"toby" poems
Lady, your room is lousy with flowers.
When you kick me out, that's what I'll remember,
Me, sitting here bored as a loepard
In your jungle of wine-bottle lamps,
Velvet pillows the color of blood pudding
And the white china flying fish from Italy.
I forget you, hearing the cut flowers
Sipping their liquids from assorted pots,
Pitchers and Coronation goblets
Like Monday drunkards. The milky berries
Bow down, a local constellation,
Toward their admirers in the tabletop:
Mobs of eyeballs looking up.
Are those petals of leaves you've paried with them ---
Those green-striped ovals of silver tissue?
The red geraniums I know.
Friends, friends. They stink of armpits
And the invovled maladies of autumn,
Musky as a lovebed the morning after.
My nostrils prickle with nostalgia.
Henna hags:cloth of your cloth.
They tow old water thick as fog.
The roses in the Toby jug
Gave up the ghost last night. High time.
Their yellow corsets were ready to split.
You snored, and I heard the petals unlatch,
Tapping and ticking like nervous fingers.
You should have junked them before they died.
Daybreak discovered the bureau lid
Littered with Chinese hands. Now I'm stared at
By chrysanthemums the size
Of Holofernes' head, dipped in the same
Magenta as this fubsy sofa.
In the mirror their doubles back them up.
Listen: your tenant mice
Are rattling the ******* packets. Fine flour
Muffles their bird feet: they whistle for joy.
And you doze on, nose to the wall.
This mizzle fits me like a sad jacket.
How did we make it up to your attic?
You handed me gin in a glass bud vase.
We slept like stones. Lady, what am I doing
With a lung full of dust and a tongue of wood,
Knee-deep in the cold swamped by flowers?
14.7k
i am not your ******
nor your sister.
i do not know the meaning
of these words, mister.
except
in instances where
i hate us
like
they hate us.
a putrid loathing
sprouting from different
colored grounds
but a dangerous flower
nonetheless.
they are not just words,
they are drops of blood
spilled from the lashed backs
of our enslaved
triple grandfathers
and mothers.
our slang replaces
hoses
pushing us back
during marches
and righteous riots.
aggression
equals regression
equals deppression.
and now,
it's all our fault.
now it's
black on black assault.
now it's
fly shoes and ghetto booties.
poppin' bottles and
poppin' caps,
running through nights like
street ******* rats.
what would
W.E.B. DuBois say if
he'd seen this
backstep taken
after we'd come this far,
after reaching for stars
and dropping
the ball?
now
i love this color.
i love this color
and prefer no other.
all i'm saying is,
let us pick one day
when we put the negroidian away
put ****** back in it's roots.
no, not the movie,
don't me toby.
let us get the dream rollin'
Mister King style,
not Master P style.
no big rims, or leather seats.
none of that ****
for awhile.
i'm saying takeover.
i'm saying african-america makeover.
i'm saying,
let's take
our pride back,
like our
homeland lions.
let us make black
a taste not so sour.
i'm saying,
Black Power.
Nov 18, 2010
Nov 18, 2010 at 8:03 AM UTC
1
I see you, ya
I may be finger-punching
my smart phone at the dining table -
but darling, I see you, yeah
We’re seated at the table
you say something
but you think I’m listening to
Taylor Swift on Youtube
True - but hey,
I see ya, I hear you
I hear both of you
I multiply, I multi-task you see
2
I’m walking along the shops
I’m pushing the pram
with my baby inside
and I’m updating status
on the phone too
and getting that download –
but hey, stranger round the corner
I see you, ya, don't ya worry; yeah I see
my baby and I see you
stranger round the corner –
but hey, watch where your going
3
hey - I see you guys, I see you
no doubt all day I sit
in my couch tapping away
on my new supersize phone
but I’m smart hey – I see you guys
I see you my darling at the kitchen –
get me another coffee, will ya
And I see the kids glued to their sets
and little Toby our kitten
curled at my feet – why, thank you
for the coffee;
darling, can you
put a few cans of beer in the fridge –
see? I see ya, yeah…I see you all
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
He was known as the local Mycophagist
In the dales, the woods and the hills,
What happened was sad, for he wasn’t so bad
Just a tad underdone, Toby Gills,
They say that the cord was around his neck,
He was born with a carroty mop,
And a pale white head, he was almost dead
When the doctor had called out ‘Stop!’
They cut the cord and they let him breathe,
The damage was already done,
The blood had been stopped to his carroty top
So they said that he’d always be dumb.
But he found a niche where the fungi creeps
And went out collecting the spore,
In a year or two he knew more than you
And the college Professor next door.
He studied his mushrooms with loving intent,
He knew about hen of the woods,
He knew about bracket and shaggy manes, magic
And paddy straw, they were the goods;
He fostered his lobster and hedgehog and oyster
And coral fungi and stinkhorns,
But didn’t discern between fly agarics
And toadstools that grew in the lawn.
He grew his spore in a deep, dark cellar
And sold to the folk who came by,
And never would judge between Widow Weller
And the ordinary witches of Rye,
He’d sell death caps, and pigskin puffballs
Not thinking to question them why,
Or who would be eating his laughing Jim’s
And whether they knew they would die.
The air was thick and the air was damp
And he fell in the dark one day,
Scattering toadstools into the air
And their spores had floated away,
He breathed the spores right into his lungs
For he hadn’t been wearing a mask,
But ****** them in right over his tongue
And they came to his lungs, at last.
I happened to see him out in the street
He was finding it hard to breathe,
He could only take a couple of steps
Then sit on the kerb, to heave,
I tried to help but he waved me away
And his eyes were yellow and cruel,
Then I saw what he’d thrown up on the kerb
Some yellow and red toadstools.
The man was a walking toadstool spore
They were popping up out of his hair,
Pushing their way though his carroty top
In a bid to get to the air,
And his skin was blotched like a puffball, he
Looked up at me, and he cried,
As a giant toadstool grew from his throat
And he lay on his side, and died.
David Lewis Paget
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 5:22 AM UTC
When you look at me
Do you look at me as an individual
or a stereotype?
Do you think of me as an independent person with personalities?
Or must I be the same as another because of my skin?
Who am I?
Am I forced to be a patriot of my birth country?
Am I forced to act like my own "kind"?
Who am I?
What must I do to prove?
What must I do to prove myself?
I am patriotic to America.
Not Korea.
I never have and never will.
But will people see me as an American or Korean?
I have lived more than half of my life in my home state Ohio,
but am I an Ohioan?
I want to go to West Point and serve my country.
Do people see that I have no other motives than loyalty?
Or do people see me as a spy?
I want to be an US Senator.
Will I be called the first Korean Senator?
Why can't I be me.
Why can't I choose who to be loyal to?
Why am I destined?
I have loved my country.
But why?
Why?
Please answer me why?
Why do you break my heart America?
You see me as a Korean,
but I never was a Korean.
I am full One-Hundred Percent,
Toby Keith Lovin',
Terrorist Hatin',
Semper Fi Yellin',
Flag Salutin'
Till Death do us part Patriot,
But yet,
You call me a foreigner.
You call me an outsider.
You call me an outcast.
I read US History,
I memorized the Pledge of Allegiance,
I know and love my country from
Jamestown to Now.
At school I am made fun of for being more patriotic than actual citizens.
But yet,
You deny me,
You say you don't know me,
You rejected me.
Why?
I gave my life to you.
Why?
I sacrificed my world to serve you.
Why?
Why do you do this to me?
I beg you!
Please do not look at me as a Korean.
Please do not look at me as an Asian.
Please do not look at me as a Foreigner.
Look at me.
Look at me,
as a Proud American.
I came here to be part of the great Melting ***
I came here for opportunities!
I came here!
I came here!
I am not a Korean.
I am!
A Proud American.
Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 9:42 PM UTC
(More than in the mire from the central line poetry tube)
Well, it was *** for a tat and a tidbit that was the last draw for the last straw and the camel looked on.
I've gone and happy about it, the pills help me out just a tiny bit, but the Toby jug thinks that I am the mug, so it's *** for tat and oh how I laugh and the camel is there looking on.
She takes me to water, the Devils own daughter and forces this man to partake,
but
the man is his mountain, his cataract, fountain, from whichever who wants to will flow.
So a tidbit a tat for a bit of all that seems a very fair price I should pay.
The camel walks away with the ****
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 7:41 AM UTC
218
Is it true, dear Sue?
Are there two?
I shouldn’t like to come
For fear of joggling Him!
If I could shut him up
In a Coffee Cup,
Or tie him to a pin
Till I got in—
Or make him fast
To “Toby’s” fist—
Hist! Whist! I’d come!
2k
The night we went to that club in Seoul
And danced with Hot Toby
We got back to the hostel and we were staying in the
Basement that night
I was so sick, needed to pass out
And proceeded to use a shirt
As a snot rag throughout my sleep
I woke up and the shirt had turned to solid concrete
Boogers cement
We had to wake up early
We went to go look at temples
I didn’t wash that shirt
I just wore it
And I remember needing to pass out
All day; so sick I couldn’t taste anything
Not even Kimchi
And I said to myself
"I just need to party"
So we went out that night
I didn’t change
My clothes
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 11:43 PM UTC
Grandad Cat
curls his tail
and wants to tell a tale
to his GrandKits Cats
He claws them before him
and he meows a catchy tune
that he shall
tell them a tale
But little Toby
he purrs:
*No, Grand – you're such a bad story-teller
cos you only have
one tale*
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 6:37 AM UTC
Pam Beesly
she shines so bright I sneeze-ly
and then fall onto my knees-ly.
My chest begins to seize-ly
whenever I see Ms Beesly,
and my brain begins to freeze-ly
so my coworkers then tease-ly.
It's unfair just how measly
my existence is to Ms Pam Beesly
but few things are said more easily
than Ms Beesly is the bees knees-ly.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 8:51 PM UTC
This happy land of Diemens, dogs and bush-walks,
Creative flurries, chats over beer, spag bol and chocolate.
Van trip, scoot down the coast,
Wander along the beach.
Talk of this and that, laugh
And put the world to rights.
Thrash out ideas, share some thoughts,
Wonder if living could be easier?
Two friends who shared a trip to the Beach twenty years back take stock;
And find that from start they had more in common than they knew.
Now seperated by ten thousand miles, A thousand quid and two days flying,
They're closer than they were
sat facing front in that old escort van.
Another chapter ends
Or begins
Or begins and ends.
I awake and think of boarding,
My plane.
I hadn't realised how simple it was
To just be,
To just exist side by side
With an old friend who you connect with.
No need for the usual preambles
Just straight to the core.
Don't waste time, because 20 years fit badly into five days.
And What happens if you click cancel....
before the download has finished?
I'm so reluctant to leave.
These days have been so easy and fun and blessed.
Brotherhood is hard to find
And when will I return?
A red light shines through my window
And appears on the wall across the room.
It blinks yellow and moves as the people opposite
Reverse from their drive
And head off to work.
The daylight outside is growing,
The rumble in the air is not traffic
But waves breaking on the shore
About fifty meters away.
Soon I'll get up, make tea
And we'll all go for a walk.
Me, my frind Toby, Pablo the happy staffie
And Ava the lucky foster dog,
Wandering care free along the beach
as the waves break around our feet.
A plane flies overhead. Taking the ****
Okay I know!
All things come to an end.
And this too shall pass.
It's just I haven't often wanted to stay this much.
It's so fun here,
And life outside can be a bit full on.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 1:05 PM UTC
She is so lonely.
Ever since he died she has.
Toby and Maisie,
They were inseparable.
Now, she is just so lonely.
Why did you have to leave us, Toby?
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 7:55 PM UTC
I'm going to start
Tossing your bags into the streets
Each time your memory burns
I'm going light up
And toss one back
Every time I think your name
I'm ready to put a boot
In your ***
My dear friend, Toby,
The one that you hate,
Told me it's the American way
So are you leaving yet?
Because if not
I'll file for restraint
Leave me alone
Otherwise, like Earl,
You'll have to die
Seeing as how emotional abuse
Ain't no way to treat a lady
You claim to love
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 4:52 AM UTC
The spot is empty where he sat close by my feet
And gazed at me with loving whippet eyes, but
Not as empty as the hollow in my heart.
His walking lead hangs by the door
Reminding me each time I pass
That I must learn to walk alone.
His favorite toy, abandoned now,
Brings tears where it once brought
Laughter at his antics as he played.
This well loved dog, my mate of many years
Was very like the decade of my youth
With me for a certain special time, then gone.
A candle in the darkness of my grieving
Lights the places where all the good times were
And becomes a beacon for my memories forever.
ljm
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 9:02 AM UTC
Maybe you’ve gone with Moss Bros
Or you’ve stuck to trusty M&S
But I can point to a surer way
to ensure you’re dressed for success
*
No matter how long you’ve spent
Adjusting your silks and laces
No matter how hard it was
to talk him out of his lairy braces
*
Whether you selected a Windsor knot
Or your favourite velvet bow tie
[A bold choice, Toby.]
I can share some well-worn wisdom
By which you should always abide
*
I know a dress code tested by time
Simple words to which we should hold
Simple but essential for all of us here
So let’s check we’re all properly clothed
*
Next time you’re walking down the red carpet
And they ask, ‘Who are you wearing?’
There's no need to look for the neckline label
Don’t waste your time with checking
*
Every day you both put on Christ
You kit yourselves out with the King
Knowing this is all that you’ll need
For whatever the day will bring
*
But like royal robes or battle armour
His garments come in layers
Put them on in careful sequence
Buttoned up with tailored prayers
*
You begin with feather-lite Compassion
Laced with silken Kindness
It’s followed by soft Humility
A garment that’s forever timeless
*
You add to this tough Gentleness
That’s core to the Saviour’s style
With a lining of weighty Patience
So you can each stay versatile
*
You ensure the ensemble’s been well steamed
With a fierce, cleansing Forgiveness
You set the dial high enough
To remove past creases of grievance
*
Now, some might think this will be enough
That that is ample fussing
But there’s one remaining layer
That you know isn’t worth you rushing
*
Over each of these rich garments
to keep them all in place
you put on the strong bond of Love
like a long full-body embrace
*
Then whatever the weather or season
on each and every occasion
You can both enjoy the Peace of knowing
You’ll never need alterations
*
You may have heard it said
And with Thanks we can affirm
Some fashions do remain timeless
And this one's designed for long term
Oct 6, 2024
Oct 6, 2024 at 10:24 AM UTC
I've met so many people
In this one lifetime
Befriending faces and so many names
Often only for but brief, moments
A few will stick around for a while
Rarest are for a life time
All with qualities, short-comings
and vis-versa, but none closer to perfect
Devotion from one person to another
is a rare blessing to be had
But from mans' best friend it's a given
To a man that friend devotes all of his attention
Always ready and willing to lather on the affection
Happy with just the pat on his soft head, with it, he is in heaven
Will I ever know another soul like him?
One that will never purposely harm or mistreat me for no good reasons?
In my opinion that answer is a resounding NO
No, not man, not a woman, no human not ever
Because not a man alive could ever handle the heart of our dogs' burden
That of our best friends, of our k9 companions
Unselfish, and unquestioning devotion will never be a humans
No, our burden is simply the curse that we out live them
So that as they pass from where we know and love them,
Into the place that we can not simply look down and pat them
I pray that place has someone just as awesome waiting for them
Someone who makes them a world to live in and celebrates every second they share with them
Asking nothing back from them... And While we all just keep going on...
Heartbroken, but profoundly and fiercely proud to have ever known them.
We might hope and pray daily...
One day, when it's our day... Might just be when,
we look down and again
there we find that beloved friend... Right then,
and realize that heart has never forgotten...
Smiling at us... Tail wagging...
Because this time he knows we'll never separate from him.
As we both walk on as is destined.
When the hard work is done,...
Distractions of living are all gone...
Finally we can pay them their due attention.
And never be mean,.. nor take them again for granted...
Only believe in... nor be separated from them...
It'll be our time together in what surely must be heaven.
Dogs hearts will forever be the greatest love, this man will ever learn to miss so badly...
As I will. I will miss you so very badly Scrappy, and you too Toby. Good Doggies!... I'll only regret every day I must live with out them. Til my work too is finished boys... Till then enjoy your new friends.
your poppa...
Jack.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 6:11 PM UTC
My brother was twelve years older so
I knew him not so well,
But heard of him in the taverns,
Getting drunk, and raising hell,
My mother said, ‘Keep away from him,’
And I did, for many years,
But blood is blood, and a brother should
Help out, though it ends in tears.
He’d done a spot of embezzling,
He’d picked the pockets of Earls,
You never left him to tend a horse
And he wasn’t safe with girls,
But he was my brother Toby,
And I was his brother Tim,
I’d often find him beneath my bed
When he said, ‘Don’t let them in!’
By ‘them’ he had meant the Runners
Who were active in the Bow,
And some of the old Thief-Takers
With their ruffians in tow,
They roamed the streets with their cudgels
And would lie, just out of sight,
Beyond the doors of the Taverns, when
They turned them adrift at night.
The streets were mean, and were far from clean
Where my brother used to roam,
Despite the pleas of our mother, who
Would beg him to come back home,
But father remained unbending, said
His eldest son was a swine,
‘His endless scrapes, a Jackanapes!
He is no son of mine!’
I heard he’d taken a horse and fled
From a stables in the Strand,
‘There’s little that anyone now can do,
When they catch him, he’ll be hanged!’
My mother, crying a flood of tears
As my father cursed and swore,
‘I’ll call the Runners, or I’ll be ******
If you let him through my door!’
So Toby galloped to Hounslow Heath
Along the Great West Road,
Teamed up with the brute Tom Wilmot,
Lay low in his abode,
They’d venture out on a moonlit night
To wait for the latest Stage,
But Tom was never the gentleman,
Or known to contain his rage.
They stopped the coach on a lonely night
‘Your money or your life!’
Dragged out a country gentleman,
His maid, and his homely wife,
He wanted the ring on the lady’s hand
But her finger held it tight,
So he sawed the finger off as well
With a sharp, serrated knife.
‘It was terrible,’ Toby told me
As they loaded him onto the cart,
‘The screams and the blood, unholy,’
As the horse was about to depart,
They hung him high on the Tyburn Tree
Next to the Wilmot pig,
Not undeserved, but I cried and cursed
As he danced the Tyburn jig.
David Lewis Paget
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
I lay in my cold hospital bed, my arms stinging from the fresh IVs nurse Toby placed under my skin.
I lay in my cold hospital bed and wonder...
I wonder if I was given even one more month, how many poems and stories I would write.
How many people I would make laugh and cry.
How many times I would say "I love you."
How many times I would pray.
How many times I would close my eyes and re-accept my inevitable fate.
I lay in my cold hospital bed.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 7:48 PM UTC
Some once called him a Grand Old Man,
Others called him a slime,
You couldn’t get a consensus that
Was even, all the time,
For some kow-towed to his money, while
Others fell by his sword,
His life was overall sunny, while
His victims quailed at his word.
He lorded it over his children,
He ruled their kids with ease,
A sullen look from beneath his brow
Would bring them to their knees,
His will was forever changing
As solicitors came and went,
One day he’d offer a mansion,
And another day, a tent.
When he finally died he was stony broke
And they wondered where it went,
He’d always been abstemious
But the money had been spent.
He left all their lives in ruins with
Their expectations gone,
A couple of ramshackle houses were
The only things they won.
There wasn’t the money to bury him
So they left him where he sat,
Up at the head of the table in
His black, beribboned hat,
He glared at them as he’d glared in life
One hand on the table-top,
Where he used to tap with his finger
As if it would never stop.
Tap-tap-tap on the table-top,
Tap-tap-tap it went,
His eyes bored into the back of your head
As if to say - Repent!
And people scurried, this way and that
To divine what the tartar meant,
The grim old man in his black top hat
Who ruled to their detriment.
They left him sat and they locked the door
Didn’t go back for a year,
Til the eldest, saying ‘let’s know for sure,’
Returned with a tinge of fear.
‘He might have stocks in his waistband there
Or shares hid under his shirt,
Or cash stuffed in his beribboned hat -
He treated us all like dirt!’
He ventured into the dining room
Where the grim old man still sat,
His eyes a-glare in the year long gloom
From under the brim of his hat.
But as the eldest approached him there
The finger began to tap,
A steady rap with a note of doom
That would curdle blood to sap.
So Toby dived to the tinder box
And he leapt up with the axe,
His face as pale as a ghostly tale
But determined to attack.
He raised the axe and he let it fall
Severed the finger there,
It skittered across the table top
As the old man fell from his chair.
The stocks were stuffed in the old man’s hat
The shares were stuffed in his sleeve,
And so much cash in his waistband that
They said, you wouldn’t believe.
But still he’s locked in that grey old house
For they found it wouldn’t stop,
That severed finger that skittered there
Still taps on the table-top!
David Lewis Paget
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
I won't tell you I love you when I don’t.
I won't tell you I miss you when I don’t.
I will tell you I take the long way to class
in a Chicago January
in the snow
on foot
just to finish dissecting Teenage Dream because you said that song reminds you of me
I will tell you I devote time out of my day solely to thinking about you heart heavily.
Because I am always thinking about you, fair warning.
And if I let myself indulge a week's worth of thinking of you in one minute,
maybe I can study some for my midterm in the morning.
I won't tell you I love you when I don’t.
I won't tell you I miss you when I don’t.
In those blindsiding instances of stark realization,
when I get a knee **** reaction putting on my scarf that still smells like fruit passion
because I made you wear it on the El platform to fend off a wind that round every corner could bend,
I will take out my blackberry, tear off my gloves, and tempt frost bite on the tips of my fingers
to send you a text that reads “I miss you.”
I won't tell you I love you when I don't.
I won't tell you I miss you when I don't.
Baby, I need not be insincere, I am not in love. Yet.
And it’s not you, and it’s not me. It is everyone else here.
Everyone else beating my brain in with cosmic signs
of Matt and Kim playing on the radio when they never play Matt and Kim on the radio.
Every poet pleading with me personally will flip their pages and I will be deemed defenseless against all odds.
I will tell you I love you, and I will mean it so fiercely
my chest will cave in upon itself thumping like a cartoon and creating a gooey mess of pink hearts.
Because you heart pink hearts.
I won't tell you I love you when I don’t.
I won't tell you I miss you when I don’t.
I will tell you embedded in the endless, elusive scenes of whimsy that make up my insides,
that song by The Darkness will play over every loudspeaker in the Student Center
because you paused,
you looked at me,
and you said “I love you. I really love you.”
Feb 5, 2011
Feb 5, 2011 at 12:32 PM UTC
Party zone with johnny Brown
Johnny'. Hi guys and welcome to party zone and without further ado here is a song from
The ***** hater and no one here will like him I can tell you
***** hater'
The drunks of Australia
Have made their choice
Getting drunk and bashing people up
The drunks of Australia have actually learnt
That their behaviour is so disruptive
You see it is me sitting in this bar drinking everything that came out like taquila and kalua
And a nice cold beer
You see a big mean biker dude
Came up to me and said
You are singing about my friends
And I said
The drunks of Australia have
Made their choice
Getting drunk and bashing people up oh yeah
The drunks of Australia
Should actually learn
Their behaviour is so disruptive
You see I went over to the stage
To put $20 in the bucket because this band asks for donations to help support their kid in chile, as usual there was
A lot of money there but as a natural fact everyone in here is a helper apart from
The drunks of Australia have made their choice
Getting drunk and bashing people up
The drunks of Australia
Should actually learn
Their behaviour is quite disruptive
Johnny'. Thank you ***** hater
And now here is Toby with his
Song about partying
Toby'. I wanna party I wanna party
All ****** day and night
I will upload my song about bullying on YouTube to raise
Awareness that it is wrong
To bully
I wanna party I wanna party
All day and night
I will post this song on hello poetry to inspire people
To feel good about posting their
Stuff
I wanna party I wanna party
Like meat loaf and noiseworks
And twisted sister
I said pass the carrots please
And then I went upstairs to yell at my son using the army is better than music gag
I wanna party I wanna party
I wanna get wasted every day and night
I really wanna party dudes
Johnny' thank you Toby
And now here is mentally ill Harry
Harry'. I go to see my case manager to get a script for seroquel
It is ****** ****** annoying
How they don't give it to me
I don't spend that long away from my phone
Please please please I want
You understand that we ain't robots mate and my beard and glasses and my filthy feet and hands and toe nails and finger nails about as long as a tree branch
Please provide me with a script for seroquel please please please
Johnny thank you Harry
And we will see you next time on party zone bye
Sent from my iPhone
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 9:06 AM UTC
It feels so vivid (frequency)
---—---------->>>>>
<<<<<< ------------------------
Constantly thinking every minute. ^ v
Huh **** un be defferent ?
If the NEW sttlyle is toby differant.
If these words were a drug
( Cough- needle hits arm. )
I will never kick it.
----—--—-———--
Peep the will in me.
Emotional stability.
Responsibility. ( Freedom = responsibility )
In Truth , Love ,
& symmetry.
My patience...
.......................... --—-----------------------
---------------------
My life After death
Only a lucky few shall recycle my genius.
The lack of human stimulation
did not amaze him..
Annoyed with their commotion.
Lifeforms
distracted through mixed emotions.
The catacombs. the dead resurfaces as I write this poem.
This is all expressed to my ocean.
Trust it.
Climb the summit.
Learn to rise above it.
My communication.
My operation.
My construct.
He had a schizophrenic disease.
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 8:44 PM UTC
Prepare bloodshed
Im tired of being a thorough bred
All eyes on me
Take heed to words that's said
They hate me
Cuz they aint black like me
Bow down this t h u g
Recognize my game
Bring more flames than end times
Listen to me ******
The world is mine as shine my nine
Anyone who jump see the flat line
Never left the battle grounds
Straight boot camps
Lived off of food stamps with tramps
Broke the mold now im feelin' bold
**** brothers multiply
Got every ghetto in the nation high
And watch the birds fly
South for the December
Ill make a massacre that'll make ya remember
Yosef been equipped with game
So **** the fame let my ***** hang
These fools aint ready for war
Cuz once i hit it'll no longer be an even score
Now that got yo attention
What these fool know about **** life?
Every playa hata wanna be like
Me the underground ghetto king
This is a rap ghetto blues so ya can cling
Into my raw raps preaching apocalypse
Reachin' in my pockets for mo bullets
So i can empty clips
INTO ya mind fool break the slavery chains
I aint never been a toby
Bow down like ya owe half these *******
Is phony
Claims they ya friends but when ya hit the pen
They blowing in the wind
And **** paris them aint down for us
Got eve ry dumb ***** puttin' up the red white n blue pic
**** them bigots they can eat a ****
Sweatin' my ****
Cuz bringin back that **** ****
Never fall back retraced my steps n now im.back
To where it all begins
Birthed unto this world its daily sin
I cant get a break cuz they aint no fate
I'm just waitin' for right time
To retaliate set my own date date
Sike im machiavelli
Reincarnated as a mack 11
Burn all my enemies til they flesh is cremated
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 8:47 AM UTC
Kings. Queens.
Consummation. Kids.
Chiefs of clans.
Children of chiefs.
Close knit communities.
Continued cycles.
Change.
Colorless crews.
Coins. Captures. Chains.
Chained to you.
Chained to the cruise.
**** me. **** he. **** she.
Check teeth,
Choose wisely.
Chastise. Cracked whips.
Change name:
Kunta, no Toby.
Change, charge.
Christ of captives,
**** them!”
No, **** him.
Continue evil.
Change.
Break chains.
Knots, no more.
No, change chains.
Lose claims.
Coax comfort.
Contradict. Corrupt.
Cascaded crucifixions.
Charred chandeliers.
Coerce without cognition of
Coming chaos
Of civic correction.
Civilians conform society.
Combatants conquer and confer.
Continue.
Cultural contributions.
Cultural appropriation.
Cultural controversy.
No complications.
No conversations.
Did not conceive,
Cannot convey.
Concede. Not Conceit.
Continue.
Kings cower before
Crowns clarify.
Kings killed.
Queens cope. Queens cry.
Queens say,
**** compliance!
**** cordial!”
Queens coordinate, combat,
Condemn, don’t compromise,
And command cessation
To corrupt civilization.
Queens continue
Coils, kinks, curls.
Nov 13, 2017
Nov 13, 2017 at 3:29 PM UTC
My name is Kunte Kinte,
I've come from lands far away.
I was taken hostage and prisoner,
And forced to be a slave.
Those people took away my name,
And gave me another instead.
My name is now Toby,
And thus Toby I became.
Few weeks past,
I ran away.
I was caught and whipped,
And forced to work again.
I ran away again,
I was caught again too.
This time they also,
Cut off my right foot.
I married a lady named Bell,
Who was black and a slave like me,
We had a little daughter,
Whom I loved and named Kizzy.
I died of a broken heart,
When my wife was bought and sold.
I now lay in a grave,
My story forgotten and in everlasting cold.
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 4:52 PM UTC