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Alyanne Cooper Jun 2014
I decided to be nostalgic
And flip on the Fresh Prince.
The "gentle" comedy cheers me up,
But then again, laughter is infectious.
I'm on a marathon now
With this show on reruns.
Watching every episode
Until one...

You watch a sitcom and expect
To chuckle and cackle along with the audience.
You expect your heart to be lifted
Out of whatever darker place you've been.
You don't expect it to hit so close to home
That your throat closes up
And your lungs burn with the need to breathe
But you can't
Because suddenly where there was the sound
Of deep throated guffaws,
Of bellyaching mirth,
Is only uncontrollable weeping and sobs
You never knew a sitcom could draw.

Will: I didn't need him then, I don't need him now.
Philip: Will...
Will: No, you know what, Uncle Phil? I'ma get through college without him, I'ma get a great job without him, I'ma marry me a beautiful honey, and I'ma have me a whole bunch of kids. I'ma be a better father than he ever was, and I sure as hell don't need him for that, 'cause there ain't a **** thing he could ever teach me about how to love my kids!
[long pause]
Will: [breaks down] How come he don't want me, man?

That echo in my soul:
How come she don't want me, man?
Transcripts courtesy of wikiquote.org/wiki/the_fresh_prince_of_bel-air
Ian Cairns Feb 2014
For centuries philosophers have speculated the role sleep plays in society
But it was not until the 1950s that sleep woke up in academia
And today sleep studies show what dormant minds really look like
Information about our rest we've never seen before
However, I've always understood the importance of bedtime
You see my parents taught me that sleep and love are soul mates

My mom
She's the sleeper
She loves to sleep
She cuddles up on any piece of furniture in my house and snoozes for hours
Never views a sitcom past the first commercial break when she's tired
And she's okay with that
Dad never lets her drive on road trips when night falls
Preferring his sleeping beauty tucked safely in the passenger seat
Their hands meet as she lets the stars serenade her to slumber
While he anchors his left hand on the steering wheel
Thanking his lucky stars for his real life princess

My dad
He's the snorer
He loves to snore
He roars like a lion on his love seat and naps for hours
Never views a sitcom past the second commercial break when he's tired
And he's okay with that
Mom never lets him sleep alone too long though
Keeping his nose plugged strong enough to signal for bedtime
They both stand together as he lets her guide him to slumber
While she ushers her left hand around his back
Thanking her lucky stars for her own prince charming

Now my parents call me the dreamer
And I sure do love to dream
It seems my parents are textbook role models for me
Because when you live inside a fairytale for far too long
Your reality becomes an endless stream of fantasies
Your expectations are exceptionally out of context
Strictly written for poetic lines in picture books
Never meant to be held
Never meant to be felt
Only meant for spines stuck on rosewood shelves

My parents call me the dreamer
And boy I love to dream
I believe in creating the unthinkable
And when you live inside a fairytale for far too long
Nothing is fictional
You picture a life with storybook endings
Praying the author never runs out of ink
You crown each syllable the king of the moment
Treating each page like royalty
And I've always been okay with that

So when I asked my mom when she knew she fell in love
She spoke of an instant of unadulterated emotion
She said she knew instantly
She didn't need to sleep on it
When I asked my dad when he knew he fell in love
He just smiled back at me
He must have known instantly
He didn't even speak on it
So when I ask myself when I might fall in love
I can't help but smile
Think of fairytale titles
Mile wide love notes in all shapes and styles
And a moment where my reality sets my hopes on fire
And I won't need to dream about it anymore
bear Jun 2015
Those couples on TV
That never look like they would be together
End up being together season after season
Laughing and crying
Loving and loopy
Late nights and early mornings
Sarcasm and seriousness
Give a helping hand when it's needed
Look back laughing about the times they messed up
But never letting it hurt what really matters.
That's my life.
That's my long distance sitcom
Sofia Von Oct 2013
Strangers are my best friends
Even feelings are for even people... Know anyone who matches that description?
I'd like to cuddle away the problems
**** someone while crying
No
I don't think so
I want to be felt and loved. And craved like fluent chocolate gushing
Down the corners of my mouth
Lapped up by your tongue
I wish

Scratched letters over a blank canvas
Make for messages of clarity.
Nails on a chalk board every time you etch, but its the promise of the next word that makes it tolerable.
These pick-up-stick letters are angry and depressed but fit together like bread on butter. creamy song lyrics you scribble but there’s no tune.
An obstacle foreseen and ignored.
The rhythm of voice catches, flame to syncopation, and feebly you grow with your words to become the song

Sung now, in churches
Do they realize from whence their hymns originated? Deep down, long ago, in the valley of hidden emotional pangs
Your envy was too rich for your body
Yet big enough for this... congregational ritual.
Heart tears are beautiful for creation
To existence
They're treacherous

I smile and admire my work
Blow a smoke ring over the wet words not quite solidified on the page
Smudge
Better with a flaw
I don't smoke
Im a social stress smoker
Self diagnosed
Self medicated
So you see I'm an aspiring artist
Although most of my works are ****, I don't really give up.
Its just this part of me I can’t always explain
That happens
They’re my impulse of choice
A painting, a drawing, a poem, a song, dance, all music (save country).
Even little quick thoughts or plans I have are peaceful to record.
It's times like this night where I should really be fast in my REM cycle, dreaming of crazy scenarios to **** up and uncover a truth upon my waking.
But I'm on my notes
Typing away the babble of nonsense thats streaming on demand
Tonight
I'll exit with a line
Or so, I'm not sure
Breathe in the plant, puff out love hits and over expose the motion picture. Each passing present memory is precious to the cycle I don't really want to define.
But I'm in love with its inhabitants I can't get over them
And each day is another episode
But... Is this a sitcom, or a documentary?
These words, are time filled

Cold feet shouldn't be a thing.
Patrick McCombs Jan 2012
Alcohol pulsing in her veins
Dancing in sweet August rains
Hair flowing down her back
Wild as a cub about to attack
I take a swig from the bottle, all bitter and sweet
It makes me feel a little more complete
Drenched clothes sticking to our skin
I couldn't help but grin
She's got that look in her eyes
Like a hundred thousand fireflies
She pounces,teeth jokingly bared
She lands on me, I'm totally unprepared
I stare into twin green lights
part of me dies, part of me sighs, part of me delights
Her lips find mine in the dark
And I swear there was a spark
An emotional/electrical discharge
Her eyes enlarge
Like biolumincent spheres
The water and ***** wash away our fears
She giggles like a babbling stream
Its a hazy dream
Fingertips in the notches in her spine
Her mouth moves with mine
Alone with ourselves, the ***** and the rain
Our bodies sing the same old refrain
In the morning we experience a sitcom reset
We both pretend to forget
American Democracy
is setting a trend:
American Democracy
is a Sitcom, or perhaps a Game Show
of demagogic, narcissistic sociopaths
tricking and manipulating the Public
via various sources in a highly consolidated Media industry
into thinking they vote for a particular flavor of Tyranny
when in reality Today's flavor of Tyranny is all decided for you
because the burden of Choice is far too stressful
for the Moderner without proper medication,
and the power of Choice may require some sort of educated critical Thinking,
some sort of re-edification
which is far too much for us to handle
in this socially sanctioned doped-up state
and with such an intentionally failing Education system
from K through 12 and beyond.

With American Democracy,
We have a grand Illusion of Choice.
It's so convincing that many believe the Illusion is True.
(Sort of like hew we think of Reality, but with Choice of Government!)

For American Democracy,
They don't want mass Education.
They don't want mass Edification.
They don't want Critical Thinking;
Those things prevent a Control by few.

In American Democracy,
They intentionally destroy progresses made, like Rights,
They perpetuate stigmas about things like genders and the concept of "race" itself
They propagate Terror as their Sheeple scream from the sidelines for more
They defile the sanctity of Human Experience, of Reality itself
and chain us to a system that benefits only a few
while destroying everything else,
like Climate and Environment.

These Demagogues are Satan, if Satan is real:
They tempt us with the things we don't need,
filling us with Stress, Desires, Prejudices and Fears,
and ceaselessly wage war on institutions of Education,
all the while keeping us from finding the things we already have within each of us.

This System of American Democracy
has degraded into a  corrupted fractal
of the ages-old ways of Tyranny and Terror:

Aristocracy, Plutocracy,
Patriarchy, Oligarchy,
Kleptocracy, Demagoguery,
Bankocracy, Corporatocracy,
Fascism;

Tell me,
What is the ******* difference?

I mean,
even Adolf ****** was elected democratically
under the pretense of "Change"
then, for weeks later, suspended civil rights indefinitely
after a likely false-flag 'attack' on the Reichstag in 1933,
(for which the Nazis blamed the communists.)
under the pretense of "Security":

Demagoguery runs Amok
Among disedified Minds.

They say "Freedom" and "Democracy"
as if it vindicates their Totalitarianism.
"K through 12" is a term in American schooling for the years from Kindergarten through the end of High-School.
These schools are rotting, and so are the Colleges. Hence "K through 12 and beyond"

No responses?
I must be doing something right.
Joyce Aug 2015
On a good day, the Sun shines on you.
You are in a Disney movie, stretching your arms,
As the first light of day hits your toes.
And all the sores of the previous nights,
Reduced as mere soap suds down the drain.
Last night's shower is a preview of the first one today, and coffee smells like the freshest brew straight from a pre-packed foil. Nothing beats the thrill of a morning cup.
Life is a sitcom, waiting for the supporting characters to show up and raid your ref, and then! The punchline.
You plan your day.
You invite a good day.
You laugh out loud.
On your best day, you lounge.
You drink your cup and eat breakfast straight from the pan, and the pan loves you for calling the kettle black.
You write your notes on some discarded tissue previously used to wipe off dust.
You are free versing with the staunchest disregard for tones and rules of archaic poetry; sometimes, disavowing a semblance of order.
Because the best is you.
It is now.
And you are but a small supporting character,
Patiently waiting for the chime of the next five punchlines
Grace Feb 2014
Full of senselessness.
he seeps
withers
grieves.

Arts and crafts for the soul.
forming thoughts out of visuals and sounds.

weaving
a basketful
of images to save in my memory bank ...

Occasionally documenting the silence.

itching and aching
raw and anxious
red and sticky.

warm.
deepening.
a candle is meant to melt
Jenny Liu Zhang Sep 2018
For a baby, I am unkempt,
But for an adult, I am very unkempt.
People can tell me my age just by looking,
So when I bashfully admit I am 21,
I actually have no bash left,
Because I used all of it on my ***** sneakers and chipping nail polish,
and hangnails and tangled split ends in a scrunchie,
and leftover acne from the homecoming dance when I tried to erase it away with my mother’s makeup, two shades too light, two left feet as I had not grown fully into my limbs.
And they can see how aware I was of my pointy chin when I was thirteen years of self-conscious, repeating all the better responses to conversations, like my life was some laugh track sitcom,
just like I do right now,
many days, still,
in notebooks, to plants, to the bank machine, to the mirror at the optometrist, to the grocer when I run errands,
because even though now I run errands and have checks to cash,
I still have baby hair to bash,
and I laugh the same laugh,
with my eyes that turn into little moons,
thinking in the same cartoons,
under good eyebrows, though unkempt,
above the toil of braces and 21 years of chapped lips.
JJ Hutton May 2011
"C'mon. I haven't had *** in three months and I feel like I'm going to explode."

"That's not good."

"You're telling me. Wish there was someone who'd take care of it for me."

"I'll be over in a bit."

I drove in calculated trance.
I'd made the trek hundreds of times.
I was looking forward to showing her
new tricks I'd learned,
but I feared the segue.

The desperation call from an ex--
always easy to bed, I have yet to feel regret,
but finding the energy to strike up chit-chat
before the undress--
always the hardest part.

I couldn't remember the code to her neighborhood's gate,
so I lied in wait, until some sappy black SUV
strolled in first.

I pulled into her parking spot.
Rubbed my eyes.
Sprayed on a dash of cologne.
Dragged a comb across my hair.
Looked at the clock on my dash--2:00 a.m.
I aged much too far for these
fires,
but I inhaled deeply,
slammed the car door,
marched to the door,
rang the bell--
a bark,
a scramble of paws,
then bare feet patting wooden floors.
She opened the door,
gauging my face to see if she was allowed to smile.
I put my right arm
on the low-side of her back,
peered over her shoulder.
The house was littered with dusty textbooks,
dog food, bras,
cut out magazine articles,
and half-empty cups.

"You smell good," she said easing into a grin.

"Thanks. You too."

"Want to watch some Disney Channel?"

"You're still doing that?"

"Makes me feel innocent. C'mon." She grabbed my hand.
Led me to her bedroom in the back.
Cartoons laughed
as I pulled off my shoes.
She desperately fought for conversation,
"So it's been awhile."

"Yep."

"How are classes?"

"Good," I sighed, looked at her brows, "yours?"

"They are pretty good. I am finally getting to student teach."

"Awesome."

"Yeah, it is. I really love my kids."

"They lucked out."

"I wouldn't say that."

Her ******* looked bigger.
Maybe it was the shirt.
She was in tiny khaki shorts,
her toes chipped--painted red.
She let her hair down.
Sat on the bed next to me.

"How are the fellas?"

"Nonexistent. How's the girlfriend?"

"We're on a break."

"Sorry to hear that."

"For the best."

She kept curling her toes
under her ***,
her hands tugged at her shirt
anxiously,
the cartoons went to commercial break,
she started to open her mouth again,

"Sooo--"

I snagged her hands,
pinned her to the bed,
licked the exposed portion of her chest,
unbuttoned her shorts.
Pink ******* with white roses on them,
I pulled them off quickly,
threw them as far away as possible.
I gnawed on her thighs,
while sneaking my hands under her shirt,
her ******* were exceptionally vocal--
more so than any other woman's I have seen.
I tore at her shirt and bra until both were gone.
She stared at me wildly, trying to understand
where the old man she once knew had gone.
I ******,
I fingered,
I spat,
until her body ached,
she ran her fingertips along my waistband,
and undressed me.
Trying to inspire an *******.
She slurped
and rubbed at my *****,
I started to grab a ******,
but she said she was on "beastly" birth control.
I turned her around,
pumped from behind,
not wanting to look at her eyes
or gaping mouth,
I sent my mind off to fantasizing about
other mouths, *******, and *****
in an attempt to stay hard,
after half-an-hour or so,
her body convulsions became so grotesque,
I pulled out without finishing.

While she shook on the bed,
I pulled on my pants,
"Well, I should probably go."

"I was hoping you'd sleep over."

"We aren't like that."

"We used to be."

"Relationships change."

"So you think we still have a relationship?"

"Sure."

"So do you still love me?"

"No. It's more of a pornographic relationship."

I left her room,
while a tween sitcom mocked me with a laugh track,
I glanced at her family portraits outside her room.
Went into the night.
Went home.
Slept without taking a shower.
Woke to find myself unchanged.
Weary.
Meaningless.
Thirsty for love, sorrow, remorse--anything.
I wonder if my late night plays
Will ever be relayed
To a generation that is slayed
In my play every black home
Has two stories, a fence
and a dad that won’t roam
Their cars ain’t all chrome
No bars on the windows
No grandmas saying lord knows
When cops shows
There are more colors than grey
No dope boys on the corner cliche
Or dogs on chains barking to get away
The colors blue and red stand for a flag
The black youth aren’t in a body bag
And pants never sag
Black men aren’t scary and mean
The system isn’t their adversary or
The silver screen
They don’t fill cemeteries nor chase
The color green
Black women have a name
Not ***** or **** used as shame
No fakes buts for their fame
The son has more hope
Then shooting a ball and ****** bout dope
He aspires to use a stethoscope
The daughter is strong and free
She can either write a song or get a PhD
Her future is whatever she wants it to be
Their ain’t thugs on tv our color
Not every sitcom has one strong black single mother
Or get drunk and fight one another
Gun violence is a joke
the police don’t chock our folk
Our music don’t promote drug use
And Gucci don’t ******
Drivebys are now hi’s
Every family is woke and wise
It’s sad to know
That this world won’t ever exist
Because the world outside
Is to nightmarish
Pedro Tejada Jun 2010
You don't love
me;
you love the
tip of the iceberg
that is your idea of me;
the sugar-coated mute
leading herds
of unfinished sentences
down the copious hills
of his insecurity;
the nice little writer
whose constant attempts
at legendary one-liners
are as hit-or-miss
as a sitcom still airing
far past its prime.

I possess three biomes,
or, rather, three networks
of personalities and identities.
I am much more than
the Jack Macfarland archetype
lip-syncing to Cher in the one
gay bar in town, tyrannically
governing your wardrobe,
possessing a razor-sharp wit
cast toward the backs of his community
in the form of an outdated punchline-
my work on that show
lost its Willful relevance
and Graceful naivete
years ago.

I am of the generation
fed media saturation
three four-hour meals a day,
who ingested cardboard cadavers
as if they were mother's milk
and internally mutated their
thoughts and desires
to fit the compact time frame
of 30 minutes
to settle the series' worth
of traumas and neuroses
while making it home for dinner
to stay tuned for what's
next in the lineup.

Speaking as a casualty of this
inevitable chain of events,
I regretfully declare that even
those who have seen
every episode of myself
for the past six seasons
are still light years away
from the room full of faces
unencumbered by euphemism.
Pedro Tejada Apr 2010
I was once God's Picasso painting
(the Guernica era).
Chuck Jones' illustration
of the tortured artist,
laid out like Wile E. Coyote
on a bed of scalding rocks
and a white flag screaming "SURRENDER"
clenched with both palms.

If it were feasible,
I'd have dove head first
into the smoky center of the sun
if it meant my audience understood
the shrieking woes I had to bellow through
to reach their overwhelmed palates.

But Tragedy is the sitcom foil
that has long outstayed its menopausal welcome,
and I would much prefer a haunting.

To Hell with those
who repulse the flies with
the vinegar of exploitation,
gawking as their spit seeps
through seven layers of collected scars,
who ventilate the wrists
to keep the audience comfortable.

Real aesthetic power
comes from a shower
of light hail on the spine,
the moments a ghostly hand
****** you on the finger
with quietly hidden truths
always whispered from a field away.

It's far more bracing,
the lump in the throat,
not the electrical gasp of shock.

It's a far greater sign
of a forthcoming apocalypse,
the angel weeping in pain,
not the footsteps
of the wailing banshee.

The wisp
over the wallop.
Farihah Fuaad Dec 2013
She laughs, he smiles.
The black forest taste he could only taste at the peak of light beams
Her laugh seems similar, quite similar.
Her haha's outcasted the glooms and dooms
Just as the black forest melted on his taste buds when sun rays streaked upon his shoulder blades.

She cracked a joke, he laughs and nods
Intellectual is what they might say
A brainy maniac she is, who could co-host a sitcom
His Friday nights would now only be filled with her wits
Replacing all the beers and stouts for a while
His once bumpy and rocky throat is nil compared to the highly raised cheekbones visible during a good laugh

But one day she cried.
The guilt he carries overshadowed his sympathy.
Her big swollen eyes
Her pinkish and warm face which was covered in dribble
Hadn't he known?
All those time he made somersaults, he was drown deep below
He could breakthrough,
but was too mesmerized by the mermaid's blinking fishtail and scaly skin.

And she saved him
From being turned into a merman
Only then he was back to square one
Where her laughters, her jokes and her sobs are actually his sugar crush, his Gatsby gold
As always, she was after all, his soul saver.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
when marco polo sailed to china,
kublai khan was the emperor of china.

or what other privilege can i speak of, if not that celebration
of the bilingual, there rooted, the sword in slavic
and the sheath in pseudo-Germanic;
for what violence is to come
it will always retract in the Germanic
for a time-period of two-faced thespian
pleasantries,
           without the need for pleasantries
already waiting bloodthirsty,
        as said, the common motto
more true now with ***** farms of turnip
donors than ever before,
science has become arrogant, almost religiously,
it's arrogant, it's arrogant, it's arrogant,
and because it's arrogant: it's blind.
       high expectations for words so grand they
fathomed nations to be used in between
kettles, teacups, knives, forks and napkins...
where's the equilibrium economy?
     well, for one this sort of work is deemed "work",
intellectualism is nothing in the post-Germanic
world of English and Americanism -
if you ain't singing (citing the motto): you
ain't thinking... for the quick buck, doctor.
it's sad and almost revealing,
          a cursed fate of our fathers' indentation
on the world...
                 you don't grow a beard to look smart
while holding a book using your upper-body
to wriggle the jig of a song, the vanity of having
a double chin...
       the principle of ensō is to have things intact,
ensō doesn't exist outside of poetry,
      you don't drink coffee in between and
then flick to a sitcom for a "creative" break
to what is: an already generic narrative.
prose is the excess of narration, there are sparks
along the way, but nothing as convincing
as Stendhal's omnus...
                and could i have simply abandoned
that quasi-epic poem of mine that's two days old?
only having realised that all said things prior
and now, subsequently, after are instilled within
the ensō principle that's less axe on the gallows:
and more guillotine; which translates into
symbols and the effectiveness of *less is more
,
what's the standardising canvas? alcohol,
i.e. proof.
               a poem can be nearing 100% proof,
something you'd use in a surgical theatre...
i have drank spirits in the 90 - 99% range...
          a poem can be considered to be in the >50%
range... after all... people are able to memorise
poems, or are intended to do so -
which is hard to conceive the Koranic attitude
toward poets, the Koran states an abhorrence
towards poets, in some surah of so-and-so number...
my problem is with the Hafiz: people who memorise
the Quran... as suggested from the above:
prose literature can be considered to be in the <50%
range... hence the need to extract spoilers /
quotes from prose books... something memorable...
and because prose is laden with too much
narrative lead, it sinks to the bottom,
into the unconscious, and is only revised within
dreams, when something synonymously-parallel
happens to us in your daily-narrated lives:
we are more prone to narrate than think
in terms of Jefferson and the light-bulb...
i wish i had the encyclopedic reference point where
the Quran explicitly states hostility toward
poetry... but thankfully the mere existence of
the Hafiz undermines the Quran as: the poetry
to end all poetry; and where does Stendhal
come into this? in the Red & the Black, the protagonist
is also a "Hafiz", in that he can recite the entire
Biblical text: by heart. i retain the this fact even
though the days spent reading that book
extended to many hours on the bus to school...
Julien Sorel / Ewan McGregor (in the realisation
of the book onto the screen)...
if the Quran attacks poets for their fickle-mindedness
i can only say: the mind is very literally fickle
in the first place, given:
a. the number of choices we can make, and
   b. the reversal of where the mind is embedded,
i.e. in the brain, and given the brain's complexity
and foundation in polymathic expressions
from the gymnastics of trivia, to the labours of
  singled-out interests... poets aren't fickle
  minded because they're poets,
   we're universally fickle minded, because the mind
is a fickle thing in the first place...
  to counter the complexity of the brain,
    only when the mind is found migrating into
the ******* region or the heart is there any sense
of determination to be seen...
clearly Muhammad migrated from the brain
   got himself a mini-harem and established a family,
****** Ali over on an empty promise and
immediately established a schism that took much
longer to be established in Christianity...
       i told you: my prejudices are personal,
they're not environment, i did have Muslim "friends",
i did read the Quran and i did sit in a Reagent's Park
mosque in my socks looking at the feng shui
minimalism... obviously the schism would come
from the place where a major element was used
in dressing up the mosques... persian carpets...
   and the fact that the Farsi loved their poetry...
the fact that the Quran is to be sang is basically
one poet, telling all others poets to come:
YOUR WORK IS ****!
                     that's feeble, esp. if you take the sword
out after when people tell you no.
   but that's what i don't understand, if the Quran
is so against poetry, doesn't the existence of
the Hafiz mean that it actually is poetry?
  could you find a team of such plonkers to memorise
a single chapter of Tolstoy's war & peace?
  i ******* well doubt it...
plus the whole mono-lingual attitude toward it
means for me to argue certain points with some
Sheikh Ali-Baba would means years lost
   to hark out a word of arabic...
      point being, any chance to learn a new optical
encoding of sounds is impossible,
the one i already have has eroded such a potential:
plus the fact that it's so different...
plus i spotted some anomalies in the system i'm
using: here's it's saying java, .dos, linux...
               oh don't feel left out from the computer
programming community: turn the cheek and
say in robo-slo-mo: psi-borg     (Ψ-borg):
it's the crucifix of the psychology community anyway (Ψ)...    
        i inherited the difference between
   s & ś                         a & ą -
or as one ironic German phrasing had it, a long long
time ago on a Catholic retreat in the south of France
(Taizé): vey didn't oonderstand my good Inglish aacent,
you know how Arnie sounds, right?
just like that... became the running joke for a few years...
you basically learn an accent having spotted
  diacritical markings... having been raised in
a phonetic-realm where diacritical marks are used,
and then growing up in a phonetic-realm where
they are completely disregarded... well,
it's not hard not sound English and then lurking
in the shadows if someone is calling your ethnic origin
as vermin... having such a kind remark as this one
to further the entertainment... i heard
that in America there's that thing called "white-privilege",
and that you can't be racist to a white person
if you're a white person... well... you won't be getting
any jazz and blues out of me sweetiepie, that's for sure:
politics, unfortunately; and what better way
to state politics than with poetry, or the tact within
poetry: telling someone to go to hell with them
anticipating the trip.
AzealAngel Mar 2012
Yours Truly
Loving You Avenue
Kissime, Missmeana
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Dear Love of my Life,
You do not know me yet but, I am the love of your life and you are mine. Try not to over look me if we ever meet. Pick me out the crowd of beautiful women you see from where ever we meet, whether it be in public, private, or through a computer screen. Oh yea, and try your best to judge me by my personality. Look past the color of my skin for it may interfere with your better judgement of me. For all you know I could be white, purple, or mahogany. Once, we are together theres somethings you should remember. One is that I won’t completely hate you if you forget our anniversary. I’ll only pretend to so we can feel like a sitcom family. Second, my favorite flower is the lotus but I’ll settle for roses as long as they are never red, I prefer white or black instead.Third, don’t be what you think I expect you to be because I really love spontaneity. So don’t be surprised if for vacation I’d like to go skydiving, bungee jumping, or skiing. By the way I have of list of things I’d like to do before I died and those activities are numbers one, two, and three. Promise to never lie to me unless you are trying to protect me. Yes, I know honesty's the best policy but a little white lie never hurt anybody. I hate to be told what to do unless of course it is by you. So I guess I’ll be fair and not give you too many rules. This last one is a request of you for me, Spontaneously tell me you love me.
Sincerely yours,
The Love of your Life
Dear Science and Math,

I pray to you because you are what I believe in. Today is the midterm elections for 2018, and boy are we in a mess. Evolution, I would like to apologize that we have devolved as a society to allow our government to function as a really terrible sitcom. Economics and Statistics, I feel your heavy gaze as we still have 2 more years before we hopefully take the bankrupt millionaire out of office. Every day we live under a system whose poster child mocks its citizens and strips the majority of their rights. Their rights to Medical Care, a healthy and functioning Environment, and a Financial System which can support the majority, not just the top 1%.

Today I did my part. I practiced my right . . . no my privilege to vote. Too many people chose not to vote. I didn't vote for the last 6 year because I felt I was uneducated in the topic. I felt I was flying blind, something I could have taken 15 minutes to change. If I were a citizen of Georgia I would have lost this privilege, because of 5 years of voting inactivity. If I were of Hispanic descent I would most likely have had to jump through excessive hoops because of a hyphenated last name. There are so many people who don't want to vote because they fear jury duty, or they don't want to wait in line, or they don't want to make time to vote, or they are just plain convinced the system is rigged and their opinion doesn't matter. Let me tell you something, your ballot only "doesn't matter" if you don't hand one in. In fact, it is probably working against the team you would have voted for.

I am a woman, which mean only in the past 100 years was my second X chromosome "granted" this privilege. There are still grandparents alive today who remember when, specifically, black people could not vote. There are also plenty of other cases of this "right" being restricted from huge groups of people because of, in reality, what makes them unique.

So, I sit here today Science an Math, praying to you that my little corner of the United States may become a better place for ALL of its inhabitants.

Please let the scales tip in the favor of justice.
chichee Mar 2019
You'll always be my favorite kind of film. The sitcom without the laugh tracks or a romance without the actors. The kind of irony that could make me laugh till it hurt. The way I went from pining for you to vivisecting you against the metal of a surgical table, because maybe if I cracked open that soft, stupid flesh I'd finally be able to understand why. How you unspool me, all these years between us but you're still the only boy that's ever made me cry without hitting me first. Mum says she liked me better before I got off the pills. Honestly, I only cut them up once they're dead mother, we all have our hobbies.  I used to rewrite scene after scene of the woulda-coulda-shoulda's of our script and hide them from you. I used to be a lot of things. Don't we all miss me on pills.
It's been a while.
Taylor Martin Mar 2013
He said boring, safe.

He said 9 to 5, nothing brave.

Well, he’s got it in his head that he’s special, he’s a rebel

‘cause he’s only 17 but the walls are lined with bottles,

‘cause he’s only a kid but he shreds and he’s bled

like the best of the living, breathing, plastic models

under lights like lines and smoke like signs.

Alternative *******, kicks convention like a stone

on a dodgy, moonlit road laced with beaten brick and bone.

But I walked that street with your own two trees--
shivered in the neon glow—

and you’re just a hammock swinging between them, same as me—

I know you know.

We were thrown into the forest, stood together, two by two,

and if you’d dragged me into the shadowy thicket right along with you,
invited me out grasping at poison with your avenging leeches—

maybe I’m not so unfulfilled as you’d like to believe when you’re giving speeches,
strumming and shaking above me, so proud to break away.

Alternative *******, look this way.

I listen to the *** Pistols, jack.

I wear leather.

I text in class.

I sneak trinkets on the side,

under the table, on my mother’s unwitting dime.

Last week I put *** in my pineapple juice because no one else was home.

I write on the walls, I run in the halls

with scissors, with a smirk.

I chase ice cream trucks, I blow off homework.

Don’t you scoff at Metallica, call it an old man’s band.

Cats are badass, son, mine will tear up your hands.
And the garbage on your T-shirt wouldn’t be around to fuel your *******

if Metallica hadn’t taken the stage and taken the hits.

So when you come to town after the laughs fill a decade,

and you want to reunite so the memories don’t fade,

I’ll meet you for drinks sometime after five,

and I’ll go home in time to wake up before nine.

And you better listen close when I tell you how happy I am,

how I work alright 40/7, saying yes sir and no ma’am.

And maybe I drop acid under a bridge between F and M,

splash the city walls and bathroom stalls

with expletives and half-brained philosophy on a whim.

Or maybe I hug a homemade quilt and wait for the clock to tilt

while some ****** sitcom grasps at humor under oath.

And maybe I do both,

and maybe I’m smiling either way.

I’ll tell you this in tumbling words and phrases from our old days,

and then I’ll tap a finger on my soda, safe as houses,

houses like the twin towers that we came from, weighing ounces,

and I’ll ask about you.

And I swear on my 9 to 5 life that I hope you’re smiling too
when you tell me how the band is doing great, playing shows,

how the records fly like spinning pizza pie

in grimy downtown windows.

And when you go home into the stars and you pick up your guitar,

I hope you remember an earlier night, no matter how distant it seems,

that syrupy discourse when I gave you dollars for dreams

and you thanked me with words like boring, safe, because of some one-day preferences.

I hope you realize that I can smile through acid and expletives

just as well and true as I can smile at quilts and clocks,

so don’t put me in a box.


My happiness doesn’t need your special stamp of alternative approval.
This is a slam poem. I wasn't aware that I wrote slam poetry, but this came out of nowhere like a bullet and I'm quite fond of it. Different, for me, but I'm happy.
I hesitate to share this so soon after writing it, but what the hell. It's good enough.
I worry that this poem will make no sense to anyone but me. Someone please reassure me that it's clear and relatable and lovely. There are bits, though--avenging leeches, syrupy discourse, dollars for dreams--that will not make sense to readers simply because they are personal details. Like shrapnel in the overlying message. And that's what I find beautiful about poetry, that all the world can relate to it but there's always something deeper that the poet holds on to. Man, I love poetry.
Also, does this count as explicit? Am I supposed to check the box?
Mike Bergeron Sep 2012
It was easy,
The clumps and locks
Hit the floor
Like footfalls,
I stood behind you.
It had been two
Years almost to the day
Since you had stopped
Using shampoo,
And your hair was
The softest I'd ever felt.
The shrimp baking
In the oven
Overwhelmed the gentle
Scent of apple cider vinegar
I've grown accustomed to,
Snug behind you,
My nose near your scalp,
Falling asleep.
The night you let me
Cut your hair,
We fell asleep on the couch,
Watching reruns of an
Irrelevant sitcom,
And I awoke after you
Had already gone off
To work.
I rode past a cop
In shorts
On a bike
At Maryland & 9th
On my way to the office,
And he turned to ride
Behind me,
Pulling alongside
Me at Maryland & 8th.
"I just want to say thanks,
For stopping at red lights.
We're out here all the time,
And they see us go through
The lights, and
Think they can too."
"Yea, no problem.
Not trying to
Get my head knocked off."
"You tryin to be funny?"
"No, I said I'm not
Trying to get my
Head knocked off."
"Yea, I heard you,
I'm not stupid."
"I can see that.
You stopped at this red
Light, after all."
"Watch it, or
I'LL knock your
****** head off."
The light changed,
And I set off.
"Yea, get out of here,
Before I decide not
To let you."
Do you remember
How I came home?
Torn pants,
Torn shirt,
Torn skin,
Dragging my mangled
Steel frame
Up the stairs to our apartment?
You ran to me,
Dropped your plate
Of rice and beans all over
The brand new slip cover,
And grabbed my face,
Wetting your hands with my blood.
You got towels,
Got a chair,
Sat me in it,
Stood behind me,
And washed the grit
From my wounds.
My hair fell
Like raindrops
As you cut away
From the injury site.
The feel of your sewing needle
And nylon thread
Passing through
My thin, inflamed skin
Blackened my sight,
And I slipped away from consciousness.
Well,
I couldn't tell you then,
But I've never loved
You more.
Arun Ajmera Nov 2012
My head is ticking like a time bomb.
I rub the back of my hand with my cold sweaty palm.
Silently whimpering, in pain, for my mom,
I kindly ask her to bring a canola oil embalm.

As I rub the embalm at the time bomb,
I can hear a gentle soft psalm.
My life fades away as if it were nothing more than a sitcom.
I perceive my conscious escaping me, but I surprisingly feel calm.
Redshift May 2013
i am a product
of this
society
i pick-pocketed
my personality
from a ghastly array
of tv shows
and teenaged drama
if you would like a re-run
of last night's
late night
sitcom
i'm at your service

i am a product
of this
society
if you want some fashion advice
from me
because i dress
so well
log on to
pinterest
they'll tell you
exactly
what i would
because everything i wear
no matter how weird
or ugly
i wear because
they told me
to

i am a product
of this
society
i do not
think for me
i have an iphone
that has replaced
the normal functions
of my brain
it remembers everything
for me
i know everyone
we talk
all the time
i text
really fast
i'm so connected
i mean,
i'm plugged into
everything...

i am a product
of this society
my thighs
don't touch
and a lovely
mountain ridge
adorns
my back
a cavern
in my
belly
come explore
me
a beautiful
bony
product
of this
society

I AM A PRODUCT OF THIS SOCIETY
and you all should really stop blaming me
for being a social deviant
for being unwilling
to conform
to this new normal
sanity isn't
statistical
and this isn't
1984
meaning:
just because a billion people
do this ****
it doesn't make it
right
doesn't make it
make
sense
i will not hold onto your tail
and follow you
blindly,
society
because you don't know
where the ****
you're going
anyway
if we progress
one more step
we'll all be
dead
at least all the girls will be.
Sarah Moseley Nov 2012
If morning was
too brief to trim
those pine tree prickles
off of your lower limbs, it's okay.
Step 1: ***** hose.

After a mirror's
glance, you will be tempted to panic.
Step 2: Stay calm. Peel
the dead animal
off the side of your cheek.
Let the hairbrush
paste the fly-aways
into a hot, greased bun.

How easy it is
to experience a wardrobe malfunction.
Remember to keep it simple.
Step 3: Slip on
that black pencil skirt,
the polyester one--not
the leather.

No one needs to know
that you were up late
watching sitcom reruns. Remove
the screaming purple rings.
Step 4: make-up. Base
is your friend.

You are now prepared.
Smear on
your finest ruby red
lips, and tuck in
your leopard-print
bra strap.
Step 5: Strut your
stuff. Retail has never seen
such class.
How-to poem
Ivie Jul 2013
“When are you leaving?” unknowingly, words slipped out of her mouth, he was packing all of his ancient Mario game discs, in a hurried state.
“Soon” he replied, slowly, he had to leave or would lose his mind, she was driving him insane in every way possible, her heart faltered a little bit more, as he stuffed more things in the duffel bag
Then he asked”why? You’ll miss me?” smirking, his lips drawing into tender smile
“Maybe” doubting, of what she is to him, not knowing of the importance she carries to him.
“Answer me in yes, or no, nothing in-between” he raised his voice a little, waited, he had been waiting, patiently for this moment, he has been in love with her for a while  now, but she had never been responsive, now that he is leaving, cruel fate is looking his way
“Yes, I will, the essence of you” her lips etching in to a smile, then she looked the other way, hiding.
Her heart has been broken to many times before, it’s a risk, but her gut says he’ll be worth it.


I will miss the notes you wrote, symbols you marked in all of my Bukowski books, how you sat in the run-down library across the street, and devoured frost.
I will miss the raspberry flavored macaroons you left in the coffee show where we first met every morning for me, with a snippet of your favorite lyrics attached to the box.
I will miss the way you clicked pictures of me at the oddest of time, with my Polaroid, they always turned out funny and crazy, but you framed them, and hung them on your bedroom wall like the moon hangs in the cobalt sky, delicately, fixed, reminding you of how no matter how hard the times are, a piece of beauty will always be there.
I will miss all the mess in my tiny apartment, all of your shirts, books, PS games and vinyl records tangled together, spewed all over the floor.
I will miss the way you had freckles all over your nose and your weird laugh, the ways your eyes crinkled whenever I made horrible jokes and you wanted to contain yourself from laughing.
I will miss running my hands through your hair, giving excuses that I just want to know how soft they are ,I said they are not ,so every time you washed them, and wanted to prove I am wrong  I was in pure delight.
I will miss you waking early to just watch that 90’s sitcom Seinfeld and way you laughed at a loud volume through it, waking up the neighbors’ dog and your horrible bathroom singing making me cringe and my ears cry.
I will miss your cedar and minty scent and the way your heart beats against mine, hard, quick, pounding against your ribcage, when we are wrapped in each other’s arms.
Yes, I admit I am in love with you and will miss you terribly. Everything about you and all the things you do.
So can you please stay?
Please stay?
Will you?
no, i don't know what this is, but i hope you enjoy it:) constructive criticism is always welcome!
Cunning Linguist Mar 2014
Lucifer just said I'm two-faced;
But the reality is I wear many faces
Each one a mask
Picking a bouquet of oopsie-daises
Unabashedly lashing out at you
I eviscerate; wielding a scalpel
Then I pounce; scalped him,
Pelt dangling from my ***** pack
Went Kerouac on ***** ***

Surprise, surprise
Palpable attack
Thumbing tacks into your eyes
Lame as a bad sitcom
Band-wagon careening off the laugh-track
Everybody loves disarray

****! Vamoose!
Underlying interloper
Feel the allusion in high resolution;
Little tike on the *****
Anne frankly I'm that Führer fomenting furor

Have you lost your marbles?
Inaudibly garbling warbled garbage
Mauled to death
I **** narwhals

Convoluted revolution
I revel in it
Elusive illusion
Testify, I bring the excellence in electrocution
I'm the executioner

Putting the fun in funeral
Like a neurotic necrotizing narcotic
A lobotomy to the temporal
I dreamt the demented torment of descent
Cascading like a torrential waterfall
Ghoulish delight

Primeval upheavaler
With hopes to elope, many fold
Mic bold, but I suspect she's hitting the slopes;
Ice cold
Evoking emotion but a hopeless show
marionette in a stranglehold
\
       =+===\===+=
        |  | \  |
        |  | |  |
        |  |_|_ |
        | %%%%%|
        |  % '  ' %|
        |  %\_/%|
        |\/    \  |
         \/|  |\/
          (   \
            \ \\
            / //
            \_))
Hudson Everett Aug 2013
My therapist told me

that I need to just keep living

that I will find surrogate parent figures

that somebody will care about me

accept me unconditionally

and help me when I need help

But it ******* tortures me

that my dad is a ******* ******* narcissist

who gets off on being withholding

and my mom is a strong, independent woman

who refuses to stand up to him

and help her own ******* kids

this is not creative writing, or poetry or prose

this is not some late night rant

this is the ******* demon that follows me

this is the ghost that haunts my dreams

this is my ******* waking nightmare

I was born into a chaotic world

and my family didn’t do anything to stabilize it

so my world is constantly spinning out of control

and when it stops,

I can’t even bring myself to trust

the people who love me

or even the ground beneath my feet

because I feel it in my bones

it’s all gonna be ripped away

pulled out from under me

so there’s no hope for hoping

and I’m always in harm’s way

and maybe my therapist is ******* right

and with time things will get better

but right now I can’t sleep

and I want to ******* scream

and I want somebody to hold me

I don’t want to feel like I have to tread water

Constantly moving because if I collapse

or take a break for even a second

that’s it, I’m finished

I have to hold up the weight of my world

and it’s breaking my back

and breaking my heart

and breaking my spirit

And I have so many good friends

and they care about me

But I can hardly find it in me

to care back sometimes

because it hurts when people leave

And often as not, I do the leaving

preemptively, better to hurt than be hurt

but it’s not ******* better

You can tell me it’s gonna be ******* alright

You can tell me it get’s better

But I am still lying in my bed

I feel like I can’t keep this up

this pace, this nonstop pace

I am out of control

I need to get better

I need to find stability

and acceptance

and a place to rest

I have never felt at home

in 20 years, I have never had a home

Just because I have a roof and a mattress

doesn’t make me at home

I take my ******* pills

every **** night

to keep my emotions

from getting too high

or too low

but all I feel now is angry

and scared

that I will be this way

until the day that I die

Constantly searching

trying to find my way home

but it is nowhere to be found

and I feel the ***** rising in my throat

and the tears on my face

I don’t want to be real

I want to be a ******* sitcom character

or an extra in a movie

or somebody in a novel

I don’t want to have to be multi-faceted

Or complex

I just want a few simple things

And I always thought maslow’s hierachy of needs was *******

but maybe he was right and there are basic needs

that I need met

before I can have high self-esteem

but mostly **** that

I accept myself

the good bits and the bad bits

I love them all

even the messy ****

the mistakes I have made

which is a ******* lot

Can you say that?

I just want to be ok

And I want you to know that

I want to share my experiences

And I want to be able to tell people

how I went from here to somewhere better

and that it happens

I ******* hate open ended ****

this whole ******* experience

of living and being human

and nothing resolves

it is constantly changing and developing

well I guess that’s what you ******* get here too
mûre Jul 2012
The tea cup clouds were reason enough.
Reeling, the clock hands spun on an axis wobble
noon flirted with night
and I broke into a run
as the sky opened its maw
and screamed.
Even the suits scramble for burrows.
Retrospection always has a punchline.
Hide away, slide away
Stop looking at my *******, please.
Now watch wide-eyed behind
public glass, with a
sitcom gang of affable protagonists
who are now late for their respective chapters
Staring at their phones, willing the weather
forecast to telepathically change.
The light strobes, the bricks quiver sympathetically
and I riddle a fourteen year old pantheon
as they sway, as they jaunt
ankle deep in charged water
daring each other and daring the sky
daring the noise with headphones still around necks
like defiant plastic boas
Clothes plastered, mouths open, rain-drunk
feeling ****, revealing secret intimate shapes,
feeling sheepishly exposed next
to crushes who will kiss them at the next movie.
I am aware of each nerve as I drip and shiver
I'm terrified of storms, my reasons are mine
but even this fear
can cat-stroke my skin
hyper-sensitized, electric
and make me feel
****, too.
Jon Tobias Apr 2012
I picked up the pieces of my shattered heart
and put them into my jar of fireflies.

Only way now to keep my heart-spark alive
To live healthy in the glow

I've left the lid open
Living with the fear that this light might leave me

I have to remind myself some days that dust still rises
So I walk like an oil well to keep your memory alive

I watched them bury you
and realised my biggest fear come true

Heaven can't be real

And coffins only trap our dead
I need to let you go

When I die I want to be naked
wet
and covered in seeds

Heaven is the transfer of energy
into new life

I don't wanna be a goddamm tombstone garden
I wanna be a real garden
With ******* roses
and lillies

And weeds
Weeds are hard to ****
Make me something strong again

Give me a reason to keep on going
Help me kick my own dust

I wanna make life
even after my life

and

I want you back
I want you back

Because I miss you so much some days
I drive sixty in suburban neighborhoods
Prayin the fire finaly takes me
and
I can't do it

I know I will wake up in the morning
and you still won't be here

Sent you an e-mail the other day but purposely got the address wrong
I just wanted your name in my inbox

Someone already has your cell phone number
I called them and cried
because when they answered
they sounded exactly like you

They've asked me to stop texting
Saying I have the wrong number

Did you know all the people on tv sitcom laughtracks are dead?
It is ghosts reminding us to laugh

Remind my smile
Remind my dust
Remind my firefly glow
To get bigger

Remind me that you're not really gone
Not gone gone
Even if you're just plant food
It means something

It's why grass itches your bare skin
Reminds you it's alive

I don't want to itch like your nightmares anymore

Just know
I am picking up the pieces as best I can

And I ******* miss you
First line donated by Jennifer Smith.
Amanda Small Nov 2011
I scrape my forearms as if the hand you have clasped around my wrist is a lion’s jaw.

I don’t do well under social pressures
And I would love nothing more than to lend you my underwear and tell you about my dreams
But my modesty is a jealous ***** and will have none of that

So instead, I put my feet on your lap and touch behind my ears
Positioning them like satellites, prepared to receive any data you let into the atmosphere

I tell you about the boy I loved in high school, you tell me about the book you’re reading

I dress you up to be John Keats
With words of romance swimming through your veins
From your eyes to your hands
The prose you conjure make my eyelashes sweep against my upper cheek

With ***** in your blood and the night still young,
You have the ability to write me a novel crafted out of the moments that have crept through your fingers

I grasp at your memories as if they were butterflies,
Careful not to touch the wings, so that their beauty might be seen by someone else

I sit and watch as your face becomes a sitcom
With all the laughs and pains that a script can hold
I look for places where I might make notes in the margins, trying to make you more cohesive

I glue a penny to my forehead
Face up
In hopes that someone will take it from its place
Looking for the bit of luck it holds and instead grab my hand.

My stomach clenches in knots
Craving an understanding of the words you mumble into your coffee

My toes massage the soles of my shoes
Looking for a foot hold in the song I’m humming

But instead I breathe on my tea and dwell on the kiss we shared in the basement
judy smith Apr 2016
Who says you can't arm twist yourself into doing practically anything? Victoria Beckham — stylish mum, fashion empire czarina and social diva — took that notion a **** few notches higher as she posted a picture of herself on a sofa on a photo sharing site, leg extended high above her head at 90 degrees. The picture went viral immediately with a huge buzz around her impressive flexibility. She captioned the photo, 'It's amazing what you can do in culottes...those ballet classes are paying off!' (sic) It's not the first time she has showed off her moves. Last year in Singapore too, she kicked her stiletto-clad feet into a high pose as she relaxed on a sofa.

These celebs are advocating it, too...

Posh Spice aka Victoria isn't the only one. British actress Kelly Brook showed of her flexi *** on her sitcom show. Actresses like Reese Witherspoon and Jennifer Aniston have also taken up exercise regimens that stretch their bodies to the limit. Angelina Jolie's workouts are said to include the stability ball leg, squats and kickboxing, known build flexibility and balance. Jessica Biel is a firm follower of her five days a week cardio with strength training and pilates classes that have been credited with getting her such a lean ***. And Megan Fox ensures she is flexible, too.

Advantages of being stretchy

Being flexible and stretching out is not the realm of just gymnasts, athletes or swimmers. Anyone can and should be like that, for it's not just before starting a workout that one faces tight hamstrings and a sore back and neck. These are issues that plague those with sedentary jobs as well. Thus, flexibility can help in gym training and dealing with the stressors of everyday life. It also helps the body to heal. Increased flexibility also leads to improved posture. Once the earlier tightness goes away you start to sit right and walk better, too.

How Much?Stretching muscles twice a week is enough to build overall flexibility.

For anyone

A common myth is that being flexible will only work with younger people. It is actually for anyone of any age

Exercises to help you get there

Chest dumbbells: Lie flat on a bench, holding dumbbells in either hand. Now lift the dumbbells overhead together and slowly bring them back. This stretches the pectorals.

Abs stretch: Sit on the ground with the ankles facing each other and the knees flexed. Now put pressure on the knees and press them to make them touch the ground. Hold this for 20 seconds and repeat.

Shoulders delt: Hold the elbow of one arm with the other hand and pull the elbow across the chest. Hold and repeat for the other hand.

Curling cat: Kneel down on all fours and curl the back upwards in the same position. Hold this and start again. This increases flexibility of the back.

Hamstring stretch: Place your leg on any raised area in front you, like a stool or chair. Now, extend it straight without bending the knees and bend the torso to touch the toes. Hold for 15 seconds and repeat.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-melbourne
Joseph Valle Aug 2012
Never been interested in
a conversation, just in
conversation itself.

I talked about the weather with
an acquaintence and a
friend of a friend last night
for forty minutes.
The latter isn't someone that
I really know know,
but you know what I'm saying.

We chatted about the coldness that hovers
over San Francisco and how
the heat in the summertime is actually frosty and how
the winter's warmth is, surprisingly, quite pleasant.
"You will only understand this from living it."

A conversation about weather
isn't supposed to actually play out
completely,
and yet, I'm still scratching my head
as to how forty minutes passed
with the two of them
in our Connecticut woods,
covered in striped longsleeves
and sunglasses to protect
our thoughts from a day passed under the sun,
walking around the Bay Area.

An old, sitcom-like joke
come to completion at a party, drowned
in ***** and musical-chatting,
chord-by-chord,
by guitar, drum, and bass,
in the room adjacent
to our tongue-chilled garage.
kyle Shirley Jan 2015
I come down from this ***** high finally,
This ****** lifestyle that I've been living,
This life is a **** hole, barely making ends meet, crazy people ******* like dialog in a tv sitcom. Oh its soo ******. Just like the girl laying ***** soaked in my bed right now.  Life is beautifully painted with sin and good intentions. In the morning I wont even address her by name, fact is I dont know it, shes a victim in my ego boost trap like the girl 45 mins before her was... Strange I dont get caught by now, guess my luck will stay till karma hits me, karma being the stripper I stole the money from out of sluttly skirt, I didnt need the money but the rush I was getting from *** just isnt    doing it for me anymore. I need a new high...
Jude kyrie Mar 2016
Jude's rant…. Why sitcoms have ruined our lives.

I am really expletive mad at the networks
all they dish out night after night
is ****** sitcoms that stink worse
than a blocked toilet in an Irish bar
on a Sunday morning.

Have you seen what it takes
to make a twelve season hit sitcom.?
I have spent five minutes writing one.

here it is.
it's called

My husband's a total ******.

Characters
Soulful Simon the husband and father.
he is a cat whipped half excuse of a man
whose job it is to always be ******* up
and to submissively take perma **** from his
****** preachy wife.
Donna

His overbearing wife
who makes a full time career  position
staying at home doing absolutely nothing.
Except over managing her two bratty kids
and think up reasons
to cut down on soulful Simon's
meagre *** diet
which consist of  
Saturday night mercy ***.

Donna is also the disciplinarian handing out
punishments to the bratty kids.
like no iPad for twenty minutes
for calling soulful Simon a worthless ****.

This is the main lesson of the show
but I find it a confusing message
Of
if you tell the ****** truth
you lose your iPad for twenty minutes.

Important character traits in show.

father
A total buffoon and useless idiot
that has no say or power in the house.
in days of yore he would wear Harlequin
suit and have a bell on his cap.

Mother
a nasty passive aggressive *****.
who controls most the money
and all the ***.
She must be smart and always right.
She was only wrong once
that was when she was right
and thought she was wrong.

Children
must act like know it all adults
god knows no one else does.

important notes
the laugh machine
must be packed with
Energizer batteries.
if they fail
then the viewers at home
will find out
no one else is laughing either.

Authors note
This carefully scripted
hit plot for sitcom
copyrighted by Jude Kyrie.

I do not want
to see this on the network
without my
One million Dollar  
per episode stipend.

cc my lawyers
Dewey Screwem and Howe
DaSH the Hopeful Jun 2015
You were there before I ever wrote
Long before I ever smoked
You knew me before they did
All of em
You saw me change
As a stranger
Far away from all my mishaps and danger
You saw the side effects of pills too hard to swallow
You knew me before I had ever had my heart broken
Before I had my thoughts stolen by harsh words spoken

Before the scars


I remember breaking a window.
All I did was knock.
You were inside with the lock engaged
A boxed in cage
I could not just stay out of

Not too long after that night the seven or more blocked the door and I applied more than an appropriate amount of lotion that his corneas adorned
Immature?
Maybe but it may be I was scared

Scared enough to knock so hard
I obtained my first scar in the front yard of a Heritage Pointe apartment


You knew me when your world got tossed into a cold wind
My sole friend in an inconsolable state
The thirteenth the date, at least I think, my birthday was late
The drive home was too long in the stone cold silence in the wake of unfathomable violence
I loved you enough to feel empathy for the first time
My sister just not in blood usually just said she was fine like some corny degrassi line with true emotions deep in holding in the circus of your mind
But here you were crying
A sign of a signing away of youth
I watched as you grew

Our lives are a sitcom and we've lost the remote
And pretty much all hope of ever calling it quits
We're as stuck as it gets
Family runs thick

We knew each other before we became moms and dads
Back when we we're all we had
You were Daddy Yankee, I was  more Kanye West
But we always went well together, Sister you're the best
Femi Jul 2016
love and laughter we enjoy now
this will end, I'm sure how.

bodies we shared
bed defiled.

the game wasn't fair
too many fouls.

when it's over I'll die inside
but flash a smile.

then I'll apologize
and take a bow.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
i have three books of poetry in front of me, and i'm asking the preliminary questions that needs to be answered before i add my own little scribble - as always saturated with the cross-Atlantic soul-searching audio, this grand world and this tsunami from across the Atlantic, all ravaging my ancient soul spanning from Iceland to the wheat basin of Ukraine and the Caucus in general (kałczatka), Finnish, Estonian and Hungarian anomalies, sounds exotic i guess, what with Minnesota english, Californian english, Maine english, Texan english - it can almost feel a little sad with so much biodiversity outside the realm of spoken tongue occupying such a vastness - always mesmerising: americans in Europe - ever the few across my path - anyway... the three books, three writers, jack spicer, miroslav holub (czech for pigeon) and j. s. harry - the question? who would i like to imitate, or at least write as? answer? none of them.

like today, cool night, open skies and constellations,
a police helicopter making its ridiculous
coleslaw of sound - chit chit chat chat (my best
approximate, even if that, not really - chop variations
will be better excused for reasons why the words
were include) - change of tactic, uncoupled
the starter of beer before the main course of whiskey
with wine - god, haven't drank it in such a long time,
i forgot how well wine compliments cigarettes,
even if it's drank via the Basque desecration of
the Nazareth covenant, i.e. with coca-cola -
yep, kalimotxo - 2/3 to 1/3 coca-cola - once i gave
it to someone and they went spaghetti knees -
it's a right-odd cherry - shame i drink a bottle of
wine like i drink a bottle of beer - the whole joke
of Nick Harper (turning wine into water) -
2008's most watched sitcom - Chiswick, London -
middle-class family (for whoever is class-conscious) -
my family* - but what i really wanted to mention
was the Babylonian unravelling, it's no big deal,
i didn't exactly want to remember the encoding that much,
but i realised that even though the English do not
use diacritical marks, the French do, but they are worse
at profanities of writing letters but sort of veering off
from using them - Rimbaud in America is apparently
said: 'Rambo' - not Rim-Baud(elaire) - eclair -
dotty d d - surds or cloth softeners? i don't know anymore.
like in the already mentioned example of desecration:
kalimotxo - kali-mo-t'cho'h - a bit like mojito -
mo'he'to'h - surely with the world getting global there
should be a standard, universally speaking -
sure the borders are down, but the phonetics are still
in distinction - like in Czech-mate when asking:
š works with č - sh and ch respectively - or sz and sz
depending if you're germanic with the former and
slavic with the latter encoding - but ě and ň? the alternatives
are ę (a sound that resembles something like an e
          and swallowing your tongue)
                                                                ­and ń (a higher-pitch
of a syllable from knee, a bit like née, but more like
Anaïs Nin) - never mind, wine really compliments cigarettes,
thus the compass:
                                                å     ­         

                   àá                         æ                        ä, ą

                                               ã, â


all roads lead to Rome, you'd never imagine the unravelling
of this ancient γραφεμη would yield so many additions
to the respective letters contained within it,
just look at Adam and the baggage that came with it,
Eve isn't exactly free from the excess baggage either,
if you don't believe me, see the diacritical additions she's
carrying - but who the hell is Oswald? oh right, it's
the 21st century, it might be Ophelia or Olga;
and yes, i'm bypassing the linguistic alphabet - shoving
it into the dark, working from scratch.
LD Goodwin Mar 2013
Why is the pillow on the lap of the female actor?
Is she trying to hide, to no avail, that midriff muffin-top factor?
This is a great phenomenon, though crazy, it is true.
And now that the cat is out of the bag, you will notice it too.

For in almost every sitcom, and in almost every scene,
in movies and soaps and dramas alike, it's almost becoming obscene.
*******'s Mom never did it, but notice the girls on "Friends".
They'll either sit with folded arms or a pillow to hide what offends.


*Feel free to add a verse or two to this poem and post it.
Should be great fun.....there are no rules.
Harrogate, TN March 2013
Godlink Dec 2017
Imagine a prison without bars,
except you can't leave.

Imagine a world with color except you are the only thing
that is black and white,
and no matter how hard you want it,
you'll never be a part of that world.

Imagine being tied for eternity to the one person
who truly hates you and wants you dead,
only to find out that person is you.

Imagine watching the worst sitcom ever,
over, and over, again, and again.
Sure it's not so bad at first,
tell me how you feel 10 years later.

Imagine having attributes of a porcupine,
all you do is say things,
and do things,
that hurt everyone,
including yourself.

Imagine being lost at sea,
almost drowning,
and there's a life preserver that
you can almost grasp,
but right as you reach,
it always slips away.

Imagine being in a dark cave,
with a damp box of matches.
You can get some of them to light....
not all....
but even the ones that light
dissipate after a couple seconds.

Imagine hating yourself enough to put a gun to your head,
and then imagine pulling the trigger,
but instead of a happy ending,
you live.

*That is depression.

— The End —