Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mitchell Duran Dec 2013
In the Fall, when the temperature of the Bay would drop and the wind blew ice, frost would gather on the lawn near Henry Oldez's room. It was not a heavy frost that spread across the paralyzed lawn, but one that just covered each blade of grass with a fine, white, almost dusty coat. Most mornings, he would stumble out of the garage where he slept and tip toe past the ice speckled patch of brown and green spotted grass, so to make his way inside to relieve himself. If he was in no hurry, he would stand on the four stepped stoop and look back at the dried, dead leaves hanging from the wiry branches of three trees lined up against the neighbors fence. The picture reminded him of what the old gallows must have looked like. Henry Oldez had been living in this routine for twenty some years.

He had moved to California with his mother, father, and three brothers 35 years ago. Henry's father, born and raised in Tijuana, Mexico, had traveled across the Meixcan border on a bent, full jalopy with his wife, Betria Gonzalez and their three kids. They were all mostly babies then and none of the brothers claimed to remember anything of the ride, except one, Leo, recalled there was "A lotta dust in the car." Santiago Oldez, San for short, had fought in World War II and died of cancer ten years later. San drank most nights and smoked two packs of Marlboro Reds a day. Henry had never heard his father talk about the fighting or the war. If he was lucky to hear anything, it would have been when San was dead drunk, talking to himself mostly, not paying very much attention to anyone except his memories and his music.

"San loved two things in this world," Henry would say, "*****, Betria, and Johnny Cash."

Betria Gonzalez grew up in Tijuana, Mexico as well. She was a stout, short woman, wide but with pretty eyes and a mess of orange golden hair. Betria could talk to anyone about anything. Her nick names were the conversationalist or the old crow because she never found a reason to stop talking. Santiago had met her through a friend of a friend. After a couple of dates, they were married. There is some talk of a dispute among the two families, that they didn't agree to the marriage and that they were too young, which they probably were. Santiago being Santiago, didn't listen to anybody, only to his heart. They were married in a small church outside of town overlooking the Pacific. Betria told the kids that the waves thundered and crashed against the rocks that day and the sea looked endless. There were no pictures taken and only three people were at the ceremony: Betria, San, and the priest.

Of course, the four boys went to elementary and high school, and, of course, none of them went to college. One brother moved down to LA and eventually started working for a law firm doing their books. Another got married at 18 years old and was in and out of the house until getting under the wing of the union, doing construction and electrical work for the city. The third brother followed suit. Henry Oldez, after high school, stayed put. Nothing in school interested him. Henry only liked what he could get into after school. The people of the streets were his muse, leaving him with the tramps, the dealers, the struggling restaurateurs, the laundry mat hookers, the crooked cops and the addicts, the gang bangers, the bible humpers, the window washers, the jesus freaks, the EMT's, the old ladies pushing salvation by every bus stop, the guy on the corner and the guy in the alley, and the DOA's. Henry didn't have much time for anyone else after all of them.

Henry looked at himself in the mirror. The light was off and the room was dim. Sunlight streaked in through the dusty blinds from outside, reflecting into the mirror and onto Henry's face. He was short, 5' 2'' or 5' 3'' at most with stubby, skinny legs, and a wide, barrel shaped chest. He examined his face, which was a ravine of wrinkles and deep crows feet. His eyes were sunken and small in his head. Somehow, his pants were always one or two inches below his waistline, so the crack of his *** would constantly be peeking out. Henry's deep, chocolate colored hair was  that of an ancient Native American, long and nearly touched the tip of his belt if he stood up straight. No one knew how long he had been growing it out for. No one knew him any other way. He would comb his hair incessantly: before and after a shower, walking around the house, watching television with Betria on the couch, talking to friends when they came by, and when he drove to work, when he had it.

Normal work, nine to five work, did not work for Henry. "I need to be my own boss," he'd say. With that fact stubbornly put in place, Henry turned to being a handy man, a roofer, and a pioneer of construction. No one knew where he would get the jobs that he would get, he would just have them one day. And whenever he 'd finish a job, he'd complain about how much they'd shorted him, soon to move on to the next one. Henry never had to listen to anyone and, most of the time, he got free lunches out of it. It was a very strange routine, but it worked for him and Betria had no complaints as long as he was bringing some money in and keeping busy. After Santiago died, she became the head of the house, but really let her boys do whatever they wanted.

Henry took a quick shower and blow dried his hair, something he never did unless he was in a hurry. He had a job in the east bay at a sorority house near the Berkley campus. At the table, still in his pajamas, he ate three leftover chicken thighs, toast, and two over easy eggs. Betria was still in bed, awake and reading. Henry heard her two dogs barking and scratching on her bedroom door. He got up as he combed his damp hair, tugging and straining to get each individual knot out. When he opened the door, the smaller, thinner dog, Boy Boy, shot under his legs and to the front door where his toy was. The fat, beige, pig-like one waddled out beside Henry and went straight for its food bowl.

"Good morning," said Henry to Betria.

Betria looked at Henry over her glasses, "You eat already?"

"Yep," he announced, "Got to go to work." He tugged on a knot.

"That's good. Dondé?" Betria looked back down at her spanish TV guide booklet.

"Berkley somewhere," Henry said, bringing the comb smoothly down through his hair.

"That's good, that's good."

"OK!" Henry sighed loudly, shutting the door behind him. He walked back to the dinner table and finished his meal. Then, Betria shouted something from her room that Henry couldn't hear.

"What?" yelled Henry, so she could hear him over the television. She shouted again, but Henry still couldn't hear her. Henry got up and went back to her room, ***** dish in hand. He opened her door and looked at her without saying anything.

"Take the dogs out to ***," Betria told him, "Out the back, not the front."

"Yeah," Henry said and shut the door.

"Come on you dogs," Henry mumbled, dropping his dish in the sink. Betria always did everyones dishes. She called it "her exercise."

Henry let the two dogs out on the lawn. The sun was curling up into the sky and its heat had melted all of the frost on the lawn. Now, the grass was bright green and Henry barely noticed the dark brown dead spots. He watched as the fat beige one squatted to ***. It was too fat to lifts its own leg up. The thing was built like a tank or a sea turtle. Henry laughed to himself as it looked up at him, both of its eyes going in opposite directions, its tongue jutted out one corner of his mouth. Boy boy was on the far end of the lawn, searching for something in the bushes. After a minute, he pulled out another one of his toys and brought it to Henry. Henry picked up the neon green chew toy shaped like a bone and threw it back to where Boy boy had dug it out from. Boy boy shot after it and the fat one just watched, waddling a few feet away from it had peed and laid down. Henry threw the toy a couple more times for Boy boy, but soon he realized it was time to go.

"Alright!" said Henry, "Get inside. Gotta' go to work." He picked up the fat one and threw it inside the laundry room hallway that led to the kitchen and the rest of the house. Boy boy bounded up the stairs into the kitchen. He didn't need anyone lifting him up anywhere. Henry shut the door behind them and went to back to his room to get into his work clothes.

Henry's girlfriend was still asleep and he made sure to be quiet while he got dressed. Tia, Henry's girlfriend, didn't work, but occasionally would put up garage sales of various junk she found around town. She was strangely obsessed with beanie babies, those tiny plush toys usually made up in different costumes. Henry's favorite was the hunter. It was dressed up in camouflage and wore an eye patch. You could take off its brown, polyester hat too, if you wanted. Henry made no complaint about Tia not having a job because she usually brought some money home somehow, along with groceries and cleaning the house and their room. Betria, again, made no complain and only wanted to know if she was going to eat there or not for the day.

A boat sized bright blue GMC sat in the street. This was Henry's car. The stick shift was so mangled and bent that only Henry and his older brother could drive it. He had traded a new car stereo for it, or something like that. He believed it got ten miles to the gallon, but it really only got six or seven. The stereo was the cleanest piece of equipment inside the thing. It played CD's, had a shoddy cassette player, and a decent radio that picked up all the local stations. Henry reached under the seat and attached the radio to the front panel. He never left the radio just sitting there in plain sight. Someone walking by could just as soon as put their elbow into the window, pluck the thing out, and make a clean 200 bucks or so. Henry wasn't that stupid. He'd been living there his whole life and sure enough, done the same thing to other cars when he was low on money. He knew the tricks of every trade when it came to how to make money on the street.

On the road, Henry passed La Rosa, the Mexican food mart around the corner from the house. Two short, tanned men stood in front of a stand of CD's, talking. He usually bought pirated music or movies there. One of the guys names was Bertie, but he didn't know the other guy. He figured either a customer or a friend. There were a lot of friends in this neighborhood. Everyone knew each other somehow. From the bars, from the grocery, from the laundromat, from the taco stands or from just walking around the streets at night when you were too bored to stay inside and watch TV. It wasn't usually safe for non-locals to walk the streets at night, but if you were from around there and could prove it to someone that was going to jump you, one could usually get away from losing a wallet or an eyeball if you had the proof. Henry, to people on the street, also went as Monk. Whenever he would drive through the neighborhood, the window open with his arm hanging out the side, he would usually hear a distant yell of "Hey Monk!" or "What's up Monk!". Henry would always wave back, unsure who's voice it was or in what direction to wave, but knowing it was a friend from somewhere.

There was heavy traffic on the way to Berkley and as he waited in line, cursing his luck, he looked over at the wet swamp, sitting there beside highway like a dead frog. A few scattered egrets waded through the brown water, their long legs keeping their clean white bodies safe from the muddy water. Beyond the swamp laid the pacific and the Golden Gate bridge. San Francisco sat there too: still, majestic, and silver. Next to the city, was the Bay Bridge stretched out over the water like long gray yard stick. Henry compared the Golden Gate's beauty with the Bay Bridge. Both were beautiful in there own way, but the Bay Bridge's color was that of a gravestone, while the Golden Gate's color was a heavy red, that made it seem alive. Why they had never decided to pain the Bay Bridge, Henry had no idea. He thought it would look very nice with a nice coat of burgundy to match the Golden gate, but knew they would never spend the money. They never do.

After reeling through the downtown streets of Berkley, dodging college kids crossing the street on their cell phones and bicyclists, he finally reached the large, A-frame house. The house was lifted, four or five feet off the ground and you had to walk up five or seven stairs to get to the front door. Surrounded by tall, dark green bushes, Henry knew these kids had money coming from somewhere. In the windows hung spinning colored glass and in front of the house was an old-timey dinner bell in the shape of triangle. Potted plants lined the red brick walkway that led to the stairs. Young tomatoes and small peas hung from the tender arms of the stems leaf stalks. The lawn was manicured and clean. "Must be studying agriculture or something," Henry thought, "Or they got a really good gardener."

He parked right in front of the house and looked the building up and down, estimating how long it would take to get the old shingles off and the new one's on. Someone was up on the deck of the house, rocking back and forth in an old wooden chair. He listened to the creaking wood of the chair and the deck, judging it would take him two days for the job. Henry knew there was no scheduled rain, but with the Bay weather, one could never be sure. He had worked in rain before - even hail - and it never really bothered him. The thing was, he never strapped himself in and when it would rain and he was working roofs, he was afraid to slip and fall. He turned his truck off, got out, and locked both of the doors. He stepped heavily up the walkway and up the stairs. The someone who was rocking back and forth was a skinny beauty with loose jean shorts on and a thick looking, black and red plaid shirt. She had long, chunky dread locks and was smoking a joint, blowing the smoke out over the tips of the bushes and onto the street. Henry was no stranger to the smell. He smoked himself. This was California.

"Who're you?" the dreaded girl asked.

"I'm the roofer," Henry told her.

The girl looked puzzled and disinterested. Henry leaned back on his heels and wondered if the whole thing was lemon. She looked beyond him, down on the street, awkwardly annoying Henry's gaze. The tools in Henry's hands began to grow heavy, so he put them down on the deck with a thud. The noise seemed to startle the girl out of whatever haze her brain was in and she looked back at Henry. Her eyes were dark brown and her skin was smooth and clear like lake water. She couldn't have been more then 20 or 21 years old. Henry realized that he was staring and looked away at the various potted plants near the rocking chair. He liked them all.

"Do you know who called you?" She took a drag from her joint.

"Brett, " Henry told her, "But they didn't leave a last name."

For a moment, the girl looked like she had been struck across the chin with a brick, but then her face relaxed and she smiled.

"Oh ****," she laughed, "That's me. I called you. I'm Brett."

Henry smiled uneasily and picked up his tools, "Ok."

"Nice to meet you," she said, putting out her hand.

Henry awkwardly put out his left hand, "Nice to meet you too."

She took another drag and exhaled, the smoke rolling over her lips, "Want to see the roof?"

The two of them stood underneath a five foot by five foot hole. Henry was a little uneasy by the fact they had cleaned up none of the shattered wood and the birds pecking at the bird seed sitting in a bowl on the coffee table facing the TV. The arms of the couch were covered in bird **** and someone had draped a large, zebra printed blanket across the middle of it. Henry figured the blanket wasn't for decoration, but to hide the rest of the bird droppings. Next to the couch sat a large, antique lamp with its lamp shade missing. Underneath the dim light, was a nice portrait of the entire house. Henry looked away from the hole, leaving Brett with her head cocked back, the joint still pinched between her lips, to get a closer look. There looked to be four in total: Brett, a very large man, a woman with longer, thick dread locks than Brett, and a extremely short man with a very large, brown beard. Henry went back
Aryan Sam Jun 2018
Ni zindagi'ch aaja fer ni
Zindagi'ch aaja fer ni
Sathon russ gayi ae peed marjaani
Zakhman nu fer chhil jaa
Beh ja ankhiyan'ch ban ke paani
Zindagi'ch aaja fer ni

Vekh mere bul'chandre
Fer hansde ne dard bhula ke
Haaseya naal pawe aadiyan
Dil honkeya ton ankh ji bacha ke haaye
Fer mere muhre khad jaa
Taza hoje koyi yaad ni purani

Zindagi'ch aaja fer ni
Sathon russ gayi ae peed marjaani
Zakhman nu fer chhil jaa
Peh ja ankhiyan'ch ban ke paani
Zindagi'ch aaja fer ni

Langh ja ni rooh vich di
Agg fer ni lahu nu lag jaave
Hathaan utte kar totka
Meri zindagi di leek mitt jave haaye

Ankhiyan'ch neend radke
Ankhiyan'ch neend radke
Langhe chees koyi haddan de thaa ni

Zindagi'ch aaja fer ni
Saathon russ gayi ae peed marjaani
Zakhman nu fer chhil jaa
Peh ja ankhiyan'ch ban ke paani
Zindagi'ch aaja fer ni
Nat Nov 2012
Once upon a harvest moon,
a timid gnome encountered a boisterous baboon.
“Whacha up to tonight?!” the baboon slurred,
yelling loud enough that the whole town heard.

‘You got this man,’ the shy gnome thought,
because for a baboon, she was kind of hot.
“Not much, ya know,” stated the gnome,
“I’ve just been hanging out at home.”

“Well that ain’t fun!” the baboon cried,
“You’ve gotta have fun, life’s supposed to be a crazy ride!”
Embarrassed, the gnome replied with a fib,
“Tonight was a fluke! I got out, I’m no Squib!”

Laughing she stated, “I think you’re a liar.”
“Oh really?” He retorted, “My pants aren’t on fire.”
She laughed, “HA HA HA! Good one honey,”
the baboon didn’t realize his joke was not funny.

Drunk as a skunk, she had no clue,
the meadow she was in was not Club Blue.
The gnome, however, thought things were going well,
trapped in the clutches of her womanly spell.

Being a bit nerdy he didn’t get out much,
the poor gnome had never even felt a woman’s touch.
Feeling bolder he decided to take a chance,
until he realized that the baboon had peed her pants.
Bill murray Sep 2015
Why is an old wrinkled ***** up
Late as I am right now
Down boy, we peed already
Jude kyrie Apr 2016
She was way too tough for me.
no it's more I was not hard enough for her.
The old ***** brick houses
of Englands industrial north
caught between industrial revolution
and social unrest .
I was just a youth back then.
The big war fading from memory.
I stopped at my friend's back yard
it was a hot summer back then.
His souped up bike was gleaming
like a prize racehorse.
She pulled a flask of *****
and took a long pull
her bright red hair
like glowing coal
her eyes as black as darkness
she was hard pretty.
Her mini skirt flashing
her shaply legs.
a stray dog big and hard
just like her.
jumped up and licked her face.
she Laughed
they were like two
kindred spirits
like sisters by nature
wild and drifting and free.
She had *** with me
the first time I met her
and told me I was not
rough enough for her.
I just was a bit scared
of telling her
I wanted out of it.
The kick-started bike roared
like the steel lion it was.
She squealed in delight.
then the stray dog peed
on the concrete.
she lifted her skirts
like the hard ***** she was
and peed next to it.
she jumped on the back
of his bike and they
went off at full speed.
To test his bike out
at the racetrack.
I hear they shacked up together.
and we're very happy.
I dated a nerdy young woman
quiet and conservative
who became a librarian.
We got married
four years later.
had two kids
and a housetrained dog.
She never once told me
I was not rough enough in bed.
labyrinths Nov 2013
your teeth chatter and the wind hits your face.
you can no longer feel your hands or legs.
something about frostbite floats around your mind.
and while your head is screaming, go home
your legs are screaming, left, right, left, right.

you remember walking this way from school.
when your sister would pick you up and walk with you.
or when your "best friend" would make you take the long way
so you could walk her home.

you remember trying to climb that tree
to impress a couple of kids
in hopes that you would become friends.
you remember falling
and the shrill laughter of "never never friends"

you remember sitting in that field
and writing poetry
about the dogs that passed.

you remember playing in that park
with a girl you thought
you'd be friends with forever.
you remember sitting on the swings
while your mom talked to other moms
about what it was like to be a mother.
you remember sliding down the slide,
playing in the sand,
and the reluctance to go home.

you find yourself in His neighborhood.
you still remember the exact way to His house.
how could you not?
you are still smoking.
you imagine the smoke hitting His face.
He would be shocked, if only He could see you now.
what He made you.

you stop by His house.
you remember the path across His house that would lead you to school if you followed it.
you remember the tree next to His house where He poked a wasp's nest.
you remember His backyard, how you would build forts and He would always win.
you remember His living room, blanket forts where you would tease you until you cried.
you remember His mother and her patronizing smile.

there are christmas lights.
you wonder which room is His.
you wonder if His house still looks the same.
you wonder if He remembers what He did to you.

how He touched you
even though you said no.
how He told you that you wanted it
even though you said you didn't.
how He told you that you needed him
even though you knew you didn't.

He is a ghost now, just like the rest of this neighborhood.
and you know if you stay long enough
the ghosts will take it as an open invitation
and come out to play.

you keep walking.
you put the cigarette out.
you think you're lost until you find a familiar looking building.
you walk towards it.
you realize it's the church across from your elementary school.

ah, elementary school.
remember how they broke you?
remember how they called you names?
remember how you tried to **** yourself?
remember all the friends you didn't have?

you can see the ghosts, now.
the school is filled.
your legs are moving towards it.
you remember the nightmares you had about this exact place last week.
you take pictures.
you try to catch a demon on film.

you have lost all control of your legs.

this is where you told ghost stories about the old lady that lived in the forest behind the school.
this is where you made a pact that you would be friends for life.
this is where that kid told that teacher he was death when he meant to say deaf.
this is where you sat under the playground and laughed so hard you peed.
this is where you showed them the scars on your wrist.
this is where they rolled their eyes and called you "attention seeking".
this is where she told you every lie they'd ever said about you.
this is where you sat when you told them you were going to **** yourself tonight.
this is where you bled and everyone saw.
this is where you broke.

this is where you became who you are today.

the anxiety is killing you.
you light another cigarette.
you hear voices and a bark.
you make a left.

down the road is the fence you kicked your show over in the second grade.
you wonder if you should thank them for returning your shoe or not.
you don't.

you walk towards her house.
the last time you were here was halloween in grade nine.
you were dressed as the mad hatter.
being chased by some guy dressed as michael myers.
trying to figure out who you really are.

she became someone completely different less than a year later.
she had been telling people she wished your best friend would **** herself.
she got into drugs.
she was always too good for you, anyways.

you want to knock on her door and ask how she's doing.
you wonder if she remembers you.
you don't.

you walk past His best friend's house.
he has bright, shining lights, too.
christmas spirit.

you wonder if he still lives there or not.
you remember the way you went to daycare together.
the three of you.

you were never close with him.
he was into hockey and more attractive girls.
by the time He transferred out of your school, he had no reason to talk to you anymore.
he forgot all about you.

he started dating girls in grade one.
he started cursing in grade five.
he had kissed a girl by grade eight.
she thought she was in love with him.
he had no idea what love meant.

he still plays lacrosse with Him.
he talked to you about Him, sometimes.
he told you how He was doing, how much he hated Him.

at least the two of you had that to talk about.

you are almost home.
you check your phone.
four missed calls.
three unanswered texts.
where r u?
you turn off your phone and put your hands in your pockets.

you're walking down the same path you would during school.
you remember the way the boy you had a crush on would tease you as you walked home.
he lived on your street.
he would call you names.
you told yourself it was only because he liked you.
he didn't.

the two of you used to be best friends.
you played in the park together.
you had matching walkie talkies.
he came to all your birthday parties
and you went to all of his.

until you weren't cool enough.
and that was that.

you still see him sometimes.
you don't exchange a hello or even a smile.
you act like he doesn't exist.
he does the same for you.

you wonder if he feels as guilty as you do.

you are home, but you are not alone.
you've returned with your own ghost.
she is whispering in your ear how you have become
everything she would be ashamed of.

she wanted to be a veterinarian.
she wanted to be thin.
she wanted to be pretty.
she wanted to be smart.
she wanted a boyfriend.

you are unemployed.
you are overweight.
you are ugly.
you are dumb.
you have a girlfriend.

she is dead and you are the only one to blame.
because you killed her.
Ben Kowalewicz (spoken): Hi, my name is Ben Kowalewicz and this is Billy Talent.

Well I tripped, I fell down naked
I drank from a cup of lead
I hugged a skunk, it peed on me
Yesterday I joined Scientology

Steal a Camaro, then **** Jack Sparrow
Try stupid ****, try stupid ****
Jump in a dump truck, smell **** and get stuck
I cannot read, I cannot read
**** on computers, then drink some pewter
Die sanity, die sanity
Marry a cheapskate, gain ninety pounds weight
I'm really dumb, I'm really dumb

I'm stupid, it's my fault, so daft
I like to play in the garbage shaft
The best sport is Parkour, **** straight
I arrive at work five hours late

Drink a deep fryer, eat some barbed wire
Try stupid ****, try stupid ****
Sleep in a fireplace, burn your entire face
I cannot read, I cannot read
Cinnamon challenge, go on a chalk binge
Die sanity, Die sanity
Bike into traffic, pose pornographic
I'm a *******, I'm a *******

I ate some poo!

I'm stupid, it's my fault
I'm stupid, it's my fault
This bad song don't make sense

Get a Prince Albert, snake blood for dessert now?
Drink some Everclear, cut off your own ear now?

Go back in time to, forties as a Jew
Try stupid ****, try stupid ****
Do *** and rip off your right knee
I cannot read, I cannot read
Find the KKK, put on some blackface
Die sanity, die sanity
Locate a pervert, then take off your shirt
I am a twit, I am a twit

I am a twit, I am a twit
Try stupid ****, try stupid ****
I am a twit, I am a twit
Parody of Billy Talent's song "Try Honesty."  About people who do really stupid things.  The first line was added by me to poke fun at *******.
Brittany Ryan Mar 2015
you never realize how significant a moment is until it becomes a memory
good or bad, memories mark significance

like the time you snuck out of your best friend's house
you got stuck in the window and laughed so hard you peed your pants

or the time you got out of the hospital
the start of your life living with your sister

at first, it was the best thing that could've happened
until your happiness, once again, blackened

and when you moved to your father's,
the blackness began to diminish into pure white joy

so many memories are stored in your brain
so much happiness and so much pain

like the day you wreck you mother's car
compared to that day, you've come so far

or the day your nephew Sammy was born
you thought seeing your sister give birth would be the most awkward thing in the world
but when you saw his head, suddenly he was the only thing in the world

you have friends and family who care about you so much
you're 16 years old, 17 in three months

one year closer to 18 doesn't seem like much
but soon you'll realize that your life is about to change

someday you'll look back on this poem
and when you do, hopefully you'll realize that your 16-year-old self wasn't all that broken
this poem is more personal than anything, so I do very much realize that it isn't my best. :p
Owen Phillips Nov 2012
Let out my ego and sense of order this comes from beyond this comes from the me between me if I listen I may hear it speaking, it's sleeping but talking and rocking, not still, and perhaps it awakens, perhaps it will open its eye but we mustn't depend on the idea that once he has opened his eye the whole dream of the world will just fade like my dream tomorrow morning which I already know I'll forget, like specific angles and perspectives of specific places in space and time that have slipped away but once in a while break through to consciousness
Like the sliding breakaway walls of Timber Drive elementary school
Or the rippling pond into which I fell and the old smile and laugh of my flesh and blood rescued me and held my body afloat in the air for a moment; and once I was the proud owner of a wind powered hovercraft, another invention spilling out onto the table of attention like the actual pig intestines the popular girl's parents used in her science fair project, the one that dragged on until the last monkey refusing to be locked up with the windows 98s in the archaic computer lab was tranquilized and convulsed on the gym/cafeteria floor in front of the PTA, who'd peed blood all down the front of their sweatpants; he was firing wildly hoping to commit suicide by zookeeper
Not knowing that humanitarian laws would prevent him from achieving his bliss, for the monkey knew as the Gnostics did that to bring a child into this black iron prison is a sin.
Did the Jonestown Kool-aid free them from the prison? Do they now walk among gods within the kingdom of the heavenly spirit? None shall know until the 13 crystal skulls are re-assembled and total gnosis emanates to the people in globe-spanning shockwaves.
K Balachandran Dec 2012
My poor, stupid poodle,
peed on the pedestal
of Cleopatra's needle
on Victoria embankment,
near the Golden Jubilee bridge.
( Oh! I am miserable!
I couldn't stop the debacle)
The poodle's puny misdeed
embarrassed not just me,
but the whole city of Westminster,
as fire alarm rang out loud,
when an overzealous constable
gave a distress signal.
It brought the fire chief himself,
who came rushing to meet
the emergency situation,
thinking the poodle was trying
to put out a fire erupted
on the ancient monument,
once shipped to England,
overcoming great adversities,
from Africa, long back.
A light hearted verse to lighten the mood in these cold days of brooding
Ryan Unger Mar 2012
What you are about to hear is an interesting story,
But it’s not about goals, feats, or glory.
It’s simply about a man named Ray,
Who discovered quite an unusual talent one day.

You see all his life Ray only ate meat,
He avoided fruits and veggies, and other healthy things to eat.
Until this one day, when Ray was in a bind,
When a bushel of grapes was the only food he could find.

Now he wasn’t a big fruit guy, but he didn’t care,
He felt was hungry as a grizzly bear.
He gobbled the grapes up, fast as could be,
And an hour later went to the bathroom to ***.

While in the bathroom, humming a song,
Ray noticed the color of his ***** was wrong.
It was purple! Not yellow! A strange sight indeed!
For this happened every time Ray ate grapes then peed.

His ***** smelt of red wine, purple and sweet,
So he bottled some up for himself to keep.
Later that night, it dwelled on Rays mind,
If he should taste his *****, to see if it truly was wine.

He poured himself a glass, and a large one at that,
Pulled up a chair, and there he sat,
He was nervous about what was to follow,
But he closed his eyes, took a sip, and swallowed.

And oh, what bliss! It was the best wine he ever tasted.
He promised himself “no more of my ***** will be wasted.”

He figured if he ate grape every day,
He bottle his ***, and make people pay,
for the most delicious wine that they’d ever buy,
It’s risky, he thought, but it’s worth a try.

Ray started his business door to door,
Letting folks sample the wine, and they always wanted more.
At first business was slow, but it picked up real fast,
And he was questioned by every neighbor he asked.

They told him they loved his wine, and they wanted more,
They wanted so much, Ray opened a store.
He sold all of his wine, to policemen and teachers,
He even sold a bottle to one of the preachers.

Business was great, until the month of July,
When a competing winery sent in a spy.
They wanted to steal his secret to success,
So people would say that their wine was the best.

So late one night, while the town was asleep.
The spies went to Ray’s home to sneak a peak.
They peered in his window, and what did they see?
They saw Ray alone, filling wine bottles with ***.

“Oh my god” they exclaimed, “we must tell the town,
The people will be furious, they’ll tear his store down!”

Well the spies were right, and the very next day,
The townspeople approached Ray’s store filled with rage.
“How dare you!” they shouted, and began to throw stones,
Poor Ray was left in his store all alone.

“Get out of our town, and never come back!”
And with that they burned his store til the wood was charred and black.
So Ray left town, quickly and sadly,
For his wine business had backfired very badly.
Is this the end of Ray? No way in hell,
Because he’s just arrived in your town, and he’s got some delicious wine to sell.
Äŧül Jun 2017
In your age, my child,
Even I told the cutest of lies.
Such an imaginative kid I was,
I realize that it has been my forte.

One day, I stood on the balcony,
It was 1993 and I was so young.
I was not even 3 years of age,
I urinated there in the balcony!

My mother remembers it sharply,
She always tells me elaborately.
She was there as dad scolded badly,
"Why did you *** in the balcony?"

I was so young,
But not at all naïve.
I was artless,
But also naughty.

I live inside a research campus,
National Dairy Research Institute.
And here has been a cattle yard,
My father had shown me the cows.

So whatever came to my mind,
I just denied having peed there.
"I haven't peed here, daddy,"
"Who peed then?"

I said, "A cow did that, daddy,"
And I blamed a cow for my doing!
"How did it get here, did it fly?"
My dad asked the toddler I was.

I just nodded my head,
My father was amazed.
He looked surprised,
And my mother just laughed.

She said,
*"Darling, I love your sweet little lies!"
A poem for my fictional future child.
And for my dear loving parents.
My HP Poem #1599
©Atul Kaushal
A nice cruise from New York, I thought

From down by Pier two-one

I thought I'd head to England

For a good old spot of fun

An Ocean trip, some nice fresh air

Eleven days at sea

I thought this would perfect to

Help inspire me

I'd never been to Europe

So I did some reading first

The history's insane there

The books did quench my thirst

I couldn't wait to get there

To travel all around

And take all sorts of pictures

To show folks what I'd found

On board, I met a punter

A real hard boiled chap

He told me of  "his England"

Not the funny, tourist crap

He asked where I was going

I said "I've no idea"

He told me that he'd show me things

As long as I bought beer

I asked him what he meant by this

He said "Just wait and see"

"I'll show you things...will curl your hair"

"You watch son, follow me.'

He told me of a werewolf

Running loose in London town

He was killing folks in Soho

And they couldn't bring him down

He said "Two nights from now"

"The moon would be real nice"

"A full moon brings out werewolves son..."

"That's your first bit of advice"

I shuddered then, I wasn't sure

If "this England" would be right

But, I begged off from the table

And I settled for the night

My mind was working overtime

Nightmares and dreams came quick

And with the heaving on the water

I woke up to be sick

I went up on the deck to walk

And grab a little air

But who to my surprise was

by the railing standing there

He said " I thought you'd be here sooner

Isn't it a lovely moon?

Just a few more days to go

The werewolf walks real soon

"Let's go and get a coffee"

"I figured I won't get back to sleep"

"And my nerves are really shaky"

"I know I won't sleep deep"

He said "Don't worry laddie"

"I've lots more tales to speak"

"But their stories for the hearty"

"And you son...seem so weak"

I asked him about Whitechapel

He said ...."Oh, Jack the Ripper"

"He murders girls down that way son"

I then peed in my slippers

He goes around at night you see

And picks up girls in the night gloom

Then he takes them back and guts them

In the comfort of their room"

I thought, I wanted jolly stuff

Like palaces and such

This tour of London ****** sites

Well, it seems a little much

I said "I've heard of Harley Street"

"Can we go there for a ride?'

He said "No problem son..

"We might meet Mr. Hyde"

"Dr. Jekyll drinks this stuff

Thats turns him to a beast

The monster's name is Mr. Hyde

It's in the east."

I thought, this isn't what

I signed on to go see

I didn't want the next victim

To end up being me.

I said "Is there a place that's safe at all?"

He said "I can take you by the palace"

"We can go walk up the mall"

I said "that would be perfect"

"That doesn't sound so hard"

He said "Just watch for Moriarty"

"Sherlock Holmes and Scotland Yard"

At this point I got up and said

"I think I'm off to bed"

"All this talk of horror"

"Caused an aching in my head"

I said " I think, I'll just move on

And travel somewhere like Albania"

He said that I must see His friend

in southern Transylvannia.

He said Mr. Van Helsing

Would take me for a tour

And with what I'd see in Europe

I'd forget the London gore"

I thanked him and I went to bed

And I then asked him his name

"Dracul" he said...but call me "Vlad"

"I'm sure we'll meet again"

I changed my plans, went to my room

And I figured "What the heck"

But I have this one last question"

Why was he staring at my neck?
Rich Hues Aug 2018
We don't have a dog because we live in rented accommodation,
    So my wife put on a spotted onezie and became a dalmatian,
    With a diamante collar and a matching faux-leather lead,
    I walked her to the park where squatting she peed,
    And was chasing thrown sticks running on all four,
    When she was unexpectedly mounted by an elderly labrador.

I waved my arms and shouted but didn't know what to do,
As the local pack, arriving, formed a disorderly queue,
A lurcher, some spaniels and an ambitious pekingese,
Took turns as she braced herself on her hands and knees.
Then delighted by the freedom of unmuzzled fornication,
She left me for a policewoman -
Who owned a very large alsatian.
Based on real life events
Holly Salvatore Jun 2013
Almost heaven, West Virginia
Printed on mudflaps
That reek of Appalachia
It is almost heaven
Not to have you
Holding me back anymore
It's almost heaven
To forget your face
Your stupid workouts
The 300 ways you found
To never say anything
That pinched drawn unhappy look on your freckled face
I feel grateful
And I'm thankful
To be a human again
I hated the way your
Silences sauntered into a room
Ten minutes before you did
I hated the way stale I love yous
Hung around your head
Buzzing like flies on the dead
I hated the way dreams were something to be laughed at
And subsequently given up on
It's almost heaven to have mine back again
I love the way you dumped me
Through text
Like a little kid
Like Sorry this is what my mom wants
Like Sorry not sorry
I'm not sorry you left me
It is almost heaven where I'm at now
I peed outside twice
In West Virginia
And you weren't there to be embarassed
By an Appalachian woman
Who wants to have almost heaven
Every day for breakfast
And truly-loving-life-in-love-with-a-musician
This is what heaven is
Every day for lunch
And maybe just beer and a song for dinner
It's almost heaven not to have you
It's heaven to feel alive again
Road trips and no regrets. ******* love Bagels. Remember that.
Met this easy chick that don't **** ****, she a no brainer
I said **** my duck and she said "What could be lamer?!"
Defamed, I went home cried and smoked some ******
Watch teletubbies in my ****** like my last name was schiefer

I went to bed and heard a scream
like R.Kelly I peed my sheets
Turns out the ****** was laced some sort of hallucinogen
I'm worried that in my bloods a carcinogen
decided not to worry cause whats the point
We all die so chill and roll a joint
I'm hitting my stride here ja feel?
Susan Hunt Jun 2010

I’ve always trusted machines, especially big ones. Like the ones at the annual county fair held at the Oklahoma City fairgrounds. After 2 weeks, the closing ceremony was always held in the main bull riding arena with a captivating routine performed by Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. Even their dead horse was on display throughout the whole time of the fair. His name was Trigger and he was stuffed. Roy Rogers was so in love with Trigger that he couldn’t go on without him. So he had him stuffed and carted him around whatever circuit they might be on. It was a sad but interesting display. But now he had a new Trigger and new tricks which were somewhat entertaining.

In the fall of 1971, upon this particular day Matt, a friend of mine and I convinced my little brother Wayne to go on the biggest ride at the fair, the double Ferris wheel.  It was a Ferris wheel shaped like an 8. The two wheels were loaded one after the other. As the seats were filled the ride would continue going up, up, and up then reaching the apex of two circles, sitting in a little grated seat, held in by a bar that locked you in at the at the beginning of the ride. When you reached the top it felt like you were riding a cloud. Going over the top of the Ferris wheel was an unimaginable thrill, it was built to guarantee a belief that you would in no way survive. Then you would swing back and forth, waiting for the other circle of seats to be filled before the real ride began.

As Matt and I got into our seat, Wayne hopped in next to me. We heard the clangs of the operator shutting the bars over the riders locking them into place. But when we got to the operator, the familiar clang was more like a clunk. The bar had not latched. We were not locked in. Now in the back of my head I took this in, but I chose to ignore it. We went up a little higher as other patrons were clanged tightly into their seats. Then as we went up, people started getting bold, swinging their legs, rocking their seats like a swing chair. After moving up about 80 feet, Matt began to swing ours. ”This is cool, huh” he said, trying to hide any little creep of fear. “Yeah, this is really great”, I agreed. But I didn’t do anything to cause the seat to rock anymore than it already was. Wayne was silent, his eyes clenched shut.

All of a sudden, the whole apparatus raised us up into the atmosphere. I swear we were at least as high as the tallest building in the Oklahoma City skyline. I could tell Matt was truly scared and he had quit rocking the chair. That didn’t matter. One last jolt threw us over the top and the “safety” bar swung wide open, out and away before coming back slowly to rest on our laps providing no safety whatsoever. After the bar swung out a couple of more times I was convinced we were going to fall to our deaths and become county fair legends. All three of us clung to the grated back of the seat, our fingers drained of blood by holding on so tight. We came down three times past the operator of the Ferris wheel before we got his attention. But Wayne was clutched so tightly to the back of the seat; you couldn’t have separated him with a paint scraper. He would have died there had we finally not gotten the attention of the operator and the operator’s boss.

It was becoming apparent that something was dreadfully wrong, so the ride slowly and painfully came to a stop. Passengers at the top were swinging their seats unaware of our impending death. Finally the double wheel cranked our seat to the exit platform. We couldn’t speak. The breath was out of us. Yelling at this time was impossible. Everyone remembered Wayne. He was white as a ghost and his lips were blue. He had clutched so hard to the back of the seat the whole side of his face was imprinted with the grate. I found this very curious. There was a pattern similar to a waffle imprinted from his forehead to his chin. He was still white but the lines in the imprint were deep red. His eyes remained closed until I was able to convince him that the ground was 2 feet below him. Finally he let go, and all three of us were pried from the seat. The ground never felt as good as it did that day.

We were still crying and shaking when the Manager of the fairgrounds arrived and removed us to the calming area which also doubled as the baby animal petting zoo.  We sat down in the petting area allowing the straw to dry our pants as all three of us had literally peed in them. As our pants became drier, we became a little calmer and we began petting baby lambs and chicks.   Then I looked across the way at the oddities booth. I had been in there that day. They had all sorts of gross weird things in there. I was fascinated. Some of the exhibits were pickled and some were still living.  I saw 2-headed babies in pickle jars and a calf with a leg sticking out of its forehead. I didn’t even want to think about that now. Too late. I bent over and puked so hard my eyes bulged.
(Written by sjhunt-bloodworth a long time ago)
J Walt Sep 2018
Change in my pocket,
but no charge in the socket.
That’s where I use to be.
       ­                                                       lost
in a world that wasn’t mine.
Committing sin and crime,
more than this poems rhyme.
Never did I wish to be
                                        minus 6 feet in pine.
At least,
          that’s the lie I’ll stick by.
Hurt every morning. Every night I then cry.
                                                            ­                     Yet,
back at it again in the AM.
Liquor was certainly quicker and I never
                                                           ­   lost
                                                         ­     my
                                                         ­     buzz,
but thank Godness it was,
because much longer and I would’ve lost my cause.
It was more than shaking paws.
          And, alcohol was my master.
Physically, I always drank faster.
Mentally, there was too much cluster
self-pity and self-inflicted misery.

I far surpassed being a ****.
Pushed away even the biggest *****.
Funny now,
                       but then. No then.
                                                        On the binge, waking up smelling
                                                        of Monarch in the park.
                                  Just the thought makes me cringe.
        ­                                   bottom.
                                                     I went through it.
You name it, I’ve done it.
                                Peed my pants in a jail pit.
                                Struck my bestfriend with my mit.
­                                Cheated, lied, and stole way more than a little bit.
­                                Treated girls by the ease of their ****.
Not once, did I think to quit.
Nor, did I think I was fit
                                            to be a respectable man.
But, this life? This current life, was not my plan.
                        This. This is someone else’s hand.
                        This is metanoia.
                                                       ­      With it,
                                                                ­       no more paranoia.
No longer am I better or worse than.
Today, I just am.
I have a god I understand.
I’ve made amends to the fam.
I’ve seen my brother’s band.
I don’t isolate like a clam.
I’ve passed my graduate exam.
I fall asleep without spinning like a fan.
And, this story,
                             I promise
                                         is no scam.

♫♪I believe in miracles♫♪,
              I’m a **** thing.
A girl even accepted my ring,
And I’ll admit,
I’m not perfect.
And as you heard,
I can’t sing.
But today,
I do the next right thing.
           to help others
                                   learn to be brothers,
                                              respect people of all colors,
                                                        ­  and to tolerate (yes! tolerate)
                                                       ­                              even their mothers.
My life is second to none, I finally found fun, and by grace
hopefully, I’m not done.
My acceptance is high and my expectations low.
Today, I even try not to steal the show.
        with this flow
I think I’ve found my cause
and that’s
to hear your applause.
J Walt
I prefer this poem as spoken word, it truly captures my story here. For those interested Metanoia is an ancient Greek word meaning "changing one's mind" and is often define as change in one's way of life resulting from penitence or spiritual conversion or a transformative change of heart; especially a spiritual conversion.
Amanda Small Feb 2014
i peed in the attic because the stairs creaked
and your roommates were asleep

your hair licked your earlobes
and your mouth was rough
Woe is me
What have I seen
The ****** dog peed
All over my DVD machine

Woe is me
And twice woe
I lost my balance
And I stubbed my toe

Woe is me
It just isn't fair
I looked in the mirror
And saw I'm losing my hair

Woe is me
I hate my life
I came home and found
The milkman run off with my wife

Woe is me
I chased a mouse
Knocked over the electric fire
The curtains caught light and burnt down the house
copyright Chris Smith 2010
YoYoWrites Apr 2018
Tell me, love, was she good in bed?
When you would tell her you loved her did you mean it?
Cause now I'm standing here looking stupid believing you loved me.
Did you **** her for hours endlessly in hopes you’d forget about all your other mistakes?
Tell me, love,
Did you think of me when she would scratch your back and bite your neck in hopes I wouldn’t notice?
Tell me, love, did you pick up  the mess after you were done or did you wait for your girlfriend to wash the sheets because “Our puppy peed on the bed cause he isn't trained”?
Was she the one begging for more or were you the one asking her to stay?
And clearly, it wasn’t a one time mistake like you said when I walked into the room while you were on top of her.
I would have hoped you would change which is why I stayed in the first place. But **** I should have listened to my brother when he said all you cared about was ***.
Jonny Angel Oct 2013
It was a magical summer.
Lodi blared as fireflies glowed,
leaves fluttered in the pure winds
of those cool Georgian nights.

We scared them foxes
something good.
You were classic in
your favorite auto.
They peed in their pants
seeing a werewolf and me
driving around the park
in a beat-up Chevy Impala.

You’re gone now,
alcohol took you away.
I still have the mask
somewhere in a box.
I sure miss you,
those good times
and Fogarty.
eileen mcgreevy Nov 2009
So, you're sitting in a doctors room, wondering why you can't stop crying,
When he enters saying"It's good news" a result from all that trying.
In a haze you drive to tell your mum, she knows from the silly grin,
And there and then, you buckle up, this journey is about to begin.
So, vomiting and painful *******, and screaming at your husband,
Is part and parcel to this little nightmare, nature calls pregnant.
Oh, don't forget the stretchmarks, and the piles that grow like grapes,
And mood swings, constipation, and eating sticky tape?!,
And now you're halfway through your quest, you look so beautiful,
Your hair and skin look radient, maintaining health is dutiful,
Then little kicks bring on the tears as both of you embrace,
And watching as the tv screen shows up a tiny face.
As weeks turn into months, you begin the preparation,
With practise runs for when its time to get to the nurses station.
Your feet have disappeared from sight, no need for the nail clippers,
And lack of sympathy from him, as your feet look like fluffy slippers.
The lack of room within your womb means little or no sleep,
The inability to get up, so give in, stay in the seat,
So here we go, your waters break, and hubby thinks you've peed,
You tell him"Get the car, or i will squash you like a seed!".
The pleas for pain relief and stupid questions from the nurses,
You try to answer politely, between the frequent curses,
The final throes are happening, you're screaming like a pig,
And out she comes, the miracle, "Oh look, isn't she big?!",
Then suddenly all the pain and grief are suddenly forgotten,
"A boy next" Those famous last words of your poor husband!
Bellis Tart Feb 2011
I remember when the world was huge
when my small town was all I knew
I remember when I knew no worry
and when I still knew you
I remember the days of before
before I could imagine a life complex
I remember the days before
I had to worry about life, love, loss and ***
when falling in love happened on a weekly basis
I remember when my fears were faceless
I remember when time would pass so slow
when hours felt like days
sipping lemonade on the swings,
in the summer's thick haze
I remember the cool crisp mornings
of September's first weeks
and the hot afternoons reminiscent of summer
walking home from school, longing for the beach
I remember playing games, and doing cart wheels on the lawn
when the leaves were all different colours
and the snow forts I'd build after the leaves were gone
I remember racing down the hill
on sleds, crazy carpets, boxes; what ever we could find
rushing home, after laughing till you almost peed your pants
hoping you'd make it in time
I remember being so happy, not a care in mind
I remember being a kid, and growing up impossibly fast
and having to say goodbye
at the age of nine.
(c) 26/02/11
naxiai Aug 2016
I think trauma is a strange word.
I was probably twelve or thirteen when I first heard it - oh yeah, it's when you get really hurt, right?

Blood and guts everywhere.

Thank goodness that doctors exist.
They can patch you up and make you whole again.

"Incoming trauma! All hands on deck!"

I think it's a strange word because, supposedly, trauma is what happened to me. But that can't be right, can it?

I imagine myself being rolled into a hospital on a stretcher, doctors and nurses taking me from paramedics.

"Eighteen year old female suffering from internal cardiovascular and neuro injuries. Speech and sight is impaired."

I'm okay. What are you talking about? All I did was love two people.

"Injuries are consistent with loving parents that don't love you in return."

Wait, what? No, my parents love me!

My dad likes to drink sometimes but at least he doesn't act unpredictable anymore when I suggest he go to bed.

Well, there was that one time he fell down the stairs. Also the time he peed on me while I was sleeping because he believed my room was the bathroom.

But my mom is okay! She likes to leave a lot and there were those times she had loud *** with strangers in the room next to mine late at night. But she's good, I swear. Even when she had chlamydia and I held her while she cried.

Even when she left and never came back.

"I need a crash cart in here! Patient is bleeding out and her blood pressure is dropping - "

I'm fine, I swear.
All I did was love them.

Wait, hang on!
What about that time my parents argued and my dad tried to choke my mom to death?
I mean...I did run away from the house, crying, to find our neighbor.
I did beg her to call the police.

But that's not trauma, right?
I just wanted them to stop yelling. I just wanted him to let her go before she stopped breathing.

That's love.

"Paddles, please! Charge to three hundred..."

These doctors really don't know anything.
Logan M Glover Sep 2013
(Notes at the bottom to explain all this nonsense)

Eggman, oh Eggman
quite a driver you've become-
And an army man (in 3D)
in battleships we understood none

And Eggman, oh Eggman
we'd laugh until we died!
And when dark night came
from the tickle monster we'd hide

Thus Eggman, oh Eggman
we planted the ethereal seed.
A seed that grows forever on;
a friendship that I need


Jphel, oh Jphel
Please avoid the horrid stench-
of being peed on in the army,
or hit by a (freaking) bench!

And Jphel, oh Jphel
I think Max Renga laughed last-
or maybe thus did the tree.
still have pieces of my cast?

Thus Jphel, oh Jphel
I know I paid you close to none-
but carrying all of my books
still really means a ton.


J-man, oh J-man
athletes go down the trial,
and rats laugh a hell of a lot!
...yet somehow Campbell never smiled
              (and his many wives)

And J-man, oh J-man
I know you learned a lot;
like, 'Don't move your hands in art',
and- 'Don't talk of bad burritos' Kaneda taught

Thus J-man, oh J-man
my vacancy began...
oh how I wish to make it up
with every chance I can.


Phelpsy-boy, oh Phelpsy-boy
what psychotic schedules we kept!
with so many things to do
we hardly ever slept.

and Phelpsy-boy, oh Phelpsy-boy
I enjoyed nothing more than the Gov games we made-
... but perhaps the poker nights
and (endless) SC Poker D we played.

Thus Phelpsy-boy, oh Phelpsy-boy
I should have been a better friend-
to one who is always there for me
but I know it's not the end!


Jordan, oh Jordan
You've been my inspiration;
in work, in act, in play, in sense-
my deepest admiration.

And Jordan, oh Jordan
find that girl of yours and lift her!
but you better... BETTER!...
remember your secret admiffer.

Thus Jordan, oh Jordan
Remember that I'm near
if you ever need a hand, a hug,
or just a listening ear.


So Mr. Phelps, oh Mr. Phelps
march forward and make your mark-
with a mind and drive such as yours
you'll fly like Kent, Clark.

And Mr. Phelps, oh Mr. Phelps
I'll never seriously call you that
I could not stop without a Spongebob quote-
Cause we're like twins in Squidward's egg sac

Thus Mr. Phelps, oh Mr. Phelps
No matter who's got the biggest yacht in the end
you best remember now and always
Captains are Captains and _ ___
A poem I intend to give to my best friend of many many years who leaves for a 2 year missionary trip soon. Each triplet's stanza's beginning's are a name I called him throughout the years, the following lines are strong memories.

Eggman I called him because we played a Playstation 1 game called destruction derby and he picked the sunny side up egg decal for his car- and the name followed and stuck. We also played Army Men 3D and a battleships game that was SUPER confusing.

We'd laugh as we played anything- and still do, and at night my step-dad would play a game called Tickle-monster (basically hide in seek in the dark but when caught you'd be tickled relentlessly) with us. The best of times I tell you.

The horrid stench and bench are stories from our favorite teacher- our fifth grade teacher- who told us of stories when he was in Germany in the army someone peed on him and someone knocked him out by hitting him with a bench.

Max Renga was a ****** kid who knocked me out and the tree broke my leg in 6 places and  I was in a long leg cast and physical therapy for two years. The entire time I was in that cast he carried my books for me, EVERYDAY :). I paid him $6 and some odd cents.

Athletes go down the trial and rats laughing are two hilarious stories about our middle school teachers and campbell was out favorite middle school teacher- he never smiled and always complained about his five ex-wives.

He got his first (and only) detention in school for moving his hands- we had a crazy art teacher- and we played a little mmorpg and the admin hated him because he said "I do like burritos but they sure don't like me".

The vacancy is when I started hanging out with other folks due to stuff going on at home I was too ashamed to hang out with him- so I got sub-decent friends.

In high school we both took two years of college and I did two sports while he stayed heavily active in church. We made these board games for our government class and it took us like 48 hours straight labor  and they turned out awesome.

I have poker nights often with 10-20 people where we dress up in nice clothes like the 40's and play for like 7 hours. We also played Starcraft on a map called Poker Defense for HOURS.

We watched spongebob and quote him daily. And the yacht refers to him saying that he feels like he always works harder than me but gets much less return so he joked saying he's going to work his whole life and be out on the ocean in his nice yacht and I'll roll up next to him in a yacht twice as big having done near nothing :). Since then I referred to eachother as captains... and  I always say to him "Captains are captains and captains are friends".

I love this kid endlessly, he's played an immense role in my life. Let me know what you think and read some of my other stuff if you'd like. This is the only personal one I've posted. :)
Kate Lion Sep 2014
take me to a swimming pool that has not been peed in
with no grass or dead wasps floating around my bare skin
one newly installed that hasn't corroded yet

take me to fresh snow that has never been walked in
let me feel the crunch beneath my feet as i step into fresh turf and smile
knowing that they are all my footprints
knowing that i am the only one who has ever touched this ****** powder

take me to a coffin that has never been opened
a faceless, nameless beauty
one that nobody else knows about

and i will treasure it
like it is my own
because i am an old nobody, too
Brandon Sep 2011
           yeah, mom's sleeping still and i have to go out. i keep throwing my bone at the cage and she keeps telling me to lay down and go to sleep, but mom, I HAVE TO ***!!!

          ok, moms up now and she took me out. i peed three whole times and sniffed a few other dogs' trails. i wish those other dogs would stay out of my yard. don't their parents know this is my yard? maybe you should tell them

          Woooooooooooooooooooo, Yip Yip Yip! it's time to eat! nom nom nom nom!

         mom is annoyed with me so she gave me a new bone to chew on. she calls it a bonut because it's shaped like a donut. i'd rather have a real donut.

         i must've been good because mom gave me a treat. i'm so good when i sleep. <----Hey dad, look, i'm a poet just like you!

        how am i texting you? i have no thumbs...or no phone for that matter

Yip Yip Yip! you just pulled up! you're home! be prepared, i'm gonna attack you once you open the door and slobber all over your face!!!
Sam Conrad Dec 2013
You've been good to me
But I feel like nothing
Because you made me nothing when I was your puppet, when you tried to live your life through me

You're an ex-marine
But I didn't know that they taught marines
How to call their 4 year old children "babies", when asking you curious questions, when you said to shut up

You've been a police officer for 20 years
But I didn't know they taught police officers
How to tell their 14 year old boys they had a "distorted view of reality"

I still remember when you threw mom against the closet door
She showed me the bruise on her breast that was as big as a softball
I remember the fights you guys had and how you kicked the wall and stormed off in your car

I was like 4 years old when this happened, I could barely see over the window sill in our living room
But I can still remember exactly how it looked when you backed out and sped down the street
"Where's oppa going?", I asked my korean mother... ...all she did was throw me down and beat my bottom...

I was a sensitive child and believe it or not
Even though you and mom tried your best didn't prepare me
You didn't prepare me to handle things...

To handle the kids who would push me around because I was smaller
To handle the other kids who pushed me because my face and skin looked different
To handle every time kids asked me if I knew karate when I was an innocent little 5 year old
To handle being spit on by any one of those kids
To handle love and relationships because you didn't teach me what love really was

To be able to deal with problems in life without freaking out or blaming myself, like when you would throw me in the floor or spank me until I peed my pants...

To be able to love the girl I wanted to spend my life with because even though I decided that I wouldn't do the kinds of things you did...I've ever known in life is what not to do, and when I tried something new, they were only slight variations of everything you did and now she's not coming back

I've ****** up my life now and you're finally mellowing out...
I wish you'd done so 18 years ago

Or maybe not been around
"To my mother, to my father, it's your son, or, it's your daughter;"
"I sit here locked inside my head, remembering everything you said, the silence gets us nowhere, gets us nowhere, way too fast."
"The silence is what kills me, I need someone here to help me. But you don't know how to listen, and let me make my decisions..."
"All your insults, and your curses, make me feel like I'm not a person...and I feel like I am nothing, but you made me, so do something..."
"I'm f***ed up, because you are, need attention, attention you couldn't give-"
Excerpts from
Staind- "For You"
kuku bird Nov 2013
I vaguely remember meeting you
I do remember calling to Mulder that They had finally arrived
and then a large hand reaching across my face and everything going black.
I remember that as if it happened yesterday

And then I recall this little purplish pink swaddled you being held eye level as I lay on my back
Your daddy said, Meet Ezra
And you were beautiful but then everything again, went black.

I am thankful for the photos tho. Reminding me of how you peed all over my insides when they
lifted you from my belly
And the moment captured in film of our first embrace.

I still wear the boots I got the winter you were inside my gut
15 years ago

and you are still so very beautiful
And Handsome, I might add.
polka Jan 2018
I say "this morning,"
But that would be a lie.
In reality,
It was this afternoon,
Shortly after I had waken up for the day.

I had him for
13 years.
13. The cursed, unlucky number.

I was into Tom and Jerry,
When I was 4.
It was a cartoon series
And it had a dog named spike.

So, we decided,
My dog could have the same name.
He was never more undeserving
Of the scary, tough title.

The first day I saw him,
He peed on my leg.
The adults told me
It meant that he liked me.

He was a sweetheart.
And everything in between.

He barked at passing strangers,
And licked my wounds.
Soon I learned it wasn't only because
He knew I was in pain,
But because he simply
Liked to lick everything.

He was a rescue.
He wore scars on his thighs,
From fighting to get away
From his past life.
He was two when I was four.
He was thirteen when I, fifteen.

The last day I saw him,
He peed on my leg.
Not out of love,
But because he had a stroke
In my arms.

He died shortly after we drove to the vet.
My father told me to pump his chest.
I cried as he struggled to exhale breaths.
Thirty seconds later,
He stopped struggling.
Thirty minutes later,
We arrived at the vet.

And a part of me thinks,
It is completely my fault.
Because while my dog always knew
When I was in pain,
I failed to see his.
im rlly sad idk how to deal with loss

i mean, ive lost a dog before, Missy, but i had her for only six months, because she was dying of cancer and her owner couldnt take care of her anymore, since she was moving.

And before that, my stepdad's dog, named Cujo died. I was at school when he was put down. I knew him for maybe a little less than a year.

What a **** way to start off 2018.
Latiaaa Feb 2014
There's a party around the block,
Where flamingos run and eggs fall from upstairs.
The roof is tumbling and the pool is overfilled with humans and animals,
There's a zebra and ten monkeys running through the house.
****** ******* is rising everywhere,
To the kitchen and the bathroom, to the backyard and the deck.
Balloons are scattered on the floor,
There's food fights in every room.
There's a car crashed into the wall,
People are running around in togas.
The music is blasting through the glass windows,
Everyone is jugging boos and sniffing toxins.
The bonfire is sparking with Barbie doll heads,
The smell of burning rubber spreads throughout the sky.
People are wild with horse masks on their heads,
They're fist pumping and thumping to the repeated beat.
Males and females are racing around **** in the halls,
Paint ***** and BB Guns are being fired on every window.
Glasses of broken bottles are lost in couches and beds,
People are swinging on chandeliers.
The walls start to buckle and shake,
Cops arrive but are being tazered with their own tazers.
The house is being tee-peed,
No one knows why the tub is on fire.
The music starts to get louder every second,
Tables and chairs are being thrown across the rooms.
There are piggy back rides on the front lawn,
Drug addicts are polluting the air with taboo smoke.
People are sliding down the stairway with helmets and pillows,
Many of the people are hung upside down unexpectedly.
Girls get dragged into the bedrooms,
Fights are happening here and there.
Some people are passed out anywhere,
Others are bungee jumping off the roof.
Furniture is left outside,
Lips are locking in the closet.
Fireworks are going off while people are dunking their heads in water,
Twerking is being done almost everywhere.
The house is a total wreck,
And the sun starts to rise over the horizon.

I don't know about you,
But this party was something new.








Sharina Saad Jul 2013
Its a silent chilly night
Sitting here alone
My boredom is maximum
Decided I need a night out..
Perhaps just a walk and breathe some fresh air...

Walking past the old museum
A glimpse of an old man
sitting on a chair...
His shadow on the wall can tell
Just how bored he must have been
Working all night long..
especially on a chilly winter night

I approach the old watchman
Offers him a cigarette,
It may sound crazy
but I really need a company
This Night watchman  says, quite surprisingly,
" everything is quiet"
too dead in the museum...
as if he understands my curiosity
about being a night watchman

I don't need to probe more
he says its too eerie in the inside
surrounded with a hundred to 800 years old artifacts
and some classic works of dead artists
I work for the pay... he says...
I don't need to protect the antiques..
To this I am quite amazed...
but he says, " at night when everything is dark and quiet"
the museum comes to life...
my heart beats faster to this...
a real creepy story.. he is telling me..

He admits having difficulty to breathe
when he sees all the musical instruments
played by themselves one night...
when he tried to run... all doors are locked by themselves
he even peed in his pants watching all the statues
dancing and partying in every floors of this very very old museum
a spooky place... yes... ghostly spirits yes...
name it.. he says "I have met them all"
and even shake hands with them every night...

I have cold sweats... I have goosebumps...
I ask him whether he'd like a tuna sandwich
I'd go and buy them and come back for more chats with him
Its 3 am and I am listening to all these horror stories
from an old night watchman...

He agrees for the offer of sandwich
and demands for a black coffee too...
I runs to the nearest Seven Eleven
and returns as soon as possible...

I am standing here now in front of the old museum
with sandwich and coffee in my hand...
The Night watchman isn't there anymore...
he just disappears...

Curiosity makes me come back
the very next day
only to find out..
the Night watchman I talked to ...
and smoked with...
has passed away a year ago...
what an eerie feeling...
I just had an interview with  a dead Night watchman...
Terry Collett Dec 2014
Janice adjusts
the red beret
on her fair hair
and pulls at the hem
of her dress
as she sits
on the wooden seat
of the swing
in the park.

I sit on the swing
next to her,
ready to kick off,
my feet on the tarmac,
my eyes glued on her.

She winces.

Gran spanked me last night
for saying
that four letter word
you taught me.

You weren't supposed
to tell your gran.

You never said
not to tell;
I didn't know
what it meant.

I should have
told you.

(I didn't know,
but I don't tell her that).

She pushes off
with her feet
and she's air borne;
her sandalled feet
high in the air
as the swing goes backward
then forward.

I push off, too,
holding tight
to the steel links
on each side of the swing.

Maybe your gran
should have washed
your mouth out
with soap
instead of a spanking.

I wish she had, too.

My old man's aunt
swears like a trooper;
I used to go
to Sunday tea with her
and her husband
and my Nan used to say:
that's enough
of that language,
there's children present.

What did did she say?

They don't know
what it means,
she used to say;
but Nan'd say, no,
but they might repeat it
to people who do.

And did you?
Janice asks.

No, at least not
if my parents
were around.

I am swinging higher
than her now;
my feet seem to reach
the nearest clouds.

She tries to swing higher,
but I am still higher,
by swinging backward
and forward on the seat
and the holding tight
to steel links each side,
I am up there
with the gods.

Have you ever
been spanked?

I look at her.

Once when I peed
in my toy box
and my cousin
told my mum.

She pulls a face.

How ***** of you.

Yes, I guess;
Mum thought so.

I feel a breeze
in my hair and face
as I ride high,
swinging back and forth
on the swing.

She's beside me
trying hard to reach
as high as I am;
her feet reaching up,
her legs swinging madly;
her body going
backward and forward;
her red beret,
clinging on
for dear life
on her head.

I reach my maximum height;
my feet touching
Heaven's gates
or so seems,
my body going
back and forth
as much as it can.

She’s almost there,
the wind riding
through her flowing
fair hair.
Hope Aug 2013
hard-candy crunches between
chattering teeth--warm blue
drool pools down wet chin. wet skin
reeks of chlorine, and swimsuit
sticks to piggy thighs
and pancake chest. eyes
are everywhere: eyes to stare
and judge and mock
and compare. it’s unfair
how these other girls eat
chips and pizza yet
their bodies are set to be
nubile marble demigoddesses
living off six pomegranate seeds.
i am teenage Taweret.

the unforgiving spandex drips
upon the floor, as if i had peed. quick!
get a towel, you’re ruining the parquet!
leg bones, feet bones hit the floor,
followed by white waves of flesh, always late,
rebounding wetly. bones and fat.
soggy pig bones.
Robert Zanfad Nov 2013
these things are yours:
the leather sofas, paintings and mantlepiece chachkas
marked with pink post-it notes
that defined this houseload of secrets to outsiders

as I wrote glories for you in forced smiles garnishing
black and white stories for a world you craved
our home groaned beneath the weight

pink notes

they feel like garottes, the
crafty complaints to strangers
duly noted in a ledger somewhere...

I never noticed 'till now
that even our children have been plastered with them,
sorry little heads bobbing under their wires,
stiff armed puppets, like me
facing ruined toys or threatened death of a pet,
love served contingent like dessert after dinner

my powder blue lips were ever too meager to say anything

I suppose the sofa your cat peed
on is mine to sleep in,
though bleach wasn't enough to get her stink out
no chairs around my foldout dinner table

I never had a stack of blue paper to paste on furniture or people

my meager parts were abandoned by curbside at night:
clothing, computer, tools;
broken finger, blood-crusty nose,
bruised psyche;
memories of a mother and father;
old desk, contents drenched in murky wash water
treasures to be gathered in an Easter egg hunt
before morning

I'm *****, broken on the street
to live in the van again and *** in a cup

yet I elate in this paucity of things; it makes me lighter
I embrace its freedom
like when I used to sleep in park trees
to avoid river vermin, hungry
(yes, pate´ in Paris was divine - I ate the serving you’d have wasted )

or on train station benches with foul-smelling vagrants
you wouldn't understand that interaction …
this devil knows names, shared their bottles and pains
(the view of Prague’s rooftops from the castle veranda -
marvelous over glasses of wine and slivers of brie)

I learned hope is thin, frail skin, aetherial
my scars are hard, heavy, battle-earned wings that will never fly

as to things I do own:
love of self left after your half-portion spent;
poems scorned because
you never understood how they could be born without you

soon enough
we'll both be ashes or dust;
I’ll go in puffs
of swirling cigarette smoke and cheap bourbon
you under soil, I think
while words and our children
will both outlive the good sofa you sit on

I want them to be happy

— The End —