"opportunistic" poems
The new Ugadi brings in many a dream
But this year it is the time for electioneering team
Instead of the tender mango buds and the melodious song
Man political campaigners do throng
We hear the opportunistic , affectionate political call
Despite hiding their possible fall
Not heeding to the election code
Money flows on the busy road
For every precious vote
There is at least a thousand Rupees note
Wine one can drink
Until one does sink
We offer corruption as diet for Mother Goddess without shame
We have become a part of this vicious game
For votes and seats Andhra Pradesh has met with unilateral division
The Italian and the saffron aunt have the devilish unison
In fact, ther is no scope for any party to get our vote
But in democracy not to vote is like cutting our own throat
As long as breadth is there, there will be life
As long as life is there , there will be hope and strife
I hope this new year Jaya usher in many a success to the common man
The youth shall have creativity, social justice and bright future, for which I yearn
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 7:48 AM UTC
Quincy Valero
Everybody’s best friend
Jet black hair
Shiny brown eyes
A boyish smirk
Standing six foot something
Coming out of catholic school agnostic
Attending state college
Every word that came out of his mouth was a riot
A funny story of a bad situation he was in that he can laugh at now
An awkward moment with a girl he tried to get in bed
God awful train rides with a clueless conductor
Quincy Valero
A wanna-be Casanova
The irish-italian self-proclaimed “Don Juan of Dumont”
Roaring down the suburb streets in his bright yellow mustang
From Bergen county to Trenton
Edgewater to Ewing
Bumping R&B; from the 90's
A main girl
A side chick
And a few back pocket broads
Leading them on
To where?
I’m not even sure he knows
Quincy Valero
My best friend since I’ve been here in Purgatory
My lifelong cellmate
My hetero life mate
My brother of second thought
Our token white boy
He’s had his ups
Wild ragers until day break
A four way with me and two girls in my four door sedan
He’s had is downs
Falsely charged with domestic abuse
Community service, endless court room hearings, suspensions and a whole bunch of nonsense
Quincy Valero
The quintessential example of the modern day male
Stays up all night
Sleeps all day
Opportunistic
Egotistical
Miserly
*****
And hungry
Always aching to put in his two cents
And leaving everyone in a howl of laughter
An Adderall popping
Seasoned drinker
A professional *** smoker, coached by yours truly
Fast talking baritone voice
With a half serious tone
Yes, Quincy Valero
The tight plain white t-shirt wearing
Chino sporting
Nostalgic, slightly racist, sexist, anti-semitic
Bust usually honest, friendly and apologetic
Good hearted dude we all love to hate
And hate to love
Bed-headed
Pajama bottom ***
Talking about his Svedka regrets
And we laugh and laugh and the stupidest things
Then remember events that seem so long ago
And then make plans for tomorrow
Yeah, one of my best friends
My oldest friend
That’s Mr. Quincy Valero
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC
Though hours of silence
May stand still between two hearts
There's nothing between
Your chances and your own hope
With opportunistic eyes
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 3:30 PM UTC
Hustle and bustle brings
Grins frozen onto faces
Mantras pounding rhythms into
Sunken eyes
Hollow out a space for me
Within yourself
Please, I wish
To know what makes you
Tick
To put to fire
This opportunistic kindling
I stumbled upon
While on the run
From my greatest enemy
Mar 7, 2011
Mar 7, 2011 at 12:50 PM UTC
Swimming through deep water
Heading for the Holt?
Stop and pause to pray or prey?
Opportunistic?
Jean van jean?
In the forest there are no sanctions
Just life and death and hibernation
In the urban forest
The place we call the office
Or the Learning Zone
There is so much more risk
Classes clash; personalities clash;
Priorities clash; authorities clash!
The mob rules
The bullies rule
The demands/needs of the customer; the consumer; the learner
All must be met
Where am I in the urban forest
A tree shrew
A thorny owl
A wild Ottter
Or an Osprey with a mountain view
Soaring high above the issues of the urban forest
Far travelled wild Osprey
I yearn to be yew
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 5:42 AM UTC
WHISTLING AND SNIFFING SIMULTANEOUSLY
Whistling and sniffing at the same time
Can’t hold hands or rather get married
United and collaborative in any case
This duo may perhaps land into the life of some person
The kind of man whose who acts,
Performs duties of the shepherd on the flock.
Like his initial master,
He condemns wickedness,
Goes against what is religiously evil,
And exults the righteous.
But he soon he craves for another pair of his robe
For he does accumulate an avalanche of resources,
His eyes are soon blinded.
Would his robe evade being soiled?
Co-operative sniffing and whistling,
Can hatch into temptations to anybody,
Even the half-human, half God
Did he not get tested in the wilderness?
Our big man opens his eyes one day,
Finds himself campaigning and competing for,
Trying to woo for citizens’ keys,
Essentials for serving the people in a wider circle.
Perhaps his whistling guides his path.
Brings him in the companionship of
Other servants of the people.
Any devoted service present in that house really?
Brotherly whistling and sniffing,
May make one’s conscience slither backwards,
Two or more steps into mud.
He is now influential,
A famous societal figure.
His fat salary seconded with some allowances.
Or even thirded with public developmental resources,
Guarantees him total luxury.
Is this not an opportunistic opportunist?
Our Sniffer and whistler is contended,
Complacent with his success.
Jubilant with him servant is his ‘first Master ’
For keeping to the ‘sacred’ scriptures.
The vehicle which carried him straight,
One way to heaven gets crippled,
It can’t manage to hit the road
Like its American, British and Chinese counterparts,
His sincere promise goes unfulfilled
Unmet due to his pretentious pretence.
His ‘second’ Master gets extremely mad.
For loyalty and faithfulness denied.
And furiously plucks him from glory.
Simultaneous whistling and sniffing,
The ‘initial’ heaven can’t simply put up with them.
A wise servant of the masses
A true leader should only whistle at a time,
Sniff at a time.
But not sniffing and whistling simultaneously.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 3:28 AM UTC
voices, mirror glance inward-outward
-inward-outward-inanoutandinward
in simultaneous disease-like passion--
divine like bacteria kneading and bleep
-ing up to one to one against to one toward
a unity, a collective evolutionary force begin
-ning in a marshy wallow-- forward to a creature
slithers rocks unsure if fish or finger-- beyond unto
a sharp-claw carnivorous terror (the Divine Right of
Kings) and slowly, in the wake of the destruction the
shattered continental plate lifted like a carpet during
renovation violence, the bacteria stayed away and
under soiled-earth to slowly form toward the muddy
saliva of a strangely-fit mouse-rat....
through the dissipating wake of molten mist, a
sabertooth tiger yawns with a growled-tremor
and an after-bath shake-- ends a trampled scrap
under mammoth foot having indicted this panic
in its desperate mammalian hunger-- this bacteria,
kneading and bleeping, continues its one to one
against to one as a meaty slab metabolized by
opportunistic caveman feeding his cubs and his
loves before courage became the theoretical pond
-ering of Voltaire's and Descartes's and Camus's...
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
on ruby jacobs walk, a
small girl
asked us for money for ice cream.
she eyed our cones
yours, lemon
mine, strawberry
with a child’s hunger
glinting and opportunistic
as she held out her palm for coins.
i was not yet accustomed to the shapes and sizes,
to a dime being smaller than a nickel,
and in any case wanted to preserve them for souvenirs
so we shook our heads and walked away.
a year later, writing this poem,
i learned that ruby jacobs was a local restauranteur
who, as a boy,
illegally sold ice creams
for a nickel on the boardwalk.
a nickel is the larger coin
the size of a ten pence piece.
i know that now.
the wide atlantic rose from a sloping manicured lawn
star-spangled,
like everything here,
the airborne flag
above a wide pavilion
a fanatic wedding cake topper
against the blood-blue sky.
i slipped
out of my shoes and let
the white sand burn my feet,
and jaggedly fill the spaces between my toes.
the atlantic held open its arms
though we weren’t, as we imagined,
looking east
looking home
but south to new jersey, across the bay.
the gnarled boardwalk was a
song of the twentieth century
a roll-call of mass-market capitalism
here in the city that didn’t invent the concept
but certainly perfected it:
hot dogs
amusements
ice creams (we’ve covered that)
fridge magnets
baseball caps
i bought an espresso cup with a picture of the president
and the caption:
‘huuuuge!’
i stopped to take a photograph
of a space-age building from the fifties
which turned out to be
a public toilet.
later
from the sunbaked d train,
brooklyn spread out beneath us
the houses garnished with flags,
then the city coughed us up on seventh avenue
and night fell five hours early.
Jul 20, 2019
Jul 20, 2019 at 7:51 AM UTC
I want to erase the figment of my imagination that I’ve allowed you to becomeYou are so opportunistic having used every moment we ever had as a time of spawningYou left traces of yourself that would grow beyond what my mind could containand with your absencethose pieces of you have enlargedThey’ve progressed into long thick arms having my thoughts in choke holds that the top wrestlers have yet to discoverThanks for showing me who you really areYour name is Monsterand I want to remove your electromagnetic tentacles from the nerves of my brainsever your suction cups coat them in a batter flavored with lemon pepper seasoningand deep fry them turn your manipulative tactics into a fine cuisine for the hungered palettes of innocent bystanders that will chew you upswallow youand digest you as the waste of time this aspect of youhas been to meToo bad I’m not bulimicAfter the binge of these false memories I’d gladly shove my finger down my throat and ***** you into filthy toilet bowlsflushing you ‘til you reach your destinationwelcomed by a sea of sewageWhen it comes to the likes of youamnesia has never been so desired.
Feb 26, 2010
Feb 26, 2010 at 9:56 PM UTC
A large **** slashed open its side.
A collision with a boat we all think.
Though no boat has claimed its ****
The wind whipped its scent through the crowd
a saltier tang than usual.
More concentrated; more direct.
Its chest heaved with the rhythm of the waves
as water poured into its lax mouth
expanding its chest
in a mockery of breath
before deflating again like a balloon spent.
Bites from opportunistic feeders
marred the solid gray-blue-white skin
with a pinkish hue
and gaping holes.
Its blood lingered in the dark green waves
a sandy-pink as it flowed with the current.
And people still swam in its wake!
Unperturbed by the dead still bleeding
or the funeral procession watching on
in a half-circle of grief and awe and humor too
as the largest of lives we don't normally see
lay dead on the beach.
Sep 15, 2021
Sep 15, 2021 at 10:07 AM UTC
Like old
mean beetles,
like old
men in battle,
like egos: solid anvils,
like families: lethal weapons,
like these: them,
begotten sons
who begat daughters
of a land, of a bordered plot
on the globe, the dirt,
the house, the property
which begot
them
both,
these two
bitter enemies
from two
separate places,
furiously blaze,
as the time
for darkness,
is far
from arrived.
And the sun
quakes,
in its heat
rippling sights
and
knocking particles,
which deter the next
knocked,
and which enforce
the continued sensation of
warmth
continued,
of aversion
continued,
rising,
screened,
for its impeccable quality,
against
nobody in
general or
specific
to announce, or to gain
against
consequences, which are
soothsaid
in time,
nullified.
Partners afflicted will be less opportunistic
and more egalitarian,
but are sworn,
like the sun,
against the monotony,
of repetition,
of indistinct days;
like these:
them,
the enemies,
they
are
engaged,
aged,
unteachable
and
spoiled.
They are always
immersed
in
vexed
states,
always in competition.
Hope
is
the
souls
united
never again
as much
as the static,
single dimension,
alone,
impeccable,
impossible,
for its possibility
is drawn by He
who
spews forth
lumens
next to card sharks and Amazons, knowing these
will have to suffice, having no escape
from the projected
source
of energy.
The metal heads
of garden rakes,
weapons
thrown
at devils
in the sweltering heat
of hell,
the Inferno
that holds a
first-person
point of view,
a dream, alongside
superheroes, allied,
but who are,
nevertheless,
without their unique
and exceptional powers,
pros and willing deviants
from the celibacy,
the weight,
the unoriginal paint
that collides
in
each
stroke,
making what
appears
null,
and the array
but one,
and supposed,
so that then
are the weary
and soulful mergers
which corrupt
and meander throughout,
polluting,
as
it
were,
the tranquility,
the wrenched service,
of the destined
machine,
of a million
trajectories,
homespun threads,
woven
into
a
million
miserable
microfibers,
unanswered
queries
that were
held back
in
fear,
and
were
never
asked,
and remain
even
now
sorry.
Jan 17, 2010
Jan 17, 2010 at 7:49 AM UTC
When I'm high, I'm high, when I'm low, I'm low. My emotions swing around the world, I walk the dog, I rock the the cradle. I've been off of the wall, I've discounted whatever is lowest; I stopped following the downs, to keep an opportunistic mind on focus. I'm focusing on the present, because today is always now. I started thinking like Buddhist, and I've accepted suffering for what it is.
I've become enlightened but there was no where else to go. Atrophy of my mind, I'm dying, with nothing left to know. Where should I direct my thoughts to grow? I desire wealth in every area I touch. A dreamer for every wealth I could ever own. Aware of power that draws spirit away from soul, I hear the devils calling and see only one road to follow. I've mirrored what I've seen, and copied any role-model, but now I see no-one else to follow, have I grown to where now I am an example? I'm just as confused as any, I see the reality wishy wash, I see a society properly programmatic willing to accept being brain-washed. I've learned I should never break the spell of one who is following their truth's, I've seen it as an ethical choice to let a winner win, and to let a loser loose.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 9:02 PM UTC
My ancestors (i hesitate to even call them such)
came to this land centuries ago
they came with nothing
hoping to start a new life
but this is not about my proud heritage
not about immigrants following the
American Dream (Nightmare would be more accurate)
No
my ancestors
my White Anglo Saxon Protestant ancestors
descended upon this pristine landmass
like so many parasitic WASPs
injecting their prey (the people, the land) with venom
laying their eggs that would **** the hosts upon hatching
No
my ancestors
who helped perpetrate an ethnic cleansing
the likes of which 20th century fascists could only dream of
did so under the title of Manifest Destiny
divine right
their religion masking opportunistic genocide
No
my ancestors
laid the foundation
for the greatest country in the world
where ALL (White, English, Heteronormative, Cisnormative, Land-owning, Slave-Owning, Women Hating , Native-American-Murdering, Capitalistic, Perverted) MEN are created equal
No
my ancestors
partook in genocide
condoned slavery
oppressed women (and every other divergent identity)
destroyed the environment
and did so with such arrogance
such unheard of righteousness
No
my ancestors
were the lifeblood of America
the lifeblood of oppression
and that blood runs through my veins
the screams of American-Indian Warriors
of African Slaves
of Women labeled Witches and Gays and People of Color and anyone who opposed the hideous behemoth, anyone who dared to be different
their screams echo in my head
and i am ashamed
Jan 2, 2015
Jan 2, 2015 at 12:11 PM UTC
I want to be the me that I wanted to be when I was a kid who dreamed of being the me that I’ll be when I turn 70
I want to be a race car, a ******* rush; I want to be a daredevil on both
I want to be a tight-rope circus act, and tread daily on loose strings with firm feet and handstands
I want to be a shaman with normal senses, instead of a normal person with shamanistic pretenses
I want to look what I saw, I want to listen what I heard, I want to speak what I said with absolute, immaculate, immovable conviction
I want to be like Jim Morrison, and sail to the moon on a crystal ship
I want to be 25% pessimistic, 25% optimistic, 50% opportunistic surrealist
I want to be an Anti-Christ neutral anarchist, and go on a nihilistic bowling spree
I want to be like Jeff Lebowski
I want to be an unintentionally over-achieving burnout who’s proud of his very human frailties
I want to be my own version of Salvador Dali’s first drafts, Allen Ginsberg’s papers and Jack Kerouac’s path
I want to write serenades about melted ice-cream, burnt sausages…and similar tragedies
I want to be a comedic prophet with bad timing; I want to laugh at a funeral-my own funeral
I want to be a suicide note; an obituary that says, **** Condolences! I’m dead. Now, just let me be’
And although, I’m not half the things I said I wanted to be,
I’m an ancient nutshell with reinforced-concrete casing and recent cracks that show the me that I am right now,
I’m an educated, at most times mostly illiterate kind of bloke
I’m a six feet tall hormonal speck of snowflake on snow
I’m a growing ukulele, dreaming of bursting out an improvised, deafening, soul scathing Electric guitar solo, on an amp that goes up to 11!
I’m a short-tempered, soft-spoken, heavy-breathing embodiment of all I’ve wanted to be and the things I’ll never be
But right now, I am the me, that I want to be
And all the other ‘me’s would be proud if they could see me.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC
The young poetess^ writes:
*Sitting on the edge of brilliance,
that cuts my youthful pride to shreds,
are the verbal shards of bards,
poets, beyond my experience.
Expelling their lifeblood,
I can, but only,
place my hands upon
their open wounds
murmuring hopeful platitudes,
praying that their blood spilled,
is not their excellence drained,
their wisdom wasted and stained!*
The old hoary replies:
Wishful thirsty drinkers
from the cups of youth are we.
We 'presumed' ancient bards
have lived to regret the
burden of our accumulations,
the weightiness of our pages,
owning insights, steeped,
fermented, wine-to-vinegar,
spoiled by age, time-wasted.
Our words, product of visions
grown dim and simp,
under no duress,
we-eager confess!
Better poets were we,
when possessed of
blood hotter, skin smoother,
brow clearer, innocent of fear!
Your eager cuts run
zesty red and freely,
Ours, clotted ones,
anemic, yellowed from
the curse of the boundaries
of too much experience,
purchased pricey rules,
murderers of our uninhibited courage.
You cogitate with
passions unlined, unruled.
We shuffle, bemoan
our drizzling days,
waiting for relief,
and yet, rue
our inevitable conclusion.
We curse our fate, our slow dissolution.
You bless the opportunistic rising sun,
enervated by energies unbounded,
You animate for answers, solutions!
We sit caned and quiet, acidic,
damning Solomon and his caustic words -
There is nothing new under the sun.
Perhaps we know a word or two more than you.
Gladly we'd trade that for youthful hands
that pray, point and scribe, with the eagerness
that sets words upon paper of spirits enflamed!
Time, our master, has shred our writs to pieces,
yet, you young poetess, greet the morn, confident, saying
today I will give birth to the first of many, masterpieces.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 8:55 PM UTC
Do you argue your point
To argue for love
Or do you argue
Just because
Do you really care
For every American out there
What are you truly fighting for
Helping the millions poor?
Or are you morphing with society
Doing things unjustifiably
Our hypocritical democracy
A nation full of dishonesty
Soldiers dying left and right
Parents send their kids to school with fright
But all we care about are insignificant things
I’m told, “the ends justify the means”
A country full of hate
Keeping people out because of race
American is so blessed
But most are too obsessed
Many can’t even imagine
How a nation like us can have no compassion
We do not know others lives
For we walk vigilantly in our opportunistic thrive
So forgetful of where we’ve come
For a God whos love cannot be undone
To give back what he gave us
Something we always fail to discuss
We blindly became a nation
Who has no purpose for its creation
Future president, can you do it?
Will you help us get through it?
Maybe you can change it someday
Please. Change us back to who we were yesterday.
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
Does he provide the rope when you feel like hanging around?
Does he provide the gun when you possess the urge to bring things to the ground?
Does he provide the overwhelming sense of greed when you're feeling particularly opportunistic?
When arguments get heated does he make you feel sadistic?
I don't think he does,
But I think he would if he could.
Furthermore, I think that if he were me
And I were him,
We'd make the lights go dim
And hum hymns in rooms
A-dangle with severed limbs.
We'd open the window
And turn on a fan
So that they'd all dance
Happenstance.
I think to myself,
What Would Satan Do?
When I'm asked ever so kindly
To hold open a door or
Fetch a pale of water for
Grandma.
Would he slam the door shut on her face
Or would he hold it open only to close it behind us
So that no one in the other room can watch
What we're about to do to her.
A curious creature, this Satan fellow.
I wonder if he's available for
Birthday parties...
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 4:41 PM UTC
I'M SICK OF IT ALL!
One pull away...
Until i climb up the sky
Because curiosity killed the cat
*And taught the dog in me how to act*
Washed away my misery with a 70cl bottle of Jack
My Mom always says I'm a good listener
But its always the darkness that listens to me, best
Even though i'm afraid of it
I still feel that it sits close to me
Makes sure i'm good and takes good care of me
The voices get louder every time I sleep
Some laughs sound like screams
And some cracks make me bleed
I whisper and mumble
I don't want to wake them up with my rumble
But I've welcome these strangers
Without them I am weak
I feed off of them
Like an opportunistic parasite
I no longer know, what's me
My reflection is nothing but a memory
I'm numerical with myself
No one else
Only me, myself, I
And the guy , providing this to your eyes.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 3:17 AM UTC
Unspool your foggy self-
importances and seize the sheer, visceral present,
or simply ladle and spoon
the strait and narrow. Truth skims
the surface of the mind's eye -
immediacy and brutality (always your specialties)
are to be expected, even pursued,
the loosening of mind and its swindling of body
sifted under opportunistic eyes.
(I imagine tragedies rolling like marbles in your ivoried hands).
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 8:34 PM UTC
***Steamy ink boiled over
the kettle of opportunistic metaphors
poison'd doses in gray's gangrene slur,
don't attempt to sleep in my mouth
like a w***e in head, the sword in bed
taboo artistes in monotonic ambivalent jaws
clamping down without remorse
chomp'd away at an asunder analogy
piss'd in my jeans and expect'd to get fed
spit it out on the polar opposite cafe floor
unicorns dwellings of butter'd blessings
broken bread & barely berry wine of Monet's encores
bite the ear that fed you preaching van Gogh
perhaps they'll listen for insanity to be set free
confining rules taught us naught to stutter
pay your monopoly dues in bleakest sermons
pass the bucket of superiority's conquests
bled of analgesic ego's epic divided faction's fiction
don't forget to wipe your shadow on the way out***
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 9:20 AM UTC
A famous poet
A master
Of thirty (or more) years
Of teaching poetry
(taught by Ginsberg I've been told)
Left a voicemail...a generous offer...to read my poetry
To give me instruction
At a downtown coffee shop
For fifty dollars an hour
Fifty dollars an hour?
Shouldn't he have an office?
Well, it's as close to a 1920s parisian dive around Boulder as one could find
I used to hang out there
And write before work
Eh
Perhaps it's not as weird as I think it is
Perhaps I can ascertain a love for language that couldn't be achieved outside of reading my Blake, Whitman, Hemingway, Lawrence, Dickerson...
He will read my poetry
And guide me towards accessibility, honesty, vulnerability, courage
I will be relatable (for once)
With beautiful imagery
That will open
universes
I am suppose to text him back
Is this what I want?
What I want...thats something folks closest to me dare not ask
What has what I want have to do with anything in my life?
What I want, what I want, what I want
I want my voice to come forth effortlessly from my adventurous life, my song to echo expansive landscapes and treks, to learn intimate knowledge of plants and rocks, and laugh with the beautiful people that inhabit such places
I know tonight
Nothing matters
Until
I set an opportunistic sail to this change in the wind
I have already ventured deep into this life, I've not gone gently into the night, so why start now?
The time to shove off is soon
Like Whitman said...
"AFOOT and light-hearted, I take to the open road...
The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose"
Hell ya, brother Walt
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 9:54 PM UTC
You’re a smack down
Kick-around, clueless clown
That tells unfunny jokes
And runs with the blokes
That put up with your antics
And your busted semantics
Because they think someday
Things might swing your way
And they can profit by association
With a human abomination
That enjoys investing atrocities
With scarifying velocity
On the halt and the lame;
Running opportunistic games
On those who cannot defend;
World without end, amen.
But heaven forfend
That you might have a friend
Who seems a holy prophet
But does not seek for profit
And acolytes to their cause;
A bogus Santa Claus
Who leeches from the people
In his church without a steeple,
Just microwave towers
Sprouting like ugly flowers
To spread out the message
So we can read every passage
That boil down to a sermon
To send money to this vermin
Your bund proclaims a messiah
When he is really a pariah
Nobody has yet recognized
He’s so well disguised.
But, be aware, polecat
Some know what your at
And what you are doing
I nothing more than accruing
That which you can bank.
You have nobody to thank
For the outcome you inherit
From the outcome you assume
When your calumnies bloom
Into the realities that appear
When the truth draws near
And tars and feathers you
And when your victims do
What they should have done along
Was reject your ways gone wrong
And found a rail lying around
To ride your **** out of town.
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 1:34 AM UTC
I am turning this pencil upside down and rubbing vigorously upon a fictional friend.
Pressing tightly to my life's page the images of you disappear and your presence comes to an end.
Blowing away the memories of opportunistic lies, self serving betrayals and make pretend.
The page is now clear. A new story can be told. This time however, I will write it in pen.
©Tina Thompson
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
In a sea of sweaty people and no air, you're there, no doubt
Like font made bold, your thick lashes and laughter lines stand out
Being attracted to you is perilous, a sign of my impending doom
I can't stop inundating you with flustered stares across the room
You beset me with selfish and opportunistic wants better not said
So I'll dream of you shoving me up against a wall instead
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
I used to have passion
I used to have it along time ago
Now I just sit here
And take action
I'm a sad opportunist
Who lacks a bleeding heart
Without a beat or pulse
Just lock me away
I'm too busy, oh, I am
Too busy everyday
Lock me away, please
For I must be a monster
Oh, I cannot see what I should be seeing
I am too blinded by opened doors
You should crush it while you have the chance
An opportunistic chore
Oh, I'm too busy, I
The relentless sovereign
Stoked with such dreams
Prying off my partnership
***My love, my love
Of all such kinds
So well conceited
Yet I'm blind
I think it's good that you're trying hard
But you'd rather now bury me in our yard
I'm a stubborn wall who can still feel
My darling opportunist,
Our time may yield***
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 1:38 AM UTC