"scoreboard" poems
Brandon,
To see you grow up and turn into the man you are is a gift... A young man, smart, kind, thoughtful to others. I have no criticisms to offer you in regards to the path and choices you have taken and made. I feel swelling pride for you as I write this and cannot wait to see and hear the adventures you will embark on in your life.
Having you as my cousin touches me and reminds me that I have an impact on the world, and for as long as you have looked up to me as your older cousin, I will always feel a sense of responsibility and caring for you, invigorating in purpose, which helps craft the home in my heart. Seeing time pass as sand in an hour glass, I can only glance in retrospect and see the years and times as a family you have shared with us; if it were a scoreboard, a test, the sum of all of your actions: a resounding win or success story on all counts. You are a gift to those around you and your happiness and caring will change this world for the better as it already has changed mine. Thank you for being my cousin, but more so for being the person you always are. You are a blessing and a light. Don't ever let anybody tell you otherwise or believe differently...
To end my letter to you, I will leave you with this: I can't wait to grow old and share more time with you; to go fishing, to go camping, to carry on our family's traditions and dinners which are so special among families, to share this chance to be alive and breathing, and to share our hearts with others. Go forth Brandon. Go forth and share your love with the world. Light your torch and burn it. I love you Brandon.
Your Cousin,
-Kevin
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 1:53 PM UTC
Teammates supplement for family
Black and white pentagons are the walls around me
Studded shoes fit snug as skin
Practices beg for offerings
We give them Blood
Wanting more, we give sweat
Arguments with my family bring tears
We fight for every moment
Our pulse pumping with the seconds on the scoreboard
The score is never important
All that matters is our sisterhood
We are one
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 10:50 PM UTC
it's a friday night and i am sat at the top of the bleachers with three packs of maltesers i told the cashier were for my friends with a blurry grin and the hot chocolate in my hands lied. it's lukewarm and tastes of milk, not sweets, and the taste of it still taints my lips because i'm forcing myself to drink it anyways. the stars are yellow set against navy hues and they're blinking down at me.
there's announcers shouting something about the game occurring on the field but i'm not listening, never listening, never apathetic or empathic enough to want to. the music blares, cheers roar, announcers boom, the scoreboard flashes- it's cold enough to be huddled beneath blankets but i've only got a sweatshirt hiding my hands, hiding my fingers, hiding me. my ribs shiver and the ghosts in the spaces between them gather closer for a warmth that won't come. the moon says hello to me and i struggle to catch enough air to say it back.
my friends are nowhere to be found and i can't feel my fingertips and the flavor of lukewarm hot chocolate leaves me and i'm closing my eyes, shutting them tight, disconnecting.
there's suddenly no one here, just me and the blackness behind my eyelids. it's like i'm watching humans but never being one of them. maybe i'm meant to be an alien- maybe that one star blinking at me is a planet welcoming me home- maybe if i lay my lungs to rest they'll leave me be.
i can feel my heart giving up on me.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC
I'm speechless
That's my approach as you approach me
And usually I'm too focused on finding the perfect words
To penetrate the simple space I provide
So when beautiful girls intentionally invade my atmosphere
My need for speech is satisfied
Your beauty speaks sufficiently for two
So while I'm struggling for oxygen, I hope you recognize
Your presence is all I've ever needed to breathe easily
I'm stuck
Between unexpressed elegance
And helplessness
My mouth is screaming out
But frozen completely shut
I'm worried my compliments
May be complications
That my suggestions
Might suppress my objective here
We typically rely on our words
To settle the score
As if you and I are in overtime
Of a tie ballgame
Looking for phrases to frame the scoreboard
With an absolute victor
But I was hoping that you'd be willing to join forces
To break through the proverbial force field
That prohibits rivals from overthrowing obstacles
Because I've always believed the input overpowers the outcome
What if it were possible
To eliminate our speech
So our ears could erase the need to draw conclusions
We don't etch our words in pencil
Our words are enunciated in permanent marker
Brutally beating through our eardrums
Rhythmically reminding us
That silence can be more sweet sounding than any set of syllables
All I know is I'm hell-bent on remaining a straight shooter
My arrows will always be designed for the bulls-eye
But lately I've been questioning my targets
They haven't been painted red and white for all the world to see
They've been camouflaged by constricted communication
Secretly searching for statements that haven't met the airwaves yet
So I'd much rather absorb your definite thoughts
Than accept your remarks as absolute
The truth is
I'm not sure
What needs to be said.
The syllables I've learned to form
Don't apply to situations where
Words remain inherently absent.
And too often we force our hand
To make phrases appear
Where they don't belong.
But something about
Silent speeches is appealing to me.
Because the power in your eyes reduce
The need for any type of sound.
And the shock waves your steps make
As you inch closer to mine
Create the sweetest melodies.
So all I will tell you is this:
Let's leave words out of this.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 6:53 AM UTC
Time: 1
Us: 0
Will it always be like this?
Swinging our racquets at Einstein's illusion.
Singing, singing, singing 'Stop
the World I Wanna Get Off
With You'
when nobody hears
over the relentless tick-tocks.
As
as
the clock's hands
push
push
pull us together,
apart.
Hey, you.
Are we lovers or are we opponents?
Let's look at the scoreboard.
Time: 1
Us: 0
In school, they taught us perseverance.
So we keep
dancing, dancing, dancing
around
the hands of the clock.
I'm on number 3 and
you face me.
What's it like on number 9?
What's it like to be on the edge of
the next hour,
the next day,
the next big thing?
You're on number 9, I'm on number 3.
I face you, you face me.
Are we lovers or are we opponents?
I face you,
you face me.
So easy for us to...
So easy for us to love, but
so easy for us to leave.
So easy to fight, to
wrap our hands
around
each other's throats
simultaneously.
So easy to embrace, so
easy to walk away
when you are the west and I am the east.
I'll ask you again:
Are we lovers or are we opponents?
Eyes flit up to the scoreboard,
even though
we don't want to look
away from each other.
Time: 1
Us: 0
The ball is in no one's court anymore.
No more back and forth,
stichomythia, repartee.
Nor round and
round
when it's all an illusion,
isn't it?
Don't look.
Don't bring it up.
Time: 1
Us: 0
The figures are getting bolder, louder
than the ticking.
Tell me, tell me, before
you move to 10
and our angles get skew,
tripping over the clock's hands,
because we forgot the steps of
our dance.
Tell me, tell me, what it's like
when you see me
all the way from number 9
while I'm on number 3.
The scoreboard's screeching
like a train ready to leave.
Time: 1
Us: 0
The audience is already beginning to clap.
They have loved us
and so have we.
We put on quite the show,
enough to rival Djokovic or Murray.
But neither of us will walk out with gold.
Not when we've lost to an abstraction
that can swallow us into
memories.
We get silver medals.
Around our necks, choking
but we clasp them tightly
so they can sparkle on our chests.
My silver beams to you,
your silver beams to me.
On and off,
a Morse code speech.
When we can't speak,
can't breathe,
that seems to suffice.
Here is a case of beautiful irony:
How did we meet?
Your eyes
saw in
my eyes
that silver gleam.
My eyes
saw in
your eyes
the very same thing.
Remember:
I face you, you face me.
Are we lovers or are we opponents?
The scoreboard screams:
Time: 1
Us: 0
I bought a watch today, why
did I do that?
I'm so smart but
I'm so stupid.
I face you, you face me.
It's not an illusion, is it?
Look at me.
Is it?
Time: 1
Us: 0
We're finished.
But then how could we have ever won
when neither of us knew how to play tennis?
We look at each other
so the scoreboard can dissolve
instead of us.
Like your eyes
in my eyes
a tethering glance,
could hold us in an eternal position.
Like a single look
could sustain us
stationary.
I face you, you
start to leave.
It doesn't matter now.
Everything's spilling out
on the loudspeaker.
(And for once, you don't wish to seek this one truth.)
Time: 1
Us: 0
It will always be like this.
Time: one.
Us: love.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 11:37 AM UTC
There are players in the penalty box that don't belong
Because the refs start tripping
When people skate on thin ice
But they're not fighting
Or slashing
The winning team keeps them down by charging them
Until some go to the box just for boarding
And that's only the icing
It's difficult to not misconduct yourself during this game
When the score is ran up
By a team with a wall for a goalie
And a rifle for a stick
They score when we hit the post
Yet we're penalized for trying to achieve our goals
Forcing us to defend
As they shoot at us
For being on a different team
We need to make a power play
And **** some penalties
Don't fear too many men on the ice
The gloves come off but it's futile
The refs never wore gloves to begin with
And apparently don't need them the way I do
I sit on the bench in defeat
Praying they have a ****** overtime
Because right now
In the time of regulation
We're stuck on ice
As the scoreboard hangs out of reach above us
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 10:40 PM UTC
say for example,
that you love to play baseball.
[it is your favorite thing in the world,
and you're quite good at it, too].
and before your game,
your coach says to the team,
"if we win, i'll take everybody to Pizza Hut!"
upon hearing this, the players' faces light up-
each one can taste the delicious stuffed crust that awaits them,
and visions of breadsticks dance through their heads.
the coach even brought a coupon book to allude to their possible futures...
just before the team takes the field,
the coach pulls you aside
and says,
"actually, i'm going to take the whole team to Pizza Hut
even if we lose."
well, you would know right then
that outcome of the game
is irrelevant,
but the true joy of playing
comes from competition regardless of winning or losing,
so you vow to play your best game ever.
however, everyone else on the team,
not knowing the ultimate truth,
will play very seriously,
but with great anxiety and nervousness.
they desperately want Pizza Hut,
but know that they might not getting it.
this game is the most important thing in the universe,
and it is the most serious test of all time.
every at-bat is tense for them,
each fly ball could result in ultimate damnation.
nothing is fun.
with tension and anxiety,
they strike out, play conservatively,
and don't take the risks that make the game enjoyable.
quickly, the team finds itself trailing by a few runs,
and sweating profusely because of it.
you, on the other hand,
would feel more relaxed during the game.
you would swing for the fences,
knocking a couple out of the park,
steal a base or two,
make a diving catch.
play your best game ever.
you can do this comfortably
because you realize that you're just playing for fun.
you're going to Pizza Hut after game, whatever the outcome!
soon, in your exuberance,
you'd let slip the secret to a couple other players.
you'd tell them, "guys, we were always going to Pizza Hut,
let's just have some fun while we play this game."
most of them rejoice!
[a couple real serious ones doubt you and resent you.
you'd surely smile, bend a knee, and applaud their solemnity.]
but in your state of joy you include the doubters,
and you let them believe what they will until the final innings over.
you think, they'll wake up soon enough.
with the last out made
and the last run scored,
maybe you look at the scoreboard and see yourself in the lead,
maybe you are a few runs behind,
but the smile on the coach's face says it all:
the peace and joy within you brought into your world happiness...
... and a large pepperoni pizza.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 1:55 PM UTC
These streets knew feet in days gone by,
bustling sidewalks, crowded storefronts,
laughter, light and dancers leaking
out of smoke-filled bars.
Cars would wind through intersections,
blood cells between neighborhoods.
From The Corner came The Roar.
He remembers how the Autumn sounded
back in '84
when Alan Trammell brought The Series home,
the arcing shot off Gibson's bat,
the rolling wave of soaring voices.
Old English
"D"
tattooed on the hearts
of a city
who's been hurting since the 50's.
Bless You Boys.
Ya did it--
went and Sparked up Michigan
and lit a dimming town again
in Corktown's widening eyes.
In 20 years, though, losses pile up.
55 and starved for signs
of trends reversing, luck upending,
impending relief or just some kind of
something.
Sickening, cloying rapid decay
as neighborhoods die.
These streets know crumbling cinderblock
walls and blistered paint coats don't
cover ribcages starting to show--
steel girder bones--and windows blown
out, like teeth lost from a well-spoken mouth,
allow the Lake Michigan wind to howl
out the tale--
through oxidized bones--
of just what it looks like
when economic war hits home.
Heartbeats still find footing
in Motor City streets, beneath
the Old English "D,"
but mind the scoreboard smart;
the Tigers lost a hundred games
in 2003.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 6:58 PM UTC
That sparkle,
that immeasurably forgiving joy and affection is gone,
but the sound of your voice is just familiar enough to make me remember it.
What we're doing here is necrophilia.
It's gross, but we're ******* something that's dead and we both know it.
I think we thought we could bring it back to life with our selfish demands,
but this coffin isn't as comforting as we'd hoped it would be.
We've never talked about the time between,
that period of time when we never talked.
We should have talked.
Without words, you had nowhere to be angry so you swallowed your truths and they turned into blame.
I can feel it when you look at me,
I don't sparkle anymore.
Well, neither do you.
When we talk we say the least, yet every word has a barb.
Too jaded for affection we bob and weave through a minefield of unacknowledged truths.
Our words rot in our bellies while we sew each others mouths shut.
We never wanted this sort of intimacy.
We let the poison out with play, the kind that's done with knives.
So here we are, playing with knives in a minefield,
the only sound is our own hollow laughter.
Behind every "never mind" and "just kidding",
behind the scoreboard of our interactions and every slap of my *** are two shadows;
one covered in armor from breast to backbone,
and one purging a river of poison.
We're chasing a past we know we can't have back,
and the echoes of our old feelings make the silence so much louder than it was
when we didn't talk.
We were beautiful this summer, helplessly alive.
We had such good intentions but the silence and the miles and the fear have made this thing pale,
dead looking.
We try hard to be sorry.
Every kindness hurts because it tastes like the past,
so now instead we barter in bed.
Turns out *** without affection falls under Services Rendered,
but the shape of you so near to me makes me miss you more than I can bare and if you call me tonight, I'll probably answer.
I guess sometimes the only way to make sure something's not still alive is to poke it with a stick a few times.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 1:01 AM UTC
universe, displace from me
this trauma in the breaking
of my father’s favorite scotch glass
for it is simpler to clear glass shards
from the dishwasher and laminate tile
than ventricular shrapnel from my chest
eyebrows
straight as a net
keep me serving lets
racquet, arm, the ball
is all i don't know
40-love
scoreboard soothsayer
divining the true value
of affectionate devotion
game, set, deuce off the bat
[wrong sport]
my serve is in returning
paper bags brimming
with your belongings
(our volleys never lasted)
game, set, match
[applause]
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 9:21 PM UTC
Rebound.
Lead him with a leash,
drag him along like the dog that has died
but you won't give up your walk.
Rebound.
You took your shot at the love
but you missed,
now you think you can give it another try.
Rebound.
Bounce back in like there's no penalty,
like hearts don't break,
as if you can simply tape it back together
and it will continue beating.
Rebound.
Just because you don't have a scoreboard in life
doesn't mean the points don't count.
Rebound.
When everything is tallied up
at the end of the day,
will you really come out on top
like you hope?
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 11:41 AM UTC
Typically British, rather insane.
English men do walk on water.
Ha ha, jolly hockey sticks, snooty noses up in the air.
A game of jolly cricket, in the middle of the sea.
Just an annual event; as tide resides and holds up a bank.
Supporting stumps and a scoreboard.
The water got scared and bailed out.
A gang of weird cricketers stroll across the Solent.
In between the smiling waves.
A quick match indeed, for after the sea recedes, the tide creeps in, the pitch is gone.
Jolly funny posh folk, trot home for a scone and a bubbly fizz as stags and hens, they head off to the shore.
In their cruisers of pleasure, hey ** off they go!
As when the tide is in they cannot walk on water.
To hold posh debate on the final score.
To muse of experience just left at sea.
Guess no groundsman needed and pitch never weeded.
(c) Livvi
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
Negatives and Positives
they cancel each other out
We're at zero now
Tied on the scoreboard
Sleep deprived
and hollow on the inside
Bags under my eyes,
I was searching for something
Remember that summer night on the roof?
Smoking *** and singing RnB
That's the only place I wanted to be
cool thanks to that summer breeze
But that summer breeze turned into a winter storm
and it tore me away from our special place
on the timeline
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 10:51 AM UTC
Old cars and older voices, time
begins anew (with awake) in
the afternoon, chords and
bronze-coated companionship, long-
dead limbs singing, with
not walking but
floating as a mantra in the
dark, wanderer of these
expectant streets disheartened
by the home scoreboard
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 10:25 PM UTC
I'm just a writer
Someone who molds letters
I don't fight in battles
Words are my sword
I'm just a writer
"Not really anything special"
Most ignore the talent
They're too busy with the scoreboard
I'm just a writer
Blending in with the crowd
To try and soak in emotion
Just to scribble it all down
I'm just a writer
I don't lift heavy things
It's not like speaking out for lost hearts
Is considered heavy lifting
I'm just a writer
No one to be noticed easily
Invisible to the naked eye
Because the world has lost appreciation
I'm just a writer
I won't be picked first
I'm not on the winning team
You'll see me on the bench
I'm just a writer
One who knows how to awaken
A deadened sense inside of people
One with the most open mind
I'm just a writer
One who is in the back
Reveling in inner beauty
Though I appear quite dull
But when you read the words
The expressions of heartbreaking and healing things
You'll begin to wonder
What have you been missing
When you look at me
And see a lot of nothing
You'll notice the signs and ask yourself
Am I really just a writer?
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC
He told me
"I think I could love you."
And buried under my skin.
I've never felt better
As nausea bubbles within
I touch his cheeks
So warm with blood
I feel him
He's harrier than you,
And bigger too.
If you're not catching my wind flow
I feel as if you need to howl a bit more
I reply to the irregularity of his
Immaturity at age 22.
Yet you're only 12 in space years.
So I get it.
I'm high off of singular drum beats
And your breath is
hot chocolate based.
Kiss the scoreboard for luck.
I want you to touch my neck again
Maybe for a second
You're so healthy.
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 2:02 AM UTC
Silently roaming through the astral plane
Projected myself into the foreign, the strange.
Tamed the mind to relinquish the bind,
And so no longer does energy spent feel like a grind.
I invest it in the right places.
Surroundings change, as do the faces.
Think of me as they wish, but in the mirror I am not looked down upon.
So I wander free, barefoot, to soak up Mother Earth's electrons.
I promise to share,
With so much glorious emptiness,
There's more than enough room to spare.
For the next couple minutes though, I'm going to sit in this chair.
Listen to a calming frequency, 528 Hz, for healing and DNA repair.
I've done enough damage, and looked to too many tomorrows.
The thoughts themselves didn't bring up enough motivation to borrow.
So I must keep moving, and slip into the unknown,
That way I can be certain.
I've done enough work to my inner temple that I can now pull back the curtains.
Anxieties, were nothing but lies to me, but now I see
The ever-morphing puzzle that is this intricate reality.
Situations wanna battle me, but I've become war-tested
Cleaned more than I've caused, inevitable messes.
There are times I find it hard to let go of the the stresses.
And so to bless this, I turn inward
~ breathing becomes among all I've heard.
The chatter ceases and worry decreases.
Loosened the leashes to let the animals play
I realized I was a pawn and today is my day.
Traveling one way, and that's forward.
Gonna make it to the end without looking at the scoreboard.
With inner peace I will reach the destination without being bothered.
Gonna show the king his reflection in my calm waters.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 3:06 PM UTC
Another tally on my scoreboard.
It was only supposed to have one,
But now, there were four diagonal lines.
Twenty x "now what have you done?"
We pretended there was a chance,
But every mark after III was a pawn.
A new player in my game of control,
Facing guns that were already drawn.
Sharp breath, arched back, closed eyes.
Each time, I felt something new.
His scent, his breath, his voice...
But none of it was what I felt with you.
Number 8 had tattoos and baby blues.
A first for both, but so much more.
He was 1 for the first date, first time.
...Does that make me a *****
I'll always hate the number 10
Because I woke up to him touching me.
He promised it was "just cuddling."
I still got insomnia out of necessity.
"Look in my eyes, don't say a word."
Number 18, passion, attraction, allure.
My biggest secret was that I loved him.
And...he was my teacher.
Secrets and embarrassments.
More reasons for regret.
Let me show you the truest part of me:
Ruined by men, both evil and passionate.
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 9:23 AM UTC
The voices of my peers echo
As either a comedy or a drama is spoken.
Tears of the audience
Either come from laughter or sadness,
Emotions felt be the stories told
By my peers on stage.
Tales of soldiers or ******
Talking animals or mad hatters,
Different tones being used
For each character's profile.
The difficulty of keeping a straight face
When acting as though you suffer
From Multiple Personality Disorder.
As the tale concludes,
Clapping and whistles erupt
From the audience.
The judges take their notes,
Scribbling their views on the show.
The suspense of waiting
For the scoreboard to claim
The first place Speaker.
Poetic,
Dramatic,
Comedic
Representations of stories,
Are difficult to judge.
But, of course,
The best will rise
And claim the satisfaction
Of applause by the viewers.
The only thing left
To do now, is
Wait for the next competition,
Next Saturday.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 4:55 PM UTC
We do not burn books in America
We just ignore them, for we light our nights
And burn away our individual souls
Upon an altar green, clean plastic grass
Come together as one unto the lights
The concept of the tablets now writ large
An electronic scoreboard – and if we’re good
We’ll see our snaggly grins all ten feet tall
Eighty-thousand dollars of education
Beaming civilization six nights each year
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 3:31 PM UTC
a blushing van rolls to a stop.
he steps out onto the school parking lot
walks around the embarrassed bumpers
clad in duct tape and inaccurate repaintings
brazenly
so sure he has it all.
she slides off the hood of a manicured foreign tank
hulking and onyx.
they embrace
too long
something is up
he is wary.
arms at her sides
she reaches for his lips
he does not look down
he is wary
she leads him to the grass
his suspicion turns the green from vibrant
to synthetic
he is wary.
they sit
across from each other
no table to negotiate over.
she is sure of the future
unsure of the way through the present
searching for words.
he prods
she speaks
she reaches for his hands
he tries to sit back on them
she catches his fingertips
he knows.
sitting
she leaves him.
sitting
he calmly waves goodbye
and heads in another direction.
still on the grass
he
so it goes, eh?
she
hah, vonnegut.
days
weeks
months
years
jubilantly lilt by.
he is becoming a whole
looking to pair up
instead of a half
scrabbling for completion.
she takes trips
draining coffers on other continents.
in between vacations
another party
another one-word encounter
become but tallies
on a scoreboard no one reads
until
she finds him squeezed onto a full couch
tripping.
she slurs
pre-vomit
hurt and frustration.
he looks at her
he is weary.
he was free.
in this moment
he is trapped
on loop.
she stuck a fork in him
chest bleeding
it was not enough.
she honed his lust
against his pride
until
the fork
hummed a tune
only for her.
the vibrations cease
he stops singing.
he is hoarse.
it is over
this is overdue
he
finished with belting out
softly speaks.
she
you just don’t say that
he
why not?
Nov 16, 2012
Nov 16, 2012 at 5:42 AM UTC
I tell myself I’m a peaceful man
That my day is sunny and calm
That I’ll be tranquil if I can
And the future is in my palm.
But even as the hours go
Beyond the wooden clock
My anger begins to show
And rationality is out of stock.
Oh, but it’s not as bad as others.
I hear it everyday,
“He’s as stupid as his brothers.”
And I look the other way.
Perhaps it’s not as extreme
As a pessimist gothic freak
But the running or baseball team
Makes hatred come to leak.
I think that they’re wasting time
With their pointless scoreboard numbers
But look at me trying to rhyme
With passionate booming thunders.
I shouldn’t be one to spit on running
Cause the grass once belonged to me
But as long as I keep shunning
Things won’t ever stay to be.
I haven’t seen it all
Or experienced everything
Just cause I’ve hit a wall
Doesn’t mean I ought to sing.
In deepness truth inside
Of what I truly feel
Those talented people lacking pride
I’m jealous to the peel.
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 11:14 PM UTC
That's why scientists use lawyers for experiments instead of rats
Stumpy replied, I was gonna say something when Martha fell out-
But ten dollars is ten dollars
Don't listen to him- he isn't even your father
But when I woke up in the morning
I was on that guy's mustache again
If she isn't good enough for her own family-
She sure as hell isn't good enough for you.
The parrot said, ''I give up,
What'd you do with the ship?''
NASA responded with a one-line memo: "Thaw the chicken."
I don't have to outrun the bear, I only have to outrun you!
When I'm driving around, my zip code keeps changing.
The cop asked, "What's he like?" The little boy replied,
"Beer and women with big ****
Frustrated the man said, "Put the cat on the phone,
I'm lost and I need directions."
The stoner looks at him for a second, smiles
And says, "You're an ambulance!"
That felt good, but my hand still hurts like crazy!
You idiot! Now we have to **** in the boat!
“But I'm not pregnant,” she says.
“Well, you're not out of the ditch yet,” he says.
The boy started off, "Hi, my name's Chuck… --" and the farmer shot him.
'Hey, I don't mind you ******* my wife,
But can you stop using my *** as a scoreboard!?!'
The police are looking for some hardened criminals
'Dear baby Jesus. If you ever want to see your mother again..'
So the crocodile bit his legs off.
And the string says, "Nope- I'm a frayed knot."
Mar 18, 2010
Mar 18, 2010 at 8:09 PM UTC
A big round orange ball dribbled with.
Shooting the orange object into a 10 foot basket.
Everyone is cheering for you as your team is trailing by two points.
Ready or Not,
5 seconds left,
4..
3..
2..
You throw the ball up not knowing if it is going in or not.
The buzzer goes off...
You open your eyes hoping you made the shot.
When you look up at the scoreboard you see that you have just won!!
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 10:56 AM UTC
Draining sweat out of my mind on the black line
wondering how the hell did we get here???…
one minute it’s 5on5.
i’m on the JV squad beating varsity with ease.
intense energy arise.
next minute, coach is ****** has all of us on the line like soldiers. running in sections of groups of 3-4
varsity runs first
JV next
freshman third
whoever’s left just run last.
as we look at the scoreboard,
the death clock is set for one minute.
all we have to do is beat the clock
before time runs out,
otherwise we keep running.
a full-court “Kentucky Derby” sprint
and yet, we’ve been practicing for 7 hours
on a school night.
mentally exhausted
from homework due tomorrow.
physically in pain from the drills.
Coach yells: “NEXT GROUP!”
dam_. here we go.
Coach: “GO!”
tick, tick, tick
Oct 15, 2021
Oct 15, 2021 at 1:48 AM UTC