"puling" poems
Now you have freely given me leave to love,
What will you doe?
Shall I your mirth, or passion move,
When I begin to wooe;
Will you torment, or scorn, or love me too?
Each petty beauty can disdain, and I,
Spight of your hate,
Without your leave can see, and dye,
Dispence a nobler Fate,
Tis easie to destroy, you may create.
Then give me leave to love, and love me too
Not with designe
To rayse, as Loves curst Rebels doe,
When puling Poets whine,
Fame to their beauty, from their blubbr’d eyn.
Grief is a puddle, and reflects not clear
Your beauties rayes;
Joyes are pure streames, your eyes appear
Sullen in sadder layes,
In cheerfull numbers they shine bright with prayse.
Which shall not mention, to express you fayr,
Wounds, flames, and darts,
Storms in your brow, nets in your hair,
Suborning all your parts,
Or to betray, or torture captive hearts.
I’le make your eyes like morning Suns appear,
As mild, and fair;
Your brow as Crystal smooth, and clear,
And your dishevell’d hayr
Shall flow like a calm Region of the Ayr.
Rich Nature’s store, (which is the Poet’s Treasure)
I’le spend, to dress
Your beauties, if your mine of Pleasure
In equall thankfulness
You but unlock, so we each other bless.
2.9k
The love that makes me cry
The kind that brings hot tears to my eyes
Is the one saying "you, not I"
Gentle, the softest consuming
it's the sort that tickles your fingers
doesn't leave, but lingers
unconsciously keeps you assuming
assuming their finite cares part by part
-you didn't even know it at the start
puling them deeper into your heart
And then one day the **** with crow
and when their love lets go your hand
it is then that you will understand
the betrayal of the love that takes
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 9:45 PM UTC
It was like puling off a bandaid.
Slow and painful at first, but as soon as you grab the edges, tug on it a bit and feel that its not that bad... you rip the whole thing off.
he grabbed my edges, tugged on it to see my reaction and as soon as we both felt it wasn't that bad... he let it rip.
I grabbed on his arm when he pulled the bandaid too hard
but the pain filled me.
It filled me with lines of ' this is it' , 'this is what you asked for', 'you're finally the last one' and the biggest one...'its gonna be him'.
And once the bandaid was ripped off, questions filled me of
'what happens now'
'what do we do now?' and
'Do we do this again?'.
But I don't have answers to these questions, nor do I have guts to ask him.
I never thought id be considering taking my bandaid off,
nevertheless asking him to do it.
But now the bandaid is off, and the scar there for everyone to see.
but I don't see a scar.
I see him.
I just don't know if when he looks at his bandaid, he see me.
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 10:28 AM UTC
She's in her clothes
And on her lips
Her kiss is there forever.
He takes her in
With all his love
And brings her all together.
She smells so sweet
And tastes of lust
And true love for another.
He's in her mind
And on her tongue
He says she's oh so clever.
Her scent is on her shirt now.
The one he now slips under.
Her fingers through her hair now.
His mind is on no other.
She's puling her in close now.
His lips upon her collar.
She smells just oh so sweet now.
He whispers oh so clever.
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 2:47 PM UTC
Women who sleep on stones are like
brick houses that squat alone in cornfields.
They look weatherworn, solid, dusty,
torn screens sloughing from the window frames.
But at dusk a second-story light is always burning.
Used to be I liked nothing more
than spreading my blanket on high granite ledges
that collect good water in their hollows.
Stars came close without the trees
staring and rustling like damp underthings.
But doesn't the body foil what it loves best?
Now my hips creak and their blades are tender.
I can't rest on my back for fear of exposing
my gut to night creatures who might come along
and rip it open with a beak or hoof.
And if I sleep on my belly, pinning it down,
my ******* start puling like baby pigs
trapped under their slab of torpid mother.
Dark passes as I shift from side to side
to side, the blood pooling just above the bone.
Women who sleep on stones don't sleep.
They see the stars moving, the sunrise, the gnats
rising like a hairnet lifted from a waitress's head.
The next day they're sore all over and glad
for the ache: that's how stubborn they are.
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 11:05 PM UTC
This is a story of man who defied all odds, and his name was Henry Fredrick. Henry rides the train every morning on his daily commute to the city, which is where he works. He is a repairman for Azrael Medical Center, a local hospital. Henry is a single man who lives alone and does not like to keep company very often. As said before, he takes the train from his residence located in the outskirts of the town. He seldom makes friends, but the friends he does have keep in good rapport with him. T’was the first week of April in the year 1987, that he departed like any other day when suddenly the train derailed. He was tossed about from roof to floor, and this vicious cycle continued until he was left lying on top of someone else’s luggage. Henry laid there for quite some time fearing no one would know where to look, and he began to think what he could have done better in his life. The only thought he had was of his death. Trying to rid himself of this misery he began to ask why he did not simply buy a car and take that to work instead of the train. The train was so close and inviting to Henry because he could spend time alone to think before having to deal with the occupational world. A few hours were spent and he finally attempted to move his carcass so that he could perhaps be found. He struggled to crawl up to the door, the only escape route. That’s when the feeling hit him, like someone was watching him or planning his demise. Henry frantically looked around but saw no one. He began to yell for help when someone or something showed up. The two of their eyes met and instantaneously the two of them became preoccupied with the other. As Henry began to widen his gaze from those engulfing red eyes, he notices that indeed that thing that was watching him was a dog. The dog grabbed onto Henry’s shirt puling him from the wreckage. The dog seemed to have supernatural strength and Henry felt as if he was floating on air being carried on the shoulders of some strange beast, but was most likely due to the fact that he lost basically all of his blood. The dog dragged Henry’s broken body to the street, and that is where Henry blacked out.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 12:12 PM UTC
I went to your game today... The first one I've been to for a while, it was a great game. You guys won and now you are going to bi-district.
I caught you staring at me a few times, quite a bit actually.... The bus ride home was great, I talked to an old friend, made some new friends too. Everything was fine till I got home, when I got home I was hoping for a text, a call, anything....
Every car that went down my road I hoped was you, I hoped it was you puling into my driveway to knock on my window and tell me to open the door so you could come in and tell me that you want me back and that you love me.
But sadly, none of the cars were you...
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 1:29 AM UTC
Your warm honey brown eyes, your skin slightly tanner compared to my translucent hands. You radiate the sunlight, shinning through my clouded emotions. You're lavender and sunflowers. My favorite combination. Your vines wrap around my heart puling me in.
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 10:41 AM UTC
O'
sweet destiny
with nubile stitchings now made stronger
with substance
new ink is distance we've missed
together
your needle's eye
and your pins so much sharper
o'er pavement and briars
all surfaces, now taxed lighter
my hours with silence
my eyes pursue
and praise
the calmer echoes in darkness
yes, keep me
of age
at dewy midnight
i sing
that you may not wander
the shot best taken here,
light fills
where I stand this clearing
but there
& there
my eyes witness three hens
come here, come here,
hurry now
you his
there is time not for us to waste
I obey and bring myself
in a cautious, efficient
most effective pace
looking back to a moment,
we sit for hours watching while
our prey circles around us
there are pots nesting there like flies
but inside dampness raises our thoughts
the ones I hide
the ones you love
puling off my tongue
twisting
with a new border and the words
traced over
original art
sold below markets
and places you misplaced that misplace your value
a tiny whisper here
and a smaller sort of incantation there
but here
here is to
warm nights and the cold days
that pursue
and with a monster there
the storm brewed and you've not prepared your stomach
so call and call
raise hell as I
drown myself
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 2:32 PM UTC