"reaping" poems
Under the sheets of emotional armor,
A shy little girl masquerades as a martyr.
She’s the Queen of Deceit with her lies getting smarter,
While every tale told draws her self even farther
From finding out why she’s emotionally bothered
By all of the men in her life: like her father
Who only was trying the best for his daughter
And striving to be something more than a pauper
But coming up short. Who knows how much harder
He’d try if she wasn’t an argument starter?
The guilt and the shame from the family slaughter
Has made her insane and continues to bar her
From finding out just what the world has to offer.
Luckily she won’t have to be here much longer;
In fairy-tale land, there's nothing can harm her.
She suddenly finds herself all alone
With nobody’s thoughts to address but her own.
This is the time when she’d pick up the phone,
Demanding a savior to hear her bemoan
About all the problems that she’s ever known,
But what she doesn’t know is a friend can’t atone
For the lack of a man with his patience to loan
To a lost little girl whose bad temper is known.
All she needs is a strong one that doesn’t condone
All the treacherous lies and the hatred she’s shown.
It’s hard to deny all the reaping she’s sewn.
She’ll have to tread soft lest her cover is blown
And everyone finds out she still hasn’t grown
Through the hundreds of tempers and tantrums she’s thrown.
Hopefully soon she can bury the bone
And calm herself into a nostalgic zone
Where smiles and candles were filling her home
And love and affection were all that was loaned.
Enlightenment comes when you realize you’re prone
To the wrath of the heartache that comes with the throne.
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 8:07 AM UTC
When I look at you I want to touch
Sends my imagination into a Spiritual crush
I'm more than a dream my words make me real
When I come inside..you will feel
Passionate fingers touching every part
From top to bottom..Now let me start
Lay on your back my exploration goes deep
Passion so hot you can feel the heat
Legs up in the air if you dare
Exposed to me without a care
Tell me which way you want me to go?
I can do more than fast and slow
Lost in the motion of your thighs
Mounting your body I look in your eyes
Locked in a gaze penetrating your soul
Start with a rhythm then out of control
Ravishing writhing feeling every delight
Mercilessly pounding while your bottom lip I bite
Plundering your treasure in every single measure
Reaping rewards of ultimate pleasure
My Fairy tale Queen wicked with lust
Eating your pie along with the crust
Like royalty we lay satisfied from our feast
Successfully taming our inner ****** beast
My words of fantasy has you feeling this touch
Poetic kisses for the lips of my Spiritual Crush..
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 7:44 PM UTC
Every story has a criminal
The one after the treasure
The one set on destruction
Reaping chaos among the land
If this life was a Fairytale I'd be the villain
Set on making your world incomplete
I'd be the one trying to steal the treasure
Out of your locked down chest
Stripping you of a life of happiness
I'd be the one who failed to overcome
The tragedy of my past
Failed in mastering the art of love
I'm the nobody
Trying to make myself a god
If this was a fairytale I'd be the villain
I'd be the one always losing
I'd be the one to die in the end
I'd be the one you save
As you accidently plunge a blade through my emptying chest
As we lay there realizing the faults
We both made in this not so happy ending fairytale
We both don't get to live happily ever after
The main point of it was to see good and evil side by side
Happily joining forces to finally see the peace of mind
Yet death always is the price a villain must pay
When his goal is ending the world
Bringing new color into a faded world lost in chaos
The villain was the hero
The hero was the villain
Happiness was prevented
By the one they all gave the flag to wave in their name
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 2:34 PM UTC
craigslist posts on women
Things women hate about other women (MICHIGAN)
I'm a man and I got no problems with beautiful women and love looking at and spending time with them. Listed some of the problems women have with other women and why some of them get to be targets of world's biggest haters.
1. Beauty - If the women think you are prettier than them, the more threatened they feel. They feel like ogre and hags around the woman and become haters.
2. Intelligence - It's okay to be smart but not if people are reaching for dictionaries or have to google to translate your last sentence. The bigger the words, the smaller your audience feels.
3. Hard Work Ethic - no woman wants to know another woman is working harder and reaping rewards from it. Women want that hard working woman gone.
4. Confidence - Women can't stand women who are confident.
5. Dress better - women hate other women who dress better than them. Women who dress flashy are called ****** by ****** ones who hate them.
6. Strong Personality - women have serious issues with women who are strong and speak minds.
7. Competitive - women are competitive by nature and when they feel they can't compete they hate.
8. Affluent - women being richer than another woman is not what other women want. You see women have to have more money than other women or the richer one get called all kinds of name.
Women feel threatened and intimidated by other women faster than by men who they flirt with and plot to get as sugar dads. Biggest problem of women are women who hate other women
Response to post
competition in women
Ever have a female friend who flirted with you knowing you had feelings for another woman? Been there with a few ladies who wanted nothing to do with me when I alone. Moment the office sweetheart started saying hi and took interest, I got popular with some of my co-workers who started saying hi and flirting. That's the competitive thing happening in women's brains. Where the hell were all the women when nobody wanted me?
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 5:28 PM UTC
Silhouettes emerge from the night lunar tide
lives still wriggling in their net
ghostly figures from the sea silken wide
reaping riches from the waves in spate.
The night a luminous smile wears
the belly is fired up for a bite
dried leaves would burn under stars
brewing another day under moonlight.
Mariners when not venturing into deep sea
release passions on the shallow shelf
harvest hope though the catch is measly
breathing in the winds the aroma of kelp.
I feel having long belonged to this place
wading breakers in the phosphorus' glow
gathering in my net a strange happiness
craving home when the tide is low.
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 9:21 AM UTC
There was once a parable,
an earthly story
portraying a message that would
be told in reference of our life:
A sower goes out to sow some seeds.
However, there were some seeds
fell on the wayside, and
were swallowed up by the birds.
Yet, some seeds fell next to the ricks,
but there was not enough earth
to keep the growth of the plant-
so, when the sun came out
the seeds were scorched from the earth
with minimum growth,
but without the roots
to carry on its growth process.
Yet, some seeds were placed in the thorns;
so, those seeds were choked by its death.
The last sower was able to find good land,
where seeds would grow to a hundred fold.
There is a mission:
When God asks us to plant seeds,
we are asked to have the oil with us.
Without the right concentration,
there are concerns of thorns
who can choke you up.
Because the thorns are sharp and dangerous,
only God has the power to devour
or to destroy them.
A thorn is stubborn, and will continue to process
threats of no promise, but the cuts it can process.
Some thorns can be hidden,
while a red rose blooms beautifully
on the branches of a rose bush,
there is no reason to believe-
the thorn bush wants you
to grab the beautiful rose
to dig into your skin
the anger it holds
for you.
Hence we have the earth to produce God's mission,
but without the oil and concentration,
there are only rocks that will go nowhere.
Yes, unless you plan to move the rocks out
of the way, those things will always remain.
Only God has the power to remove the
blockages out of our lives to make
success in His mission, not our own.
Rocks also causes pain. They are
heavy, stubborn to move, and are often in the way.
When dealing with rocks,
their mission is to block the truth
blind us for which what is said is to be
hypocritical to the naked eye.
However, what the rocks do not know,
they may block our message from reaping,
but God can remove that rock,
placing them where they will work better.
The rocks are the most stubborn for sending
a message when the rock says,
"Here I am try to move me,"
however, if you remove a rock from its place,
they too have a purpose, and knocks the
whole scenario outta-kilta.
The situation is that while seeds could grow,
they die off very quickly without roots.
The question is:
Does it take a brain surgeon
to help us decide where to plant seeds?
Do we need to express the dangers
of rocks and thorns?
Where do we lay our hearts?
Is our hearts in the thorns, being tangled and sliced-
or is our hearts being crushed by rocks?
Is our oil being dripped by the holding back of thorns,
or are the rocks dying the oil up?
Our hearts need to sow where there is promise.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 4:24 PM UTC
Our lives are spiderwebs.
Delicate, pure, but Empty.
Sprinkle a little water,
It glows under lights.
Reflecting its own beauty.
Spill a pail of water,
It collapses instantly,
Reaping apart, for eternity.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 12:31 AM UTC
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate’er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o’er the sickle bending;—
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
4.5k
Lack of communication
is an accurate definition of my miss representation
Lack of medication
redirects my mass infection reaping the nation
lack of effective meditation
re infects my self designed disease facing annihilation
lack of representation
forcing myself to find a new nation
barriers affect communication
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 9:42 PM UTC
Some are laughing, some are weeping;
She is sleeping, only sleeping.
Round her rest wild flowers are creeping;
There the wind is heaping, heaping
Sweetest sweets of Summer's keeping,
By the cornfields ripe for reaping.
There are lilies, and there blushes
The deep rose, and there the thrushes
Sing till latest sunlight flushes
In the west; a fresh wind brushes
Through the leaves while evening hushes.
There by day the lark is singing
And the grass and weeds are springing:
There by night the bat is winging;
There forever winds are bringing
Far-off chimes of church-bells ringing.
Night and morning, noon and even,
Their sound fills her dreams with Heaven:
The long strife at length is striven:
Till her grave-bands shall be riven
Such is the good portion given
To her soul at rest and shriven.
4.4k
As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.
The grain has been gathered, wheat, barley and oats, cut and collected, sifted and sorted and put into store.
Grown by God, and by man with machine and by effort of hand.
Poppies and stalks now mark the spot, of the return for their labour. The wealth of the land.
Birds follow the tractor, rising and falling, swirling and soaring they move like a cloud.
The farmer is out and turning the stubble into the ground.
Rooks and crows, gulls and wood pigeons, starlings and magpies follow him round.
Hay long since mown is now bailed and in barns, or rolled up and bagged, ferments now in high silage towers.
The countryside has yielded reward for all Adam’s toil.
Work done in rhythm with the seasons, sowing, growing, reaping, ploughing and tilling the soil.
Gathering goodness, from garden, and greenhouse, carrots and courgettes, tomatoes in bunches.
Fresher than any you can get in the shops.
Picking the bounty gleaned from the hedgerow. Rosehips and cobnuts, damsons and hops.
Elder and sorrel, mushrooms and puffballs, sour green crab apples, and brambles in tangles.
Sloes that were missed by the late winter frost.
Not all are pleasant and some really can hurt you, pick only those that you know and trust.
Take full advantage of God’s generosity, share it with gladness, with thanks, there is plenty for all.
Sticky syrups and cider, wines, cordial and beer.
Pies, puddings, sorbets and ice creams, jam, jelly, and chutney and enough pickles to last into next year.
As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 3:16 PM UTC
Holding long to longing,
longing, holed to holding,
I ode my tale for bold forboding.
Swiftly shores sung,
ripping, reaping, revealing
I stopped just short of saint-like stealing.
Madly minutes mumbled,
syllables stuck, syrup
My thoughts no longer mine to stir up.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 3:51 PM UTC
they taught us to fear
without learning to fear us
we're reaping the whirlwind
they've sown between us
one day they'll realise
they didn't defeat us
we are on the inside
their malignant fetus
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 4:55 PM UTC
Sure the fatigue would come...
Infiltrating the sanctity of our skin,
gripping our muscles
and chafes us within.
Right down to the bone.
No doubt the fear of future days
would eat at us raw.
It would gnaw at our minds...
Debilitating thoughts that would *******
no one else but our own.
Of course the seeds we've planted,
mightn't see past the layer of soil
in which they're embedded.
Seeds hidden in the ground for future reaping...
They mightn't flourish to meet the harvest
and greet the hand which would
welcome them full grown.
Most likely the days before us
only show of dark clouds...
That constantly scare us.
But today...
Has time and space for us to exist.
Today has a crisp sweetness wafting through the air.
Firm, unwavering ground beneath our feet.
So let's claim today because today is ours to keep.
Today we share the returns...
Of the sweat and the tears that in the past
we've sown.
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 11:40 AM UTC
Thrums the bee waggle-dance in a haunt of Indian horsepaths,
Or the shaking leaf one second past the strike of galloping rain
/ Parsimonious lightning, thrifty in its jagged stalks
Against this night of heavy-hearted oaks /
Then the hay-fringed bale of sleep, rolled into a valley of slowed breathing,
Through parting cloud-diabolique, poison-peers the wet toadback of Autumn,
Glowing moon-gristle in the bosky wolf’s beard with its wireframe of teeth.
Sep 30, 2021
Sep 30, 2021 at 8:19 PM UTC
Crystallized hair pins gilded in her soft touches
Caressing earths ground
She sings the earthly creatures gently to sleep with her dream like sound
Sensible, sensitive my dear
Breathing in the clear dew drops hanging below the gibbous moon.
Natures serene dreamer planting their seeds, reaping - but soon one must choose
Difficulty arises
And despises the force of nature
Bends of the crisps wind - if shocks and stirs
It blurs her senseless ,
And shakes her earth. The goddess drinks the goblet of diamond
In silk she lays
Yet not be mistaken......
Surrounded by serendipity and indulging in life's pleasures
The crystals of the golden moon set in her hair
Beware she will leave you dreaming in heart ache
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 1:47 AM UTC
In one's life,
A Happy Place, which we often recall...must have existed
....t'was where we felt at peace...and contented
None can break the serenity
Of home...or church, or maybe a shady tree
...its proximity...offering safety,
....no worries, no fears that blur our eyes........
...like that easy morning...with blue animated skies
........the smell of rice, ready for reaping, filled the air
....it felt nice, to sit by the creek...wind, messing hair
..........while throwing stones, on the water flowing
.......having fun...watching people harvesting
One day, those rice fields
..............had no more rice to yield
....just wide open spaces left, where young boys
...surrendered to the winds, their artfully designed toys
...colorful, Japanese paper...smooth, with sheen
...framed by several bamboo sticks...long and thin
...big, colorful birds and butterflies, flying high
Naive, impermanent kites..... soaring to the skies
We can never be sure....some kites fly straight away,
............while a few others....stray
...fading songbirds, losing their way........broken dreams,
Heading....towards distant, forgotten realms
.......they're like words that couldn't rhyme
............like discordant tunes of a broken chime...
In our minds, that Happy Place with kites......resides
Sometimes, it stays behind, refusing light...it hides
......for some reasons, it goes further down...deep inside
Oftentimes, it inspires...and becomes our source of pride...
:::::::::::::
Life, after all, is a potpourri of lengthy, and ephemeral strides,
::::::::::::::
Proving further, black and white are two of life's many colors
Light, or dark shade shouldn't matter.....
Because, in many ways...our cups always runneth over.
:::::::::::::::
Sally
Copyright October 5, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 11:30 PM UTC
Wooing you is like wooing a cat.
I walk half way
and wait for you
to meet me in the middle.
Holding out my hand
in a gentle gesture,
I let you sniff me out
to determine whether
or not I’m a threat.
I don’t speak too
loudly,
I don’t move too
quickly,
and I certainly
don’t touch you without
your express permission.
You rarely come
when I call,
but instead of
allowing bitterness to
build within me,
I am learning to
enjoy the surprise of
your unexpected presence.
Your elusiveness
challenges my self esteem,
yet your touch
rebukes my insecurity.
I cannot gain your
affection by force.
Indeed,
I would only succeed
in reaping resentment;
but there is beauty to be found
in the tenderness that is
freely given.
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 11:55 PM UTC
She may be our metronome mother
But when was rhythm first discovered?
Did ancient nomads hear it in the sounds of walking?
Did they like how it sounded over them talking?
Did they view the melody
As a felony?
And start to sway their hips
To the crack of whips?
Maybe that wasn't good enough
Maybe we needed more stuff
So we started crossing swords
To create more violent chords
That interested us more
Violence has a catchy hook
That can't be found in a book
But started with a ***** look
Until our brain begins to cook
And we learn to love the beat
As the harmony depletes
We take concert seats
At a darkness feast
There's an iambic pentameter
In the middle eastern theater
That sounds all too familiar
The troubling treble
Of mothers screaming
While superpowers meddle
And innocence is leaving
The reaper is reaping
To a situation heating
Empathy fleeting
Fascist seating
Rhythm beating
Our soundproof homes
Create acoustic cones
That our cries can't escape
Taking the container's shape
Filling our mind
Until we're blind
And only see political teams
Instead of childhood dreams
We fall into a rhythm
Based on deadly decisions
With lethal precision
Like surgical incisions
That don't make us healthy
But support the wealthy
Who whistle a different tune
That will **** us all soon
And as the world crumbles
Their bellies still rumble
Creating a disruptive bass
Their music we must face
With an impossible grace
Or else we'll be replaced
I hear instruments of percussion
Causing concussions
Deflecting discussions
Making us harmfully dance
So we'll have a fair chance
Which seems wrong at first glance
But it's actually a pragmatic trance
Provided by Mister Rhythm
Who carries misery with him
Apr 12, 2018
Apr 12, 2018 at 12:22 PM UTC
quiet opposition
silent reaping
a force umoveable
growing stronger
words to scatter
to the four winds
Aug 8, 2025
Aug 8, 2025 at 12:06 PM UTC
SATOR
AREPO
TENET
OPERA
ROTAS
Cropsman,
Alpha-Omega is with you, and bids you go forward with a patient but steady momentum.
Keep yourself to the Old Truth.
Your work
Is that of the seasons which are cyclical as the wheels of your sowing and reaping contraptions.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 2:33 PM UTC
Charity starts at home don't we say?
Be kind to your kith and kin come what may.
A family's not only your safe haven
Tis pals your very own roots
Water these shoots with love devoid of hate
So they bear you sweeter fruits.
Maybe you'd say that's not so easy
but perhaps that's coz you just too busy
Or your clock just don't chime
for quality family time?
For if you can't make time for a letter or a hug
Then let my poem give your conscience a gentle tug.
And if this may sound like a very preachy homily
Deserves much more mention and affection the family
If you can make time for so many other things
some of them not even worthwhile
Try discover the happiness family brings
Just a tad modify that routine lifestyle.
My words in crystal clear clarity
sing compassion is likewise a charity
Charity need not be for strangers only
Find out who needs help in kindred and family
Ties of kinship severe not
Value the relations you've got
Your siblings, cousins from your family tree
and all else that you call family.
What supports and buttresses your family tree are your very own roots
And what keeps the tree living on are your beloved offshoots
Love and regard is quintessential to reaping sweeter fruits
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 1:09 PM UTC