"trier" poems
For those who say life’s easy, they obviously haven’t tried,
For those who found it difficult, some of whom have died.
For those who are still struggling, don’t hold your head in shame,
No one said life was easy; you’re not the one to blame.
Those dark days may be difficult, but know that they will end,
Look for the brighter future around life’s winding bend
.
What troubles you today, will be a breeze tomorrow,
Don’t make the harsh decision and leaves other to face sorrow.
To know that you are loved and that they all do care,
Will lift weight from your shoulders, no more a load to bear.
Now talk about your troubles and share your problems open,
It’s not a sign of weakness; it simply shows your copin.
Sometimes life’s problems exceed us, they can be overcome.
You may have lost the battle, but the war will soon be won.
Now stand up proud while smiling and know that life is brighter.
They say god loves a trier, he also loves a fighter
So if you see a friend whose load they cannot bear,
just reach out your hand to them to show how much you care.
That one simple gesture can re inspire hope
and help someone who’s struggling to make them better cope
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 6:57 PM UTC
Let me introduce myself,
I’m Paul B.
P to the A to the U to the L to the B.
You say Paul,
I say B.
You say Paul,
I say…
I used to teach English, try to inspire.
Least you can say is, I was a trier.
Love this rapping: it gets my feet tapping,
Even though I ought to be napping.
I write poems like a word ejector,
Keep away you Grammar Inspector!
Jay-Z writes in iambic pentameters,
Making out he’s got no parameters.
Honey G just copies off him,
Oh my God she really is dim.
Does her rap like Barbara Windsor,
Do you remember Needles and Pins-ah?
Me I’m copying off them both,
Though it’s only for a laugh.
Whoops a daisy that don’t quite rhyme,
Another case of Butters Rhyme Crime.
Rap is ******* I often say,
Though it rhymes the poetic way.
That leaves me with one thing to say:
You say Paul,
I say…
Paul Butters
© PB 17\10\2016.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
Former trier turned friar
Storming rage behind fryers
World of potential in the inner mental
Work ethic impeccable
Work conditions unethical
Nine hours no lunch or break
Better pump the brakes and pull stake
Time to get a slice of thine own pie
Reach nirvana prime and let the soul fly
Soar above money traps and get the bag
Lest your future gets clicky clacked
And your happiness capped
Spinning poverty’s vicious cycle
Grinning sharks made me their disciple
Life is trifling when your blood leaves
Heat stifling as the done deed
Has you on your knees begging
Lord have mercy please
Escape away from hate
And let love into your heart
Then and only then will you start
To understand the holy ghost
That is you
And the apostles that are your friends
Ride or die to the end
This ain’t no game of let’s pretend
It’s real life
Your one shot to drip and ball
So don’t let it slip by
Or you’ll fall before you walk, y'all.
May 14, 2019
May 14, 2019 at 4:17 PM UTC
I have a gun,
I keep it under my bed
and just for fun
I decided not to tell anyone
But it weighs heavy
Now when people
get under my skin I don’t begin
to unwind and
let my patience wear thin
I just think of my gun under my bed.
I think of a hole going straight through my head.
My Heads just a borrowed mess,
I’m just a high liar, dire trier
trying too much again.
You see friends
in strangers but behaviours
vary, yes its very scary times indeed.
I took my gun
out for a walk or maybe he
took me for one
when the sky showed sun.
And it weighs heavy
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
Je vous envoye un bouquet que ma main
Vient de trier de ces fleurs épanies,
Qui ne les eust à ce vespre cuillies,
Cheutes à terre elles fussent demain.
Cela vous soit un exemple certain
Que vos beautés, bien qu'elles soient fleuries,
En peu de tems cherront toutes flétries,
Et comme fleurs, periront tout soudain.
Le tems s'en va, le tems s'en va, ma Dame,
Las ! le tems non, mais nous nous en allons,
Et tost serons estendus sous la lame :
Et des amours desquelles nous parlons,
Quand serons morts, n'en sera plus nouvelle :
Pour-ce aimés moy, ce-pendant qu'estes belle.
1.3k
why did Shia LaBeouf cross the road? because he wasn’t a chicken, he was Shia LaBeouf. I want to worry. it is funny to me like Patton Oswalt and Lena Dunham being flabbergasted. I wrote once how suicides fight for position. suddenly everyone knows they were once Leroi Jones. some of course were and I want to be sorry. the original thought in my head was to be postdated in birth like a present. because of where his home is, Lars Von Trier is homeless. imagine I lived from the age of 18 to 23 and from the age of 24 to 29 I got paid to reenact those years previous. I will waste my time with yours and there will be a whirlwind of poverties speeding by and seemingly one. if the great performances of James Franco say again how the unknown soldier is the eater of fame I swear I’ll call you and your double out as Lynchian.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
Even as
her husband Brian
shags her,
Nuala thinks of Una.
Even as his body
pounds into her
in passionate gaming,
she wants it to be
Una there not him,
not Brian.
She lies there
allowing him his pleasure,
his need,
listening to his sighs,
and grunts,
and 4 minute workout.
Even as he shudders
himself to a big ******
she feels nothing,
but a tingle of regret
and unearned sweat.
He lies back on
his side of the bed,
breathless,
panting,
taking large gulps
of bedroom air.
She just looks up
gives the ceiling a stare.
How was it for you?
He asks eventually,
turning to gaze at her,
a look of satisfaction
on his face.
It was good,
she lies,
best yet.
He smiles,
and puts a hand
on her right ***
Have you heard
from that friend, Una?
He asks.
No I've not,
she lies,
looking at his eyes,
and how innocent
they are,
how childlike
he seems.
He tells her
of his day at work
in soft utters;
she listens on and off
thinking of the ***
she'd had with Una
that afternoon;
how hot and wet
she'd been,
needing a hot shower
to get clean.
She lets him talk on,
hoping he won't
want *** again that night;
she's not up to it,
all she wants
is sleep and rest,
not more ***
with him,
the 3 minute trier,
and boring pest.
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 1:13 AM UTC
Born May 5, 1818, in Trier Germany
to Heinrich and Henrietta Marx,
sans the third of nine children
(and second oldest heir)
Karl Marx thinking begot incendiary sparks,
asper his two most controversial publications
titled The Communist Manifesto,
and Das Kapital
which political philosophy
incubating seeds of self destruction didst birth
doctrines of class struggle,
historical materialism, dearth
of equitable wealth, and inherent
contradictions of industrial capital
distributed unevenly
across avast swath of Earth
thus inviting his perspective
(conveniently exploited,
mined, and usurped) advocating
the working class (proletariat)
to expedite organized revolutionary action
to topple capitalism and bring about
socio-economic emancipation,
where wages of sin exchanged for labor bled
fingers to the bone life source, viz proletariat
till slaving laborer nearly became gratefully dead
despite being cased in 12 point
Times New Roman garb, who incessantly fed
insatiably maws of production,
(no way to get a supportive talking head)
particularly highlighted
within schema of Capitalism),
a predominant paradigm
stratifying society led
to internal tensions engendered
between bourgeoisie red
dilly controlling means
of production codified as said
as die a critical approach Marx coined
as historical materialism,
where figurative landmines forced one to tread
gingerly, thus above stated philosophy
would supposedly lead down the road
where self destruction wrought marriage
birthing Socialism offspring from shot gun wed
ding, thus coaxing eventual establishment
of classless communist society meant
to establish free association of producers who spent
exchanging merchandise amidst classless
campy population hood pitched a tent.
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 8:55 PM UTC
Bee-ing rejected
The path to love is a long and winding road
And the road is in 3D when you fly through the air.
You can bee left behind so many times,
That you think that it will never go right,
Until you make it there.
There are so many ups with love,
But without love you are only ever let down.
Humble was no different, he wanted to bee loved like everybody else,
But sometimes it doesn’t matter how many times you try,
You always end up at the end of the night going home by yourself.
Humble was a trier, he would ask out every bee that he liked,
But try as he might and as much as he would have liked,
It seemed nobody would ever love him
And he was alone most of the time.
He had been rejected so many times that he decided to make a list.
The first one said this; the second one that
And this is the story of Humble B. Bumble and his love-life…
Ain’t it sad?
You’re always crying, boohoo.
You’re too happy; I am nothing like you.
You are just like me, because I like nothing about me.
We don’t think the same; you’re not fun, you’re a pain.
You are annoying me, buzz away little bee;
You have my sympathy, but you will never bee with me.
You’re too quiet, you talk too much.
You’re too weak, you’re not tough.
You’re too slow to make a move;
You’re too fast with your response to bee telling the truth.
Your clothes are bad; your hair is bad.
You’re far too sad to bee a bad boy.
You’re just having a laugh, you’re never serious;
You must bee delirious.
You’ve not cool, don’t bee a fool.
You’re too nice; you’re not nice enough.
You’re too far below me, you are not heading up.
You’re not ambitious, nor smart,
You’re never victorious and you are no work of art.
You can’t sing or dance; you wear the wrong kind of pants, no bling.
You live with your ‘rents, but you don’t pay rent.
You have no honey, I like honeys.
You ain’t funny; you are far beneath me.
You’re not pretty, you’re too silly.
You have no style, you are not unique
And you don’t have a perfect smile, ugly bee.
You think you are great, you’re always late,
I don’t like your face; we’re just mates.
I like him, you will never win.
You are such a loser; who is gonna choose ya?
So many times Humble searched for love
And when it was good it was really good!
But when it was sad, it was real love, I guess;
We will never know…
Do you think Humble will ever bee truly loved?...
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Jul 5, 2019
Jul 5, 2019 at 5:14 AM UTC
I joined hello poetry
About a month or two ago
I thought I might be good
But I really did,nt know
But I read poems by some members
And I had to think again
Some of them were brilliant
And used a golden pen
It,s filled with bards
With Shakespearean skill
I,d love to write like them
Maybe one day I will
Some already published
And a lot of them should be
And amongst the literary geniuses
Sits little old me
Writing my own poetry
That simply don,t compare
But they say god loves a trier
So I put my work out there
Maybe if I,m lucky
One or two might take a look
But I know in self confession
It will never make a book
So to everybody out there
Who does amuse and entertain
And gives me inspiration and the courage
To try and try again
I humbly kneel before you all
With my plastic ball point pen
A mere literary beginner
A fool amongst learned men
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 2:40 PM UTC
Heller told me I could live forever
or die trying.
Despot told me I could be rich
or try dying.
Life’s a lie but it’s when you try
and pursue truth that you fly the coop.
But what do I know eh?
My head is just a borrowed mess
And I’m just a high liar, dire trier
tried too much again.
All my friends are strangers
who’s behaviours vary,
scary times indeed, indeed.
I’ll pick apart their heads and feed,
and I’ll be there for them when they need.
I’ll quench my thirst upon their tears
although its bitter in its taste.
I’ll force them to face their filth and fears,
and alongside them I will waste.
This world is lonely if it’s only you.
For we’re all just spinning madly off
and I’d gladly stop if someone else would.
Our problems are reversed- no **** for a ***
Our tongues and wit are dim lit and crude.
Stop stopping me from stopping things from starting!
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 10:05 AM UTC
Don’t blame me for i have no command of words.
They fell upon my head on a thoughtfall
and i caught what i could.
and i ducked a lot,
otherwise they could have crushed me.
i am not a good poet
and no good a writer,
but a hell of a shambolic trier.
sorry for the wind in my head,
i am just a residue of what the storm has left.
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 10:53 AM UTC
Normal is just a setting on the dryer.
There’s only so close to the edge you can stand until you fall off.
There’s only so much you can conceal with a smoke, a shrug, and a cough.
But if there's a god, he sure loves a trier.
Apr 25, 2020
Apr 25, 2020 at 1:07 PM UTC
Who was it said?
"who was it said"
and when was it said
do you know?
Questions have been raised
since the days when days
were counted in Moons,
monsoons ago.
You might know who I am,
a trier?
take a rain check
I'm a train wreck
I know who I am.
But who was L.B.J ?
and where was he when
the flags burned that day ?
Turning away because we
subconsciously do it
don't want to see it
or
hear it,
we fear it
a natural response
a human resource.
Another walkabout around the roundabout
to end up in the place I began
you might know who I am,
I am a universe in the mind of
each man
a star cluster
a storm chaser that races through
rain clouds
a train wreck of a man on a stretcher
stretching his neck to see
beyond the beyond.
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 12:34 PM UTC
I sat in the bowls of sadness
Racking the days back
Which appeared bitterly delicious
All was the melodious track
Of tragedies playing diminuendo
This has been a trier of cricket
That left its crevice
For a flagrant journey
In a beautiful thorn roads
In a laughing still ocean
A journey that brakes
The darkest still night
In between the land and sea
Seas with fanning gills of catfish
And roads crowded by ugly crocodiles
Betwixt light and covetous darkness
Jun 27, 2019
Jun 27, 2019 at 4:39 AM UTC