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Laurence Worsham Nov 2018
Sound the horns before the crash of the drums,
Reign forever the promise,
only as long as does not perturbe the ageless splendor of it's denial.
The angry man is vain in his resentment of luxury as he toils,
and so he proceeds in vain of his resentment.
The happy man is foolish in his love of life, forgotten to that horrible heaping part of himself,
sprawled with constricting joints and bleeding that blood,
Pay he luck not to remember.
Always eager was accepted by the Earth.

Always downward impress the power and cascading mountains of the horizon.
Ever so that the dwindling height impresses the speck at the edge of it's microscopic lense.
From what pestle were ground these grains of what the body shivers to behold?
From what tree was made sacrifice and ripped the shreds of this beautiful scenery?
From what point does the needle steer it's compass,
Pulsates the ebb of the magma of power.

The excretions of raw turmoil brews,
Below the vats of anamorphic hell was raised,
And up was risen low on high and behold that it was seen.
The slumber had encroached upon itself,
Flitting it's tail at the flies and leftovers of the night.
The spoils of day at hand make clear the path of the arm.
I am stretched about it's expanse and yearn the pangs of inward loss.
The melting hot aftermath boils my blood dark and red,
I am ready to sanctify these old bones with new fire.
I lurch my eyes upon the stocks and bundles,
I am in love.

Flesh loathes the indulgence of the mind,
masked in the light by its submission.
I have made acquaintance with the tonic of breath upon the bellows of breast,
I met the waves that mirror this and thine.
Well met are they, and I said that it was good!
To the heavens which impress me impress myself!
Know my mind you manifold of high towers!
Know me that lightning had stricken the chapels of your Kingdom, my name in blazing stars.
Know my name to the inextricable folds of your searching rebuttal.
And behold my pride,
erected there with bricks I would bet against mountains.
Was my blood so bold to creep back whence it came?
If not so, then was made slave to my own boldness.
So there it was,
and so wept the Earth for a thousand years.

Tears falter to the sun, and my cheek is dry.
You know me, but what are you hiding?
Amongst the flags of nations the sweat of day unfurled,
There in the depths must be hidden.
Feed me or be refused the exhilaration of my tongue.
Set loose the fruit into my view,
I will do the rest.
Having filled my bucket of what belongs to me, harken to my plea for more,
To the adoption of my whimsy,
flicking fast the worm of yesterday.
I had worms in my thin stomach.
Aside it, the froth of snails had savored,
molding the lowest of all my opinion.
Better is the least of my gripes,
entrust me this day or all days hence I will mock you.
The threat twas modest now cast into hard metal for the shackles of a generation of tender feet.
What had inspired now falters,
I can weep no more.
Westley Barnes Apr 2014
If I were to elicit success's embodiment
And to feel it's enrapture, like sin
It's touch, coarse as salt to the fingertips?
Would it smell like a rose on the wind?

To risk, for a shared surreptitiousness
That very boldness independence empowers,
to instead announce allegiance to the flock of the age
When drinking after hours

Should it matter on the stage...

As a coy rebuttal to loneliness
In prioritizing what you need,
by finding "circuitous" after a dip in the thesaurus
for describing a sentence about trees
("When, obviously, it's actually describing something...far more potent...than any mere tree.")

...what fails to show up on the page?

Such is the world that Art wanders into
All big gestures 'round a clattering din
....but instead, "Success" has meant to me
A home in my arms
And she feels like a world
resting beneath my chin
A thought that cancels out Art's disappointments
...And her breath is a rose on the wind.
"Circuitous" is a synonym for "Complex" -which I found in a thesaurus.
In case you were wondering.
Anna Pavoncello Oct 2013
Born and brewing on the road
A choice on me has been bestowed
To grant one side my presence there
Take time to choose; contrast, compare.

Offers, one side, an easy life
Let's sing all day, and play the fife!
The other, it seems, is harder still,
Yet full of life; a forest's trill.

"Come here!" one says, "there's much to do!"
"Have fear!" one says, "it's brutal too!"
"It's crueler there," says one, in rebuttal.
"It's cruel, but fair," one says with a scuttle.

Forever struck, undecided on the road
For which side is better; my humble abode?
Made soon is this choice, for ahead comes upon
Two lights on the hill, like a double edged dawn

Quick like a deer, I unfold into action.
Be part of the woods? Or a slave unto fashion?
To the judgement of others, their eyes on my back?
Or the home of the hunters, to survive their attack?
To the glistening great cities with the smog thickened air?
Or the rolling green trees, all alone in despair?

So towards the lights I will run, on the road I will ride.
For I will always remain with one foot on each side.
bobby burns Jan 2013
there are moments with
you, and moreover, tiny
moments within moments,
and so forth, when it feels
impossible to be any closer
to you than the cigarette
between index and rebuttal.
[it should be saying a lot(but it's not)]
like on those southern nights
when honey stained our lips
and lives and judgment;
they showed up in the back
of a police car, armed with
a deadly arsenal of threats
as empty as the bottle of
whiskey in the corner.
they left, and we delivered,
before the state could sweep ash
away into the dustpan of a foster
home and furthermore into the
wastebasket or dumpster of the
so-called effectively efficient system.
we caught some air mixed in with
the paper souls betwixt index and
profane, and discussed past lusts
and loves and losses and the insanity
of the preceeding few days while the
accompanying ebb of breath and flow
of fire beat gently on our consciences.

the new year; i never thought i'd
make it here, *and neither did you.
Steve Boldin Oct 2010
"I'm like 20 years old and I'm finally starting to grow something."
That's what the birthday boy proclaimed.
He had many different, catch phrases, if you will.
Things like, "It's like BOOM" and "Ya ***."
This boy, quickly uprising and turning into a man.
So much life in his words.
His choice of drink, beer.
And lots of it.
Some of his shining moments came while inebriated.
However, would never admit if he was drunk.
His sharp toned comebacks, such as "I was sober as a dog" stump any possible rebuttal or witty banter that could follow.
His repeated activities were like clock work.
Every action. Every movement. Turning yet another gear in the intricate machine of life.
The epitome of poetic justice.
His clever sayings keep you on the edge of your seat.
"Quit ******* on my juice."
"I have a dream, that I’ll be able to **** and burp in the Man Cave without you ***** giving me **** about ******* out my ***, and ******* out my mouth."
Just a few of the poetic, masterful, beautiful syllables that pass through the graceful lips of this man.

To be continued...
Copyright. 2010.
anneka Nov 2013
"you cannot be sad all the time, don’t lie. you are smiling, that is a good thing."

it is a rebuttal from yet another friend of so-and-so says, related by this-and-that and somehow in the crossroads of here-and now we meet by chance and speak by fate. i silently contemplate the vast expanse of the universe in comparison to the shallowness of the waters in some people, simultaneously envying the happiness they bask in and the darkness they get to escape.

there are days when the hardest thing to do is to wake up, and there are days when the rooster crows while i am wide awake but exhausted and numb down to the veins of my very being. it is a rocky journey under faint light and overwhelming dark, a never ending battle between stubborn, suffocating will against the voices who whisper lies and truths all at once. yet here i stand, weak but not defeated, dying but still alive.

i keep this hope in the center of my hand, that someday everything will be okay, and i will love as i have learnt to miss those i have lost.

-

"i smile everyday, but that does not necessarily mean the smile reaches my heart."

(A.H.Z.)
Samreen Nov 2017
The harder you push,
The harder I fight back.
Calm and peace, in a rush
I guess, is what I lack.

You call it back answering,
I feel it's self-defense.
Your anger is transferring,
Replacing my common sense.

You always love maligning me,
Doesn't it mar your integrity?
I won't back down, as you can see,
I'll always uphold my dignity.

What I fail to realize is that
In this game of losing and winning,
My fight, I feel, is for good but
The Satan in me is grinning.

How much ever hard I try,
Virtuous be the intention of what I do
Resolute I am, refusing to cry
Vexation, the reason I am becoming you.
Absent Minded Jun 2010
So Happy That Your so **** Happy
That now I'm lost and kind of sappy
Then again its all so flimsy
That I can't begin to fathom whimsy
Or sense the point of all the scuttle
And the dark spice of that laced rebuttal
Heard like a shot popped across the middle
Go down to the river and sing hey ****** ******
While you wish you were quick and svelte and nimble
And could dance like a black cat on the green thimble
At a lounge by the sea down deep in the night
Where I'm never wrong and you're never right.
Tori G Jul 2013
You make my poetry crumble
Like a building set for demolition.
I want to write beautiful things,
But when I gaze upon you
My mind draws a blank.
I don't understand it really;
We are miles away from each other,
Yet you make my legs restless
And my knees as weak as gelatin.
Your icy blue eyes peer into
My soul until I can't help but melt-
I am in too deep for comfort.
I am sinking fast in the quicksand
Of your sweetly smooth words.
I am fighting off my feelings left and right
But nothing will stop you from knocking
Down the walls I have worked so hard to build up.
I want to tell you I love you like you have
Time and time again. But alas I cannot,
Because I don't want to be hurt or worse-
Hurt you.
It's not fair that you pull at my heart strings
Like you do because I have nothing in rebuttal.
Everytime I try my jaw locks up,
My lips seal tightly shut,
And my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth
Like it does when I eat peanut butter too fast.
I try to put my feelings into poetry
But even then the message comes out wrong.
I give up!
I am just a twitterpated poetress
Who's penmanship is less than sub par...
Sophie Herzing Apr 2013
Look, I know I don't owe you anything.
But without the casual back talk and the rebuttal of your face in the couch,
beer in the crook of your arm, and bare feet I'll ask you
why'd you sleep with her?
Why'd you do this to me?

I'll slap you so you get up,
lean over the shoulder I sit next to you
and pour your words on my lap as I pretend to sleep.
And as your unknown confession is listened,
between words you won't remember you said
I'll fall sentimental,
and start tucking your secrets with my hand on your head
behind your ears that are sliced with my whispers
that I'll love you even though you broke into me.
That I'll keep staying until I don't remember why I need to leave.

Then you'll roll over and the cut on your lip will awaken my senses,
rustle the belief
as I quietly ask you what happened.
You'll wipe the spit from your chin,
take a breath that smells like bad mornings,
and tell me it's nothing of my concern.
When I beg for the explanation,
put my thumb against the dried blood reminder
that no matter how solemn your soul
you'll never stop hurting me,
you'll turn away and tell me to go.
Tell me you never actually needed me to stay.

I'll stand up with a face painted fury,
and scream at the things I should have come to expect.
The same rage I slammed the door with when I entered,
now races in my heart as I try to lay it down
on the floor so you can see how badly you broke me
when I heard that there was another her.

"She was just a body,"
you'll start to stutter
"I was drunk and it didn't mean a thing."
But your dreary eyes and your half molded chest
waltzing over to me with a lust in your hands,
tell me that your words in the moment I capture you
mean nothing passed the second their said.

Look, I know I don't owe you anything.
But there's something in the way you look at me that begs the question
to be said under the weight of the consequence of never really being the same
I'll ask you
Why is this all the better we'll ever be?
Why'd you have to do this to me?
René Mutumé Jun 2013
A city made from music and gas
-a humor of golden mass in the boiler room
phosphoric eyes launching up;
heroes come slower now, fearful, decadent
as if engorged by war for too long
changed;
within the soil
looking up from the street with malleable bones
like antennae sending up endless prayers
expressing nothing
if not heard

a city, a dome, a breast
cannibals small, eating freely
‘a passing rebuttal’
a glance in the ride – which smiles back
and the world followed will
and the earth gladly sipped

cooks cooking better asleep;
poems, gas, meat, hunger
locked in horn
knowing they’re the wrong type
of poem free
to do whatever
they ever wish

even the energy of old worms has sense
and the concrete knows the distance from where they have come
from the earth-helping
them back, by natural pull, or passerby
before the parade comes
and the hooligans still have rage and bayonet
colliding inside faces
like metered bodies
unable
to learn dance
helixing
around you
their song-
neither taking
or meaning
anything
to your own;

the west-coast train leaves
the power station to my right
opening its three pounding mouths
to the quiet drone of the fog and sky
a sandwich and a coach full of drunks
-communing
-inside
-memory
and hail hits the window
solidifying rapid water
cocktails;

nearing a station and familiar fields
office, and tired sun
letting your face know she only jokes
when her tongue radiates
later on
when her body
finally breaks;

soaking the last dust
a home within scent
calling out to everything else;

calling it
a liar.
Mitchell Horvath Sep 2010
                  Your toes look weird, look at them all long and fingery.
Sometimes I wonder how you can know exactly the perfect things to drive me crazy,
         I guess its just part of our interactions.
               If an outsider were to observe it they would think we were bitter enemies,
                   Sometimes I have to remind myself too.

                     *Look it’s the what what in the **** boy!

I silently cringe, but know it’s just your hello.
          I’m glad your home and I prepare my rebuttal.
                  Why are you always excited when talking about boys butts?
                         It was weak but better than nothing, now I bide my time for my turn to attack.

                      What time do you work at? you ask as you relax.
What’s the matter? Can’t you remember anything old man?
           I know that your receding memory is a sensitive nerve,
                 And I thrive on hopping up and down on it.
                      Sometimes I wonder why we do this to each other.

230 I finally answer feeling bad for the low blow,
          You smile, and I know my guilt was your intention all along.
                 It’s times like this I’m positive we were cut from the same cloth.
                    I love you, you know that? I throw out into the air,
*Of course bro, I love you too, what’s on TV?
Sean Flaherty Sep 2014
Gon' drinkin', out behind a
Reservoir of good will, with
Pillbox eyelids, and third-day dirt.
Stumbling, and suddenly sobered
By a Queen holding Court

Silver-freckled, auburn haired
Sweating under the sun
Shining on her tee shirt
Somewhere, from a secret cigarette
Soft-blue silk is rising.

Men wearing armor, the color of
Christmas lights, stand guard.
Invisible, if not for an
Incessant rain, insisting on
Their silhouettes.

Bronze icons, the rubble beneath her.
Returned to their birth-site, the
Brush and broken glass of a
Resin-colored dusk.
"If you're having trouble
With your next one, it won't be
Too hard to light it for you. I know
How fast tears can
Dowse a needed flame."

Still the snow-covered stick of dynamite, and a
New stick is now burning,
Behind all the bushes.
True belief in her
Opportunity for rebuttal.

Boot prints in the courtyard
Press a face that look up at us
"Like a cross-between Kurt Cobain and Jesus."
Martyrs of a movement
Our people fail to understand.

Polite to the end, and even
Presented with the
Crowned homecoming of a higher horizon, she
Spins and falls, deliberately sputtering out
"Don't let me get smoke in your eye."
Rough cuts and a return of the Queen
Jeremy Betts Sep 2022
You call this living, I call it survival, no more pretending that everyone's equal
If all y'all get this undeserved label of special it's disgraceful
It's wasteful not wonderful 'cause that means no one is special
Just a single shape stencil, a number two if you will, but is it poo or pencil
Either way sign below and hand over the soul and no one will get hurt until maybe tomorrow
I find it probable that you could choke on the blue and overdose on the red pill
Let's go ahead and change the slogan from "We the People" to "We the Sheeple
'Cause look the spectacle, they're herding this flock of bigotry and evil straight to the steeple
It's obvious that what they claim to matter is not brain but rather *****
Hopeful it'll go unnoticed that the boat's always had a hole, the cover up comical
No intention to fix it though, not that it's impossible, it's just that their main goal has never been to be helpful
It's shameful but we're still expected to accept all their bull shiit and be eternally grateful
Grateful?! Hell no, I find it hard to be civil with these simple, bottom of the barrel, garbage pail people
I watch every good for nothing stereotypical imbecile as they revel in just how little they know about anything useful
Shiit, I myself didn't know it was possible to set a bar so low with the refusal to even try and meet somewhere in the middle
But they're always able to fall back on denial, hiding behind the iron sights of a rifle, running orange hate straight up the flag pole
A don't tread on me disciple with their own personal motto on signature apparel, backing a shadow government tribunal
Half occupying a big tent revival, hatting on a manufactured rival just 'cause some *** hat, ******* said so
Grab your personal blind fold at the door before going in to read the vile pages of the bible
Trying to convince yourself that it's gospel but if that's true you'd have to accept, then adapt to having a black soul
Deep down you already know it's an undeniable abysmal circus clown shiit show
What good is having ample evidence if no one's held accountable, even as we sit at the one millionth example
We're all banging our heads against this wall like a judge swinging his gavel
Now is the time to bail on this nauseating carousel, any hesitation could be futile, not a worth while gamble
All the while each illegitimate man child in power hasn't told a single truth in a long while
They have the gal to stand in front of a pile of the gullible and lie through a smile
And the onlookers soak up this bile as a little dribble of spittle appears as the listeners brain looses signal
But for them thinking isn't critical, calling forth the tribulations of revaluations while skipping the trial
Forgetting that back when you were just a child you were told not to judge, but a god complex is your desired style
Doing the unthinkable has become a profitable ritual, asking for help now treated as rhetorical
Historical failures on a global level, the leaders themselves are the perpetual obstacle
Only allowed to live so they can make money on your funeral, basic human needs shouldn't be treated as charitable
The fix is simple enough to get through even the thick skull of a dude-bro, so you'd think it'd be achievable
But our voice is rarely heard, a subtle mic cut before we're able get out anything that resembles a rebuttal
So we're stuck getting fuucked in this government funded brothel running out of the basement of a hostel designated as the capital
They profess they aren't responsible for the struggle brought on by the fallacies they try and juggle
How is this legal? It's gone on this way for so long that it's no longer seen as a scandal, just business as usual
Every word hypocritical, right and wrong indistinguishable, as our bill of rights and constitution become controversial
There's never been a time in history this hasn't been factual which also means getting out might not be truly achievable

Welcome to the show, pick a row and grab a seat, let's watch the slow burn glow
And here...we...go...

©2022
Arlo Miller Aug 2016
The knowledge of growing and feeling the flowing
of the ins to the outside showing, what you are.
It's enough to drive you mad hoping to make glad the hopes of your mom and dad while being your own man with a plan who along with everyone is pretending he can.
True change is subtle and I'll pose a rebuttal to any of those quick fix ****** that think life is anything but a struggle.
I constantly tell myself to take the toys of life off the shelf and be not a man but a very mature boy who enjoys life for what it is.
Insignificant in the grand scheme but significant and supreme to each individual, it can be full if you feed on the right stuff and not this materialistic fluff but relationships and love.
The taste can't be replaced it's easy to get tossed and lost in the cost of brand names and hearsay claims; you hear the heresy names shouted at you for being different.
Take time to rewind and look back at the facts that make you true. Apply the sutures to the wounds so the futures got more room to grow and you know you will.
The past never returns and the future never arrives so your only choice is to be present and alive.
**** fear, you don't need it. Make a goal and succeed it.
Everyone is different and this life is on rent so make sure all your money is spent by the end my friend because only dead plants don't grow.
New title: Dead Plants Don't Grow
no one had ever written a poem about me before
the words you'd written slid from the page to coat my skin like oil
my face flushed

no one had ever written a poem about me before
the words you'd written stared at my mouth, waiting for me to speak
i could not answer

no one had ever written a poem about me before
the words you'd written smoldered, blistering my hands
i could not hold you

no one had ever written a poem about me before
we were younger then, and
you've since written about many others
but

no one had ever written a poem about me before
i still have much to learn
Jeremy Betts Apr 2020
(political)

There is nothing wrong with an opinion unless they are belted out as fact as you pivot and turn your back
With an attitude like "that's that, the earth is flat, **** a fact. Oh you have a rebuttal? **** that jack, ain't nobody got time for that and I've already adorn the dunce cap hat and have been programmed to see every opposing view as wack"
Then if you're questioned on any of that crap you over react cause that's the act, a one way ticket on an unfinished track
As a society that's where we are at, blindly led to a side and sat
You over retract at the meer thought of a different opinion like you've just seen a vampire bat
And that's the exact **** they both do, whether sitting far left or crowned with a MAGA hat

They're both one in the same just labeled with a different name, they all share the same shame
They all hold equal blame and should be held accountable for their reign of terror and for being the main source of pain
But they want you to aim your hate at the other side, they playing you, you're just the decks instruction card in a poker game
They claim to be for the people, they proclaim it outside the evil steeple in front of the sheeple that we're all equal in the same frame
At the same time they devide us into different secs and designate to each a new surname like an unwanted nickname
It's ******* insane if you think about it and to get your head around it only takes one tenth of a brain

We follow the hurd like a march of the obserd, making decisions not based on fact but rather based on what we heard
Never fact checking, no veting, just excepting like trusting Pinocchio as you watch his nose grow with every word
Like believing when they change the topic and say it's chocolate even when every shred of evidence proves it's a ****
" Look over there, in the sky, It's a plane, it's a bird...now keep focused over there, don't look over here, I've gotta get this story altered"
They make sure we're not anchored in reality to make distorting ours easy and the truth awkward
Buttered on both sides so no matter how we land they can say it was planned and preferred

Details erased, a false profit embraced, dividing the human race to the point we feel fixing it would be a waste (**** it, let it burn)
The haste in which it's done along with the questionable pace makes it hard to find that one place to begin and state our case
Gotta stake claim to the space between our ears even though that's not always a safe place
They dangle in our face a little taste of what we'll never achieve but will always chase
Don't even try to defend your case saying you'll keep us safe in this death race
'Cause the safety net you've put into place is looking more like mere silk lace
The ace up their sleeve is always a bold faced lie that can be traced back to this countries birth place

We can't seem to see through the fog and past the facade which is odd
See cause to me it's clear as day, even if the details are broad
We applaud mindlessly knowing we don't know what the **** is going on, both here or abroad
The entire system is flawed, it's a fraud, they run roughshod while claiming to walk with god
While you're chained to a tie-rod evil claims your thoughts like stealing an auction with a last minute nod
Then they perfect the show they put on, a conscience gone, a simple knowledge of right and wrong don't belong in their tainted pond
We can't even dream of a win cause you start at the finish of your scripted Iditarod
Then have the nerve to tell us we can't even begin until the ground is thawed

They check mate us with a pawn, almost like we're allowing it to go on
YOU ARE!!
Somehow buying into new rules made on the spot, barely needing a reason
We've given up everything from our freedom to our rights as a human, it's all gone
Seriously, next time an election comes along notice all the mini billboards littering the neighbors lawn
The divide has literally reached our doorstep people. Are you that physically and mentally blind son?
Come on!!! You can't tell me that you don't see the line that's been drawn?
I know you do cause you constantly fight with anyone that comes along and stumbles into your vision with the wrong political pin on
Stating they're wrong and that you're  planted opinion is the right side to be on
But it's never as easy as being captain Kirk, a Klingon or Kahn, theres so much grey in this cauldron
And we've adopted this half wit lexicon and do shorthand in crayon so it's no wonder we're a blunder, seen as a country size *****

Like a circus freak show main attraction, we're always top marquee with evils higher echelon
How long can it go on with leaders so corrupt they can be bought with a mere coupon?
Get them the **** out of the White House and Pentagon, that entire pantheon of people that no longer belong
Our national bank is so overdrawn, moral compass a bygone,  basic human decency forgotten
Our core beliefs seems to be rotten, we've gotten so scared we leave the house in full Teflon
Prepared for battle but in the middle of the fight you just walk out of the octagon, you don't want to lose by decision
You'd rather forfeit any chance to be champion, to tired and confused to carry on
But to proud to admit we fell for the con that got us to set up our own crucifixion
And as we dangle until an eventual death from exhaustion and asphyxiation
You'll still use your last breath to support the liaison with corruption that deep down you knew was wrong all along

©2020
Sienna Luna Nov 2015
if I had to choose my last breath
i’d choose it with you
and only fantasies create
a sort of granule gargantuan glee
if i had to choose between
letting go of fear
and touching you
i’d choose you every time
if i had to rebuttal the claims
of my own body insecurities
i’d let go of them
for you
if i had to challenge myself
beyond a thousand measures
go past fear itself
i’d do it for you
and maybe it will take forever
but i’m willing to make the case
of loving you so gently
i’m at ease with the whole world around me
and i just keep thinking of
oranges hanging loosely in a plastic net
just dangling about to
plop down on the shiny wood
floor clean of dirt or
rest them lightly on the white
porcelain kitchen counter
without a care in the world
because that’s how you make me feel
unbound and synchronized like
the clunk of a VHS tape
fitting nicely into place
re-wound and ready
for the movie to start

and if i had a wide choice of manly lovers
i’d choose you every time

you’re not what i expected
for a woman in her prime
MOTV Dec 2015
Hood talk

Clip Bark

The Devil Taunt

Leave Some Good Men

Distraught

Hanging With Some bullets in there
notch



Ohh


Hood Hustle

******* wanna cuddle

Till you got no money
to rebuttal

Sell a *** for drow

Make her trick for Gold

leave the ***** a poem
call it

The Hood-Gift


They are the Kings

Roaming the land like Rome

Conquering as they sing

until they meet MJO



Oh


That loud noise in the face of danger
Well,
that is the herb,
illuminated
smoking heat
filled space,
racing, striding with confidence, they are angry.

Hold back and observe
how minds are dazed
hurt, fire spit, lions roar
mouths drop to the dirt,
going through the floor

That mind stable
stumble,babble,humbled...

track of that unfabled,
notorious like the b.

Immaculate

Gifted

Glory speaking of the Holy

seeking the warrior
writing down
death foretold

Listen

                        Listen

As bullets
get dodged
in the mission

The Devil talks

devil talks

but cannot walk....

With I

For I

Am with God

for

God is with me......

Us... God, I trust.

XxXxxXxxXxxXxxXxxXxxXxx

Hood talks

***** walks

Does she think I can get taunted?

By the unwanted

LUST

Warrant spent

the demented kid
dependent on abstract adolescence visions

with no spirit to grab the woven sands
of the cloth made from time

Attention:

                                          Atten­tion:

                                                          ­                                 Attention:

I nearly lost my mind

no pretentious joke,

no...

No, no

No
   Time to

Hide from my mind
as it collides with eroding slime, grime, goo

Deep...

As I..

As I....

Seep...

Fell in the tar pit

that was nearly lit

The heat...

Burning

Blazing, blazing...

the gas-fueled

the fire and my

de
     sires

a blazing,

      a fire

was lit

cccCCCcccCCCCccCCCccCCCCcCCCCcCCCCCc

lift this

used a quick fix

of some mushrooms

I fell into the....

that...

soup

which

were

was,
is
melted in the ***
seen by a few chosen eyes

the stew filled with
the residue of sin....

has been
will be
has

taken hold of men....


Hard to crawl out of
the hood of hell

without being stuck with a demon yourself

Hard to crawl out of
the hood of hell

without being torn up
nearly killing oneself

It is hard climbing out of hell

without a doubt,
without a doubt,

without doubt

Heaven does exist

thoughts can be saved,
solved,
paved

Learning
enslavement
is tangled
into how we are made,

what are you
a slave to today,
stuck,
giving all of you that time...

money, jobs, games, tv have all chained my mind.

Well Shucks!

Sorry, again
finding
my minds eye


Looking into the sky
of the 7 suns,

collaborated
with the essence of sweet purp
I puff


Miracles
patterns
live
as an Angel,

a mad hatter
tonic
sipping
loud gripping
friend getting hit

&

Disaster strikes
at flashes of light

But one
survives
the fight

and in it

is glorified.




don't bow.
Taylor Perkins May 2017
We’ve spent our entire lives captive to your ideals
We enter our favorite bar to the reverential welcome of our brothers and sisters
There is sadness in the knowledge of your opinions
But freedom in the release of our worries of your attitudes
We can only be who we are; who we are sanctioned to be
Through trial and fire we were formed and through more fire shall we be refined
Your words and stones do not phase us,
We have been laden with assaults as long as we can hope to remember
So your judgments do not sentence us,
For we have made ourselves our own judges
Liberated from the corrupt and the pious
You do not know our stories,
Nor do you understand our hearts
You don’t care to know what we dream of at night,
Nor what we aspire to by day
You only see an image that you have been trained to prejudge
A rung on the social ladder that you can step on,
That way you are one step closer to your social goals
We are people,
Unlike you
But same somehow
We still feel, still care, still love,
We just do it a little better than you
Because we understand that you can never truly know someone
Until you give up the idea that you already know who they are.
Just as a filament
Lights up the center of the room/
But on this day, today,
her pillows wet/
Soaked as she wept
Dry spot silhouette/
Profiled a-side
The Valentine's Day mascara
Smeared eye, Liner/
Cast shadows dark
No remarks yet
Her face puzzled
When he suggested ways to mend her broken heart,
She laid down the law
Don't start was her rebuttal/
Him Attracted to her angry face
silly ways
Her movements of grace/
Even those subtle/

He states we can escape
A place just us two/
She replied i'm unable to love
and would love too/
No longer black and white
Nor night and day/
From four play
To fifty shades of grey
area in my life/
Despite, he's lustful beyond the physical/
Her scent leaves em in a trance pheromones/
Her flagrant fragrance Goes without saying/
A kinetic ******* Neurotic erotica/
Waves in the air like melodies
Humming stuck in your head like an harmonica/
She so attracted by his attraction, he leads on
She couldn't help but give him..........?
Daniel lopez Dec 2011
You had the best intentions
But you caged me in text and the jailer was your insecurity
Every minute of the day you kept me in my desperate state I lashed out trying to find a escape but my rebuttal was to drastic and I ended our embrace and left my self empty so I told my self I can't reach that far ,you can't change her mind because its impossible
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
. . . of incantations in                        
cantankerous philosophy!                
Of these lying liabilities,                    
   what startling objection, so accosting,
has exhausted me? More so than    
named quite unfortunate atrocity!  
Shall hordes of thought be accursed
by degrees of displeasing hostility  
such that satiated curiosity                
be evermore abashed in me?            

                    “. . . but I have admonished thee,”
                                                            said­ he,

this subtle, blackened tenant            
with a tin man's tonality.                  
This paper drum that bends to sing
does beg of him the courtesy;          
yet, acrid rhetoric singes the hair    
with unfavorable flintlock fidelity.
His evasive guarantee then              
upends the pores relentlessly.        

“These words will compel a poor
                    foresight to bleed in the fray
          as cascading tears cast their weight
                              upon cheek in dismay . . .”


. . . to quash the cypress toxin          
of a caustic potpourri—                    
a dissembling toupee                        
to one's balding reality.                    
O lasting opacity                                
of such poignant translucency,        
this flagrant serendipity,                  
once spawned, must always be?    
Possibly; though, I cannot count    
how many sets see dawns at sea.    

                    “. . . but I have astonished thee,”
            said he

through this Möbius rebuttal          
like some soap on TV,                      
though, it’s ne'er some rerun          
what’s cliché wants creativity.        
The veiling lee of his lofty marquee
     beclouds that one pyrrhic mystery—
that now-clandestine oblation        
of one bless'ed unanimity.              

“Akin to a twin whose soul’s
                    one sin was mine to portray.
          ‘I’ll pay ne’er a thought!’
                              curs’ed common naïveté . . .”


. . . and yet, that's cause to bend    
reverent knee, not to thee,              
but to that which mine                    
eye's sole endeavor is to see.          
“So, leave me be!”                            
I lament, ostensibly,                        
“Lest that passage fall paved          
by none other than me.”                
Perhaps the Second World war    
is just my cup of tea.                      

                    “. . . or perhaps this darkness is me,”
said he


∘ ⊱‧⌍  ⌈✞⌋  ⌌‧⊰ ∞
﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋
Steve Boldin Oct 2010
"I'm like 20 years old and I'm finally starting to grow something."
That's what the birthday boy proclaimed.
He had many different, catch phrases, if you will.
Things like, "It's like BOOM" and "Ya ***."
This boy, quickly uprising and turning into a man.
So much life in his words.
His choice of drink, beer.
And lots of it.
Some of his shining moments came while inebriated.
However, would never admit if he was drunk.
His sharp toned comebacks, such as "I was sober as a dog" stump any possible rebuttal or witty banter that could follow.
His repeated activities were like clock work.
Every action. Every movement. Turning yet another gear in the intricate machine of life.
The epitome of poetic justice.
His clever sayings keep you on the edge of your seat.
"Quit ******* on my juice."
"I have a dream, that I’ll be able to **** and burp in the Man Cave without you ***** giving me **** about ******* out my ***, and ******* out my mouth."
Just a few of the poetic, masterful, beautiful syllables that pass through the graceful lips of this man.

To be continued...
Copyright. 2010.
mirror mirror, i  fooled you all
felt you, feel, before your very fall
i wrote your name with upon my skin
let you feel the blood within
and with my tears that fell awry
it wrote your name
against a white brittle sky
i wrote you of fortune, and misery alieved
my own private passion was worn upon my sleeve
i cried a thousand words from my bed
and in their ink they wrote
a story we'd wed
and it wrote how we'd founded a world untrue
it wrote how i was a knight not worthy of you
it wrote a nightime of lessons unlearned
and it wrote a passion of times untermed.
I cired from these tears
as i stabbed at my breast
these words i had wrote
so clearly across my brazen chest
under my left clavicle
under my heart
i wrote in the nightime -
'til death do us part' -
and i picked at the blood upon me
so honest and so true
and every drop
was blessed, with an ounce of you
for no matter no what
for no matter your name
i still would feel your loss
your rebuttal, your shame.
and i cried ink stained tears across my cheeks
and i wandered your loss
not in days, not in weeks.
And still as i write this with digital pen
i wonder if i am me not now, but then
my lovely, my wonder
my wonderous show
of how you showed me love so
long ago.
I sit with a pen and i wonder what to write
my ink blots are messy
and such a distaneful fright
that even i, as a woman
might seek light from the night.
I whispher sweet nothings to myself
as i cry with a teardrop so selfish, so rare,
and i mean as tho i cry, from a world, so selfish, so rare.
My nothing, my everything
my world end in sight
i long for you, play for you
each and every night.
Though i know you have left me
half starved, beaten and cold,
you have left my darling with a wiltering soul.
All i did was try to love you
that was never enough
and what might it take for you
to feel
my love?
Steve Boldin Oct 2010
"I'm like 20 years old and I'm finally starting to grow something."
That's what the birthday boy proclaimed.
He had many different, catch phrases, if you will.
Things like, "It's like BOOM" and "Ya ***."
This boy, quickly uprising and turning into a man.
So much life in his words.
His choice of drink, beer.
And lots of it.
Some of his shining moments came while inebriated.
However, would never admit if he was drunk.
His sharp toned comebacks, such as "I was sober as a dog" stump any possible rebuttal or witty banter that could follow.
His repeated activities were like clock work.
Every action. Every movement. Turning yet another gear in the intricate machine of life.
The epitome of poetic justice.
His clever sayings keep you on the edge of your seat.
"Quit ******* on my juice."
"I have a dream, that I’ll be able to **** and burp in the Man Cave without you ***** giving me **** about ******* out my ***, and ******* out my mouth."
Just a few of the poetic, masterful, beautiful syllables that pass through the graceful lips of this man.

To be continued...
Copyright. 2010.
Keenan Akeem Mar 2013
Looking in the mirror I say I’m ugly,
I say I’m fat, I say I’m disgusting.
Who would want to be with you?
(**** not me)
Or is the aspect of who I am in which differs on who
I want to be.
I just want to be accepted, for I am and not my body
Why can’t you see I am who I am, and you’re not me?
I been through this so many times, why can’t you see.
That I’m not skinny, I’m not petite.
I have an appetite, I like to eat
Now is that a crime, is that a sin?
I’m confused, where do I begin?

It all started when I 10 years old, I was told by my step-dad
To “shut my fat *** up”
A rebuttal in on my part was righteous
But, not yet…
At this age I couldn’t process everything
This scared me till this day, for in my dad’s eyes I’m still over weight.

I started to change, my waist got smaller.
My ego got taller, and more people started talking to me.
In process, I forgot who I was.
That strong person in the beginning
That in my eyes was winning, now losing
Who I really am.

I’m free, free to do anything and never give a **** on how
Anyone felt.
My heart melts till this day when I think back to my past.
That person who was bullied, talked about, stabbed in the back.
Now as I as move forward, I will always look back for comfort
On how far I came.
Remember I’m free, to venture out to places that have never been seen
And will not have to debate about my weight, because I’m happy to be ME.
electrocution marks
the hall
with flatulence
that table
jars a
rebuttal from
his umbrage
their rounds
o explosives
polarized steps
in building
avenue to
the union
with twist
whether turbulent
lifestyle now
this millennium
Marlboro Country
Constantine Nov 2011
Another quiet morning, heavy clouds are pouring
And I could have been sound asleep snoring
Instead I miss the sound of your voice
Warming, soothing, my ears euphony of choice
Separated by distance in the rain, watch my heart flood
And slowly take the pain
Lips as bitter as black coffee, because nothing felt more
Sweeter than a “good morning Darling”
Always had to be a struggle, for us, to be two people to
Get along and cuddle. But words never got to close
Always end up in a quite rebuttal.
How every breath of silence only sets down a fence
Hurtful, daunting, dense silence makes pain seem immense
Coming to remember now, pass times that were bliss
Back in the summers when it would only take a kiss
And It make makes me happy the ways our love grew
So I’ll never stop writing love poems to remind you
“Roses are red, and Violets are violet. There’s no need
for words Darling, our smiles are silent."
Swing my phallus,
a lame attempt to keep balance on this spinning rock.
Better ruled by short stick then take stock in anything serious.
mind shut move forward
what we can't see certainly can't hear us.
Only an ******* pumps fists
This abashed soul lumps his blame on the short comings of others.
Disdain, a fort built from pillows and covers
tumbles under the absent look given by scorned lovers...

I picked a rose
pricked a finger
now my love is left to linger with thoughts of red blood
all because I was too impatient to grasp it
a casket lies in reserve for this paper soul
it doesn't take a fool to see that penciled trees won't grow
so here i stand thumb up head down
gratuity, a hole filled with water and rubish
forms beauty in this mind an oil rainbow doth permiss

But thats just it
a shimmer, a sheen
that gleam a thin slice of cold metal
the only rebuttal a reflection, depth shallow
if mirrors speak no lies pull thIs finger out of a hat
devise an angle to cut glass which speaks truth
not crap, or a whacked crack at fact.
A fallacy presented forms false return
allows me repentance from all that i've learned.

Solace in dreams?
a world of things
which feints refuge, gives refuse and meddles
muddied the sleep sought to steal from the night
replaced it with fists, your form, and a fight
a plight is where i stand to sit
despite the case i planned to rip
Eyes turn to days distracted thoughts juggled
nights turned to pains, sore throats, bloodied knuckles

Upside down
or inside out?

... to be continued

-2010
Logan Robertson Oct 2017
She Walked Out

she blew bubbles in the air
I blinked
why so cutting and unforgiving
its just me
filled with her residual
and every time I opened my mouth
she blew bigger bubbles
suppressing my rebuttal
I blinked
and I swear one landed in my mouth
and butterflies sang a nice tune
but she need not know this
the sweetness
my hidden gravitation towards her
because she walked out
I look out the window, now
alone
with her residual
still bubbling inside me
multiplying
and it hurts

Logan Robertson

10/12/17
Kewayne Wadley Dec 2016
And out of the blue drops an awkward moment
The kind of awkward moment where nothing in itself is awkward.
Just a moment that passes in complete silence where nothing is actually wasted
nor publicized.
No focal point, nothing to rebuttal.
The kind of moment that is considered awkward, usually right before revealing the same exact thought.
The same exact expression.
Just a matter of opinion. Expressing the simplistic.

How awkward would it be if I were to think of you in a moment where there was nothing else to do.
A moment of vulnerability In an affair of stating the obvious, there is no way I'd consider this out of the blue though.
Really and truly there isn't anything of importance that can be found here,

Except the color blue but then again that should be obvious. Like how unimportant was that really?

You could have went the whole day without nothing being said. Just based off the thought alone.

I suppose the only thing that makes it somewhat awkward is that I didn't.

And really I just used a lot of unnecessarily long but short words to tell you that you were on my mind.

I know right, the perfect *******. And to think you were probably doing something important.

But since I now have your attention and we're just throwing things up out of the blue.

What color ******* Are you wearing? Are they the see through purple ones or the red see through ones
C B Heath Apr 2014
To drop the latch and your belongings,
to say 'put down tomorrow's feat,
put down the tune of yesterday,
put down what calls away your
attention from the endless breadth
of now' - to drop the latch and slot
the key neatly in and not be reminded
of the worst *** of your life, to
look down at your shoes and not be
in a montage flashback of every
game of tennis last summer
when each stroke was a delayed rebuttal
from arguments before, the manly swipes,
the posed sliding on asphalt,
the gathering of ***** found sunbathing
with the brown baking weeds,
to run a mile and feel every jolt
and not imagine a face to run from,
and not pretend there is an
amalgamated idol of petrified lovers
just past the traffic lights, to not
invent telepathy and play it like a game,
reading the negativity in the loiterers
outside the post office across the road.
To see a mirror and forget to ignore it.
To watch the face in perfect humble
clarity, to see it as a friend would,
to say okay on a daily basis to the eyes,
to see for the first time their glory-
colour, to be okay without repressing,
to drink a glass of sauvignon blanc
without accompany on a Thursday morning
because the work rota allows the luxury.
To turn the television off.
to back into the night because you must,
to back into the night so you cannot
***** your way with hands, to keep
reversing and to watch what you pass
and to only stop when necessary, and
even then not for long, and turn around
and give thanks to walls and tripwires--

in the morning, with nobody there to know,
to take off all your clothes and then
that final layer, to be devastated
by the contours of another's, though
it may be only memory, to be distracted
by a speck of thought and start again,
to be one day older and to never age.
'Technically speaking, there are no enlightened people; there is only enlightened activity.' --Shunryu Suzuki
Tommy Johnson Jun 2014
The Packrat has morphed into a hoarder
I tried to removed the monkey in a suite off his back and put it in he barrel with the rest of them even though it wasn't my business, although I was its uncle

Get in

A quaint little bungalow
Where sweltering heat is a constant
"There's coffee on the back burner, ya want some?"

It was a blessing in disguise
A bona fide  slice of paradise

We read up on the complex of Oedipus Rex and the debate of moral fiber when talking about Ped Xing

We hopped on to a plane going to Pismo Beach and joined the mile high club then enjoyed clams on the half shell  

We listen to a dollar fifty nickelodeon
And talked about how music is dead because everyone is just na na naing and yeah yeah yeahing their way to the top of the pop charts  

Over a *** pie
I confessed my love
His rebuttal seemed abysmal to my sleeve dwelling heart

He said this was an unnatural habitat for him
And if we were to be together it would raise eyebrows
Tarnish his illustrious reputation

It was an unanswered prayer
After all the whatnots and whathaveyous
He got sick and died of AIDS about a year and a half later
He never came out

Dodged a bullet there on that one
sobroquet Mar 2014
too circumspect to genuflect
a snide rebuttal of rituals
the dope on the rope says the mob has no hope
yet he feeds on the blood of heathens
stomped to death beneath the cross
convert and confess
the templars and the saracens
and all the ****** rest...

pass the plate, write it off your taxes
don't sweat the big things
the confessional swings axes
forget your past, you are made anew
in the box with Big-daddy
the room with the puny view
oh blessed forgiveness
for a  select few

*And call no man your father upon the earth,
for one is your Father, which is in heaven.
the catechism didn't catch that one
convenient truths abba
take the queers, gypsies, the disfigured and jews
for strewth!  it'll help us win WW2
fewer mouths to feed, and oh so unclean
those unconverted pagans
to the concentrated ovens unseen
*http://www.theguardian.com/world/2014/mar/22/pope-francis-warns-mafiosi-to-repent-or-end-up-in-hell

This poem is a nasty, cynical and invective swipe at Catholicism.

I was raised on **** and vinegar, and remembering the sanctimony and pompous hypocrisy of evangelicals sickens me.
They (the wicked) hide in plain view.
papal infallibility indeed
utterly grotesque, and still they have the nerve to participate in
platitudes, salutations in the marketplace, the choicest pews and the inheritances of widows...to be seen/viewed as pious; a brood of vipers...
half-baked claptrap with a side of snide, and snark canape's

*Matthew 23:9
And call no man your father upon the earth,
for one is your Father, which is in heaven

Romans II
Therefore thou art inexcusable, O man, whosoever thou art that judgest: for wherein thou judgest another, thou condemnest thyself; for thou that judgest doest the same things. But we are sure that the judgment of God is according to truth against them which commit such things. And thinkest thou this, O man, that judgest them which do such things, and doest the same, that thou shalt escape the judgment of God?
David Ayres Apr 2013
I'm like the pest that won't go away. I'll crawl into your head as night fades away. Day after day your dreams seem to dwindle away.

I'll bug your infested mind, as your fiery passion fades to grey. I'll scuttle towards the rebuttal of the stubborn, ever so subtle.

As you cuddle your pillow, thinking of weeping willows, I'll scurry into your flowing hatred, bringing the sacred light of hope.

***** a manifested thought, once sought to consume. I'll plant a beautiful new plot of light, that destroys your gloom dude.

Don't be rude, cause you're down on your luck. Lose the attitude schmuck!
Steve Boldin Oct 2010
"I'm like 20 years old and I'm finally starting to grow something."
That's what the birthday boy proclaimed.
He had many different, catch phrases, if you will.
Things like, "It's like BOOM" and "Ya ***."
This boy, quickly uprising and turning into a man.
So much life in his words.
His choice of drink, beer.
And lots of it.
Some of his shining moments came while inebriated.
However, would never admit if he was drunk.
His sharp toned comebacks, such as "I was sober as a dog" stump any possible rebuttal or witty banter that could follow.
His repeated activities were like clock work.
Every action. Every movement. Turning yet another gear in the intricate machine of life.
The epitome of poetic justice.
His clever sayings keep you on the edge of your seat.
"Quit ******* on my juice."
"I have a dream, that I’ll be able to **** and burp in the Man Cave without you ***** giving me **** about ******* out my ***, and ******* out my mouth."
Just a few of the poetic, masterful, beautiful syllables that pass through the graceful lips of this man.

To be continued...
Copyright. 2010.
Joseph Perales Feb 2011
I came to know you so well
your voice, every nuance
I knew every part of your being
I knew you better then you ever could

I would say things knowing your response
before it even passed your lips
sometimes I would mouth the words
along in sync with you

sometimes I would anticipate
your rebuttal as we fought
I would realize you were right
and stop in mid-sentence with apologies

I would day dream about you
down to the way your hair curled
wrapping it's arms around your face
as my fingers wish they could

but now that you're gone
a part of you still remains
the you that I have constructed
over the late nights and longing

that girl still loves me
that girl still says my name
like honey gently gliding over her lips
and turning into neon lights as it meets the air

that girl still loves me
she holds my hands when I cry
she makes me smile in spite of sorrow
she is the one I reach for in my sleep

but she grows more antiquated
every day that I am reminded you are gone
not because I don't love her
but because I know I shouldn't

Because I know you don't love
the boy still in your head
you have pushed him out and away
never to burden your heart again

maybe in some spiritual sub-world
where we share a subconscious
the emulations that we have created
will be able to live in love
A rare free verse poem from a habitual rhymer

— The End —