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"trope" poems
3-2-2017 (unknown date of origin) Something's wrong... you don't belong here. I said, looking down at the pineapple on my pizza. I said, looking down at the ketchup on my macaroni. I said, looking down at the cream of mushroom soup on my meatloaf. He said, looking down at me and my boyfriend, holding hands in public. Like I'm a creep.  I'm a ****** What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here. You see there's these things that we learn at the dinner table. When we're kids we have certain items served to us on our plates. Whatever doesn't end up there, isn't a part of the discussion. After all, they say if you don't have a seat at the table, you are likely to be on the menu. So, when ****** orientation and gender identity aren't seated at the table of childhood, they get served for the first time in unexpected places.   Like an avante garde celebrity chef's designer meal, prepared for critiques by the food bloggers.   They get served in college classroom debates or in dorm rooms with freshman roommates.   They're on the menu in in some movies but served with a side of stereotypes and silly trope toppings.   They get grinded into glitter dust sprinkled on the annual PRIDE Parades like an overly salty seasoning mix.   They're on the menu in workplace diversity trainings, but too little too late - they get lost in the marginalized buffet.   They get served at the oppression Olympics, or actually at the Olympics unwillingly by a journalist who only pretends to eat a well-balanced diet, but really has LGBT food allergies,  if you know what I mean. In reality, these should be staple dishes consumed by commoners, consumed by you and me, consumed by children along with their healthy daily dose of broccoli and cauliflower, squash and zucchini, even eggplant.   They should be in every ******* cookbook with pictures and all different kinds of recipes! I want every child to have gay on their dinner plate, lesbian lunch, gender nonconforming on the brunch menu, and bisexual breakfast.   And everything in between in the queer spectrum served during snack breaks.   I want every child to look down at their plate and see pineapple pizza and say, gee that looks great!   I love all of the pizza toppings, no matter whether gay or nay. ... except for anchovies, of course.
0
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC
Pineapple Pizza
3-2-2017 (unknown date of origin) Something's wrong... you don't belong here. I said, looking down at the pineapple on my pizza. I said, looking down at the ketchup on my macaroni. I said, looking down at the cream of mushroom soup on my meatloaf. He said, looking down at me and my boyfriend, holding hands in public. Like I'm a creep.  I'm a ****** What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here. You see there's these things that we learn at the dinner table. When we're kids we have certain items served to us on our plates. Whatever doesn't end up there, isn't a part of the discussion. After all, they say if you don't have a seat at the table, you are likely to be on the menu. So, when ****** orientation and gender identity aren't seated at the table of childhood, they get served for the first time in unexpected places.   Like an avante garde celebrity chef's designer meal, prepared for critiques by the food bloggers.   They get served in college classroom debates or in dorm rooms with freshman roommates.   They're on the menu in in some movies but served with a side of stereotypes and silly trope toppings.   They get grinded into glitter dust sprinkled on the annual PRIDE Parades like an overly salty seasoning mix.   They're on the menu in workplace diversity trainings, but too little too late - they get lost in the marginalized buffet.   They get served at the oppression Olympics, or actually at the Olympics unwillingly by a journalist who only pretends to eat a well-balanced diet, but really has LGBT food allergies,  if you know what I mean. In reality, these should be staple dishes consumed by commoners, consumed by you and me, consumed by children along with their healthy daily dose of broccoli and cauliflower, squash and zucchini, even eggplant.   They should be in every ******* cookbook with pictures and all different kinds of recipes! I want every child to have gay on their dinner plate, lesbian lunch, gender nonconforming on the brunch menu, and bisexual breakfast.   And everything in between in the queer spectrum served during snack breaks.   I want every child to look down at their plate and see pineapple pizza and say, gee that looks great!   I love all of the pizza toppings, no matter whether gay or nay. ... except for anchovies, of course.
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26
From the BBC today, Excerpt Why does Taylor Swift write so many one-note melodies? "It's easy to get distracted by her celebrity, but Taylor Swift is a once-in-a-generation songwriter. From the very beginning, she's displayed a knack for melody and storytelling that most artists never master. Take, for example, her first US number one, OUR SONG Written for a high school talent show, it's a fairly typical tale of teenage romance until the final lines: "I grabbed a pen / And an old napkin / And I wrote down our song." That's smart, self-assured songwriting for someone who wasn't old enough to vote. Notably, the lyrics insert the musician directly into the narrative - something she developed into a tried and tested trope. But Our Song also establishes another of Taylor's trademarks: The one-note melody. Excerpt Repetitive melodies that centre around a single note are part of that appeal. They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech. "They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech." "They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech." "They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech." Rebuttal Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics. They can relate to your song but if they cannot sing it themselves putting themselves in the 'first-person perspective narrative' they cannot feel as-if they have BECOME the artist and are living that moment as they remember it. Taylor Swift sings about teenage love and angst something EVERYONE ON EARTH understands. ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG. Cadences are singing statements that confer a discipline and unity. Song acts as a catharsis. The artist shares their pain in a way that is universally understood. If you want to sell a rock, literally a pebble, you will not sell it if it doesn't look like a rock. If it doesn't do what rocks do. If it is not what people remember a rock to be like. Nor will it sell if it is just like every other rock they have ever seen. It cannot convey an emotion unless it elicits emotion. One cannot even begin to feel emotional if one cannot remember easily the past and that includes lyrics one has heard that evoked said emotional state. It is horrifying to see HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS that rhyme be obliterated in exchange for an intellectual or individual perspective NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE. If you want to sell and make money you better start thinking about the 99% of people who are not geniuses. If your sole goal in life is to attract a genius to give you a great job because of how, "smart," they perceive you to be then fine. You are not an artist. You are an employee. "Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics." "Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics." "Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics." Thrice Times Great. ⁻ᴴᵉʳᵐᵉˢ                                            BECOME                               EVERYONE ON EARTH                ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG                       HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS             NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE                                          HOW BAD                                       artist? or employee?
0
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 10:29 AM UTC
Article: Taylor Swift and why rhyme sells,
From the BBC today, Excerpt Why does Taylor Swift write so many one-note melodies? "It's easy to get distracted by her celebrity, but Taylor Swift is a once-in-a-generation songwriter. From the very beginning, she's displayed a knack for melody and storytelling that most artists never master. Take, for example, her first US number one, OUR SONG Written for a high school talent show, it's a fairly typical tale of teenage romance until the final lines: "I grabbed a pen / And an old napkin / And I wrote down our song." That's smart, self-assured songwriting for someone who wasn't old enough to vote. Notably, the lyrics insert the musician directly into the narrative - something she developed into a tried and tested trope. But Our Song also establishes another of Taylor's trademarks: The one-note melody. Excerpt Repetitive melodies that centre around a single note are part of that appeal. They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech. "They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech." "They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech." "They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech." Rebuttal Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics. They can relate to your song but if they cannot sing it themselves putting themselves in the 'first-person perspective narrative' they cannot feel as-if they have BECOME the artist and are living that moment as they remember it. Taylor Swift sings about teenage love and angst something EVERYONE ON EARTH understands. ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG. Cadences are singing statements that confer a discipline and unity. Song acts as a catharsis. The artist shares their pain in a way that is universally understood. If you want to sell a rock, literally a pebble, you will not sell it if it doesn't look like a rock. If it doesn't do what rocks do. If it is not what people remember a rock to be like. Nor will it sell if it is just like every other rock they have ever seen. It cannot convey an emotion unless it elicits emotion. One cannot even begin to feel emotional if one cannot remember easily the past and that includes lyrics one has heard that evoked said emotional state. It is horrifying to see HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS that rhyme be obliterated in exchange for an intellectual or individual perspective NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE. If you want to sell and make money you better start thinking about the 99% of people who are not geniuses. If your sole goal in life is to attract a genius to give you a great job because of how, "smart," they perceive you to be then fine. You are not an artist. You are an employee. "Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics." "Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics." "Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics." Thrice Times Great. ⁻ᴴᵉʳᵐᵉˢ                                            BECOME                               EVERYONE ON EARTH                ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG                       HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS             NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE                                          HOW BAD                                       artist? or employee?
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36
Genderqueer contesting histories climate apocalypse social activist make a tax-deductible donation today starting at the advocate level inextricably to reexamine his legacy linked black gender-ambiguous social and political struggles behavioral economics Afro-futurist vision of decolonize this text white boy spear-heading queerphobic witch-hunt singular surrealities queer Shabbat dinners dialogue this trope diversity Rawlsian diagnosis basic earth cooperative existential Marxism for our times starting at the advocate level inextricably to reexamine his legacy linked black gender-ambiguous social and political struggles behavioral economics Afro-futurist vision of decolonize this text white boy spear-heading queerphobic witch-hunt singular surrealities queer Shabbat dinners dialogue this trope diversity BAM! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BAM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BAM! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BAM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BOOM! THUD! SNAP! BURN! FACT! S.T.E.M.! CRUSH! SNORT! SCHOOLED! WHAM! OWNED! BAM! BOOM! THUD!
0
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 4:53 PM UTC
Polysyllables vs Exclamation Marks and Bellowing All-Caps and Ball-Caps
I was told to write down my identity a neat sheet of paper that would briefly explain me I pondered a while attempting to identify a few key moments of my history Do I tell of the immigrant? or the miracle child? do I speak of depression and how I so rarely smiled? Should I tell you about the language I so rarely spoke for fear of fitting a stereotype: the terrorist trope. Shall I explain hypomania? and how I couldn't sleep? and how the monsters I dreamt of into my conscious peripheral would creep? How I couldn't seek help until I was almost twenty-one because in my parents' culture mental illness doesn't exist. My parents were Palestenian refugees in Lebanon- but that's their story not mine, right? They were married for seventeen years before they had me. They tried to have children almost from day one- but that's their story not mine, right? Finally they immigrated to Canada for a million procedures that would give them a baby. After six years of treatment, a random obscure procedure worked and I was a bun in the oven- but that's their story not mine, right? nine months later I was born. I was a miracle baby and the "light of their life." so they named me light: "Noor." I was born at North York General with a priviledge my parents never dared dream: Canadian. Safe. Not a refugee. They had someplace that they'd send me for university. With our new, safe nationality at forty days old I was taken to the UAE I was raised on Western books and Western TV raised with ideas that just didn't fit in a muslim family (at least my family is liberal, unlike the UAE) I haven't scratched the surface of who I am and depending on the pieces I tell I haven't scratched the surface of all that I could be what I choose to write is how you will read me.
0
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
Noor, Nora, Noor... I Am Who I Ask You to Call me
I was told to write down my identity a neat sheet of paper that would briefly explain me I pondered a while attempting to identify a few key moments of my history Do I tell of the immigrant? or the miracle child? do I speak of depression and how I so rarely smiled? Should I tell you about the language I so rarely spoke for fear of fitting a stereotype: the terrorist trope. Shall I explain hypomania? and how I couldn't sleep? and how the monsters I dreamt of into my conscious peripheral would creep? How I couldn't seek help until I was almost twenty-one because in my parents' culture mental illness doesn't exist. My parents were Palestenian refugees in Lebanon- but that's their story not mine, right? They were married for seventeen years before they had me. They tried to have children almost from day one- but that's their story not mine, right? Finally they immigrated to Canada for a million procedures that would give them a baby. After six years of treatment, a random obscure procedure worked and I was a bun in the oven- but that's their story not mine, right? nine months later I was born. I was a miracle baby and the "light of their life." so they named me light: "Noor." I was born at North York General with a priviledge my parents never dared dream: Canadian. Safe. Not a refugee. They had someplace that they'd send me for university. With our new, safe nationality at forty days old I was taken to the UAE I was raised on Western books and Western TV raised with ideas that just didn't fit in a muslim family (at least my family is liberal, unlike the UAE) I haven't scratched the surface of who I am and depending on the pieces I tell I haven't scratched the surface of all that I could be what I choose to write is how you will read me.
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39
I feel so ******* dumb whenever I'm around you You somehow manage to bring me to my knees, and I ******* hate it You've got me whipped and I don't even get the benefits that should come with it How the **** do you have me so conveniently wrapped around your little finger? You ******* wreck me and I don't know how to stop it You make my heart race and my cheeks flush (what a ******* joke) This is supposed to only happen in the movies So why the **** do you have to make things so complicated? I feel like a stupid-ass lovesick idiot I feel like I've been tricked So what the **** is wrong with me? How have you managed to invade my head? Tell me, what is your method to this madness? How have you driven me over the edge? I feel nothing but rage when I think about what you do to me Butterflies and moths caged in my stomach (what a stupid trope) Clammy hands and dry lips, how the hell did this happen so fast? You're the level-headed one, saying I can't be in love after a month Why does all of my sanity fly out the window whenever you're around? I feel like a ******* lovesick idiot I hate how vulnerable you make me, you knock me to my knees I'm not supposed to fall this fast I'm not supposed to feel I hate how you make me weak, soften my edges and bring me from the ashes entirely anew Even more, though, I hate how I shrivel when you go away Like the Grinch, my heart becomes three sizes too small when you go away And I don't know how to stop the hate and pain You're the best and worst that ever happened to this ******* lovesick idiot I hate it, but you know it's true You bring out the best and worst in me You know how to push my buttons and turn me into something new Why did I have to be such a fool? In the end I suppose it wasn't me, it was you You and your ******* perfect eyes and smile and that great *** of yours It's all your fault for making me into a lovesick idiot When the only thing I wanted (here's a hint, it's you) Was the love you couldn't give me, the things you couldn't do.
0
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 9:31 PM UTC
Lovesick Idiot
I feel so ******* dumb whenever I'm around you You somehow manage to bring me to my knees, and I ******* hate it You've got me whipped and I don't even get the benefits that should come with it How the **** do you have me so conveniently wrapped around your little finger? You ******* wreck me and I don't know how to stop it You make my heart race and my cheeks flush (what a ******* joke) This is supposed to only happen in the movies So why the **** do you have to make things so complicated? I feel like a stupid-ass lovesick idiot I feel like I've been tricked So what the **** is wrong with me? How have you managed to invade my head? Tell me, what is your method to this madness? How have you driven me over the edge? I feel nothing but rage when I think about what you do to me Butterflies and moths caged in my stomach (what a stupid trope) Clammy hands and dry lips, how the hell did this happen so fast? You're the level-headed one, saying I can't be in love after a month Why does all of my sanity fly out the window whenever you're around? I feel like a ******* lovesick idiot I hate how vulnerable you make me, you knock me to my knees I'm not supposed to fall this fast I'm not supposed to feel I hate how you make me weak, soften my edges and bring me from the ashes entirely anew Even more, though, I hate how I shrivel when you go away Like the Grinch, my heart becomes three sizes too small when you go away And I don't know how to stop the hate and pain You're the best and worst that ever happened to this ******* lovesick idiot I hate it, but you know it's true You bring out the best and worst in me You know how to push my buttons and turn me into something new Why did I have to be such a fool? In the end I suppose it wasn't me, it was you You and your ******* perfect eyes and smile and that great *** of yours It's all your fault for making me into a lovesick idiot When the only thing I wanted (here's a hint, it's you) Was the love you couldn't give me, the things you couldn't do.
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35
I could be your lover or nimble fingered arithmetician, serve the rice cold and the soup too hot, make the trope I’ve made my life into a means to ruin others. I could be his other. All similar shouldered as we are, pressing up against each other, because soft bodies and soft hearts alike call to one another. I’m a gardener and you don’t see me pressing my thumb to walls, convincing ivy to climb to me over toward the other side. I am stone and soil. I’m smiling too much at the cashier when she makes a joke and it never occurs to me that my heart should be something to apologize for. You can’t make me, take from me, or chip away at whatever it is you think I am: lameness and uselessness, inability to click back onto the track. I could be deserted. I could be dessert, the strays can lap up my body and I’ll lay here where you tossed me until I disappear. I could have been something other than this settlement of lies and circles, leech demanding its nectar, mottled voice waiting waiting waiting. I am joy and indecipherable name, sticky on your tongue. I’m kept. One day you will search for me to no avail.
0
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 10:24 PM UTC
Probability
I am tired of being an empty shell that you find beautiful & eccentric. I am tired of being a trope made by authors and directors. I am like war and peace and not like a tissue paper you made me out to be. I am tired of being your favourite shade of red. I am tired of being a brush stroke, when I am the entire painting. I am tired of being pinned to a pedestal. I am tired of my existence and my name being relative. I am tired of being a zany sidekick to the male protagonist in the movie that is my life. I am tired of you thinking that I need help stilling the edges of my narrative, who longs for a tether or a buoy to keep her from flying off or sinking down. I am tired of being told – unconventional, different and other such synonyms by boys, that I am not like other girls as if they are a disease and I am magic. I am tired to be known as someone with wacky quirks and idiosyncrasies. I am tired of being Alaska Young. I am tired of being Sam from The Perks of Being a Wallflower. I am tired of being Tiffany from The Silver Linings Playbook. I am tired of being tagged as Sam from Garden State. Or even Marla Singer from Fight Club. Or even an Amelie or Penny from Almost Famous. And every Zooey Deschanel character. I am a Clementine. I’m a Sylvia Plath. I’m a Dorothy Parker. A Maya and a Margaret. You see, I am well versed in death and in silence. I have my interests and I am like all of the above. But I am “like” them. I am not them. I am me. I am scared now. Scared of boys claiming to be wrapped in barbed wire but is really a caged petting animal in the zoo. I am tired of boys who thinks romance is a Hemingway novel. But, most importantly I am tired. Tired of men not falling in love with me but instead falling in love with the idea of me. Nomoreokaythankyouplease.
0
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 3:22 AM UTC
manic pixie dream girl
I am tired of being an empty shell that you find beautiful & eccentric. I am tired of being a trope made by authors and directors. I am like war and peace and not like a tissue paper you made me out to be. I am tired of being your favourite shade of red. I am tired of being a brush stroke, when I am the entire painting. I am tired of being pinned to a pedestal. I am tired of my existence and my name being relative. I am tired of being a zany sidekick to the male protagonist in the movie that is my life. I am tired of you thinking that I need help stilling the edges of my narrative, who longs for a tether or a buoy to keep her from flying off or sinking down. I am tired of being told – unconventional, different and other such synonyms by boys, that I am not like other girls as if they are a disease and I am magic. I am tired to be known as someone with wacky quirks and idiosyncrasies. I am tired of being Alaska Young. I am tired of being Sam from The Perks of Being a Wallflower. I am tired of being Tiffany from The Silver Linings Playbook. I am tired of being tagged as Sam from Garden State. Or even Marla Singer from Fight Club. Or even an Amelie or Penny from Almost Famous. And every Zooey Deschanel character. I am a Clementine. I’m a Sylvia Plath. I’m a Dorothy Parker. A Maya and a Margaret. You see, I am well versed in death and in silence. I have my interests and I am like all of the above. But I am “like” them. I am not them. I am me. I am scared now. Scared of boys claiming to be wrapped in barbed wire but is really a caged petting animal in the zoo. I am tired of boys who thinks romance is a Hemingway novel. But, most importantly I am tired. Tired of men not falling in love with me but instead falling in love with the idea of me. Nomoreokaythankyouplease.
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34
Here I am, the manic pixie dream girl of, you guessed it; your dreams. I am here to ask you questions about your boring, probably something generic, major like business or management or maybe even some type of art form that no one really knew existed until you decided to bring it to your high school and of course the liberal arts school of your dreams has that EXACT program and all the means to support it financially. Of course, I will always ask about you. How your day is, how your plain black coffee is, what you thought of that one song that played as we were walking into the train after a date that both of us probably went on looking to get laid. But in the end, it will always be you. I will continue to fluff your deflated ego that was caused as such by some hollywood trope from your hometown like a cheerleader or maybe even someone who was on AV Club with you, who really knows, because I sure as hell don’t care to do any research into it. Now, part of being your early to mid-twenties manic pixie dream girl, it is essential for us to bond over old broken up bands that neither one of us were actually alive to see perform yet that dream of ours is still so prevalent as we make conversations over whiskey you assume I like because of it’s pretentious name that you will describe as “harsh yet creamy, dry but sweet” and on bad nights I will tell you that it tastes like the back of my father’s hand and you will laugh at a joke I did not intend to tell but then again I will have to ask you what is so funny. I will always be the one asking you about a life I am so willing to leave without even meeting your family. Being a manic pixie dream girl is all fun and games until I am the one always doing the starting of conversations, until I am the one sending you Spotify playlists that I know you will never listen to, until I am the one showing up unannounced. My name will roll off your tongue like smoke from your American Spirits, but only in the beginning, because by the end; you will cough when I finally tell you to stop calling me.
0
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 5:14 PM UTC
manic pixie dream girl trope
Here I am, the manic pixie dream girl of, you guessed it; your dreams. I am here to ask you questions about your boring, probably something generic, major like business or management or maybe even some type of art form that no one really knew existed until you decided to bring it to your high school and of course the liberal arts school of your dreams has that EXACT program and all the means to support it financially. Of course, I will always ask about you. How your day is, how your plain black coffee is, what you thought of that one song that played as we were walking into the train after a date that both of us probably went on looking to get laid. But in the end, it will always be you. I will continue to fluff your deflated ego that was caused as such by some hollywood trope from your hometown like a cheerleader or maybe even someone who was on AV Club with you, who really knows, because I sure as hell don’t care to do any research into it. Now, part of being your early to mid-twenties manic pixie dream girl, it is essential for us to bond over old broken up bands that neither one of us were actually alive to see perform yet that dream of ours is still so prevalent as we make conversations over whiskey you assume I like because of it’s pretentious name that you will describe as “harsh yet creamy, dry but sweet” and on bad nights I will tell you that it tastes like the back of my father’s hand and you will laugh at a joke I did not intend to tell but then again I will have to ask you what is so funny. I will always be the one asking you about a life I am so willing to leave without even meeting your family. Being a manic pixie dream girl is all fun and games until I am the one always doing the starting of conversations, until I am the one sending you Spotify playlists that I know you will never listen to, until I am the one showing up unannounced. My name will roll off your tongue like smoke from your American Spirits, but only in the beginning, because by the end; you will cough when I finally tell you to stop calling me.
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1
I sit here and ponder As a trailblazer, No A pioneer, No A lazy explorer, Whatever that means, but sure On a relatably aspect, I'm really just a simple court jester A third wheel passenger A classic trope The main guy, brushed off by those who used to claim to care Ignored like a wondering stranger Both lead actor and expendable, None playable character A name not worth trying to remember Never a shred of credit offered either An already undesirable role turned disaster picture Struggling to hold it together Both as a lover and a fighter, Man and provider An overdramatic graphic designer, Not a producer Also fighting nature as a stand alone reality denier Because "it's not fair" ...or whatever A true, true believer ...in what though? I'm still not sure, Go figure ©2024
0
Mar 17, 2024
Mar 17, 2024 at 2:20 PM UTC
~•§•~ A Misunderstood Jester ~•§•~
It's crazy how long we've had this tube I've said to myself "when it's finished, I'll move" We often go through three, four a year But this tube is prolonging our time, my dear Each brush of this paste is how I cope A twice daily ritual, this tube is my trope I predict enough squeezes to last us through March And after one last squeeze We'll inevitably depart .... When I moved back home The tube here was new I think about you twice a day; I'll always love you
0
Feb 14, 2022
Feb 14, 2022 at 11:57 PM UTC
Toothpaste
all I want is a stupid little romance story perhaps an enemies to lovers or a she fell first but he fell harder trope I don't care which type it is I wish I could live in a little 2000s romantic comedy one where the guy gets the girl at the end of the movie but I'm not I'm not living in a romantic comedy and I have not yet achieved a stupid little romance story all the guys I've loved before have left me heartbroken all I want is a Noah to my Allie a Jack to my Rose a Romeo to my Juliet that's all I want is all I want too much to ask
0
Sep 8, 2025
Sep 8, 2025 at 10:47 PM UTC
All I want
The fog crept in on giant monster claws, Surely no itty-bitty feline foots, I pray: “Feets don’t fail me now,” A line that will live in infamy, Way back in a vaudeville when, A minstrel Chitlin Circuit then, Was an actor known as the "Laziest man in the world," A character designed to stick to a Collective white consciousness, Stick like Tar-Baby, that negative Image of African-American men-- I speak of The Brothers-- Who for over a century, have been Struggling to live down a pernicious, Most persistently demeaning, Hollywood trope. Tribute is due to the black actor born: Lincoln Theodore Monroe Andrew Perry. Oh, Mr. Perry, & yes, you were the First black actor to receive Screen credit in a film. Well, I guess that puts you right up there, With Jackie Robinson & Sidney Poitier, Carver or Tubman, or any of those Countless northern abolitionists-- With no personal stake in slavery, Or emancipation, but fervent nonetheless-- Color-barrier breakers & Household saints a-coming & A-marching in, in that number . . . You paid a big price, Mr. Perry: The indignity & débauche, By abject surrender to the Boss Man, Tribute, recognition is due for Feats of humility & self-abasement, Entailing total superhuman surrender, Capitulation to the dismal, prevailing State of American race relations at the time. Stepin Fetchit: a name & a persona, Not just painfully racist, but Downright subversive.
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Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 1:45 AM UTC
"Stepin Fetchit: Disambiguation"
I wouldn't call death a real comedian, more of a two bit clown. He rehearses the same punchline at your doorstep each day. "life is a joke, so I'll take it away fellas."
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Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 1:19 AM UTC
Trope
It's a common trope, the Danse Macabre that troops us toward hushed tombs. Blame its plague on Wolgemut or Bruegel (Pieter the Elder), and certainly Bergman What with his iconic black-clad Death and the parade of captive players taken hand-in-hand on a joyless march. But Life has her own fleet moments to lead, and these flip-flop pageants though ragtag are not the less enriching to behold Or so I'm told in passing by the delicate bluebell peaking its buds through a monochrome rubble.
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May 6, 2010
May 6, 2010 at 3:34 PM UTC
Vita's Dance
Oh my God, I forgot how ******* amazing Manga is and I wonder can't Remember why I ever stopped reading it tickles then torments my sensitive nature and reminds me I am a romantic when my green grows and swells resonating from her hand on his coat or her resounding "I belong to him" sound It sounds like drivel: to need so little as a trope's grip of some coat in a storm
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Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
The Ancient Magus Bride
there is no wonder where there is no hope we learn this truth before we learn to speak defining magic as just one more trope among the ones with which we have to cope tools of the just and weapons of the meek there is no wonder where there is no hope so we declare but yet the merest dope believes his circumstances are unique defining magic as just one more trope that must be learnt before he climbs the slope towards the greatest highest noble peak there is no wonder where there is no hope those are the words and they are no soft soap serving to guide us unto what we seek defining magic as just one more trope of our old language so that gives us scope for honest understanding and critique there is no wonder where there is no hope defining magic as just one more trope
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Jul 4, 2011
Jul 4, 2011 at 8:17 AM UTC
the root of glamour
Isn’t that glimmer visible? That wonderful sparkle, like a fly to the light A shining diamond, an alluring sight   Seeker and seeked and discovered overtly What fun is its commonality? Must you spend a two months salary? But see the gem in the rough Weighed far less in value But nonetheless faceted Judge it harshly shall you? The trope of the diamond Has been pried from those eyes By the multi-facets and spectrums Of transient angles, translucent drums   Milky or lustrous, a separate conundrum Choose the opal, akin to the human soul Shimmering subtly and brightly Gently and ever-changed nightly Like the starriest coals Trill and hover ever-so lightly Discovering the treasures in the rough That others could never trust They’ll lie in waiting, perhaps turn to dust
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Mar 7, 2021
Mar 7, 2021 at 11:52 PM UTC
Opals Within
Fervency referring to effectuality as measured by men, I suppose. Positionally, top line. Challenges are not all games, all games are challenges. That which he fears comes. Anticipate war, teach your son to access participation trope level anticipatory experience imagining dying now design a death that does not damage, eh, no damming, no pile of useless hordes, dammed to collect the flow anticipating need when need is non exist-ant. Greedy gut.
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Feb 3, 2021
Feb 3, 2021 at 4:28 PM UTC
Is fervency the missing adjective?
He has this goddess that resemble the breezy sky just within her eyes And a soul that melts poison Every second being a blessing Never a day of bad dressing And the only **** thing he cares about is what is between her thighs This is a trope that should be gone Stop putting up with guys like this You will thank yourself in the long run
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Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 8:08 PM UTC
Breezy Sky
3/2/2015 “I woke up in the morning and I didn’t want anything, didn’t do anything, 
couldn’t do it anyway,
 just lay there listening to the blood rush through me and it never made 
any sense, anything.
 And I can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t sit still or fix things and I wake up and I wake up and you’re still dead.” Richard Silken I wrote of vultures once, I'd found in the sepulchral little category of "poems I had burnt a while ago" that I kept in my brain. I spoke of predatorial lashings against the dead prairie dogs of her and I, class of 2005- add ten more years and... Contended May heat like the May-December romances in trope, I'd walk to bridges with notebook in sullied hand, a bit flushed, a bit healthy with the sun on my gold flakes shoulders If I had only known? Right? Haha. The grammar rules of english: you (I) is a proper noun- but of course, i refuse to give myself that much pomp. To be full of such vanity is to be full of treacly purity- which does not apply so much now. I had been given time to love you - until I didn't need you anymore, you said, then you'd leave- a sweetly sardonic little note, seeing as you hated the conjugal and impossible implications of "forever". I feel, now that you are gone, this is an imprisonment I am doomed to til atrophy... You are dead. Your corpse rots in the sun of the soil in the coffin and it is still cold outside. Everytime I leave the house I ask myself what I seriously am expecting from March. The heat, the permenance of your being gone makes me sit down on the cold snow,   My dullard heart sits with a bread knife wedged on a rib when I realize how utterly alone I am- so alone the vultures do not even circle.
0
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 7:45 PM UTC
Love Letter To A Woman As Dead As A Doorknob
3/2/2015 “I woke up in the morning and I didn’t want anything, didn’t do anything, 
couldn’t do it anyway,
 just lay there listening to the blood rush through me and it never made 
any sense, anything.
 And I can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t sit still or fix things and I wake up and I wake up and you’re still dead.” Richard Silken I wrote of vultures once, I'd found in the sepulchral little category of "poems I had burnt a while ago" that I kept in my brain. I spoke of predatorial lashings against the dead prairie dogs of her and I, class of 2005- add ten more years and... Contended May heat like the May-December romances in trope, I'd walk to bridges with notebook in sullied hand, a bit flushed, a bit healthy with the sun on my gold flakes shoulders If I had only known? Right? Haha. The grammar rules of english: you (I) is a proper noun- but of course, i refuse to give myself that much pomp. To be full of such vanity is to be full of treacly purity- which does not apply so much now. I had been given time to love you - until I didn't need you anymore, you said, then you'd leave- a sweetly sardonic little note, seeing as you hated the conjugal and impossible implications of "forever". I feel, now that you are gone, this is an imprisonment I am doomed to til atrophy... You are dead. Your corpse rots in the sun of the soil in the coffin and it is still cold outside. Everytime I leave the house I ask myself what I seriously am expecting from March. The heat, the permenance of your being gone makes me sit down on the cold snow,   My dullard heart sits with a bread knife wedged on a rib when I realize how utterly alone I am- so alone the vultures do not even circle.
Continue reading...
8
From labyrinth in Istanbul, my eye spied a familiar cord Education How can any education Be a sufficient insurance For a pathetic population Keeps favoring ignorance From <https://hellopoetry.com/> Truth known makes free, truth hid is not ignored, it waits the fire the next time innocents are sacrificed to lies. ... thanks, you gave me a spark, as real as any angel a self anoints another, go be a lying spirit in the mouth of the tyrant's prophets, let all the wise laugh at the possibility of one peacemaker's leaven, leavening the entire lump, liked or not. Plop. On to the publisher's desk, piles of wonder and ifity. A fantasy realm, counter trope, here the so-called victor-victim ratio, is imperceptibly low, we have a regulation: each day requires its sufficiency of evil, no harm done is intentionally not possible, otherwise you get a dimension of flat metric orthogonal constructive critics assuming unassigned roles. Do you dance? Or only read along? Behold how great a fire words may kindle in a satisfied mind.
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Feb 14, 2021
Feb 14, 2021 at 5:27 PM UTC
From labyrinth in Istanbul
She's a would-be Disney villainess a temptress She's a would-be empress a mogul-ess She's a fear and she's a longing distant and yet, oh-so-near She's a myth and she's a nightmare so subtle, yet full of pith And so unreal yet in reality, so sad all because, she's ******* mad Mad like the full moon mad enough to tear her hair don't you stare Trope upon trope we lay upon the forbidden woman the discarded woman without hope If only we had the eye of compassion instead of berating her for her passion we'd heal our lost mothers and daughters at last
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Dec 7, 2020
Dec 7, 2020 at 12:58 AM UTC
She's ******* Mad
never in my wildest imagination could i manufacture a person so divergent so anomalous so exceptional you must have been contrived by the fiercest of counterculturists combining parts from one trope to one entirely different in a mismatched concoction of fabricated mystery so raw with your masculinity so vigorous in your handiwork but so tender at heart so sensitive to the trivial ails of your reeling lover everything you do is so wildly unprecedented so fresh so renewing i'm shocked by your creativity your boundless ingenuity that reveals the matchless wonder of your magnificent humility someone so dapper should not possess a heart so full so vibrant so goofy and so open to love because then someone like me could fall in and never find her way out composed and collected but in romance unbridled how do you find the balance so perfectly for my two greatest desires? i'm safe but i'm challenged i'm motivated, excited, aroused- i'm home you stun me with your simplicity and blind me with your charm you are a force so alluring so potent so constructive so irrevocably mine
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Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 2:32 AM UTC
how
up the mountain with a tremble,     no plan or gear or hope, Sisyphus I must resemble,     endless clamber; tedious trope. no longer; I recall the base,     the grass; the trees; the glades, as I ascend; with unkept pace,     the path behind me fades. looming blizzard lingers behind,    (it) taunts blowing in today, upward; disheveled, lost and blind,     no guides to lead the way. forced to muster a clumsy strut,      advancing; though I'm weak, uncertain of journeys end; but,     certain there is no peak.
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Dec 5, 2024
Dec 5, 2024 at 12:13 AM UTC
Mount Aeonian