"tweaks" poems
Inside the Rainbow Forest
Where unicorns are born,
And fairy dust floats on the air
From sundown until dawn,
There dwells in royal splendour
Yet very rarely seen,
The king of all the pixies
With his pretty pixie queen.
His palace is a mushroom
As tall as any tree,
With bright red spots upon it
That will make you squeal with glee.
A winding golden staircase
Stretches to the very top,
In a mesmerizing spiral
That you think will never stop.
All those brave enough to climb it
Would soon chance upon a door,
With the most enormous knocker
That you really ever saw.
One hard tap summons the butler,
A polite and friendly gnome,
Serving tea and fondant fancies
That will make you feel at home.
Through a maze of vaulted chambers
Each more lavish than the last,
Passing walls lined with the portraits
Of kings from the distant past,
That dear gnome shall gently guide you,
With much merriment and song,
To the Great Hall of his master
Who resides there all day long.
From beneath a silver archway
Set with precious gems galore,
You will enter to the fanfare
Of ten trumpets, maybe more.
Dainty apple blossom petals
Shall be scattered at your feet,
As you bow your head in homage
To the king you are to meet.
With a heart bursting with wonder
You will hastily be brought,
To the throne of his most highness
Far across the royal court,
Threading through the marble towers
Of an ornate colonnade,
And a troupe of prancing dragons
With their riders on parade.
Seated high upon a pumpkin
In a matching orange gown,
Curly shoes of bright green velvet
And an elderflower crown,
The king shall bid you welcome
With a beaming toothy grin,
As he beckons to the minstrel
For the music to begin.
With his beard like cotton candy
Waving wildly in the air,
As he slides down to embrace you
From atop his lofty chair,
Both your arms shall link together
To the fiddler's merry tune,
Clicking heels and laughing loudly
As you skip around the room.
In the magic of the moment
You will give yourself to fun,
As the mischief making monarch
Tweaks your ears and cracks a pun,
All those cares your heart now carries
Shall dissolve and simply be
Lost in wondrous celebration
Of a pixie jamboree!
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 6:38 PM UTC
Can you imagine
How life would really be
If birds were obese
And fell from their tree?
Sparrows staggering somehow
Around with bent beaks
Upturned to the sky
Awaiting helpful tweaks!
Alas, when the rain showers
Fall like you wouldn’t believe
You’d see Sparrows wearing snorkels
To help them better breathe!
And then an Albatross
Won’t be able to leave the ground
Due to overeating fish
And turning overly round.
Ducks, when thrown some bread
By children in the park
Would slowly, steadily sink
As surely as a dog does bark!
Swallows they would swallow
Many, too many flies
And end up heavily crashing
From our summer skies.
Then, all the newspapers
On the front page would read:
“We’re Fed up with Obese Birds
Please, Do NOT feed!”
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 12:22 PM UTC
I bought a real nutcracker today.
A fine shiny black truly cool looking one!
Each crack compliments to a dandy vintage lad's imaginary home TV shopper Ad.
Saying‘It's guaranteed! Hundred percent of mechanosensory reception!’
I try to convince myself between time stretching
‘Yes or No’s and ‘Just use stones’
‘Come on you've deserved it!’
‘Why bother?’
You have been craving for each
Tried and tested any,
same as so many
even from a hard peach.
So why not!? Keep it! – as if a testimony, from tough to juicy mimicking fruity blending **** seduced by crunchy mouth twisting *****
Digested from special yearly events to monthly justifications then weekly to daily and surprisingly after dinner, before breakfast, as brunch or even a whole meal sometimes.
You gnaw like a small rodent layer by layer cute but so tight although he says that’s alright.
Dashing trunks as if a woodpecker,
Stealing home reserved only-for-the-pet’s crumbs and
Finally receiving next day’s well deserved belly cramps.
Come on you almost broke your teeth during your worldwide exploring different types of shell husking trip.
Feel blessed now one time for goddess’ sake that she winks and tweaks my lips while it creaks, festively announces your recent find that nuts you shall eat raw only - neither baked nor from a sinfully roasted ready packed plastic bag.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
What good is a masculinity so fragile,
That it harbors misery and shatters souls?
What good is an alliance so toxic,
That it tweaks tears as opposed to laughter?
So speak up and break free,
Live life merry as long as your body does plea.
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 12:27 PM UTC
A new day is dawning
Been waiting for weeks
Cashed in my pay cheques
To pay for the tweaks
Drawing, deciding,
Doubting my needs
Umming and ahhing
This lust i must feed
Booked the appointment
There's no turning back
Go under the knife
Would you look at that!
Followed the steps
and handled with care
The bigger the better
But same face and hair
Mid-chest attention
They all think I'm dumb
But not enough's changed
So I'll have my *** done
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 1:57 PM UTC
With want me eyes he wraps my hair around his fist
He gives it a little tug bringing me closer to his wrist
My lips are warm and inviting
and already so long overdue
He starts off slow and soft
As I feel his breath on my lips
His tongue traces my bottom lip teasing
giving me a little nip
His sweet kisses cause a warm wave to take over me
As he heats me up from the inside
Slick with a need and burning
That only he can subside
He tweaks my ******* with his
fingers through my shirt
A sly smile forms as he starts **********
me thinking of his dessert
His mouth and tongue start kissing its way down
Tempting...Teasing...and Feasting
While I am just laying there
Trembling...Needing...and Pleading
Oh My ~ is all I could muster when his lips move
like a breeze over my thighs
Passion explodes as my will erodes
I revel in the sensation of being Conquered
And at the same time....Conquering
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 10:12 PM UTC
I am analogue.
made of troughs and of peaks.
My medication offers
silence with tweaks.
I'm upping and downing,
either dreaming or drowning.
So I can't stay too long
in case something goes wrong.
First thought of the day
is of impending doom.
Rain clouds have gathered
and it pours in my room.
Later on that day,
I feel I'm okay
and I don't know why but
. . . . . I'll take it.
Poetry by Kaydee.
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 5:08 PM UTC
I'm sick
I'm sick of every filter
I'm sick of fake photographers
I'm sick of fake philosophers
and Instagram pornographers
I'm sick of the fake feminists
who don't understand the movement
I'm sick of fake politicians
who make no ******* improvements
I'm sick of all the favorites
I'm sick of all the likes
I'm sick of ******* tinder
causing cheating every night
I'm sick of ******* eyebrows
like who ******* cares
when did we become so obsessed
with ******* forehead hair
I'm sick of religion
I'm sorry but it's true
it's caused so much division
in our red white and blue
I'm sick of trump supporters
who never read the news
they want to close our borders
but don't understand the ruse
I'm sick of fake people
who pretend for us all
cover their old selves in diesel
didn't hesitate or stall
I'm sick of Caitlin Jenner
she/he whatever isn't noble
committed ******* manslaughter
yet still remains boastful
I'm sick of post it note relationships
that last for three weeks
it's not a ******* battleship
just make the proper tweaks
I'm sick of all these hookups
it's become a culture
all of these pickups
initiated by the vultures
I'm sick of everyone caring
about what celebrities wear
I'm sick of overbearing hate
that never ever spares
I'm sick of all the judgment
of how a person looks
I'm sick of everyone watching YouTube
trading it for books
I'm sick of all this money
that we will never see
I'm sick of never knowing
what I'm supposed to do
I'm sick of schooling never showing
how to live our lives through
I'm sick of all this debt
that I'll be paying until my death
Im sick of feeling like our society is *******
but most of all I'm really sick
that this list has applied to me too.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 11:11 AM UTC
palette
russet, olive hues
yellow ochre
bird's egg blue
vastness held
within a bowl
turned over earth
to heal and hold
moisture from
the morning rain
thus the painter's
eye is trained
cadmium white
a fan-like brush
sketch mare's-tail clouds
an artist's touch
far horizon
grayish blue
a woman reclines
in the ****
her form reveals
the breasting hills
her hips the mountains
hushed and still
mid-ground
blurs of olive cacti
the saguaro
rise like hackles
Palo Verde lie in lumps
yellow flowers
bloom in clumps
point of brush
tweaks out the trees
turn of branches
stippled leaves
small are they
to catch the light
but the moisture
loss is slight
ochre foreground
brownish stones
blue-gray shadows
light source shown
grayish purple
prickly pears
ocotillo
here and there
spindly with splash of red
barrel cacti nod their heads
buff highlights
saguaro flowers
I could sit and
paint for hours
there's time to write
but now I pray
look upon these
words today
they paint the desert
you will find
If only in
the poet's mind!
SoulSurvivor aka
Write of Passage
2017
Mar 28, 2022
Mar 28, 2022 at 5:42 AM UTC
A butterfly winks at a rose
Attracted by her perfumes
Tweaks fine filament nose
Lady likes me, he assumes
Her flaming pink petal lips
Enticing him to land a kiss
Hovers wings flickers flips
Lips, closer, closer to meet
He retracts, no, maybe not
Sorry love he couldn't do it
Fooled em all the time a lot
Go fly you flirtatious tweet
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 8:52 PM UTC
Long divorced from love,
owned three guitars
and slept with nine women.
Remembers every song,
every poem,
scarcely recalls their faces;
lilt of their tongue
as sleep took hold of them-
not him.
Trigger finger over the snapshot
through each baulk and ****** of passion:
"this is the poem, this is the verse
I can lay down in print
and finally live again."
Night sky too full of uncertainty.
Cannot observe a desert scene
without a commentary
on each unanswered question.
She is dressed in sequins
but what for the spaces in between?
He cannot accept filler,
blank spaces that intercede
moments of ineffable beauty.
Maddening crowds emerge,
bright-eyed and stupid
to each early, pink noise morning.
He awakes, drugged to the eyeballs,
slow to movement; formulation of words.
Each night a battle of sobriety
as the sun does bleed
in the skyline before him.
Each night a generation dies,
subtle points of light
lost in the noise of the modern day.
Screams pointlessly, without need:
"don't forget me, don't forget me..."
would rather leave a scar
than no mark at all.
Lives for the colours
he cannot see, for the common thread
that connects everything.
Tweaks the string of each broken seam
to expose each diversity,
each personal loss
as a collective sigh;
every sleepless night
as an off-white lullaby.
Born for collision
beneath a dying star,
long divorced from love;
he is married to art.
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 3:03 PM UTC
This clock has aged a bit and changed a bit. But the pieces still tick, tock. With a few tweaks and small pinch, we are able to reminisce.
The clock chimes and I am young again. My earliest memories play like film. The lullabies, the kisses, the smiles. My mother holding me, I can almost feel it. I remember how the world was so large. Public playgrounds were jungles and I, so brave, would venture into the darkest corners. My father keeps my palm in his hand, I can see it. He didn't want to lose me. He didn't want to lose me. And yet...
Tick, tock.
The clock chimes and I am taller, wiser. The girls at school laugh and taunt me. I didn't mind. They just didn't understand and that was fine. My father gave me presents on Christmas, clothes to try to change me. But, his eyes crinkled when he smiled. So, I tried, I tried but the shirts were constricting and I felt like I couldn't breathe. My mother walks downstairs after he is gone and slowly cuts the shirt away. She kisses my cheek and I never changed.
Tick, tock.
The clock chimes and my mother is slipping away. She's running out of ways to lie but she still tries. I was sixteen to her but to me I was forty-nine. I shine light on her face and see it is dark and empty. She tries on a smile but it no longer fits. I watch her stare blankly at Rapunzel on the screen, she's reciting every line. My father calls and I am not supposed to tell, not supposed to speak. I am terrified. She knows, but did he? My father and I argue and can no longer fit our smiles. I slam the door and he drives away.
Tick, tock.
The clock chimes and he tells me I'm poison. He blames me for everything that goes wrong. Soulless eyes, that child has soulless eyes. He calls his home Texas while I try to rebuild mine.
Tick, tock.
The clock chimes and she is gone. I sit in a empty home. I was sixteen, still only sixteen. She knew, but did he?
The clock chimes and I am alone.
The clock chimes and I need to be an adult tonight. I must abide.
This clock has aged a bit and changed a bit. But the pieces still tick, tock. I accept my past, I call it mine. I still feel so young inside. Every memory makes me stronger and a little more alive.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 5:08 PM UTC
With want me eyes he wraps my hair around his fist
He then give it a little tug bringing me closer to his wrist
My lips wet, warm and inviting and already so long overdue
He starts off slow and soft as I feel his breath on my lips
his tongue traces my bottom lip teasing...giving me a little nip
His sweet kisses cause a warm wave to take over me
As he heats me up from the inside
Slick with a need and burning that only he can subside
He tweaks my ******* with his fingers through my shirt
A sly smile forms as he starts ********** me thinking of his dessert
His mouth and tongue start kissing its way down
tempting...teasing...and feasting
While I am just laying there...
trembling...needing...and pleading
Oh My ~ is all I could muster when his lips move
like a breeze over my thighs
Passion explodes as my will erodes
I revel in the sensation of being Conquered
and at the same time....Conquering
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 12:46 PM UTC
I watch my son embark on life
and I wish him all the best
His way will be no easier
than it's been for all the rest
The first child's life is the hardest
as they blaze their new found trails
Upon their shoulders rides the weight
of siblings, hopes and travails
An old woman once asked of me
as she touched upon my fears
"What do you want your son to be
when he reaches adult years"
I thought a while then with a smile
said that"happy" was my goal
"There might be hope for mankind yet
and for your immortal soul"
We might just ask too much of each
newly born generation
Expecting them to build upon
the previous foundation
It's pride that tweaks our vanity
in ****** pride our soul believes
Why is it only through this pain
that by love, our soul relieves
I'll have that old woman to thank
when I swim the great expanse
There I'll make for the distant bank
where fate may grant me that chance
Tate
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC
… On a bustling street,
she shuffles her feet,
her eyes hold a desperate heat,
eyes darting, discretely charting
a line through the crowds that are parting for her.
In a world of abundancy,
she sees redundancy.
Where waste is rife,
her life breathes new life into the rubble
from a fickle society’s burst bubble.
Her world otherwise grey,
she colours her day,
collecting, affecting
what the world has thrown away.
Single-mindedly transfixed, her target mixed; decayed, disused, no longer affixed.
Refused, unused,
discarded, unguarded;
all detected, all collected, all recycled, all respected.
Debris she chases, through a sea of down-turned faces she paces.
Those faces think she disgraces their spaces
but she shows no emotional traces.
She just fills her cases.
She kneels on a cold floor, search no more, search no more. Through a broken window comes dim light, from an oncoming night, passers-by dare not look in from disgust or from fright or sorrow for her plight. Her face covered in feeling but not for the walls peeling nor the ceiling that leaks, nor the floor that squeaks under a carpet that reeks and is torn and frayed in pieces arrayed in front of her.
She kneels on a cold floor, surrounded by more of the same she collected before. Old cushions: tattered. Plates and platters: shattered. Curtains in shreds, ripped clothes, parts of beds. A massacred lounge, wallpaper scrounged. A casual glance at the floor shows a junk-yard and no more. To her it’s ethereal, much more than material.
Her eyes focussed, near to lust as she begins to adjust her treasure, saved from the dust. Within it she trusts.
In her eyes pieces glow to her, in her eyes pieces show to her, a beauty known just to her.
She kneels on a cold floor with a purpose like none before. Within her scrapheap dominion she needs no opinion she fears no ones minion. She knows the beauty she seeks, the beauty that peeks through the grime as she tweaks, the beauty that speaks to her. As she sews it grows and shows and she knows what was once dispose is becoming her rose.
She loses no pace as the last piece of lace delicately takes its place; a tear of pride slides down her face. Her complexion ashen, knowing her passion has brought fashion from a discarded ration she lays down on a cold floor, search no more, work no more.
Daylight breaks, sunlight that shakes and awakes her. Her eyes fill with elation as she clothes herself in last night’s creation. What she wore before goes on the floor where lay more creations from nights before. She heads out toward the sunlight.
On a bustling street, she shuffles her feet, her eyes hold a desperate heat, eyes darting, discretely charting a line through the crowds that are parting for her …
Jul 30, 2011
Jul 30, 2011 at 2:26 AM UTC
I am an artist.
I can make myself into something new
every day.
Imagine the possibilities you could
innovate,
Just let me know what you want.
Here, flip through this magazine for some
ideas,
And tell me what you like best!
It’s all about pleasing your audience
anyways,
It doesn't matter what I want,
Nobody cares about that.
They just want to see something pretty.
I sculpt and paint imagery out of tools
To end up with a fake canvas.
Day to day I suppress myself with the lies.
I chip and chisel,
Dissect and carve,
Bits and pieces,
Until I’m left trembling,
Just to be tossed away in the end.
Splashes of red,
And strokes of black ignite your appeal,
And this is what you label as real?
Hunger strikes itself through the bones
Revealing its power through the limbs
Of the body, eye sockets, sinking down,
Down,
Down.
Death could possibly be the resemblance.
What a terrible piece, a shame it is.
Maybe just a few more tweaks,
And it will at least look halfway decent.
Trim down the sides,
Thin out any extras,
Fill in what is needed.
Even just a tad more color,
Then we have something.
Time strolls by,
A year soon passes,
And one day I just happen to actually
stop,
And look at my masterpiece,
But only for a moment.
In the mirror,
A reflection stares back at a wretched,
Ghostly,
Figure.
Beads of liquid build up into my pallid
eyes,
Unable to contain the weight of their
reasons any longer,
Tears begin to burst,
They trickle down my rose stained
cheeks,
Fueled by the absence of perfection,
And I feel nothing.
Needs more work.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 12:32 AM UTC
i ultimately have decided to only make some very small tweaks to this just so it flows better. after reading and staring at this piece for longer than i should have, i think it doesn't matter if i entirely missed the point i was trying to make. i think i got my feelings out and its okay that its a bit messy.
i sat in the forest --
picking up leaves
and ripping them
in different ways,
different shapes
because everyone is different.
and they all break differently.
i picked a once green leaf
that was staring to brown
on the edges.
i ripped it
and it didn't break
slowly
like the others.
it just fell apart
in my hands.
but it made me look up at the
sunbeams
slipping between
the tall forest trees.
realising,
not everyone breaks slowly.
some people crumble and fall apart
all at once.
and that's okay.
i think its okay to let your feelings out however you need. and thats a big thing of mine. letting our feelings out. i believe its something we should all encourage and do. we all crumble differently and you shouldn't be told to hide your true emotions. i reckon my thought process with this was all over the place, though the outcome ended up being better, even if i eventually decided to leave most of it as it was.
Aug 24, 2025
Aug 24, 2025 at 8:47 PM UTC
palette
russet, olive hues
yellow ochre
bird's egg blue
vastness held
within a bowl
turned over earth
to heal and hold
moisture from
the morning rain
thus the painter's
eye is trained
cadmium white
a fan-like brush
sketch mare's-tail clouds
an artist's touch
far horizon
grayish blue
a woman reclines
in the ****
her form reveals
the breasting hills
her hips the mountains
hushed and still
mid-ground
blurs of olive cacti
the saguaro
rise like hackles
Palo Verde lie in lumps
yellow flowers
bloom in clumps
point of brush
tweaks out the trees
turn of branches
stippled leaves
small are they
to catch the light
but the moisture
loss is slight
ochre foreground
brownish stones
blue-gray shadows
light source shown
grayish purple
prickly pears
ocotillo
here and there
spindly with splash of red
barrel cacti nod their heads
buff highlights
bring out the sand
thus paint creates
this desert land
SoulSurvivor
(C) 2/13/2017
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 9:54 AM UTC
There is no place in this modern age, it seems.
No "I could if I would and wouldn't if I couldn't"
Or some other convoluted phrase of a pod. Now
Getting out your phone is sufficient
To show to another some ghastly memes
Puerile goldmines, or else perhaps
Some comic vines
Or worser still, oh dear me
Some animal ***********
Now nothing shocks if not in the flesh
News of paedos on TV
Where used to haunt old sir Jimmy
Elicits now some some disinterested grunt, whilst genocide
Suffers horribly from being juxtaposed
With the football scores.
If nothing shocks, if nothing works
To divert the mind from those ****** tweaks
What good are words to those who still
Prefer to sit and tell a joke
Rather then hopping on the rumour mill
And spew much **** till we all choke.
There's no place for Wildeisms, for how
Can they compete with lolcats?
Wit is no longer about sarcasm and irony
For, dear god, the Americans run the world now,
And is now about a carefully placed
"Yolo", or perhaps a reference to some Facebook trend, or
Some other fatuous ******** It's so **** it drips with ****
So goodbye, dear wit, let me blow you a kiss
And let you know that I say, **** this,
I'm going to go watch Tommy Cooper videos on youtube."
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 12:06 PM UTC
she lived the perfectly edited life
far removed from winks of fire, or the heartbreaks of ice
believed her worst fears when they told her horrible lies
eyes never daring to drink in the real blue skies
treasured pixels always poke her back
but they'll never give her the hug she really needs
cue a million pictures
neatly ordered and
expertly filtered
curated and staged
perfectly acted
never fully present
always facing just the right angle
bulletproof lips worn as pink armor
clinging to a fairytale told by corporations
that they may grow their monopolies and shares
that she may avoid the awkward moment
when she realizes that
one day
she's truly gonna die
no tweaks
no edits
no retries
just this mysterious message in her inbox
the one you just read
asking two simple questions:
are you awake?
are you ready to try?
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 1:56 PM UTC
Your eyes told a story I never wanted to know
A love so deep, left with nothing but sorrow
A pain Ive never quit felt
I always wondered, the way you could make my heart melt
You opened wounds I forgot I had
Good, but mostly bad
You tore down walls within weeks
Found all my hidden flaws and tweaks
You said you’d love me forever
That we would grow together
Oh how i believed you
Now you’ve left me wishing everything you had said was true.
Jul 25, 2021
Jul 25, 2021 at 11:19 PM UTC
When Tweaks In me
I see things differently.
I’m not myself, I’m nobody
When crystal reaches my blood stream , all I see are reasons to keep on using.
When I’m on this drug
The only things I see is negativity
Reasons to convince me to stay on one
When I’m lit
I think of things that hurt me.
I do a line but I don’t feel fine
I Grow rage of furry .
Which change me.
I have Hate that gives me new traits.
I turn ruthless
I can’t feel joy but I care less
What makes being high Amazing
Is being able to face the ones who hurt me & not care or acknowledge how they affected me.
Forgetting there existence.
I'm Testing Sobriety.
I'm on A comedown
& I'm Wondering.
If it's Really worth Stoping.
Is it Reality or drugs That's ******* With Me.
Which Is The Real Threat?
Living lfe or Avoiding it.
Dealing Or Numbing.
What gives me Better outcomes?
Either way I'm Slowly Dying.
From A broken heart or substance
It's Turned into A game.
I'm Eager for You to do me foul..
My Sobriety relies On You now.
Why Cry And hurt.
When I can Level up.
You Say Your working on changing.
You continue Doing Ghost ****
I found My solution .
To Forgive You , Forget and feel happy.
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 5:28 AM UTC
I wasn't the same after that night.
At first I didn't notice it
But then, through the simple pleasures,
Like reading a book
Or baking a cake
Or reflecting,
I knew I had changed,
As if you altered something in my soul that night
Switched some wires
And forgot to switch them back..
Leaving me in an irregularity.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 6:24 PM UTC
Every thought is like a single red blood cell,
it may seem insignificant,
being only one,
but it adds up to enriched blood,
which powers and transports everything around your body,
Disregard not, the small thoughts~
Small tweaks lead to noteable improvements
- March 4th, 2014. 3:40 am.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 2:42 AM UTC
simply put simply said
I really should be in bed
but your on my mind
this state I find
when I eat those pills
feel those feels
and lose the words when sleep comes
melatonin tweaks but numbs.
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 1:22 AM UTC