Poetic T Sep 2014
The Frog was doing his thing
Hopping,
Croaking,
Splashing,
In to any water that he could see,
He happened upon
This Jigsaw of black and white
Morning sir, he croaked
The Cow looked down,
"MOOOOO"
Pardon I didn't quite get that,
"MOOOOVE"
Your on the tastiest grass
Below your webbed feet,
"Sorry sir,"
Didn't wish to stomp on your
Lunch with my feet,
So he hoped along, as Frogs do
Then turned around,
Hopped his best, speed built up
Leaping with all his might,
Over the Cow,
Then gracefully on to his feet,
"Cow turned"
Whhhat are you doing little thing,
As the Frog
Replied, I was seeing if I could
Jump over you
Why?
Would you do such a thing,
Well mum told me
A Cow jumped over the moon,
Yes we do
Replied Cow
Famously Are we for doing this,
Feat never seen.
"Frog replied"
Riibit, well I just jumped over you
So now I an the best jumper it seems,
Confused,
Thinking,
Laughing,*
Out loud with a MMOOooo
You aren't a better jumper than me,
We will see little Frog said
With that he did a
Bounce,
Hop,
Jumped,
Over the Cow once again it seemed,
Now it is your turn
As Cow looked on nervously
So he hooved his feet
1,
2,
3,
With that he tried
"FAILED"
Lost his balance,
And in to another's Cow pat
His face did meet.
Now the cow was not only
Black
&
White
But now he was
Covered,
&
Smelled,
Like poo, embarrassed
Was he
The Frog did laugh
Ribit, Ribit, Ribit,
Loud and clear,
Cow looked at frog,
Now Cow do you see,
Never believe what you hear,
Until you see it with your own eyes,
This is what my mother read to me,
And with that, Frog bounced off happily.
Kataleya Aug 2014
The beauty of a woman
is in the poems she's wrote,
the dreams she's weaved
and all the stories she's told.

The beauty of a woman
is in the adventures she's taken,
the lives she's touched
and all the minds she's awakened.

The beauty of a woman
is in the caring she gives,
the sincerity in her laughter,
and the passion in her griefs.

It's not the expensive clothes she owns,
her body size, the diamonds she's worn.
Measure not the beauty of woman in gold,
for the beauty of a woman is reflected in her soul.
Dedicated to all women out there with an amazing mind and a beautiful soul. We are the gift of nature, soft enough to touch the core of others and strong enough to protect that and those important to us. I love you all. Believe in yourself and the world will believe in your power.

I'm honored to have it as the daily poem.
wandabitch Oct 2012
A domino pile are my notebooks
and the bottom thoughts
hold my wand.

Unleashed with certain and schemes,
the past asking what ends meets means.
Walking somewhere
going through,

But be careful to slay the monster,
what a story can become.
Once the swift master,
now a slave to my dog.

The Archer and Orion,
Apollo and Venus shining.
Battle for my sake.

It is, there minds and souls
weaved from foxed cloves
the slip in space and rhyme.

Just in my skin as a stitch
and storm to sailor's plight,
"Oh my captain, Ishmael
Sank into the night!"

Leaning Tower now breaks
inside,
opened window to the sunrise.


Tap. Tap.

Went the sound of ink,
Ocean breathes me
I breathe the sea
princess and
pea
Jaanam Jaswani Mar 2015
As the light and shadows of overthinking roll over,
And the yellow raspberries start to doubt their realities,
I'll be here - owning nameless cats and refusing to buy furniture;
Lusting for the life I thought I had, green-eyed and sadistic.

Let's take a selfie. TRIPLE CHIN!

As you swipe for filters,
And draw a penis on your friend's face,
I'll be here - fighting the urge to be useless;
Tapping and holding for fake friends.

Selfies. We've been afflicted with this terrible, god-awful disease.

And as you post a shaky video of your boyfriend driving?
And laugh at that joke you know you didn't find funny
I will be here - throwing my circles of seconds away.

**Three, two, one.
It gets worse as you scroll down. Soz m8.
Eric Anderson Oct 2011
Rose petals lines the floor
Ahead the door awaits your entry
Into a place where the scent
Is that of freshly pick rose
A place where arose then froze space and time
At the stop of a dime
Waistline move like the flow of rhyme
With every beat emotions run deep
Reminiscing of sex all night under the sheet

This is our story… bedtime story
Nipple all ripe…ready to be pick by my tongue
Breast so soft…ass so round…tonight it’s 12 rounds
My head against your chest hearing heartbeat
Your warm breathe in my ear
Cause flairs…where…you only dare
My stare in your brown eyes
While I caress your breast like it’s my love nest

I whisper in your ear
Words only you and I share
Your strong legs I touch… moving softly to your crutch
Rubbing your clit, while you moan, screaming,
Begging me to enter…so you can feel my manly hood
In your womanhood

Hours gone…hours came
Our love is still the same
Now you lie, looking in my eyes
I see the story…written in signs of love
Signed, the best I had
Bedroom stories
Rhianecdote Dec 2014
Scars
mean
    you're
           no
             longer
           bleeding
             out.

                               Scars
                                   mean
                                        that
                                          you
                                       healed.

                                                        ­So
                                                      never
                                                      be        ­                      .                                          ­   ashamed
                                                             or afraid
                                                          ­      of scars.
Flo Aug 2016
Each poem tells a story
Containing truthful experiences
Gathered over various stages of life

Happy poems, sad poems, odd poems
Reflecting the personality of a poet
Exposing flighty thoughts
Caught and trapped in lines

Poetry means diversity
There can't be wrong nor right
And ain't that the magnificence
After quite a pause I am back writing. I think the poem is selfexplaining, please enjoy!
Hannah Holliday Nov 2014
In between slurred words and short pauses, he tried to explain himself
He always would gravitate to telling the same story
A tale of a young boy who grew up without a father in the city
how the only light in the boys life was the city lights
bones Feb 2016
Autumn leaves hurry to gather
at one worn headstone after another
like a funeral party uncertain whether
these dead are the loved ones they grieve;

A nagging wind tugs at the memory
left in this absent minded cemetery
nobody visits but beech trees and me
and the dead lying under the leaves

with stories that no-one can read..
Madisen S Aug 2014
Your freckles remind me of the beautiful constellations.
Connecting to paint lovely portraits in the
midnight sky. Telling stories as the nights grow deep.

12:03 am and people are outside staring up at the sky,
wondering why things are going wrong.
And then they see your stars shining bright;
Giving them hope and lighting up the dark.
- m.s.
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