"thrice" poems
Stumbling into ancient scripts, authored a decades plus ago,
ago being a modifier of time quantities, minute or large, unspecific
without an objective adjective additive, that faucets a stream of an interlocutory elocution of a batter of rooted emotional histories,
but not histrionics
fanciful words for dredged up memories, acute, but tarnished,
powered yet worn by a cousin of ago, a/k/a,
age
and yet
renews as of,
at this very second, as if it were a first, a tumult of visions, swelling of remembrances, embodied scars, and I weep anew but not
for me, as much for the resonating simpatico souls with whom
they even now vibrate with resonance of the immediacy of
If not now, When?
Aside: The exterior environment is noisy wet pelting of thunderstorms and ****** sheets of bulleting rain, piercing projectiles, but I am safe in the sunroom, sadly happy my dog is no longer here to shiver and tremble, cuddle and be soothed by steady stroking
But I am here, wrestling with this dredging operation, digging up
tons of sand that require dumping, and I ask, inquire, beg:
Who will take this detritus off my hands, once more, now uncovered,
now recovered, the soil is already soaked and can absorb no more,
the soul is already soaked and can absorb no more, the weakened
heart, damaged and occluded, suffer cannot bare twice the
outrageous misfortune
of unbared recollections, twice, or thrice, and I feel myself drowning in revisiting pain, **** **** **** these old poems, not nuggets, but boulders dropping from night skies, shot from a pitching machine, without letup, piercing of agonies that once ago
freshly desecrated and decorated my basic training in humanity.
Enough whining:
*I wrote those poems to
eject out those pains,
and I write this now, once more,
to realize that so so many still face
uncertain and unrelenting similarities,
doing their own sums,
and I wish them easing,
strength to compose and
thereby dispose of
the ineloquent
and eloquent
words of staining suffering*
3:30am
Thur
July 10
2025
Jul 16, 2025
Jul 16, 2025 at 5:39 PM UTC
OCD is not all about remembering the freckles on her cheeks or telling her I love you repetitively
OCD is waking up at 2 in the morning after you have spent hours trying to delude yourself into thinking that your hands are clean only to end up in your washroom trying to rub your skin off.
(all because a stranger touched me on the sidewalk a month ago)
OCD is being in an abusive relationship with yourself. Your logic won't let you give in, but like a desperate lover, your OCD won't let you go. So you keep swinging, tick tock, to and fro, like the broken clock in the store room you can't get yourself to throw out because it belonged to your nana.
OCD is not finally finding a peace of moment when he looks at you but it is biting your teeth into your lips trying to hold in the cringe when he carelessly wipes his greasy hands on the napkin. "Don't complain, don't complain" you mutter to yourself as you throw a hand sanitiser his way.
(please don't leave me)
OCD is rearranging the pictures frame on the shelf for the fifteenth time a day because last time your brother interrupted you and so you might as well start again. OCD is the worry in your mum's eyes as she invites the guests to show them your room while she keeps throwing you cautious glances as someone touches your books.
(I'm sorry, ma. I can't help it)
OCD is reading the same line again and again, a part of your brain asks you why since you got it right the first time. You don't know why, but you keep doing it just to be sure. Check the door if it's locked properly before sleeping. Once, twice, thrice till it's morning already and it's time to wake up.
(another sleepless night, God **** it)
OCD is all these fuzzy voices mixed around with the signals from your brain telling you that your life will fall apart, if, just for this once, you do anything different.
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 3:34 AM UTC
I.
the emperor
sleeps in a palace of porphyry
which was a million years building
he takes the air in a howdah
of jasper beneath saffron
umbrellas
upon an elephant
twelve foot high
behind whose ear
sits always a crowned
king twir-
ling an
ankus of
ebony
the fountains of the emperor’s
palace run sunlight and
moonlight and the emperor’s
elephant is a thousand years old
the harem of
the emperor
is carpeted with
gold cloth
from the
ceiling(one
diamond timid
with nesting incense)
fifty
marble
pillars
slipped from immeasurable
height,fall,fifty,silent
in the incense is tangled a cool moon
there are thrice-three-hundred
doors carven of chalcedony and
before every door a naked
****** watches
on their heads turbans of a hundred
colours
in their hands scimitars like windy torches
each
is
blacker than oblivion
the ladies
of the emperor’s
harem are queens
of all the earth and the rings
upon their hands are from mines
a mile deep
but the body of
the queen of queens is
more transparent
than water,she is softer than birds
2.
when the emperor is very
amorous he reclines upon
the couch of couches and
beckons with
the little
finger of his left
hand
then the
thrice-three-hundredth
door is opened by the tallest
****** and the queen
of queens comes
forth
ankles
musical with large pearls
kingdoms in her ears
at the feet of
the emperor a cithern-
player squats with
quiveringgold
body
behind
the emperor ten
elected warriors with
bodies of lazy jade
and twitching
eyelids
finger
their
unquiet
spears
the queen of queens is dancing
her subtle
body weaving
insinuating upon the gold cloth
incessantly creates patterns of sudden
lust
her
stealing body ex-
pending gathering pouring upon itself stiffenS
to a
white thorn
of desire
the taut neck of the citharede wags
in the dust the ghastly warriors
amber with lust breathe
together the emperor,exerting
himself among his pillows throws
jewels at the queen of queens and
white money upon her nakedness
he
nods
and all
depart through the bruised air aflutter with pearls
3.
they are
alone
he beckons,she rises she
stands
a moment
in the passion of the fifty
pillars
listening
while the queens of all the
earth writhe upon deep rugs
11.2k
From the BBC today,
Excerpt
Why does Taylor Swift write so many one-note melodies?
"It's easy to get distracted by her celebrity, but Taylor Swift is a once-in-a-generation songwriter. From the very beginning, she's displayed a knack for melody and storytelling that most artists never master.
Take, for example, her first US number one, OUR SONG
Written for a high school talent show, it's a fairly typical tale of teenage romance until the final lines: "I grabbed a pen / And an old napkin / And I wrote down our song."
That's smart, self-assured songwriting for someone who wasn't old enough to vote. Notably, the lyrics insert the musician directly into the narrative - something she developed into a tried and tested trope.
But Our Song also establishes another of Taylor's trademarks: The one-note melody.
Excerpt
Repetitive melodies that centre around a single note are part of that appeal. They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech.
"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."
"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."
"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."
Rebuttal
Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics. They can relate to your song but if they cannot sing it themselves putting themselves in the 'first-person perspective narrative' they cannot feel as-if they have BECOME the artist and are living that moment as they remember it. Taylor Swift sings about teenage love and angst something EVERYONE ON EARTH understands.
ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG.
Cadences are singing statements that confer a discipline and unity.
Song acts as a catharsis. The artist shares their pain in a way that is universally understood. If you want to sell a rock, literally a pebble, you will not sell it if it doesn't look like a rock. If it doesn't do what rocks do. If it is not what people remember a rock to be like. Nor will it sell if it is just like every other rock they have ever seen. It cannot convey an emotion unless it elicits emotion.
One cannot even begin to feel emotional if one cannot remember easily the past and that includes lyrics one has heard that evoked said emotional state.
It is horrifying to see HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS that rhyme be obliterated in exchange for an intellectual or individual perspective NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE.
If you want to sell and make money you better start thinking about the 99% of people who are not geniuses.
If your sole goal in life is to attract a genius to give you a great job because of how, "smart," they perceive you to be then fine.
You are not an artist.
You are an employee.
"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."
"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."
"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."
Thrice Times Great. ⁻ᴴᵉʳᵐᵉˢ
BECOME
EVERYONE ON EARTH
ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG
HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS
NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE
HOW BAD
artist?
or employee?
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 10:29 AM UTC
I walked into a church today,
One I wanted to visit for days,
I passed by it, saw the huge doors open
Inviting me in daily, but I just didn’t go in.
I’m a Hindu by religion,
Indian by birth,
I have an older sister,
My mom and my dad obviously.
Why am I telling you this?
Well because I’m everything but
Happy, calm and sorted,
Just angry, irritated and anxious.
They fight, my mom and dad,
They love each other, or maybe they don’t,
But they fight and argue,
They don’t hold back on concern either.
They talk a lot, my sister and him,
The guy she’s seeing but not dating,
The guy she’s serious about but hasn’t met,
She’s always on the phone, sharing every bit of her life.
I entered the church,
Felt nothing, felt the same as usual,
No excitement, disappointment, nothing,
Temples don’t help either.
I love my family, they love me back,
They care and support me, a lot!
I don’t want it most of the times,
It both keeps me alive and suffocates me.
They are always there,
Standing right by me,
If not in person, then by spirit,
Always a call away.
I talk to them every day, thrice,
Twice at least, message my whereabouts,
It’s a habit, a want, a need
To let them know everything about me.
They are fighting now,
I got an email this time,
Not a phone call, nor message,
Mom lied, that she’s got her migraine.
Dad’s left the family WhatsApp group,
Blamed it on the work stress,
But I know better, we all do,
I may be the youngest, but I’m 20.
My sister’s fed up with me,
Well she’s not the only one,
I shout, scream, screech rudely,
Loudly, with no sane reason.
I know I need help,
We all do, for anger,
To love and feel loved,
But it’s never going to happen.
I am a psychology student,
I want to let the world know,
With my research that depression and anxiety,
Can’t be beat with medicines nor by expressing.
My sister’s a Human Rights student,
Who wants to help people,
Support and care for them,
You can’t, nothing will end human suffering.
We are the sole cause of it,
Human suffering, the ones with fuel,
The ones with the extinguisher,
Yet, each time we choose poorly.
My family is broken, ******* up,
It’s surviving on a thin string,
But it won’t break, ever,
We’ll all just drift apart.
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 10:30 PM UTC
What might it be that doesn't let me compete to three verses ?
Perhaps it is that I tend to write longer poems, perhaps the lengh
shouldn't matter so much as the message is carried through.
From mind to heart, then to ones soul I try to reach out with no goal.
Yet am beaten, brought back down, by three verses which show up
with such malice, ominous, threatful aura, they have approached me.
I pretend not to mind, I pretend not to have seen it, yet the simple,
silly, broken stream in my thoughts has already engaged it.
So that it once again, cannot repress, envy on such a level.
My writing style might have been through changes, might have
come to a disliking to those who prefer a clear, structured, yet well
recorded, beautiful and magnificent rhyme pattern.
That should surely catch one's eye, perhaps fill them with glee and
bliss, happy thoughts that they would miss once they are gone.
But no, I cannot turn, this path was chosen, locked, destined to be
walked upon on an journey which has become endless, by time
which had stopped passing anymore.
So now it became unrecognised, forgotten, left in an abyss without
any light to expose it to the world outside my head.
Such is the fate, which I will gladly bear with, for this, has been
a route, from which I learn and educate.
So go ahead, you can take my flame thrice, even if I might not be
able to burn this image into your eyes, this ember, about to go out
from the cold, windy, airless area, will only burn brighter.
As it rises from the ashes and yet again, goes ablaze
~ Umi
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 6:55 PM UTC
We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end.
On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog.
We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
Your colors are so heavy, how dare I, I cannot sleep. Years inundated under, through skin coils, marigold fields. Yellow crocuses, orange California poppies. Moors of cattle ranchers, yokes of oxen. Plasticine uber-confidence, silky white-skinned testubular thrice people harmonies. Blisses of contagion, contagious bliss. Wrists and incisors, tying down in a bedroom, waking up to live harps and choruses. You dance like you're so alive, but I'm so alive I can't dance. Or breathe. Or knead my fists of earthen wears, or sell my soul completely. I drove off a cliff last night, but the four foot fall ended neatly. The plateau authors my chance to sew my bright, beyond- my fortunes. But the hour before I fall asleep, seems to be the greatest torture.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:54 AM UTC
Lay down your own bricks in the cobblestone;
Let your motivation shine through creation,
Any man’s hard work is not worth your own.
I’ve passed up jobs, errands and even the unknown,
To reminisce on maybe lost elation;
Lay down your own bricks in the cobblestone.
To hire is to lay desire prone,
Motionless, emotion deviation;
Any man’s hard work is not worth your own.
Thrice I’ll repeat, for urgency was shown,
Like no vacancy for meditation;
Lay down your own bricks in the cobblestone.
If a lesson is to be learned and known;
As Dad says, “Honor. Appreciation.”
Any man’s hard work is not worth your own.
If ever I am lost, misled or thrown
Off my path, I’ll pave with no duration,
Lay down your own bricks in the cobblestone.
Any man’s hard work is not worth your own.
Mar 30, 2011
Mar 30, 2011 at 9:43 PM UTC
you can’t right the same poem twice
hell, yes I can
in pointy fact,
only got one,
which gets re-righted
morning noon and evening-tide
substitute a variant spelling
wright vs write vs right
and the meaning changes thrice
*the only thing i can’t not duplicate is those **** love poems
each unique and writ for the woman specific,
each love one, custom jiggered,
each poem, crafted, to her pulse
each poem, drafted, to her scent
none alike, and that’s why I believe
in the god who commanded "create her"
to make love poems in his way,
gave me millions of veins, an extra ribbing,
of inspiration to pray to...
my heart altered, modified, daily*
**** poems
**** love poems
**** love
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 10:18 PM UTC
#shameless
They ruined my honour under their feet,
They hunted a girl passing through that street
Empty roads remind me the day I was all alone on that rainy day .
Walking through the wet road
I got the signature of "shameless" on my notebook.
When I found a foetus inside me
I was a hot topic in the society
I find myself all alone on the road full of people
There sharp eyes sees my body figure.
I wish I had died in the hospital.
Now I am dead writing this with a great regret
It was not a suicide
I was murdered by the society not once,not twice,not thrice, a little in every bite
I just found a way I could free myself
So, I killed the foetus
Now at least the so call society would say a girl choose to die because she was *****
I know this society would not drop a tear on the name of me but the one gave me birth must be searching for me!❤❤
Jul 22, 2020
Jul 22, 2020 at 3:12 AM UTC
Tie her down and strike her
once, twice, thrice.
The pain is not her own,
leave her defenseless.
She gave up her freedom
when she stepped through the door,
So quick she was to lie on the bed,
yet the situation, she misread.
She struggles and moans
through a washing of crimson tears,
Yet would her release be allowed,
she would not go, it is not her wish.
In life she had sinned
and sealed her fate,
For eternity she shall remain,
as for her, it is too late.
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 11:57 PM UTC
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart.
Spilling out snapshot flashes of life like a flick book's muffled cries.
Controversial plastic shell, elastic strap, stick insect mattel covetted for months
until Santa dropped it down the chimney,
almost as fast as she sprogged and regained her figure
- the original scrummy yummy mummy set to spread low self esteem.
My daddy said anyone can crank out a kid like she did,
as my mother ground her teeth to protest on behalf of her traumatised frame.
Strange, I almost became one of the lost - before I grew cells and self,
another fragile foetus swinging on a noose
from gallows where once a ****** failed to stayed closed.
Little life curled tight self soothing sings al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
as I lie beneath my shroud of sadness filled with down shrinking from the light of day
I want to tell you that I love you,
that my heart brays, beats, bleets, breaks, aches for you.
My soul, spirit, self thrice chorus al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
as waters flow from deep to deep
where danger dances and solace is sought
from beyond the fruitless orchards and willows weeping
branches reaching out for you.
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
surrounded by madonna, ***** and all betwixt
spheres of life protruding, pronounced, announcing themselves;
in streets where bundles, terrors, cherubs, banting, brat and bairn alike
shriek, scream, squeal, shout, squalk, squabble, sing
in a cacophony that makes my heart weep and ache in longing
to sing to self in solitude al na tivke iredem bim'nucha.
My memory beats in rhythm with my heart
pulsating thoughts, dreams, hopes of you through the whole of me.
Brought to my knees I seek wisdom, guidence, strength to let you go.
The river is waiting for you, you who I hold tight in my caul
trying to trust, seeking strength to hakshev le'ivshat haga'lim
holding the thought of you,
the love of you,
the hope of you
tight in my arms crooning my lullaby of lament
al na tivke iredem bim'nucha
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 5:57 PM UTC
"come on, Forget-Me-Not!" flirted emerald Snapdragon,
"tell me, what’s it like to have control over me, for once?"
like fire, the cerulean bloom did crackle and hiss
and walked away in a heated, dreadful silence.
"why do you call me that?" asked uncertain Snapdragon,
"tell me, why don’t you speak with me like you used to?"
like salt, the windowed flame did flicker thrice -
and was swept away by the threatening, stormy sea breeze.
"please, my sun-kissed Fox," begged hesitant Snapdragon,
"shower me in loving words like you did before."
like rain in drought, the elusive creature did rarely show his face,
if so, only for laughter’s sake, to break the horrid silence.
"tell me, darling Forget-Me-Not," pleaded melancholy Snapdragon,
"why don’t you love me anymore?" oh how she sobbed
as, like childhood, her Snapdragon self become part of his past -
he shrugged his pale, fragile shoulders, swaying in the salty breeze.
"dear seaside Sunset," wrote tragic Snapdragon, "I am truly sorry,
I miss our days in love. your presence filled a hole in me, now empty."
but far too long in blinded oversight, Forget-Me-Not had stood,
and much too late did adoring Snapdragon realise her mistake.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 8:01 AM UTC
You smiled at me; so mind blowing
It always ran inside my head;
Each day and night when we're together,
You never failed me; you gave me that smile
again as I expected.
But your phone beeped once, then twice, then thrice
I saw you smiling but a bit different
My heart sank to the ground,
I **** was jealous.
Your smile was a bit different,
More meaningful and cuter,
You never gave that to me,
Yes, you never did.
You never did.
Later I found out, it was from your girlfriend.
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 3:11 PM UTC
Grand edifices, seem pretty nice
Hoarding up money, such a heist
Pockets full, everything to boast
All that luxury, all that toast
Curtains of wealth, over those eyes
Trapped in such a state of vice
Stockpiles of silver and gold
Deal, a sign, everything sold
Wealth in reality, zero a price
Counting em, this year x thrice
Pretending to be above n bold
The stiff heart you couldn't mould
Crawling over body, ants and lice
Scorpions too, it's nothing nice
Shivering with fear and cold
The pain, agony, all foretold
In the grave, horrendous mice
Game's over for the rolling dice
No one to tell, weren't you told
To that paper now grab a hold
May it be Burj khalifa, all those malls
The huge tall towers, everything falls
Sabotag shall suffer those proud walls
(Awaits!)
The vast stage, superior than all halls
Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 2:04 PM UTC
I didn't pay attention to you.
I couldn't bare your company.
I didn't know much about you.
Maybe I didn't even meet you.
All I know is that you loved me,
no matter my
imperfections.
It's a shame to say that I didn't care for your aging heart
until the day you
left.
The day I had to say goodbye to someone I hardly knew
once
twice
thrice.
Then I grew up and realized what you mean to me
and couldn't even tell you.
I'm sorry I didn't appreciate you
for you always loved me
and I hope that you know
that I love you too.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 2:14 PM UTC
I find myself looking for words.
Combinations of feeling
I did not know existed.
I cannot breathe.
I struggle for them
& make myself a fool.
The world was so big before I met you
& now I'm grasping for it,
unable to recall it's delusion
as I am pulled into your orbit.
Out of drifting dreams.
My mind goes blank
& all I can see
is the dark galaxy that is you.
Alien, beautiful & natural.
You haunt me.
I nearly never believed so big,
& you infiltrated this complex defense
to show me what's been missing.
Half crazed by the loneliness of space
I cannot articulate.
Another form of art I hesitate to express.
I do not trust myself
that it will not be perfect,
fluid,
each stroke of the tongue
like the brush fear failure.
I want to show you all I see
beneath the stars.
Let the brilliance of the moon shine through.
But she is stuck.
In the cloud of curious awareness,
my eloquence cripples me.
How many things can I say
before I lose my grace?
& I dread
the company of simple minds
who cannot love stories.
So eager,
your patience holds the hand of the clock.
I want to watch your eyes glow
lit up by the music from my lips,
& I want to be carried off
by all you reminisce.
I can't believe in chance
when a soul like yours comes to court.
Thrice even.
I am challenged by the core of you.
Inquiry.
Things I cannot see
& stopped looking for.
If I take no notice,
I will not be seen.
Drawn into someone else's dreams,
Abandoning me.
I forgot how to identify
with my kind
so that I did not lose me.
Then I rusted over.
The great machine locked away
while the shows went on
in Technicolor.
Introspective
losing passion & luster inside this shell.
How you found me,
only body in forum.
You took me out to play.
Engaged, stalled, oiled & sparked
Life.
I am reminded of a better me.
An affirmation,
of my Dominant heart.
His voice,
the coaxing in my womb to Be.
Away with closed up, dying to shine.
You wanted to show me off,
pretty girl.
I remember being a Goddess
& shattering the abyss around me
with heart & raw warmth.
The fire of honesty.
Unsatiated wander bred in me
& I held nothing back.
Now the world is clay
& my garden to build upon.
Train me to grow.
I am inspired to be stardust.
Permeate every corner of this heavenly body.
I find myself the eager student of Aquarius.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 1:50 AM UTC
Fare thee well by islets of time,
Beauteous blooms of fragrance; of thyme.
Gliding symphonies beckons thine eye,
Gentle minds float toward sky high.
O cues sung by the siren, allure!
Once, fusion of reason borne pillar.
Twice ponder, may our paths entwine,
Thrice to act, unlike the tranquil Seine.
Like angelic enigmas par Euler,
Soar upon the painted auric frontier.
Air fresh: an ebullient morning dew,
Wisdom: moisture for the thirsty few.
By spring fountain, if thou art inclined,
Bright sparrow among the bovine herd.
Lo, argent quarry of dust- liquid guile,
Behold, product beyond thunder- gale.
Scents of lavender assail thy sleep,
Euphoric dreams, we welcome with glee!
Sleepy horizons, a glorious dawn,
Morning filled with a trillion suns.
Some time, some day: travel the stars,
Mortal shackles unchain my awful maw.
Pupil of Aristotle, Darwin, and Vinci,
There lies truth; a transient hierarchy...
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 5:18 AM UTC
I'm a Disney princess
A pretty, pretty actress
Sought by handsome princes
and by ugly wicked witches
My hair is blonde
and shiny and smooth
or soft and long
and fragrant and strong
I'm just like my hair
Shining bright like a flare
In a world of unfair
I'd get even and square
(Grr, grr!)
'Cause I'm a Disney princess
My skin is white and lovely
So are my eyes and my teeth
And everything about me
Because I am perfect
I'm created to win
I'm the hero of your dreams
Armed with my tears and high-pitched screams
Sometimes I'd only sleep
Then there comes his charming kiss
It's hot, it's sweet, it's salty
Thanks for waking me up!
Sometimes I'd sneak on a ball
Dancing 'til I hear my midnight call
And leave one of my silver slippers
For my curious prince to ponder
Then he'd seek and find me
And we'll live happily ever after!
Wait, why am I here
In this sad forgotten tower?
With my evergrowing golden hair
Can't even find a single stair
I wanna go down
I wanna go down so badly
I wanna go down so deeply
Somebody please help me
Please help me go down
And my wish is granted:
A prince had just appeared
He pulled down my slender hair
Saved me from my lonely despair
But “ouch! That hurts!”
No it didn't! I'm just trying to flirt!
(Wink, wink!)
'Cause I'm a Disney princess
I can have all that I want
I can make all those mistakes
And fix them with a magical wand!
My life is a dazzling fairy tale
Packed with curses and magic spells
Who really cares about moral lessons
If everyone's happy like a bunch of morons?
Because I'm a Disney princess!
Everybody loves me
Whatever I do
You still wanna be me!
Curtain closes,
bells go chimes
My story ain't over,
it's just begun
Countdown starts,
five times the fun
Four times the thrill,
the Evil Queen awakes
Thrice made the chill,
the dragon is unleashed
Twice turn the pages,
here come the mages
Once upon a time,
I'm a Disney princess!
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 4:19 AM UTC
Hip hop. Equals art stop. That crude **** stopped musical fusion
Right in its tracks.
When it first landed, it was still music with a lotta spittle flying.
Not naming names. I listened to a lot of it.
Then Gangsta rap hit. Oh ****
Cant accuse me of blind judgment, I still check it out from time to time
How do you say.Get diverse mud flappers. Know the history.
learn to play an instrument and read it so you can write it. Then come back an see me.
Who am I?.
John Q public.
Pavlov's dog.
Tin Pan Ali.
Long Tall sally.
Sachmo. Scratch less.
Yard-bird.
Donald Bird.
Stubborn ****
Stuff out there is weak as thrice used tea bags. And cost more to get unless you got
a peg leg and a parrot ******** on yer shoulder.
Lyrically, man my six year old says more about less with **** left over. What?
Flame out digitized No talent constructs that make me wanna hurl, url give a dog a bone.
Tin eared, tone def hoochies and synthetic cool cats. Not to mention the rough neks.
Looking like they pooped their pants six times and forgot how to belt up.
There are some real deal talents out there but it is like pickin peanuts out ****
After disco died. Yes I said disco. It has been a circle **** in the cemetery after dark. Naw mean.
But I digress.
.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 4:42 AM UTC
Long days seem so much longer.
Distance does not make the heart grow fonder.
You’ve conquered the empire of my subconscious.
Your crusade so short,
Yet I hope your reign continues for eons.
We’re far past passive flatteries,
Instead, we fill each other’s hearts with vows.
You mean them now,
But what about a few months?
What if you decide I’m not what you want?
The torment I am slowly approaching,
Consumes my distant soul.
I can hear the sounds of futuristic loathing,
From when you decide this love has taken it’s toll.
So tell me.
How can I pay this inevitable toll?
How can I save us from Cupid’s malicious tyranny?
His arrow is too far lodged within me,
I cannot remove it.
I can only push it farther and farther
Into my heart until it falls out of my back.
But this arrow, trenchant.
Cupid, the sharpest of marksmen.
Yet colorblind, he is.
He sees not what colors his targets represent.
He draws his bow for the pure love of marksmanship.
Sometimes, yet not often,
He will hit the intended target.
But the odds are scarce.
His subjects are often punctured,
And connected to one whom reciprocated Fate’s desire.
Yet this time…
This time…
Cupid must have hit a target of Fate’s approval.
For thrice he has missed.
This time He and Fate are in sync.
This wound may stretch over time,
But the arrow shall remain firmly lodged within my *****
***** and immovable.
Until you kick it through my backside.
But until then,
I can only endure.
I can only be woo wounded.
I can only survive,
Another ambush of the militant called Cupid.
But I will do it for you,
For by you,
I’ve been so divinely seduced.
Wooed by your lips.
Not by your kiss,
But by the music,
Which your mandibles so express.
I desire not to seal this wound,
But to evade its’ repercussions.
For I have endured a similar wound thrice.
He is winged as if an angel,
Yet Was Lucifer not once an angel as well?
Cupid is an impostor.
A spy of Agony, himself.
He prays on the young, the old, the strong, and the weak.
He cares not who he obliterates in his crusades.
He is a bloodthirsty heathen.
He makes scoundrels of Saints,
And Harlots of Housewives.
Saint Valentine is no Saint.
He is Satan’s nightmare.
At first, his arrows are ecstasy,
But like a cancer,
His poison-saturated arrows
Seep deep within every crevice of your body.
They consume you as if enriched with ******
And eventually rot within your *****
Until it is nothing but dust and a memory.
One day I will assassinate Fate’s Malicious militant,
The one we call Cupid.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 1:25 AM UTC
When cats run home and light is come,
And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,
And the whirring sail goes round,
And the whirring sail goes round,
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.
When merry milkmaids click the latch,
And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
And the **** hath sung beneath the thatch
Twice or thrice his roundelay,
Twice or thrice his roundelay;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.
5.1k
I can't escape the thought of you lately it seems
I hear Thrice, Icon for Hire, Avenged Sevenfold, 7eventh Time Down,
Sent By Ravens, hear them everywhere
See your brother in the store
See your mom at church
See a guitar
See the color red, the color green
Think of Christmas and what you meant to me
*Someone who waited for me to reach comfort
Someone who left me too soon
You accepted every piece of me
You played the game, where we let the world laugh*
The thought of skipping
When I dance, the salsa, anything
Watching the Sox game
Walking past you're old spot
*Remembering everyday that seemed to last forever and end
too quickly*
Every time I write the letter 'X,' your favorite
Think of green eyes, and how we said yours secretly were
Think Taylor Swift and the joke that you two were destined
My birthday comes and how you were the only one who
remembered that year
Each time I still wear the perfume you bought me
Whenever I think of movies and how you drove out to be with me
See a bicycle or think long walks
Hear music in a language I don't understand
Get frustrated at Ecclesiastical Latin, because you do understand
Hide from the violence, because you grew up with it too
Think of leaving
Think of silence
Think of lies
Think of empty promises
Think of "I'll come back for you"
Think of calculus
And how you are such a nerd
And I stare at my paper
At these nonsensical equations
Of calculus
Of us
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 10:04 AM UTC
GOOGLE’S LOVE ADVICE
© Louis Brown
His relationship with girls was somewhat awful
He'd used less than brilliance in that world
So he searched the internet for wisdom he could get
To get some ***** kisses from the girls
Folks told him Google had a lot of answers
And he learned a lot by reading Romeo
And since he studied Hindu, they like what he is into
He's popular with all the girls he knows
IT JUST TOOK SOME GOOGLE’S LOVE ADVICE
NOW IN HIS ARMS THEY WANT HIS LOVING THRICE
AND OLE GOOGLE TAUGHT HIM PLOYS
PUTTING SHAME TO ALL THE BOYS
IT JUST TOOK SOME GOOGLE’S LOVE ADVICE
He found they wanted more than pretty roses
And though some sweet perfume may change their mood
The **** tips He googled means overtures by the oodles
The girls all want a piece of this young dude
So now his black book's full of pretty girls
And they call him well before he starts his day
Every time he learns new angles they love to get entangled
Learning those love lessons from Bombay.
CHORUS
Bridge: Old Google taught him every new approach
Now when it comes to romance he's the coach……..
CHORUS
Feb 15, 2011
Feb 15, 2011 at 8:39 AM UTC