"syn" poems
Conversation opened. 1 read message.
Skip to content
Using Gmail with screen readers
in:sent
Click here to enable desktop notifications for Gmail. Learn more Hide
1 of 184
QUIVER ALL-MAXIMIZING
SAMUEL DAVID <[email protected]>
3:38 AM (56 minutes ago)
to Daniel
SOAR OWNERSHIP
/ UTTERANCES OUTLABOURED PILGRIMS/
By the creditor at cyprus and on other grounds:
The counter-cedar Venice much unparalleled ever pursuant kindly indigenous street streams far above strange beneath the string ...' Dream castle before the 'Requiring much quill 'Peanut lieutenant great ones of the machinery citation / Worth pillow following purposes invasion with a rainfall bombardment epistle the pearl earning era: Closet by sessions pursue arithmetician diaries ' anchor calculus cumulative arrows propellant / Squadron in the field-refueling ' division visions ...' Upswing within the meaning axle conversion processes proofs / ' Electron icons ' Creation wireless reticence circles: Moon ship's amnesty crest reckon 'flaskbone SpurZebra...' Preferment goes by relieves and affectionate 'Oil The Self-graduation Outpouring / Vagrant above ant strides : Rodrigo peculiar ends demonstration/ Forego the-Outward acclimation : Upon all civility citizenry civil-rises other low less losses below yonder / Phrase of prose -possessions cuss ion syn chronicutensils 'asylum systems beyond stems : Preeminence blown 'being ht-thence quarries hijack travels history/Wherein of plant hours ' spicily spoke ***** Pilgrimage dilutes noble companies 'ago-maximize promptly alacrity; Exhibition the underrating besought levels- of quarry / burden oxidation immune slaughter
Cheap Hill Chips
EMAIL: [email protected]
+2348131914240
Click here to Reply or Forward
0.04 GB (0%) of 15 GB used
Manage
Terms - Privacy
Last account activity: 49 minutes ago
Details
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 7:44 AM UTC
You need to pay a sin tax
for the way you talk smack,
calling me your property
your syntax is making me
over. the. hill.
I’m heels over head with
you
making me crazy
the way that you speak
your diction’s too weak.
“you’re so nice”
how boring, I choose more
elegant words
to describe your glory
I could write
a five-page double-spaced
essay about you
and get accepted to your ivy league
I could wrap my
arms around you
like ivy on stone
hang you up to dry
on the
clothesline
til you answer the
telephone
I could cling to
you
like static
on your sweater
you better
not
flick.me.off.
Hell, my poetry ain’t free
it’s about as free as
slaves
I have confines, rules
bats in caves
It costs me thoughts
and time
and frustration
costs me more than just greenbacks
and a vacaction.
you need to pay up
talk isn’t cheap
your words cost you
attention
even if
my love don’t cost a thing
I train you like a golden
retriever
you retrieve my orders
like a wide receiver
my language is figurative
but your actions are derivative
you’re confusing me
like
trigonometry
love triangles are not my thing.
our
l θve i ∫ a sin(x)
cos we go off on
tangents and don’t know where to
begin
first we’re infatuated
then we’re done
next we’re inebriated
then we have some fun
happens so fast
then we come together at last
This rollercoaster of emotion
has me puking again
I’m trying to calculate this algorithm
in my head.
its so complicated
I’ll need something else instead.
in this kaleidoscope
I see
many sides
of you and me
I spin it round to try to understand
all I see is a blur of colors
even when I hold your hand.
I wish I could see
the thoughts you hide
from me
I want to understand
you’re radioactive
your face is glowing
even in pitch black
your smile is showing
but, I never get to see
your eyes
make me crazy
hazy
they trip me up
and pull me down
periodically, you’re in your element
and everything clicks
then we stick and the chemistry’s quick
but then you open your mouth
garbage spurts out
I think it’s about time
I take you out
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 2:06 PM UTC
Time swirls above me
in the dead of coldest night,
when the witching hour brings you
in copper cloud's delight,
So I can feel you moving,
touch the quivers of my skin,
bursting through the cascades
of the naked storm within
Rushing you inside me
pushing deeper,
deeper in,
tasting salt in tongues
when the droplets cleave the wind
And the boundaries
cease between us:
dissolve where sweat begins.
Torrents sweep in waves
coursing through the joining Syn
Face to face we rise
from the pipes of Pan
within
breathing mist together
as the bird songs wreathe
a ring
of foliage and of flowers
around ancient stones
and altars,
Where all the others leave us
their carrion
in the garbage,
we take Raven with us
and soar
above the bloodlines,
the glisten of the kin
Raising new horizons,
we feel the morning spin,
hatching suns beneath us
in the shadow of our wings,
un-folding life together,
ten-folding on forever ...
and ever ...
Within.
Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 6:17 PM UTC
Syn has always been my friend
I always confided in him.
Temptation; a bully
a brutal lying enemy
Tired of his attacks
attempts to **** me
Maybe I’ll surrender
Back out, give in
Acceptance will start
The madness will end
Surely, he’ll step off
If I just let him win!
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 12:53 PM UTC
Stå fram, du, som skjules i mørket.
Stå fram inn i verden.
Det kan være uhyggelig;
Det kan være urolig;
Det kan oppvekke gru innafor deg
som du ikke visste var til;
Det kan føles som om jordas lunger
puster deg inn og spytter deg ut;
Men sånt har det alltid vært.
En vismann har sagt før:
Syn uten handling er kun en drøm.
Handling uten syn fordriver tiden.
Syn med handling kan forandre verden.
Reis deg opp; ta på livet, grip tilværelse,
møt folk, snakk språk, drøm sagn,
bygg ting, slå deg ned, få barn,
les, gråt, le, rop, løp, hopp, ta feil, gå deg vill;
så blir ekte tilfredstillelse til.
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 5:52 PM UTC
you gave me a bite of your lips
and it tasted orange, metal, tin
tingling and downy soft, like toes
against a backdrop of jagged snow
on a plain. you tasted like sweet
e flat on my skin, like smoking
all those marshmallows by the
corner of the roof, bright and burnt.
you tasted like ah, sighing,
you tasted of love.
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 8:09 PM UTC
Vores bløde stemmer
Blev væk i mængden af mennesker
Allerede inden det hele var for sent;
Da stjernene lyste klart på himlen.
men, før jeg blev fanget af hjernens psykedeliske blomsterhær.
Floraen i mit indre, dræbt af syrenbuskenes smukke små vidundere, da min udstråling blev fortabt.
Og mit syn svækket.
Er for fuld til at ane noget af jeres indre
Fuld på livet spørger de.
Fuld af lort siger jeg.
Mutationer i kærlighedslivet
Dele af mig taget væk, skiftet ud. Med kemisk opløslige følelser.
Du får mine øjne til at løbe i vand.
Bliver het fanatisk, elektrisk, allergisk.
Gå væk, når du kysser, men bliv ved.
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 2:57 AM UTC
Osiem metrów wysokości.
Pośrodku szczelina.
Rzeźba dziecka z betonu
obok kontury ciała i pustka
po bezbronnej istocie,
której już nie ma.
Szorstka struktura szarości
rani delikatną skórę.
Głód. Choroby. Samotność.
Świat zapomina o tych,
co nie krzyczą głośno—
o tym co najbardziej boli:
o miażdżonej niewinności,
i olbrzymach pilnujących
orszak przestraszonych wielkich oczu
w małych, wychudzonych ciałach.
Pamięć nie jest wygodna.
Ona fizycznie boli.
Uparte rany nie goją się.
Było.
Jest.
Wije się w sąsiednich otchłaniach Tartaru.
Aksjomat przyjęty przez aklamację:
„Tak ma być!”
Cisza.
Na scenę wychodzi syn ocalałego.
Łamiącym się głosem szepcze:
Tata przeszedł piekło, ale kochał nas.
Przeżył, napisał pamiętniki.
Dał świadectwo.
Rozumiał ten wykolejony świat.
BROKEN HEARTS
Eight meters high.
A crevice in the center.
A concrete sculpture of a child
and the deep void.
Once there was another child,
now gone without a trace…
The rough grey texture
hurts fragile skin.
Hunger. Disease. Loneliness.
The world forgets
those who do not scream
and what hurts the most:
crushed innocence
guarded by the giants
watching the procession
of terrified wide eyes
in small, gaunt bodies.
Memory is not a peaceful place,
it brings physical pain.
It gnaws from underneath.
Stubborn,
festering wounds,
they refuse to heal.
It was.
It is.
It will happen again
by axiom,
accepted without question.
That is how it must be.
Like a venomous snake
slithering near the lands of Tartarus.
Endless sacrifice, leaden silence.
And then, the son of the survivor takes the stage.
He speaks in a whisper:
My Father went through hell, but he loved us.
He wrote it down—
a testimony of a derailed world.
He knew what it meant to be human
when it hurt.
He survived to love and to be loved.
Jun 2, 2025
Jun 2, 2025 at 6:13 PM UTC
you're the coffee to my cup
the stitch to my seam
you bring the down to my up
the I to my beam
you're the orange to my carrot
the beef to my stew
you're the fox to my ferret
your cages, my zoo
you're the moat to my castle
the saddle to my steed
your jester's my vassal
your virtue, my deed
you're the fly to my web
the venom to my sting
you turn my flow into ebb
my winters into spring
you're the syn to my thesis
the sun to my leaves
your puzzle holds my pieces
your wire binds my sieves
you're the hedges to my maze
the signal to my noise
your game racks up my plays
like a child collecting toys
you're the sheen to my mirror
the pixels to my screen
you make further feel nearer
than my feelers can glean
you're the ink to my pen
the feathers to my wings
you turn how into when
and whethers into rings
you're the valves to my heart
the fluid to my spine
you're laughing at my ****
(was that yours or mine?)
you're the hints to my clue
the hunch to my claim
you turn my false into true
and my wild, you tame
your splinters are my plank
your twist, my *****
you're the toothbrush to my shank
the red to my blue
you're in love with my hatred
you honor my shame
your church bears my cross
your tombstone, my name
you're waging my war
your shells fill my tanks
your rich, my poor
your spit, my thanks
you're more to my less
the vowels to my needs
you put the sure in my guess
the plea in my pleads
you're the soles to my feet
and the depths to my sea
but in case we don't meet
here's from you to me
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 6:47 PM UTC
smørhullets vide måler flere meter
imens vi ligger begravet i hvert vores bjerg af dyner
tildynget af puder, der slører vores syn
på tilværelsen og på hinanden
vi er blændet af ideen om hvordan det burde være
hvordan vi burde ligge
hvordan vi burde leve, elske og nyde
sengen er vores helvede
den burde være vores syvende himmel
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
I am an onion.
Peel me.
Cry, too, through the smiles and grief and tight resistance to vulnerability that are held out to you.
Wonder at the resilient fragility of each syn-propanethial-S-oxide drowning layer.
Let me **** forward and grab you, in my death.
Hold our faces close, inhale your breath and roughly slip back.
Gently husk away the dull layers of dermis and cradle the papery lairs that fall faster and faster as I relax
rigor-less, into your arm,
and fall
and fall
and fall
apart.
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 11:50 PM UTC
We are all but
hanging
from
a
thread
as our lips seal
behind thick black string
flesh made raw by shards
of heavy rope
ensnared by echoes of all
opposing voices
seem to come from
all sides-
but are, rather,
those of the
loudest protesters
out of sheer frustration
that we still find
ways to shine
in our music-
angry, spoken word,
**** RIOT
rant filled
in our art-
graffiti on your capital
desecrating your
male saints
streamed through your
safe airwaves
******* up your
perfect hegemony
livening your
boring missionary
bedrooms
bleeding in your
just-washed white
sheets with my girl
friend and her boyfriend
In our poetry-
CAPITALIZED, misspelled,
profane-fuck-out of syn
tax
without filter
in red paint
on sidewalks
in newspapers
on bookshelves
in magazines
on flyers on
our lips in our
hearts
screaming
crying
laughing
soaring souring
soar-
ing
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 4:19 PM UTC
I've got a block. It belongs to somebody named Writer.
I'm not getting too far in this life I'm living, either.
My head is swarming, but my pencil is dull.
I guess this **** will have to stay in my skull.
I'm not a kid, but I don't think I'm a grown up.
All of my life, I feel I've let myself be shown up.
I've got it in me. But I guess I've got some demons.
Any shine that I have, they dull it out, "yeah Syn, keep dreamin."
I face my fears, but they always seem to stay with me.
They've been my longest companions, sad reality.
There's a spectrum inside me, but I touch both ends.
I try to live my life as both, but they just cannot blend.
I wanna Rest. And if I'm lucky it'll be In Peace.
But God said to me "Syn, you're not much help deceased."
I met Kurt Cobain. Told him the feeling's mutual.
To finally mute the thoughts I know unmutable.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 12:25 AM UTC
det kilder i min rygsøjle,
små dråber af farven kirsebærrød
rammer gulvet ved mine fødder
de former fine, perfekte cirkler
hvor er det typisk ironi
unik, enestående blev der hvisket
af en ukendt stemme i skyggen
lys på højde med solens stråler
var placeret med retning mod mig
stilheden laver en klapsalve,
som fylder salen
jeg bliver ført rundt i manegen
af hvem, tja, hvem ved
sårene uden skorpe bliver revet op
de fine, perfekte cirkler bliver til et
vandfald af varm, rød væske
det tunge gardin falder ned,
lyset mister sin ***** der mindede
en om den smukke sommerdag
og
det sidste syn er gråhvide, bløde
tabte fjer
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 5:37 PM UTC
Sløret sin
Sløret syn
Ved ikke hvad jeg skriver
Ved ikke helt hvad jeg laver
Jeg er fuld
Drukket lidt for meget *****
Jeg lugter af røg
Jeg ryger for meget
Men jeg ryger jo ikke ?
Eller jo
Men overbeviser mig selv om jeg ikke gør
Skriver til folk
Som nok alligevel er lidt ligeglad med mig
Jeg er træt
Vil sove
I min egen seng
Men ligger ihvertfald ikke i den
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 6:22 PM UTC
du var som den tåge der blødt omfavner mig
i den efterhånden kølige efterårs morgen
ligeså svær var du at se igennem og du slørrede
mit syn for omverden
og da det blev sommer og du forlod mig
kunne jeg pludselig se mere klart end nogensinde
men nu er tågen tilbage og dit nærværs fravær
puster mig koldt i nakken, så mine hår rejser sig
alle dine løgne var spundet åh så nøje i det
smukkeste spindelvæv og du havde fanget mig i det
i takt med at sollyset forsvinder og dagene bliver kortere
mister jeg også mine fjollede tanker om at
kærlighed er mere end bare en myte
så mine tanker flyver langt væk
til dage hvor du holdt mig tæt og vi kiggede hinanden
dybt i øjnene, med blikke der talte klarer end
vi kunne med vores ord
jeg mindes sønvløse nætter og langsomme morgner
der næsten føltes uvirkelige
som om vi var med i en spillefilm der kørte på replay
de aftner hvor vi skålede i rødvin
og lod os synke ind i en dyb rus
som dig og mig gjorde det aller bedst
du var den misforståede, flabede dreng der havde røget
for mange cigaretter og ikke tænkte så store tanker om
sig selv, men gik for meget op i hvad andre tænkte
jeg så dig for så meget mere end hvad de andre så
alle dine gode sider og alle dine slemme
jeg så det hele, jeg følte det hele
og jeg stod der alligevel - jeg står her endnu
du vil altid have mig og det ved du
min evige efterårsforelskelse hvor er du
jeg ved du har en anden nu
og du fortjener også kun det bedste der findes
så må jeg jo erkende at det ikke var mig
for jeg var den misforståede, naive pige der havde
røget for mange cigaretter og ikke tænkte så store
tanker om sig selv, men lærte at elske en misforstået dreng
på trods af at *** endnu ikke havde lært at elske sig selv
jeg er tom for ord
for jeg ved at jeg allerede har sagt det hele
du ændrede mig og du rørte mig som ingen anden har gjort
og jeg savner dig, jeg mangler dig
og dette efterår, drømmer jeg endnu engang kun om dig
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 6:01 PM UTC
When he took me away I was scared
13 years old with a growing mind and future ahead to jump into
Little by little he took that away
He painted my walls grey
He muffled my cries for help
He tied me in chains
He drained the beauty out of each day
I didn’t deserve to have it
15 years old with a permanent affliction of entrapment
The bleak environment I bred in devoured me
He stole the escapes in my dreams
He kissed his palm before slapping my cheek
He called me beautiful as I lay on the bathroom floor
He patched up the cuts from his sharp grasp
I began to think I didn’t deserve to have him
17 years old things have shifted in our four walls
He holds me when life drowns the person I have become
He walks with me into wars with others who don’t understand
He calms my irrational fears through a glance
He has made me love him for the years we spent together
When he took me away I was scared
But things have changed
And now I’ve fallen for him.
Stock·holm Syn·drome
noun
def./ feelings of trust or affection felt in certain cases of kidnapping or hostage-taking by a victim toward a captor.
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 3:51 AM UTC
Good writing
is better
than the best ****
on the planet
(2014)
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 1:28 AM UTC
Et sted er der et lys.
Det sniger sig ind, rammer ikke.
Det lader dig beundre, hiver dig ikke ind.
Det lyver og skaber håb.
Alt imens stilheden fylder rummet.
For stille er der.
Hvis du lytter godt efter høre du et suk og to hænder foldes.
Mærk efter og føl hulken der spreder sig kilometer væk.
Kig op og vær forundret.
Alting er ikke godt og okay er ikke et rigtigt ord.
Ting misforstås ofte.
Men forstå mig ret.
Det sker og det er sket.
En tøven opstår for hvad kan du føle og hvad kan du se.
Er ikke det samme.
Nej tværtimod.
At se er solen.
Men hvem elsker ikke månen.
Om natten folder vi os ud.
Til toner langt over vores syn.
Toner der rammer hjertet.
Toner der hiver os ned op og rundt
Og pludselig er vi i et cirkus.
Der er mange mennesker og alligevel ser man kun en.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 3:47 PM UTC
Indifferent cosmology.
Abysmal psychology.
It's incorrect but constant,
Infinite.
A perplexed and petty problem.
Permanently broken
Unanswered
Repeating 15, over and over again.
The mechanics of it; it's the way she thinks
Assemble, and
Connect the links.
Do a speed-outline,
Sketch a quick plan
Of the structure
A devious smile diagram.
Add up her behaviors:
Afraid to make steady eye contact. Distress.
shown so simply with the model of "s".
Her bitter responses, remarked day by day,
In equation, "a" will display.
Uncomfortably stared at by everyone, so then
Represented appropriately with the variable "n".
Her name is a single syllable. It's said so softly.
It begins, and ends with an "e".
"s"+"a"+"n"+"e"= Syn ERROR
Abnormal algorithms
She's irrational.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 9:21 PM UTC
"I saw
somet(h)ing
in you th(a)t
g(l)owed
in h(o)liness"
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 3:41 AM UTC
Han har den her teori om, at livet er én stor lidelse, og meningen med det hele er udfordringen i at vi skal forsøge at holde os ignorante, og finde de ting i verden, som får os til at glemme denne sorg. Som får det hele til ikke at stinke, selv hvis det bare er for en stund. Siden han fortalte mig dette stoppede jeg med at ønske at han så mig som sin elskede - det ved jeg, at han aldrig ville kunne give mig. Nu stræber jeg bare efter at være den ene person som får ham til at glemme at han har det sådan. Jeg vil være hans pusterum, hans tilflugt. Måske endda den, som får ham til at ændre dette deprimeret syn på verdenen.
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 2:49 PM UTC
Synny had a little shell
Who's soul was white as snow
Who learned too soon that life was hell
And she was sure to go
And in that soul, corruption sparked
She fought it all the while
Until the day it consumed her
And killed the wholesome child
And all the stayed
Was charmed remains
Of pretty little Syn
And when the demons spoke to her,
She always let them in.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 11:43 AM UTC