"plagiarize" poems
The Pen
The pick up the pen;
The put it down again
(That sunken feeling, nemesis or friend?)
The pen. The Pen.
The pacing, the pressing up against
The period. Stop stopping
Again. Pick it up to put it down.
Pointless. Pshaw.
Please.
Please me simplicity. C’mon!
C’mon pen lemme pick it up
And put something down.
I’ll plagiarize the flow for a few words of my own.
I’m looking for inspiration from the great beyond.
My muse is missing.
I know the medium is a constraint.
I know inside
The set of symbols paints
Me into a corner. The parameters
Of my pen’s head worn out. I’m ****** The metaphors
Pressed. The pen is second-guessed.
A literate piece of poetic license,
The defense mechanism
Against the prison I impose.
Me, myself, and I inside
The pen pining for a purpose.
The nexus of picking it up and putting it down
Is perplexing me, is vexing
Me like a sticky keyboard key.
So, I’m putting it all down
With the pen.
The pen.
The picking it up: who cares?
The putting it down: pensive prohibition.
The picking up; what I left out.
The putting it down: polygraph precision.
The picking up where I left off:
The putting it down: priority, what’s left of me.
The picking it up, when I don’t even know
Why I bother?
The putting it down: passion
The putting it down: plea of let me be.
The putting it down periscope; I’m diving under
The pressure’s mounting; I’m down for the counting on my muse
To bring me back
From that inky black abyss once again
My personal sonar is
Probing the depths, of what lies
hidden within
the pen.
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 7:46 AM UTC
In long lasting fortitude is the fight of the astute.
A lot of effort is made towards the war of the moral.
And a race towards life is the route.
Preparing the endless fit of strength of all.
There is he who is choosing his fate.
Working hard despite all opposers’ bait.
There is he who is choosing life.
Working hard despite all opposers’ strife.
Lost in the dirt, seeking out of the ruse.
Forced towards the light, brighter and rife.
No letting up despite the refuse.
Clean is the proud, and happy, the player of the flute.
A rite of passage for all is the praise of the immortal.
War is the only dispute
Death is not fatal.
The renegade does not enter the gate.
He is stuck outside the city, and left without state.
The renegade does not know his wife.
He is stuck at heart and can’t even play a fife.
In the dirt he is and is with a lot of abuse.
He cannot escape the knife.
Cut, cutting up despite the accuse.
Reality is but the face of cute.
Subjected to falsified doctrine and the immoral.
It is callous and as rotten fruit.
Moxie exists with everyone no matter how small.
Can the one who is happy learn to hate?
Only he or she can solve this debate.
Finally the long absent sky above the Alewife.
Can’t say that I have seen such teeming wildlife...
Swimming in a sea of its Muse.
The lowly continue their sighs
But I do proudly diffuse.
.This plight of mine is hard to toot.
Exemplified by my emphasis on the astral.
With which I dress in an armoured suit.
So my enemies do not mute my oral.
and the skies do tell in high rate,
How esteemed they are on time and ne’er late.
But giving ever virtuous despite
All those dead or dying, without prospect of afterlife.
It is their way to choose:
The dark abyss of guise,
(or) The gentle river of blue
For now I do keep silent, But still I commute,
With those of higher propositions and goal,
So I do instill thyself a deeper root.
In the waterbed truly formal.
Those who truth ‘I do navigate’
and those of lies ‘I do alienate’
At a loss O’ man or mesmerize,
Work harder on thoughts than just plagiarize.
The foes of old are still and sleuth
I show them love and they in lies are baptized
Tradition is there with purpose, don’t misuse.
I see to it the wise stay wise,
For better they will strategize.
And the unwise, wisdom they will pursue.
Giving them their much needed paradise.
And the lost I will use.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:53 AM UTC
the vagrant, a pretense
letting light in tiniest cracks
on the pavement, again
wherever did i pass out
seizing the Ssseferoth sufferer syndrome
sinking in this suffragette
i am almost a cough away from zeitgeist
the world complained
the gods , sure they listened
but only with a nuisances negation
does the noose hang higher
nonsense st of patient anger
plagiarize my past lives
seal my fate with cement
pavement, how do i feel you
when my ashes scatter
how do i fill you with children,
cracks seeping sin and sensation
eradicated slowly by noiseless geraniums
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 7:16 AM UTC
* *A tear is shed
For those who are blind to the beauty of this world
Who can only feast on sarcasm, writhing in irony
* *It soon evaporates.
Pictures of a future dressed in ribbons and lace, cast off and burned
Pictures of the future carrying disdainful dystopia, infamous for invalids
Hung to admire in sublime distaste by those that seek knowledge
And see the repetitious antiquities of time that come to pass
But others care not for plans and the imminent
Those that keep to the light of the gas
And carry the past to the present
Hoping for trends to try again, reliving what they had never lived
Laconic and loquacious in emotions and words
Against the gossip, but paradoxically
Pushing for the creation of their “ritualistic social Golgotha”.
Those who abuse the glory of their munificent, malicious mentality
Pathetically unable to procure authentic happiness
A tear is shed.
Inside the recesses of the soul where emotions dare not dwell.
It too evaporates.
Trapped in fear and the “cliched harlequin speech of suicide”
Begging for the masses to cast them out and find each other
A tear is shed.
Never seen but felt as it evaporates.
Felt by those who envelop themselves inside themselves
Those who plagiarize their sick self-conscious souls
Those who bring about the very misfortune they strive to devour
Those who are effortlessly envied as they exploit their habitual recreations
By those who wouldn’t dream of falsified euphoria
Those who bastardise and deface the name of creative individualism
As waters of the soul are purged and discarded
They are felt by those
And are quickly washed away in doubt and regret
Keeping to the light of the gas, dangerous and warm
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC
Sitting here
Waiting, wishing, wanting,
I can't even focus.
The distraction of you pervades my mind's eye.
Write it down, the eye tells me
As if it were the messenger perched upon my shoulder.
Each breath that crawls in and out of my lungs feels heavy;
Saturated with wishful thoughts and flickering candle light
Like shards of glass
Shining and reflecting the unseen.
The wind blows cold here.
Can you feel it too?
When I was young, the teachers said I had a vivid imagination.
They deemed me "creative"
Because I liked to play pretend.
That 8-letter C word hasn't left me since.
I still like to play pretend, so
Let's make believe we can touch.
Put that scene on repeat please.
Ever since I was young I've had this vivid imagination.
The night I cried a monsoon for lack of you,
Somewhere between each breath lost
I found a realization of epic proportions.
I sat with myself in the dim light,
My arms wrapped around me,
White knuckles,
Cradling this vessel that felt hollow as a canoe,
Pretending the arms weren't mine, but yours.
Wanting.
In bed with the blankets tucked around my silhouette
And your thoughts in words cradled in my hands,
I can imagine your front against my back
And your warm breath on my neck.
I can almost feel… a rush of blood to my heart.
Name that song.
Sorry I have to plagiarize that thought but it comes so easily.
A rush of blood straight to the core.
Pumping, pulsing
Sometimes I just sit alone with my heart.
Close my eyes and listen to what it has to say.
It seems to tell me, hey I'm keeping your engine running, but you have to do the rest.
And I say a prayer for that motor inside my chest that keeps everything flowing
But I know that it won't do it all for me.
Isn't it miraculous to be alive?
Earlier today I thought: my God, do I have trust issues.
I'm confused about what's real and about how to believe.
I've been told plenty of things that aren't true
Like how pluto is a planet...
Just kidding it's only a moon.
But who's to say it's only a moon?
My moon is your moon and that seems pretty swell to me.
People say it's a comfort to look up
And know you see the same moon as someone far away.
Maybe I'll take that for truth.
Might as well.
What've I got to lose?
On second thought I might want to avoid that question.
What have I got to lose?
My head, my heart, my sanity...
It's a question for another day.
But for now I'm sitting here
Wishing, waiting, wanting
For my make-believe to get real already
And for all my distraction fantasy to spring to life.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
For what event shall lead
And what event will follow
That the mockingbird song consist
Of only its own joy and wallows?
Mirrors around the mockingbird song
Shall it disappear for its false ownership?
Mirrors around the mockingbird song
Shall it grow louder in the ears of those who trained it?
If the mirror no longer had light or we no vision
Would it become of life? Grow a soul to show?
And if the mockingbird had no ears or we no sound
Would it learn its own voice? Gain an identity other than our own?
For what event shall lead
And what event will follow
That the mockingbird song consist
Of only its own joy and wallows?
Show him his blood born to imitate
Show him his colors false to himself
Mirrors around the mockingbird song
Deathly that it see itself
Will it disappear?
If existence is to plagiarize words
And existence was of one alone
Vanish- will existence?
Or become a spirit of its own?
Jun 27, 2011
Jun 27, 2011 at 7:28 PM UTC
Thou shall not plagiarize other people's work
The first commandment for a poet
It's a shame that some people do it
While others simply don't know it
A poem doesn't always have to rhyme
The second commandment we must obey
But some people choose not to listen
Regardless of what others might say
A poem can be about anything you want
The third commandment sends some people reeling
They think it can't be a poem at all
Unless it's something to do with our feelings
Thou shall not criticize others unjustly
The fourth commandment we must adhere
They don't need their creation destroyed
It's constructive critisim they want to here
A poem can be any length you choose
The fifth commandment we all must follow
For if they were all made the same
It would surely be hollow
The vocabulary is strictly up to the poet
The sixth commandment is the poet's choice
He alone can decide the words to use
That will best give him his voice
Inspiration can come from anywhere we like
The seventh commandment we all hold true
Everyone has their writer's block moments
So whatever helps us get through
The poet can write any form they want
The eighth commandment is a must
The poet knows the style they like best
And their choices we're obliged to trust
Poetry is all a matter of taste
The ninth commandment is just like the rest
The reader must choose what's dear to his heart
And the poems that he likes the best
Never alienate your readers
The tenth commandment speaks for itself
Cause if you act like you're better than them
Your books will stay on the shelf
Apr 17, 2010
Apr 17, 2010 at 6:42 PM UTC
Supporters over haters
Aiming for more likers
Hope to be known
When a real work was not shown
Shown whenyou share it for fame
To be called by a famous name
Cant you feel a lil shame
When someone shows their works not for fame
Show it with notebook and pen
Don't plagiarize just for fame
Jul 25, 2017
Jul 25, 2017 at 2:17 AM UTC
So many people tell me
*You should take
a page out of their book*
And I just think
*Did you plagiarize
Your whole life*
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC
dreaming a pie slice of life with you, I'll happily plagiarize
inside the stinging bee's nest, nobody dares find it
secret, secret, oh little secret tune
sing the truth on the flute in the willow
who could ever guess who it really is, but you.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 12:53 PM UTC
Brave are those
Who can
Withstand her eyes
Plagiarize her smile
Communicate her silence
Brave are those
Who tried
At least for once
And realized
Why worth for
And her bravery is
Her roar
A roar for,
"No" to No
"Yes" to Yes
Jan 24, 2019
Jan 24, 2019 at 9:21 AM UTC
oh see,
i will take this outlet
[this two pronged outlet
one of you and one of me]
to reply because
i picked up the phone today
and called someone else
thinking
"oh hell i'll warm up a bit
before i dive into this-
i mean, i want to get
my personality right
don't i?
I MEAN DON'T I?!?!?!?
WHO THE HELL AM I ANYMORE?!?!?!?!"
panic set in.
i called my dad.
he's always calming.
we talked about christmas ****
what he wants. what mom wants.
it calmed me down.
i figured out who i am:
i'm just a dude playing a dude disguised as another dude,
not breaking character til we're done the DVD commentary.
[paraphrased of course cuz I don't plagiarize.]
i'll call you
but how late will you be awake?
i'll call you
but what are you doing right now?
i'll call you
but why am i nervous?
i'll call you
but aren't we all one Being?
i'll call you
but but but but but but burt but but but but but but but but but
don't you have home work
or something better to do
than listen to me preach
and flap flap flap flap
and not hug me again
and not listen to me
or are you listening to me
or am i neurotic
or is it all smoke and mirrors
and seriously i'm coughing uncontrollably
and you'd think i'm crazy
but it's that holiday season
and for the next handful of weeks
i've got a handful of excuses
of why and how and what and how
but burdens only stack up
and i've released literally every single one
except i'm still replaying josh ritter in my head
and the car ride home from that purple chair
and the walk around the duck.
[not stopping for breathing
or trimming my toe nails,
which started growing again.]
and LA and Delaware and pencilwania and where we met on that pier at that show in socal and house of blues and mini golf and lists and names and places and "there's no hell when you die, so don't look so worried."
and i'll call you
but will you answer?
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 10:26 PM UTC
I've forgotten the last time I had to memorize
oh wait, it was today.
I memorized so I didn't have to plagiarize
and I plagiarized because I had no idea what to say.
instead of studying, I was out at play
breaking ankles instead of pencil tips.
made some gnarly 3 pointers, I might say,
all I could think about were my papercut lips.
the keyboard fights me with whips
I'm trying, I am really trying,
but I'm collapsing, like sunken battleships.
Well, at least I'm not dying.
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 12:53 PM UTC
i've been texting people for a connection.
our bodies search for vibrations,
short and electric but its an elaborate show.
who are these folks behind the curtains?
and through these notes, i am certain.
i cant write anything of substance.
i keep seeing your name and i try to change it
into something insignificant.
but that which we call a rose,
right?
i keep trying to escape it
but my handwriting is no legible font.
no respectable medium to my professor.
i cant keep in between the margins
how would they know the amount?
did i plagiarize the way i wrote
"I miss you." ?
so, we type.
remove the writer. its about the content.
did i cite your absence right?
is this journalism, biography or ********
it must not true, ****
but my fingertips reach
short distances on the keys
of my devices
and we type.
hashtag notice us, hashtag test us back,
are we connected yet?
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
Poets are always looking out a window
As they struggle to get the words right
Revisit and revise
But do not plagiarize.
Aug 3, 2017
Aug 3, 2017 at 4:02 PM UTC
What's your name? I'm not so sure I should tell you mine you seem like the type of guy I've known in the past. I always fall for someone that everyone says I shouldn't am I really that blind? I like your brown hair, it matches your eyes they're deep and pregnant trying to explode but you prefer to hide all of those lies. Are you capable of changing my mind? You smell like my past, the mix of cheap cologne and the thick smoke of cigarettes battling against each other but neither coming ahead. I hate to be so blunt, or is that what I'm supposed to say I don't want to seem arrogant, your teeth are straight and white your smile might make me forget everything I'm afraid to let go of can I see it one more time? Maybe we should keep it like this, stay lovers and never be friends. Use fake names and plagiarize words we both need to hear because your face tells me your heart is as broken as mine and neither of us want to love each other. Let's get drunk off of generic light beer and turn off all the lights. I just want to taste the stale menthol lingering on your breath trying to escape the malted beverage failing to cleanse your mouth, I need to absorb your kiss to remember a night so long ago, I want to close my eyes and go back in that moment where ignorance was my only friend. I'll pretend to be her if you pretend to be him, because we both deserve this desirable sin.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hey.
What's your name?
I'm not so sure I should tell you mine.
So please don't speak a word of truth.
You seem like the type of guy I've known in the past.
Dangerous and broken,
Tormented and dark.
I always fall for the ones I'm not supposed to.
Am I really that blind?
I like your brown hair,
Or maybe it's more black.
Either way
It matches your eyes
So deep and pregnant trying to explode,
but I can tell you prefer to hide all of those lies.
Are you capable of changing my mind?
You smell like my past,
the mix of cheap cologne and the thick smoke of cigarettes,
battling against each other but neither coming ahead.
I hate to be so blunt, or is that what I'm supposed to say?
I don't want to seem arrogant, but I think I just might.
Your teeth are straight and white, beautiful in a way.
Your smile might make me forget everything I'm afraid to let go of,
Even if it's just for today.
Will you burn me with your happy pain one more time?
Maybe we should keep it like this,
Stay lovers and never be friends.
Use fake names and plagiarize words we both need to hear,
because your face tells me your heart is as broken as mine
and neither of us are capable of loving each other.
Let's get drunk off of this generic light beer,
Turn off all the lights.
I want to taste the stale menthol lingering on your breath
trying to escape the malted beverage failing to cleanse your mouth,
I need to absorb your kiss to remember a night so long ago.
I want to close my eyes and go back in that moment where ignorance was my only friend.
I'll pretend to be her if you pretend to be him,
because we both deserve this desirable sin.
Sep 17, 2010
Sep 17, 2010 at 12:11 AM UTC
I don't dedicate poems
nope.
the dedication is in the
composition.
In the composition is:
the ceremonial fire
the ribbon drawn tight
ready for cutting
the struggle, heavy breathing,
the ****** of completion
the satisfaction of having
torn off a piece of you,
and in doing so, you
are even more whole
than before
when it is done
I don't dedicate to you
I surrender it, grant and give it,
push it away, can't even
remember it days later,
cause it ain't mine,
ain't mine no more
from the second
I push that
black n white
Save Poem
button.
someday I am gonna plagiarize myself,
and then laugh and laugh all the way
home.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 7:02 AM UTC
I said
Baby, I've run out of words
All the old writers took the good ones
She said
*I'm sorry, suga
They're such big selfish turds...
Why don't you post that one I like
You know, of cloudless climes and starry skies..*
I said,
Baby, I can't plagiarize
Especially Lord Byron
He's a famous poet
She said,
*I know it, honeybun
But your old stuff's gittin' tirin'.*
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 5:04 PM UTC
35,088 feet over Nebraska,
(Nebraska-imagining me climbing a ladder, me upwards, Jacob’s angels coming down, off to a high school All Saints wrestling match in a cornfield town)
a place not on my bucket list, just a blue bias of an eastern stater’s unknowns, a sure sign of how much he doesn’t know
reading Patti’s slender volume “Devotion”
slender like her body, some would call it a wiry woman's
sparse but directed, connective, word-worshipping,
old familiar strangers she delivers to you that you have never met, her phraseology striking me and strikingly beautiful simultaneous
scan it and understanding instantaneous
she asking,
why do we write?
her answers are fine copper wire threaded
into a coil and I close it quick cause the loving ****** desire to
plagiarize such an oddly gorgeous offerings is overwhelming;
I feel the wire words piercing my temple, intending to
emerge out the other side, a decorative symmetry,
I don’t own
my need to script some cursive on my smooth body parts,
on my god-given papyrus, always at the ready,
is a methadone itch, a dulling urge needy for fulfillment,
that needs satisfying but me, soundly second rate,
write like the flip side of a hit vinyl record, no one is expected to play, fulfillment meets futility
thus the title is a modification of a Patti light touch
my alchemy never made any gold and my present presence now over Iowa a reminder that my prescriptions are 1200 evacuations; they are negative commandments,
proscriptions, not prescriptions
do not write, do not wrong words with a middling diffidence,
hide your face and put her words on a shelf above your head
hard to reach, so you do not be tempted
why do we write?
“All seeking an emptiness to imbue with words.
The words that will penetrate ******
territory, crack unclaimed
combinations, articulate the infinite.” Patti Smith
disambiguation she relieves us of uncertainty
my combinations over Waterloo, Illinois
are ordinary smokestack gray, a spewing wastage,
the angels conforming that my words Cain-fail,
my confession
meets no one’s standards, not even mine
7:07pm Central Time
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 8:47 PM UTC
They own me, they own you
They own your home
They own the schools
Their television tells you what to do
airwaves ordering a land of fools
Believe youre free, just pay the fees
not hard to see the hypocrisy
This rat race they put in place
Dollars chased in lives of waste
Nod and applaud for their only God
Dare not look beyond the facade
Forgo your mind and they will provide
A flag for you to hide behind
Draw closed your window blinds
as they plagiarize what lurks outside.
Step in line and all is fine
Obey their law, follow their signs
buy and sell you, work the wager
acting as its in your favor
This is not the work of saviors
Welcome to the masters chamber.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 3:04 PM UTC
~for mark john junior~
the spigot turns counterclockwise,
oft I wondered why,
is it the magic way to make
things rise...
'pon occasion, the water shuts off,
turn left to right or vice versa,
no juice no bath and life starts
to stink, especially under armpits
and you think
how many love poems does one soul
in his lifetime possess,
and can I do better than my last...
if at all
sometimes you stare at a blankenship
ocean adrift, pirate hijacking victim,
no grub, no paddle or map,
but an empty water bottle
baffled you ask it
to point north,
laughs at you, asking,
"am I a compass,
or you,
a complete ***
a seismic groan out loud,
registers on
Florida's hurricane wind watch
how come this to be
meteoric loss of metaphor bridging,
search the Internet for the ******
of poetic inspiration, and an
error message delivered:
"plagiarize, or better luck next time sucker"
patience, football, thy women,
will in time realize the artful truth realized:
"Creativity is allowing oneself to make mistakes; art is knowing which ones to keep"
Scott Adams (creator of Dilbert)
so
go forth,
make mistakes plenty,
keep some good,
the pink ones fyi, my fav,
look that quill in the face,
and give the lazy ******* some lip,
reminding it,
it gets paid and ink drinks,
by the word
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 1:35 PM UTC
(I)
The quest for love is tired and spent
Endless anguish for one that you hope to find
Along this extensive desolately disenchanted road
Where faces come and go in and out of aged shadows
No body is sweetly thought about for longer than an affair
Grown uninterested and somnolent of the same tedious routine
It’s all just a squandered course of existence
(II)
People covered in leaves
Sitting on a couch
Covered in leaves
Looking at me
Staring at me
Covered in blood
(III)
We were here fifty years ago
Drifting in and out of conversations
About some perverse poetry
Sultry vixens and the men they tamed
Whispers and shouts
Eloquently spoken over some scrambled background jazz
A hustle of people migrating around
In some discordant harmonious rhythm
Cocktail hour at this doomed speakeasy
We drank and were silent
We drank and were voicing our opinions
We drank more until we could no longer drink any longer
We stumbled outside
Attempted to hail a cab
Fell asleep on a park bench
Awoke to the sun’s rays glaring
From some far off distance
Warmth on our nightly chilled face
We rose from our slumber
And began to walk towards the nearest open bar
To start it all over again
(IV)
Stop!
This is ***********
Proceed no further
A thousand exotic images
Flashing widescreen
Moans and groans
Entanglement of legs and limbs
Numbing
Tingling
Writhing
Writhing in ecstasy
A million dollar money shot
*** get baptized
No sense in wasting a good time
(V)
There’s hopelessness here
Behind my eyes
Thirty thousand words
Scripted in chaos
Where does our destiny lie?
Somewhere out on the open broken road
Riding down damaged goods
Animals roaming free
Over civilizations failure
Hard-edged footprints
Caked in last night’s mud
Wandering shapelessly
We are lost
Feed the wall
Feed the tree
I only hurt in your dreams
So I plagiarize because there’s nothing better to do
Just killing a remembrance of time
Lying on the nearest railroad track
And waiting for the end of the line
Apr 25, 2011
Apr 25, 2011 at 6:30 AM UTC
Subconscious poetry
I miss my nostalgic energy
feeling the heat sun on my skin
wishing on a pebble
found it next to your high heels
your dress and hair bow in the trees
they were shaped like Texas
I miss the road
dead Kerouac soul
I need to fish for some morphine hallucinogen
degenerate again
no money again
lonely again
fine with that again
sittin alone with only the walls and the dog that ****** on my only blanket
I laugh
knowing that tonight
I'll walk down to the lake
watch the geese plagiarize flight
light a cigarette
that I bought with pennies
discovered behind the empty refrigerator
Subconscious poetry
Bob Dylan tongue
Jazz trumpet brass mind
1930's wooden night-club Italian music band dance floor soul
7 years old- never gonna die
20 years old- never gonna die
Foolish as a Child
Brave-ish as I can be
color my walls gray with left over paint
that we used to disguise our sail boat to cross the border
It's just me
the ***** floor
some words
some words
to do.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 3:11 PM UTC