"superstitious" poems
When I am older I will be just like my Nan,
Streaking my naked body every Wednesday to the delivery man.
I will have a chihuahua,
Drink my milk when its sour,
Use by dates will mean nothing,
For 10 year old bread makes a good stuffing,
I will live off many cups of tea
Every ten minutes have a ***
Hoard a thousand tin of beans in the draw,
We all know we need them when we're at war,
I will be superstitious,
And make food taste delicious,
I would be head of my family, head of my herd,
My word will be final, anyone else's word is absurd,
Anyone who calls me 'dear',
will get a slap around the ear.
YES,
I want to be just like my Nan,
Every Wednesday streaking to the delivery man.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
R Red moon came to soon the red "Viper" love spoon
E Energy trembles hearts race eluding like the Dodge Viper
D Devil red ****** moons demolition Dodge of technology
M The moon of darkness dissolves like lava "Hot Male"
O Orderly overindulgence the moon at a comfortable rhythm
O Out of touch slowly getting back to your outstanding body
N New Age High noon time Eqyptian Nile moon neverending
S Shift of energy simplicity strengthens your existence
T Truly love for the family the moons makes a celebration
A- Able so articulate touch the moon lover fate
R Robin bird flies manifest the ruler the rider risque delighter
S Sensible and a seductive moon she is superstitious
C Circle of light sacred chalice not to be malice
An Amorous depth of feeling delicious Moon love key luxury
R Rituals turns to purity racing minds of sanity ♥ Car Vipers ♥
V Vampires blood moon lessons to be learned
I Ingenious Free yourself from anger all love inked
P Patience is a virtue Moon true Periwinkle blue
E Ecstasy the moon turns on the celebration of love
R Recollection of moon poems time to be Reborn
S Sensational Venus Soulmate of cars Sultry Valentine moon
I can't wait to come home soon that was a trip to my moon.
°• Dodge Viper •°”˜. zoomed off to the Red Moon
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 9:50 AM UTC
Not many people know
where the old road goes
I’m older now and it seems
there are more and more
paved roads
that lead to nowhere —
most of the time
As a kid, living miles up
a rough potholed,
country road — a hike away
from the edge a small town
out in the sticks,..
you come to know onliness,
blind to a journey alone
I never stepped on
cracks in a town sidewalk —
never learned what
"superstitious" was,
like the other kids
from town
It wasn't the cracks
in the sidewalk
I feared to tread;
steppin' on 'em breaks nothing
already broken —
It was just all so different
than the long walk home
where that old road goes —
grandma always said:
*"follow the creek upstream;
it'll always lead you back
where you belong"*
The washboards
in the steep narrow road
up the hill, were like
muddy stair steps
in the rainy season
Sometimes I followed
on up the creek below
to the upper log bridge
swimmin' hole,..
where I learned to listen
to the sweet melody
of unclouded days;
and for a moment
I thought I belonged
I still haven't
found my way out
of this memory
I’m holding onto —
because life is just
an unstoppable
season, passing by
on its own;
like the way
rainwater
in the swollen
creek bed flows:
And I'm just
another passing September
no one will remember —
most of the time
Jesse Stillwater ... September 2018
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 1:28 PM UTC
let’s split the seconds in two
break apart the bark of dead trees
and sail away like summer
like echoes
echoes
we’re back here again, no winebottles to hold us
the waves break on our skin
whispering about echoes of
the wind drops like grenade pins
paid for by palestinians
profits into our superpowers pocket
we’re echoes of endless
take one of those moments in a second
crush it up and breathe it in
just how rolled up notes showed you
hold this moment longer than you’re meant to
steal time from the gods
cos i want to look into your eyes one last time til tomorrow
i am a series of echoes of endless meaningless patterns
like pythagoras put a purpose on me
like a madman i’ll scream to anything that’ll hear me
the whole room sways to the beat of your breathes
the knowledge you cradle like life inside will never leave
it’ll warm you in moments of distress
you’ll feed it in moments of perfectness
sometimes the symbols aren’t right,
but you blurred the borders between me and love
letters and poems
dreams and stories
our thought patterns in sync like mushroom trips
i love you.
-
words
are infinite
like
the journey to here
the random chemical concotions
or just
preselected stories.
and pi to seven decimal places sounded with syllables sparks superstitious symbols
electrical impulses brief bits of data
it’s all down to disbelief in coincidence.
believing in confidence
patterns need a purpose
lose yourself in them
easier to avoid the pain that your brain knows to be true
that you’re part to blame
for the begging bin bags
the bombs and the poverty
the lifestyle of monotony
so i’ll keep saying it til i work out how to say it properly...
0.000001/=0
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 12:12 PM UTC
A ship in a bottle is a useless thing,
encapsulated, isolated.
It is meant to be crewed.
We are each holographic captains
seeking first mates
and yeomen to climb the riggings
and guide us through the storms.
Floating colonies needing founding,
battened hatches guarding dwindling
stores and shielding superstitious
sailors galore.
We must learn to trust our
crews and captains alike to
brave the rough seas and
coral reefs of life and
nature's faith.
Sometimes ships run aground,
the founding of the colony,
and then sandcastles reign supreme.
We must learn to trust our
crews and captains alike to
learn from their faith in nature.
We must build upon the dunes,
carrying buckets of water and
trust from the sea to inland
shores. The castle, like the ship,
will one day be reclaimed by the
sea, despite our efforts.
We build them anyway out of hope,
fearing faith, learning trust, while
wishing we were safe in a bottle.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 8:23 AM UTC
I'm jealous!
I'm jealous of the way you see them and not me!
I'm jealous of the way you spoil them and not me!
I'm jealous!
I'm jealous of the air you're breathing with them...and not me!
I'm jealous of the distance that's keeping us apart!
I'm jealous!
My jealousy is superstitious,
It's way above us!
I wrote you down on a note, trying to connect with you,
But instead, I realized the distance between me and you!
Continents apart,
Oceans apart,
So far, yet everlastingly so close!
I'm jealous!
I'm jealous of the years I missed out on spending with you,
I'm jealous!
I'm jealous of the times I knew I saw you as something more, but didn't say anything!
I'm jealous!
My jealousy is ridiculously overwhelming!
But to think about getting jealous of you,
Gets my soul jealous for my heart being stolen by you!
My jealousy is disappearing!
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 4:59 PM UTC
Sometimes I catch myself thinkin’ about you with my fingers crossed.
And my eyes closed, like I’m wishing for something.
This is funny to me, because I learned recently
that my brain does this weird thing where it’s incapable of feeling superstitious.
I have always wanted a black cat.
You have always been a wishing well begging for the famished to come and dip their hands.
You wear a sign that says
“Take something, or leave something, doesn’t matter, just leave feeling won”
Leave feeling like you won.
This is how you will leave me.
When my fingers are crossed. Because then the promises don’t matter.
When my eyes are closed. Because it will hurt more to watch you leave
than to wonder if you crawled or if you ran.
When my teeth hurt, from all the chatter, from all the shake, from all the wisdom they extracted.
You know I’ve been leaving bite marks in the crust of the earth,
trying to find a wormhole that will take me to the moment you thought,
“hey, this girl’s gonna write poems about me every Friday” and
“hey, she won’t win me, but maybe she’ll win something”.
I'm the award winning heartache, I'm the pain they thought would last forever.
I'm my grandmother's years of Elvis & Jack Daniel's coming to the surface
and passing themselves off as vertigo.
You're the sum of the times you and the earth were in disagreement over your leaving.
You're the only thing that will shine when the sun dies.
We are Samson and Delilah. You are so sunshine.
I am grateful to the doctors that gave me second chances, I am grateful for the opportunity
that someday is engraved with.
This is how you will leave me.
I pray with my fingers crossed.
and my eyes closed, like I'm wishing for something.
I don't say Amen. I say thank you.
Thank you.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
I look with worried eyes, at social Vines, of flashing lights and a lack of rights.
Human compassion is lacking where it needs to be.
Hate feeds off of hate,
but if thats all it takes,
then **love should come so easily.**
Bashing in windows.
Spraying with mace.
Choking to death.
Eliminating race.
Classes are gone,
So classless mistakes,
are now made daily
at the hastiest rate.
We’re starving and hungry for the tastiest taste,
of what has become the most delicious
most suspicious,
vicious,
fishy,
repetitious,
superstitious,
vision named freedom.
It's naive to think we’re free when all that we see,
is a sea of beings not being one thing,
and that’s free.
When was the last time you felt it?
And we’ve been given a life long song and dance of "whoever smelt it dealt it".
So if you took the feeling of now and held it,
bottled it up and shelved it,
you would open up to find your mind in decline.
This moment was better
while laters behind.
Thats the path that we’re on
but we have control.
We’re not egos and clothes,
we’re people of souls
We're humans of thought
Not students of hate.
Evil got a head start,
but now truth is in the race.
And if truth is in your face,
and you choose to look away,
then get used to the abuse
and not confused at truce-less fates.
The pre action of action is thinking to act.
I'm thinking that actually we’re ready to snap.
They’ve bent us too far,
for us to go back.
The past is a place where patterns attack.
And people are put
no matter the facts.
Police are afoot
demanding the last,
of freedoms they take them,
and **** them with gas.
A historical scene on Kentucky blue grass
these colors don't bleed,
yet we see they fade fast.
We’ve exceed the need,
to keep things intact.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 1:42 AM UTC
Stars
Glowing in the darkness of the night
Looks too delicate to touch
So far away
Wishing for a better something
Even though it’s superstitious
If only
They really granted them
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 4:42 PM UTC
After a great while the paper elephants march
In their sparse herd they lumber along
One by one, their thick legs slam into the earth
Like pennies on a timpani
Leaving slight imprints in the dust
No one is quite sure where they come from
All we know is they just are there
Some raise their children before witnessing the elephants
A lucky few will even see them a second time at the end of their lives
It is not uncommon for generations to pass without the paper elephants
Sometime the periods between their journeys are so long the elephants are dissolved into folktale
The paper elephants are bestowed an almost supernatural quality
The stories are birthed in secrecy between the lights of candles
In the ears of the men in the corner
From the hushed lips whispered in acquiescence.
Every story is different
Every story has the same ending
Every story has the same moral
You do not touch the paper elephants
Perhaps the stories have some truth
If anyone knows the validity they have been dead for quite some time
No matter, man’s superstitious nature will see to the protection of the elephants
The paper elephants are called “paper elephants” because it describes them quite nicely
From a distance they look just like normal elephants
Lumbering over from side to side
But their skin is like paper
Their essence is like paper
They travel together
Even the old and young
When it rains the young hide under the larger elephants
Lest they get wet and melt into the earth
It is not uncommon to find the soaked remains of an elder elephant
Crumpled by a sad consequence
It always serves as a reminder
The old exist to protect the young
Most likely the elephants can be found roaming through our graveyards
Here their pace noticeably slows down
Often enough, they can be found sitting next to a tombstone
Resting their trunks over the epitaphs
Strange things happen when the elephants are in the graveyards
Sometimes laughter can be heard
Sometimes sobbing
As the elephants rest the blue mist rises from the graves
The blue is the most reassuring shade
The misty fog rises and fills the entire yard
Until it is absorbed by the paper elephants
With a long sigh the elephants continue their journey
After many such stops
The elephants arrive at the tree
Gnarled and ancient, it welcomes the elephants with silence
As it has for years and years past
It is here the elephants have yearned to arrive
Under the knobs and strikes of its branches
They bend the knee
The young watch to learn
The adults look up to the sky
And release all that they carry
The hopes, dream, and memories of those long gone
Ascend to the heavens
The paper elephants collapse exhausted but content
And look upon their children one last time
They weep before leaving this world
Not for their children’s sorrow
But because there are no paper elephants to carry them to the next world
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 3:37 AM UTC
Running from the thunder
Hiding in the trees
Superstitious people
Your will is hardly free
Casting the unlikeliness
Of a loving killing god
Stolen from the pagans
By a crucifying mob
It's time to wake up
WAKE UP
Worshipped on the mountain
Forsaken down below
Superstitious people
Fearing for their soul
Casting their inventions
Making holy war
Pretending not to notice
The ****** killing floor
It's time to wake up
WAKE UP
TWM
ANOTHER SONG I WROTE
IN MY OLD BAND
HEAVY ALTERNATIVE
Sound like
Godsmack meets tool
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 3:51 PM UTC
Who is she but blood of that demise
In fiery passion her own blood consumes?
Like powder waiting for the heat of flame
Whose heat in lonely agony she bathes?
What is it but fire of that demise
Whose sacrificial prodigies be made
To keep him superstitious of the flame?
And in triumph, like fire, they consume.
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
He lives his life holding a superstitious breath
And his mania is of other people’s or his death
If ever he encounters a funeral any day
He dives over a wall till it’s passed by his way.
He’ll wander round graveyards and look at the stones
And tell you the nature of the owner of the bones
For if flowers were growing he’ll tell you for free
The bones of a good person lay down underneath.
But if weeds there are growing they’d died in disgrace
For flowers could never take root in this place
He saw a white moth once fly into his home
So straight-away he said that to him death would come
And he totally refuses to call at his best friend’s flat
For he’s driven me crackers and I've bought a black cat!
©Joe Wilson – His weird mania 2014
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 7:08 PM UTC
I work for Jones & Co.
You are likely somewhere down below,
I have grown used to this unnatural height.
Once, here, as a younger man, I read articles,
working on cases just long enough to cultivate indifference.
My first firm party, I was made to wear an ivy laurel.
We were mingling on the penthouse deck,
when a gust unceremoniously removed it from my head.
Jones is a superstitious man,
he has a dream-catcher above his office door.
He designed a vaulted spiral staircase on our fifty-first floor.
The one separates Jones from his company,
the other, us from below.
Five years of billing in six minute blocks,
labyrinthine increments, Herculean costs.
A kind of optic chiasma where the nerves cross and people get lost.
B.E. Twain
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 8:27 PM UTC
Blindfolded I look forward
To the blessings of death
Beyond my ignorance
There nothing left...
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 8:28 PM UTC
When ever the clock gets to 11:11:11
I make a wish
I'm superstitious
I know this now.
It's always something about love
always about pain of losing someone
Of leaven your Lonely heart Broken on the floor
I wish at 11:11:11 for you to come back but that won't happen
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 10:51 AM UTC
The superstitious,
all and about
But who, that gullible?
Come forth ye,
and lend me your ears!
I tell of a superstitious being!
Born and raised she was,
with the superstitious act,
was it external?
Or internal?
She told once her superstitions,
one out of numerous times,
what doubt I was in!
The superstition dumbfound itself,
hearken her superstitions!
The pride she carries within them!
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 3:29 PM UTC
Mythically attractive
This spellbinding October night
Uncountable stars
The moon shining vividly bright
The autumn leaves whisper
As they gracefully slither on down
The harvest we’ve gathered
Has our hearts waxing fatter
The lure of sweet passion
The magic that happens uptown
Jack o’lanterns and witches
Young hearts superstitious
Goblins and ghosts
Are the parties’ creepiest hosts around
We all take our place
At the feast as we haste
To go forth where old spirits abound
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 8:24 AM UTC
Three dead birds on highway squashed,
Roadway washed with corpses discarded as carrion,
To be chewed upon by companions in a world of brothers,
In a world of blood and guts,
A lone magpie was seen,
A sure purveyor of doom,
Gloom and sorrow,
For birdies splattered,
No tomorrow,
Perhaps they saw him too,
Didn't show him due respect,
They'll never know if they had regrets!
Livvi Kent 09/06/2013
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 3:10 PM UTC
The man he sits,
Upon the bed.
Watching his sister die.
"No don't go" he says,
Eyes glowing red.
He's losing his mind.
The house, the house!
Is dark and defied!
He roams about,
Only hearing her cries.
The eyes of gray,
With no sleep.
He has no one to keep; to love.
His heart is very weak.
My dearest,
Fear thy presence.
She has come..
Within the rising storm.
He's gone now,
Blindly chasing a dream,
Her voice.
Insanity now holds his chains,
It won't be long now,
Before the blackness reigns.
Eyes bloodshot,
With a wolfish grin.
He's become thee,
Insane Usher again.
This house, it haunts.
With the dead below...
Where restless souls creep,
Carrying solemn cries.
There Usher Stands,
Lost in his agony...
The land where his sister sleeps.
No diary of his sweet.
His face is written,
In superstitious derail.
Beyond Hells Gates,
His final line frays...
The name of Usher will end,
This day.
No more sons,
To bear thu name.
A sibling is lost,
In this game of fate.
The house has fallen,
Broken and decayed.
Where no life breathes.
The fall of the house of Usher,
The tomb hath stayed.
Exposed by nature.
Never to live again.
Insanity takes thee,
Drowning out the calm.
Superstitions rage wildly,
Within the Ebony storm...
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 9:34 AM UTC
I really hate love poems
I promise to never write one
When I see one I don't read it
because I hate the word "love."
and I hate its non-definition
and I hate how it makes people feel
when it fools them
and I hate how I don't know what it is at all
and I hate how it's never fooled me
and it never occured to me
that I possibly want to feel fooled
on a day that isn't the first of April
and I hate that I think that I might want to be fooled
by something as shallow as love
but how can I be fooled by something that doesn't exist?
because I know that "love" doesn't have a definition
and if it isn't defined then how is it real?
it must be a phantom in the air
and it really isn't fair
that you have to be superstitious
to be fooled
it's too bad that I
believe in ghosts.
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 7:08 PM UTC
A solid gold oak tree will shimmer and shine
And many a man will declare it as "mine;"
It'll stand firm and tall,
Keep its leaves in the fall,
And around it some humans will build a great wall.
A solid gold oak tree will draw the religious;
The meager, impoverished and the superstitious.
They'll come just to gaze
At the golden sun rays
Which reflect off its branches as if its ablaze.
A solid gold oak tree will cause a great war;
On one side the rich; on the other the poor.
They'll fight until civilization's no more,
And the gold will then melt back into the Earth's core.
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 5:21 AM UTC
“I don’t believe in love”
She says
As I speed through a yellow light
She presses her first two fingers to her lips
Then touches the roof of my car with them
She shuts her eyes
I don’t ask her why
I just trust her intentions
In the same way I don’t believe in anything myself
Save for the passion that takes hold of others
When they believe
I like what that looks like
The word believe when broken down
First means to live
“Be” means to exist as
Or to live
And “Lieve” means love
And I think about the bravery it takes
To believe in anything
And the bravery it takes to love
And how that same bravery is made by love
How many stupid things have we done
Just by loving someone?
How many arguments are there against a belief
In anything?
I don’t believe in god
But I believe in you
When I watch you do things
Like superstitious knee **** reactions
To keep the light yellow a little longer
So on the ride home I do the same thing
As the sun bends it’s yellow into red over a horizon
That is kissing our sunburnt necks
Because I want this car ride to last a little longer
Even though we say nothing
And you don’t ask why for the last fifteen minutes
I’ve had my fingers pressed to the roof of my car
A satisfied smile pressing back my cheeks
You just trust that I feel this means something
So maybe you don’t believe in love
But you believe in something
And by doing so
You are partaking in love on some weird level
Subconsciously
Like breathing
But I want this car ride to last a little longer
So I say nothing
Let the wind **** the silence like white-noise
It’s as close to prayer
As either of us
Will ever get
Jun 26, 2012
Jun 26, 2012 at 5:28 PM UTC