"spatting" poems
Acceptance to become a introvert forever,
Became a oath under my broken tongue.
Only spatting out short and simple words I can fluently produce..
" Its going to get better "
" You won't go through this long "
The therapist said,
As my body language feeds yes,
But my eyes screams no.
" I don't ever want that feeling again ! "
Said my spirit in compliance with my eyes
I'd rather, be my own best friend than to make friends..
I'd rather, close my mouth about my fears than to be judged by all my peers
I'd rather, walk home by myself than to walk with someone else.
Not knowing I was walking towards my innocence to the B L I N D.
Step,
By,
Step..
I'd rather say no.
I made the decision to become trapped inside my own world.
©MH
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 10:26 PM UTC
(if i parentheses you)
this
(and)
that
(separate of the pillars that bowl past heavy tonsils
maybe it'd seem as though heaven was closer
and the nuzzle that triggers tiny slips and
flicks against the pulse of my fingers would come alive
behind large bulbs and very tiny eyes,
much too small to fully engulf mild realities wild
on the bottoms of tough poison, mulct philomaths'
raffishly spatting at loose tongues,
how dare they tell me)
this
(and)
that
(and never)
the other.
(if i parentheses you)
this
(and)
that
(would it count to you, dear scholar,
as a structured poem properly scrolling
down the braces of my spine?)
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 7:53 PM UTC
Coffee in the morning
Songs or simply talking
Laughter with occasional spatting
Writing, singing and lazing
Such is the bubble I’m living
Day in, day out
One I’m scared of losing
as the clock is ticking, loud
and demanding, the waves
keep crashing, while I
will carry on dreaming
'til the cuckoo sounds...
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 8:30 AM UTC
the reality the world
do you really wanna know?
curious boy
will die easily
YOURE SICK
okay, curious one
now hear gunshots
blood spatting
is it good yet?
no, you wanna see it yourself
the good friend holds a a sign
‘wanna see a dead body?’
eyes rolled back
this is what you lack
YOURE SICK
YOURE SICK
YOURE SICK
YOURE SICK
Nov 20, 2024
Nov 20, 2024 at 11:53 AM UTC
In Defense of Iambic Pentameter
For Lori Jones McCaffery,
who was spatting with iambic pentameter
but loves it anyway
via HelloPoetry
Oh, no! Pentameter is not a trap -
Pentameter is - freedom’s wings, aloft
And golden in the morning sun, and free
It lifts our dreams into the skies, and sings
Pentameter is language’s strong heart
Its rhythm shapes our fondest hopes, and sends
Each one upon a pilgrimage of truth
To happiness enthroned at journey’s end
Besides all that, pentameter
Helps calm giddy tetrameter!
Feb 12, 2017
Feb 12, 2017 at 9:02 AM UTC
I feel it in my bones, torso, and toes.
Every beep, buzz, or text tone--
sends me over the edge,
like flipping over a roller coaster.
There's this spark,
I can feel it in the dark.
When you're not even near
only a mere 4,000 miles
over the North Atlantic Ocean.
I've seen you in my dreams,
mimicking realitity,
stuck in this virtuality state,
dreading mornings fate.
Tell me why the moon
can't draw the sea,
closer to me.
So that you, too could see
this total eclipse
that's tight in my chest.
How it taunts my heart,
the pitter patter,
spatting, pulsing behind a wall.
I haven't found the key
though this feeling is raw.
Your lips haven't caressed mine, yet.
This will change once we have met.
Dance with me all night,
let's live forever under the night sky.
Sharing secrets of our own,
on my neck,
I feel your moan.
If you stay, or leave,
promise to take me with you.
Back to London, and smoke ****
on the balcony.
Catching trains instead of sleep,
and walk on broken bricks,
taking pics of street art,
have coffee after dark,
closer to 3AM.
Because my heart knew before my head,
that I've always loved you instead.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 8:08 PM UTC
I like the rain, because
It is a symphony when it falls
Sharing sympathy with the dry of the earth
All of me is quiet and I imagine, the
Grass in my backyard as a dewy dark green
Waving as the water hits each blade
I forget about the man who is
Sitting on a couch in the next room,
In a dark room, illuminated
By a flashing tv screen
Not all mothers make potato salad
Or drink lattes with soy milk and sugar-free syrup
Some even buy their potato salad from
The store
we all want to be able to open
Ourselves for someone freely
The sound of love kissing is
The spatting
Of rainfall in the backyard,
Hitting the blades
The water penetrates the grass
And the soil is connected to the sky
There is a heart beat in the tiny roots
Like when two people attend
The last movie showing on a cold
Saturday night, and you
are one of them, and you wrap yourself
Into the other person
Now he snores, competing
With the commercials late night
Television brings to his slumber,
I come back to my room
When the rain stops
Your eyes meet forever
The kind of kisses that uncover secrets
Are the kinds of water that fall on the grass
In your backyard
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 9:16 PM UTC