"spends" poems - Hello Poetry

"spends" poems

A glazed fire falls to earth. A blaze so grand it will destroy your only exterior world. A spread of rubies is covering the horizon, so close you could fly to it so far you can only fly to it. This fire is our only day he climbs high for his eternity and falls only for a minute To have a fresh faced man take its place for he spends brief moments in glory and the rest in the ground.

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Jun 23, 2014

Jun 23, 2014 at 5:09 PM UTC

A glazed fire falls to earth. A blaze so grand it will destroy your only exterior world. A spread of rubies is covering the horizon, so close you could fly to it so far you can only fly to it. This fire is our only day he climbs high for his eternity and falls only for a minute To have a fresh faced man take its place for he spends brief moments in glory and the rest in the ground.

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Glitter and gold is the man in the chair with rings on his fingers and the hardened harsh stare blinded by ugliness wrists chained down by no use a man with much money he spends on abuse the term known as trafficking familiar I’m sure he’s never been one for doing what’s pure so he lays down his money flings out his cash says he’ll pay the full price for the girl with the mask just to touch her to feel her pet her cold body with his run clammy hands up her scarred legs clamp her in his ashen fist little boys too he will willingly harm because trafficking to him is a sport no need for alarm Just cows in the system of making ends meat. The poor solemn dancer the poor saddened soul the poor battered spirit angry that they’ve been sold with ***** feet and scabby legs they work to feed the king the end from him they can only beg And freedom will never ring.

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May 15, 2014

May 15, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC

Glitter and Gold

Glitter and gold is the man in the chair with rings on his fingers and the hardened harsh stare blinded by ugliness wrists chained down by no use a man with much money he spends on abuse the term known as trafficking familiar I’m sure he’s never been one for doing what’s pure so he lays down his money flings out his cash says he’ll pay the full price for the girl with the mask just to touch her to feel her pet her cold body with his run clammy hands up her scarred legs clamp her in his ashen fist little boys too he will willingly harm because trafficking to him is a sport no need for alarm Just cows in the system of making ends meat. The poor solemn dancer the poor saddened soul the poor battered spirit angry that they’ve been sold with ***** feet and scabby legs they work to feed the king the end from him they can only beg And freedom will never ring.

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Our nation is a father Who spends sons unwisely Wasting their wonder On warrior blunders In nations swelling pride We see our children Committing suicide Honor bound to pursue Patriotic truths If mothers ran the world Would it all be better Or would maternal malice Malform modern intent Blue eyes telling lies Of war and all its’ glories Grey hair sitting there In old reclining lawn chairs Celebrating fantastic stories But I know the lives lost Were not always spent wisely Were not always sacrificed justly Why does it feel like no one else sees Have I become Don Quixote Fatherland motherland Better planned Would be brotherhood And sisterhood All that love spent for the good Like this poem We have lost our way Perhaps better stanza Will return the wisdom Of our better sages

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Jul 9, 2015

Jul 9, 2015 at 3:21 PM UTC

Our nation is a father Who spends sons unwisely Wasting their wonder On warrior blunders In nations swelling pride We see our children Committing suicide Honor bound to pursue Patriotic truths If mothers ran the world Would it all be better Or would maternal malice Malform modern intent Blue eyes telling lies Of war and all its’ glories Grey hair sitting there In old reclining lawn chairs Celebrating fantastic stories But I know the lives lost Were not always spent wisely Were not always sacrificed justly Why does it feel like no one else sees Have I become Don Quixote Fatherland motherland Better planned Would be brotherhood And sisterhood All that love spent for the good Like this poem We have lost our way Perhaps better stanza Will return the wisdom Of our better sages

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There are cemeteries that are lonely, graves full of bones that do not make a sound, the heart moving through a tunnel, in it darkness, darkness, darkness, like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves, as though we were drowning inside our hearts, as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul. And there are corpses, feet made of cold and sticky clay, death is inside the bones, like a barking where there are no dogs, coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere, growing in the damp air like tears of rain. Sometimes I see alone coffins under sail, embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair, with bakers who are as white as angels, and pensive young girls married to notary publics, caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead, the river of dark purple, moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death, filled by the sound of death which is silence. Death arrives among all that sound like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it, comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no finger in it, comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no throat. Nevertheless its steps can be heard and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree. I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see, but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets, of violets that are at home in the earth, because the face of death is green, and the look death gives is green, with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf and the somber color of embittered winter. But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom, lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies, death is inside the broom, the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses, it is the needle of death looking for thread. Death is inside the folding cots: it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses, in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out: it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets, and the beds go sailing toward a port where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.

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18.5k

Nothing But Death

There are cemeteries that are lonely, graves full of bones that do not make a sound, the heart moving through a tunnel, in it darkness, darkness, darkness, like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves, as though we were drowning inside our hearts, as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul. And there are corpses, feet made of cold and sticky clay, death is inside the bones, like a barking where there are no dogs, coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere, growing in the damp air like tears of rain. Sometimes I see alone coffins under sail, embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair, with bakers who are as white as angels, and pensive young girls married to notary publics, caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead, the river of dark purple, moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death, filled by the sound of death which is silence. Death arrives among all that sound like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it, comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no finger in it, comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no throat. Nevertheless its steps can be heard and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree. I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see, but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets, of violets that are at home in the earth, because the face of death is green, and the look death gives is green, with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf and the somber color of embittered winter. But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom, lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies, death is inside the broom, the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses, it is the needle of death looking for thread. Death is inside the folding cots: it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses, in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out: it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets, and the beds go sailing toward a port where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.

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My Bipolar Disorder is a stout-bodied mammal with horns and cloven hooves. There are two types of My Bipolar Disorder: Domestic, and Mountain. My Bipolar disorder typically spends its days grazing on grasses My Bipolar Disorder will dig depressions in the ground to sleep, rest, and bathe in. My Bipolar disorder is super social during the winter, and tends to go solo during the summer. My Bipolar Disorders tail usually points up! (Unless it is frightened or sick) My Bipolar Disorder is extremely Curious and Intelligent. Once My bipolar disorder has discovered a weakness in its fence, it will exploit it repeatedly. There are over 300 distinct breeds of My Bipolar Disorder. Within' minutes of being born, my Bipolar Disorder is up and walking around. My bipolar disorder used to live in the white house with Abraham Lincoln. One day an ethiopian Herder walked in on My Bipolar Disorder liteally bouncing off of cliff walls because it just Discovered Coffee. My Bipolar Disorder has four stomachs The horns of My Bipolar Disorder are typically removed to reduce injury to humans. My Bipolar disorder will explore anything new or unfamiliar in its surroundings, mainly with its mouth and tongue. My bipolar disorder readily reverts to the wild if given the opportunity. My Bipolar Disorder is more susceptible to Parasites and other infectious diseases when it is mismanaged. My bipolar disorder has had a lingering connection with Satanism and pagan religions My Bipolar Disorder is considered a "clean" animal by jewish dietary laws. According to Zeus As long as you leave it's bones whole, My Bipolar disorder will keep coming back to life.

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May 9, 2016

May 9, 2016 at 1:19 PM UTC

My Bipolar Disorder

My Bipolar Disorder is a stout-bodied mammal with horns and cloven hooves. There are two types of My Bipolar Disorder: Domestic, and Mountain. My Bipolar disorder typically spends its days grazing on grasses My Bipolar Disorder will dig depressions in the ground to sleep, rest, and bathe in. My Bipolar disorder is super social during the winter, and tends to go solo during the summer. My Bipolar Disorders tail usually points up! (Unless it is frightened or sick) My Bipolar Disorder is extremely Curious and Intelligent. Once My bipolar disorder has discovered a weakness in its fence, it will exploit it repeatedly. There are over 300 distinct breeds of My Bipolar Disorder. Within' minutes of being born, my Bipolar Disorder is up and walking around. My bipolar disorder used to live in the white house with Abraham Lincoln. One day an ethiopian Herder walked in on My Bipolar Disorder liteally bouncing off of cliff walls because it just Discovered Coffee. My Bipolar Disorder has four stomachs The horns of My Bipolar Disorder are typically removed to reduce injury to humans. My Bipolar disorder will explore anything new or unfamiliar in its surroundings, mainly with its mouth and tongue. My bipolar disorder readily reverts to the wild if given the opportunity. My Bipolar Disorder is more susceptible to Parasites and other infectious diseases when it is mismanaged. My bipolar disorder has had a lingering connection with Satanism and pagan religions My Bipolar Disorder is considered a "clean" animal by jewish dietary laws. According to Zeus As long as you leave it's bones whole, My Bipolar disorder will keep coming back to life.

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Her hair was long Down to that place where *** just barely meets back The place his fingers linger Every time she says goodbye The place where two tiny dimples make up for the fact she never smiles Long like the days he spends Wondering if she's happy at home wondering if she's just as good at pretending to be in love As she is at pretending not to be Like the time he spends waiting for a sign from her... or of her Long like her absence in his bed He hears her laughter in his head He'd settle for hearing her name Her hair was thick Like the way his tongue feels after a midnight pack of camels She says she doesn't smoke anymore But she does Because she says a naked man can't smoke alone It looks funny Thick like her thighs And silky smooth when they graze his stomach Like his great grandmother's accent He doesn't understand her but finds comfort in the texture of the syllables Her hair was strong Like her conviction Her determination to stay at home where she belongs Though she longs to be with him Strong like the coffee she brews Because she's too rebellious to measure anything Coffee grounds or consequences Like his addiction His compulsion to reign her in To keep her in his bed In his heart In his head Her hair is dark Like her eyes Black pools that reflect her black heart, rotten soul Dark like the way she makes love with the lights off Because then she can make him into anybody Whoever it is that she wants that day Dark like that space between waking and dreams Where everything is mixed up and nothing like it seems Where he reaches out to touch her and finds only hair A few strands on his pillowcase to remind him she was there He finds them everywhere Last night he found one wrapped around his big toe He freed himself but found it hard to let it go She says she hates to wear a ponytail Like she doesn't want her hair to look like a horse's rear end And he's just a ******* for letting her go again

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Sep 23, 2014

Sep 23, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC

Her hair was long Down to that place where *** just barely meets back The place his fingers linger Every time she says goodbye The place where two tiny dimples make up for the fact she never smiles Long like the days he spends Wondering if she's happy at home wondering if she's just as good at pretending to be in love As she is at pretending not to be Like the time he spends waiting for a sign from her... or of her Long like her absence in his bed He hears her laughter in his head He'd settle for hearing her name Her hair was thick Like the way his tongue feels after a midnight pack of camels She says she doesn't smoke anymore But she does Because she says a naked man can't smoke alone It looks funny Thick like her thighs And silky smooth when they graze his stomach Like his great grandmother's accent He doesn't understand her but finds comfort in the texture of the syllables Her hair was strong Like her conviction Her determination to stay at home where she belongs Though she longs to be with him Strong like the coffee she brews Because she's too rebellious to measure anything Coffee grounds or consequences Like his addiction His compulsion to reign her in To keep her in his bed In his heart In his head Her hair is dark Like her eyes Black pools that reflect her black heart, rotten soul Dark like the way she makes love with the lights off Because then she can make him into anybody Whoever it is that she wants that day Dark like that space between waking and dreams Where everything is mixed up and nothing like it seems Where he reaches out to touch her and finds only hair A few strands on his pillowcase to remind him she was there He finds them everywhere Last night he found one wrapped around his big toe He freed himself but found it hard to let it go She says she hates to wear a ponytail Like she doesn't want her hair to look like a horse's rear end And he's just a ******* for letting her go again

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by— Josiah Israel Twas oft the way in days of old, When knight would battle brave and bold, The damsels hand in hopes to hold, Worth more then polished Stone, or Gold For this is what a boy is told When day is done and night is cold… “One day my son, thy chance will come Though courage oft may waver, When lady waits, through sable gates For thee brave lad, to save her!” For when a dragon stole a maid, Awaiting ransom duly paid, Twas bravest knight, armor arrayed With noble steed and burnished blade Rode swiftly to the damsels aid… “You have not birth of high degree Yet be thou brave and fight, For low in rank thy birth may be Yet heart makes noble knight!” And after facing beast and foe The knight with maiden free would go Away to fields in need of *** For seeds ere winter need to grow And none can reap who do not sow… “Not all you do will win a prize Of gold or silver bent, So reap a harvest good in size And be thee well content.” And when the battle horn he hears The knight must banish all his fears And ride to war, with battle cheers On maidens cheek alight her tears Fearing death, she spends the years… “To win renown in battle Might also be your path, May your enemies armor rattle As they feel your righteous wrath!” But after kings campaign is done The knight to home will swiftly run From dusk through night to rising sun Till maiden sees her hero come Heart moving swift, a beating drum Her heart a prize which first he won! “Home is best at warring's end To be with those you cherish, A place to rest, your wounds to mend Where love will never perish” Though all the kingdom knows his name And minstrels spread the brave knights fame His love for she, remains the same And they live happily, Knight and Dame…

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Jan 5, 2017

Jan 5, 2017 at 8:58 PM UTC

Knight and Dame

by— Josiah Israel Twas oft the way in days of old, When knight would battle brave and bold, The damsels hand in hopes to hold, Worth more then polished Stone, or Gold For this is what a boy is told When day is done and night is cold… “One day my son, thy chance will come Though courage oft may waver, When lady waits, through sable gates For thee brave lad, to save her!” For when a dragon stole a maid, Awaiting ransom duly paid, Twas bravest knight, armor arrayed With noble steed and burnished blade Rode swiftly to the damsels aid… “You have not birth of high degree Yet be thou brave and fight, For low in rank thy birth may be Yet heart makes noble knight!” And after facing beast and foe The knight with maiden free would go Away to fields in need of *** For seeds ere winter need to grow And none can reap who do not sow… “Not all you do will win a prize Of gold or silver bent, So reap a harvest good in size And be thee well content.” And when the battle horn he hears The knight must banish all his fears And ride to war, with battle cheers On maidens cheek alight her tears Fearing death, she spends the years… “To win renown in battle Might also be your path, May your enemies armor rattle As they feel your righteous wrath!” But after kings campaign is done The knight to home will swiftly run From dusk through night to rising sun Till maiden sees her hero come Heart moving swift, a beating drum Her heart a prize which first he won! “Home is best at warring's end To be with those you cherish, A place to rest, your wounds to mend Where love will never perish” Though all the kingdom knows his name And minstrels spread the brave knights fame His love for she, remains the same And they live happily, Knight and Dame…

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I have been cheated on. He shares me with her. She is a pretty little girl. She has pretty little outfits of purple and pink and green and she always smells clean. He is gentle to her, with his touch and his lips. He smiles when she’s sweet and he laughs when she’s rough. If I hurt him, he lets me go; if she hurts him, he blames himself. She’s very good at breaking the ice when he wants a new friend and in a matter of time he is sharing her with them but he would never share me. He buys her lavish gifts of stained glass and painted ceramics. He spends all his money on her and his pocket is empty for me. I watch my diet while he shares all the sweets in the world with her. (It must be a passionate way to make love.) He tries to hide her from me, but I can smell her perfume in his hair and I can smell her scented gloss on his lips, and I know when his eyes are twinkling from something more than me. When it is the three of us, he always picks her first and he’ll pick her again and again until she’s all worn out. Some people may think she’s no good, she’s a poison, he should break it off, but others congratulate him for scoring such a beauty. That smile she brings to his face and everyone else’s who breathes her in. I have always been second but he is my first. I do not share him with her, though I think I should. If I want to fit in, if I want to be happy, if I want him to love me more. She’ll never break his heart.

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Apr 12, 2014

Apr 12, 2014 at 6:58 PM UTC

Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary--How Does Your Garden Grow

I have been cheated on. He shares me with her. She is a pretty little girl. She has pretty little outfits of purple and pink and green and she always smells clean. He is gentle to her, with his touch and his lips. He smiles when she’s sweet and he laughs when she’s rough. If I hurt him, he lets me go; if she hurts him, he blames himself. She’s very good at breaking the ice when he wants a new friend and in a matter of time he is sharing her with them but he would never share me. He buys her lavish gifts of stained glass and painted ceramics. He spends all his money on her and his pocket is empty for me. I watch my diet while he shares all the sweets in the world with her. (It must be a passionate way to make love.) He tries to hide her from me, but I can smell her perfume in his hair and I can smell her scented gloss on his lips, and I know when his eyes are twinkling from something more than me. When it is the three of us, he always picks her first and he’ll pick her again and again until she’s all worn out. Some people may think she’s no good, she’s a poison, he should break it off, but others congratulate him for scoring such a beauty. That smile she brings to his face and everyone else’s who breathes her in. I have always been second but he is my first. I do not share him with her, though I think I should. If I want to fit in, if I want to be happy, if I want him to love me more. She’ll never break his heart.

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Deep in a magic forest, with big old magic trees And all the magic creatures that live inside of these There is a magic island, upon a magic lake And on the island stands a stool, the like no man could make And on the stool from dawn to dusk, resides a little man Who spends his days in deeper thought, than any mortal can… How does he think so many thoughts, well you must realize, That though the man is small, his head is twice the normal size. And as for food, well first of all he quite likes eating bugs Beetles spiders, grass hoppers, slimy snails and salty slugs! Inside his beard he keeps a hive, so honey he can eat, And sips the dew from roses, which he grows atop his feet… And when the night time brings the cold, the old man doesn't care He simply covers up, with all his long and tangled hair! Regardless of his oddities, the man is still renowned, For being quite the wisest man, who never can be found.

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Jul 19, 2017

Jul 19, 2017 at 12:43 PM UTC

On a Magic Stool

Deep in a magic forest, with big old magic trees And all the magic creatures that live inside of these There is a magic island, upon a magic lake And on the island stands a stool, the like no man could make And on the stool from dawn to dusk, resides a little man Who spends his days in deeper thought, than any mortal can… How does he think so many thoughts, well you must realize, That though the man is small, his head is twice the normal size. And as for food, well first of all he quite likes eating bugs Beetles spiders, grass hoppers, slimy snails and salty slugs! Inside his beard he keeps a hive, so honey he can eat, And sips the dew from roses, which he grows atop his feet… And when the night time brings the cold, the old man doesn't care He simply covers up, with all his long and tangled hair! Regardless of his oddities, the man is still renowned, For being quite the wisest man, who never can be found.

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When a handsome, charming teenager named Noah (Ryan Guzman) moves in next door WATCH HERE FREE FULL MOVIE>>>>> tinyurl.com/lqtpxtk WATCH HERE FREE FULL MOVIE>>>>> tinyurl.com/lqtpxtk WATCH HERE FREE FULL MOVIE>>>>> tinyurl.com/lqtpxtk WATCH HERE FREE FULL MOVIE>>>>> tinyurl.com/lqtpxtk , newly separated high-school teacher Claire Peterson (Jennifer Lopez) encourages his friendship and engages in a little bit of harmless (or so she thinks) flirtation. Although Noah spends much of the time hanging out with Claire's son, the teen's attraction to her is palpable. One night, Claire gives in to temptation and lets Noah ****** her, but when she tries to end the relationship, he turns violent.

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Jan 30, 2015

Jan 30, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC

the-boy-next-door

WaTcH IMDbPro » The Boy Next Door Full Movie free

When a handsome, charming teenager named Noah (Ryan Guzman) moves in next door WATCH HERE FREE FULL MOVIE>>>>> tinyurl.com/lqtpxtk WATCH HERE FREE FULL MOVIE>>>>> tinyurl.com/lqtpxtk WATCH HERE FREE FULL MOVIE>>>>> tinyurl.com/lqtpxtk WATCH HERE FREE FULL MOVIE>>>>> tinyurl.com/lqtpxtk , newly separated high-school teacher Claire Peterson (Jennifer Lopez) encourages his friendship and engages in a little bit of harmless (or so she thinks) flirtation. Although Noah spends much of the time hanging out with Claire's son, the teen's attraction to her is palpable. One night, Claire gives in to temptation and lets Noah ****** her, but when she tries to end the relationship, he turns violent.

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Pretty Girl, Nice Girl (she hides behind the smile) Beautiful Girl, Smart Girl (the night she spends alone) Popular Girl, Smiling Girl (she screams without a voice) Quite Girl, Shy Girl (what she wants is out) Simple Girl, Normal Girl (heart hidden behind a wall) That Girl, This Girl (she starts to lose her grip) Pretty Girl, Nice Girl (she is gone without a trace)

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Nov 12, 2014

Nov 12, 2014 at 10:45 PM UTC

Pretty Girl, Nice Girl (she hides behind the smile) Beautiful Girl, Smart Girl (the night she spends alone) Popular Girl, Smiling Girl (she screams without a voice) Quite Girl, Shy Girl (what she wants is out) Simple Girl, Normal Girl (heart hidden behind a wall) That Girl, This Girl (she starts to lose her grip) Pretty Girl, Nice Girl (she is gone without a trace)

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The pavement having a merchandise name Merchandising sales being the aim Markdowns throughout any retail store The array of assortments a consumer just can’t ignore Yet watch how the consumer spends their money The consumer will be broke, but certainly not the only Plastic credit cards that could get you into trouble This could cause your interest rates to double But I one should only buy what they actually need However unnecessary things with no need to proceed Retail prices coming from a Buyer’s advice Watch the price and shopping being wise Fashion designers with a eye for your appeal and style All through the theory the consumer is thinking during while Well retail stores have much they want the consumer to explore But with prices slashed here and over there, the consumer becomes not being sure Perhaps having will power is something no one should ignore Money saved with nothing being spent No question needing to be asked as to where your money went.

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Oct 27, 2015

Oct 27, 2015 at 6:37 PM UTC

preservationman

THE RETAIL CONSUMER AFFAIR

The pavement having a merchandise name Merchandising sales being the aim Markdowns throughout any retail store The array of assortments a consumer just can’t ignore Yet watch how the consumer spends their money The consumer will be broke, but certainly not the only Plastic credit cards that could get you into trouble This could cause your interest rates to double But I one should only buy what they actually need However unnecessary things with no need to proceed Retail prices coming from a Buyer’s advice Watch the price and shopping being wise Fashion designers with a eye for your appeal and style All through the theory the consumer is thinking during while Well retail stores have much they want the consumer to explore But with prices slashed here and over there, the consumer becomes not being sure Perhaps having will power is something no one should ignore Money saved with nothing being spent No question needing to be asked as to where your money went.

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Please Don't Touch My Hair. It's amazing, It's beautiful, Maybe its the first time you'll see; Hair so dark and 'puffy' As the hair God gave to me. But my hair is not a commodity; A thing for you to gather round and see. It is not something I pull out once a while Just so you can take a peek. Please Don't Touch My Hair. Don't run your hands through it, Don't ask me why it act's like that, Don't ask me if you can pull it, Don't pet me like I'm your cat. Don't touch it without asking, And worst of all ask and not wait, Are your manners really that lacking? Please Don't Touch My Hair. Don't stare like I am some exhibit Brought for you from far away, Don't mock the way it looks on me Don't say 'I don't like the way it looks today'. It's My hair On MY head, So don't you even dare. You're not the one that spends hours Looking after my luscious hair. Please Don't Touch My Hair. Because many years ago My ancestors were put in zoos So people like you could know How our hair felt, and our skin looked Instead of just seeing old photos. As if we were not human beings With minds, and hearts and souls. So my hair is not on display For your viewing pleasure, My hair is on my head for ME And it has worth that you can never measure. It represents Who I Am My Tribe, My Land, My Culture. So don't hover around with oily hands Like a flock of curious vultures. So for the love of all that I know Please DO NOT TOUCH MY HAIR. And don't ask me why you can't, Don't say it isn't fair. Because would I walk up to a stranger And ask, only to receive a no Then go on and touch it anyway? ...I didn't think so. Please Don't Touch My Hair. This is the last time I'll say it, I cannot be silent any longer I will not tolerate it. I've given it all I can I have been very patient But I will not let this continue This I will not permit. If you say you are my friend You will respect this Its My Hair, on My Head And that's all there is to it.

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Nov 4, 2016

Nov 4, 2016 at 5:24 AM UTC

Please Don't Touch My Hair

Please Don't Touch My Hair. It's amazing, It's beautiful, Maybe its the first time you'll see; Hair so dark and 'puffy' As the hair God gave to me. But my hair is not a commodity; A thing for you to gather round and see. It is not something I pull out once a while Just so you can take a peek. Please Don't Touch My Hair. Don't run your hands through it, Don't ask me why it act's like that, Don't ask me if you can pull it, Don't pet me like I'm your cat. Don't touch it without asking, And worst of all ask and not wait, Are your manners really that lacking? Please Don't Touch My Hair. Don't stare like I am some exhibit Brought for you from far away, Don't mock the way it looks on me Don't say 'I don't like the way it looks today'. It's My hair On MY head, So don't you even dare. You're not the one that spends hours Looking after my luscious hair. Please Don't Touch My Hair. Because many years ago My ancestors were put in zoos So people like you could know How our hair felt, and our skin looked Instead of just seeing old photos. As if we were not human beings With minds, and hearts and souls. So my hair is not on display For your viewing pleasure, My hair is on my head for ME And it has worth that you can never measure. It represents Who I Am My Tribe, My Land, My Culture. So don't hover around with oily hands Like a flock of curious vultures. So for the love of all that I know Please DO NOT TOUCH MY HAIR. And don't ask me why you can't, Don't say it isn't fair. Because would I walk up to a stranger And ask, only to receive a no Then go on and touch it anyway? ...I didn't think so. Please Don't Touch My Hair. This is the last time I'll say it, I cannot be silent any longer I will not tolerate it. I've given it all I can I have been very patient But I will not let this continue This I will not permit. If you say you are my friend You will respect this Its My Hair, on My Head And that's all there is to it.

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my brother-in-law’s really fit I admire him for it He spends much time in exercise, in energetic thrusts He’s a whole aerobics center; gets all the exercise he needs: He constantly jumps to conclusions runs down friends, back-stabs whenever he can side-steps responsibility and you could say, is constantly pushing his luck And pushing it too far too… and goes round and round in circles with many false arguments But one kind thing I can say of him he’s mindful of my health for he must have observed how I hardly exercise and he invites me often to his fitness program “You scratch my back, I scratch yours,” he says… But I’m just too lazy even for such effortless exercise and meanwhile, he continues with his fitness program namely, as I have said before, jumping to conclusions and constantly pushing his luck… while the only thing I can manage in response to his fitness program (darned lazy as I am, as he complains to his sis) is to lift my middle finger but frankly, my brother-in-law’s really fit I admire him for it

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Aug 15, 2013

Aug 15, 2013 at 9:08 AM UTC

fitness program

my brother-in-law’s really fit I admire him for it He spends much time in exercise, in energetic thrusts He’s a whole aerobics center; gets all the exercise he needs: He constantly jumps to conclusions runs down friends, back-stabs whenever he can side-steps responsibility and you could say, is constantly pushing his luck And pushing it too far too… and goes round and round in circles with many false arguments But one kind thing I can say of him he’s mindful of my health for he must have observed how I hardly exercise and he invites me often to his fitness program “You scratch my back, I scratch yours,” he says… But I’m just too lazy even for such effortless exercise and meanwhile, he continues with his fitness program namely, as I have said before, jumping to conclusions and constantly pushing his luck… while the only thing I can manage in response to his fitness program (darned lazy as I am, as he complains to his sis) is to lift my middle finger but frankly, my brother-in-law’s really fit I admire him for it

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A haunting stare with a serious note Originates in a lad just thirteen Ready to command or to set to task Obedient, mature, and quick to rule More comfortable with adults than peers An old soul has he, loves cars from the past Collects Civil War relics and antiques Spends most his time reading and researching Reads historical fiction, lost in time Analyzes plants, insects, and ol' coins He could be described like Chaucer's Cleric "And gladly would he learn, and gladly teach." He desires, especially, silver Yet, gold and ex-presidents faces too Protects younger members of his small clan Only his hand will be attacking foe It might be his fine grades, his quirk or two That humbles his parents. Proudly they stand And admire their first born miracle A babe no more, his age will meet his soul.

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Jan 2, 2013

Jan 2, 2013 at 7:11 PM UTC

First Born ( Blank Verse)

A haunting stare with a serious note Originates in a lad just thirteen Ready to command or to set to task Obedient, mature, and quick to rule More comfortable with adults than peers An old soul has he, loves cars from the past Collects Civil War relics and antiques Spends most his time reading and researching Reads historical fiction, lost in time Analyzes plants, insects, and ol' coins He could be described like Chaucer's Cleric "And gladly would he learn, and gladly teach." He desires, especially, silver Yet, gold and ex-presidents faces too Protects younger members of his small clan Only his hand will be attacking foe It might be his fine grades, his quirk or two That humbles his parents. Proudly they stand And admire their first born miracle A babe no more, his age will meet his soul.

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New Orleans has its Oaks, the most beautiful in the world The Oaks they had an occupant, little squawky squirrel Squawky squirrel stepped out one day, cross the street he made his way And if he hadn’t changed his mind, he’d still be here today The widow sweet Ms. Peters, did receive a call From a handsome gentleman, who went by the name of Paul Ms. Peters had been interested, in Paul’s cautious advance But decided she would wait a while, not to take a chance Now Paul has found his one and only Ms. Peters spends her nights quite lonely Oh yes the case of the pretty pilot Just seventeen in a flying machine The weather turned black so she headed back But her boyfriend intervened Now close if I may - here's what I say Trust yourself - the odds break your way

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Jul 19, 2018

Jul 19, 2018 at 2:35 PM UTC

The Often Disastrous Result of Changing Your Mind

New Orleans has its Oaks, the most beautiful in the world The Oaks they had an occupant, little squawky squirrel Squawky squirrel stepped out one day, cross the street he made his way And if he hadn’t changed his mind, he’d still be here today The widow sweet Ms. Peters, did receive a call From a handsome gentleman, who went by the name of Paul Ms. Peters had been interested, in Paul’s cautious advance But decided she would wait a while, not to take a chance Now Paul has found his one and only Ms. Peters spends her nights quite lonely Oh yes the case of the pretty pilot Just seventeen in a flying machine The weather turned black so she headed back But her boyfriend intervened Now close if I may - here's what I say Trust yourself - the odds break your way

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Every time people start to rise up, a whole buncha problematic mess gets thrown around regarding VIOLENCE. So, what is "violence" really?... It's the use of force. Plain and simple. What makes folks uncomfortable (who are otherwise comfortable in this system) is that UPRISING IS A SOMETIMES VIOLENT (read: forceful) REACTION TO SYSTEMATIC VIOLENCE: Yes, just like the Hunger Games... Thus, there are many types of violence... The fact that we are paying taxes that are funding the genocide and ****** of people of color (here and abroad) is violence. People with guns (former slave patrols and overseers, now cops) who come from outside our community and treat our folks as criminals on the daily is violence. Capitalism, i.e. wage/property/ecology-based exploitation in the name of profit is violence. The fact that LA County spends more $$ than anywhere in the world on prisons and police is violence. The fact that the US locks up more of its own people than any other country on record is violence. US aiding/funding the genocide of Palestinians at the hands of Israel is genocidal violence. From Congress, to the boardrooms, to the classrooms, from the gaze, to the unwanted touching, to the **** to the pay, Patriarchy everyday, is violence. A few people jacking some **** at Walmart or breaking a window is really minimal violence in comparison. A couple people throwing **** at armed cops is not serious violence. The idea of owning property that other must rent to live is violent. Systemic, chronic, global insecurity in the form of material poverty is violence. Wage slavery is violence. Gentrification is violence. The War On Youth, i.e. the School-to-Prison pipeline, and, thus the War-on-Drugs with its attending 76% recidivism rate in the prison-industrial complex, whose populations are disproportionately black males, is violence. The fact that people can't go to the doctor and dentist, or eat food every day is violence. Deportations are violence. Homophobia is violence. The world's largest global military that vaporizes people without due process in dozens of countries violating their biophysical and national sovereignty is violence. The United States government sanctioning the ****** of non-white, but especially Muslim bodies across the world... is violence. So, when you condemn violence, do you mean resistance? Because there is a whole lot of violence you should be condemning instead. Adapted from Emilio Lacques-Zapien

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Dec 31, 2014

Dec 31, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC

The fire this time

Every time people start to rise up, a whole buncha problematic mess gets thrown around regarding VIOLENCE. So, what is "violence" really?... It's the use of force. Plain and simple. What makes folks uncomfortable (who are otherwise comfortable in this system) is that UPRISING IS A SOMETIMES VIOLENT (read: forceful) REACTION TO SYSTEMATIC VIOLENCE: Yes, just like the Hunger Games... Thus, there are many types of violence... The fact that we are paying taxes that are funding the genocide and ****** of people of color (here and abroad) is violence. People with guns (former slave patrols and overseers, now cops) who come from outside our community and treat our folks as criminals on the daily is violence. Capitalism, i.e. wage/property/ecology-based exploitation in the name of profit is violence. The fact that LA County spends more $$ than anywhere in the world on prisons and police is violence. The fact that the US locks up more of its own people than any other country on record is violence. US aiding/funding the genocide of Palestinians at the hands of Israel is genocidal violence. From Congress, to the boardrooms, to the classrooms, from the gaze, to the unwanted touching, to the **** to the pay, Patriarchy everyday, is violence. A few people jacking some **** at Walmart or breaking a window is really minimal violence in comparison. A couple people throwing **** at armed cops is not serious violence. The idea of owning property that other must rent to live is violent. Systemic, chronic, global insecurity in the form of material poverty is violence. Wage slavery is violence. Gentrification is violence. The War On Youth, i.e. the School-to-Prison pipeline, and, thus the War-on-Drugs with its attending 76% recidivism rate in the prison-industrial complex, whose populations are disproportionately black males, is violence. The fact that people can't go to the doctor and dentist, or eat food every day is violence. Deportations are violence. Homophobia is violence. The world's largest global military that vaporizes people without due process in dozens of countries violating their biophysical and national sovereignty is violence. The United States government sanctioning the ****** of non-white, but especially Muslim bodies across the world... is violence. So, when you condemn violence, do you mean resistance? Because there is a whole lot of violence you should be condemning instead. Adapted from Emilio Lacques-Zapien

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one grain of sand inside one clam The clam spends time with this grain of sand it is nurtured it is protected it is valued it is loved it is seen as an important part of the clams life it then becomes a pearl Why are you so clammed up? I'm clammed up because I am making a pearl I am making myself my own pearl creating my own beauty Shining my imperfections as if they were weaknesses I am loving myself And protecting myself from the toxic environment the world around me can be I am learning the value of myself Nurturing myself The pearl is my own sense of self. That is my pearl

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Jan 8, 2015

Jan 8, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC

one grain of sand inside one clam The clam spends time with this grain of sand it is nurtured it is protected it is valued it is loved it is seen as an important part of the clams life it then becomes a pearl Why are you so clammed up? I'm clammed up because I am making a pearl I am making myself my own pearl creating my own beauty Shining my imperfections as if they were weaknesses I am loving myself And protecting myself from the toxic environment the world around me can be I am learning the value of myself Nurturing myself The pearl is my own sense of self. That is my pearl

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She's the type of girl who spends her days waiting to watch the sunset every night, only to write about how compelling of a view it was. How she runs barefoot across such harsh surfaces just to catch a glimpse of its radiance and not even flenching when her feet are bruised. I am the type of girl who used to not be able to imagine something more breathtaking than the suns bow as it leaves the stage for the stars to take over. The kind who simultaneously finds herself and gets lost in a matter of a few minutes while staring up at something of such beauty. When those two things mix, when the two people share in the same unfathomable sunset, she becomes fixated on the sky while I become completely captivated in the way that the sun dances on her hair and how the light of the sun could never dream of comparing to the one in her eyes. How her embrace makes me feel a type of warmth that the heat could not possibly create. Trying not to stare, but also not wanting to look away. Fumbling on my words because the only thing that wants to come out are the words "I love you."

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Jul 18, 2015

Jul 18, 2015 at 9:51 PM UTC

Beautiful sunset for a beautiful girl

She's the type of girl who spends her days waiting to watch the sunset every night, only to write about how compelling of a view it was. How she runs barefoot across such harsh surfaces just to catch a glimpse of its radiance and not even flenching when her feet are bruised. I am the type of girl who used to not be able to imagine something more breathtaking than the suns bow as it leaves the stage for the stars to take over. The kind who simultaneously finds herself and gets lost in a matter of a few minutes while staring up at something of such beauty. When those two things mix, when the two people share in the same unfathomable sunset, she becomes fixated on the sky while I become completely captivated in the way that the sun dances on her hair and how the light of the sun could never dream of comparing to the one in her eyes. How her embrace makes me feel a type of warmth that the heat could not possibly create. Trying not to stare, but also not wanting to look away. Fumbling on my words because the only thing that wants to come out are the words "I love you."

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For half a revolution she spends her days in caliginous caverns where worms like silver thread weave through moistened walls. Water, endless dripping, howling, whining, stalagmite fangs. It began with a stranger, shrouded with shadows. Petrichor breath, and beetle black eyes, twisted root fingers, and scattered seeds. It was lonely at first, death and loss and weary wayfarers with tired souls. An estranged husband, a trio of rumbling growls, and the lonesome echo of her own footsteps. Waiting for a someday, that will never come, her titles, a mantra, repeat in her head; daughter, lover, mother and wife, stealer of souls and giver of life. So when the daffodils bud, and the world awakens, when she blinks through sunshine and steps into the light, she holds her head high. She is Queen of the Underworld, bolder than before, she will evade their pity, and transcend them all.

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Jan 10, 2018

Jan 10, 2018 at 5:54 AM UTC

For half a revolution she spends her days in caliginous caverns where worms like silver thread weave through moistened walls. Water, endless dripping, howling, whining, stalagmite fangs. It began with a stranger, shrouded with shadows. Petrichor breath, and beetle black eyes, twisted root fingers, and scattered seeds. It was lonely at first, death and loss and weary wayfarers with tired souls. An estranged husband, a trio of rumbling growls, and the lonesome echo of her own footsteps. Waiting for a someday, that will never come, her titles, a mantra, repeat in her head; daughter, lover, mother and wife, stealer of souls and giver of life. So when the daffodils bud, and the world awakens, when she blinks through sunshine and steps into the light, she holds her head high. She is Queen of the Underworld, bolder than before, she will evade their pity, and transcend them all.

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Put out a cigarette. Lite a new one. Take a shower. Drink some coffee. Quick brush of the teeth. This is how John Carpenter starts his day. Start the truck. Lite a cigarette. Drive. Drive. Lite a new cigarette. Drive. This is how John Carpenter goes to work. Check in with the boss. Sit down at typewriter. Lite a cigarette. Think. Type. Type. Lite a cigarette. Type. Type. Lite a cigarette. Type. Type. Type. Think. Stretch. Lite a cigarette. Type. This is how John Carpenter spend the first hour at work. Repeat seven times. Check out with boss. Start the truck. Lite a cigarette. Drive. Drive. Lite another cigarette. Drive. This is how John Carpenter drives home. Take off his coat. Lite a cigarette. Feed the dog. Cook a steak. Drink a beer. Eat the steak. Drink another beer. Lite a cigarette. Watch the ballgame. Lite another cigarette. Lite four or five more throughout the game. Quick brush of the teeth. Lite a cigarette. Read. Read. Read. Lite another. Read. Read. Drink some brandy. Fall asleep. This is how John Carpenter spends his evening. Repeat all of this 7,304 times. This is how John Carpenter spends his life. And when he has smoked enough cigarettes for a lifetime and read enough for a life time and eaten enough steak and drank enough brandy and beer and written enough novels for a lifetime he will die. And only Mary Stein will miss him.

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Sep 2, 2013

Sep 2, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC

The Life Of John Carpenter.

Put out a cigarette. Lite a new one. Take a shower. Drink some coffee. Quick brush of the teeth. This is how John Carpenter starts his day. Start the truck. Lite a cigarette. Drive. Drive. Lite a new cigarette. Drive. This is how John Carpenter goes to work. Check in with the boss. Sit down at typewriter. Lite a cigarette. Think. Type. Type. Lite a cigarette. Type. Type. Lite a cigarette. Type. Type. Type. Think. Stretch. Lite a cigarette. Type. This is how John Carpenter spend the first hour at work. Repeat seven times. Check out with boss. Start the truck. Lite a cigarette. Drive. Drive. Lite another cigarette. Drive. This is how John Carpenter drives home. Take off his coat. Lite a cigarette. Feed the dog. Cook a steak. Drink a beer. Eat the steak. Drink another beer. Lite a cigarette. Watch the ballgame. Lite another cigarette. Lite four or five more throughout the game. Quick brush of the teeth. Lite a cigarette. Read. Read. Read. Lite another. Read. Read. Drink some brandy. Fall asleep. This is how John Carpenter spends his evening. Repeat all of this 7,304 times. This is how John Carpenter spends his life. And when he has smoked enough cigarettes for a lifetime and read enough for a life time and eaten enough steak and drank enough brandy and beer and written enough novels for a lifetime he will die. And only Mary Stein will miss him.

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You laid yourself a path Of the best-laid plans Of a future set in stone But she interferes When she sheds her tears And she spends all her time Daydreaming If she could she would Run your train right off the tracks You’d be forced to shed your skin Never looking back She worships the moon With a ***** silver spoon It won’t answer her prayers So with her flowing blonde hair She spends her time Daydreaming But now she builds her shrine to you She does all that she can do Are you prepared to take her on And spend your days in the sun Daydreaming

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Oct 15, 2013

Oct 15, 2013 at 11:48 AM UTC

You laid yourself a path Of the best-laid plans Of a future set in stone But she interferes When she sheds her tears And she spends all her time Daydreaming If she could she would Run your train right off the tracks You’d be forced to shed your skin Never looking back She worships the moon With a ***** silver spoon It won’t answer her prayers So with her flowing blonde hair She spends her time Daydreaming But now she builds her shrine to you She does all that she can do Are you prepared to take her on And spend your days in the sun Daydreaming

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My neighbour is heartbroken. She had her heart torn into pieces by a poet,a writer, a painter and a singer. Her silent cries are thought to be hidden through her thick walls. But I hear them. She spends her nights screaming and rummaging the pain silently away. But loud enough for me. I hear her sharp razor tickle through her skin creating a flawless crisscross pattern. I see the blood explode from her vein running down her no longer smooth skin dripping on the tiles forming a puddle. I hear the loud crack from her throat that shows me the tears that desperately escapes from her eyes,running down her cheeks searching for a way out. She covers her mouth,closes her eyes and huddles, hoping she's tricking her heart to believe she's being cuddled, But her mind and I know what's real. Her blood's escaping vigorously, Her hearts beating ferociously, Her mind is wandering off into darkness tremendously. My neighbour is heartbroken and I don't know what to do. I cannot save her. She believes that I am like him. Because I am a poet.

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Feb 7, 2015

Feb 7, 2015 at 11:01 AM UTC

The Heartbroken neighbour

My neighbour is heartbroken. She had her heart torn into pieces by a poet,a writer, a painter and a singer. Her silent cries are thought to be hidden through her thick walls. But I hear them. She spends her nights screaming and rummaging the pain silently away. But loud enough for me. I hear her sharp razor tickle through her skin creating a flawless crisscross pattern. I see the blood explode from her vein running down her no longer smooth skin dripping on the tiles forming a puddle. I hear the loud crack from her throat that shows me the tears that desperately escapes from her eyes,running down her cheeks searching for a way out. She covers her mouth,closes her eyes and huddles, hoping she's tricking her heart to believe she's being cuddled, But her mind and I know what's real. Her blood's escaping vigorously, Her hearts beating ferociously, Her mind is wandering off into darkness tremendously. My neighbour is heartbroken and I don't know what to do. I cannot save her. She believes that I am like him. Because I am a poet.

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In a city full of tall buildings and unspeakable views, breathtaking unknowns and unfamiliar faces, there are those sitting on window sills chugging bottles of brew, leaving cigarette traces She spends her days in a haze, sharing little laughs that make her ribs ache, all in attempt to erase you It's only then she sees, an imprint on the soul is the kind of stain that can't be scrubbed

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Apr 7, 2014

Apr 7, 2014 at 3:09 AM UTC

Beer Bottles and Cigarette Ashes

In a city full of tall buildings and unspeakable views, breathtaking unknowns and unfamiliar faces, there are those sitting on window sills chugging bottles of brew, leaving cigarette traces She spends her days in a haze, sharing little laughs that make her ribs ache, all in attempt to erase you It's only then she sees, an imprint on the soul is the kind of stain that can't be scrubbed

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