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uv Mar 2023
I am not social
I am scarse
I dont need to show up
If my heart does not ask

I am not available
I am not a farce
I dont need attention
Atleast not by the vast

I say i dont care
I say it, again.
Again and again
Till it feels like a mask

No need to follow
No need to like
I can grow, i can flow
I can be a social dislike

My talent is mine
It's whispers are mine
For me, for me
For me is the rhym.

You can leave me
You can, you can
Leave me you can
But i still love the best i can

I love the best i can.
Just pause, pause this race, you are more important than what others might think.
at first things were great with my mom and my dad
she should have stayed best she could have had.,
most would call it shallow to leave be on  your own,
not some tantrom all around disaster
day by day a year matured faster
I was only nine helping mamma cross the line,
child support goes for my stepbrothers fine.
maybe when he was my age he belonged in a love cage,. 10 His own mind rage,.
but sneakin out at night for some hood fight !  back to 21 remember  that he died right.
only one who cried long my heart syed a new song,
never understood. cant we just get along?
yea you say a bad kid, as a parent not helpin had did..
with learning had hid,
hurting words created
    thats why my brother deflated...
mom I was good kid seain what was right never under stood you'd rather quit or split
You know I was you're hero you made me just some zero...
once was indepenent then boom the mind flent,
now your'e just insane controlled by cliffs chain,
but you know that I dipped along the way I tripped
one thing that I fell, atleast I'm out my shell
led out on the train achieved my life regain,


sorry that I hit him,
your hubby just was  cruel
as a lil Rhym he through me in the tubby
hit me with his bottles called me fat and chubby
beaming red eyes screaming  all night crys,
all on my own,
brother helped when I got thrown.      

even at four got pushed to the floor.... by the way just more to say
Once i hit twelve I ran for he door
Thid bad man for the rest of her life
she said yes to be his wife,
with his big ring knee on the floor
I just think 'Ding hells at the door...
      moms the baby inside screams save me

  plus her dad got out the knife he was crazy her whole life
by time i Got to ten my mind was in a den,.
every day was yelling,
      just be soft and sweet by telling,
I know you are just scared And once you really cared.
with your so called man,
the one with no life planned
  You see I left the road called far west
with out your'e hand I just want the best,
one day mom you wont see me
one day mom you'll be at rest..
cause that mess left bullets in your'e chest :'( </3

Arrywillbeloved2013© copy right protected
Kelly Michelle Mar 2013
I can see now the injury..
The tear which ripped through a soul..
The irresistable gravitational force it has..
An internal super nova, made blackhole..

See the bandit who robs children?
Of their fantasy world of "safe"..
Their image of a benevolent universe..
Hallowed by a hole deep in inner space..

Time folds there as it captures..
Pain too emense to fit in inside..
Frozen solid for later feeling..
Moments from which we all hide..

Layers and piles of "protection"..
From hurts too bitter to taste..
Too cutting and raw in the knowing..
Too "gone" for time to waste..

Some more "protected" than others..
With their egos and illusion of control..
These are the ones most troubled..
Their false lives have swallowed them whole..

Now see the ones who show their pain?
Their layers suspended in time?
Perhaps some pulled to look inward..
Through the love of music, art, or rhym..

And others finally forced by fate's will..
To surrender their powerless pieces..
Emptied of excess, their souls cry out..
"I am Startdust; I am that which never ceases"..
ReemaS Dec 2012
Have I lost my inspiration to write?
To even rhym
I feel as though I have
Im a writer at heart
A nerd
Karisa Brown Oct 2017
F* my style
I don't
Have to
Rhym

Maybe I'm back there
Doing my time

In this room
Called attitude
You work me
Like a dime

I ain't gotta
Make money move
Just living
A hell of
A ride
BAM!!!
Aa Harvey May 2018
Zombie mind


In the middle of this night, zombie mind.
I struggle to complete a line that rhym…
Pegasus; horses for courses.
Run a pantomime race using daisies for shoelaces.


A world apart, after being thrown out of a bar.
Fields afar; I sleep under the stars.
Saturday through Sunday;
These…are…the…good times!
Monday to Friday,
I am oh so tired of this poetic production line.
This process must be worth it…


Country music?  I prefer to leave it
And find a better drum kit, with a louder hi-hat hit!
Prince became a symbol of our time.
Cinderella’s thimble, sewing needle;
Cotton on a reel…a dress made by mice.


Eyes are closing, no more movies showing.
Find your own way to see.  
Only you know where you are going…


(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Maria Etre Nov 2020
(You)
are the
rhym(e) (t)o all my (re)asons
Lawrence Hall Apr 2022
Lawr-nc- Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                   Can W- Writ- Anything Without th- L-tt-r –?

                                   Irritabl- Vow-l Syndrom-

Th-y say that-nglish is a difficult languag-
I wouldn’t know; it’s th- only on- I know
-nglish, that is, and it’s a lif—long study
But that’s okay; it k--ps m- out of the b--r joints

In -nglish w- hav- only six or so vow-ls –
A, -, I, O, U, Y, and that vagu- “ih” sound
Which m-ans that rhym- is a chall-g- in tim-
Though “How now, brown cow?” works out okay

That is, if on- wants to gr--t a cow at all
I s-ldom do, but how about you?
Irritable Vowel Syndrome
aestuosi pedes or perhaps pedes aestuosi:
whatever the order might be
it did bring me unto a rather favorite passage
of Cicero:

“He’s a slave.” But he may have the spirit of a free man. “He’s a slave.” But is that really to count against him? Show me a man who isn’t a slave; one is a slave to ***, another to money, another to ambition; all are slaves to hope or fear. I could show you a man who has been a Consul who is a slave to his “little old woman”, a millionaire who is the slave of a little girl in domestic service. I could show you some highly aristocratic young men who are utter slaves to stage artistes. And there’s no state of slavery more disgraceful than one which is self-imposed. So you needn’t allow yourself to be deterred by the snobbish people I’ve been talking about from showing good humour towards your slaves instead of adopting an attitude of arrogant superiority towards them. Have them respect you rather than fear you.

noted: for the sense of fluidity i discard
all above formality of Place or Name: sometimes
on a whim, yes, if prominent: either place or name -

and note that each new line is not bound to
paragraph (¶)
  pillow                             -                     crow

said to measure: expanse of - money, printable sap
of space of (a) page
                        and as such: a sobering ambition,
reflection, reminiscent of youth
and Nietzsche and: if anything equivalent to
Ecce **** can be printed
then this governed by the luxury of not printed...

on morality: as a prejudice?
that's not Nietzsche: not neat: cher:
chim-chimeney-chim-chimeney-chim-chimy-cherry
not him: me,

on morality: as prejudice...
since mortality is not ethics but an allusion
to ethics: morality is like fashion
is a sense of fashion
while ethics is simply the dignity of wearing
clothes or rather of wearing
protection
morality is how there is more to cloth
than simply keeping warm
the allusion to *** should summer come and
summer women...
who are not the women of winter
and how all that attire is exclusive
no, in summer a woman's attire becomes inclusive
or they say: it is warm enough
for the bees and the birds and
honey glazing of otherwise porcelain "anemic"...

larvae like see-through skin
you'd dare to look for a pulsating worm-like
structure resembling an *****.

or is there a subjective experience of having a heart?
i wonder
because the objectivity of heart on the basis
of pulse:
is there a subjective experience of the heart
like a heart is subjected to the clenching of the hand
to insinuated not so much
a fist to further insinuate violence but
a clenching of the hand to insinuate
a clenching of the heart a heart's pang of pain
not pain: real but pain metaphysical
                                                    ­  like love lost love loved
love as a chemistry, binding of two bodies
then unbinding like the need for two rings
of metal coupled...

                   quote:
"on this perfect day...
           i buried my four-and-fortieth year...
philosophy... hammers...
               now i'm going to tell myself
the story of my life"

                                  and that is curious,
or rather this is also how you experience a luxury
of writing should reading be exhausted
and by no far stretch of the imagination
this is a little vain a little sordid or at least there's
an aesthetic to the ascetic -
                                            which is hardly seen
but remains intact
                    perchance on the street outside
a train station three bums drinking wine basking
in the sunlight while everyone else busies
themselves (with themselves):

existential revisionist theory,
a soft beginning, inclined to the romance of Islam
maybe i've been working in the security
industry far too long with a multitude of
races, creeds and chocalatiers
since i believe i see that the future is biracial
at least a new Aztec Mecca
in the smoldering *** of hyped over hyped ***
i see the future as mixed-race
but i don't see the other necessary future
that is in me:

bilingual because it's not just enough
to break a few eggs
into the tease of horror-sexuality of the cis-woman
so much better than the early
sexuality of Bilie Eilish and now out for Lunch
bad guy bad guy
i'm finally making a girl cry
not the one crying not the broken idealist
of my years of 21 springs
now i finally found my wrecking ball
my Damian O
                        O the wheel and O i spin into
o o
o
o
o o
o o  o
o o
o o
             bubbles all not so like bubbles
but some sort of covert mathematics
like algebra but
not algebra because there are no hard-on
limp **** problems clearly defined
no this is more an algebra without letters
as letters or unknowns
with only 9/0 fold Truth
the avenue of awe while angels
stopped singing and instead started whispering
to me
the angels stopped singing
instead started whispering
into my mind's ear

if there is a mind's eye: i third party who and why

sobering thoughts burden me
when i drink two fire-milk whiskeys
and smoke a joint because
i microdose
i micro-dose
what i smoke if a sprinkle
in a giant bush of tobacco
rolled up rolled into a tight bun ***
oh the glutton over the intolerance
to the whey woah woe-ah like woe sulking
over a disco mummy dance
behind a mirror and all the ****
that's equivalent to the population
of octopii of the seas...

all she knew prior was no music
because she was collecting music
then sold the vinyl
melted it into linq:     liquidrice
liquorise... darker than spice
a bit like hash
Hashish Hasha...
         Ashar and the Bashar al-Qud

revel in the following telegraph:

CHRSTNTY XHSTD
exhausted
humanity
somehow
too much humanity
in a single man
existential revisionist
not secular dead end
all politics no myths
just newspapers
not fires and talk
and the one madman
Elijah to go into wilderness
for the voice of god
because humanity
somehow forgot and forgave
itself:
it started forgiving itself
for forgetting and making
upkeep a sort of last resort
of angles in the health
and safety rules at work

ergonomic sophistry
like i'm rhyming to the rhythm
of a song...
rhyme to rhythm of a song

RHYM' RHYTHM
i found the two gammas...
alpha male
beta male
and the gamma male
radioactive...
imitation of Rzeczpospolita
"too many consonants"
not enough vowel glue...

Riff - raff -Ryvm...
very velvet very not sleepy so borrowed
time on the touch of water
from behind a white glove...
no not helium filled surgical gloves
touching the waters of birth
waters of ***
waters of mouth
waters of oral
waters of constipated ***
and anti-birth
for the *** all pleasure
just gay dead ends no children
now my children not my children
all seem like children
and chills...
the waters of periods
moon skies and cycles
and buying plots of land
but not buying with words
like pennies by the simple math of
effort invested in, regardless of rewards
because

capitalism is anti-literacy with
the books it pushes all
autobiographies written by ghosts
of men
who excuse them reaching the heights
being dyslexic...
that's Muhammad the Prophet of WHWH
because is LLH to special for gay lord...

such is the extent of AI generated responses
it's like having a secret internet
that was not there prior
and that's me not even having dwelt among
the super cool gansta rot of the deep web
with all the human perversity
depravity and satan bound to happy-sad japan...

elsewhere the transition from Christianity
to Islam because the Hebrew cult is confusing
enough from how language is a study of the Torah
and how slang is not going to be anything
short of finishing that book
mind you currently on my list
of multi-tasking books
because i have taken the forbidden fruit
of an audiobook of the lord of the rings: the fellowship

but i'm gathering history in books
i can't just overlook, forget,
a labyrinth alley of forest dried and smoked
books, list:

knausgaard's vol 6 of mein kampf
frank herbert's dune
olson's the maximus poems
zhuangzi's writings
the master and margarita in german....

i have all these books started:
problem being
like someone i heard say
about Dickens' the Pickwick Papers...
oh yes...
that's another book on my list...
like this person said
to entice...
the problem with the Pickwick Papers
as a book...
is to have finished reading it...

thus i pledged: start reading as many books
and leave them unread
or rather keep them...
eternity is going to be a long flight
of the citizens of nothing toward god
so it's going to be boring and painful
so i need reading material
and the forthcoming book on my list of books
started but not finished is...

mad enough to spend £47.55 for a book
of 420 pages...
meadows of gold and mines of germs
by al-Masudi...

just because he was an ummi (mommy's boy)
doesn't mean that in some trance
he started scribbling, Muhammad...
anyone can take complications of a man
and attire them to self then somehow
exfoliate counter to the narrative of the supposed
clues to cues for life...
but i will not transcript the answer of the AI
(chatGPT is like the internet as an app
since i predominantly used the internet
to search, regardless of music i want to listen to
best advertised
but search engine for answers
like skimreading like a skinny late
like a skinny girl no **** no ***
so i mean like Google 2.0 that's chatGPT):

see the poem Q.

— The End —