"uber" poems
I write to express,
Thoughts I can't suppress,
When something makes me depress,
When things happen in excess
Feels good to pen down, I Guess.
When I am alone,
I get in my own zone,
When my heart groan,
When I miss her skin and bone,
I write words expect them to make perfect tone.
When I am in a long Uber ride,
For sleeping I stride,
For you when my heart cried,
Writing something I tried.
Rhyming I applied.
This is how I write.
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 12:37 AM UTC
Your colors are so heavy, how dare I, I cannot sleep. Years inundated under, through skin coils, marigold fields. Yellow crocuses, orange California poppies. Moors of cattle ranchers, yokes of oxen. Plasticine uber-confidence, silky white-skinned testubular thrice people harmonies. Blisses of contagion, contagious bliss. Wrists and incisors, tying down in a bedroom, waking up to live harps and choruses. You dance like you're so alive, but I'm so alive I can't dance. Or breathe. Or knead my fists of earthen wears, or sell my soul completely. I drove off a cliff last night, but the four foot fall ended neatly. The plateau authors my chance to sew my bright, beyond- my fortunes. But the hour before I fall asleep, seems to be the greatest torture.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:54 AM UTC
Bravery
I thought I was brave
with the scars to prove it.
My legacy -
broken bones, split knuckles,
black eyes and loose teeth.
Adulation and respect.
I fought both man and isms
Never backed down.
But a black man, driving
an Uber taught me the truth of
true bravery.
Harassed, insulted, threatened by
a low-life passenger,
white racism covered in a cheap suit and tie,
he refused to take the bait.
He denied himself the pleasure of
justified violence.
He told me his story -
and anger for him, righteous indignation,
crashed over me in furious waves.
I admonished him for not
confronting that mans ignorance
with a closed and determined fist.
Never back down, right?
Gently, he spoke the truth of
black men in America.
His eyes caught mine in the rearview mirror.
You, he said, are innocent until proven guilty.
Protected by a system that
oppresses me.
I am guilty - period - and would be lucky
to be arrested, not killed,
in a confrontation with that bigot.
So he did nothing, let the swine in a tie
off at his destination,
and drove on - leaving that pig to
wallow in his hate.
His bravery earned him nothing.
No adulation. No respect. No recognition.
Nothing except another day of life.
Another day with his family.
In contrast - my lifetime of bravery.
A pale reflection, when set beside his truth.
He was brave, not I.
My self-styled bravery, forever
tainted
by my privilege.
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 11:53 AM UTC
Manning up in Texas
Geldof overdose
needles at the bed stand
starlet comatose
California dreaming
killer meets demise
hurling in a taxi
puke fee on the rise
Fighting in the Gaza
Jordan's holy war
rebels on a mission
Jihad underscore
The North Korean riddle
pales in grand design
crisis on the border
planes fall from the sky
Cooking on a deadline
tempting tapenades
herbs are in the spotlight
wines that give a nod
Google maps the body
DOW at record highs
Uber comes to market
corn is on the rise
Apple on its earnings
Caterpillar dead
European sanctions
banks have **** the bed
Clippers threaten boycott
Longhorns follow purge
Lynch is out of training camp
James is on the verge
Leinart taking *** shots
coughing up a lung
lions take a licking
fans are throwing dung
Another day in Vegas
Primm from A-Z
rolling out an ankle
a flying SUV
Quiet tempting spaces
made better by design
multi color pea coat
silence fuels the mind
Stabbing in the subway
goat caught in a well
apes are selling tickets
(but leave behind a smell)
Puberty on trial
a man without a head
teachers feel alone
lets take them to the shed!
Jonah's tomb destroyed
wreckage in Mumbai
Sugar Daddy sites
Freedom 85
The immigrant debate
Russia's mounting toll
unions on a mission
heads are gonna roll
Beaches for the nudists
hotels on the cheap
the best generic brands
a list you have to keep!
Planning your estate
questions from the camp
a mansion up for sale
where once they filmed The Champ
Midwives threaten action
aboriginal act
truckers want concessions
that train has left the track
Sharks are found in Fundy
a prized but perilous catch
food we love to hate the most
an irrefutable batch
A family on the brink
I want my kids to fail!
politicians drains all hope
a ban on Israel
Follow out each headline
let the columns be your guide
all these things did happen
the day that Newhouse died
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 10:29 AM UTC
This Love Song seemed like a safe place to unpack my ****
But a safe place is where Lyrics go to die.
And this is Not a Song.
and it starts like this. all the time.
II
i fella sleep in a widdle boat and told a seagull that i was having a dream
about talking to seagulls and he was astonished to have the pleasure of meeting a boat
that had the good sense to plug the hole with a poet…. because they never wake up
and they do so with extreme prejudice. that simply screams Resident.
In Fact!
He’d never even seen a boat. So there’s THAT. I offered Seagull “ The Cool -Side of The Pillow. “
So I could sit upright for a moment and jot this down. He was like “ What’s a pillow? “
And I had no idea what it was that brushed against my legs
but It was There. then It was Gone. when i stopped using the metaphor.
I was treading a fathom
of pixie dust and transgender proto-gods, all cuddling in a huddle of metaphysics
as adorable as a radioactive abrupt
stop.
III
Ah yes… someone was cooking bacon… and bacon is sleep’s kryptonite. so the dream was a wrap.
and i had a bird’s nest woven from the silk of my discarded cocoon. codename: Chrysalis.
and my mouth was dry. a stubborn dry that follows a deluge of phantasmagoria
on a Futon that is a God to cat hair. My Futon is Oblique and Omnipotent.
Apparently.
Uber Mecca for Cat Hair. I fell asleep on that.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 7:59 PM UTC
Today
Its bright and sunny
Not same
The last 3 days .
A relative , passing away
Never whom I met
A pall of gloom, yet .
Today
Husband would be back from tour
A day before
Stuck he was in the heavy downpour
And flooded Mumbai roads .
My heart sank,
Reminded of the deluge
Year 2005, July 26th
And
Stuck he was in a similar situation
Residents of Mumbai, then we were.
A Day before
He had a long day ahead
Asked the driver to leave
Only to return by evening .
The driver with no return route
And
The hotel a few Kms away
Not a single Ola Uber
Around the corner
Added to the bother.
A good 40 minutes walk
In waist high water
Followed by a bus ride
Hotel ,he managed to reach .
And hopefully ,
The Mumbaikars to their homes
Who waded along
Helping each other in the murky waters.
Yes 'The SPIRIT Of MUMBAI'
Not to be missed
Come Rains or Terrorists
Mumbaikars with help , do outreach.
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 8:05 AM UTC
crisp atmosphere, special ordered
for perfect pumpkin patching, apple picking,
stout sweaters all, a blueish autumnal sky,
orange 'n red leaves delivered on time
the old uber-man-grand-pa,
hired as a day driver,
saddles them up,
three generations all tucked in a
repeating mise en scène
a replay of some thirty years earlier,
when the now-father
was about the same age,
as his boy, three years aged
and yet so impatient
asking the same question
his father perfected,
in the same sweet voice,
at about the same time,
in the same way,
a little voice from deep in
the cavernous back seat,
sighing, squeaking with an
I've-seen-it-all ennui,
some mere five minutes into
the hour's plus journey
to the 'country' bound
"are we there yet?"
titters 'n snickers from assorted adults,
but grandpa weeps words with composition instant,
so many answers to such an important question,
so serious that an admission, confession
required, due you,
grandpa still asks the same question
every day of his life
it's Sunday and longish poems per Yeoman,
strictly verboten,
God knows there's an essay unwritten
as the answer, a symphonette with
a thousand opus, by-your-command repertoire,
a pumpkin for every patch,
some answers that even may be a
young prince's carriage in hiding
but for now let this suffice,
sometimes yes, sometimes no,
and sometimes, the goal line just goes and moves on ya
so with utmost seriousness
a purposed thoughtfulness proposed,
posing said inquiry knows no age limitation,
if you have not asked of yourself this day,
"are we there yet?”
then the answer is surely,
not yet
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 5:14 PM UTC
i wanted to write a poem
about your curls
and how they made my heart
beat like a drum played by a five-year old
who had chocolate cake for lunch
how my fingers were fighting each other
and fighting the urge
to tangle with yours and
make their way to that
chocolate colored head of yours
and get tangled in it too
and i wanted to write a poem
of how much i wanted to be like Cinderella
and leave something behind
with the hopes that you’d call me back
something like a notebook or my
polka-dotted waterbottle
but i guess the only thing i left
was a tiny little part of my heart
on the backseat of your car
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 6:39 PM UTC
Better natured today than yesterday,
smelling less like cigarettes and more
like laundry detergent, you sit across
from your therapist at the bar and
ask for one more boilermaker.
You say, How do you desire what you already possess?
And your therapist says, Don't go down that drunk.
That's a bad drunk.
You're in a floral print A-line dress, one
you bought from your sister-in-law.
She's doing one of those multilevel marketing things
and though her Facebook posts make you want
to suicide yourself, she's happy and independent
and at home with her kids. Despite these lukewarm
feelings, you harbor some resentment as you finger
and thumb a seam that's already coming undone.
Sloane. Your husband keeps mentioning a woman
at the office named Sloane. You're at the bar,
almost alone, and promised yourself
you wouldn't think about Sloane. But here you are.
Sloane in a pencil skirt and stockings. Sloane
with a fresh ****** energy, the kind you can't
seem to summon, and you wonder why ***
is such an important thing. It's so brief,
forgettable, full of abject compromise.
*** is an inherently violent act, don't you think?
You say to the therapist.
If your therapist hears you, he doesn't respond.
You don't repeat the question.
You watch yourself broadcast on the TV above the bar.
They're commenting on your hair and your arms
and going on and on about your likability.
Your therapist changes the mood. It's 6:30.
He gives the place a nighttime feel.
He kills a row of lights and turns on the
colored bulbs, the blues and greens.
The TV is turned down. The music is turned up.
This is what you've been waiting for, the lights, the music.
There's an hour before anyone really shows up. You can
close your eyes and drift.
Two or three drinks pass. A couple walks in.
You have your therapist put in for an Uber.
Maybe I've been asking the question the wrong way, you say.
Oh yeah? the therapist says.
Yeah. Maybe the question should be reversed.
Maybe the question should be
how do you remain desirable to the objects you possess?
That seems like a lot of work. Seems like you'd have no
sense of self. You'd always be bending.
I've been a plus one for a long time.
You say bending. But I wouldn't be
doing anything new. I already do all these things.
But I see them as a compromise. I'm just trying
to reframe, you know?
Why? your therapist asks.
You open your mouth and find no words. You smile. You say you've had too much. You're rambling. You're sorry. You better go.
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 12:15 PM UTC
Joe without his legs
Wheelchair, bedside G.I.
At a meeting
Ruminating and feeling
It’s like A.A.
Rehabilitation games
The system plays War
Craft with missing halves
PTSD R e s p e c t
That ain’t the half
Of the stink and the taint
Sniffing glue
Replacing chipped paint
Joe only worries
If there’s somewheres
To be
After rehab
Need a Lyft Uber quick
Downtown a ton to do
Joe worries arriving in 12 steps
Sponsor anonymously
Befriend responsibly
Joe worries
Like long time buds
His legs
That they won’t work
Like they did back when
He got laid
And was paid
By way of Vietnam
And ****** Uncle Sam.
Joe worries
Of wheelchair accesses
His favorite places without
Doors he’d like to
Fit in
And go on
Normally
Accepted
To be loved like a brother
That no one knew
And no one seems or cares to
Joe feels like
A third wheel
A phantom limb
Who’s bucket list is to
“Invest in the Google”
“Learn how to use
The cloud”
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 1:50 PM UTC
i hope, i try to hope
--to believe--
believe me, i try
to trust in trust i think i feel, or think or know
there isn't any code that satisfies
though maybe there's an uber-uber-ultra-meta code beyond what even codes can mean?
meh.
i enjoy the hypothetical,
Paris in a bottle, fairness for all sentient beings, faith in nothing comprehensible,
an English teapot circles Jove from afar
or all that's uncontrollable, for some all-purpose good to decorate the brackish, ocean truth.
and uncertain science is another case,
mistrusting all, testing daring thoughts with razor sight,
to sharpen speech and challenge all
to flex the truth into a fitness ground on which to stand, objective stern
and method doubt to peer and scan the detail bare, denude minutiae
into ever smaller parts, expanse of raw and empty space attuned,
to vibrant nothingness rebound
muons, gluons, tauons, quarks and bosons --Higgs the boon for popular appeal,
to bridge or monumentalize the science-mystic gap
appall the ghosts that Galileo keeps for company
i enjoy the fantasy,
dragons in a flask, perfect love for all, dancing in the dark in joy regardless of the shutter thicken dust
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 12:39 AM UTC
There was a homeless lady,
one afternoon, outside the hospital.
Was she homeless? I don’t know.
She had a ladened shopping cart,
which, on TV, is kind of a signature.
We were inside, waiting for an Uber.
She was outside, in chiaroscuro relief.
Dressed in bright, multilayered, mismatched
florals and brocades, she reminded me
of a gypsy. There are still gypsy caravans
in France. Are there gypsies in America?
She wore boots and long strings of beaded jewelry.
They would have had to have been glass, I supposed,
but tinseled with the glitter of those pop spangles,
she looked, en bloc, the richest and the poorest of us.
She wasn’t young and she wasn’t old. She sat alone,
on a short retaining wall, her cart within guarded reach.
I noticed her because every time I glanced over, she
was watching me with the dark unblinking eyes of a bird.
She had an easy confidence, in the wild, sitting safe
and protected by her clam, obstinate shell of boredom.
What must I look like to her - with her tangled hair
and unwashed face? Me in my permanent pressed
hospital wear, diminished by over-washing. A doll
behind glass, whose whole life is patterned by plans?
Our Uber pulled up, the number matched and as Lisa
opened the car door, I gathered my things and looked
back but the gypsy lady was gone, leaving a blank space.
Jun 11, 2023
Jun 11, 2023 at 10:29 PM UTC
i'm walking down the street
bare feet, without a care
**** uber, metro, I hate public transportation,
i'm dirtying up this sidewalk, for a few years already
i'm writing down a will, in my mind, close to my eyelids,
because i'm on the wrong side of my mind
i feel sick, tasting the bitterness of humanity
when I wipe mankind on the side of the pavement,
at the very deep, there's masculinity mixed with *****
i'm walking down a bridge full of empty shells
i pass hordes of girls who are smiling insincerely
and again, i feel a boost in my veins
and again, i'm louder than mirrors
and as in the mirrors, voidness space,
and it is me, who takes the best from it
i absorb this poisoned air.
In the ears of mine, i can hear electro heat,
i feel like one man one Jean-Michel Jarre,
rain is pouring through me, sticks to me like fog,
i wrap myself in the warmth of two MDMA's,
someone glances surreptitiously and steals my soul,
you have a backpack full of cash, i have a suitcase full of emotions,
i'm going on a journey through the cursed city
like a hermaphrodite with a broken rod,
streets, like stigmas, cry with hollow screams,
in front of clubs content abortions on the sidewalk,
let's leave this lie, like the walking dead
assertiveness and pride to the gutter washed away.
And again, this booster is kindling my veins
i'm dirtier than a new jerusalem
and similar to it, i'm sticking to everything
and so I'm taking the most out of my heart
and I absorb this poisoned air once again.
and so the booster flows through the aorta
it is flooding my tarred heart,
destination reached.
and my wallet is shimmering with bitter crystal
nothing will change the course of this chemistry,
betrayed. betrayed by their own bodies
vidi, no vici, veni on its own,
and i'm catching a laugh, standing still in the subway
i am still absorbing poisoned air.
hatred.
jealousy.
i've seen enough.
today, in my city, sun rises in the morning.
you will remember this day forever or forget it for eternity.
Jan 4, 2019
Jan 4, 2019 at 4:43 PM UTC
currently wishing
my uber driver would shut the **** up for half a minute
I just want to listen
to Joy Division
in silence;
with nothing
but the pressure
of my inescapable apathy
please shut up;
I really don't care
that two children were hit
by a tractor trailer this morning,
only a bit jealous.
I never thought I'd meet
someone as lonely as me,
but the continual conversation
that you regurgitate
proves otherwise.
I wish I could be
taken out
by a tractor trailer -
at this point,
I'll settle for anything.
uh-huh
yeah
really
no way
I feel as though this trip
is a metaphor
for my waking life:
just a blur of scenery
flying by,
while a stranger
makes noises at my depression -
and I just,
uh-huh
yeah
really
no way
I hate how
I hate everything
hate
how lonely I am
how regardless
of who
surrounds me,
comforts me,
loves me,
I still feel like I'm alone
welcome to the void
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 11:55 PM UTC
Called a cab
It had to be Yellow
Checkered at least
A rumble seat
Old school,
an Uber
it
just wouldn't do.
The cabbie asked me
What's your destination?
Take me to the end of time,
I don't think it's on your GPS
Do you know the ride?
He hit the meter
never replied
Looking out the window
Saw it all fly by
When we arrived
I was surprised
No charge, he said
for this ride.
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 9:48 PM UTC
We order a mushroom-cheese omelet
Now see you’re the kind of guy who eats jam on toast
And I’m the kind of girl who doesn’t eat toast as all
So when the plate comes, I give you both pieces of toast
And you spread the strawberry jam on it
While I’m busy cutting the omelet in half
But before taking a bite of anything
We both pick up a hashbrown simultaneously
As if somehow we’d planned the entire thing
And we both take a bite of it and
We love it
It’s cooked to perfection and potatoes are my weakness
Back to the omlet though,
So I’m not that great at cutting
And the omelet cut unevenly in half
So you take the smaller piece
Even though you’re bigger than me
And I steal the bigger piece
Even though I’m smaller than you
And you eat your half in three bites
While I’m struggling with mine
And the string cheese is caught somewhere between
My fingers, my mouth and the plate
And it takes me a while to eat
About twenty bites in, there’s no way I can eat more
So I ask you to eat what’s leftover
I guess I should have given you the bigger half to begin with
But I guess that’s just how we work
Where you’ll always take the smaller portion
But end up eating most of the food
Because I’ll always take the bigger portion
And leave most of it untouched
You eat my leftovers in two bites
And the coffee arrives
I almost knock over your espresso
While reaching for the complimentary cookie
I eat my cookie
And then I eat half of yours too
And by this time I’m pretty full
But I see a sign for a free cookie
And I want it
You don’t really care for it but you laugh
Because you haven’t seen me want anything as bad
As the cookie (it's free!)
And so you get me the free cookie
And I’m too full to eat it
So I put it in my bag
Very proudly; it’s my success for the day
I finish my Americano faster than you finish your single shot espresso
So you give me a sip of yours
But you drop a few drops on me
And now my pants look like they have blood stains
And I smell of espresso
And you’re trying to clean it with a tissue
But the waiter thinks we’re doing something naughty
So I tell you to stop
And even if we were doing something naughty
Who’s the waiter to say anything anyways
Anyways
So we finish out coffee and we call for an uber
And my pants are stained
And I’m carrying my cookie
And I don’t think I’ve ever been happier
While we wait for the uber
You steal my glasses
And you try them on
They look funny on you
I like them on you
I think I like you
And you can’t see anything
And I can’t see anything either
Except for your outline
That’s enough for me
So the uber comes
And he calls us
And we’re leaving
At the counter you pay
And I see a Nutella cookie in the window
I want it
But you just paid for breakfast
So I’ll keep quiet
We sit in the car
And I put on pomegranate lipbalm
And I give you some too
Your lips look nice and soft now
And I think today has been a really great day
And I think you fit me well
Because you love toast and I leave toast
And it works out
(except for that baked tomato no one ate)
But look the point is
Is that we work
Well.
And we squish in the back of an uber
And guess what?
The seat was made for two.
We ordered a mushroom-cheese omelet
It was a good day
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 10:35 AM UTC
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 .
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 7:42 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret,Kenya;[email protected])
Du stellen mir zu lieben sie
Und ich geben du liebe
Du stellen mir zu geben
Du frauen und kindred
Aber ich du geben Familie
Du stellen mir meine name
Und sprachen du meine surname
Du stellen mir stabilitat
Aber ich geben du stutze
Du stellen mir respekt
Aber ich geben du genug und alles
Du stellen mir ***
Aber ich geben du liebe
Ich habe geben du sorgfalt
Ganzen die zeit von sie leben
Aber du habe nicht sprachen
Danken uber mir
Du sie sehr bohse
Vergnugen !
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 8:32 AM UTC
Midnight eyes, a sad seduction
to parlor jazz, ads burn through windows
rolled up tight on Lincoln Drive,
the skyline drips and sighs with pleasure.
You and I could sleep all night
on our Uber ride to the towers
(we never mind the drunken fight,
we never mind the complications).
Lightning loves the tallest trees, and
you and I? A redwood forest.
But what is love without the static?
(A dead-eyed kiss, a glance at strangers).
Pale, the art that imitates us.
Lungs collapse with rampant laughter.
(We pay no heed to warning signs,
we pay no mind to hidden danger).
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 2:44 PM UTC
Deep Drops Falling From The Sky
Such Amazing Diamonds Shining Bright
From A Dark Cloud Writs Goodbye
Opens A Crack In The Dark To See Light
Goes Far Beyond Life And Thousand Of Lies
The Light Collids With Darkness In Such A Fight
The Battle Begins, Then The Battle Cries
There Is No Line Between The Wrong And Right
It's A Promise I Gave You Till I Die
I'll Keep It Till My Heart Sees The Darkest Night
Till I Stop Asking The Same Question -Why?-
Till The Last Breath To Lose My Might
To Meet Your Face With My Closed Eyes
When My Spirit Holds My Body Tight
But He Hears The Words He Should Fly
Losing Weight, To Look Around From Hight
Babe The Whole Life With You Was Just One Sight
Then I Lost It For Another One To See Your Eyes
Babe The Whole Life Before You Was Just One Sight
Then I Lost My Soul When You Killed Me With Your Knife
The First Part Of The Picture From Your Humour
Babe, I'm Bleeding So Hard, And I Will Be Gone Sooner
Acting Out Fights Every Second With Your Lover
The Second Part Of The Picture, Is A Mockery
A Pause For The Relation To Cheat With An Uber
Sorry Words Won't Heal, And This Situation Is Over
But Make Sure After Death Everything Will Be Smoother
Your Angel Face Was The Best Cover For A ******
But I Will Always Love You On This World Or Another
Even If I Was Still In The Womb Of My Mother
No Choice For Me If The Heart Choosed His Slaughter
You Are Just Like A Drug, And I'm The Consumer
Babe The Whole Life With You Was Just One Sight
Then I Lost It For Another One To See Your Eyes
Babe The Whole Life Before You Was Just One Sight
Then I Lost My Soul When You Killed Me With Your Knife
Such A Dark Sky Covers The World Hard To Hit
The Storm Blows The Air For The 1st Time To Speak
While The Thunder Is Just Another Element To Fit
Falling In Hell, On My Eyes All Gone Bleak
Stone Cold Heart As Harsh Ice While Fire Lit
To Dissolve In Seven Days To Make The Week
There Is No Chance To Fight Or Try To Resist
It's Just A Poison, Was Made Well To Be My Drink
Babe The Whole Life With You Was Just One Sight
Then I Lost It For Another One To See Your Eyes
Babe The Whole Life Before You Was Just One Sight
Then I Lost My Soul When You Killed Me With Your Knife
Author/ Aladdin Aures HAMDI
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 10:55 AM UTC
If God made us the way we are, then what's to stop us from being gay?
Did you know that gay used to mean happy
In ancient times
Ancient, as in just a few years ago, when people were more civilized then us now
When they were afraid to speak up in fear of retaliation
It is no wonder that now, those who are out of the closet, are drunk on grandiose
When the uber religious try to shove their beliefs down your windpipe
Until it is so deeply embedded that no amount of surgery could take it out
If God hates us, then why would he have made us so perfect?
Who's to say it's even a he; when he could be a she
If the queen of all species hates us, then why did she create rainbows? Those same rainbows you let your children enjoy, the same rainbow colored toys that you insist are teaching your snot monster to be "gay"
Instead of worrying over how to survive that day, take the time to sit at home and relax
Drink away your stress with coffee or alcohol that burns not only your tongue but your body and runs an electrifying course like a river after a storm until it reaches your toes and back up to create chemical reactions in your brain; savor the bitter taste it leaves in your mouth and compare it to your past
Watch tv that is so lame you cannot help but laugh at the terrible irony and puns
Cry over somebody who does not love you and then go out and find someone who does
The point is, you are gay and they are not
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 10:52 AM UTC
<•>
Good Acts are like Good Poems
*"Good acts are like good poems.
One may easily get their drift,
but they are not rationally understood"*
Albert Einstein
Ach, mein guter Kumpel!
Ach, mein bester Freund!
how could I not have known,
the syncopation, the synchronization,
between what I write, and the impetuous impetus within,
that caustic sense that burns words
from my chest
directly onto the paper
are more than correlated,
even causation-ally related
after all, you, naturally, the master of relativity
but you know me Al,^
I, the quibbler from NYC*
have to have a slightly different take,
in my gemeinschaft city of eight million strangers,
we always must have eight million and one
opinions
true dat, when I am on the fifth or sixth stanza,
realizing got no clue what the poem is rambling about,
but it sounds so good, lovely, pretty words,
why ***** it up with scientific rationality?
but good acts are easy, uber understood,
rationally we live to survive and
do what we to
make the species survive, common sense triumphs,
disguised as sacrifice, forgetting to roll the dice,
doing what comes like a good poem,
and what needs doing or writing
is so intuitively obvious,
just love poetry,
a global necessity
so check out Houston in two thousand and seventeen
here's hoping life in heaven ain't boring
know that you've seen, peeked, peaked,
at the theory of everything,
resolving the contradictions
between general laws of physics
and those pesky tiny quantum mechanicals,
even solving that 'other' equation
GA = GP
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 6:53 PM UTC