"tweety" poems
Not the unhappy everyone talks about.
Not just the lonely unhappy.
Not just the unaccomplished/unmotivated unhappy.
Not just the loveless unhappy.
Not just the careless unhappy.
Not just the “let down” unhappy.
I wish there was a way to better exert the meaning of what I’m feeling.
It’s the unhappy that makes me ***** before each occasion.
It’s the unhappy that makes me want to sink into the walls.
I want to break glass, break bone, break the unbreakable.
I want to rip and scratch.
Skin, lips, paper.
It’s like a downward spin that sometimes leaves me pleased…
and other times incredibly hollowed.
There aren’t any solid memories that explain why I’ve gotten so sad.
I do remember when it started though, or at least when I was old enough to understand it was not a good feeling.
Five.
Five years old.
Sitting alone in the heater room where my “tea table” was set up.
Tweety bird tea set.
I remember thinking about grown-ups and all that they do.
I remember not wanting to be a child anymore.
I’d get mad when someone interrupted my thoughts.
That was the first time I remember being depressed.
I’ve been depressed since,
but depression is a very small part of unhappiness…
or whatever it is that’s been sloshing around in my gut since age five.
All I know is that it escalates.
It always has and now I’m very afraid that it always will.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 11:19 PM UTC
Swirling a frosty straw
Stuck up like a victory flag in winter ground
With my lips wrapped around it
I stare into this empty canvas
of a vanilla malt
And project my cartoonish headaches
into it to devour it
Oh those Scooby Doo monsters
Shadows that lurk to cut my Tom & Jerry humor
Only to formulate semblances of evil
A Mojo JoJo caricature
I then project into my milkshake
His smirk haunts the smile of Tweety Bird
In my Hanna-Barbara mindfield
Colorful spirals of animated joys
Let me know slurp Elmer Fudd shotgun
That was mugging my creativity
And robbed me of my motive
Let me taste the refreshing winds
That flow through the deserts of Road Runner
Taking laps around my heart
With its true intentions in a love letter
I will never get
Soon slurped and eaten to take away the thoughts
And now I hope I can drink another
To rip out the rest of the pain that in my heart
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 4:49 PM UTC
Loony Tunes
Bugs Bunny is my favorite rabbit,
watching him became my habit.
He was smart, funny and two steps ahead,
his popularity was very widespread.
His best friend was Daffy Duck,
he never did have the same luck.
Rabbit season, duck season,
rabbit season, duck season,
watching them, I needed no reason.
Speedy Gonzales was so very quick,
this fast mouse was also a *****
Owned his own pizza place,
won a gold metal, at the local rat race.
Yosemite Sam was a short tempered man,
killing Bugs and Daffy was always his plan.
He's a liar, a cheat and a sore loser,
maybe he should have been a drug user.
Tasmanian Devil was a tornado of destruction,
he never needed any kind of introduction.
Foghorn Leghorn never saw a negative situation,
I say, I say boy was his favorite quotation.
Pepe Le Pew was a French skunk,
women loved his smelly *****
Marvin The Martian was from Mars,
his laser gun would leave you with scars.
Tweety was an antagonizing canary,
lived with Granny, and flew like a crafty fairy.
Sylvester was Granny's pet cat,
him and Tweety always went *** for tat.
Road Runner was so very fast,
said beep beep as Wile E Coyote he passed.
Never fell for those Acme supplies,
getting blown up was his ultimate demise.
Porky Pig was just happy to be included,
the, the that's all folks, is how this will be concluded.
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 2:18 AM UTC
They say it's cliché, writing
a poem about being alone on your birthday.
Cause how could you be alone, with the not-so-faux paradise of the gently swaying lush greenery that sprouts tweety-bird yellow over your head,
complete, with the insistent ca-caw of the Red-throated beak that doesn't let you sleep on the anniversary of your birth.
How could you be alone with the contrast beneath, the contest of of somnabulism between the rickshaw and the great grey suzuki, that perfectly encompasses the colour of Europe.
The barking stray dogs in the Pune streets, the rustle of the parakeet palms in the monsoon breeze.
You're stuck in a shell of unending continuity, howling canines and Hindi beats, honking cars and the buzz of your mind.
alone. and old.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 5:58 AM UTC
I said I'd write a poem for you,
Once I got to know you,
And now, I think that I do.
It took some time for your colours to shine,
But now I'm done, so here,
Let me show you.
You are light as the day,
With no hint of dark,
It's all bunnies, princesses and pink.
You bore me to tears,
Like a bar with no beers,
And you certainly can't handle your drink.
You're the arms-length kind,
A mediocre mind,
Fakeness and lies are your craft.
You flutter your eyes,
Like a sneaky tweety-pie,
And all the boys start acting daft.
It can't all be bad,
That would be sad,
Of course, there are nice things to say.
I just don't know what they are,
Not those things in your bra,
I've seen bigger **** in ballets.
You have a nice ****
a nine, if I'm asked,
But that means that I'd have to say...
If I'm being true,
The best thing about you
Is the sight of you walking away.
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 7:05 AM UTC
I’m trapped
Like the caged tweety bird singing a happy song while everyone watches in amazement
She does her flips and tricks stringing them along for as long as she can
Then they become bored, then angry
They didn’t like her anymore
Truth is she wasn’t all she was cracked up to be
She began to question herself, the others, everything
Trying to make the right decisions for everyone
When all the bird wants to be is free
Why cant she be?
She starts to sing her sad song and for a moment they actually listen
People actually listen to this misfit unimportant simple bird
This simple bird who wished she was so much more
And still so much less
She tried so hard to not be perfect, but to be happy
And only in her unrealistic dreams would she truly be happy
This poor bird was stuck being poked and prodded and watched everyday
Herself watching the rest of the world around her
Caged between life and death
Caged between beauty and disgust
Caged in a world of incompetence and love
Caged in her cell, landing perch and water bowl sitting there were they always were
Waiting for the door to open
Still caged
Apr 10, 2012
Apr 10, 2012 at 2:00 AM UTC
I think it’s actually real this time,
That I'm waking to sweet bird songs,
not the cancerous “Cuck-coo” from some clock at the end of her hall.
When I wake,
I want to see sunlight burning holes in window ledges,
feel the chill flowing down my cheeks
fighting the warmth falling up from my feet.
I want to smell that sick stench that says I stayed out one shot too late,
taste the combination of this and those that feel like trash behind my teeth.
Forget for that brief instant between this and what comes next,
That last night wasn't really love.
That the girl-on-my-right used to be the girl-who-could-ride
that too many drinks plus too many winks leads to "My place?"
No hers.
that too many drinks plus too little cash leads to "Taxi?"
Let’s walk.
That too many drinks plus two a.m. leads to, well,
You know.
Before falling asleep I feel ashamed at forgetting her name
turn on my side, close my eyes, and wait for the Sunrise.
Only to be roused by the of the **** cuckoo at the end hall.
I want to punch Daffy Duck in the face,
break the road-runner’s neck,
introduce Donald to rotisserie,
and tie Tweety to the tail of a cat.
All I think of is rage
I could burn the clock, burn the house, burn... burn out, and pass out.
This morning is real, it feels real, at least the hangover does.
Last night's emotions are technicolor fantasies, only as real as the beak on an animated bird.
The sun slips through the blinds and finds a rainbow trail of clothing,
starting at the door and ending with our own little *** of gold.
I roll out of her arms and slide down that road
turning it into a line of lacy wears.
Sneaking down the hallway I feel the sun’s warmth
and hear the birds chirping, calling me to the door.
Behind me, I hear the cantankerous pretender
crying from his wooden nest on the wall.
His sound almost as sorry as his message,
lamenting he can never break his cycle.
never can wake up and feel
what's actually real.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 4:51 AM UTC
your a magic fish.
you live in a tiny dish.
young people find you to make a wish.
im a crazy dog.
i carry a magic pog.
my house is a giant log.
i love to jog.
my best friend is a ***** hog.
he lives in an enchanted bog.
your a little bird named sweety.
you favorite hobby is to sing a little song tweety-tweet-tweety.
Aug 11, 2010
Aug 11, 2010 at 8:23 PM UTC
yeah you did
and now you don't
'cause this furry one
pulled the carpet
on the oldie and her
smashing umbrella
and finally
took his revenge
even texted it in 140 plain
characters or less
*yeah i ate the tweety
and it made me burp but
this putty tat taught the tage*
#thehellwiththebirdie
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 7:09 PM UTC
Dear Alcohol,
I can remember it all like it's happening now. The flashbacks are so real. The wallpaper on the wall. The exact stuffed animals on my bed and their positions. The wet towel on the floor. My Tweety bird comforter all neat and clean. The smell of Mr. Bubbles that filled my room. I was held down. My small bones cracking. My innocence taken at just age 12.
You came to me. You whispered in my ear "Drink me in I will take away your pain. I will keep your secret. Take those pills and cut your arms. I will help you commit suicide."
I ended up in the hospital three times because of you. The third time I almost didn't come through. I woke three days later with tubes down my throat. My perfect voice that used to sing opera is no longer there.
You lied to me. You made things worse. I no longer need you. My secret is out. Don't come to me and tell me I am not free. My life I wasted on you. All you tried to do was **** me.
No longer yours to take,
Sunny
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 10:12 AM UTC
I ain't lookin for anybody to save me
won't even accept the twirling garbage
that some women have tried to spoon
feed me after they figured out
I loved them in spite of the nasty ****
they confided in me.
You bet "I'll be your back door man"
and I'll actually possibly maybe wake
up the next morning without feeling any
kinda disgust towards you or myself since
I think I've thrown that unwanted baby
of puratinistic sticky ***** out the
window like I should've thrown out
my backwards medieval wanting for
a fairy tale called true love.
Yeah and life rolls on like a highway into
the pearly reflectors in the road
beckoning on into the dire consequences
of knowing that you want to love somebody
but understanding that all you will ever be
to that woman you've wanted to be with
for a year since you met her on accident
and that one day she found a yellow tweety bird
which had tried to **** itself on a glass building
we both worked in and you in your shyness refused
to pick up and put into a tree till she was gone;
is one weird ex-army ************ unless you
get you **** together and explain to her that
you don't want to be without her anymore.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 4:06 AM UTC
I wake
Sun warmed body,
curled next are my believers.
They want nothing more.
I reach out,
one stirs...reaching paw.
Purrrrrs....
she could exist without me.
She knows it,
My believers.
The dog...stretching out...long..
Yawns...
kisses...hello!
Sticking feet
in slippers..
warm day for
my bones.
Coffee for
this believer...
Come...
My believers
The sun outside
is supple warm
With a quiet breeze
Tweety birds
at the feeder
Sing hallelujah
I meditate
and imagine
Leonard Cohen
joining in
and smile...
I talk and say
sweet nothings
To my
sweet believers.
I close my eyes
I breathe
My believers
take their positions
around me
One at foot,
and lap and table.
I wake
Sun warmed body.
Curled next
are my believers.
They want nothing more.
Mar 31, 2019
Mar 31, 2019 at 12:27 PM UTC
While Tweety's well known for his chirp,
And Pluto's trademark is his slurp,
For human fame
One needs a name
Like Wyatt, who was known to bEarp.
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 9:38 PM UTC
Up in windows
Sways a birdcage
with a tweety-bird
singing to the cat so far below
with it's taunting song
it sings a song of tease
as the cat chirps back
claiming it's treat
The bird so high and mighty
does not consider the cat
to be more than a worm
but the cat
just sees a snake that can fly
a meal for the mites
Jan 3, 2019
Jan 3, 2019 at 10:27 PM UTC
coasting at the coast
cape runaway
beckons
just past the breaks
summer morning vista
seen from our bed
through sleepy
summer holiday eyes
still
I can see the foam
crashing on the rocks
that feed the churn
between the capes landfall
and rocky outcrop
I remember the thrill
first time I steered us
around those rocks
the strong current pulling
and rocking the boat
you too ******
to navigate us safely
first time I'd driven the boat
I remember
the powerful engines(2 twins)
straining against
the undertow
trying to pull us into
a rocky jagged death
you were oblivious
kept sliding your hand up my thigh
I could feel the bow
dipping toward the crag
then the boat being tossed
toward equally rocky foreshore
it was a push me pull you dance
you blissfully ignorant
hammered
reaching for another cold one
one hand trying to find a way
inside my shorts
I remember
having to put it in reverse
full throttle
then cut it quick
to roll out of the pit
with the flow of the undertow
then gun it to clear water
I remember
being mesmerised
enticed
by the eddied
turbulent water
I remember
thinking
I could just let it go
and dive overboard
alone
a strong sea swimmer
trained surf life saver
I remember
looking
seeing
the path through the rips
counting the beats
between the crashing waves
knowing
I could easily make it
alone
I'd swum through pain before
my shoulder still burned
you almost ripped it
out of the socket
my fingers traced the lump
and fissure
under my hair line
where you'd smashed my head
into the wooden door frame
over
and
over
your fist a handful
of my hair
seeing stars and tweety birds
tasting blood
from biting my lip
and my tongue
staying on my feet
refusing to crumple
before you
Christmas night
before we left for the coast
boxing day morning
at 6am
I remember
thinking
I don't love you anymore
I remember
thinking
youve made
a slaughterhouse
of our love
I remember
thinking
I'm better than you
than this urge
to hurt you back
so you'd understand
how deep you hurt me
I remember
thinking
I don't want to be like you
and steering us
both
safely home.
J.C. 13/09/2019. 12.22 am (Friday 13th)
Sep 12, 2019
Sep 12, 2019 at 8:33 AM UTC
a woman looking for a tongue!
they said your voice should not be heard
we need a woman without sound
then I asked my god
o lord, do I count?
and he answered me in short
raise your voice and shout
they said we need a perfect doll
walking and stopping when we want
but I am totally tweety bird
so, I whispered: no, I cannot
they said the good girl knows how to
close her mouth
she always pretends to ignore seeing
revolutions in the north
or in the south
the good girl used to crawl
she must hide the bright side of her soul
good girl hasn’t any right
or even fight for her vote
the good girl could not contemplate the faint light
in the middle of the road
they said we need a plastic woman
but, I act like a real woman
so, they cried “be shy”
but, I insisted to fly!
Mar 1, 2019
Mar 1, 2019 at 7:34 PM UTC