"residence" poems - Hello Poetry

Place my tongue in your residence and taste your ripe decadence Saviour the flavor of our relevance And keep the memory for evidence

0

Nov 2, 2016

Nov 2, 2016 at 6:13 PM UTC

Styles

Evanescence

Place my tongue in your residence and taste your ripe decadence Saviour the flavor of our relevance And keep the memory for evidence

4

Delicious, fill me with your flavor let your sweetness take residence in my mouth treat your essence like a fragrance and wear you out make you my delicacy and bare your fruits delicately until our pleasures amount releasing your pure juices like a faucet they spew out

0

May 14, 2017

May 14, 2017 at 5:11 PM UTC

Styles

Devour

Delicious, fill me with your flavor let your sweetness take residence in my mouth treat your essence like a fragrance and wear you out make you my delicacy and bare your fruits delicately until our pleasures amount releasing your pure juices like a faucet they spew out

13

Twas the night before Hawaii islands on the radar A monster opened the door It shoulders a storied scar Of the last time, it hit its mark Rearing its ugly head, ahead of pace As the eye looms '82 in the dark Wrinkles on this eve sit sadly in boldface Kauai sat once in unnatured infamy It sunny shores hit once by the beast Clouds of villains played in that symphony With the next generation looking to feast As the residence brace for the worst Of the monster stepping on its paradise With category four winds and cloudburst The hope is that the monster plays nice With the Aloha Spirit preserved with leis In place of bold headlines of strung wrath Hawaii can pray rays of light in the coming days Willing the monster to take a different path Logan Robertson 8/23/2018

0

Aug 23, 2018

Aug 23, 2018 at 7:04 AM UTC

logan-robertson

Hurricane Lane Please Rid Your Ugly Head

Twas the night before Hawaii islands on the radar A monster opened the door It shoulders a storied scar Of the last time, it hit its mark Rearing its ugly head, ahead of pace As the eye looms '82 in the dark Wrinkles on this eve sit sadly in boldface Kauai sat once in unnatured infamy It sunny shores hit once by the beast Clouds of villains played in that symphony With the next generation looking to feast As the residence brace for the worst Of the monster stepping on its paradise With category four winds and cloudburst The hope is that the monster plays nice With the Aloha Spirit preserved with leis In place of bold headlines of strung wrath Hawaii can pray rays of light in the coming days Willing the monster to take a different path Logan Robertson 8/23/2018

22

1260 Because that you are going And never coming back And I, however absolute, May overlook your Track— Because that Death is final, However first it be, This instant be suspended Above Mortality— Significance that each has lived The other to detect Discovery not God himself Could now annihilate Eternity, Presumption The instant I perceive That you, who were Existence Yourself forgot to live— The “Life that is” will then have been A thing I never knew— As Paradise fictitious Until the Realm of you— The “Life that is to be,” to me, A Residence too plain Unless in my Redeemer’s Face I recognize your own— Of Immortality who doubts He may exchange with me Curtailed by your obscuring Face Of everything but He— Of Heaven and Hell I also yield The Right to reprehend To whoso would commute this Face For his less priceless Friend. If “God is Love” as he admits We think that me must be Because he is a “jealous God” He tells us certainly If “All is possible with” him As he besides concedes He will refund us finally Our confiscated Gods—

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28k

Emily Dickinson

Because that you are going

1260 Because that you are going And never coming back And I, however absolute, May overlook your Track— Because that Death is final, However first it be, This instant be suspended Above Mortality— Significance that each has lived The other to detect Discovery not God himself Could now annihilate Eternity, Presumption The instant I perceive That you, who were Existence Yourself forgot to live— The “Life that is” will then have been A thing I never knew— As Paradise fictitious Until the Realm of you— The “Life that is to be,” to me, A Residence too plain Unless in my Redeemer’s Face I recognize your own— Of Immortality who doubts He may exchange with me Curtailed by your obscuring Face Of everything but He— Of Heaven and Hell I also yield The Right to reprehend To whoso would commute this Face For his less priceless Friend. If “God is Love” as he admits We think that me must be Because he is a “jealous God” He tells us certainly If “All is possible with” him As he besides concedes He will refund us finally Our confiscated Gods—

41

A penny sits in the middle of my hand. Vaguely warm and slightly worn But still shining brightly. On one side you see the current residence of The late Abraham Lincoln. On the other you see the man himself Facing to the right As if watching for assassins. I roll it around in my palm, The rough edges scraping past my Calloused hands. I can almost hear it sigh With relief as I put it back Down again.

0

Nov 14, 2012

Nov 14, 2012 at 7:14 PM UTC

caroline-b

Hard Work

A penny sits in the middle of my hand. Vaguely warm and slightly worn But still shining brightly. On one side you see the current residence of The late Abraham Lincoln. On the other you see the man himself Facing to the right As if watching for assassins. I roll it around in my palm, The rough edges scraping past my Calloused hands. I can almost hear it sigh With relief as I put it back Down again.

14

436 The Wind—tapped like a tired Man— And like a Host—”Come in” I boldly answered—entered then My Residence within A Rapid—footless Guest— To offer whom a Chair Were as impossible as hand A Sofa to the Air— No Bone had He to bind Him— His Speech was like the Push Of numerous Humming Birds at once From a superior Bush— His Countenance—a Billow— His Fingers, as He passed Let go a music—as of tunes Blown tremulous in Glass— He visited—still flitting— Then like a timid Man Again, He tapped—’twas flurriedly— And I became alone—

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17k

Emily Dickinson

The Wind—tapped like a tired Man

436 The Wind—tapped like a tired Man— And like a Host—”Come in” I boldly answered—entered then My Residence within A Rapid—footless Guest— To offer whom a Chair Were as impossible as hand A Sofa to the Air— No Bone had He to bind Him— His Speech was like the Push Of numerous Humming Birds at once From a superior Bush— His Countenance—a Billow— His Fingers, as He passed Let go a music—as of tunes Blown tremulous in Glass— He visited—still flitting— Then like a timid Man Again, He tapped—’twas flurriedly— And I became alone—

21

May we live in and see interesting times, the old saying goes another offers that when the mind is blind, the eyes cannot see for me my days are interesting and the laughter readily and often comes for the grapes of wrath brings forth mirth filled grapes on grapevine tendrils As lemmings and sheep enact bellyaching absurdities, as the ridiculous does Veracity on sojourn and falsehood in residence with doors firmly closed Hamlet re-enacts hapless role, with Red Robin Hood and vigilantes to a tee eager audiences, participatory scenes in towns and cities, leaving empty homes come all and vent your spleen and satiate your prejudices without paying a fee This land belongs to us, it is our birthright and we will send Hamlet to the catacombs Nothing is private anymore, rights and freedom nailed, anywhere we roam Ophelia not only went to Italy, she went to Hull, Turnpike Lane and even Essex but a joke here, if all these were good, why did she come to me, you simple gnomes perchance unlike you common goons, she knows distinction has no comparison to thee Your vacuous hate filled mind cannot see that difference in a Prince, that regally looms Act two, dim, fooled actors in their Beggars Opera, screaming, 'we oppose' with glee so called republicans, laughable in their ardent favor, ignorant of their lobotomy botches we will do Hamlet's head in, totally unaware theirs been done in, for the brains of fleas in a civilisation, our conscious and stable populace, roots for vigilante and mob rule, yeah for a man of distinction is a threat reminding you of your insignificance and lack of tomes Come friends, lets see how the home of Democracy, hounds a citizen for us all and we lets know that Robin Hood is alive and taxing, and 'Windrush' is still active in dispatches indigenous people power, meets criminal gang stalking, meets racism and we all drink tea and in true cowardly fashion, its all done by insidious, indictable, nefarious, malcontents and psychopathic crazies It is our proud duty that we should all ruin Hamlet, for mediocrity has no distinction for aspiration et excellence Copyright LaurenceA. JUNE 2018.All rights reserved.

0

Jul 25, 2018

Jul 25, 2018 at 8:00 PM UTC

yenson

Mediocrity knows no Distinction.....

May we live in and see interesting times, the old saying goes another offers that when the mind is blind, the eyes cannot see for me my days are interesting and the laughter readily and often comes for the grapes of wrath brings forth mirth filled grapes on grapevine tendrils As lemmings and sheep enact bellyaching absurdities, as the ridiculous does Veracity on sojourn and falsehood in residence with doors firmly closed Hamlet re-enacts hapless role, with Red Robin Hood and vigilantes to a tee eager audiences, participatory scenes in towns and cities, leaving empty homes come all and vent your spleen and satiate your prejudices without paying a fee This land belongs to us, it is our birthright and we will send Hamlet to the catacombs Nothing is private anymore, rights and freedom nailed, anywhere we roam Ophelia not only went to Italy, she went to Hull, Turnpike Lane and even Essex but a joke here, if all these were good, why did she come to me, you simple gnomes perchance unlike you common goons, she knows distinction has no comparison to thee Your vacuous hate filled mind cannot see that difference in a Prince, that regally looms Act two, dim, fooled actors in their Beggars Opera, screaming, 'we oppose' with glee so called republicans, laughable in their ardent favor, ignorant of their lobotomy botches we will do Hamlet's head in, totally unaware theirs been done in, for the brains of fleas in a civilisation, our conscious and stable populace, roots for vigilante and mob rule, yeah for a man of distinction is a threat reminding you of your insignificance and lack of tomes Come friends, lets see how the home of Democracy, hounds a citizen for us all and we lets know that Robin Hood is alive and taxing, and 'Windrush' is still active in dispatches indigenous people power, meets criminal gang stalking, meets racism and we all drink tea and in true cowardly fashion, its all done by insidious, indictable, nefarious, malcontents and psychopathic crazies It is our proud duty that we should all ruin Hamlet, for mediocrity has no distinction for aspiration et excellence Copyright LaurenceA. JUNE 2018.All rights reserved.

26

Songs of Oregon: No. 1 “Gonna Make You Crazy, That Place” nuts, crazy peeps whomever wherever, regardless of race creed color or gender (did I get ‘em all?) current state of residence (geo-identified) a poem - the very same recited, as a disclaimer, a yellow finger wagging warning: “Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back” now kids, I’m a veteran of foreign travel, many continents, cold and hot, rivers and seas, some living, some dead, some so big they named it Endless, been to the great cities, Swiss villages, pyramids, climbed Masada, danced on grapes (why can’t I recall where) skied the Alps, trekked the Sinai Desert, clubbed in Rio, and danced till morn, on a certain Greek Isle that rhymes with Mickey’s Nose even been to L.A and San Fran, left poorer but in sync, always came home with my mind decently reshaped me/ a product of gritty unpretty grime, streets of normal humans acting like normal escaped mad persons, this brutal city island instilled a layer of fat and smog neath my skin, a kind of migrating duck-like survival kit, came with a homing beacon included the those of you who know me, perhaps too well, ken we citified islanders love our beaches (fire hydrants) cherish our sun dappled blessings upon on farms (window sill herb gardens) and sunning settlements (rooftops) they say our tap water is secretly bottled, sold in places where the springs purportedly run crystalline though we don’t got no pinot, just sweet concord grape, so sweet, the wine of children and street nodders, needy for instant sugar highs so as we new Yorkers proudly say on our license plates, prove it or stfup! so a first hand investigation for which the taxpayers won’t be charged even a lousy mill, deemed necessary to put to rest this crazy claiming warning “Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back” guessing must be something in the water and the wine

0

Jun 5, 2018

Jun 5, 2018 at 9:00 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

Songs of Oregon: No. 1 “Gonna Make You Crazy, That Place”

Songs of Oregon: No. 1 “Gonna Make You Crazy, That Place” nuts, crazy peeps whomever wherever, regardless of race creed color or gender (did I get ‘em all?) current state of residence (geo-identified) a poem - the very same recited, as a disclaimer, a yellow finger wagging warning: “Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back” now kids, I’m a veteran of foreign travel, many continents, cold and hot, rivers and seas, some living, some dead, some so big they named it Endless, been to the great cities, Swiss villages, pyramids, climbed Masada, danced on grapes (why can’t I recall where) skied the Alps, trekked the Sinai Desert, clubbed in Rio, and danced till morn, on a certain Greek Isle that rhymes with Mickey’s Nose even been to L.A and San Fran, left poorer but in sync, always came home with my mind decently reshaped me/ a product of gritty unpretty grime, streets of normal humans acting like normal escaped mad persons, this brutal city island instilled a layer of fat and smog neath my skin, a kind of migrating duck-like survival kit, came with a homing beacon included the those of you who know me, perhaps too well, ken we citified islanders love our beaches (fire hydrants) cherish our sun dappled blessings upon on farms (window sill herb gardens) and sunning settlements (rooftops) they say our tap water is secretly bottled, sold in places where the springs purportedly run crystalline though we don’t got no pinot, just sweet concord grape, so sweet, the wine of children and street nodders, needy for instant sugar highs so as we new Yorkers proudly say on our license plates, prove it or stfup! so a first hand investigation for which the taxpayers won’t be charged even a lousy mill, deemed necessary to put to rest this crazy claiming warning “Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back” guessing must be something in the water and the wine

49

White is a combination of all colors. Black is the lack of all colors. Enlightenment is white because it resides in the ten-thousand things. Enlightenment is black because, in its residence, it is not present. White is not Black Black is not White Enlightenment is not Enlightenment. It is.

0

May 24, 2011

May 24, 2011 at 5:59 PM UTC

zen

Black and White

White is a combination of all colors. Black is the lack of all colors. Enlightenment is white because it resides in the ten-thousand things. Enlightenment is black because, in its residence, it is not present. White is not Black Black is not White Enlightenment is not Enlightenment. It is.

9

sometimes I think I wanna fall in love but then I remember how cold the bathroom floor felt on my face and how badly I wanted to rip the heart from my chest and how your arms are still my home despite how many girls you have invited in even when it was my only residence

0

Nov 29, 2014

Nov 29, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC

kelsey-millerwc

cheated

sometimes I think I wanna fall in love but then I remember how cold the bathroom floor felt on my face and how badly I wanted to rip the heart from my chest and how your arms are still my home despite how many girls you have invited in even when it was my only residence

9

564 My period had come for Prayer— No other Art—would do— My Tactics missed a rudiment— Creator—Was it you? God grows above—so those who pray Horizons—must ascend— And so I stepped upon the North To see this Curious Friend— His House was not—no sign had He— By Chimney—nor by Door Could I infer his Residence— Vast Prairies of Air Unbroken by a Settler— Were all that I could see— Infinitude—Had’st Thou no Face That I might look on Thee? The Silence condescended— Creation stopped—for Me— But awed beyond my errand— I worshipped—did not “pray”—

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5.7k

Emily Dickinson

My period had come for Prayer

564 My period had come for Prayer— No other Art—would do— My Tactics missed a rudiment— Creator—Was it you? God grows above—so those who pray Horizons—must ascend— And so I stepped upon the North To see this Curious Friend— His House was not—no sign had He— By Chimney—nor by Door Could I infer his Residence— Vast Prairies of Air Unbroken by a Settler— Were all that I could see— Infinitude—Had’st Thou no Face That I might look on Thee? The Silence condescended— Creation stopped—for Me— But awed beyond my errand— I worshipped—did not “pray”—

21

1483 The Robin is a Gabriel In humble circumstances— His Dress denotes him socially, Of Transport’s Working Classes— He has the punctuality Of the New England Farmer— The same oblique integrity, A Vista vastly warmer— A small but sturdy Residence A self denying Household, The Guests of Perspicacity Are all that cross his Threshold— As covert as a Fugitive, Cajoling Consternation By Ditties to the Enemy And Sylvan Punctuation—

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5.5k

Emily Dickinson

The Robin is a Gabriel

1483 The Robin is a Gabriel In humble circumstances— His Dress denotes him socially, Of Transport’s Working Classes— He has the punctuality Of the New England Farmer— The same oblique integrity, A Vista vastly warmer— A small but sturdy Residence A self denying Household, The Guests of Perspicacity Are all that cross his Threshold— As covert as a Fugitive, Cajoling Consternation By Ditties to the Enemy And Sylvan Punctuation—

17

it looks like the inside of my cortex Loose screws with a loose table for my verbal contortions A few books and spells surrounded by potions Vertical blinds shut tight, the way they were forced in Mattress on the floor tucked on top of a box spring Fornication smell, but no room for my offspring I don't live alone, instead, I live with these objects Mac 27 inch, I pad that's never dim...tech floods the room like CSI evidence Solid speakers to echo feelings a resonance Window closed, but when it's open the moonlight just settles in This is my cave but, you can call it my residence.

0

Nov 22, 2016

Nov 22, 2016 at 12:13 AM UTC

stellarhero

My Cave

it looks like the inside of my cortex Loose screws with a loose table for my verbal contortions A few books and spells surrounded by potions Vertical blinds shut tight, the way they were forced in Mattress on the floor tucked on top of a box spring Fornication smell, but no room for my offspring I don't live alone, instead, I live with these objects Mac 27 inch, I pad that's never dim...tech floods the room like CSI evidence Solid speakers to echo feelings a resonance Window closed, but when it's open the moonlight just settles in This is my cave but, you can call it my residence.

12

Ask me how I’m doing and I’ll make it sell, Tell you all is well, When all is hell, Falling through the sky, Ain't hit the ground yet, Just me and God here playing Russian roulette, The wage is set, A bet’s a bet, Final stages of rage but my mind won’t reset, Mental vegan, seeking only the raw truth, I got a residence in present tense, And the future on mute , I could be wrong, But at least I have the courage to face it, My word is gold, Yours is a fake *** bracelet, Three steps to forgiveness, But life ain’t a waltz, It’s a dance with the devil, And he leads till you’re lost, You see I paid the cost and got nothing back, But pages of thoughts and a midnight snack, They call it "hell and back", Ah the hell with that, I’m burning for my sins, No matter what the habitat, Fully packed and ready to die, I’m ditching this life like a runaway bride, Too young to hide but never too old, To wreak absolute havoc with the anger I hold , I’m as real as pain, Yet far from a heathen, Only reason I left heaven, Was to make peace with my demons, Problem is they just want to get even, And now I'm barely breathing, Barely sleeping at night, So to answer your question, No I ain't alright.

0

Sep 18, 2018

Sep 18, 2018 at 10:02 AM UTC

AllenJames

Midnight Thoughts

Ask me how I’m doing and I’ll make it sell, Tell you all is well, When all is hell, Falling through the sky, Ain't hit the ground yet, Just me and God here playing Russian roulette, The wage is set, A bet’s a bet, Final stages of rage but my mind won’t reset, Mental vegan, seeking only the raw truth, I got a residence in present tense, And the future on mute , I could be wrong, But at least I have the courage to face it, My word is gold, Yours is a fake *** bracelet, Three steps to forgiveness, But life ain’t a waltz, It’s a dance with the devil, And he leads till you’re lost, You see I paid the cost and got nothing back, But pages of thoughts and a midnight snack, They call it "hell and back", Ah the hell with that, I’m burning for my sins, No matter what the habitat, Fully packed and ready to die, I’m ditching this life like a runaway bride, Too young to hide but never too old, To wreak absolute havoc with the anger I hold , I’m as real as pain, Yet far from a heathen, Only reason I left heaven, Was to make peace with my demons, Problem is they just want to get even, And now I'm barely breathing, Barely sleeping at night, So to answer your question, No I ain't alright.

39

If only temporarily, the Milky Way took up residence along my spine today. I can still feel, and even see it, softly glowing there although I know, rationally, it chooses to live elsewhere.

0

Feb 8, 2016

Feb 8, 2016 at 3:58 PM UTC

FrancescaRegan

Today

If only temporarily, the Milky Way took up residence along my spine today. I can still feel, and even see it, softly glowing there although I know, rationally, it chooses to live elsewhere.

8

The Highest Excellence The highest excellence is like (that of) water. The excellence of water appears in its benefiting all things, And in its occupying, Without striving (to the contrary), The low place which all men dislike. Hence (its way) is near to (that of) the Tao. The excellence of a residence is in (the suitability of) the place; That of the mind is in abysmal stillness; that of associations is in Their being with the virtuous; That of government is in its securing Good order; That of (the conduct of) affairs is in its ability; and That of (the initiation of) any movement is in its timeliness. And when (one with the highest excellence) does not wrangle (about His low position), no one finds fault with him.

0

Sep 21, 2014

Sep 21, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC

MattG

The Highest Excellence

The Highest Excellence The highest excellence is like (that of) water. The excellence of water appears in its benefiting all things, And in its occupying, Without striving (to the contrary), The low place which all men dislike. Hence (its way) is near to (that of) the Tao. The excellence of a residence is in (the suitability of) the place; That of the mind is in abysmal stillness; that of associations is in Their being with the virtuous; That of government is in its securing Good order; That of (the conduct of) affairs is in its ability; and That of (the initiation of) any movement is in its timeliness. And when (one with the highest excellence) does not wrangle (about His low position), no one finds fault with him.

17

I think about old faces, you were a friend to me then I try to think harder though, where have those memories been? More faces coming through, sticking less with every pass I can't say that I would hope that these new memories last. Not in a sad time, not stuck in a place of hurt. I just feel like I can't remember the good times to weigh the worth. These new times, are something hollow, empty and void of feeling No sleepless nights, but I find my self always staring towards the ceiling So revealing, makes me notice my true emotions deep inside Always telling jokes and laughing but right now we rewind. I think about old faces, you were a friend to me then I try to think harder though, where have those memories been? More faces coming through, sticking less with every pass I can't say that I would hope that these new memories last. People say memories fade, others say memories last I'd like to think that I could leave memories in the past I don't want to cling to them like that's the only thing I have But is it really bad? I guess you can say I'm home sick Not missing my residence but missing where I've been Reminiscing about the things that I have left on my journey But they're not on their deathbeds, they're just on a gurney Now do I save them, make sure that they are never forgotten? If they start to fade for new memories should I stop them? I feel like I need to answer quick, like I'm running out of time I could keep stressing but right now, we rewind. I think about old faces, you were a friend to me then I try to think harder though, where have those memories been? More faces coming through, sticking less with every pass I can't say that I would hope that these new memories last. I miss the days where I didn't have to miss my days Where I could express myself in different ways But this is today. Prattling words to my self Not sharing my feelings, not sharing the wealth I vent in stealth, not letting all the friends of me hear it As if I'm ashamed, like I think my enemy is my spirit You're hearing me in these lyrics, I'm embodied in the words you see This is me in these lyrics, feelings and words, you see? So if you're feeling my words, that means you're feeling me So if you think that I'm a clown, this is the realest me So this is real you see, no false words from the mind I could keep on going but right now, we rewind. I think about old faces, you were a friend to me then I try to think harder though, where have those memories been? More faces coming through, sticking less with every pass I can't say that I would hope that these new memories last. Where does the time go? I feel it slipping by me I feel like my biggest problem now is I keep rewinding So you may find me, reminiscing about the time before Or catch me on a good day and I'll be rhyming more Keeping myself in good spirits, while I find the path Watching my life just add up, because well, life is math Memories fade, because we subtract those things from the past But it only happens to us, because we have something to add So nothing is bad. Memory? I'll live all the good times with it in me How much space do I have for the good times? Infinity. No more time to rewind, I guess I have nothing left to say. I guess the only thing left to do now is. Press Play.

0

Dec 17, 2011

Dec 17, 2011 at 11:07 AM UTC

willie

Rewind -- Press Play

I think about old faces, you were a friend to me then I try to think harder though, where have those memories been? More faces coming through, sticking less with every pass I can't say that I would hope that these new memories last. Not in a sad time, not stuck in a place of hurt. I just feel like I can't remember the good times to weigh the worth. These new times, are something hollow, empty and void of feeling No sleepless nights, but I find my self always staring towards the ceiling So revealing, makes me notice my true emotions deep inside Always telling jokes and laughing but right now we rewind. I think about old faces, you were a friend to me then I try to think harder though, where have those memories been? More faces coming through, sticking less with every pass I can't say that I would hope that these new memories last. People say memories fade, others say memories last I'd like to think that I could leave memories in the past I don't want to cling to them like that's the only thing I have But is it really bad? I guess you can say I'm home sick Not missing my residence but missing where I've been Reminiscing about the things that I have left on my journey But they're not on their deathbeds, they're just on a gurney Now do I save them, make sure that they are never forgotten? If they start to fade for new memories should I stop them? I feel like I need to answer quick, like I'm running out of time I could keep stressing but right now, we rewind. I think about old faces, you were a friend to me then I try to think harder though, where have those memories been? More faces coming through, sticking less with every pass I can't say that I would hope that these new memories last. I miss the days where I didn't have to miss my days Where I could express myself in different ways But this is today. Prattling words to my self Not sharing my feelings, not sharing the wealth I vent in stealth, not letting all the friends of me hear it As if I'm ashamed, like I think my enemy is my spirit You're hearing me in these lyrics, I'm embodied in the words you see This is me in these lyrics, feelings and words, you see? So if you're feeling my words, that means you're feeling me So if you think that I'm a clown, this is the realest me So this is real you see, no false words from the mind I could keep on going but right now, we rewind. I think about old faces, you were a friend to me then I try to think harder though, where have those memories been? More faces coming through, sticking less with every pass I can't say that I would hope that these new memories last. Where does the time go? I feel it slipping by me I feel like my biggest problem now is I keep rewinding So you may find me, reminiscing about the time before Or catch me on a good day and I'll be rhyming more Keeping myself in good spirits, while I find the path Watching my life just add up, because well, life is math Memories fade, because we subtract those things from the past But it only happens to us, because we have something to add So nothing is bad. Memory? I'll live all the good times with it in me How much space do I have for the good times? Infinity. No more time to rewind, I guess I have nothing left to say. I guess the only thing left to do now is. Press Play.

57

How wonderful it is, I say, to the retreating yellow form of your feelings I mistook For Infatuation, you’re a romance heckler far and far away from Accepting fruition within classrooms and being labelled as an angel. And it was within forbidden hell of euphoria, I found You nestled in the society’s psyche neither content or calling For help. Neither did you neglect the pink spectacles of the society, Even found yourself moulding and moulding into a fungi green That I could not recognize, within that half-sanctum, half-oasis I found you absentmindedly Bathing in, you were already out of its waters. And I was no longer seeing you within the dry desert or the sibilance of my desires, but instead in cement woodlands and Within artificial communication and Intimacy I gave willingly. Now how does it feel, to have your heart in one piece, How does it feel to not use whipped cream to fill in the Cracked, salty sections of your own ***** that, Out of confusion, continues to play its favorite song but in all the wrong beats. Somehow within cacophony I found you, nestled, comfortable in Bogus, fraudulent wings of a former angel- who now weeps under our Feet in theory- Somehow, somewhere, I lost you within an epiphany That reeked of bliss and pleasure- Somehow, we end up losing Twins of the heavens when all is well. How wonderful. How wonderful it is, I say, to your lost, secretly-weeping figure That I can’t tell whether transparent or yellow your figure is. But I keep speaking- “Oh, how (falsely) wonderful it is- To love the first angel I’ve set my eyes upon- “Oh, how (falsely) wonderful it is- To lose an angel, no matter how phoney, to a social heaven.” - enriko. aug 5. 11:45pm

0

Aug 5, 2018

Aug 5, 2018 at 12:32 PM UTC

eozyoh

Empty Residence Of Aforementioned Angel In Training

How wonderful it is, I say, to the retreating yellow form of your feelings I mistook For Infatuation, you’re a romance heckler far and far away from Accepting fruition within classrooms and being labelled as an angel. And it was within forbidden hell of euphoria, I found You nestled in the society’s psyche neither content or calling For help. Neither did you neglect the pink spectacles of the society, Even found yourself moulding and moulding into a fungi green That I could not recognize, within that half-sanctum, half-oasis I found you absentmindedly Bathing in, you were already out of its waters. And I was no longer seeing you within the dry desert or the sibilance of my desires, but instead in cement woodlands and Within artificial communication and Intimacy I gave willingly. Now how does it feel, to have your heart in one piece, How does it feel to not use whipped cream to fill in the Cracked, salty sections of your own ***** that, Out of confusion, continues to play its favorite song but in all the wrong beats. Somehow within cacophony I found you, nestled, comfortable in Bogus, fraudulent wings of a former angel- who now weeps under our Feet in theory- Somehow, somewhere, I lost you within an epiphany That reeked of bliss and pleasure- Somehow, we end up losing Twins of the heavens when all is well. How wonderful. How wonderful it is, I say, to your lost, secretly-weeping figure That I can’t tell whether transparent or yellow your figure is. But I keep speaking- “Oh, how (falsely) wonderful it is- To love the first angel I’ve set my eyes upon- “Oh, how (falsely) wonderful it is- To lose an angel, no matter how phoney, to a social heaven.” - enriko. aug 5. 11:45pm

56

Before you get lost in the unfinished maps of her veins the ones like yours, but not stitched up too many times to count on the ticks of a clock, make sure that she trusts you enough to tell the truth. Make sure that she loves you enough to know how you lie. Remember that every single time you open your mouth, she's wishing you're saying I love you. Remember that on Fridays she doesn't want to cook. And she sure doesn't want you to cook anything that was slaughtered. Remember that she prefers cheap whiskey over champagne. And when you're opening your ribcage to show her how fast your heart beats when she grabs your wrists, make sure the butterflies are set free. Make sure they find the window. Make sure they find a home. Remember that every living creature is just that, living. Remember that they have a heartbeat. And when you stop breathing when you see her with her hair down, when you're thinking about starting a religion about girls with flowers for eyes, tell her she's beautiful. Tell her she's so full of the future. Get her a telescope so you can show her the moon when it's bigger than both your thumbs. Take her skiing while it's Summer in Australia even though you curse the snow as if it were born out of wedlock. Let her know she's not the first but she's definitely the only, and you're so scared of dying. You never know what you have until it's locked firmly in your grasp as if to not let it run away. You might lose a lot of blood but you'll never lose your way home. I don't want to hear the dial tone. I want to hear your voice, I want to hear you scream. Tell me to leave. Tell me that I am the only road that leads you to a purpose. That in a world of blindness I am so technicolour. Even though I can't promise you that, I can give you my words, thrusted from my lungs like wildfire. Searching for the way out. Talk to me about religion, please please convince me that there is something out there other than rotting in the ground for all of eternity. Bible scripture doesn't whisper of your lips like my pillows do. I never really thought about pillow talk until they started speaking me to sleep. I find myself found by the curvature of your spine, of the shadows that take up residence on your shoulders like they have lived there all along. I want to kiss away every bit of pain that has ever stopped you from smiling at strangers and let you know that I'm coming home and I will always find your hands. Let your ribs shake when your heart has had enough. Let them shake. Let the rain come through your window while you're sitting there in your makeshift darkroom. You are the only thing I know about consistency. And before I get lost in the unfinished maps of your veins, I will be making sure they lead to me.

0

Oct 30, 2013

Oct 30, 2013 at 6:42 PM UTC

blankpoems

Untitled

Before you get lost in the unfinished maps of her veins the ones like yours, but not stitched up too many times to count on the ticks of a clock, make sure that she trusts you enough to tell the truth. Make sure that she loves you enough to know how you lie. Remember that every single time you open your mouth, she's wishing you're saying I love you. Remember that on Fridays she doesn't want to cook. And she sure doesn't want you to cook anything that was slaughtered. Remember that she prefers cheap whiskey over champagne. And when you're opening your ribcage to show her how fast your heart beats when she grabs your wrists, make sure the butterflies are set free. Make sure they find the window. Make sure they find a home. Remember that every living creature is just that, living. Remember that they have a heartbeat. And when you stop breathing when you see her with her hair down, when you're thinking about starting a religion about girls with flowers for eyes, tell her she's beautiful. Tell her she's so full of the future. Get her a telescope so you can show her the moon when it's bigger than both your thumbs. Take her skiing while it's Summer in Australia even though you curse the snow as if it were born out of wedlock. Let her know she's not the first but she's definitely the only, and you're so scared of dying. You never know what you have until it's locked firmly in your grasp as if to not let it run away. You might lose a lot of blood but you'll never lose your way home. I don't want to hear the dial tone. I want to hear your voice, I want to hear you scream. Tell me to leave. Tell me that I am the only road that leads you to a purpose. That in a world of blindness I am so technicolour. Even though I can't promise you that, I can give you my words, thrusted from my lungs like wildfire. Searching for the way out. Talk to me about religion, please please convince me that there is something out there other than rotting in the ground for all of eternity. Bible scripture doesn't whisper of your lips like my pillows do. I never really thought about pillow talk until they started speaking me to sleep. I find myself found by the curvature of your spine, of the shadows that take up residence on your shoulders like they have lived there all along. I want to kiss away every bit of pain that has ever stopped you from smiling at strangers and let you know that I'm coming home and I will always find your hands. Let your ribs shake when your heart has had enough. Let them shake. Let the rain come through your window while you're sitting there in your makeshift darkroom. You are the only thing I know about consistency. And before I get lost in the unfinished maps of your veins, I will be making sure they lead to me.

45

Name: Falen Acon Residence: San Diego California Age: 15 (almost 16) Birthday: Jan 4, 2000 (Capricorn) School: Don't worry about it! Grade: 10th (Sophomore) Class Of: 2018 Favorite Color: Ballet Pink, Gun Metal Gold and Burgundy Favorite Flower: Wild Flowers, Roses & Sunflowers Hobbies: Dancing and Poetry Favorite Food: Pizza Favorite Drink: Strawberry and Root Beer Soda Favorite Dessert: Ice Cream (Shakes) (any flavor) Happy Place (place that makes me happy): Beach or Dance Studio Career Path: Professional Dancer Lucky Day: Saturday Lucky Number: 3 Favorite Number: 7 Friends: Christan Zeal, Elsa Angelica and Drevon Young Goals: Find true love, Find happiness and Travel World Favorite Artists: Lana Del Rey, The Weeknd, Drake, PartyNextDoor, Post Malone, ILoveMakonnen, Rae Sremmurd, RDGLDGRN, Kyle, A.$.A.P Rocky, G-Eazy and Zayn Malik Celebrity Crushes: Zayn Malik, Justin Bieber, RED (from RDGLDGRN) and Steph Curry (GSW) Favorite NBA Team: Golden State Warriors (GSW) Favorite NFL Team: North Carolina Panthers Favorite MLB Team: Chicago Cubs Favorite College Football Team: LSU Tigers Favorite Nascar Driver: Kasey Kahne Future College: Texas State University (TSU) or Something :) Future Sorority: Delta Sigma Theta (DST) /_\

0

Dec 6, 2015

Dec 6, 2015 at 11:56 PM UTC

Bunhead17

About Me (Bio- Non Poem)

Name: Falen Acon Residence: San Diego California Age: 15 (almost 16) Birthday: Jan 4, 2000 (Capricorn) School: Don't worry about it! Grade: 10th (Sophomore) Class Of: 2018 Favorite Color: Ballet Pink, Gun Metal Gold and Burgundy Favorite Flower: Wild Flowers, Roses & Sunflowers Hobbies: Dancing and Poetry Favorite Food: Pizza Favorite Drink: Strawberry and Root Beer Soda Favorite Dessert: Ice Cream (Shakes) (any flavor) Happy Place (place that makes me happy): Beach or Dance Studio Career Path: Professional Dancer Lucky Day: Saturday Lucky Number: 3 Favorite Number: 7 Friends: Christan Zeal, Elsa Angelica and Drevon Young Goals: Find true love, Find happiness and Travel World Favorite Artists: Lana Del Rey, The Weeknd, Drake, PartyNextDoor, Post Malone, ILoveMakonnen, Rae Sremmurd, RDGLDGRN, Kyle, A.$.A.P Rocky, G-Eazy and Zayn Malik Celebrity Crushes: Zayn Malik, Justin Bieber, RED (from RDGLDGRN) and Steph Curry (GSW) Favorite NBA Team: Golden State Warriors (GSW) Favorite NFL Team: North Carolina Panthers Favorite MLB Team: Chicago Cubs Favorite College Football Team: LSU Tigers Favorite Nascar Driver: Kasey Kahne Future College: Texas State University (TSU) or Something :) Future Sorority: Delta Sigma Theta (DST) /_\

29

I’ve never quite lived up to the expectations that bombard every millennial these days, the ones knocking and gnawing at my skin until they find their way in and search through each crevice in my brain until they find the right residence to lay their bed and plant the insecurities that end up destroying my self-confidence and gifting me with the inability to succeed until I have to scrape every piece of residue from the inside-out just to get myself to a place where I can breathe again. Yeah, I don’t let those in anymore. I’ve always been a little bit of a question mark, a strange child who danced to my own beat, even when I tried to walk in time with those surrounding, and there is a small piece of me that - when a new life event of someone my age visits my newsfeed - wants the same, tired story for my own life... and then I remember I wasn’t made for this. Sometimes I’m not sure what I was made for anymore, and I just keep waiting and waiting until it’s my time to be on my own, or catch my heart on fire, or simply take a step forward, and, yet, it never happens. There are things I know about myself that I will never explain, and I shouldn’t have to. I have a key-shaped hole in my soul that aches to find its perfect fit, but I’m not allowed to twist it yet, though my fist has been ready for years, and all I can do in the meantime when someone asks me why is answer with one simple phrase that stings each time it passes through my lips: It’s not my time yet.

0

May 29, 2017

May 29, 2017 at 6:06 PM UTC

kairee-franzen

Tired Phrases

I’ve never quite lived up to the expectations that bombard every millennial these days, the ones knocking and gnawing at my skin until they find their way in and search through each crevice in my brain until they find the right residence to lay their bed and plant the insecurities that end up destroying my self-confidence and gifting me with the inability to succeed until I have to scrape every piece of residue from the inside-out just to get myself to a place where I can breathe again. Yeah, I don’t let those in anymore. I’ve always been a little bit of a question mark, a strange child who danced to my own beat, even when I tried to walk in time with those surrounding, and there is a small piece of me that - when a new life event of someone my age visits my newsfeed - wants the same, tired story for my own life... and then I remember I wasn’t made for this. Sometimes I’m not sure what I was made for anymore, and I just keep waiting and waiting until it’s my time to be on my own, or catch my heart on fire, or simply take a step forward, and, yet, it never happens. There are things I know about myself that I will never explain, and I shouldn’t have to. I have a key-shaped hole in my soul that aches to find its perfect fit, but I’m not allowed to twist it yet, though my fist has been ready for years, and all I can do in the meantime when someone asks me why is answer with one simple phrase that stings each time it passes through my lips: It’s not my time yet.

43

Growing up I was always told to pretend To make-believe I was a princess A mother A warrior Whoever I wanted to be With a little imagination and some time spent outside Could be real, But who was I really fooling? Not myself After turning the pool into a beautiful dress After putting my "babies" to bed After slaying the evil swing set I was still me Maybe that's why I got bored started trying to make others believe my stories Not worried about what I thought More how much others did I can control the radio I can make it so you can't move I can levitate I can read your mind I am a famous singer I lied to you about all of this because if you believe it you might be able to make it true Lies that's all they were I wanted them to be true Tried to make them true They never were They never will be Lies Memories Pretending it doesn't hurt Pretending It does Never knowing who I was still searching for who I am I am NO princess I am NO mother but I can fight I wage wars with myself battle scars taking residence in my heart I wasn't lying I was pretending Pretending to be okay Pretending I believed Just like you pretend you care About me About what happens to me If i were to die now you would be at my funeral because it looks right If i die in ten years you wouldn't show up Pretending you care or Lying about caring pretending Lying if it's the same for me it's the same for me it's the same for you maybe if you spend a life hiding wounds spend a day in my shoes spend a night in my dreams you'll see why pretending i'm okay pretending i believe pretending i'm a princess a mother A warrior None of it works Nothing ever did nothing ever will pretending to be someone i'm not I'm not you, I pretended to be I imagined a world where I could make-believe to believe and have it be true When I slayed the swing set I killed myself

0

Jan 7, 2014

Jan 7, 2014 at 8:01 AM UTC

RogueSabotage

Pretending

Growing up I was always told to pretend To make-believe I was a princess A mother A warrior Whoever I wanted to be With a little imagination and some time spent outside Could be real, But who was I really fooling? Not myself After turning the pool into a beautiful dress After putting my "babies" to bed After slaying the evil swing set I was still me Maybe that's why I got bored started trying to make others believe my stories Not worried about what I thought More how much others did I can control the radio I can make it so you can't move I can levitate I can read your mind I am a famous singer I lied to you about all of this because if you believe it you might be able to make it true Lies that's all they were I wanted them to be true Tried to make them true They never were They never will be Lies Memories Pretending it doesn't hurt Pretending It does Never knowing who I was still searching for who I am I am NO princess I am NO mother but I can fight I wage wars with myself battle scars taking residence in my heart I wasn't lying I was pretending Pretending to be okay Pretending I believed Just like you pretend you care About me About what happens to me If i were to die now you would be at my funeral because it looks right If i die in ten years you wouldn't show up Pretending you care or Lying about caring pretending Lying if it's the same for me it's the same for me it's the same for you maybe if you spend a life hiding wounds spend a day in my shoes spend a night in my dreams you'll see why pretending i'm okay pretending i believe pretending i'm a princess a mother A warrior None of it works Nothing ever did nothing ever will pretending to be someone i'm not I'm not you, I pretended to be I imagined a world where I could make-believe to believe and have it be true When I slayed the swing set I killed myself

74

Home and contentment are synonymous The desire to reach, while innate or evident quiet or curious keeps a continuum over discrepant cultures, the world over An opulence of love and warmth Having one ingredient can make fertile the other One without the match, make an ordinary or secondary batch Making one rich with joy, their other can be broke and remote seeking satisfaction Home is not a location or bricks of residence But a written word in deep established sentiment An atmosphere cloaked in the unfalter The taking of arms to conclude their hold developed in elements of the affectionate No disaster, constructed or natural could alter As I am now, locked in the shadow of shades lost surrendering independent power in a momentary yield, On hands and knees, bloodshot and in need of a shield... In need of my one... the imperative relevance of feeling her That selfish influential significance that creates safe harbor at journeys end Generated by the glow of resolve in the home of her arms contentment

0

Nov 4, 2018

Nov 4, 2018 at 9:04 AM UTC

JudLove

In the shadow of shades lost

Home and contentment are synonymous The desire to reach, while innate or evident quiet or curious keeps a continuum over discrepant cultures, the world over An opulence of love and warmth Having one ingredient can make fertile the other One without the match, make an ordinary or secondary batch Making one rich with joy, their other can be broke and remote seeking satisfaction Home is not a location or bricks of residence But a written word in deep established sentiment An atmosphere cloaked in the unfalter The taking of arms to conclude their hold developed in elements of the affectionate No disaster, constructed or natural could alter As I am now, locked in the shadow of shades lost surrendering independent power in a momentary yield, On hands and knees, bloodshot and in need of a shield... In need of my one... the imperative relevance of feeling her That selfish influential significance that creates safe harbor at journeys end Generated by the glow of resolve in the home of her arms contentment

27

Dear, Madison I been thinkin' 'bout you some It's like a calmly lit cigarette Behind the fire you've become You've got your innocence And I've got my own free will If I take up residence Will you stay with me still? Dear, Madison I can't believe you're on your own Some men never see the sun Even if it's all they've ever known I can't believe it's true That you sleep alone at night If I knew what to do I'd make sure to do it right Dear, Madison Does romance scare you off? Because if they don't know how to care They don't deserve you that much I know you've been sorry some I've been sorry too It don't hurt me none I'm just glad that I met you

0

Dec 27, 2015

Dec 27, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC

jordan-rowan

Nice To Meet You, Ms. Madison

Dear, Madison I been thinkin' 'bout you some It's like a calmly lit cigarette Behind the fire you've become You've got your innocence And I've got my own free will If I take up residence Will you stay with me still? Dear, Madison I can't believe you're on your own Some men never see the sun Even if it's all they've ever known I can't believe it's true That you sleep alone at night If I knew what to do I'd make sure to do it right Dear, Madison Does romance scare you off? Because if they don't know how to care They don't deserve you that much I know you've been sorry some I've been sorry too It don't hurt me none I'm just glad that I met you

24

173 A fuzzy fellow, without feet, Yet doth exceeding run! Of velvet, is his Countenance, And his Complexion, dun! Sometime, he dwelleth in the grass! Sometime, upon a bough, From which he doth descend in plush Upon the Passer-by! All this in summer. But when winds alarm the Forest Folk, He taketh Damask Residence— And struts in sewing silk! Then, finer than a Lady, Emerges in the spring! A Feather on each shoulder! You’d scarce recognize him! By Men, yclept Caterpillar! By me! But who am I, To tell the pretty secret Of the Butterfly!

0

3.7k

Emily Dickinson

A fuzzy fellow, without feet

173 A fuzzy fellow, without feet, Yet doth exceeding run! Of velvet, is his Countenance, And his Complexion, dun! Sometime, he dwelleth in the grass! Sometime, upon a bough, From which he doth descend in plush Upon the Passer-by! All this in summer. But when winds alarm the Forest Folk, He taketh Damask Residence— And struts in sewing silk! Then, finer than a Lady, Emerges in the spring! A Feather on each shoulder! You’d scarce recognize him! By Men, yclept Caterpillar! By me! But who am I, To tell the pretty secret Of the Butterfly!

21