"smuggling" poems
Evil & crime so predictable & stale.
Stupid how arrested suspects get bail.
Convicted when their victims tell.
Prison is where some stay & are jailed.
They have to communicate by mail.
Sometimes their focus goes in another direction.
Where probation happens after correction.
Child & spousal abuse, drug use, & rehab that is no use.
History repeats
Wives & children still get beat.
Their isn't always a Superman or Batman to be your hero.
With a sword or crossbow.
Details of armed robbery , drug dealing & smuggling.
Stabbings & muggings.
On the inside homosexual love with cuddling.
Human trafficking & prostitution.
Violating amendments & constitutions.
They are how they are from how they were raised.
If their victims could speak from the grave
Or had they been saved.
They could explain & describe how their rapists & killers behaved.
Male & females do their time.
Years in custody for their crimes.
Seriousness of their offenses vary.
Some educate, get jobs, or marry.
Behind bars is where violence belongs.
To be punished for all that they did wrong.
Some from death row are now dead.
Similar to the wildlife in a zoo behind bars they get fed.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 11:11 PM UTC
imagine being told you cannot walk through a hospital’s emergency room.
imagine having to document an itch as if it’s where your body resides.
recommend 2013 titles in **** romance 2013.
attach a ****** to a person whose ****** gets maced for drug smuggling.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 4:12 PM UTC
I am angry in my grave,
Filled with disappointment, animosity, disbelief, and resentment,
Blacks had no rights, Blacks had no freedom,
Whites had the rights, and whites were the leaders,
Until I chose not to abide by the regulations of inequality,
And led the Civil Rights Movement,
Fought conflicts with kindness,
Opposed to Hatred and violence,
And tolerance between the two ethnicities was born
But why?
For the non-colored and colored could equally cause treason?
Or for racism to still apply in many communities?
I fought for no discrimination.
That doesn’t mean to enslave each other, cause disruption, unfairness, and deaths within the same race.
Gangs committing murders because they feel certain things are out of place,
Pilots flying planes into towers,
20 innocent children being massacred,
Drug dealers smuggling crack in homes,
All I see upon my grave is what I devoted my life to being destroyed.
For that,
I am angry in my Grave.
“But Dr. King, things have changed. Blacks and whites can be friends, and we even have a BLACK PRESIDENT.”
Yes, but you have to acknowledge the fact Obama agreed,
And supported what I stood for.
I was a pastor,
A pastor who used the Bible as my Code of Conduct,
A Bible in which Obama laid his right hand on
And sworn on during his inauguration,
While with his left hand, he’s supporting,
Adam and Steve, and babies saying goodbye before they leave their mother’s Womb.
For that,
I am angry.
“Martin Luther King will never be forgotten and his morals will be followed. He was a great leader and may he rest in peace.”
How can I?
Each day in my grave I mourn,
I’m frustrated and disgusted,
If I were still alive til this day,
My tears would flood America,
I would speak amongst the country and say,
You have been indoctrinated by the wickedness of mankind,
Propaganda is being embedded to get wrong points acrossed,
For that, I will continue and forever be,
Angry in my Grave.
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 5:25 PM UTC
I am very good at lying to everyone but my friends
These are Sinful talents you have that are really not something you should be proud of but you are actually very good at it like breaking in places, smuggling things (even if it is just smarties into the movie theater), and other random things. PLEASE feel free to add to this series post a poem and just label it "Sinful Talents (series)" and message me and I will repost it :) also include the hashtag sinfultalents
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 9:29 PM UTC
What is originality anymore?
The pop songs we listen to day in day out,
That are only updated remixes of
Songs that our parents
Already know every lyric to.
Is it the pranks we play on each other at school,
Poking holes in the top of water bottles,
So we don’t get caught when we try to catch our class mates.
Drowning them
In carbonated energy drinks.
Don’t think you’ll get away with it.
The teachers already know,
About flicking elastic bands at the backs of girls knees,
So they scream a little louder
And turn around to see
Boys smirking faces,
Because they have been there before.
Define originality.
Originality
. /əˌrɪdʒɪˈnalɪti/
noun
1. the ability to think independently and creatively.
•the quality of being novel or unusual
synonyms: inventiveness, creativeness, creativity, innovativeness, innovation, novelty, freshness, newness, imagination, break with tradition, resourcefulness, cleverness, daring, individuality, unusualness, unprecedentedness, uniqueness, distinctiveness
.
Is it smuggling ***** in water bottles,
Or sneaking down to the back garden
To have one last cigarette with your friends,
At 1am
On New Years
When you have had more to drink than your parents
Yet you are only 15.
Watering down whiskey from your parents liqueur cabinet
With apple juice.
Getting caught drunk
After being out with friends, Stumbling in at 2am
On Sunday morning.
Storming up to your room
After having a row with your parents.
Slamming the door,
Screaming at the floor,
Calling a friend,
And ******** about the people who brought you into this world.
Maybe
I’m not as good with words
Than I thought I was
O r i g i n a l i t y I s D e a d
Your parents Grandparents
Aunties and uncles
Have seen it all before
It’s a fact of growing up
And one day
You will too know
Exactly how it is
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 6:33 PM UTC
She counts down from a hundred to one,
Clutching her love like a crutch.
He fumbles,
Hunting for his hunger.
They blot out doubt
And muster up their trust
"I'm fine" she cries,
As a child dies.
He learns,
He spits in her gritted eyes.
She reminds him that they're dying,
Burning while they turn
Spinning in his sheets
Struggling to breathe
Smuggling their dreams
In apologetic sweat
And ***** epithets
The infant actors beg for ******
Whispering the wishes that are listed in the script
Quoting moans that catch on choking throats
Pleading for release
Reading of futility
And mutual defeat
Delivering a finish
In pillowed soliloquys
Adolescent in the stillness
Adolescent in the heat
Adolescent in the promise
Adolescent in belief
She stutters love in ****** butterflies
On his rasping chest
As he gasps for breath.
She grasps at death,
While he grabs a cigarette.
Cast away in brackish blanket seas
They wrap themselves in fallacies
And laugh at their realities:
The cult of love belongs to Morpheus
And adulthood is an orphanage
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 12:00 AM UTC
a silent laugh—
an inside joke no one else can catch,
trying to take flight over the height of a dream.
but what is a dream if it only stings the eyes?
an eye sore, instead of wings to soar.
...I am a prisoner of flesh and skeleton,
fueled by passion, smuggling scars beneath
my skin; blood turned ammunition,
bones as empty shells clattering the floor.
...I am animal, and I am engine—
_factory default,_ released into a world
obsessed with modifications.
we bolt wings like spoilers onto cars,
__spoiled for choice,__ but never to lift—
only to weigh us down.
heavy disguises, dressed up as flight.
and still, we dream of air.
still, we hunger to rise.
such a cruel irony:
built for motion, yet forever
grounded.
Sep 18, 2025
Sep 18, 2025 at 2:06 PM UTC
Succulent to the core
Chilled to the bone
I likes the way your speckled body
Rushes through my veins
I like the sound of my
Sinking teeth excavating through
The avenues of your perforated skin
You were born in the sun,
Hot and bothered,
A summer fling.
My sweat streaked back
Goose bumped
With thoughts of you
I do not wait for the sun to
pick apart the buds of spring,
open them up like wrapping paper
a gift unraveled by April’s heat
No.
instead I wait
for your sweet taste to come
when the heat is on the brink
but has not yet fallen into the
gorges of summer
They say -
‘A tree is known by its fruit’
But you do not grow on trees
You grow on the roasted earth with
Vines that intertwine
Wildly,
a green mangled field...
Maybe that’s why I like you so much
Mine.
I am possessive
Aggressive
I carry you around in an opaque bowl
So no one can lay eyes on you
Your red bloodless interior
Is a sin
Greed-
green like your hard shell
I pull you out
When everyone is asleep
Tiptoeing across the floor
Smuggling you into my room
Carefully picking at you
Taking you in and spitting you out
Until nothing more is left
Except for the red sap I spared
Only because my teeth
Could not sink in it
Because it
Slipped through
the narrow alleys between my teeth
sliding down
the side of my mouth
Sweet indulgence.
Wiped off at the back of my hand
Sticky –
like a hot summer night.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 5:24 AM UTC
I'm on the Metra today
The snow outside is teal or green
Like the Caribbean in cartoons
But here 2 ladders lean on the same tree
A lover's suicide
The coldest Caribbean I've ever seen
The church's sign scrolls by
"ght in the Lor"
And we're gone
The train rumbles on
Bridges cover bridges
New! Tower of Babel (coming soon!)
A couple thinks they're subtle 3 rows up
Michael Jackson marries Elvis's daughter
He didn't go to the wedding
There's no Jewels Osco's in Georgia
But the houses here exude the same drab comfort
A deer stands next to a storage locker
The train rumbles on
I'm smuggling beer back to the dorm
Like the good college student my mom wants me to be
I don't have my phone on me
I've never felt more alone
Or free
I explain what happened to the guy who checks tickets
I dropped it in the floorboard of my friend's car
Right before the train arrived
He believes me thank god
I focus again on what's outside the window
And now it's just trees
Skeletal and bare
The train rumbles on
May 3, 2021
May 3, 2021 at 9:08 PM UTC
My pencils are breaking-
Pens have spilled too much ink
But at least I'm still writing.
The flannel I have,
Smuggling collarbones
From chilly apartment-
I've worn that all week.
There's a cigarette burn
In one sleeve,
The buttons have come unhinged
During midnight runs to the corner
For cheap chocolate
And cigarettes.
Ramen boils
To salt my appetite.
But at least I'm still writing.
I leap from place to place,
Eyeing hoods passing by,
And I imagine guns tucked away.
The sink leaks,
There's not enough sun.
I'm high on debt
And college school books
Rot in the corner.
I guess my degree
Has gone putrid too.
My life's gone dingy and dark,
Suffocated by polluted winter.
Dark circles
Tell stories
Dreams can't remember.
But god **** at least I'm still writing.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 4:41 PM UTC
Patchwork angel slumped
in the corner chair,
she settled herself carefully
amongst the immigrants, dust-mite communities
who built cities of lint within
her woolen hair.
It began with stowaways
who clung fiercely to cardboard walls
with their transparent hands,
smuggling themselves in
with hoarded nostalgia,
too precious to release but
forgotten once a shiny trinket
attracts the eye.
Hanging her rag-doll head
the wingless wonder
allowed herself an internal sigh,
mute from her
back-stitched mouth,
sewn to silence her opinions
and leave emotions stagnant.
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 4:20 PM UTC
I will refer to them by names and by allusions.
I call them back from the underworld, demand they speak
and dredge up all their bitter deaths and betrayals and joys
and their sorrows most of all.
I will make myself an icon, standing on their shoulders
a thousand books on my back that show my terrible vast strength
(leviathan, goliath, titan)
my trojan horses bring thoughts in different faces, smuggling cargo
with the help of dead Greeks.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 6:18 PM UTC
I'm very good at
-smuggling food
anywhere :)
-acting,
so I might hate you for what you're doing to me,
but I'll keep a smile and pretend I love you.
- -sheepish smile- buttering up teachers.
-being ***** then playing innocent whoops
-questionable flirting (?)
-blaming others
-lying
-trying too hard
-sending signs without meaning to, just trying to be nice
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 9:49 PM UTC
Approaching customs, my father slowed the car.
"Time to eat! he said, and pulled us to the side.
He'd bought peaches from a fruit stand,
Forgotten they'd never cross the border.
Never one to waste, his plan unfolded.
We stood beside the car, peach juice
Trickling down our arms,
Falling at our elbows,
Gorging a delicacy turned to glut,
Making memories of forced generosity,
Gluttons of fruit, victims of parsimony.
My mother knew what was coming:
The cramps we kids would have
From smuggling peaches
In stretched bellies
Into Canada.
Dec 6, 2023
Dec 6, 2023 at 9:40 AM UTC
(The Art of Failing Goodbye)
I covet your closeness; how could I not? You were my world once upon a mime. Honestly. Though my pride will deny it, our demise left me discarded. Hiding amongst the few collateral souvenirs: stupidity and bitterness.
I bestowed to you the best of me; although you never asked me to. My heart, body, and soul - yours for the taking - a decision made on my own accord. Because you never asked me for any of it. You never asked me to do the things I did. But I loved you - innocent as that. Thus, relinquishing logic entirely.
Hardly more than a stranger, I felt I knew you; unaware of the lidded fabulist within. A mere tourist of my chassis; enthralled by my looks. Enthralled by just me. “In love” so deep, you attempted suicide twice. Upon my rejection – in theory. They almost beat you to death, and left you to the wolves. Deserved it? An understatement tenfold. And yet. My compassion was what saved you.
I protected the same entity who pulverized my own.
They all said you were no good – they said a mythomaniac would leach onto me until there was nothing left, ****** dry – then you would leave. Onto the next; life on the move. Daddy said you’d leave me in shambles. Was he right?
…Duh.
A question sheathed in rhetoric; absolutely. A black hole does not give back. Wake UP, m Maple – Ali – Oliver – whatever you are today.mWake up, you ****** And look here.
You ruthied(sp?) me last Halloween, took my body as your own, enabled a cycle I’ll no longer accept. The girl who cried rape…an alias to forever haunt me.
No one believed me then. Why would they now?
This final hurrah; a Halloween blackout. Wherein, you personified my worst nightmare. A cruel and unusual punishment – at best. And then.
You slithered and slinked away; no apologies – no goodbye for me. You’d taken all of me. Just like they said. All my value – dismembered and pocketed. Off you went…as predicted. Onto the next…life on the move.
You etched your gimmick; smuggling trust; squirreling intuition - these morals I'd entombed - you burrowed away. Promising Eden, you offered a map; directing me as I sailed the route. The garden, however, was not what I found. My catafalque(coffin) negated expectations you set; a utopia of dazzling, abundant nature. For, you'd devised a mousetrap; and I'd glissaded willingly inside…
For the very last time, gaze entwined. Blue on brown.
SNAP.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 7:48 AM UTC
We haven't come too far
from those drunken nights
on the floor, eating gummy bears
infused with *****
or from stickering everything in the kitchen
so we know what names to call the appliances
Not too far
from those times spent
lounging around the bedroom
a dozen of us, head to foot
and everyone toeing
the border between
honesty and vulgarity
Some hung like a tapestry on the wall
and some sat watching ****
in the corner
while the rest passed a bottle around
and smoked with the window
constantly open
We haven't come too far
from the late night
liquor runs
or from smuggling bottles
out under our shirts
after-hours
Or from smuggling flasks
in on free pool night
when we were too broke
for ***** or fun
We haven't come too far
from spilling drinks
by the jukebox
Or going out back for a smoke
Not too far from
cleaning up the house
after a party
and throwing another one
to celebrate
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 7:08 PM UTC
August brought the chilly weather
And the buds of blooming leaves
But you brought the tears to my eyes
And the knowledge that I wasn’t free
December brings snow-covered grounds
And the perfect weather for cuddling
But you brought your hands and that sadistic grin
And made it the perfect weather for smuggling
April brings the shining sun
With flowers popping up from the ground
But with you, came the gray skies
And all hope of being saved was profound
July brought the sun
And the heat with it too
But you brought the insecurities
And the feelings that I wouldn't ‘do’
July said ‘Goodbye’ and moved into August
Giving me hope anew
And with their farewells, just like the seasons,
I said goodbye too.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
The waves are dredged along. Under the constant gaze
of the shimmering top floor moon.
Down to each second to each hour.
But, you are the angel fish, floating
free
beneath the cover of these tides.
Your shoals guide, the humble anglers
home
a silver blonde amongst the bigwigs,
The local red army, clothed in Cex shirts,
not needing an October symphony,
but now I sing your praises.
The bag you gave, though I had no 5 pence to spare,
lightened my load as much as any camel
along the silk road.
My journey is eased,
by your projected hope that my railcard,
will be renewed in future,
for your faith gives promises the
weight
of Gold.
You allow me to watch the guided heroes in explosive flames,
despite my smuggling
of Jelly babies under a hoodie.
For the shimmer in
Your
eyes, I will leave no litter,
for those with the blonde glittered scales,
From cold night, let the sun rule,
And the sea shall shimmer too.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 1:03 PM UTC
She's spinning
swirling
cyclic dancing
laughing as she's undermining
all her chances
slip through her hands and
she's still smile -
smiling.
Hunting
hurting
rhythmic burning
up and under iron churning
she sees hell
too far to tell
and she's still smile -
smiling.
Loving
drugging
pear tree smuggling
through the leaves
and water bubbling
and lying there
above the ground
floating
holding
not a sound
she tips up
her head on hold
and she's still smile -
smiling.
Plucking
clucking
back-woods *******
but she's too gone
to know it's wrong
her fight is lost
the stars are crossed
and she's still smile -
smiling.
Mar 12, 2012
Mar 12, 2012 at 3:51 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Fashionable Death Cults Then and Now
After the June 1941 German invasion of the Soviet Union and Einsatzgruppe mass shootings of civilians, the Nazis experimented with gas vans for mass killing…
-Gassing Operations | Holocaust Encyclopedia (ushmm.org)
Dozens of migrants were found dead in an abandoned big rig in San Antonio on Monday in what appears to be the deadliest human smuggling case in modern U.S. history.
-At least 50 migrants found dead inside a truck in San Antonio, officials say (cnbc.com)
We have our death vans too, not well-organized
But rolling down the American road
Unseen by our leaders in their personal jets
Flying to Frisco or maybe Cancun
Bombings and shootings on the street and in church
Job lots in hospitals, by the dozens in schools
For we too specialize in genocide
And may Moloch and Herod bless our AR-15s
If any children survive, we’ll call them Generation Something
And tell them each day how inadequate they are
Jun 28, 2022
Jun 28, 2022 at 11:05 PM UTC
Serendipity of the prideful and the prejudice for they keep society on it's toe's. Such scandulous outrage of old fashioned country folk, provoked by the city life. The life I live in complete disregard of traditional morals, it's about time for this birdie to leave the coup. Mothers don't always no best, I live how I want. No need for this pesky prohibition, that's what smuggling is for. Hush hush when you arrive at the door with that secret password. So much money I can afford any trinket I fancy, I just snap my fingers and that item appears in my hands. Stock market thriving, fancy car's i'll be driving making my colleague's jealous as I pass on by. God I love the roaring 20's!
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 3:13 AM UTC
GOING TO THE MOVIES
Now in these nights
without you
I go to the movies
alone
this time
all the time
remembering
the times of you.
Escaping
the absence
of you
(losing the plot)
sleeping the film through
smuggling my loneliness
past my sleeping mind
catching the pain
off guard
until it’s time
to walk the long walk
home
to what used to be
our home.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 8:01 PM UTC
I was a little older than six
when you came to us,
ruddy cheeked
with a shock of curly hair,
tiny fingers that wrapped
around my pinkie
and squeezed
happiness into my heart.
You were (and still are)
the epicenter
of the world forever changed.
To be honest,
my childhood began with you.
I don’t have any memories
of being anyone
before I was your sister.
I know you will say
that’s just because I’m dumb.
That’s not the case, idiot.
Mom always tells me
that I was a lonely child,
neither sad nor shy,
just content playing by myself.
I choose to think
I was waiting… for you
to join the fun.
And what fun we’ve had!
Making up dance routines
to our favorite songs;
Smuggling snacks to bed;
Adding new levels
to invented games.
Remember “Sleep, Sleep”?
Competing to see who
could pretend to sleep
without moving the longest –
I’m sorry I tricked you, boo.
I knew you would drift off
and I’d be able to read in peace.
You caught on soon though
and I had to think of other ways
to keep you still.
So I began reading to you
from books I loved,
stories and poems,
of adventures so epic
they called the magic to the skin
and you listened,
tickled pink.
You listened, enthralled,
to the gibber jabber
I came up with on the spot,
often asking for more.
To this day, you listen
and pay heed
to every word,
every notion
like it is really worthy
of your attention.
Apr 28, 2020
Apr 28, 2020 at 1:58 PM UTC
wrapped in a sheet from my mother’s bed, I make my way to the outhouse to show my brother there is a future in smuggling the skin of god. my father is scraping leaves into an empty pool and the earth with a rake. if death speaks briefly, I am in two places that cannot exist without exposure. gone long, it spoke once on the loss of loss.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 10:43 AM UTC