"stupidly" poems - Hello Poetry

"stupidly" poems

These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis. They grew their toes and fingers well enough, Their little foreheads bulged with concentration. If they missed out on walking about like people It wasn't for any lack of mother-love. O I cannot explain what happened to them! They are proper in shape and number and every part. They sit so nicely in the pickling fluid! They smile and smile and smile at me. And still the lungs won't fill and the heart won't start. They are not pigs, they are not even fish, Though they have a piggy and a fishy air -- It would be better if they were alive, and that's what they were. But they are dead, and their mother near dead with distraction, And they stupidly stare and do not speak of her.

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43.1k

These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis. They grew their toes and fingers well enough, Their little foreheads bulged with concentration. If they missed out on walking about like people It wasn't for any lack of mother-love. O I cannot explain what happened to them! They are proper in shape and number and every part. They sit so nicely in the pickling fluid! They smile and smile and smile at me. And still the lungs won't fill and the heart won't start. They are not pigs, they are not even fish, Though they have a piggy and a fishy air -- It would be better if they were alive, and that's what they were. But they are dead, and their mother near dead with distraction, And they stupidly stare and do not speak of her.

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Love, the world Suddenly turns, turns color. The streetlight Splits through the rat's tail Pods of the laburnum at nine in the morning. It is the Arctic, This little black Circle, with its tawn silk grasses - babies hair. There is a green in the air, Soft, delectable. It cushions me lovingly. I am flushed and warm. I think I may be enormous, I am so stupidly happy, My Wellingtons Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red. This is my property. Two times a day I pace it, sniffing The barbarous holly with its viridian Scallops, pure iron, And the wall of the odd corpses. I love them. I love them like history. The apples are golden, Imagine it ---- My seventy trees Holding their gold-ruddy ***** In a thick gray death-soup, Their million Gold leaves metal and breathless. O love, O celibate. Nobody but me Walks the waist high wet. The irreplaceable Golds bleed and deepen, the mouths of Thermopylae.

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22.9k

Letter In November

Love, the world Suddenly turns, turns color. The streetlight Splits through the rat's tail Pods of the laburnum at nine in the morning. It is the Arctic, This little black Circle, with its tawn silk grasses - babies hair. There is a green in the air, Soft, delectable. It cushions me lovingly. I am flushed and warm. I think I may be enormous, I am so stupidly happy, My Wellingtons Squelching and squelching through the beautiful red. This is my property. Two times a day I pace it, sniffing The barbarous holly with its viridian Scallops, pure iron, And the wall of the odd corpses. I love them. I love them like history. The apples are golden, Imagine it ---- My seventy trees Holding their gold-ruddy ***** In a thick gray death-soup, Their million Gold leaves metal and breathless. O love, O celibate. Nobody but me Walks the waist high wet. The irreplaceable Golds bleed and deepen, the mouths of Thermopylae.

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you asked me to come:it was raining a little, and the spring;a clumsy brightness of air wonderfully stumbled above the square, little amorous-tadpole people wiggled battered by stuttering pearl, leaves jiggled to the jigging fragrance of newness —and then. My crazy fingers liked your dress ….your kiss,your kiss was a distinct brittle flower,and the flesh crisp set my love-tooth on edge. So until light each having each we promised to forget— wherefore is there nothing left to guess: the cheap intelligent thighs,the electric trite thighs;the hair stupidly priceless.

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19.4k

You Asked Me To Come:It Was Raining A Little

you asked me to come:it was raining a little, and the spring;a clumsy brightness of air wonderfully stumbled above the square, little amorous-tadpole people wiggled battered by stuttering pearl, leaves jiggled to the jigging fragrance of newness —and then. My crazy fingers liked your dress ….your kiss,your kiss was a distinct brittle flower,and the flesh crisp set my love-tooth on edge. So until light each having each we promised to forget— wherefore is there nothing left to guess: the cheap intelligent thighs,the electric trite thighs;the hair stupidly priceless.

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I should not have blamed only my father, but, he was the first to introduce me to raw and stupid hatred. he was really best at it: anything and everything made him mad-things of the slightest consequence brought his hatred quickly to the surface and I seemed to be the main source of his irritation. I did not fear him but his rages made me ill at heart for he was most of my world then and it was a world of horror but I should not have blamed only my father for when I left that... home... I found his counterparts everywhere: my father was only a small part of the whole, though he was the best at hatred I was ever to meet. but others were very good at it too: some of the foremen, some of the street bums, some of the women I was to live with, most of the women, were gifted at hating-blaming my voice, my actions, my presence blaming me for what they, in retrospect, had failed at. I was simply the target of their discontent and in some real sense they blamed me for not being able to rouse them out of a failed past; what they didn't consider was that I had my troubles too-most of them caused by simply living with them. I am a dolt of a man, easily made happy or even stupidly happy almost without cause and left alone I am mostly content. but I've lived so often and so long with this hatred that my only freedom, my only peace is when I am away from them, when I am anywhere else, no matter where- some fat old waitress bringing me a cup of coffee is in comparison like a fresh wild wind blowing.

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17.2k

Charles Bukowski

a wild, fresh wind blowing...

I should not have blamed only my father, but, he was the first to introduce me to raw and stupid hatred. he was really best at it: anything and everything made him mad-things of the slightest consequence brought his hatred quickly to the surface and I seemed to be the main source of his irritation. I did not fear him but his rages made me ill at heart for he was most of my world then and it was a world of horror but I should not have blamed only my father for when I left that... home... I found his counterparts everywhere: my father was only a small part of the whole, though he was the best at hatred I was ever to meet. but others were very good at it too: some of the foremen, some of the street bums, some of the women I was to live with, most of the women, were gifted at hating-blaming my voice, my actions, my presence blaming me for what they, in retrospect, had failed at. I was simply the target of their discontent and in some real sense they blamed me for not being able to rouse them out of a failed past; what they didn't consider was that I had my troubles too-most of them caused by simply living with them. I am a dolt of a man, easily made happy or even stupidly happy almost without cause and left alone I am mostly content. but I've lived so often and so long with this hatred that my only freedom, my only peace is when I am away from them, when I am anywhere else, no matter where- some fat old waitress bringing me a cup of coffee is in comparison like a fresh wild wind blowing.

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It’s just easy for them Isn’t it? This couple on the train. They walked on laughing together Holding hands And I felt that familiar something- Not jealousy Not envy But... Chagrin. Astonishment. Incredulity. Incomprehension. Looking at them feels like looking at one of those Impossible pictures Where the stairs keep going forever in a loop. It’s just Easy for them. It doesn’t hurt anymore, that thought, But thinking it feels so odd in my mind When I can’t imagine loving someone without Shame, Without pain. They fit. These people, They fit without having to carve anything out. They fit without punishing each other. They fit like puzzle pieces cut from the same board- No worries, they just go together, and that Is that. They fit like “Of course.” Like breathing. Neatly. Simply. Carelessly. I can’t imagine what it’s like I can’t comprehend it- To fit Somewhere Much less to fit somewhere With someone. I am always trying to corset myself into this world, Lungs burning, Trying to remain small enough to squeeze by Catching myself by the wrist to keep from reaching For anything. And if there seems to be a spot where I might be able to exist as I am It is always Occupied. Like a shiny pinprick That thought hurts- Not like the others it is newly cut And still ****** The idea that maybe there is a home for me And that maybe I was too late for it. They’re laughing. He says something clever, Passes a hand along the small of her back And she leans into it, Smiling because she loves that he wants to touch her innocently. They seem to exist behind glass. Not for the first time I wonder If I could just slip into that life Like a drop into an ocean I want it badly I want it stupidly And I examine all the parts of myself, All the edges and cracks, All the things I’ve worked so hard to protect and repair. It is not a welcome sight- I am not a home I am like an old ruin Full of murmurings and cold spots Full of dusty sunlight. I sigh, Knowing the secret I keep so poorly- That if I really had a choice to be otherwise I would have already made it. I couldn’t reach them if I ran for a thousand years, They are too far away. They walk off the train, arms linked Talking about nothing And I watch them go Like a hallucination, Like a mirage in the desert. Her perfume smells like forgetfulness And it lingers.

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Sep 28, 2018

Sep 28, 2018 at 12:48 AM UTC

It’s just easy for them Isn’t it? This couple on the train. They walked on laughing together Holding hands And I felt that familiar something- Not jealousy Not envy But... Chagrin. Astonishment. Incredulity. Incomprehension. Looking at them feels like looking at one of those Impossible pictures Where the stairs keep going forever in a loop. It’s just Easy for them. It doesn’t hurt anymore, that thought, But thinking it feels so odd in my mind When I can’t imagine loving someone without Shame, Without pain. They fit. These people, They fit without having to carve anything out. They fit without punishing each other. They fit like puzzle pieces cut from the same board- No worries, they just go together, and that Is that. They fit like “Of course.” Like breathing. Neatly. Simply. Carelessly. I can’t imagine what it’s like I can’t comprehend it- To fit Somewhere Much less to fit somewhere With someone. I am always trying to corset myself into this world, Lungs burning, Trying to remain small enough to squeeze by Catching myself by the wrist to keep from reaching For anything. And if there seems to be a spot where I might be able to exist as I am It is always Occupied. Like a shiny pinprick That thought hurts- Not like the others it is newly cut And still ****** The idea that maybe there is a home for me And that maybe I was too late for it. They’re laughing. He says something clever, Passes a hand along the small of her back And she leans into it, Smiling because she loves that he wants to touch her innocently. They seem to exist behind glass. Not for the first time I wonder If I could just slip into that life Like a drop into an ocean I want it badly I want it stupidly And I examine all the parts of myself, All the edges and cracks, All the things I’ve worked so hard to protect and repair. It is not a welcome sight- I am not a home I am like an old ruin Full of murmurings and cold spots Full of dusty sunlight. I sigh, Knowing the secret I keep so poorly- That if I really had a choice to be otherwise I would have already made it. I couldn’t reach them if I ran for a thousand years, They are too far away. They walk off the train, arms linked Talking about nothing And I watch them go Like a hallucination, Like a mirage in the desert. Her perfume smells like forgetfulness And it lingers.

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You said you would **** it this morning. Do not **** it. It startles me still, The jut of that odd, dark head, pacing Through the uncut grass on the elm's hill. It is something to own a pheasant, Or just to be visited at all. I am not mystical: it isn't As if I thought it had a spirit. It is simply in its element. That gives it a kingliness, a right. The print of its big foot last winter, The trail-track, on the snow in our court The wonder of it, in that pallor, Through crosshatch of sparrow and starling. Is it its rareness, then? It is rare. But a dozen would be worth having, A hundred, on that hill-green and red, Crossing and recrossing: a fine thing! It is such a good shape, so vivid. It's a little cornucopia. It unclaps, brown as a leaf, and loud, Settles in the elm, and is easy. It was sunning in the narcissi. I trespass stupidly. Let be, let be.

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You said you would **** it this morning. Do not **** it. It startles me still, The jut of that odd, dark head, pacing Through the uncut grass on the elm's hill. It is something to own a pheasant, Or just to be visited at all. I am not mystical: it isn't As if I thought it had a spirit. It is simply in its element. That gives it a kingliness, a right. The print of its big foot last winter, The trail-track, on the snow in our court The wonder of it, in that pallor, Through crosshatch of sparrow and starling. Is it its rareness, then? It is rare. But a dozen would be worth having, A hundred, on that hill-green and red, Crossing and recrossing: a fine thing! It is such a good shape, so vivid. It's a little cornucopia. It unclaps, brown as a leaf, and loud, Settles in the elm, and is easy. It was sunning in the narcissi. I trespass stupidly. Let be, let be.

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Dearest, you who have moved with me as the waves to the pull of the moon, You are leaving me now. I know I am not the only moon to your sea. There is another who sways you to her tune. Her name is scrawled in the furrows of your brow. But the tears in your eyes and your heartache Should they not be mine? I who live on this island, immortal and alone? You are leaving me a prisoner in your wake, You with your talk of crooked highlands and fragrant pine And rugged crags. Dangerous talk, I should have known. Now I close my eyes and dream Not of the sweetness of the cypress Nor of familiar violet-eyed meadows, But of birds that spin and gleam high above the land's caress. You have turned me into another Echo Stupidly repeating the names of places and people I will never know.

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Jan 16, 2015

Jan 16, 2015 at 1:41 AM UTC

shrinking-violet

Calypso speaks to Odysseus

Dearest, you who have moved with me as the waves to the pull of the moon, You are leaving me now. I know I am not the only moon to your sea. There is another who sways you to her tune. Her name is scrawled in the furrows of your brow. But the tears in your eyes and your heartache Should they not be mine? I who live on this island, immortal and alone? You are leaving me a prisoner in your wake, You with your talk of crooked highlands and fragrant pine And rugged crags. Dangerous talk, I should have known. Now I close my eyes and dream Not of the sweetness of the cypress Nor of familiar violet-eyed meadows, But of birds that spin and gleam high above the land's caress. You have turned me into another Echo Stupidly repeating the names of places and people I will never know.

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And now there would come a time a swift sharp clock on the bed Blaring its little chime in between the hard bells Like an angry little arm Charming if not for the alarm And everyday I slap the face of it Like an unwanted ***** And she is silenced Quick unlike Said chick But I am a cruel guy and have no sense of wet and dry Nor cool or heat There's nothing bothering me Time just ticks off and I laugh at it But my cells divide and turn into little old protoplasmic men And yet I am not called upon them Because they are stupidly designed and I have no sympathy for arts and crafts No masterman who failing to raise his hand Clams up With such poor artwork Slap that ***** in the dilapidated sistan Now In San Francisco Where the alley streets stink of *** And the European facades are just that Crumbling Poopy And full of **** And what yet are they dreaming to be? The church that survived fire Great conflagration God didn't make a rainbow at the end of that, Now did he? He's a water-sign Dolt And water only jolts your mind When it scatters true light, Ain't that right? But it's all the same Just different hues And the news Isn't new Just Blaring and yelling And speeding television crews Riding their stories Up and down the many stories Trying to build a city of angels On a bituminous hill Shills No life skills And I walk the city streets with a ugly old leather Brief Casing the joints and rolling my own Unhappy and alone Kerouac and the dreams on the monangular input where the triangular avenues meet And he has no road While airplanes shake their jets on the tarmac and trebuchet into the air Going god knows where Seeing a new piece of the sculpted pinball Perpetually trapped in the machine How bout Nippon Or Hangujin Or Han Chinese Or Berlin Anywhere but when A little ways along the state Of "in" All these strange things

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Aug 16, 2018

Aug 16, 2018 at 3:00 PM UTC

That ******* from Pastebin or 10it or whatever

And now there would come a time a swift sharp clock on the bed Blaring its little chime in between the hard bells Like an angry little arm Charming if not for the alarm And everyday I slap the face of it Like an unwanted ***** And she is silenced Quick unlike Said chick But I am a cruel guy and have no sense of wet and dry Nor cool or heat There's nothing bothering me Time just ticks off and I laugh at it But my cells divide and turn into little old protoplasmic men And yet I am not called upon them Because they are stupidly designed and I have no sympathy for arts and crafts No masterman who failing to raise his hand Clams up With such poor artwork Slap that ***** in the dilapidated sistan Now In San Francisco Where the alley streets stink of *** And the European facades are just that Crumbling Poopy And full of **** And what yet are they dreaming to be? The church that survived fire Great conflagration God didn't make a rainbow at the end of that, Now did he? He's a water-sign Dolt And water only jolts your mind When it scatters true light, Ain't that right? But it's all the same Just different hues And the news Isn't new Just Blaring and yelling And speeding television crews Riding their stories Up and down the many stories Trying to build a city of angels On a bituminous hill Shills No life skills And I walk the city streets with a ugly old leather Brief Casing the joints and rolling my own Unhappy and alone Kerouac and the dreams on the monangular input where the triangular avenues meet And he has no road While airplanes shake their jets on the tarmac and trebuchet into the air Going god knows where Seeing a new piece of the sculpted pinball Perpetually trapped in the machine How bout Nippon Or Hangujin Or Han Chinese Or Berlin Anywhere but when A little ways along the state Of "in" All these strange things

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I'm high as a ******* kite I know this **** isn't right Staying up all **** night But I didn't put up a fight Since the feeling is hella tight ..... Hella tight .... Yeah hella tight Another day Feeling the same way I know , I know what can I say Come out, come out to play This feeling isn't going away .... Just go away .... Go away I feel like I can fly Way up high Through the clouds in the sky It's a trip I can't deny It's a feeling you need to try... ... You must try... .... Just try I'm slowing down quite a bit Not long before the ground I hit Stupidly there I just sit I really need to just quit But Id miss the feeling I get... **** the feeling I get... ....what a feeling I get Lost in its distraction Like a bug lights purple glowing hyponotic attraction Causing a massive chain reaction A sickening fascination A feeling of amazing satisfaction.. ******* addicting satisfaction... ...craving the satisfaction.. A feeling quite rare Do I dare Or do I even really care A feeling that tingles everywhere ..this feeling I should share ....should share... ...but can't share What a crazy place Limitless like outter space Intense & in your face A feeling you embrace Like winning a race A feeling you can never replace... ...never replace.. ...unable to replace.. It's mighty slick Addicted you quick Playing a nasty trick Laying on the feeling thick ...it stuck fast like a glue stick... ...that's right a glue stick.. ....a glue stick.. High as a kite I told you it wasn't right Up all night ...I gave into the fight The feeling is just hella tight.. ..so hella tight... ...yeah, hella tight...

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Nov 4, 2014

Nov 4, 2014 at 10:47 PM UTC

I'm high as a ******* kite I know this **** isn't right Staying up all **** night But I didn't put up a fight Since the feeling is hella tight ..... Hella tight .... Yeah hella tight Another day Feeling the same way I know , I know what can I say Come out, come out to play This feeling isn't going away .... Just go away .... Go away I feel like I can fly Way up high Through the clouds in the sky It's a trip I can't deny It's a feeling you need to try... ... You must try... .... Just try I'm slowing down quite a bit Not long before the ground I hit Stupidly there I just sit I really need to just quit But Id miss the feeling I get... **** the feeling I get... ....what a feeling I get Lost in its distraction Like a bug lights purple glowing hyponotic attraction Causing a massive chain reaction A sickening fascination A feeling of amazing satisfaction.. ******* addicting satisfaction... ...craving the satisfaction.. A feeling quite rare Do I dare Or do I even really care A feeling that tingles everywhere ..this feeling I should share ....should share... ...but can't share What a crazy place Limitless like outter space Intense & in your face A feeling you embrace Like winning a race A feeling you can never replace... ...never replace.. ...unable to replace.. It's mighty slick Addicted you quick Playing a nasty trick Laying on the feeling thick ...it stuck fast like a glue stick... ...that's right a glue stick.. ....a glue stick.. High as a kite I told you it wasn't right Up all night ...I gave into the fight The feeling is just hella tight.. ..so hella tight... ...yeah, hella tight...

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The butterfly of many talents talked nothing but of himself... and never stopped to Listen or gain true conversational wealth cloaked in flamboyent colors his butterfly wings so huge, captured a little lost lady moth (looking for the moon) and kept her as his muse just as the wings of the butterfly so was the moths heart large and so she inspired her captor unconditionally.. and loved freely, fanning him... & flapping her wings too hard... each time they would tear , she'd ignore the searing pain for with all of her inner beauty; by no means was she vain the butterfly misused his muse did not reciprocate emotion so her wings drooping stupidly with blind devotion were as lost shadowed in his coloring as before....... searching for the light of moon in black ocean he had never saved her from the vast sky-sea & empty Galaxy But used her flutter as a tool to satisfy his selfish artistic needs the little lost moth lost flight As she began to understand the light butterfly provided was a stage light made by man all the time she lost robbed her spirit and stole her grace so she rubbed the powder off his big bright wings and thought -what good is his outward beauty now that he can no longer soar in space- Disenchanted but free at last moth tries but can never trust color won't inspire art or music and will never love another.....

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Nov 2, 2014

Nov 2, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC

Moth & Butterfly

The butterfly of many talents talked nothing but of himself... and never stopped to Listen or gain true conversational wealth cloaked in flamboyent colors his butterfly wings so huge, captured a little lost lady moth (looking for the moon) and kept her as his muse just as the wings of the butterfly so was the moths heart large and so she inspired her captor unconditionally.. and loved freely, fanning him... & flapping her wings too hard... each time they would tear , she'd ignore the searing pain for with all of her inner beauty; by no means was she vain the butterfly misused his muse did not reciprocate emotion so her wings drooping stupidly with blind devotion were as lost shadowed in his coloring as before....... searching for the light of moon in black ocean he had never saved her from the vast sky-sea & empty Galaxy But used her flutter as a tool to satisfy his selfish artistic needs the little lost moth lost flight As she began to understand the light butterfly provided was a stage light made by man all the time she lost robbed her spirit and stole her grace so she rubbed the powder off his big bright wings and thought -what good is his outward beauty now that he can no longer soar in space- Disenchanted but free at last moth tries but can never trust color won't inspire art or music and will never love another.....

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All was good 'till you came along, we've had our differences. I refuse to build a house of cards with you if you keep knocking it down. Because the more you knock it down I stupidly start to rebuild it. I give up being the only one actually trying, you can continue knocking it down but I refuse to rebuild it.

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Mar 9, 2015

Mar 9, 2015 at 1:12 AM UTC

paulette-martinez

All was good 'till you came along, we've had our differences. I refuse to build a house of cards with you if you keep knocking it down. Because the more you knock it down I stupidly start to rebuild it. I give up being the only one actually trying, you can continue knocking it down but I refuse to rebuild it.

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*I'm too fixated in each moment - Each moment feels so intense, I'm lost On the dark side of the moon, And nothing here has any warmth, Worth or substance ~ Nothing here makes any sense. Even my own shadow has left me. The Monsters, still lurking In the darkness, Have stolen all of my hopes And dreams away, I can hear the wolves, They are hauntingly howling - There's nowhere safe that I can run to, On this, here, dark, dreary day. There will be no stars To light up the pitch-black night-skies, They have already fallen, Just like the Angels That I once loved and knew, Everything that I once held onto As sacred, has been molested - I've been abandoned, once again; Hell, again, I am being forced To walk through. Alone, I was born and raised, Only my pain has been consistent- It has held my hand Throughout my entire life. At some point, somehow, I stupidly gave birth To expectations, Luckily, I woke up And divorced reality, Hence becoming solitude's Dedicated and loving wife. On the dark side of the moon Compassion, loyalty and trust Are nonexistent. Evil dwells in almost every man And woman, Each with his or her own agenda, Each with his or her own selfish plan. Saviors do not exist, Superheroes all wear masks, Unconditional love is but an illusion, Here, I revert to relying solely On the harshness of reality, For, the truth, it always exposes And unmasks. The dark side of the moon Is a very lonely, isolating place, In which to dwell, There is no sunshine, No stars or Angels - The only light visible Comes from the flames Of the evildoers' Raging fiery hell! Placed here against my will, No lush green valley in sight, Taken away From the divinity of nature, I was cruelly robbed Of my radiant life-giving daylight. Doomed for being too real, Too open and too honest, Doomed for loving too much. Doomed for believing in superheroes, Doomed for allowing a human To become my crutch. Doomed for being too empathetic, Doomed for being too sincere. Doomed for being too kind And too generous, I'm doomed, abandoned here. I blame only myself For allowing my intuitive awareness And intelligence to fade away Like the stars that once adorned Every exquisite night-sky, I blame only myself For not using the blessed insight Of my third eye. I'm too fixated in each moment, Each moment feels so intense, I'm too passionate about life To give up and remain imprisoned On the dark side of the moon... But I'm too emotionally weak And disappointed to jump the fence. By Lady R.F. (C)2018*

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Jan 19, 2018

Jan 19, 2018 at 12:27 AM UTC

⚘The Dark Side Of The Moon⚘

*I'm too fixated in each moment - Each moment feels so intense, I'm lost On the dark side of the moon, And nothing here has any warmth, Worth or substance ~ Nothing here makes any sense. Even my own shadow has left me. The Monsters, still lurking In the darkness, Have stolen all of my hopes And dreams away, I can hear the wolves, They are hauntingly howling - There's nowhere safe that I can run to, On this, here, dark, dreary day. There will be no stars To light up the pitch-black night-skies, They have already fallen, Just like the Angels That I once loved and knew, Everything that I once held onto As sacred, has been molested - I've been abandoned, once again; Hell, again, I am being forced To walk through. Alone, I was born and raised, Only my pain has been consistent- It has held my hand Throughout my entire life. At some point, somehow, I stupidly gave birth To expectations, Luckily, I woke up And divorced reality, Hence becoming solitude's Dedicated and loving wife. On the dark side of the moon Compassion, loyalty and trust Are nonexistent. Evil dwells in almost every man And woman, Each with his or her own agenda, Each with his or her own selfish plan. Saviors do not exist, Superheroes all wear masks, Unconditional love is but an illusion, Here, I revert to relying solely On the harshness of reality, For, the truth, it always exposes And unmasks. The dark side of the moon Is a very lonely, isolating place, In which to dwell, There is no sunshine, No stars or Angels - The only light visible Comes from the flames Of the evildoers' Raging fiery hell! Placed here against my will, No lush green valley in sight, Taken away From the divinity of nature, I was cruelly robbed Of my radiant life-giving daylight. Doomed for being too real, Too open and too honest, Doomed for loving too much. Doomed for believing in superheroes, Doomed for allowing a human To become my crutch. Doomed for being too empathetic, Doomed for being too sincere. Doomed for being too kind And too generous, I'm doomed, abandoned here. I blame only myself For allowing my intuitive awareness And intelligence to fade away Like the stars that once adorned Every exquisite night-sky, I blame only myself For not using the blessed insight Of my third eye. I'm too fixated in each moment, Each moment feels so intense, I'm too passionate about life To give up and remain imprisoned On the dark side of the moon... But I'm too emotionally weak And disappointed to jump the fence. By Lady R.F. (C)2018*

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It was about fifteen years ago No romantic notions No grand stories Just another part of my strange journey For a high school dropout It was a wooden bed In a blue storage trailer One and a half month long Sleep deprived Long drive From site to site One week Per city Doing my laundry At laundry matts With strange pretty girls Hanging at a bar Playing slutty slot machines No drinking Cause I was only nineteen It was two vets From different wars Smoking *** in the morning It was my first *** buzz Staring stupidly up At the ceiling The strangest set of strangers Bathing in the back of a semi Getting lunch with a lemon punch Using carny credit It was sketching for a distraction No artistic satisfaction Very few journal entries And those journals are now lost Searching for myself As all young men do In the end it was just another job

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Apr 10, 2015

Apr 10, 2015 at 6:38 AM UTC

It was about fifteen years ago No romantic notions No grand stories Just another part of my strange journey For a high school dropout It was a wooden bed In a blue storage trailer One and a half month long Sleep deprived Long drive From site to site One week Per city Doing my laundry At laundry matts With strange pretty girls Hanging at a bar Playing slutty slot machines No drinking Cause I was only nineteen It was two vets From different wars Smoking *** in the morning It was my first *** buzz Staring stupidly up At the ceiling The strangest set of strangers Bathing in the back of a semi Getting lunch with a lemon punch Using carny credit It was sketching for a distraction No artistic satisfaction Very few journal entries And those journals are now lost Searching for myself As all young men do In the end it was just another job

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It was a rainy night. He took out his umbrella, opened it, and it soon engulfed the both of us. "Hey, you're getting wet," he said. He pulled me closer to him, his arms like the umbrella protecting me, protecting us from the drizzle. I snapped out of my daydream to find him weirdly staring at me, and asked him, "What, do I have something on my face?" "No, it's just... why are you staring into space?" Our footsteps made little splashes, puddles reflected a thousand images of us. These pictures from nature will not last for a lifetime but the rain was our witness, as if the skies were crying at a matrimonial ceremony. I took a step away from him to let the memory of him soak in me. He stands there in the rain innocently, with umbrella in hand, waiting for me to respond. Breathing out, I told him: "Ask me what I think of you right now." "Wait, what? Are we going to play a game?" That usual what-is-going-on look still stupidly plastered on his angelic face. "Well, what do you think of me right now, then?" I didn't hesitate and the first word that automatically left my lips were 'umbrella'. "Umbrella? Do I look that thin to you, really?" He said dryly as he gave me an uninspired look. He shook his head in disbelief and pouted. "And I thought you'd relate me at least to the rain." "Umbrella: definition for a protecting force or influence," I told him as I stood in place. I side-glanced at him to find a spark lighted up in his eyes as his shoulders loosened. "You're my umbrella because I need you in rainy days and sunny ones. Literally because of your stature to block the sun or cover me when it rains," I laughed. "And it's not because you're thin like one, silly. But how you comfortingly stretch out your arms to me when it's a bad day for me. How you guard me from others' icy remarks. It feels like a need to have you around wherever I go." He cleared his throat jokingly and added, "Might I say I also take you high like Mary Poppins' umbrella." He burst out laughing as I glared at him for his poorly done innuendo. But right there and then as I rolled my eyes at him, he dropped the umbrella, grabbed me by my waist and kissed me as light as the raindrops kissing our skin. He broke off after a while and said, "Getting wet, are we?" Before I could claw at him for his second pun, he released me as I chased him down, not caring if I would get a fever later. But sometimes I just wonder how did I come to like, fall in love, and love him-- basically feel every emotion with him. In all truth, he wasn't just my umbrella, but also my home whom I'll always return to at the end of all my days. Umbrella or home, he is my shelter.

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Mar 27, 2016

Mar 27, 2016 at 7:46 AM UTC

It was a rainy night. He took out his umbrella, opened it, and it soon engulfed the both of us. "Hey, you're getting wet," he said. He pulled me closer to him, his arms like the umbrella protecting me, protecting us from the drizzle. I snapped out of my daydream to find him weirdly staring at me, and asked him, "What, do I have something on my face?" "No, it's just... why are you staring into space?" Our footsteps made little splashes, puddles reflected a thousand images of us. These pictures from nature will not last for a lifetime but the rain was our witness, as if the skies were crying at a matrimonial ceremony. I took a step away from him to let the memory of him soak in me. He stands there in the rain innocently, with umbrella in hand, waiting for me to respond. Breathing out, I told him: "Ask me what I think of you right now." "Wait, what? Are we going to play a game?" That usual what-is-going-on look still stupidly plastered on his angelic face. "Well, what do you think of me right now, then?" I didn't hesitate and the first word that automatically left my lips were 'umbrella'. "Umbrella? Do I look that thin to you, really?" He said dryly as he gave me an uninspired look. He shook his head in disbelief and pouted. "And I thought you'd relate me at least to the rain." "Umbrella: definition for a protecting force or influence," I told him as I stood in place. I side-glanced at him to find a spark lighted up in his eyes as his shoulders loosened. "You're my umbrella because I need you in rainy days and sunny ones. Literally because of your stature to block the sun or cover me when it rains," I laughed. "And it's not because you're thin like one, silly. But how you comfortingly stretch out your arms to me when it's a bad day for me. How you guard me from others' icy remarks. It feels like a need to have you around wherever I go." He cleared his throat jokingly and added, "Might I say I also take you high like Mary Poppins' umbrella." He burst out laughing as I glared at him for his poorly done innuendo. But right there and then as I rolled my eyes at him, he dropped the umbrella, grabbed me by my waist and kissed me as light as the raindrops kissing our skin. He broke off after a while and said, "Getting wet, are we?" Before I could claw at him for his second pun, he released me as I chased him down, not caring if I would get a fever later. But sometimes I just wonder how did I come to like, fall in love, and love him-- basically feel every emotion with him. In all truth, he wasn't just my umbrella, but also my home whom I'll always return to at the end of all my days. Umbrella or home, he is my shelter.

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Megan my partner in crime my bumble bee twin my best friend Best friends since second grade that's.... what 15 years now? 16? Sleepovers at eachothers homes Pixie stick highs and slushy brain freezes Trips to my grandmother's, for a Harry Potter Marathon Rocking out to Halestorm Daughters of Darkness through and through Foil art doodling and reading through the night Did I mention the trip to Walmart? ten at night just for a loaf of bread? Screaming at eachother, throwing punches Calling names so bad tears start to form Saying we're through we're done mo more friendship two minutes later laughing stupidly together Our favorite place, Weedamo woods, High Rock, queens of the world I visit those memories in my dreams I miss my soul sister my best friend for life I miss being able to call you up and yell *"YO ***** come get me I need to talk."* You're still my bestie and you always will b This separation don't forget is only temporary. I'll move down there soon and together we can rec havoc once more until then please don't forget me I know I haven't forgotten you.

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Mar 28, 2015

Mar 28, 2015 at 11:30 AM UTC

MY Partner In Crime

Megan my partner in crime my bumble bee twin my best friend Best friends since second grade that's.... what 15 years now? 16? Sleepovers at eachothers homes Pixie stick highs and slushy brain freezes Trips to my grandmother's, for a Harry Potter Marathon Rocking out to Halestorm Daughters of Darkness through and through Foil art doodling and reading through the night Did I mention the trip to Walmart? ten at night just for a loaf of bread? Screaming at eachother, throwing punches Calling names so bad tears start to form Saying we're through we're done mo more friendship two minutes later laughing stupidly together Our favorite place, Weedamo woods, High Rock, queens of the world I visit those memories in my dreams I miss my soul sister my best friend for life I miss being able to call you up and yell *"YO ***** come get me I need to talk."* You're still my bestie and you always will b This separation don't forget is only temporary. I'll move down there soon and together we can rec havoc once more until then please don't forget me I know I haven't forgotten you.

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You love to get the words out of me The words I wouldn’t use, they sound ***** You love the way I look at you I look into your eyes, and something sets free You love the way I listen to you I remember everything, Mr. Perfect doesn’t We both love crushing I crush on you And you crush me You call me your tomboy And get so possessive You say that you need me And then act submissive I adjust your dresses Sometimes your shoe laces When you keep me waiting I say you are allowed Don’t call me bro Babe, what is the ground We both love crushing I crush on you And you crush me You say you love me Every time you text I say, “I love you” You shoot hearts and rainbows back You want to know about my crushes If I ever loved a girl You wink and dance with me Say I’m the only one to make you twirl We both love crushing I crush on you And you crush me You love when I play gentleman Opening the door Letting you lead Walking you back Paying you heed You gush about my skills The way I move the swords The way I calculate The way I play with words Close discussions and debates And then we discuss How Mr. Perfect and you are hanging We both love crushing I crush on you And you crush me We are best friends And you want us to be, forever You want to hang out And go abroad together I would stand by you In all platonic capacities Even when Mr. Perfect marries you And claims you stupidly We both love crushing I crush on you And you crush me

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May 25, 2020

May 25, 2020 at 11:39 PM UTC

You love to get the words out of me The words I wouldn’t use, they sound ***** You love the way I look at you I look into your eyes, and something sets free You love the way I listen to you I remember everything, Mr. Perfect doesn’t We both love crushing I crush on you And you crush me You call me your tomboy And get so possessive You say that you need me And then act submissive I adjust your dresses Sometimes your shoe laces When you keep me waiting I say you are allowed Don’t call me bro Babe, what is the ground We both love crushing I crush on you And you crush me You say you love me Every time you text I say, “I love you” You shoot hearts and rainbows back You want to know about my crushes If I ever loved a girl You wink and dance with me Say I’m the only one to make you twirl We both love crushing I crush on you And you crush me You love when I play gentleman Opening the door Letting you lead Walking you back Paying you heed You gush about my skills The way I move the swords The way I calculate The way I play with words Close discussions and debates And then we discuss How Mr. Perfect and you are hanging We both love crushing I crush on you And you crush me We are best friends And you want us to be, forever You want to hang out And go abroad together I would stand by you In all platonic capacities Even when Mr. Perfect marries you And claims you stupidly We both love crushing I crush on you And you crush me

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My parents warned me about the bullies the responsibilities, drugs and terrible things, but they never warned me about beautiful tan skinned boys with hazel eyes that could make you forget how to breathe, eyes that cut deeper than a knife ever could, whose smile could unwittingly **** and make you forget how to think. And whose hands could steal your suffering soul and shatter your heart into millions of pieces. Whose gentle lips could make you stupidly forget all the bad things he’s done and keep you begging for more. Whose touch sent shivers down your spine and paralyzed you. Oh god. They forgot to tell me how he’d make me feel. And how much agonizing pain I'd be in When he left.

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May 15, 2019

May 15, 2019 at 6:30 PM UTC

Brown-Eyed Boys

My parents warned me about the bullies the responsibilities, drugs and terrible things, but they never warned me about beautiful tan skinned boys with hazel eyes that could make you forget how to breathe, eyes that cut deeper than a knife ever could, whose smile could unwittingly **** and make you forget how to think. And whose hands could steal your suffering soul and shatter your heart into millions of pieces. Whose gentle lips could make you stupidly forget all the bad things he’s done and keep you begging for more. Whose touch sent shivers down your spine and paralyzed you. Oh god. They forgot to tell me how he’d make me feel. And how much agonizing pain I'd be in When he left.

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An ode to my beautiful wife Who is really the love of my life In all of our years We've had so few tears I can't even remember much strife Now truly she doesn't like cricket Or my nose, should I stupidly pick it And the money I spend Drives her right round the bend So my wallet, she's no choice but nick it Yes, we have two kids and six cats The latter delieverd two rats but the oddest thing They decided to bring To our house were a couple of bats. We were drinking and watching the telly When Becksy cat did something smelly It happened we saw Her *** was rubbbed raw And she needed pretroleum jelly. When the time reaches much after nine Unless we've been into the wine It's off to the bed For resting of head Hey that's not your pillow, it's mine. Our daughters are Issy and Jess They turn cleanliness into a mess Whatever we do By quarter past two We're under some strain and more stress. We really do love our great daughters For all of the things that they taught us And all of the grind Gets left well behind When a hug is the best gift they brought us

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Feb 9, 2010

Feb 9, 2010 at 10:37 PM UTC

Ode to my Beautiful Wife

An ode to my beautiful wife Who is really the love of my life In all of our years We've had so few tears I can't even remember much strife Now truly she doesn't like cricket Or my nose, should I stupidly pick it And the money I spend Drives her right round the bend So my wallet, she's no choice but nick it Yes, we have two kids and six cats The latter delieverd two rats but the oddest thing They decided to bring To our house were a couple of bats. We were drinking and watching the telly When Becksy cat did something smelly It happened we saw Her *** was rubbbed raw And she needed pretroleum jelly. When the time reaches much after nine Unless we've been into the wine It's off to the bed For resting of head Hey that's not your pillow, it's mine. Our daughters are Issy and Jess They turn cleanliness into a mess Whatever we do By quarter past two We're under some strain and more stress. We really do love our great daughters For all of the things that they taught us And all of the grind Gets left well behind When a hug is the best gift they brought us

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You sit there and take pictures of me, The winter air chills our breaths You Laugh. I laugh. I feel a small spark of what I called happiness. It's absolutely freezing. Come on, the high today is nine degrease. But for some reason I don't feel so cold as the Ice blues my skin and snow infests my bones. Your infectious laugh carries over to me. "Uh, Beth, I think I broke the camera!" I know you didn't, of course, but I still rush over. I pity the way I can't stupidly giggle. or be anything resembling a teenage girl. the strange thing is you don't seem to mind. You stand too close as I fix the glitch. You smell like Cinnamon, apples and warmth too bad I'm like the anti-teen so I just stand there awkwardly Your brown eyes capture mine and I resume my duty of fixing the camera You run out of film. I frown. We walk back. We don't talk after that. You do this every month or so, I never expect it I want to Hit myself afterwards. Taunt me, tease me, leave me confused You are another cruel reminder of my living little nightmare. Until Next time, My brown eyed "Friend"

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Jan 22, 2013

Jan 22, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC

Brown-Eyed "Friend" Part 1 (Until next time)

You sit there and take pictures of me, The winter air chills our breaths You Laugh. I laugh. I feel a small spark of what I called happiness. It's absolutely freezing. Come on, the high today is nine degrease. But for some reason I don't feel so cold as the Ice blues my skin and snow infests my bones. Your infectious laugh carries over to me. "Uh, Beth, I think I broke the camera!" I know you didn't, of course, but I still rush over. I pity the way I can't stupidly giggle. or be anything resembling a teenage girl. the strange thing is you don't seem to mind. You stand too close as I fix the glitch. You smell like Cinnamon, apples and warmth too bad I'm like the anti-teen so I just stand there awkwardly Your brown eyes capture mine and I resume my duty of fixing the camera You run out of film. I frown. We walk back. We don't talk after that. You do this every month or so, I never expect it I want to Hit myself afterwards. Taunt me, tease me, leave me confused You are another cruel reminder of my living little nightmare. Until Next time, My brown eyed "Friend"

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Someday, I'd like to be by your side. Safely wrapped in your arms, Staring into your stupidly handsome grin.

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Jul 11, 2013

Jul 11, 2013 at 1:26 AM UTC

Someday, I'd like to be by your side. Safely wrapped in your arms, Staring into your stupidly handsome grin.

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I don't understand Why I seek love On an intellectual level Rather than Be stubborn and stupid About it Since I am not smart But I am average So I've got that going for me Not the kind of stupid love that Continuously makes babies Even if it can't support them But the stupid love that Stupidly burns itself in the fire And jumps into the flames

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Sep 11, 2014

Sep 11, 2014 at 8:22 PM UTC

I don't understand Why I seek love On an intellectual level Rather than Be stubborn and stupid About it Since I am not smart But I am average So I've got that going for me Not the kind of stupid love that Continuously makes babies Even if it can't support them But the stupid love that Stupidly burns itself in the fire And jumps into the flames

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A deadly combination Of lust, of passion, of love. Deadly, poisonous, treacherous. Worst of all, stupidly contagious. Compassion for another because of another can’t exist, suffocated by gyrating passion. Passion serves one, not both… Selfish, passion encircles the one consumed, feeding the addiction. Addicts chase the high because for a little while the world is as it should be In the eyes of the beholder. Love sighs as the well runs dry. Throw down the bucket as you may, the water will not appear. Acceptance is the hardest thing. Giving up? Not at all. Only people with nothing to gain can Give up. Accepting, letting go, moving forward. The steps of progress in self-realization. Leave behind the fire of love that consumes the heart and ravages the mind, preoccupies the body. Chase that fire which refines. I await to wake from this comatose state.

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Nov 29, 2012

Nov 29, 2012 at 3:06 AM UTC

refined-in-flames

A deadly combination Of lust, of passion, of love. Deadly, poisonous, treacherous. Worst of all, stupidly contagious. Compassion for another because of another can’t exist, suffocated by gyrating passion. Passion serves one, not both… Selfish, passion encircles the one consumed, feeding the addiction. Addicts chase the high because for a little while the world is as it should be In the eyes of the beholder. Love sighs as the well runs dry. Throw down the bucket as you may, the water will not appear. Acceptance is the hardest thing. Giving up? Not at all. Only people with nothing to gain can Give up. Accepting, letting go, moving forward. The steps of progress in self-realization. Leave behind the fire of love that consumes the heart and ravages the mind, preoccupies the body. Chase that fire which refines. I await to wake from this comatose state.

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Seventeen years ago America was shaken to the core. Since not too long after that We've been involved in a non-stop war. Homeland security Became an issue that since then Hoped to assure Americans That such attacks won't happen again. During the past seventeen years Many measures have been taken To make us safe; however, it's time For sleeping minds to reawaken. Lacking foresight, our president Has gone after the people who Have worked to make us safe. The man Doesn't seem to have a clue. Discrediting investigators, Removing them from key positions, And pulling security clearances Because of paranoid suspicions Will only make us vulnerable To future terrorist attacks. Watch how his Republican friends In Congress support him. Political hacks! The president also hates When investigators eye American involvement with The Russian mafia. We know why. It's hard to watch as the president-- With almost each careless endeavor-- Stupidly goes out of his way To make us more unsafe than ever. -by Bob B (9-11-18)

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Sep 11, 2018

Sep 11, 2018 at 12:26 PM UTC

9/11: 17th Anniversary

Seventeen years ago America was shaken to the core. Since not too long after that We've been involved in a non-stop war. Homeland security Became an issue that since then Hoped to assure Americans That such attacks won't happen again. During the past seventeen years Many measures have been taken To make us safe; however, it's time For sleeping minds to reawaken. Lacking foresight, our president Has gone after the people who Have worked to make us safe. The man Doesn't seem to have a clue. Discrediting investigators, Removing them from key positions, And pulling security clearances Because of paranoid suspicions Will only make us vulnerable To future terrorist attacks. Watch how his Republican friends In Congress support him. Political hacks! The president also hates When investigators eye American involvement with The Russian mafia. We know why. It's hard to watch as the president-- With almost each careless endeavor-- Stupidly goes out of his way To make us more unsafe than ever. -by Bob B (9-11-18)

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i do not have the patience of a god, yet i find myself waiting yet again. i do not have the patience of a god, but when you return with tears in your eyes, my arms are open wide— heart willing, though it aches again— ready to hold you close once more. i do not have the patience of a god, no, but i do think i have the patience of a flower. i do not think you notice, too busy in your own mind. for once, i was a blooming daisy, so welcoming, so bright— day after day. week after week. i do not think you saw me, for the lily petals that once were brilliant had curled and wrinkled into an ugly shade of brown, and the daffodil petals scatter on the ground, leaving nothing but a twisted, wilted stem. i do not think i have the patience of a god, though i think i was given a heart like a god. for i still love you, painfully, like thorns on a rose. and though i may have a love like a god, the rest of me is still so stupidly human. please don’t come back this time. though if you do, i will open my arms again.

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Dec 23, 2022

Dec 23, 2022 at 12:15 AM UTC

i do not have the patience of a god, yet i find myself waiting yet again. i do not have the patience of a god, but when you return with tears in your eyes, my arms are open wide— heart willing, though it aches again— ready to hold you close once more. i do not have the patience of a god, no, but i do think i have the patience of a flower. i do not think you notice, too busy in your own mind. for once, i was a blooming daisy, so welcoming, so bright— day after day. week after week. i do not think you saw me, for the lily petals that once were brilliant had curled and wrinkled into an ugly shade of brown, and the daffodil petals scatter on the ground, leaving nothing but a twisted, wilted stem. i do not think i have the patience of a god, though i think i was given a heart like a god. for i still love you, painfully, like thorns on a rose. and though i may have a love like a god, the rest of me is still so stupidly human. please don’t come back this time. though if you do, i will open my arms again.

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