"penmanship" poems
A beauty you are out and within
Insatiable desire to write poetry on your skin
Your body my canvas feel my gentle brush
Writing ******* with my ****** touch
Cinnamon lips I love your tone
Soft and silky to the bone
Finding words..be my guide
As we connect I come inside
Filling each other..there's no strain
Steady my thoughts I must maintain
Watching my penmanship using a steady stroke
I start hallucinating from my mental smoke
Sends me into a frenzied flow
I'll find my pace..go on a roll
My words soak in as you taste
My emotions invade your inner space
Down from your toes..Up to your eyes
Writing Haikus between your thighs
Poetry on your body every inch
You start writhing from my Scorpion pinch
Sinfully venomous my words forever sink
Into your skin my poetic tattoo ink
As you lay naked I visually feast
Every line of your body a masterpiece..
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 8:01 PM UTC
I walked in
all young and awkward and kindred spirit-less
with a name tag that read
in black marker with my bad penmanship
that only comes on your first day of a new place.
I walked in
and a nameless face greeted me
strange as he was
and asked if my name was Strawberry.
"It sure looks like it, doesn't it?"
I replied courteously.
And so they called me that.
I walked in
months later
to my first weekend with people like me.
and I liked it.
and they all called me Strawberry.
I walked in
on several different occasions
and I grew into my name
as a plant will grow to whatever container
you put it in.
and so people loved me.
I walked in
with an air of summer
an air of sweetness and bitterness and
****
but they still loved me
even more.
I don't know what I will do
when I walk in
my first day as an adult
and they ask me what my name is.
I could tell them "Strawberry,"
but they would laugh.
Adults do not understand
the sweetness and the bitterness
the ****
as only kindred spirits can.
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 1:04 AM UTC
"Static on the line"
I lose my senses,
destined for greatness while stuck in this place where,
intelligence is replaced with penmanship.
"Lost connection"
Getting faded,
all familiar faces turns to agents like im Neo stuck in the matrix...
"No motivation.."
To fight this war myself and get through all this **** for my freedom like shawshankredemption.
"Mind constipation.."
Caught in the web of Jezabel,
Cant think over the ring of the dinnerbell.
"Losing patience.."
Stared her dead in the eyes but all she saw was her reflection.
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 1:34 PM UTC
I'm 12 and I've been reading for 352 days straight and I have no interest in the people around me and why should I?
I'm 14 in this one and my sheets have polka dots on them and my pillow is Avril Lavigne's face and I'm thinking about the girl at school with pink hair and slow penmanship.
When I'm 16 you are 15 and holding my hand and I'm asking about french homework and trying not to focus on the movement of your thumb around mine which is not friendship.
This time I'm 21 and your thick bones outline my thin and I like this small feeling.
Jan 24, 2019
Jan 24, 2019 at 2:08 PM UTC
The poet is a ponderer
A wordy wizened warrior
Their rhythms revel to reveal
The wonder of a wanderer
Unfurling mighty metaphors
For golden grains on sandy shores
They sail upon a penmanship
Of paper hulls and pencil oars
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
slipped glyph.
this and that; wracked
in some silly, heady
packrat skyscraper
of leaning light.
then's flicker of vague regret hangs around, because life.
because letting go is never really, ever, fully possible.
misremembrance -now- retracing my..
*it was
as though
you had written,
signed and
sealed those
few words
themselves,
with your own
blood and bone*
and yet i
can-
not recognize
my own
penmanship
anymore,
nor this, here,
outstretched hand.
howamievenhere?
*because a winged thing, other,
has this history
by the tail,
and your thoughts are not your own*
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 5:15 PM UTC
Not too distant beach tree sways in distance
Mandala Rorschach blot patterns dance like celebrating Salish drum circle
There's a hallow college sound of crime show to my left
Bickering with the occasional crush of,
**** my job is stressful."
A sleeping armadillo composed of quarks reflective within a drop of water
Fallen from the bottom-bulged North 49 canteen
A foot and 3/4ths away the snow-white generic of a ***** coffee mug formerly host to a Tetley green stands silent
Reminiscent of the eternal stillness of a mountain range
Fibonacci's name rings inexplicably from tilting branches
And I can't help but wonder if I would be grasping his hand in grasping a branch.
19 years alive and I can't help asking if I've grown-up too fast
Or simply grown into myself.
I feel old
young
and somewhere indescribable most of the time
and it's funny I cannot even fathom the length of 22 years.
A deflated balloon yellow like trend pants or sunrise sits like dejected missile
No longer screaming towards Gaza
No longer screaming.
A Holiday Inn Express pen sits with a ready-call number
Part of its mustang flame
If its quality of penmanship has any parallel to hotel service
Perhaps I'll stick with hostels.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 2:34 PM UTC
Heaven's gates open in beat with my eye lids
As we stumble in sweet confusion
We can taste the air as an ostrich wine
And the only sounds are angelic choirs joined in mirth
The walls are painted scenes blessed in eternal movement
With God himself scribing the tales
Telling stories of triumph merged in harmony
And penmanship worthier than any poet
Men docilely behold grace itself on the walls of heaven
Ever worthy of the eyes of mankind
Of those who stole a glance turn to gold
And immortals join in ritual
The sense of sight, light, is portrayed as holy crystals
Incandescent stalagmites create divine paths for righteous to follow
While those lost in damnation are lead to eternally fall
As the path lingers the walls inspire a revelation in ones heart
Blessing all who listen, with God's word
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 11:38 PM UTC
We write endlessly
about the sensuous things in life,
it's tit-for-tat,
some rat-a-tat-tat,
for us
that's where it's at.
It ain't like chess,
gin rummy
or even go fish,
it's the real hot-deal
in penmanship.
We're restless souls,
dreaming & wishing,
confessing & bleeding
our ruptured-hearts out
in erotic-like
steamy-words.
Hell no,
we ain't terse,
we're just darned
loose with the sexy-verses....
read them & believe it,
kindred spirits!
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 1:39 PM UTC
Lend me your hand,
drape your fingers over me and relax.
Trace the outline of my body,
barely coming into contact with my supple skin.
Use my skin as your ballroom floor,
as your fingers dance to a beautiful ballad.
Have me lingering onto the last touch,
and yearning for the next.
Glide over every inch of me,
bring forth goosebumps to my surface.
For if your fingertips were pens - and I, paper,
my entire body would be inked with your love.
Let not a single space on my skin go untouched,
don’t let any part of me fade and disappear.
Cover me in your penmanship,
and make my existence permanent.
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 5:35 PM UTC
Astonishingly! This poetry analogy is partially of a prodigy poet! It is of his endearment and endeavorment in our great Government that desecrated, medicated, sedated and segregated him. Doped! Desperately copping and hoping he made it! To add, no dad! An artistically rad-lad through the bad, the glad, the sad and mad. This destiny of a poet is also of apologies, felonies, formalities, legalities and theories.
Furthermore it’s of mournful and scornful-laughter! Capture and rapture, dreamingly and seemingly, chapter after chapter... Pondering and wondering is there a happily ever after? This destiny of a poet is heavenly, randomly and religiously, tellingly of lots of many thoughts! Some adventuresome, awesome, burdensome, fearsome and gruesome! Some loathsome, lonesome and wholesome!
Some of dreams, schemes and many themes! Some deemed and seemed differently, discriminately, indecently or racially true, from some views. Some askew and blue! Some of clues, of Jews, of taboo, tattoos and voodoo! This destiny of a poet; stunningly who could’ve and would’ve thought once, twice or thrice of this price? Of the cheers and peers, the jeers, the leers,
the tears and weary years... Therefore I say, some artist’s
clever art may create, dictate, relate and translate similar-thriller craftsmanship with negative, positive or relative penmanship. However, typically some probably will publicly criticize as a travesty. Some will harmonize, some will publicize or socialize, some will disrespect as imperfect, some will neglect, some will respect as perfect! Hark! I remark; brethren, children and women keep and upkeep that
creative spark! For in the dark or as you embark. Literally, morality and reality is in my poetry and story. Expect excellent, brilliant, decadent, resilient talent and testaments! Basically on final note! I positively devote, quote and wrote these eccentrically optimistic, rhetoric and theoretic poetically lyrical rhyming notes. Finally and bluntly, do not negatively amend, bend, pretend or transcend this end. Amen...
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 9:22 PM UTC
We don’t have a name,
And our love isn’t something they write about.
I watch you scrawl some stains on a paper
As you tell me to go,
But I can’t.
I try to leave, but my molten feet stick to the floor.
The space between us is different from the others.
Am I a scribble in your black notebook?
Because your name is written countlessly,
In elegant, clear penmanship in mine.
But we aren’t that obvious and clear.
Our names aren’t printed on the latest newspaper,
To read all about.
Our hands don’t rush together in unison
When we walk down the sidewalk.
We survive through secrets,
Sending letters through underground cities.
We dance around the words of others,
As my mouth slowly meets yours.
We are a garden that ceased to exist,
But instead reversed..
You are a mystery,
Not in the typical manner.
You are not the one you can solve again and again;
But one that puzzles me every time.
You find me at midnight,
My hands are shaking, as I hold you, eyes bright.
Your palms are cold, thawed by the heat of your breath
And we sit.
Your peculiar eyes dazzle me.
It’s not an emerald green,
But the kind of green in a forest
Among an earl gray coast.
Nostalgic, but warm.
Rainy, but bright.
We are tenacious as one.
Through you I’ve lived a thousand lives;
Sipping pink lemonade in a rainy diner,
Standing on the Oregon coast,
The navy ocean biting at our feet and
Inviting us for an icy swim,
Chasing you down the Champs-Elysses,
Watching your eyes turn into London skies.
I’ve seen every bitter moment of your life,
From the bruises on your thighs,
To the thoughts you try so hard to bury away.
I love you from the faded buttons of your flannel
To the burning tips of your hair.
Please let us exist as one.
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 11:51 PM UTC
i'm a yellow chill
a daffodil in the rain
thought i found my place
kinda heard to explain
sip each glass of wine
your palette needs a rest
taste his cracker's brine
along your lips
signing documents
you can't help hide your grin
sweat beading down your brow
my nervous penmanship
is this what they call peace
four hundred dollars an hour
the clock says nine past three
rounding up minutes they devour
caught you dead to rights
my son's new step father
when he sees your blight
harvest grapes turn sour
i feel constant dread
our son can't cope the truth
so far above his head
your soulless attribute
i'm a daffodil, more like a coward in the rain.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 11:22 PM UTC
Combinatrax. Anything of this persuasion is considered ageless beyond the matrix. Beyond time displacement, space and spaceships beyond the reach of human contemplation.
I battled evil spirits when temperatures were frigid with no mittens crossed wooden bridges over rivers just so these words can be delivered.
Combinatrax. Anything of this persuasion is considered ageless beyond the matrix beyond time displacement beyond the oasis for nothing is complete without every piece.
who's receptive to this message? The tree of life provided me the weapon inside the zodiac divided in sections, categorizing five elements if i wrote this backwards you will still understand my penmanship *****
Lets show them what I see, the letter C, the sea of tranquility, Yemeja proof read this read for me.
Pardon me but i must beacon your attention for more then 10 seconds, this effective mass burial method is so well measured. She calls it the ocean.
I started the trends must I show you again? Normal configurations are dismembered and disconnected self execution methods occur after dawn but before breakfast.
Blood red moon.
Lilith said death is the adjustment to her mood.
Timeless writes rereading keeps you updated destroying frustration **** your favorite this is not a statement but a vibration for those are who are lost but made it..
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 9:02 AM UTC
Attentive student of the songs of birds,
No beakèd beast hath e'er more sweetly trill'd
A pair of notes or call'd in major thirds
Or minor with musicality more skill'd.
Adaptive linguist, practic'd in the tongue
Of wingèd feather'd creatures, thou hast writ
Into "The Birdsong Songbook" songs unsung
By birds which yet harmoniously fit.
And though the book began in higher throats
Diversely tun'd by Nature's artful hand
Ere measur'd were the times and tones of notes,
(Which often rest them now upon a stand),
Its finest lines (o'er which I now do rave)
Witness thy penmanship on every stave.
^ ^
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
sweet jesus
life is outrageous
listless alligators
try to upstage this
drift from forms
to formless sages
residual wages
furnishing your cages
threadbare leather workers
raid our refrigerators
rage is impulsive
sullen lisps and swollen lips
frame our faceless daughters
in their water glasses
houses of hunted howling
hourglasses
dreamcatchers and dancers
humongous lanterns
burning pages
place-mats
on your dinner tables
why do they feel so out of place
is it the way we are made
have you any
doubts about your origins
what is the worst
thing you’ve ever faced
are you exposed
to typos regularly
tokens of penmanship
and fraternity hazings
hostelries and banquets
growth is dependent
only on intangible quotients
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 4:46 PM UTC
PENCILS
I use to get excited about having a new pencil or freshly sharpened one. Point, fine and sharp. Ready for use like a dull point pencil could not do the job.
I swear paper was perfectly made for pencils. Until I met pens, but, they never brought out the best in my penmanship.
But a pencil, it was light as a feather, easy to manipulate, no extra items needed to erase mistakes..
If only life was like a pencil with a clean rubber, we would erase the unwanted and rewrite our best as if it did not affect us. We would stay fine like china but who would sharpen our edges, would it be people or the things we are mostly engaged in.
Who will ensure our rubbers does not smudge pages. Are we in charge of that or are we asking for too much.
In fact a pencil does not have a high life expectancy rate, so am I grateful for my life even though people count the seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years and call it time. So yes I appreciate it. But no matter what happens I still enjoy using new pencils.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 9:00 AM UTC
BRB, LOL
*** what the hell?
Can't today's kids learn to spell?
The things they write
I cannot tell
Has education
Gone to hell?
Can someone out there help me?
I can't read what they've written down
They're writing's really rotten
Penmanship's a basic skill
That most kids have forgotten
**** BRB
404 AND BBC
These don't mean a thing to me
Can someone out there help me?
Spellcheck is their holy grail
Without this app, most kids would fail
There'd be no words in tales they tell
Can someone out there help them?
I read a letter I received
The writing I could not believe
I've seen better on my sleeve
Can someone out there read this?
GFN, GFAP
FAQ, ASAP
Explain what I just wrote to me
Can someone out there help....please?
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 10:49 AM UTC
These lost years of loneliness and social depravity
Have left me with nothing except this written tragedy
I sat and watched as the walls of my life crumbled away
Into this contorted sensation twisting through dismay
These ceaseless rememberance sessions screaming inside
A dead fixed stare on old friends taking cyanide
These bonds have come together in such a swift motion
And, just as fast they've came to their abrubt destruction
Dispersing any tint of mutual belonging from view
Molding a sad landscape of sighs and failing virtue
Watching as the remnants of my relationships loiter
The catacombs of these stockpiled confession letters
If only I could say anything my empathy had to tell me
My skeletal pose might have perched upright in a higher degree
And I would of have grown to a more formidable size
A clear cut aspiration that I never came to realize
Until all that I held grew too big for me to carry
and left me to stumble and sleep at the cemetary
Scratching dead love songs on century old gravestones
Where the forgotten have slept for generations alone
Hoping the crude penmanship might grace a weary heart
Or help a looming ghost feel a taste of love and depart
From the fog filled graveyard parade that it dwells
A final ringing from the synapsis of the greif bells
Sparking the ruin of a memory that doesn't seem real
A fading echo of a brotherhood I wish I could still feel
Detached from a reality that lurks in a decrepit imagery
Reshaping my empty cognition through a fake neuro surgery
I've reached the point where I have no reason to find
A replacement for all these buried pictures astray in my mind
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC
An adventurous ‘hello’ from Hollow Head
Island! Apologies about the penmanship.
It seems the postcards shake these days,
not the volcanoes, not the earth.
So far we’ve been to the Stalactite Park,
the Gotterdammerung Grotto, hid in
the Hidden Caves, got lost in the Lost World.
We even walked some of the Infinity Trail.
No one finishes that, I guess. Ha-ha!
Abandonment in extremis. Ha-ha!
Apr 18, 2010
Apr 18, 2010 at 4:45 PM UTC
**It's 5:00 pm,
any poems to share?**
*my watchwoman, Seamless Siri,
my conscientious conscience,
gives said inquiry daily,
at the precise heure de rigeur,
with the perfection of a
mechanized soul attending to her
imperfect human programmer
poetry, a sometime thing,
comes when it comes,
what the query,
my godmother faerie,
truly seeks knowledge of is
something she cannot measure,
like my counted steps and distances travelled,
what this overseer mine truly seeks to know*
why am I here?
*Here. On this earth. On this site.
have you any new written proofs,
your existence on this day to justify,
were your failings and flailings,
surpassed by any acts of kindness,
this new, freshest penmanship, a reflection,
an accounting of grace and worth,
blogged and logged here
as if only I had
one day,
one poem
left...
at tabulation time, the incisor bites,
are you juiced or morbid,
this, your essayed life,
are the words,
deemed shareable,
is their value,
calculable palpable?
Siri inquires but you are jury
at the late afternoon
trial by fire,
wherein my singed bunt offerings
are produced
at the
wake of when,
my nom I do append
am I deserving
of your recompense
of one more day,
one more poem?*
~~for Harlon~~
5:13 pm
November 21, 2015
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
dark lung coughs
up all the reasons he should cease
going on with the charade of normality
its mental noodling fools few
and only confirms for everyone
that his nervous smile
contains more than just dark thoughts
he waits the morning out and with a
greasy eye watches clean woman smile
her full figure form fit lie
suits her fly by night nature
but to him she is the perfection
of absolute imperfections
she is practiced in thouse airs
shes follows Hollywood's nightmare's
and how they have become so accessible and acceptable
the movie starlet high on coke shoplifts
so the faithful flock in tears to the courthouse gate
and weep for their martyr princess
dark lung and his near perfect
knockoff Gucci bag girlfriend
are shopping tonight online
with backwards glances they will go on
survive this day
and look back on this summer with rose color glasses
giving casual nods to to
the ease in which they survived
the struggle
the are expecting a baby
dark lung and near perfect
are expecting a baby
gonna name him Elijah
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 6:10 AM UTC
I wrote you one thousand love letters,
But only a few were right.
I poured everything I had into them in the hopes that my pen marks would bleed through
and etch my words on to your heart.
And I know where you kept them all tucked away.
I imagined you sneaking looks at them
in late hours of the night
so you could read them silently in my voice and pretend I was there
as I did with yours.
I noted every curve of your penmanship
And memorized how you wrote as if it were a dying language.
But then you stopped looking at my notes.
The ink faded and my love was no longer legible to you.
As your words still resonated in me, mine fled from you.
And the words became sharp and venomous
They hit me in the gut and i spit fire back because it was all I knew how to do.
And I am sorry.
While we may never again exchange folded papers filled with secrets and sweet nothings,
I hope some day you find yourself late at night
reading my love letters
you never threw away.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 5:44 PM UTC