"purport" poems
Already the month
of August 2018,
May never become
a je June'm
(Forget-me-not)
time of year,
especially for nouveau
homeless and,
penniless residents,
(now more like worrier),
who reside in the
(burnt to a crisp)
Golden State where,
towering uncontrollable
wild fire infernos veer
really did tax mental,
physical, and spiritual
oye vey iz mare (to
the bajillion power
of Google Plex) their
heirlooms, mementos,
and trappings of
das kapital lifestyle
went up in smoke,
which tragedy didst seer
the eyes (yes, iz traumatic,
but also the air)
looms with toxic
particulate matter,
though concerned former
propertied owners
(now ashen faced)
as utter grief doth rear
a scorched (bumping) ugly head,
yet the onset of Autumn,
(and the main
purport of this poem)
(oh my dog, that twill be
in approximately three weeks,
when Eastern Orthodox Church
denotes beginning of ecclesiastical
annum mull house
for straight or queer
(these times opening
doors to LGBT, or GLBT
(an initialism that
stands for lesbian,
gay, bisexual, and transgender),
nonetheless history
replete with app pear
chock full of factoids such as:
September (Latin septem,
"seven") with near
exhaustive steeped in
pagan glory of antiquity.
Ancient Roman observances
for September include:
Ludi Romani, originally celebrated
September 12 - September 14,
later extended to
September 5 to September 19.
In 1st century BC, an extra day added
in honor of deified
Julius Caesar on 4 September.
Epulum Jovis held: September 13.
Ludi Triumphales held: September 18–22.
Septimontium celebrated September, and
December 11 on later calendars
September called "harvest month"
in Charlemagne's calendar.
September corresponds partly to
Fructidor and partly to Vendémiaire
of first French republic.
On Usenet, September 1993
(Eternal September) never ended.
September called Herbstmonat,
harvest month, in Switzerland.
The Anglo-Saxons called
month Gerstmonath,
barley month, that crop
then usually harvested.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC
Born of fear, fueled by anger
This resentment I feel for you
Creates abscesses on my soul
Poison filled sacs of toxic hate which
Rise like bile in my gullet
To choke my spirit
Much like the dead alcoholic
Who's aspirated on
His own ***** and phlegm
A bloated purple carcass
Devoid of autonomy of spirit
Self-obsession robs me
Of conscious truth
Fear - that your indictments
Against me will be brought
Before the grand jury of
The universe and I will be found lacking
Resentment - at you for not becoming
A willing patron of
My brand of truth
Anger - at me for my own failings
Brought to light
Secrets I can no longer hide
While my defects are
Glaringly obvious to
One as enlightened as
You purport to be
Did not your path to
Spiritual perfection
Contain the blueprint to
Correct your vain sins of glory and
Indignant self-deception?
Is not your lofty status
Grand enough to look upon
My humiliated soul with
Something less than contempt?
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 7:07 PM UTC
This cosmos, indisputably, a sheer wonder
We cannot but bow before its grandeur
To what strange terrains opens its doors
And what secrets, hidden beneath the stars
From the merciless emptiness sans light,
From the deep silence of the horrendous night,
Was heard the bang of hammers
On the anvils of eons like thundering fire crackers
Abruptly through a gas cloud burst of inexorable force
Life emerged from stardust, our energy source
This is what the exponents of Big Bang assert
Life, from cosmic egg was hatched, some others purport
No doubt, this universe is an infinite stretch of lattice
Woven in the loom through billions of years by gratis
Where myriad wonders exist in the intergalactic space
And man has been on relentless effort to trace their course
As the wheels turned and as the fires burned
Through cosmic vapor the first atom was churned
How, over the eons, life here has flourished
With man’s wisdom and efforts nourished!
Galaxies are scattered in infinite space
And our planet Earth is well balanced in place
After the day’s vigil, when the mighty sun sets
The stars invariably take over on their night shifts
Multitudinous stars glitter and twinkle, a wondrous sight
As branching chandeliers, shedding luminous light
They are gems donning the night sky with their splendor
Where meteors dash and star light dances in nebulous glare
Some extra terrestrial hand has set the Earth in tune
And everything needed to hold life is benevolently strewn
Through countless dawns and sunset
Endless generations did come and beget
Just as this universe was born, it would one day die
With all the planets, stars and starlets of the sky
Who can predict how it is going to end
With a bang or whimper, or is the end impend?
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 3:44 AM UTC
“But I am old and you are young,
And I speak a barbarous tongue.”
“To a Child Dancing in the Wind” by William Butler Yeats
<|>
saw this poem on the site,
and it ripped a tear in my warp,
shredded edges rubbing each other,
violently, volubly, saying be wary child,
for what we don’t tell the children well
in advance of their sad discovery
that the world is not the perfection and
that good night moon story world
is not as it purport does if
it really exists,
and I am bitter that all warning asunder,
inutile, wasted, going unbelieved till time
is they must discover in their own pain,
their own sorrow that our world and words,
are imperfect, and that I am sordid saddened
that there is little one can do to protect them,
other than,
speak in a barbarous tongue
*”But I am old and you are young,
And I speak a barbarous tongue.”*
Yeats
~~~
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4756146/to-a-child-dancing-in-the-wind-by-william-butler-yeats/
Sep 30, 2023
Sep 30, 2023 at 8:32 AM UTC
Sands of time
tinkling through an obscure artefact
the light in you as you recognise your own.
Why and how are long-trodden tracks, forgotten
as my mind unfurls with a fresh green vine
whence before the stubborn old clung dry, and crisp,
those bitter octogenarians of perception.
R&M;, those sweet surprises
winking from behind a hidden door
were small shards in the bright crystal of our day
that felt woven only for us.
You trailed your fingers in the lukewarm water
And across my neck, both, at every opportunity
the warmth of the day
to turn to burning heat of us as light and inhibition fell.
'.....a thousand kisses deep', you read
And those you gave enthralled me
Cruel-clever Fate, to plant us as seeds apart
that sad, never understood genus or cure
to find now the curlicues of tendrils touch
And all to make pure, beautiful, joyful sense
our flashpoint clear in its providence.
How clear and fine, luminous, perfect
your touch and kindness and intellect drew
these feelings from myself, not forgotten
but rather, felt in that day anew.
an older......deeper.....creature are you
curled in dark and bookshelves and things unmachinated
You're art, and never be apologetic
your sorrows, twisted mad moments and lust
sift through you to paper, golden dust
and I find you entrancing
in no hesitation
still, I find I've one eye on the snare.
A red orb signalled our day into night
red wine and red running beneath my skin
I see you so clearly my dear, in mind's eye
and know the feel of your hair in my hands
and your elegance contrasts with slyness and salt
and the glint in your eye with its knowing purport.
Forgive me, I cannot relay
all I felt
forgive me, I cannot I know, more I can give?
but know, incandescence you drew from me surely
for you, kindred soul, have reminded me- live.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 3:27 AM UTC
You need sunglasses when your staring at me
Cause the light I emanate scars the retina of my enemies
There is no cure for the blindness you will endure
A pain perpetuated by the ignorance so perniciously procured
Squared against an inevitable death I easily steal your breath from the barrel of my Smith and Wess
Watching your hollow tears bleed on the canvas I project
a cataclysmic disaster wrapped up in a dismal death
We sit here at the pinnacle of our lives speaking in shadows
Masking our mouths from what we oblige
Stop and listen to the earth as it decries
The subtle architecture of this worldly demise
So as we kick back and sorely reside
I’ll be the change in the coming tide
Caged inside tortured flesh I search for rest to keep the human condition suppressed
But all I find each time that I design a new quest I become a servant of death
Invigorated by the test I stretch my consciousness to tear the limbs off your chest and beat you senseless
I won’t stop there, I’ll slit the throat leaving you without hope and then drown it in Everclear
While I may seem like a cynic
I’m not through with these gimmicks
Lacerating your heart with the bones I striped from your tendons
I’m not an advocate of violence but
Sometimes the pilot of peace needs to be reached by setting loose the destruction we inherently seek
We sit here at the pinnacle of our lives speaking in shadows
Masking our mouths from what we oblige
Stop and listen to the earth as it decries
The subtle architecture of this worldly demise
And I’ll hide my words with silence
And I’ll no longer become violent
Just another subservient machine lost in a sea of tyrants
I won’t be blunt here I’ll keep dropping metaphorical bombs onto your ears
Until all my peers understand the imminent plan that needs to be adhered:
Stop short cause change is impossible to purport
Don’t dream cause it’ll get shattered with a corporate hammer
Stay sinking in a world that raises a stagnant banner
Assimilate with the overzealous overweight materialism that manifests in the minds of the poor and is perpetuated by strip malls and ******
Mar 20, 2010
Mar 20, 2010 at 7:21 PM UTC
I meant the
Well, what did I mean?
I wanna say
climbing, hanging from the harness
But was that really all that scary?
No.
That, that was.
Without a rope
or companion.
But even that, I hesitate to dub "the scarriest moment"
What was, then?
So many times come to mind.
But they weren't frightening because of my height
the expanse of air between me and the flat ground
But the depth
The lowliness of it all.
That's when I truly scared myself
Scared her too
And him, the old friend who TELLS ME TO WRITE.
But not him.
No, he was on a mission.
A mission to be numb.
Numb from true feeling.
But then there were those times when
I know he felt
knew he felt
that sky-opening
light-flooding
sparkle-sprinkling
"Ah"
awe
love
I cannot think otherwise
I cannot doubt it
That would send me into a frenzy
Why?
Because I'm still her
I am that same girl
A string of memories, L asked?
More than that, I insisted.
Then what, B inquired?
Something that lasts
The soul
Soul? ... L, again.
Yeah!
So the solution to the problem is another problem.
I can't deny those moments
That would mean denying myself
My soul
Wilde teaches.
And so I don't
But maybe I travel too far
in the other direction
Maybe I'm not quite as 'same' as I purport myself to be
But I can't let that drive nonetheless
work to impede
the work I must accomplish
stifling it,
that is what I ought to do
in this case.
because otherwise
I find myself
lingering on those thoughts
and clinging to the sheets
It's not even about that infantile comfort anymore.
Well, maybe a little
But no, the thoughts are too prevalent now
They weren't back then
I mean they weren't
They be'd not
So my adhesion to
these same old sabanas
Is sourced in
different stuff now
Before it was more mist
but now it's true fluff
thicker than that though
like real cotton more than the candy kind
So the battle's tougher now
'sall
Not one I must cease to fight
But rather I must struggle
That much more
That much harder
Because the knowledge won't stop flowing in
Incessant, unstoppable
Unless I decide to end it all.
But even then, maybe it'd keep
striking me in the face
And if not,
who would want to lose it anyway?
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 6:48 PM UTC
To use a quote that encapsulates my feelings right now,
“I'm tired of this back-slappin' "isn't humanity neat" ******** We're a virus with shoes.”
― Bill Hicks
The Poem
Originally I thought I suffered from irritability,
irritability of the human race.
Then I realised whilst looking at my face, it was hate.
I told the Doctor I'd thought of suicide, then realised
I wanted to commit mass homicide.
Become a hermit.
Mankind, womankind I hate you, people think me nice, fair,
and kind, I know the truth, I am a ******* so you must be too.
We as a race need a cull.
Do I like the human race? No. What's to like?
I even dislike people that purport to be friends.
I intricately step my way through this world of vermin.
We defile what is beautiful and true, hate because we
are taught to. Ruin, start wars, cause pain, then moan about the rain!
We as a race are quite crudely put, a pile of ****
but even **** has purpose, a role.
What role do we have? To hate one another?
If so please make it equal and adhere to political correctness,
by that I mean, Hate Everyone equally.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 6:34 PM UTC
The distance between heart and brain
Can stretch for miles- then again,
At times the journey's half as short
As one would willingly purport.
On day as these, when autumn sun
Paints the leaves with liquid dun,
The distance spans eternity
To surmount sense and certainty.
I trace the swirling, falling leaves;
The ghostly trail my exhale breathes.
This change in colors brings anew
The nonsense in my heart for you.
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 11:03 AM UTC
Human is not humane,
Though he is in provision -
To fledge pride the nation;
Yet living with fancy own bloom on.
Others pine shakes not his vein.
What purport even defy thy majesty,
Ever eager find enjoying biting priority.
It is who ****** a gentle brain
Petty deed sweep origin blood in drain.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 7:15 AM UTC
Every minute
I move forward
and backward
Feel elated and dejected
At the same time
From both ends of the world
I retrograde
Explicitly consign into oblivion
Those marred thoughts
I introspect
And question
My beliefs and it’s pros and cons
Then backward
I run counter to
Those thoughts
I agree to it
And purport to be satiated
There’s a lapse of time
And I’m forgotten
Or maybe I forget
I run
Here and there
Incorrigibly perfect
Like those fake palindromes
Among those assertive
Words.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 8:55 AM UTC
Constantly averting controversy,
Hurting from unnerving problems.
Not the worst thing I've unearthed inside,
The birth of mind-disturbing strife attacks my life, so I
Turn the knife and end the plight, cause
That's the kind of fright that strikes the right delight I see in sight.
In darkest night, sin harkens.
Vibrant demons mark their silent dealings with violence.
Screaming stops my lungs, no breathing,
Retreating feelings try to stop the gun from ringing,
But the voice inside my head that's pleading
Remains important and so appeasing.
Like a fiend I resort to that deemed purport,
A pristine contortion of me and distortion,
A means for war, hence demons worsen.
Cursed, I've seen adverse **********
Burned, at least the urn was worth it.
Dreams are but a sea of urges,
Waves of hurt; a ****** circus.
Earth was keen to be so perfect,
But dirt, it seems, reversed its purpose,
Purged of peace by scheming serpents.
Words convene to verse excursions
Terse, obscene, and birth diversion.
Learn to breathe when yearn disperses,
Purely seek to preserve incursion.
When earnest deeds immerse subservience,
Evil creeds are sure to surface,
But thoughts serene will soothe the burdens.
Heaps of greed control these words,
Though, predisposed in certain versions.
Weeds they grow in fields of ferns, and,
No one seems to know the urgence.
Flowing streams bring treacherous currents,
Twists and turns that reap insurgence.
Since discernment keeps deterrents,
Court the beast with immense observance,
Or disease will curse life's brief occurrence.
Treat the deepest ravine of courage
With leniency so peace emerges.
Dreams are but a grieving circus,
That creep beneath your bleeding surface,
Seizing leagues of zealous verbiage,
Leaving hurt to skirt loves purpose, return concernment;
Submerge the cures for feeling worthless.
Mar 31, 2019
Mar 31, 2019 at 2:28 PM UTC
So you are gone, I realized this tonight
At the thousandth night of our separation,
Stars glittering, Moon playing hide & seek
Same like the night you and I talked last,
How I hated change and
How I found it at every step I took, is inexplicable.
The promises were not plenty to stay.
Oaths were mere other words said in frenzy
Washed in the first rain of the season.
All those texts I wrote, stanzas I composed
Were not enough to win you.
I ask you; was I that bad?
I remember me; so different than now
Awake all night waiting for your call
to start talks having no purport,
To listen your gasps, kisses and breathe and yawn
Every moment felt like you were breathing unto me
Traversing miles, splashing on face,
Warm in winters, cool in summer nights,
your breath reached;
Inhaling all, I stored it inside
Like a souvenir; to remind me how close we were once.
You said,
you “are weak in catching the hidden meanings
In my poems”. How ignorant I was to not listen
But if you were around now,
I'd explain those connotative lines
full with request and pleas,
I had typed in midnight emotions
tears gashing;
Only had simple meaning;
I long and yearn to live with you,
around you, beside you
every second.
If I’d known substitutes of hundred diverse
emotions spinning,
I'd have used it
to avoid your confusion.
But I didn’t find. My rotten luck!
Sometimes, I ponder
If you're there to see me awake all night for words
that can match you; your radiant beauty, then all
would have been different.
But you're not there to witness the devotion.
To my ill-fate, words carry only pictures
Reading depends on the reader,
And you read it all different than I intended,
Maybe, it’s the fault of my poetry
broken and stained in failure
Never achieved the power to conquer you forever.
Every word I wrote haunt me onwards
See, the sorrow I'm indulged in,
When you have forgotten my existence,
and the love we shared.
Still, after all these years
I fighting with change
Waken all night
weary, tired, sleepy; Write you in poems!
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 4:34 PM UTC
A part of those letters
Are left behind in the red cannon
A few pages of utmost sincerity
Caressing the unknown
A few instances of the unrequited love
A leaf on the ground
Her veins holding on to the clot
Blood dripping from her soul
Mice infecting the city with the plague
Thoughts destructing her mind recklessly
Two hundred dollars
The ********** looks at his face in disgust
Is the hatred unconsciously precarious on his doings
The past mocking at his present
She's grave and he's cruel
The wind tonight will not blow
Lights have been told to turn the people blind
They will all purport to be satiated
And within themselves
Die with the top notch blades cutting them straight.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 1:45 PM UTC
This life is a recondite transit
Where our paths might be unknown
We would stop at varied crossroads
When confused at those strange zones
The sky each day may differ
There could be sun, there could be rain
It could be blue or could be orange
But on the next pace, it could be grey
And if ever the times get harsh
That we might stumble and fall
Just remember we're not alone
In going through tight bouts at all
Life is a creek of promises
Springing from heavens above
The rain of life will flow on us
We should welcome the gift of love
But like a battlefield we know
What we purport is to survive
In this platform of test and ventures
After each fall, we must revive
Life is survival of the fittest
The world is a precarious place
Don't be that weak who cannot soar
Be like an eagle, conquer the space.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 12:19 AM UTC
the initial purport
this literary effort delivered atchew
to reed constitutes hazmat tocks sin
within White House blew
per, viz thee president be
getting a Hollywood love story
with "Stormy Williams" despite brew
haha murmur, now dapper Don in deep doo doo
thus, this garrulous married pro LIX prone papa flew
off (like a bat out of hell)
to his Macbook Pro laptop presenting myself
implicating Trump as po' faux guise Mister McGoo
affiliated, confused, and explained
being on par with Winnie the Pooh
especially stuck right tub bear arms in grr...
Rabbit's House, now he doth stew
nsync, nonetheless this path a logical
rhyme stir on the straight and true
composeing grist sill for ye to view
now, nar hating, hit ting
private links provide attention turned toward
two thousand twenty presidential election campaign
no Iron nee, anno putter opportunity,
how he diplomatically strived, and nearly scored
to boast asthma, overt braggart, stalwart
asper ideal consistency of cement poured
affiliation, aggregation, and attestation moored
prevails ma (Jack booted - magical) lord
rolling back to Timbuktu progressive liberal
Democratic initiatives star Apprentice
sans ("NO LIES") being linkedin, he almost ignored
with voluble chattering class hud hoard
hobnobbing (with the likes of Missus Muir's ghost,
who resort to Matthew Scott's turf brand),
reconstituted, recycled, and repurposed, gourd
nonetheless Trumping protocol necessitates me bing bored
predictable feigned "FAKE" non accord.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 10:31 PM UTC
And so here it is:
My secrets, my fortune!
The untold treasure harbored within my mind--
impeccable wisdom, and tormented genius!
I come to find illumination
and write poems--
in such a fashion as this:
It is I,
with heart on my sleeve
where I cough and sneeze,
becoming mired and virulent--
utterly human and fraught
for the world to see.
The magician who empties his sleeves,
overturns his top hat,
shying off his smooth pallid gloves!
Lies down on stage,
in a pool of my own blood and *****
retching, trembling, aching,
gasping for air
roasting under an inquisitive lonely spotlight
I stare into
with a distant and longing gaze--
Eyes vacuous,
bulbous in sick contortion bulging veins popping
cracked lips gaping mouth tongue waggling speaking in tongues
choking air and body trembling in hideous convulsions--
for what benefit have I,
to purport and distort myself
in such a fashion?
It is for the sake of humanity,
in the flagellation of the human conscience
as it queries further
into the ambiguous amorphous impalpable
dark matter of the universe--
it is for our sake,
our illumination,
that I retch, and I ache.
Take note.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 1:36 AM UTC
Her megacosm luminaries
Streaketh the Spanish fairy
A kismet of no forget's
All clean
Sanitary
No caution here
Take off thy wordly shoes
Cashin's shalt not be rationed
Jazz and rock and roll blues
Instant sanity
Ground to kava beans
Queens and kings
Hopes and dreams
Splendered
******* Dusk's
To smell her musk
To break her unease
To dry her tears
To wipe her feet
To crown her empress
To shine her in
To get a glimpse of heaven
To forget all mine sins
To create a totality
Made of ourn own cerebration
Catoptric intellectual gifts
A boom of sonic
Mass concentration!!!!
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 11:27 AM UTC
death by cute boys
yup, you read me right
seeing such sweet smiles
finally did me in last night
my little old heart can't take it
i know they will steal my little old heart
and one day they will break it
death by cute boys
i won't be coy
they do give me immense joy
i don't purport to understand boys
but i know enough to know
all they do is destroy
death by cute boys
'the thing you love
will one day take you-'
that may be true, but
i can't help it if
their love makes me feel brand new
you might say,
"if you know your kryptonite
then avoid it
if you know you've got a weapon
then deploy it"
i tried so hard, honest i did
i abstained from affection
held off as long as i could
meditated on my faults
came to peace with my weakness
found there was nothing i could do
i can't not have them
they can't not hurt me
i am in agony constantly
but this is my fate, you see
death by cute boys, though
there are worse ways to go-
now i lay me down to sleep
they lay roses
by my feet, across my chilly chest
but one will know
it is lilacs i love the best
that one is why i let them
put my heart to the test
the waiting is the hardest part
i will die a thousand little deaths
deaths by cute boys
before one comes to give me life
it's the price that i pay
but trust me
i wouldn't have it any other way
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 7:12 PM UTC
We shall pass away
Die
Before you
Or I
make a dusted nickle
from our sticky prevarications
Our summations
The declarations
Of self we purport
To be of some interest
To others other than us
We shall fade like whispers
In a noisy room
With OUR echoes
Muffled
Tucked away
Until we
Are dirt-bound
Oh, we will be remembered
Recalled
Even misquoted
After
After
And when we are dead
We
Will guide
The stars
In
New Poets' skies
And dust off those nickles
So that they shine
Apr 10, 2011
Apr 10, 2011 at 11:03 AM UTC
In the eye of the storm
Titanic frequencies
Providing Solaris
A systemic support
Waiting for Venus
With Gaian purport
My dragon eyes feel
And my tiger heart thinks
With a camels sensibility
Can't touch this ability
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 12:05 AM UTC
Bruises may heal; their color may fade; but their imprints remain.
I have loved but once, yet the entirety of my heart appears marked.
How queer it is to still feel broken...
Taped, glued, but not wholly the same..
Some times are more bearing than others,
whereupon I can imagine him appearring before me:
somehow, some way, that same smile half-raised.
He gets a chance to ponder my youth, my actions,
my ripened disposition.
I purport to tell him "it's alright" --
no need to worry of the circumstances, of how to behave. It's just me;
I'll never compromise his calm.
...It is still amazing for me- what love is, at least to my perception.
Perhaps I hope never to see him again for this not to change...
I can imagine his eyes - they speak everything to me.
I am sure that this person in front of me feels a richness beyond my noted comprehension;
yet he does not know how to express it.
That's what makes it intriguing.
But I know it -- I can feel it from him; I can feel it in his silence.
So, a girl wants so much what she cannot have...it's not a first. What am I to do?...
Who cares that you are not poetically apt?
Your hands, your fingers, your cheeks, your eyes -- they're my storytellers;
They're all the poetry I need.
Love,
Your greatest protector.
Mar 26, 2013
Mar 26, 2013 at 12:33 PM UTC
mesmerized by minutiae
am now a mermaid
on the mainland
mindlessly milling about
without
control of musclebound legs
both manacled and free
minor mishaps and major setbacks
mirror the inside maniacal mentality
currently managing me
making frankenstienish manners
a mockery of the model citizen
I purport to be...
mild dyslexia, myopia, melancholy
hormonal changes, missing ******
mindless weeping....throwing spanners
and all manners of fits
.....not to mention drooping bits....
madness beckons, second...seconds
each day an adventure in
crazed endocrinematic revelry
so tired and weary,
living the life of bleary wide eyed misery
good news though...
those in the know
say it only lasts
for three to five years
menopause.....give three flippin cheers
mercy...please
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 9:04 AM UTC
I call to the air, a solemn symphony
In my fitful wake of nocturnal despair
Hear me here, you spirit of dolor grey
A fearsome foe: succubus of somber souls.
The reaper of my sorrow,
Sung the eulogy of my affair:
“Despair? Think not.
Thoughtless, ye agony in rot.
Though a soul of yours
Well worn and fought,
But thy foe I am not!”
Faithless of life, led forever to die.
Why? Birthed a ******* lie?
Left in the void to wait my time?
What purport to yoke, rendered in rhyme?
Quick he sowed a sickly seed,
Of a sudden repose to rap in my head:
“Death is I.
Of such agony, I too ask why?
For what is life,
But a phantasm of death.
A summoned sphere of God’s fetid breath.”
Fetid indeed, a sphere such as this
Why render holy, a hell of heavens design?
Help me here, Harold of Hope.
Slash thy sickle at the chains of Time
And fate shall rest with these hands of mine.
“Yes, the foe you now see.
Hold my hand in recant of
The life you now leave.”
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 1:15 AM UTC
Quarter past 11 is it?
No it's 11:11
Slowly lapsing second by second
With thousands of prayers and wishes being granted and my hope wandering for resurrection.
Quarter past 11 is it?
No it's 11:11
When hybrid eyes void of faces to dance with claim to purport themselves to a mere beguiling satiation but inwardly they're dying to enjoying their guilty pleasures
Quarter past 11 is it?
No it's 11:11
4 minutes have passed says the lady with her watch showing the wrong timing maybe her wish could be traded for someone else's perhaps
Quarter past 11 is it?
No it's 11:11
Look at the clock see the patten four ones two elevens delving deep into souls of millions waiting for their wish to be granted and spreading smiles just how silver dust and bubbles do to the five year old in the backyard
Quarter past 11 is it?
No it's 11:11
For the artist holding up the thoughts on the silver platter for her ideas assembling in the mind promptly as if a magical spell had been cast on her after she made her last wish
Quarter past 11 is it?
No you missed it but it's 11:12
Maybe the next time you could save a minute to make magic
And I hope tonight at 11:11 the shooting star lights up your night as well.
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 4:11 PM UTC