"tripe" poems
Met jou patetiese pantomiem teen n God wat jy haat
verkrag jy harte en bevestig sy bestaan.
*** seer voel jou vuiste as jy slaan na die wind?
*** groot voel jou ego met die roem wat jy vind?
Swakelinge swig soos skape voor jou opstand en hype
Jou talent is verduister in verganklike tripe.
Jy is nie die eerste of laaste wat laster,
wat liefde verloor met die haat wat jy koester.
Ons is almal maar net wasems wat verdwyn in die mis
tot verniet gaan ons woede en onheilige twis.
Daar is nog genade terwyl die son skyn
om omkeer te maak van die krakende pyn.
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 10:33 PM UTC
Preacher, don't send me
when I die
to some big ghetto
in the sky
where rats eat cats
of the leopard type
and Sunday brunch
is grits and tripe.
I've known those rats
I've seen them ****
and grits I've had
would make a hill,
or maybe a mountain,
so what I need
from you on Sunday
is a different creed.
Preacher, please don't
promise me
streets of gold
and milk for free.
I stopped all milk
at four years old
and once I'm dead
I won't need gold.
I'd call a place
pure paradise
where families are loyal
and strangers are nice,
where the music is jazz
and the season is fall.
Promise me that
or nothing at all.
8k
I may not do things traditionally
But I'll get them done eventually
If they're the things that are right for me
I'll be okay and set myself free.
In this life of turbulent strife
pitted and ripe with rotten tripe
a sunlight bright pains my sight
but your soothing ice cools my vice
The aid you paid is not ready made
it gives me hope I'm not just a dope
your love is more than a pity rope,
slivered and raw it gives me splinters
But luckily i'm in for a treat
more than a friend sent to mend
oh yes, you're more, my candy store
settle my sweet tooth you randy *****
unwrap the rainbow you insane *****
ride the rhythm of my *** prism
a rod shaped crystal built like a missile
cocked locked and loaded it cant miss-ya.
explodin' and remoldin' the fabric of time
an infinite blanket wraps us entwined
in a frantic romantic purely satanic
ritual of reality, the utmost sensuality.
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 11:51 AM UTC
Maverick ex-cop (Green Beret /Navy Seal /SAS/Ranger)
Twiddle of the fingers to crack a 64 bit hexadecimal code
Shot but can still beat up bad people and run
15 people firing automatic weapons and they all miss
Database that searches the planets population in 2 seconds
And has photos of their children and plans of their building
Regardless of the crime scene sample, always a rare element that pinpoints location
Car chase where a truck can keep up with a Ducati motorbike
Organisations that only employ attractive people in lead roles
Ugly people are tech specialists sometimes allowed to be ‘quirky’
Even the uglies are attractive people disguised with glasses and bad hairstyles
‘I dream of genie’ gendre were they flirt but never get it on, unless it’s a hospital series
Watchable, funny programs that always succumb to sloppy sentimentality
High schools complete with intolerance, marginalisation, bullying, and hell on earth,
The most disturbing and darkest crime sent to titillate mid evening family viewing
Endless humiliation for fatties, chefs, performers, builders, restaurateurs, and troubled teens
Dysfunctional law enforcement agencies that never work together under any circumstances
Enough, if we need this thick coating of unreality, perhaps its time to switch off?
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 5:34 PM UTC
They said there was a drought water was short
not enough for domestic use.
At first declaring it was nobody's fault
it had not rained for a long time!
Committing an offence by using a hose pipe
truthfully was a load of tripe.
Water companies are making a financial killing
everyone encouraged not to waste water.
More fancy gadgets the public would be willing
to buy water use multiplied.
As the buzz was building more on any land
telling us there was a demand!
Thousands of houses built was there a big need
statistics only the government held.
Groups tried protesting for it not to proceed
but fields were still built on.
Heavy rains came with more depleted drainage
so did the despair and rage.
A state of increasing taxes with nothing to show
more became classed as poor.
Communication with voters becoming very slow
the authorities had a strangle hold!
As the ban on a non existent drought dragged on
more doubters joined the throng!
Was there a danger of a growing national threat
from people against the elite.
Basking in luxury as the masses increasing in debt
the drought added more fuel.
Restrictions taking away their dignity it turned sour
there would be a defining hour.
Or is this just a modern nightmare tale?
The Foureyed Poet.
Apr 30, 2012
Apr 30, 2012 at 9:50 AM UTC
Inspiring Needle, pierce his fresh Leather,
Inscribing Earth's Totem into his Birth
Mum was Happy; What else could be better
For such Achievement as well as your Worth
So what if you Ascend?! Can you improvise
Those Loyal Customers who bought your Face?
Good Lord! Just on the lower-arm-set's Tripe,
Crypted to prevent another Disgrace
Envy? Me? Please! Not on my Word's Best Site
Will I even Dare to take such Sour Note
As I once reminded myself in-spite
For every Storm there is a Shred of Hope.
Three Figures picturesqued on certain Price
That Midnomer then showed his Biggest Size.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 7:13 PM UTC
We climbed from bedrock
to Idyllwild the home
of Pines to Palms
and Suicide Rocks
but not for us
only for those
poor tired souls
for whom the world's gone
flat
refusing
the night threw
itself boldly into the fray
of winds which blew
from storm to calm
so this morning we awoke
to a placid knap
slipping on snowy piste
to turn cold snaps
hot
spiced Nepali tea
sipped from ice
nipped cups
I see promise
picks up
from backward leaps
time forward flips
breaking free range igneous
into pan
piped sizzling
congenial song
that carries on the tree line
like spring
water sprung from
creeks to go scurrying off
with wet socks
until pulled up
by old school granite skies
hanging pools out to dry
in sopping blue rinsed sun
ahead any bald rocks
or hairline fractures
are long since dialled in
as baseless fears
knowing this mobile age
can merrily slip like air
through numb fingers
while baseline hands declare
“hold me close to gather”
edelweiss echoes gone
rappelling through time
the route we've chosen's
to be tied to each other's
peaks in the way of sun
and moon
come what may
be it creases in our skin
or crevasses
we'll win the battle to slim line
any overhanging ridges
so I take care to tighten
my girth hitch to top notch
and hold firmly
to both your conviction
and reach
that setting
out to move mountains
we call home
achieves more than
staying home
and calling mountains
so bright
you have me forget
all things too trite
banal office hype
shopworn old hat
mowing lawn weekends
too dishy to be clichéd
you polish off the stereotype
slam the Dior on out of shape
and dull as ditchwater tripe
keeping a victorious secret
or two in the slip knot
too tranquil shade
taking allure to new heights
we'll never drop
down from
tonight
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 11:03 AM UTC
Whereto, Friend, apart this Direction goes
That Greedy Me besuch perpetuate
Must learn this: The Lock and Shackle bestrow
Reconcile that Key for True Joy rebate
And tell, how does your Prime Perception dock
To settle added Keys in Copper, chain
Took you a Lark; Which the Robin does mock
Outside your Cage those Tripe Clowns entertain
That Craft - your Splash - always Sacred devote
Once again calls for Adventure Beyond
Take a Year's Rest; Then to Spangles denote
Would sprinkle Silver Sands for mood abscond.
It was your Decision to sign by Pen
Absorb those Posted Stars Heaven does spend.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 1:10 AM UTC
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye worthy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin *** help to mend a mill
In time o need,
While thro your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An cut you up wi ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!
Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
The auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
'Bethankit' hums.
Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that *** staw a sow,
Or fricassee *** mak her spew
Wi perfect scunner,
Looks down wi sneering, scornfu view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro ****** flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whissle;
An legs an arms, an heads will sned,
Like taps o thrissle.
Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies:
But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer,
Gie her a Haggis
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
But I'm Not Bitter
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
a dark and dreary day ( I know its Tripe but today it is true )
rain makes me sour and truly an old crone
My skin is too tight and my bones are not nimble but stiff and useless
Stairs are insurmountable and the phone seems too far away for the effort
I no longer try to be pleasant and am left alone
but for my furry mob who can care less my bad mood
my desk chair is surrounded now with hot water bottles
electrical pads and nuke em packs and of course pill bottles
the detritus of pain
It is now a companion old and well known to me
I am told ever "Its age my Dear, Just live with it
I am told "It's all in your mind there's no pain at all"
I am told :Push through it and endure don't acknowledge it ignore it"
When will it leave ? at death ? What a thought to have to drag it with me at the end.
I curse his name
His Family
His Heritage
His Intellect
His Temper
His one action one blow in fury his one tantrum ...
And the sentence is life ...for me
I wonder ..If I saw him could I strike back?
I know there is no forgiveness no saint like pity or absolution
Every time I hit the ground in a seizure he has hit me again
Everyday I cannot climb the stairs in my own home He has thrown me once again through the window and I fall the 6 floors again
Stop holding on to it you'll never get any better ... And I try ..I really do ...
Then the seizures come or I cannot do a simple household task
or I must once more tell a friend I cannot meet them for tea (a selfish luxury)
You know I bet he has not thought of me in years ..but his actions govern what I can do every day of my Life
But I am not Bitter
Solita -2006
Author's Location: Toronto, Ontario
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 5:33 PM UTC
Who, or why, or which, or what, Is the Akond of SWAT?
Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?
Does he sit on a stool or a sofa or a chair,
or SQUAT,
The Akond of Swat?
Is he wise or foolish, young or old?
Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold,
or HOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,
And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk
or TROT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat?
Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed, or a mat,
or COT,
The Akond of Swat?
When he writes a copy in round-hand size,
Does he cross his T's and finish his I's
with a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Can he write a letter concisely clear
Without a speck or a smudge or smear
or BLOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Do his people like him extremely well?
Or do they, whenever they can, rebel,
or PLOT,
At the Akond of Swat?
If he catches them then, either old or young,
Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung,
or SHOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Do his people **** in the lanes or park?
Or even at times, when days are dark,
GAROTTE,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he study the wants of his own dominion?
Or doesn't he care for public opinion
a JOT,
The Akond of Swat?
To amuse his mind do his people show him
Pictures, or any one's last new poem,
or WHAT,
For the Akond of Swat?
At night if he suddenly screams and wakes,
Do they bring him only a few small cakes,
or a LOT,
For the Akond of Swat?
Does he live on turnips, tea, or tripe?
Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe,
or a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like to lie on his back in a boat
Like the lady who lived in that isle remote,
SHALLOTT,
The Akond of Swat?
Is he quiet, or always making a fuss?
Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or Russ,
or a SCOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does like to sit by the calm blue wave?
Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave,
or a GROTT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he drink small beer from a silver jug?
Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug?
or a ***
The Akond of Swat?
Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe,
When she let the gooseberries grow too ripe,
or ROT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he wear a white tie when he dines with friends,
And tie it neat in a bow with ends,
or a KNOT.
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies?
When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes,
or NOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake?
Does he sail about on an inland lake
in a YACHT,
The Akond of Swat?
Some one, or nobody, knows I wot
Who or which or why or what
Is the Akond of Swat?
3k
Oh, phalo skeptic,
part your wave for skirted ***** surfers,
tho, trout, tripe, and titmice thrill thrice..
Will duct tape save us?
Urge the Zamboni machine,
to microwave ice.
Quince down that pouting sphincter,
Oh, the tides do swell
on the morrow of passing fish.
Wheelbarrow pious.
Swift, awesome biblionauts,
Fire! Fire! Pail, Pail thy watered pitch.
Know this, every potato is somewhere vane ...
I'm busy now, rude duuude,
have you sweated a recumbent lout?
Indent chill mots,
Pete, I'm big in Europe, pal,
Have seen me dance the Macarena?
Fool, fool on that high hill,!
Take care when licking spiny urchins
Oy! I scare myself.
Jan 19, 2011
Jan 19, 2011 at 2:34 PM UTC
Take two Spoons, and see where the Sugar bruise
Far-advised they must in Colour, contour
Bet for the Shades; Yet though Red at best, Blue
Twice shopping for Pets in console does pour
Haply do beg, then, cop this Tired Shout
And perscribe the slip to Praise you instead
Even though, by dough, what the Tripe's about
And fry this Belligerent Fish for dead
You knew as the Wrong which should have been Right
Yet cast the Charmer to part with his Staff
But there, with She, took your Honeycomb's Might
Did Good to yourself whilst Others are apt.
Now with your Shings, that change your Vendor gave
Rewind your Perception; And opt you Brave.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 1:07 AM UTC
I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men....
I'm due to fall in love again.
2.1k
But when we try to Seek what has been Sought
Of so many Globes those White Hats confound
And Paradox bears its own Hard-Deal, fought
That Tripe Sanity so many will count
A Useless Journey, I say; You Agree
Since Fifteen Thousand Miles we are apart
No Threatened Worries; And then you are Free
To Tally my Charges and Tear me Apart
As what your Kinsman calls the Chicken-Hawk,
A Heresy Grave I will sure Attack
As my Film's intent is never to Gawk
But revive the Toddler's Fresh Friendship back.
If so, then the Informant says he lies
That, by Discount, our Age by Time soon dies.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 8:49 PM UTC
That's
Nonsense!
That's
beans!
babble!
bunkum!
bogus!
baloney!
blither!
blather!
blah blah!
********
balderdash!
blarney!
********
That's
crapola!
claptrap!
codswallop!
That's
drivel!
That's
fiddlesticks!
flapdoodle!
frippery!
folderol!
That's
guff
garbage
gibberish!
gobbledygook!
That's
horse hockey!
hocus-pocus!
hokum!
hogwash!
humbug!
hooey!
humdrum!
That's
jibber-jabber!
jive!
jazz!
That's
malarkey!
mumbo-jumbo!
monkeyshines!
That's
Nuts!
That's
poppycock!
piffle!
prattle!
That, sir, is
******* and
RIGMAROLE!
That's
trash
tripe
and
twaddle
That, sir, is
NONSENSE!
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 7:09 PM UTC
Blah Blah Blah Blah
I write the crap
That no one wants to read
Not even those who share my blood.
Depressing was the kindest word
They offered on my tripe.
So who the Hell did I think I was -
Some highfalutin' poet dame?
No, just a hack at choosing words
That paint a dreary picture
Of a scene nobody wants to see.
Blah Blah Blah Blah
Aren't I sorry for little me.
Get off your *** and haul the load
That what's left of your life will be.
ljm
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 9:54 AM UTC
Mona.
Lisa.
Lee-ah
nardo
how do
YOU know
my mom.
I remember having
pizza
with ya the other night,
we watched
the "Da Vinci Code"
after we had that fight,
about Montauk
hotdog tripe flavored ice cream.
Even the audience
doesn't think that's yummy!
You taught,
me how to knit
chocolate and wish
upon the sun.
Did you mom?
Am I your son?
I'd prefer pecon pie.
No-body likes
pecans in my family.
Did Leo
like legumes ?
******
I may always
be cursed
with writing words
that make reference to obscure
astrology.
My apologies to his
groupies who think he's
the best ******* art-east
since slice bread.
But how would it
feel to had some dude who
painted your mom
and it was
the big-gust
most successful
commercial success
through out
time?
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:32 PM UTC
The poet in me
Can disappear
I’m a combo short
Without his ear
A pretender’s left
And here comes panic
Without my Muse
I get quite frantic
And chaos crowds
The remaining source
Where I’m a knight
Without a horse
A wordsmith here
Unqualified
To pick my brain
Just pushed aside
Robotic words
Will cross my page
The day grows dark
On life’s old stage
Longfellow looks down
Laughter booming
At the tripe I write
So non consuming
My ego falls
My pride goes limp
And one hung low
Is no Chinese ****
So I send prayers
From my antenna
To reach my Muse
My lost breadwinner
How could one think
Him but a myth
I lost my flow
I lost my pith
Oh here he comes
With lines exact
I'm me again
My Muse is back
Jan 5, 2011
Jan 5, 2011 at 2:49 PM UTC
Take a group of chimpanzees
used to swinging through the trees,
and sit them down at keyboards in a row;
lots of paper, lots of ink,
lots and lots of time, I think,
and what the theory says I’m sure you know.
Yes, along with all the junk,
all the gibberish and bunk,
somewhere there’d be the full works of the Bard:
As You Like It, Cymbeline,
Richards 2 and 3, the Dream,
though Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, might be hard.
But I’m sure the little blighters
would get on fine with *Titus
Andronicus*, The Taming of the Shrew,
The Moor of Venice (that’s Othello),
the other Merchant fellow,
and Antony and Cleopatra too.
The Winter’s Tale would hold no terrors,
nor The Comedy of Errors,
and Verona’s Gentlemen would turn out right;
Love’s Labour might be Lost,
or it might be Tempest-tossed,
but All’s Well That Ends Well, even on Twelfth Night.
Lear, King John, and Much Ado,
Henry 4, parts 1 and 2,
Henry 5, and 6 (in three parts), Henry 8,
Troilus, Timon, Measure for Measure,
Pericles (a neglected treasure)
and how Romeo and Juliet met their fate;
all the Sonnets, and the ****
of Lucrece* (typed by an ape!)
and if they worked for ever and a day
they could fit in Julius Caesar,
that Coriolanus geezer,
the Wives of Windsor, and the Scottish play.
I grew more and more excited –
even thought I might be knighted
if I could be the one to make it work.
But to realise my dream
I had to try a pilot scheme,
to prove I wasn’t just a reckless berk.
I bought one chimp from the zoo -
didn't have the cash for two -
and gave him a typewriter, just to try
for a short while. Well, a fortnight
was the time-scale that I thought right.
You see, I’m quite an optimistic guy.
Now everyone who heard
of my project said, “Absurd!”
when I told them of my striking new departure.
“Get a chimpanzee to type
the works of Shakespeare? Oh, what tripe!”
Still … he did produce the works of Jeffrey Archer.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 3:55 PM UTC
Red
Bed
Lead
Head
Gob
Rob
Sob
Mob
Flit
Fit
Bit
Writ
Ooze
Cruise
Choose
Lose
Glut
****
Rut
Mutt
Ace
Race
Space
Face
Haze
Craze
Daze
Maze
Crump
****
Dump
Slump
Wipe
Ripe
Snipe
Tripe
Dub
Grub
Tub
Hub
Gnaw
Draw
Flaw
Saw
Gape
Ape
Tape
Vape
Lick
Sick
Nick
Pick
Flop
Plop
Drop
Mop
Age
Rage
Sage
Page
Bend
Tend
Mend
End
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 5:02 PM UTC
T'was the Time when Light hasn't come
Thus filled the Air with Old-Smelling Rhum
Or Gas-Lamps, or Candles of Wax
Do make this Darkened City a mass.
The Source of Great Power has fell
This Time unknown which we cannot tell
The Heat as the Night, how Great it was
When Cooling Converters has made its loss.
People complain, here and there
For Power to return, unable to Dare
At this rate in which they have had Enough
It's now their Turn to be so Rough.
Banners flow in tiles across
The Head of whom around is Boss
Saying, "Power come! Power come!
Hear me now, don't be Dumb!"
As the Night comes with Loser Heat
The Rebellious Mass was still hard to beat
Sources say to drive them out
Not by Force, but by Pout.
"We've had Enough!" the People said
Thus they storm to the Company's Head
Defense Forces pull them back
But the People threw them in the Stacks.
Just then, in Time's time an Electrician
Came through. Stating:
"All is well's tripe! I've cleared the Electric Hue!"
The People heard, but didn't say a Word
To realise: "We have dumped ourselves like birds."
Forgiveness, they spoke. And Cooler Thoughts
Do process
Clearing-up the Debris; And brooming-out the Mess.
Lights have returned; The Power recharged
Peace has settled once again; With the Culprit
At-large.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 12:43 PM UTC
But I'm Not Bitter
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
a dark and dreary day ( I know its Tripe but today it is true )
rain makes me sour and truly an old crone
My skin is too tight and my bones are not nimble but stiff and useless
Stairs are insurmountable and the phone seems too far away for the effort
I no longer try to be pleasant and am left alone
but for my furry mob who can care less my bad mood
my desk chair is surrounded now with hot water bottles
electrical pads and nuke em packs and of course pill bottles
the detritus of pain
It is now a companion old and well known to me
I am told ever "Its age my Dear, Just live with it
I am told "It's all in your mind there's no pain at all"
I am told :Push through it and endure don't acknowledge it ignore it"
When will it leave ? at death ? What a thought to have to drag it with me at the end.
I curse his name
His Family
His Heritage
His Intellect
His Temper
His one action one blow in fury his one tantrum ...
And the sentence is life ...for me
I wonder ..If I saw him could I strike back?
I know there is no forgiveness no saint like pity or absolution
Every time I hit the ground in a seizure he has hit me again
Everyday I cannot climb the stairs in my own home He has thrown me once again through the window and I fall the 6 floors again
Stop holding on to it you'll never get any better ... And I try ..I really do ...
Then the seizures come or I cannot do a simple household task
or I must once more tell a friend I cannot meet them for tea (a selfish luxury)
You know I bet he has not thought of me in years ..but his actions govern what I can do every day of my Life
But I am not Bitter
Solita -2006
Apr 16, 2010
Apr 16, 2010 at 7:21 PM UTC
*"During" of all is death maybe,
Precious life being rare so amidst.
In idle boredoms long,innocuous,fewer
The inspirations kindling sharp and deep.
Many aimless wanderings wide, hectic
Not often the calm,lucid moments, still.
Much talks cheap, too many words tripe
Silences creative but few,that flower pretty.
In an enduring numbness and sadness real
Lesser those loves true, uniquely outstanding.
In pains purposeless,cruelties dealt heartless
Present ever fewer,those angels of mercy.
In epic text heavenly,wise sermons long,
Rare that one lovely poem focused strong.
If only durings were lived, aware positive!
O angels,bless us with life more,meaningful
During lives NOW,for sliding are we all fast,
alive,dead senseless,to a death final and futile!*
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC
As a best friend,
I'd thought you'd understand.
That I'm not good with feelings,
and a lot of other things.
However you went ahead,
and surprised me instead.
You left me standing there,
made me thing you didn't care.
I am not the type,
to judge this tripe.
I'd like to think that this isn't real,
for I may not know how you feel.
There are signs everywhere,
which I happen to be completely aware.
You found someone new,
and left me feeling extremely blue.
I think I'm no longer,
your best friend forever.
And so in reply,
I'd like to wish you goodbye.
Goodbye, good friend,
I guess this is the end.
Our days are over,
it's time we get wiser.
(n.d.)
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 9:50 AM UTC