"tweeter" poems
The Donald went down to Georgia
He was lookin' for a state to steal
He was angrily blind 'cause he was way behind
And he was lookin to make ah deal
When he came across this Q man
Sawin' on Twitter and layin' plots
And the Donald jumped upon a hickory stump
And said, "Q let me tell you what"
"I guess you didn't know it, but I'm a Twitter tweeter too
And if you'd care to take my fare, I'll Twitter follow you
Now you lay pretty good tweets, Q, but give the Donald his due
I'll bet a Tower of gold for your soul
'Cause I think your tweets are cool"
The Q said, "My game's phony, and it might be a sin
But I'll take your bet, you won't regret
'Cause my tweets'll ensure you win
Q, fire up your phone and type your Twitter hard
'Cause Hell's broke loose in Georgia and the Donald deals the cards
And if I win, you get this shiny Tower made of gold
But if you lose, the Donald gets your soul
The Donald opened up his cell and he said, "I'll start this show"
And fire flew from his thumb tips as he tweeted just for show
And he pulled his thoughts across word streams and he made a evil hiss
And a band of MAGAs joined in, and they tweeted somethin' like this
When the Donald finished
Q said, "Well, you're pretty good ol' Don
But sit down in that chair right there
And let me show you how tweet's done"
"Biden's in the Basement", run, boys, run
The Donald's in the Whitehouse having fun
Ivanka's in the West Wing makin' dough
Jared, do your thoughts bite? No, Don, no
The Donald bowed his head because he knew that Q could tweet
And he laid that golden Tower at the ground of Q's feet
Q said, "Donald, just don't concede if you ever wanna win again
I done tweeted you once, you son of a *****
Cuz my tweets will make you win" he played
"Biden's in the Basement", run, boys, run
The Donald's in the Whitehouse having fun
Ivanka's in the West Wing makin' dough
Jared, do your thoughts bite? No, Don, no
Dec 7, 2020
Dec 7, 2020 at 8:07 PM UTC
i am fascinated by the connections high school forms. who knew that that friend of a friend who was my sixth grade enemy’s classmate was the ex of my best friend? it’s a labyrinth of familiarity and camaraderie, and some might call it a trap; if it is, then it’s the most beautiful maze i’ve gotten lost in.
one too many times, i’ve made a list of my own; of people i know, of faces i recognize and of everyone in between. i’ve mapped out names and drawn lines to them like a game of connect the dots, all those relationships overlapping like venn diagrams with open ends.
with that being said, oftentimes, i wonder how the people i know describe me to strangers. i wonder how many times my name has shown up in conversations i was pushed to be part of.
i barely have anything to say about myself, so what would they have to say about me?
that kid with a camera. someone who can write. pretentious tweeter, Tumblr girl, member of a few clubs and organizations. student. ***** daughter. sister. ****** friend. it’s a possibly endless list and a mess of adjectives.
most days, i don’t know what- rather, who- i am... but here’s one thing i know:
i don’t want to be just another person in a story.
i’m not just ex girlfriend; not just used-to-be classmate; not just girl best friend; not just someone’s crush or someone crushing on someone else. i’m not somebody else’s past or future or present. i don’t want to be just that, don’t want to be confined to a constellation of connections that someone has created for themselves. yes, i may not know who i am yet, but i won’t let myself be a pronoun thrown around, a fill-in, a joke to tell. i’m not your punch line. not your ice breaker. not that one person you should talk about when the rivers have run dry, if you know what i mean.
i’m a bigger believer of coincidence than i am of destiny. i am here because of my choices, a build up of everyone else’s words and actions over the past years. i am here not for a reason- i am here, and along the way, i’m making my own reasons to be.
you know me not because of a bigger plan. but maybe because i ran in to you in a hallway. maybe because the administration put us in the same group when we were transferees. maybe because you complimented my music taste. maybe because i asked if i could tag along to your auditions.
we are whatever we are because of choice; of coincidence; of chance. call it luck. call it unfortunate. call it karma. this is what we have; this is what we are; this is what i am; and it can only be accounted to you, and i, and so many other people, and so many other factors.
you are bright and warm and beautiful. you are a constellation without them. don’t let yourself be a secondary character. this is your story.
be the villain, be the hero, be whoever you want to be. believe this:
you are not what other people say you are.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 1:26 AM UTC
In Wonder much your Sore Barrels invade
From Whirlycoxed Dames do Insure your Vote
Or Bribes the Fortunate Rascals evade
Saw no other Buttons to Press your Note
So Truth bends the very Patron decide
Carry on the Labours of your Booned Mass
Though Protests trim for another Subscribe
Let all Porned Bobbies allow you to Pass
That your Room - now a Museum convert
Never which Knowing which Prudent Tile step
Then again - as rugged as Granite your Shirt
Stain its Ghostly Essense on your Precept.
Would there be News? Doubt to my Knowledge based
My Cheques duly Crossed and left to Moons chased.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 9:08 PM UTC
leprechaun with riding cap
solitary sleeping avalanche
watch him tweeter on the edge
of fantasy round llama ranch
fall into an overture
shoot the applauding masses
wetter than the rabbits
cascading into molasses
dueling dollar and yuan
missives pointing to this guy
can't always get what you want
so shake your taxing habits
rocking and remembering
pay the peasant to do the deed
if you try some dimes
you get what you need
a lonely greta garbo hat
graces the desert dust
shining like new under the sun
pretending not to rust
hungry and thirsty,
swallow another
hollow promise smiling; laughing
see them blindly follow each other
now the bones of our distress
blowing in circles like bits of dress
and jeans the skulls and jewels
don't walk run back to save a few more
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 10:55 PM UTC
sun rays wrap 'round trees
wooden snowflakes on the
sky bursting rainbows from
tips of glowing eyelashes
the crinkle shatter melody
of melting snow dancing
with a clearwater tenor
peeter peeter
twitter tweeter
sing song singgg
chickadeedeedee
on my
shhhhhoulder
bumblebeebee buzzes
big eyes and fuzz
gold fleck
sunshine dust
friendly fellow
flew
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 4:26 PM UTC
Its hard to imagine a rich dumb spoiled kid with a tweeter account is the elected leader of the so called free world and at the same time its really no surprise at all as we've dumbed ourselves down to be less intelligent than 5th graders and are the self proclaimed biggest losers on the planet and we prefer our reality scripted and televised and trust our childrens intellect and education to a school system we know to be broken and in desperate need of repair because at the end of the day its easier to ***** and point fingers about how ****** up it all is than to make an effort or to even ask for help as long as we can claim its not our fault we can pretend we have no reason not to be able to sleep at night and we sleep and sleep all through the night and all through the day as we grind and break our bones on the ground that will one day be our graves which will one day just be the parking lot of another shopping mall full of our cookie cut children who were never taught the were worth more than minimum wage and that this is the way of life and theres happiness in the **** of it all and just shut up and don't complain and watch a little tv and drink some beer and relax and do it all again and again and work those knuckles and break your backs so your kids can grow up and work in the mall of the parking lot where their grandparents are buried and thats the happiness thats worth nothing more than there minimal lifes and its not so bad to belive the lie that has made a joke of us all as we strive to be great again
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 5:42 PM UTC
T'was a twext
my twitter did feed
all a'flutter
in twembling misdeed
of sextin' and textin'
in twitter lo'
when lo'
my twue love
did appear tweed off
she did said
you two timing tweeter!
and flew off!
again!!
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 1:58 AM UTC
This is a true story; of a group consisting 3 men
Eventually chose a different path.
To paint their tragedies
Into words
1. A stand up comedian.
Tragedy equals comedy, right?
Who are we kidding?
Laughter is indeed the best medicine
Laughter is indeed the best way
To forget about problems
Not to solve them.
Sounds familiar, don't you think?
Yeah, although it's much healthier than
Being an alcoholic.
Heck, in this frickin' country
In this economy
It's cheaper too!
Thus, let's wash our pain for a while
With a little bit of wits to laugh at
Until the scars finally stain.
The scars for later to be brag on
About the kind of struggle we've been through
About the kind of pain we've endure
About the kind of meds we've swallowed to flushed it off from our systems.
Talking about the rule of three right there.
2. A novelist.
Worry equals story, isn't it?
To elaborate things
In the most profound way possible
To dazzle the readers
To amaze them
To speak to them
Without actually
Speaking to them
Making them realize that
That kind of problems do exist
In the most notorious way possible
Hiding in plain sight
Waiting for someone
To unravel the truth
Via the three acts structure.
Talking about the rule of three right there.
3. A poet.
Vulnerability equals poetry, was it?
Not covering tragedy with comedy
This is romanticizing pain
Unspeakable pain
Not because the pain is unspoken
But the speaker
Is unable to speak
The tweeter
Is unable to tweet
The chatter
Is unable to chat
Disguising itself in rhymes
Emphasizing itself in repetition
Pain–pain–pain–pain–pain
Until the word lost its meaning
Doing it over and over again
Highlighting the word that he wants to forget
Fragile–fragile–fragile
Fallen–fallen–fallen
Broken–broken–broken
Talking about the rule of three right there.
People write
Sometimes just because they can't speak
Not because they don't have mouth
But because they don't have the ability to
Or because they don't choose to
Speak for yourself!
And that's exactly what people did
By writing punchlines
By vomitting stories from their brain
By arranging the shattered pieces of themselves
Into letters
Into words
Into sentences
Into bits or paragraphs or verses
Into a whole
Write–write–write–write–write–write
Over and over again
Until it lost its meaning.
Jul 5, 2025
Jul 5, 2025 at 1:57 PM UTC
telefon her çaldığında
damarlarımda yürüyen kan
koşmaya başlıyor ve nabzım
bir yarış atı gibi luta kalkarak
gözlerimi hızla ekrana taşıyor..
"meleğim" arıyor
kaydı olmadığında
bungee jumping’in ipi
kopmuşçasına hızla bir
boşluğa düşüyorum..
intihara meyilli kalp çakram
akordu bozuk bir gitar gibi
devasa kolonların tweeter’larını
birer birer patlatmasının ardından
büyük fırtına sonrası sessizliğimin
fermuarını yavaş yavaş, yukarı çekiyor..
bu mastürbasyonel psikolojiyi
günün belirli saatlerinde
orgazmın eşiğinden dönen
bir homosaphien gibi yaşamak
acı verse de,
versace saatlerin
dolçe vita öpücükleri
bir an da, olsa
bohem ambiansların
ambulansında
sevişmelerimizi serum yoluyla
beynimden yüz hatlarıma yayıyor
benim olduğunu biliyorum
ve birazdan..
"meleğim" arıyor
yazacak
neonlar yüzümde parladığında
ve ben, bekliyor olacağım seni
menekşelerin dansettiği
cezayir sokağında..
..
Jul 5, 2019
Jul 5, 2019 at 10:32 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Sean Spicer Never Metaphor He Didn’t Like
Walk back those Spicerian goosesteps, dude
(And while you’re there, unblame the Russians)
Similes using ****** are always rude
And now you’ll suffer Tweeter concussions
Cops will drag you away from your lectern
Like that screaming fellow aboard the plane
And make each reportorial neck turn
Heads swiveling to see where you’ve left your brain
Blame everything on the Russians? You bet!
It must be true; it’s on the GossipNet
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 7:24 AM UTC
Dive into this sea
rustle just like me!
Fumy foamy me
sloshing surging we
jingle jangle jee
fringle frangle free!
Flipper flopper flee
widdle waddle wee
sweeter tweeter tea
swopper sweeper ***
dive into this sea
rustle just like me!
Aug 25, 2025
Aug 25, 2025 at 4:02 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Coffee Shop Darwinians
“We’ll set a fine, new, well-oiled machine in place
of the old one and this time we’ll put the Normans
into it instead. That’s what justice means, isn’t it?”
-Saxon Monk in Becket
No, of course it didn’t have to happen
We’re not campus coffee shop Darwinians
Determined that five innocents needed to die
Within the gears of our new, well-oiled machine
And that more should come, chanting “O Machine!” 1
“Follow the Science!” and “Learn. To. Code!”
As they sacrifice themselves to a Tweeter-sanctioned
Infestation of Manifest Destiny
And I’ve got a feeling, as you might agree:
No one on either side quotes Dostoyevsky
1 “The Machine Stops,” E. M. Forster
Jan 18, 2021
Jan 18, 2021 at 8:59 AM UTC