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I don't too much buy into those social media romances.
Reminding us every Monday and Wednesday
Guess whose it is

I don't too much buy into those social media romances
Because pictures always last longer
And all those emojis become cliche
Hinting at all this love that may or may not exist

I don't too much buy into those social media romances
Although I always have moments I wish I could bare to the world
But they're better off left with me

Scrolling through these photos
See I don't too much buy into those social media romances
Because I know things are not always as they seem.
mark john junor Jun 2013
the sun romances the night sky
seeping its slow blue
into the wheeling starfeild
its own grandeur carousel fades
as the stars dulled by the dawn stray away
one by one they bid farewell to the day

her blushing bride endeavor
expanded to her full embrace horizon to horizon
leaves fine line lace of mist
on the water
and begins to warm to announce
the forthcoming of her proud man

noon approaches
thundering hoofs of furnace heat his stallion
his brow breaks with the sweat of his labor
pushing the sun up to her pedestal heights
so a breif rain sqaull rocks our ragtag little ship
noon throws lightening and makes such rousing appeal
but the younger sister approaches
and noon must forsake his place

the quiet seductress afternoon
with her hazy summer heat lulling
and her many sweet scents and sounds
lay with you in the grassy field and
makes love to you with dreams of everlasting summer
and remembrances of childhood carefree abandon

she calls out to her mother evening
who comes and with a mothers love cools your brow
suppertime and laughter with loved ones
gathered at the kitchen table
dream time in safe places of the soul

finally night comes
slipping in silent and swift
deep and quiet he is mystery
gathering of soldiers who fail to conquer
gathering of lovers who two by two not
only are the world but make it anew
with love and with children
now full circle we have come
on the spiral track of our days
as the sun romances the night sky
for alyssa
Aayush Rathod Apr 2015
Oh, I remember the forgotten romances,
And tragedies of times forgotten,
When my dear loved one lies next to me.
And why I imagine you,
Not her.
And wish my angels,
For a truthful dream.
And why,
Do I miss you still,
When my dear loved one lies next to me...
Posting after quite a long time :)
I hope you like it.
The TV contains budding romances
and break ups
and new lovers and mistresses of
hundred celebrities that made you
believe that the world
is a merry place.

You made songs for your lover
and poems and recited and sing those
on the platform in a social media before an audience
who would believe that
your relationship is a
merry go round one.

But the world is not a merry place
and relationships are not actually spotless like
plates in a dishwashing liquid commercial
on a TV that does not exist for the people in Bakwit
who fled their lands and walked three hours
under the scorching sun as their
three month old infants dived in
thirst and hunger and mothers
and fathers were murdered and gun-fired
in brazen daylight.

The TV contains budding romances
of celebrities that made you recite love poems
and hugots on this very platform
as you continue your quest of finding
a fling or lament on your unrequited love.
You do this
while out there
the world does not revolve in a merry go round ride.
This poem was performed in a slam poetry event in Quezon City, Philippines. I dedicate this piece to the minorities, to the indigenous tribes, to the bearer of timeless cultures and ancient traditions.
mark john junor Dec 2016
her empty heart keeps beating...
her empty gaze still sees
her voice a shell filled with the cold sand
sluggish monotone wet
of a violent empty sea....
she romances the dark masterpiece
of your voiceless screaming....
she sits with you in the gray room
her fists balled up in limp rage...
she is the daughter of her cherished heartbreak
the end result of her old lover dark and bittersweet...
a tasty gem all bright and beautiful
wrapped up in the bandages
of her battlefield romances...
her empty heart keeps beating...
her empty gaze still sees...
her warm hand still gives comfort
she is still the life behind your unmoveable force
she is a woman of these modern days
strong in ways not even she can see
beautiful beyond what any mirror can see
her heart will find its way
the love will return to eyes
her voice will grow strong once again
await her heart's spring
await her and she will see
you are the man
that was meant to be
Angela Liyanto Sep 2018
I would imagine my shoes full of broken wineglass
     and I would bicker, shoot, hum, wring
     carefully take them all out,
     with my godcrazed sweaty hands
I would see hallucinatory men in love, all destroyed with jarring
     scars on their arms because of the Great War,
     wrestle each other to steaks in the dead beach
     moaning with their twenty year old cigars
     still in their tortured mouths
I would see children playing at Dawn,
     They never grow older, always the age of eight
     They all played games with me, especially
     In those Westfield overblown supermarkets
I would dream of a pure Strawberry Field's kingdom,
     With John Lennon’s flannel shirts and a picture
     of some artist’s wife wanting to jump off the Brooklyn bridge
     Thinking I’m related to Napoleon
     who I forgotten about, ever since we left Chinatown that day.

So I called the twenty four hour hotline, where all the suicidal people call in the middle of the night,
      groaning in my bathtub, thinking of my visions,
      knowing one thing, I cried,
      “ I don’t want to turn into a cockroach like Gregor did!”
Instead I turned into a Shakespearean agony girl in two days,
     and wrote dramas in my room at midnight
     hissing of the mistreatment of slaves back in 1821.

After, I wept of the romances of the guiltless terraces in the tiny
     exhaustible corners of the street, in the abandoned libraries,
     and went back to school half-insane filled with gibberish stanzas
     and academics that sounded like more gibberish.

Then, I was I crowned with pinnacle ‘Madness of Thou Brain and Sick Oblivion, with auditory hallucinations’

I gave my one synapse yell to my only friend in town, and they all
     sent me to some institution where I felt more belonging than I
     did in eight years.

I met a girl who was planning to read To **** A Mockingbird in an hour,

I met a boy from Juvie who smoked too much and took too many pills

I met a boy who was just as sick as me, we played Twister in the
     dark until the nurses caught us holding hands,
     I never saw him again after that.

I met a girl who completed her suicide two days before her

Can you see it yet? In the tiny inexhaustible corners of the streets?
     In the abandoned libraries?

In little time, my generation will beat their visions to the streets,
     their innovation will rise to daring freshness.
A poem that reflects the society of modern times, a hallucinogenic mess of questions, but still somehow surviving and standing firm in its ideas.
Ashley Chapman Oct 2017
Feel empty in your post apocalyptic City of Angels,
Where not even your pets are real!
An electric android, a sheep or a frog,
The whir-flutter of micro-electrical wings of a butterfly.

Good, and so you ought.

Now grab the handles of your empathy box,
And in a shared virtual hallucination –
Feel: empathy, depression, pain, delusion and despair,
The outré myriad gifts of consciousness.

Millions of discombobulated and disconnected wrecks:
Adam's sons; Eve's daughters,
And among them simulations too,
Fakes! androids!
A phony circuit of semi-conscious memories,
A hive of neural malaise!
Welcome to our world; know how dead, inside, I feel.

You, yes, you:

Need a pet to make you more complete?
Maybe you can afford
A Fake Fakir Flake like me who looks like Jude Law,
Sounds like Richard Burton,
And silently romances you like Rudolph Valentino.
Come and stick what’s left of your mind in here,
In hair, hear her: har, har, har…

A box of lies...

A voice, Mercer's,
With texture from an age you neither lived in nor dared in:
Al Jerry's, a TV actor,
Droning on in pre-selected tones.

The real thing, the men, the women, their animals,
Made in the wild, wild desert, in the green pulsing savannah,
On the open crusted sea; now too, washed, choked, and drained,
Too many spliced and diced mutations,
Iterating your image:
The thing that was my heart,
My Child, now its imitation.
This comes from my fascination with Philip K. **** and Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep. In this, his future dystopian vision, androids are retired, a euphemism for terminated, when they have passed their legal age limit after four years. Humans, us, have by now ruined our environment and become enthralled to a false religion, Mercerism , a fabricated make belief, spun by an actor, Al Jerry. The empathy boxes plunge the followers of Mercerism into a shared virtual hallucination. I was also enthralled by Jude Law in AI by Steven Spielberg who gave what I thought was a mesmerising portrait of a *** robot, the ultimate Lothario and so tragically programmed to flaw.

Earlier this year Mercerism was the theme of The Tunnel, an art collective to which I am a participator, through poetry.

Blade Runner, the film, now Blade Runner 49, is based on this dark interpretation of where we could all be headed.
Nassif Younes Apr 2016
The winter breath is winded
It's icy teeth are filed into a smooth breeze -
Warm but not quite that kiss
From summer's steamy lips
And I'm hardly ***** enough
To call this Spring.

This, my friends,
Is the nothing season.
The slugglish March
Into April.

The nights are no longer cold enough
For people to fake romances with each other
Just to have a spoon
And this is not quite the heat
That makes people hook up
To prove their summer body
Was worth the effort.

This is just
A time so desperately dull
That I'm stuck here alliterating
And talking
About the ******* weather.
Nigel Morgan Jun 2013
She sent it to me as a text message, that is an image of a quote in situ, a piece of interpretation in a gallery. Saturday morning and I was driving home from a week in a remote cottage on a mountain. I had stopped to take one last look at the sea, where I usually take one last look, and the phone bleeped. A text message, but no text.  Just a photo of some words. It made me smile, the impossibility of it. Epic poems and tapestry weaving. Of course there are connections, in that for centuries the epic subject has so often been the stuff of the tapestry weaver’s art. I say this glibly, but cannot name a particular tapestry where this might be so. Those vast Arthurian pieces by William Morris to pictures by Burne-Jones have an epic quality both in scale and in subject, but, to my shame, I can’t put a name to one.

These days the tapestry can be epic once more - in size and intention - thanks to the successful, moneyed contemporary artist and those communities of weavers at West Dean and at Edinburgh’s Dovecot. Think of Grayson Perry’s The Walthamstowe Tapestry, a vast 3 x 15 metres executed by Ghentian weavers, a veritable apocalyptic vision where ‘Everyman, spat out at birth in a pool of blood, is doomed and predestined to spend his life navigating a chaotic yet banal landscape of brands and consumerism’.  Gosh! Doesn’t that sound epic!

I was at the Dovecot a little while ago, but the public gallery was closed. The weavers were too busy finishing Victoria Crowe’s Large Tree Group to cope with visitors. You see, I do know a little about this world even though my tapestry weaving is the sum total of three weekends tuition, even though I have a very large loom once owned by Marta Rogoyska. It languishes next door in the room that was going to be where I was to weave, where I was going to become someone other than I am. This is what I feel - just sometimes - when I’m at my floor loom, if only for those brief spells when life languishes sufficiently for me be slow and calm enough to pick up the shuttles and find the right coloured yarns. But I digress. In fact putting together tapestry and epic poetry is a digression from the intention of the quote on the image from that text - (it was from a letter to Janey written in Iceland). Her husband, William Morris, reckoned one could (indeed should) be able to compose an epic poem and weave a tapestry.  

This notion, this idea that such a thing as being actively poetic and throwing a pick or two should go hand in hand, and, in Morris’ words, be a required skill (or ‘he’d better shut up’), seemed (and still does a day later) an absurdity. Would such a man (must be a man I suppose) ‘never do any good at all’ because he can’t weave and compose epic poetry simultaneously?  Clearly so.  But then Morris wove his tapestries very early in the morning - often on a loom in his bedroom. Janey, I imagine, as with ladies of her day - she wasn’t one, being a stableman’s daughter, but she became one reading fluently in French and Italian and playing Beethoven on the piano- she had her own bedroom.

Do you know there are nights when I wish for my own room, even when sleeping with the one I love, as so often I wake in the night, and I lie there afraid (because I love her dearly and care for her precious rest) to disturb her sleep with reading or making notes, both of which I do when I’m alone.
Yet how very seductive is the idea of joining my loved one in her own space, amongst her fallen clothes, her books and treasures, her archives and precious things, those many letters folded into her bedside bookcase, and the little black books full of tender poems and attempts at sketches her admirer has bequeathed her when distant and apart. Equally seductive is the possibility of the knock on the bedroom / workroom door, and there she’ll be there like the woman in Michael Donaghy’s poem, a poem I find every time I search for it in his Collected Works one of the most arousing and ravishing pieces of verse I know: it makes me smile and imagine.  . .  Her personal vanishing point, she said, came when she leant against his study door all warm and wet and whispered 'Paolo’. Only she’ll say something in a barely audible voice like ‘Can I disturb you?’ and with her sparkling smile come in, and bring with her two cats and the hint of a naked breast nestling in the gap of the fold of her yellow Chinese gown she holds close to herself - so when she kneels on my single bed this gown opens and her beauty falls before her, and I am wholly, utterly lost that such loveliness is and can be so . . .

When I see a beautiful house, as I did last Thursday, far in the distance by an estuary-side, sheltering beneath wooded hills, and moor and rock-coloured mountains, with its long veranda, painted white, I imagine. I imagine our imaginary home where, when our many children are not staying in the summer months and work is impossible, we will live our ‘together yet apart’ lives. And there will be the joy of work. I will be like Ben Nicholson in that Italian villa his father-in-law bought, and have my workroom / bedroom facing a stark hillside with nothing but a carpenter’s table to lay out my scores. Whilst she, like Winifred, will work at a tidy table in her bedroom, a vase of spring flowers against the window with the estuary and the mountains beyond. Yes, her bedroom, not his, though their bed, their wonderful wooden 19C Swiss bed of oak, occupies this room and yes, in his room there is just a single affair, but robust, that he would sleep on when lunch had been late and friends had called, or they had been out calling and he wanted to give her the premise of having to go back to work – to be alone - when in fact he was going to sleep and dream, but she? She would work into the warm afternoons with the barest breeze tickling her bare feet, her body moving with the remembrance of his caresses as she woke him that morning from his deep, dark slumber. ‘Your brown eyes’, he would whisper, ‘your dear brown eyes the colour of an autumn leaf damp with dew’. And she would surround him with kisses and touch of her firm, long body and (before she cut her plaits) let her course long hair flow back and forward across his chest. And she did this because she knew he would later need the loneliness of his own space, need to put her aside, whereas she loved the scent of him in the room in which she worked, with his discarded clothes, the neck-tie on the door hanger he only reluctantly wore.

Back to epic poetry and its possibility. Even on its own, as a single, focused activity it seems to me, unadventurous poet that I am, an impossibility. But then, had I lived in the 1860s, it would probably not have seemed so difficult. There was no Radio 4 blathering on, no bleeb of arriving texts on the mobile. There were servants to see to supper, a nanny to keep the children at bay. At Kelmscott there was glorious Gloucestershire silence - only the roll and squeak of the wagon in the road and the rooks roosting. So, in the early mornings Morris could kneel at his vertical loom and, with a Burne-Jones cartoon to follow set behind the warp. With his yarns ready to hand, it would be like a modern child’s painting by numbers, his mind would be free to explore the fairy domain, the Icelandic sagas, the Welsh Mabinogion, the Kalevara from Finland, and write (in his head) an epic poem. These were often elaborations and retellings in his epic verse style of Norse and Icelandic sagas with titles like Sigurd the Volsung. Paul Thompson once said of Morris  ‘his method was to think out a poem in his head while he was busy at some other work.  He would sit at an easel, charcoal or brush in hand, working away at a design while he muttered to himself, 'bumble-beeing' as his family called it; then, when he thought he had got the lines, he would get up from the easel, prowl round the room still muttering, returning occasionally to add a touch to the design; then suddenly he would dash to the table and write out twenty or so lines.  As his pen slowed down, he would be looking around, and in a moment would be at work on another design.  Later, Morris would look at what he had written, and if he did not like it he would put it aside and try again.  But this way of working meant that he never submitted a draft to the painful evaluation which poetry requires’.

Let’s try a little of Sigurd

There was a dwelling of Kings ere the world was waxen old;
Dukes were the door-wards there, and the roofs were thatched with gold;
Earls were the wrights that wrought it, and silver nailed its doors;
Earls' wives were the weaving-women, queens' daughters strewed its floors,

And the masters of its song-craft were the mightiest men that cast
The sails of the storm of battle down the bickering blast.
There dwelt men merry-hearted, and in hope exceeding great
Met the good days and the evil as they went the way of fate:
There the Gods were unforgotten, yea whiles they walked with men,

Though e'en in that world's beginning rose a murmur now and again
Of the midward time and the fading and the last of the latter days,
And the entering in of the terror, and the death of the People's Praise.

Oh dear. And to think he sustained such poetry for another 340 lines, and that’s just book 1 of 4. So what dear reader, dear sender of that text image encouraging me to weave and write, just what would epic poetry be now? Where must one go for inspiration? Somewhere in the realms of sci-fi, something after Star-Wars or Ninja Warriors. It could be post-apocalyptic, a tale of mutants and a world damaged by chemicals or economic melt-down. Maybe a rich adventure of travel on a distant planet (with Sigourney Weaver of course), featuring brave deeds and the selfless heroism of saving companions from deadly encounters with amazing animals, monsters even. Or is ‘epic’ something else, something altogether beyond the Pixar Studios or James Cameron’s imagination? Is the  ‘epic’ now the province of AI boldly generating the computer game in 4D?  

And the epic poem? People once bought and read such published romances as they now buy and engage with on-line games. This is where the epic now belongs. On the tablet, PlayStation3, the X-Box. But, but . . . Poetry is so alive and well as a performance phenomenon, and with that oh so vigorous and relentless beat. Hell, look who won the T.S.Eliot prize this year! Story-telling lives and there are tales to be told, even if they are set in housing estates and not the ice caves of the frozen planet Golp. Just think of children’s literature, so rich and often so wild. This is word invention that revisits unashamedly those myths and sagas Morris loved, but in a different guise, with different names, in worlds that still bring together the incredible geographies of mountains and deserts and wilderness places, with fortresses and walled cities, and the startling, still unknown, yet to be discovered ocean depths.

                                    And so let my tale begin . . . My epic poem.

                                                 THE SEAGASP OF ENNLI.
                                                AND REDEMPTIVE LOVE.
Abby Orbeta Dec 2014
Hi! I love you. Yes. You. I know that this might be too bold a declaration considering we barely know each other and we’ve only recently become Facebook friends. It hasn’t even been 48 hours since we first met, but I’ll say it again with much passion in my heart. I LOVE YOU. If you ask any of my friends if I’m serious about this, they’ll tell you that indeed I am. Like a ******* heart attack. Possibly to scare you to see if you’ll run away or to warn you that I do fall hard in love way too quickly with anything and everything or to see if you’ll respond positively so that maybe we can live happily ever after. I am serious though. I love you.

I love you because of the way you made eye contact with me when I entered the room and didn’t break it until after I mindlessly followed your invitation to sit beside you by the window sill and introduced yourself and asked for my name. I love you for the way you repeated my name three times after learning it as if to imprint it in your mind that I am called as such. My name as ordinary as it sounds, felt extraordinary with your voice. Love is in the way that we discussed how dangerous it is for small boats to try and traverse large oceans but it is possible. Dangerous, but possible. Just like you and me. I feel like my heart wants to spontaneously combust at the mention of car engines. I am not someone who is well versed into how a car works but oh dear Lord I came out of that conversation an expert. Expert in God knows what, I’m not entirely sure. But you know what I am sure of? You. You are the stuff of lovey dovey poetry. You are my “person next door”, my “white picket fence”, my “ice cold beers on a warm Sunday afternoon”, my “screaming at youths from our rocking chairs on the porch”. I have already pictured our forever from our short time together.

You might be wondering why I am telling you all this now, it’s because in a few moments I will forget. In a few moments, I will probably meet someone new and this cycle will repeat all over again. Just like with names, I am bad, no, horrible with butterfly romances. I’m sorry, but my heart has ADHD. We had great fun. Maybe writing this down will make the moment last longer, you know? So before I go, remember these three things: I love you. I love you. I love you. I hope never to forget this moment, but that’s wishful thinking. Oh hey, hi! Wait, what was your name again?
mark john junor Sep 2014
lets stay here a little longer
lets laugh and sing some more
because i want this moment to last
want this you and i
to go on all night
lets dance a little longer
lets romance a little longer
you look so wonderful in that dress
feel so wonderful holding your hand
its these simple joys
that romances the heart to believing
that sways the nightbreeze song to favor beautiful thoughts
want to walk alone with you and talk soft
lets dance a little longer
lets romance a little longer
want to laugh with you
see that light in your eyes
just let me hold you a moment longer
lets not let the night slip away
i see dawn comin
but just want one more moment
with your smile
with your hand in mine
lets dance a little longer
lets romance a little longer
lets kiss a little more
samasati Nov 2012
I believe in smiling at strangers. I believe in saying hello. I believe in shyness. I believe in fear of rejection. I believe in the need of affection. I believe in the need of reminders. I believe in candles, especially those that smell of vanilla or christmas. I believe in wearing small crystals around my neck. I believe in energetic vibrations. I believe in colours - I think each person has their own colour. I believe every feeling is valid. I believe in chapstick and I believe in mascara that doesn’t clump. I believe in nail polish - every colour of nail polish. I believe that the only reason we lie is because we fear something. I believe in poetry. I believe in bluntness. I believe in the intention behind words, but I don’t necessarily believe in words. I believe in travel. I believe in travelling solo. In fact, I believe in travelling so much that it is pretty much all I want to do. I believe in music. Boy, do I believe in music. I believe any kind of musical composition can change a person. I believe music can cure depression. I also believe music can feed depression. I believe a melody can say more than lyrics and I believe that lyrics can be what someone couldn’t put together themselves to explain exactly how they are feeling. I believe anyone can create a song, even though they believe they cannot. I believe a single note can sound like the most beautiful sound in the world. I believe if someone records a song when they’re in an ugly mood, the ugliness emits to its listeners and can drain them. I believe in art. Of course I do. I believe in acrylic paint. I believe in oil paint and watercolours, but not as much as I believe in acrylic. I believe in fingerprinting. I even believe in painting with your toes. And I believe in dancing; even if it looks weird. I believe in flailing your arms even, as long as it feels good and right. I believe in dancing ‘til you sweat, though I don’t like that icky feeling too much. I believe that a babe can be a very ugly person and a physically unattractive person can be a very beautiful person. I believe that people who smile are beautiful. I believe that people who frown are beautiful too, just in a different way. I believe that there are sincere smiles and there are manipulative smiles. I believe that some people just know how to use their eyes well. I believe in eye contact. I believe in engaging. I believe in listening and dropping everything else that is going on in your mind just to listen to what a person is trying to share with you. I believe in sharing - sharing cookies and sharing love. I believe in the frosty cold. I believe that it doesn’t have to feel as cold as it really is. I believe that people complain a lot. I believe that people often have too much pride to be happy. I believe that we should embrace our discomforts and shames, that we should welcome them wholeheartedly so that we can be happy. I believe in honesty. I believe in empathy. I believe in tea. I believe in jelly donuts but only on certain occasions. I believe in quirky bow ties. I believe in knit toques and mittens and scarves. I believe in dresses. I believe in flirting. I believe in coffee in the morning. I believe in big comfy beds. I believe in walking around your empty house in your underwear or birthday suit, singing loudly. I believe in singing in the shower. I believe in singing on the street. I believe in stage fright. I believe in meditation, though I don’t really strictly set times to do it anymore. I believe mundane activities can be done in a meditative state of mind. I believe in clarity. I believe in not judging people because everyone is human. I believe every human has something very interesting about them. I believe in boring people too. I believe in christmas music - not the radio kind, the choral kind. I believe in cheap sweet wine. I believe in Billy Joel and I believe in The Beatles. I believe in Regina and Sufjan too. I believe that the ukulele is a very overrated instrument. I believe in having healthy hair. I believe in moisturizer. I believe in getting to pick a coloured toothbrush at the dentist. I believe in thick wool socks. I believe in baggy sweaters. I believe in yoga gear but I do not believe in sweatpants. I believe that yoga is one of the healthiest things for a person - ever. I believe in buying a friend drinks or dinner once in awhile. I believe in collecting shoes and scarves and rings. I believe in chords but I don’t really believe in jeans. I believe in hot chocolate with whip cream but not with marshmallows. I believe in dorky Christmas sweaters. I believe in baking cookies instead of cake. I believe in eating disorders - I do not support them, but I do believe they are much more severe and various than most people think and I believe there should be better/proper help for those who suffer instead of the usual cruel inpatient/outpatient care. I believe in trichotillomania and I believe in dermatillomania and the severity and impact it can have on its sufferers. I believe in gardens. I believe in every single flower. I believe that everyone is always doing their best. I believe that most people love to struggle. I believe in hope. I believe in having faith in yourself. I believe in iPod playlists. I believe in gym memberships in the winter, not the summer unless it’s to swim. I believe in matching underwear every day. I believe in Value Village. I believe in singing in bus shelters when you’re waiting for the bus. I believe in dressing up according to holidays. I believe in Grey’s Anatomy and I believe in Community. I believe in skirts and dresses that twirl like the ‘ol days. I believe in longboards more than skateboards. I believe in plaid like most young people do. I believe in bows in my hair, but not as much as I used to. I believe in foot massages and hand massages. I believe in reflexology and reiki and essential oils and chakras and crystals and holistic nutrition. I believe in anxiety; even crippling anxiety. I believe in awkward romances. I do not believe in flip flops. I do not believe in Beatles covers unless they are really insanely good; then my mind is blown. I believe in having long enough nails to scratch someone’s back appropriately. I also believe in biting nails. I do not believe in telephone calls unless I am extremely comfortable with the person. I believe in blogs. I believe in journals. I believe in naming special inanimate objects like journals, instruments, technology and furniture. I believe in the idea of cats more than I believe in cats. I believe in sharpies or thin pointed permanent markers. I believe in temporary tattoos. I believe in streaming movies online. I believe in royal gala apples. I believe in avocados. I believe in rice cakes. I believe in popcorn. I believe in airports but I hate the LA airport. I believe in openly talking about *** but I don’t believe in making it seem shameful and gross. I believe there should be no shame regarding sexuality. I believe in reading some great books more than once. I believe in laying on the couch under cozy blankets, watching a great suspenseful tv show or movie. I only believe in having a couple bites of cheesecake. I don’t really believe in lulu lemon. I don’t believe many people can pull off the colour yellow. I believe in buttons over zippers even though zippers are easier, they just look kind of dumb and cheap. I believe in the sun and the moon equally. I believe in closets over dressers. I believe in staring out the window for a good hour or so.
Francie Lynch Dec 2015
A lost castle
In Galway called Lynch's,
Long lost
Its princesses and princes;
The blood took its chances
On foreign Romances,
Now Lynches
Spread over the globe.
Doesn't follow true limerick style, but somehow it works.
Sidebar: Che Guevera's last name was Lynch. I believe his mother or grandmother was from Galway, and he went by Lynch til he became Che.
mari Oct 2018
hunger did nothing for me.
it gave me no new growth,
it did not give me strength
for my bones, it did not fill
me with wonder and longing.

hunger could not stay with me.
it romances with tiny spaces
and the idea of belonging,
but my stomach growls louder
than the wolves outside my bed.

i stretch, i shrink, i swallow;
hunger could not fill me up,
hunger cannot take up space,
hunger cannot hold my body
in my bed at night and tell me

it’s all going to be okay.
i swallow you, hunger,
i cast you out,
hunger gave me nothing
and i loved her as nothing, too.
"Wagons East (1994) - IMDb Internet Movie Database Rating: 4.7/10 - ‎3,545 votes (stylized onscreen as ‘Wagons East’) is a 1994 western comedy film directed by Peter Markleand starring John Candy and Richard Lewis. The film marked one of Candy's last film appearances although it was not his last film release. His last film, Canadian Bacon which he had completed before “Wagons East,” had a delayed release in 1995. The film was notable for its leading actor Candy dying of a heart attack during the final days of the film's production. A stand-in and special effects were used to complete his remaining scenes and it released five months after his death."

And it’s Wagons East!
John Candy’s last mega-bomb,
Released 5 months postmortem.
Alas, even the sympathy vote stayed home,
Reject the we-owe-it-to-him-for
“Planes, Trains & Automobiles”(1987, IMDB).
The role, like money in the bank,
Earning diminishing returns,
Yielding interest but losing value over time.
The myth of INTEREST:
Das Capital, 2015.
The Prime is at 0%,
Yet, Inflation soars at, well,
At inflationary rates,
Digit-pounding inflation,
Higher food & shelter prices,
Masked ever so cleverly,
So deftly obscured by benevolent gasoline prices.

“Planes, Trains & Automobiles” (1987, IMDB)
Meet Del Griffith,
An obnoxious slob,
A complete schlemiel
(Also shle·miel (shlə-mēl′),
A serene shower curtain ring
Salesman and tour de force.
A film illustrative of everything
We love about farce,
(Merci beaucoup, Molière!)
And love about any
John Hughes/Steve Martin collaboration.

Needless to say,
I watched “Wagons East”
On TV the other day.
It was ten o’clock in the morning.
Will-o'-wisping in the ashtray,
Smoke from my first joint of the day.
The ashtray, a mosh pit carbonara--
Actually, an inverted exoskeleton dome--
One of dem big muthas,
I once free-dived for,
Offshore Mendocino Coast,
Back in the day,
Back when THE FRENCH LAUNDRY . . .
(The French Laundry: Thomas Keller Restaurant Group, Chef Thomas Keller visited Yountville, California in the early 1990's on a quest for a space to fulfill a longtime culinary dream: to establish a destination for fine --314 Google reviews · Write a review 6640 Washington St, Yountville, CA 94533 (707) 944-2380. Daily Menus - ‎Make a Reservation - ‎Restaurant)
Paid beaucoup bucks for
Sledge hammered slabs of illegal,
Black Market abalone.
Most assuredly, I digress.

So where else would I be?
My laptop was open & willing,
Legs spread, wet and waiting for
Whatever comes what may.
What came was a film
Earning pitch perfect
Dramatic chops for Candy.
We owe you, Del.
We owe you for this Anthem:
“You wanna hurt me? Go right ahead if it makes you feel any better. I'm an easy target. Yeah, you're right, I talk too much. I also listen too much. I could be a cold-hearted cynic like you . . . but I don't like to hurt people's feelings. Well, you think what you want about me; I'm not changing. I like . . . I like me. My wife likes me. My customers like me. Cause I'm the real article. What you see is what you get.”
But that was then,
This is now.
Wagons East:
A disastrous ****** bomb.
A vapid character jambalaya:
(1) A defrocked doctor
(2) A sagebrush *****.
(3) A queer book vendor.
(4) A Donner Party Survivor
Sounds can’t miss, right?
Or was it a classic Broadway/Hollywood sting?
Redux: “Spring Time for ******.”
N'est-ce pas?
Four *******
Heading east by wagon train;
Giving up on The West,
Heading east for Saint Louie,
Where freaks & geeks go undercover.
Down go their guards.
Camouflaging the chimera,
Transits the urban Wasteland,
Vast & nasty, as it were.

St. Louis, Missouri:
A much more tolerant
Hideout place.
Just too much of
A hassle, I guess,
Too much for one’s
Flat-lined human mind,
Bored too shitless by
Buffalo turds to venture thought.
Neorealismo italiano.
Complete Jolting-Joe reality,
A veritable wake-up call
Devouring any & all
Residual romantic fantasies . . .
Struggle & Drudge,
Life lived west of the Mississippi.

Rangeland Romances #9 Go West For Your Man! Kindle ( Books Literature & Fiction, Inc. Start reading Rangeland Romances #9 Go West For Your Man! Get the free Kindle Reading App or read on your Kindle in under a minute. Don't have a Kindle?

That’s right: another advertisement,
Smack dab in the middle of
Of the ******* poem!
My invention, by the by,
Putting herein another plug for
A preferred memorial gravesite,
The Shrine To Me!
Situated in Scituate,
(Always wanted to say that.)
Scituate MA (
Knowing my kryptonite crypt,
My not-marble-nor-gilded
Had no chance to outlive
This fakakta rhyme scheme . . .
The Shrine To Me!
My final resting place:
My very tony, exclusive
Sub Zip Code?
The South Transept
Westminster Abbey
The so-called Poets’ Corner,
Of course!

Which brings me to my true purpose:
My true intentions for you this morning?
To publicize the strange Case of
(Go ahead, ******* Google him!)
“Charlie Rocket, found dead in a field near
His Connecticut home on October 7, 2005,
His throat had been cut.
He was 56 years old.
The state medical examiner
Later ruled the death a suicide.”
And if you believe the Coroner,
A Medicine Man &
Master of Self-Interest;
If you give that sharp-dealing,
Proverbial Connecticut Yankee his due,
Then you will probably also think
That millionaire Robert Durst
Didn’t **** Susan Berman,
Even as we see him
Getting away with ******.
mark john junor Sep 2014
the promise that her tenderness has no fences
made her linger on my mind
like a rough bottle of fine wine
and as the evening rolled back daylights clutter of thoughts in my head
that smile she flashed me came back to kiss my heart
it came with such delight sparking in her sweet eyes
that i just felt myself drowning in the moment with such wanton joys
made me illustrious by her soft-spoken side
made me happy to be alive...

once the sullen girl in baggy sweat pants and pink slippers
dragging a bag full of noisesome beatnik romances
she has grown to love freedoms road
cast aside such tin-plated gods and rough-house boys
that a pretty boy isn't a man if he wont make a stand
found herself holding a wishing well coin
and a map showing paradises shores
and came down to find me again....

sitting in a coffee house full of lost voices
full of magazine honeys chilling before the big break finds em
listening to the sounds of heartbreak in glasses chatter
and waiting for a road that made sense to me
when she walked back into my life
like a rough bottle of fine wine
like a candlelight evening with true loves joys
i will be here forever know that now
florida moon-surfing
holding her in my arms
breathing the magic that is her
exploring her romances
(dedicated my friend dean and his girl mary who i wrote this poem about)
mark john junor Sep 2014
it was a hot summer day
and my heart was running free
she called out to me to come home
but the words had gotten away from me
and i could not see the ground anymore
just the boiling sky
just the hot dream in my blood

four times she called out to me
four times she cast pieces of eight at me
but my head was locked in a stirring of wings in the skyscape
my eyes consumed by the faster drums heartbeat

when i came upon a dark bird in the height of the sky
it did know my name
it did have a bearded saint in its talons
and his weak eyes did reveal a softer way
but i did not want to succumb
so i flew harder into the setting sun

she called all night
she called into a spanish day
casting pieces of eight like they were snow
she is my home sweet home
why do i do this thing
i will never know
why fly among the cold towers of distant shore
when romances candle flickers at home

the saint carried off by the dark beast
left me with a curse or a charm
he told of me to his brethren
and now they pursue me like a flock of lies
they will chase me down till my dying day
they will come upon me in the cold light by chill waters stream
beat upon my souls eyes with wings of black
till i am captured
Isabelle Rose B Aug 2013
Our world has many distractions,
Many of which I've known.
But here am I in the midst of it all,
writing a poem to whom I don't know.

Most of all I love you,
More than you could know.
And someone out there, near or far,
To you my love does flow.

I cannot help but think of holding hands,
Crazy dancing and smiling glances,
Movie nights and games with friends,
Writing notes of silly romances.

I'll sing you songs,
Some sincere, others silly but true,
Cause I'm just that kind of person,
You'd best be crazy with me too!

I'll try and love your sports,
and support your teams with cheering,
I'll bring you snacks, and cuddle up,
Though on the inside I may be leering!!

I'll make you cookies and huge cakes,
whipped beautifully with cream,
Even with this I'll be so happy,
I may believe myself to dream.

Oh darling, the future feels so far,
Maybe I should embrace today,
but what good is that to me,
When half this heart is out at bay?

They think me strange, and very different,
Just waiting for my prince,
Forever thinking to my tomorrow,
Based on parent's experience.

I'm sorry mother, father,
It does hardly seem fair,
But for you I will continue on this journey,
A life lived with special care.

And they are out there, living today's life,
And while they're grounded there I twirl,

Waiting for you to find in me:

*A precious, beautiful pearl
So wait for me,
As I do you,
Listen little to this world,
To the moon and back I do love you,
Be strong big man,
Till we meet :)
Alan S Bailey Feb 2015
I still remember your eyes
I still remember you always holding me
Keeping me safe from harm with all your charm
I remember feeling you looking at me, and I
Know you're still there, you're so wonderful!
I couldn't help but fall in love with you
And get crushes everywhere else, too.
It's just so unfair to have found such
Lovely romances, and suffer heartbreaks!
I can't help where my heart
Goes, but that's why I'm torn apart...
Please remember I'm always here and so is
My love too, it's not easy to be what society
Wants of you, especially love! Love is wild and
It's so undesired to be told I'm a cheater
When I have an excuse, I'm only human too!
Just remember I wasn't born with a defective
Heart, and it isn't easy to be torn apart.
Angela Moreno Jul 2015
All of my past romances
Have failed
Because I have tried
To make artists
Out of those
Who are not,
And I have tried
To tame the artists
Inside of those
Who undoubtedly are.
Pedro Tejada Jun 2010
From the ripple in a glass of water
to the sonic boom of this internal
Pompeii, the erosion
of her etymology is the only
sense of movement in her
dilated, cave-pupil eyes, those
two ghost towns spanning
and encircling all the way back,
stretched like an elastic blindfold
past the moment the first brick was laid,
perhaps her first vivid memory,
or anecdote, or first word uttered
in a Cuban slum.

There are mountains of tumbleweed
over the once thriving metropolis
that expanded towards America;
who threw herself into
the architecture of seven pillars,
borne from her land and
minerals. Gone are the
huts that housed her
knowledge of basic motor skills.

The women who once imagined
Mami and Mima as her birth
name now scrub off
the graffiti of her excrement;
they saw a swarm of pink moons
the day she told the same story
to every visitor that came
their way, each day then becoming
a missing surveillance tape, a sinkhole
dismantling the awareness
in her bones and stubborn will,
until she became
these dust-engulfed plains with
a daughter and granddaughter
archeological in their efforts
to chase down the remains
of a girl still breathing in
those eyes from time to time.

Every other ten-millionth blink of
the eye rides the silhouette of a post-infant girl
on the high tides of her quick visit,
looking in horror
as the nation of her life's nightmares,
heartaches, broken promises, romances,
spiritual breakthroughs, life-changing seconds
drowns with morbid unity en cien fuegos,
desperately attempting to assemble
the remnants of her psyche
past her cognitive bloodclots
with the awareness of one
who speaks no languages.

Gone is the moment
she first learned
to feed her several children
before the slip of sunset.

One of seven pillars remain intact,
the others long dismantled of their
stick and straw infrastructures.

One pillar remained,
housed her own colony
for nine months,
and now both descendants
travel the mind of their
greatest influence
with perplexed dedication,
caustic humor the decoy
for swarms of exhaustion
and asphyxiation
from the truthful atmosphere,
reveling in the seconds
of humanity lurking
in an abandoned etymology.
kirk Oct 2017
The world is full of misery with all our failed relations
Mixed feelings and emotions in my mind's hallucinations
The love of a derailed heart in clouded stipulations
When two lover's are forced apart, alone in different station's
Don't succumb to the seven year itch or feelings of flirtatious
Illicit thoughts invade your mind with paranoid creations
Loving seems to turn to hate with harsh eliminations
There is a sense of numbness without any good sensations
The depths of beauty are denied without any realisations  
lover's heart's are always lost in hopeless situations
The misery of loneliness gets worse with desperations  
Maybe it's because we have too many expectations

Life's to short for broken heart's waiting to be mended
Especially when your lover's gone and your heart is blended
It doesn't have to be this way or completely ended
Stop wasting time for love that's lost this can be amended
A limbo living state of mind is not really recommended
Being with the one you love should always be defended
Soul mate's that are separated can never be contented
Because their heart's are aching and love is not attended
A heart sent gift with feelings there's no need to be offended
It's the way I've always been a characteristic I have tended
Everything can work out fine our life and love extended
If you really want them too then this will be commended

There is no need to be unhappy all you need are chances
A lover's dream can come true not just distant glances
All you need is faith of the heart within your own expanses
Don't lose the love that you once had in falling avalanches
Losing a friend and lover, your feelings are in trances
The bleeding of a broken heart seeping through snapped branches
If your lover's left you, there is no more advances
The grass is not that greener it's only different dances
Maybe your the loser, lost looks are not young stances
True love's supposed to conquer all I'm not sure if it enhances
Kindness is forgotten and the good time's fled in prances
And people will always suffer from all life's failed romances
ArturVRivunov Oct 2011
life is never what it seems to be, always reoccuring with a thought as put upon the length of arms that revolutionize this thought. . .for those that can be bought,
is day like today less then feeling of want to rot, because so simple as a breeze brought down your temperment to be pleased. . .caught in a storm, that has outlasted
longer then your heart to feel content and warm, to feel the essence of a breath among a group of bad breaths, in other words, to breath among a group of brothers and sisters
from whom you can gain so much. But life is never what it seems to be, instead you look yourself in the mirror pointing at me, you, fool. Glowing from ragging frustration,
the toll blows for you unsurpassable deflation, because it is not for your hand that grows for the motion, to pick which ******* **** you want to lotion. Spearing the reasons,
the ego is your hero, born to work zero, and trusted with such hand to uphold all by command. To twist on the ****, that opens your door, to circumstances i certainly care less
the **** to continue to explore. But with this slight little mention, please pay close attention because this song is a *****. At least to explain the message, my whole is a
whole that takes life time to experience and grow, and appreciate the things that stoop all the levels around me, no barrier, no door, just genuine life experience to bring me
to come to this point to explain to the world something within the self, that is described by astute persons, for whom these ideas carry on to fulfill an immense part of
something that is casually slipped in and never thought about because it is told within reason that humanity cannot be without such astute person's idealogy. For **** sake my
friend, if your have many common sense, think of the common thing that has driven you to come to the conclusion that you have come to about anything. Everything is absolute and
existent and is evoked through the means. . .from the time of your dissapating freedom, as kids, not as adults, because look at how adults are this days. They teach their kids,
and they let others teach their kids, but the kids never get the feeling of being free. I promiss you, that cry or emotion you have experienced due to lack of friendliness from a
neighboring ****, it is an instillement that sparks up many motions of your life to believe into bizarre things the world portrays. For myself, I find the starting point of my
when I first breathed my first sensible air, when I walked in my own two feet without guidance as to where my eyes were seeing. How can a mind be so tender, lost by the misconformed
train thogh after train thought. That is why I find schooling such a fascinating ruthless thing that can be broken into several fashions as to why is that case. But not even
reason to fashion an answer that I know will and is definetly can be viewed to abhold a societal dismark of "wF"is wrong with that guy's mind. He must be **** casing a storm to
bring an ideaology of thought or some **** religion, but that's what so funny to me. I find everything in life comedic, non concerning except at times if I feel similar to
someone adjacent because that is their essence in my prescence, and I feel the need to comfort it, to bring back the importance of that self. The part of life I find so comedic,
how bits and bits and everything with **** have all so many fascinating
things to learn from, the progression of one's mind never attains self worth in the world with something interfering. That something interfering for example, is me personally
writing what is can be taken as pointless and presenting my writing to you how I say I do. But did I say how I am presenting this writing, absolutely not. So brings the funny,
that school teaches the aspect of disfigurament of a person's essence. This thing is a complete oblivion to everything and anything, that because even though I did not specify
how I tone myself on this paper, there is the predicament to assume that I am very angry deranged person who but pokes charasmatically at something no one can grip, because he
is portraying me the image the way I was bred to see. But then it is so **** funny, you can also take my words describing
all that I intend to explain and stick them against me to simplify your circumstances as to the causitive feeling your experiencing, and maybe the confusion that I am creating
noting a significant point that I do write intentionally without any figurative wording, just simply talking about this to evoke a presence of an essence within you that is hindered,
by what type of **** everybody is wearing, where they are starring, who is ******* and adoring, and who's simply the **** because they don't fit in a deranged group, developed by
ego-centric level stingers, who but want either good for you, or it is the drive to profit from you everything. That is, words blah blah, can take stroll
on one day's role and make no complete sense, and all they did were live the sense of a tangled mind that fostered on what has been in some form, taught, over
what you can call a lively existence, considering how much traumatizing headaches this could cause, and resembled among a group of similar constituents with similar reasons
as to whatever the situation might be. I could point this out within one sentence, but it wouldn't hold any deeper understanding of this essence, so instead I decide with all
my reasoning and tremendous experience that even to some, even at this gritty expertisians who grease up the world to guess everything based on study and reasoning by other humans,
who believe all these ideas are shifters to the mind but always stem the relentless, functioning without any perspectives open to the idea that mold humans into one spatial and far better
so called community, which in all it's case has lost the essence to preserve the self without a ***** on the back. That ***** of course is the communal ****, that builds from a
trigger of words, then they teach the brain as if it is known how to be as a functioning unit. The amount doesn't matter, the amount that is thought brings hope, but the most
amount to the self is the function of you, like I feel I function amongst anyone because I have come to terms and realize what really important things I have learned from my life.
My life to some is gripping, only because it sounds unbelievable, but of that life I found the same driving forces that drive madness even today, and has been reaccuring for as
long as some form of expression has been. And in all humiliation of humanity, or as I consider it digression of being self around the bounds of comfortability, it has been
a grand experience to see many a people transgress from the point of my meeting them with a continuous contact to the point of now, and then, and future plausible. But then
and future plausible for me stand out as notions needless of evocations due to the fact that the self is a dwindling factor hung by a rope to swing the way the self first portrayed
to me, and then to the direction away from the first encountered mind. But in all, without senseless ignorance, I do understand these things are studied for a reason, for a reason
that is workable to be as they are for some variables do affect person's in many different way. That is why, the sense of one roof and too many aloof is but a big spoof. With
sensibility, how can forging something into your life help you to achieve greatness within self to portray it in a manner plausible. The only way is as a current flows, so do
the gulls.

where do you. . .come from. . .so many leagues unbeknownst among my dreams.
life is never what it seems. . .until i met your eyes.. . that built
my stongest implication, dire in desire to live a life inspired. . .
but then so is, to dream upon what tends on building motivation. . .
life is beautiful sensation. . .
from the first rainfall with you meeting outside spontaneous realm. . .
we fought the solemn wind to calm our cumbered spirits. . .taking flight,
fighting what might have been. . .semeless to even entertain. . .lost in
each others warmness. . .everything we built tended harmless.

now see how we have. . .related to each other's hearts. . .left the scrutinity
at obscurity prolonged on scale of mirror. . .where it has always belonged.
now it's just time darling
i promiss it wont be long until our roots bind the maximum strong.

from even across the plains, and mountain long trip stains. . .i feel
less pain. . .from what's the phrase non loose then gain, consorting time
absorbing each other's essence in rhyme.
the deepest of sensation of you. . .the meekest of me, makes me be the simple thing
that i've reconnected to . . .to realize, the sensation of you. . .from our first
encounter, i felt deep into your eyes. . .what agree's none behind with lies. . .
you evoked the deepest motion within my sphere of emotion not to betray myself within
this realm and dark frivolous potion. . .for my first set of emotion set on your tone behind
this potion. . .

i face you eye for an eye of every day until i die, but will ever will i die. . .not with you
never. . .darling angel, angel you are my expressive tone to call you so. . .nothing more
is the essense of you that you seem to implore, how busy life must be. . .we need feel free
to good ridance from this fee that life doesn't instill our good griefs beyond simple joys and beliefs. . .
for simply darling we are each other's heart beats, if it's simple smell of you
i will carry out my deeds in hell. . .beneath on hearth this earth, where all of us have been given
birth. . .but sent to spend what is driven by multipolluted cord, the time in blunt approach from
the thing that planted our roots. . .

how i feel you is simply too rich for some dirt to enrich you. . .i simply love and cherish
every bit of your essence, it has lifelong presence that even doing what they call
reminiscing, can't surpass living without missing what they have been reminiscing. . .
i cherish you beyond what little faith can teach about having bigger faith, when all my hopes
ride faithful slopes without elongated stops and rope bearing hopes. . .
my life i see to the extent to remorse only what some feel beyond scope of too openly. . .
but how can i retreat on what i can't stop to feel to protect you from, to their heads we are getting closely. . .
how in the scope of your first essence, can i give up to give way to ruin such pure essence. . .

i understand the world makes a feeling for such pure feeling is counted by blessings. . .
and in order for us to make it, that thought i feel senseless baking . . .constant roll of assorted
reasons for why we bleed to them treasons . . .for how can i express, how simple love doesn't
just digress, or something with time you invest. . .it's simply have been a joy of building
together a foundation for our nest. . .**** the rest. . .**** the pest. . .the world is the best
when sleepers are put to rest and the spark of commune are dwellers dwelling on these mischivers'
locked up chest. . .
to find out that darling. . .you simply are a joy to give me whole, that i'm not uninspired troll
reluctant to breath beside the one he placed his greed upon. . .or her, or it. . but all the essence
is closed and beat, by some known with ideals humanity can't consider too farfetched to bare to grit. . .
and sway to the essence that i hold in my glances. . .are as simple as these branded constructed norms
that most tend to manipulate and distort to one contorted form. . . .so all can bend into one socket for 365
degree view that most tend to agree. . .but never really see.

i know it's many there with this essense around the breeze of an aura, that simply are stranded too far apart by such horror.. .
to relent their essence with their prescence. . .to whom Barbarians find the essence is planted full on messes.
but how can we relate to such things darling. . .when the first glow of your essence showed me life full
of memories by the smile in your eyes, glowing beauty of any sort. . .i feel the world will someday . . .
take flight. . .in my way, but **** that. . .i'm to speak when my message is too simple, provoked only by the
thought, "protect the world its miser mother has been beaten". . .i can never relent, the message that is never
but to contradict what's life has not eaten. . .because of the times put to squares, living life, fostering a step back, into recluce. . .these biches wont even
say cause their too ****. . .to figure out that there's a worrior to stump them pleaded sheets out of wood. . .
i say this out for your sarcasm, elongated this song a bit to give you big ******. . .so when you repose, you
think nothing but what side are the pro's. . .and enter them into oblivion, grasping each by the billion, how
can i repose for i know, without one word it is and has been always come down to the special chosen million. . .

because my darling, i feel the miser that this essence in me you inspire, is up and target for no good. . .for
these pleaded fockers granted themselves unrelentless priveleges for centuries, changing diepers to giving
blood diamond marriages. . .riding on what they call prestine carriages. . .oh what,you don't recognize this
what the world has come to building from everybody's demise. . .feeding on high rise. . .splitting cots in the
rots, most alluded with plots and continued building upon the essence of you, keeping you stewed, brewing up a flu. . .
to this day when i met you. . .
will never cease your memory by only that it was circumstance. . .romance among thieves denying our chance to dance. . .
with one glance, their world just plopped a chance. . .for i know they know who im refering to, without a glance
i'm sure they feel my stance just to look **** eyed puking. . .**** blocking their world to rocking, while else where goes to foster under
this ugly monster. . .stooped on a porch ******* their air, without any underwear. . .haha must be due to how
much pull goes to their hair. . .how do i, they feel ****** diddlidy ****, what, is this person a human or a
restored frame of mind living. . .i can't be what's in my eyes to be believing, but i simply am retarted man. . .
a ******* rough psychological fighting bluff, to them i would. . .but trust me, how could i in my life, i
never could.. . .fall to false pretention, that life is a great invention, that my desire's are for simple
hires. . .for i know my life evolves around that which your first essence, darling, we built stronger everyday
to our future of what we call present. . .

life with you, i simply can't resent. . .but figure out what's best
to make what we don't need to make. . . because the essence uproots life's shrivel of what they call romances. . .
rooting upward from the seed we planted on the day people deside to bleed
all over the notion, that this emotion they conquered stems from shot of elixir handed down from the heavens by
some they call cupid fixer. . .relentless, they push through many dances. . .all so strained and constricted by many
glances, restricting their free essence to feel in whole their life is shot down by simple messes. . . .
but you, none taken, broken and mistaken. . .how can simple things be so. . .when you know my essence for you is
far greater then what one instance can remark for the whole, i feel simply. . .protect you from their hole and
bind you with my essence that strives in whole. . .even through tormenting lonely dances. . .when i saw the world an ugly form. . .
nowhere to want to run to, or feel
resentment.. . where's life going to go. . .if my essence in a whole feeds you. . .away to their
mysterious goal. . .i wouldn't have the patience to ***** their abnormal pretence, as if life is sweet with
such mysterious fowl. . .create little thought to create bigger picture, many aditions just create tensities
among those who bicker, loosing control each time only quicker. . .that's why it's never lesser to speak for the lesser
dresser, or the person they showed you, that looked like he ******* told you, but instead they made the mistake
to grow lower. . . cowering even bolder. . . what **** is the point of that. . .to say it none meeker as if its meant to outcast the bleeker
. . .i'm not that so. . .to scowl like fowl crackhead, loosing self reliance to gr
Thomas Thurman Mar 2011
How do I love thee?  In a way that's bad,
by which I mean so bad it's almost good.
I need you, and you know it drives me mad.
I want you more than any other could.
And we could write romances, you and me.
I want to hear your Hitchcock movie schtick.
I want your everything.  I hope it's free.
I want you in my window, and you're sick.
And yet you know my raving is a sign
I'd rather we were paramours than friends.
You're outlawed from the moment that you're mine
Until the day our bad romancing ends;
I'll love you in a leather-studded bra.
Rah gaga gaga roma ooh la la.
This is not the most serious sonnet ever.
Evan Stephens Sep 2018
In the Wednesday sun
crossing Farragut Square
beside a beautiful woman
of half-developed feelings,
there is a temptation
to forget thirty-eight years
of women just like her.

All my romances
are desperate tries
to close the old voids
that my family seeded in me.
Love me,
accept me,
please stay,
just stay,
I will take anything,
be any shape,
anything you like.

I loved women
one to the next
a wreath of sincerity.
I was always astonished
when it fell apart.

In the Wednesday sun
I am depressed.
I say goodbye
to my blonde friend,
and I curl up inside
like paper burning.
Nuha Fariha Dec 2012
Scene 1:
(Periwinkle room, Jigglypuff poster, soft alternative music)
I stomp in,
Niagara Falls streaming
Throw his copy of Pablo Neruda poetry into the trash
And start reading Virginia Woolf
Poetic revolution.
That’ll show him

Scene 2:
(Cafe atmosphere, fading laughter, upbeat music)
Whoa. That guy. Not that one.
The one on the left
Kinda nice, kinda cute
And he laughed at my joke
Jane Austen romances
and Zooey Glass daydreams
fill my waking moments

Scene 3:
(Restaurant, muffled conversations, classical music)
What is he staring at? Who is he staring at?
Oh no awkward conversation gap
Say something,
quick, anything
“The weather is nice tonight, yeah?”
Not that.
But he laughs
Night saved

Scene 4:
(Outside the restaurant, night breezes, car noises)
“That was nice,”
He casually mentions
Yeah. Nice.
Not great. Amazing. Life-altering.
The same adjective used to describe the weather
Devoid of meaning.

Scene 5:
(Car, radio on silent, crickets chirping)
“I wanted to give you something”
Hands me,
Oh dear god no,
A copy of Neruda
That ****** Neruda.
Warren Cyde Dec 2013
Two Souls Apart (Part I)
Two souls met
They fell in love
At the wrong time
The right people
In the wrong place
She was beautiful
Hair gold as the sun
Flaring like wildfire
He was simple enough
An artist with sound
With a wanderers heart
She was never who
She told him she was
Maybe he was never
Completely honest
With her either
They always meant well
And they were so happy
Plans of running away
Far from everyone else
Isolation on an island
Separated by miles of water
Away from judging eyes
But how long could it last
These fairy-tale romances
Just never seem to survive
The cold winters of distance
So they parted ways
Hearts torn into pieces
Plagued by memories
The taste of her lips
Her skin warm and soft
She tried to drown him out
With another in her bed
He screamed his songs
Desperate to be rid of her
She was slowly overwhelmed
So far away from home
He threw himself into the divine
Turning from the sin he held
Becoming a saint of high regard
He found someone new
On the Saint Who Fell for the Sinner (Part II)
He didn't go looking for her
Truth be told she just fell into his life
He was held captive
At the beauty she possessed
Her eyes as spacious as the sky
Deeper than any well of knowledge
So he chased her
She led him through the woods
A deep dark and twisted path
More than once he nearly gave up
But she played him well
She held his attention until he was hopelessly lost
When she felt safe she stopped
The saint wondered at her
Such a fair and beautiful creature
She showed him her scars
Her sins and filthy addictions
Somehow he was not repelled by this
Instead he found himself drawn even more
So he sheltered her fragile soul
Until the day she forgot to maintain her lies
The saint was destroyed at the deception of the sinner
He was driven to madness
The saint searched for comfort
Something to help find the pieces of his shattered heart
To stitch it together again
But he found no cure
No method of healing that would bring him back
In this way the sinner destroyed the saint
Integration (Part III)
He wondered hopelessly for months on end
Searching for peace
All he could find was distractions
Nothing permanent to occupy his time
Functioning was near impossible
Nothing held his interest anymore
He played his songs but was discouraged
Wrote his words but they seemed empty
He could not bring himself back into civilization
He separated himself from all others
As much as he could
He couldn't merge back
Made no connections with any meaning
He was so disconnected
And old memories resurfaced
He found himself longing for her again
For her kiss and her touch
To feel the warmth of her skin again
Her hand holding his so tight
He wondered if she felt the same
The second half of his soul
Evanesce the Island (Part IV)*
Maybe all their plans
Weren't so foolish after all
What if they had known exactly
What they needed to survive
Shouldn't they run away from the world
To set themselves apart
From a cruel and cold world
That they aren't fit for
Let it be just them so far away
From all the rest of the world
Let them do as they please away
From all eyes
Let them love like they were made
On a beach under the sun
Away from these rainy days
That never end
mark john junor Jun 2014
she sat on a driftwood throne
at her feet lay the ruins of a stone man
her hair a wild world of winds draws you into her hurricane eyes
her lip a forest of meanings tender and soft
a single loose tear like a wild horse run free
she sat on a driftwood throne in all her glory
sun and salt water cadence to the living breathing dream
song of existence untainted

and now another song intrudes
one of loves lionhearted and bold
seafarer's son come of age
come seeking courtship of her soft hand
to be bound in the silken desire's both hot and sweet
and the dark ones such shy girl dare not speak

he brushes away the sand from her soft thigh
and within his mind romances such sweet
tender spot with a reign of kisses
but just then she arose graceful like the soft beatings of dove's wing
and emerging from the veil of his minds fanciful dreams
she laid before him her sandpaper eyes
so intense that summer sounds
like children at play and such soothing tones
could not hide her behind
he withdraws still no more than a child in her eyes
she desires a stronger, a true love
one that is not a fleeting fancy dream
one of a man who can speak his heart

the sand had invaded her driftwood throne
so into the dusk she sauntered slowly
with graceful flow
trailing his eyes behind her like glories of wishes
like worshiping doves
for such beauties perfection
he will return some day a man
once he has learned
JP Goss Aug 2014
Swoon to a tearful night, unknown to its grief
Dialogue of peace, and those of plight
Ringing of morphology, raindrops on the roof.
Such things heard from the peasants’ seat
In the many wet heads sopping
In the sonorous waves, upright in the city clime
Untending to their beds.
At the bottom of that something
All told are destined they will find
Be pliable to the ills they’ve dealt
To carry on, to work, admonishments
Said once to justify these red romances
That in every rain storm melt
As pity through the night, forever unclasped
From shackles of their blame
Since life and ideology somehow are the same.
‘Tis destiny for abating storms
As some will rose from their thickened thorns
These nights deliver their gentle morns
All the same as hemlock grows as poison
And is best to be avoided.
How—this, I fear only rain my know—
Can we still bathe in fraternal glow
When some still heal from Death himself
Each breath that enters is quickly prayed to leave
High on seated thrones
Those mean so quick to thieving, the poor
The lazy deserve no quarter
Those dusty pockets afford not one
So steal the heart upon his sleeve.
May we help man wrought our kin and kind
By common tongue, free, as we are ought?
Since another may make my world
He is mine to protect, not throw to bytes
So ludicrous and feeding back upon themselves
For destiny can be remade
If hatred weren’t so blind.
Harley Hucof Nov 2014
Many lives many pasts
Many girls many romances

Many broken hearts
Many broken dreams
Many broken promises flowing down with the stream

Many fake people
Many fake smiles
Fly with me let's reach the sweet paradise

Do you think you know what life is about?
Please help me understand

Because a long time ago i chose to close my eyes and wait for my death

Life is an illusion though it seems real

All what really matters is our dreams and fantasies

Words Of Harfouchism
Taye Sep 2013
I wrote you a love letter
Hid it in your binder at recess
And prayed you'd never know it was from me.
It hurt when you called it silly.

You're behind bars because of me
I don't feel guilty
Because you tried to take my innocence.

You were the one I'd spend eternity with
When I was in 8th grade.

I never thought I'd love a girl
You had soft hair and lips
But I always confused envy and lust.

You didn't understand my metaphors
Or the things that interested me.
I just didn't understand why you did so many drugs.

Please tell me you'd like to see me again
I had a beautiful night with you
And I'm a sucker for boys who write and play guitar.

You are so handsome and you are so dull.

I'll always want you
But the butterflies that used to flutter in my heart
Are now eating it apart.
Tara India Sep 2013
there is nothing romantic
or tragically beautiful
about wasting away

my sadness is not poetic
my scars are ugly
and so are shining blades

in cracked skin i find no art
no admirable trait
in learning to die

bathroom tiles hold no appeal;
you shouldn't look at me
and find me lovely

broken skin and broken minds
are not unfixable
but shouldn't be desired

being sick is not being fragile
not fire escapes at
or tears that fall on lovers hands

not bambi eyes and bones
but a complete loss
of all humanity and all identity

demons curl and the void yawns
the one inside your soul
and you have no love, no body, no name

when your mind is sick
every day is a curse
and it is never romantic

*© Tara India.
so many people call mental illness poetic, romantic, oh-so beautifully tragic and sad, but it is not. really you live in hell, and nobody is going to come along like in john green and save you, nobody will kiss your scars, you just lose everything you are until you decide to discover yourself again.
The road to the present has been paved in endless romances and heartbreaks

This idea of love has kept all of the actors motivated throughout

Though it rarely shows its true face to those involved

The face keeps changing but one thing is certain:

They can't keep their eyes off each other

Their motives have made sense to them long enough, at least

To bring new life into the world

Yes, it does seem to be an **** from afar-

Countless lovers intertwined

Paired together in fleeting moments of ecstasy

The weight of all creation is on their shoulders

But they don't feel it

Because all is as it should be

In all of these romances, heartbreaks

and orgiastic expressions

Is a fragment of the whole of this

Endless love affair.
I wrote a poem recently.
Not so much a poem,
more like a story;
a story of love,
kind of like a love story.
it was the best love story
we've never read.

There were romances,
some revelations
and resurrections...
even a few bruised egos.

a bayside view of
false paradise
if I'd ever seen one;
some dogeared page
ripped out of a
journal written in ink
and found in the gutter.

No beginning or end.
Just a thought.
A memoir
of a fantasy that should've just
and never had to explain itself.
note: Do not read.
Brooklyn Dec 2012
I told you "Happy Birthday,"
You smiled and said, "You remembered."
It took me back.

October 9th of 2009,
Was the day that I first met you.
I was at the Bridge with the girls,
Then up strode this guy that I wished I knew.

Dorky, yet enchanting,
You made me laugh and rant.
It was the best night I'd had in a long time,
And all the way home I danced.

I saw you at school after that,
And I felt myself falling for you.
Our friend's romances started happening,
Maybe we'd happen too.

I played you piano,
You smiled at me,
I caught my breath
And messed up they keys,
But you still thought it was good.

On June 5, of 2010,
You asked to become mine.
How could I say no,
When I wished it all the time?

You told me that I was beautiful,
Then you kissed my face,
In a world of beautiful scenery,
I was in the greatest place.

We danced slowly to Melancholy Hill,
And you watched Titanic with me,
You helped me make Chicken Marsala,
I thought we were meant to be.

You told me that you loved me,
And I felt my heart grow.
That's when I really began,
to let my love show.

On October 5th of 2010,
I gave you my virginity
I understood euphoria
When I saw your eyes on me.

Two years we spent together,
And they were the best in my life,
Even in our fake little wedding,
Where I became your wife.

You really were my medicine,
Making me feel alive,
And every time I looked in your eyes,
I saw a place where angels thrive.

I gave you myself in every way,
And I'll never want it back.
Even after bitter words,
And the moments we attacked.

I never knew a heart like mine,
Could ever love so much.
Imagine the person I would be,
If we never shared that touch.

The hardest day of my life
Was the day you walked away,
I thought that it wasn't for good,
But I couldn't make you stay.

The funny part of the story,
Is that I hadn't let you go.
The girl that you had loved and lost,
Let her true colors show.
And I'm still here waiting for you

Now, as I tell you "Happy Birthday,"
My special little tourniquet,
You smile and say, "You remembered."
But how could I forget?
Dog eared pages
betray my thoughts
or rather the lack there of

I think
then blink
But i'm thinking faster
or is it blinking?
It doesn't matter
Nothing is working

Inspiration dances
like a cornish pixie

My muse has gone
his return I await
with bated breath
I wait like fate
Kassiani May 2013
I have wearied of grand romances
Of deep sighs and swooning trances
Of doting gentlemen’s advances
And all manner of courtship play
I am tired of love confessions
And of dizzied, dazed professions
And of unrestrained obsessions
I grow sicker day by day

I once dreamed of adoration
Went quite mad for veneration
Laughing, flirting with temptation
The queen in Camelot
The lonely, lovely Guinevere
Dainty-masked with girlish fear
But when King Arthur wasn’t near
Dreaming of Sir Lancelot

These days I want no noble knight
Despite my seeming helpless plight
I wish to set myself aright
And tread upon the ground
Yet here I am, pedestal-high
Too close to the dazzling sky
As my life keeps passing by
And boys keep running round

I’ve let myself grow much too proud
Drew up arrogance from the crowd
Heard the cheering, bright and loud
The queen in Camelot
And though I had my faithful Sir
Still my heart was all astir
With flying fancies, all a blur
For Guinevere and Lancelot

These fantasies have grown too old
I’d rather let my bed grow cold
For I have wearied of being told
“You are mine to keep”
Men have tired me to the core
Left me sad and sick and sore
And have turned into such a chore
And I’d much rather sleep

What blasphemy for a maiden fair
To toss such doting to the air
To turn away without much care
Though queen in Camelot
But I have withered, I have tired
Felt as if my brain’s been mired
And find not Arthur much desired
Nor dashing Lancelot

Is it so bad to want respite
From endless longing, day and night?
This constant charm becomes too trite
With ever staler tone
I only wish to rest a while
Recover from incessant guile
Forget the weight of lovers’ trial
And simply be alone
Written 5/27/13

Inspired partly by The Mists of Avalon, The Garden of Proserpine, and The Lady of Shalott.

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