"prototype" poems
This is past due like the rent paid on the thirteenth
Late better than never-- and I got this here forever
Flow like rain during any kinda weather
Keep this here close to my heart
And when the block comes, I don’t know where to start
Beat-beat Thump-thump
I'll just let the words flow from my heart
But you ain’t feelin me’-- You ain’t hearin’ Queen
So I got to bring you back to the forefront with my so⋅lil⋅o⋅quy
I remind you of all the things that had you fearin’ me
This Army of One, brighter than that star He created we call Sun
Under its blaze, us two can become one
(lets make our Son under His)
While I lay with fragmented words.... spoken
Promises I made to myself remain unbroken
And my gift is as natural as the slender ducts of my abdomen called fallopian
I am Woman
The prototype made perfect and pure
Whose prose is as tight as my kegels allow my femininity to be
Wrath your ******** may not be able to endure
Thought you knew a good Woman and tight ***** make you surrender on your knees
And dream dreams about your seed taking root in this royal vessel
I am Mother Earth
And this is my Gift—my Gyft
I am Myself and such a present I present to thee
For I AM Queen Poetree
So when I seem silent
When you think you hear nothing but your heart beat
Nothing but the cool air enraptured in the breeze
I am the Life that flows from you
I am the Wind rustling the trees leaves
I am the fragrance left in the air you interpret as another
I am the overwhelming sensation made between two lovers under duvet covers
I am the softness of lips and the sensation made by the flick of a passionate tongue
I am that empty space you try to fill with another one
So when you think you hear nothing
When you think you’re all alone
I am every word, every adlib of your favorite song
Every stroke every morning when you brush your hair
I am your deep breath because, baby, I am your air
I am everything pleasurable—every pleasure experienced since your creation
And it all stems from the balance of my concentration during this poetic intrapersonal conversation
I am everything virtuous
I am the eye of the storm
I am your hope, your future
I am the pages of your favorite novel whose cover is worn
I am air, I am sky
I am the clouds, and the Sun’s heat
But most importantly, to my core
I am Queen Poetess B…
Apr 12, 2010
Apr 12, 2010 at 5:53 AM UTC
She's a 21st century fox.
Hair tangled up,
Strangled by the bedsheets in her thoughts.
Her Eyes are blue gold,
And if I stare too long,
She just might break the mold,
Of the prototype,
The best of my wishful thinking,
Grab ahold of my nightmares and don't let go til you start sinking.
I got an inkling,
Or a thought,
I won't stop til we get caught,
Then maybe they'll throw us back like two fish out of water.
I've been swimming upstream since before I was born,
So when I swim with the current
Its like I'm trying to conform.
Forlorn and broken
Trade my change for tokens,
I try to cash the chips in,
But I lost them all playing hold em'.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 12:55 AM UTC
She may not have been your prototype teen or hiree.
Or of the masses. Or herd.
However, she did walk into a McDonald's
approach the counter
emit an esoteric exchange for help with the cashier
and with knowing eyes
the cashier directed her to the starting gate.
Now
with application in hand
and blue ribbons in her eyes
she was off to the horse races,
nervousness riding on her shoulders.
In my eyes, she was a longshot to win,
where I could see her shoes falling off
before the race started.
And her imaginary jockey falling off her horse
from laughing so hard,
for she presented herself through the restaurant
and a job interview with a Starbucks frappe,
totally oblivious of her unwrapping.
It would be like turning up for a Yankee's job
in a Red Sox outfit.
Who would do this?
As the rubberneckers, I looked on.
Incredulous.
She took her seat at a vacant table
carrying her youth awkward.
Her looks of brown hair, eyes, and raw innocence
complimentary.
But those jeans, high risers, with holes in the knees
with a white Bebe shirt that hugged her shape
shouted trendy but not job interview.
Oh, my.
She continued the procession
extracting info from her phone
and filling out her application.
No doubt with votive candles at her side
and prayers on her lips.
And perhaps blue ribbons awaiting.
After all, this was her foot in the door.
It was at this time
I had an epiphany moment
tears welling in my eyes
as I slipped on hamburger choices
and sipped on past life on a teether,
totally oblivious, too.
It was like looking in the mirror.
Her youth and awkwardness and my growing decadence
towards the light.
When the manager came in and summoned her
to the interview table,
which was located in the dining room,
I saw a little kitten purr inside of her,
where her eyes nervously checked her surroundings.
At first introduction,
the reddening blush on her face and Adam's apple
stood pronounced
but her low voice was choked.
Almost inaudible.
As the manager put her calming hands
into hers
the light turned on
all foreboding escaping.
All misplaces and tense faces replaced with aces.
This was a defining moment for her,
as the golden arches braced her feet,
making all the rubberneckers, me, proud.
Logan Robertson
6/6/2018
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 12:19 AM UTC
Stereotypes manifesting always,
(Always)
Trying to form themselves from something once seen,
But not really believing in oneself,
I see ignorance,
I see arrogance,
I see the lack of hunger,
Observing such savage pride of life,
I run from it all into a previous state,
(Anonymity)
I've reached the heights of total in-completion,
I build walls of isolation upon myself,
I am the collateral default of widespread degradation,
I stand in the gap between teeth and consumption,
I am the breed conceived by prey and predator,
Widespread suspended animation: that is our future,
We've tried to replicate the human makeup with mechanical frames,
And the translation of electronic gates,
Yet this is a folly,
For staring at the mirrors of selected life in an artificial environment,
Numbs our lives with emulation and self delusion,
The days of nobility dismantle into fragments and sink to the bottom of the glass,
Never to be turned over again,
Scattered,
Living among remnants of a life once lived with some sort of intensity,
Now smoldered in a quite ferocity of anger beneath the surface,
(Quiet tremors coming in flames)
Because we don't live our dreams,
We stand in the shadows of ruins,
We are afraid of the future,
We are afraid of the past,
Where does that leave us?
Leave me?
I stand on the edge of The Void
I'm holding myself hostage in the self sabotage entourage of the usual suspects,
Our friends, our families,
Disconnected with all intentions of coming together,
Because they die in front of their screens,
Not really living,
Right?
Light pollution massacre...
We'll fall like stars
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 11:58 PM UTC
Many times
I have tried to embrace you
In my ink
As you keep on evolving
Over time
I lost for words
Yet I'm still trying
To write about you
Without any filter, let me reveal
I regard you as
A wandering soul
Beautiful incarnate
Evolving metaphor
A breathing canvas
A prototype of artistry
With that omnipresence elegance
An epitome of decency
And phenomenal smile
You make the world worth living
Stirred by those musing ripples
I submit to you
Let me bathe my imagination
Cast you into vivid hues
Search you in the unknown
In between the recesses of the mind
And found every time
As my share of moon
Thanks for being
Nov 3, 2022
Nov 3, 2022 at 7:37 AM UTC
Is she an ancient chaos serpent of death?
Is she the prototype of the witch?
Is she just a myth or,
Has she been created?
Total
Information
Awareness
Metadata
Analysis
Tools
Would you
call my band,
"evil,"
-if I named it Satan?
Might you expect your government
to name a division of itself after Lucifer?
Can this be a,
"Christian Nation,"
...when it runs a Devil's game?
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 8:32 PM UTC
Iago Prytherch his name, though, be it allowed,
Just an ordinary man of the bald Welsh hills,
Who pens a few sheep in a gap of cloud.
Docking mangels, chipping the green skin
From the yellow bones with a half-witted grin
Of satisfaction, or churning the crude earth
To a stiff sea of clods that glint in the wind—
So are his days spent, his spittled mirth
Rarer than the sun that cracks the cheeks
Of the gaunt sky perhaps once in a week.
And then at night see him fixed in his chair
Motionless, except when he leans to gob in the fire.
There is something frightening in the vacancy of his mind.
His clothes, sour with years of sweat
And animal contact, shock the refined,
But affected, sense with their stark naturalness.
Yet this is your prototype, who, season by season
Against siege of rain and the wind's attrition,
Preserves his stock, an impregnable fortress
Not to be stormed, even in death's confusion.
Remember him, then, for he, too, is a winner of wars,
Enduring like a tree under the curious stars.
2.8k
He knows not how the toner trails,
I know how my conduits drain themselves.
Forming a queue while spitting blood
They’re an anemic residue.
He knows not how to freshen my palate,
With warmth, I see no remedy
My so-fatigued heart,
I was a monochrome in plastic wares.
I wasn’t a prototype, but a derivative.
Seclusion I abhor, indeed my life too
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 8:07 PM UTC
You can bet I've broken so many metaphorical bones,
You can bet I've collected so many cursed tokens,
You can bet I've been selected to get my head shacked, she said depression,
I said repression,
Cause denying makes the truth all the more shady,
And then I've shaken to fading on the daily,
I'm a killer of a very special Miller,
Or perhaps that was the killer of me.
Now I'm a special boy,
Taken and shaken around like a toy,
You can confirm my death with many people,
Those who build steeples and feasible sentences,
I'm a prototype of a man,
Just watch as I ran to the sand underneath the sparkling grand moon man.
Take me up into the wind,
Bring me to the sinners den,
I will take his rusted hand,
And escape without a stand.
You can bet I've murdered so many beasts,
You can bet I've ruined so many well-lit feasts,
You can bet that I've introspected, to the point where I've retrospected into the infected past,
I keep on regretting going fast,
You're stuck in my head now get out before I pluck you out,
Tuck and roll to **** at everything that I lay eyes on.
Cause denying makes the truth all the more shady,
And then I've shaken to fading on the daily,
I'm a killer of a very special Miller,
Or perhaps that was the killer of me.
Cause denying makes the truth all the more shady,
And then I've shaken to fading on the daily,
I'm a killer of a very special Miller,
Or perhaps that was the killer of me.
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 1:20 PM UTC
My mind is under the glacier
Waiting for it to combust
As I try to gain sanity
I get propelled into madness
Every time I try yo understand
I only accept less
Every time I confess
My darkest sins
Everyone else comes from within
To admit their faults
So I'm kicking my issues to the vault
Accept that my mistakes are my fault
And realize that I should never quit
But I'm a defendant tryo g to acquit
Please God give me strength
So I don't channel my anger
In the wrong way
I'm trying to be good today
But tomorrow is a different story
Renounce my glory
Only when I deserve it
So far I'm not sure I have
But then yet, I can be too skeptical
This a search to be happy
And I can't find much
For now
But I know I have to wait
And for the impatient part of me
That's too difficult to work
But I do know
That I have to conspire against my most loathed tasks
And paint it with the pathway to what I love
That's the only way I'll make it
I'll survive, just give me time to work the kinks out
So far I'm in prototype
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 9:11 PM UTC
*White.
Female.
Middle Class.
Heterosexual.
Agnostic.
Libertarian.*
Yeah.
That's me.
That's that first layer,
thin as the paper you could
read it on.
Just a
Jane Doe,
a nameless, faceless
demographic.
But peeling back the layers,
ripping through page on page of a complicated novel,
digging
down
into
a
bottomless
hole
to
China,
unravelling
the intricate
web of
stereotypestruthsliesassumptionsprejudice
and
there you will find
me,
a colorless genderless asexual
spirit whose frame
is crafted and molded
not with how the world
chooses to see me and
who "they" deem me to be;
no.
A guy that didn't know me well
once told me that I
spoke more urban than he
expected,
and I couldn't help but wonder why
someone from an urban area
couldn't speak like they were
from a city,
like somehow what he saw in my
whitefemaleheterosexualmiddleclassagnosticlibertarian
prologue forbade me
from speaking in colloquials and
abbreviations.
Oh, I apologize,
I laughed later to my friend,
**law students are supposed to speak
with an ostentatious vocabulary and
an heir of
(superfluous) arrogance.**
I am rarely a prototype
of what it means to be
White,
of what it means to be
female;
middle-class or not,
my parents insisted at age 8
that I begin to understand
the value of a dollar;
my sexuality indicates little
about my level of attraction
to the world around me;
agnostic is really just a term
I put because I'm still trying to
figure out whether I really
believe everything I was forced to
learn at Catholic school;
and isn't Libertarian just a fancy
word for I don't want to
choose liberal or conservative?
It's insulting to
ingest how much is
insinuated about
my depth in
the shallowest of pools.
My cheeks burn hot
with frustration as I
try to balance on a beam
cracking underneath the weight of
a world that is constantly begging me
to go back in the neatly
wrapped package from which
the world would prefer I
came.
I'm not someone
you can put in a *******
box and
label;
you can't contain my
shine behind
blackout blinds;
I will burst out of your bubble
and break your glass ceilings;
I will scream at the top of
my lungs in a soundproof room
until you HEAR me.
I'm not meant to be judged
by my cover,
and neither are you.
We are meant to be read.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
Maybe my soulmate was reincarnated into my puppies.
Odd it may sound
But you try laying next to their body heat when you're cold and listen
to their soft breaths that turn to whistles
As their eyes remain closed and their mouths slightly open
You try not to pull them in a little closer and whisper that you love them forever.
Try ending a long day hating the world
Then you walk in your home to two ***** of fur that are the epitome of excited when they hear your voice and can barely stand still to kiss you hello. No one ever kisses me hello, only good bye.
They long for your every moment and live for your tenderness.
They're my best friends, always there.
The epitome of loyal and true.
I think my puppies are the prototype of my soulmate.
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 11:29 PM UTC
One of the audience
she is
Observing,
Listening and Noticing,
what she needs?
Prototype!
Beyond
Only
she needs to read more
to act
Nov 28, 2021
Nov 28, 2021 at 11:04 AM UTC
so
people say that there are things
objects
abstracts
other people
earth's natural boundaries and bounties
that urge or maybe converge the mind
into action - though most probably think the act,
they reverie in what they dream as exceptional.
so
here is an ideal,
a prototype esteemed
like that emblazoned scrap of paper
with the birth names and letters
dotdotdot etc ...
so, tell me
are you aspiring
or laying deep
in the molds ?
will it buy you a ring for your trophy ?
will it make you prolific ?
we would not know happiness,
if only for the grand stories
told to us of our entitlement
to enjoy our senses. well,
look at this container,
you were perfectly crafted
to roam
with intention, across all spaces
conquistadoring and
expanding and
'destroying to create'
whatever the **** that means
and never learning not to rear our ugly heads
to the paradise
breastfeeding
us,
or to the processing
keeping us bred
nice and tidy.
so
there is the ambiguous person again,
and is there something wrong with monotony,
does it imply a good in consistence
does it lend translation to the static
(coming up and out of your roaring mouth;
he is an angel, i grant it worth.)
so
be inspired by feeling.
that dumpster over yonder is what it
is, as your lobes transmit
and lucidly self actualize ::
i am not here to convince anyone
but myself.
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 2:20 AM UTC
Little ant, so small and insignificant
Yet in numbers up an elephant’s snout
How easily you make him indisposed
Lesson to learn: strength in numbers
Maxim to remember: unity of purpose
Oh termite, thou destroyer of civilizations!
How mighty when surreptitiously you creep in
Such ingenious civil engineering feats everywhere
Orderly highways with neither jams nor congestion
And tall imposing castles kissing the air proudly
Result: new architectures plagiarizing your prototype!
And you wasp of constricted waist and mean toxin
You make no attempt to hide or disguise your dwelling
Yours is a house built upon a hill for all to see and tremble
They say when a man has no obvious protection keep away
Lest you trigger subtle forces that mesmerize and pulverize you
Lesson from this: commandos are modern day human wasps
Everybody owes the bee everything, from sweetness to health
The bees a-buzzing speak of persistence and how it breaks barriers
In the end you listen because the message is ceaseless and urgent
And oh sweet bee of the hot sting shot from your posterior
No cordon bleu chef anywhere can ever approximate your finesse
Your formula and patent are hedged with natural mystery
Lesson to learn: the bitter and the sweet in judicious mixture!
Now little man recently so puffed-up and conceited and ever so inadequate
Hear ye this and know it well lest you stumble and fall into dark precipices
You’re nothing and you’ve created nothing; there’s a prototype of everything
In nature’s wonder store of huge surprises and unassuming wisdom
Lesson from all this: one day the other world will rise up and assert it itself
So steer your course differently and beware of those who bide their time
Grim in their purpose and determined in their unshakable resolve
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 4:00 AM UTC
Hire me.
I'll be the best person at the job.
I work hard.
Always on time.
Never late.
Through impressing without overtime.
In other words, I get the job done.
Yes, I'm the one.
Just hire me.
I accept my ninty day probationary period.
And will make it through it.
My ability to do will leave you ready to hire me.
I'll be the prototype of a good employee.
Yes, others will envy me.
Especially when you becomes the better part of me.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 7:41 PM UTC
Difficult for unpracticed hands
Valuing it, protecting it, nurturing it.
It should have been all that she needed to carry
She felt sure it was there,
In the dark place
Beneath the joy,
Between this breath
And the next laugh.
I see some echo of it there still.
It shows itself in the negative spaces
And desperately needs the light and air.
She thinks it small and cheap, and well-covered
Beneath the bite of a vinegar voice
In the folds of a silken smile
Muffled by the thick wool of persona.
She keeps her arms folded
Her irises blank.
Idly pulling loosened threads,
And tunes the prototype.
Sometimes there is the terror
Of cutting isolation
Of an icy apartness
In a dense and moving crowd
Of friends and cohorts.
Once she tried to let it free.
Arms spread wide in the street.
Ready to give that gift to herself
From deep within the erected façade
Amid the mass of anonymous humanity,
Amid the ********** legs and cab-hailing arms.
Later, a mirror brings a cold draft
Chilled by the empty spaces.
And then a fear,
Not knowing where it was anymore.
Hidden too deeply?
Lost along the path?
Maybe it was never given to her at all.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 2:43 PM UTC
I have sons spread around the world
birthed by different girls
foundation built in my arms.
recognition of the need of men
of the Love of a woman,
for a woman to guide his heart,
to open his eyes to his start.
she whispered,
the power of the son.
he is of she, penetrates the sea
and births anew.
she the prototype, the official
original, the womb.
woman, her scent alarms the masses.
and we scream now.
we scream and we cry
we live in angst in our homes,
our men are concerned.
yet our pheromones sense things,
weather and other perturbations.
mothers voice in the heart of her children,
daughters tend to stay closer to home.
women, we hear the call!
as we quiet our longing drawl,
the pull we feel to somewhere, we know not of
a place beyond the beauty of our eyes,
we know,
we remember,
our requirements as a creator.
ours, the power of the reflection
of the full moon,
the trees dance in the monthly celebration,
though in the desert, I've seen a few
who,
when the moon is too full,
too reflective of its presence,
they fold to hide from the light.
knowing whats best for themselves, I trust.
I just can't help but to choose to stand
with Her.
stand in Her light, my mouth
opens for the gift.
the thirst quenched.
head tilted back, think of
the men of the world.
if I could just hug them.
as Ms Badu claims
I bet you LOVE can make it better …
I bet too.
I bet I can heal you.
open your heart, peal the bitter,
drain the water, raise the alter.
praise the lover, embrace as a Mother.
pour into the builder, the sender.
release his true endeavors.
release the tension in his body,
helping him to know
mind over matter.
plugging him into the true
creative power
of his *** his gift of Love,
of his body penetrating another.
what his self is communicating,
what his seed is sprouting.
he needs our healing.
his heart is calling, and he's stomping around
like a little boy! I have sons, they stomp around…
they need mommys love,
mommys extra love.
she, calls us to her sons.
new normals, open our hearts
health always to follow.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 4:12 AM UTC
*Psychic Trance & ****** Dance,
Emitting Chemical Solace Dipped In Her Capital Romance,
Feral Atmosphere Written In Her Carnal Elegies,
Rapturous Serenades Forming Phantasmal Effigies,
Magnetized Synchronicity & Metamorphized Reciprocity,
Animating Foreplays Dazzling Her Astral Virtuosity,
Phantasmal Lips Illuminating Cherub Faces In Draped Compositions,
Painting Supernatural Visions Forged In Her Vocal Inhibitions,
Prototype Voids & Spiraling Realms,
Religious Frenzies In Her Temporal Screams,
Autumn Sun Reincarnating The Light Of The Spring,
Glass House Perspectives Blooming In Her Prismatic Bling,
Rhapsody Confessions Of Her Divine Obsessions,
Rainbow Skies Dressed In Her Spiritual Progression,
Coral Spells & Synthetic Desires,
Floral Pastels Engineering Her Romantic Fires,
Nightlife Flatlining Through Her Lonely Avenues In LSD High,
A Congenital Sinner She Respires ****** Hues With A Luminescent Sigh!
– 05:13 AM –*
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 7:51 AM UTC
When the titles turn to grey
Each bitter ash a story untold
A breaking mold on the fray
Your a big girl all the way
But what do I need that I don't have?
Each breath a sin, each exhale a salutation
We are God's unwanted children
There on the horizon is our unholy pollution
When I knew my mind I knew myself
But the press of the matter is not there where it starts
I have a room and it is mine, but the key
Is nowhere in a place that I can rightly see
Listen to the blows of the wind without your ears
A children's scream echoes, so rightly near
Poe danced in the asylum's of madness and its prayers
But whose to say that love also doesn't Fear?
I can hear the whip of the way
The way our forefather's used to play
And of course our skin tingles as we mingle
With the one's we used to enslave
I wear the cloak of eternity
You see my eyes but lo', they are not mine
I dance beneath your very veins
And the pen is where I hold my flaming reins
I ask only for bread
I ask only for butter and
Water that tastes like the tears of mother
All others should be left by the door, unbothered.
Take me for what I am
A mule with only a man's mind
A body that one day will break,
A recognition that I - not myself - keep in repression
For the sunset keeps me amused
The tools of my own body screams
And as I watch the cream of the scheme rise
To the tip top, I inhale to make time stop
I've got my hat on, but where's my love?
I see a bed, but the sheets are made of lead
I need a road, a story untold
A life whose line will never run cold
I see where the line is supposed to end
When the words end n' you've got nothing else to send
But whose words are these if I've got nothing to lend?
My rose bushes are fine, I've got nothing in this world to tend
Each lonesome note
Across this valley of tears
Is what is just too hard to bear
A turn in the tide
Time in my own memory
Too tough to tear and throw away
A thorn I'm forced to hold near
One day I'll see clear
Why it was even there
Minutes on minutes of minute time
In pendulum we justify each step
Our heart beat is our unrest
The beat of our neighbor's walls our anxiety
There are no more blankets to cover the world
We are out of detergent to keep ourselves clean
The lines of the supermarket are too long and
Were out of cream to keep our girls rightly esteemed
I'm headed out of this place
But no time soon
As for the weather
Ask for the flapper's in the smoky ballroom
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 5:41 PM UTC
After piece by arcane piece is discarded
vulnerability divulging flaws and vindication with neon lights
incision at the fingertips
lies exposed where every finger nail is dislodged
peel back the once forgiving flesh
revealing the standard beauty for its depth
don't suppose those lines in my face
(the conniving spots
where make-up bleeds,
forgotten lies breed,
and fear have taken occupancy)
those lines don't really matter once you remove the mask
Underneath, muscle and connections vibrate
the drive
Red, raw, ugly and most important - authentic
A monster's face, the one that parallels
everyone else's
Tear away at it, pluck each strand of tissue
Play me a lullaby to sooth the screaming
Dust your fingers on the structure of my bones
carve your initials into the white
lay claim to your work, your art
slide any remaining pieces away into the abyss of trash
with the newspaper clippings and elmers glue
bleach away the remaining red
and finger paint your new canvas
A pristine prototype so rudiment
The birth of cool
and for the free
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 11:48 AM UTC
liquid will swirl into the shape of it's cradle as hearts will mold to the minds of their successors. background checks?
tl;dr.
______________________________________________
brave girls have cranberry ***** running through their veins, isn't that right? drink up, buttercup.
what's it if you and i goes on a ride? i got a paintbrush, you've got what needs to be painted. i'll paint you so good you won't even recognize yourself.
-
portraiture is dead and landscape is only dying.
let me
-make you
-in two
-into
a landscape.
you're gonna be sittin' pretty for the rest of your life, 'cause i'm not giving you any other options. open up those ankles - we're out of paint.
-
this prototype calls for one cup of honeydew, one cup of darling- stop - .
if it's on the market, how illegal could it be?
throw 'er in the ***
the bottom drawer plays labyrinth to movers, shakers, mixers, fixers.
all those faces are too hard to tell apart, if you ask me. ten can-can dancers, please, and make it snappier than jaws on concrete!
no, not like that.
you're spending too much money on lipstick anyways. girls don't need makeup. girls will look pretty no matter what angle i've determined your elbows should be. your short-haired sister doesn't appear to be using this blood.
-
lay her on thick; and make sure you write those scars off as business expenses.
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 1:35 AM UTC
Darkness adds flavor to satisfy taste
unhandled Mood swings are all over the place
those Eyes must be capable of Lying
sinful, so be it, but i don't want to see her Crying
Thick outer crust is what she always project
things related to Blood shed won't make her feel weaker
Soft inner core is what i need to protect
from her fragile romance and a bottle of liquor
Prototype of my body's chemical reaction
I want to kiss her Lips even in a small fraction
thinking about her Body is a major distraction
She's the most beautiful girl and i don't need your reaction
Outcome can be sweet as sunshine and rainbows
but i don't expect too much because i know how the Wind Blows
and if a Sudden change of Heart will occur
MAHAL NA MAHAL KITA LENG THATS FOR SURE!
Mar 14, 2011
Mar 14, 2011 at 8:18 AM UTC
Well Mack being a Bus manufacturer had an idea for a new design highway bus
Yet the world wondered what was all the fuss
The MV-620-D was a new prototype bus
It all engineering that would be a plus
So Mack MV-620-D was given to Greyhound to test
It was going to be an observation better or for less
So Greyhound put the bus into regular schedule service
Reaction from the traveling public was certainly obvious
Greyhound tested the bus in 1957 being the year of my birth
The Mack bus traveled on the West Coast
So there was reason for everyone to boost
There was admiration by most
Greyhound put the Mack MV-620-D through the highway paces
However thought the bus was in a race
But throughout the test, optimistic with plenty of uncertainty
It was drive into the ride
Research in what would arrive
Yet test after test, Greyhound concluded that the MACK MV-620-D wouldn’t fit in with it’s fleet
But imagine, Greyhound would have a bus and they could compete
But it turned into defeat
Yet now it becomes a retreat
But Greyhound chose not to have the MV-620-D as a prize
But what Greyhound didn’t realize
A new design for the Greyhound enterprise
The MV-620-D could have truly been a success because of the engineering structure from front to back
But Greyhound felt the bus had a lack
The front looking like a highway bus, but the back having a auto look being the track
Yet Greyhound had the global name and could have encouraged other bus companies to purchase the MV-620-D to their fleet
Now this would have been neat
However, Greyhound being the beast
The MV-620-D was a release
Your writer has seen the MV-620-D up close and personal
A friend of mine actually owned it, but sold it overseas
What’s in a bus name?
Mack history in what will remain
The MV-620-D had potential
But Greyhound would have had the first original.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 2:55 PM UTC