-lee
So stop choosing her to blame
You will be cornered by the feds
Someday when they put you both away
I never knew love in this kind of way
Fly to get there. Then, have to explain
What possessed me to see you in person
can never be explained
I'd like to talk about two girls
And they're both from Michigan
You Georgia peaches got nothing on them
And the way they love to sin
And many come to see me in person
At the typewriter where I sit
And sometimes they can make me feel easy
And at times they make me sh*t [panic]
When they say
"Why'd you write that song about me"
And I say
"Listen, it was only words"
Do you want to fight with me?
And then they lay on their back again
I told you every word is about you
But the names, look, they changed again
All that hurt, and you still sleep around
Can't you trust? Then please tell me why you can't
I'd like to write a song about FEB
And how beautiful a ten
or how those ****** in Hollywood
Stole my song last year, again
But, thanks to my friend Walleye I knew they
wouldn't get away with it
Now there I go again
Got off the track in Hackensack
Oh well, here we go again
So, here's that song I wrote about you
To my wife/whore/lost girlfriend
I put my pen to the paper again
And I don't even have to pretend
Somebody write this date down
Sunday, One Ten Twenty-Ten
What once was so very far away
Has already been spent
Hear a song I wrote for you
If the big men go and steal it
I'll have to write another one
I just hope that you can feel it
Here's that song I wrote about you
Can you have that on your conscience?
Here's a song I wrote about you
Life is short! There!
This song has balance
So, here's that song I wrote about you
Instead of lying around, whimpering
I put my pen to the paper again
And I don't even have to pretend
Yes, here's that song I wrote about you
And I hope you like its ending
Because, every time I think of you
I write a song again
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 10:34 AM UTC