"trice" poems
~~~<♡>~~~
Here's a tale of
woe and love
a ballad soft and low
it shows how greed
can rise above
and how far it will go
King Midas had a
wonderous gift
turned everything he touched
into gold, an alchemy shift
he wanted wealth so much
But he loved his daughter
more than that
she, a maid so bold
she ran to him
where he then sat
and became solid gold
Thus ends the tale of avarice
Midas had the world
but would have
lost all in a trice
to save
his little girl
SoulSurvivor
(C) 6/2/2015
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 3:20 PM UTC
On
The counters of poetry
I dock and lock myself
Then
I scope on the bottles of liquors seductively
And spellblind by their syllables
I took the shakers and hybrid
The Similes
The Onomatopeia's
The Nemesis'
The Near-Rhymes
And The Triadic-Lines
Then I gulp fourteen shots of Sonnets
From my paper-glass
And glug a paradox
Or a foil-sigh
Trice,
The knots
Bundling my eloquence
Will exonerated itself
And torpidity will cuff my consciousness
And the droplets remains in my paper- glass
Will impel me
To quest for myriad of them
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I
Will slur
With half an eye open
As if the other is broken
Stock on a comedy chair
Then
When the
Limbs of time tread
Will I rush to the counter
Like the athletes at Olympia
And hybrid
The Blank-verses
The Alliterations
The Limericks
The Litotes
The Aporia's
And The Dysphemism's
And
Gulp countless
Yet measured shoots
Of Ballad,with my paper-glass
And unravel the oratories
Of sacred secrets,eclectic enchantment and regrettable reflexes
Aside,or injects the world
With my rugged pins of eruditions
Bestowed in me by the liquors of poetry
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I
Will slur
With half an eye open
As if the other is broken
Stocked on a comedy-chair
Again
I will rush
To the counter,and hybrid
The Exaggerations
The Personifications
The Imageries
And The Caesura's
And
Gulp uncounted shoots
Of Epic's from my paper-glass
And
Eulogise my steam and wit
Yet,I'm drunk
And deeply drunk wholly
By a might that mortify me so much
That I've become a slave
In the awe of my servitude
Now and then
Will I weep and wail terribly
Each morning,each noon,and each night
For the great demise of myself
And for an emancipation
From the perpetual counter-cells poetry
I'm drunk,and deeply drunk by poetry.
Deeply Drunk
©Historian E.Lexano
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
Another rain spattered evening
dreaming worn out dreams
yet they can be so deceiving
Telling my heart "reality's not real"
Hoping for total oblivion
wishing all old wounds would heal
for so they say the darkest hours must flee
Oh when and where is the darkest hour for me?
my twenty minute (trice) has stretched from all proportion
and so by doing my mind has reached distortion
Still the rain keeps falling
Showering down in glee
As if to cry those needed tears
unable to be shed by me
How could outside galaxies
know the pain I hold inside?
Why would they shed such tears for me
for thoughts that I must hide?
No human heart could understand
whats locked within my mind
For I have searched and weary grown
But the key I cannot find
Even if the door stood open wide
what would I see within my mind?
The pattering is replaced by a watery golden sun
Ageless thoughts will disappear
oblivion has begun.
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 5:31 AM UTC
The Magical Date
Last nite was a celebration!
And before it all begun
He held me by my hand so close
We were off to leprechaun land!
The naughty elf with his impish pranks
His sinful teases and wanton ways
His playful gestures, fractious delights
He rushed me off to his wilful fays
We found ourselves in a Keatsian bower
In 'embalmed darkness', 'mong 'white hawthorns'
It was fragrant with the jasmine veils
That covered the roof of rosy thorns
we laughed and sang old happy numbers
we talked our hearts out gleefully
After aeons of blue moon we'd finally met
A magical date it had to be!
And so when i looked up to his eyes
It held mine in a purple gaze
In a trice of a second he was off with me
Speeding through the verduous maze
Help! i cried but held on tight
Our windswept hair, our amorous plight
His fervour, vigor, force and power
Was all i felt that wondrous night
Elf or gnome, genie or sprite
A naughty brownie or the nisse vampire
Bogie, goblin, fairy, nymph
He carried me through the forests dire...
So just wen I can close my eyes
Just when i feel im missing him
He's there as he says hes there with me
Off we go into the woodlands dim
We dance a waltz, a salsa true
A foxtrot, a ballet in embrace tight
In white moonshine, in purple rain
When dewdrops catch the morning light.
And then again with every dawn
The magic wanes, the elf resigns
To mossy groves and sylvan lands
And the elfin grottos of my mind.
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 12:37 AM UTC
Your words pelted me like knives.
I've tried it once, twice, and trice
I'm starting to wonder if I have nine lives
Deep, ever-lasting scars go up and down my body
I always feel like a nobody.
No one cares if I live or die
So I'll let the blood pour down my thigh.
Darkness covers my eyes
And I look at it like it's a prize.
Dead, the line went straight.
This has always been my fate.
I'm my own killer, so close the case,
Once and for all, I'm finally done with the chase.
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 10:48 PM UTC
Vain I know
I just can't let go
Money that hard to earn
Each day some of it I'd burned
Creating my own clouds
To have strength to join the crowd
When I was a kid, I am too shy
Finally slain my demon of shyness and fly
It started by only feeding my ignorance
Just a single try I've said to my conscience
Seems helping me to have courage in a way
So once, twice, trice until dozen a day
My dear ones begged me to stop
I've tried a lot of times, but I just can't drop
Just like a vampire to blood I crave
To **** the beast of addiction I am not that brave
I am so ****** up now
I am targeting myself with my own bow
A poison I've known from the start
But still I keep it near to my very heart
Written: December 27, 2014
Mysterious Aries
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 9:29 PM UTC
Johnny had a golden head
Like a golden mop in blow,
Right and left his curls would spread
In a glory and a glow,
And they framed his honest face
Like stray sunbeams out of place.
Long and thick, they half could hide
How threadbare his patched jacket hung;
They used to be his Mother's pride;
She praised them with a tender tongue,
And stroked them with a loving finger
That smoothed and stroked and loved to linger.
On a doorstep Johnny sat,
Up and down the street looked he;
Johnny did not own a hat,
Hot or cold tho' days might be;
Johnny did not own a boot
To cover up his muddy foot.
Johnny's face was pale and thin,
Pale with hunger and with crying;
For his Mother lay within,
Talked and tossed and seemed a-dying,
While Johnny racked his brains to think
How to get her help and drink,
Get her physic, get her tea,
Get her bread and something nice;
Not a penny piece had he,
And scarce a shilling might suffice;
No wonder that his soul was sad,
When not one penny piece he had.
As he sat there thinking, moping,
Because his Mother's wants were many,
Wishing much but scarcely hoping
To earn a shilling or a penny,
A friendly neighbor passed him by
And questioned him: Why did he cry?
Alas! his trouble soon was told:
He did not cry for cold or hunger,
Though he was hungry both and cold;
He only felt more weak and younger,
Because he wished so to be old
And apt at earning pence or gold.
Kindly that neighbor was, but poor,
Scant coin had he to give or lend;
And well he guessed there needed more
Than pence or shillings to befriend
The helpless woman in her strait,
So much loved, yet so desolate.
One way he saw, and only one:
He would--he could not--give the advice,
And yet he must: the widow's son
Had curls of gold would fetch their price;
Long curls which might be clipped, and sold
For silver, or perhaps for gold.
Our Johnny, when he understood
Which shop it was that purchased hair,
Ran off as briskly as he could,
And in a trice stood cropped and bare,
Too short of hair to fill a locket,
But jingling money in his pocket.
Precious money--tea and bread,
Physic, ease, for Mother dear,
Better than a golden head:
Yet our hero dropped one tear
When he spied himself close shorn,
Barer much than lamb new born.
His Mother throve upon the money,
Ate and revived and kissed her son:
But oh! when she perceived her Johnny,
And understood what he had done
All and only for her sake,
She sobbed as if her heart must break.
1.6k
T Rex thought he was the king but truly he was no such thing
he was a bully sad and weak who prayed on those to young to speak
Then came the day when baby Trice
got to close to Rexies lair
Rexie thoughg his luck had changed and now would play the Rexie game
Which was to take the young and weak
so soft and tender, good to eat
Rex thought I will have some of that
the baby trice will be quite a snack and fill a corner of my tum
But Rex had made a big mistake, oh dear a grave mistake
For round the corner came trice's mum weighing a bit
more than about three tonnes
Three big horns upon her head
One jab from those could leave Rex dead
She gave poor Rex an evil stare
said "Bite young Trice if you dare"
Then I will deal you a mighty thump
and I promise you your bone will crunch
Poor Rexie backed away in fear and in his eyes salty tears
People thought for many years that Rex was king and had no fear
But they didn't know Triceratops, the bravest dinosaur of the lot
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 3:51 PM UTC
The first sinking dismay
she had in her humdrum life
was the first bongless time
when she heard herself cry.
The swallow of a muttered moan
following a stricken strife
like a shade hurtling the shadows,
a last dismaying gasp.
Where the zephyr in southerly arms die
where the nymph shrivels on a thirsty desire
where the Wheel crashes on a pallid meadow
where the plucked wings of the Dove fly?
Where the shadow of the bear downed stone
will dim my own umbra, eventide's gravedigger
brooding on a fractured glass? Lights' eyes queller
the lips' ballad subduer, ripper of the flock's strokes.
Your own stonewalling dismay is
double-crosser of a sea of dust chalk,
drowning feeble lying fireflies...
twinkling the sneers of your eclipse.
-Follow, follow her shadow
calling your own void from afar.
Where the wild lilacs the foggy crucify
where the stinging memory stirs dawdling desires
where a stabbing thought make the blurred red rock dance
dance in an **** between the answer and the why.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 1:08 PM UTC
My hour on the stage half dun
Gone are days of limerick fun
Gone green dragon flying as Lark
Remembering ex-marine snark
In Hollywood bar, his heart trice
Failed, still caring drove to hospice
There, where days laid he on just one leg
Amputated cries, pain dared beg.
Yet after death lurked a grin,
A lark phone call to next of kin.
Frank doctor blind to ****** pun
Irate, berate to unkind son,
Spoke he with clenched fist did shook,
Asking who laments father cook.
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
She severed the head of love's complacency
covering all I thought I'd discovered with a vice
like grip on a puzzling figuring out of normalcy
refusing any defining by turning pose in a trice
into fusions of fiery burns of my assumptions
until she was nowhere but there at every turn
churning the pressure with neat beats of passions
with valves registering a blistering alarm
a companion unhinged by dimensions dark tinged
not a snake charming woman nor a venomous fang
yet poison was taken with a cringe and a change
into a Hyde or a Jekyll I cannot decide things
When my grasps fall between all her parts half revealed
I gasp out of hunger pang eagerness to feel
slender slinking through fingers and thumbs unsolved
as a friend or a foe I can't know if she's real
Beyond physical perception I cannot be certain
because of fantastical attractions in legion
gone viral in tongues insubstantial past vision
yet assembled in ways which portend a contagion
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 12:53 PM UTC
There lived an old man in the kingdom of Tess,
Who invented a purely original dress;
And when it was perfectly made and complete,
He opened the door, and walked into the street.
By way of a hat, he'd a loaf of Brown Bread,
In the middle of which he inserted his head;--
His Shirt was made up of no end of dead Mice,
The warmth of whose skins was quite fluffy and nice;--
His Drawers were of Rabbit-skins,--but it is not known whose;--
His Waistcoat and Trowsers were made of Pork Chops;--
His Buttons were Jujubes, and Chocolate Drops;--
His Coat was all Pancakes with Jam for a border,
And a girdle of Biscuits to keep it in order;
And he wore over all, as a screen from bad weather,
A Cloak of green Cabbage-leaves stitched all together.
He had walked a short way, when he heard a great noise,
Of all sorts of Beasticles, Birdlings, and Boys;--
And from every long street and dark lane in the town
Beasts, Birdles, and Boys in a tumult rushed down.
Two Cows and a half ate his Cabbage-leaf Cloak;--
Four Apes seized his Girdle, which vanished like smoke;--
Three Kids ate up half of his Pancaky Coat,--
And the tails were devour'd by an ancient He Goat;--
An army of Dogs in a twinkling tore up his
Pork Waistcoat and Trowsers to give to their Puppies;--
And while they were growling, and mumbling the Chops,
Ten boys prigged the Jujubes and Chocolate Drops.--
He tried to run back to his house, but in vain,
Four Scores of fat Pigs came again and again;--
They rushed out of stables and hovels and doors,--
They tore off his stockings, his shoes, and his drawers;--
And now from the housetops with screechings descend,
Striped, spotted, white, black, and gray Cats without end,
They jumped on his shoulders and knocked off his hat,--
When Crows, Ducks, and Hens made a mincemeat of that;--
They speedily flew at his sleeves in trice,
And utterly tore up his Shirt of dead Mice;--
They swallowed the last of his Shirt with a squall,--
Whereon he ran home with no clothes on at all.
And he said to himself as he bolted the door,
'I will not wear a similar dress any more,
'Any more, any more, any more, never more!'
1.4k
The cool domain of fox and geese
Or how they proved to live
The tinted shed was far from done
The staggered lock was loose
Contained in moonlight ere they walked
The geese were faultless there
The ***** fixed her wandering snout
The cool breeze filled her nose
Maintaining position the fox stood fast
Her gaze was stark and still
The errant geese came hoddlng past
Without a gate nor care
Moonlight gathering clouds that passed
Once bright and then not so
Skating by with scarce a look
By gaggle and in pairs
The red predator crouched low
Her nostrils flared as the breath
Eased her silent mouth shut
With gainful stealth her muscle hard body
Demanded freedom from this in-waiting stance
Her piercing eyes strained in the half light
The geese came silent reaching the house
Leaping forward in a trice the vixens sinewy body
Made speed through the grass
The white geese blissfully unaware
The padding paws thudding hard in the fox's ears
As she neared the final ground
Fluttering flapping wings and frantic noise broke the silence
Honking, snapping, darting, red fur and snapping jaws
The vixen's quest held up
But white feather miasma flared like plume
Beating and writhing, hissing and growling under the moon's
Gentle gaze, the ***** retreats her mission falters
Her tail is blood red but no spoils does she take
Retiring away, she licks her wounds and lies
Panting, casting gazes left and right, breathing heavily
This time beaten, thwarted ....
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 9:14 PM UTC
Life is an adventure
of a butterfly flying off and back on your shoulder.
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
I don't need to see you to kiss you,
or not be with you to miss you.
No need for flowers,
speech or silence in our hours.
Or to tell you twice in a trice.
We just need to be;
to show what we both know.
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 5:49 PM UTC
Standing on the overpass
i stop to look away
the endless stream of cars
sprinting from under my feet
dusky yellowish lights
start to illuminate the night
the city is beautiful at this time
yes it sure is
as the autumn winds blow
coolness grows
the heart feels barren
for no reason though
stars in the sky
twinkle once in a while
each one is an unknown dream
each one is too far away
a drop of rain fell from thereabouts
i saw it so i reach out
it touches my cheek
slips out of the corner of my eye
then in a trice
It floods the cityscape.
Sep 17, 2023
Sep 17, 2023 at 7:18 AM UTC
The emotion called emotion set out to look at the world one day,
He thought he’d take the day off to make some merry and gay,
Strolling by he entered a village farm and the animals all jumped,
They’d never seen an emotion like him; they couldn’t understand what they felt,
Emotion ran away from there, leaving the animals feeling nothing but bummed,
The emotion called emotion went to unwind at the bar nearby,
He guessed at least his fast friend alcohol would love to have him drop by,
As soon as the pub’s door opened and he set foot inside,
All heads turned, and colour drained from their hides,
Alcohol shouted to his pal ‘run from here o emotion; the people in here I beguile’,
‘I keep them away from all emotion; all I told you about happiness around me was a lie’,
The emotion was confused, it was something he’d never felt before,
He was a straight thinker, he’d always been so sure,
As he was strutting down the road, all lost in thought and head in cloud,
The emotion stumbled upon a great saint; busy in meditation, wrapped in a saffron shroud,
He considered talking advice and expressed desire to enter the saint’s psyche,
Then quietly he was shown to the saint’s wisdom, through a secret passage deep deep inside,
There he sought answers to his quest; he asked the wise one in all earnest:
‘Why do people fear me? I never let them to sorrow or pain...’
‘I am a simple emotion; I never put them under any strain....’
The wisdom replied: ‘why do I meet you in here old friend? Why this secrecy you must wonder...’
‘Herein lies the answer to all your queries, I keep away from you so I can think and ponder.’
“I am free of you so am known as the wise one, if I let you in it’ll spoil all the fun.
Although I know you’re right, you are the simplest and so you beget happiness on a platter.
But to comprehend you, one must be free of you and that’s how you complicate matters,
If one were to always listen to you I would be lost, I would become secondary and I can’t bear that cost.
That is why we don’t meet old’ friend, it is for my significance that you must disappear,
But in search of happiness people get confused between you and me and then it is you they have to fear...”
The emotion called emotion was not satisfied with this response,
Seeing this, the wisdom went back to his own trance.
“You seem troubled my dear, but there is no need to be;
Go back home, get to work and let me get to mine,
Be the guy you were, frolicking, wandering and always carefree,
It’s almost dawn now, go rise and shine.”
The emotion called emotion quietly took the saint’s advice,
He went off home to being who he always was in a trice.
Things went back to normal, no work was stalled,
The only lesson he learned was:
That “an emotion never thinks at all”
That “An emotion never thinks at all......”
Jul 31, 2011
Jul 31, 2011 at 7:37 AM UTC
Dedicated to Bobby Trice, Willem Cole Traupel, and Haley Ristow
Spilled sodas
and spilled hearts.
Smoked cigarettes
and smoked days.
The snow has ceased falling, and my mood has continued climbing.
What used to be a dark shade of orange, an orange haze,
is now a light, gentle shade of white.
Crisp and clear.
And as I shoveled the drive way,
I thought of the less than extraordinary Sunday
and how extraordinary it was.
And as I looked into my cigarette pack, finding it empty,
I remembered a quote the director of our school play had said
"Do not cry because it's over, smile because it happened"
And I guess it's silly to think of a pack of Organic American Spirits in the same shade of white that others think of a school play.
Maybe it's not so much the cigarettes but the people I shared them with.
The people I love.
My bestfriends.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 6:48 PM UTC
I try and tried to read every Rhyme of that kind
for my tired spare tire was trolling in my mind
because I just got hooked by a puzzling word not just that Easy to find
beyond that little title is like a chime, that for me seems an Essay to bind
7 days ago or even more than not a long way to go
24 hours hit and run and ruin my ego doing the lego
I'll be loving reading your right and wity poetic words of wisdom
I'd rather either be your stalker or a Wanna Be r y n with seldom
somewhere in any Comment
Somehow eerie way i meant
through constructions of your concrete days work of art
though I had been deeply fallen unto a crate Shallow Chart
~ ~
! ! !
|
( /_\. )
. . .
∆
I might be coming back always good in here
a night or two consecutive days I can dare
triangle with exclamation that joints without a Dot of Doubt
terrible width of auction catch points to washout lot of bout
going once
going twice
going trice
rolling dice ...
🎲 🎲 🎲 🎲 🎲🎲🎲
🔵🔵🔵🔵🔵🔵🔵🔵
🍒🍒🍒🍒🍒
yet....
yesterday is friday the 13th
yesteryears maybe seventh
decade of the eight wonders of the world 🌎
cascade daily five capital of deary word 🅿️
Oct . 14 Saturday 2023
Oct 13, 2023
Oct 13, 2023 at 7:58 PM UTC
Silence can surpass your conscious lessness
Silence can scream out in your heart
Objectifying the reality
Ostracizing the fiction
Beware of silence
For serendipitous can be the moment, in trice of silence
Serene can be the moments in trice of silence
Silence sails amid the slithering stories
For if you can observe, you can be silent
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 3:47 PM UTC
Tomorrow comes to quick these days
whizzing, sprinting through my gaze
as the years go rushing by
slow down, I'm worried that I'll die.
I'll miss things that are yet to be
I want to live? Is that really me?
****** hell you cheeky liar
we got the wood for your funeral pyre!
All the times you tried to leave
last rites made us start to grieve
then you recovered in a trice
put the burial on ice."
nearly went in the big french crash
on my head oh, what a smash
lost my memories for a bit
can't spot my friends, makes me feel ****
drunk bad stuff, burnt inside
still got a grin a half mile wide
set on fire for fun while fishing
"An extinguisher!" I was wishing
loads of pills, ergotomine too
saw bad things from satan's zoo
tunnel of light like in the movies
got sent back, yeah really groovy
ICU with all false names
never knew me, good at that game
now there's stuff I need to do
people help me to pull through
so think I'll try and stick around
not go six feet beneath the ground
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 3:27 PM UTC
Floor Shipping Shipping; adjective /
ARCHEEOLOGY : Last name adjective.
The first stone floor was placed about 2.5 million years ago
when the first stone tools were fashioned and used
by the Supreme Court, good for every paleolithic person.
Paleolithic. Good for every person. Paleolithic;
His name is lower paleolithic, his name is lower
paleolithic. A good name. Paleolithic Arena.
good name. Paleolithic Arena. The name of the upper
Paleolithic for the upper Paleolithic based on
from the age of 19 years of prehistoric Stone;
Old Stone Greek exchange rates + + -Ic:
the same flight with the same fear of fire,
except for the movement of the basket legs.
The devil gave Sadistic childcare early
in the morning; the punishment provided by law
and used from start to finish, use of the sign
of salvation, etc. Legs; feet and legs, soles of steps
was only a spin, as | loving Arias rise
in the morning's morning of morning of the morning
and the dead with their mouths speak
and eat, and is as it were, | the wedding dress;
It is best to get to the mind especially
when it comes due to satellites, | and in yellow, |
Ralph Lauren sings songs about eternal life.|
Floor; Shipping, Shipping; adjectively ARCHEOLOGY: Last name adjective. The floor of the first stone was placed
about 2.5 million years ago when the first stone tools
were fashioned used by the High Council. Good for every person.
Paleolithic. good for every person. Paleolithic. his name is lower
paleolithic. his name is lower paleolithic. A good name to announce in the Paleolithic Arena. Good name. Paleolithic Arenas.
The name of the upper Palaeolithic for the upper Palaeolithic
is based on; From the age of 19 years of prehistoric
Stone Old Stone Greek exchange rates + + -Ic: the same flight
with the same fear of fire, except for the movement of the basket legs.
| | | ||_The devil gave So childcare early in the morning._|| |||
The punishment given by law
and used from beginning to end,
the sign of salvation, etc., Legs,
feet and legs, the soles of her feet
were only spiders and the love
of Asia rising early in the morning,
in the morning the morning and
the dead in their mouths speak |
and eat and is, as it were the wedding
dress it is best to get the ghost,
especially when it comes through
satellites and sings yellow Ralph
Lauren songs about eternal life.
Knowledge of quality of life, the hard steps of the evening musician; Note that the first poetry in the world is that of the child that is a teenager who lied to her in the morning, morning, early morning, swimming and bones, and the father, with the eyes a lover of God is crazy. "Do not **** each other in time and money, some on foot." Crazy, crazy, crazy Asian, um, the ants that emit the color of reality are doomed, and if, and for those who are bad, and the king of ***** leaking a few feet of ... save my God's gratitude For example, God knows a simple one and for cutting, heating and healing bones. What is your time, it is still a shame for people living in the neighborhood. Beginning, I thought this morning in Asia Asia had a number of areas that especially Sikhs characterize with many words. Ralph Lauren, yellow socks, color in the family, which, as a man, offers the developer G Fat or thighs of the rich, fighting fatty liver for trice the price of of TMZ: Levi's green team of archery riders in his first match against Zion in Asia, and parts of the slide closure and socks are dead and believe in vibration. Are you crazy? Did the boy have a boy and should he have won? In debt to MLK - are the eyes of God, and to meditate on drinking alcohol and women. I know you love to swim in your clothes, feet and legs that are close to yours are FUTURISM.
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
She knew so well, she was broken
Grazed by the dark episodes of her life
But for a reason not well spoken
She bottles up her pretty lies.
Too soon, oh Heaven. How do I despair?
Should You becalm the sea, why not seemingly fair?
Questions and tempest, in just a minute stare
All, in a trice, turned out as an awful nightmare
Hovering over the memories, hearts are still in pain
Tears are carefully hidden, sore wounds she'd rather feign.
I knew I wasn't dreaming, but for once I'd like to know.
Can we still dream much further despite a losing show?
Such a lax image, she tends to portray
Religiously, so patiently, she never goes astray
At the darkest edges of her discernible universe
Beyond our keenest senses, she buries a pitch black curse.
Shame on me, my steadfast wishes, I can hardly collect.
Another revolution yet; oh, how do I deflect?
Like a western avalanche, her days came rolling by
As if they're going out of hand, over her head, we can testify
She can just give up, or give another shot, no one seems to know
But in her mind, she knows just why she was there all from the word go.
I know to whom I shall only concede, never to a ruthless battle.
Disjoint, unarmed, I could always be; but my faith, no one can throttle.
And so the tale of this one staunch damsel never ended wrong
She might have had some tough good byes, but that made her strong
Cropping out the tragedy from the frame, she tries to recover from drama
Star-crossed, perhaps, but not til she stops becoming the one tough Andrea.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 5:11 AM UTC
The ugliest woman that ever was born
was called Margery Pilkington-Brown.
If a monkey was born half as ugly as that
they would certainly have it put down.
Her head was as bald as a billiard ball,
yet the hair on her chin was quite long.
For a girl to be cursed with a whiskery beard
was, in anyone’s thinking, quite wrong
Mrs Pilkington cried, “Nurse, please take it away.
It’s a miniature monster from hell.”
“Put a bag on its head,” said the nurse, with a wave,
“If you need a supply, ring the bell.”
So Mrs P stayed for a month and a day
‘Till they told her, quite firmly, to go.
The nurse sympathised with a rolling of eyes
as she packaged the Lady-Shave Pro.
“Oh, what a disgrace when they look at her face
and they see she’s a hideous brute?”
“We’ll give you a bag with a hole in the top.
You can hide her away in the boot.”
So Mrs P left with a feeling of dread
planning what she could do with the sprog.
She drove to a wood at the edge of the park
and left Margery under a log.
“That’s a terrible thing that you’re doing,” he growled.
Mrs P jumped a mile or two.
The Park-Keeper peered at the face in the bag.
“Can’t you find it a home at the zoo?”
Downhearted, she took little Margery home
to a cupboard, until it was night.
She couldn’t risk anyone catching a glance
of poor Margery’s face in the light.
When Mr P saw his new daughter he scowled,
“God Almighty, my dear, what is that?
Has it crawled from a stone in the corner of hell,
or been dragged from a hole by the cat?”
“It’s our baby, dear heart,” cried a hurt Mrs P,
in a trice, feeling rather endeared.
“She may not be nice, but she’s our flesh and blood
with my feet and your belly and beard.”
“Well, yes, I suppose with her seventeen toes
and a nose that could open a tin,
she is rather unique in a curious way
and we’re blessed that she isn’t a twin.
She’s ours, as you say. We can’t give her away
So she’ll stay as a Pilkington – Brown.
We’ll give her a shave and a hat with a brim
And avoid going into the town.”
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
THis is the decisive juncture .
Where you comprehend it never ends, just die. This is the space where death decays. Drowning in cocktail of poison and pride.
You wish you were a little wise.
To have seen through the guileful eyes. To have known better of silly vows. Needlessly fell for the tragic demise .
I was a believer, for a while'
Hope bred eternal misery .
This is the tale of treachery. The garden of love seeded with lies. Here reality intertwines. Trespassers shot at sight. No strings, no sighs.
Well, nothing is better some times .
Love on sale. Grandest deal. As lovable as they come.
Assurance fails .
Now is the aggressive trice ;
This is when you eat yourself alive .
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 1:51 PM UTC