"proprietary" poems
Alright Jezebel is that not who you are? How much of your soul are you going to sell? With your chest pushed high and your **** in the air. With the smile you bare and the wink you blink. The fruit for the trick to get their fix behind blind eyes. Your secrets hidden away through your faults beauty and enticement. A walk that attracts nothing but the **** You put your self on the proverbial block. Though on the outside you converted and claim outwardly to the king of kings God and Christ. Though believe like a Pharisee. A marionette innocents for all to see.
Yet even a Pharisee doesn't hold the many lies you've told. For even they are the best known hypocrites that Christ warned and spoke against. Telling everyone your married, or so you say with a bold face. Yet you go out at night to collect your lies by spreading your thighs for material and lust. Helping to destroy families to commit adultery with theirs and your own. You lost your Grace and the Holy Spirit depart. Now you gain worldly excitement and shame. Living your life amongst the dogs. In a fad life style fed to you. Taking it as wholesome, knowing better. So it is to be said your like a lost little Lam on your way to self destruction. Without a care of the afflictions. You allow yourself to be used like a Devils tool, yet tell yourself your not a toy.. May it go to show you are becoming Lucifer's proprietary embodiment. Only to think you have the upper hand.
Shown by your eyes that is a window to the soul exposing wickedness!
Though on the deep inside is there not yet another cloak?? Do you not cry at night with heavy sorrow when you look in the mirror for the truth to be whole and despise the girl you have yet let blossom to become the ultimate woman that is there. Pretending to be some one your not. So you are a lantern in need of a new candle wanting to be rekindled. How cold you must be to have so many layers. But that's what you get when you become a player. A sweet and sour flavor. You say "Don't Hate!" Though to walk up right on the path of truth would attract in your self a better person. Why not accept your self for the real you. The one mistakenly hidden so deep inside. Is that not who you are? Instead you bed with the heartless desires you give your self too to become a trophy. The mold you have created of yourself only mocks at the real you. The inner you fading and becoming transparent. Now with out a care you have become fake, vile and foul. Yes he who has no sin cast the first stone. So it should not be thrown. Heavenly Father I pray for her!!!
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 2:17 PM UTC
Hey, kid I really like your work. You could win a hundred bucks.
Oh, Andrea Button! How sweet of you to notice.
What do I do what do I do
what do I have to do.
Create an account, handsome. Accept the terms, **** Post your best work, lover.
So you’ll give me one hundred dollars for my soul, Miss Button?
"And you license to Tallmadge all patent, trademarks, trade secrets, copyrights and proprietary rights in and to such Content for publication on the Service pursuant to these Terms of Service."
I said a chance to win, sucker.
Oh Andrea! You devil.
I am a sucker...,
for fine print.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 11:36 AM UTC
Who is this?
A writer speaking to another -
to whom it may concern.
What sadness do you attend to?
That peculiar grief encircling you.
You hear whispers that blight your grounds,
Clinging unto you with very much different sounds,
So insane - so sane - so insane,
One after the other, the stretching claws of
this morbid bane,
Uncalled for, but in laden laid,
Hush little one - there is for no reason
to be afraid.
"But why is the fear so real?"
You may ask and knock the door,
"Why are things so perplexed?"
You may wonder
while lying on the cold and ***** floor,
But then a question better -
'Why - are we even here?'
Why are our feet standing on this ground?
Whilst all stories are getting sadder,
What materialism blinds us from -
is what our ears had grown deaf and
had forgotten of one much important sound,
Hush little one - close and open your eyes again,
Are not the skies so vastly laid and beauteous?
Now bring your attention from where all things had began,
Are not the trees that bear fruits, growing and in surplus?
Hush little one - for we are all small and insignificant,
Those who are arrogant will fall,
And yes - we are mankind, the one chosen,
bestowed proprietary as a vicegerent ,
But the mountains laid are ever more
sturdy and tall,
Hush little one - all of us were born to die!
And do not mistake my hush as to undermine,
Hush! Silence the world and close your eyes!
And let your heart and mind open
to find the shine!
The light that bursts and could cure the heart,
A light like no other -
that no darkness could tear apart.
Hush - and clear your mind,
Hush - for you have forgotten of The Lord Benign.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 11:22 AM UTC
What is anxiety?
Is it but a name of an illness?
Am I it's proprietary?
If so how could anyone miss?;
All that goes on with me?
Can they not see?
My beating heart wanting to escape,
This doomly fate,
That is only but in my head,
As my horrors I have fed:
With my hopes and all my dreams,
It's what it seems.
Why can't others see the breath stuck mid chest,
Do I seriously look like the rest?
Breathing happily,
Carelessly?
Can't you see?;
This thing suffocating me?!
It doesn't even stop there,
As it covers my blank stare,
So nobody notices,
That it's main torture is;
Through using my own mind to drive myself insane.
And from this there is absolutely nothing to gain,
But hurt sadness and pain,
Making my existence nothing more important than a stain.
Why can't you see?
Why can't you help me...?
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 3:26 PM UTC
Burdened in the cool resentment, of self betterment, hesitant, in its clause, licking pennies from the paws of wolfs, misunderstood and no good in the laws of men, force me on the bench again, and expect to lessen, the sentence, of the commitments pushed to the petal in the proprietary pustules of must haves, postulated from rehabs, of labs and rats, stabbed with needles and smacked, when i doze off, I'm going to go off, like a bomb in class, painting the blast in a bright flash, of mmy baaads.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 4:33 AM UTC
who's the current holder of the shop's deed
when did he obtain an ownership creed
we have pondered on this very matter
but no answer has yet come to the fore
that will satisfy our questioning score
we've long thought his plate shingle hung on the gate
with letters saying this is York's estate
though there's little of proprietary clatter
been audible at the place for some while
this has so troubled our concerned bile
on him displaying the paper's freehold
we'll have ken of his legal possession
this will be a rock solid expression
which is penned in ink ever so bold
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 9:14 PM UTC
A sheer myst
Of belligerents
Pessimists
Confessionalists
And jobless degenerates
Perpetually in progress
Just kicking it
On the Internet
It's a little bit sick
I just cant shake it
This taste of *****
As I look upon it
Then it dawned on me
I'm also looking at me
In the reflection
Projecting what I see
Deducting
The white noise of irrelevance
And filtering out the elements
Fluxing
With eloquence
And moving into and on with it
The back lit intelligence
Telling me how to live
The plugs are deep
And I take more than I can give
And together we feed
On gigs of distractions
Impacting
The worlds tragedies
Unraveling
At our fractured seams
The web unto me
Unbeknownst to actual casualties
I seem to fiend for the wars
The deplorable horrors
Exploring the contours
Of the obscure
But not to be as it seems
Maybe just to blur the mundane away
Merely may have it be
The fewer the flames
The better the dream
Profane blasphemy
With ******* means
In ***** slavers
Raving in the papers
Of danker things
Printed on the label
In the stables of kings
Pacing the ring singing
From the knees happily
So please
Just disconnect me
Infect me with reality
Push my proprietary
Philosophies installed in me
Over the edge
Make the pledge to disconnect
But I won't
Form the wedge of discontent
But I don't
In this very post
I cast my vote
And hope
For what?
I don't know
Just always stronger than before
And longer in the troll
As the binary flows
Through what I think I know
Even though knowingly opposed
To its rope of coping
Moping from a beam
Seemingly unreal
Spangling from the
Tink ...
Straining to think
And heaving
To breathe
Smiling in defeat
I'll keep clicking
From the sheets
From when I wake
To when I sleep
It's a discatastrophy
Condensing
Collecting
Calculating
And presenting
An electronic me
Unto me
Without grief
And seeping
Through the screen
I'd scream
But not one would hear me
Help me?
Help yourself ..
The interconnected me
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
Ambiguously, he was boggled, beguiled by garbled goggles while giggling out the squiggles, to wiggle the signals free.
Deliberately dallying in the Plato piety of proprietary philosophies, he, dastardly deemed, disaster to be, damaging, to the laughter in the chatter of the baggage handlers to another plane.
Manhandler of a plastered paradise, partly in slices, of silly little vices of sacrifices, that shall suffice with vice grips on the lips of the negative with the spices of nicety.
Lavished in lividly living uP the misgivings of lesserly lessons, blessing the blasphemy, in passionate tuck ins, snuck in, upon drunken hunkering in the bunkers of spunkier spiels.
Languid longevity's of luscious lettering, lest will we, count our kills, never ever to leave a life festering in lectured structuring, besting the busy debuts, of flukless frugality, lucidly, counting the calories of calamity, and randomly rhyming without reason in season-less rain clouds, only allowed to put the umbrella away, and fade in play to the part, where we impart patience on the persona from the coma of commonality.
Immaculately conceived, perceived as a ***** who adores hollow hearts, as we, haphazardly heap on the hilarity, in hepatidal waves, through fazes of the common wealth.
Smile in stealth, love no one else, but self and end up in health, at a lonely age in staged stimuli, reminding me why i'm alive, and not allowed to die, while on rewind through the hard times, to smile on the last lines of laser driven lifelines, laughing at the fragile signs on the finer wines, as they break on the bowes of holy boats in bouts against the sea.
Spewing randomly, he, finds satisfactory solutions to the strengthening of his constitution in loosened blue spells, to dispel his ruthless tendrils from your ears.
The fears fueling the finality in his fractured mentality of maniacal travesties laughing at me.
Its just me, unjustly adjusting for the combustion of the build.
Its lovely here.
Laughing in the lashes.
Signing my entrapment's.
Lapsing out the masses and forming from the ashes of smashed happiness, as it unclasps before my eyes.
Sometimes
It just feels right to be alive.
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 2:26 AM UTC
Ambiguously, he was boggled, beguiled by garbled goggles while giggling out the squiggles, to wiggle the signals free.
Deliberately dallying in the Plato piety of proprietary philosophies, he, dastardly deemed, disaster to be, damaging, to the laughter in the chatter of the baggage handlers to another plane.
Manhandler of a plastered paradise, partly in slices, of silly little vices of sacrifices, that shall suffice with vice grips on the lips of the negative with the spices of nicety.
Lavished in lividly living uP the misgivings of lesserly lessons, blessing the blasphemy, in passionate tuck ins, snuck in, upon drunken hunkering in the bunkers of spunkier spiels.
Languid longevity's of luscious lettering, lest will we, count our kills, never ever to leave a life festering in lectured structuring, besting the busy debuts, of flukless frugality, lucidly, counting the calories of calamity, and randomly rhyming without reason in season-less rain clouds, only allowed to put the umbrella away, and fade in play to the part, where we impart patience on the persona from the coma of commonality.
Immaculately conceived, perceived as a ***** who adores hollow hearts, as we, haphazardly heap on the hilarity, in hepatidal waves, through fazes of the common wealth.
Smile in stealth, love no one else, but self and end up in health, at a lonely age in staged stimuli, reminding me why i'm alive, and not allowed to die, while on rewind through the hard times, to smile on the last lines of laser driven lifelines, laughing at the fragile signs on the finer wines, as they break on the bowes of holy boats in bouts against the sea.
Spewing randomly, he, finds satisfactory solutions to the strengthening of his constitution in loosened blue spells, to dispel his ruthless tendrils from your ears.
The fears fueling the finality in his fractured mentality of maniacal travesties laughing at me.
Its just me, unjustly adjusting for the combustion of the build.
Its lovely here.
Laughing in the lashes.
Signing my entrapment's.
Lapsing out the masses and forming from the ashes of smashed happiness, as it unclasps before my eyes.
Sometimes
It just feels right to be alive.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 11:37 PM UTC
I seek your praise
cant you see?
I want a page
in history
like everybody
stepping on each other
to be proprietary
you *************
My ego is best, cant you tell?
You sell yourselves
but Im no *****
Everyone in line
with hands out for more
Your world revolves my repertoire
So give me mine
before you get yours
before you get yours
before you get yours
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
Where was I before my Birth
Who brought me? In this life
Some say My Parents
Gave me my Life
I think they only Ate
The Forbidden Apple
They just performed their basic Karma
And received me as a gifted Product
I was shipped without any User Manual
And without any Standard Operating Procedure
My parents worked round the clock
Gone through all the other manuals
At last they applied their mind
And prepared their own Manual
They also defined their own
Standard Operating Procedure
And I was handled and serviced
As per their Manual and SOP
Now I think, I am grown up now
But the question still remains as it was
Are we all only Products?
If Yes, Who Manufactured Us?
Where are the Original User Manuals?
Where are the Technical Manuals?
Where is the Standard Operating Procedure?
Why I was shipped to this mother Earth?
Some of my friends suggested a simple answer
'God made us and You too. But you are moron'
This answer posed other questions to me
Who made God? God Made God?
Or the Humans made God for their own purpose?
Where are the temples of God made by Insects?
Suppose If God made us? Why he is so greedy?
Like the capitalists of proprietary companies
Why we are a strict proprietary Products?
Even proprietary products are supplied with Manuals
If God can't make us Open Source, At least he should
Supply the Manuals, Supply the Standard Operating Procedure
Or He is also too much selfish like each one of us
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 9:46 AM UTC
Restriction of the Bay's yeehaw,
Politely in the inner steel,
Cold bars to the planet Mars,
Dealers are encased as they want a deal!!!!
Currency friendly banker's bank upon thy smallest of wages,
Where buttered blades slice through T. C control!!!
Quadruplets of chain-gang walk in's all talking is sprayed like Russian magazines,
Some grown to addiction,
Dreamer's stay phene!!!!
Profane novelists attend the wickered chairs,
Wherein only ones a pair in solitaried room,
Twenty months to thou makes a year,
While a year settles for two....
Draft windows,
Plasticated pillows are showcases for what's to come!!!
Sit down,
Thou fool in blue the shows here, or the show has just begun!!!!!
Bribery is doubled,
A hand here at this polo lagoon!
Wherein monsoon's turn to drop outs,
Where knockout's are proprietary locked into place wittled with screws!!!!
Strenuous pulsation's beat to the enflamed core,
Pose thyself,
Thy critic of nature and god, you've settled your betted scores!!!!!
Narcotic,
I see you promising greater hopes with pre-maturities scope,
I've missed the hanging strike!!!
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 12:11 PM UTC
when, requisite pains reside
in the heart of the poet.
awaiting release by the gaoloring, racontuer or racontuese reclining, scornfully, within.
it is then, it happens so,
upon the granting of the id's manumission.
memories, maudlin or immeritous
are rescinded from the bitter, saltfaced mine,
of personal history..
when such are finally granted jubilation,
given proprietary parole,
on, the nib of a pen.
they then, take time,
as of now,
as in the present tense,
to, relieve themselves, copiously, onto to paper....
leaving only an inkstained
jumble of letters,
for you,(those left to toil)
to decipher, as you may.
before on the run for freedom's wind
they go....
like..... lemmings off a cliff.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 7:39 PM UTC
we are the shunned.
we live in shadows.
in the dark places.
on the edge of the meadows.
we watch the others.
ones excepted in the world.
the shining ones.
for whom the houses are built.
they dance and prance.
free in society.
they follow the norm.
of the world they are proprietary.
while we are the shunned.
we don't follow the norm.
we are our own people.
we won't follow the swarm.
we have gifts and talents.
that other do fear.
so they cast us out.
make us feel we don't belong here.
but this is our world to.
we may have talents and gifts.
that others don't have.
but still they use the biffs.
and our saddened faces.
are forever permanent.
and our cries float in the night air.
the shunned lament.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
Pain as such is simply temporary,
True suffering understood in its ubiquity.
Causation through controversy,
Defies its rights to proprietary.
Perhaps optimism is what you need.
Sep 23, 2021
Sep 23, 2021 at 1:22 PM UTC
1
high evens and low odds.
seven dimes in a jar, all
stacked against us.
the weight of this life-lantern,
this bendycrux.
the weight of it
left to idle on my chest.
leeches and all. it must be
the weight of a freighter.
and so dumb, like
the both of us. hands out
to each other, eyes closed
to each other —
occupying the same space. the
gist of our kingdom:
let love, let love, let love
fall septicemic.
2
even
being in the same dimension
as this hexagon
rivers me into opening for
a larger body of anguish. i
have not sabotaged
myself in almost a decade -
& that's a muted pride adjacent
to proprietary success -
congratulations, girl, on the
one hit knockout.
condolences, girl, on the ****
integrity of the mainframe.
3
i mean, the blackboard of
all your non spiritual relationships.
4
neat-o, holograms on Thursday night,
alternating between taut and compressed.
no, i didn't have a crush on the alien.
i loved him. why don't they believe me?
5
because psychosis is real,
and it is tender meat
boiled for an afternoon. it falls
apart as soon as it's
taken from the *** it not only
falls but it falls through every
thing.
through cloud cover and
through the magenta skin
that slickers over reality.
it falls completely.
it falls silent and
it falls empty
from the open mouth
of a slaughtered cow.
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 12:09 PM UTC
my house
my car
my children
my furniture
my laptop
and so on
How about
these are the companions and the comforts that life gives
in its wisdom and from its bounty
and verily my sojourn on earth
is dripping with possibilities
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 7:20 AM UTC
She told me once her heart belonged to me,
and I ever the devoted servant
preserved such trust within
the grasp of my embrace.
She told me many times her love was mine to keep,
and I ever the naive imbecile
took her words as gospel
between the phrases of my prayers.
And know there is no single question
but her words from the past
as she reassures me with a devious smile
the proprietary rights of land to her
pulsing heart.
A surging wave of loathing courses through
the cadence in the back of my mind
when finally I can see within to reason.
A ticking begins to echo.
A heart is a strange thing, I think,
as I cradle the pulsing vessel.
It twitches, trembles and pumps
for the last time in the nest of my palms
and silently the heart that use to beat for me
throbs nevermore.
She was leaving me for another and I
with the prerogative of her permission,
simply took what was mine.
Hands stained with the fading passion of your love,
it shall thud nevermore.
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC
We are mere custodians
From the cars we drive to the clothes we wear, even the bodies we carefully inhabit all will fall victim to the erosion of time
We focus on material possessions that give us status, wealth & security.
But no amount of wealth can protect against the erosion of time,
like the tide lapping at chalky cliffs, it's ever-present, crumbling into the depths.
Our comfortable lives come at the ultimate cost, the sacrifice of our time.
The possessions we have around us we do not own.
If we're not careful the balance shifts & they begin owning us, praying on our weary minds.
We observe them until our watch is over & we pass the torch or they are consigned to the ash heap of history.
All we can claim proprietary over are moments in time
The vivid collections of joy, happiness & trauma spanning over the decades of our lives.
The embrace given to console a loved one, that perfect Christmas morning, or the way a smile plays out across somebody's face in those fleeting moments of joy.
We guard these moments in time, committing them to memories so they might be used to keep the darkness at bay.
The beauty found in these is their ability to be passed on to one another.
While they may not be physical.
They are in some relevant sense eternal.
Living far beyond the physical world.
Even as our bodies let us down & the slow erosion of time continues its relentless march our protected memories are shared with those closest to us.
So upon leaving the physical world we can be reunited with those we love in some transcendence.
May 3, 2021
May 3, 2021 at 2:43 PM UTC
There you are
with your new guitar and bleached hair,
stood before
a torrent of chants that do not care
Do you sing a song of pity,
of self loathing and freedom?
Do you sing a song of lies,
of politics and deceiving?
There you stand
with shaking arms inside a designer shirt
gazing out with
a smile fastened so tight it hurts
skin unfeeling as the grand drapes start unreeling
exposing a mass of faces vile and cheating
Oh shall we lead these fans and followers,
like rats to the water?
Do we take their willing hands
and lead the lambs to the slaughter?
When humans digest so much emotion it boats their heads
'tis the seed of exploding bombs and streets that run red
infected with disillusioned beliefs and false prophets
oh what do we do when the paranoia rockets?
******* drugs and easy friends
writing songs and music, distracted messages that fail to send -
Do we sing a song of peace,
of fair equality and proprietary?
Or shall we sing a song of truth,
of gluttony, of the ***** stain that is our society?
Feb 21, 2019
Feb 21, 2019 at 4:48 PM UTC