"scraper" poems
You'll never know...
When you'll be head over heels
The most enchanting feeling in the world
Your unknown desires, it reveals
A current in you will endlessly twirl
You'll never know...
When happiness fills your heart
Having a precious bundle of joy in your arms
You'll realize in your life, he's the most important part
Not forgetting, he'll make the best morning alarms
You'll never know...
When your heart will be scrunched
Like a ball from a piece of paper
Feels like your chest is being ruthlessly punched
Your skin peeled off with a serrated scraper
You'll never know...
When a friend will turn his back
Whose hand you held, all these years
Intentionally causing an emotional attack
In disbelief, you gather invisible tears
You'll never know...
When you'll be caught in an unexpected plight
Daily reflections occur, due to lack of wisdom
To ease your dark path, you yearn for a ray of light
Nothing much you can do except to crave for freedom
You'll never know...
When the time comes, you might bleed to death
Tears will flow drowning your skin
As you breathe your last breath
You wish you had more time to atone for your sins
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 6:14 PM UTC
The infinity of lights made her feel infinite
Safe
Like all the light would drive out the dark in this glowing city
One
She was as vast as the vast city around her
New York
Chicago
Seattle
all
or
None of the above
Dream World
Safe
Safe enough to jump
Not really to jump
Maybe more to fly
The fear did not affect her action
In her hazy dream world city
She could fly she thought
She places her feet on the slippery unforgiving iron
Stepping Up
Looking Down
The fear was still not there
This was not a suicidal act
She wanted to jump
Not so much to jump as to fly
King of this concrete jungle
The ***** of the heart
The pulse of the hand
The breathlessness
The final step
Shes soaring now
Shes falling now
flying:soaring:floating
falling:flailing:breaking
you won't break yourself if you believe you can't
There's the confliction
The child that believes she can fly
The grown girl who lays broken to die
Her body is broken like a cartoon
Like Wile E cayote after falling off some boulder
There was a whole body
There was not
blood
guts
or reality
Hazy dreamworld city
In this flowing capital she beams with a twisted sense of perseverance
She sustains no injuries
Like tripping on those uneven breaks of pavement
They say you're never supposed to sleep through the falls in the falling dreams
The pit of the stomach
Winded
Clammy
Punched in the stomach
Falling Dreams
Yet she did
Why was the fear not there?
It was not in her sleep cycle
not on top of the skyscraper in hazy dreamworld city
She saw her broken body rise to life
Why could she sleep through the fall?
And the next sky scraper she fell from
...Not in hazy dreamworld city
...Would she walk away?
Was she jumping from the money that built that skyscraper?
Or the classic Freudian symbol, dream specialists might contend
Translation of one image onto another
So I was jumping away from men
Commitment
What's new?
Spend money and time
Loose friends and crime
Jumping away from reality
Soaring now
Falling now
Falling into the flowing light of the hazy dreamworld city
As flies will always return to fluorescent light bulbs, naive
Like if she got close enough to it
She would become it
She would consume it
The light would consume her
Illuminated
The dark expelled to the smallest corners of this earth
flying in this hazy dreamworld city.
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 7:16 PM UTC
The infinity of lights made her feel infinite
Safe
Like all the light would drive out the dark in this glowing city
One
She was as vast as the vast city around her
New York
Chicago
Seattle
all
or
None of the above
Dream World
Safe
Safe enough to jump
Not really to jump
Maybe more to fly
The fear did not affect her action
In her hazy dream world city
She could fly she thought
She places her feet on the slippery unforgiving iron
Stepping Up
Looking Down
The fear was still not there
This was not a suicidal act
She wanted to jump
Not so much to jump as to fly
King of this concrete jungle
The ***** of the heart
The pulse of the hand
The breathlessness
The final step
Shes soaring now
Shes falling now
flying:soaring:floating
falling:flailing:breaking
you won't break yourself if you believe you can't
There's the confliction
The child that believes she can fly
The grown girl who lays broken to die
Her body is broken like a cartoon
Like Wile E cayote after falling off some boulder
There was a whole body
There was not
blood
guts
or reality
Hazy dreamworld city
In this flowing capital she beams with a twisted sense of perseverance
She sustains no injuries
Like tripping on those uneven breaks of pavement
They say you're never supposed to sleep through the falls in the falling dreams
The pit of the stomach
Winded
Clammy
Punched in the stomach
Falling Dreams
Yet she did
Why was the fear not there?
It was not in her sleep cycle
not on top of the skyscraper in hazy dreamworld city
She saw her broken body rise to life
Why could she sleep through the fall?
And the next sky scraper she fell from
...Not in hazy dreamworld city
...Would she walk away?
Was she jumping from the money that built that skyscraper?
Or the classic Freudian symbol, dream specialists might contend
Translation of one image onto another
So I was jumping away from men
Commitment
What's new?
Spend money and time
Loose friends and crime
Jumping away from reality
Soaring now
Falling now
Falling into the flowing light of the hazy dreamworld city
As flies will always return to fluorescent light bulbs, naive
Like if she got close enough to it
She would become it
She would consume it
The light would consume her
Illuminated
The dark expelled to the smallest corners of this earth
flying in this hazy dreamworld city.
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 7:19 PM UTC
.*pre-scriptum alternatives... either a bus-driver... or a garbage-man... ha ha... Leibniz... was a ******* librarian!*
a zookeeper,
a warden in a prison...
or some obscure,
accolade role
in an asylum...
i'm being pushed the role
of a chemistry teacher...
mind you... i know that the best
way to pet cats,
is to "ignore" them,
let them play their
solipsistic hide & seek game
with plain view of the target...
but i'm thinking of 3 dream jobs...
horticulture isn't an option...
must be the sort of man
with a floral pattern
rather than a sky-scraper
in my underwear
to provide gender
exclusive role play...
whatever the hell the means...
but teaching children
chemistry?
d'ah ****
i want to be on the forefront...
a gorilla zookeeper,
a prison warden,
an accolade
for what's the upper tier
of nursing,
namely, inside an asylum...
but i won't ever get a chance
to prospect myself for such roles...
hence the poetry...
given that i'm a chronic drunk
in England, but a sober
sparrow in Poland...
come to think of it...
i'm ever only drunk,
when i start talking...
alone, drinking?
i can catch a judge
play-thing sober...
but those are my dream
jobs...
and in all three instances...
none, are advertised for
potential applicants...
like a safe pass into a business of
past, trans-generational funeral homes...
just like they said:
it's not what you know,
it's who you know -
unless of course there's a merger,
and you're thinking
about emperor Nero stabbing
himself in the neck...
within the confines of a self
acknowledgment, "question".
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 8:29 PM UTC
She wore a red polka dot dress
With a high pony tail
And lips red as can be.
She waited for him
And late he would be.
In sky scraper heels she stood
With time passing by.
Minutes flowing into more minutes.
She gave up waiting
And walked out the door.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 2:39 PM UTC
I don’t want near your pre-k rhyming stanzas,
your backstabbing friends, your sky-scraper tall tales,
your hopelessirrevocableunrequited “love”, or your non-beating heart.
I don’t want to know why it breaks when your significant other of one week
ends your relationship with a three worded grammatically incorrect sentence
without punctuation.
You aren’t a magazine and I do not want a subscription to your issues.
You want to cry? Fine, but don’t do it here.
I wouldn’t touch your “Feelings” with a ten foot poll,
not your heart, not your head and most certainly not your soul.
So don’t ask. I might actually punch you in the face.
Find somebody who can stand reading the words
“u r mi luv an now I h8 u” more than once.
You want expression? Go find an art room.
This is the English language. There are rules.
You don’t like rules? They don’t like you either,
but they’re the reason you’ll still be alive when you’re thirty
and not in the bottom of some ditch.
Don’t come at me with your this and that,
your purtty, purrty words or your excessive, use, of, commas,
because I will tear you apart. And it will hurt.
You want to whine? Do it somewhere else. I couldn’t care less for your 2-d crisis.
I am not your mother. Don’t make the mistake of thinking otherwise.
Tell me “but-but-but he said please” or “my heart is a dark pit of shriveled mushrooms”
and I will jam a pencil in your forehead.
You will probably cry (and bleed. A lot).
I will laugh.
You want to brag you cut yourself?
I want to cut you too.
Sit down, shut up, and stop.
You’ll find yourself loudest in the quiet.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Think, listen, hear, see.
Are you still alive?
Can you still hear me?
Is it still the end of the world?
I don’t want your problems.
I want your quiet.
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 8:56 PM UTC
Beauty is everywhere,
if you choose to look closer,
viewing what you miss,
at first glance.
Just because in society’s mind,
her beauty is unconventional,
he’s a behemoth,
she’s a walking skeleton,
he’s a dwarf,
she’s a sky scraper,
does not give anyone the right,
to degrade or strip away,
the fact that they are,
Beautiful.
He wishes to star in a movie,
she desires to fiercely walk the runway,
he wants to dance upon the stage,
She dreams to play among the star athletes,
but society says they can’t.
“You’re awkward,
a freak,
four-eyes,
buck-tooth,
stupid,
too flamboyant,
you’re simply not good enough,
raise your white flag,
and surrender because you are inferior”,
society harshly states.
Society attempts to silence,
unique individuals,
who do not fit the mold.
of what is considered,
to be normal,
as if that aspect exists,
in our world.
Similarities are necessary,
yet differences,
whether subtle or extreme,
are the essential details,
engendering us,
to be more than enough.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 2:34 PM UTC
Algiers, six
floors up but
still
the rich
odor of reused
cooking oil, of limp French
fries makes its
way to this
tiled top floor
balcony, an absolute sky
scraper by local standards. The
low whine of traffic
reaches me –
syncopated, punctuated
by a workman’s
hammer, an impatient
horn, the wail of a car
alarm, a quick shout
of greeting, of
anger. I
can almost see that
far away
in the distance
velvet mountains still
bluely rim
the fog-yellowed
sea.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 9:37 AM UTC
The Viper
I have an idea for a new invention,
I'm sure it will get a lot of attention.
The name is the The Viper,
and its an automatic *** wiper.
Never again will you have to wipe your own ***
you just install the snake head,
with its tongue made of sea bass.
All you do is push the button on the latrine,
out comes the tongue to wipe your *** clean.
I'm sure this will become a big hit,
people will rush to their bathroom,
just to take a ****
Never again will you need toilet paper.
and if you call now,
I will throw in the automatic *** scraper.
Never again will you have to worry about ****** berries,
And don't forget to order the scented tongues,
if you want your *** to smell like cherries.
There is a limited supply,
please call now,
operators are standing by.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 12:19 PM UTC
white wall patch on the floor a lonely broom in a corner, two
ft. from a crooked door.
the foundation's cracked and slowly sinking. 110, hot, yet the sun has set & here I sit, alone,
just thinking.
the saying goes there's reason for all... missed my flight perhaps to answer some cosmic call.
these moments of solitude are golden ...my hand beckons me to procure pen and paper. the walls are all prepped no more need for a scraper.
so out pour the words, like a can of paint, flowing onto the
paper smoothly, with no restraint.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 8:59 PM UTC
Falling for a liar
I keep asking myself why?
You said my wall was the problem
My wall built to the sky
You didn't realize
what you had done
Every time that you came by
You put my hand on the gun
Step by step I went
Just building that wall higher
Brick by brick it grew
Falling for liar
That's exactly what it'll do
itll make you feel so numb
Realizing nothing you said was true
How could I be so dumb
So high no one could see the top
Looking down from my sky scraper
I couldn't figure out how to stop
Walls and walls built with newspaper
Here I can see you from a far
I can predict who's trouble
Some say I'm too close to the stars
Far away from your dirt and rubble
Blinded by the light
Nowhere near the ground
All your pretty words
Couldn’t make me come back down
My shelter from the storm
Here I know what's true
Miles and miles from your lies
My clarity is nowhere near you.
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 8:57 PM UTC
Sky scraper pristine, crystaline
Oxygen deprived. Logic on the head of pin
Nearer my gods to thee. Ohhh the dizzying spin.
Father sun come down and cradle my chin. Lift my face skward.
Pray for return of the fiery.serpent birds of PRAY.
Come back to teach us the way.to the stars.
Atlantis today tomorrow the moon. Voyager fahter.
Planted the seed.
Summit to chasm
The higher we climb the less we can sea.
Reach higher still.still higher
and much higher still.
Instincive desire to follow and play with fire
We build the stepping stones to touch god's face
3-2-1
We are destined to all leave this place.
Fear not.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 1:04 PM UTC
lightning strikes a thought an idea
an emotion...
a painting a poem a sculpture a song
universal to us theories and conceptions
memories imposed stamped in minds
like raindrops....
trickle down in the air round us create
like gods
visions soar... free your dreams
let them crystallize....a monument
a sky scraper a bridge a home
the chair beneath your ***
once an inspired notion
whispered in a brain
from the great beyond...
by l. b.
sept 5 2012
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 9:22 AM UTC
Just like most Christians
I believe in the Bible
I won’t know when the world ends, but when it does
For my sins, only I will be liable
The Apocalypse will sneak up on us in a sense
It will sneak up and flip our lives upside down… That’s intense
Intensity in a lot more than ten cities
Then money becomes just paper, no awe at the sky scraper
And all in an instant, a fate that seemed distant
A fate that you blew off, becomes so significant
How come we’re not cautious of such horrors atrocious?
It seems we got born… and from our ‘morals’ got torn
We live and we sin… Though He’s not surprised
He knows what we are all capable of…
Good and bad
No shock in His eyes
But I sit back and ponder… I wonder sometimes
Am I predominantly good or bad?
How do I appear through those eyes?
I don’t fret about ‘The End’ so much… you see, everyone dies
We all have our views and beliefs… even the atheist his
I’m in no position to judge him… I just live mine, and await my surprise
But sometimes I wonder, just a bit… but I do
What if the Mayan’s prediction of the last days is true?
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 3:50 AM UTC
Mix the colour,
cast it on paper,
just like the nature,
the whole colour, feel like alive,
just like they have also a life.
present the thought on paper.
avoiding the scraper,
heal the mistake, with the restorer.
Its a skill, technique or craft.
Its an art.
joy of colour, cheerful flower,
feel smart, its an art.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 8:18 AM UTC
She stands unwanted, forgotten and high,
upon a scraper, caressing clouds and sky,
there she stands gazing at the cityscape, beautiful and vast,
with the thoughts of making this star filled memory, her last.
The smell of carbon monoxide from diminutive streets below,
rises from the heat of choking exhausts that glow,
so downtrodden her spirit from the neglect on being unloved,
she wants to end it all with a muffled scream and ****** thud.
All the pain that has broken her heart, has left her on this ledge,
pitiful and weeping with tear falling on streets below,
no one sees her tears falling on these dusty streets from above,
and no one knows she is ending her kind sweet life for love.
Would you step into her shoes and feel her heart racing,
as she comes to the conclusions that all has been is lost,
her children are in their beds sleeping they do not know,
that their mother is close to the edge and ready to let go.
Before she came up here she left a note,
saying she's sorry but just could not cope,
asking family and friends to forgive her,
into her makers hands now is delivered.
By Christos Andreas Kourtis
By NeonSolaris
© 2008 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 12:05 AM UTC
I feel it bubbling up inside of me
like bad Mexican food
like that feeling you get
when some unfortunate soul
****** you off
like that feeling you get
when you have a full tank of gas
and an open road ahead of you
spike my veins
and see the beauty which is pumped out
see the filth and **** and hate and love and life and death and desperation and hope
and they boil over
singing the kitchen counter tops
and put the liquid in pill form
to feed to people
who are sure they've lost their minds
let me whisper
what mind?
from the city rooftops
until everybody
runs out into the street
naked
their faces raised to God
looking to be kissed
or cried upon
words can ****
and words can bring life
words are the building blocks of every sky scraper
and every genocide
and every person
and for brief lightning flash moments
I come close to being able to control them
but just for a moment
a moment of control
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 11:52 AM UTC
I keep seeing the image of a giant
looking down at the world
fearful to walk for crushing those
he can barely see
It comes to me
as I walk to class during the week
It comes to me
as I talk to friends on the weekend
It comes to me
as I think of anything and everything,
and for the sake of god,
I cannot shake it
It comes to me
as a whisper
nibbling at my ear
then
a *****
that burst my eardrum
telling me to
write
Write!
WRITE!
write for the sake of all that is holy,
all that you value, all that is good,
of the giant that you see in yourself,
and the ants you in see in others.
and I cower to its yelling at first,
but then I grow firmer, taller, bolder,
rising bit by bit to face the monster
living in the back of my mind
by the time I stop my growth
I am the size of sky scraper
Everest looking cowardly below
and my beast looking a microbe
at my feet.
this is when I topple
I do not aggress my shadow
for I know it poses no threat
so I fall
down
down
down
my back moving
forward
my head not seeing
where
I am to
go
I fell down
happily
hoping
for the warm covers of my bed
and a good night’s rest
to greet me
Nov 6, 2010
Nov 6, 2010 at 7:57 PM UTC
In Memory of My Beginning
We of fitter gun were harassed in our youth by the file, the use of which is an art. It’s not just rubbing the file back and forth. Every stroke should count and move you one step closer to a smooth, polished finish without gouges or abrasion marks. Just like growing up really; like life. Hence:
At Arborfield, remember where we learned to use a file
On a wicked lump of mild steel they gave us for our own?
Reduce its size they told us, and that without a smile.
So we set-to with hands that ached, stiff fingers and a groan.
Two inches square it had to be within a 'thou' or two.
Push fitted through an aperture, eight differing ways all told.
And by miracle (craft) that metal was transformed by me and you
With a Four Inch smooth and lots of chalk, and even though now old
I recall as though I were still there, bent over at the bench, and still
Unsure of what my life might be, what even I should dare
With this feeler gauge and set square, scraper, tap and drill,
The which to shape this wicked lump into the perfect square.
The perfect square, what a hope; that shape for which we then aspired.
Compelled, it's true reluctantly at times but which by none the less
Were laid foundations for the lives we've subsequently had;
And the which by some admired.
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 7:28 PM UTC
The Black Birds baked them selves today
To miss their morning flights
They wished to keep the king away
They say he's scared of heights
The Queen she keeps their beeks at bay
A scraper when she fights
The maid nev'r saw it comin they say
It's just some black birds rights
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 9:45 PM UTC
I'm going to rile my way
out of this hollow
I will do what I must,
beg steal & borrow
I'm spitting bile today
venom laced with sorrow
there's no one I trust
no patience for tomorrow
I'm not going to smile today
let them all think I'm insane
I'll use words like
**** and *******
and I'll take Christ's name in vain
I won't walk a mile today
not in anyone else's shoes
my feet are just to big,
already tripping over the blues
I won't write with style today
I'll ***** these words onto paper
because I woke up on cold tile today,
realized I'm just a bottom-scraper.
Oct 9, 2011
Oct 9, 2011 at 7:27 AM UTC
I still remember that one summer afternoon.
I saw you while I was sitting with my worn out desk,
Drawing a new cartoon,
And aiming for a better picturesque.
Freckles were visible upon your cheek,
But your eyebrows weren’t that on fleek.
Maybe it’s because of the cut you have there,
From a stout man in front of you, bearing a death glare.
In one blissful moment, my trash bin went flying,
As he was about to punch you again.
He then took a step back, looking like an ugly duckling!
You saw me through my window and gave me a smile that’s so inane.
It was never okay when I had too many hideous drafts,
Drafts that were always behind my beautiful crafts.
But then, I knew that you needed them as your defense.
And so I had them, even if they would cost ten thousand cents
My parents would always scold me,
For I was the very reason why our front gate was always messy.
But I didn’t care enough
As long as you stay safe from that dickheaded buff.
Then came a time when you didn’t show up.
I was badly ready for my defense gaming,
That I lay my head on my desk, playing Mom Jeans’ Death Cup,
As the sun’s power is already taming.
Days passed, crumpled drafts were already overflowing.
Still, I am waiting for you, my darling.
I am running out of paper.
But still, my hope will not waver.
When I cannot take it anymore, I went outside.
I was dancing through the streets like a happy bride,
And then I stepped on a crumpled piece of newspaper.
“A 17-YEAR OLD BOY WAS KILLED WITH A DOUGH SCRAPER”
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 1:58 PM UTC
I watched you walk
Shoe laces untied
Right out that door
I peered at more
Your spine shimmering
I gave you hell
But here you are
Leaving
Your bones rake and rattle
I can here them when i'm close
But what got me
What really got me
Was the skyscraper you seem to pull out every time
there it is
Holding your soul at such a peak
But your bones are frail
And i yet weak
You hold but a piece of me
Yet i am weak
Endeavoring is only the conquest
Am i not right?
Or am i a bit bashful
I wish you farewell sky
Scraper
Until at last i reach your soul
At the top
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 4:16 AM UTC
Hey kid
Its a little bit
Better after
The devil leaves
His barber shop chair
Behind and walks
Into the liqor isle.
I m there looking
At red bread tags.
Your still with your
Parents. Im not
Embarrassed
You feel the cold beer
Your father slid over your
Necks left side.
The can was silver
Like the old lawn mower
In the dark shed.
Im still with the moment
Of diverting the truth.
When he says
They havent fired him yet.
The new hair cut starts looking
Old again. And our time in the
Store was breif to catch
One of the last busses.
Look for me the last
Person in here I wanted to see.
I was eyeballing my favorite
Sky scraper a brown bottle
Of whiskey.
I make up the party
And become the bussiest
Man or women walking past
The carts.
I wish there were more years
To give me the store
And a house bigger
Then the hill side.
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 11:03 PM UTC