"papyrus" poems
you will never be forgotten.
ever.
your name twisted into metaphors and colors and distractions will forever
be painted across pages and pages of her favorite brand of notebook,
no matter how many she burns
there will always be one she forgot,
and she will only find it once she had almost forgotten you.
she will find the one Papyrus notebook
and all of your metaphors and colors and disractions will come flooding back,
just like how the ocean in your eyes
flooded her heart all those years ago.
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 1:29 PM UTC
Three hundred bucks, is her asking price,
Knowing myself, I never think twice.
She's to me, worth every single dime,
Though technically a severe crime.
Im not an awful fella alright,
Only hooked on women of the night.
Dec 4, 2021
Dec 4, 2021 at 7:43 PM UTC
My soul departed from my body when you gave me head,
You really know how to unleash your wild side in bed!
Dec 26, 2021
Dec 26, 2021 at 3:04 PM UTC
Two fingers to work
My magic
Is all that I
Need
To stimulate what
Vast men fail
To
Achieve.
You'll see,
I guarantee.
I'll be your addiction,
Your daily routine.
Dec 11, 2021
Dec 11, 2021 at 7:14 PM UTC
Sticky white cream upon your face,
Gushed out of my pipe at fast pace.
Now open wide for my surprise,
I'll try this time to dodge thine eyes.
My milk is sweet and fairly warm,
Lets hath more fun from dusk till dawn.
Aug 1, 2022
Aug 1, 2022 at 9:11 PM UTC
i don't
even know him.
i only recognize his vitals
rapidly diminishing on
the screen before me.
i'm wrong, this is wrong,
everything is wrong.
i'm trespassing on
vulnerability.
he knows;
he gets it --
how this place
can make you
feel like hell
without even
trying.
if belief were among
my faults, indeed
it would **** me to
scroll again
(and again)
through artificial
papyrus, through
reeds and lights
and electronics;
because every
new click
brings another
wrench.
tug at the
heartstrings;
what heartstrings?
these leave nothing behind.
because of you,
i am destroyed.
i am assimilated,
i am protein.
because of you,
i am denatured.
turn down your flame, nolan,
there isn't enough fuel
for you to burn so
brightly
for so
long.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 1:34 AM UTC
Love will never invite
A
Sweetheart
Into
My life.
My place in her eyes,
Is to watch her
At
Work, on the sidelines.
Therfore,
For a
Decent price,
I pay to have
A
Good time,
Under the covers
In
The night.
Nov 26, 2021
Nov 26, 2021 at 10:32 PM UTC
-The Neglected woman.
I was an overlooked
Dahlia,
Trampled without a care
For my welfare.
Then you plucked me
And replanted me within
Your keep.
With care,
You nourished an invisible outcast.
At last!
Someone gives a
**** about me!
Aug 6, 2021
Aug 6, 2021 at 9:55 PM UTC
She had hung it up from the mantelpiece in her bedroom, so when he entered the room there it was. It was suddenly lovely and he immediately imagined her body flowing into it, flowing from it. Standing close to the dress he brought his fingers to the fabric, touched gently, stroking then, as though it already held her form and substance.
Stepping past thoughts of her that so stirred his body he entered the pattern of the dress. It was a meadow in southern Ontario. July, when already the sun had bleached the profusion of grasses: water chestnut and papyrus sedge. He had stepped from the untidy veranda, past the pond, and down the rough track between the fields unmown, uncut, left fallow. As he entered the breaks of woodland between these swathes of grassland, deciduous leaves, dry and brittle from the summer's heat, were strewn on the path, and between the trees clumps of bramble bushes with berries of red and blue, black and purple.
There was no wind. The only sounds an underlay of crickets, his footfall, and the sharp mournful cries of geese on the now distant pond.
He saw her like an apparition standing motionless at the woodland’s boundary; her dress at one with all that surrounded her. When he came close and placed his hand on her shoulder he could smell the sweet dry earth mingling with her body's sweat, a hint of her *** as he placed his cheek against the shower of printed pollen amongst the leaves on her back.
Back in the late afternoon bedroom he heard her move about in the kitchen, and the spell broken, he turned away and went downstairs.
Several days later, as they prepared for bed, she slipped the dress on. As she stood in the lamplight smoothing it against her flanks, adjusting its fall across her ******* he felt himself faint that such a thing of beauty could be a joy forever . . . and beyond.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 4:55 AM UTC
My dear Icarus,
Have you brought tales of gold for me?
You-- the master of self,
The one who held his own thread and shears.
Don't share of how hard you beat your wings
But how the air beat against your brow.
Don't echo your father's faded cries
But sing the songs of the Aegean sea--
Sing them only for me!
My sweet Icarus,
Is the world as grand as the travelers say?
Are crumbling maps and hand-spun tales nothing to compare?
I've read of Sicily, where your father rests his mourning head.
I've traced its rivers as they curved against my torn papyrus.
Sicily, the land of Aetna.
Oh, to watch the land shake at the beckoning of her call
(Oh, to fly free of these labyrinth walls)!
My darling Icarus,
Tell me-- is life better above the blanket of Grecian blue?
Is it better than what the Fates designed?
Is it better than what I hold today
(please, let it be more than today)?
My beloved Icarus,
Will you give me your wings--
The mingling of feather, wax, and dreams.
Will you give me your wings and
Your will to yearn higher and higher
So that I too can reach the city of gold.
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 10:30 PM UTC
Big black sausage, she can not get enough,
Soft moans leave her lips when I do her rough.
Always a smile when she drinks my white milk,
Beautiful girl with skin as soft as silk.
Oct 25, 2021
Oct 25, 2021 at 9:30 PM UTC
being a poet is not planned
**~for Gabriella Garcia~
~~
*a sixteen old soul says she understands,
being a poet is not planned,
forcing an old mans re-collection of the first time,
he made love to a virginal white
papyrus with muscles trembling,
body bent, chest bursting a rockets red glaring,
eyes marking the sheets with salty drip spots
what possessed the wrist veins
to wrest a cheap ballpoint pen to transfuse pain,
in a semaphore of uncoded ink blotches,
what was he thinking
was he thinking?
that it was an ejection
that it was an ***********
that it was a tribulation expiation
that it was a tribute explanation?
that it was an injection
that it was a circumspection inspection
that it was a circumscision surgery of emotional complexion
excising an infection with a written genuflection?
try, but no might, the first is subsumed
by the thousands that followed dutifully
though his one poem flawless, expertly recalled,
it will always be the next,
and unplanned just like this one too
who anointed his brow, the hair and forehead,
with oil pure, dripping down onto, into his cut cain marker,
who is not answering a query relentless
is this his plan, his appointment,
is this his flawed excellence,
is this his imperfect penance perpetual?
knowing well and full
now
the unplanned is his plan,
it’s his faceted flaws
that refract his coloraturas*
~~
upon this he reflects,
praying that
god protect the
young poets
from planning
______________
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2893127/unplanned
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 1:27 PM UTC
I find myself diving inside of you where the weird dream shamans draw sketches of naked humans.
And you’re a human, and we're both naked. You’re purple, you’re just the perfect shade. I place my flag inside, to abscond us away inside of a womb where our world will open to portals to all of our favorite places. A floating haven, of cashmere. Gestating where the climate is warm and damp, and coloring me dark with wine—sweet wine of lovers, penal forgotten, and fermented anew in maternal rite, because…
This swarming melodic nectar that swims through my nostrils and rolls in my eyes cannot be drank casually. It’s the elixir of love. I love you,
And in you, I find that I love myself.
What’s more, the shamanists exclaim, “She wants to give you all of herself.” Yes, they’re right. Even what I do not love so much, I want you to have, if you’ll take it, because I have to live with it, and if you live with me, you’ll have to live with it too. And then, when you crack open your sternum to let the things in, the scribes of my life’s doing, of ancient passion proclaim! They burn their papyrus scrolls soaked in the blood that I drew from my veins to pass unto yours— and you swallow them whole like divine burritos. And then we are ready for the world to fall suddenly, if it felt so inclined. Now that our chests are pressed together, and our tongues are fused tight. We are the daughters of the prima mother. We are the goddesses of our dreams.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
writings on the inside of my walls
pictures and symbols of our love
deep sounds of moaning rising from within
nails digging deep and deeper into flesh
carvings of sensual sensation
creating waves and waves of passion
******* together in unison
simulating each senses, the aroma of love
written on my papyrus
Mar 27, 2019
Mar 27, 2019 at 8:58 AM UTC
America, from a grain
of maize you grew
to crown
with spacious lands
the ocean foam.
A grain of maize was your geography.
From the grain
a green lance rose,
was covered with gold,
to grace the heights
of Peru with its yellow tassels.
But, poet, let
history rest in its shroud;
praise with your lyre
the grain in its granaries:
sing to the simple maize in the kitchen.
First, a fine beard
fluttered in the field
above the tender teeth
of the young ear.
Then the husks parted
and fruitfulness burst its veils
of pale papyrus
that grains of laughter
might fall upon the earth.
To the stone,
in your journey,
you returned.
Not to the terrible stone,
the ******
triangle of Mexican death,
but to the grinding stone,
sacred
stone of your kitchens.
There, milk and matter,
strength-giving, nutritious
cornmeal pulp,
you were worked and patted
by the wondrous hands
of dark-skinned women.
Wherever you fall, maize,
whether into the
splendid *** of partridge, or among
country beans, you light up
the meal and lend it
your virginal flavor.
Oh, to bite into
the steaming ear beside the sea
of distant song and deepest waltz.
To boil you
as your aroma
spreads through
blue sierras.
But is there
no end
to your treasure?
In chalky, barren lands
bordered
by the sea, along
the rocky Chilean coast,
at times
only your radiance
reaches the empty
table of the miner.
Your light, your cornmeal, your hope
pervades America's solitudes,
and to hunger
your lances
are enemy legions.
Within your husks,
like gentle kernels,
our sober provincial
children's hearts were nurtured,
until life began
to shuck us from the ear.
5.1k
- A Psalm Of Johnson when he committed a ****** sin
Oh Yahweh, Oh my Yahweh, I must confess,
I sinned against you and now my life's a mess.
No matter how hard I try to do whats right,
Hot women end up being my kryptonite.
Aug 22, 2021
Aug 22, 2021 at 6:11 PM UTC
I'm the paper man
I witnessed you drop your papers
And refused to help
Because I'm a rolling paper
I'm never stationary
When I float in paper planes
My life starts tearing
When your presence equals pain
For I only saw you
With my paper view
We couldn't be two
When you're pay-per-view
I live a paper life
When the date never leaves the calendar
And people enjoy the satisfaction of cutting me
Like I'm construction paper
So I build to block them away
My face becomes paper mache
Searching for another way
I found relief in a bottle in a paper bag
It wasn't long until I saw the red flags
In the government serving me my papers
Even though I denounced them as takers
They kept pushing paper
My life regimented by municipalities
Burying me in paperwork
Like the employment I attained
To make my life spill off the page
And bleed into your's
Otherwise
Life's a paper chore
And the pirates keep stealing papyrus
That's alright
I've become the paper King Midas
Sep 22, 2017
Sep 22, 2017 at 5:10 AM UTC
There is hope beyond a papery pharmacy
that is stocked with ink and sheepskin
The clerk is finicky and silent, and elixirs evaporate
as you browse the papyrus shelves
There is hope beyond this paper pharmacy,
so abandon poisons crafted by pen-laden fingers
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 3:22 AM UTC
Fat or skinny I really do not care,
So long as I get to stick my pipe in there.
Nov 2, 2021
Nov 2, 2021 at 8:13 PM UTC
Differing sins bicker
Amongst each other
As to
Who shall Permanently
Shape me,
After their ways
And
Until the end of my days.
Nay!
Let your ways
Oh Yahweh
Become my second nature
That I may breeze
Through
Tempation with ease.
Apr 16, 2022
Apr 16, 2022 at 9:26 PM UTC
What does it take
did I make some mistake
am I out of your spectrum
visible only under the right
light not known to us
Am I Invisible
to you?
I'm like the white crayon
in a box
no one seems to notice I'm there
only on dark paper
Paper or papyrus
I'd like there to be an us
but I'd have to not be a wallflower
or maybe you'd need to water me
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 2:38 AM UTC
-A Psalm Of Johnson
Shed not a tear and do not be blue,
In the end, Christ will make all things new.
Mar 27, 2022
Mar 27, 2022 at 5:48 AM UTC
*I love standing
at the top largest hill of
Camp Half-Blood. Watching the
greens as the nymph wood dance in the hum of nature. Satyrs seasoning the forest with their magic recipe. I should spend more time, admiring the beauty of the wilds. For ere long, the border won't last long. Barbaric creatures will start to crawl. Demigods will fight, and I'll be there, holding a papyrus like a playwright.*
(a.k)
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 12:36 AM UTC
an ancient lyric, come to haunt,
no longer a shield, now thinner,
of gossamer consistency,
a tissue-thin papyrus,
“my poetry to protect me”
the poem words always were
a clarinet reed, capable of singing,
a highest pitch voice for turning
blades of clean steel clean away,
now blunting paper bunting, penetrated.
re-formed my shield, re-purposed,
into a stabbing instrument offensive,
my poetry pricking tearings in my worn
thin fabric tapestry, woven from linen
excuses of why I can’t, why couldn’t I.
this is life. moats becoming drowning
pools, castle walls reversed to entrapments,
wrecking machines, boulders hurling,
medieval defenseless against modern rhymes
giving away to free verse horde onslaught.
too late to apologize to myself, alas, my words,
my protectorate, island redoubt, now ruined
by doubts treachery breech birthed from within,
these verses hollow point bullets engineered,
Caesar’s words clarified, you, et tu, are Brutus
too, two, for the price of one, betrayer and betrayed.
Jun 21, 2020
Jun 21, 2020 at 5:44 PM UTC