Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Aa Harvey Apr 2018
Soppy Love Song.


Take your tears girl and wash them all away,
Take my hand girl and come lead me astray.
I'll protect you girl, now and always;
You'll be safe with me, each and every day.


Take your arms girl and wrap them 'round my waist;
Hold me tight girl come, brighten up my day.
Hold me close girl then, see the smile on my face;
Hold me next to you, now and always.


This is just a-nother soppy love song,
This is just a, soppy love song.
This is just a-nother soppy love song,
This is just a, soppy love song.


Show me things girl that, no-one else has seen;
Show me you girl so, I can show you the real me.
Take your love girl and send your heart my way;
I'll take care of it, I will keep you safe.


Another day of joy, for both of us;
Know in me girl, you can put your trust.
Know that when it's, just the two of us,
With me girl you can, share all of your love
And all of your thoughts; the good and the bad.
The things that make you happy
And the things that make you sad.


This is just a-nother soppy love song,
This is just a, soppy love song.
This is just a-nother soppy love song,
This is just a, soppy love song.


Throw away those fears, let me hold you.
Wash away those tears; know I'm here for you.
Turn the other cheek, when they hurt you;
Let me kiss your cheek, see I love you.


I am here girl, just to make you smile.
I'd tickle your feet, to stop the tears you cry
And turn the sadness; into a giggle.
With you girl I want to be, stuck in the middle.


This is just a-nother soppy love song,
This is just a, soppy love song.
This is just a-nother soppy love song,
This is just a, soppy love song.


If you need me girl, then just ask me to stay.
I am here for you and I will ease your pain.
If you want time to yourself, then I'll go away;
But I'll be back tomorrow, to put a smile on your face.


Hold me now girl, let me be released;
From the hurt and pain, that each of us feels.
Take my sympathy and show me empathy;
Keep me near to you, let me become free.


This is just a-nother soppy love song,
This is just a, soppy love song.
This is just a-nother soppy love song,
This is just a, soppy love song.


(C)2006 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Daniel Magner May 2013
I fell in love
with the way you picked yourself back up.
You didn't ask for help, you've got yourself and no one else, and that's o.k.
But it scares me to hell to think that
you don't need me.
What's to keep you from leaving?

'Cause you say you have big dreams
different countries
Changing lives, and switching personalities.
Big dreams, big dreams

There's this feeling I get at night
when I can't sleep it's like I'll never have to leave,
Can I be part of your

Big dreams, different countries
Changing lives, and switching personalities.
Big dreams, big dreams
© Daniel Magner 2013
New song with a modified second chorus.
Mishka Feb 2014
Let me in
Shut the door and let the sheets cover us both
and let's breathe oxygen into each others mouths
until we both pass out and die together
intertwine our fingers and criss cross our arms
melt my chest into yours
hairs bonding
tears dripping
belly buttons closing on each others abdomens
fusing and refusing
to let go
spysgrandson Apr 2016
I kept quiet as a mouse
Soppy did too; we stayed snake close
to the ground in the tall grass

we didn't hear no hounds,
but that didn't mean them dogs
weren't there

Soppy and I had done
what old lady Lucinda said--waded in the deep creek
a good hour to leave them curs nothin' to sniff

with my one clear eye
I could see them flames bobbin' up and down
like gold ghosts in the willows

the air smelled like rain
I prayed real hard it would come down
drown out them fires

that would be one mighty sign
the good Lord heard my prayers
and took pity on us

Soppy, me and whatever other souls
hid in the devil's dark, watchin' the flames,
fearin' they meant eternal damnation
the phrase "torches in the woods" comes from a quote by Harriet Tubman
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
well, now you know, the opening sample on the orb's album: the dream, borrows from a prog rock band (Canterbury scene, inc. the soft machine), caravan's winter wine.

i don't want you to think this is a soppy poem,
it's not...
                     it's what defines an autobiographic
oddity, 10 seconds, more or less:
that stretch into infinity and would otherwise be
seen as the atypical tragic event in a person's life;
i had two previous girlfriends
worth noting... that French girl i lost my
virginity to at university is beside the point...
both of these girlfriends were minted...
one was a star in Australia and provided her
dad selling the entertainment business for
a million (she lied about this,
i didn't catch on... should have bagged that girl
into matrimony)... the second, oh boy, the most
memorable was the Russian from
Novosibirsk - with two apartments in St. Petersburg...
dumb me no. 2... should have bagged that girl
to a matrimony also...
she the most memorable, because, thanks to her
i am living as a second self, the twin i never had...
but believe me, this is all based upon supposition,
Ripper Street type investigations (detective work),
and that fact that, like Nietzsche noted:
people aren't telling me anything - so it's based
on guess work... oh how people cradle their
little privacy - and boy, in the realm of:
and he was crucified for our sins... well:
no one mentioned lies... he didn't die for lying...
i have a dual-carriage way of dealing with this:
don't like, and have a **** rather than
getting emotionally attached... that ***** concerning
the person in *** is so ******* ridiculous
i'm about to take out a measuring tape and
measure my genital personality to prove a point...
oh the many white lies that mislead people...
me? i would never want to address people
as Mr. Goldfish, i offensively do believe in
that there are a few intelligent people out there...
two apartments in the centre of St. Petersburg
and studying in England, a Russian?!
you'd have to be minted to do that... so there,
i didn't get reeling in manifesto quickly enough...
but the Russian did try a strategy of entrapment:
faking taking contraceptive pills: darling,
i don't mind the rubber... noop...
the seed already planted, we broke up, i'm
at a different university doing history and part-time
roofing (industrial flat roofs) she calls me up one
night: i'm pregnant...
                                 well this is where a Greek in me
says something about moral relativism...
                she was still a teenager...
  at university,
                              and women have argued about
having the right to do abortions since donkey's years...
i didn't force her, i suggested: maybe that's an option
you would consider? that's how moral relativism works,
it's basically a cauldron, you put
abortion and ****** into it and say it's synonymous,
moral relativism is a case for synonymous judgements...
by the term ****** i envision killing someone:
fully formed, and possessing an inkling into the world...
by abortion i'm envisioning killing something...
       mainly because of the diaper principle:
that thing is mine, it's not fully formed... i'm killing
a part of me: a white tadpole... and in case of the woman:
apologies for ****** that sacred space of your,
i'd be greatly relieved if you got rid of it,
but all of a sudden, contradictory to all the appeals
to the right: she has to have it! what the ****?
that thing is mine in your body, i shove millions
of that existential murk down the toilet when i feel
like it... women just shove empty eggs down the toilet...
but since that's ****** my rights of ever
producing *****... sure... keep it... but you're not
talking about the possibility of the next Beethoven
prior to it gaining **** strength and stop using the
diapers... i thought that teenage pregnancies
were to be avoided, ensuring women are to be educated?
no? back to square one with Abraham and Isaac?
women: perpetually the gimmick of Freud.
oh yeah... wait! **** on me: ever heard of Freudian
geometry? it's the unconscious version of
squares, triangles and circles... everyday objects...
hats... cucumbers... that ****'s for *real
.
once again... this part is speculative...
              the part that isn't is what i already said isn't
about soppy invocations...
              exemplified when i told a "supposed" friend
about it... and he came out with the words:
aw... want a hug and play you the violin?
                    i don't mind abuse, i'd probably eat a 100
trolls for breakfast... they might be whipping me...
what ****** me off more than anything is ridicule...
every single poet or writer will tell you that ridicule
is the most abhorring thing to experience...
                 it's worse than saying a woman is a *****...
believe me... i've been to prostitutes and
later i pass them down the street and they say:
                             that's the devil...
must be doing oral on them, *** included: once again:
there's no person involved: only two objects
with or without lubricants.
                          why did i go in the first place?
university... apparently a paradise for getting laid...
well... apparently not.
                                   at least they were human enough
to accept a small payment and make me feel warm
for a little: fake or not fake... the most beautiful compliments
i ever heard were from prostitutes, esp. that
Ukrainian girl in Poland: saintly depiction?
        well, still quiet eager after all that ***** and
tightly embracing and her words: you're a good human being.
           ****, how to relay back to the original intention?
well, of all the days, today i decided to drink three
beers in a churchyard, lazily on a bench,
                  not mystified by not thinking like Buddha
might have been calling it meditation...
                  sedative was on its way...
   9 years and counting where once a soul-like substance
allowed me to daydream and think whatever i wanted,
most notably: with ease...
                                              and have the full capacity
of my body -
                            but now? that ******* television-static
in my brain, like the meshing of alien d.n.a.
                            (but actually just blood)
            around the synapses of my brain - just like
an x-men prologue sequence...
                  and that's after seeing 5 or so psychiatrists
with an obvious problem: staring them into their eyes
and they were conjuring up their own imaginary
symptoms that i didn't seem to exhibit:
a. good eye contact
b. not biting his nails
c. empathy towards others
d. coherent speech
e. knowing everything about current affairs
f. reading Kierkegaard
                       they ****** off inspecting me after i
told them i go into the woods at night and drink
beer... hello the heart of darkness and apocalypse now,
                they really didn't see the obvious problem,
that ****** television-static like pain in my brain...
            mind you, i exploited it,
   it became an exquisite pain, an almost aristocratic pain,
my vocabulary expanded dramatically,
  and i focused on philosophy -
                               because Σoφια is the name of
   ******       on the mouths of every woman who
    encounters a philosopher: ******* kindred of
                              Oedipus and other bachelor lazy-*****...
true story, that.
                             well, what happened happened
9 years ago... it's not soppy, it's rather idiotic...
but after smoking marijuana anyone can be called an
idiot... a happy idiot... but your critique of surrounding
people and things numbs...
                    three people involved,
  in the beautiful city of Canterbury...
                                     being told that i could experience
a smoked version of l.s.d., aged 21, wouldn't you?
the story was false by the way... but the previous night
a fun night to say the least, old friends from school...
partying, drinking, smoking dope (no, not slang as in
cool in using it, we know the technical names,
i.e. Mary and Juan rather than Joseph) -
                    and yes, the church has nothing on me,
i didn't sign up to baptism, hence i didn't sign
up to confirmation and a third name,
i.e. matthew conrad Olaf <surname>...
                             that's called breaking the bureaucracy
with christianity... i'm redeemed...
                            so we were smoking in the morning
and the Amazonian death-**** was given to
me with the promise of a shorter trip than if i were
to ingest l.s.d., oh ***** me... dumbo's coming...
toked... and the show started...
            it's really strange looking someone in the eyes
when they have just attempted to ****** you...
esp. if they're your childhood friend...
you listened to the muse's origin of symmetry together
among other albums, you fell in love with Iron Maiden
and he sand you over the phone (gay), and you
played happy birthday to him on a guitar after only
you and someone else showed up to celebrate it...
   i slid into a vortex... years later i noticed an advert
investing in the public awareness of someone experiencing
a brain haemorrhage... half the face coming off,
slid to one side...
                      well... in terms of a first-person account
what was happening to me on that sofa 9 years
ago didn't exactly register... it's hard looking
  into the eyes of your would be murderer with that sort
of face... but **** me, the burning...
              moments worth an aeon later i was
shaken, quiet like an epilepsy by what i can only
describe as something with a biblical reference:
         jacob wrestling with an angel...
but in this case i was being shaken back to life,
           such was the strength of the interaction...
standing up, i extended my hand and i saw four
clear divisions as if i was pushing four doors open -
         the other person there?
    a nobody... he came to our school when we were
doing our a-levels... didn't really know him...
        the person i knew? the childhood friend...
first of all: i didn't know what was happening...
second of all: well, there's the new me...
          i'm not rich, suing was not an option,
but i'd know what that would have been like -
humanity isn't exactly Einstein when it comes to
          judging correctly...
i let it go...                                 i did something akin
to the Cain affair... let the ****** go...
                            and he's still out there,
after the event, years later, we met up and went to
an American Head Charge gig -
                          when the song just so you know came
on he was hiding in the toilet, i was downing pints
of beer...
                                            oh my god, that band looks
ruined, they've lost a few band members, i remember
them supporting Rammstein when they were
playing ensemble at the London Arena in the Docklands
,
got chatting to a dustman about the gig outside,
and a few member of a Greek metal band:
         ever heard of Rotting Christ? great band.
sure, he's still out there... and i'm still here...
    ha ha... he's actually a lawyer by now...
the funny side of all this is that... well: imagine being
a lawyer after an unsuccessful ****** attempt
(you have to admit, it would have been exquisite...
but then i had a chemistry, and the police would
have said
Mymai Yuan Sep 2010
I swirled my fingertips on the surface of the water and sent a message across with shiny, glossy ripples that grew slowly, and gracefully. He kneeled on the other side of the moonlit pond and watched as the ripples from my fingertips reached him. He cupped the ripples of the water into his palm and drank the cold water, sighing happily.
“What does it taste like?” I whispered hoarsely, as loud as I dared to be while knowing we would be reprimanded fiercely for sneaking out of the huts at this time of night.
“Love” he called back.
I burst out laughing in panting breaths and tried to stifle the noise with my fists. I heard him bellow out, and the echoes rang freely through the woods before he quickly shoved his face into the water and laughed in there, the bubbles of his laughter surfacing violently.
“You idiot” I whispered joyfully when he brought his head up from the water, his dark hair curled against his forehead, “I didn’t even write anything to do with love. I wrote how foolish of a boy you are.”
“And you still stick with me so that’s love isn’t it?” he teased me. His finger tips swirled in the water for a minute. “Your turn to taste, Masra”
I waited till the ripples hit the side of the pond and quickly dipped my tongue in and lapped the water. I pursed my lips, pretending to debate what his message was. The surface of the black water was littered with reflection of the stars. It was so beautiful that I momentarily forgot the little game we were playing and gasped, “Oh stars!”
He took a quick intake of breath and stared up at me with wide eyes. “Really?” he asked in an unbelieving tone.
“What do you mean?”
“Stars?” he asked again, sounding like a sweet little confused child.
“Yes!” I laughed. “Stars!” and I splashed the surface of the water to show him.
He shook his head. “I can’t believe you could read, I mean, taste that... That’s incredible…”
It took me a second to realize what he was talking about. I decided to play along anyways and whispered dramatically, “Yeah, but I didn’t know what you were trying to say”
“A million stones on fire with wishes
Yet the brightest star is not up there” he recited his favorite lines from an old love poem.
“You are disgustingly soppy” I got up from kneeling by the pond and treaded softly on the dry leaves so that they wouldn’t crackle so loud. Reaching him, I kneeled down beside him and ran my fingers through his curly wet locks. His dark eyelashes were still wet with water and the chestnut eyes gleamed brightly.
I curled into his lap comfortably like a cat and he rolled over with me lying on top, while his strong arms held me. I buried my face into the skin of his beautiful brown neck and inhaled the sweet, musky smell. Reab smoothed my hair before murmuring huskily, “Why do you always do that?”
“It smells like you, the old Reab smell. It makes me feel safe and warm and happy.”
“I love you.”
“Do you think we’ll always be happy like this?” I asked, speaking of my deepest fear.
“I will never stop loving you, if that’s what you mean. And if we are caught sneaking out, I’m pretty sure no one would be too surprised. They all know from the way I look at you I intend to marry you when Chief thinks you’re old enough and finally say okay.”
I laughed at the thought of Chief being able to give me away.
With my parents both gone since I was a baby, Chief had adopted me as his daughter and he loved me tremendously for all his lecturing ways. Reab laughed a little too but without any fear of Chief rejecting him. Chief loved Reab too and approved of us most of the time.
“Do you remember when he caught us making ‘sheep-eyes’ at each other as he put it and he was furious?” We chuckled at the memory of Chief turning storm on us, declaring we were too young.
“What would he say now?” he turned my face to face his and kissed me for a while, with the wind blowing the tendrils of my hair on his face. He smiled mid-way through our kiss, for the soft strands of my hair on his face always tickled him.
I didn’t want to continue with my question after that happy moment. But I had to; he was the only man who would tell me the truth. “Our tribe has enemies. We have many men, many strong men… but I know we are in a constant threat. I have seen the midnight meetings you men hold when you think we are asleep and more weapons that normal are being made nowadays.”
He looked at me with sad eyes; with so much love and desire burning in them that my own eyes began to swell up with tears. I fluttered my lids to get rid of the wetness but he reached over and caught a tear on his pinky and licked it. Then he licked all the tears off my face and I giggled as his tongue flicked over the tearstains on my cheeks.
“The tribe is in some danger. You and I are not. I will love you forever.” I shook my head and was about to interrupt with another fearful question when he continued, “You know what Chief always says. We don’t live just one life. I loved you since we were babies. You know what I think?”
“What?” I asked, his voice slightly soothing my fears.
“I think I’ve known you before. There’s no way you can know someone the way I know you in the short life time we’ve lived. This is not the first time we’ve met.”
“You’re not worried if a battle comes we won’t be together?”
“No.” he answered and kissed my forehead.
“Why?” I couldn’t get rid off the idea of such a terrible fate.
“I think…” he struggled to get the words out, “I think we’ll always be together somehow. Masra, I’m… I’m just not afraid”
We lay there for a while until I fell asleep in his arms. I was awoken a little later with him shaking me softly for us to sneak back into our own huts.
There was a little advantage in having both my parents gone. Lela, my cousin who shared the hut with me, stirred only a little as I crept back in.



“I’ve been hearing from your sister that lately you have been waking very late. I don’t approve of this laziness.” Chief said to me as I sat on the floor of his hut, admiring the new spear he had just made. I sharpened the stone a little for him and smiled up brightly. His face softened. Chief was not usually an easy person to get around, but he always said he loved me more than was good for me. “I saw Reab today. He didn’t look so alert and awake.”
My mind clicked into place as I realized Chief had his suspicions. “Reab?” I inquired with an innocent expression. “Is he ill?”
“He just looked tired.” Chief replied with raised eyebrows, his eyes were a little puzzled. I had fooled him for now.
I balanced the spear in my hand. “You hold a spear too well for a woman” he grunted. “Spending too much time with me, I suppose. You should spend more time with your sister Lela. It would have been different if your mother was still alive. She would’ve taught you some womanly manners.”
“I think I’m feminine enough.”
“Look at you, blundering around after the men of the village, killing creatures and planning your attack even better than my men.”
“I don’t plan Chief; it just comes to me”
“Making it even worst!” he cried with a hidden pride.
I burst out laughing and bade him good night. He ruffled my hair fondly. “You go to sleep now Masra. Get some good sleep. Tell Reab that too” his eyes sparkled wickedly. Perhaps I hadn’t fooled him after all.
“You tell Reab, won’t you? I won’t see him till tomorrow morning.” I replied demurely.



And here passed, long uneventful days with the occasional nights that Reab and I would sneak out of the huts to spend the cool nights together and forcing ourselves out of bed at the crack of dawn along with the villagers, exhausted but happy. I suspected Chief still had his own wary thoughts, but with a denial somewhere in his mind, he did not seek to expose the truth or confine stricter rules on me through Lela. The few months that went by, I watched as Reab grew from a boy to a man.
A man I loved more than life itself.
One night, as I was lying in his arms I poked a thumb against his forehead and breathed out happily before nestling into his chest.
“What?” he asked me, amused at my random, loving behavior.
“I like to check that you’re real.”
He had no words in reply to that but tightened his hold on me, and swiftly kissed my dark hair with a sudden passion. His fingers caressed my head, and he inhaled the flowery perfume from the brown strands clutched in his hand.
“I wish you a long and happy life.” I whispered softly, afraid of the feelings that were surging through me.
“With you.” he replied back.
“No. Not just with me… anywhere… as long as you’re happy.”
“So with you then…”
Some days after that night, when it was pouring so furiously everyone had retreated back into their huts to cozy up, gossip, and flirt while warming their hands on hot wooden mugs we snuck off and climbed a special tree.
It was special because it was a giant, and very old with gnarled branches and knobs that made it easy to grip on with our toes, but the trunk itself was as smooth as a baby’s skin. It overlooked most of the village and the canopy was so thick it protected us from the rain except for the small wet drops that would escape through.
The tree stood apart from the woods and was very difficult to get to. One had to climb several other trees to reach it, ducking in and out of the tangle of branches up in the canopy like a maze. Only Reab and I had spent enough time up there to discover the path in reaching it. We were yet to discover how to reach it without getting scratches and bleeding scabs all over our skin.
Every time the thunder roared deafeningly Reab would yell, “I love you!” and no one could hear but Reab, the heavens, our special little tree and I.
He was so beautiful; like a lithe dangerous animal and his muscles were graceful and strong as he climbed around on the branches. I wished for the rest of our days to be like this and I remembered the lines he had recited to me only a little while ago,
““A million stones on fire with wishes
Yet the brightest star is not up there”

*

A distant roar erupted. The stars had not granted my wish, they had granted my deepest fear. The sound of drums rumbled steadily over the noise of screaming villagers, over the noise of animal fear in those I loved and lived with.
It was the sign that our enemies were finally in sight. We had been waiting for there attack all year long.
Lela grabbed me by the arm. “The chief says all women must flee!” she gasped and choked. Her eyes were leaking with tears. I stubbornly shook away her hand and I could see the desperateness growing in her eyes.
“There is no time to cry Lela”, I tried saying confidently but my voice shook. “Where is Reab?”
Even in her hysterical state she did not want to answer the question I already knew the answer to. “Where is Reab?” I repeated. When she did not reply I narrowed my eyes.
In the face of danger I had never been woman-like and cowered.
Chief had raised me stare any wild beast straight into its cold, predatory eyes before slaying it. I was not unfamiliar to thrusting a jagged dagger into the heart of danger.
I would not leave a man I loved behind like the running footsteps of women carrying their babies, pushing old people along, and dragging wailing children were doing.
I would not leave and I would fight when I could.
Lela stared at me as if she’d just read my mind.  “You may not fight Masra!” she cried. I pushed her aside.
“Help the women evacuate! Grab a baby, help a village elderly; just do it Lela!” I yelled violently and ran through the women who were running towards the woods.
I shoved women aside to get to the battle. My long legs tangled with the other woman, and I fell on my knees. They were both bleeding badly when I got up. Running with my knees stinging, a huge man suddenly grabbed me and swung me to face him. For one moment, I thought he was Reab and I clutched onto him; then I saw it was Chief, and I clutched to him even tighter.
“Chief, please don’t make me go away! Please let me fight with you!” I was screeching and begging with no sanity left in me.
He smiled weakly, “I wanted you to come without little Lela, I knew you would be headed this way. I have not much time Masra, my men need me. I have something I want to give you to make sure you will be safe enough to last through this war if I die,” he spoke softly.
I shook my head and hugged him. “But- but you- you wont!”
Chief gave me a sad smile. “I don’t know that.”
His brown hands reached to his neck and tugged a simple black leather string free. He shoved it into my hands. “Remember this, Masra. Just say to it, ‘Jack, Jack, shine the light’ when you feel there is nobody left in the world for you. Be ready for what happens. Goodbye Masra…”
He touched my cheek and warmth spread though me, momentarily making me feel safe.
“Why Jack?” I asked wretchedly, in a detached curiosity and trying to prolong the moment that Chief would be safe.
Jack was a commoner’s name; no one in our tribe was called Jack. We all had strong, powerful names that spoke of destiny, truth and purity.
“Chief Traben!” a man cried from the noises of surging mob of warriors.
“Go, Masra, go!” Chief said hurriedly, and pushed me away before whipping out of sight.
Chief had been like my best friend, my big brother and … my father. I wanted to fight with him, for him. But I knew in doing that, I would go against his wishes, and that was the last thing I would ever want to do.
A sudden thought made me realize I did not have to fight. I just had to be there or I would **** somebody in my own village for leaving behind loved ones. I knotted the black leather string determinedly on my neck.
I ran to the bottom of a slippery tree and climbed up to the canopy and began to duck in and out, swinging between and onto branches in the maze-like chaos of sticks and concentrated leaves to get to the special tree Reab and I shared.
I hid among the thick tangle; so thick no arrows would be able to pierce me and no enemy would see me. Growling and cursing myself, I remembered I carried no weapons with me and hastily patted my clothing to check again.
Then I remembered it would be useless to have any weapons unless I intended to go down there, for the abundant tangle worked both ways. A spear thrown from where I was would only get stuck in the dense branches below.
I could see the battle though, and that was enough: for now. I searched vainly for Reab, scampering along the top, trying to find where Reab was. I was wild with fury for him for coming.
He was just a boy, newly turned a man. He could still run and hide without shame. When I had him back in my arms again, I was sure to hit him and berate him for choosing to fight for me instead of being safe for me.
It never occurred to me once that Reab might be dead.
It still didn’t occur to me when I saw his body lying on the dirt below, with a man from a village - someone I couldn’t recognize from this height- dragging him. I shouted out, careless of the arrows of enemies.
For the first time in my life, I was terrified of blood: the blood that was seeping out of the wound on his stomach. I didn’t think he was dead; I believed he was injured and I thought of all the herbal concoctions I knew that I could paste over the wound to clean and heal it.
It still didn’t occur to me Reab was dead when the man left him by the bottom of a tree to return and fight. The men in our village did not leave those who could be healed. They stayed and helped them heal to the best of their ability before hiding their healing bodies’ safe in a bush. They only left behind those they could do no more for.
I trembled at anger in the neglect one of our men villagers had shown Reab; the disrespect in it. I would **** him if he were not killing our enemy. Somehow, in the wild pulsing of my body, I found myself climbing down and creeping stealthily to where Reab was and pulling him to safety in a bush.
When he was safe in the bushes, I held him and whispered to him that I was here. I said hold on Reab and I would go and make sure he was safe. I was sobbing. I could not comprehend what was happening for my mind had gone numb and blank.
How could a man who I loved so much bleed so much? All I knew was Reab was not moving in my arms and he must be terribly hurt.
I pressed my fingers to the blood on his stomach. I knew no man could have survived such a wound and so much lo
Words lots of words
words have meanings
Some words are said
in anger.
But few are spoken about
unconditional Love .

Words lots of words
are said in haste
and  many hit
in the face
But were is the
unconditional love..

Words are only words
They can lift us up
or tear you down.
If you don't have
something nice to
say, then say nothing.
Is your love soppy
Or does it turn on
and off like a dripping tap.

Words are just words
Unless they come straight
from the heart.
treat others the way
you would like to be
treated.
Were is the love
unconditional love..

One person only fits
the bill
our father in heaven
Our maker and creator
of earth..
For he created Man
So God created words
not empty words ..
But words that fulfill
a meaningful life.

Look and you will
find
Eternal love that isn't blind  
unconditional love..
sought from above..
Onoma Oct 2013
Non compartmentalized, thus trenchant...
an unbeknownst poetic
songbird picked its patch of blue to fly home
to.
A wet one, soppy...one-offed and kissable sun,
monk-ocher... presents its only case...clearly through
him...to you.
Olivia Kent Mar 2014
Daddy, I want a puppy she said.
Eyes sparkled as wild diamonds.
Daddy obeyed precious daughters wishes.
Bought a her dog and gave her kisses.
Once he was an adorable puppy, with sloppy tongue and burst of nature.
Then poor sloppy, soppy puppy changed.
Well he didn't if  only you knew, his only offence was that he grew.
Suddenly wasn't a cuddly pup anymore.
Shoved alone in the garden.
He ate too much and bought with him  bills, needed walking over the hills.
Daddy was tired, and daughter grew too.
Daughter left home the lonely once puppy feels blue.
(C) Livvi
Becoming... hmmm...
what am I... becoming...
is this the enlightenment
of my trip? hmm...
journeying through the seasons
of inner time and place...
therein which lies... a space....
not that sort.... not the sort of the
spicky icky spacky... space...
it's the... hmmm... sleepy space...

I sit and wonder... this place is where I... ponder...
fabric... the fabric of this life...
I AM FLOATING INTO THIS CHAIR
CONCEPT BANDS
CONCEPT ALBUMS
THAT'S WHAT I WANT TO SEE I AM JUST LIKE TIMOTHY LEARY
... but that... that is only a character.. the outlook I assume in..certain moods...
that state of worry... that's what I mean.

I am the wind
the sea
...
speak friend,
enter...
speak...
speak to me.
'I see we meet again... hmmmm...'
The music keeps changing my moods, you see...
Subconscious... I must be more mindful...
'Increase mindfulness'
I must bring the feelings... out
don't shove them away...
don't shove me away...
on this normal
squashy day

Love your dark shadow love the wolves
streams of consciousness I must cut up all of these streams
I worry too much about the future... am I crazy? or just afraid of being...
telepathy

Here's this concept that I have that represents all of these feelings that I have that I tell
to you and you receive as whatever feelings you associate with said concept
and hope they match up

I only write when I have something to preach... a sermon, you see..
yet I write every day...
to preach a sermon to me

'Does it make me bad?' this way I am?
does it make you.. mad?
mushy swampy bog filled mushrooms
I sag into the soppy plants in me
this world is my swamp
and this swamp is me
into the swampy swamp I romp
All day I ravage roam
I stomp
jive my vibe...

Exotic exodus execution
into the deep reeds
paddling the little cellophane canoe
Must... move...
Must... go...
Olivia Kent Nov 2016
Where are you now my lover?
Thinking of you as I twiddle my hair.
You used to do that.
I wonder where you're living now.
The rainbows come the rainbows fade.
Under the shade of the oldest oak tree.
I wonder, do you still think of me?
Expect that you do
You'll never be true.
Truths kept inside.
Your air is in my heart.
You breathed me life.
But now I'm chained up,
Somewhere came along.
Straight from out of nowhere and stole the ruddy key.
Ships of dreams.
Grounded.
Somewhere there's a sandy beach.
No more love my man,
My love, you're out of reach.
Grit in my eyes.
That's my excuse!
Whirling winds.
Cut diamonds hard and sharp.
Stranded on sand dunes.
Listening to tunes.
Nothing left to do.
Never to get over you.
Perhaps I don't want to.
Maybe I should.
(c)LIVVI
Just a Man Jul 2018
Everything, and everyone has a price; however, most bills are overdue. I have put myself in every situation necessary to gain opportunities. To those opportunities, I throw in a bid. To those bids, I place an unmeasured but respectable effort. This bill is still due. The ladder will be climbed. The plateau will be reached: Gaining and assigning costs. Sadly, where I cannot help but stumble, and never collect, I tread. As I walk, the soppy mud pulls down at my heals. There is no exit aside from the direction I came.

This is Pursuit.

I can name heroes, such as Alvin C York, who gave up the pen and took up a rifle, leading 100’s of men through respect and fear. I read that he was a teacher that volunteered for the first World War and captured over 130 men single handed. I can work canned equations that will tell me the declining chances as the hours near closing in my office that my phone will ring. I can cite tax regulation in context to a very defined, specialized and rarely referenced subject matter. I can draw on these lessons the way a craftsman draws his tool belt; I cannot explain hours spent or define with any reason one subject matter.

This is Woman.

Far more time is wasted than spent, yet somewhere, somehow, collected. I’ve spent on the perfect screens to distract myself from this fact alone. Most men do not chase a dream they have not experienced; ignorance is bliss. Within men that try, dressing as casual as one can afford and resting their beaten hands on electronic controllers, one may find a survivor. This man will climb blindly, because he has only ever know spending. He will spend blood, sweat, tears and time to never be vulnerable. The act of collecting becomes nothing more than the means to spending, and he will never let be.

This is Myself.

I have turned off the news. I have separated ways with those that need to surpass trivial, arbitrary hurdles. I will spend down on screens no longer. I have stopped broadcasting the news. I can feel myself exiting society. Like many men before me, I have begun to pack my bags for checkout. There is no blame. There is no hate. There is no expectation. Dreams. Goals. Responsibilities. A man cannot live on food and shelter alone. He cannot pick up discarded pieces of society that are not worth their weight. This man cannot die for anyone that would not live for him.

This is My Decree.

Signed,

Without Notoriety
Meet the man with Wolverine's wrists
- despite his best efforts, he still exists!
Bananaskin scalpel! Featherduster scalpel!
Siren scalpel to the blood sing 'snikt'!

Adamantium Hacksaw Jim Duggan,
only face who could frack the rock wrists
of the freak. Despite wolfish spleen,
wou'nt look Wolvereem wearing Wolverine rug.

I pity the freak
for whom new dawns fade, birds bleat.
I pity the freak,
boomerang back from the brink.
I pity the freak
in Immortality's clink.
Gloomerang going round in a gloomnado,
selfpity makes freaks of us all.
I pity the freak
chance it might be me,
coz we pity the freaks
mercilessly.

Life is hard, but a deathwish is harder.
No autumn for stemcells, sun's a stickyplaster.
Freewill's sweet FA to  killjoy healing factor.
She don't know when to let go,
Mother Nature.

Meet the man with Wolverine's wrists
- despite his best efforts, he still exists!
Sweet nothings scalpel! Baby's bottom scalpel!
Sylvia scalpel to the blood sing 'snikt'!

Adamantium Janice swung by Abyss,
only heel who could frack the rock wrists
of the freak. Why the ghoulish means?
Only death can heal being a freak.

Bananaskin scalpel! Featherduster scalpel!
Only death can heal being a freak.
Sweet nothings scalpel! Baby's bottom scalpel!
Only death can heal being a freak.
Candyfloss scalpel! Balloon animal scalpel!
Only death can heal being a freak.
Silk hankie scalpel!  Soppy *** scalpel!
Only death can heal being a freak.
Cushelle scalpel, formerly Charmin scalpel!
Only death can heal being a freak.
Sydney Victoria Oct 2012
Everything Was Stiil,
Silence Limgered In The Air,
Soppy Cement Was A Barren Path,
One Star Poked Through Dawn's Misty Sky,
I Was A Shadow,
Completed With Red Pouty Lips,
And Red Lace Running Along My Fair Skin,
My Eyes Strained To See 20 Feet Ahead,
In The Smuthering Darkness,
And I Couldn't Help Thinking,
About *You
Sorry This Isn't Good.. I'm Just Coming Out Of Writers Block So I'm A Little Rusty
In the window of the pet shop
four small faces, lost.
Their owners, sick with worry,
want them found at any cost.

A quad of treasured family pets
roaming wild and free,
unmindful of the panic
they’re causing back in Leigh.

A sausage dog called Mini,
sleek and burnished dark.
She’s likely got a little voice
that is more squeak than bark.

Tinks: a sturdy Staffie,
with a plea on Facebook
praying for his safe return
his people beg you “have a look”

“in your sheds and garages,
or in the kids' playhouse.
You never know who could be there
‘cos he’s quiet as a mouse”.

A grumpy Border Terrier,
Underbitten, rough of coat
“Bill: a much loved dog, we miss him”
in shaky letters wrote.

And, last of all, would you believe
Someone’s lost their tortoise!
He’s been in the family since ‘77
(let’s hope he isn’t corpus).

For pets are no mere mortals,
nor fallible as we.
They’re up there on a pedestal,
in anthropomorphic fantasy.

Then one day they disappear,
our soppy hearts turn wretched.
No stick to throw, and if we did
none to go and fetch it.

On centre stage of family life
entangled in our tribe.
No separateness of species,
always by our side.

So if you’re there, or round about
And you should chance to see
Mini, Tinks or Billy
or a tortoise in his mid-thirties.

Tell the little pet shop -
it’s better late than never -
to mend an aching, wretched heart
who thought their best friend gone forever.
svdgrl Feb 2015
My eyes might scan bookshelves,
but I search for Blankets.
I wont say a word,
because it's already quite warm in here.
My friends are yelling at each other,
about bad politics,
while there's testosterone on the blue screen.
I sit on the floor and flick comrades
off my lap.
Little dark bug- I was quick to slap.
It's clamorous, a broken plate,
a blame game,
then silence.
Everyone else is on a smoke break.
I sit on the sofa while we wait.
I keep looking at Blankets.
The warmth and comfort of Blankets.
You know you fix heartbreak-
by filling it up with empty cotton?
so the blood soaks up,
and the space is cramped,
so those mushy feelings have no place to stay?
I cover myself in the forms of Blankets.
I am just one soppy broken heart,
surrounded by the same on Super Bowl Day.
Blankets was this graphic novel by Craig Thompson  I saw on my friend's bookshelf.
Hands Oct 2012
Here I was,
pheromones **** in the chilly fall air,
tumbling about among the atoms and molecules of
oxygen and nitrogen and methane and gas
for any to stop and smell and--
Please just grab my ***.
The truest of lights
streams into my eyes,
blinds me and unclothes me,
throws off all of my lies and false feelings
and turns me into the soppy mess I am.
I stumble down the street,
tears blurring my vision;
"I'm going for a walk,"
I tell them,
"I'm going to find my friends."
They've all left me behind,
I tell myself.
I'm alone and trailing them
on this road of
***** and
tears.
I had wrapped up my hair,
worn the shortest of shorts,
drank until I couldn't think
and still--
and still I walked alone.
The lights of Columbus and
the crisp air of an
old country route
haunt my heart,
play hopscotch and
dress it up all
nice and tidy.
Whether a **** and
pulsating body
were against me or not,
would I be happy?
My body is fighting to break free
but my drunken mind
can't even manage that.
Here I am,
world,
take me for all my
sloppy iniquities,

I think, stumbling back to the house
from an adventure poorly spent.
He had gone
and so had him,
boy was done with
my foolish whims.
True love is hard to find
and true like is even harder
but sometimes it helps to just
sit back and think and
ignore the thunder
of thousands of people pushing down
on your weary, little head--
platonic attraction
just doesn't cut it, sometimes.
The mounties rear up and back
and I walk around;
a girl pukes her heart out and
I crush it into the dirt.
The door slams open and
all eyes rest upon me,
those drunken
and
judgmental
eyes.
Their gaze burns me,
catches me alight
in the unwavering flames
of social curiosity.
"Are you all right?"
they ask me.
I fall down instantly,
sink into the old oak floorboard,
melt into the grain and
become a vague pattern among
millions and millions of black and brown circles and lines--
"Yes,"
I answer,
"I'm perfectly fine."
Here I was,
sloppy and seeping onto the cold, hardwood floor.
tonight was a disaster.
liz Feb 2014
have i become so dependent
that i cling to the microfibers that form in your dryer
and stick on your sweater

because for six months
seven months ago
i tasted italy and salvador
and corn tortillas
and teeth
and missed ***** mexico

and for three weeks
about two months ago
i spun around the washing machine
until my fibers were stuck and someone detached me
and i lay there soppy
and i lay there wet

and i blame the machine
its sheer power and ability to wipe clean the stains of engine oil and uv blue you drank in the garage

and i have lost dependency
because of its lack of sustainability
i miss my baby
all my babies
every baby
and if you need me
ill be collecting the microfibers
that form in your dryer
and stick on your sweater
A Mareship Aug 2014
when we are home
and towels are hung to dry,
when the clouds are soot and black
and blue is shy

when the waterbed is hotter than the sun,
when the soppy christmas ******* has begun

I will think about this summer
and how warm
the sand was,
and how we owned the dawn

when I walked with you
along a gold foot track,
with suncream sweethearts tanned onto my back.
Roberta Day Jul 2012
Insignificant this day has been,
which I predicted far ahead
So why do I still hang low
my soppy, untouched head?

Expect the unexpected, and
you shall never be surprised
How does one not expect what’s
expected to save one’s cries?

My expression dismayed,
my heart flutters not
For on my day of birth,
my mother has forgot

I do not deserve a celebration,
I have come to understand
Those close in relation to I,
I failed to grasp their hand

To take hold of what is false,
my importance and existence
If thy blood shall not think of me,
why exhibit anything but resistance?
Yesterday was my birthday and my Mom didn't even remember.
Poetic T Apr 2014
Stevieg and Karen you could feel the heat, of
the fire that is. Looking in to each others
eyes as both recited soppy love poetry. I'll
write you a song let us walk in the woods
suggested Stevie.G.  

As they entered a deserted
hotel  Stevieg did change from who he used to
be as a piano could be heard by Karen  is that
the shining in G major?  As Stevieg  grabbed a
fire axe ******* screamed Karen as he came
running, in a room she did hide kneeling down
nervously, then the axe hit the door repeatedly,
as it began to splinter the final blow and through
a head came screaming HERE'S STEVIEG.. with
.a final scream the axe was buried deep, Stevieg  
ran to the camp Tadpole asking whats that on
your shirt, corn syrup he said nervously.

Lolly was talking to tadpole about the Sons of Anarchy,
I was biker once said tadpole would you like to see
how I ride? blushing Lolly said sorry Charlie Hunnam
is the only ride I want on me. Tadpole and Stevieg
followed by Bri Mar a little too drunk now went
skinny dipping as it was a lake and free. All laughed
as they hadn’t done anything like this since there
teens asking Lolly to join in but Charlie Hunnam
turned up and said you ready for that ride? A
smile from Lolly could be seen.

Swimming
drunkenly around but in the distance could be
heard a song. The jaws music this could not be.
It grew louder they swam for the shore as Tadpole
sank beneath the water now red as the two
thrashed fiercely but then Bri Mar disappeared
as he screamed ******* FISHY.. Stevieg was
about to climb ashore thinking he’d survived but
there was one more surprise as he was kicked
in to the water by Jambo the last words he heard
that’s what happens when you disagree with
me, then jaws opened wide the shark swallowed
him whole never again to be seen.



**TUNE IN FOR THE FINALE TOMORROW
Dallas Phoenix Mar 2015
Through the whispers of a kiss,
Misguided video kite flying blissfully ignorant of this,
Double life tragedy,
An unreachable majesty,
Of first impression dissatisfaction and no love actually,
Or one who's too cute to fall for your imagery,
Sick of hearing soppy similes,
Sucker symbols and sentimental soliloquies,
Angels ate my face and gave me this grimace,
Dwelling with the devil's delinquents influenced my appearance,
Fallen archetypes of valor and prestige,
Resurrected by the words of the assassin's creed,
Memories are paintings hung up by despair,
As I drift in this blizzard taking in more cold air,
Tom Sutton Aug 2011
I said,
I love you so much I’d lick your feet.

she said,

that’s sweet, but please

don’t say that when you meet my parents.

I said I’d try to be normal

but it’s hard when you make me feel

like a cliche wrapped in roses

and all she knows is

that I can’t get enough of her,

if she’s in reach,

I have to touch her.

I’m not trying to be inappropriate

It’s just, you're my favourite.

Even you being a fidget

at 3am is worth it.

and I swear it’s true,

that when someone wakes me up stealing the blanket,

I’m smiling, because that some one is you.

yeah you're a bit of a *** pest,

but the *** is the best.

and yeah you constantly make fun of me,

but it’s cute that you think you're funny.

and yeah im being soppy and that

but you're used to me being a ****.
brooke Oct 2012
if you've ever been heartbroken or
any kind of broken over the small things
the things people tell you in their car
or on the couch, or the words they speak
in their silence when they listen, in the dim lights of
the city when you say nothing
and hurt over what has been said
because it's like somehow,
some way, everything in your life manages to
become a soppy convoluted bucket mess
and your happiness ebbs away in thick drumbeats
so it's all you can do to play with your  hair
wait till he drops you off,
although you won't cry, you don't know where to cry
the solitary atmosphere of your room is too familiar
you're starting to associate the lack of comfort with
an empty space, to a drop or two of salt
after the door closes you'll sit and wonder
what to do,
what to do
you don't know what to do.
(c) Brooke Otto
Francie Lynch Dec 2014
This ride I'm on
Leads to the dump.
I, refuse that I am,
Refuse to jump.
I ride with
Peels of poor me,
Rinds of regret,
Scraps of resentment,
Empty bottles
Of pain
And emptiness.
I, Drunk.
I drank
For forgetfulness,
In misery and anger.
Refusing questions,
Not giving answers.
I don't need
To hitch a ride
To the human dump,
The soppy landfill.
At any stop
I can jump.
Jump,
And walk.
It's all in the choices we make.
The Black Beast Apr 2013
They ******* up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were ****** up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.
Boy Gaskell Feb 2014
My summer sweats bloom from a grass rag,
Scratch another hardly blasting out a calibrate,
Can I break, strap out hacker doozy bluemoors,
Caught from an out sound, an out frowned
Blackening the coffin sweet cough lubricate,
Shackle high tops on pipe dream loft shakers,
Clover feelers, four hitter on lucky seven collar,
Depth sin protector, **** I ain't wrath looter,
Nor do poppa sizes on some puke lips locker,
Key switch for gates hellish donor, back loner,
Course you see, I seek seep suckled *****,
Not some subtle soul (gap in skirt) poker,
Forever reaching lines, bust knuckle lifters,
Cracked rage like Nile is flooding wealths curlers,
Jewel duplicate for ruby cuts on roofless lust,
Symbolise another and I'll grabble force an honour,
Sober up soppy crotch rummage coper,
Scan cell prison ament Scholar's "repent!"
Mace battle X axel swop blunt round passel,
Cost more on pepper rubber rock relation,
Patient prep operation, cramp dilation,
Dial engage **** sudden blocked injection.
Cast nocturnals ominous above monuments,
Men fall like weak's race for joy's division,
Attend pro's vision, pure as skies probations,
Pack pampers protection tracks premonition,
Flat lines before lap times, clenching half rhymes,
Hop hotter than blues croft in dusks knots,
Bars from when I wanted to take on rapping.
Olivia Kent Mar 2014
And the question is, what would have transpired between Sandy and Danny?
Should their paths maybe  not have wandered back into each other.
One hell of a collision, met face to face.
Sandy; cute Sandy, would she have settled with ****** Jo Bloggs?
Manic Danny, a soppy dude with heart of gold, around his revolution of teenage mates.
Did his life revolve?
Must of been his age.
Would Sandy still have been quaint, perhaps sickly sweet?
Whoever knows; after all Grease was just a movie full of teenage dreams and raging teenage angst.
Sandy;  would she still have been a corrupted wild child?
What would mom and poppa think?
Gee whizz, if this were real; perhaps her parents , well they might have flipped their lids.
They rode out of the movie on a flying fairground ride, did they stay together, or was it never ever?
We never found out, the faithful audience.
For in Grease two, no mention of Sandy or Danny.
(C) LIVVI
A silly notion of teenage love x LOL
Daniello Mar 2012
I don’t recognize you, but you’ve returned, oh it
must be you. No one else comes here but you.

Do you remember this music?

Kaleidoscopically gemmed it repeats, perhaps too
delicately—a quiet, tinkling knell, fishtailing through the
glimmering rain—mauve—soft-soaping the soil to darker clumps
beneath—soppy—slowly sinking so pretty, yet
terrifying now you’ve stepped into and through each
silted deepness, holding time.

This music begs you still—it has not stopped begging since—
to step further inside the wet loam (You clutch time now.)
To press down on it, in it, and listen tender the key you touched in
life between moments. It’s the reason you’ve returned.

You won’t, it’s not music, this feels like a baby’s head you’re on, you
cringe. About to cry.

Again, I’m sorry, but you have to—you have to feel it
scarily give a little. Feel it sink, infolding inside-out through its
thin pleura overflowing, always overflowing with the visceral
sap of everything on it—(I mean really everything.)—this
glistening ick, this frog-soil—moist, sickly cloying, susceptible
almost to light. And breathing.

It’s about to give out under your feet.

And kaleidoscopically gemmed it repeats, can you hear it?

Yes, you could be stepping on all their naked lungs, but there’s
nothing to fear, it’s an eternal field of their lungs—pink and gasping—
and that’s all there is here.  

Feel with your foot, like me. Is it alive? Or is it life? Listen, it
bleats a note. Why so sweet if, by touching it, we’ve made it drip
first truth from its tongue, look!—the blood of its eyes’ red
rivulets. Of its heart. The slightest breach it was. Barely an
opening

I’m sorry. I don’t mean to force you. If I was only me, I’d
leave it be, so it could spare us the look at the inner red that yokes
flesh to spirit. But you arrived here, and—listen, now it’s been
done, do not close your eyes.

You didn’t want to see this, I know—the sticky gum or muck that
licks over the fibrous bridges. Keeps them glued down and
invisible in the other world. It is all much better when the mucilage
does not ooze out. When the form is skin-tight, because that’s how
it works best. Without you probing its pores.

But now do you see, probing its pores, what you may find?
Look. Now do you see why the music has begged you?

What rests underneath there—what you may find in that dark
indigo clay which the shamans dug and pressed over their
blackened eyes in the night-trances—glows transparent somehow.
In pulses. Like Aurelia, the silver moon jelly.

Now it is just within your reach.

Light would pour to the other side, and their mouths would stiffen
with several infinite unintelligible syllables remaining stuck there
under their tongues. As it poured, they felt their blood replaced
in a surge with veinless essence, which sustained in its flow
through them something of precarious beauty—ascending, swirling
itself in air, then back into again, again returning to the home of homes
within them.  

The silver-moon-jelly-clay is continuously poised on the tip
(of not being clay).
About to break into splendor, into finally birth-giving of real breath.
Of meaning to breath, and to breathing.

This is what feeds, unknowing to them in that world, their field of lungs.
But you will know instantly when you feel it, that by feeling
(in feeling)
you have really always known.

Did you reach for it? Did you feel it in that second? You did not, I see
(you were so close!)
for now we’ve passed the origin symmetry and are sinking up! Going
deeply back up through the sticky goop with red glue in our hair,
through the moist-frog-ick-soil, choking dirt again, squishing loam
with our heads, shooting upward like falling, hearing lungs, and now
out, atop the surface again, in this bare garden that grows only under.

The skies above, still mauve, and the rain lips quietly the same
melody which, kaleidoscopically gemmed, repeats. It was all as quick as
nothing.

And, as I look at you, I see you’ve already forgotten
everything.

And now you’re leaving me! Fading back through the spectral
break in the clouds, whoever you were. Whoever it is you became.

I did honestly believe this was to be that one moment when, together,
we’d finally get to touch it. Press it like real sun to our blackened
eyes. I cannot tell you, it has felt like the one each time.

But I know to wait. I can wait. In this world I keep fluttering hope
in my hand. And you, whoever you’ll be, will return here.
You always do.
Do you ever remember why?
It’s because, when you leave through the clouds to go back to
that world, you are still. Always.
Clutching time.
Ghost Writer 3 Oct 2016
How one must declare his way of thinking,
Without offending another's way of breathing,
How must one walk his own journey,
While plowing through the lilies of the field?

The silent chill of the nights sweet calling,
Will one ignore the way it is drawing-
The coat around the stranger's back,
The wool it clings like soppy wet paper.

The pines reaching into the black silky sky,
Stealing wonder, boasting like the badger -
Make shifting the scene into his own world,
Backbone reaching, strong, furrowed.

A note, a baby's innocent cry, a laugh
Seemingly part of every single night-
One does not live without repercussion,
There is no passive in passion,
everything around is connecting,
This, offended men, is this possible to deny?
*edited a bit
Nick ross Jul 2016
When you link my arm in a crowded place
When you brush a hair from off my face
You bring me joy

When you catch my eye across a room.
When you expunge my thoughts of impending doom
You bring me joy

When you shed a tear at a soppy show
When you give me the space from which to grow
You bring me joy

When you rest your weary head upon my chest
When you make me aware of how much I'm blessed
You bring me joy

When you pretend you're shocked if I've been rude
When you shyly smile when you're in the mood
You bring me joy

You bring me joy x
Not that she'll ever see it but an ode to my lady
Seán Mac Falls May 2015
Flowers so rare and fine,
Missing from this dry world,
Lost, unwatered, unseen, yet
No ones and none despaired,
They then planted their garish
Seed in blot sun, most sodden,
Soppy soils sprayed which fell
On the plainest, most commoner
Grounds, such fertile dirt, wrought,
Then, all who came to view where
But gaggles of proud mediocrity
Who arrived to revel and preen,
Unjust, they remade this earth,
Once lively, to be lame, what
Celebrations they now need
What praises they do crave,
Sadly, they could not know,
A flower for the weeds.
Olivia Kent Mar 2015
Sat in the car at the back of beyond.
Beyond reasoning what I'm doing here.
I fear.
Anti clockwise rhythms, rhyming with the guy who's nice.
My head's obliterated and my heart is cool as ice.
He's a box of soppy.
She's a box of stroppy.
Confusing muses puzzling.
Nudging.
Percolating.
Brewing.
Never beer or whine I fear.
She supposes she can maybe love him again.
After the sunshine blew thunder and rain.
Maybe a little love be retained.
Enigmatic future.
(c) Livvi
Started seeing an ex.....after a couple of years....nice guy....not sure of direction... x Changing from person to person grammatically kind of made it less personal x
Joseph Sinclair Oct 2014
by Philip Larkin

They ******* up, your mum and dad.
  They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
  And add some extra, just for you.

But they were ****** up in their turn
  By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
  And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
  It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
  And don't have any kids yourself.

                                         Philip Larkin
This is intended to be included in the collection entitled Cultured Pearls which is to be devoted to poetry by poets other than myself that has had some special meaning for me.
You have had your heart broken more than once,
Just as you have had fallen in love more than once...
And even when it's very likely that the cycle will repeat itself
Sometime in the future,
Remember that what can break a heart can fix it
And what goes through a painful ending can go back
To a beautiful beginning.

And whether you've given up on love
Learned to re-define love in a less dramatic way
Or looked at relationships in a more realistic way,
Debunked Maslow's hierarchy of needs by putting love at the tip of the triangle;
And when you watch those soppy movies you pretend to just laugh at how the cheesiness can never work in the real world!

The truth is that, there is always....always
A soft side of you willing to unleash itself,
To take the leap of faith.
To love boldly.

When and if only true love gives you that moment.
Olivia Kent Jul 2015
Don't cry baby.
Your daddies gone off hunting.
He wants to get a trophy.
Just so you can see.
What a clever boy he's been!

Introduction to a child of everything that's  mean.
Daddy tell your little kid.
Of all the vile things you did.
Bet you can't, bet feel ashamed.
Of taking part in cruel sport and labelling it a game.

"Son, daddy fox is called a dog.
Mummy fox a *****.
Baby foxes little cubs soppy as a kitten"
A spot of education..
Hell  hounds have a job to do, apparently.
Together, language of us common folk will paint the sky bright blue.
"Jackanory".
***** story.
Written by the Tories.
For fox sake keep the ban.
Speak out loud while we still can!
(c)Livvi
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
some of the poems i read i'm afraid of, someone crude would call them mediocre, but i don't have a heart for such words, i'm afraid of them for a simple reason: they're so fragile - it's like handling porcelain with these miner's doughnut hands and thick hotdog fingers, you really don't know what to do with such poems, it's the body undressed, covered in goosebumps and very little else.

sure, you can experience love, the love that's
you and her back in Eden,
maddened, raw, you can experience that,
but such love exists between a boy who
has two years past the teens, and a girl
in her teens, the boy had to invest almost
the same amounts of slush puppy **** as she,
music wise, literature wise, ideals upon ideals,
love is idealised, *** is perfected,
you'll end up gravitating to other people's
expression whether true or fictional,
akin to *kisses sweeter than wine
,
stop draggin' my heart around,
fade to black, it's all there, bloodhound
soppy eyes - a variation of some sort of psychic
awakening in alter-psychosis - the variation of
a juggernaut moving about, it's love pristine,
not the love we call petting and paying the bills,
it's a butterfly's wing caressing your ear
while it flutters - it doesn't last once truths
enter and realities condense to custard -
the paint dries on the wall, the Antarctic tundra
freezes and polar bears start hunting (well, you
could call them loan sharks if you wanted) -
when Adam's tonic turns into Sioux's anodyne -
Apache Sioux knew the deal, while others
use the anodyne for parties and uninhibited social
interactions, others sedate - a good enough
reason to forget that ol' wives tale of: better have
love and lost than not have loved at all -
yes, it's there, a bit like first impressions of
a poem for dada day at the place, april 1, 1958,
poems tell a different story, novels tell a different story,
movies tell a different story, asylum Hollywood
captures the imagination, but not necessarily the memory,
music tells a different story - and all converge and
diverge within geometry of circa - so love, mm,
barefooted going to the mosque for curry at the height,
scuttling like a **** head down Nicholson St. (Edinburgh),
past the music shop where once it was all smiles
and approving gestures while buying an album,
what was it? reggae k.k.k., ah right, steel pulse!
handsworth revolution - the same shop months later,
the same attendant of the pulse of music - the words
'if you want to find love, go to Germany', me guess that's
'cos of the accent, he Scot and me chameleon -
Heraclitus knew this flux, changes and changes -
all that and the creeping to the zenith before tumbling
into Milton's opening of satanic inquiry via
fleetwood mac's the chain - bass guitar the real star,
mirage of former glories of solo guitars - bass guitar
the conductor of rhythm - and in so writing, a fly
attracted to my "idle" hands - as they say, the devil
makes work of idle hands - the bass sets the rhythm,
the drums hush for a moment so the bass can be
protruding - great admiration for bands that allow
the bass a ray of sunshine - tool, schism; so yeah,
you can experience this fable of ancient greek
hierarchy - lovers poets prophets - but you have to
invest prior, and by way of chance you might -
slush puppy pop and ideals and ideals and ideals -
i could have went to Bristol, Warwick, Cardiff or Brighton,
instead, thanks to Mr. Thomas Boon'tss (wet snare tss,
sweat from a drummer, instigator of poet in me,
the observer, the shut-up guy, played a jailor in an adaptation
of the Merchant of Venice - skylock shy, frozen in
the reminder on v.h.s.) off to Haggis-land we went,
and found love there, and found inspiration,
and found an iron maiden for our head there too,
and found madness with a keen eye for tomorrow.

— The End —