"pickpocketing" poems
I sometimes wield the pen in spite
Of why I am convinced I write
The poetic words that I spill
Spill like a glass of water
That’s been stirred to overflow
By my feelings and thoughts or so
I have gotten to know
The will of the flow
The direction that it wants to go
That’s what po-
etry is all about, no?
Because poem starts
with a P for personal
Not popular
Or populous
Not for the people who prefer prying
Pickpocketing or playful plying
In the placid plains inside
It’s for the persons who pray
To the poet’s plight
To go out on an odyssey,
with an O, the second letter
Not omniscient
Or omnipotent
For oscillating with your own
Is only for ones once overthrown
By an onslaught of hydrogen per-oxide
Those ostracized and odd
Off, yet open to the outside
E is the third letter
And it stands for emotional
Or extorted
until emptiness
Extended
after the excavation had ended
and emotion was evacuated ere
The embodiment of ecstasy
Had been enterred here
Lastly M stands for me!
Me, myself and I!
Not the masses who maim
My mind and meticulously aim
For the mark on my midbrain
Just the men and wo-men who make do
With musing about the mechanisms of
Mother Earth and her miracles too
Poetry is a gift
Out with it to be at ease
Especially for yourself
May it help you find peace
Aug 4, 2017
Aug 4, 2017 at 6:54 PM UTC
Seize the moment
they say
live in the moment
to seize is to take
to take is to steal
I begin pickpocketing
moments for myself
and no one else
getting advice from what can
only be a moment thief
Articles with click-throughs
said I could love myself
three easy steps
ten easy steps
arbitrary quantities
erroneous
because it has taken
thousands of difficult steps
to begin loving myself
and only with the help
of moments from
strangers and tourists
in my town
The moment thief tells me
not to be scared of being scared
It tells me to be proud
of myself
never ashamed
of how I came to find out
the moment thief
does not know
what I do not know
why I like to make
generalizations
about humanity
as a whole
after being hurt by
only one person
The snatcher says to me
living is as easy as not dying
There is no use shoplifting
the only good lives
are in the street
and in the homes
be a cat burglar
ahead of the pack
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC
She opened her eyes
Staring in the ceilling of solitude
No jobs, No bills
Waiting for the time to come
But will it ever?
She does her bath
And attended her gyms
Eats in the cafeteria
Of the misdemeanors
She has the hand of Hermes
Good for pickpocketing and handicrafts
In her other time she has
A shadow she becomes doing tricks and trades
Pro you can say in cards, she had a lot of time to practice
Just like that her youth wasted
An act of atrocity
Leading to an ended road
She sure has a lot of time
But yet running out of
Only what she can do now is remorse
She has freedom
But yet leashed
Only what she can do now is behave
Sometimes
A freedom inside is not a freedom outside
Only then you realize what value freedom has
When you dont possess it
May 21, 2021
May 21, 2021 at 6:23 AM UTC
Sturdy umbrella hands
Absurdly-stealing white-hot
Whiskers; -bleeding's
Of her heart.
Gravity held them,
For black hole -minutes
While medusa's
Tongue mesmerised us-
Time was sneaking-snow dragons,
Breath inside cardiac-wisps
And Winchester demons
Laughed as I was feigned
By void-born darkness.
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 5:44 PM UTC
My bones are diamond shafts.
Each eye a sapphire gem.
My blood is liquid rubies.
Dare I divulge my name?
My members, a master's crafts;
No bacteria, germs or phlegm.
I live free of formal duties.
Shall I flaunt for fame?
No epiglottis or voice boxes,
My heart's a rocketing comet.
No esophagus needed to imbibe,
I just absorb—like the perfect heist.
Hunted by shamans like foxes,
Fronted by the pickpocketing prophet,
Who've seen what I now struggle to describe:
A human creature reborn in Christ.
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 1:15 PM UTC
wandering is nothing but
distracting.
the pace is rhythm
making and recalling
music and verse until
eyes focus on juxtaposed
man with club foot and
pan bottom black eyes.
discordant dismissed song
they're not always there
, breaking,
when wandering .
the percussion stops
in crowds . Revery then
a swarm consciousness
of street starlings
part one mind part
mindful of pickpocketing
magpies
one can always leave
spin the record back
and step on as just
you.
wandering about in
rhythms is a mercy
from deadlines.
a must have time
to pace to
when you have no
destination.
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 5:23 PM UTC
His younger sister was the bride
And he sat facing the gushing girl
He fondled the **** of his walking cane
As he waited for her eyes to meet his gaze;
When they finally did, he smiled a knowing smile
A vexing, blackmailing smile
That sought a response- a glint of acknowledgement;
It sent chills down her spine, sweat broke out on her back
She now regretted having been the one who'd started-
The impetuous demands that violated the natural
And made them feel like some Old Testament pairs
He'd become relentless, with pickpocketing deftness
At the drop of a hat, he'd drop his pants
Now, rising from his seat, he blew her a kiss
And that did her in
Jul 5, 2019
Jul 5, 2019 at 8:55 AM UTC