"royally" poems
Her eyes so bright;
Do you ever wonder where the sun goes at night?
The rain, dancing on the pavement
in no specific arrangement.
Luminous flames eat away at sharp skewers,
Her eyes silver-grey, clashing with the tables of steel.
Barbecue roasting, impaled through the middle
The pain paled in comparison to watching you smile.
A toast to me, myself and I, a glass of sweet solitude.
I watch tall wine glasses clang drunkenly together, alone.
A pin drops in the distance; no silence to accompany it.
Unnoticed it goes, by the arrogant lords and goddesses.
Pick a flower, compliment her hair; devil may care.
She's walking away, I tell her 'Ma'am, have a nice day'
Left alone to stumble back home,
sipping champagne royally; Mockery.
Spilling champagne and it swirls down the drain
I tilt my head back, laughing carelessly all the way.
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 6:44 PM UTC
I tore the fabric of space
Interrupting my affectionate stalking
Spurts of longing, interspersed
with spasms of premature *****
In vain, hankering to attain that next level rush
*Oh you're a ***** girl aren't you*
That's when I was discovered...
Her shrieks royally flushing my cheeks with shock
-Superseded by pallid chagrin
I fumble to bail,
Pants entrenched around my ankles
Premeditative,
Of absent-mind, in haste
Prime directive a method of escape
Evasion failing
Detection:
Imminent
Reflecting a grim lack of circumspection,
accursed **********
Trying to conceal my turgid ********
Her father particularly beyond reason
And not fond of my indecency for his daughter
Proceeds pummeling me to death with my beloved binoculars
Devoid of clairvoyance;
I am coincidentally sent
outward toward oblivion
Bon voyage through the portal
Falling facefirst into an abysmal wormhole
Its then I voyaged backward through time
To the moment of Creation
And witnessed the universe
**** itself from naught to existence
Spewing forth such cataclysmic splendor
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC
(October 17th, 2013, I think is when I wrote this.)
There aren’t many things
that I’m good at.
I have bad grades.
I’m aware of this, but they
still insist on shouting as if
three letter F’s
determine my worth
as well as my ability.
I’m not athletic,
never been remotely decent
at sports,
picked last for soccer,
football, basketball,
and everything else,
tried to do parkour once-
however,
that hope quickly dissolved
when I discovered
that it was still nerve-wracking
for me to climb a fence.
(One of the many gifts
that comes with a severe
lack of coordination.)
I’m not a quiet person.
I don’t know
how to hold my tongue
most of the time.
So when my father’s paycheck
is cut shorter and shorter,
when he makes little enough as it is,
my stay-at-home mother
fighting her demons of
the severe depression and anxiety
that she passed down to me
as well as her (auditory) hallucinations,
her BPD,
her physical disabilities,
not making a paycheck at all,
and my school supplies
consist of 50-cent notebooks
that fall apart,
and 75-cent pens,
I get a little… “upset”.
I’ve played guitar for three years.
Sometimes, it’s what I’m best at,
playing strings of notes
and minor chords
that come together to form
beautiful harmonies-
but more often than not,
every note is sour…
Another thing I’m not good at.
But I am a writer.
People don’t pay attention
to teenagers, they say
We’re so full of ourselves,
We think we’re so important,
they say
We need to communicate,
but when we try
all they hear
is whining, and complaining.
Teenagers telling their friends
in passing conversation
that they’re suicidal,
that they hurt themselves,
just to see who will notice-
who will listen-
and of course, no one does.
Nobody notices that
teenagers are the voice
of our generation,
and our generation,
as such,
is royally ******
because nobody pays attention.
There aren’t many things
that I’m good at.
But I am a writer.
And I have
a voice,
a pen…
And paper torn
from a 50-cent notebook.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
NOTE - The largest animal in Great Britain, a red stag named Emperor who stood over 9ft tall, was last night shot dead by a trophy hunter. The antlers of the majestic deer are highly prized, and after pictures of the stag appeared in the national press last week, the animal was tracked and killed in Exmoor, Devon.
These mist covered mountains of the highlands,
‘twas here that I once freely wandered upon nature’s pasture grounds,
Now I lie shrouded in the mournful fog of the lowlands,
‘twas here that I was met by a pack of bone breaking hounds.
The fresh dew upon the harvest of autumn’s final flowering,
‘twas here that I chewed the grass of sweet nature’s offering,
Now I grow cold upon the ground where I was stalked by dark doom,
‘twas here that I left life’s rocky way under a hunter’s moon.
The air of the early morn moor with the sky above my dome,
‘twas here that I ran and with joy loved and royally roamed,
Now my legs will nevermore click or clack over my domain fenced with tree gates,
‘twas here that I wooed and won my shy majestic mate.
She, my queen of the green woodlands, she was my wife and my empire,
‘twas here that we romanced in the fading summer’s fire,
Our charming child, my princess of these grassy hills now cloaked in shade,
‘twas here that she saw her father the monarch in death finally fade.
In the chorus of the dancing dawn awakening upon the horizon’s golden rhyme,
‘twas here that I sang the tune that will drum till the end of nature’s time,
They will come with stakes and wood and cross and bow me to the beams,
‘twas here where they hacked and tore off my enchanted crown of weeping dreams.
The scent of the freshly mown grass mingles with the green pine,
‘twas here that I drank the perfume and nectar of the divine,
My eyes glaze, my breathing falters, my clay chills, my soul no more sings,
‘twas here that I finally returned to the hands of my Beloved, the eternal King.
*"...I shall now graze upon the sacred acres of my Creator,
I shall frolic and run free in the tender fields of endless splendour..."*
©Rangzeb Hussain
Oct 27, 2010
Oct 27, 2010 at 3:08 AM UTC
Celebrating an identity in a gender
Oh! The lipstick,
Oh! The spanx
To God I give thanks!
Being female,
What a blessing,
Even though, I've got to tell you,
These gender roles can be depressing
Nothing like dressing up for a date,
Don't forget, you must be royally late!
Pile on the mascara, concealer and lipstick
Hey mama, don't forget to pull down your dress a bit
You almost forgot to reveal your cleavage!
Please, by all means, empty that pretty little head of yours
Of any intelligence or reason
Girl, your only purpose is for a man's pleasing!
Now, get to that appeasing
You shouldn't be wasting all your time teasing.
Oh, mama, cry it out
Weep and pout
Gossip with your girls
Reject that pretty girl...
Who does she think she is, being naturally beautiful?
She doesn't deserve friends
If she needs support, she has an abundance of men who can pretend.
Go ahead now, pull up that mini skirt more
What do you think he's looking for?
Do you think he cares about your brain?
You're insane!
Do you think he treasures your heart?
Oh please, don't fall apart.
Do you think he'll still love you when you're old?
What, do you think men fall in love with your soul?
In celebration of being female
Let me spare you some advice
Love yourself with all you've got
And please, stop begging for it (love)
Stop showing your legs for it
If you cultivate dignity for yourself and
Love yourself
True love is guaranteed forever.
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 12:32 AM UTC
A bad King may spoil even the best of times
We fable a good King’s aid in the dark ages
In our royal age of infinite information
We have royally forgotten the meaning of knowledge
In a sapphire dungeon of instant gratification
We have misplaced the majesty of pleasure
In this kingdom of self-indulgent ignorance
We have lost the nobility of wisdom
Can any subject ever again decree:
‘Tis better, The World, without a King.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 8:54 PM UTC
Are you a scientist?
Then why are you placing me on a slide?
Who gave you permission to judge every aspect of me?
Every strand of my thick hair
Every scar on my leg
Every less than perfect nail
My flawed complexion
I do my best to please you
But my best is never good enough for you
Because your definition of perfection
Is only achievable for the gods
You think that you are royalty
But you are only royally despised
Get away from me with those critical eyes
My life is too precious to be wasted under your microscope
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 4:17 PM UTC
Roses sing softly through whispering petals,
Gently stroking upon each others' own.
Similar is the sound, when all else rests,
Of sweet breath escaping lips royally throned.
I wish she would take me home.
Sunset, sunrise,
Chasing the moon girl, no surprise.
How long i have longed to catch her eyes,
Baby blue by nature, baby blue in mine.
Gold embroidered galaxies tells the false man lies.
Heart beats fast,
Bass drops low.
Twisting, turning, head spinning, falling.
How did we get here? Where do we go?
Covalently bonded, nowhere is everything now.
Mar 6, 2011
Mar 6, 2011 at 4:00 PM UTC
383
Exhilaration—is within—
There can no Outer Wine
So royally intoxicate
As that diviner Brand
The Soul achieves—Herself—
To drink—or set away
For Visitor—Or Sacrament—
’Tis not of Holiday
To stimulate a Man
Who hath the Ample Rhine
Within his Closet—Best you can
Exhale in offering.
2.6k
From low to high doth dissolution climb,
And sink from high to low, along a scale
Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail;
A musical but melancholy chime,
Which they can hear who meddle not with crime,
Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care.
Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear
The longest date do melt like frosty rime,
That in the morning whitened hill and plain
And is no more; drop like the tower sublime
Of yesterday, which royally did wear
His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain
Some casual shout that broke the silent air,
Or the unimaginable touch of Time.
2.6k
<!>
Four Irises tall & gallant, looking though
slighted worn out, a tad bedraggled
they are springtime survivor stragglers
of the Great Spring Weather Battle.
living in an open trench, battle conditions,
wind-whipped by constant strong breezes,
raked by intermittent machine gun rain,
familiar weapons of the “handover” season
loyal guardians of their pinpoint position,
remaining on duty, standing at attention,
dignified amidst the serene, nearly summer, now,
accepting quietude & gratitude of surround soundings
arrow-straight, in dress uniforms of royally purple,
four lead a cohort of unbloomed green fellows,
protecting their charge, an ancient marker of time,
rusted-green bronze sundial, symbol of continuity
these four, boon companions to human and animal,
shall persist long after I cease to dabble in this art,
they greet their admirers in full regalia, every year,
long, long may they live, die and be yet reborn!
here, in place, when we arrived four decades ago, a tiny forever,
changelings heading a processional of the summer season,
greeting all with a simple story of constance of change, of beauty,
leading our Summertime Commencement Exercises
May 26 ~ 27, 2023
May 27, 2023
May 27, 2023 at 4:55 PM UTC
One spoke: "Come, let us gaily go
With laughter, love and lust,
Since in a century or so
We'll all be boneyard dust.
When unborn shadows hold the screen,
(Our betters, I'll allow)
'Twill be as if we'd never been,
A hundred years from now.
When we have played life's lively game
Right royally we'll rot,
And not a soul will care a ****
The why or how we fought;
To grub for gold or grab for fame
Or raise a holy row,
It will be all the ****** same
A hundred years from now."
Said I: "Look! I have built a tower
Upon you lonely hill,
Designed to be a daughter's dower,
Yet when my heart is still,
The stone I set with ***** hand
And salty sweat of brow,
A record of my strength will sand
A hundred years from now.
"There's nothing lost and nothing vain
In all this world so wide;
The ocean hoards each drop of rain
To swell its sweeping tide;
The desert seeks each grain of sand
It's empire to endow,
And we a bright brave world have planned
A hundred years from now.
And all we are and all we do
Will bring that world to be;
Our strain and pain let us not rue,
Though other eyes shall see;
For other hearts will bravely beat
And lips will sing of how
We strove to make life sane and sweet
A hundred years from now.
2.3k
A modern day Henry VIII
You royally ******* me over.
We get ****** up and my head starts spinning
You giggle out an apology...
*******
I k-k-k-keep re-reading the line above your eyebrow
Stupid, stupid boy.
I gag on the taste of your breathing,
Your face so close our eyelashes interlock.
Strumming your fingers on my rib cage,
you crack my chest wide open.
**** ribs, and heartbeats.
You embed yourself between my lungs
Pressing palms into my spinal chord.
You fill me until I threaten to fall apart, only to gingerly remove yourself.
I think I'm growing up
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 7:48 PM UTC
I have felt love so deep
Touch my hollow crevices
A bulb that fade in and out
The mount that houses delirium
A fire that burns the dark
A thunder that shutters crystals
A royally hypnosis of the beats
The jump swig, a rhythm swing
I have felt love so deep
The river depth overflow
inside my mindscape
A water escape in pipelines
where the moon and sky
mix in the scrapes of ebbs
A royally hypnosis of the beats
The jump swig, a rhythm swing
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 7:08 PM UTC
Those houses are gold across the water
citrine streaked and royally gorgeous
a bit like mermaid hair under the boats
there's a story i can't quite remember
A little boy and the sun whom he loves
every evening she'd paint the windows
for a while they'd be a splendid kind of beauty to see
'oh what wonderful things must be behind that window'
he had so much hope for things that disappeared but
never failed to return
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 11:52 PM UTC
I hear you royally ********
Don't worry 'bout it.
It's all one's perspective.
Let's just say
Experience is what you have left over
From your mistakes,
And we know
Everyone applauds experience
Like a slice of apple pie.
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 8:20 AM UTC
once twice thrice
i rock back and forth
and hit my head on the wall
i cry then laugh
at all who see
i'm insane
nice to meet you
to bad for you
cuz you met me
im gonna die
and then you'll see
im no longer nice
so how did i become me
you hurt me
you hit me
yet im not broken
im just cracking
little by little
turning into alot by alot
im cracking up
hehehehe
guess what
nevermind about what you think life is
cuz thats not life
im dead
did you know that
i'm a figment of your imagination
didn't know you were so distrubed huh
hehehe
you made me in your mind
cuz you have no one else to blame
so i guess you blame me
you give me all the pain
all the torture
all the crazy
i'm insane
nice to meet you
i think
meaning you think
cuz i'm in your imagination
hehehe
you'll never know someone as ****** up as me
because i'm your ****** up imaginery person
hehehe
welcome to my home
your head
but since im the worst of you
i have my own head
i hide there
so noone can come get me to remove me
hehehe
but you know what
nothing will save you from me
and since im the worst of you
there is no best of or from me
hehehe
you ****** up royally this time
hehehehehehehe............
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
Did she make you happy?
Did you ever learn her name?
You knew her outside, you knew her inside.
You knew her thoughts, you knew her feelings.
You laughed with her, you cried with her.
You held her hand.
You raised a storm inside of her.
You really, really ****** her up.
Which isn't always a bad thing.
Did you ever look through her eyes?
Did you ever see her through her own eyes?
If you did, would you really have called her names?
You loved her, you really did,
and every day you put her down.
Do you know that you hurt her?
I don't think you do.
You always put her interests first, you were always by her side.
You always told her how important she was.
You always made her happy, you always made her smile.
You always made her love herself.
(As much as she could, under the circumstances.)
Did you try?
Look at me and tell me that you tried.
Tell me that dragging her through the ground and destroying her piece by piece helped.
Tell me she deserved it.
Now look me in the eyes and tell me why exactly she couldn't show her face.
Tell me why you wouldn't let her show her face.
You were nothing short of perfect.
You told her that you were there to help, and you really were.
You supported her, let her blossom.
A true flower, with you as the sunlight that let her bloom.
She was always growing, she still is.
With you by her side, maybe she'll be grown one day.
Maybe the world will learn her name.
Maybe one day.
Yes, it's all quite confused.
You were everything she needed.
They all were.
She could never find words strong enough to thank you, she told me so herself.
You royally ****** her up, you broke her.
You made her hide.
Yet you were the one who wanted, no needed the world to see her.
Now, explain something to me:
What did you expect to achieve when you never even stopped to ask her name?
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
*Poetry is a
well-oiled function,
processing sentiments
for posterity*
**Poetry is an extension
of our core elements,
royally regurgitated**
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 10:00 AM UTC
when i was little, i dreamt of being a princess
because taking charge is what i do best
and why not do it in a long pink dress?
i may not be royalty but i am royally *******
by being an overemotional teenager who ...
listens a bit too much to what society says
and not enough to what she has to say
about herself
i feel like that needle in a haystack
when it comes to the future.
i’m still asking if i can use the bathroom
when i’m expected to have my whole life planned out
by the time the leaves start to change
and i have to surgically remove my arm to sell on the streets so four years from now i’m not living on one ... with nothing but a fancy degree held above my head when it rains the cold realization that i am $100,000 in debt
and have no idea what i’m doing
so what am i supposed to do
when i still find myself comparing who i am now,
to who i could have become
without the challenges of 2012
still hanging on my shoulders
when i lay in bed at night,
thinking about how different i would be
if life hadn’t thrown me a curveball
that knocked me off home plate and out of my comfort zone,
out of the dreams of an ivy league school or graduating with high honors -
when i’m just lucky to be graduating on time.
while my peers are getting acceptance letters,
i’m getting the reminder that the battle has just begun,
the war of me against myself in accepting the past as it is,
regretting my mental disorder will not make it go away no matter how hard i fight.
i know that forgiveness equals growth,
a never-ending road of
constantly changing
twisting and winding
paths that never seem to have any clues
as to which one is the right one.
i’ve blindly picked a path, a quest if you will.
i am on a quest to be the best
no no, let me rephrase, MY best
because my best is all i can give and someday,
those that told me otherwise
will be eating those sugar coated words
when i have finally accepted MY best is true success.
so when i was little, i did dream of becoming a princess
but today, i’m dreaming of being a better me than yesterday
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
Ole, to listen to some talk about those good olds days is a dream.
Where?
For some it was great.
While for others it a total trial of misery.
Oh, many remember those segregated water fountains and theaters.
Good for one.
And not for the other.
Oh, yes the rules that treated one royally.
And the others secondary.
Now it's the primary loving the good od days.
Where?
They feel high and mighty about the past.
When things was held back for others to gain.
While the accomplished getting over to get their way.
Notice, rules placed into law against those that couldn't vote.
To some a running joke.
Even had the support of the Supreme Court during that time.
Yes, the good old days.
I'm for one glad they have faded.
Like a sad memory you wish to forget.
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 12:48 PM UTC
We sat on the carpet in the bedroom
and I pulled between us that family heirloom,
a sea chest belonging, at one point, to some
grandfather or another, and we began
an apparently curtailed version
of the usual routine.
I wondered if that meant dire things
for my fate; as if all the events of my life
would be half as eventful, or if
there would be half as many of them, God forbid.
I can’t recall a particular atmosphere,
except that it was dim, and I guess
the old sea chest contributed
a bit of worn charm. And that same afternoon
I did burn some incense, but it could barely be smelled.
She asked, occasionally, for my involvement.
Tap one of these. Lay your hand on that.
And, uniquely in my life, I got the semblance
of controlling my destiny.
Soon enough, a picture began to form.
The five of cups: miserliness, a bearded man dressed royally,
alone atop a treasure trove, his children and former lovers
elsewhere, in loving penury, without a thought
for dear old stingy dad. The two of swords: some duality
out of the past, a war - always - between reason and love, and
how much I cherished them both. An awkward young man
who loved casually, without forethought and almost
without reason, and the brain he was far too proud of having
to use responsibly.
Finally, we reach the one in the center, and once again
I am required to invest some of myself in this card.
I hold my hand on it and am asked to imagine what it might be.
It is the Hermit. Her favorite, she explains.
He means a journey, alone. How alone, exactly?
Under normal circumstances, alone is a metaphor.
One can be alone in spirit, being not understood.
But you and I have been having arguments, and so
the implication is not lost on me.
How alone? And what journey? And to what end?
I imagine them, these arcana,
major and minor. They are collected
around a coffee table, for their weekly tea.
The Hermit holds up a pair of worn sandals
and a volume of sad amateur poetry -
the price of certain journeys -
the Lovers, their backs turned to one another,
produce a pitiful summary of a joint bank account.
The High Priestess takes from her tea cabinet
a samovar full of old dried blood, and pressed flowers
(lilies and lovers’ thistles)
and they all laugh and laugh and laugh
because they are not mortal, like us.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 1:05 PM UTC
you are so annoying...
you are so complicated..
you bring drama to my life..
you laugh at me...
you laugh with me...
you know all bout my crushes...
you know all bout my life every single detail..
you make me smile...
you irritate me..
you are my "philosophic talker"
you my ******** taker"
you give all wrong advises..
you scream at me with CAPITAL LETTERS..!! :)
you make me smile with all the "awwww..."
you are with me day and night..!!
and wen u get upset with me nothings all right..!! :(
even if people call us "lesbians" I DON'T CARE..!!!
because i know we have our share of crushes...lovers and admirers...that v both only know of..!!! :)
you have seen me in my bad..u have seen me in my best..
you have seen me going "tomboy " to "girly" for a guy..!! :)
you criticize me...i abuse you...and that is what makes us Best Friends Forever..!!!
i know i have ******* you royally..!! i know i have irritated you no end..!! thank you for bearing it all...thank you for standing by me!! thank you for taking my **** and lastly...thank you for STICKING AROUND AND LISTENING TO ME..!!!!!
LOVE YOU LOADS..!!!
P.S : We are not BFFs... WE ARE..
: Best Friend For Life Like Sisters And Always I Love You..!!!
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 10:55 AM UTC
Puking on a vest made of argyle
Passing out on kitchen tile
A checker board mattress after
Chatting with a girl, whose *** is fantastic
She's hotter than struck matchsticks
Playing chess with her chest
Moves are nothing short of the best
You can pull on 3 leaf clovers
But you can't push your luck
King me, Crown me, Get royally ******
I've got the wood she's got the chuck
How much?
Bedside Manner is enough
But she'd rather talk about being stuck like cassettes
With a useless boyfriend
And a ton of financial debt
Had I mentioned this was turning into a drag
Minus the cigarette
The size of a rolled telegram and gazette
Has it become clear yet
*I'm not looking at you
I'm looking past you*
Transparent
Like a ghost
It's apparent
I'm into you like a foreign host
It's hard to tell
When the air is hazy
She's blind to the fact
Like her eye is lazy
Choked on words that she never learned to chew
Why don't you call Sherlock, boo
Get yourself a Clue
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 11:07 PM UTC
Royally flushed;
chips spent cheap
wasted bets,
too sour champagne
Gambling with your heart
a last resort at best,
Never thought
I'd lose this fabulous
game of life,
of Russian Roulette.
words spin, they say we
only get to draw 21
chances to either
fold or win.
Take that heart
to texas and hold'em
tight.
High stakes to play;
no end in sight.
I'm sorry this life is
a casino,
and you without
love to bet.
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 6:12 PM UTC