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Vera Mar 2018
Oh, Andy-
speak to me in paints:
red, yellow, blue

When I told you I wouldn't be good at this,
an inability to sketch hands that punched at everything leaving me weak.
Keane's sorrow filled eyes upon oil made more sense to me.

I was never angry or mean, just sad and hopeless.
Lichtenstein was more your speed with obscene images of ******* women
and dialogue of broken hearts.

Van Gogh never made sense, but his attention to detail caught my eye.
To not know what goes on in your own head is identifiable so,
my head is art crafted by Picasso.

they hospitalize you once you've lopped your ear off
when giving a part of themselves to a lover.
I'm not cut out for this- the starving artist,
the tragic sketcher,
or the natural- born painter.

I've calloused my hands,
shed tears on pages of sketchbooks
put paint that looks childlike
and nothing worthwhile,
in all the time spent learning,
I've never learned how to be an artist.

I thought it was the mantra to be pained and miserable,
but you accounted for bold choices and vivid primary shades.
I feel betrayed, that my art alone, isn't enough to be good.

They will never frame my name,
or immortalize flaws in which could never be erased.

Like our conversation in my dream:
"I can't be mean." -Me
"Killing yourself isn't much different" -You

So Andy, what is the color I'm feeling? If it isn't blue?

A dream I had of speaking with Andy Warhol
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
Once, the summer sun will rise in London
Like the half of the Ge meets the other half.
Like a magic by the Lamp of Aladdin
The love flame hidden in the chest lits out!

Like a blooming rose in a glowing beam of light,
Like a smiling face speaks a gentle word,
Like a beautiful sunrise colour in the first light!

The summer in London will pop and sizzle
We will see a threshold in our land.
The rose for a while is tucked away
Off the winter and is given to the sun
Winter is not forever spring is on the corner
Come back in the sun with the early bird
Before Cinderella takes on the primrose path.

Keeping an eye on a thriller is in the winter’s field
Oozy ozone misty land gets a gingerly seasoning
What on earth will it strike, will it dish out?
Ah, the sun will pop out like a river breeze.

Like a southern song singing on a dream scene.
a smooth fairy dance facing the Moon
a thrill of exposing Stonehenge once and for all
a melodious raindrop in the serene pond
a butterfly dance on the rose
a turned on tall tale of the blue peacock
Like a pure belief in heaven without a pinch of salt!
This is a poem from my book Zero and One available on Amazon.
Shofi Ahmed Nov 2018
................. maybe....................   
I'm                                    out
       but   you   popped
                  into my
I'm maybe out....
Poking fun at my
Insecurities will pop
My helium heart

Like a balloon; I
Can only take so much, I
Have bursted open

The pressure killed
JT Nelson Jun 14
We heard the screech
Then the pop
Of metal on metal
Or metal on wood
It’s hard to tell the difference
When you’re half asleep

People were running
To it and from it
People afraid that they’d
Be sent away
Away from their babies
Others stopped them and calmed them

My thumbs wrestled
With dialing 9-1-1
But I described it best I could
As quickly as I could
And as accurately as I could
Then we waited.
Traumatic situation all around tonight in our “hood” as a mom with children jumped the curb and hit a pole or tree then took off from the scene as she was afraid that she’d be deported or put in in jail or something. One by one the emergency personnel showed up and we made our way home. Lights and voices still thick behind us. Scary.
luna Nov 2018
fact: the beluga whale can live for around 50 years.

i see everything
i feel as if i have eyes
we all have eyes
but my eyes see it all

i wish they didnt see it all
i really really do

fact: the patients of nervosa probably can't live for around 50 years.
good ol' pop is a series of poems about my struggles of seeing others suffer, inspired by a loved one's struggle with anorexia, good ol' pop is a collection for the bystander, and for the observant.
RJP Aug 2018
Nina Simone, occupying ears singing about bed and dressers.
Sparsely populated
young couple
Interrupted by saying amusements.
Only two stops
I know where to get off

I knew to mind the gap
I'm a responsible citizen
Voter with a valid railcard
Only two stops
Purchased a ticket
Only two stops
I can not throw up in that time

I can not clear my system of over-priced beer
A niche in the market
Exploited in the name of money Making let's just raise them
let's charge extortionate rates for an autoimmune disease

Paying to support a normal drinking culture embedded into the narrative
Growing by in the western world Listening to Nina Simone
Only one stop now you'd never know what life would be like

Without loud pop charts entertaining a few leaving the others yearning the return of ABBA when times were simpler and people cared about Eurovision and illegal music was your own

“Tickets please”
He seems awfully jolly for a late night ****-shift on Arriva Trains Wales
Who's making him work and why's he So ******* happy about it
Real extra effort! Soul sapping in my opinion
Last stop gotta get off.
This is one's for any of the Welsh here.
RAO Aug 2018
2 Liters Width this Bottle Neck had her Thirsty when i Pop Off.
"Hes Got a Unique Meter!"

Thinkin outside my Thoughts Manipulate Face hands off my Clock Box a Movie Theater
Soft Drinkin my Equilibriums "DAnkh"...
Hook up The Bracelet of Anubis Call it my I Watch
Achilles Heels turning red and blue takin on a Dog WALK
no roads better to cross Sapphire bird " Call that a Cold ****¡!"
from a "Pacman" in Paris Pans Panning Labyrinths A Mazed running on music like Tha Rock whippin better then jimmy Neutrons Stovetopper
... Style makes Our Classic Modern Eighties cheatah?
UhDDuz(UDDERS+ADIDAS) "GODDARD" "SkyWalker" Call that Harry Potter at the Roboxer smoking bud from jimmy Wonkers GobStoppers.
give that a D +
Oh Gosh *** in CVS / HoMâge/ Po-ca-hon-tas chair gifted like Op-rahs-Hola-no bras vuela-ar tuoi o-Yâ aur-revior no-mas Veteran Indi-En Sit-in on ma stick shift of Mua Cö-Brâ..... engine Knocking sicker then Jehovah with pneumonia
Can we get every Ticket so i can load the Super Bowl Comon!
Makin her Jaw Drop ready to turn Dragon Rude into an tan Dra
Dolph-in ima RAOBAWT fly fishin Santa Cla₩§ Idle Hands Examined n Exposé Gods
lips im here to naturally Lift I'd Volunteer for Slavery if the Hills were rich like Jessica Albas Exposed ***

yo problems in the street
I get hi on Florida Keys You a Hero Touch Down!
Stranger Danger in my End Zone
Third Eye Candy Nov 2018
The East Wing of my I Ching
is newfangled
with fish scales and nag champa
and an Aries to wrangle.
My tea leafs sparkle
like dew on a cobweb
dawn corona.
And the licorice Night -
just a trance
for headlights to
dance too.
DJ Brewer Mar 16
Listen to Me.
It’s only a Dream.

Brooklyn’s hometown brother
Raised by his single mother
Many said he didn’t stand a chance
Dealing crack *******
Doing the gang dance

Top Seller
Rapping acapella
Crafty story teller

Reaching for interstellar heights
Under the bright, bright lights
No longer in the darkness of night
Affecting crowds with great delight

He is in everyone’s favour
A pop culture icon and a savior
He had certainly been put to the test
Now living a life of great success
He has triumphed, He has been blessed
He stands proud and tall above all the rest
He inspires me as a poet
Lyn Senz Nov 2013
Bubbles big and bubbles small
I wish that I could pop them all
their pious lies would finally fall
how nice without their bubbles

he thinks all day of things to say
like it's your fault cuz you don't pray
new shoes new shirt for judgment day
he's ready in his bubble

and she's right there with hateful glare
to tell you that the rod won't spare
the only way to get God's care
and live inside His bubble

but me I see I'll never be
among the 'good' among the 'free'
I'm lost in sin tossed out to sea
outside their giant bubble

bubbles big and bubbles small
I wish that I could pop them all

©2012 Lyn
CK Baker Oct 2017
Iron bench, open sore
dragon rock, three in score
flesh on body, tortured soul
arms high, in hell's hole

Corner bulb, neon light
drake hotel, second flight
jolly pop, rizla plus
open flame, behind the bus

Broken fixtures, tully hat
channel swimmer, at the bat
blind alley, words of cuss
dealer waving, in a fuss

Grim reaper, boys in blue
super bee, armored shrew
****** sips, swollen glands
potpourri, on demand

Black death, huddler's arch
beat the cold, and summer parch
toothless grin, ****** glare
obituary, to be shared

Dead of night, decontrol
cheeva tar, black coal
east central, chinatown
mr. freeze, is coming down

Foot soldier, skidder row
chicken feed, and white blow
silver spoon, casted hand
demons surface, on demand

Frantic sounds, below the glass
poison waiting, to be passed
crack pipes, over coat
bodies flat, begin to float

Gospel sounds, from union square
friends gather, deep in prayer
guardian angels, now deployed
thornton park, without a void

Covenant house, in holy charm
welcomes all, with open arms
salvation spreads, on chapel row
kindness that, cannot be sold
Even through this screen
she manages to strike me
Her side glances and careful words
Delighting my fantasy
While saying my name again
Inviting me with the wisps
of her pixelated hands

As if tracing lines in sand
Would bring me closer
I long to compose the words to create
That shy glance on your face
I'm always receiving through the glass
The truth is you could say anything new
And I'd still be the same old mess

Fighting to control my beating heart
and lack of breath
Because I have panic attacks
And I miss you just the same
And I play dumb when you won't say it
I act surprised because
I can't compensate it
Constantly in denial when I contemplate for too long

So instead I'll sing you a song
I'll keep it short and sweet
Rather than taking so long
Because darlin', you could
Say anything
Say anything
And I'd be happy again

Because sometimes I lose sleep
While I'm too busy listening on repeat
To the music that's always reminding me
Of the night she closed her eyes
And rested her feet on my thighs
While the rest of the world was dead
We were lying together in her hospital bed

I'm fighting to control my beating heart and lack of breath
Because I have panic attacks
And I miss you just the same
But I play dumb when you can't say it
I might act surprised because I can't compensate it
I'm constantly in denial when I...
Contemplate for far too long

So instead I'll sing you a song
I'll keep it short and sweet
Rather than have it lasting just too long
Because darlin', you could
Say anything
Say anything
And I'd be happy again

So I'll sing you this song

I'll keep it short and sweet
Rather than taking so long
Because darlin', you could
Say anything
Say anything
And I'd be happy again
I wrote this one a while back in May 2018 but never posted it and it was found through scrolling back on memories of conversations long past. Definitely influenced by Good Charlotte though. I don't write music much but this would be a pop punk song should I ever put music to it
slay Jul 2018
Show some patience for me please, im sick of all the instant gratification
Pop a chill pill just to breathe, cause all I see is violent recreation, okay then
Bought a necklace then I sneezed, my neck, my heart, my veins they all are frozen, but I’m chosen

I’m coastin ,
Now for the moment
Sip mimosas, with my feet up
She roll the **** up
My little Nina
Shorty got me drinking just to stay up
I feel messed up
Get fed up
Always gotta hold my money closer

But I miss her
She was like a soulmate and a sister
Then she dissed me, I dissed her
But she came back around like I had kissed her

I walk a line so ****** thin, sometimes I think I’m on a one way track to heaven
Never busted on a lick, because my mind is already a prison, I’m Satan
Hit the break so hard and skid, I can’t believe I’m even here to say this, but when you’re famous

You stay blameless
Blinded by the limelight and the danger
I’m no stranger to her pain, though
She holds on to me and never lets go
Baby, let’s go
She tried to tell me no
Put her hands on me but I enjoyed it

All of Her frustration, I endure it
She cycles back to me, another boredom
Can’t replace me and she knows it
But that doesn’t stop her from searching

Please don’t make this complicated, I just need some time alone to fix this
I keep going cause it hurts so bad to look back the past really got me trippin, from a distance
I’m so sorry Didn’t see you standing there my thoughts are cloudy, tunnel vision

Bae, mind your business
We aren’t there yet
And I’m gonna pretend like you ain’t say that
But you hurt me, can’t forget that
I said I forgave you and I meant that

She blew me over
I’m never sober
I think I’m in love, I never told her
So how come I’m not with her?
She’s my twin flame mirror
I can, I can’t fix her

Never mind, I might just try anyway
Give the world to her, she’s my Francis Bean
Why’d they give a heart to me anyway?
I’m gonna break it just to see what’s on the inside
And if I can, just to see how many times
If I can empathize
Make me second guess myself, I won't fight
I've got so much living left inside this life, but
This life's in my head eating myself alive
If I push the pain aside,

I know I hesitated once, but just know that I will never be mistaken.
Once I learn to trust my gut, these ******* won't even know that it was me who hit them, I'm just playing, and
Maybe by the time I'm done, I'll be a person who even I, myself can live with.
Just as you Sing to the Pop-Diva's Tune
The Robins will cower and chirp for more
I speak for some News I brought this Noon
Though I believe you have heard this before:
The Pilgrim comes out of the Pool. And begs
Your Seasoned Pucker as you make-decide
His trunks are no-offense. In Truth his legs,
Thick as moss beg your humble dear Confide
I guess you were advised after your Shift
He requested for your charmed Experiment
Second Ghosts appeared; They in turn bereft
And granted his Fantasy's sentiment.
I should go now. Since more time to pursue
Before he stabs me with a Knife-in-Due.
Chelsea Rae Jan 23
I don't want to be unfolded in pieces like the tabs
In pop-up picture books.

I want to be a flat slate.
Open canvas
with every stroke and mistake
And run off edges to be so visible to everyone
all the time.

There will never be a time
That you will question
If you know me
I am bare.
In this vast library and museum of ppl,
I'm surrounded by pop up books.
Kewayne Wadley Dec 2016
I was your balloon,
You had me so high.
My head overflated, filled to max capacity.
You couldn't have possibly known just how you made me feel.
My neck attached to a string clinched tight in the center of your hand.
Then all of sudden.
You couldn't possibly have known how bad that hurt
Zeleyha Mata Oct 2018
Soft melodies of the deep sea echo
Moonlight dances on my pretty scales
And icy bubbles whirl under my vest
Through my slippery hair
And down into my lungs to clear the way for overflowing foam
Laughter splashes behind my lips as my anticipation rises
Waiting for a night of twisted fairy-tales and uncalled for surprises.

Shimmering bodies swarm in spirals
Grinding in unison with the waves crashing at the surface
We're anxious for overflowing foam and hidden treasures
Purple light pierces the dark like shards of crystals
Casting a ghostly shade on bulbous faces
Pressure rises as each wave surges
Whirlpools of hot breath suffocate our gills
But the sidelines are shallow
And stragglers float motionless

Hair like seaweed at the nape of his neck
Unbuttoned linen soaked and dripping
Her hollow eyes glow green
Like the jelly orbs of a fish under florescent lights
She’s pressed against a boy who has hooks for fins
Searching for the parts that are edible
Tender, Scale-less, Slippery
Nothing wrong with being the catch of the day

Bubbles rise and pop as the last melodies drown
Schools of us are begging for shiny hooks and bad decisions
A handsome boy has been smiling all the while
He’s caught in a fisherman’s net
Craving salty lips and the spell to make him a man
But fisherman don't care for little mermaids
With hearts like sea glass and no hidden treasures to steal

Sweaty fins splash and cheer
The fishbowl shatters
Sea glass spills out onto sand
We squirm and flop onto land
Gasping without air to breathe
As our mouths and ***** thoughts dry in the sun
Leaving behind fresh meat without mouths to feed.

Rainbow confetti was stuck in the grooves of my scales
Wet clothes left on the floor of a steamy bathroom
Gasping and moaning into tile
With the face of a handsome stranger
Because this meat shouldn't go to waste
And I'm drunken with desperation
For overflowing foam, jewels, and shiny hooks
But I'm just another fish in the sea
Tumbling in the waves with my rainbow confetti scales.
A school dance
Shofi Ahmed Apr 2017
At times I heard the songs of the giants
who opted to sing for a glass of wine!

Like Omar Khayyam would sing to the grove of vine,
while singing their lullabies they wouldn’t mind,
defying the bloomer stars in the moonlights
gladly treading on the black alleys of the night.
Didn't they budge, didn't they bend to pick up  
a potion of the sea, billowing in the dark?
But they opted out, just for a glass of wine!

To paint a glimpse of that gorgeous Saqi
till now they shun, lending the sun a paintbrush,
‘cause "if only it was colourful enough,” yet the sun
paints the enduring shades of the blue yonder.
But they turned around—just for a glass of wine!

The moon hanging low over the ocean took a pause.
The earth weighed down so deep is brimful!
Every sunrise paints new, loves to shine on once more
That delved-deep earth vintage taste, cooled in age-old,  
now close by the hands breathe in, full of warm south.
Yet they opted out—just for a glass of wine!

Even the time is speechless, ask me not but why.
Still keeps an ear bent on the wall of the leaning sky.  
Nor those who pop out with an inside scoop are ever drunk.
Nor they leak out, it’s a sea off the sea or Abe-Hayath.
It ain’t that small, it is the deathless spring of elixir!
luna Nov 2018
i know you dont think im looking
i see everything though
i see the sparrows feed and the iron bars holding on

i see the murky water bowl and the sprints up the stairs
i see moonlight situps
because you are "training for the new season"

loose shirt, yet to you it is skin tight
like a balloon

and we all know what happens to balloons
when they keep growing and growing swelling up
they pop.

and you realise in fact, that the balloon that you thought was there was in fact.
a lifeless hunk of rubber, desperate for a little air

now im not saying that the balloon is a figure of your mind
but im saying that this is.
good ol' pop is a series of poems about my struggles of seeing others suffer, inspired by a loved one's struggle with anorexia, good ol' pop is a collection for the bystander, and for the observant.
JB Claywell Aug 2018
I remember being young
and not feeling much
like a person,
but more like a shapeless,
formless, amalgamation
of emotion and thought
that barely made sense to
couldn’t possibly make sense
to anyone else.

I remember that very odd,
self-awareness lasting the
whole school-day,
the whole school-year.

at home,
while the record player
hissed and crackled its way through
a stack of 45s,

I’d feel a “pop” and become
something more akin
to human,
less apparition or automaton.

I’m more or less the same
now as I was then.

My arms and legs are held
in place by the pages of
beloved books, photographs
of my children,
the feel of my wife’s fingers
pressed into the small
of my spine.

I still go ghost now and again,
sitting in a room,
in the back of the house,
the albums on their shelves,
or spinning faithfully,
the texts that surround.


Really, I can almost hear
the realness of myself as I expand

into a more artful being.

I’ve learned something.
I’ve become something.
I’ve attained something.

I’d rather, for the most part,
be in front of people,
than with people.

When I am with people,
I don’t know how to behave,
I become anxious,
a visitant version of

In front of people,
I am comfortable,
contained inside
of my own

None the worse
for preternatural wear,
I’m allowed


© P&ZPublications 2018
* I'm writing for myself again.
Thank you, Natasha.
Making the most of my day
Riding back and fourth from station's
139 poems wrote
But the route never changes
Blasting pop punk anthems to get me by
Instead of dwelling in my room furthering connection with the outside
On mission with no destination
To find the people or place that feels like home
A community found when the lights go down and the band  starts to play
My 140th poem wrote on the same bus heading the opposite way
Slightly less lost
kerri Apr 15
Be my Villanelle,
The assassin to my heart.
Stab me,
Five ******* times.
Show me your love.
I was watching Killing Eve and all I can think of is how hot Villainelle is.
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