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Chuck Jul 2013
Emotionally my feelings are poetically ineffable

Emotionally my feelings are poetically ineffable

Emotionally my feelings are poetically ineffable

Emotionally my feelings are poetically ineffable

Emotionally my feelings are poetically ineffable

Emotionally my feelings are poetically ineffable

Emotionally my feelings are poetically ineffable

Emotionally my feelings are poetically ineffable

Emotionally my feelings are poetically ineffable

Emotionally my feelings are poetically ineffable

Emotionally my feelings are poetically ineffable

Emotionally my feelings are poetically ineffable

Emotionally my feelings are poetically ineffable

Emotionally my feelings are poetically ineffable

Emotionally my feelings are poetically ineffable
This is a variation on my 10 word poem called Ineffable. Ineffable means too extreme or great to be described by words.
by
Alexander K Opicho

(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)

When I grow up I will seek permission
From my parents, my mother before my father
To travel to Russia the European land of dystopia
that has never known democracy in any tincture
I will beckon the tsar of Russia to open for me
Their classical cipher that Bogy visoky tsa dalyko
I will ask the daughters of Russia to oblivionize my dark skin
***** skin and make love to me the real pre-democratic love
Love that calls for ambers that will claw the fire of revolution,
I will ask my love from the land of Siberia to show me cradle of Rand
The European manger on which Ayn Rand was born during the Leninist census
I will exhume her umbilical cord plus the placenta to link me up
To her dystopian mind that germinated the vice
For shrugging the atlas for we the living ones,
In a full dint of my ***** libido I will ask her
With my African temerarious manner I will bother her
To show me the bronze statues of Alexander Pushkin
I hear it is at ******* of the city of Moscow; Petersburg
I will talk to my brother Pushkin, my fellow African born in Ethiopia
In the family of Godunov only taken to Europe in a slave raid
Ask the Frenchman Henri Troyat who stood with his ***** erected
As he watched an Ethiopian father fertilizing an Ethiopian mother
And child who was born was Dystopian Alexander Pushkin,
I will carry his remains; the bones, the skull and the skeleton in oily
Sisal threads made bag on my broad African shoulders back to Africa
I will re-bury him in the city of Omurate in southern Ethiopia at the buttocks
Of the fish venting beautiful summer waters of Lake Turkana,
I will ask Alexander Pushkin when in a sag on my back to sing for me
His famous poems in praise of thighs of women;

(I loved you: and, it may be, from my soul
The former love has never gone away,
But let it not recall to you my dole;
I wish not sadden you in any way.

I loved you silently, without hope, fully,
In diffidence, in jealousy, in pain;
I loved you so tenderly and truly,
As let you else be loved by any man.
I loved you because of your smooth thighs
They put my heart on fire like amber in gasoline)

I will leave the bronze statue of Alexander Pushkin in Moscow
For Lenin to look at, he will assign Mayakovski to guard it
Day and night as he sings for it the cacotopian
Poems of a slap in the face of public taste;

(I know the power of words, I know words' tocsin.
They're not the kind applauded by the boxes.
From words like these coffins burst from the earth
and on their own four oaken legs stride forth.
It happens they reject you, unpublished, unprinted.
But saddle-girths tightening words gallop ahead.
See how the centuries ring and trains crawl
to lick poetry's calloused hands.
I know the power of words. Seeming trifles that fall
like petals beneath the heel-taps of dance.
But man with his soul, his lips, his bones.)

I will come along to African city of Omurate
With the pedagogue of the thespic poet
The teacher of the poets, the teacher who taught
Alexander Sergeyvich Pushkin; I know his name
The name is Nikolai Vasileyvitch Gogol
I will caution him to carry only two books
From which he will teach the re-Africanized Pushkin
The first book is the Cloak and second book will be
The voluminous dead souls that have two sharp children of Russian dystopia;
The cactopia of Nosdrezv in his sadistic cult of betrayal
And utopia of Chichikov in his paranoid ownership of dead souls
Of the Russian peasants, muzhiks and serfs,
I will caution him not to carry the government inspector incognito
We don’t want the inspector general in the African city of Omurate
He will leave it behind for Lenin to read because he needs to know
What is to be done.
I don’t like the extreme badness of owning the dead souls
Let me run away to the city of Paris, where romance and poetry
Are utopian commanders of the dystopian orchestra
In which Victor Marie Hugo is haunted by
The ghost of Jean Val Jean; Le Miserable,
I will implore Hugo to take me to the Corsican Island
And chant for me one **** song of the French revolution;


       (  take heed of this small child of earth;
He is great; he hath in him God most high.
Children before their fleshly birth
Are lights alive in the blue sky.
  
In our light bitter world of wrong
They come; God gives us them awhile.
His speech is in their stammering tongue,
And his forgiveness in their smile.
  
Their sweet light rests upon our eyes.
Alas! their right to joy is plain.
If they are hungry Paradise
Weeps, and, if cold, Heaven thrills with pain.
  
The want that saps their sinless flower
Speaks judgment on sin's ministers.
Man holds an angel in his power.
Ah! deep in Heaven what thunder stirs,
  
When God seeks out these tender things
Whom in the shadow where we sleep
He sends us clothed about with wings,
And finds them ragged babes that we)

 From the Corsican I won’t go back to Paris
Because Napoleon Bonaparte and the proletariat
Has already taken over the municipal of Paris
I will dodge this city and maneuver my ways
Through Alsace and Lorraine
The Miginko islands of Europe
And cross the boundaries in to bundeslander
Into Germany, I will go to Berlin and beg the Gestapo
The State police not to shoot me as I climb the Berlin wall
I will balance dramatically on the top of Berlin wall
Like Eshu the Nigerian god of fate
With East Germany on my right; Die ossie
And West Germany on my left; Die wessie
Then like Jesus balancing and walking
On the waters of Lake Galilee
I will balance on Berlin wall
And call one of my faithful followers from Germany
The strong hearted Friedrich von Schiller
To climb the Berlin wall with me
So that we can sing his dystopic Cassandra as a duet
We shall sing and balance on the wall of Berlin
Schiller’s beauteous song of Cassandra;

(Mirth the halls of Troy was filling,
Ere its lofty ramparts fell;
From the golden lute so thrilling
Hymns of joy were heard to swell.
From the sad and tearful slaughter
All had laid their arms aside,
For Pelides Priam's daughter
Claimed then as his own fair bride.

Laurel branches with them bearing,
Troop on troop in bright array
To the temples were repairing,
Owning Thymbrius' sovereign sway.
Through the streets, with frantic measure,
Danced the bacchanal mad round,
And, amid the radiant pleasure,
Only one sad breast was found.

Joyless in the midst of gladness,
None to heed her, none to love,
Roamed Cassandra, plunged in sadness,
To Apollo's laurel grove.
To its dark and deep recesses
Swift the sorrowing priestess hied,
And from off her flowing tresses
Tore the sacred band, and cried:

"All around with joy is beaming,
Ev'ry heart is happy now,
And my sire is fondly dreaming,
Wreathed with flowers my sister's brow
I alone am doomed to wailing,
That sweet vision flies from me;
In my mind, these walls assailing,
Fierce destruction I can see."

"Though a torch I see all-glowing,
Yet 'tis not in *****'s hand;
Smoke across the skies is blowing,
Yet 'tis from no votive brand.
Yonder see I feasts entrancing,
But in my prophetic soul,
Hear I now the God advancing,
Who will steep in tears the bowl!"

"And they blame my lamentation,
And they laugh my grief to scorn;
To the haunts of desolation
I must bear my woes forlorn.
All who happy are, now shun me,
And my tears with laughter see;
Heavy lies thy hand upon me,
Cruel Pythian deity!"

"Thy divine decrees foretelling,
Wherefore hast thou thrown me here,
Where the ever-blind are dwelling,
With a mind, alas, too clear?
Wherefore hast thou power thus given,
What must needs occur to know?
Wrought must be the will of Heaven--
Onward come the hour of woe!"

"When impending fate strikes terror,
Why remove the covering?
Life we have alone in error,
Knowledge with it death must bring.
Take away this prescience tearful,
Take this sight of woe from me;
Of thy truths, alas! how fearful
'Tis the mouthpiece frail to be!"

"Veil my mind once more in slumbers
Let me heedlessly rejoice;
Never have I sung glad numbers
Since I've been thy chosen voice.
Knowledge of the future giving,
Thou hast stolen the present day,
Stolen the moment's joyous living,--
Take thy false gift, then, away!"

"Ne'er with bridal train around me,
Have I wreathed my radiant brow,
Since to serve thy fane I bound me--
Bound me with a solemn vow.
Evermore in grief I languish--
All my youth in tears was spent;
And with thoughts of bitter anguish
My too-feeling heart is rent."

"Joyously my friends are playing,
All around are blest and glad,
In the paths of pleasure straying,--
My poor heart alone is sad.
Spring in vain unfolds each treasure,
Filling all the earth with bliss;
Who in life can e'er take pleasure,
When is seen its dark abyss?"

"With her heart in vision burning,
Truly blest is Polyxene,
As a bride to clasp him yearning.
Him, the noblest, best Hellene!
And her breast with rapture swelling,
All its bliss can scarcely know;
E'en the Gods in heavenly dwelling
Envying not, when dreaming so."

"He to whom my heart is plighted
Stood before my ravished eye,
And his look, by passion lighted,
Toward me turned imploringly.
With the loved one, oh, how gladly
Homeward would I take my flight
But a Stygian shadow sadly
Steps between us every night."

"Cruel Proserpine is sending
All her spectres pale to me;
Ever on my steps attending
Those dread shadowy forms I see.
Though I seek, in mirth and laughter
Refuge from that ghastly train,
Still I see them hastening after,--
Ne'er shall I know joy again."

"And I see the death-steel glancing,
And the eye of ****** glare;
On, with hasty strides advancing,
Terror haunts me everywhere.
Vain I seek alleviation;--
Knowing, seeing, suffering all,
I must wait the consummation,
In a foreign land must fall."

While her solemn words are ringing,
Hark! a dull and wailing tone
From the temple's gate upspringing,--
Dead lies Thetis' mighty son!
Eris shakes her snake-locks hated,
Swiftly flies each deity,
And o'er Ilion's walls ill-fated
Thunder-clouds loom heavily!)

When the Gestapoes get impatient
We shall not climb down to walk on earth
Because by this time  of utopia
Thespis and Muse the gods of poetry
Would have given us the wings to fly
To fly high over England, I and schiller
We shall not land any where in London
Nor perch to any of the English tree
Wales, Scotland, Ireland and Thales
We shall not land there in these lands
The waters of river Thames we shall not drink
We shall fly higher over England
The queen of England we shall not commune
For she is my lender; has lend me the language
English language in which I am chanting
My dystopic songs, poor me! What a cacotopia!
If she takes her language away from
I will remain poetically dead
In the Universe of art and culture
I will form a huge palimpsest of African poetry
Friedrich son of schiller please understand me
Let us not land in England lest I loose
My borrowed tools of worker back to the owner,
But instead let us fly higher in to the azure
The zenith of the sky where the eagles never dare
And call the English bard
through  our high shrilled eagle’s contralto
William Shakespeare to come up
In the English sky; to our treat of poetic blitzkrieg
Please dear schiller we shall tell the bard of London
To come up with his three Luftwaffe
These will be; the deer he stole from the rich farmer
Once when he was a lad in the rural house of john the father,
Second in order is the Hamlet the price of Denmark
Thirdly is  his beautiful song of the **** of lucrece,
We shall ask the bard to return back the deer to the owner
Three of ourselves shall enjoy together dystopia in Hamlet
And ask Shakespeare to sing for us his song
In which he saw a man **** Lucrece; the **** of Lucrece;

( From the besieged Ardea all in post,
Borne by the trustless wings of false desire,
Lust-breathed Tarquin leaves the Roman host,
And to Collatium bears the lightless fire
Which, in pale embers hid, lurks to aspire
  And girdle with embracing flames the waist
  Of Collatine's fair love, Lucrece the chaste.

Haply that name of chaste unhapp'ly set
This bateless edge on his keen appetite;
When Collatine unwisely did not let
To praise the clear unmatched red and white
Which triumph'd in that sky of his delight,
  Where mortal stars, as bright as heaven's beauties,
  With pure aspects did him peculiar duties.

For he the night before, in Tarquin's tent,
Unlock'd the treasure of his happy state;
What priceless wealth the heavens had him lent
In the possession of his beauteous mate;
Reckoning his fortune at such high-proud rate,
  That kings might be espoused to more fame,
  But king nor peer to such a peerless dame.

O happiness enjoy'd but of a few!
And, if possess'd, as soon decay'd and done
As is the morning's silver-melting dew
Against the golden splendour of the sun!
An expir'd date, cancell'd ere well begun:
  Honour and beauty, in the owner's arms,
  Are weakly fortress'd from a world of harms.

Beauty itself doth of itself persuade
The eyes of men without an orator;
What needeth then apologies be made,
To set forth that which is so singular?
Or why is Collatine the publisher
  Of that rich jewel he should keep unknown
  From thievish ears, because it is his own?

Perchance his boast of Lucrece' sovereignty
Suggested this proud issue of a king;
For by our ears our hearts oft tainted be:
Perchance that envy of so rich a thing,
Braving compare, disdainfully did sting
  His high-pitch'd thoughts, that meaner men should vaunt
  That golden hap which their superiors want)

  
I and Schiller we shall be the audience
When Shakespeare will echo
The enemies of beauty as
It is weakly protected in the arms of Othello.

I and Schiller we don’t know places in Greece
But Shakespeare’s mother comes from Greece
And Shakespeare’s wife comes from Athens
Shakespeare thus knows Greece like Pericles,
We shall not land anywhere on the way
But straight we shall be let
By Shakespeare to Greece
Into the inner chamber of calypso
Lest the Cyclopes eat us whole meal
We want to redeem Homer from the
Love detention camp of calypso
Where he has dallied nine years in the wilderness
Wilderness of love without reaching home
I will ask Homer to introduce me
To Muse, Clio and Thespis
The three spiritualities of poetry
That gave Homer powers to graft the epics
Of Iliad and Odyssey centerpieces of Greece dystopia
I will ask Homer to chant and sing for us the epical
Songs of love, Grecian cradle of utopia
Where Cyclopes thrive on heavyweight cacotopia
Please dear Homer kindly sing for us;
(Thus through the livelong day to the going down of the sun we
feasted our fill on meat and drink, but when the sun went down and
it came on dark, we camped upon the beach. When the child of
morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, I bade my men on board and
loose the hawsers. Then they took their places and smote the grey
sea with their oars; so we sailed on with sorrow in our hearts, but
glad to have escaped death though we had lost our comrades)
                                  
From Greece to Africa the short route  is via India
The sub continent of India where humanity
Flocks like the oceans of women and men
The land in which Romesh Tulsi
Grafted Ramayana and Mahabharata
The handbook of slavery and caste prejudice
The land in which Gujarat Indian tongue
In the cheeks of Rabidranathe Tagore
Was awarded a Poetical honour
By Alfred Nobel minus any Nemesis
From the land of Scandinavia,
I will implore Tagore to sing for me
The poem which made Nobel to give him a prize
I will ask Tagore to sing in English
The cacotopia and utopia that made India
An oversized dystopia that man has ever seen,
Tagore sing please Tagore sing for me your beggarly heat;

(When the heart is hard and parched up,
come upon me with a shower of mercy.

When grace is lost from life,
come with a burst of song.

When tumultuous work raises its din on all sides shutting me out from
beyond, come to me, my lord of silence, with thy peace and rest.

When my beggarly heart sits crouched, shut up in a corner,
break open the door, my king, and come with the ceremony of a king.

When desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, O thou holy one,
thou wakeful, come with thy light and thy thunder)



The heart of beggar must be
A hard heart for it to glorify in the art of begging,

I don’t like begging
This is knot my heart suffered
From my childhood experience
I saw my mother
Trapped in my head
Thoughts I should've said

Words drawn like an artist
This paper is my canvas

The art of written form
My pens creating a storm

Scribbles so energetically
It just comes out poetically

The start of a verbal creation
Ranting and letting out frustration

Written out to sound vocally
Just the way I like my poetry

I'll ask just one question...
Have I made an impression?
Well, have I?
Sarina Jun 2013
Moths are born from spider webs,
creatures who make love with seven legs bent over their heads
and that is how I feel for you.

Almost invisible upon the back of plush blacks
merely caught up in a game of Twister, twisted, tied,
birthing beautiful flies -
I want to feel my saliva crawling out from your ****** hair.
Apollo Hayden Jan 2017
The marriage of pen to paper gives birth to poetic imagery.
So full of life that its authentic nature can be felt every time you read.
My heart nurtured in its soil so deep that my mind thinks poetically. Aligned with the body and soul, I become poetically whole.
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2013
Mashup

Part I

I mashup me, myself, and perhaps thee too.


Excerpts from my poems about poets, poetry and the process of compositions. In chronological order, earliest to latest.
---------------------------------------------------------­------------------

With words we paint,
With syllables we embrace,
Tasked and ennobled,
We are forever fully employed,
Missionaries to all,
You too, are one as well,
Your fate can't be renounced,

when the rusted unborn poem notion is almost done,
but remains unpublished,
for no beginning, no title, can be found,

Then I recall the cornucopia days,
when poems spilled forth like
there would never be a when they wouldn't,

I revisit my old friends, couplets, twins and triplets,
seeded inside every tear, happy or sad,
sweetly and freely,

my old friends, reread,
words rearranged in new combinations,
old poems, plants bearing new fruits,
re-titled all of them, one name,
a collection entitled,
My Solace.


My eyes, my eyes, see only the
Totality of this moment.
When mastery of multi-tasking
Is the single best poem this man ever
Penned with his entirety,
Of which not word survived
For its unspoken silence was its glory.

My compact with you is to
remind us all, through
music, dance, words (poetry) and love,
This is the only compact
with the power of human law.


Color me flesh ****,
Color me blue bottled,
Red ripped asunder,
The sweetness ascribed to my love poetry,
A subtraction of the bitterness of a failed life.
Colorist of my seams, my woven words,
I am white now, my canvas completed,
Waiting for another poet to write over it,
And chaining new words to what was prior writ.

Al,  what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.


You ask me how I find the time,
(To write)
But time is not the issue,
For they, are all prepared, needing only recognition,
For they, are all in readiness, needing only composition.

For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.

When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
tastes his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
and becomes one who was, yet is,
because of you, in poetry.

Awful poetry, some good, you will write.
But write and write till your heart be calmed,
For even ancient kings felt the anguish  of the soul,
And we profit even today by King David's psalms.


This wizened fool has his hands full,
Mouths to feed, bread to earn and bake,
As midnight is almost nigh,
He rests prone and adds a verse to this old poem
He long ago scribbled down, grimace-smiles now,
Realizing there is little difference tween him and the
Sad Eyed Teenagers of the Lowland.

For poetry salves his wounds still, even now,
Unashamedly, he thinks, hallelujah!

The poem is the afterbirth,
A conflicts resolution, an outcome,
Battlefield debris, the residue of
An exacting vision, a sentiment surging,
And your army of words, inadequate to the task,
Fighting to capture that insight flashed,
Each word a soldier, disheveled,
Crying, let me live, let me be saved,
Let me make a poem,
Let it be inscribed upon my victorious flag.

The poem is the sweat left upon the brow,
Having exercised the five senses,
The salt of struggle and debate,
It's completion, each word,
Both a victory and a defeat.

To write but a single line,
That uplifts the heart,
Eases pain, gives delight to strangers,
And makes you laugh out loud
With shivery pleasure,
That usurps a whole day and night,
That is a poet's true measure.

Mastery of the poetic,
Measured not in quantity,
But in tears of satisfaction
When others love the taste
Of newly born stanzas
Upon their lips,
couplets born and transcribed
In the wee hours of the morn.


You can have my love, my soul,
But leave to me the labor of poetry.
Loving you with words is my domain,
The speciality of my terrain,
So no more hasta la pasta if you please,
And by the bye, I would love some
Tonight, say around eight,
At a restaurant where the moon is
The only light illuminating our faces.

Until you have bent your ear to Shakespeare's sonnets,
Till you have laughed with Ogden Nash,
Wept with Frost, visited Byron's ghost,
Read the songs of King Solomon,
And once you
Despair of being their equal,
Shed your winter coat of worry,
***** your courage to the sticking point,
Begin to write then with reckless courage,
Unfettered abandon, make a fool of yourself!

Scout the competition.
Weep, for you and I will never surpass
The giants who preceeded us, and yet,
Laugh, cause they thought the same thing as well...


All I can say is
En Garde!
I will be coming back soon enough.
because you are my best poem,
and the there will always be another stanza needed...

I am no Houdini, it's quite simple,
After 5 years, I read her like a book,
A book of my poems that she has inspired,
Entitled the Mysteries of True Love.


Each letter, a morsel in your mouth,
Each phrase, a fork full of pleasure,
Each stanza, a full fledged member in a tasting menu,
Perfect only in conjunction with the preceding flavor,
and the one that follows,  and the one that follows.

Taste each poem upon thy tongue and then pass it on,
you know how....

Each word, whether chewed thoroughly,
or lightly placed upon a bud for flavor,
needs the careful consideration of your mouth.

When I hear Shakespeare
My own voice is stilled, it's poverty exposed,
I am ashamed of every word I ever wrote.
Hush me not, for t'is true,
Yet I write on for an audience of one, on but one subject,
A subject, a life, mine,
yet, still unmastered, even after decades of trying.

My poverty exposed, unmasked
for what it is worth, or not.


Lest you think this is paean to men
Another grand male boast,
Be advised this ditty be writty
By a man who, while no longer gritty,
Just put jelly on his scrambled eggs
And ketchup on his toast!

Mmmmmmm there might be a poem
Lurking in that too...

So baby,
shut it down,
turn me on,
make me warm for real,
glide your now practiced fingertips on my grizzled cheek,
whisper a phony "ugh,"
cause I know, you will read
this iPad love poem
and cherish us for evermore.


Soul of brevity, poetically,
I'll never be, this insightful critique,
("Your poems are too long")
I've received in multiplicity, from sources internationally,
perhaps, lucky me, you've read this far?

Surely still a chance that an angel will touch my lips,
my internal parts sign a final treaty, inside an armistice,
night sweats sighs a thing fully forgot,
poetry writing can now be dispatched,
maybe that will be my Act III,
if I can stay awake for it.

Walk a Single Word.
To write a poem, a single word select,
embrace it with a fullness that lovers, family and friends
and the *** who cut you off in the middle lane
do daily provide

Grasp said word, walk it onto a yellow, blue lined, legal pad,
touch said word with the whisper of a single tear, a single curse,
like a pebble in a pond,
said word will miracle expand
hugging you with concentric circles of lines of poetry,
visionary words and stanzas that almost complete themselves
and you

The rhymes you will require, the meter you will select,
no need to struggle, hug your child and as Abraham told Isaac,
God and Google will provide

The simple trickster, a wordsmiths, even your average poet laureate,
got nothing on you that you don't already possess, to offer them
Plenty stiff competition.


Therefore,
My life is mine to take,
Should I wish to choose the
Place, date, the time
To let the poetry cease,
I will announce it mostly gladly
with a blessing of
Shehecheyanu* and a
Smiling "by your leave."

Sometimes the pen, unnecessary.
The poem, fully formed, in his mouth, born.

Silent back labor, unbeknownst the existence
Of such a thing, yet knowing now
His contractions, coming fast and furious,
Eyes many centimeters dilated,
The sac's fluid breaks upon the poet's tongue,
He pronounces in a single breath his
Immaculate Completion

When his hand to mouth, goes,
Like Moses, when he touched the burning coals,
The words are signaled, freedom!
The words announce:
We are now created, conceived and
This new oxgenated atmosphere is now our
final resting place.

This child, the poem, this exhalation,
Once freed, is lost to him,
It's been renamed, retitled,
by hundreds of newly adopted parents as
Ours.


Words needed to create another love poem for my beloved,
Nose and toes, ******* and eyes all regularly poetically,
Cherished,
Now I have knuckled under
And competed a full poetic body scan
And have paid tribute to each n'every part of you,
Even your knuckles...which I am busy kissing
While writing this poem in my distracted mind.

The next time it be for the morning meal,
I will eat it in bed,
far from their kitchen hiding places,
And celebrate my heroics with original
Frosted Flakes and milk,
And extra sugar just for spite!
The bedroom fairies, living under the pillow,
Emerge to beg in iambic pentameter,
Won't get nary a bite,
Until they they return the poems they stole
From my midnight dreams.


I am exhausted. So many gems to decorate
My body, my soul. I must stop here,
So many of you have reached out, none of you overlooked.

Overwhelmed, let us sit together now
And celebrate the silence that comes after the
Gasp, the sigh, that the words have taken from
Our selves, from within.


On and on thru the night,
Riffing, rapping, rambling, and spitting,
Ditties and darts, couplets and barbs,
Single words and elegies,
Free verse and a lot of fking curse words,
It was a moment, a time
that deserved
to be preserved,
and so this poem got writ

You may think this story apocryphal
Which is another way of saying untrue,
But I got his boarding pass and it is signed,
To this crazy poetry dude, long may you rasp,
And it is signed by Mr. P. Simon, a big fan,
And it has never since that day,
Left my grasp


Some poems never end,
Nor meant too.
Alliterative phrases, invitations,
Add a verse, a word, even a sound,
An exclamation of delight,
A stanza in its own right.

Unfinished work, forever additive, collaborative.
Modify mine, pass it on.

Read somewhere some poems never end,
Now I understand that better,
Cause there are no bandages, stitches that can close,
Cause there are no pills, switches that can shut off,
The ripping sound, the cutting noise, the raging inside
Heard blocks away, almost reaching a house where you live,
And dying in the same **** place that
Poems come from after midnight.


And even if I am stranger now,
I'll prove useful to have around,
Giving you poetry precisely couture designed by command,
So I fully expect to be hugging you happy
Soon enough.
You'll see.

No matter combo or organized, a good nights sleep
Elusive
So poetry is my default rest position,
My screen savior.

**So when I warn,
All my poems are copywrighted,
My meaning simple, words crystal,
They belong to us, but mostly to you
Who are reading these words
Mashup Part II  Is now posted.

It appears that I write a lot on this topic.   Anyway all theses are indeed snippets from poems  I wrote  and have posted here.  Started with the oldest poems May 18 and working my way thru 'em
Traveler May 2019
There existed no switch to turn it off
No such component in a Poet's thoughts
The deepest of meditation
Is but a Poet's contemplation

Words bleed from all we see
Beauty, laughter and sorrow
Forever set poetically free
My Friends!
This is what we were meant to be!
Traveler Tim
Pierre Ray Mar 2012
Capricorns, Capricorns are ruled and schooled by the planet Saturn, Saturn, Saturn. A bandit with a similar pattern, pattern, pattern. Capricorns, Capricorns are brethren from a legion; a legion of an atmosphere of the southern-hemisphere; in the equatorial region. At an
angle, angle, angle; Capricorns, Capricorns are angels of Aquarius and

Sagittarius. They’re boisterous, courageous, contagious, glamorous,
prestigious, rebellious, various and victorious-goats, goats, goats!
Capricorns, Capricorns cope, devote, note and quote, quote, quote.
They’re ambitions with superstitions and various missions, missions, missions! They’re novelties and poverties, revelations and

revolutionaries, revolutionaries, revolutionaries. Capricorns, Capricorns are theories and visionaries, visionaries, visionaries.
They’re objects, projects and rejects. They’re leaders and readers that are poetically, negatively or positively dictatorial and doctorial!  Some are historical, optical, political and radical; authentic, eccentric,

neurotic, poetic, theoretic, theoretic, theoretic. Unicorns, Unicorns are biblical and mythical, mythical, mythical; they’re ******, exotic, iconic, ironic, magic, nostalgic creatures, creatures, creatures. Their features
resembling a horse of course, of course. Furthermore, they’re fierce and a force. They’re a breed and creed of desire, fire and perspire, perspire,

perspire, perspire! They’re viral, viral, viral! This partial, sworn steed;
born awesome, awesome, awesome and too blossom, blossom, blossom. Unicorn’s spiral, crescent horn usually projecting and protruding from their foreheads. Rough and tough enough too pierce,
pierce, pierce! Unicorns, Unicorns are defendants, independents and

pendants. Hark! Hark! Hark! They’re brilliant and resilient sparks, sparks, sparks! They’re told as bold, old art, from the heart, from the start. Unicorns, Unicorns are fillers and pillars of guide, pride and
stride, stride, stride. They’re along for the long, long, long ride...
Unicorns, Unicorns are strong, strong, strong! Some as a song, song,

song, some throng, throng, throng, some wrong, wrong, wrong. As a
child, child, child; wild, wild, wild! Unicorns, Unicorns overwhelm, overwhelm, overwhelm. Their domicile realm, apparently, inherently and originally belonging from India; alleluia, alleluia for India, India,

India! Capricorns and Unicorns; two different creations. Capricorns
and Unicorns; two different relations. Capricorns and Unicorns; two
different situations and superstitions. They’re rainbows that glow, know and show. They’re of borrow, of sorrow and of our tomorrow.
Carrie Partain Jun 2019
Have you been searching for that perfect gift?
Want to say something special, give someone a lift?

Are you popping the question?  Is it someone's birthday
But you're just not quite sure of the right words to say?

Is the one that you love feeling lonely or sick?
If a card or a letter just won't do the trick...

Pick up the phone call Poetically Correct
With our help, you'll achieve the desired effect

Just give us some details, and in a short time
You can send someone special, a gift that's sublime

Anniversaries ~ Apologies ~ Any Occasion ~ Baby Dedications ~ Bachelor/Bachelorette Party ~ Birth Announcements ~ Condolences ~ Congratulations ~ Eulogies ~ Father's Day ~ Get Well ~ Graduation ~ Holidays ~ Love ~ Proposals ~Reunions ~ Roasts ~ Secret Admirer ~ Special Friend ~ Surprise ~ Tell 'Em Off ~ Told U So ~ Valentines ~ You Name It
Anyone else interested in this kind of work, writing for the paying public, please let me know. I'd love to work with you.

So many people have the desire to send something deeply personal, but lack the ability or inclination to write for themselves.

It's a niche market that's under served.

I am disabled and looking for work I can do with my physical limitations.



This is what I propose.
Korey Miller Nov 2012
let's make a deal.
uncap the bottle,
discover my greatest work-
a soliloquy on sentience,
performed to an empty room.
the walls
are bleeding lead poisoning again
and i
am leaving logic behind.


the air is crisp on my wretched skin
and as the world dies
its aching breath helps me
to finally feel alive.
i am pure white.

let me rise, enlightened.
as i float, breathless,
i can feel, finally,
the weight of my bones.
make me into a sparrow,
feast upon my marrow,
so i can become porous-
but leave my hollow mind whole.

idolize me.
spin my disease into pure beauty.
a stone-cold rose
grounds the coffin for my dreams,
liberating me from responsibility.
awaken me.
strip my heavy corpse of its wings,
eviscerate the breath from my lungs
cease my tangibility


oh glory,
build me up
strip me down
to my knuckles and teeth,
to the weathered bone.
remove the bloodstains from my home.

if i bleed now
it will be beautiful
when i fall, i
will glorify the cement, decorate it
with my shining insides
when i come down
it will be stunning
it will be dreadful
and i will be resplendent


-but the delivery
won't change the content
candy wrapping
can't cover up the stench of death-

i have given up
on purging the necrosis from my tissue
i have found
this tantalizing muse once again, and
once more i
will let her put cigarettes out
on my sorry skin.

i've grown to love the smell,
that acrid poison
it almost covers up the scars
she leaves-

if i can make dying sound beautiful
then to hell
with us all
if you could romanticise suicide
you'd be rotting
too
Ayeshah Apr 2013
I step up to the curtains
they weren't open yet,
but I could hear the melody of the music
and
I listen curiously,
as
the man performing before me spoke,
he used words to address me as a
Afrocentric --Soultress
with a little bit of Boriqua aurora ,
I bow my head and laugh.
The curtains lift as I walk out & up
I open my mouth softly
I tells of lovers wrapped entwined entangled
as
sheets become hiding places as lips taste of honey
from valleys of lustrous milky--juices
from a our oasis
of ******* *******,
and
overflowing valleys fill to the
brink with sweets raunchiness hehehe...
I step to the right to
look at the crowd
making sure they get the effect of how he tasted
as
I hold the mic
I gentle massage it
while motioning
to a man sitting right in front,
he licks his lips
and
I then turn my head to my left
addressing
the parties sitting right up front on my left,
I speak to them of the swells of his back and how
my nails dug deep as he enter me swiftly
with his Mandingo shaft...
how his blue eyes seeped into my brown eyes
while
he drove deeper inside of my mahogany velvet box,

a women in front crossed her legs tightly
and
wiggled in her seat,
I bow my head so I don't laugh,
I watch the center crown as
I explain how he  the man with this enormous
Mandingo ****
stuffs it down my throat
and
I **** him in choking as he trys to insert it deeper,
I'm lavishing up every bit of his essence, 
 the couple in the center hold hands even tighter
and
look at each other with a shared memory.
I flow with the music softly slowly
I connect with each member of my audience,
sharing with them the way he bent me over his stool inside
his photo lab
and
kissed between my cheeks as he spread me open
and
softly fingered my ***
while using the other to finger to lavishly assault
my chocolate velvety muffin,
as
I moaned he readily spread me,
telling me as he moved in front of me saying be still,
he tied me up to this tall stool, the crowd leans in
as if ready to hear the next verse,
I give in after a moments pause,
sharing with them how he spread my legs
and
tied them right after he spread
my hands on each leg of his stool.
In his photo lab he lubed up moving his hand up
&
down
his light skinned shaft,
I watched
and
longed for him to touch me again,
the radiance crowd
sitting on my left seemed
to be thinking as I did,
"is he going to stuff his **** back inside my mouth,"
I speak again
seeing how their all
longing to know he did in fact slowly 
walk up to me, lifting my head and saying open up baby,

I did as I was told,
the man sitting in the shadows
on my left
seems
to be stroking his **** as
I proceed to explain in poetic
****** verses
of this tall
high--yellow
black man
with the
blue eyes,
he seems in tuned
so I keep speaking of how
I licked his shaft
then allowed him to slowly meticulously
push
his **** inside my mouth
and
slowly pull out again .
I tell the audience how he ***** my mouth first slowly and then like a beast, he was ready to explode I explain how he grabs the head and stops him self from *******,

I get an
"Ah'awe"
from all the men in the audience
and
I laugh..
but
continued to explain
how he didn't want to just yet...
poetically
I explain how
he wanted to ready me for his assault
on my sweet *****,
using words to describe it ;
like mahogany rose buds or petals.
Explaining
how his Mandingo shaft
would be his weapon...
They seem eager to know more,
I tell a tale of how this light skinned brotha had me tied and teased me in his photo lab,
explaining how he pulled out a ***** just
as big as
his manhood was
and
while eating me he slide it inside of me
as
I quivered and shook he'd stop,
it seemed right when I was about to ***,
he seem to laugh out loud at my misery,
he knew just what he was up to, the audience seemed to get deathly quite,
seems even the music died
as explained the rough treatment I received at the hands of this blue eyed light skinned devil
of a man,
He licked me even at timed used his fingers along with this *****,

I explained to my audience
how he stopped his assault
on me as he slide his Mandingo up and down
my *** teasing my *******
putting the tip of his head in and then taking it out,
I told them how he finally stopped for a second,
then he entered my *** with the ***** and slide his 12" ****
deep inside my ***** causing me to cry out,
I tried to stop him but my hands were tied and that of my ankles as well,

and

he moved with such force and swiftness
I couldn't utter a word,
the more he moved the more
my body betrayed me as it heated up
from the inside out as
if he ignited something new and longing within me
he moved fast and ferociously in and out of me in sync
with the enormous ***** until
I myself was begging for him not to stop,
I
poetically
spoke memories & fantasies out loud,
letting my audience
know how
I
came so close to a ****** I've never ever got to feel or come close to feeling again,
I acted as if there was more but I then kissed the mic and walked off stage ....
  
  Another
Story
perhaps
another night
&
I'll
KISS THE MIC!
Always Me Ayeshah ®
Copyright ©
Ayeshah
K.C.L.N 1977 - Present YEAR(s)
**All right reserved ®
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
by simply watching 'don't call me crazy'
with regards to mental health... a bbc3 documentary.

i find a few pointers, apart from the fact that i've learned
English to a standard that i could
be misjudged as a native, what with african psychiatrists
   and the history of England as  a postcolonial nation...
     the problems of premature depression
and other divergences from the "norm"
  (or is that a tu-dum tss... "the norm"?
i never know how to tell the joke a proper
way, so many jokes are mothered
by punctuation, i don't know
how many there are that aren't) -
so aside from that... the fact that i'm
faking being British... if you have any grievances
against me: you'd better me Ukranian
or Lithuanian... otherwise? *******.
yes, i know the Poles did terrible things,
Vlad wasn't the only person ready to
do sadistic **** on people by impaling them
on sharpened-wooden poles...
   and you thought the crucifix was bad...
but oh look... the artists inserted a peddle-stool
so he could stand while on the cross...
rather than actually: hang from it.
talk about a woman faking an ******.
then again: he was all kissy-kissy with
a centurion having cured the ravaging libido
of his "demon possessed" daughter who
had a hot bagel flirt under her skirt for him...
or as i say: **** a prostitutes
           **** for an extra ten quid: the sigma
of how many ***** that thing has seen
turns your tongue into a dagger...
that's where i have seen my salvation:
   not in the eucharist or degrading symbols
of a godly stature.
       no, the point is:
this misapprehension of where the origin of
thinking resides...
  the true materialists posit the origin of thought
in the brain... but, honey-bee, the brain
is preoccupied with its materialistic responsibilities...
to shoot adrenaline when bungee jumping...
why think it isn't already preoccupied with anything
but thought? the brain doesn't think
no more than the heart might... or your *******
wetted or your phallus becoming *****...
there's no point in ascribing thought to the brain,
even if you abstract the source of thinking
toward the brain as a *mind
,
     the suggestion parallels what the brain does,
and what the brain isn't...
   as with the notion of god...
          ridiculous for most people:
or also ridiculous when man is taught to stress
his "individuality"...
                               both seem on equal footing
to be considered phantoms, but the individual is
more of a phantom than god...
                             and as Diogenes of Sinope found out:
you'll find god and the Archimedean eureka
quicker than finding an honest man -
who takes a candle at noon into a market square?
     ah: that famous lunacy...
but in the beginning the word was with god,
       yes, because when we started we only said ooh ooh!
and made those frightening monkey faces to
war off evil spirits and the Arabic third eye, evil.
   Darwinism created historical fiction...
           a bit like science fiction, but instead of looking
forward, historical fiction is looking back,
toward a time when people struggled against
the elements, and had no sense of having to think
given their actual pentagram equilibrium was tuned
into what was around them...
                   the senses could never deviate from
the world of shouting down a cave and hearing echo,
it's only when thought emerged and conceived words
   that the dubiousness of simple musing:
chicken or egg first? created auxiliary sense perceptions...
   we have left the sensual world...
           for we have "enriched" our lives with
thinking, the byproduct of which is what scared me
about this bbc3 documentary... that all mental
illness stems from allow thought to automate itself...
      in other words having no moral compass...
in other words: not having read a single book
   and learned a process of equating thinking with
narrating... as a sensible option to what others tend
to do (the innovators), and allow narration to be a void...
into which they pour all their thinking to
fill that void... with, say, Thomas Edison and the lightbulb...
Isaac Newton and gravity...
it's just scary that people can allow automated thinking,
     made even more evident that counters
the punitive transgender pronoun scenario
   that only focuses on the pronouns: he, it, she.
these youngsters in the documentary are dealing with
submitting to a pronoun focus of: i, it, you.
                      in some vague sense of a religiosity,
that they cannot allow cogito ergo sum into their minds,
a possessiveness of body, that later translates
into an identification with the mind: which is -
well, if you're going to posit the origin of thinking
in your brain, which isn't even there - you mind
as well posit the mind, seeing how the soul
is argued against primarily through our mortal condition.
   is the eye the window to the soul?
  and the brain merely a paraphrasing of that statement?
perhaps...
              but i wouldn't be too worried
             as Walter Benjamin was about art in the age
of mechanical reproduction... i'd be worried
that art is bound to the morgue of psychiatric institutions...
that art is not a term that suggest the origins of
   such ailments:
due the original lack of it in such places:
  but that that it was never there... and that finding
art can be therapeutic is why art can be scolded
               and establishment art is nothing more
than the pinnacle of us, having abused words,
waging fewer and fewer words, can't produce
    a work of beauty... merely a work that occupies
a space.
                art = space...
          that's the statement these days...
being oversaturated with scientific assurances has created
this insurgence of over-competence or making
art not art in a sense timelessness, as in Dante's
comedy isn't equal to space,
            but that it's equal to timelessness...
    or a statue by Donatello...
                          these days art = space...
because it's not going to be timeless... it was once
the iconoclasm in metaphor of: the lion of Judea...
          Lucifer as the morning star...
                         it will not be timeless because it
has been reduced to the establishment's aesthetic
of tracey emins' unmade bed... or
       damien hirst's the physical impossibility
of death in the mind of someone living -
i never said these things aren't art... some people
said cubism would never be art compared to
surrealism... but shove a triangle into Pythagoras'
head and you get some sort of mathematics...
              it's based on that principle...
what wouldn't work in the case of hirst would be
to put a cancerous tumour into a plastic cage...
people would associate it as some sort of atomist
representation of a nanometre worth's of some
larger thing... i do appreciate the fact that big
art works... it needs so much face to embody
the fact that you are to think about it...
                         and not to have a **** over it:
it's art that's anti-arousal and more and more
and more about how to juxtapose it in your mind,
always to abstract the brain as the mind
   and to never appreciate the idea of having
to source thinking as solely endemic to the brain...
the brain is busy, the heart is busy...
            we have perpetuated an outer-body
experience throughout our time since the time when
we first acquired the phonos of thought...
                 and it is a peculiar "sound", thought...
a dance memorable to actually having a hope in
possessing a soul... even after all sturdy things
shrink into the obsolete, and even vegetable.
but the piece i'm referring to?
     kinda paradoxical... given that a shark would
probably eat you... but then again counter-paradoxical
given the fact that most shark-attacks
     make the shark refrain from eating you,
but merely nibbling on you and leaving you alive
albeit nibbled on... maned... with scars...
so i get the part where the shark is in fact:
an impossible death to conceive... only for the lucky few.
  apart from the fact that the shark is caged
like a prehistoric mosquito lodged in amber...
              woodland gold, amber...
  that's the literal interpretation...
                                 but it's still a moving piece,
modern art isn't crap at all... it's just something you
don't get an ******* over...
            take any still life and apply a cognitively
based chemical reaction: stimulate a narrative...
in that famous phrasing, connect the: dot dot dot(s).
    become, in that almost ridiculous sense:
     a Sherlock Holmes... but all that died was about
a minute's worth of your attention...
this is what's fuelling revising a need for television,
big static things... my personal favourite?
that Tate Modern installation by richard holt -
hand on heart: about 3 times...
              i felt like a mosquito drawn into that:
ah the bright shiny light... 180º and a glass ceiling...
that's all it was...
                   art in the age of mechanical reproduction
has to almost ridicule man, or at least ridicule
the idea that he can become an individual,
    as was the ridicule of man that he could become
a god...
               sooner or later any attempt at individualism
becomes trendy, vogue, and magnetises and
monetises a need to mimic, replicate... one punk today:
20,000 punks tomorrow...
       /
           but that sort of mincing is mostly associated
by the bewilderment of our own success...
                           it's almost like a we're engaging with
a sabotage process: deliberately trying to undermine
ourselves by staging a variety of "anti-social" endeavours
we promised ourselves upon a belief in the "individual"...
      modern pieces of art debunk that myth,
it's that modern art pieces require so much space that
gave them the most adaptation prowess over, say,
a puritan's concept of art, as in a Turner painting...
           classical art can be put into a Florentine market
square and be passed by quiet casually,
because it provides an assurance - it forbids engaging
in an iconoclastic vigil, it's an assurance of the past
and how golden it was... but a modern sculpture
in a busy place where many people congregate
without first allowing it the asylum of an art gallery
and people will treat it as a chance to hone on it,
vandalise it, or steal it and sell it from scrap metal...
       modern art requires an asylum to be accepted,
an art gallery is an asylum where people with
good intentions enter and leave appreciating something
that, to the pleb, would get a rotten egg thrown at it.
    and as with regards to how i phrased something
earlier? how philosophy talks of the logos
     that doesn't see the phonos: or the dichotomy
between actual sound, and sound ascribed a
optically-phonetic disparity encryption:
deepened by a self-styled aesthetic of the "ruling elites"...
          and in the beginning the word was with god...
we're merely licking the toes of such a possibility...
         and just you try to bypass the orthodoxy of
encoding sounds with queer spelling...
                     you, in a sense, learn two-languages
with every single one you learn...
   how to say it and how to write it...
                              and then there the how you hear it
and how sometimes you hear different lyrics to
the ones sang...
                         a bit like the Chinese,
who, upon reading the English translation were
bothersome to get rich quickly after seeing
too many matchsticks in ideogram translated as merely
Li Po; i'd too go bananas and become frustrated
and retaliated by getting to Einsteinian grips with
the mathematical alphabet that bore Li Po... i.e. 1, 0
through to 9.
      ah yes... philosophy that doesn't appreciate
grammatical words, or in that sense credible for a biologist
not necessitating a genus to ease any argument,
to actually further it... or to play ping-pong...
   grammatical words are equivalent to the subconscious
given we tend to write some a sense of fluidity...
the unconscious? schematics akin to triangles...
  "images" or rather shapes...
                             beginning with Δ: isosceles...
later varied to the Γ triangle of Pythagoras...
          and as far as we got, a respectability to
not conjure up a square as worthy of encoding a sound...
nearest being the H... and that turned out to
be much ha ha ha.
                   still... i can't come to grips with these teenagers
in the bbc3 documentary talking about
automated thinking! i'm not denying it, i'm not
doubting it... it's just a question:
          how could such a pronoun muddle come about
that you discourage ownership of all your mental
activity? and instead leave a rampant kindred of an
abandoned snail's shell body to wreck havoc?
   it's almost like a a want to refuse to use words...
or encode words... rarely are people told
that the eyes are used as encoding organs...
                   but that the tongue knows no filters...
what the eye ingests... the tongue sometimes can't
digest... and vice-versus... that what the eyes digest
the tongue can't ingest: hence the rebellion
against contrary political ambitions -
   the ears? well: the ears are allocated the heart as
a partner... the tongue and eyes are entwined...
but the ears are allocated the heart...
                     you tend to feel words more than
hear them... because by the time the tongue
represses combining itself with the eyes to
that elevation of thought... your body becomes
autocratically synchronised to a sort of music
of heightened of unanimous response...
             well, it's not exactly a fetish watching such
documentaries.. iconoclasm in metaphor...
  i swear i wrote this before... how philosophy avoids
grammatical genuses... and how all too
ambivalent poetically equivalent nouns and verbs
are to hide our imperfections that precipitate from
art... iconoclasm / anamorphosis in metaphors...
                         camaïeu in allegory...
                   divisionism in pun...
                                       chiaroscuro in imagery...
gestural abstraction in onomatopoeia...
                     just some examples, and none necessarily
     convincing - as ever... this is my excuse
for i am always bound to say language is Alcatraz
   and my escape from Alcatraz is bound to metaphors,
fo
Big Virge Jun 2018
Respect is DYING ... Everyday ... !!!

The old ... " Dismay " ...
cos the young ... DISPLAY ...
A Lack of ... " Respect " ...
in their ... Crazy Ways ... !!!

So, pay ... Close Attention ...

This ISN'T ... " Wordplay " ... !!!

Disrespect has become ...
The ... " Modern Way " ... ?!?

VIOLENCE ....
is now the way .... !!!!!

I hope I'm dead BEFORE ....
28 Days Later ... !!!!!!

What's with these ... " Film Makers " ... ?!?

Actors take roles
for .... Cash Type PAPER ... !!!

EVEN If ... Their Role ...
is a SICK ... Date ***** ... !?!

See ....
This is why ...
Respect will die ...

because ...

Most things seen
on ... Movie Screens ...
are making kids
have ... Violent Dreams ... !!!

from ...
Twelve years olds
to our ... Young Teens ...

The streets we walk on
are ... UNCLEAN ... !!!!!!
because of images ...
placed on ... TV Screens ... !!!!!!

Don't get me wrong ....

VIOLENCE is .... REAL ... !!!!!

But ....
THIS ... I DON'T Want ...
as my ... " Daily Meal " ... !!!!!!

While ... Business Tycoons ....
Continually ... STEAL ... !!!

I Agree with ... Michael Moore ...
STOP Shows like ... " Cops " ... !!!!!

These Violent Shows ...
are built to ... SHOCK ...

So Ratings RISE ...
while black folks ... ROT ... !!!!!

THINK ......

ALL These Things ...
Create ... DISRESPECT ...

DISRESPECT of ... Our Mothers
DISRESPECT of ... Our Brothers
DISRESPECT of ... Each Other
Because of ......... Our Colour

But This .... Disrespect Thing ...
is used in ... " Rapping " ...

So people ... DON'T THINK ...
There are ... " Conscious " ... Rap Kings ...

This .....
DISRESPECT ... Rap ...
is getting kids ... "TRAPPED" ... !!!

Cos' they think ....
Respect's EARNED ...
By dishing out ... SLAPS ... !?!

Instead of ... " Discerning " ...
Who's Setting .... " The Trap " ...

It's ... " Corporate Boys " ...
who sit and ................ " Avoid " ...................
The ... SCREAMING Type Noise ... !!!!!!
When Kids Play With ... " Gun Toys " ... !!!!!!

It's THEM ....
Who sit .... " Planning " ....
THESE ... "Devilish' ... Ploys ...

THIS ....
Lack of ... Respect ...
is SLITTING ... Some Necks ... !!!!!

Believe ... What You Like ... !!!!!

Walk streets ... Late at Night ...
and see what you get .... !!!!!!

On THIS ...
I Would Bet ...
Walk in the ... WRONG PLACE ... !!!
and you'll ... NEVER AGAIN ...

See a ....
Smile on your face ... !!!

It's ATTITUDE Now ...
ALL OVER The Place ... !!!!!

Rudeness is viewed ...
In ... EVERY ... Workplace ...

The way the young ... Act ...
is a ... ******* ... DISGRACE ... !!!!!

It's NOT JUST ... The Young ... !!!

I've really been ... STUNNED ...
by how people ... " Act " ...
Who Claim ... " Poetic Grace " ... ?!?

Fellow Poets have seen me ...
TIME and AGAIN ... !!! ...
But when I ... Return ...
Many STARE ... in my face ... !?!

Like i'm from ....... OUTER SPACE ........ ?!?

Men ....
DISRESPECT ... Women ...

Women ....
DISRESPECT ... Men ...

To me ....
This is .... NONSENSE ...
WITHOUT ... A Defence ... !?!

If we are to live ...
in a world ... FULL of Hate ... ?!?

I Think ....
YES ... For REAL ... !!!!

Give the world to the ... " Gays " ... !!!!

I've tried ... NOT TO SAY ...
What I feel about ... " Gays " ...

Well I guess ...
Now you ... KNOW ... !!!

So ....
What will you say ... ?

" I DISRESPECT Them !!! "

Well Maybe ... I am ... ???

But ...
Let me just ... STRESS ... !!!
I Face ... Racial Problems ... !!!!!

Give me ... THE POWER ...
That's given to ... THEM ...

Then I Won't ... Shy Away ...
From Talking ... About Them ... !!!!!

But for now ....
I'm ... MORE WORRIED ...
About THESE ... " Gun Sounds " ... !!!!!
and Profanities .... HEARD ...
From MANY ... Young Mouths ... !!!!!

I'm Ready to ... DIE ....
cos these days ... I DON'T CRY ... !!!!!

I'm Poetically ... " Plying " ...
and Constantly Trying ...
to make you folks ... Hear Me ...

Cos' .....

" RESPECT is now dying... "
Todays world is a dangerous one !
.... and RESPECT has not been taken care of as it should of been.
It's been forsaken for all manor of craziness, this poem was written long before it got to...
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2018
~for granddaughter Wendy on her first birthday~

mailman delivers a
a small bubble wrapped envelope,
an internet purchase made a long sometime ago  
accompanied by an enjoyable, self-served and self-serving,
"you're a good fella"
          pat on the back        

a spurting act of the what-the-heck,
trigger pulling, self-pleasuring,
donating a few bucks to saving poetry,
****** in by a suckers click bait

sent money to the
   keepers of poems;   
they even give something
in return.

sensible pencils.  

a non-rational purchase;
@ $6 dollars per leaded squib,
a wooden helping kiss rife with possibilities

all for a goodly cause
preservation band society poetic

this one-and-done impulse many weeks ago, 
followed by an immediacy forgeting,
then, an eye stabbing,
a widening wow weeks later
upon receipt
of an unexpected 5 pencil's all poems poetry reciting!

5 pencils. No. 2’s,
on each a phrase,
a poet's name and their singular words parsed
(see the notes).

paired passages from five poets,
deemed and distinguished to be
commemorated-worthy
and
what's more apropos than a dangerous  instrument of a
loaded leaded pencil,
that can be used to add to the  
Ever Expanding Universe of Verbal Liturgy
("and I helped")
.
once briefly dusted off the top of closeted dreamy days,
my notions of acclaim gone, silly gone,
my only marks now are erasures,
tiny rubber sheddings on paper
that's my marker,
a minus mark of deletion.

may yet come the day,
one will one gather up the
many survivors,
poem fauns, all my orphans,
give them to the
Wendy baby,

first,
she to metamorphose those
baby squeaks and  giggles,
weighty weightless poem noises,
clapping, waving, delighted and delighting, kiss-throwing videos and that milk covered face,
into her own living words

all these noises that makes even non-poets
smile ear to ear unabashedly,
nodding in delight agreement
to her own non verbal
original poems
:
perhaps
one day a little girl
will stumble on five pencils,
mixed in within fifteen hundred poems not particularly well hid,
between worthless insurance policies and other artifacts,
memoirs and pointless depositions,
hid between her older sister and brother's
crayoned keepsakes


  with pointed newly sharpened pencils
the very same,
this,
his Wendy,
might add
to the grandpere's poem collection with
pencils begging to be used,
for they are generationally and genetically,
pre-poetically enabled,
weighting the old memories
with new ballast and new balance,
from new verbal babies
all of her own.
What happens to a dream deferred?  Langston Hughes
Won't you celebrate with me? Lucille Clifton
Do I dare disturb the universe?  T.S. Eliot
I'm Nobody! Who are you? Emily Dickinson
Where can the crying heart graze? Naomi Shibab Nye

poets.org
KC Sep 2013
This isn't some speech or even a clever play on words, more so a flow of never ending thoughts, feelings and emotions. I don't know how to explain myself or successfully display my feelings, even though these are still words but I guess analogies make a little more sense if expressed poetically. Trapped in a body where no part of it is home. Feeling the feelings of other souls. Burning my future before it comes to pass. I'm no poet and I'm not exctly sure if this is even a poem. But my mind can't stop. I force my hands deep into the soul of the world bringing back, in my fist, a heart that isnt beating. Just as cold as I and at last I've found my soulmate..the irony, I have not a soul. Just a corpse. Lifeless but somehow I'm living. These cuts in my arms keep appearing, sharp objects keep digging. Mind ****** back to the beginning, childhood is never-ending. I'm stuck. But this isn't really meant to be a poem. I'm not sure it is at all. I'm just speaking what I know I don't understand, but is all too well understood. I really don't know what I said exactly just some ******* that came to mind. It may make sense or it may not. But hey, who's to say that the mind actually knows what its thinking?
ryn Sep 2014
Poetry moves from within our souls,
It's emotions pouring out
Covering us in rhymes and flow,
Like rain from the clouds

Infinite letters, words and phrases
In various permutations we play
Collaboration between heart and mind
Breathed into these pieces that we lay


Touching lives with our written form
Healing with words, what's poetically true
Freedom of expression, thoughts and ideals
Crying out in ink, until our sadness is through

Similar in thoughts but meander through individual routes
We all sing the same but to different rhythm and tunes
Inscribe our innermost but to varying worthy causes
We all draw inspiration but from the same loyal moon


A different form of art, yet art none the same
It's in the eye of the beholder, so they say
Poetry is life drawn in pen, it's not an erasable game
It truly breathes life, looking forward to each new day

**We proudly fly our diverse flags
United under one banner
We revel in words of poetry
In the hopes they'd last forever
Deeply honoured by the fact that the amazing "The Girl Who Loved You" would even consider a collaboration with me! Such an experience! Thank you TGWLY for this opportunity! Awestruck!
I left this town in 75
a dumb drunk ****

or as a friend once
poetically observed
"a beer quaffing linebacker"

but tonight I return
an enlightened poet
ready to recite
a stack of poems
eight years and two days
removed from my last drink

now relishing
the sweet intoxication
of drinking in
seas of words and letters,
brading a life's narrative with
solitary lifelines of truth

This town knew me

I know this town

The pomp and circumstance
of my high school commencement
occurred in this very place

I know the exact spot
near St. Mary
where Moose was killed
that awful
Good Friday evening.

After enjoying
the team revelry
at a Saturday Night
victory party;
I ran my hand across
the scarred Poplar
on West Passaic Avenue
that abruptly ended
Fic's life.

I slink past the house
filled with heinous memories
of my youth, cringing
through relived nightmares
of my father brutalizing
my naked mother in
an alcoholic rage;
and remain busy
trying to lick the still
raw sting of running wounds
inflicted by a mother
consumed with a
raging bitterness of
self righteous resentments.

Beer, *****,
Strawberry
Boone's Farm
and lotsa rolled bones
destroyed my family home,
murdered childhood
friends and greased
the wheels of
getaway cars in
fruitless attempts
to escape emotional
nightmares.

From where I stand
I can throw a stone
in any direction to mark
the scenes of
a hundred stories
that authored
the constitution
of me.

Across
the street
I can see
the lights burning
in the apartment where
Weehawken Joe
once lived.

Take a look.

He was crazier than
Tony Montana and
like Scarface not a
single lie could
be found in him;
he also possessed
the gift of
the best jump-shot
the Bulldogs ever had.

Years after I left town
I burst into tears
when Buns Hines
broke the news that
Weehawken  Joe
died of throat cancer.

Mortality is a
bitter truth
to swallow.

All along
Park Avenue
old commercial haunts,
save Varrelmann's Bakery
long gone.

Further up the street
my pilgrimage ends at the
WCW homestead.

In the fading light
of a glorious
autumn afternoon
the house appears
rundown, empty,
mournfully shabby.

On an upper floor
a lace curtain gently
flits and darts out an
open window.

I ponder
the words
still dwelling in
the dark closets
haunting the rooms
of this distressed edifice.

I wonder
how they now
sound?

The faint noises
hidden in
dusty corners
moaning a
ghostly presence,
creeping the halls,
clattering about
the kitchen,
bounding through
the living room
in an old beat-up
Red Wheelbarrow;
rolling along
moving to manifest
faintly whispered echos
into fully formed phrases;
liberating expressive sentiments
of a very blue house...

Eight years, two days
removed from a drink,
I'm grasping for letters
fumbling for the words
listening for sounds
churning within me
seeking to release
the revelations
of my truth.

Crosby, Stills Nash & Young
On the Way Home

William Carlos Williams Center
Rutherford NJ
10/02/13
This is to anyone out there that's listening
From anyone who ever let you down and went missing
Lovers, parents, best friends, and siblings
Sometimes life conspires to make liars of good men

This is to anyone out there that's listening
From everyone that ever let you down and went missing
Lovers, parents, best friends, and siblings
Sometimes life conspires to make liars of good men

I'm sorry I wasn't who you thought I was
**** it-- I'm sorry I wasn't who I thought I was
I said no matter what, I'd always be there, but that wasn't honest
Because I'm not
And 'cause that ain't how life goes
Broken promise

Growing up, I always thought I was one of the good guys
I thought it was black and white like that
That I could nurture my good side
But I've caused hurt and I've stripped pride
Both on the surface and inside
I wasn't cursed with a dark side, I was just normal
Average, regular, nothing special, I'm telling you
Just being human makes you both God and the Devil's clear replica
I've had my emotions crushed and maybe crushed a few along the way
And at the time, I meant every single word I would say
Every word of love, and every word of hate
Every time I would adore, and every time I'd berate
But time passes, and sometimes those emotions fade
Making liars of both the threats and the promises made

But is a lie really a lie if you mean it at the time?
How can a lie be a lie if you mean it at the time?
A lie can't be a lie if you mean it at the time
How can a lie be a lie if you mean it?

This is to anyone out there that's listening
This is to
This is to anyone out there that's still breathing

I bought a heartbreak hotel
On my own, with no investors
Closed it down and opened the "*******, get over it" bed and breakfast
In loving memory of having loving memories
Of combustible emotions, and having real enemies

Typically poetically dramatic endings
Were once a trademark of mine
Patents pending
And the mighty height of emotions on parting ways
Was always grander than the connections of the early days

When we were fighting, there used to be thunder and lightning
Ferociously frightening, a clash of the titans
Emotions heightened, every single muscle tightened
An addiction to the thrill of the fight, the excitement

Love at first sight always seemed unconsidered
I'd rather love at first fight, and then onto double figures
An unconditional love? Well, that just means nothing
In love with the mere idea of loving something

Always just hunting for that near-life experience
In fear of missing something vital from your own existence
All your emotions subconsciously thought out and scripted
Less about how you're feeling
More about how you ******* depict it

But all that stops when one day you just decide to stop playing along
That point in time when the most amazing things in the world can just as easily seem
Pedestrian

You've lost both that loving and that loathing feeling
Turns out, hell does have a bottom
And heaven, a ceiling
Both love and hate become opaque in time's wake
A face that once summons rage now summons nothing
Whether it's emotions tethered, nerve endings severed
Or just the outlook you acquire when you're a little more weathered
Remaining conscious of this all, and in a way, feeling above it
Still feels like bad riddance to good *******

But is a lie really a lie if you mean it at the time?
How can a lie be a lie if you mean it?
By scroobius Pip
Wen Ao Long Nov 2014
Hello snorer, I hope you didn't sleep any poorer
when I stayed up all night typing this not-poem
I meant you no harm, but I had to stay up
Because I couldn't make music out of your obnoxiously loud cacophony of windpipe crap, er "music".  Time to not-pretend to absolutely hate your snoring under the guise of being perfectly okay with it for the sake of setting the tone a bit nicer to all who must hear it, so they can BEAR to, for otherwise it would be absurd.  Not as absurd as anyone hating to have aural drills applied to all their chakras all night, but still absurd enough to get a chuckle out of me (I hope it didn't wake your fine specimen here). It was never my intent, though it was always my ethical concern (if only everyone could be as reciprocal as you and I).   Oh, my not-pretend hatred is very thinly veiled.  I wasn't totally defeated by your snore-sound armies so that I couldn't type words, but I may have lost some of my desired effect due to the sometimes wincing distraction they caused to my piece of mind at this or that time when I needed it the most (even though I was awake, which is no crime if snoring at night and keeping me that way isn't).

Well, I did ask you if you'd mind if I typed,
I did tell you that you could tell me if its quiet purr of clicks would bother your precious sleep
But I never felt a need to be concerned, because whenever I
was typing, I heard you snore, and whenever I was in the heights of
some new discovery or epiphany, your sharp sudden thunderstroke of near death
corrugated metal vibrating in the torrent of some sudden gale force gust of wind.

These were signs to me of your restful sleep.  So I simply didn't worry about your sleep.  I was certain that my electronic beeps were every now and then music to your ears, just as they were to mine.  This is because in the midst of these I heard you snore, and when you snored, I took you to be asleep.

Ah but then again, then again, these are fanciful constructions which simply say that what is wonderful for me should be just fine and dandy with you, at a bare minimum, and on those grounds of very unsymmetrical attitude about right and wrong I would have to begin my music tirade of words as well.  But I don't view justice and propriety along such selfish lines as these.

What I see is that duplicity is your thesis.  I have anecdotal accounts which are marvelous to behold first hand, but the details of the absurdities cannot be done justice in the language of men, for the intensity of such insanity can only be borne lightly by the frailest frayed ends of my sanity for having lived through your acoustically maddening inanity.

You didn't ever admit to me that my noises were not music to YOUR ears.  Indeed  you claimed never to be bothered by them because you never voiced up against them.  I suppose you might as well voice up against them in the street as well if it turns out not all of you snorers-go-a-viking types like to hear my mouse clicking away like a tapping noises on a metal plate in your skull.  Sorry if it is another non-snorer-who-must-stay-up-late-and-so-be-occupied person whose nocturnal joys were misinterpreted as direct assaults on the dignity, spirit, or just basic mental viability of your wounded snoremonster troop of anti-late-stayer-uppers, because in fact, we used to be sleep-at-night-entities like you, but that was before you showed up, thoracic marching band in tow.  Marching bands are musical also, to some people.  And for some all hours of the night are perfect for a marching band.  Who am I to tell them otherwise.  

Well let me know the next time a marching band is given special permit to come through your neighborhood at night, and I'll be glad to point out to you the first Snorer'sville, because only they should be expected, in all justice to live with the macroscopic manifestation of their personal narcissistic paradises.

Let you all go to your own place and form your own nation, and see if you can consistently demand everyone else find music in your ****** and accursed racket!  But until then I expect some of you will have to take the damage returned by the growing number of people who are very much tired of living under the horrors of your infliction upon us, your demonic and evil tyranny of mind-crushing hate that is your ****** noise.  We will do yoga and breathe, and stretch, and some light calesthenics to relax and seek some focus and composure, whenever our spirits require, and this will be unchallenged by you so long as you are asleep, and it will be unchallenged by you so long as you are awake too.  For in the latter case you are already awake (and so still are we, usually) while in the former case it is far quieter than your snoring, both in its valleys and peaks.  And moreover it has not kept you up, but in fact I have noted that you wake yourself up with your own music when it reaches a certain crescendo.  

Unless you want to say that those crescendos are some sort of involuntary complaint about MY crescendos of spirit, when I start typing about 20% faster than normal, with perfect focus and accuracy while reaching an aesthetic pleasure approaching ****** as I realize that it is almost unerringly in the midst of such an experience that I hear your crescendo resound. And since it was no more intended to be a distraction for me, then surely my music must have also gone undetected by your ears, as well as your spirit. Or is it fairer to say it was the very cause of your crescendo, or at least its inspiration?

Therefore I needn't worry that it is I that is keeping you up, even if for only brief stints at a time, especially by comparison to my all-night vigils.  Not so, but it is you who are so enraptured by my occasional laughs or giggles as I edify my weary, sleep-deprived mind on some bit of morale boosting entertainment.  With headphones on of course.  It's also courteously plugged into the computer to prevent my favorite bit of Judas Priest from hurting your ear drums, or else overstimulating your music appreciation centers, which are verily attached to your ear-drums by a nerve bundle (and what nerve you all have there).  This means I've spared you too much distraction from any already-abundant music of the spheres effect you may be savoring which might have emanated from my bumbling around in the dark (to keep the lights out of course, after all people are sleeping).

Yes but that is a minority of you perhaps, who would lie about that and in fact who ought to say that our nocturnal emissions are not what you'd call restfully mind-relaxing crickets in the dead of night with an occasional hoot in the distance...  But they are a minority, the rest of you are so definitely in good faith.

But then why do I always run into those of your tribe who have strange and unethical habits, such as destroying others' lives by ruining their one perhaps most preciously personal and inalienable need second only to air and water, and that is sleep.  It is, in terms of acute necessity, in many ways more needed than food, though in the long term food catches up.  But food catches up only because not eating food is a  lot like not getting sleep, but just a lot more intense on the body when it drops to some critical point because we know from experience it is on raw nerves that we can go for a while in search of food, but if the food can't be found (perhaps because of our lack of sleep ruining our cognition in some way), then we will not eat, nor sleep, because we'll be dead.  

But either way, we'll be dead, for lack of sleep kills, both directly and indirectly, if suffered over a short time and/or in a diluted form over a long time.  That would be poetically commensurate to the sadistic similitude of the types of snoring sounds with the types of ways to die from being deprived of sleep according to two modes (acute and chronic), over many keys of incident, accident, lost opportunity and ill-stared fate, all of which can be mapped in some way back to that auditory persecution of our very souls of which your kind are in some swelling numbers quite proud.  Just think of all the car accidents, work accidents, altercations, fits of rage, inability to concentrate well or sometimes at all, and other life-damaging conditions of the mind, and also of the body, which accrue from lack of proper and healthy sleep at night!

Good thing for most of you though, right?  Because surely our music is also sweet, and I really hope I've inspired many to face this need for equality, and be on their guard against any unjust whining or groaning from those who seem in point of fact to value their sleep just a good deal more than they value anyone else's.  Not only because they really really love to get those zzz's but because they think that in the natural order of things, before people suddenly went mad and evil, people went to bed and slept well even partly BECAUSE of this brachio-esophageal orchestral lullaby.

But we'll be on our guard against those complaints, because we know you have plotted to take to the streets against us to defend your noisiness-all-night-every-night rights.  So we'll be on guard to defend ours, TO THE LAST FIBER OF OUR BEING.

Because you insufferable ******* are cruel, and cruelty no one should abide.  No one in my world, in my society of people, will be allowed to inflict cruelty on another person, nor be callously prejudicial in their own favor when injuries do occur because of their actions merely on the grounds that the damage it causes coincides with the fulfillment of a need on their own part, even while that fulfillment is of a need which is obstructed from satisfaction in the other part, and by THAT VERY SAME REASON, so that your sleep depends on keeping others awake.  UNLESS you can somehow con or coerce them into developing some form of Stockholm Syndrome and confuse the torment you inflict upon them with a sign of your love and wonderfulness to be around.

Yes, I know you hear me typing now, through your well-behaved proxy.  I feel it. If not he per se, then in a parallel universe not too far off, there's a version of him who does.  Perhaps not the one I know now, on day one of having moved into this room, but perhaps one represented in this universe by someone who has found himself in some sort of circumstances found later on during his stay, this mixed with the fact that familiarity breeds contempt... He'll start making some righteous demands of some kind, and I might not be in a such a good mood about that due to lack of proper sleep, and this will coincide with said contumacy against my own rights (such as to breathe, type, surf the net, or do other nocturnal things other than snoring which might keep others up).

As to that last point in parentheses, snoring is an activity which you perform in conjunction with your getting sleep, and it therefore means not well for your notion of fairness to say things as they are, and simply say the truth, which is that your getting sleep deprives others of theirs, but it can be logically deduced.

It can also be logically deduced that the don't give flying **** if you don't like the fact that we don't like your ear-**** night after night, which is a good name as any, but should perhaps at times be amended to body-demolishing soul-****** of a mortally sinful nature, and with an ethical incongruity to good character of a person to maintain it, all the more to sings its praises to us and call it "good poetry".
My tirade is intended to be expressive of a sincerely felt Truth, manifested in this which is only one of many forms, where things are never neutral, but divided neatly and perfectly into either Good or evil, so that no thought, word, or deed can be trivialized as mundane, neither in its innate import nor in its exported impact for others.  This is of the essence of ethics and has many metaphysical groundings which can be rationally demonstrated, but only to rational people.
Frank Ruland Jan 2015
Okay, here is my list of people who I think are awesome. They come in no particular order, mind you! If you have been left off, I apologize </3 If you're reading this, you're probably awesome too! Except the artist, Logan Carveo, Beryl Dove, Edna SweetLove, Lovecraft, and every other troll on HP. Kindly fall off a cliff!
Now, let the list of awesomeness commence!

-Rex Forte': Dude, you and me and have been commenting back and fourth for awhile now and I think you're a really down to earth guy! You stand against the trolls when you have no obligation to and I have meassive respect for that!

-The Emerald Outcast: Emerald, you appear to me as one of those sweet, endearing innocent souls! I really admire the purity of your poetry and the word choices you employ. It's all so smooth and I want you to know you touch people on here.

-ThePoet: Sarah, how sorry I am to have left you out! Surely my wires became crossed when I was writing this. I've been messaging you for a while now, and you're nothing but a sugar cookie (sorry, southern euphemisms :p). Hello Poetry needs people like you to perk up the downtrodden masses. You are a beautiful person, your words are uplifting, and you are beyond poetically sound. Much love!

-Alyssa Rose:: I've only just begun to see you on here, but you are awesome none the less. I did my "I Love Doing Lines!' challenge on you because of the raw emotion I saw in your poetry.

-TSALOVERLOVER: I don't know you extremely well, but you appear to be kind, generous, and nurturing with your comments (compliments!). You are attentive, and you point out positive things in people's poetry.

-chimaera:You are a talented poet. Albeit I don't know you too well personally, you strike me with the power of your words.m

-The Girl Who Loved You: Melanie, you have been my personal friend and peer for quite some time now. We can joke, talk about poetry, and get pissy with each other from time to time, but it doesn't change the fact I love ya! Thanks for having my back with trolls <3

-SPT: I don't know you well personally, but not a day goes by where you don't post a poem that is just rich with personal experience and soul.

-Elsa Angelica: My, my, my. You are without a doubt, one of the sweetest people I have come to know. Your heart is gentle, but there is a fire that burns hotter than the sun above Texas! I thank you for being my friend on here and all your sweet words!

-Adreishka Luciano: I love you. i remember your first message to me concerning my profile background! You are one of the most creative, musically gifted, beautiful people I know. The collaboration that we did was one of the smoothest going I've ever done, and I think it's because we sync so well.

-WickedHope: Wicked, how I always wondered why you picked that for your screen name. You are the farthest thing from that ever! Try: gentle, loving, affectionate, kind, sweet and endearing! You write such heartfelt poetry and I have come to know you in depth more so than some others, and I think you have  a beautiful soul.

-Spencer Craig: Here's to my biggest Public Service Announcement supporter! You've been there from humble beginnings to what they have evolved to now. Thank you so much for your wonderful compliments.

-Maha Salman: I don't know you too well, but I think your poetry is divine! Keep writing!

-The Creep Who Loved You: Creep? Try Angel! You're as cool as the come, friend! Your poetry is wonderfully quirky, and you have spoken out against the nasty trolls a few times. Be well!

-Ember Evanescent: Ember, you speak your mind more so than probably anybody else on this site. Your words come from the soul, and I really respect who you are as a person. You've left me some lovely comments, and I truly think you are an awesome person!

-WolfSpirit aka Quinfinn: God almighty, is there a more humorous, upright, and amazingly talented poet than yourself? I don;t know of any. I truly respect who you are. You've backed me as well as numerous others on this site concerning trolls,and I thank you a million times over for your personal kindness and continued demonstration of your morality! I wish you all the best. I look up to you as a person and poet.

-Ryn: Oh my god, you are the F---ing master of the concrete poem! I can't tell you how many times I've seen the trending screen to see your latest literary concrete contraption! You have such a dedicated and creative mind. Dedicated, because even if I had come up with some of the ideas you've come up with, I would've given up on the first time after submitting and seeing how f---ed up it turned out. Much love, brother!

-Kollitiki Vradypodes: My good sloth friend! You created this challenge and I was your focal point! How taken back I was by your generosity! I don't know you too personally, but I can safely say that you are the coolest sloth I will ever come to know. Your poetry is very lax, and it all feels so very natural! Thanks for creating this challenge! Stay slothy!

-Ukcen: I don't know you personally too well, but your poetry is out of this world! It all comes from your soul, and it spills onto the page like the most gorgeous wildfire ever spawned! It just consumes your readers. Keep writing!

-Kalypso: Here's to you, doll! You are one of the most endearing souls I know, and so very beautiful on top of that! Truly, your poetry is awe inspiring, and there's no asking why you just made daily not too long ago! You don't just capture people's minds, you capture their hearts as well! Never stop writing!

-Sye: Sigh Sye, you are one of the most kind people I've ever encountered. You have nothing negative to say, and you carry yourself like a true poet! Wise, inspired, and heartfelt, I don't think anyone can trump the sheer inspiration that goes into your work! Much love!

-Ana Sophia: Ana, you've been paying attention to me longer than... probably everybody on this list! You are truly a sweetheart, and I love, Love, LOVE all of your poetry! Your happy writes bring smiles to my face, and your sadder ones grip my heart. Never stop putting out these works of art!

-Eudora: I think you message me more than any other person on here, and you are so wonderful for it! You come to me with nothing but kindness, and I love you for it. Thank you so much for your continued support, and I ask that you keep putting out your splendid poetry!

-Erenn Y: Dude, you are cool as all Hell. Your writes resonate with me more so than most. I get a laid back vibe from you, and i definitely sense your in depth artistic nature. Respect, my poet brother.

-Pradip Chattopadhyay: I don't know you too well personally, though I love your poetry! You've been paying attention to me for awhile, and it has not gone unnoticed. Please, continue being awesome, friend!

-Sir Poet: Adam, I know you somewhat personally, and I have a lot of respect for you. I love your nature inspired poetry, as well as your pieces concerning racial issues. You are a very in depth person. Keep at it.

-Rose: I love you so much! Your poetry is well inspired and so heartfelt! it really grips at me in one of the best ways possible. The lighthouse collaboration you did with Mel? Out of this world! Keep at it, Rose!

-KetomaRose: I don't know you personally, but you constantly read my poetry, and I think yours is awesome as well! Keep on writing!

-TheDedPoet:: You sir, are one hell of a powerful poet and you carry yourself with the utmost soul. I've read some of your works and found my mouth agape at times. Please, please, please, continue writing!

-Cat aka CatBird: Cat, you are one of the sweetest Cats I know! You are very friendly, open to comments, and genuinely welcome people! I love your style!

-Joe Cole: Sir, I look up to you. Your poetry is without a doubt, some of the most vivid writing that I've ever been graced with reading. On top of this, you have proven yourself morally upright concerning the recent waking of the trolls. You have come to the aid of those who have been besieged by trolls, and I applaud both you and your poetry.

-Poetic T: Dude, your stuff is far out! And I mean that in the best way possible, You really hooked me with your sci-fi writes, and I'll never forget the amazing collaboration that we did! I hope you feel better, man. I know you have some health issues. Never stop writing.

-WeepingWillow: I don't know you too well personally, but you write with all the soul, heart, and spirit in the world! I swear, it's almost unnatural, but I'll never stop loving it!

-Jaishree Kumar I've known you longer than most, and we've done a few collabs together. They were the most in depth and your conceptualization skills are beyond reproach. You are truly kind, smart, and beautiful person! Keep being you!

-Pamela Rae: You are a kind heart if ever I've seen one! You never stop giving, and I love the hell outta you! Your poetry is breath taking, and I'm not surprised in the least concerning how many other people love you as well.

-r: I don't know you personally, but you were one of the first people I took interest in when I joined this site. I'm amazed by the concepts you continue to come up with, and I love your style.

-Alexis Nicole Glover: Hon, you are one of the nicest people I've met on here! You just keep coming with your kindness, and I applaud you and your heartfelt writes. Keep at it!

-Jinxx: Kid, you are one hell of a person. You messaged me randomly, but I'm really glad you did. I know you're going through some s--- right now, but I wish you all the best. You seem very resilient, and I know you're going to get through this tragedy. You're strong, kid. Stronger than you might think. Keep at it. And, thanks for your tea suggestion. It's really helping me out.

-Joe Malgeri: Dude, you are one of the most socially conscious guys out there! So much of your poetry concerns things that are bigger than us, and I have the utmost respect for your style and continued interests in my works as well!

-Midnight Writer: Midnight, you are a kindhearted soul, and I love everything that you put out! Truly, you are an amazing person and writer! Please, never stop writing.

-Aesha nisar: I was a bit taken back when you messaged me saying you had mentioned me in one of your submissions! Truly, the tribute to me as well as the others was just lovely. Your poetry is just as beautiful as you and I hope you never stop inking!

-Musfiq us shaleheen: Sir, you've been on here for awhile, and you don not stop impressing people with your work, and your followers prove it! I love reading your stuff, and I wish you the best continued poetry career!


--Awesome people who I don't know too well--
-Sjr1000
-Bloom
-The Noose
-BetterDays
-Maggie Grace
-Earl Vandorn
-olestoryteller
-kylia
-The Jolteon
-MercuryChyld
-AcidLovesMercury
-Ashley Lopez
-lildicktornado
Okay, I tried REALLY HARD! I really hope I didn't leave anybody out. Seriously. I worked on this for like an hour. You guys are all awesome and I love you all.
Ian Canavan Apr 2015
I'll admit that I do like some *******
with its ****** perverse choreography
there is mature ,**** ******* or teens
if you're gay lots of queens and lesbians
but that's not my scene, if its yours, click and squeeze
I'm partial to handjobs and *******
and I find older women quite hot
but I browse sometimes as you will
take my time, a little hunt for a thrill
creampies are disgustingly nice
a luscious Asian  for spice
long legs and thighs
body stockings delight
a **** nice and round
big fat ***** to pound
slender and tall
dark hair and blond
******* big and small
it's a veritable fantasy free for all
Lonnie Nichole Aug 2014
Sad
Sticks and stones broke my bones
But Sad is the only thing that really hurt me.

S-A-D
Spell it for me
Say it for me
Define it for me
Use it in a sentence
- Sad is patient and impossibly slow.

Sad, sad is a smile. One that turns up at the pink corner but doesn't turn up in the eyes.

Sad is a scar on your left shoulder blade. Zig zagging it's way toward your bumpy all-too-visible spine.

Sad is the boy you think you love kissing your person with his fast open palms.

Sad is the few hours later when he is gone but his rough, soft hands somehow still linger everywhere unseeable and still passionately untouched.  

Sad is static sound.
The crinkling of black and grey and white fuzzies.

Sad is not knowing if you really want to scream or cry.

Sad is rough knees and calloused hands.
Sad is no more easy air. It is the crawling for molecules.

Sad is cold and dark, but only on some days, because Sad likes to play these tricks where you wake up happy and you exist on that day happy and you fall asleep happy, and you think that you might just finally be getting happy.
But then your alarm clock goes and instead of the 'Beep Beep' it should be shouting, it's really Sad screaming in your ear that there's nothing to get up for.
And you know that Sad is back.

Sad needed a rest from all of the sad it's caused, so it took a vacation in the lost happy places of your mind, drank a margarita, and smirked at your ignorance.

Sad is the day after the happy existence when Sad feels as if it needs a confidence boost.
So Sad tells you to break skin.
Beautiful, smooth, ivory skin that you don't really think you should be breaking, but you've lived so long with Sad being right that Sad must be right.
So you break it.

You break it in the most awful, vertical line.
It follows the trail of your blue veins and opens wide with red.
And stupidly, poetically, you expect purple.
But Sad tells you that it's blood.
So don't kid yourself
Because ******, blood is red.

Sad is this moment.
The moment that you've realized that maybe, after all this time, Sad has been in charge for too long.
The very same moment that is probably too late to save whatever Sad left behind.

S-A-D
Spell it for me
Say it for me
Define it for me
Use it in a sentence
- Sad is patient, impossibly slow, and victorious
Early morning poem since I'm up and definitely not sad.
Existential me Dec 2017
I love her.
No not ******* worldly,
But softly, purely , celestially.
Obsessively?
Not necessarily, just completely,
selfishly and I'm sorry.
I love her unconditionally, some say unconventionally.
But they don't understand me.
Yes...I love her.
Most spiritually, asexually, platonically and wholly.
I love her, truly, honestly, musically and poetically...
She doesn't have to love me.
Your looks may fade... my love shall not.
Louise Apr 2014
It's dawn and I'm poetically positioned
in my bed,
trying to shake the darkest of nights
from my head

Conversations in dreams
run through my mind
all night,
exhausting me of reasons,
and of fight

Rational thoughts keep me going
yet drive me insane
knowing yours will be the only
imprint in me that remains

Etched into my mind
and saddened soul
Pining you has finally
taken its toll

The redness of my heart is fading
day by day
not one thing will revive it
no matter what I say

This sorrowful scenario
I'll continue to repeat
until the day
my hindered heart
ceases to beat
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2013
I mashup me, myself, and thee: Part II

Excerpts from my poems about poets, poetry and the process of composition. In chronological order, from the earliest to the most recent.
---------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­----


The three poems went about their business,
Bringing heaven to earth,
FYI, even Angels can't be everywhere, so,
God invented poems to do his ***** work,
Cleansing souls.

They rode in~out of town on a prankster wave,
A cheering throng was not around,
But a singular poet saw, recorded the vision,
And thus, this nameless poet,
Below unmasked, unsealed,
Cleansed one more soul,
And that soul, this soul, as required,
Paid it forward.
~
Nothing produced from this place
where routine means the gorge tastes bile,
When surcease is welcome relief,
Where dancing on ice in bare feet
Is step one to ripping your chest open by your own hands,
The toxins thus released rejuvenated by salted air,
Can be finally be transcribed onto paper
And realized.

Warn them once and then begin, you,
Get serious, delve, with hurricane unambiguity,
to torrential words upon the unsuspecting,
let them taste the rawness, only the truth provides,
let them know salt tears so briney,
They will flee this place, n'er to return.

~
One day she intro'd me as her fav poet,
To which I acknowledged by addressing her as
My number one fan,
Which seems to have stuck,
so I acknowledge her as such,
And always add a polite, respectful, winking,
Yes ma'am!
~
Like this new day,
there are always
new poems

Like last night's sunset,
day's efforts reviewed,
a special light,
a yellowed marker,
highlighting a few deserving

Take them home,
kiss them goodnight,
rest them in the poetry file
that is no file,
but a large fabric box where
sewing tools once stored

How appropriate and
how happy that makes me.

~
Yo! Yo!
Remember your first real high,
That moment
No absolution, no return.
That moment
When you admitted, confessed,
to yourself:

I am
Forever forward,
A home-grown poet.
I am
Soul enslaved to words.
The alphabet - My oxygen molecules,
I am both,
Addict and dealer
A ****** poet

Yo! Yo!
So you do recall,
The exact moment,
God-spark-within, ascendancy gained
You lost control,
Wept words instead of tears!
A ****** poet ******!

Yo! Yo!

Sophie's Choice.
You chose writing over breathing,
Worshiper of the purest pleaure,
******* in deep the smoke-high of
Head-nodding discontented contentment
Stealing anything you saw
For to satisfy the need, the craven
Craving.
****** poets!

Yo! Yo!

Don't you're ever sleep?
Hear that the city, the state,
Gonna methadone your kind
In a special program
Teach you only language to sign.
**** poets!

I am a ****** poet.

The first step taken.
Admission.
Poetry is my default rest position,

My drug of choice.
~
Have you noticed here

Each poet declaims his fellow
The better one, his teacher,
From whom they shall learn and gather up
Inspiration

Gonna run for Congress,
My first bill, Poetry-care,
Will make it a requirement that
All citizens must contribute,
Exchange once a day
To this peaceful place,
Even just a syllable, a single letter,

K?

~
Literally my eyes see words awaiting coordinating,
Poems flying by, needing plucking,
How a child eats his morning cereal,
His rituals informing, of the man yet to be,
How our bodies lay, hair unbrushed,
Tying us into a conjoined knot...

No matter that plain words are my ordinary tools,
With them I shall scribe the small,
Cherish the little, grab the middle,
Simplicity my golden rule,
Write they say, about what you know best,
Surely in the diurnal motions,
The arc of daily commotion,
Do we not all excel?
~
The ice of poetry,
glassine smooth
but
charged hardness,
hits you, ****** you,
unexpected snowball in the face,

the fire of poetry,
cherished phrase, a patois,
comfort food when
whole winter skies
swallow you bleak

mutual contradictions of poetry
savaging the soothed ego,
revealing the raging id

what's in a word anyway?

~
Please Pop, pick wise,
the life and lies, the faces and disguises,
I will need employ to achieve success
in the eyes of my reading beholders,
who own the liens on my soul
because of the promises I believed,
when you sang me
glowing lullabies of my future days,
how everyone would love my stories,
my poems, someday...
~
Place your ****** hands upon thy chest.
Let them melt thru and come to rest,
Inside, the battle ongoing, under thy breast.
Watch, eyes open, knowing, fearful.
Swiftly, with no hesitation, from within,
Rip open your body, exhaling the best,
And the worst of what you got.

The cool air rushes in,
Stirring the inside stew of:
Infected grime, shameful desires,
Secrets that should not have been exposed,
The ***** stuff that you alone know exists.

Contact with the atmosphere makes
Self-pity dies, blue blood turn red,
The TNT tightness explodes,
Ashamed, you have only one escape hatch.

Now, you are ready to write.

~
My life is on the boring side,
So welcome gents to look inside,
The surfed sites, the emails, hardly slimy,
But stay the fk away from my poetry!

Tis obvious from your midnight editing,
That my wordily, working body has been discretely
Simonized,
My data,
Googlized,
My poems,
Scrutinized,
A comma, a colon, a verb, out of place, capsized,
Little threads kept in door jambs, their alteration,
Your snooping presence, a confirming revelation
~
Where I write, here, all comes so easy,
Every glance a poem formed,
Every phrase a title to a poem served,
Every conversation overheard and those wind-lifted brought,
A seed, a germ, a word~worm hooked to the pole crook of
My finger saying, see man, time to get more ink and paper,
Go and catch us a few poems for dinner

The snapper weakfish word colors are
Running past my-by the thousands,
We will need a basket to catch but a fraction
Of what you see, more than more enough to share,
Only Happy Poems for all

It is this rhyming way I view the wold,
That is my freedom, is my-present essence,
How the poems come, how thy flow,
Peaking, I cannot berate, rarely eat,
Sleep a thing of the past (as you be aware, beware)
There is poetry in simply everything.

~
But if my aura be a comfort insufficient,
Let this surprise poetic gift awaiting your arrival,
Give you rest, from crying surcease!

For when the who, the why of me interrogatory posed,
Describe me in a brevity I ne'er possessed, say:
He was just a poet, and I,
Just, his lover, number one fan.

This truth eternal, never to change.
~
But I am open to learning, the arduous task
Of raising a teenage daughter,
After I have my head examined

Though I am just a bunch of eclectic electrons,
I got powers a few, like making life's happiness
Hearted happier, encouraging your forays into
You-know-what,
And when tables turn, a hasty retreat you beat,
For imaginary cappuccinos and poems we will meet,
Comparing notes on who felt lousier when...

But what I can do 100% is assure you
There is no lone nor lonely daughter extant,
Your voice not just clear but soft-edged,
For I have poetically adopted you,
Here and now, assuming you sign on the
.............................................................­line

~
Take these words at plain face,
and look not askance
at this fair warning,
for I am but a tragic,
empty vessel for you to fill,
you are the raconteur,
me, just a  
poet poseur extraordinaire,
street urchin, word merchant,
all my verbally, wordly goods expropriated
from the wind,  where your scattered thoughts
lie about, carelessly,
unattended
~
Guiltless in life, we but survived,
Hurting no one, no thing,
Yet, here we lie, ignored, unattended,
Yet, you fail again to see our connection?
You do not recognize us?

We are the shells, the husks of you,
Your poems unread, you labors unpreserved,
All wasted, for unless they are read, they die,
As you will too.
Some fast, by water, some slower, time-eroded,
All, ended, by drowning in the Sea of Who Cares!

~
What sourced this elegiac distich,
Too many poets, fully disclosing their downbeat, aroma of defeat?

The world is in a **** mood, not one of us, got nothing
Good to say, seems that love storms ripping hearts
With no trace of mercy, the radio has elected nonstop
Taylor Swift and Jonas Bro's
Just to make the point!

It is so easy to feel ******,
When the sun is unshining, elegant distich, **** me.

Thinking back, getting a good idea,
Found some long necked Corona overlooked,
Turn on the tv, pretend I'm a real cowboy,
And for god's sake, shut down poetry,
Good Bye Poetry, for the rest of the day.
~
once upon a time,
a traffic light rainbow,
stopped n' go, was a word design,
demarcated visions of spun sugar,
bodegas sold me
magic beans by the pound,
masterminded into cups of delight,
treasury's bounty overflowed,
now, dregs drain, sink stained,
as are my writing utensils,
my ink stained, us-less, fingers

come visit me, unknown stranger,
let us exchange fluidity, barbs,
a contest of kissing, eye lashing
wit ands shared vision stashing,
and together, once more,
write with our feet,
while holding hands,
becoming once more
poets of the street.

Only, come quickly.

~

But reading thy cries, an exercise,
Teeth-gnashing frustration.
It brings no relief.

So sad girl,
Write till you are righted,
May be it will snow on July 4th,
And tho unnatural,
So is thy grief.

Nonetheless, write me write me all about it,
Right us,
For tho snow falls, its loveliness,
Makes the heart rise up in gladness!
~
She brings me coffee in bed.
I propose a violin accompaniment.
Some babka, with nice-crumbly-in-bed
Streusel topping,
A concerto we could make!

Her derision snorted so loud,
The mollusks on the beach
From their shells come out.

"Good luck with that,
Put that fantasy on
Your **** poetry site,
Cause that is the closest you will ever get!"

~
For she will be my heroine for all time,

These words to expand with rhyme and verse,
T'is a welcome task, one familiar, but anew,
Each dawn each dusk, a daily trust, a love poem diurnal-birthed,
As if god created the world, but left upon completion,
With a grievous thirst, a new notion, he did burst.

He created the Eighth Day, for celebration of his
Most cherished invention, the idea of love.
This is where, the secret writ Eleventh Commandment occurs,
Love thy Poetry Gods, Honor them with daily verbs.
~
Officer...you should see me gut a

Poem,

Slice its belly open,
Sometimes straight, sometimes Askew,
Feed the gulls them
****** insides on the dock, by-moonlight,
Can ya cut me some slack?

Mmm, I see here in your license,
You are a disabled guy,
A **** poet ******,
Who often does his best work
Legally all alone in the HOV lane,
So I'm gonna let you off this time
Just with a warning!

~
We can share words, we can grant tiny easements,
We can weep with you unseen tears,
We can etsy you little homemade gifts
Like this.

That you can take and keep, and break out in time of need knowing full well that these words will not spoil nor rancid turn, cannot be out grown,, or torn, or rent asunder in anyway for once they are shared
They are irrevocable.
~
When you write,
It as if you write upon our
One skin,
For I am your tablet,
Your sole/sol/soul composition.

So stop kissing me
and
Write upon us.

~
This will not be the hardest poem I e're wrote,
But if there is no inspiration
For you to smote,
And armpits refuse to provide perspiration,
To source juices for a new creation,
Try this trick,
I promise you
No one will lick your ice cream cone,
Nor mistake you for Leonard Cohen,
But when you are done,
You will be High Priest of
Hello Poetry for the rest of the day!
~
You think you can write?
Then employ  a word outside your comfort zone,
Go it alone,
And write four sentences that will make
The hopeful reader stand up and
you twice as much, and shout

Hallelujah
*******.

Work. Poetry is work. Hard work.
Don't fret. But, think on it. Have the sweetest dreams.
In the morning, when you but awake,
A poem will be aborning in thy mind,
And dare I say it, you will find a new freedom
In free verse.
(I know you will slip in a rhyme or two,
I can't help but do it too)

~
Had myself forgot,
That a poem needs a
Frame of jungle gym sounds,
An aural aura resonance unbound.
Purposed to make the heart lift
Your ears say:

Say what!

It needs a tune,
An internal music,
It needs a lilt!
A cadence, that both
Marches and swings,
Even when'd urgent dirge
grief pours forth.
~
This Sabbath day you fog-hide
Your gift of bay and beach
So quiet implore, beseech,
Keep the sailors safe,
And your poets saved.

I ask much.
But I ask for all of us,
There are so many such
That are booster-chair needy
That I am succumbed, overwhelmed,
Enormity fearsome needs help even from a deity.

Small words, big hopes.

If you cannot grant it,
Won't wait for intervention,
Do it myself, answer prayers one and all,
Best I can, starting now with this
Po-hymn.

~
I used to sleep
With pen and paper on my nighttime table.
Nowadays, my iPad tablet rests upon my chest,
Not only does it keep me warn,
It takes my poems from within, Fresh Direct,^
Edits, credits, and delivers them to your door,
While I'm still sleeping.

Which is why they come at all hours.
It is also why they call them,
Love's Labour's Lost saving devices.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
**So I spend my cold, hard time
laying down cold hard verse,
Can't stop, cause it's my daddy's dying curse.

I am both: Addict and dealer, a ****** poet ******.
Saltnoon Aug 2016
I never liked yellow because of the colour that would burn on my brown skin. I hated the colour so much until I threw the yellow dress which was a gift from my mom.
But I fell in love with the colour when the sky turned yellow. I was laying under the tree with the yellow flowers and I could see that his eyes were so brown under the yellow sky. Brown eyes were just brown eyes until I became poetically attached to it. Yellow was just 'too bright for me' until I saw how it burned me poetically.
David Ehrgott Aug 2015
You know for centuries politicians have been trying to push their correctness on to everyone.  It's usually the first lady that does this as part of some etiquette program or something.  Etiquette is okay, I guess.  But, when you think about it, the only ones who really NEED to be politically correct SHOULD be the politicians.  Why would anyone who is NOT a politician be required to practice political correctness.  Why would a baker need to be politically correct, or a news anchor.  (Well, maybe a news anchor.)  But, an accountant or a cashier or a bus driver or a police officer.  They would have to be cashierly correct or accountantly correct or policely correct.  Wouldn't they?  Political correctness should only have to apply to politicians.

  As for me, All I really have to be is poetically correct.  Yes, there IS a thing.  You can look it up if you don't believe me.  Ya know, I was thinking about poetry the other day and I remembered poetical correctness and what it was all about.  It's been stated before by many and I'll try to explain it to you, to the best of my memory.

  To be poetically correct one must never use words that are negative or profane.  One must always use soft words that flow easily.  Words that produce warm feelings of sensuality and never words of hatred.  You must be descriptive when you speak of the spotted toad with the red stripe on its head and the shine that bounces off his slime when the sun shines through the tall trees of the forest where the rock he is perched on  sits parallel to a beautiful babbling brook.  Love and nature.  That should be the two things that one should write about.  Love and nature.
And the nature of love.  And one's love for nature. Or the nature of nature and the love of love. But, maybe they're not that much into nature.  Maybe they love the city and its grittiness.  Well, there you go ruininging the grandness of a city with description.  Poetical correctness.  Always think poetically and not politically and that's Poetical Correctness.
FEEL FREE TO ADD TO THIS THING CALLED POETICAL CORRECTNESS AND HAVE A POETIC DAY!
Justin G Feb 2015
Despicability is the foundation to their life
For them it is intrinsic
Genetically encoded
Simplistic
Poetically eroded
Reprehensible at best

     Unscrupulously callous
     Secrets and facts, they conveniently
     ingest
     Distorted byproducts, they release to the
     masses
     To aid their campaign; a forked tongue
     fest


Pathetic and unapologetic
A beast armed to the teeth
Imported bypasses to increase the flow of police
A weakness and an act,
They so vehemently attest

     Harvesting greens off the branches of
     the people
     Pockets engorged with wads and folds
     Crushing blue collars at the lower levels
     As they sit atop their pyramids of gold


Today they sip champagne
To celebrate their reign
Tonight we'll skip being humane
To feed them excruciating pain

     You've incited this coup with ill-thought
     deterrents
     Now herald the arrival of the scourge
     Down with lopsided governments
     Tonight... All we would topple! Tonight we purge!


Justin G
**ryn
This truly was an experience. I really enjoyed sending and receiving verses from the one and only amazing ryn. I really got into character with this one, but long story short: **** corruption!  The pen is mightier than the sword
Nigel Morgan Aug 2013
In the night it had been so dark he had been unable to see across the room. The uncurtained window was a thought, a remembrance. He had to feel his way across the room from the warm bed, and across the wooden floor his feet felt one of the two small rugs he knew were there. Finding the windowsill he looked out into sheer darkness, but then a glimmer of light flashed far away across the valley, and yes there was just the faintest trace of dawn, and it was so still. He opened the window and could hear a faint breath of wind moving the trees surrounding this estate house, a house empty but for him. Somewhere quiet, unpopulated by this pulsing, vibrant, unreal community he had joined the previous afternoon.

There was an owl distant, and he immediately thought of the poem Owl written just a few hundred yards away by a poet who had once lived on the estate. He imagined her writing it in a half hour captured from being a mother of small children, and of being a gardener and wife. Maybe she had her worktable in her bedroom, a small space wholly hers where she could form her thoughts into these jewels of words.

Owl

Last night at the joint of dawn,
an owl’s call opened the darkness

miles away, more than a world beyond this room
and immediately I was in the woods again,

poised, seeing my eyes seen,
hearing my listening heard
under a huge tree improvised by fear

dead brush falling then a star
straight through to God
founded and fixed the wood

then out, until it touched the town’s lights,
an owl elsewhere swelled and questioned
twice, like you light lean and strike
two matches in the wind.


He returned to bed and as he lay down to gather a little sleep before the early morning light summoned him to his desk, he thought about ‘the joint of dawn’. Only a poet could have found that word ‘joint’, the exactness and rightness of it. It gave him a sudden and prolonged moment of joy. That’s what the creative mind sought, the right word, a word that summoned up not just images – he knew exactly what the joint of dawn was as an image – but also a very particular emotional and experiential state, for him a whole history of early mornings sitting quietly with a cup of tea between his hands, looking out; or sometimes being out, in winter before dawn, walking to his studio, the old walk through the industrial estate, over the river, into that vast silent building, up the three flights of stairs by feel and long practice – the metal rims on each stair step a guard against a long fall – then to his room, and before turning on the light at his drawing board he would stand by the long windows whose sills held his shells and stones, a vase of flowers, a small collection of old (and blue) bottles, a framed photograph of his children, he would stand and see the joint of dawn begin as a crack in the sky and then open like a lid on a box, a box that held a faint morning light, a pre sun, a grey glimmering.

As he lay awake, but with eyes closed, he thought of a conversation they had had recently, he and the woman he loved, the woman who warmed his heart and whose image in so many different forms floated continually in his consciousness. The feel of her under his body pulling herself to the compass points of his passion, and in such a moment when time had become suspended, had found this release, this overflowingness that gave him now, alone in this dark bedroom, a joy he could barely contain, that it could be so and to which his own body now expressed in its own vivid and physical way.

This conversation – he sought to remember the circumstances. Maybe it was over the telephone. Many of their conversations had to be so. They lived apart, and even when they lived together for short periods they were not truly together. There was often the intervention of work, of present children, of heads full of lists of things to do.  This conversation was about a short story he had written and sent to her to read – she had supplied the title, curiously, and he had accepted it, the title, as a challenge. She said ‘I’m often unsettled by your stories, by not knowing what is ‘real’ and what is invented. I find it difficult to read what you write as fiction because I’m aware that some of what you write is based on memory, people you have known perhaps, and I have not’. He could tell from the examples she gave (that were really questions) that there was, perhaps, a particular unease when it came to women he had portrayed. He felt a little sad and uncomfortable that his answers did not seem to help, and he thought quietly for some time after about this problem. Of course, authors did this, they trawled their memories, and often and usually ‘characters’ (he had read) were composites. The character in question, a poet in her sixties called Sally, was one such, a composite. He had invented her he thought, but to her, his questioner, his loved one, she had assumed a reality. It was those intimate details he had supplied, those small things that (he felt) drew a fictional character to a reader. Had he known a Sally? How intimately had he known a Sally? Was this the sort of woman he would like to know, perhaps even fantasied about knowing? A woman who handled words well, poetically, that was plain, but unmarked by her age, though had large feet and moved without grace.

He loved to write letters to her, his loved one. He wanted, this morning, to write to her, but he didn’t want his letter to be another list of ‘I did this, then this, and I saw this, and this made me think of this poem (and here it is), or this picture, and I heard this music (and there attempt a description). He was selfish really. He didn’t want the letter skimmed through and discarded. He has written, he loves me, he is thinking about me so he writes knowing I like letters, but that’s it, and his letter, because they come so frequently, is just another mark on the drawing that will be the day; it carries little permanence with it. And sadly, he will occasionally (although he is improving) allow these little intimacies to fall into words, and that I find difficult, embarrassing. I suppose I want letters anyone could read, that I could leave about on the kitchen table.

So, just occasionally he would place himself in a story, and this is what he began to prepare as he lay in bed and the dawn lit this bare room, so minimally furnished, in this quiet and beautiful place where a ten-minute walk would bring him to the bank one of Tarka’s rivers, where from the kitchen window, looking north, he could see the Moor and even one of its signifying and majestic Tors.'
The poem Owl is by Alice Oswald
Ma Cherie Jul 2016
So I hear the word
this Poetic World
has some unnecessary criticism
Not the constructive kind
not building anything
just tearing it down?
Why?

Not anything anyone wants to hear
apparently
maybe that's the fear
Pretty hard to understand motive
when we don't even understand it ourselves
Constant contradictions
Unrealistic predictions

I'm sure you'd cut your nose off to spite your face
Hoping to get their goat
that they are thin skinned
I hate clichés
Doesn't leave much room for intelligence
right?
who doesn't use 'em?
Everything in life is a metaphor
even life itself
truth is only a concept..
the only thing I can imagine is that if you believe it enough it's true
Everyone's version is different
Even swearing on a stack of Bibles
We see things we don't know we do
When choked till blue
A different view
I won't tell you what you want to hear
unless you come real near my ear

I don't pick sides
I'm far from anything but a perfect storm
one that can't be warned to stop
once the wind of calypso blows
And the water shows
I can turn it on like a light switch
strike a soaking match
burn like the fire of your hell
without accelerant
Not arson
You can drag me there but I won't dwell
I've seen the devil face to face
Even he has some poetic Grace
as a fallen Angel might

You don't necessarily have to say anything nice
Can you write it on a grain of rice?
maybe don't say anything at all
or be more articulate
think a little bit before you speak
Or shut that squawking beak,
start talking... there you go.

You never know
who might be listening
Poison arrow with ****** ink it might be glistening
aimed and ready...sights are steady
covers the view from the desert sand, still can see

You'd rather just send a deluge of hate
Bitter taste you can't get out of your mouth
you thought you'd spate
something ate?
spewing
chewing
Like the **** addicts that were eating the face off a homeless person
or the woman on the news who stabbed her four children to death
I got a knife don't want to plunge
So don't you lunge
Plenty of darkness and so-called evil in the world
We can share the stage
I can listen to your rage
or not
and vice versa
We all can be sent to that address
That Abyss
You think anything you're saying is different?
Not very poetic.

Are you an emotional vampire?
Cuz I'm guessing you're just trying to be a literary one
Do you think you have some emotional intelligence and the rest of us don't?
Some people might have to look up with that means
That is alright
poets strung out tight
you think this reporter won't cover subjects others won't?
Like an unpoetic war....
Paaaalease

That we cower in the corner
Like a well-beaten dog
or a scrambled eggs and mixed messages
Eventually they'll bite back you know
I would just laugh
Not maniacally
Just because I know I'm protected
I'm insured for writing this down
I hate to run you out of town
I'm running out of time
We all are
so stop wasting it

I got a gun it's a 45
Shoots shotgun shells and hollow point bullets
called The Judge
Just gave her a rub
It decides using my hands and words
If they're heard
might help the Jury and trigger the Executioner

I won't to ask you treat me the way I want to be treated
cuz I don't know that myself
And I sure as hell don't know how you want to be treated
Personally I don't really read into any messages from sources I can't trust,
there's tetanus in that crusty rust
Too many big problems
just past twelve
send in demon elves
Be careful who you pick fights with
Even that friendly dog will turn
Not sure you'll ever learn
I hope there's no need for extreme rendition

Some people belong to clandestine services
Maybe recruited really young
Couldn't confirm or deny
Really wouldn't want to make you cry
anything but your own tears
Where do you think all that newly discovered water in the center
of the Earth comes from?
More water than all the oceans rivers and seas on the surface...
So
everything we believed about how this Earth..how it was created, formed was WRONG.

The people who are absolutely certain
are the ones I trust the least
Keep thinking they're going to discover the God particle
is that what you're looking for?
We're not going to find the answers
if we don't stop asking
questioning everything
we die.

get a picture of the force?
so don't make this an outbreak
leave that scab alone
don't touch anyone else
Unless they want to be touched
where the want to be
let alone what you don't understand
agree to disagree
check yourself

There are a lot of Cooties going on
Contagions
and few snipers
got gear
and we got game
You can blame
try to shame
whoever you want
You know the truth just gotta dig a Little Deeper
Listen to the creepers
Or not
Today you got more than big brother watching you

You'll see when you look in the mirror
Better be looking over your shoulders too
have some eyes in the back of your head
Do you see that witch?
A mirage?
Could be worse
you could be deaf and blind.... without those hands,
with no food on the poet Island

Maybe not maybe only in your sleep
Get past what hides beyond skin deep
Look up at the sky when it darkens
Watch swooping blackened wings
guttural things
shadowed figures and crimson eyes
and capes
swarming locusts are a gift

Every fear you have inside
crawling on your skin
Brought up in a Riptide
From the belly of the Beast
Anyone purges in the same
different ways
Today is just another piece of time
another rhyme
Nothing special
Or different....
or is it "the day"?
Anyway..

As I see it All I Got the Magic Eye
So just be careful who you pick a fight with
they might walk softly and carry a big stick
as I drag my baseball bat behind me with my glove and ball caught inside
I hide
Tipping my hat at the winking sun
You hear my cleats Crush against the pavement as I walk
it's the only sound
Until a loaded round
or the sunken broken arrow
taken out by the singing sparrow

Going off in peace
So let me go
Upset enough so you should know
Be careful who you pick a fight with
Tread lightly
Right now I got nothing to lose
The archangels are getting Wild
And I'm their child
not because I'm ugly
I just hate ugliness
Not afraid of 7 years of bad luck
Using that bat on the mirrors
I might be a joker,
a conscience stroker
A poet... you are too and you know it
Hard tellin' not knowin'
Can't get there from here
just be careful who you pick a fight with and I will too
Missiles on standby
Not stand down
banks of your armies clowns
Retreat in defeat
Don't appreciate having to go there
bode

Cherie Nolan © 2016
Need I say any more? Of course that's for another poem... this is not a reflection of who I am, as you well know.. a collaboration of sorts. So I'm just taking about for every poet & poetess.
Just Melz Oct 2014
~                
Putting sound                  
into the world
of          
         poetry

Hoping              
I'm  
*heard
Every poets dream and nightmare...
Oliver Philip Feb 2019
The struggle to overcome the differences        
        Between the impossible and the possible
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The struggle to overcome the differences        
        Between the impossible and the possible
Hope being the word that springs to mind.            
        To link these two opposites to attract.
Eternally wandering Cyber space side by side,    
         Hooking into every adjective or verb.

Seeking impossible causes and take away
    Excuses and make them once more possible
To overcome the bigotry and blind self-centred
     Mind sets of the Atheist Un-Believers
Reaching cornerstones of minds that Muslim          
   or        Christian Faiths never thought existed.
Unless you have all spent your life on earth
       In a Butterfly cocoon , not in real time.
GOD has chosen you to teach the differences
    Poetically between the Impossible n possible
Given that that if you don’t succeed first time
    You will eventually get it right next time.
Love for all your Fellow Men and Women
     May seem important,trust me it’s the way.
Every possibility, has been, at sometime within
     It’s long life, seemingly most impossible.

Take the clever fabrication of a silk purse
      Out of a muddy sow’s ear , if you will ?
Or the finding of a needle in a hay -stack.
       Or the abolition of third world hunger?

Or the creation of the Love of Nations unto
  Nations .The end all Wars n Ethnic cleansing
Very nearly every problem has a solution
    Indeed many solutions do often exist.
Electricity? How unbelievable to most thought      
    So impossible once upon a time.
Radio waves converted into the sweet sounds
     Ever to be heard by mortal Man.
Communication n instant chat across a globe
      In real time, one to one, No ? Impossible.
Of loving commitment betwixt different creeds
      And cultures ,without ever meeting possible
Mighty soon God will look down on the Earth
       And see two wonderful words rolled to one
Entreating the impossible always possible
        And the possible never impossible.

The struggle to overcome the differences
    Between the the impossible and the possible
Holy ,holy,holy ! Eureka , glory be .We are
     We are getting there , I really do believe.
Eternally where two poets or more can meet
    And compose , recite and critique as one

Differences are diffused between the
    Impossible and the possible, reduced to nil.
In practical terms every metaphor or rhetoric
    Noun verb or adjective can be polished.
From the most impossible dream into reality
     Of the finest poetry ever written.
From the dullest of dyslectic muttering
      To the most floral of sweetest love songs
Endlessly tripping from the lips of strangers
       Meeting strangers ,wisest verse ever ?
Reactivating opposites attracting impossibly
      With the possibility of judging for yourself.
Enactment with that poet that composed this
      Lengthy missive...you never wished to meet
Never in a thousand years of co-habitation
     Meeting this poet maybe possibly possible
Catch the impossible chance on the
     Boundaries of your mind to make it work
Every chance that catch can win the game
   Turning an impossible result into success
Success is the fuel to drive the possibility
   Beyond the full limits of the impossible

By making then the impossible possible
  You’ve changed in one action your whole life.
Every possible thought can be dismissed
    From your mind , possible for ever.
The sun to leave the sky ,rivers all run dry ?
    Babies not to cry ? No that’s impossible.
We have that song within our minds
   Which possibly keeps our feet on the ground
Every now and then to accept that all things
   Are possibly impossible
Even mighty magicians from time to time
   Cannot turn, however hard they try by day n
Night to raise experiments turning base metals
     Into gold. For no good reason save reward.

The gold that they are seeking is currency
     But to the poet it is the currency of rhyme
Heroic epic verses ,Odes,Rhyming verse
    And translations left right and centre.

Ethereal gifts making sense of the hopeless
    Antiquated jumble of English words n idioms

Impossible smilies as impractical unfeasible
     Unworkable, unattainable,inconceivable.
Measured against the conceivable by remove
     Of the whole reason for failure or excuses
Possible solutions are always potentially
     Available to the ever open mind of a poet
Obtain if you will the very unattainable for if
    You believe in God you most probably will.
Subjected to the most absurd verbal abuse
     Of an unromantic Philistine or carping critic
Stand upon your highest tip toe . Tall as you
  can be, yell and yell , making yourself heard
In so doing even an ugly Giant , fearsome
   Fire breathing Ogre will be confused awhile.
Blinded by the impossible beauty of the prose
   You write and the melodious songs you sing
Like the charming of a deadly Cobra,
  Mesmerised into loving every living thing
Every time you may have a smudge of doubt
  Creeping into your positive life with negativity.

Awake in that moment and assume that
   Nothing is nothing like as impossible as it is
Nothing was ever impossible to God .
   The one true creator, HE passes on his skills
Don’t be lead to believe by others that your life
   Is at all ludicrous, if that life works for you.

The struggle to overcome the differences
   Between the impossible and the possible
Herculean . If you stop to think about it ?
    Best have the courage of faith ,you’ll resolve
Each and everything you ever put your mind to
As unacceptably,positively out o’the question.

Practicable solutions and compromise dilutes
    The acid contamination of the perfection.
Oh, I have seen this in my life so many times
     Before ,sadly only to expect to see it again
So take away any excuse for failure .Find !!
   the tools to make the unthinkable thinkable
Substitute the negatives for a positive frame
  Of your mind the unreasonable to reasonable
Illogical thoughts and actions you convert
   By your process of logical practical analysis
Before long , my goodness it’s before your very
   Eyes. The simple solution to the problem
Like a magic wand covered in Fairy dust
Making every impossible task possible in time
Earth took its creator only six days to design
  and several million years for us to get it as is
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Philip.
November 14th 2018.
The struggle to overcome the differences between the possible and the impossible
HerInMyHeart Aug 2015
You’re the muse within my poetic heart
Drawn together, as syllables mingle
Within me my love, you make me tingle
Every sonnet we write a work of art.

We are completed by our every verse
Our rhythmic heartbeats rhythm as one
And finding one another, a home-run
Always I’ll love you, for better or worse.

Poetically drawn to you, my sweet love  
Weaving tender words of love, together
And for me my love there’s not another
Whimsical lyrics, love soars like a dove.

Scribbling tender love, full of feeling
Moving metaphors with passion reeling.
The letter was a warm invitation  and a perfect getaway I needed to lay low after are  brief rise to cult status i had partaken of the
rewards of semi obscurity and had a few angry fathers searching for me.

The big apple it called to me like a stripper apon a pole demanding thats all you got is ones you cheap *******?
My true sidkick  like robin to batman just less gay and good looking.

Met me at the station  Amigo how the hell are you now were's the bar?
Drinks on you right?
Cause when your a semi celeb slash rockstar of hello why the **** should i pay.
Why should women be the only ones to walk into a bar with three dollars  in there purse and get rip roaring drunk.
Besides if i was a chick id be a **** *****.

The stage was set the bar was filled with strange sounding people
all asking my well know  brother in madness who tha  ***** this *******.
****** good man im not just any ******* im Gonzo.

Beer on another mans tab always tasted better   just remember ******
im not putting out   well unless  you ask me niceley  or pay  me
like that rich old lady used to who  also was missing her leg.

yes what memeories id slip her a mickey  rearrange her  clothes and after she woke  up tell her what a wild night we had yes i know
true romance.

BUT ENOUGH WITH THE FOREPLAY CHILDREN!

We began are quest like any other  seeing how much ***** we could
hold  till  normal people began to make sense.
I work everyday busting my freakin ***  still it aint enough Gonz.
The angry little italian man who's wallet i had borrowed said beside me.
Hey a girls gotta eat.
Dear lord man you mean you actully have to go back everyday hey is this a gold card   your worse than my wife freakin ***.
Sir you are a charmer  what angry little people  lived here.

Bill lets hit the ******* im in need of culture  and some naked women amigo  come on im  drinks are on Vinny who gives a ****.

After bill  dipped into his life savings to pay the tab we hopped
a cab headed for Manhattan  to the place  of great myths and wonder
it called to great men from arond the world to bask in its beauty.

No not the statue of the giggantic woman  with a torch although i wondred  as i stood below her ****** why cant she be wearing a mini skirt.
You gotta love a big girl  she was such a tease.

No as i stood  tears meeting my bloodshot eyes
befor the mecca  the big apple and the home  of legends and playground to the *****.

Hey get the **** outta the street *******.
It"s Gonzo  man ****** how many times do i need to repeat myself.
Scores a ******* to the rich  a fools paradise **** Disneyland.
Ive been on spacemountian most my life anyways.

As through the doors we were met by a scene of true
art much like the Mona Lisa  if she were a stripper named candice cane  in red high heels hanging from a stripper  pole.

the drinks flowed  the lap dances were well you get the point.
I realized my two drink minimum freind was a little how should i say it poetically.
******* wasted.

As he tried  to give a stripper named honey a lap dance  
never mind him ladies he's my  ******* brother.
In a plan of true drunken genius i explained he was sick and
his last wish was for his older brother to hookup with
some   hot  strippers to have  ahh  some  after hours activities  
Who's ***** bingo.
how i love  bango I mean bingo.

Tears welled up in there eyes  thank god they didnt question why my little brother was 58.
Hey there strippers  and if they  were all going to college  then
this would be a ******* library  not a high  dollar  titie bar.

Librarians with there hair up short tight skirts and glasses
i swear you get busted for  having a little alone time on a public
computer   in that over rated book store for a second time and everyone  flips ****.
Society is so judgemental  but that's another story  
and court case   away.

The plastic fake boobie women had fallin for it.
So like drunken ninjas in a fog of  dellusion and wild turkey we made are last exit to brooklyn.
  
Hey  Gonz why do these chicks keep asking how much longer do i have.
Smacking my friend swiftly in the head had drawn the attention
of the strippers away from counting there tips and comparing there fake breast.

He's got brain dammage sometimes you have to hit em in the  
head to get him unstuck  ****** just look at the poor *******
he thinks he's not sick  oh dam life i need a cuddle girls.
Bill hold the camera.

We hit my friend's apartment like tourist slipping across the boarder grabing and  consuming great amounts of ***** and some sort of white powder  must have been for allergies.

Like squirrels  on acid  running down the interstate we were  
half nuts by the time that big orange ball thats causes me to wear sunglases did appear.

The ladies who names i cant recall  but honestly who gives a ****.
were passed out in bed Bill  in the fish tank  
calling himself captian nimmo  at this point led me to belive just maybe he had  a little  to much  but theres  many pitfalls on the road to Gonzo pacman.

Few men had the liver  or insanity of your's truely.
so after i talked my  tripping amigo off the frige.
Reassuring him its okay   amigo   thats what women look like naked.

I assure you  just cause they broke theres off doesnt mean they'll do the same to yours.
****** son why have a computer if not to look at **** and read long rants by insane people who call themself Gonzo?

After are long disscussion   about good touch bad touch and happy endings  we were off  again.

                                                 Ground Zero

                                        Silence And Respect

Standing there there was a shared  moment.
And a pain any soul could feel.
It wasnt about race or religion  it was about people
we all lost that day.
John Patrick Robbins stood beside a brother without a word
said as it spoke a million feeling's to the soul.

                           No one ever truley leaves there.

At the bus station a few cocktails behind us me and the kiddster
parted slightly hung over   and strung out smelling of reckless abandon
and strippers and wild turkey.

Apon the bus sitting by the window and some large man.
Who reaked of sardines  and  resembled a  cerial ******.
yes ladies he's single  and will probaly **** ya.
Wonder why he has a hard time getting dates?

As Bill waved goobye to his demented  brother from his own planet.
I waved back saying hey amigo  is this your debit card hell no worries
i'll keep  good care of it and reward myself.

As the bus left the station  my semi ******* friend chasing behind
yelling Gonzo i'll get you for this you freakin *******.
Kidster  that hurt i yelled but not as much as it's gonna hurt you bank account cheers.

That guy in black is ******  you  better watch out he's probaly connected.
No worries my funny smelling oversized friend
so am i replied.
I have the internet as well.

Bound for parts unknown Gonzo  made many stops
and if not for legal reason's  id share most of them.
Yes as i sat apon the beach  after taking a little side trip to Florida.
Drink in hand lost in deep thought's for which i cant remember.
      
Reflecting apon my time in the big apple.
And my friend the Kiddster
A toast to my friend.
Hope you like the post card  and the three week vacation
i treated myself to.

Sorry about the whole life savings thing but
who needs to retire in there 80's  work will keep you young girlfriend.

Cheers your slightly insane friend Gonzo.
As in most my writes  this is based on a slightly sober true story
except  for the stealing his credit cards  cause that would be a admission of guilt  and stealing is wrong of course i mean.

Stay crazy Forever Gonzo

And oh yes my friends Billy the  Kiddster is also on hello and if you liked the thirty year old ******  then check out the well really ******* older one.
And Bill no need to thank me  you know i always got your  back  and your pin number.   Fin  amigo
Madison McCray Dec 2014
our relationship was built poetically
allowing our deepest thoughts to tear us apart
for I was fragile you touched my soul gently
in hope to save ourselves from future part
together enduring a graveled road
a chance for love was rather difficult
the opportunities came in quite a load
all that failed was at my fault
though your absence was my only fear
I opened the door that let you walk
now glancing back into the mirror
they were my mistakes that you would mock
my love for you has grown to be
more than just a poetic melody

— The End —