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"tutor" poems
You ask me a query, You ask, "Where Are You, Honey?" I have an answer for you, I say, "I'm inside your heart, honey." You let it extend, your doubt, You implore, "But why is it so hazy?" I fire a ******* in response, I say, "It's hazy because you're lazy!" You smile but get perplexed by now, You ask, "Will you stay if moving on I fail to?" I am mature and couth, I say, "I find no reason good enough to not to." You wonder to yourself, You ask, "Where from I got you?" I remind you that I came back, I say, *"I consider it my responsibility to imbue your life with the brightness, The light lacking in your life, And to provide you with warmth, So that you are free from your shivers, And so that you can be my wife, I want to fill that void in your day, Maybe I was sent back only for you, On your mother's recommendation, And so wise was her receptivity, I know that I am a man of my words, Surely I will make it large for us, And you are such a hardworking lady, Our children will have it healthy, And they will surely have it wealthy, The wealth won't just be material, But they will be taught fine civility."* You now ask me your final query, You ask, "Who will be their tutor?" I smile and simply end this discussion, I say, "Obviously, me and you." Even you are satisfied by now, You smile & say, "I love you, honey." I hear what I have been longing to, I say with a broad smile, "I love you too, honey." ∆∆∆∆∆∆∆
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Sep 20, 2017
Sep 20, 2017 at 11:11 PM UTC
My Answers To Your Queries
Tomato: Big, juicy, red INSANE! Sneaks up upon unsuspecting Unreliable MATH TUTORS! A terrible fight ensues! Tomato or tutor? Tutor or tomato? Tomato knows no math. Tutor has no seeds. A standoff. Tutor and tomato growl menacingly, Circling one another Like two pieces of meat On a microwave turntable. Suddenly, their rhythmic dance of Hate Is broken By the rhythmic sound of incoming Imminent Inescapable Doom. Tutor and tomato are trampled Like a TV dinner On the freeway.
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Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 7:29 PM UTC
Tomato
i sit at the library computer. across the room TUTOR JOHN prepares his lessons for the free CITIZENSHIP CLASSES he conducts for the punjabis, mexicans hmungs and others seeking to pass the immigration service citizenship test. he is a great man. it is not surprising to say that he likes me and is my friend as i am his friend why is that? in the simplicity the seed forms itself into viable human forms and human beings this we all know yes we do
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Jul 16, 2010
Jul 16, 2010 at 12:54 PM UTC
citizenship class
*she just shakes her head she meets me on the street-corner, me from work, she from dance, in the grayling dusk of a thank god it’s a freedom Friday night, I greet her with words semi-adventurous - “come with me, few errands to run, keep me in good company” to the candy store we go for to purchase my weekend eve lottery tickets and blow-pop lollipops, just in case some kids appear, a surprise omen as they come trick-or-treating just before Thanksgiving the Bangladeshi candyman calls out a long prayer in his native Bangla she asks “what’s that he’s saying?” “Oh, just wishing us a pleasant Sabbath and may his gods smile upon our good lottery fortune” she just shakes her head, from side to side emerging from the store, walking home in the now doubly ***** darkly dusk, a set of white teeth from a passing shadow-man says to me “you’re home late and have a great weekend,” she asks, “who is that?” “why,” I reply, “that is our very own personal postal carrier’ she says: “he delivers mail to ten thousand people all in buildings tall, yet knows your name, your face, where you buy your lottery tickets, your coming and going hours, how came that to be” but waits not for an answer she just shakes her head, from side to side I show her my secret entrance to our apartment house, the fast route to collect our mail, dry cleaning in one fell swoop a secret door, secret elevator taking us directly to our apartment a secret elevator which is under the direction of Bimal from Nepal, who I greet in Nepalese, (my tutor) I, asking after Brian and Bryce, his 100% American boys now she says nothing, but before our door, as I go key digging, she just shakes her head, from side to side later she says: “let’s order in, apprise me of  your expertise, some exotic fare from Manhattans First Avenue, known for its aphrodisiacal powers afterwards, you must tell me each dishes name, in its tongue’s nativity, but much, much later,” and as she speaks, grinning, she sticks out her tongue, while she just shakes her head, but this time, up and down
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Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 10:07 AM UTC
she just shakes her head
*she just shakes her head she meets me on the street-corner, me from work, she from dance, in the grayling dusk of a thank god it’s a freedom Friday night, I greet her with words semi-adventurous - “come with me, few errands to run, keep me in good company” to the candy store we go for to purchase my weekend eve lottery tickets and blow-pop lollipops, just in case some kids appear, a surprise omen as they come trick-or-treating just before Thanksgiving the Bangladeshi candyman calls out a long prayer in his native Bangla she asks “what’s that he’s saying?” “Oh, just wishing us a pleasant Sabbath and may his gods smile upon our good lottery fortune” she just shakes her head, from side to side emerging from the store, walking home in the now doubly ***** darkly dusk, a set of white teeth from a passing shadow-man says to me “you’re home late and have a great weekend,” she asks, “who is that?” “why,” I reply, “that is our very own personal postal carrier’ she says: “he delivers mail to ten thousand people all in buildings tall, yet knows your name, your face, where you buy your lottery tickets, your coming and going hours, how came that to be” but waits not for an answer she just shakes her head, from side to side I show her my secret entrance to our apartment house, the fast route to collect our mail, dry cleaning in one fell swoop a secret door, secret elevator taking us directly to our apartment a secret elevator which is under the direction of Bimal from Nepal, who I greet in Nepalese, (my tutor) I, asking after Brian and Bryce, his 100% American boys now she says nothing, but before our door, as I go key digging, she just shakes her head, from side to side later she says: “let’s order in, apprise me of  your expertise, some exotic fare from Manhattans First Avenue, known for its aphrodisiacal powers afterwards, you must tell me each dishes name, in its tongue’s nativity, but much, much later,” and as she speaks, grinning, she sticks out her tongue, while she just shakes her head, but this time, up and down
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53
I remember the bed just floating there. Apart, apart, apart, apart. If you repeat something over and over again it loses its meaning For example: Homework, homework, homework, homework, homework, homework, homework, homework, homework See, nothing Our existence? It's the same way. You watch the sun set too often, it just becomes 6 PM You make the same mistake over and over you'll stop calling it a mistake If you just wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, one day you'll forget why Nothing is forever I last saw my mom when I was four years old Before the last argument they sent me off to the neighbor's house, like some astronaut jettisoned from the shuttle. When I came back there was no gravity in our home, beds floating I imagined it as an accident, that when I left We whispered to each other "I love you" so many times over that they forgot what it meant Family, family, family, family, family, family If you repeat something over and over again it loses its meaning This became my favorite game It made the sting of words evaporate. Separation, separation, separation; see, nothing Apart, apart, apart; see, nothing I am an injured person now I work with words all day Shut up, I know the irony When I was young, I was taught that the trick to dominating language was breaking it down Convincing it that it was worthless I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.. ...See, nothing Soon after I left I developed a stutter Fate is a cruel and efficient tutor There is no escape in stutter You feel the meaning of every word drag itself up your throat S-s-s-separation Stutter is a cage made of mirrors Every "Are you ok?" Every "What'd you say?" Every "Come on kid, spit it out" Is a glaring reflection you cannot escape Every terrible moment skips upon its own announcement Over and over until it just hangs there, floating in the middle of the room Mom, ........ ....Dad? I am not wasteful with my words anymore. Even now after hundreds of hours of practicing away my stutter, I still feel the claw of meaning in the bottom of my throat. I have heard that even in space; You can hear the scratching of a I-I-I-I love you.
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Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 6:23 PM UTC
Lost Meaning
I remember the bed just floating there. Apart, apart, apart, apart. If you repeat something over and over again it loses its meaning For example: Homework, homework, homework, homework, homework, homework, homework, homework, homework See, nothing Our existence? It's the same way. You watch the sun set too often, it just becomes 6 PM You make the same mistake over and over you'll stop calling it a mistake If you just wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, one day you'll forget why Nothing is forever I last saw my mom when I was four years old Before the last argument they sent me off to the neighbor's house, like some astronaut jettisoned from the shuttle. When I came back there was no gravity in our home, beds floating I imagined it as an accident, that when I left We whispered to each other "I love you" so many times over that they forgot what it meant Family, family, family, family, family, family If you repeat something over and over again it loses its meaning This became my favorite game It made the sting of words evaporate. Separation, separation, separation; see, nothing Apart, apart, apart; see, nothing I am an injured person now I work with words all day Shut up, I know the irony When I was young, I was taught that the trick to dominating language was breaking it down Convincing it that it was worthless I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.. ...See, nothing Soon after I left I developed a stutter Fate is a cruel and efficient tutor There is no escape in stutter You feel the meaning of every word drag itself up your throat S-s-s-separation Stutter is a cage made of mirrors Every "Are you ok?" Every "What'd you say?" Every "Come on kid, spit it out" Is a glaring reflection you cannot escape Every terrible moment skips upon its own announcement Over and over until it just hangs there, floating in the middle of the room Mom, ........ ....Dad? I am not wasteful with my words anymore. Even now after hundreds of hours of practicing away my stutter, I still feel the claw of meaning in the bottom of my throat. I have heard that even in space; You can hear the scratching of a I-I-I-I love you.
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59
I send my voice into your mouth You return the compliment I am the Count of Cannizzaro You are Her Royal Highness the Princess Augusta I am the thaumaturgic chain You hold the opera glass and cards You become extemporaneous song I am your tutor You are my invisible seed I am Timour the Tartar You are my curious trick I your enchanted caddy I am your confounding doll You my confounded dummy.
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4.3k
The Ventriloquists
So I'm sure you wanna know how I crafted this bizarre flow so I'll sit you down and tutor you let's go step 1 draw off of everything under the sun treat your words carefully like a loaded gun step 2 now that you know what your words can do put them into verse leave others in the back of a lyrical hearse step 3 Is the most important to me personally I walked into an asylum to search for a straitjacket if you don't have punch lines you definitely can't dot hack code or slash it step 4 is getting your foot into the door caught with the drum beat drops leave your audience sweating like a wet mop well that's all the steps I'll add some more usually involving clever metaphors now then you know the score
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Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 3:48 AM UTC
How To Be (Rap i wrote ages ago lol i ****** then)
The comfiest human bed warmer I ever had, My fundamental tutor of the good and the bad, The original storyteller in my bedtime tantrums, The resident photographer of my birthday albums. The accidental magician who tricked me out of my worries, A sympathetic dictator who scolds but allows my fancies, My biased talent manager who always tells me I'm the best, The loudest cheerleader who puts to shame all the rest. The world's underrated chef cooking heavenly meals, Our unpaid laundry lady worrying over water bills, The overqualified nurse never leaving her patient, Our top-notch budget analyst negotiating every payment. The random gardener, she can grow anything with ease, Our talkative historian, she stops recalling only if we say please, The uncanny philosopher, we've learned a lot from her, The lost and found administrator, tracking things hidden anywhere. The most efficient multitasker I've ever known, My trustworthy adviser who knows me down to my bones, A tough fighter who keeps winning her every battle, My life's co-creator and this world's greatest mother.
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May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 7:44 PM UTC
The Versatile Matriarch
Brackets Your mum picked you up in daddy’s BMW, we had to wait an hour while they scrubbed the brains of another son off the roof of the 125 (Why they built a multi storey car park on top of the bus station is a mystery to me.) You carefully colour coordinated your files and scrutinized your revision schedules, we watched nicked CCTV footage of two blokes smoking crack and burning down the bowling pavilion next door (the old boys never did raise enough to repair it.) You snubbed each other because of different tastes in jumpers, we watched acid casualties talk politics with football hooligans (a hastily rolled joint bridged the obvious gap.) You lounged in the common room in your study periods, our lesson got cancelled because John had been smashed in the face with a fire extinguisher (and our tutor used to be a lifeguard.) You worried about fashion and discussed the injustice of last night’s X Factor result, we watched Neil’s head crash into his keyboard after he’d scoffed all his methadone in one go (again.)
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Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
Brackets
*to further my point, as an eager reader in a catholic school, reading about the gnostic heretics, wondering with my theology tutor upon the question asked: don't you think the gnostic heretics influenced mohammad on the sly? i mean, they too believed a phantom walked among men, and a phantom was crucified?* my confirmation didn't take place in a cathedral, as was due course for all of us in being schooled, by a bishop in brentwood cathedral, i opted out... my confirmation came in a russian orthodox cathedral, in st. petersburg, when i watched people standing for a scrap of iconoclasm, with the priest mumbling toward a golden altar, as typical in the tradition, buttocks towards the people or as in the western tradition reciting in latin, before the nationalists came and spoke the gospel in each designated tongue so people understood, a bit like having your back turned against the people - speaking in latin - and when i sat i the church to listen to the choir singing, some lesser ecclesiastical prompted me to stand up, and pay respect to the golden altar... he told me to stand up! what cheek... what barbarism... only in russia... i had to stop being bewildered by the beauty of song and listen to a priest knock-down-ginger on a palette of gold... THEN i was confirmed... donkey's ******** to this **** i'm leaving! mind the fact that i've seen the greatest degradation of mysticism take place... the tetragrammaton was being defiled all along... in catholic bureaucracy it has been there all along, the idiots reminded me of it... you're born: first name, baptismal name, surname... you're educated: confirmation name... that takes four spaces of consideration... so by catholic definition of sharpening pencils, folding pieces of paper, filing the folded pieces of paper, bending paper-clips i'm god... but only in writing... first name, baptismal name, confirmation name, surname... a bit like a clone... a clone indeed in writing... same d.n.a., same bone mandibles of the jaw... but experience-wise... un-original to the **** not even a clone... not able to experience major historical figures... a soul in a twin body by itself... a twin without twinning, segregated by ulterior if not auxiliary motives... clone on paper... clone by experience? i don't think so... impossible... too many inter-actants along the way can't possibly replicate thinking in a clone... different mr. john smith... NEXT!
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Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 2:18 AM UTC
"confirmation" of a "catholic" in a russian orthodox church
*to further my point, as an eager reader in a catholic school, reading about the gnostic heretics, wondering with my theology tutor upon the question asked: don't you think the gnostic heretics influenced mohammad on the sly? i mean, they too believed a phantom walked among men, and a phantom was crucified?* my confirmation didn't take place in a cathedral, as was due course for all of us in being schooled, by a bishop in brentwood cathedral, i opted out... my confirmation came in a russian orthodox cathedral, in st. petersburg, when i watched people standing for a scrap of iconoclasm, with the priest mumbling toward a golden altar, as typical in the tradition, buttocks towards the people or as in the western tradition reciting in latin, before the nationalists came and spoke the gospel in each designated tongue so people understood, a bit like having your back turned against the people - speaking in latin - and when i sat i the church to listen to the choir singing, some lesser ecclesiastical prompted me to stand up, and pay respect to the golden altar... he told me to stand up! what cheek... what barbarism... only in russia... i had to stop being bewildered by the beauty of song and listen to a priest knock-down-ginger on a palette of gold... THEN i was confirmed... donkey's ******** to this **** i'm leaving! mind the fact that i've seen the greatest degradation of mysticism take place... the tetragrammaton was being defiled all along... in catholic bureaucracy it has been there all along, the idiots reminded me of it... you're born: first name, baptismal name, surname... you're educated: confirmation name... that takes four spaces of consideration... so by catholic definition of sharpening pencils, folding pieces of paper, filing the folded pieces of paper, bending paper-clips i'm god... but only in writing... first name, baptismal name, confirmation name, surname... a bit like a clone... a clone indeed in writing... same d.n.a., same bone mandibles of the jaw... but experience-wise... un-original to the **** not even a clone... not able to experience major historical figures... a soul in a twin body by itself... a twin without twinning, segregated by ulterior if not auxiliary motives... clone on paper... clone by experience? i don't think so... impossible... too many inter-actants along the way can't possibly replicate thinking in a clone... different mr. john smith... NEXT!
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60
Luke was such a dreadful fidget He couldn't sit still for a minute He'd toss and turn all lesson long Like a caterpillar crawling on a cattle prong He'd flick his rulers, click his pens Cluck and fuss like a headless hen. His tutor, a tall and sombre man Was struggling with his teaching plan He'd taken three days to prepare But Luke was more than he could bare. "Right! That's it! I've had enough! If you don't stop I'll call your mum. Unless you're really in fact quite ill I'd advise you to stop it. Oh do keep still! I'm just about to lose my mind, oh Luke You're being quite unkind!" But Luke was on a sugar high "I can't stop!" He said, "I don't know why!" And with that he jumped up, began to dance He leaped and swung and swooped and pranced Till all the neighbours gathered round To gaze and gawk at this unsightly sound...
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Mar 4, 2011
Mar 4, 2011 at 1:13 AM UTC
Luke the Fidget (Part One)
hold on, wait, what, what similarities? I sit in the group looking around, the grey plastic chair crushes my ******* spine as I cling to it for dear life. the tutor comes to me last, two weeks in a row I don't get time to talk. great, I'm already an outsider, now I don't get time to talk. I listen as the group in the nicer, cosier and brighter room next door laugh and joke. they are all young and pretty, a feeling of longing pulls me down like a giant magnet, why am I not in that group. have I not got the skills to be young and pretty anymore? for almost one month now I despair. how can I ever find my voice in this group there are all so strong, strong women. this week she comes to me first, I speak, it doesn't help. can they even see me, understand my accent, it seems I'm more different than similar. the next week I don't go, avoidance wins 1st place gold trophy as I sit alone in bed. with other groups I'm so strong and proud, can I fake it next week, or maybe just conform and comply. and so it goes on, am my question remains, what ****** similarities?
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Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 7:53 AM UTC
'you were divided into groups by your similarities'
And when you read Don't rush - Theres no need to read with undue speed. And when you read Start with a suckle - Work up to a nibble - Until you can gnaw without a dribble. I encourage you Get down to the marrow Like there's no tomorrow. Savour each word As food for your soul And live as a model As to how to live whole. And when you read Apply your mind daily, Apply each word liberally (especially to those out of the way hard to reach places). And when you read - Study Sometimes with a buddy But - study. This is no hobby, You can't afford to get sloppy. It's as crucial for the soul As five a day for the body - So study. And when you read Treat each word Like a tutor; It can teach you How to live shrewder. And when you read Sustain it like a seed, Ensure you pay heed Cos it will never mislead. And when you read Do it to a plan, Always with intent And be sure To finish as you began. And when you read Commit to it daily, Commit it to memory To avoid thinking lazily. And when you read Do it while a commuter Do it on a computer Do it with a kindle Do it with audio Do it with a paperback Do it with a hard back Do it from front to back. However you develop the knack Don't let yourself slack; This Word is no throw back, It will keep you on track. So just read.
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Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 1:12 PM UTC
And when you read
Let music be your master of melody. Let music be your key. Let music be your teacher of tuning. Let music be you and me. Let music be your sensei of soothing. Let music let you see. Let music be your guru of groove. Let music make you dream. Let music be your guide to move. Let music let you be. Let music be your educator of expression. Let music keep your steam. Let music be your destroyer of depression. Let music create your scene. Let music be your professor of passion. Let music pay your fee. Let music be your tutor of truth. Let music plant a seed. Let music be all of these. Let music set you free.
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May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 9:09 AM UTC
"A Musical Note"
A group show in a city church. Nothing religious, but selections from an evening class occupying otherwise vacant space: only a tomb here, an extravagant memorial there. These are 'advanced' painters, and decoding their statements, examining their work, it's possible to imagine daily lives where art lives in the spare room. Lewis paints you know. After Laura died, and with the children distant, he did this course in Norfolk - oils I think. That large landscape in the sitting room is his, all sky and salt marsh. Jayne is studying the disorder of ******* dumps, the contents of skips, what's left after a fire. Her photographs she prints herself you know. She says she loves to control the image, chemically, and you can tell. And more and others, their 'work' holding stories, other worlds of imagination and depths of looking; the silent collecting of things, photograph after photograph, the tidy sketchbook (with last week's life class experiments). And yet and yet at the group show the finished pieces glow in this badly-lit corner of a city church where few visitors venture - but you must see this. It's good, arresting in conviction and purpose. This is art without artifice, reticent with meaning, intense with intention, good, affecting, good well-chosen tutor-curated; good enough to come back to. Consoling? Yes, consoling. I needed consoling. It consoled me. I was consoled.
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Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 3:37 AM UTC
The Consolation of Art
Pathetic. That’s what I’d call you. Just plain miserable and manipulative. You tricked me into giving you the world . Deceived me into believing that you’d never do me ***** You blinded me by your lies “Forget about them , you have me.” But , I didn’t really have you .. Did I ? You took what you wanted . You let me put you before myself . But ? I don’t even blame you . Maybe if I would’ve been in your position , Being offered the world And only being asked for friendship in return .. Maybe then I would’ve robbed you of your trust . And your love . You were my best friend . My ace , My platonic soulmate . And I treated you as much . But, what was I ? To you , What was I ? A personal tutor ? Remember those last two essays that you just couldn’t get done ? Who helped you ? Who stayed up after an exhausting day at work , After having to bike home in the cold and rain ? Just so you could pass and not worry. Maybe , I was just a free ride . Always taking you places , Always giving you the keys and letting you do whatever. You filled the tank maybe twice within a nine month period . And I never once said anything . Oh I got it , I was your ATM. Whenever you needed money , I was glad to help . Whether it was for an Uber so you could go to your volleyball tournament Since your own “mother” couldn’t take you Or whether it was for a Plan B because YIKES Your boyfriend didn’t know how to pull out . Hm , I guess I was also a personal shopper . Buying you clothes when I bought me some . You didn’t wanna spend your money ? That was fine . I would spend mine And you didn’t even have to ask. I was everything except your friend and that’s all I wanted to be . I should’ve seen this coming . I should have KNOWN . Looking back All I can see are the signs , Foreshadowing what was to come . You started to change right in front of my own eyes but I didn’t want to believe it . Didn’t want to believe what I could clearly see . You started to ignore me . For days on end . Living in the same house became something like a Silent war . Everyone against me . Including you . You started to disappear into your room . There were no more lifetime movie marathons together . No more staying up and goofing around together . No more talking about any and everything together . I lost you way before I knew I lost you and that makes my heart ache like a pre-existing bruise getting hit over and over again .
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Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 7:42 PM UTC
If I could talk to you , this is what I’d say.
Pathetic. That’s what I’d call you. Just plain miserable and manipulative. You tricked me into giving you the world . Deceived me into believing that you’d never do me ***** You blinded me by your lies “Forget about them , you have me.” But , I didn’t really have you .. Did I ? You took what you wanted . You let me put you before myself . But ? I don’t even blame you . Maybe if I would’ve been in your position , Being offered the world And only being asked for friendship in return .. Maybe then I would’ve robbed you of your trust . And your love . You were my best friend . My ace , My platonic soulmate . And I treated you as much . But, what was I ? To you , What was I ? A personal tutor ? Remember those last two essays that you just couldn’t get done ? Who helped you ? Who stayed up after an exhausting day at work , After having to bike home in the cold and rain ? Just so you could pass and not worry. Maybe , I was just a free ride . Always taking you places , Always giving you the keys and letting you do whatever. You filled the tank maybe twice within a nine month period . And I never once said anything . Oh I got it , I was your ATM. Whenever you needed money , I was glad to help . Whether it was for an Uber so you could go to your volleyball tournament Since your own “mother” couldn’t take you Or whether it was for a Plan B because YIKES Your boyfriend didn’t know how to pull out . Hm , I guess I was also a personal shopper . Buying you clothes when I bought me some . You didn’t wanna spend your money ? That was fine . I would spend mine And you didn’t even have to ask. I was everything except your friend and that’s all I wanted to be . I should’ve seen this coming . I should have KNOWN . Looking back All I can see are the signs , Foreshadowing what was to come . You started to change right in front of my own eyes but I didn’t want to believe it . Didn’t want to believe what I could clearly see . You started to ignore me . For days on end . Living in the same house became something like a Silent war . Everyone against me . Including you . You started to disappear into your room . There were no more lifetime movie marathons together . No more staying up and goofing around together . No more talking about any and everything together . I lost you way before I knew I lost you and that makes my heart ache like a pre-existing bruise getting hit over and over again .
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How does it feel When life doesn't seem real And you're floating about on your own Your life seems uncertain So you draw the curtain Pretending there's nobody home Don't theorize Look in your eyes They can't tell lies Though you may disguise what you see The mirror is free Song birds are talking And runners are walking Be yourself Be yourself Be yourself Be yourself We need a tutor So we built a computer And programed ourselves not to see The truth and the lying The dead and the dying A silent majority Don't theorize Look in your eyes Are they telling lies The ones that they learn on T.V. What a way to be free Be yourself Be yourself Then you can free yourself Free yourself See yourself Then you can see yourself Be yourself a.s.
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May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
DPS (dead poet society)
Antonia, it’s time to rise today Your breakfast is ready, your tutor waits “Time is running", mama says There’s much to learn as a princess Antonia, follow whatever we please Stand tall and straight, hide your scarred knees You’re no longer a little girl You’re bound to be a queen of the world Antonia, quickly, put on your shoes Lace your corset so it’s anything but loose If you’re short of breath, you’ll have to wait A true royal must never be late Antonia, there’s no more time to play With your chin up, follow what we say You must learn to be a trophy of France To walk with grace, to speak, to dance Antonia, stop laughing like a witch Don’t be a disgrace, you’re not a ***** You’ll change your name and all in between Marie Antoinette is who you are as queen Marie Antoinette, with beauty from the gods, You’ll marry a man you’ve never loved You’re off to France, now say goodbye, You are to leave everything behind Marie Antoinette, you lover of life, With your luxury and power, your kingdom’s in strife As you live your own Versailles delusion Your kingdom is brewing a violent revolution Marie Antoinette, do you remember the sweet days of sixteen? Here it all ends, with a cruel guillotine. Antonia, free spirit, never meant to be A girl chained by royalty, a reigning queen.
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Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 10:16 AM UTC
Dear Antonia
The sound of your voice, linguistic forte digital portrait combined, reads lyrical, like Joyce, the use of imagery - elevating the plebeian, resplendent -   the imposition sublime. Pellucid prose, tête-à-tête immersed in esoteric allusion spoken with au fait. Liberating my pedestrian inhibition, premise of surrender - adrift, desultory, delicious ambiguity. Seduction begins in the mind, assets of imagination, intellectual property; side by side: lying supine didactic invitation, in assertions of diversion; a chance to find euphoria within our reach. Linear alliteration; fulgent flowing Fumé Blanc, fire and wine private beach, rhymes of elucidation two bodies align, I will learn if you teach. Sensual epistemology, curvaceous figure of speech, the Orphic; woeful lover’s plight, a porous song recite art professor, verse confessor tutor me tonight. ©2010 & 2011 W.S Warner
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Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 11:03 AM UTC
Elucidation
No peace in heaven No life in hell I had learnt . Left by my tutor to choose Choose between living in violence Or dying doomed for eternity. By my assumptions The two seems too close for an option By law no one is meant to sit on the fence. They say "life is a journey" But I wonder how I agreed to embarked on it at first Maybe I was forced Forced to be born Or maybe it was my fault My fault that I was too desperate to be born Born into a world of wars Where we fight against all Against trust Even against God. I wish I knew the beginning before I was conceived I wish I could tell where this path will end me I wish Heaven is sure Sure that I could end my journey here and cross Cross into eternal peace without being judge Judged by the devil for not being his follower Or judged by God for not being as perfect as His followers. I just wish all this second coming thing remain a prank A prank That will end a joke contrary as plan What a great relieve it will be If the spirit leaves the flesh to be So I could just sit on the fence in peace And Losing Heaven stop being my greatest fear indeed.
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Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC
My Greatest Fear
Once I met a kind, and friendly old man He'd become a good friend of mine We talked about life and his future plans He is too in love with the beautiful nature of his proud land. Joe lives in a fantasy land dreams of childhood days Walks down the memory lane He planted daisies and plucked wild berries the birds singing the bees buzzing the rhythm of nature he loves to cherish... What a magnificent hometown he proudly described. As he sits in his little fairyland Where he dreams and writes. He said I was his mentor He learned to write from a tutor He didn't  notice how diligent he was as my teacher When he praised my writes he gave me flower. Today... Joe is older But he'd never grown weaker Once he marched in several wars Made England proud of its brave soldier. life goes on and he moves on enjoying the wilderness on his own.. Dear Joe Cole You'd never be alone my words and yours in all good poems........
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Dec 29, 2017
Dec 29, 2017 at 5:38 PM UTC
Joe Cole
*Lost in conversation at a party with a friendly person I ended up almost tardy but the event was worth it This woman older than myself had lost her youngest son He had a bout with depression and used his father's gun A teen that never listens comes with the territory Blamed herself for doing the same, called it her "horror story" A touch of blue hit her face as she remembered his smile Her hands continued to shake; they had been for a while It got me thinking quite a bit of what we leave behind, be they achievements or kin, by them we are defined We tell the world of our struggles with words and demonstration and teach the kids how to live, preventing devastation Our legacy will continue past their life expectancy and through the passage of time raise their dependency The stench of death is rotten, but still our biggest fear to date is living life to the fullest, yet remaining forgotten And not to mention raising sons and daughters; we do our very best to keep them from the guns and slaughter Living in the here and now, ever considered a future where your experience today will tutor newer users? So* leave your mark - *be it poetry, melodies, artistry, pedigree, even guiding infancy or serving in an infantry, believe in your legacy You're remembered infinitely.*
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Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 2:54 PM UTC
The Significance of Legacy
"8th March 2018 A pen found its ink A purpose found its man Art,    The mother of all that's beautiful brought me a gift A life skill that would be my passage of lift                   He came to life in unhealthy mental weathers,                     his soul was birthed in shabby unearthly waters and bound to mine in an everlasting covalence.                                                            he was given to me an agent of healing – an outlet, a living freedom;          a drain for my pain,       a gift and a curse he is a stain on the domain of my name – but I take pride in our duality, my existence paradigm was on the edge of a cliff suicidal - I lay on my back under the roof of a gloomy identity my name and my frame soaked in melancholia of a quantity that exceeds the infinite. DEAR WORDSMITH You and I Are a year older I am a decade wiser I can feel it in my hair the truth in its absolute quintessence is a universe closer. The way you hold my mind in your gloves gives me sleepless nights and faceless days but who am I to question my panacea? I promise I will make the most of what we can be. A savior, a tutor, a sage My poet, my light, my flame, my light. WordSmith_Wiz 03/08/2019
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Mar 7, 2019
Mar 7, 2019 at 6:03 PM UTC
GENESIS:THE BIRTH OF A POET