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When his Gillette slices the Cake you give
And your Ribbon shows what a Prune he was
It's time to kick his Sorry *** and Live
Then realise he is below your Class
The School Council has met; and Verdict's sent
To advise the Nerds which Athletes are bane
But if you give an Artist a worth-time's spent
He will give the Cherriest Mood insane
Try to open your Doors, dear Fruitful One
For once, know that Other Hearts do exist
If you can sing where the Hill's Grass grow some
Then you know which Plate is worthy to fix.
Now in this Picnic my Noodles grow full
From this Prune-Cake made and sliced from his Soul.
Bryan Lunsford Nov 2018
She’s beautiful as beautiful gets,
As the nature of her beauty is the beauty of nature’s equivalence,
With every movement, she’s special and different to no ends,
Yet, to her, her being beautiful is anything other than common sense,
With scars sliced up and down her arms and wrist,
It’s evidence this beauty has cried, has wondered, and reminisced,
As it’s evident, she’s tried, has stumbled, and even wished,
Someone would take her beauty for what it really is--
And see the most beautiful woman that has ever lived
Nigdaw Jul 20
Bread from waxed paper packet
a childhood memory of mum making tea
snow white, thick sliced
fringed with a brown crust
comfortingly heavy, ****** smelling
the butter pleases me
covered under the tub lid
with a coated paper peeled back
to reveal a thick golden slab of
churned cream easily spread, cold
straight from the fridge onto waiting
fibrous surface, allowing it to sink in
cheese in a yellow block, related to
the butter in so many ways, dairy
a long lost brother, sliced thick with
a proper knife with the pointed curved
tip, designed to ***** and pick up
each slice, placing carefully on the bed
prepared for it to rest, ready for the final
ochre coloured element, mustard, from
a glass jar using a teaspoon, to dollop
before resting a second buttered slice
on top to make a creation, a taste sensation
PC classic Sep 2016
Last nights bottle of whiskey
came
in a box
which was sliced to make an
ashtray

It stands by the bed catching dust
and
hoping to catch some dreams
as well
if they ever arrived

This night

You toss and turn
like an egg
on a stubborn pan

You are
wondering
what would happen
if you died right now

You will never know
what happens at the end
of that TV series
where they **** anyone
and everyone

You reminisce
of defeat and miracles
of crossed legs in short pants
and
how the charm
of a woman
gone
can keep a man wondering for a
life time

The cars motion past the window
echoing
outrageous
freedom

the moon is a snail in the sky
Left Foot Poet Aug 2017
the server (waiter) raps
praise upon the sushi,
its integrity,
the harmonic
of its construct,
the curated singularity of
each rice grain

the innate elegance of
the thin sliced,
nearly translucent,
au naturel, organic,
ginger root

the skin smooth paste of
green wasabi,
grown naturally
along stream beds in
mountain river valleys in Japan

genuinely puzzled,
when he,
the old erstwhile poet
unabashedly weeps before all

no hero he,
just an overcome one,
his tears flavoring his food

mourning the
celebrated abuse
of his verbal children,
those natured nurtured babes
the stuff,
the words of his definition

each weird word,
loved for their cultured,
unique quality of their history
grown in languages's
perpetual petri dish

asked if something was a matter,
answered yes,

"this plated performance,
such an extravagant essay
on the beauteous wonder
of life's bounty,
left me wordless"

and she, burst out loud in laughter
Waldo May 2017
She had the eyes of a goddess
And the voice of an angel
But I could not save her
In fact I think I gave her
More pain than she had
When she first came to me
Crooked and scarred
Out of touch with reality

I made her scars thicker
She purged with intensity  
You see I thought I was the savior
Of her self destructive behavior
Yet I was but the arrow
That pierced through her ankle
She sliced at her thighs
Oh how the wounds rankled

I've learned not to dwell
On days that have passed
Those who focus on the past
Will not for long last
But I can still see
The hurt in her eyes
When I tossed her away
When she saw through my lies

I had the eyes of a demon
And the voice of a monster
She could not save me
In fact I think she gave me
More pain than I had
When I first came to her
When she seduced my heart
With a tender whisper
Kara Jean May 2016
The urge to feel guilty taunts your being
Contradiction fabricated to be easy
Calm an effortless nothing but emptiness  
Young doesn't come free
Excuse me, don't spill my drink
Confidence is a thin sliced arrogance  
Let the bold quake
The pass is always a day late
Step into the florescent light
Here the rumbling crowded sky
A chant only stripped royalty earned
******* fantastic isn't learned
False Poets Oct 23
your admirers are unlimited by geography or name,
but only by imagination

~for Albert’s wife~
~~~

the tattoos on my body, a complete list
of the seven names^ shared with a heavenly human,
who pretends he has no
skin in the game

but that is a poem for another time...

you thank me for being a “follower”

unnecessary for your admirers are unlimited
by geography or name,
(and all the sliced and diced human pieces deem greater than the
whole)
we are limited only by imagination

whatever name you/I choose,
what we/me love about your poems,
flora, fauna, the human cuppa,
is that you write what your eyes feel,
yet, it is I doing the seeing

for that
I’ll follow you kicking and screaming,
I’ll be your babe in arms



~~~
^https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/NamesofGodinJudaism
false poets
jonni inferno Jul 2018
i met her    
in a waking dream    
as i walked beside    
the sylvar stream    
whose chattering laughter    
shifted suddenly    
into a sylvar pool    
of enchanted silence    
a mirrored glaze    
in muted    
misty
dawning rays    
    
her cascading mane    
a crimson flare    
sea-green eyes    
alluring stare    
my heart stopped    
to see her there    
reposed    
'pon a verdant garden lee 
beside    
the misting sylvar mere    
'neath    
the weeping willow trees    
    
dahlia lips    
whispering desire    
vermilion plunder splayed    
spellbound 
by her charms    
heart pounding    
thundering    
captured    
i stay    
an' wi' faire
lithesome beauty lay    
'pon a lush an' vibrant field    
beside    
the misting sylvar mere    
'neath    
the weeping willow trees    
    
we lay there    
lost in time    
locked    
in the silence 
of kindred minds    
an' i knew her name    
tho she spoke it not    
sipped i then
the misty morning dew    
from precious lips
that from me drew    
all that i    
ever thought    
or felt    
or knew
'pon the grasses lush and green    
beside    
the softly glowing mere    
'neath    
the weeping willow trees    
    
soft sings    
the whippoorwill    
the meadowlark    
an' mourning dove    
their voices weaving spells    
for lover's yearning hearts    
in the meadow    
by the way    
where my love an' i    
do lay    
entwined  
'pon the gleaming sylvan shore    
beside    
the shining crystal lake    
'neath
the weeping willow trees    
    
alas    
the dawning days    
were passing
when came malevolence    
within
a thund'ring tempest    
lightnings flashed
in ragged gashes
'cross the heaven's    
stygian passes
an' from those
gnawing caverns
spewed
a raging
howling
demon's brood
an' down flew they
by the sylvar stream
where my love
and i
entranced
did lay
beside
the mystic sylvar lake
'neath
the weeping willow trees
    
then from my arms    
vile creatures tore    
my lifesong    
my heart's blood    
my one    
and only love
her scintillating form    
they ripped    
her silent
piercing cries    
bleeding    
thru my soul
an' took her they  
far from this    
battered    
desert shore    
as her soundless    
painful    
chorus fades    
an' leaves me
here alone    
to lay    
'pon these shifting lifeless sands    
beside    
this sylvar lake of tears    
'neath    
the weeping willow trees    
    
the meadowlark    
her spellsong sings    
thru ebon winter's    
weathering    
the silver stream    
her laughter froze    
this heart    
once fire    
a soulless stone    
    
so now this raven
winged    
doth fly
to scour the bruised    
an' shadowed skies    
to find my dove    
an' bring her home    
to lay
'pon these frozen brittle stones
beside
the darkened sylvar tarn
'neath    
the weeping willow trees    
    
thru timeless age    
an' dangerous realms    
i followed    
her silent    
morbid    
ravenings    
as her grisly    
mewling pleas    
hollowed out my soul    
'til at last    
i found her    
chained an' bound    
lost    
deep within    
peculiar planes    
an' baneful realms    
far from    
the laughing sylvar stream    
far from    
the weeping willow trees    
    
her lament    
of bitter tears    
an' fear    
sliced    
thru my defenses    
a doomed    
pernicious heart    
she was    
wandering    
thru deepest depths    
where madness reigns    
all hope destroyed    
hell's minions    
reveled
unconstrained    
    
my dove    
called i    
my love    
'tis i    
once more    
thrice more  
time  
and time again    
till finally    
she hearkened    
to my voice    
    
true love    
recall us    
you and i    
dancing    
thru ageless realms    
consider us    
twirling    
under heaven's wings    
she
spinning
at my fingertips

an' i  
drew her then    
breathless    
into my arms    
ambrosia lips    
her sweet alms    
from her dark pain    
i did drink    
of her    
malignant sorrow    
i did partake  
my questing    
thirsting hunger    
willingly  
did i sate  
gathering all    
her shattered pieces    
from those altered    
blighted    
reaches
    
chains    
now broken    
i carried her
'pon wings    
of true love's    
sylvar light    
far from    
these darksworn legions    
into    
the dawning night's    
farthest regions    
    
an' there    
close by    
the laughing    
whispering    
sylvar stream    
lay her gently    
'pon the verdant flowing shore    
beside
our gleaming slyvar mere    
'neath    
our weeping willow trees    
    
under glimmering    
starlit heavens    
sing    
the whippoorwill    
the meadowlark    
an' mourning dove    
whose soulful songs    
compose    
for yearning lovers    
charms of hope    
where pools    
the laughing    
sylvar stream    
whose mirrored gaze    
draws us deep within    
celestial    
starlit    
wanderings    
  
as the wind    
whispering
sighs    
thru our hearts  
as we lay entwined    
'pon a verdant garden lee    
beside  
our misting sylvar mere    
'neath  
our silent    
weeping  
willow trees    
      
p j upchurch
athena Feb 2017
the ice sliced the street while counting the paced steps under my breath. we're all here for the temporary feeling — the things that kept us alive, the books that were written, the songs that were sang. your demitasse of cold coffee and glass of sangria with fruits that was drenched in the cold blood of wine. the intervals of your horrible sanity, the tingling edges of your pulse and the pain in its very unusual degree. the infinite possibilities of what can be taken away from you until you actually run out of things to write about or realizing that nothing is meant to last for more than lightyears away in time.
- please stay, i want to write about you.
6 muffins down
Binging is my new toy
Sliced butter
Guess it’s better than
Sliced skin
Skyla Feb 20
I’ve written so many poems
But all of them are irrelevant
Just meaningless words thrown together
By a meaningless girl in a small town.
She writes about her suffering from sickness and disorders.
She writes about how deep the knives in her chest go and how many times she’s been stabbed by grief.
She writes about how sharp her monster’s teeth are and how deeply they bite.
She writes about the devil and why hell is actually our current world.
She writes about demons and angels of darkness and numbers and dancing skeletons with aching bones.

She writes about dead, rotten girls. Who died in a choke hold at the hands of a scale or drowning in a toilet bowl.

She writes so many poems but the ultimate poem of all is her body.  Her body is the one true poem.  Scars that line her ribs where she sliced with her mother’s bone-handled knife.  Scars on her thighs from being cut with shards of glass because she shattered so many mirrors with her aching fists.

Bruises that line her legs and her arms.  Iron burns caused by her own hands because she just wanted to feel something.

Bags under her eyes, wrinkles corrupting her youthful face, dry and ****** lips.  Don’t even get me started on her teeth.
Oh, what eating disorders do to teeth.
She doesn’t smile much anyway.

Deep, red scabs on her knuckles from purging too hard, to the point where her teeth scraped off chunks of skin.

I am a girl.  I want perfection, I want affection.
But all I have is depression, and numbers and mirrors and food and shards of glass and my bones bones so many bones ;

Hollow eyes and on her way to join the rotten girls club.

How do people think this is beautiful?
Are dead, rotten girls beautiful?
Are they glorified because their bones stick out in places they shouldn’t?
Are they romanticised because they can fit into a size 000?

Does no one see their bloated corpses?
Does no one see their grey-green skin?
Does no one see their stitched up mouths open wide, with blackness and abyss pouring out when they’re in fact, trying to scream?
Maybe your lips are glued shut and you have a blindfold on.

Dead rotten girls should be your worst nightmare, not your dream look.


As unfortunate and tragic it may be, am I the ultimate poem? ~
bekka walker Dec 2014
I lay my red cheek heavily on the wooden walls that have enclosed some existence for... how long?
Planks upon planks of royalty- sliced apart to shelter me. Keeping me safe.
What kind of sound did you make when they cut you down? Did others see? Did you hear their hearts break as you thudded into the ground? Were you proud?
To lose your crown.
And now you're holding your place, as a families base in some nowhere tiny town.
So tell me, What have you seen here?
You freckled knotted wood!
You can trust me, you can tell me!
As I sleep- whisper into my dreams.
Your gorgeous and solemn,
and
your dead silence makes me angry.
My little red cheek blushes even harder at your hollow absence.
Are your secrets trapped forever behind your once so stoic posture?
And if your secrets are lost, can I whisper you mine?
Will you keep them hidden in your history? Add them to your rings?
Remnants of who you were stare back at me.
I guess you could say the same.
You have heard my secrets.
You do hear my cries.
When it's 3 am and the weight of my sorrows is too much for my shoulders, and your floor boards creak, just like you could speak.
You know that sometimes our shelves need dusting.
You offer me a place to whisper more grey matter into the air,
still hoping to lure you out of silence.
It's not fair that you know so much more about my soul.
Could you please tell me what I'm going to sound like when I come thudding down?
Your secrets are too deep.
So I'm left with my little red cheek anxiously pressed against your wooden walls.
co/tab
goodtea Nov 2018
they
taught. you.
how to be a monster
and

were shocked
when you
grew teeth

you. apologized
but they were
bleeding already

cut
on weaponized smiles
and you. learned. to. rip. happiness.
out of sliced necks

fear and anger
sever your feet
so
run monster run
be.fore.

they teach you
new. cruelties.
bite. the.hands.
that.  fed.
you.
Sofia Paderes Sep 2018
She dreamt about you last week.

I nibbled on my breakfast today -- bread and a thinly sliced orange. It seemed enough at the moment, but I snapped somewhere. I let her tell me off for being unreasonable while her hands did dishes the way you taught her to. She never wastes water.

She said you were both running.

This morning she had tiny baby dolls dangling from her ears. Being seen doesn't bother her anymore as much as it used to, but that doesn't matter to you because you always saw her. And I'd like to think you still do. She was beautiful today. And always.

She laughed softly. "Imagine her running," she said. But somehow, I could.

Last week, she got a bright red alarm clock with a built-in radio. Old songs as much as possible, please -- the soundtrack of our late nights. The first night she figured out how to work it, I lay on the bed the same way you used to, one leg crossed and one arm over my eyes, laughing. Did you laugh? I can copy your laugh too, you know.

She said you both knew why you were running.

It's a jungle in there, and I'm not always allowed to explore. But sometimes, she lets me cross a river. Lets me through some vines. And I tell her, "Baby, I'll stand out here with my little torch and wait out the rains. I'll help you map this place out. I'm a little lost in here, but I'm not leaving until these footprints I'm following lead me right next to you." She just smiles. Did you know that your footprints are there, too? They're all over the place.

She said you made it into each other's arms.

I hadn't cried over you in a long, long time but that Sunday morning I drew her in close and we dampened each other's shoulders. Laughed a little. Cried some more. Got dressed. Carried on.

I miss having you in my dreams too, but it was nice of you to say hello. Know that you are always welcome. Maybe next time you'll stay a bit longer. We'll have your coffee ready.

Thank you. Please, come again.
Her gravestone says "You will always be loved". Miss you, Lola Chichi. Just when I thought I had nothing to write about you anymore, this poem came.
Emily Nov 2018
Grown beneath the sun,
Holding the occasional rain drop,
Surrounded on all sides by companions.

Snip!

Cut off forever from nourishment,
Collected with a few companions,
No clue what the future will hold.

Moving swiftly through the air,
Higher than ever dreamed, but
Fearful of sky diving without a parachute.

Misted occasionally,
Attempting to maintain appearances,
Despite being starved of food.

Enduring more body-jolting aerial swoops,
Drowned in a swift waterfall,
Losing companions that did not maintain their appearance as deftly.

Chop, chop, chop!

Sliced into innumerable bits,
Wondering if life is over,
Now that one’s shape is forever lost.

Perfuming the air with a distinctive aroma,
Blending it with those already in the air,
From other small bits of greenery.

Fears realized at last:
Falling from a great height to the ground,
But falling on a soft cushion.

Smothered with white strings,
Rolled up tightly in the soft cushion,
No escape route possible.

Dying in the heat,
Spreading into the gooey whiteness,
Wondering what the point of it all was.

Eventually cooling down,
Being exposed to air once again,
And hearing (if it were only possible):

This is the best herb cheddar bread I’ve ever had!

Was the result worthy of the chives and Italian parsley’s sacrifice?
All who partook of the savoury goodness certainly believed it was!
We may never know how others will one day benefit from our sacrifices, but hopefully they will one day appreciate them.
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