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"sourest" poems
Come and let us live my Dear, Let us love and never fear, What the sourest Fathers say: Brightest Sol that dies today Lives again as blithe tomorrow, But if we dark sons of sorrow Set; o then, how long a Night Shuts the Eyes of our short light! Then let amorous kisses dwell On our lips, begin to tell A Thousand, and a Hundred, score An Hundred, and a Thousand more, Till another Thousand smother That, and that wipe off another. Thus at last when we have numb’red Many a Thousand, many a Hundred; We’ll confound the reckoning quite, And lose ourselves in wild delight: While our joys so multiply, As shall mock the envious eye.
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Out Of Catallus
on beds of fragrant sights through charms of sourest deeds it rains away all spring all when my heart bleeds ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- i know not who i'll be or what i really am an immemorial soul in nimbler storms which swam among the crowd of flowers so sickeningly sweet would lie the boldest aphids upon the roses feed my feathers trod on winds challenge His modest grace through marching fleet of life in ****** shadows laid with semblance of a calm in grooves of wilderness in arms of ecstasy which life stands to confess but how shall these two feet embark a lonely trip perhaps find love so still as dew on roses' lip ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- in faintest of moonlights on dewy grasses seen inscribed upon my palm is meaning of my being.
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Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 8:20 AM UTC
adolescence
No:8 7th-AUG-2018 Believe it or not, even the strong need support even the strong need reassurance. I need support I need reassurance It’s not enough to say you love me How do you show it!? It’s not enough to say you want me How do you prove it!? I will go to the moon and back for you!! I’ve heard that before and in the same breath you spoke these words you refuse me a glass of water; The moon is quite far away I love you to the moon and back, I’ve also heard but the sourest touch of my hand sends you into unexplainable rage. Love as fickle as the wind Support me so we may ascend and be reborn anew into something greater than we once had. Reassure me so I have a reason to keep my eyes on you and you alone. Feed me energy that berths success Feed me. Rex Verum Regem TFK
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Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 3:19 AM UTC
It’s not “Enough”
They that have power to hurt and will do none, That do not do the thing, they most do show, Who, moving others, are themselves as stone, Unmovèd, cold, and to temptation slow, They rightly do inherit heaven’s graces, And husband nature’s riches from expense; They are the lords and owners of their faces, Others, but stewards of their excellence. The summer’s flower is to the summer sweet, Though to itself, it only live and die, But if that flower with base infection meet, The basest **** outbraves his dignity. For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
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Sonnet 094: They That Have Power To Hurt And Will Do None
hey, wake up. there’s that girl at the door for you again: this time she’s got you a little cardboard box full of withered browning poppies straight from her garden; rain-stained and trembling, she’s got on the sourest of smiles. she’s crowding your room with remains, she’s teaching you self-preservation, she loves you. today, she’s knocking on your door with the impatience of a devil; yesterday, she’s holding your hand, rolling the pads of her fingers over every bump of your knuckles complimenting your bone structure. “when you die, give your body to science,” she says, and you know that she means ‘give it to me’—you have already said yes quite some time ago now. today, you’re waking up, you’re wondering the time, you’re opening the door, you’re saying hello i missed you. it’s been fifteen hours. you’re eating your heart out and feeding her the scraps. tomorrow, you're picking meat from her teeth, just one little bird that can't believe its luck. she invites herself in, and you see with a little stumbling delight that she’s wearing those gloves you like, oh, that soft old berry-red pair— the ones that smell of ash and ink, used matches and newspaper-print. she peels them off her hands, presses them into yours, and, entirely shameless, you grip them tight. you savour their warmth, you savour their feel. you consider residual skin cells. you consider honest infatuation. neither of them seem to you to be the truth and nothing but, not quite, not wholly. you love anatomy, you love her. save the both of you some trouble and don’t bother trying to choose. she’s sitting on the edge of your bed and she smells like old perfume that wants to tell you it smells like a summer day; she’s kicking off her shoes, she’s talking about cutting your hair: where do you keep the scissors? she’ll say she wants to paint your nails, too but really she just wants to think about tearing them out. it’s hard to know but you think you might want that too. everything’s so complicated— you just want to be beside her so that’s where you are! now she’s ********* crisp shrunken petals right into your mouth. is she? she’s got her nails on your lips either way. you’re tasting nature at its end. you’re just waiting to join it. hey, wake up.
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Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 12:07 AM UTC
killing club
hey, wake up. there’s that girl at the door for you again: this time she’s got you a little cardboard box full of withered browning poppies straight from her garden; rain-stained and trembling, she’s got on the sourest of smiles. she’s crowding your room with remains, she’s teaching you self-preservation, she loves you. today, she’s knocking on your door with the impatience of a devil; yesterday, she’s holding your hand, rolling the pads of her fingers over every bump of your knuckles complimenting your bone structure. “when you die, give your body to science,” she says, and you know that she means ‘give it to me’—you have already said yes quite some time ago now. today, you’re waking up, you’re wondering the time, you’re opening the door, you’re saying hello i missed you. it’s been fifteen hours. you’re eating your heart out and feeding her the scraps. tomorrow, you're picking meat from her teeth, just one little bird that can't believe its luck. she invites herself in, and you see with a little stumbling delight that she’s wearing those gloves you like, oh, that soft old berry-red pair— the ones that smell of ash and ink, used matches and newspaper-print. she peels them off her hands, presses them into yours, and, entirely shameless, you grip them tight. you savour their warmth, you savour their feel. you consider residual skin cells. you consider honest infatuation. neither of them seem to you to be the truth and nothing but, not quite, not wholly. you love anatomy, you love her. save the both of you some trouble and don’t bother trying to choose. she’s sitting on the edge of your bed and she smells like old perfume that wants to tell you it smells like a summer day; she’s kicking off her shoes, she’s talking about cutting your hair: where do you keep the scissors? she’ll say she wants to paint your nails, too but really she just wants to think about tearing them out. it’s hard to know but you think you might want that too. everything’s so complicated— you just want to be beside her so that’s where you are! now she’s ********* crisp shrunken petals right into your mouth. is she? she’s got her nails on your lips either way. you’re tasting nature at its end. you’re just waiting to join it. hey, wake up.
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they eat their own inconsequential and comatose integrity. With relish. they chew their knotty and petty problems endlessly into bowls full of intellectually based uber slop seasoned with bitter  inchoate knowledge and then add  a dash of verbose celebrity froth. Stir well. they grind all their societal and artistic obsequiousness into salubrious and meaningless observations and then add the sourest flavour of the month and stir with inconsequential turmoil. and oh boy how poets can stir!!.
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Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 1:22 AM UTC
poets are so violent
Avatar Queen The mask or the screen, What’s never to know What’s never to see Avatar Queen Your name to mislead, One more cryptic posting That always deceives Avatar Queen Both petty and preened, The bees in your bonnet No stinger foreseen Avatar Queen You know what I mean, With feelings all borrowed And vistas unseen Avatar Queen The sourest cream, No reason to wish All hope dressed in green Avatar Queen Your anger unweaned, My answer then sharp My rapier free Avatar Queen Not to sleep or to dream, Your nightmare awoken In daylight you scream Avatar Queen One curse washes clean, Your blessings defaced —no chance to redeem (Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2016)
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Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 1:05 PM UTC
Nightmare Awoken
You are hideous and horrible Your voice is like nails on a chalk board As you taunt younger children You are like a monkey on stilts The way you try to fit in and know you don’t Your face is like a cat that just ate the world sourest warhead When you scowl and glare at your new enemies and old friends You are like a snake The way you sneak your good grades into the trash Then you lie and say you failed You are like a horrible gossip channel Making fun of others to bring you higher You are like an ongoing cycle Changing all the time Like time The way you keep going and never look back You are dumber than a box of rocks when it comes to life Why? Because you gave up on your true friends for fake ones You stepped over a dull dollar for a shiny dime You are like a siren Making people see what you want them to see But not you what you are Just another nerd like me.
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Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 2:22 AM UTC
Nerd like Me
you might as well asked me to drink bleach through a straw, boiling to a point where i could smell the sharpness like a needle through my nose and when girls say they tried to drink men away, i laugh at them because yellow teeth and lemonade from the sourest of lemons, squeezed and strained through a sugared cloth by the hands of your mother's mother still tastes like **** sour as it may be life is nothing more than an endless under-sink cabinet
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Oct 24, 2017
Oct 24, 2017 at 9:49 PM UTC
cabinet
Will sweet dreams with the sourest links to you, be traced? As unkind dreams, they come to haunt. But shadows loom under the sky of a setting sun, Will angels come as the walls fall down? Death comes with a silent taunt Sands of time, a mirage left intact in the world's eye. Show me meaning, show me life, With the dawn comes light, So why does it feel like I can never wake up?
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Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 3:49 AM UTC
Moribund
Life throws me a grenade A lemon if you will The sourest it could find I like sour, but still At some point I need sugar But the effort is not but strife So my only option is To throw the lemon back at life
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Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
War
When the snow melts and the weather gets warmer Only then can my true happiness can come The long days full of sweat Dirt Mud Even after i come home for the night I will still find pieces of hay in my hair and my clothes Putting days worth of training In hopes it will pay off when the weekends come And i can go to the shows And may i find myself emotionally unstable i can find my way to the stables i will find my happiness in somthing so dangerous with a mind of its own but have total faith that it'll do me no harm even on the sourest days i can find the sweetest escape a hand full of mane running free out in a feild no saddle or bridal to keep us trapped just our souls dancing in the wind
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Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 8:12 PM UTC
Happiness
I tasted fate in different flavors, The sourest I held the dearest. Dripping wounds in tangy shower, Life is but the sum of memories.
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Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 7:37 AM UTC
fate
Muses, let my thoughts flow as if of ink Like the great philosophers, into my mind I sink To see what lies within the areas where few dare to go, For introspection is a hard seed to grow While we think we know what makes us tick, The reality oftentimes makes us sick The hatred, sadness, and thoughts of death Leave the sourest of tastes on the sweetest of breath But with these few words I hope you will see, The truth in the enigma that is my psyche For while from all other arts I do refrain, These are the sad imaginings of a tortured brain.
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Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 2:38 PM UTC
Introspection
Dream ( Acrostic) During the day you can’t find it, Reappears never ever as though it was a bandit Every Night a new adventure begins, Aeons have passed but, moods it continues to lightens, My dreams would get me a genuine grade, but some I can’t submit Worth More Alive United for wildlife is trying so that the tuskers can strive, A hundred killed every day, and soon there will be left only five. The elephants are ultimate help in construction and in gardening, You do them well, they come to pay you homage barging, I don’t know about you, but I think elephants are worth more alive. Smile ( Acrostic) Sometimes it’s great to simper, Many take it as pass on letter, In one go, it can brighten many days, Laughter now fills the air no matter how strong the sun blaze, Everyday to smile is the thing one should always remember. Opened Its Wings A ship once sailed to this dock, By accident, it went loose and went on an amazing adventure, It went to a place it thought it was too feeble to go to, But that was just its starting point, Ever since, it has had great adventures, only because it let loose and opened its wings! RINGS THE EUPHORIA We promulgate tussle a times And at time rings the euphoria in the sourest limes, We have clubbable times and even doleful one, Sometimes we can be fidus Achates and sometimes with each other we’re done, But whatever happens we’ll be sisters, like two chimes in a wind chime
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Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 10:35 AM UTC
Limerick Collection 3
You were the sweetest guy I knew and I turned you into the sourest.
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Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 5:46 AM UTC
Untitled
While thou on Tereus descant'st better skill. Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill, For nothing this wide universe I call, My love is as a fever, longing still 'Long may they kiss each other, for this cure! Doth in her poison'd closet yet endure.' He kisses her; and she, by her good will, To accessary yieldings, but still pure But low shrubs wither at the cedar's root. He shall not boast who did thy stock pollute And leave the faltering feeble souls alive? And, thou away, the very birds are mute; For now she knows it is no gentle chase, Because the cry remaineth in one place, To change your day of youth to sullied night; Dulling my lines and doing me disgrace. Then call them not the authors of their ill, Like to a mortal butcher bent to **** 'O Jove,' quoth she, 'how much a fool was I An humble gait, calm looks, eyes wailing still, But her foresight could not forestall their will. The silly lambs: pure thoughts are dead and still, To love that well which thou must leave ere long. Is form'd in them by force, by fraud, or skill: Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend: Were it not sinful then, striving to mend, Doth half that glory to the sober west, In true plain words by thy true-telling friend; Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead? Is madly toss'd between desire and dread; For all my mind, my thought, my busy care, A second fear through all her sinews spread, And, blushing with him, wistly on him gazed; Her earnest eye did make him more amazed: And for my sake serve thou false Tarquin so. That two red fires in both their faces blazed; That all the world besides methinks are dead. For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed, For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; O me, what eyes hath Love put in my head, He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear, Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear, She tears the senseless Sinon with her nails, Doth yet in his fair welkin once appear;
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Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 2:53 PM UTC
The Descants
While thou on Tereus descant'st better skill. Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill, For nothing this wide universe I call, My love is as a fever, longing still 'Long may they kiss each other, for this cure! Doth in her poison'd closet yet endure.' He kisses her; and she, by her good will, To accessary yieldings, but still pure But low shrubs wither at the cedar's root. He shall not boast who did thy stock pollute And leave the faltering feeble souls alive? And, thou away, the very birds are mute; For now she knows it is no gentle chase, Because the cry remaineth in one place, To change your day of youth to sullied night; Dulling my lines and doing me disgrace. Then call them not the authors of their ill, Like to a mortal butcher bent to **** 'O Jove,' quoth she, 'how much a fool was I An humble gait, calm looks, eyes wailing still, But her foresight could not forestall their will. The silly lambs: pure thoughts are dead and still, To love that well which thou must leave ere long. Is form'd in them by force, by fraud, or skill: Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend: Were it not sinful then, striving to mend, Doth half that glory to the sober west, In true plain words by thy true-telling friend; Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead? Is madly toss'd between desire and dread; For all my mind, my thought, my busy care, A second fear through all her sinews spread, And, blushing with him, wistly on him gazed; Her earnest eye did make him more amazed: And for my sake serve thou false Tarquin so. That two red fires in both their faces blazed; That all the world besides methinks are dead. For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed, For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; O me, what eyes hath Love put in my head, He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear, Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear, She tears the senseless Sinon with her nails, Doth yet in his fair welkin once appear;
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