"prerogative" poems
1704
Unto a broken heart
No other one may go
Without the high prerogative
Itself hath suffered too.
20.9k
I adore women
I refuse to apologize for it
I like the way their voices squeak in the upper registers
I like the fashions
I like the makeup
I like the aromas
Not the silly runway catwalk Biz that relegates them as awkward mannequins
adorns them in the impractical
and cloaks them in the absurd overreaching of the tired clamoring for something
new and unique
that which exploits their lithesome anorexic perplexing job requirement
I like the way they can shape shift, alter and assume new identities
I like the fact that some have mood swings and ***
I marvel that they can give birth
I like being aware that their 'water-weight' make's them grumpy
I'm astonished that they innately ovulate with the cycles of the moon
and that the Huntress Diana inherently acquired her namesake
Doesn't bother me a bit that "it's a lady's prerogative to be late"
or that opening a door for them is considered 'sexist'
I was raised with a sister and a mother
with lace and dainty frilly things
I caused them a lot of aggravation and consternation
I think they enjoyed it - nonetheless
somewhat
I refuse to apologize for it
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC
When I chose to lay with you it's for the experience of ur life, not for you to catch feelings from just serveral nights.
I really like you, don't get me wrong but my heart has been broken I'm not trying to write a love song. This is the thing. If we stop making love and just **** then don't you think the feelings will be mutual between the both of us? You grab my hips with one hand while the other caresses my back, I chose you for pleasure you think I have time for that. I rather have you pull my hair and smack my *** just a few pointers, for the next time I throw it back on ur delicious *****
I am the romantic type I do like it slow, but for now just run the red light and yellow light; green means go... We'll get to l<3ve making when the time is right, right now just be there for me when I need someone to hold me tight.
Sincerely
FWB
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 5:28 PM UTC
each stroke of greased fingers on the mohawk
was a result of a genius work of art
an outlet where my soul barely peeks
yet you cut with your hypocritical shears and your rusty hand
and you call it discipline
and you call it concern
I call it ********
the shadows on my
eyelids were davincis and picassos
sketched in a magnificent representation
of inner self which you all want to see
yet suffocate by your rotten curricula
and you call it quality
and you call it excellence
I call it ********
the silver that glitters in these ears
conceals the tortures of my youth
the horrors that dwell in my every sleep
yet you rip from my skin you are unworthy of touch
and you call it decency
and you call it suitability
I call it ********
© Glenn L. Sentes
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 8:40 PM UTC
How many
Does it take till
Your personality
Turns
To a sorry
Where you’re not
The protagonist
But the jury
Call you guilty
To your Prerogative
I meant it the other way but no one see it
So what can I sway
One man army
Fight towards believe
Ion really **** with no body
But they against me
Drunk or high they exclude me
From one of the best ideology
I hate that
Couldn’t even turn back time
It could never rhyme
This isn’t old English
Not a game
Can’t even explain
Poetry is vague
Or even vain
Mark of Kane
I would not explain
File a petition
Fairness is not dismissive
Mention something n
That no one listen
I’d share you what I have for your next visit.
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 3:30 AM UTC
Words are made of thoughts.
I wish they'd intrude. I am lonely,
unemployed with a nine to seven routine
of various activities.
A malignant trend courses through the head.
Broadcasting it outside in the realm of trust
where I am blank but set to go, it would have
the appearance of a finely ambient glass of chocolate milk.
Sometimes I'm asked why the relevance hinges on me.
If I had to say, it's because I keep getting vignettes, like something
out of a beggar's bowl, a wooden saltiness
that becomes increasingly less involved. And, like, everytime
I think about it, it's something similar to trying to walk
on John Carter's Mars; and all of this trivial, like, asinine
things can never match up to the draw, the pull of
whatever has been dropped, whatever has been shorn
unevenly like a badly eaten candy-bar. Or something.
I don't know why it has to be about me.
I don't, pull my weight, and recently I feel cold in the summer;
I have slept under a bedsheet since June.
That's not what this is about, or what I, want to project.
This isn't a prerogative, a jarring hiss of due-dates
incoming inevitably. I just **** Which is not a surprise,
like organic web shooters is a surprise, or, thinking up
something like a dead polemic of a sewer draining
the sordid leftovers of a consciousness.
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 2:00 PM UTC
How does the competent optimist endure the positives opposite?
The prerogative to remain positive is the only option for an optimist.
Every day is a happy belated celebration of its creation.
Exposing pearly white incisors to express a bipolar condition.
A giant grin with lips spread open.
A face with a giggle in the face of sin to face demons.
The monster with in becomes, a polite ******* delight, a young baby boy eating joy, the excitement emitting the submission to a feeling of complete air under the soles of feet.
The feat of sky walking never lukewarm, a feeling newborn.
Yesterday was the best day ever you could have sworn.
However, today will be so much better the endeavor to find pleasure in everything and whatever.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 2:41 AM UTC
A nomad's home is the road
His favorite spot, the window.
The eyes wander constantly
Heightened by their vicinity.
A nomad adores people
To his travels, they're fuel.
Differences is what he seeks
A common ground is what they'll reach.
It's a nomad's addiction
Have this world leave an impression.
He'll get smitten with a place
Set off, but not without a trace.
It's a nomad's prerogative
To venture, for him, is to live.
Memories in his suitcase
New experience, he'll embrace.
For a nomad, it never stops
There's no such thing as enough.
Globe-trotting is a purpose
This nomadic life he chose.
Mar 9, 2012
Mar 9, 2012 at 5:12 PM UTC
When I was 17
I wanted to be just like it.
A girl of the heedless, of a twisted wind
And lashing overstory.
Bold in choice eyes burning gallant
When I stood not alone
On screaming nights
In crowded habitation
Writing my future’s
Threatening tumult
Apart from regularity
Prerogative, accompanying grail
Withered leaves of change.
Left with nothing more,
But to turn them over.
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 12:23 AM UTC
Day in, day out, the skies grow weary
As each day passes by, life becomes dreary
In time I've grown out of this world
As if I won't even seem to care for someone
For I've shown none to anyone
I've made several women cry
I've angered men but
I do not know why
I've let my emotions die
And left out my heart dry
I am Mr. Insensitive
I often think in a negative manner
I carry the face of sadness as my banner
I embody a life living on a masquerade as my prerogative
I've lost track of myself a long ago
I do not know if this is the effect of a broken heart
And an effect of a man searching for his
The lost soul as he ventures the darkness of life
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 6:12 AM UTC
Let the a.n.t.s sleep
Warm and dry blankets
Let the victories of the future brace you
Body molesting wind demons
false but True
Cloak yourself in my laughter
Grab reality and pull a book out of your spleen,
with a Dim mak to sentence your fears to death.
The first page is eternity,
Stay within the pleasure, bathe in it,
Body hyper aware, unclouded vision
Disrobe, and bathe in it
Open the door and begin
It is Unjust not to
Press Play.....
It will all rush forward, and you will breath freely.
Trumpeted like the arrival of an avatar of the love goddess.
Cool cheeks, unmarked by tear tracks..
Built back up with the love you feared had departed.
I'm pitiful alone.
It is emotions prerogative to make its opinion known.
These feelings cannot be ignored.
Doing so makes things worse.
Let confidence be always with you
For all time
Unending
Everyday
All day long
You can honestly talk to me.
Trivial questions.
Something burdening your breast.
I can make you feel better, if only for a handfull of minutes.
You'll float away, but later crash on heavy thought.
However....
You know
For several reasons
The outcome is always the same
Mind games are involuntary muscle spasms,
it is an affliction of chaos tourettes, inherited from a goblin ancestor,
Straighten your shoulders, I am here to reassure you,
Every day it will get lighter
The stress will be less, the panic will simmer
The message is salvation, in acceptance of the depth of the love felt for you.
I am here to listem.
Stop being kicked around by your thoughts.
Feel instead, gliding into a gathering of like minds.
I dare not say the full extent of what I know, and what I feel is transparent.
It grants me sanity
The compulsion to sing
Satisfying smashed hearts
Feeding your lips
Sanctifying your suffering into submission
Fulfilling a proper apology for the perversions.
You have won the war.
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 3:17 PM UTC
My heart could explode as I sit before you
and even so-
With each jagged edge-
I would still love
I have learned the meaning of bravery
And love most certainly is the prerogative of the brave
However I will not lay to be struck a fool-
A fly in the widows web-
Bundled and motionless-
Awaiting to be drained of my will
I will fight with the prerogative of the self respecting
I will hold my head and my heart high-
Whatever the condition may be
(C) Tiffanie Noel Doro
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 7:50 PM UTC
Music is my Muse
From the funky jazz tempo
To the sounds of salsa
From the classical rock
To the alternative basses
From the Opera Lady's bellow
To the Tenors solo
From the 80's slow jamz
To them 50's swinging bands,
To them country folk songs
To those old folks blues
Music is my Muse,
My inspiration,
Being Black&Puerto; Rican
I- A NuYorican,
I've heard the best tunes,
Bahchata's & Merengue,
Bailes La Cumbias,
Like Macr Anthony &
oh how he sang to me,
My wanting
to rock with you like
Micheal Jackson-
To Vanilla's
Ice Ice Baby,
It's yo thang do what you wanna do,
Candy coated Rain drops
By Soul For Real,
& When will I see you Again-
Babyface
Until I muse
in my amusement
When Tim McGraw
Sanged don't take the girl,
Reba "Asking Does
He love me like
he's been loving YOU",
To its my prerogative
Like Bobbi Brown said,
Let not for get
Johnny Cash,
Or what About them
O'Jays
Yeah my muse is musical-
Music and thinking artfully
coincides with one another,
with breathing and eating
Rhyme & Rhythm linguistics
even as we walk down the street
or cruising
while jamming in ya car,
LL Cool J said Cars drive
by with the booming Systems-
AH Push it was
My jam back in the day
R&B; Was mostly what I liked
But growing Up
I started listening to
Rock & Hip Hop,
Got drunk off those sweet
Monster Ballads
while Making love
to Sade,
Sung All Cried Out
at my graduation party,
Tony Toni Tone
Made Us-FEEL GOOD YEAH
at all them block parties
back in NYC,
Now
I listen to everything
going on 33
heard it through the grape vine
that YOU share
a likeness in this Musing?
Music is My Muse.
Always Me Ayeshah
Mar 8, 2010
Mar 8, 2010 at 5:02 PM UTC
Prerogative presumptive judicature, cantankerous cantilever capacity. Paradoxical dichotomy greaves, gauntlets gamut catalyst abstracts, asymmetrical symmetry. Objectified manifest's dimensional delineation, intrinsic endemic innate opaque opulence. Protractive analyses accidence ambience acoustics. Spatiotemporal telemetry tactician's trajectory extant.
Prophylaxis protocol annex annul. Kinesiology kleptomaniac extraversion embezzlement euthanasia extortion, embark embargo extradition. Aura roan's rainbow mare's nimbus nimiety exorcism. Corporeally preternatural's existential exigence exodus. Cerebral cortex's ****** matrix's carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character charisma, apex axis crux, exponentially extemporaneous manumission. Categorical imperative hubris, hectic duty deontological probity.
Astral projection's clairaudience clairvoyance. Tenets and principles, maxims and axioms, and doctrinal mandates. Exserted protuberance's edifice ******** Exotically ****** ethereally sublime xylem Xanadu sails. Erotica erectile errantry.
Fulham nuance ***** Formidable foundry of a foyer fracas. Harpy harsh hast, atrium attrition seditious. Oak tree ****** nails swarthy ******** swath swizzles and unicorn railway sails. Anchor pin tachometer troll wood harlotry's root clod rudiments, lightning bow hat pick. Transcendent nimbus nimiety exorcist. Transpicuous translucence alluvium aloof impunity.
Feb 21, 2021
Feb 21, 2021 at 10:07 PM UTC
As fishes wriggling
The entirety of their slippery bodies
In vast oceans, lost in the glory of waters
Instincts meander
Their way through to the mind
In a pool of imagined
Sensuality with wanton desires
A longing for the temporal
Poignantly stands *****
In the throne-room of man's emotions
Motioning with a seemingly motionless demeanor
Unfulfilled cravings
Cradles persistence
In his goal oriented pursuits
Thoughts are repressed
Mental imageries suppressed
To pave way for **********
Of pleasantly positive feelings
Yet the uncouth lingers
Occasionally engages the enthroned
In scrimmages in their bid to dethrone them
Man holds the prerogative
To serve either of them willingly
Equally, man possess all it takes to be
Heinously hedonistic
And heartily attractive in personality
To please society
None can reach complete perfection
At both extremities
© Seth Boss Kay @ 19/10/2013
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 2:10 AM UTC
I long to talk with some old lover’s ghost,
Who died before the God of Love was born:
I cannot think that he, who then loved most,
Sunk so low as to love one which did scorn.
But since this god produced a destiny,
And that vice-nature, Custom, lets it be,
I must love her that loves not me.
Sure, they which made him god meant not so much,
Nor he in his young godhead practised it;
But when an even flame two hearts did touch,
His office was indulgently to fit
Actives to passives. Correspondency
Only his subject was; it cannot be
Love, till I love her that loves me.
But every modern god will now extend
His vast prerogative as far as Jove.
To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend,
All is the purlieu of the God of Love.
Oh were we wakened by this tyranny
To ungod this child again, it could not be
I should love her who loves not me.
Rebel and atheist too, why murmur I
As though I felt the worst that love could do?
Love might make me leave loving, or might try
A deeper plague, to make her love me too,
Which, since she loves before, I’m loth to see;
Falsehood is worse than hate; and that must be,
If she whom I love should love me.
1.5k
They say that love is blind
The truth is just, love is pure.
She is patient, she is kind,
She’s unrefined and yet, demure.
Through her looking glass she sees
Spots of flaws and marks of pain
Why do you cry so much, darling?
How can I never make you feel that way again?
Love should know that beauty fades,
She should know that looks are weak
But love cannot be easily stuck in place
Not all who claim to find can truly seek.
Are you the measure of the man?
So wonderful in writing
But is your face too faithless
Shockingly unbeguiling.
Is love so shallow that she can’t see
How you give her the world?
But is it her prerogative to be
After those who make the heart twirl?
Will love be another one with a seven
With plenty of zeros to his name?
How does her nature suffer
When it is love you seek to tame?
Aug 10, 2021
Aug 10, 2021 at 6:01 PM UTC
It was supposedly a birthday gift,
this long-legged razor's edge.
My brother must've seen me
watching it's live demonstrations.
Little did he know,
how skilled I thought myself to be.
The wrapping came off easily.
It was crudely shredded by a lesser blade
soon to be replaced.
Then the weapon itself glared at me
through the clear plastic window of its box.
Unsheathing it then, I felt its power come to me,
two steel legs spreading for a ****** murderer.
I probed it meticulously, the blade
caught the light and somehow swallowed it
before its appendage whirled across to conceal it.
This was a knife with thoughts.
Then I tried my first trick.
The blade danced elegantly,
and though I held on (for dear life)
it wanted to escape from my clutches.
I was caging it gracelessly between my fingers
and its first prerogative was to be free.
Still holding tight, it changed tactics,
a blood thirst radiating from within.
The next move would be my last.
For one split-second it escaped the probation of my palms,
somersaulting through the air above me.
It pointed downwards for a final coup de grâce.
I divorced myself from the weapon that day,
stitches adorned my bloodied hands
and the blade was taken as evidence,
though for what trial I never discovered.
My brother tossed it into the sea, I found,
legs still spiralling, blade still sharp.
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 5:41 AM UTC
~~~~
Chill electronics
Fervours me forth
From the frost mornings
Over crushed relations
Over the lost margins
Across the horisons
Ending heated desserts
Alienated from lonsome cries
We travel on the cloud called ninth
Of a everydays man turmoils
Turning into naught
Becoming a hoop
Around allured
Swell membrane
Top to bottom
Willing to
Play
Anatomy
Works with
the lucrative
Vibrations
My elation
Our abdomination
Each pace on the drum
Is a hollow awareness
Is a primal bite
Into a predestined
Prerogative ~ the
Love's ethnicity
Till ambushed silk
cotton
Tambourines
Start to jingle
Floral essences
Burst
Into
Dark curls
Azam Magnetic Magma
Charming one thousand
And one
Free from misery
Mystery Nights
Equanimity
Oriental
Ambiental Ali
Opened space
Spell~bounded
Sounds Alluring Affirmity
The woman's
Darkling alto
Swims into me
Dear saphir's lean
voice
Permeates into me
~~~~
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 2:57 PM UTC
Nervous butterflies
emerging from a chrysalis
of chrysanthemum wings of doves.
Flying towards burgeoning horizons
fluttering erudite on solar winds
lost amongst deranged proximities
bounded by blackened skies
Escaping realisation
subterranean rainbows flicker in prismic identities
diverging depleting
diminishing deconstruction into distinctive dominions
waning light that merges into surroundings
(bound together by the unfortunicity of birth)
[aren't all?]
Falling since conception
“all things are a part
all things are apart”
Loud
crimson daylight
excess is the prerogative of the crystalline
...
time
distances
people
such a petty quality
one feels more distance
by degrees
the closer the surroundings.
(and when I say dancing, I mean jumping through galaxies)
[oh good, I am better at the latter]
(it's like tumbling,)
[was all there ever was]
[a can? Or a cylindrical box of tin?]
…
…
…
[but I digress.]
(My my my
Don't touch the apple pie)
[if you do I will cry
antelope bones down a chalkboard.]
(what?)
[Screaming “sirens, sirens
Sleeping alarm bells
show me madness,
I am cluttered”]
there are no gods
only pillars of marshmallow
transforming, caressing
endlessly
-oliver and jonte
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 11:19 PM UTC
Birds of a feather flock together/
We have no feathers so we run together/
as individuals
Two heads are better than one
And that's the minimum
Requirement/
The outcome is determined by the
general
Acknowledge it/
Follow good leaders and lead good followers
The problem is
no ones up to solving it/
A select a few
Perpetual intellectuals
The Rest vegetables
War what is it good for
Abolishment/
Eradication
From savagery
Toward civilization
Now savage nation
Prerogative/
Granted/
Provocative
Inclination we hoist
pedantic's/
components change
But The operating
basis stays the same
Famished/
hungry for change
Dollars are appetizing
6 million ways
To do nothing
Tragic/
Feeding Negativity
Food for thought
Absolute positivity
postulate/
No man stands alone
Obvious/
so start
Until you build
your on
Conglomerate/
Aggregate with
Those that's dominant
Then accomplish it
Anything else
Is a zombie pit/
Walking dead
Become prominent
Set precedent
Become astonishing/
It's all in
Following good leaders
And leaders good followers/
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 11:41 AM UTC
You must have known.
That day I held your hand and you held my gaze
And the air was thick with smoke and unspoken words and tiresome clichés.
Your eyes crinkled softly like they always do.
Always, always in the pretentious books I would pour over for hours as I try to envision myself right there,
Comforting myself with the idea that someone, one day, will dance with me to the sound of nothing but two hearts beating in unison.
There is something desperately intimate about oxygenation.
Always in these silly, profound books, they describe their darling’s eyes with every hue known to man.
Deep, aquamarine, sparkling crystal orbs that you would be so happy to drown in.
Entrancing and stormy forests.
Pools of warm honey with gold flecks in them, sweet as dandelion wine.
I will not condescend to compare your eyes to saccharine.
Or bodies of water, for that matter, or trees.
I will not waste time equalizing them to shades of the rainbow.
What are eyes, really,
Other than a means to see?
All that is beautiful and all that is clean.
I hold my own eyes in higher esteem than yours, dear,
Because they allow me to revel in the way yours light up when you smile.
How the skin underneath creases and wrinkles in all the most endearing ways
Like the infinite pages of a book in some foreign language
That only I can understand.
The ability to do so is a prerogative of the infatuated.
I wonder if you’ll let me read this book more often now that we’re here, two forgotten souls grinning stupidly at each other in the dark.
You must have known, then, that I would spend every day of the rest of my life reading this book if you only allowed me to do so.
Embedded in my mind was the way the corners of your mouth shot up towards the heavens.
I did not have to trace it to know that it was there.
You must have known.
There was not a crumb of my being you did not hold in the callused palm of your hand.
All of the streetlights were doused by the blanket of the night and it was truly not a movie-worthy moment because there were no stars and the moon was out of sight and there were stray cats padding around in the neglected garbage dumpster and I could not even remember why we were laughing so hard and I loved you.
Unequivocally.
Apr 3, 2021
Apr 3, 2021 at 7:16 AM UTC
The fragments of the sumptuous
thirty-plus
have been dispersed about me
These shards, not merely placed
here accidentally, rather having found
their way through
the hands of one who would have
them for a night
then repudiate them.
That’s how it would seem
to the hordes of eyes
who’s business goes unattended
for that sole reason.
Now it is my duty to live
with a title others who
bear the plague of
an unburdened
dangling protuberance
as a prerogative of the captivatingly covetable.
Through those very eyes
they exert themselves to live
vicariously through
your eyes.
How foolish are the feeble minded.
to so easily set out
on a self cataclysmic odyssey.
When viewed from the eyes of
the sumptuous thirty-plus
the perspective have been
effectively skewed.
The acclaim you were once
engrossed in has altered.
Transmutation has taken effect.
Soon the communal cogitation of the multitudes
will subsume
the feeble minded
Thus creating only one
possibly point of terminus:
solitary confinement.
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 10:03 AM UTC