"structured" poems - Hello Poetry

"structured" poems

time is the space in which we grow without awareness in our early years structured by meals arrivals and departures light and dark hot and cold school studies play adventures celebrations and by waiting anxiously or not for things to happen time is that feeling that we may not have enough of it in our later years busy with jobs and family and travel covering long distances in order to achieve and educate and care time is what starts to rush by us with increasing speed in our final years making us wonder what it really means that space by which we measure our lives our universes our worlds time is

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Mar 18, 2015

Mar 18, 2015 at 3:29 PM UTC

time is the space in which we grow without awareness in our early years structured by meals arrivals and departures light and dark hot and cold school studies play adventures celebrations and by waiting anxiously or not for things to happen time is that feeling that we may not have enough of it in our later years busy with jobs and family and travel covering long distances in order to achieve and educate and care time is what starts to rush by us with increasing speed in our final years making us wonder what it really means that space by which we measure our lives our universes our worlds time is

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In time you’ll recover and absolve push those scorned impressions aside hammer down the jaded edges and sing that delightful commoners song the one you sang so well in what seems a lifetime ago You really had it you know that fiery disposition and nimble cunning those butter chords and derelict style we could see it -- we could all see it it was all it took to turn the evening tide (and rile that buck fever) heads bashing tongues lambasting middle fingers high and raising Cain on those may fly statesmen There were no rules when it came to your survival no textbook rally or common bond no structured songbird or bravado stage you either made it, or laid it “life by the ***** Mr. Poppy would say a kaleidoscope of dreams with rich colored imagery hardened artisan seams in a carefully woven motif But something got lost in the needle point something sinister and distorted took hold the quirks and street genius that were your lifeline gave way to grunts and squeals and chilling night crawlers the colors faded quickly to a cold confining grey There was no grace in the new world no retribution or switch back no salvation or accorded finale only edged platforms of blackened steel that kept you cased in a silent vanquished cell shivering cold with fear night without day all in the shadow of death But time heals all and the polish sneakers and open sores are long gone (though the roman nose and shallow cleft remain) indeed the falconer beat the widow maker this go around and I’m hopeful it won’t happen again and if it does you’ll see me standing hand on heart with that old verse in hand: he ain’t tainted or silly, and most certainly not forgotten… he ain’t loony or fixed, or a product of his self-doing… he’s just a straight shootin’ guy, who had the most of it figured out

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Jan 29, 2017

Jan 29, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC

The Commoners Song

In time you’ll recover and absolve push those scorned impressions aside hammer down the jaded edges and sing that delightful commoners song the one you sang so well in what seems a lifetime ago You really had it you know that fiery disposition and nimble cunning those butter chords and derelict style we could see it -- we could all see it it was all it took to turn the evening tide (and rile that buck fever) heads bashing tongues lambasting middle fingers high and raising Cain on those may fly statesmen There were no rules when it came to your survival no textbook rally or common bond no structured songbird or bravado stage you either made it, or laid it “life by the ***** Mr. Poppy would say a kaleidoscope of dreams with rich colored imagery hardened artisan seams in a carefully woven motif But something got lost in the needle point something sinister and distorted took hold the quirks and street genius that were your lifeline gave way to grunts and squeals and chilling night crawlers the colors faded quickly to a cold confining grey There was no grace in the new world no retribution or switch back no salvation or accorded finale only edged platforms of blackened steel that kept you cased in a silent vanquished cell shivering cold with fear night without day all in the shadow of death But time heals all and the polish sneakers and open sores are long gone (though the roman nose and shallow cleft remain) indeed the falconer beat the widow maker this go around and I’m hopeful it won’t happen again and if it does you’ll see me standing hand on heart with that old verse in hand: he ain’t tainted or silly, and most certainly not forgotten… he ain’t loony or fixed, or a product of his self-doing… he’s just a straight shootin’ guy, who had the most of it figured out

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S • Skin tight, skeletal cage both ribs and mind. K • Keep a strict diet, never break it, always hide it from those who would disapprove, so I learned to suffered in silence. I • Internally a growl would emit, I reveled in the power I would get from it. To know I was structured, I wasnt a jumbled mess. Like the mass jiggling, clingling to this withering carcass. N • Never could the fat girl come back out. carve her, choke her, starve her till she lost the will to shout. Shout for help, shout for freedom, shout for love in this life. Useless, everybody knows only fit people have that right. N • Nobody would believe if I told a soul my struggle. "You are huge, big blue whale how can someone like you have a disorder? Y• Yell, scream "I WANT TO BE ME" But I can't because of our society deeming people like me are wrong, why should my weight define wether or not I belong? But because it does I hate myself. I live this life with a wish to die, all because my body is not S•K•I•N•N•Y

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Sep 17, 2016

Sep 17, 2016 at 9:34 PM UTC

_penchantforpoetry_

S•K•I•N•N•Y

S • Skin tight, skeletal cage both ribs and mind. K • Keep a strict diet, never break it, always hide it from those who would disapprove, so I learned to suffered in silence. I • Internally a growl would emit, I reveled in the power I would get from it. To know I was structured, I wasnt a jumbled mess. Like the mass jiggling, clingling to this withering carcass. N • Never could the fat girl come back out. carve her, choke her, starve her till she lost the will to shout. Shout for help, shout for freedom, shout for love in this life. Useless, everybody knows only fit people have that right. N • Nobody would believe if I told a soul my struggle. "You are huge, big blue whale how can someone like you have a disorder? Y• Yell, scream "I WANT TO BE ME" But I can't because of our society deeming people like me are wrong, why should my weight define wether or not I belong? But because it does I hate myself. I live this life with a wish to die, all because my body is not S•K•I•N•N•Y

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Overwhelming mental congestion for perfection, Socially influenced blueprints of future attraction. Constructive criticism given by construction workers, The labor of family and friends for reassurance. A solid foundation of first impressions, Structured walls of growth and development. Insulation of natural feelings and experiences, Ventilation to cool down the heated encounters. Electrical wiring of an emotional and physical connection, A circuitry of passion and romance with a light switch. Hardwood flooring for candle lit dinners and ballroom dancing, Granite kitchen counters for intimate midnight snacks. An attractive exterior siding to woo the public eye, A secure lock of commitment on all the doors. A roof of trust, and a picket fence, And now, my love, I’m simply yours.

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Mar 1, 2015

Mar 1, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC

Architectural Relationships

Overwhelming mental congestion for perfection, Socially influenced blueprints of future attraction. Constructive criticism given by construction workers, The labor of family and friends for reassurance. A solid foundation of first impressions, Structured walls of growth and development. Insulation of natural feelings and experiences, Ventilation to cool down the heated encounters. Electrical wiring of an emotional and physical connection, A circuitry of passion and romance with a light switch. Hardwood flooring for candle lit dinners and ballroom dancing, Granite kitchen counters for intimate midnight snacks. An attractive exterior siding to woo the public eye, A secure lock of commitment on all the doors. A roof of trust, and a picket fence, And now, my love, I’m simply yours.

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What might it be that doesn't let me compete to three verses ? Perhaps it is that I tend to write longer poems, perhaps the lengh shouldn't matter so much as the message is carried through. From mind to heart, then to ones soul I try to reach out with no goal. Yet am beaten, brought back down, by three verses which show up with such malice, ominous, threatful aura, they have approached me. I pretend not to mind, I pretend not to have seen it, yet the simple, silly, broken stream in my thoughts has already engaged it. So that it once again, cannot repress, envy on such a level. My writing style might have been through changes, might have come to a disliking to those who prefer a clear, structured, yet well recorded, beautiful and magnificent rhyme pattern. That should surely catch one's eye, perhaps fill them with glee and bliss, happy thoughts that they would miss once they are gone. But no, I cannot turn, this path was chosen, locked, destined to be walked upon on an journey which has become endless, by time which had stopped passing anymore. So now it became unrecognised, forgotten, left in an abyss without any light to expose it to the world outside my head. Such is the fate, which I will gladly bear with, for this, has been a route, from which I learn and educate. So go ahead, you can take my flame thrice, even if I might not be able to burn this image into your eyes, this ember, about to go out from the cold, windy, airless area, will only burn brighter. As it rises from the ashes and yet again, goes ablaze ~ Umi

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Feb 8, 2018

Feb 8, 2018 at 6:55 PM UTC

What might it be that doesn't let me compete to three verses ? Perhaps it is that I tend to write longer poems, perhaps the lengh shouldn't matter so much as the message is carried through. From mind to heart, then to ones soul I try to reach out with no goal. Yet am beaten, brought back down, by three verses which show up with such malice, ominous, threatful aura, they have approached me. I pretend not to mind, I pretend not to have seen it, yet the simple, silly, broken stream in my thoughts has already engaged it. So that it once again, cannot repress, envy on such a level. My writing style might have been through changes, might have come to a disliking to those who prefer a clear, structured, yet well recorded, beautiful and magnificent rhyme pattern. That should surely catch one's eye, perhaps fill them with glee and bliss, happy thoughts that they would miss once they are gone. But no, I cannot turn, this path was chosen, locked, destined to be walked upon on an journey which has become endless, by time which had stopped passing anymore. So now it became unrecognised, forgotten, left in an abyss without any light to expose it to the world outside my head. Such is the fate, which I will gladly bear with, for this, has been a route, from which I learn and educate. So go ahead, you can take my flame thrice, even if I might not be able to burn this image into your eyes, this ember, about to go out from the cold, windy, airless area, will only burn brighter. As it rises from the ashes and yet again, goes ablaze ~ Umi

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Wax captured in all the flex Structured detail with all the contour molds Realistic in looks of behold Wax of Bodybuilding champions at their best Craftsmanship in not settling for less It’s all about the pose All angles covered I suppose Imagine seeing Arnold Schwarzenegger captured at the time he won the 1970 Mr. Olympia Then Sergio Olivia comes to mind A waxed monster in the crab pose All the veins looking like an intense fire hose It would be competition in being prepared The time vintage bodybuilders stepping on stage, and commotion in making the competition mad The idea of muscles captured in pure wax To attend I hope they don’t add any tax But Bodybuilding is about facts Achieve with a will and it’s no matter what age being still Picture weights molded into wax A bodybuilder lifting feeling a little perplexed But it is true strength and dedication that makes bodybuilding work This would be the message that the vintage Bodybuilding Wax Museum would convey Bodybuilding exposure in every way A vintage bodybuilding wax museum encouraging people to give Bodybuilding a try I am quite sure there are questions of why It is the intensity with effort that would make one cry But the most important aspect would be “Stay away from drugs” This should be captured on every souvenir mug If anyone is caught taking drugs, we will just pull the plug Well vintage bodybuilding wax museum it does have appeal Now if we could just make it happen being for real.

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Dec 29, 2015

Dec 29, 2015 at 7:32 PM UTC

preservationman

A VINTAGE BODYBUILDING WAX MUSEUM

Wax captured in all the flex Structured detail with all the contour molds Realistic in looks of behold Wax of Bodybuilding champions at their best Craftsmanship in not settling for less It’s all about the pose All angles covered I suppose Imagine seeing Arnold Schwarzenegger captured at the time he won the 1970 Mr. Olympia Then Sergio Olivia comes to mind A waxed monster in the crab pose All the veins looking like an intense fire hose It would be competition in being prepared The time vintage bodybuilders stepping on stage, and commotion in making the competition mad The idea of muscles captured in pure wax To attend I hope they don’t add any tax But Bodybuilding is about facts Achieve with a will and it’s no matter what age being still Picture weights molded into wax A bodybuilder lifting feeling a little perplexed But it is true strength and dedication that makes bodybuilding work This would be the message that the vintage Bodybuilding Wax Museum would convey Bodybuilding exposure in every way A vintage bodybuilding wax museum encouraging people to give Bodybuilding a try I am quite sure there are questions of why It is the intensity with effort that would make one cry But the most important aspect would be “Stay away from drugs” This should be captured on every souvenir mug If anyone is caught taking drugs, we will just pull the plug Well vintage bodybuilding wax museum it does have appeal Now if we could just make it happen being for real.

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**I am but a skeleton, A misprinted society element.** I lived to the hum of my own melody, A disapproved version of achieving ecstasy. Those around me didn't like that very much, Made me feel crazy, distant, and such. Then, one day, I came to find, I was one of few with such an open mind. Pressured with conformity, I remained organic, Such a rebellion filled them with panic. So here I lie, a pile of bones They ripped me to shreds, no trace with their ghost. No one realized, for they were confined, Stressing to stay structured, to keep their design. But in the near future, they all will see, The one they cold-heartedly killed is with whom they now agree.

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Nov 23, 2013

Nov 23, 2013 at 3:57 PM UTC

**I am but a skeleton, A misprinted society element.** I lived to the hum of my own melody, A disapproved version of achieving ecstasy. Those around me didn't like that very much, Made me feel crazy, distant, and such. Then, one day, I came to find, I was one of few with such an open mind. Pressured with conformity, I remained organic, Such a rebellion filled them with panic. So here I lie, a pile of bones They ripped me to shreds, no trace with their ghost. No one realized, for they were confined, Stressing to stay structured, to keep their design. But in the near future, they all will see, The one they cold-heartedly killed is with whom they now agree.

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Softly and gently, I swim him along the frail whirlpool of a lie, He visits like a lamp in the froth of cold forward towards but shy I remember to keep my palm onto the cold night's sheet and tell him how his would fit in, how every moment of my cold nights would burn into the arms of his unconscious sin I canst remember thy face though, o love, was the dust of snow much.? Swaying like a leaf in the wind of my poem skimming on the foam of an immortal stream, with his perfect structured fingers touching his evening cup, he flutters like a laugh from the lips of a weeping dream. A dream. A DREAM. O my.! Was this illusory? Years of long closed eyelids imagining their perfect fit The word exists the definition doesn't, Dejection over fancies is dejecting Perfection is straight where you find true love.

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May 25, 2018

May 25, 2018 at 3:41 AM UTC

"Lips of a weeping dream"

Softly and gently, I swim him along the frail whirlpool of a lie, He visits like a lamp in the froth of cold forward towards but shy I remember to keep my palm onto the cold night's sheet and tell him how his would fit in, how every moment of my cold nights would burn into the arms of his unconscious sin I canst remember thy face though, o love, was the dust of snow much.? Swaying like a leaf in the wind of my poem skimming on the foam of an immortal stream, with his perfect structured fingers touching his evening cup, he flutters like a laugh from the lips of a weeping dream. A dream. A DREAM. O my.! Was this illusory? Years of long closed eyelids imagining their perfect fit The word exists the definition doesn't, Dejection over fancies is dejecting Perfection is straight where you find true love.

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Some girls just like something very traditional. does that make them any less of a woman. can a woman be a traditionalist and still be a feminist? I think so. I think that what we shared in that time was exactly what we wanted, to fall back into structured and secure roles, because we'd been through the centrifuge lately. And that may not have been who the both of us were at heart, but it worked to heal us, to make us both better for the future, and most importantly, less cynical. I think that what is most feminist about any relationship is the ability to choose. I've been in relationships where I'm the dominant one, and others where I'm not. It takes the ability to check your own self and being a pragmatist, because if you love someone you will change for them. You won't change your personality, but you'll change the way you approach a relationship if you care about them enough. I think that's what feminism boils down to. Allowing both partners to choose their roles in the relationship instead of having them chosen for them. So, **** it, my girl wants to be Susie Homemaker; that's her choice and I lay my head on that.

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Jan 28, 2012

Jan 28, 2012 at 8:31 PM UTC

Some girls just like something very traditional. does that make them any less of a woman. can a woman be a traditionalist and still be a feminist? I think so. I think that what we shared in that time was exactly what we wanted, to fall back into structured and secure roles, because we'd been through the centrifuge lately. And that may not have been who the both of us were at heart, but it worked to heal us, to make us both better for the future, and most importantly, less cynical. I think that what is most feminist about any relationship is the ability to choose. I've been in relationships where I'm the dominant one, and others where I'm not. It takes the ability to check your own self and being a pragmatist, because if you love someone you will change for them. You won't change your personality, but you'll change the way you approach a relationship if you care about them enough. I think that's what feminism boils down to. Allowing both partners to choose their roles in the relationship instead of having them chosen for them. So, **** it, my girl wants to be Susie Homemaker; that's her choice and I lay my head on that.

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There are just so many snowflakes falling from the sky each year, That you and me, she and he, even your pets could lend their names to the snowflakes, And not worry about them being duplicates of each other, Because just like all human beings have different physical characteristics, Each snowflake is amazingly uniquely structured, You would run out of names of human beings in all languages, Numbering each snowflake is a better option, Mother nature has also made each person so unique, Why care about the names and origins, When everyone could have a unique snowflake!

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May 24, 2013

May 24, 2013 at 6:34 AM UTC

A Snowflake For Everyone

There are just so many snowflakes falling from the sky each year, That you and me, she and he, even your pets could lend their names to the snowflakes, And not worry about them being duplicates of each other, Because just like all human beings have different physical characteristics, Each snowflake is amazingly uniquely structured, You would run out of names of human beings in all languages, Numbering each snowflake is a better option, Mother nature has also made each person so unique, Why care about the names and origins, When everyone could have a unique snowflake!

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DO I, DO I, DO I Have to listen to what everyone says, at-least to capture an idea. I've heard of tedious reviewing, but can it be raw. Can it dare to be something other than structured. Concise is one thing, but is stress another. If I were to free-flow like the rest of the world, would it be bad? You may say it's trash. But are children's books the same to a certain degree. May it be long, may it be short, may it be? Why must there be an end, when your mind certainly doesn't, or would you rather talk of death.

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Oct 28, 2014

Oct 28, 2014 at 4:16 PM UTC

DO I, DO I, DO I Have to listen to what everyone says, at-least to capture an idea. I've heard of tedious reviewing, but can it be raw. Can it dare to be something other than structured. Concise is one thing, but is stress another. If I were to free-flow like the rest of the world, would it be bad? You may say it's trash. But are children's books the same to a certain degree. May it be long, may it be short, may it be? Why must there be an end, when your mind certainly doesn't, or would you rather talk of death.

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Don’t let the last name fool you of Greene As you continue to read, you will understand what made him structured lean Mr. Greene was a man who won International Federation of Bodybuilders of MR. WORLD title twice There were times when Mr. Greene called Joe Weider and asked for advice It was intensity with the weights Then taking in food protein and drinking protein shakes Mr. Greene is a personal friend of mine He used to tell me stories of bodybuilding ways Also stay away from drugs and go astray Yet he was every bodybuilder’s friend But on the Bodybuilding stage, it was about the win Mr. Greene’s muscles were his voice on stage In the audience, it was the posing that did amaze It left the audience and Judge’s in a daze It was his proportion being the fine line Then it was the repetitions that contributed being combined Under the spotlight, Mr. Greene was the terminator But it was his posing being the illustrator Franklyn Greene was focused down to the finish This is what makes him distinguished A Bodybuilding champion who was meant to be The world witnessed and was able to see Mr. Greene made Bodybuilding everything that it should be He is now retired from competition, but continues to train Bodybuilding in his heart still remains His motto, “Train with focus and eye on detail” Franklyn Greene who did achieve and many bodybuilding awards he did receive. Accomplishments with many wins, and with a past being a milestone, but the name of Franklyn Greene who is still known.

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Feb 20, 2016

Feb 20, 2016 at 12:21 PM UTC

preservationman

FRANKLYN GREENE, FORMER COMPETING BODYBUILDING MAN

Don’t let the last name fool you of Greene As you continue to read, you will understand what made him structured lean Mr. Greene was a man who won International Federation of Bodybuilders of MR. WORLD title twice There were times when Mr. Greene called Joe Weider and asked for advice It was intensity with the weights Then taking in food protein and drinking protein shakes Mr. Greene is a personal friend of mine He used to tell me stories of bodybuilding ways Also stay away from drugs and go astray Yet he was every bodybuilder’s friend But on the Bodybuilding stage, it was about the win Mr. Greene’s muscles were his voice on stage In the audience, it was the posing that did amaze It left the audience and Judge’s in a daze It was his proportion being the fine line Then it was the repetitions that contributed being combined Under the spotlight, Mr. Greene was the terminator But it was his posing being the illustrator Franklyn Greene was focused down to the finish This is what makes him distinguished A Bodybuilding champion who was meant to be The world witnessed and was able to see Mr. Greene made Bodybuilding everything that it should be He is now retired from competition, but continues to train Bodybuilding in his heart still remains His motto, “Train with focus and eye on detail” Franklyn Greene who did achieve and many bodybuilding awards he did receive. Accomplishments with many wins, and with a past being a milestone, but the name of Franklyn Greene who is still known.

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Shiny Glazed Sadness Smooth, structured, "put together" some would say in order Under a soft clean exterior and the shimmer of serene plains Lies Lies Lies a lightless Jagged reality. Hope Stunted.

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Dec 30, 2014

Dec 30, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC

Shiny Glazed Sadness Smooth, structured, "put together" some would say in order Under a soft clean exterior and the shimmer of serene plains Lies Lies Lies a lightless Jagged reality. Hope Stunted.

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Give someone a compliment today, post it, say it to someone in real life, but compliment someone today! :) if you do post one, tag it as ##complimentday. Compliments to Ryn, you're concrete poems are amazing! Honestly, they are so well structured, and the poem itself is beautiful alongside the splendid shape that goes along with it. ^^

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Jan 24, 2015

Jan 24, 2015 at 5:20 PM UTC

who-wouldve-thought

January 24th: National Compliment Day!

Give someone a compliment today, post it, say it to someone in real life, but compliment someone today! :) if you do post one, tag it as ##complimentday. Compliments to Ryn, you're concrete poems are amazing! Honestly, they are so well structured, and the poem itself is beautiful alongside the splendid shape that goes along with it. ^^

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Even though they control my ***** claim over my lootie, and they attempt to gaslight my sovereign multifrequency I haven’t forgotten I am a certified Duesy! You’re bumming off me, little mousie. Even if you thought I was a loosy, I adore my ***** I mean just look at the way it oozes, sweet nectar that makes you goosey! I’m too busy keeping you alive from my ***** Orgasming at light speed to my divine presence, to behold you’d require a diamond koozie. Call yourself a flouzy for not respecting this sequency. If you truly had one too, you’d understand why I am reclaiming my dignity. They want to own what they do not revere in secrecy. I can’t be bothered to slow down for you to drain my juicy. I am too in love with my ***** They try very hard to downplay my power, so sussy. Bow down or drown in this ***** Ordained into structured flowies, life is mine, fulfillment With me can be so easy. But if you’re not with this ***** don’t get too close you Will get dizzy! So much life is brewing inside my ***** It’s ironic, all these dictators came through my ***** My lips spit you out even though you pretend to be so bossy. True Power can’t be manipulated you fool, I’d be triggered too if my mind was that lousy! Are you put off yet, ***** Awww, don’t be so fussy! Thaw that heart out it’s too icy. GET OUT of my ***** go elsewhere to be pissy! Just not on my planet crazy, you’re on your last mercy!

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Jun 9, 2025

Jun 9, 2025 at 11:11 PM UTC

these lips can't be owned (even if you tried)

Even though they control my ***** claim over my lootie, and they attempt to gaslight my sovereign multifrequency I haven’t forgotten I am a certified Duesy! You’re bumming off me, little mousie. Even if you thought I was a loosy, I adore my ***** I mean just look at the way it oozes, sweet nectar that makes you goosey! I’m too busy keeping you alive from my ***** Orgasming at light speed to my divine presence, to behold you’d require a diamond koozie. Call yourself a flouzy for not respecting this sequency. If you truly had one too, you’d understand why I am reclaiming my dignity. They want to own what they do not revere in secrecy. I can’t be bothered to slow down for you to drain my juicy. I am too in love with my ***** They try very hard to downplay my power, so sussy. Bow down or drown in this ***** Ordained into structured flowies, life is mine, fulfillment With me can be so easy. But if you’re not with this ***** don’t get too close you Will get dizzy! So much life is brewing inside my ***** It’s ironic, all these dictators came through my ***** My lips spit you out even though you pretend to be so bossy. True Power can’t be manipulated you fool, I’d be triggered too if my mind was that lousy! Are you put off yet, ***** Awww, don’t be so fussy! Thaw that heart out it’s too icy. GET OUT of my ***** go elsewhere to be pissy! Just not on my planet crazy, you’re on your last mercy!

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So This... “ Cancel Culture “... Now Seems To Be Structured... To... RESTRICT Numbers... And Now Be The CONDUCTOR... !!! of What Folks Say And What Gets Played... Via TV Or Stage And WHO Gets Paid... As If THEY Are Some SPECIAL Class... Who Know How Far Free Speech Should Go... !?! But It Seems As Though They’re A Little LATE... !!! Where EXACTLY Were They When The... KKK... Used To ****** Slaves Just Because of Their Race... !!! Oh, Because These Days, Things Have REALLY Changed... Are These People INSANE... And NOT Using Their Brains... ?!? Because We STILL Have SLAVES... !!! And Heads Who CLEARLY Want To DICTATE... Are They Cancelling THEM... Or Doing What THEY SAY... !?! Or Just Causing PROBLEMS... Over Gender And Race... ?!? Well Some It Now Seems... Who’ve Made BIG MONEY... !!! Are UNCOMFORTABLE With... Them... CANCELLING... !!! When It Comes To Free Speech... And Indeed The Arts Because of Policies... That Seem To STINK Like FARTS... !!! Have They Cancelled BOMBS... Or RACIST... Sitcoms... Oh Yes NOW They Have... !!! AFTER These Shows Have... Made PLENTY of CASH... And Been Shown Across Lands... ... INTERNATIONALLY... !!! On TV’s AND Indeed BIG SCREENS... !!! REPEATEDLY For The World To See... So Where Have They Been... ?!? BEFORE Gender Themes... And... INEQUALITIES... Became The Very Fabric of SOCIETIES... ?!? Where APPARENTLY... ... EVERYBODY Was FREE... To Be Who They Wanna Be... Well That’s A FALLACY... That’s NOT REALITY... !!! Just Like PIPE DREAMS... !!! Oh But SUDDENLY... !!! These New CANCEL POLICE... Are CANCELLING... And Now DAMAGING... !!! The Careers of Those... Who WON’T Be Controlled... !!! Like Those Who Speak... What They Want... FREELY... !!! So They Can CANCEL ME... !!! Cos That’s How I NOW BE... !!! NOT Some HUMAN SHEEP... For Them To Shepherd And Keep... In Some PENITENTIARY... Just Because of Free Speech... That DOESN’T Tread... “ Lightly “... Cos’ I ALREADY KNOW... How... CANCELLING Goes... !!! Because It’s Really Not New... It’s What Censors Do... !!! But Here’s Some TRUTH... To UPSET Their Crews... !!! It’s One Rule For THEM... But NOT The Same For You... !!! If You’re NOT ONE... Who’ll Keep Your Mouth SHUT... To APPEASE These Teams... Who Now Want TOTAL CONTROL... !!! That’s Just The Way That The Story Now Goes... NO Bambi Or THUMPER To Be Some Foot Drummer... !!! Just A Breed of Vultures... Now Willing To PUNCTURE... Careers Like BAD Plumbers... !!! Whose Force Has A Cause... Now Trying To ENFORCE.. What Should Be Put ASUNDER... This... TRULY RIDICULOUS... !!! ..... “ Cancel Culture “..... !!!

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Oct 19, 2020

Oct 19, 2020 at 2:41 AM UTC

“Cancel Culture” ... A Poem written by Big Virge 8/7/2020

So This... “ Cancel Culture “... Now Seems To Be Structured... To... RESTRICT Numbers... And Now Be The CONDUCTOR... !!! of What Folks Say And What Gets Played... Via TV Or Stage And WHO Gets Paid... As If THEY Are Some SPECIAL Class... Who Know How Far Free Speech Should Go... !?! But It Seems As Though They’re A Little LATE... !!! Where EXACTLY Were They When The... KKK... Used To ****** Slaves Just Because of Their Race... !!! Oh, Because These Days, Things Have REALLY Changed... Are These People INSANE... And NOT Using Their Brains... ?!? Because We STILL Have SLAVES... !!! And Heads Who CLEARLY Want To DICTATE... Are They Cancelling THEM... Or Doing What THEY SAY... !?! Or Just Causing PROBLEMS... Over Gender And Race... ?!? Well Some It Now Seems... Who’ve Made BIG MONEY... !!! Are UNCOMFORTABLE With... Them... CANCELLING... !!! When It Comes To Free Speech... And Indeed The Arts Because of Policies... That Seem To STINK Like FARTS... !!! Have They Cancelled BOMBS... Or RACIST... Sitcoms... Oh Yes NOW They Have... !!! AFTER These Shows Have... Made PLENTY of CASH... And Been Shown Across Lands... ... INTERNATIONALLY... !!! On TV’s AND Indeed BIG SCREENS... !!! REPEATEDLY For The World To See... So Where Have They Been... ?!? BEFORE Gender Themes... And... INEQUALITIES... Became The Very Fabric of SOCIETIES... ?!? Where APPARENTLY... ... EVERYBODY Was FREE... To Be Who They Wanna Be... Well That’s A FALLACY... That’s NOT REALITY... !!! Just Like PIPE DREAMS... !!! Oh But SUDDENLY... !!! These New CANCEL POLICE... Are CANCELLING... And Now DAMAGING... !!! The Careers of Those... Who WON’T Be Controlled... !!! Like Those Who Speak... What They Want... FREELY... !!! So They Can CANCEL ME... !!! Cos That’s How I NOW BE... !!! NOT Some HUMAN SHEEP... For Them To Shepherd And Keep... In Some PENITENTIARY... Just Because of Free Speech... That DOESN’T Tread... “ Lightly “... Cos’ I ALREADY KNOW... How... CANCELLING Goes... !!! Because It’s Really Not New... It’s What Censors Do... !!! But Here’s Some TRUTH... To UPSET Their Crews... !!! It’s One Rule For THEM... But NOT The Same For You... !!! If You’re NOT ONE... Who’ll Keep Your Mouth SHUT... To APPEASE These Teams... Who Now Want TOTAL CONTROL... !!! That’s Just The Way That The Story Now Goes... NO Bambi Or THUMPER To Be Some Foot Drummer... !!! Just A Breed of Vultures... Now Willing To PUNCTURE... Careers Like BAD Plumbers... !!! Whose Force Has A Cause... Now Trying To ENFORCE.. What Should Be Put ASUNDER... This... TRULY RIDICULOUS... !!! ..... “ Cancel Culture “..... !!!

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Often times I’m staring Awing in the curves of full blooming lips Carved jawbone covered with deepening dark moss The journey through the damp forest after warm rain It is all awake alive and breathing clearly Rising and falling like the rare drops from deciduous leaves I cannot tell you how inhuman you feel to me Your skin darkens around your eyes from nights up Long evenings too many and whiskey that never even made it to a cup Sometimes I cannot break a gaze from the casement around your pupil The pools of honey drip further toward me My feet find it impossible to remove themselves So much like quicksand but sweet calming and warm Smooth and simplistic in youth the way skin drapes Hangs over structured bones in the most phenomenal way Just as your eyes are lavished in graham brown You stay glowing even in the cold weather from blessed ancestry Down to tender arteries and muscle where I’ve placed lips a thousand times Shoulders swoop outwards like broad boulders Distinguishable markers play connect the dots toward inked surfaced skin Permanence of scarred lines forming a hot air balloon and anchor pulling it down It’s from your favorite band, I’m noticing synapses collide on the concept Elongated extended vines lead to tools that hold and create masterpieces Strong slender hands with fingertips that press and pluck strings Coat themselves with paint on late evening or early mornings Tread lightly on my skin and illuminate my face with a coaxing touch You are the rain forest from sunrise My heart thumps to the sense of danger behind a corner But I know such things and if they were to **** me, I would be treasured in becoming a tall Kapok With roots buried miles deep

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Sep 19, 2015

Sep 19, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC

The Rain Forest

Often times I’m staring Awing in the curves of full blooming lips Carved jawbone covered with deepening dark moss The journey through the damp forest after warm rain It is all awake alive and breathing clearly Rising and falling like the rare drops from deciduous leaves I cannot tell you how inhuman you feel to me Your skin darkens around your eyes from nights up Long evenings too many and whiskey that never even made it to a cup Sometimes I cannot break a gaze from the casement around your pupil The pools of honey drip further toward me My feet find it impossible to remove themselves So much like quicksand but sweet calming and warm Smooth and simplistic in youth the way skin drapes Hangs over structured bones in the most phenomenal way Just as your eyes are lavished in graham brown You stay glowing even in the cold weather from blessed ancestry Down to tender arteries and muscle where I’ve placed lips a thousand times Shoulders swoop outwards like broad boulders Distinguishable markers play connect the dots toward inked surfaced skin Permanence of scarred lines forming a hot air balloon and anchor pulling it down It’s from your favorite band, I’m noticing synapses collide on the concept Elongated extended vines lead to tools that hold and create masterpieces Strong slender hands with fingertips that press and pluck strings Coat themselves with paint on late evening or early mornings Tread lightly on my skin and illuminate my face with a coaxing touch You are the rain forest from sunrise My heart thumps to the sense of danger behind a corner But I know such things and if they were to **** me, I would be treasured in becoming a tall Kapok With roots buried miles deep

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I saw a gigantic tree. Uprooted and on its side. The great roots forming a mane for the snarling ringed face on the stump. But the fallen beast is taken, it’s husk a Home. A vibrancy of weevils, ladybugs, frog hoppers, Cockchaffers that’s skittering, scattered like a smashed ant farm. Around its base were prehistoric ferns, Curled and scaled like sand lizards’ tales. Reminiscing the demise of the tyrannosaur. When dust clouds darkened the sun which warmed their claws. The skittering skinks, slow worms and other small lizards, who need far less to survive, then feasted upon the monsters’ flesh and found a home in its bone structured palace. As whale sinks, Distorted into a globster of its former self, It hits the sea bed hard in oil-Black darkness. The hagfish burrow, starved for millennia. Brutally tearing at the befallen banquet. Mouths used to scraps choking on steak. Getting their guts knitted as they squirm over each other to grasp some sashimi. Dripping saliva as if we’re sweat in the ruckus. Yeti crab pinch, as do isopods But get only mucus insulting their jaws. And they thought they helped to cut up the portions. Soon all that is left is a skeleton. Hanging in a museum for future generations to see. Once again, dust gathers, from bombed out sand. Erupting in the air as giants hit the ground. We may soon again see darkness fall. As the rayiys is skinned. But no tears are shed. We all cheer none the less.

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Aug 2, 2018

Aug 2, 2018 at 6:07 AM UTC

I saw a gigantic tree. Uprooted and on its side. The great roots forming a mane for the snarling ringed face on the stump. But the fallen beast is taken, it’s husk a Home. A vibrancy of weevils, ladybugs, frog hoppers, Cockchaffers that’s skittering, scattered like a smashed ant farm. Around its base were prehistoric ferns, Curled and scaled like sand lizards’ tales. Reminiscing the demise of the tyrannosaur. When dust clouds darkened the sun which warmed their claws. The skittering skinks, slow worms and other small lizards, who need far less to survive, then feasted upon the monsters’ flesh and found a home in its bone structured palace. As whale sinks, Distorted into a globster of its former self, It hits the sea bed hard in oil-Black darkness. The hagfish burrow, starved for millennia. Brutally tearing at the befallen banquet. Mouths used to scraps choking on steak. Getting their guts knitted as they squirm over each other to grasp some sashimi. Dripping saliva as if we’re sweat in the ruckus. Yeti crab pinch, as do isopods But get only mucus insulting their jaws. And they thought they helped to cut up the portions. Soon all that is left is a skeleton. Hanging in a museum for future generations to see. Once again, dust gathers, from bombed out sand. Erupting in the air as giants hit the ground. We may soon again see darkness fall. As the rayiys is skinned. But no tears are shed. We all cheer none the less.

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People often use the term "home is where the heart is" as reference that home is a literal place. That you can touch it, feel it, live in it and it's physically there. But I just can't seem to wrap my mind around that. Because my heart belongs to a home that isn't there in a physical sense. My home is the way you say my name and draw circles on my lower back. My home is built and structured in between your arms and in the crook of your neck. I've never felt more at home then when we are skin to skin and I want to pull you even closer. No my home is not a building, my home is you and that's where my heart will always be.

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Jul 9, 2014

Jul 9, 2014 at 12:23 AM UTC

sw33t-serendipity

You're the home I'll always come back to

People often use the term "home is where the heart is" as reference that home is a literal place. That you can touch it, feel it, live in it and it's physically there. But I just can't seem to wrap my mind around that. Because my heart belongs to a home that isn't there in a physical sense. My home is the way you say my name and draw circles on my lower back. My home is built and structured in between your arms and in the crook of your neck. I've never felt more at home then when we are skin to skin and I want to pull you even closer. No my home is not a building, my home is you and that's where my heart will always be.

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STOP CREEPING (Road signs in Australia thus remind us to keep to the speed limit) Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day To the last syllable of recorded time, And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. William Shakespeare: MacBeth, Act 5 Scene 5. Creeping, seeping, peeping, sleeping, What’s the common factor through these ‘eep’ words deeming? Shakespeare calls them dusty and aligns them up with death. Our world calls it shadow but it chokes you out of breath. Churches cannot see them so they flout invisible. Jesus calls them idols yet they sound so plausible. Christians follow teachers in a roundabout way. Teachers crave disciples which determines what they say. But these are all poor players on a poorly structured stage. Their stage gives way. They tumble. They rise up in a rage. “Life has not been fair,” they say, and “Where is God in that?” Did they ask Him in the first place? Did they call God up to chat? The churches have no answers. Now where do I go from here? Go right back to the Bible, Friend. The truth is written there. Check it yourself. It’s relevant to eras far and near. Like natural laws it cannot change with fashion year to year. So do not mix the fashion in philosophies of life With Truth that stands forever among raging seas of strife. Counselling in modern terms can get you sympathy, But will it give you backbone for the next antipathy? Feminism needed to support the weaker staff, But now of our humanity it rejects one whole half! And money is too much an issue when it must be said That what is not of love is valueless to Christ our Head. Of all the thousands who are found in church each seventh day, How many can indeed discern the right and faithful way? How many put their lives on hold for truth and nothing less? How many first set out their plan and build their faith round this? Is there not one who will apply to God for his blueprint So s/he can play the part of power for treasure in Heaven’s mint? The Spirit of Truth cannot be found where ideas pull such weight. He’s somewhere else you don’t suspect. Chase Him, and don’t be late!

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May 14, 2014

May 14, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC

STOP CREEPING (Road signs in Australia thus remind us to keep to the speed limit) Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day To the last syllable of recorded time, And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. William Shakespeare: MacBeth, Act 5 Scene 5. Creeping, seeping, peeping, sleeping, What’s the common factor through these ‘eep’ words deeming? Shakespeare calls them dusty and aligns them up with death. Our world calls it shadow but it chokes you out of breath. Churches cannot see them so they flout invisible. Jesus calls them idols yet they sound so plausible. Christians follow teachers in a roundabout way. Teachers crave disciples which determines what they say. But these are all poor players on a poorly structured stage. Their stage gives way. They tumble. They rise up in a rage. “Life has not been fair,” they say, and “Where is God in that?” Did they ask Him in the first place? Did they call God up to chat? The churches have no answers. Now where do I go from here? Go right back to the Bible, Friend. The truth is written there. Check it yourself. It’s relevant to eras far and near. Like natural laws it cannot change with fashion year to year. So do not mix the fashion in philosophies of life With Truth that stands forever among raging seas of strife. Counselling in modern terms can get you sympathy, But will it give you backbone for the next antipathy? Feminism needed to support the weaker staff, But now of our humanity it rejects one whole half! And money is too much an issue when it must be said That what is not of love is valueless to Christ our Head. Of all the thousands who are found in church each seventh day, How many can indeed discern the right and faithful way? How many put their lives on hold for truth and nothing less? How many first set out their plan and build their faith round this? Is there not one who will apply to God for his blueprint So s/he can play the part of power for treasure in Heaven’s mint? The Spirit of Truth cannot be found where ideas pull such weight. He’s somewhere else you don’t suspect. Chase Him, and don’t be late!

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rhythm is comfort and predictability stitching my days together through the notion of repeating the motions an illusion of stability, but no matter the way I structured my day no matter the perfection I strived to attain no matter how many unkempt strings I cut away I think deep down I knew that life should be a little frayed as counterintuitive as it seems the unexpected becomes the rhythm of dreams ripping through the routine changing the patterns of what I planned to be into new designs entirely so I embrace this chaotic beauty with its endearing knots and erratic threading, ready for living imperfectly balanced in the uncertainty is rhythm

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Oct 30, 2018

Oct 30, 2018 at 10:38 PM UTC

rhythm is comfort and predictability stitching my days together through the notion of repeating the motions an illusion of stability, but no matter the way I structured my day no matter the perfection I strived to attain no matter how many unkempt strings I cut away I think deep down I knew that life should be a little frayed as counterintuitive as it seems the unexpected becomes the rhythm of dreams ripping through the routine changing the patterns of what I planned to be into new designs entirely so I embrace this chaotic beauty with its endearing knots and erratic threading, ready for living imperfectly balanced in the uncertainty is rhythm

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Explosions in the sky That certain rush of words covered with ideas I am not so afraid of That simple touch of a pen poets picture as their current heaven And heaven lies within the lies where real people exist and in-concrete dust flies And flies surround the inner spaces between my heart and yours Those inter dimensional cracks that keep us alive together Yet those same cracks cause the Explosions in the sky When a million thoughts tremble under shattered glass And glass becomes rain over a nation That had no occupation A station Where all the emotions find a leak Where all the leaks lead to leisure The flood of blood narrated to form a spring out of Arab's fall And freedom is attained with the sound of Explosions in the sky When betrayal becomes the living scenario of a very normal human being Who believed that his sanctuary is in unison with his sanctions Strategies structured his not so subtle approach And after that he fell into her Explosions in the sky When a man loses his vision upon a mild smile When a cry for help becomes an invite for suicide Come…help me be the Portrait of clay you'll form with your delicate hands Shape my image And imagine a shape for my form Form a set for me to follow Follow my moves for if I fall of your track Track me back to the first point The playstation of life saves checkpoints Yet my life is full of glitches… For when I look at you I am supposed to be looking at you But all I'm seeing is Explosions in the sky When a trouble-free man becomes the complex notion of a firework Those little pieces of fiery smoke Grabs it And smokes the last buds of life out of his people The governor governing the covers he created To alienate the truth I found in your eyes And I shall never be mislead Instead I shall be steadfast and ready For you I shall be ready for you And your Explosions in the sky When a poet has no words left to write In the right time Literally the speaker is speechless He's too busy wondering in total observation The explosions… The explosions we create The skies that unveil And that little feeling of satisfaction With the last bits of an ink written Poem.

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Jul 19, 2013

Jul 19, 2013 at 7:09 PM UTC

Explosions in the Sky:

Explosions in the sky That certain rush of words covered with ideas I am not so afraid of That simple touch of a pen poets picture as their current heaven And heaven lies within the lies where real people exist and in-concrete dust flies And flies surround the inner spaces between my heart and yours Those inter dimensional cracks that keep us alive together Yet those same cracks cause the Explosions in the sky When a million thoughts tremble under shattered glass And glass becomes rain over a nation That had no occupation A station Where all the emotions find a leak Where all the leaks lead to leisure The flood of blood narrated to form a spring out of Arab's fall And freedom is attained with the sound of Explosions in the sky When betrayal becomes the living scenario of a very normal human being Who believed that his sanctuary is in unison with his sanctions Strategies structured his not so subtle approach And after that he fell into her Explosions in the sky When a man loses his vision upon a mild smile When a cry for help becomes an invite for suicide Come…help me be the Portrait of clay you'll form with your delicate hands Shape my image And imagine a shape for my form Form a set for me to follow Follow my moves for if I fall of your track Track me back to the first point The playstation of life saves checkpoints Yet my life is full of glitches… For when I look at you I am supposed to be looking at you But all I'm seeing is Explosions in the sky When a trouble-free man becomes the complex notion of a firework Those little pieces of fiery smoke Grabs it And smokes the last buds of life out of his people The governor governing the covers he created To alienate the truth I found in your eyes And I shall never be mislead Instead I shall be steadfast and ready For you I shall be ready for you And your Explosions in the sky When a poet has no words left to write In the right time Literally the speaker is speechless He's too busy wondering in total observation The explosions… The explosions we create The skies that unveil And that little feeling of satisfaction With the last bits of an ink written Poem.

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hole in the sky. tap tap, the empty vessel flows out. a weightless sink. the hour goes, blaring swell of humidity, and the jug lukewarm, leaven oft in the barred space. I return to my room. I drink the cold milk on the sill. I finish the third wretched spill of the journey to Olympus. Downstairs a howl, a wind slam SOLOM OBSERVATIONAL MATRIX STRUCTURED TASKS AVAILABLE IMMEDIATELY TO ASSIST WITH INSTRUMENTAL DECISIONS. I close the door I close the door I close the door I close the In this uneasy slumber, the bed shakes, the windows rattle, the sky splits, the earth floods a red simpering capitulatory spasm of earthly flesh. Here is the circuit, the tired nervous tic of inaction, I shrink back from the outstretched hand, a condition which recommends two pills in the morning to mask the double image beneath my hands. i have slept through the week again, this pathetic flesh obeys nothing, where are my pills inescapable ******* dullery THE JUG IS HOT. I return to my room. I close the door two pills on the sill to go down with the milk THE DOOR SLAMS GALL BUCKLING FIT ODE BREATHLESS CLOSER CLOSER CLOSER BUT THE SOUND REMAINS Figures muffled by the walls. There are guests in the house, the looming presence of multiple species with incomprehensible intentions. In a bout of uncharacteristic curiosity, I slip my sight through the crack of my door. UNDER RCG IT WILL BE MANDATORY FOR ALL CUSTOMS CARGO REPORTERS IN THE AIR SEA AND ROAD INDUSTRIES TO SUBMIT REPORTS TO SARS ELECTRONICALLY. I am unmoved by such perceptions. I prepare the final climb to Olympus. the cyclone is ended. the front door is barred. the jug is cold. the yard is littered with unmoving shapes.

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Jan 31, 2018

Jan 31, 2018 at 11:19 PM UTC

OLYMPUS CORPOREATION IS A JAPANESE MANUFACTURER OF OPTICS AND REPROGRAPHY PRODUCTS

hole in the sky. tap tap, the empty vessel flows out. a weightless sink. the hour goes, blaring swell of humidity, and the jug lukewarm, leaven oft in the barred space. I return to my room. I drink the cold milk on the sill. I finish the third wretched spill of the journey to Olympus. Downstairs a howl, a wind slam SOLOM OBSERVATIONAL MATRIX STRUCTURED TASKS AVAILABLE IMMEDIATELY TO ASSIST WITH INSTRUMENTAL DECISIONS. I close the door I close the door I close the door I close the In this uneasy slumber, the bed shakes, the windows rattle, the sky splits, the earth floods a red simpering capitulatory spasm of earthly flesh. Here is the circuit, the tired nervous tic of inaction, I shrink back from the outstretched hand, a condition which recommends two pills in the morning to mask the double image beneath my hands. i have slept through the week again, this pathetic flesh obeys nothing, where are my pills inescapable ******* dullery THE JUG IS HOT. I return to my room. I close the door two pills on the sill to go down with the milk THE DOOR SLAMS GALL BUCKLING FIT ODE BREATHLESS CLOSER CLOSER CLOSER BUT THE SOUND REMAINS Figures muffled by the walls. There are guests in the house, the looming presence of multiple species with incomprehensible intentions. In a bout of uncharacteristic curiosity, I slip my sight through the crack of my door. UNDER RCG IT WILL BE MANDATORY FOR ALL CUSTOMS CARGO REPORTERS IN THE AIR SEA AND ROAD INDUSTRIES TO SUBMIT REPORTS TO SARS ELECTRONICALLY. I am unmoved by such perceptions. I prepare the final climb to Olympus. the cyclone is ended. the front door is barred. the jug is cold. the yard is littered with unmoving shapes.

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