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Matt Jul 2015
Isn't it awfully nice to have a *****?
Isn't it frightfully good to have a ****?
It's swell to have a ******.
It's divine to own a ****,
From the tiniest little tadger
To the world's biggest *****.
So, three cheers for your ***** or John Thomas.
Hooray for your one-eyed trouser snake,
Your piece of pork, your wife's best friend,
Your Percy, or your ****.
You can wrap it up in ribbons.
You can slip it in your sock,
But don't take it out in public,
Or they will stick you in the dock,
And you won't come back.
Äŧül Feb 2015
As the sole cub born,
I had some tiniest spots,
My mother was the world,
And my father was the king,
As she fed me while I crooned for a sibling,
Dad used to just look at her,
But differences spawned and they magnified.

I never had a sibling,
I lack a big teaching.

Now I am the lonely lion.
My HP Poem #773
©Atul Kaushal
George Anthony May 2017
I know that there is a table
in a Catholic high school in my local town
with an etch of the letter "G"
next to boredom-inspired vandal,
jagged lines, circles,
perhaps a few ******* shapes
as silly high school boys
are prone to draw.

An Advanced Maths textbook sits on a shelf
with a little doodle
of a peace sign next to an emo smiley
from a time where I was caught
between two phases,
tight black jeans and a flowing turquoise shirt.

Tobacco stains smeared
over the wood of a sealed off door
just outside my bedroom,
evidence of the first time
I tried a cigarette, seven years old,
and then panicked and tried to
flush it down the toilet,
only to have to fish it out and stuff it
in a little crevice, to be hidden and
remain there for seven years.

We leave all these little marks
and stains
in places we've been.
Spilled food, spilled ink, spilled drink,
tobacco stains and pools of blood.
"The marks humans leave are
too often scars."

I have scars.
Left forearm. Right calf. Right wrist bone. Both kneecaps.

A scar across my ribs and chest I was
so desperate to be rid of,
I bathed myself in oils and it was
the first scab I
never picked at; but a couple of weeks ago
I dreamt it was there again, fresh.
It tore open in front of everyone, bled out,
and I woke up gasping, drowning in my fear,
agonised, clutching at a wound that'd long since faded
convinced I could feel it splitting me apart again.

I have evidence all over my body
and more buried deep within the recesses of my mind,
scars so jagged they put knives to shame,
shining, pale, like diamonds in moonlight
not half as precious
but still invaluable.
Evidence of the marks humans leave behind.

I'm not innocent.
I don't pretend like I am.
I know there is a man out there
who gained another scar to add to his collection
when he was fourteen years old.
I know my hands carved it into his skin.
I know I used to use my fists
when others used their words to hurt me.

When I die, I know that I will leave
pieces of myself
I've ever been. Whether people know it
or not, whether they
remember me
or not. There are ink stains
and coffee spills. My blood
is still on the floor of his house.
The high school cafeteria
has a circle of red
from a nosebleed I didn't realise I was having.
There are parks wearing my graffiti
and children donning my old clothes, and people overseas
still alive because of me

(or that's what they'll tell me, but
all I did was talk.
Give yourself the credit you guys deserve,
you're the ones who chose to listen.
You're the ones who had the strength to
pick your head up and carry on)

There are exes who still think of me
and friends who will one day
come across some article of clothing
or a piece of technology
I left behind after a sleepover.
Teachers who will remember
that smart, sarcastic student
who had panic attacks in their classrooms
and drank coffee in the mentoring hub with Mrs. Hume
whilst buttering bagels and functioning on no sleep.

Maybe our place in the universe is
insignificant. Or maybe it's the
most significant thing
of all.
Maybe the Buddhists are right.
Maybe we are the universe, together
as one. I sure think it makes sense.

Streams of consciousness
and spirits that need healing.
We work the sun
without even realising we're doing it.
We destroy it, too,
which is perhaps why we
are so self destructive in turn.

Maybe we're
smaller than specs of dust
but that's okay.
You don't have anything
without the particles required
to make things up.
Everything is a collection of atoms:
the tiniest things of all
yet they're the centre of everything,
the beginning of everything.

So when the end comes and
we burst back into the sky,
stardust and souls and
blinking little lights,
we'll have left our marks on the earth
regardless of who remembers
and we'll still be there, twinkling,
a collection of atoms that came from a supernova
essential to the makeup of galaxies
and life itself.
What could be more beautiful than that?
I don't know. It was... some sort of stream of consciousness, perhaps? I blanked out halfway through writing it.
ryn Sep 2014
Light train chugging, working to outrun
Over exerting, pulling along your freight
Sand is running out under the diminishing sun
Fastidiously you tug on your enormous weight

Segmented equal in seven hulking proportions
Weaving between sleeping rocky giants
Assertion in your drive gifted from the high heavens
Borne of light your cargo load of tenants

Silver blurred rays glinting back as reply
As you power your way through
Defying seconds, before the last rays should die
Against odds, delivering what is due

Questing to alleviate my inflicted darkness
Spear of brilliance slicing through my mind
Illuminating the farthest and tiniest of crevices
Nook and crannies that willed me blind

Careful manoeuvring to keep your balance
Through scenic views fraught with treachery
Furiously working to keep your cadence
Hopeful of unloading the load you carry

What lies dormant in that cargo of yours?
What sleeps easy within those boxcars?
What stokes the fire to diligently run your course?
What promises you bear, travelling near and far?

Bales of hope and crates of strength
Supplies of kindness and self-worth
Reside within your immense length
Intact and lay quiet within your formidable girth

Reliant on the light that fuels and feeds
Your axles seem tireless guiding forth those wheels
Thundering over land with the power of a thousand steeds
Armed to your teeth with alloys and steels

Expelling grit and dirt as you pummelled across
Grey-white fumes, shoot up to the sky
Flag flogged by wind, billow and toss
Blaring your whistle as you race on by

Propelling forward, horizon up ahead
There it all its tenebrous glory
Darkened locomotive seething mad with dread
Brace for the clash and the loads the two carry
See "Doom Train"
See "Collision Course"
Kane Jan 2015
The anonymous connection,
a sort of social disconnect.
A freedom of speech,
though not socially correct.

Able to find out
half the world across.
The broadest topics,
the tiniest loss

Images and moving pictures,
Different kinds of art.
Differing opinions,
pulling all apart

Learning all the facts,
the tiny and the small.
Putting it out there
visible to all.
Mike Hauser Dec 2015
Just when your world collapses

To the point of fall apart

There still resides a tiny spark

Deep within your hungry heart

The tiniest of slivers

A slight glimmer of hope

A righteous nod from the voice of God

Letting you know you're not alone
Sarah Sep 2014
Simple flex of a muscle
Lift up
One rep at a time
Getting stronger.

Now part the lips
just a little
Pinch the corners of your eyes
the tiniest bit
to convince them it's real.
Convince them it's real.

All you have to do
Is convince them it's real.
The Moon and Sun shared Ecliptical Longitudes the night They murdered The child.

Beneath a stelliferous empyrean,
Like Sojourners among the quiescent Twilight, Mother and child, Ventured to meet the woman’s husband, the father of the child.

She, no more than five and ten years Old,
The child, a girl, of only months,
Lay swaddled across the Woman’s
*****, tucked inside a papoose.
A rustic device carefully woven
From wool and hide, in it contained a
Priceless world.

She cooed and clucked in the frigid
Night air.
The sound penetrated the
Spectral calm and was matched only
By the maternal soothing of a muted hum.
Together, they represented the
Heathen form of the wilderness,
The Tempi Madonna among the
Silver and shadow moonbeams that
Glimmered like the dust of diamonds
Across the river’s obsidian sheen.  

Ahead, where the river narrows,
The silence stirred and was broken.
Hushed voices rose from the outer
The woman strained to listen.

(British Soldiers, she thought)

Foreign words...

        (Drunken and ravenous)

                         ...slithered from their mouths like Venom. Fear bloomed in the woman’s Chest.
Her heartbeat quickened.

        (Touched by the chill of terror)

Her eyes darted madly about the

         (Alone no longer)

Their  shadows manifested like
Smoke along the tree line.
Features blurred in the darkness.
Their gestures muted.
Like birds of
Prey, they set motionless upon their
Perch along the stony shore.

I say, a man said. Indian children are natural born swimmers,
Capable at birth of swimming great distances.

Utter foolishness, old boy, another opined.

We will need proof of this claim, my good sir, an anonymous voice Quipped from somewhere in the dark.

She let escape from her full lips
The tiniest of shrieks.
Followed immediately

(stupid girl, her mother’s voice echoed in the dark.
                             You always were too impulsive.)

Rage consumed her as
She struggled against the current.  
She tried to paddle for deeper
Water as the men broached
The black sheen of the river.

The moments passed by
In jagged surrealism.
There was no sound
When they pitched the woman
And child into the
Frigid abysm.

The splashing of water.
The gasping
For air.
The primal
Grapple and
Grunt of men.
The cold, pungent scent of
Fear and sweat mixed with the
Alcohol-stale air.
The twisting of
Hands that groped about the

         (Her rage now eclipsed by fear)

She inhaled.
Her body, numb.
Her appendages quaked.
Her body fading
As they fall upon her.
Their thick bodies
Blacked out the stars.
Their gaunt faces
Pinched and rucked in the
Reflected the fury, the
Hatred, and
The disgust for what would come next.
Their hands moved across her
Like demons as they
Groped at her small body
Beneath the choppy wash of the

(A hand grazed her thigh and she shrieked in Terror. Another
         gnashed at her buttock. Another fell upon her back. Her mind
         reeled at the possibilities of what would need to come next.)

They tore at her clothing.
Her body jarred about the water as
She writhed against their grasps.
She clawed against the murk.                  
         (Escape the horror)

She released the paddle—

(Forever lost to the deep, useless to her now)

Hysterical animalistic thoughts
Trounced off their tongues as they
Laughed at her doom—

        (Like a pack of hyenas)

She kicked at them in nameless
She thrusted her hand into
The fabric where the child had been
Moments before cooing and clucking. 
Mere moments ago she had sang to the
Babe the same song her
Mother had once sung
To her.

             (she felt nothing where the child had been…)    

She struggled away from them.
Her mind frantic with pain, the cold,
And panic
For the child.
She no longer cared for
Herself, or what they would need to
Do with her body.
Her appendages
Flailed and churned in the dark water.
         (A single gasp of air followed by
              The burning inhale of water)

A shrill call to the child—

(a name lost to time)

Her voice cut through their maniacal
It echoed off the water and vanished,
Disappearing entirely
In the outer gloom of the wilderness.

        (like afterthoughts, lost)

She groped relentlessly among the
Water for the child.
The men, near
Frozen, lost interest and returned to
The adjacent shoreline.
It was more ****** that way.
They jeered at her,
Proud of themselves.
        (The seething lust of the mindless savage, she thinks)

Their mouths salivate
As they watched
Her struggle
Became the current
For which she bore.
The impending death of the woman even
More satisfying than the feeling against their flesh of her cunning, wet crease that lies exposed between
Her brown legs.
They watch like wolves
Unable to reach their prey,
Desperate for fresh meat.
Despite the frigid cold,
Their *****, hard,
With the anticipation of death.

The woman clamored among the darkness
She searched for the child.
Heavy fingers fell upon woolen fabric
By chance—

(Hope bloomed in her constricted chest)

Her body finally beginning to seize
Exhaustion permeated
Her mind.
She freed the papoose
From the frozen depths and expelled
The last bit of energy she possessed
To swim to the far side of the shore,
Temporarily out of their reach.

The soldiers,
Quiet now,
Returned to the spectral woods.
They disappeared back down the
Black road from which they came.

She felt the blood as it began to
Return to her appendages, the pins And needles feeling erupting in them.
Her teeth clattered nearly exploding In her mouth.
Her body
Quaked Violently

         (The child, near in her mind, cried)

She reached for it.
Her chest,
Rising and
Rapid like the river
As she inhaled the burning,
Frozen air.
The child let loose a cough and  
She clutched it
tighter to her *****.  

(Deny the river its prize)

A stream of consciousness,
Steadily slipped from her lips.

       (A great heathen prayer calling up some
                       Great Spirit
                                As she relentlessly brokered
                                            For a
                                       Life for a life)

The moments passed by like hours.
And the
Great Spirit, with
His wanton lust
For despair, did not manifest that night.

The child fell silent, then still.
The tears came now.
Blurred vision and
Angry sobs.
Darkness consumed entire.

The river flowed by her electric as if
Its lights descended from a place far
Beyond the black taciturn veil of
Night to reflect the merciless
Tragedies among the wretched souls of
The Maine Woods.
Raina Grace Sep 2014
Today I fell up to the ground
The clovers, violets, and grass pulled me upside-down
And I looked back down at the sky
Who am I
to call you infinite?

At my ankles I found the tiniest spider
Methodically dancing
Bound me to the earth with the tiniest fibers
and I'm still here, so
Who am I
to call you infinitesimal?
Paolo C Perez Oct 2012
His Funeral was today.  Well, his wake rather.  It was in his old colonial home on Elm Street, a bought of irony that Paolo would never get.  Anyway, it was an odd set up at his house. Family and friends downstairs in the living room, acquaintances and honorable mentions meandering through the hallways clearly more interested in the intricate little floral patterns that adorned the wallpaper than how his family was holding up.  The company of the house was split, everyone either legitimately full of sorrow, or completely full of ****.  In everyone’s grasp either handkerchiefs or hand grenades it was as if the invitation read “Come see it to believe it!” In the study across the hall a small memorial was set up.  Big cards, tons of photos, some flowers, anyone who actually cared stayed there and stared at his once happy face, who knew what it looks like now.  
He had died of some sort of overdose, one that destroyed his heart, so he would have looked fine in an open casket.  The doctors say it was *******.  I don’t believe them.  Paolo had his fun in college, ***, *****, sure, but coke?  There’s no way.    The services weren’t to take place for another two hours, so his family rolled him onto the second floor balcony.  It was actually his dad’s decision, something about a “disgrace” and not wanting to look at his face.
Apparently his mom had felt bad letting her dead son chill on the porch for a few hours, so she rolled him across the hallway to his own room him and kind of laid him out on the bed, as if letting her baby boy take his eternal sleep where he’d have had most of his shorter ones.  
Picturing him lying up there was the first negative connotation I ever had with the image of him on that bed.  He had that kind of headboard that when we started getting at it the bed would hit the wall with each rhythmic movement.  Steady and almost tribal as our bodies danced to the ever increasing beat of a talking drum.  Our clothes off and our skin glazed with sweat it was like my own personal method for getting high. Now don’t get the impression that our relationship was based purely on a physical connection, we’d been dating for three and a half years, the love was there all right.  
We had met in the strangest of ways, through a mutual friend that I was kind of, almost, sort of, but not really having a “thing” with, you know?  Cisco was his name.  So we were together one day and he, being the adorable spaz that he was, had forgotten that his own birthday party was that same night.  He asked if I didn’t mind tagging along, it was a celebration for him and two friends whose birthdays followed his in sequence.  
This had been going on for several weeks, and I know we weren’t dating but I still had a feigning interest in the guy.  So we arrive to this girl, Cristina’s, house and I noticed this other boy almost immediately.  In a backwards cap and pair of boot cut jeans he was jumping around, tossing his arms, right in the middle of reciting some hilarious anecdote to any of his friends who hadn’t heard it yet; even those who had seemed riveted.  He was so full of charisma and with such assurance.  Besides that he was kind of cute so, though pathetically, I tried flirting with him for the rest of the night; he didn’t really catch on.  We left that night without having exchanged more than ten words between each other, I thought I’d never see him again, turns out I was wrong.  
“Broadway CAREols.  Show others that you care by enjoying a night of with your favorite blend of Christmas ditties and Broadway biddies” And before you ask, Yes, I did come up with that title, I think it was great and it was at the top of each flyer in big red and green letters and if you asked me “If you could do it again…” I would do it the same each and every time don’t judge me.
It was a show I had to direct for a community service project and of all people he played the piano for my show.  Only me and several other girls made up the cast, and I knew how easy it was to mistake a positive attitude for flirtation when it comes from a handsome young man.  He ran the music over three or four times individually with each cast member before the night of the show, but when Paolo and I worked that night he stopped me and just sang. For me.  
Each night after rehearsal I had to give him a ride home, I was a year older and thus had my license a year sooner.  I’d never mind allowing myself more time to bask in the glow of his perfectly understated confidence, so I was happy to oblige.  Technically Connecticut state imposed a law forbidding new drivers under the age of 18 to be on the roads past 11 at night.  My mom, being a government employee, really stressed this one.  His house was a solid ten minutes drive from our rehearsal spot, and my mom often warned me to allow myself enough time to get back home before 11.  What started as me beginning to drive faster and faster during the trip home ended as a routine each night, where I would finally allow him to step out of my car just as the clock read 11:00 PM.  
Our first kiss was in that car, my first uncontrollable breakdown was in the car, hell the first time he told me he loved me was in that car…right at the lip of the driveway.  I learned to ride my brakes perfectly to the point where I could park just beyond the edge of the sidewalk yet just before the point where the porch light would flash on, reminding his mother that his son is out past ten on a school night.  It was so warm.  I’ll never forget the cadence of his laughter as it trailed off, seamlessly merging with that next statement “Anna, I love you”.  I could have sworn the porch light went on.  

Now I know it may seem like I don’t care for his being dead right now, but the thing is, I did something.  I did something really bad.

You see, I had mentioned that he was up in his room, right?  Still, stiff, simply waiting to be brought down in a few hours as the catalyst to another round of tears.  Now don’t get me wrong, I did my share of crying the night before.  He’d been in the hospital for only a few days and when they told us he was dead…God, he was just so young, two years into college, the friend you have who was chasing his dreams down with a brand new pair of sneakers.  That kid the whole town knew because of the multitude of silly town functions he attended.  He would always insist.  Every other weekend was one silly thing or another “Oh you’re gonna love this.  Two words – ‘Poetry showdown’.  If you can’t take the heat, don’t stay in the kitchen”
The day of the funeral I just had to see him.  I snuck up the two floors to his room on the third floor.  As I neared his door at the top of that final flight of stairs each creak of the floorboard seemed to resonate through the house, followed by the hollow silence of my stillness.  I paused with each step as if stepping in larger spans of time would make what I was doing seem less suspicious, should someone hear me.  Upon touching his doorknob I felt an immediate chill. I couldn’t tell whether it was some ghostly feeling of being in the presence of a dead person, or the fact that the thermostat had been turned down to keep his body prime for viewing.
I held my breath as I opened the door, and blinked a couple times when I saw him.  He was wearing what everyone else was in downstairs, black tuxedo and a dark tie.  I know he would have scowled had he known he was going to be buried in a constricting penguin suit.  We had a conversation about it, you know?  Out on Academy Hill, right in the middle of a picnic. We were in enough shade that his transition lenses were only half tinted, and when he sat up, it was abruptly.  Pushing my head off his chest he kind of leaned in to the cemetery in the distance and pointed out how sad it is that no one really ever gets the chance to choose how they want to spend the rest of eternity dressed in.  He would have preferred his puma sneakers, still white after seven months, his striped green and blue socks, his only pair of ripped designer jeans and that express shirt he loved so much because it showed off his natural physique.  
I moved closer, inching toward him at first, then quicker as I broke through a place where I just relaxed, and for a moment he wasn’t dead.  For a moment he was just sleeping, all ready in his fancy get up simply waiting for me to wake him up.  I found myself sitting next to him, my eyes cast downward, half expecting his gaze to meet mine, and while stroking his hair I got an idea.  It happened quickly, and I kind of have a problem with acting upon my impulses, it’s something he used to criticize me on that and I never really improved.  Without thinking I threw open his drawer and pulled out what I knew he’d have wanted to be dressed in, should he have gotten the chance to create a will concerning his death-wear.  As I pulled of his starchy shirt my hand brushed against his chest, chilled as the room was, eerie as nothing else.  I finally got him down past his pants and saw, of all abominations, that he was outfitted in a fresh pair of tighty whities.  God, it’s as if the funeral home was asking to be haunted by his tormented soul.  I found his single pair of silk boxers and reassembled him in the way I knew he’d have wanted to be.
So great, now everyone will think I’m a loon for having desecrated his body.  Well what do they know; I’m the only one who ever really knew him! But how the hell would I explain it to his parents when the pallbearers march in and there he is, laying face up in his street clothes?  
This wasn’t right.  He didn’t belong here, he needed to be somewhere comfortable, someplace he enjoyed, not sitting upstairs in a suit with the lights off and the air blasting.  He hated the cold!  Certainly he would have hated a hundred people staring at his dead and lifeless shell, and he would, without a doubt, hate being six feet under, pushing daises at the Nichols Road cemetery.
I wrapped my arms around him, and as the building adrenaline made my breaths deepen I inhaled several moments of ecstasy off his clothes that still clung to his musty scent.  I lowered him gently to the floor and took care as I dragged him across the carpet to his door.  After fumbling, for what felt like several minutes, on his door handle I got him onto the awning introducing the stairs.  I even made it down the first flight of stairs without freezing up at the tiniest creak when I heard someone coming my way.  ******, they must need to use the bathroom, why couldn’t they just use the one downstairs like any normal person?  Without hesitation I throw open up the window near bottom of the stairs, heaving myself and him, sending us tumbling onto the garage roof.  Ignoring my probable bruises I spring up and slam the window behind me while taking special care to hide us both as far away from the bathroom window as possible.
Sitting up there, my heart racing, I felt his hand in mine and it was probably because my palms had gone clammy but I swear for a span of time he was alive again.  I closed my eyes and felt the breeze in my hair and was transported to a place where I spent a single moment in each day we ever shared.  Each beach side sandcastle, each afternoon spent cloud gazing, those same afternoons turning into evenings of star gazing, each and every night spent utterly and irrevocably lost with this silly boy that chose to love me.  
I was torn from my oasis as I heard the bathroom’s occupant exit and continue downstairs.   Knowing that my van was parked on the other side of the street I pushed his body as close to the edge of the roof as I could without his falling off and let him be. I hopped back inside and ran downstairs, but not before flying through the doors of the memorial and interrupting his mothers eulogy.  In an act of sheer brilliance I mustered a few tears and tore out the back door.  Everyone figured I was just so taken away by his death that I couldn’t stand to be there anymore.  Who knew anxiety could be mistook for remorse so easily?
I ran down the driveway, losing the grace I had composed in my dress in high heels the moment I slammed that door.  I jumped into Emmet, my van, because only crazy people drive around in un-named vehicles.  
I pulled out of my spot, nearly ruining the paint job on both my and his Uncle Ed’s car.  I flew my trunk door open and set the third row down, the general idea being his landing securely in my back seat.  I reversed up the driveway with the precision of a surgeon and the speed of a leopard right back to the edge of the garage where I had tossed his body.  I jumped out of my car nearly forgetting to put it into park before I shut off the engine.  I barely got halfway around my car before becoming transfixed on his hand, hanging off the gutter as if reaching for mine to grab hold and pull him to sweet salvation.  I jumped up a few times, unsuccessfully before I took off my shoes and got a good running start.  I flew up, grabbed his arm and ****** towards the car in a sideways downward motion.  He nearly cracked his head on the pavement coming down, he would have too if it wasn’t for my body breaking his fall.  I got up, too distracted by the sheer volume of my own heart to realize the pain I felt.  I shoved him into my back seat, slammed the trunk, stumbled into the car, stuck it in reverse and stepped on gas without even putting my shoes back on.

I told you I had done something bad.
This is a first draft, please, I welcome your critiques.
Syreena Phelps Jun 2015
Wow. Way to go.
You ****** up once again.
You pick the worst timing.
You make everything so dramatic.
You pick at the tiniest things.
Wow. Way to ******* go.

You feel good about yourself?
You think you'll do better next time?
You think you can fix it?
You think it will fix itself?


I'm a **** up.

Can someone please slice me open and let me bleed out, because I'm afraid if I tried, I'd **** up. And the world doesn't need any more **** ups.
I'm just ****** at Myself right now.

I'm soooo great. -.-

When I
was young
I listened to
Billy the Kid

I galloped
across the
living room floor
giddy upping
in an ecstatic
square dance
with my beloved

in youthful
reveries to
heroic prairie

a precocious
kinder beaming  
moved and illumined
by the broiling fanfare
of trilling trumpets

to uphold the promise
I pledged allegiance
to diligent  work
galloping onward
on ponies of
reverent faith
respectful duty
playful engagement
and guardianship


never fell short
of resounding

the sweep of
a nation’s
self evident

our democratic
vista stirred
and steeped

a nation of
wagon trains
to traverse
stratified latitudes
with sturdy ladders
erected with common
sense sensibility
of hands to work
and hearts to God

dancing in
wheat fields
threshing sheaves
of prosperity
their exertions
a glorious chorus,
a peeling crescendo
of horns of plenty
splayed across
landscapes of
an ennobled
placing fruits
of labor upon
alters to
to receive
the anointing
of abundance

the lighted grace
of infinite possibilities
shines for a grueling
world listening to the
clamouring drumbeats
sounding in the hearts
of all grace anointed


No lullabies
no quiet moonlit nights
we ardently
dance on keys
boasting soul
filled dexterity
the quick self
jazz tapping
across bold
hidden rondos
squarely set
in the minds eye
of unbroken resolve
our cool countenance
an unassailable
righteous destination

spare sweeping
plaintive introspection
lends space to
with the individual
unum to e pluribus

solitary dancers
incorporated into
fully enfranchised

the gyrations
the rhythms and steps
of individuated melodies
join to form a harmonious whole
a beautifully woven consensus

this democratic symphony
perfected in an intelligent
choreography of
separate people
a mutually
shared destiny

aspirational desires
call forth generations
of spirits boldly engaging
the challenges upholding
the rights and privilege
of all citizens
the celebratory harvest
of a new nations
natural law


As a man
I cruise
Main Street
in a joyless
joy ride
gliding by
moldering schools
defunct governments

surveying the
demolished ruins
of cities,
the decrepit
wrecking ball
of history
is busy,
rolling through
not worthy
of cast iron
forged in
foreign kilns

we built palaces
to democracy
in the tiniest hamlets
dotting the granges
wholly assimilated
into a national congress
of freemen

today our
is scattered
dialog seeking
resolution is considered
betrayal to holy

selfish insistence
masquerades as
high ideals

of obstinance
is a grotesque
of virtue

we have
the peoples

to a battlefield
for tribes…..

once freemen
now captives….

soulless ghosts
wandering lost
inside grand

by murals
and inert
granite statuary
expiration dates
of timeless

the trail of tears
drinking from bowls
of anguish

our only
the silent
ruins we
find impossible
to leave

fear fills our bellies
rust stains our hearts
abiding acrimony
ain’t easily brushed
from dust laden cloths

the deconstruction
of dead cities, mark
expired civilizations
centuries in the making
hammered by the blows
of the mightiest blacksmiths
with precision and deft craft


the spareness of
Martha Graham's set
frame black shadows
of fortitude

it always starts
with the individual

then surely
sure footedness
measured footsteps
boldly dance about
the lily pads
of the keyboard
a resounding ballet
the arms wave
like swaying stalks of wheat
but hurry to respond
opportunity knocks
conditions change
the group awaits
to be joined

my pirouette
remains my solitary mark
on the weaving spindles
crafting the mosaic
of a complex American

the possibility
the promise
laid before us
wheat fields
of democracy
tilled planted

the wondrous yields of
an Appalachian Spring
the promise
hectare of grace
apportioned to all

the promise
harvest of liberty
of opportunity
all anointed
conferred an
amazing grace

civil discourse
was once spoken
we can learn the
lost languages again
sitting on the porch
with neighbors
sipping ice tea
sharing thoughts on
hot summer evenings
caring too care

but scoundrels
became heroes
we fetishized
of insisted

we ******
the whole by
exalting the part

we dare not condemn them
lest we condemn ourselves


the west was once woolly wild
I hear the sweeping sound
of my youth rustle again
the dramatic symphony
of a brilliant people
filled with courage
undeterred optimism
claiming a continent
manifesting a new
Pax Americana
a century
of immigrants  

coming to integrate
coming to assimilate
coming to believe in the promise
coming to make a new promise

I came to hear Copland
when I was young

when America was young
when promises were made
and sworn by a brilliant
fanfare of trumpets

when America was young
Copland composed
when America was young
a promise was made

come forth brothers
come forth sisters
come claim
the promise
of a simple gift

Aaron Copland:
Billy The Kid

Monkey May 2014
**** me for being so weak.
**** me for falling in love with every girl who shows me the tiniest bit of attention.
**** me for giving in so easily.
**** me for wanting to please others.
**** me for being too nice.
**** me for not loving myself.
**** me for thinking others would be nice to me if i'm nice to them.
**** me for trusting people too easily
**** me for not thinking more.
**** me for being so weak.
Mike Fashé Oct 2013
Sunset of Apollo
Rises upon the goddess of the moon
Love of all
Drifting by the lake
The soul,
Once a fulfillment
Of delicate
Structures that held
A deity together
The spiritual duality  
The love,
Flourishing through
The celestial azure
Between veils
Of Embers
Spreading like haze
Upon tranquil blaze
Soothing by the arctic breeze
Textural glaciers
Like indigo crystals
Seas of endless art
To pass on
To what feels like a dream
The life,
That felt incredible
Amity between
Forces that were inseparable
The hand
Upon the soil
Of the crimson stone
To feel rhythm of the velvet heart
An ocean that spreads
Scarlet sheets
Nourishing the seeds
Becoming the verdant children
With halos of blissful pigments
Into a mixture of tears
Blessed by mother Gaia
Blossoming for all to see…

Every layer that covers the sky
Beneath the end of every lullaby
Holds a gift
That lies and says goodbye
Driven & deprived to be nocturnal
Sleepless nights Cursed in vain
Any man to have you…
Thorns of pain that feels eternal
Magnificently a breath taker by divine  
Hallucination of the fibbed eye
To tell such lies
You were created by Aphrodite
Crafted by serenades
Beauty carved by the finest blade
Hazel diamond shades
It’s often said, weakness for elegant grace
Drives the loveliest man insane
Reminiscing in the hollow mind
Echoes from the cryptic name
I close my eyes
To hear the melody of the rain
Indulging in each drop that makes a note
Forming an orchestral perception of a dream
Recollection of memories…
Gentle flowing through the entrance of the stream
Anything for one more glimpse…
Lamenting the past
As I wake
Wrapped upon the cloak of the sea
Glancing at the beautiful moon
Spiraling my soul around her celestial body
As if I Projected
From the stars to the ocean
Reflection of my Luná
I hear the symphony
She sings
Calmly and peacefully
As I daze away
Float away
Losing grip of the moon
I pray
Just to stay…

Lonesome heart
That walks the fields of heaven
Arise upon accession
Through the meadows
With no aggression
Pleasant aura
Sphere that shines down before me
The stream
From the vessel
Aqua that is the key
That carries life
The dust & bones
Becoming false love that turns into stone
My failure for another
Misunderstood compassion
Misconception for love is lost
Despite of my action
Empty like deep space
Searching from dream & reality
For the sweetest taste
Asking questions from the wise Oracle
Will my heart ever find a mate?

My home
My soul
I don’t feel whole…
Harps of the angel
Tones played
Ever so gentle
Like a gust of euphoric fragrances
Scenting the air
As if the wind could
Recite poems
As marvelous as
Jade stones
Upon golden thrones
Visions of sunset mountains
Portraits of ocean blue fountains
Parallel between the Elysium fields & Sorrow acres
Blocked by shields of prayers
The land
Of ecstasy & enlightenment
As I grasp a breath of air
I close my eyes
A vineyard of pleasures
And grassy lands that seek adventures
With bouquets of red wine roses, but with
Thorns that end sentiments
And decomposes
Gazing one poses
Forbidden until time fades…
Grab both your hands
Maybe the next lifetime
Where daylight shows its beautiful anthem

Never in all the life times had I lived
For this aesthetic moment
It’s a beauty of torment
A commitment of energy
Time and century
From one past to present
The future flourishes
From the tiniest grain
That grows life
To where our souls might cross one day
In the sphere
Of Gaia
Green plants from the beautiful ground
Blue skies
Surrounded by the beautiful white angel
Look after her soul
Protect her from who they once stole
Care for her
For she brings heart & soul
As the story goes,  
  The weak & the needy
Dream for no blackheart
Shot by the arrow that purges
Love each other
Never fall apart

As Apollo sun sets
Silhouettes of the appealing moon
Dream I’ll soon
To what becomes
A forest of past memories
Sketches of my truly dearest
Along the midnight blue river
An ensemble of creatures
That roams and creates pieces
Played to unburden the soul
As I lay beside the oldest tree
To watch the night sky
Fireflies’ prance
The beautiful moon
Amusement to the eyes  
To stare upon this
Enchanted aspect
Of green nightly shine among the forest
Amber glowing
Shaded night
To see it
Would be a lie…
Privileged to have created a night
A sea of enjoyment
From the one dream
Failure to grasp beauty
Until now
As if kismet intended to be…
Love each day
As if it’s your last
For one day
Maybe we could lie in the grass
Consume life
For all it’s glory
One day will write a story
If not now
Then a lifetime is worth waiting
FYI: If you don't understand my poem then just take a guess at it. My writing revolves around symbolism and I like to keep the meaning to myself because guessing is more fun :) Interpret your own meaning!  

It's been forever since I posted a poem here. School is drag lol I hope to post more writing here when I'm not busy. Did a version 2.0 of my favorite poem (recycled some old stuff in it) I'll add more stuff later, but for now enjoy what I have!
Ember Evanescent Oct 2014
Okay, so there might be a possibility I have maybe slightly convinced myself that I may theoretically have developed the beginnings of the tiniest dollop of a smidgen of an enormous crush on you.

So please don't break me.

please comment I love to read thoughts on my work!
please comment I love to read thoughts on my work!
Oratile Maroro May 2014
The glance she gave me
When we started shifting
Our memories to those we follow.
The seconds we counted
When we started living
For today not depending on tomorrow

Hollow man, she started shouting...
With a silent voice,
That broke every ear's boundary.
She was quite, but sending out
A lot of information ...
Information I started treasuring
For the young to trace and build
A new Generation...

I guess managing to see how
She gets to be nervous when
Saying HI , was miscalculated
Because of the raised eyebrows
With vibrating eyelids .

Heart started pumping blood slower
Disturbing BlooD flow, suddenly she called me Noah....
Was it because I was chilled
Therefore my shoulders were a Lil' bit Lower ...?

Guess one will never understand
The tiniest Details going through a woman's mind ...
Dispite the Struggle
I'm glad I can still call her "Mine"
She was so nervous the first time she talked to me ...
Hannah Jo Jun 2015
Everything is made up of the tiniest particles and if you think about it,
we're not that big compared to a lot of things out there in the universe and
I don't know about you, but sometimes I feel everything crashing down on top of me,
I feel the weight of being such a tiny speck in such a great big world closing in around me and straining my very bones and when you get to the point of lying lifeless on your bedroom floor or screaming and cursing at the moon with every breath stored up in your little lungs, you start to think you could never feel much worse but I'll tell you something: there is something small but great
inside your very core and just a little Faith, it doesn't have to be any bigger than a mustard seed,
well that can go a long way and if you look hard enough, if you really try,
Darling find that God Atom inside of you; I promise you'll get by.
This one is for every little broken heart smashed by someone they looked at like they were a whole world. This is for every boy and girl who feel like they’ll just get hurt if they ever speak an honest word. This is a poem for every loved one of mine who has had one too many hard times. This is for the girls who know what it’s like to be grabbed forcefully and shaken. Who’ve had electric fear forced into their frail little bones, and the flower of their soul taken. This is for the boys who had their hearts stolen in one faraway glance, never to be seen again. This is for the children who crave constantly for parental approval but can’t ever seem to win. And not most importantly, but importantly, this is for me; oh God, help me find my way home again.
Natalie Walker Jan 2015
I left him like a child lets go of a balloon.
Untying the tiniest of tight knots from my imprinted wrists, knowing I could not take him where my travels would.
My finger tips shook upon releasing him,
but **** did he soar on the wings of the wind.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2013
The root cause

What makes so many
Weep and write,
What is the root cause?

Natty boy, c'mon,
This question, repeatedly,
asked and answered!
Turn the radio on!

No, scorn me not,
My answer sino-complex,
mine too.

Many of our devices
Record waves, cycles,
Of which the length, shape,
Endless are the variation.

Your expertise? Your cycles?

Read my **** poems,
A to V.
Even the equations.

I have known heart ache so real
My chest hurt for months.
The doctor had no pills for that.
Risked everything. Lost.
My own weakness seek and sought,
Self-destructing me.

I have known the soul ache that makes
Rising From The Bed,
The most agonizing decision.
A life and death incision/rescission.
A go/no go apparition questioning.

All this long after I was a man.
Two children, reso-possible?
Nope. Choices limited,
Sat in the sunroom,
Contemplating all this.

Say what you need to say.

I try every day to just grab,
Hold, get fastened to me,
The tiniest scrap.

So when I walk by the river,
One atomic iota of sun, a single rain drop,
Gives me cause to pause.

The cycle begins again.
Still unclear? Get graph paper.
Copy this overlay down.
My manic-depressive cycles lookalike,
But the amplitude variegated.
In 59 seconds, Live and Die,
A calculus point on a monthly cycle,
Which in turn, but a point,
A microscopic dot,
In a cycle longer,
A Hundred Years War.

You ok dude?
Where is this coming from
On the commencement of a
Three day weekend?

Fair question.

There is a button here,
Randomness incorporated,
Into some poetry sight.

Led me to a eleven year old, poet.
Know, you understand...the question, posed.

The tiniest scrap of hopeful buried here
In plain site.
These colorful, wordy points,
Scattered, on the cycles,
Usually at the highs and lows.

Maybe I did not answer it well enough.
Maybe nobody can.

Yo, need a job.
Yo, need money.
No cycle in my savings account,
Only a straight line downward sloping.

so I grab an iota of sun,
a solitary raindrop,
make a plan,
write this poem,
a cycle
inflection point.

I ask this question
Every ten seconds stil,
If you must know my truth.
Dueling banjos in my head,
never ever
have stopped playing.

This poem-answer,
Not my best.
But a cycle turning point.

Having fed the beast,
Maybe I'll get five minutes till
I write it again
In a different shape,
En pointe,
Standing up and beautiful,
I am a twirling ballerina,
who can twirl with out ceasing,
knowing the perpetual motion secret.
For but another mini-cycle

I am endless.
It is endless.
But dear god,
why must you commence with the young ones,
aged eleven?

6:40am Saturday.
I see you read this, but you don't like it.

See Nat Lipstadt · May 24
In The Sun Room (Suicide: Here are my truths, here are my sums)

Nat Lipstadt · Jun 25
Evening-tide: Dementia, King Lear, Humpty Dumpty and Me
Butch Decatoria Dec 2015
So, grasshopper....
What is love / to someone who is complaining?

Screaming. Wailing /  Proudly prevailing / loudly Reprimanding
Or commanding Bounded feet
Shushing in rushing / Busiest with everyone else's business

Dumbfoundedly Enforcing. Forcing / mindlessly divorcing meaning?
Not knowing /  Rather assuming or presuming
To speak not for himself
Instead for us, lauding law, howling for god

What is it without making / any sense? /
Having no reason?
What is love if only a word /
Sung or graffiti tag on walls / Ave. 3rd / blurbs

So to speak / a word / whispers...
Write or read / Flat screen / one dimensional unexperienced /
Word up /  Another billboard's Loud propaganda
"Unt wonderbar sinfully delicious"
You will OBEY
Says snickers /
Harangue of commands
The replete of a single word / repeat

On and on / carrying calm

And what is forever to an insect? With brief breath
Vampyric      Parasitic     Abuzz
Without purpose but swarm
Wasted waning /  Locust death Landscapes / we barely notice

Cherish just a starving word

So goes my question / Unanswered. Kept
distant. Unproven / underserved
The point is moot /
What is love  / To you?
Without proof Without life
What are eyes without the light ?

What is love if nothing /  If never born
A mind Emotes  /  oceans / swells /

Love ....
The tiniest of tempests

One thought becomes a storm
Felt Like dreams /  Stars for diamond tears
Energy in living form... now asking why / Are we here?
No doubt It is to know love
And so... What is a good word?    

Truth (the word of god)


The eyes wordlessly say
Love light: Our beautiful day.

With every storm loud with thunder
A serenity found /  Amidst All Life's blunders

So jump for joy, grasshopper... Being loved is like being found.
Finally seeing the awe and the wonder.
The clarity of a mind's eye, life is the dream
breathless heart you must plunder.

Fight fire not with fire, but with water
that which you can have but cannot hold...

and what is love
if not sharing a drink
like every storm
we all are wet underneath
like every heart must sometimes think
we will wake already ashore

inhale this gift - the perfect time is now

because this is love, grasshopper
and we are the tempest
the hearts who think...

This must be love
having been
given everything?

my cup is filled by heaven's rain
no fear of death, but war and pain...

the storm swims with / in /

But you're a beautiful day.
Nigel Finn Mar 2016
Our words have power. Our story is important. I think it's important to remember that, and I know people forget it sometimes (I certainly did), and some people don't believe it at all, but I believe that even if nobody is listening, even if there's no-one to tell your story to; it is still important.

Sometimes it's all we're left with and we have to cling to it with all our might. We're lucky enough to be main characters in a lot of other peoples stories and that's a hell of an achievement. We get the chance to influence other peoples stories,and they in turn influence even more peoples stories. Without us, everyone elses stories get shortened and there ends up being less variation in the story-telling world. If we don't add to the storytelling process then the whole world slows down.
Every single relationship we establish with someone gives them more of a story to tell. Even if you don't make a story of your own you're still a vessel for other peoples stories to travel through, and that's amazing in itself.

The tiniest detail can change everything - the memory of holding a hand, a snippet of information, recommending a favourite ice-cream, falling over in a hilarious manner - it travels through other peoples stories, and without you that story doesn't get told, or gets told at a later time by someone else, by which time the person you could've shared your story with has missed out on the chance to pass that story on to a whole host of other people. That changes the whole storytelling world. Every future chain of events in which you could have, but didn't, tell your story becomes different - there's less of a story, it's not as full as it could have been, and everyone, albeit unknowingly, suffers a little more for it.

Most of us aren't wise enough or powerful enough to be the true "wise man" that our speices name **** sapians implies, changing the world in a dramatic way in one fell swoop with a single action or in the course of our lifetime, but we're certainly capable of being pans narrans (story-telling apes) and injecting a bit more variety in the lives of others. I can't think of a better reason to exist other than mattering so much that the whole future of the world becomes less varied, and slightly less impressive, if we simply cease to be.

Every moment of joy, every moment of anger, rage, suffering, jealousy, euphoria and even numbness contributes to the stories we end up telling other people, even if we're not talking about those moments specifically. We learn from them, we change because of them, and the stories we tell evolve with each new experience.

You don't even need to write yourself, sooner or later, somewhere down the line, someone will write something that never would have been written if you had not existed, and their work will be all the more glorious for the stories you helped to pass on. You are literally part of a bunch of great works yet to be written. You are a poem. You are a play. You are the beginning, middle and end of several bestselling novels. You are the first sentence in a book that grabs a publishers attention and the last in one that spawns a whole franchise. You are important and without you the whole literary world loses a masterpiece that would make a whole bunch of people feel like they weren't alone in the universe. You are their comfort as they lie awake at night with nothing but a book, and the inspiration that causes a child to believe in themselves. I can't think of anything more important than your words, your thoughts and the story you have to tell, but I know that, without them, the world never becomes as glorious as it could have been.

I love you, I know that others love you as well, and I'm certain that a part of the love that people feel for you will travel throughout the stories they tell, eventually end up in a famous book, song, or an artists brushstrokes and cause someone else to love that piece of a story you helped create.

And then they'll pass it on...
A note I wrote to a friend.
st64 Nov 2013
she didn't know..
until she knew
what a curve of learning!

both college-students and real good-friends
he was a science-and-botany buff
            *and the mountain would get a taste of his cells

and she, student of philosophy and languages
            would hear the latent-message from a dozen sources

they shared confidences to the other
things they never told a soul
            he also discussed his theories and science-experiments and projects and stuff
            she told him how slightly-uphill her lectures in Russian proved to be
they'd meet there every Monday.. under the campus-trees
with two hellish-strong espressos
        he remembered her chewy-doughnuts without any snow-sprinkles
        'cause she was given to these silly coughing-fits
        when eating peanuts and pulses
he teased her endless and ragged all her idiosyncrasies
they seemed closer than kin

yet he seemed to remain aloof when she tried to get closer
      he brushed off her advances
      and told her to get lost
then ran off with Lilian on Tuesday
then Zita next Tuesday
then Sumaya the following Wednesday
and Tarryn on Thursday after that
and so it went on for a whole while
the whole academic-year, in fact

yet still
      they studied together
      and swore in debates
      and met every Monday
oh, that was the one day he never dated

on the first day of each month
he'd give her a beautiful clutch-pencil
its casing bled entirely in translucent-fuchsin
and told her to guard well context over content
she never understood this cryptic-crap
       but smilingly accepted each one
she thought them too pretty to use
       and kept them in a special-box
       yet her heart broke each time
he took out a new flavour-of-girl
and shared his tongue with
     Sally and Margaret and Lisbeth and Anne..
     some lasted days, others short-weeks
but they all fizzled out
like the pop that they swallowed
and she wondered if he would ever
              favour her with affection
              give to her what those lucky-gals got
              look into her eyes like that
              whisper sweet-nothings to her
why didn't he want her?

but he was brusque with her and abrupt as discordant-chords
he scolded her like uneven-bricks tumbling down
and yet, it was to her that he played
               his own alternate-ballads on his banjo
               i n t r i c a t e - b e a u t y like living-pearls on those strings
      he couldn't look at her, then
      too caught-up in sweet-delivery of song
and with his eyes closed, her imagination took high-flight
as she was able to stare at him, without fear
                           in wonder
                           in enchantment
and marvel at the mesmerising co-ordination of those busy-fingers..

others passed by, but he did not care.. so giving
she felt so unique
'cause she got what they did not
           unbreakable-bond of
            music and.. talk and.. those clutch-pencil gifts

and for his birthday, she gave him a two-tone pelargonium, potted in cream
left him wordless..

it was near the end of November
(just like now:)
and he casually mentioned of going away
            a week-long hike in December
            with a girl in a group that he'd met, some Sarah or other
and something in her flared and she broke down..
                                                                ­went off the rails

he looked on aghast, in total silence.. half-perplexed, half-squinting
     which disquietened her far more than any outburst could have
he stood there before her, on that Monday
       in the beautiful mid-morning sun
she remembered, to the moment.. how the light caught his eyes
       seemed to be looking right t-h-r-o-u-g-h her
       and almost, she saw the tiniest-trace of something...
       struck by a touch of liquid-vulnerability in his being
but hooded-eyes quick again, typical-hider!

he reached into his backpack
****** her a clutch-pencil
which she almost rejected
but she calmed herself down
and he looked at her once
            turned on heel
and walked to his Beetle
rode off the campus
without looking back

and she kept on wondering what it was all about
       that silent intense-look

news came of a group of hikers who succumbed
from high up
some slipped and
her acrid-tears were not the only to fall
upon learning......

she ran back to her dorm
reached for his gifts.. in full-remorse
and clutching a pencil in each hand
she squeezed and accidentally pressed on the flick-top
and then...............
               (it came out)
i t . . . c a m e . . . o u t . . . ! !

never in her life would she be as stunned
as they repeated their message
     over and over
     in tandem audio-confusion
in all the tongues she had studied
she learns now
of the time he took to delve into her crap to relay his truth through his amazing-invention!

at the interment, she couldn't speak
displacement dipped too deep
she took up one clutch-pencil
      and pressed on the top
      message loud and clear
custom-made brilliance direct from heaven's fingertips

the pall-bearers lifted him up
out of her life

now this roundabout-present lies in the velours-box
like he does in his

students of learning..
in book.. and in heart

S T - 25 nov 2013
sort of confusing day - yet, clearing tracks can be good thing, no?

the pen sure be mightier than the sword ~
but life is much like a pencil - ain't nada permanent :)

sub: beloved

father, beloved.. who will care for us?
when you depart for war tomorrow
against the people's will

mother, beloved.. we pray for you
your seven children miss you so
we seek your guidance now

children, beloved.. hark ye well
there be a place to go, when alone
to feed the soul.. go quietly - inside

it's simple-truth:
(when you fail to go within
you go without)
Daniel Feb 2019
I can´t resist anymore,
I simply want to hold you,
wrap my arms
around your
delicate body.

I know you´re shattered
but I will be
your safeguard
protecting you
from any more damage,
your detective
searching for
the tiniest pieces of you
and your long-lasting glue
sticking you back

I will try my best
to stick your pieces
and again
and hope that
my presence makes you realize,
you are whole with
and without

just **** cheesy
Wk kortas Nov 2017
Three days, is what the HR rep said, somewhat sheepishly,
As if she was fully aware that boxing up one’s grief
In a span of a few dozen hours
Is a matter of wishful thinking
And certainly she sympathizes
(Indeed, as she speaks,
She spreads her hands in such a way
As you half expect doves to come forth in full flight)
Empathy being their stock in trade,
But the law and the handbook say three days,
And then you need to have your head
******* back on and looking forward.

Eventually, the mail brings fewer envelopes
Marked with embossed flowers
And subdued and tasteful stamps,
The usual flow of solicitous inquiries,
Pre-stamped and pre-sorted,
Inquiring as to your credit needs,
The condition of your windows and siding,
Resumes apace, and more than once,
In fits of inappropriate black humor and frustration,
You scribble, in bold thick strokes of a marker,
The addressee no longer resides at this location.

You return to nine-to-five,
Though your ghosts keep their own hours,
Stopping by to visit on their own schedule alone,
Prompted by the tiniest of things:
The dog scampering to its feet in a hurry,
As if someone was at the door,
The discovery of a long-unused pitching wedge
Standing expectantly in the back of the closet,
A song from long ago which was beloved
When you lived in the pairing mandated by Noah
Before you entered the shadow world of ones and nones.
Sometimes you give into the giddy madness,
And rise to waltz around the room,
Careening about unsteadily, clumsily
As you have yet to completely master
The difference in weight shift and distribution
That is required of a solo act.
The timing of these visitations
Often disrupts your schedule and sleep patterns,
And you think that perhaps tomorrow you’ll call in.
grim-raven Mar 2015
I am a choice
We all are actually..
Even the tiniest specie

But I've always wondered though
Why are there second, third, or so?
We will feel much better if it's not like that
Every one of us would appreciate that a lot

I am a last choice living proof...

Not even second,
Always the last
In the meantime
I just hope everything would pass
Careena May 2014
My love for you lives at I-95
Right past the exit for Towson
Where we stopped at Lito's for pizza
After we kissed for the first time
I passed I-95 today and didn't remember
Those soft kisses in back seats
Until I saw that pizza shop sign
I could see myself, 13 and blossoming
Holding tightly to your hand
It was like I was standing outside of your dad's car
Looking in at the events that just unfolded
That thirteen year old that won the bet with her friend for having her first kiss
It wasn't why that thirteen year old wanted it though
She just mustered up the courage to move her face close enough
So that the tiniest amount of contact could be made
It was intended to be soft and meaningful, the first of many
But it turned out off-centered and askew
But it was lovely
You, thirteen and dream like, were shocked
Yet intrigued, so you kissed me next time
Then it went back and forth
Alternating kisses, testing the feelings of new connections
Tingling fingers, tapping toes
just remembering.
lilah raethe Feb 2014
there is a scene
where the wind cant be kept from the ocean
and introverts
are sitting
they are fishing at the end of a moon
and artificially lit

the only thing they have caught so far
is a banjo shark
they blamed each other

i am out there with them
i am reading a book about humanity
contemplating hope
and simplicity

where there is a world
that people pick a book off
their shelves
and say
it's yours!

or pull out a drawer full of pens
and say
take your pick.

there are places
where people are nice.
there is hope
in the tiniest glimmer of light.
(true story)
Gazing through the tallest
green nettles

I realized they do
not bite me

Cause it was not the day
for stings and aching

Cause i had the black
mountain boots
and a heart
on my
sport gown

My hands reached
the Heavens
the white yello

Elder's Abundance

Where Scented Blossoms
Coloured my skin

And exposed my life lines

The coolest tangerine

I sat on the black soil
squished young grasses
and found the

My palm was a giant Plato
For it's snailish leg

On the left one
he was without weight
portruding forth
to his destination

Is it possible that
his house was
3,5 mm
Isn't it cute
that when streched
was 7 mm
at lenght

Visible horns
like 1 mm
and half of it

The upper
The downward

What are you looking at
My lines or me

If he climbs from my
left palm on the right one
It's ment to be

I'll visit the seaside

Fibbonacci House Spiralled
Inner layers with colours
outer still
and translucent

Is it possible
this tiny snail
thinks about me

It didn't work
It remained
on my heart's side

Then I moved this
cutest creature
on my right palm

Little little snail
you're not a match
to squeeze

From the right to the left
I thought to myself
he is she
i don't know
snail's so young
for sure it doesn't seek another snail

To cherrish and love

Climbed on my left thumb
Beautiful in motion
As a revolution
For better days

It is my heart's side
My vision became
Waffed all around on the deepest blue
White and puffy



Emerged out of


Had landed on a spider web
on the Verge
of Enchanted Forest
Where grave monument resides

was in the air
the invisible wings fluttered

My sharp vision
focused on
another three

They don't need los zapatos
They are not obsessed as
Imelda was

And i wasn't thinking
about that at all

This words are for you:
thank you for the music
but the dragonflies
buterflies I love

They were near my
one caressed among
tall grasses
one butterfly

not in oslo

Fibbonnaci Friend
who gave me this
Sharp vision

To see the magic
revealing all
Imagined by
Impeccable Space
Poetic Flame
Peter Watkins Aug 2014
I want to be in love with you.
I don't just want to love your body.
To love your very essence and soul,
everything that you do.
See past all of the perfection,
to the real you.

I know that your body is perfect.
You've told and shown me before.
But I don't care that your skin's the perfect shade.
Don't need to know your hair is the perfect frame or,
that your ******* are perfectly proportionate.
I want to love you baby, you.

Just drop the shield, the false barrier.
Quit hiding behind fashion and makeup.
I want to see the real you.
From when you used to laugh in the cutest way.
Through to the way that your emotions used to fray.
When you showed me you were sad and I was your crutch.

But now you say these 'imperfections' made you weak.
Being emotional, opening up to people and being 'imperfect'.
All of those things made you important; the emotion especially.
Like shining white stars they made you special to me.
Your true beauty didn't spring from implants and surgery.
But from those glimpses I would get of reality.

That pimple on your neck and that awkward cough.
wearing a hat to hide the light wave of freckles on your forehead.
All of these things are what I fell in love with my darling.
All of your 'imperfections' were the basis of normality.
They reminded me you were human and none of us are perfect.
It's that string of unfortunate mistakes that makes humanity.

I guess, you could say that this poem's imperfect.
With its broken pacing and lack of consistent rhyme.
A jumble of syllables punctured haphazardly in line.
Like bullet holes in corrugated iron.
But really that's what makes it so intriguing and wonderful.
It's so raw and true that its existence is beautiful.

I guess this poem stands as a metaphor for you.
A mirror for your past self when you weren't as 'perfect'.
I love it for its novelty and natural highs (and lows)
Without being processed and influenced through naive windows.
Advertisements and films give you high expectations
and all of the models you saw force you to filter the 'imperfections'.

This is why you're no longer enough for me, baby.
The way you insult the 'imperfect' as though they're wrong.
But they're real people, unlike the mannequin you've become.
I want you back, the real you who didn't care what people thought.
However, I doubt that form of personality will ever be reborn.
For you, 'beautiful', have become trapped too far up your own ****.

Sorry, it's the truth.
Your plastic body doesn't induce.
The tiniest bit of warmth inside me...
This mega-poem is possibly my best work. Built from the knowledge I already knew, getting up in the dead of night to scribble ramblings into a pad and from the knowledge of a fellow poet and friend (but we'll get to that later) This, like the poem 'like plastic', is about how fake modern life is and how we've lost sight of true beauty. Thanks to a conversation with a hugely intelligent poet from this site (her name is margaret so check out her poetry, she contributed to this idea as much as me!) I've discovered that true beauty comes from peoples imperfections as those same imperfections are what make us special. If everyone was beautiful, then no one would be and now we have this fake expectation for everyone to be gorgeous when some people simply aren't. I've thought this for a long time but only recently I've learn't its importance. Hope you enjoy the poem, it took me a while to write :) - Peter
Star dust falls upon her face as her eyes stare deeply into my
For she is my love
My heart
My reason for living
My heart pains me when she cries making my head spin twist and turn
Not being able to be there for her physically only spiritually
Not being able to hold her tight within my arms or to brush away her tears
My heart jumps in joy when we talk
I lose all logic and connection with the world around me
But when we can't talk and I have to leave
My heart is smashed into the tiniest of pieces
My dreams and thoughts are filled with her
No moment where I stop thinking of her
I feel her with me as I dream for
I am with her in that world of truth
John F Pinto Dec 2013
Seriously? Positive? You’ve got to be joking me.
Optimism at it’s finest could only be realism at it’s worst.
Mesmerized by this thought, enchanted by it’s cold hard consistency
Enthralled was I to mock “positive”, and keep my lips pursed.
Then it hit me. No, it literally hit me.
If I just pound this podium a few times
Maybe I’ll channel some of doc’s “positivity”  pound podium
Ehh, guess that wasn’t a symptom; merely a sign
So what is this “battle plan”, and who really cares about mine?

I’ll tell you who, and it
Took until now for me to understand
Simply smiling is like positive quicksand

Little did I know, nor did I comprehend
Even the tiniest grin is a god-send
The mirror first, then a friend
Tomorrow is uncertain, so I recommend
Investing one in the nearest stranger
Never underestimate the smile, this game changer
Gets some through the day

Give the gift of smiles
Others need this Holiday.

Overall, there’s not even a word you need to say
For a smile is universal in every way.

This was the goal
Here was my contribution to this positive revolution:
Enlighten another soul.

The mirrors we look at every sunrise
Hair tangled, bags beneath the eyes
Internally determining how much this day is going to **** (sighs)
Now, hit rewind and you might be surprised
Getting off to a good start is simply devised:
Smile your warmest, stupidest, squintiest smile: regardless of its size

There is the secret ingredient in the positive pie
Having your hearty morning smile, with eggs on the sunny side
And this idea I vehemently used to deny
Thinking, “smile? In the morning? I’d rather die.”

Heath Ledger once said “Why. So. Serious?”
Ehh, he had a point!
Life can be a joke, especially when we’re delirious
Put the pout to the side, don’t be so furious

Unconditionally accept we all have ups and downs
Smile like an idiot, because aren’t the sounds

Involved with that deep, tear jerking laughter just
Ninety nine times better than a good morning grunt?

All I had to do was send a
Little smile in someone’s direction
Lift their spirits, make a connection

This is who cared about my “battle plan”
Hell, who knows? Maybe I even saved a man.
Ego aside, let’s do the best we can

With others, we can do our best to understand
Right from wrongs done, our own personal brand
Of happiness, that like flames needs to be fanned
Nothing is like that morning smile witnessed firsthand
Give that gift away, make it look easy and unplanned

Why? Because the unexpected gifts are the best
And to this I do attest
Yes, we have all been truly blessed:
Smile at each other and forget all the rest.

I smiled at those who passed, regardless of popular or outcast, and how I’ve seen a change. Doors have opened to relationships and thoughts I never conceived possible for a realist like me, I really was blind but now I see how powerful is this “positivity”. How much have we all grown? These seeds we’ve sown from you, to you, to you, to me, to that kid who sits by himself, to that girl who spilled her iced tea,: these are all the connections we’ve made, and there are more that would and could be if we only smile, say hello (or if we’re really brave) would you go out with me? The morning smile is the first step towards a “yes”, this is my guarantee. A smile is like a master key to all bliss (aaannnnddd maybe even a kiss ;)). Just like a great slam poet once said: “If you’ve got this (head), then you follow this (heart), and if someone ever tries to judge you, you give them this (smile)”.
the sweet, innocent, happy girl
I used to be, only 5 years ago, is long gone.
Thrown away like a pile of garbage
& replaced by a zombie
Fueled by nothing more than fear, anger, sadness, & anxiety.
Not living; just breathing.
If she knew herself today,
She would be terrified of the monster she'd become
While her dreams were crushed right in front of her
& swept away by suicidal fantasies
And abuse of ecstasy
She saw.
She would probably be wiped away
Because she would have never guessed
She would become suicidally depressed
& at the age of 17, addicted to numbness
That eased her emotional pain.
Cutting, burning, drinking,
Taking so many pills she couldn't even think,
While almost by the minute,
Her anxiety and depression only got worse.
But what would surprise her the most
Was how she could even think of ending her own life,
Because she always knew suicide was never the answer.
But I guess after 2 years of constant anxiety,
Depression, hoplessness, & a life that didn't feel worth living,
It begins to feel like the only option.
Most painful of all,
She would hate to see her own death,
When the tiniest thread
Of the rope that once fully held her life together,
Bringing her hope,
Finally broke.
Crying, dizzy from all the pills she took,
She grabbed her blade and slide it across her throat.
Ending all hope for things to get better.
I'm sorry I'm not you anymore.
It shouldn't have ended this way,
But I couldn't live like that forever.
It had to stop
disclaimer: I haven't gone through some of these things, I based them off little things I went through and what others I know went through.
Natalia Corral Mar 2015
What is the definition of life to you?
After all we do…
the only thing that is guaranteed is ending up underground & all we know will be

There is many reasons people come up with to let go of life
Life is an amazing thing
Many innocent people die everyday
& many people take their own lives & fade away
Needless to say, many people need to learn to appreciate the gift of life.
It’s simple, just love.
First start small.
Love small things; be aware of the tiniest details.
Love the way ants make a line to their home
Love the colors the sky shows when it is six o’clock
Love the song that made you feel something

The moon borrows light from the sun just like our lives are borrowed for a while
The sun will come out & we will not be able to admire the moon
but that didn't stop it from giving us light in the dark

The world is here for us
It is our sanctuary
We should learn to love it like our mom & dad
who have been there for us always helping us when we hit the ground
But they are not the only ones there
when we fall to the ground the world is there to be our standing ground
that is where it all starts

Imagine not having where to fall when all you know is going wrong…

Wake up in the morning, make some coffee, & go outside & talk to the world
when no one is there to listen to your stories the world will listen because it’s there for each & every one of us.

Although we humans do terrible things to the world, it still manages to survive & be our home
Although people do terrible things to you, prosper on your own because there are many things in this world meant for you to see.
Mike Hauser Aug 2018
As I strolled  down Beaker Street
A neon sign flashed in front of me

That said "Only Serious Poets Need Apply"
(Blink) "Need Apply" (Blink) "Need Apply"

So it was I thought to myself
I can think of nobody else

As serious a poet as I

I looked to the right and the left
Feeling pretty confident about myself

And decided to take a gander inside

The room it was totally dark
In the corner was the tiniest of sparks

I did a stately poetic stroll in that direction

Feeling I might have made a mistake
This thought occurred a little too late

But of course this whole scene might just be window dressing

A voice said we don't need a poet at all
Just someone dumb and gullible

That's the moment in my pants I started messing

Turns out it was a mad scientist
With a masters degree in craziness

What were his dastardly plans I could only be guessing

I was grabbed by a couple of ugly thugs
Who highly dislike deodorant and mouthwash

******* and flown off to the smallest of islands

Where they did unspeakable experiments on me
In the first, second, and third degree

All because to insanity they took a liking

When it was they were finally done
With what those nut jobs consider good fun

Don't know how many walls they had me climbing

Daily now I plan my escape
I only hope that I'm not too late

When the opportunity arrives I hope I don't blow it

I find it so hard to believe
That this all has happened to little ole me

And Why?
Because of me being such a serious poet

— The End —