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Larry Potter Aug 2016
So much for superheroes saving the day;
Every good guy's epilogue is a cliche.
Tedious compulsory celebrations
For all their mundane actions.

A villain's portrayal is what excites me.
Ever since a kid I could already see;
Creativity in all those gimmicks,
Geniuses of ***** tactics.

It is never easy to become the antagonist.
The object of all hate and blacklist;
The one that is destined to fail,
To fulfill a comic's holy grail.

Yet the bad guys do most of the heavy work,
Perfecting their schemes with an evil smirk;
But every time they're about to win,
The plot will smash their plan to ruins.

They say some people are destined to be heroes;
It's a fate preordained a long time ago.
But the truth is that everyone needs a villain,
To finally uncover their life's meaning.

What the world generally calls as criminals,
In reality are just misunderstood equals.
They taught me more about the cruel life,
Better than any superhero's strife.
ConnectHook Sep 2017
White folks: pack your bags and go.
Our nut-brown world is quite offended.
Make your shame-faced exit NOW,
and leave your mansions unattended.
Wait—before you pass the doors,
it's time to settle ethnic scores.

No more ragtime Minstrel show.
Our Moorish science took it down.
Black lives matter. White, less so—
now move your pale face out of town . . .
but first, shell out for racial shame
Caucasian losers of the game.

Cultural pride is ours alone:
kings and Egyptian queens we were.
The glories of our race, well-known
bedazzle in a darkened blur
(clear to Africa's descendants—
puzzling to you white dependents).

Blackness lent your world its light,
taught the Dutch to tend those flowers.
Scandinavia grew bright
under our beneficent powers.
Negroes gave your blondes their beauty;
helped those Norsemen shake their *****.

The Seven Wonders of the world:
we built them all. No vain conjecture
dims our banner, black, unfurled,
above eternal architecture.
Arts and knowledge gained from us
are what we threaten to discuss.

We invented math and science
which you robbed from Timbuktu.
Swarthy wisdom's brave defiance
caused Old Europe to renew.
All our treasure that you plundered
testifies: your days are numbered.

Classics of our Greeks you stole:
Philosophy was never yours.
Shame upon your racist soul;
for Bach and Mozart both were Moors.
Misappropriated treasures
call for ruthless hard-line measures.

Latino fate falls next—but, where ?
Jews, Turks, and Arabs: are you. . . white ?
Orientals everywhere:
choose your side and join the fight.
Blackness rising! Late the hour;
heed your call to fight the power.

Crackers need to check your race—
stop rooting for that ****** clown.
Rednecks all up in our face;
racist throwbacks got us down.
But as your statues bite the dust
your light goes dark (you know it must).

So move on out, oppressor, thief.
Long have you held our nation back.
In some white galaxy seek relief—
but here the light itself is black.
Stars are racist. So is the sun.
Now let God's great black will be done.
Truth is stranger than:
http://tinyurl.com/yc9va3pl

Candace Owens understands . . .
Francesco Bianco and his Wage-Stock Men,
In keeping current with their Rooting Age
Built his Charity on a Stone-House then
As Leisure played a better word for Rage
Not much for Surplus Capital enjoyed
At least for some Tips won by droplets fall
That petty, really. Plus some Papers browsed
For those Picklings shared by survey and toll
Yes, the Compliment of those Blue-Bloods past
Of only their Musk to commensurate
Eve bowed out; Abel only if Forecast
By Cain and his Friends allowed him too late.
You would wonder how such Time could afford
And invest your Years for such brisk Concord.
Jamie Riley Aug 2018
If I could sculpt a memory
then
I would sculpt your eyes

looking at me like
I've made you proud,

as if you've been
rooting for me from the start.

Eyes which crinkle
and twinkle
with a wry courage that devours
dishonesty with righteous intent.

They see me for what I am
and what I could become.

They are my catalyst and judge.
They are a canvas on which I paint
the world.

Your eyes
they turn me.
MJL Feb 23
Diseased turnip
Rooting in the dirt
Rotting fodder
Unpicked
Untapped
Gnarled and bitter
Lying under your bridge
When you are gone
No-one will miss your rancid rag
Kurt Carman Oct 2018
Section 25, Lot 1115…Gate of Heaven Cemetery….Hawthorne New York
Number 3 in your program, number 1 in your hearts.

Gramps would tell me all the stories and what a big deal they made when he walked up to bat.
Number 3..3..3, Babe..babe…babe…, Ruth..ruth..ruth!  Followed by the roar of loving fans!

Today Babe, I’m leaving you a Sabretts hotdog & a fifth of Scotch.
I know you’re out there cooling off under a shade tree with a cabbage leaf on your head.

1-2-3 who are rooting for? Well it ain’t those lousy Red Sox's!
It’s the Babe doing the walk up to “Ain’t She Sweet, See her walking down the street."

The cathedral of baseball, the Bronx Zoo,
The House that Ruth built right there at 161st and River.

You just can't beat the person who never gives up!
Missing you Babe
I'm a spinster,
sick of seeing my
sisters treated as
flowers
picked and wilted.
Their petals
ripped and ragged.
In a cloudy vase --
the water needs changing,
but what's the point,
at this point?
She died when
you picked her --
cut from her roots,
She is lacking nutrition,
She can no longer absorb
the wind's wild sustenance.
She is too preoccupied
trying to survive,
under-appreciated,
and ill-cared for.

Soon,
when she is dry
brown,
brittle,
into the compost,
she goes.
Fertile,
rooting another
devastatingly
beautiful,
flower,
told to wait
for someone to
pick her.

But if you think
a flower is beautiful,
let her remain
with her sisters.
I have many wonderful, smart, independent women in my life who deserve better from their partners.
Winter Child Nov 2018
the blur—
seems like it planted deep,
rooting in my bone
scares me to the core
will it ever be sure?
the uncertainty of my future.
i’ve spent nights & days
wide awake thinking
the best ways of dealing
“will i ever stop being so worried?”
about things im not even sure of
while all i can do is sit
—write for the feelings to ease away bit by bit
through every letter the ink spits
myrka Feb 6
you see right through me
So I don’t flee

You let me know the truth
brutal as it sounds, my hearts feels soothe

You and I are somehow alike
And that is how we unite

Thank you for being my friend
Just know I will always give you a hand

when you are feeling low
Or when you are about to glow

I am there
Rooting for you
A mother feels for it's own
Despising intruders who wishes to bask in her love
Spurning one's that comes with unfeigned words
Nuptial only to the blood that flows.
But I stand aware
Ne'er to a reality blotched by facts
Rooting truth of where I stand.
For !
A mother feels for it's own
And I''m an orphan within a home.
Fall Nov 2018
Tombes , more to count than to sit at ,
Marcel Joséphine , weird name ;
.
.
.
Silence , eerily feeling which reminds us of it , pity that the almighty feels all of us , poor lord indeed
.
.
.
Old ones with lys , kids near them , family then , playing , grieving , singing , saddening
.
.
.
Vanilla , awful smell , rooting corpse in sunny Season , no milka anymore , nice Sun though
.
.
.
Leaves , dancing to Eole's humming , his music of his air , freedom , do they know their treasure
.
.
.
Thousand birds crying , light neighing , rain falls if not heaven's wrath , paining my earings
.
.
.
Steps , slow , sorrowful , slits , so grim reaper , smile , some soul shan't seen sad but happy
.
.
.
Jaa ne !
D Mar 6
You have walked down the path of soul-searching for far too long my dear woman
You have thereupon tasted sin in that of poisonous water
And in that of the flesh of men
And in that of the flesh of women
And in that of tears of whom gave birth to you
And in that of disappointment you have caused to the only man you have so much loved

Now my dear,
Tell me
What is it that you found?

~

I have not find
But I have only learned
That it is about time I get to know You

~

I have known you since you were sleeping
Silently and unagitated to what there is to life
And that was when you were in the **** of your mother
Its warmth enveloped your paper-thin skin
And her heart was beating synchronously to yours
And both of your soul and body coexisted

When you left the comfort of the greatest
And the warmest thing of motherhood
You came into the world crying
Your skin red
Your lips the contrasting colour
White as the cleanest sheet
You now existed at and on your own body
Small—but bold and vulnerable
Like that of the most expensive glass

You cried
Because you are on your own

When you grow
I have known you even better
Closer but farther
So dear and so true
I am not watching you
I am rooting for you

~

I have sinned but I have learned
I have cried and I have hurt
I have taught and be taught
I have lost only to be found

The second I kneeled
Upon the heat of the thick but delicate sheet
I have remembered
That none of the things in this existing life
Belongs to me
But are rather
given to me

I have been missing You for far too long.
Atomika Sep 2018
Today I got a heartache, it wasn't so bad
I told her my feelings but she just look back
It ain't even that hurtful, it ain't even sad
I just got to work out some things that I lack

Today I got a heartache, twice I think too.
Crushes aren't my strong spot. But I know what they meant
When they said no, I smirked and just say thank you
For their honesty and for my further development

Today I got a heartache, it stings now I know
I was hurting a lot and in progress, I reap what I sow
Doubts start to drown and I begin to fall
Should I keep on going or should I just stall.

Today I got a heartache, it was subtle and clean
But the girl is not bad, she was not mean
She said I am sorry and things will be just fine
I don't know if that's true. down the line

My head suddenly fell down, and I start to frown
How can I turn this around, I know that I should not be a clown

Today I got a heartache, a devastating one for sure
I was really rooting for myself, I got myself to endure
All those efforts and all those what I make
But she suddenly have someone now, and that I can't take

Today I got a heartache, it seems so repeating
When I try to change myself, I just keep on believing
But again it fell flat and all went bad
Will this continue while I am being sad?

Today I got a heartache, it's dreary and frustrating
I should get over it, I should just say it's okay
But the feeling is gone and I am in dismay
From staking everything, now I feel nothing

Today... I got a heartache, and I broke my own promise
It seems it always happens, like a cycle that keeps repeating
The feeling of affection I long, and that is now I miss
Please help me remember what is love and what should I believe in

But the cycle continues until someone saves me
Yup, this is just normal for me. I always get heartaches for the ******* I am.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
.well... it is the turn of the century, and he had inherited the 20th century... so.... what's with the opening sequence? lay the floor, forget about watching the paint dry while someone else, paints the walls.

typo: solipsism...
**** on me...
i too sometimes forget
that i'm a unit
of a(n) 8 billion
conglomerate...
i see an airplane fly passss / ß
my h(o)use...
the object,
and then the delayed
sound...
i forget this higher
abstract of Narcissism
of the demi-god
Solips -
not included
to be among
the gods and the myths...
see?
  memory is overtly
selective...
   which ius why i encrusted
myself in doubling
the selective process...
10 or there about memories...
kept intact....
          
it's a three-way dog race...
Led Zeppelin...
Black Sabbath...
AC / DC...
and my chemistry teacher
Mr. Slack... rooting for
AC / DC...
**** it, i'm with him...
  
                  the predictability
of the riffs....

                    AH HA HA HA!
go mad!

leisure vacations are a tool
to ordinate
the exercise in instigating
cages for,
whatever is deemed normal.

p.s.

death pardons the blunt,
and esp. the honest...
   but sure as **** cares a grain's worth
of salt for the rich and the, dishonest.
Ormond Nov 2018
.
In the love field are colours at prayer below sun,
The dissipated shades in morning give way—
A hush of dark stamped out for choir that comes,
Each flower sings saviour, each petal a blade.

Happy heads affixed their stalks, free as wind,
Unfurl each day, great vessels, stationary sails,
Louder than any pride could break or cast a sin,
Wild are the flowers that rout, rooting in vales.

In the love field, shadows are writhing with clouds,
Underthings of truthful sun, weightless in the skies,
Pilgrim eyes are watered upon entering this proud
Watercraft of blossom blowing up mad secularity.

To spy upon such sprite loveliness we are lost,
Strangers all, the mindful beauties giving scents,
Luminous pupils tearing high into eyes of gods,
The painted harmonies chime, fixed in the lent,

Tithes of rain and sun shower, raise bloom of tower
Cathedral where dead plains are ribbed from ash
And brazen head of stranger is schooled by flower,
In moments fled from city stalls of steel and glass.
.
I took a clipping from a rainbow

I took a clipping from a rainbow,
Transluscent and fragile,
Dipped it in rooting hormones,
Planted it in a little ***
In a mixture half and half,
Of fine pumice and finest
Seed raising mix, moistened.

I chose a warm sunny spot
On a window sill.
My favourite room,
Where I spend most of my time
Looking out at the garden,
Where I read books,
Listen to music and look out
As the clouds or birds pass by,
In an ever changing vista
Of my garden and its seasons.

It was there that I
Would plant my rainbow
When it had taken root,
Grown and was hardy enough.

Harald Edwin Pfeffer 14-3-2019
You are worthy
You are quite worthy
Please never doubt that you are.
I just can't bring myself
to give my full heart
to any
one
person
[not once have you ever asked for this;
thank you for not asking for this].
Rather, bit by bit
I share it
with the ones I love,
the souls I cherish most.
A chunk of it
rests in your palms
but the fire inside me
swallows all that is left,
fueling the quest
to achieve my personal legend
[It seems so far off, I may die trying].

My mind quite loves
to dance with yours
But its dreams
and aspirations
never cease to take hold
and twirl it away.
Too much thought
on any
one
person
makes it writhe toward a shift
to conserve focus
for its drive to absorb
any and all
knowledge it can
to change the world
while it still has time
[I know you are rooting for me].

My body quite loves
to feel the tranquil warmth
tender caress
flurry of insouciant kisses
oozing laughter
chills and thrills
lulling pets
and grounding breaths
of yours.
But sharing it too much
letting you in
too often
inherently pulls energy
that would otherwise be used
to fly.
Precious energy
retained, guarded
but some of which
has been reserved
for you
[Even when I had intended to cut off all energy toward romance for a long time].  

My soul quite loves
the connection we've woven.
Special, like few others
but also special
completely on its own
generously respected
and
entirely worthy
of preservation  [hence sharing this poem].
But my soul quite loves
many other things as well,
all equally as deserving
of its glow
[sometimes it seems like there is so little light left in this world].

My stomach [quite heavily]
drops
at the thought
of pushing you away.
So please stay [it didn't feel like you were leaving, but I still had to ask]
and cherish the pieces
I have to give
[seeing the spark of gratitude in your eyes makes me humbly blush].
It is not all of me
but it is all I can
possibly
muster
at this time.
I bestow them to you
because
you are worthy.
Tanya Mar 5

  
              rooting from nature’s beating heart
              through mud and soil it raises
              a tree, bathing in rain and sunshine,
              listening to thunderstorms at night
              ...
.
                have you ever noticed
                just how brave trees are ?
Crown Shyness Nov 2018
A gaze,
"no, no, don't be intrusive."
A gaze,
"no, no, it's not your place."
A gaze,
"no, no, they do not need your look."
A gaze
in curiosity,
exotical ferocity,
seeing them feelings
unveiling more
than they would like.
A gaze,
"why do you even try?"
A gaze,
felt so misplaced
in its endless way,
its absorption of today
in correlation with a possible trail
we all could take.
A gaze,
not invaded by shame
and the embarrassment game.
'Eyes meet on the street,
worn out jeans and suits,
oh, look there, these fancy boots,
rooting for different roots.'
So eyes didn't really visit.

A gaze
of care and understanding,
we could be nurturing its birthplace.
.and what if the referendum was secured, by the single vote, if it was predicated on: only and only if, there's a 60% consensus... the current debate is taken place, because the consensus is, extremely marginal... we're talking about fringe politics, outlier political opinions... the the remain vote is argued with the same verocity as the leave vote... for the benefit of outlier opinions... if only there was a predicate: it will be passed... as long as there's a 10% difference between the votes... 51.9% for leave to 48.1% for remain, of the country having voted... if only the whole point of voting, was akin to the "ancient" enforced tactic of drafting men to serve in the army... 67.7% voting areas voting to leave... 32.3% voting to remain... yeah... the "obscure" parts of england... with scotland, clearly being an anomaly with regards to "obscure" rural regions... should the argument come: concentration of power, in urban babylons.

someone should, really, really try to remaster
that vague piece of work

                       that pristine rhythm
    section: notably on the song bite now bite
from the album
          eat your heart out -
                              by... a belgian band:
of all bands... it had to be, belgian...
  ******* choccies (KLINIK) -
   oh look, an intra-racial slur...
                                                     chocolatiers...
because what would be fun:
  if language was plain, safe,
                                                      in vitro:
and not the islam to the individual -
   whenever: i, am to submit,
                     to the language of the other?
well obviously malice is reserved
for something else, but not for breathing,
thinking or feeling,
   or for that matter:
     the "problem" of idle hands...
itchy hands...
               i guess some of the throng,
of the volk: chatter chatter chatter...
    bite... chew... but then forget to
swallow... (sow s-, s-, swo-, swo-...
'the **** an A charge in, eh?
                                     i guess, that's how).

but no one
likes to see
narrow
verse
likening it
to the Milan
fashion
show
catwalk

                               and all those poems
that look like this:

|begins here


               (no
      move-
                                 -ment
                 in
               between)


|ends here:

|zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
|zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
|zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
|­zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
|can anyone please tell me...
   why zee / zed:
              is a conotation
                        depicting the process of sleep?

and all this nonsense:
                   england is spelled with
a capital: who says it's anywhere but london?
E this, E that,
    E sat on a wall
       and...
                    didn't fall accidently...
i know a rat when i see one...
   Nigel, Nigel (see... capital N,
implies emphasis, like italics or a colon
does)
       Nigel... can you please bring back
your fwend, Dawid?
                     just a few questions...
2 and a half 'ears lay'ter...
   and... no end in sight...
to those loitering... shuffling their feet...
how many votes do you actually need...
when there was only one
                     for die volk
- and i have to admit...
       it was close...
                roughly                      51 to 49...
i know why they voted leave...
           because of the people who poured
in, most, probably momentarily
back in 2004...
                              the people who were
taught two, of 20th century's prime lessons,
by foreign entities...
               arbeit macht frei
               und?
                        communism.

         so no laid-back work ethic coming
with the windrush, was there?
                    conflict of interests...
**** it, if i were strapped to a caribbean
island, i'd have a laid back work ethic:
                             ka-reeb-ib-ean.

yet still this whole blah blah debate...
          like... let's forget the good friday
agreement...
   but finally...
            we can have the old terrorists back...
so...
            maybe the IRA will
                  out-compete the jihadis?
or at least scare them?
  or... dunno...
                                            ol' Jack...
ol' Jackie boy'o will: simply...        unravel?
am i rooting for it to happen?
no...
                            but it would suggest
that i'm rooting for being part of
                a historical event,
                            like the treaty of versailles...
or the weimar rep.,
                            and i was the voice
on the bottom,
               sifting through
                     eclectic ambitions to find:
culture that will never become
mainstream...
                                           almost
forever destined for the: archaic archive,
now forever the footstuff
                            of the gargantuan a.i.:
alternatively known as a.i.p.:
                   artificial intelligence purgatory.

- hey, i can't compete,
    i'm just a kid that forgot to bring
his crayons, and instead brought
   some matchsticks and toothpicks.

if only: 2 years prior to the referendum
they had a plan...
   but they thought they could do
a joker trick,
         so there you have it: agent of chaos...
agent of chaos says:
  people, 1 vote, politicians?
         an infinite number of votes by
the looks of it...
                  voting is not reserved
for the people, de facto,
                       given:
we now have a strange despot on our
hands... der volk...
                    what a strange monster...
was i leave or remain?
   neither, considering that i ended up
drinking to stay somewhat sane
for the past... oh... 10 years...
    on debit...
                well... why would i even
consider drinking into the excesses of
phantasmagoria              on credit?
that would be ******, as ****** didn't.

in summary: to minor points...
    i can understand why people don't like
poetry...
                                                 porcelain...
or the fact that their everyday language
is already peppered with poetic techniques...
figuratively speaking...
                   akin to:
   where does the technique of poetry
end, and the comedy begin?
                     yeah, that: "not literally" part?

who would mind:
   it's not an elitist "thing" to like or dislike
a medium...
                 i like the "breathing" space in
the optics... of... the never to be seen
                              literary paragraph...
i like cascades...
                         paragraphs are sometimes
a strain on the eyes...
like watching really fast cars
zoom past you on a very small race-track...
**** just gets dizzy...

.......................................................­........ (click)
.........................................................­........ (click)
.........................................................­.......... (click) etc.

hence?
           well on the up-side...
once you've read some magnum opus...
say... the cantos...
    for some strange reason...
you can sit back, listen to some choccie
music from the underground...
open the book...
   and just stare at the poetry...
    without having to reread anything...
a bit like...
                  a painting...

                                    sure as **** you
can't do that with a novel,
      with its rigid, cluster-**** of a descriptive
paragraph: she said, he said,
then another descriptive paragraph:
he said, she said...

               as much as i love novels...
  give me a poetics of a framework of freedom,
or a philosophical monologue
    by some helmut
    (german) - oh look...
     another intra-racial slur...
    helmuty: germans...
                  derived from?
              helmut kohl -
                    german chancellor 1982 - 1998;

ah... what an enriching experience.
Bryce Nov 2018
The coca-cola breath!
Flashing lights, tweetie birds, the rough narcotic stench

The sky is devoid, it is scared of the streets etched in starlight, everything shining-- tangerine and Coit and ohhhh boy
don't'cha know what you're in for?

Twilight and she is a figment on my mind
the bark of cigar is fiery opal on my slender frame
I can hear something along the lanes of love
Echoing behind me, the rising sun

Funny dudes in new suits, pressed, steamed, machine-rolled
pills in the pockets
shipped locomotive
Every etching has its china
every etching is porcelain skin
The fog is a silken balloon, unconcerned, wayward
The men longingly abide in its cool, the breath of an over-excited lover, singing in the showerhead an embarrassing microphone
over the west coast

It's all over! it's the end
the roads are devoid of the things that called you
They are a clarion horn on the Claremont, facades etched with windowpanes
here the americans eat tofu and pretend it's bacon

I am in the rapidly rotating spoke, enjoying the taste of woodchuck, upchucking my guts every Sunday, white knuckle-- praying to god
release
release

what a steal that's a fantastic car for the price!
it is only 10 years of payment
only 10!
House worth 40, kids worth 60, medicinal payments
corn flakes
Fortified iron gates and god says,
naw let them all out until they drown,
I'll never flood the earth but I'll make it puddles
and if they want they can lay face down

I am eating Korean stew and wondering what will happen
when unification builds a railroad from Moscow to Busan
I will travel it and write a novel or two
it will be
"On the Railroad"
and start in San Francisco or a little while outside
on an October evening with not a fog in the sky
Just sky, blue, blue sky
A child on the hillside
blowing bubbles in the apartment complex or the gravel mound
next to new homes, now cookiebread gingerbed frames
Doing tricks on BMX bikes, getting our elbows smashed, a designated paramedic
It's all built up now, concrete streets and lonely streetcorner lamps saying
Hey we're gonna light up this little space
Hope you don't mind
Please don't play too loud

And given that these spheroids are monumentally moving
hurling like a pitched water glass
everything staying put under the motion of it
Such a lovely rooting of mass

I will call alongside it, crawling towards answers etching on murals and on the stamping of curbs
E-5 West main
4451 Lowell Street
554 Happy Valley Road
It's all the fun little tributaries of surface waters
heading with precognition towards seas
roped into it by specific gravity

On the phone i spoke to Mr. Victorious
I asked him about his particular drone
down south there in the more direct limelight of the night
he told me about his uncle, in prose
of course
we just hung our heads over the speakerphone
Not sleeping the way we should
shouldering burdens as ***** in deserted zones
laughing and preaching to cottonfields

Then there was the girl
the one we forgot, truth be told
The one unrequited impetus for all art, all physicality and feeling
loved by god in the corporeal
She is the saffron reed in my eye, the one i forgot to preach Victory to
She that one oblong pebble, rolled by the stream
passing our campgrounds and continuing her journey to sands
small little microscopic tetrahedral perfection
I could get stuck in between my teeth
or perhaps left on the sweat of the skin
the lost moments of beachside living, love for the expansiveness, left in the diner seat of the car, gotta keep moving
Carrying her away and if not careful,
nestling her back atop the summits from whence she came.

it is a cola in the glass on the shores of the bay,
it is a divine moment of contact in the oceans
two sailors acknowledging their vessels
with light shows and the play of eye
off the horizon, a green light o' sprite.
Anton Dec 2018
empty goal posts
by football court innery
ball went off the borderline
mene grandstands
were fascinated in a weird way

0 drop 8

countless kins, buddies and one-night-stands
were rooting for Mike 
to rip apart his rival
and slay the entire match

0 drop 9

it's morn, half past eight i believe
blank atmosphere,
in here blank sheets which had to
consist of essay:
senseless lifeless words
disconnected one from each
delivering 
not sick undersides 
and layers -
but fiction, 
blatant litters
how xistance's bliss
Mike's task
for belorussian language sessions
nought
forgotten papers lurked in dirt

0 drop 10

ball hit nest
fame is a bee
it lands here
till it's sugar honey
guy
a head of football crew
collected glances
spawn romances
red and blue

lost.

crowd
a cloud of anger
his breath frozen
he glanced on angles
anxiety sipped beauty off his eyes
sandy path
forward to home
slow steps
few secs
and he alone
ignores their calls

day after Mike hides

mates
fume factories
cafés
clouded

fine
he rewrote the essay
Karmen Aug 2018
Not same am I Renee
Same sane not, who is this Renee know do not know of
Humanism does define Renees sum up sort of
Her travels though this life doe not contain great lies
Unheard voice leaves it’s messages in depth when least expect
If you’re wishing to seek who’s Renee to who you speak
Take a seat , learn to breathe
Repeat after me
Woo-saaaaa ,
woo-saaa
Light shutted sight in follow for seconds
Enjoy the earth from your surrounds
Talk little out loud , beginning with name of whom you seek
Desire to hear the message from your head
All ears. You’re pretty clear
I’m near
Renee that remain with depth
Stayed with true care
Rooting for you to have the very best that which whatever you define it to be
You mean more to me
To scare me off or cause fear
I am not lost
Or scared to seek beyond
Just here for here
Whenever you may seek or be need
Don’t be prideful
The Renee you do not know
The Renee you know of from once
They both and other forms , do not judge
Purely goldly just love .
*nudge *
Stay up
High high who am I lol
Replace name with you or change the ranges to whom
Peter Evans Oct 2018
I know for sure this won't end well,
At least for them, and not for me.
But if not me, then time will tell
And there's no telling how soon that'll be.

That impatience always comes
When you're rooting against someone.
I'd call it something you would know,
If I knew myself, to say how so.

Call me jealous, or something alike,
And in their shoes the sick get sicker.
So switch to vengeance, burning spite,
Should anger prove to **** me quicker.

A chance to say 'I told you so'.
Perhaps that's something that I'm owed.
Perhaps it's something that I want.
Perhaps it's really all I want.

And so I'll wait, and wait some more.
I'll wait and wait and wait and wait
And maybe by the end I'll know
If this is good or love or hate.

I know for sure this won't end well
And so I'll play the waiting game.
If all goes south, then I'm to blame.
I guess to them, it's all the same.
Ambika Jois Sep 2018
The rug
Lying underneath your feet;
Been on the ground
So long,
It's stuck to the ground.

The fence
Standing deep, anchored in soil;
**** rooting down
So deep,
It's part of the land.

The frames are clean,
The pictures seem
Like history.
Once upon a time,
I was
More than furniture to us.

But now:

I want you to see me,
Like the door you can open;
I'm more than what's inside your home.

I want you to want me,
Like you used to everyday;
I'm that girl you wanted to make time for when you're alone.

Now, are you not alone?
Is that why
I'm the rug, fence and your furniture?

I know I work from home.
I know I got a lotta things to do.
I know I haven't lived up to the best of expectations.

I'm still that girl you fell in love with.
I dream beyond every bandwidth.
I take my time to really be sure.
I wanna do it without complications.

But I know,
I bore the **** outta you.
With my
Nagging that could turn ears blue.
But I
Promise that I love you baby,
You gotta see me in the light of the truth:

I want you to see me,
Like the door you can open;
I'm more than what's inside your home.

I want you to want me,
Like you used to everyday;
I'm that girl you wanted to make time for when you're alone.

Now, are you not alone?
Is that why
I'm the rug, fence and your furniture?
There are times when we are so much a part of other people's lives - married couples, live-in couples, friends, family, housemates, you name it - that we turn into their everyday lives in such an unnoticeable way. This poem is about what tends to happen when you get too used to having someone around.
Rocco Siravo Jan 1
We compose our stories on marble slabs
Hung proudly above our doors
Building characters we call home
Engraved with tall tales of self-motifs

We are damsels awaiting shining armor
At the top of locked towers and guarded floors
We are warriors in search of fallen glory
On the grounds of enemies we swore

We are protagonists of a book still being written
But in an attempt to spoil the ending
We set into motion biblical truths
That twist the plot of our own devices

Woven between the alabaster lining of our prose
We reveal traits self-labelled
Of antagonists we antagonized
Rooting in narratives we first spoke

To what does the princess owe the knight
Held captive in white towers she raised
To what does the warrior owe his king
On reddened battle fields strung for him

We slay dragons we provoked
Melt witches we cursed
All for the sake of the arc
For the script remain unflipped

So we return to the home we had built
With our marble words and stone stories
Alchemizing into a prison cell of rough drafts
Lined with tall tales of self-motifs

With tear swelled eyes, down the slab came
Smashing the etchings from which we bore
And with marmoreal shards scattered at our feet
Commuting the sentences we had so effortlessly written
This is one of my first poems. All feedback is welcome :)

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