"spoiler" poems
I woke up one day
And I rode far away
And when I came back
A few weeks late
i decided to shape
up
or else, its a long ride
down
How often do you walk home?
Or should I say struggle
Distances are more attainable
In mixed up situations
I am too deeply rooted in thought
on the topic of meditation
To help this patient
I am inhabiting
Enter: ************* bicycles
I used to find
Walking uphill
And walking downhill
Equally awful
The climb to the top
Is worth the fast ride down
The topic of how many hills
are around
And how often we choose to climb them
Will not play in this ballgame
Because cycling is a sport
blood doping is dope
breaking news:
Livestrong sponsors the pope
Without a helment
You would tell me I look ****
As I ride with no hands
Don’t worry darlin’
I knew my hair looked good too
Drinking whiskey at home you can make art
I made that without you
It all came out of my mouth
And nostrils
Without you
I will puke again
Without you
Its true
Rough mornings aren’t new
their usually rough
without you
Only because my will is strong
And if I didn’t livestrong
My will - still will included you
Only if I died on someone else’s terms
(spoiler no such thing)
In an alternate universe
You could be on my bike
And I’d be ****** cold sober
And when that bus hit me
My mom wanted to give you
what belonged to me - the one thing
That survived the accident
Ask a few old friends I survived a few
Whether you knew
Or not
were on it or off
Always on the bottom
Jake
Was a snake
Before I met him
That’s Kona bike history
Living on
Without me
As I age I am learning
To be loyal
To all sorts of objects
like bikes
And women
that own them.
Withholding
without me
I can't see what it would be
like without me -
But lets be honest
Its not so as much about the bikes
As it is about bliss
i've seen what its like without you
It true
If a bus ran over my *** tomorrow
The first thing it would break is my heart
You could start
The day I stopped
Riding my bike
Apr 27, 2013
Apr 27, 2013 at 3:35 AM UTC
Cinderella had her slipper, which was made of glass.
Something so small, yet, so delicate.
And I, much like Cinderella, have something made of glass.
Something so small, yet, oh so delicate.
It’s my heart.
And I think the clock just struck Midnight.
But only one of us can get our happily-ever-after.
And here’s a spoiler:
It’s the broad with the wacky footwear.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 11:03 PM UTC
i’m not yours.
i never have been
and for the life of me
i can’t figure out why you thought i was.
was it the way i dressed,
the way i acted,
or simply the look in my eyes?
or was it the things I can’t control,
the curves i grew and
the ******* i had no choice but
to have?
i never wanted this.
i never asked for this.
i don’t want your attention
or your wandering hands.
i want to be free to do what i’d like
just to be,
to just
let myself go.
but i can’t.
all because of a stupid little thing
that should be little
but is seen as big
why did i have to be a woman?
instead of living carefree
i have to be careful.
keep the legs always crossed
wear shirts up to your neck
be respectful
(but not too respectful,
lest they believe
you’re asking them for
something)
but even if
you follow all the rules
they don’t care.
your very body is an invitation.
because what is ****** autonomy
in a male dominated world?
spoiler alert: there isn’t any.
Apr 4, 2021
Apr 4, 2021 at 7:11 PM UTC
"where did all it start to go wrong,
when my doctor told me i didn't have long,
cancer treatments too **** expensive-
wife's in charge and I'm **** retentive,
can't get a job,can't get a loan,
maybe I can figure how to work from home?
My future's like Heisenberg,too uncertain,
provide for my family,before its curtains...
I'm a chemistry teacher and chemistry rules me,
but so many unknown's too easy to fool me,
but how can I do it?can't even guess,
unless,unless,I start to cook ****
Unless as a teacher I get someone to school me,
I know the principles(principals), just need the tools,see,
I can't tell my wife-can't tell my son,
that my stars burning out like a fading sun,
a trailer park cookout,will it be a mess,
first batch BITCH!(Jesse sample)total **** success,
but success in this business can lead to death,
p.e. number one,-Heisenberg of ****
Gotta deal with this psycho,name of Tuco,
might shake your hand,cut your throat or shoot you,
I was a 9 to 5 loser-happy teaching chemistry,
now I deal in in death,spreading pain and misery,
My partners a junkie,my wife doesn't get-
That I'm like a medical examiner,surrounded by death,
Jesus Jesse you're a pane in my ***
it's looking clear to me,you're too fond of the glass,
mirror mirror,where's the fairest price for us?,
I've heard of this one guy,name of Gus...
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
Dude on the Internet spoils the ending of a book to my friend.
That friend spoils it for me.
"I needed it out of my system, I am sorry Jaishree. "
I spoil for the girl sits next to me in the class.
She laughs and says
"I was expecting him to die from the start."
I spoil it for my other classmate who doesn't seem to care.
"It's just a book! It will pass in a few days."
How dare you, I mentally say while slaughtering his soul
Another classmate lent me her book for the weekend.
"It's written beautifully! The main character dies in the end."
Well thanks for that girl, I really needed to know what happens before starting the book.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
Italia! thou art fallen, though with sheen
Of battle-spears thy clamorous armies stride
From the north Alps to the Sicilian tide!
Ay! fallen, though the nations hail thee Queen
Because rich gold in every town is seen,
And on thy sapphire-lake in tossing pride
Of wind-filled vans thy myriad galleys ride
Beneath one flag of red and white and green.
O Fair and Strong! O Strong and Fair in vain!
Look southward where Rome’s desecrated town
Lies mourning for her God-anointed King!
Look heaven-ward! shall God allow this thing?
Nay! but some flame-girt Raphael shall come down,
And smite the Spoiler with the sword of pain.
2.5k
in new york, we milly rock
dance close enough to smell
each other, far enough
to never touch,
i have my own funny
stories about us,
our party tricks
and burning soul,
we need jesus, don't we?
but oh, what lies we tell
we both know this life will ****
us before anything (or anyone) else
but i'm back in brooklyn,
caught up, dress to impress
pop up, car skid
you loose your mind
we move away from brooklyn,
now we live on the face of the sun
we are not lovers
we just scream at each other not
to switch sides,
without commitment, we are
nothing, we need moderation,
nowadays,
i try to wash you out
of my mind
spoiler alert: i can't
i'm still stuck on those days
back in new york
when we milly rocked
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 10:36 PM UTC
I'm roaring towards the sun,
in an aluminum bubble.
My spirit, lacks wings, to fly
but there's a spoiler,
fitted, to the silvery minivan's frame.
So, we drive down the day...
coldly harmonious,
as it glitters back,
in mild flashes.
Memory, is stagnant;
flecks of it shine, back, at me--
capsules, of captured thought,
suspended movement...
the world, itself, becomes gelatinous.
The park, where I almost--
the long-absent faces,
of growing boys, and girls,
concealing toothy monsters.
Unsung heroes, and wandering bards...
Freezing sidewalks,
slanting homes...
places I knew, so well;
they stand, still,
and appear to register
no change, and no difference.
Christ, with his pale, pinned arms,
and pain-stricken face,
gazes down, on all these sins
a placid totem,
on his marbled cross...
an overgrown snowdrop,
crying mildly,
into polluted grasses, below.
A sweet song, emits
from surrounding speakers
and it becomes tangled,
in its own chords.
It breaks, in my throat,
like tinted glass...
and suddenly,
my eyes, are full,
of flooding,
unshed tears.
Their sorrow, needles
at sore, spent cheeks.
The rain, which pinks, soft clay
is hard, and salted,
and as it beats down, onto my skin,
I can feel the sunlight working
its gentle,
tumble-dry magic,
and finessing them clean, again.
I turn my face, away
to stare out, silent,
through the unbroken window.
I'm sobbing, harder, now,
and I have no idea,
how I started...
or why,
it won't stop...
but still, the rain,
rolls down shaky gutters;
unrepentant,
and unrepressed.
The wild weeds, of the garden,
are well-fed, indeed
yet overwatered,
beneath leaky clouds,
and graying seams.
Sep 9, 2025
Sep 9, 2025 at 6:46 AM UTC
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gKPEOfybQak&feature;=related
*Remember his name when you look at the night sky.
- the Toe-cutter*
You are the Night Rider,
a fuel-injected suicide machine,
a rocker, a roller,
a no-controller,
yer a cop killer,
the mighty weird hand of vengeance
come to smite the un-roadworthy.
You, Night Rider,
clearly unaffected
by the state’s urgings
to “yield” and, perhaps,
“soft shoulder”.
You are the Night Rider,
sleeping in on a Tuesday,
performing your masculinity
in unshowered, unshaved machissmo.
Night Rider,
won’t you come to your senses?
Nobody enjoys maniacal laughter
anymore.
It makes us think of ****
covered in fleas, bedbugs,
whiskey ****
or Janis,
and the last moments of an American Saigon.
Ahh… Night Rider,
we share your machine lust,
your fetish,
your hard-on for the muscle-bitch,
the suped-up hot rod,
the last of the V-8 Interceptors
(1973 Australian Ford XB Falcon GT).
We, too, like a nitrous kit,
a roof and tail spoiler,
we likes our flat black:
………....................our murderous speed
………..........................has driven daddy to drinkin’.
We ride!
Night Rider, we understand.
We get the lurid infatuation,
but, **** yer a hick-weed,
all these roads lead to jail
–how have you not grasped this simple truth?
The highway is not freedom,
but a circular slave song.
Oh, rider of the night,
why all the re-runs of Seinfeld?
And cheese bread?
You’ve grown a belly, N.R.,
and while it might be glam
to be young, dumb
and full of ***
or all muscle
in butt-less chaps at 21,
you’re 45, Night Rider,
and no-one cares anymore
about your straight-line revolution,
about your road to freedom,
about it,
about what kind of future
you and Floosie would’a made.
The kids are alright
but
they ain’t never heard
of you
nor your last,
wild-eyed flight.
As the Lord Humungous has indicated,
no one
gets out
alive.
Jun 22, 2012
Jun 22, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC
Ah, heedless girl! why thus disclose
What ne’er was meant for other ears;
Why thus destroy thine own repose,
And dig the source of future tears?
Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid,
While lurking envious foes will smile,
For all the follies thou hast said
Of those who spoke but to beguile.
Vain girl! thy lingering woes are nigh,
If thou believ’st what striplings say:
Oh, from the deep temptation fly,
Nor fall the specious spoiler’s prey.
Dost thou repeat, in childish boast,
The words man utters to deceive?
Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost,
If thou canst venture to believe.
While now amongst thy female peers
Thou tell’st again the soothing tale,
Canst thou not mark the rising sneers
Duplicity in vain would veil?
These tales in secret silence hush,
Nor make thyself the public gaze:
What modest maid without a blush
Recounts a flattering coxcomb’s praise?
Will not the laughing boy despise
Her who relates each fond conceit—
Who, thinking Heaven is in her eyes,
Yet cannot see the slight deceit?
For she who takes a soft delight
These amorous nothings in revealing,
Must credit all we say or write,
While vanity prevents concealing.
Cease, if you prize your Beauty’s reign!
No jealousy bids me reprove:
One, who is thus from nature vain,
I pity, but I cannot love.
1.9k
a message sent to me:
“I know you, Marrano, secret Jew of my heart, weakened by words and strengthened thereby...stout man of words”^
a stranger invasion - his technology, a new combine of words,
percentage of perception high, a ferreting scraping of tissue,
an abrasion of spoiler alerts that are not hidden but now summoned, despite being unbidden early on a Sabbath morn
and at this, my haunted hours, this secret Jew,
wanders unexplored yet familiar routes
of his well traveled innards,
pondering this sweet Shylock Accusation, nay,
this confessional truth, but more, the nut of his essence that ‘tis
his conviction, his twisted sentencing, the exact lived-level of
a hellish Dante verse that shreds the escape of sleep,
that is home
“weakened by words and strengthened thereby”
words forced to the fore, peremptorily summoned,
this inconsistency so constant, his battle,
where neither victory, loss or truce, are resolutions legitimate,
contradictory poems are the tension production
of this high wire act of the man, a performance
best assessed as one of always slipping,
more near-falling failing than cross walking,
employing his word emissions as a balancing pole,
and balancing is a sometime thing
I am not an illusionist - if anything, a disillusionist
there are stanzas writ
but unspoken
that shall not be out-spit
here or now; for lengthy answers already exist,
in a thousand prior scripts
and
the thin wire of preservation
teaches the value of brevity
stout, I think not,
man of words,
no doubt,
one who is both,
a secret Marrano and a Jew, fully exposed,
and one who is
“weakened by words and strengthened thereby”
12/2/17 The Sabbath 3:33am
<•>
extra credit reading
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/529429/the-true-tale-of-shylocks-pound/
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 1:43 PM UTC
7:30PM, October 9, 2015, 65*F, 10mph breeze, 5% humidity (somehow 10% where I was sitting), 50.0001% chance of rain, dark, cold, late, loud...I think that's enough. Alright! Spoiler alert, Birkston High won the game. If you simply have ears you've known that for a while (many of us who were at the game don't). All the people in Grenfolkshire were there, so there were some empty bleachers, but the Student section was full and lively, and did I say loud, because LOUD....! My ears were ringing (at a B8 note, for the musically overcurious people) for three days straight. I think it was a healthcare tactic, dare I say it. All those figurehead townspeople were there as well, like Mayor Arnofold Plattersbury with his orange jumpsuit, waving a pompom in the air like he just didn't care. Really, he didn't-I got whacked in the head with it eleven times. Recently, after taking a recent poll on the recent event, it was found that only about 35% of people really knew what happened, a number that has declined, recently. This very well is contributed to 1.) most of the people are there for the free food and don't exactly major in football 2.) teenagers are highly social creatures 3.) a bunch of hands in the air and six foot tall mammoths standing on the bleachers will tend to block the view of the people who are five foot small. The freshmen had a real problem on their heads. Nevertheless, the Wildcats found themselves with the bell for another year, whether they knew it or not. The Panthers found themselves nose-in-the-dirt, tail-dragging, while we found ourselves filing out like a herd of wild penguins onto the field.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 10:34 PM UTC
She was on a crowded Uptown "A",
with one hand holding on.
In her other hand, a paperback,
dog eared, its cover gone.
Hamlet and Polonius
were with the player King
Bed-Sty might well be Elsinore-
when the plays the thing.
There were plots and counter plots-
to do young Hamlet harm.
"My money is on Fortinbras-
I said, then I was gone.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 2:51 PM UTC
Devil just can't get a hold of me
'Cause God's life and death has set me free
Devil just can't keep me down
'Cause not even death could keep Jesus in the ground
Devil won't take my eyes
'Cause Jesus has power over the prince of lies
Devil don't own my heart
'Cause God made me his right from the start
Devil can't bind my hands
'Cause God has my life under his commands
Devil won't hold my feet
'Cause Jesus stood strong when taking heat
Devil won't steal my soul
'Cause Jesus is he who fills the hole
Devil can't steal my strength
'Cause Jesus is my rock, refuge, and with him I'll go great lengths
Devil don't bind my chest
'Cause when I'm at my weakest, God's at his best
Devil just can't hold me back
'Cause God will protect me from attack
Devil can't control my *****
'Cause God satisfies fully when, to his, our hearts we join
Blazing hot with the Holy Spirit
The devil runs for fear of it
To God I give my entire being
His power sends the devil fleeing
When Jesus is present on my mind
I can leave the devil far behind
In Christ's eternal perfect love
Devil says: "Aye, there's the rub"
In faith and trust I hold to hope
Feet are firm against the devil's steep slope
In God I take great joy and delight
That the devil can't hope to steal my light
Jesus is my source of peace
Devil won't win but he doesn't cease
To God I sing hymns of praise
To fend off the devil's cold embrace
To serve the Lord is a great honor
My life was saved by a blood donor
To God be power and wonder and glory
Spoiler: The devil loses at the end of the story!
Jesus is the lover of my soul
Devil just don't have any control
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 5:57 PM UTC
The shadows get frighteningly long,
he watches in silence like a painter
whose mixed up colors in the palette
are found to be of no use, the pictures
are muddled by inept handling of colors.
once colorful skyline is suddenly
pecked in to pieces by winds,
the belligerent evening birds in discord;
the child playing in the park now gives up
her carefully structured house,
receiving cues from swarms of darkness,
looks at her mother as if she isn't interested,
anymore, as if feeling the encroaching loneliness.
"Evening is a spoiler of beautiful things"
he jots down on the page of the day in his mind
"it's enticing beauty is just a masquerade"
a truth he would vouch as a fact of life.
It's time to be back home, the dusk falls
holding mom's finger she goes
back to the lighted space of warmth
that has an assurance of kiss any moment,
on his way she sends a smile, just a stranger
till two days before, as if saying "See you tomorrow"
this little one is a fresh guest of breeze
a pure blessing, sunshine rare in winter.
This rusted garden bench knows him well,
the fragrance of mango blossoms from a land distant
in a season long past still spreads the scent of musk
touches somewhere deep, brings
memories from a land so far, a land where
evenings were spent under the shades of mango trees
in exhilaration, awaiting the mango fruit season.
A change in the lighting of sky overturns everything.
time administers it's hidden poison drop by drop,
the memories of an evening from afar asks in a feeble voice
"Will the child come to the park to play tomorrow again?"
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 12:30 AM UTC
Well we jumped on the wing
for a good Irish fling
kicked off the week
with a boiler
The banter was high
as we took to the sky
nothing in sight
was a spoiler
And the red eye at night
was a captain’s delight
we spread on the seat
of the liner
Arrived just in time
for a whale of a time
at the Temple Bar
and Diner
Well the Dublin scene
in the Old College Green
was wired and alive
on the corner
Where me and me' mates
paired in at the gates
there were welcoming arms
to us foreigners
And we sang through the night
and grinned in delight
with banjos, pipes
and lasses
Drinking whiskey and beer
in a boatload of cheer
the rooster got lost
in the masses
The **** in the walk
was out on the stalk
a wee little flute
on display
His shoulders were pinned
with a great big grin
they were such
peculiar ways!
Well we found em next day
(in a sauntering way)
*got tossed in
all the commotion*
What happened to you?
said he hadn’t a clue
or any
baldy notion!
Hit the road to Howth
little east, little south
the seaside town
was groovin
Found the Cobblestone Pub
for a jar and a scrub
the seabird sounds
were soothin
Then we jumped a train
in the lashing rain
the Belfast craic
was mighty
Hit the Thirsty Goat
with a parching throat
some Tullamore Dew
for a nighty
In the Crumlin jail
the spirits set sail
the IRA
was gaffin
There was Bobby Sands
in celestial lands
alive and proud
and laughin
The Griffin dance
was the final chance
the evening closed
in nigh
And we made our way
through the Chelsea lanes
to say our
final good bye
~ ~ ~ ~
Singing
Ay, oh…let it all go
safe haven in the wasteland!
Singing
Slainte’…take me away
to the old Irish sounds
of the band!
Sep 23, 2021
Sep 23, 2021 at 11:41 AM UTC
Believing this love
is pool of eternal bliss.
Cold heartless teacher.
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 10:32 AM UTC
i sat on my roof and screamed,
i'm gonna revolutionize this
god **** world if it kills me
and my neighbors all turned
and stared, interrupted from
mowing their lawns, washing
their cars, teaching their sons
to play catch, and daughters
to go fetch their morning papers
they quickly turned away at
the realization that it was just that
crazy neighbor girl who hasn't
done **** with her four year
degree, but create a fortress
in which she hides day after day
they smell that stanky marijuana
pluming out of her window
and watch her stumble home, drunk,
listening to her sing along to the music
that the devil has surely put on this
earth to corrupt good catholics,
like the one she once was
and they shake their heads and
hold tight to their son's shoulders
and even tighter to their daughter's
hands, because maybe, just maybe
if they hold on tight enough they'll
always be dumb enough to withstand
because the masses are the winners
and this is the spoiler,
we're being taken over by cookie cutting
stepford wannabe *************
and they're gonna ruin the world
Jan 30, 2012
Jan 30, 2012 at 11:31 PM UTC
I'm leaning on a crutch
to help me stay tall.
Slender, tall mind
Short, fat heart.
Eyelids: much like the mind
(a projector screen for my dreams)
When I speak,
I read the scripts of the movies;
whatever movies I've been watching.
Subconsciously, all conversation is a mere recap,
a synopsis of the film I watched the night before.
A real spoiler to the listener. I'm a movie ruiner.
I'm the only one who sees the works that I spoil.
Thank god for that.
Disclaimer: I just spoiled a movie for you.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 6:35 PM UTC
We tried something different this year
A Thanksgiving day buffet
I really like the leftovers though
So I lined my pockets with cellophane
To justify my actions
As I stood in line
With the twenty bucks I was paying
Would a little take out be such a crime
Being a master of illusion
I pointed and said is that Santa Claus
While everyone was looking
I filled my back pockets with cranberry sauce
Things were running rather smoothly
As we moved along
I was stuffing everything from giblets to gravy down my drawers
As if there was nothing wrong
With tomorrows lunch now in my pockets
I went back to the table to dine
Forgetting the cranberry sauce in my rear as I sat
I squirted the lady behind me in the eye
Her husband jumped quickly into action
He was a mountain of a man
We'll just call him Everest
I didn't have time to catch his name
He picked me up and started shaking
That's when my stuffing's came flying out
Tomorrows meal went everywhere
Splattering the entire dining crowed
There was quite a ruckus
As we chased around the restaurant
It's going to be hard to get my leftovers back
Now that I've lost my air of nonchalant
As we were knocking over tables
I got the idea to grab peoples plates
Not wanting to be a spoiler of the holidays
Out the door I hollered back...
Have A Happy Thanksgiving Day!
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 7:21 AM UTC
Have you ever loved someone so much
You could no longer look at them?
Afraid that if you did,
They'd catch the emotion in your eyes?
This isn't a poem like that, not really
There was no brush of fingertips and long sideways glances
He is not the sun, and I am not the earth
But we could be meant to be
He is not an angel, He does not fly on wings made of music and
He does not leave ****** footprints across golden landscapes
He is not the best thing to happen since sliced bread,
Hell, he's not even the best thing to happen to me
And yet,
Here I am writing yet another poem
About the way I don't let myself look at his eyes
And who needs more words about how arms feel like home
When it could just be that you haven't been held in a while
Who needs metaphors about butterflies
When in reality it's just an excuse for hesitation
A fallacy-filled reasoning to not take a chance
And some sick culmination of a lack of self worth
I can give you reasons that I love him,
I can give you clues that he loves me,
I can give you explanations, similes,
Excuses for why I've done nothing,
But why even bother with that?
What is the point of waxing poetic about a boy
Who I will never make a move on
And who will never make a move?
Spoiler Alert,
There isn't one.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 2:34 PM UTC
Dear body,
Why.
Why have you given me
My widening hips
Thighs growing like a mermaid's tail
A chest I love and hate
Dear body,
Why do you influence the opinions
He,
She,
Them,
Me
Because I'm tired
I want to be more than the censored
Parts in the movies
I want to wear eyeliner sharp as steel
Rocking my oversized hoodie
Dress one day
Binder the next
Maybe both
Dear body, you think you control my identity
Spoiler alert: I do
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 11:46 PM UTC