"punctuations" poems - Hello Poetry

"punctuations" poems

You listen to the rhythm and blues of my sorrows, Just to sing and dance and drown yours away. You're the poem that I will never write because the 26 letters and a few punctuations in the English language will never be enough to do your beauty or the magnitude of my affection justice. Ours is black love, I love black love. Because much like the black(w)hole, it is strong enough to keep entire galaxies in its orbit.

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Oct 28, 2017

Oct 28, 2017 at 12:40 PM UTC

You listen to the rhythm and blues of my sorrows, Just to sing and dance and drown yours away. You're the poem that I will never write because the 26 letters and a few punctuations in the English language will never be enough to do your beauty or the magnitude of my affection justice. Ours is black love, I love black love. Because much like the black(w)hole, it is strong enough to keep entire galaxies in its orbit.

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Once when I was young, I was told you could swing so high you'd be able to just fly away. I learned early on That not everything we're told is true The fantastical can sometimes amount to a pile of plastic bags scattered in the wind The end isn't always happy and there's not always closure Punctuations are more often question marks than definitive periods And looking for a definite explanation took prevalence over allowing our imaginations to fill in the blanks. Play time was replaced with study time, And before we knew it, it was time for work We strayed from the playgrounds of our youth, Never returning to the top of the slide, we'd hit the ground a bit too hard to keep the enchantment of seemingly endless possibilities going Carriages became pumpkins long before midnight, And the school bell rang before we could finish our fun But to tell the truth, sometimes, When everyone else has gone inside, back to the real world, full of logic and banalities, I sit on the old swingset kicking my feet Hoping it will let me soar

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Jun 8, 2016

Jun 8, 2016 at 5:05 PM UTC

Once when I was young, I was told you could swing so high you'd be able to just fly away. I learned early on That not everything we're told is true The fantastical can sometimes amount to a pile of plastic bags scattered in the wind The end isn't always happy and there's not always closure Punctuations are more often question marks than definitive periods And looking for a definite explanation took prevalence over allowing our imaginations to fill in the blanks. Play time was replaced with study time, And before we knew it, it was time for work We strayed from the playgrounds of our youth, Never returning to the top of the slide, we'd hit the ground a bit too hard to keep the enchantment of seemingly endless possibilities going Carriages became pumpkins long before midnight, And the school bell rang before we could finish our fun But to tell the truth, sometimes, When everyone else has gone inside, back to the real world, full of logic and banalities, I sit on the old swingset kicking my feet Hoping it will let me soar

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I. This is just another bad poem Just vomited-thoughts-left-on-paper poem This is a collection of grammatical errors This would surely make my English teacher cringe But no worries, I didn’t write this for her II. This bad poem is for you May my subject and verb disagreement remind you of all those misunderstandings that lead to raised voices and nights where I cried myself to sleep Sentence construction was never my strength, it still isn’t, maybe that’s why you never truly understood me— called me difficult and bipolar You said that I was too much Did it ever occur to you that you might just misread me, like homonyms, same words but with different meanings misread my jealousy with accusations, my concern for excessive affection You said that I loved you too much but darling, did you even love me at all? Did I put too much meaning on your words, turned them into similes and metaphors? Turned your literal statements into figures of speech You told me that you liked me, so I blissfully interpreted it as a hyperbolic expression— called it love when obviously it wasn’t III. I was never good at using punctuations I put too much commas, unnecessary, misused, I kept trying to hold on Afraid of the inevitable end, Switched to semi-colons in an attempt to make it a few words longer Because despite all our grammatical errors no matter how shameful our piece of literature was to the English language It was beautiful to the untrained eye, To those who read poetry as it is To those who don’t dig deep in search of true meaning behind the metaphors It was beautiful to me But I eventually learned that infinitives and infinities are different, in spite of sharing infinite as the root word Like our love, started with something so promising but unlike most novels, there’s no happy ending So I accepted defeat, accepted the inevitable and bitter end No more committing the same mistakes over and over again, the same words over and over again, Accepted the fact that synonyms existed, words with the same meaning but also entirely different new and unfamiliar, foreign and peculiar IV. I accepted defeat No more commas or semi-colons We have reached the couplet of our free formed sonnet— I was never good with endings, I don’t think I’ll ever be, So darling I hand you the pen, set us both free.

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Dec 5, 2016

Dec 5, 2016 at 7:31 AM UTC

I. This is just another bad poem Just vomited-thoughts-left-on-paper poem This is a collection of grammatical errors This would surely make my English teacher cringe But no worries, I didn’t write this for her II. This bad poem is for you May my subject and verb disagreement remind you of all those misunderstandings that lead to raised voices and nights where I cried myself to sleep Sentence construction was never my strength, it still isn’t, maybe that’s why you never truly understood me— called me difficult and bipolar You said that I was too much Did it ever occur to you that you might just misread me, like homonyms, same words but with different meanings misread my jealousy with accusations, my concern for excessive affection You said that I loved you too much but darling, did you even love me at all? Did I put too much meaning on your words, turned them into similes and metaphors? Turned your literal statements into figures of speech You told me that you liked me, so I blissfully interpreted it as a hyperbolic expression— called it love when obviously it wasn’t III. I was never good at using punctuations I put too much commas, unnecessary, misused, I kept trying to hold on Afraid of the inevitable end, Switched to semi-colons in an attempt to make it a few words longer Because despite all our grammatical errors no matter how shameful our piece of literature was to the English language It was beautiful to the untrained eye, To those who read poetry as it is To those who don’t dig deep in search of true meaning behind the metaphors It was beautiful to me But I eventually learned that infinitives and infinities are different, in spite of sharing infinite as the root word Like our love, started with something so promising but unlike most novels, there’s no happy ending So I accepted defeat, accepted the inevitable and bitter end No more committing the same mistakes over and over again, the same words over and over again, Accepted the fact that synonyms existed, words with the same meaning but also entirely different new and unfamiliar, foreign and peculiar IV. I accepted defeat No more commas or semi-colons We have reached the couplet of our free formed sonnet— I was never good with endings, I don’t think I’ll ever be, So darling I hand you the pen, set us both free.

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I wish it was easy to say who I am. I wish God was less of a creator and more of an author Ink stained fingernails glasses brimming the edge of his nose type Whiskey on the side of his computer; optional. I wish that in place of these veins and hair and bendable thumbs I had poetry, soliloquies, syllables, punctuations. That marked my existence I wish my mind was a novel and each word inside it Moved through my organs and around my chest And when you cracked it open knowing who I am Would be as easy as reading a book I wish that when I get so angry I forget to speak That you could just rip off the end of my skirt and read the Internal and omniscient monologue in place of my skin That would explain everything When I smile during turmoil I wish it wasn’t a mystery And the chapters printed on my visible teeth Could tell you exactly why. If God was an author I would be a character And each of my traits would have meaning, and significance Why do I bite my nails? Because when I was five years old I saw my mother do It and when I’m nervous I do it to be close to her That would be the reason and I wouldn’t have to sit and wonder about it Because that fits my story Every page of my life would be narrated by someone who knew Me better than I knew myself and that, that Would take a lot of pressure off my shoulders. The horrible weight of self-defining Wouldn’t it be nice to not have to discover yourself? To have someone do it for you Instead of taking years to find out that you work better under pressure And that being a doctor really wasn’t your true calling after all What if you could just look down at your body And see words that told the story of you. What if you were armed with the knowledge of knowing Who you are and what your purpose is. I wish I was literature So finally I could through my hands up Shout back at you saying “Here, look this is who I am.” I like the sound of the ocean Black and white movies I get sad when it rains Just read me.

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Jan 27, 2013

Jan 27, 2013 at 6:24 PM UTC

hayley-neininger

I Wish I Was Literature.

I wish it was easy to say who I am. I wish God was less of a creator and more of an author Ink stained fingernails glasses brimming the edge of his nose type Whiskey on the side of his computer; optional. I wish that in place of these veins and hair and bendable thumbs I had poetry, soliloquies, syllables, punctuations. That marked my existence I wish my mind was a novel and each word inside it Moved through my organs and around my chest And when you cracked it open knowing who I am Would be as easy as reading a book I wish that when I get so angry I forget to speak That you could just rip off the end of my skirt and read the Internal and omniscient monologue in place of my skin That would explain everything When I smile during turmoil I wish it wasn’t a mystery And the chapters printed on my visible teeth Could tell you exactly why. If God was an author I would be a character And each of my traits would have meaning, and significance Why do I bite my nails? Because when I was five years old I saw my mother do It and when I’m nervous I do it to be close to her That would be the reason and I wouldn’t have to sit and wonder about it Because that fits my story Every page of my life would be narrated by someone who knew Me better than I knew myself and that, that Would take a lot of pressure off my shoulders. The horrible weight of self-defining Wouldn’t it be nice to not have to discover yourself? To have someone do it for you Instead of taking years to find out that you work better under pressure And that being a doctor really wasn’t your true calling after all What if you could just look down at your body And see words that told the story of you. What if you were armed with the knowledge of knowing Who you are and what your purpose is. I wish I was literature So finally I could through my hands up Shout back at you saying “Here, look this is who I am.” I like the sound of the ocean Black and white movies I get sad when it rains Just read me.

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I am trying to make the book see my name in print in the next edition for the most reads of a poem on Hp with no hearts, shares , or collection reposts , sans comments, just ignored so well it breaks the records, if Guinness has such a thing. Or possibly the most poems wroten bad and worst punctuations, mark, my, word!

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Feb 4, 2016

Feb 4, 2016 at 9:41 PM UTC

guinness world book of records

I am trying to make the book see my name in print in the next edition for the most reads of a poem on Hp with no hearts, shares , or collection reposts , sans comments, just ignored so well it breaks the records, if Guinness has such a thing. Or possibly the most poems wroten bad and worst punctuations, mark, my, word!

Continue reading...

Waters waltz land dancing, Dragon flies flutter a buzz, Cat-o'-nines torching tales, Where beavers are logging Time with fresh water fish Who breach as they mouth, Fly catching in a casted sea, Mossy and bogged with peat, And the colours, mottled, fey, Brindled, brim, know they say, There are lessons, hear stillness, Punctuations in the spry singings Of the never tardy larks, windrous Riddles ripe rushing through reeds.

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Jan 22, 2015

Jan 22, 2015 at 8:22 PM UTC

Waters waltz land dancing, Dragon flies flutter a buzz, Cat-o'-nines torching tales, Where beavers are logging Time with fresh water fish Who breach as they mouth, Fly catching in a casted sea, Mossy and bogged with peat, And the colours, mottled, fey, Brindled, brim, know they say, There are lessons, hear stillness, Punctuations in the spry singings Of the never tardy larks, windrous Riddles ripe rushing through reeds.

Continue reading...

Bare face, full moon, we danced in irony. With swollen eyes, anticipating dawn, We jumped to the abyss for clarity. Succumbing, you were fighting and withdrawn. Swirling and twisting aimlessly, I fell. Flaming broken bones, soaring hastily. Your eyes pierced through me, a poisonous spell. Damp cheeks, bitter tongue – growing vacancy. Come hither, frightening solace of dusk, Darkness echoed your face in paragraphs. Part these lips with punctuations and brusque, Poignant blank verse, depicting parallax. Second crescent came, it was disaster. You vanished in thin air, my sought after.

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Mar 10, 2015

Mar 10, 2015 at 1:41 AM UTC

Fading (Our Sonnet)

Bare face, full moon, we danced in irony. With swollen eyes, anticipating dawn, We jumped to the abyss for clarity. Succumbing, you were fighting and withdrawn. Swirling and twisting aimlessly, I fell. Flaming broken bones, soaring hastily. Your eyes pierced through me, a poisonous spell. Damp cheeks, bitter tongue – growing vacancy. Come hither, frightening solace of dusk, Darkness echoed your face in paragraphs. Part these lips with punctuations and brusque, Poignant blank verse, depicting parallax. Second crescent came, it was disaster. You vanished in thin air, my sought after.

Continue reading...

I write because— A sudden pause. Why do you write? There is a reason to it right? "For pain!" they might say, "For fame!" cries another. "For glory!" they might argue "For defeat." some would bother. Why do you write? A student giggled, "For class to be dismissed." "Oh because you exist." A romantic chanted. The metaphors you paint vividly, letters and punctuations you bring closer. What urges you to bring into existence, Works of art from bleeding hearts. Why do you really write? because I feel, yet they tell me I am numb because I learn, yet they show me I am dumb They tell me I should change my mind, As I am only wasting my time. I write because... there's a thousand reasons that I shouldn't but a million more that tells me I should.

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Jul 23, 2018

Jul 23, 2018 at 7:21 PM UTC

Why do you write?

I write because— A sudden pause. Why do you write? There is a reason to it right? "For pain!" they might say, "For fame!" cries another. "For glory!" they might argue "For defeat." some would bother. Why do you write? A student giggled, "For class to be dismissed." "Oh because you exist." A romantic chanted. The metaphors you paint vividly, letters and punctuations you bring closer. What urges you to bring into existence, Works of art from bleeding hearts. Why do you really write? because I feel, yet they tell me I am numb because I learn, yet they show me I am dumb They tell me I should change my mind, As I am only wasting my time. I write because... there's a thousand reasons that I shouldn't but a million more that tells me I should.

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I said, HI. Marry me, if your love is as cold as mine. I said, marry me, If you're okay with dry lips in the morning because the cooking oil is finished. The sun rise is not special. No, not here. My days don't have punctuations and certainly not a full stop. No Yesterday is today because my stomach is still hungry and my lips are still dry. I said, Marry me, If my sorrows are your comfort and your teeth are as yellow as mine. Let's talk about my heavy hugs that never reach your waist and my love for the bottle. How about my Noodle *** and the blankets I share with my dog, Rusky. Are you ready to let your dreams die ? Because I'll **** them. Australia? Yeah, I'll take you. One day But for now, You're gonna gonna breathe in the euphoric air of the cemetery and build your home here. I'll show you a world with no sun and I'll teach you how to tell time. I said, Marry me. And so she looked at me and said, Maybe in another life And I watched her walk away thinking, What a freak. But I, I'm a genius.

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May 15, 2017

May 15, 2017 at 4:59 PM UTC

michael-rabutla

I said, HI. Marry me, if your love is as cold as mine. I said, marry me, If you're okay with dry lips in the morning because the cooking oil is finished. The sun rise is not special. No, not here. My days don't have punctuations and certainly not a full stop. No Yesterday is today because my stomach is still hungry and my lips are still dry. I said, Marry me, If my sorrows are your comfort and your teeth are as yellow as mine. Let's talk about my heavy hugs that never reach your waist and my love for the bottle. How about my Noodle *** and the blankets I share with my dog, Rusky. Are you ready to let your dreams die ? Because I'll **** them. Australia? Yeah, I'll take you. One day But for now, You're gonna gonna breathe in the euphoric air of the cemetery and build your home here. I'll show you a world with no sun and I'll teach you how to tell time. I said, Marry me. And so she looked at me and said, Maybe in another life And I watched her walk away thinking, What a freak. But I, I'm a genius.

Continue reading...

So a journey, or a walk about, kept me off these pages, time not my closest friend. I struggled with my task at hand, worried that I would fail in the end. Mercy has a gentle touch, her whispers fall on true ears, she helped me with my new load, she brought light to my fears. Childish laughter now crys replace, rattling pots and things out of place. Being a Grandparent ,with a responsibilty to uphold, without this joy and laughter, the burden would be a load. I am a different poet, some may fine, not all punctuations or phrases in line. Take time to put away your 'P' and 'Q's, you may fine a line or two that reflects or amuse. Yes, life is a journey, this I have said, wrote a book about it, on every page. So, I am back, check up on some friends, read what they have and see where they have been. If you are new here and stumble on me, I hope you enjoy what I got to read.

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Mar 30, 2012

Mar 30, 2012 at 6:16 PM UTC

So a journey, or a walk about, kept me off these pages, time not my closest friend. I struggled with my task at hand, worried that I would fail in the end. Mercy has a gentle touch, her whispers fall on true ears, she helped me with my new load, she brought light to my fears. Childish laughter now crys replace, rattling pots and things out of place. Being a Grandparent ,with a responsibilty to uphold, without this joy and laughter, the burden would be a load. I am a different poet, some may fine, not all punctuations or phrases in line. Take time to put away your 'P' and 'Q's, you may fine a line or two that reflects or amuse. Yes, life is a journey, this I have said, wrote a book about it, on every page. So, I am back, check up on some friends, read what they have and see where they have been. If you are new here and stumble on me, I hope you enjoy what I got to read.

Continue reading...

Im serving lifes with this pen/ Convicted for Killing time Im Eternally trapped within/ For my sins Solitarily confined In these lines where do I begin/ Can you read between them It never ends/ The margin is marginal/ Carte blanch Ive over stepped my boundaries Broke the rule cardinal/ Now Im in an invisible/ cell feeling miserable/ My time shouldve been More productive This is NA Not Applicable/ 23 hours in the whole Lost ours in part Another 60 gone/ Thought is food scarf down words/ Appetite absurd clearly just observe/ work the mind Stay fit/ only way to survive inside Mental aerobics Various signs/ Shape it chin up chin down equals a syllable/ My own worst enemy My dictions despicable/ Train everyday to enhance Considerable/ For I know never leaving These sentences for life/ Are habitual/ Even before I got booked They extradited my freedom/ The right to write When I tried to free lance I was just free writing/ They cuffed my free hands Life sentence to this pen Now they want my annihilation Too many things gone missing punctuations

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Jan 26, 2017

Jan 26, 2017 at 12:51 PM UTC

jamaal-j-ferguson

Im serving lifes with this pen/ Convicted for Killing time Im Eternally trapped within/ For my sins Solitarily confined In these lines where do I begin/ Can you read between them It never ends/ The margin is marginal/ Carte blanch Ive over stepped my boundaries Broke the rule cardinal/ Now Im in an invisible/ cell feeling miserable/ My time shouldve been More productive This is NA Not Applicable/ 23 hours in the whole Lost ours in part Another 60 gone/ Thought is food scarf down words/ Appetite absurd clearly just observe/ work the mind Stay fit/ only way to survive inside Mental aerobics Various signs/ Shape it chin up chin down equals a syllable/ My own worst enemy My dictions despicable/ Train everyday to enhance Considerable/ For I know never leaving These sentences for life/ Are habitual/ Even before I got booked They extradited my freedom/ The right to write When I tried to free lance I was just free writing/ They cuffed my free hands Life sentence to this pen Now they want my annihilation Too many things gone missing punctuations

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Jack jumped last night. We might have expected it had we not been so unsuspecting. Those blue periods of his, I'm sure you've witnessed one, were walled in somewhat by the swelling tides of years and years and years. When they came, they were quelled by the very occasional red mark. These punctuations when they mercifully visited would open doors for him, in which our brother, neighbor, father discovered strange liquid tendencies to ailing strength. Too many blank-out nights could find him and his new battery bickering the old childhood verses. Too many four-of-the-clocks would cue the choragos his specter-critic's eye to deign a Plan on our friend's blue stationary. A smile might have mailed it straight ahead. Perhaps it was last week when the boat met the shore, some heinous delivery of packaged, patent-business sealed reformation, salvation. In the midst of his violet smile the cogent steam engine had a chute into which it might heartily crash. However it came remains to be seen. What we have all seen this morning remains our family's chief export. Jack jumped last night. He ascended the hill with his red hands full of ****** punctuation marks, and he spouted full-rehearsed all those lines he'd learned in grade school. Like a prolix Gertrude complaining of her thirst. And with the singularity of purpose that haunts even the sharpest eyes, he completes the trek to his three-foot tall Kusinagara with his asthma wrapped around his neck. Victory is a queer bird. Its song is never heard the whole way through. He breathes in weightlessness, regains his bearing and waits for the lines to quiet down. No one should leave in the middle of a recitation, regardless of the quality. At last, "Richard Cory" reaches his terminal syllable and our dearest man searches for his place in the music. And it's just a minute, just a minute, just a minute, jumps. Jack jumped last night Just as he said he would, And had we heard him say it We'd have thought "He could. He could."

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Feb 24, 2010

Feb 24, 2010 at 6:49 PM UTC

Singing to the Candlestick

Jack jumped last night. We might have expected it had we not been so unsuspecting. Those blue periods of his, I'm sure you've witnessed one, were walled in somewhat by the swelling tides of years and years and years. When they came, they were quelled by the very occasional red mark. These punctuations when they mercifully visited would open doors for him, in which our brother, neighbor, father discovered strange liquid tendencies to ailing strength. Too many blank-out nights could find him and his new battery bickering the old childhood verses. Too many four-of-the-clocks would cue the choragos his specter-critic's eye to deign a Plan on our friend's blue stationary. A smile might have mailed it straight ahead. Perhaps it was last week when the boat met the shore, some heinous delivery of packaged, patent-business sealed reformation, salvation. In the midst of his violet smile the cogent steam engine had a chute into which it might heartily crash. However it came remains to be seen. What we have all seen this morning remains our family's chief export. Jack jumped last night. He ascended the hill with his red hands full of ****** punctuation marks, and he spouted full-rehearsed all those lines he'd learned in grade school. Like a prolix Gertrude complaining of her thirst. And with the singularity of purpose that haunts even the sharpest eyes, he completes the trek to his three-foot tall Kusinagara with his asthma wrapped around his neck. Victory is a queer bird. Its song is never heard the whole way through. He breathes in weightlessness, regains his bearing and waits for the lines to quiet down. No one should leave in the middle of a recitation, regardless of the quality. At last, "Richard Cory" reaches his terminal syllable and our dearest man searches for his place in the music. And it's just a minute, just a minute, just a minute, jumps. Jack jumped last night Just as he said he would, And had we heard him say it We'd have thought "He could. He could."

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Last game played Pull out the board Keep those hands moving Triple letter score. Spell it out for me Squares on the floor What the hell can I spell with a Q? Got any vowels? I need some more. Have any words you want to say? I promise I'm not keeping score. How about a profane adjective About my character? No? Alright... I guess we'll keep the game short. Do you think placing letters down Suffice as a conversation? At least, in your case, This one will have a winner. Remember when we didn't have this game? We didn't need it either. No spelling or arranging or tiptoeing around the letters. There were hardly any punctuations No exclamation or a comma. No etceteras or periods. Just the blatant expression of yourself and I And now it's come to this. I guess you won again. This game gets shorter each time. Maybe we could play again? Maybe I'll get the words right. No... Alright, that's fine. Maybe some other time.

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Jun 26, 2014

Jun 26, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC

Last game played Pull out the board Keep those hands moving Triple letter score. Spell it out for me Squares on the floor What the hell can I spell with a Q? Got any vowels? I need some more. Have any words you want to say? I promise I'm not keeping score. How about a profane adjective About my character? No? Alright... I guess we'll keep the game short. Do you think placing letters down Suffice as a conversation? At least, in your case, This one will have a winner. Remember when we didn't have this game? We didn't need it either. No spelling or arranging or tiptoeing around the letters. There were hardly any punctuations No exclamation or a comma. No etceteras or periods. Just the blatant expression of yourself and I And now it's come to this. I guess you won again. This game gets shorter each time. Maybe we could play again? Maybe I'll get the words right. No... Alright, that's fine. Maybe some other time.

Continue reading...

draking death features and tones no lust lost in oceans we toss man only of our presence to be included rudely at the suggestion of the wet nurse thirsty in linen uniform beds her words nourish long as ever is in the business of breath methods of incubation amorated swells in the pattern batten the flourish of our human ilk for the journey would calm our raving losses and punctuations of breeding

0

Oct 23, 2022

Oct 23, 2022 at 10:10 PM UTC

draking death features and tones no lust lost in oceans we toss man only of our presence to be included rudely at the suggestion of the wet nurse thirsty in linen uniform beds her words nourish long as ever is in the business of breath methods of incubation amorated swells in the pattern batten the flourish of our human ilk for the journey would calm our raving losses and punctuations of breeding

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How should I recite my life? Was it a full sentence or was it parted in two? Did it entail big words or meaningless clichés shouting carpe diem? Did it have depth or did length bare it out? Did it trip on punctuations or did it flow painlessly? Which parts lingered on tongues? What orders did it give? Did it fade among greater paragraphs or was it magnificent? How should I recite my life? Should I clothe it in borrowed metaphors or should I simply read it out loud, word by word, stress the culminations, the loud parts, give extra sound to the little words? Was it a meaningful sentence? Will it linger on and get carried in the mouths of men? Will it serve as a citation for great living; or will it simply be forgotten as the sentence ends, the last syllable is whispered and the full stop is finally engraved.

0

Dec 14, 2013

Dec 14, 2013 at 3:58 AM UTC

I wish to be read and remembered as I am forgotten

How should I recite my life? Was it a full sentence or was it parted in two? Did it entail big words or meaningless clichés shouting carpe diem? Did it have depth or did length bare it out? Did it trip on punctuations or did it flow painlessly? Which parts lingered on tongues? What orders did it give? Did it fade among greater paragraphs or was it magnificent? How should I recite my life? Should I clothe it in borrowed metaphors or should I simply read it out loud, word by word, stress the culminations, the loud parts, give extra sound to the little words? Was it a meaningful sentence? Will it linger on and get carried in the mouths of men? Will it serve as a citation for great living; or will it simply be forgotten as the sentence ends, the last syllable is whispered and the full stop is finally engraved.

Continue reading...

I don't feel like being poetic but I feel the need to write Like shades and tints we're dark and light I'm trying to shine while attempting to hide This feeling is draining me Trading my ups for downs and shoving me under It's exhausting down here Not that fighting for air but clearly suffocating Can you hear me Implied punctuations that are rarely displayed I'd rather stop and go then direct So inhale, exhale I'm running out of things to tell you Bare with me This is ****** at its finest Stripping away my attempts at acceptance I wish my arms were long enough to reach Every now and again I notice there's a lot here about me I wonder if this sheet is too trasparent Suddenly realizing I'm always running Maybe we can go for a jog I guess this is more poetic I had to write something before these words caught me Playing hang man with my keyboard I'm so tired . . .

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Sep 7, 2010

Sep 7, 2010 at 5:51 PM UTC

amanda-ramsey-1

I don't feel like being poetic but I feel the need to write Like shades and tints we're dark and light I'm trying to shine while attempting to hide This feeling is draining me Trading my ups for downs and shoving me under It's exhausting down here Not that fighting for air but clearly suffocating Can you hear me Implied punctuations that are rarely displayed I'd rather stop and go then direct So inhale, exhale I'm running out of things to tell you Bare with me This is ****** at its finest Stripping away my attempts at acceptance I wish my arms were long enough to reach Every now and again I notice there's a lot here about me I wonder if this sheet is too trasparent Suddenly realizing I'm always running Maybe we can go for a jog I guess this is more poetic I had to write something before these words caught me Playing hang man with my keyboard I'm so tired . . .

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How many pages til the next chapter in this story of the ages as abominations run amok through the paragraphs stuck in between punctuations like veal in cages. Somthing twisted is connected like the braided naval vein feeding me from a space I don't try to give a name. Lines flowing through my system powered by the frame of an electric main keeping me in a place sparking at the touch of anything mundane. Seeing is believing when it's the words your conceiving, birthing of a tale designed to keep you feeling, aspects of the sinister to contrast the healing, rhyming is easy but it's the meaning of the whole that resonates as an understanding. Life is a simple story with a complex veiw, you can become a living pariah or a hero who dies and its nothing new. My poems are of a single thought held up on the back of a personal Atlas separating world's of a diffrent hue.

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Oct 18, 2016

Oct 18, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC

How many pages til the next chapter in this story of the ages as abominations run amok through the paragraphs stuck in between punctuations like veal in cages. Somthing twisted is connected like the braided naval vein feeding me from a space I don't try to give a name. Lines flowing through my system powered by the frame of an electric main keeping me in a place sparking at the touch of anything mundane. Seeing is believing when it's the words your conceiving, birthing of a tale designed to keep you feeling, aspects of the sinister to contrast the healing, rhyming is easy but it's the meaning of the whole that resonates as an understanding. Life is a simple story with a complex veiw, you can become a living pariah or a hero who dies and its nothing new. My poems are of a single thought held up on the back of a personal Atlas separating world's of a diffrent hue.

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This one is for my mother My only gift that maybe and probably On some levels just a re-gift Of the gift she has already given me Over the years and through the many Pages in the many books she has read to me The books that she pulled from her red-wooden shelves And sat on her lap on top of peach printed skirts And underneath her pale pink colored nails Words that grew legs in my mother’s mouth And were so well fed that they grew hands too Hands, that stretched out so far they reached my ears And tapped on my ear drums moors code Tales of other sleepy children who just Wanted to stay up, “please just one more chapter longer” “Please, I’m not even really tired” Tales that when looking back I hate to think I never realized How these tales reminded me of her From every little detail minute as the Punctuations that penetrated the spaces between my mother’s long winded breath One story I remember in particular. The crescent moon that cradled the cat. The cat that escaped from her farm in search of more milk Than the farmer was feeding it That cat who ran to the sky thinking the Milky Way—was just that. Only to realize the love of the famer Tasted better than how stars Felt on patted and pawed feet So the moon held the cat and slowly dipped its semi- circle Cavernous cradle down to the earth again Into the hands of the farmer My farmer, my mother earth With one undone overall strap hanging below her shoulder That in my childhood I would tip-top to thumb the edges of That metal that spooned the silver button hook. The shiny metal like a bookmark That I hope will never find its page In a book I hope my mother will read forever.

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May 8, 2012

May 8, 2012 at 1:11 PM UTC

hayley-neininger

This one is for my mother My only gift that maybe and probably On some levels just a re-gift Of the gift she has already given me Over the years and through the many Pages in the many books she has read to me The books that she pulled from her red-wooden shelves And sat on her lap on top of peach printed skirts And underneath her pale pink colored nails Words that grew legs in my mother’s mouth And were so well fed that they grew hands too Hands, that stretched out so far they reached my ears And tapped on my ear drums moors code Tales of other sleepy children who just Wanted to stay up, “please just one more chapter longer” “Please, I’m not even really tired” Tales that when looking back I hate to think I never realized How these tales reminded me of her From every little detail minute as the Punctuations that penetrated the spaces between my mother’s long winded breath One story I remember in particular. The crescent moon that cradled the cat. The cat that escaped from her farm in search of more milk Than the farmer was feeding it That cat who ran to the sky thinking the Milky Way—was just that. Only to realize the love of the famer Tasted better than how stars Felt on patted and pawed feet So the moon held the cat and slowly dipped its semi- circle Cavernous cradle down to the earth again Into the hands of the farmer My farmer, my mother earth With one undone overall strap hanging below her shoulder That in my childhood I would tip-top to thumb the edges of That metal that spooned the silver button hook. The shiny metal like a bookmark That I hope will never find its page In a book I hope my mother will read forever.

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Between volumes and syllables. From a piece of paper Folded with smitten hands and Hidden between Books of lesser interest to a Young heart in first love, To the isles and isles of scrolled Knowledge lost in the blasphemous Fires of Alexandria, my story Remains only for as long as I Do. Punctuations and dreams That will forever matter less to Another than their own. My Story is my doing. My being. My loves and dislikes. My failures and successes weigh Exactly as little as names of Kings and gods long forgotten, When printed with other drops Of the same ink as theirs. I love my girlfriend's answer To questions of an afterlife: *"I hope it all ends when it ends. I have been given enough. Give my space to other souls. All I am; all I have, I am comforted to think I only Borrow."*

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Sep 16, 2014

Sep 16, 2014 at 3:19 AM UTC

The Isles and Isles of Scrolled Knowledge Lost (My Story, for Joe Cole)

Between volumes and syllables. From a piece of paper Folded with smitten hands and Hidden between Books of lesser interest to a Young heart in first love, To the isles and isles of scrolled Knowledge lost in the blasphemous Fires of Alexandria, my story Remains only for as long as I Do. Punctuations and dreams That will forever matter less to Another than their own. My Story is my doing. My being. My loves and dislikes. My failures and successes weigh Exactly as little as names of Kings and gods long forgotten, When printed with other drops Of the same ink as theirs. I love my girlfriend's answer To questions of an afterlife: *"I hope it all ends when it ends. I have been given enough. Give my space to other souls. All I am; all I have, I am comforted to think I only Borrow."*

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electric — conflated with the doldrum of once ignited feeling on the russet table work and the stringing aroma of flyblown coffee painting the morning something earthenware; i imagine women lounging and displaying their flamboyant dresses confessing a dull promenade parading their attenuated ***** reveling a queendom on recall and this bane, merely resolute, gives itself a new meaning as a hand of forgive men resigning their bags on the corner, grunts, heaves deathly serious disallowing tomorrow's arrival into a throb of being in place, folding newspapers to a club and smiting fervently along with the endless waiting, verses lying cold on the froth of the tile and the wind ripening the brew of contestations — punctuations in their cupboards still and reserved in hermetic space curating silence, giving dins their polished ends, open for all: churlish boys, naked girls, faith-used women, strife-torn men, usual suspects, rebels and the overwrought – never closes like a hand in cold or a rose, its face occulted by identification sideways torn, inside and out struggling, scrunched to squint on some pale light through chinks on the battered wall, sipping coffee, mmmm, that morning ripple transcending the heaviness of the city before me.

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Nov 6, 2015

Nov 6, 2015 at 10:13 PM UTC

windsor-i-guadalupe-jr

electric — conflated with the doldrum of once ignited feeling on the russet table work and the stringing aroma of flyblown coffee painting the morning something earthenware; i imagine women lounging and displaying their flamboyant dresses confessing a dull promenade parading their attenuated ***** reveling a queendom on recall and this bane, merely resolute, gives itself a new meaning as a hand of forgive men resigning their bags on the corner, grunts, heaves deathly serious disallowing tomorrow's arrival into a throb of being in place, folding newspapers to a club and smiting fervently along with the endless waiting, verses lying cold on the froth of the tile and the wind ripening the brew of contestations — punctuations in their cupboards still and reserved in hermetic space curating silence, giving dins their polished ends, open for all: churlish boys, naked girls, faith-used women, strife-torn men, usual suspects, rebels and the overwrought – never closes like a hand in cold or a rose, its face occulted by identification sideways torn, inside and out struggling, scrunched to squint on some pale light through chinks on the battered wall, sipping coffee, mmmm, that morning ripple transcending the heaviness of the city before me.

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beau·ti·ful /ˈbyo͞odəfəl/ adjective 1. pleasing the senses or mind aesthetically. "beautiful poetry" Similar: attractive, pretty, handsome, good-looking, etc. Opposite: ugly 2. of a very high standard; excellent. "she spoke in beautiful english" 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝘁𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘃𝗮𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗮 𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗮𝗸𝘀 𝗹𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗽𝗼𝗲𝘁𝗿𝘆. the inside of a woman's ****** is full of verses that you'll forget your name. stop telling me that woman's fallopian tube is only the meeting place of a ***** and an egg cell because metaphors and punctuations develop there to create pulchritudinous metrical-composition. 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝘀𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘀𝗲𝘅 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗰𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗮 𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗮 𝗯𝗼𝗼𝗸 𝗼𝗳 𝗽𝗼𝗲𝘁𝗿𝘆. the moans and groans implanted on each other's ears will create proses and poetry, the handprints on the wall, the clothes you both threw on the floor, and the smiles and giggles you threw up create poetry that only you and your lover can read. 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝘁𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗮 𝘄𝗼𝗺𝗮𝗻 𝗶𝘀𝗻'𝘁 𝗮 𝗽𝗼𝗲𝘁𝗿𝘆. [ the space between her thigh the gap between her teeth the veins on her arms the marks on her belly the darkness of her brows and the bristle on her armpits i'm telling you that these are parts of poetry ]

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Dec 6, 2020

Dec 6, 2020 at 4:15 PM UTC

A WOMAN = A POETRY

beau·ti·ful /ˈbyo͞odəfəl/ adjective 1. pleasing the senses or mind aesthetically. "beautiful poetry" Similar: attractive, pretty, handsome, good-looking, etc. Opposite: ugly 2. of a very high standard; excellent. "she spoke in beautiful english" 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝘁𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘃𝗮𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗮 𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗮𝗸𝘀 𝗹𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗽𝗼𝗲𝘁𝗿𝘆. the inside of a woman's ****** is full of verses that you'll forget your name. stop telling me that woman's fallopian tube is only the meeting place of a ***** and an egg cell because metaphors and punctuations develop there to create pulchritudinous metrical-composition. 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝘀𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘀𝗲𝘅 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗰𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗮 𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗮 𝗯𝗼𝗼𝗸 𝗼𝗳 𝗽𝗼𝗲𝘁𝗿𝘆. the moans and groans implanted on each other's ears will create proses and poetry, the handprints on the wall, the clothes you both threw on the floor, and the smiles and giggles you threw up create poetry that only you and your lover can read. 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝘁𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗮 𝘄𝗼𝗺𝗮𝗻 𝗶𝘀𝗻'𝘁 𝗮 𝗽𝗼𝗲𝘁𝗿𝘆. [ the space between her thigh the gap between her teeth the veins on her arms the marks on her belly the darkness of her brows and the bristle on her armpits i'm telling you that these are parts of poetry ]

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Your Youth. Your Time. Your placed Investiture So did these Ringers let your Throne announce With fresh commentary spring your Boys pure And clasp their Spirits for Victory enhance Now there's the Go! Humbled yet so Pronounced To apply Punctuations for your Team's End Which the Lion roars their Thoughtful Doubts bounce And Mark every Tariff they could Append When most Nations laugh, they Green in Despair Why his Coloured Mane kept whipping the Waves Perhaps Leisure, his fleeting Vice repair Kept hard-earned Fortiments from Woes and Slaves. Still on still, these Songs by Splashes carry Another Batch-of-Stamps; To Home they tarry.

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Apr 21, 2013

Apr 21, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC

xavier-paolo-josh-mandreza

SONNET TRIBUTE SUNDRY - ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY EIGHT - TOM DALEY - #FINAWORLDSERIES

Your Youth. Your Time. Your placed Investiture So did these Ringers let your Throne announce With fresh commentary spring your Boys pure And clasp their Spirits for Victory enhance Now there's the Go! Humbled yet so Pronounced To apply Punctuations for your Team's End Which the Lion roars their Thoughtful Doubts bounce And Mark every Tariff they could Append When most Nations laugh, they Green in Despair Why his Coloured Mane kept whipping the Waves Perhaps Leisure, his fleeting Vice repair Kept hard-earned Fortiments from Woes and Slaves. Still on still, these Songs by Splashes carry Another Batch-of-Stamps; To Home they tarry.

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I heard the question mark when you first saw me and the exclamation point when we first talked I heard your commas when we walked and spoke your colons before you delivered the punchline I heard the whispered parentheses when you told me you loved me. Then I heard the semicolons when we fought with ellipses and brackets of contained rage And finally, I heard the period at the end of the sentence that was us.

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Aug 17, 2014

Aug 17, 2014 at 8:02 AM UTC

I heard the question mark when you first saw me and the exclamation point when we first talked I heard your commas when we walked and spoke your colons before you delivered the punchline I heard the whispered parentheses when you told me you loved me. Then I heard the semicolons when we fought with ellipses and brackets of contained rage And finally, I heard the period at the end of the sentence that was us.

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