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Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
Foolscap
now I understand better,
the ironic humor of naming
the plain white paper before me,
where the construction commences,
the scratched surfaces, entrance ways into
the best I can hope to offer and having yet to write

                          foolscap

laugh out loud,
move over great ones,
this fool had tipped his cap,
betrayed his intention and attention,
he has a kitbag of raggedy jumbled words
as yet unassembled, and had all life to snap them
colored Lego pieces of his own design together in a way
that takes the un from unremarkable and so let this newbie

commencement be a beginning,
not an ending célèbre but a transition to
translating the heart and head and a storied vision
retained therein, treasure chested into an assemblage
pleasing to those who peek over the foolscap's shoulder

the snow has dappled doused my lower legs,
wet, does not creation commence in the wetness,
even slush that is the residue of the brilliance of snow
as a concept, even the slush, disdained and discarded,
***** grayed, from it will come my firsts, my births,
my ***** grayed, my beloved unbeloved,
sculpture of words that resound
across the better days to yet,
yet yet yet yet - a hundred
Yeats yets, sweet vets,
all I need is the first
word, so chosen,
so apropos,
foolscap


Foolscap - a type of inexpensive writing paper
Dedicated to those measured few here who have nurtured me with gentle pushes and sweet perfumed praise to push myself harder yet, push harder than I ever dared.
You know who you are.
Pray I please you.

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/596769/poet-in-trouble/
Paulo Mielmiczuk Dec 2015
I sing of unimportant affairs, boredom and melancholy.
I sing of detested feelings, suicide and misanthropy.
Though I'm not dead - and may never be
- otherwise people would reprobate and shout at me...
I still sing of egocentrism, disorders and whiskey...

I sing of unbeloved ones, the bereft and ******.
I sing of people that made me mourn, the last cup, the abandoned.
Though I'm not dead - and may never be
- otherwise people would say I'm selfish (because I'm free)...
I still sing of negativism, hate and tempestuous poetry.

I sing of commodism. I sing of understanding
we still dread to be dead, because sadness is not part of life - yet.
I sing of time and loss. I sing of vibration and liquefaction.

Still, I'm not part of Byron's generation, for my satisfaction.
I'm just a man who wants to change the misconception of sentiment.
I sing of darkness and suffering - sometimes too eloquent (in me).
Yenson Jun 2022
And from go you fight ***** twice over and ever
your trodden paws bleeds
Faceless aerated heads devouring masters voice
hunger guts your anger
Your inheritance a pittance soured in benevolence
mining salty dusts names
In foggy minds prancing in brawns breathing fire
asphyxiating blanched soot
venerating your helium orbs of vainglorious putsch

And so you fight ***** from your bequeathed dirt
the inglorious sermons
from your indistinguishable linages from the pits
Your tuneless despair
rings from your eunuchs shrews and your Fagins'
You spew irascible ditties
posturing legless from your cabals of marked cards
the yesterday's Bolsheviks
Always dysfunctional bridesmaids never the brides
Azure Sep 2022
It’s not that I’m boy
Crazy. Or desperate for a crush.
It’s just driving me
Crazy. That I’m so unbeloved.
And I don’t want to be a
Maybe. I want to feel like I’m enough.
Cause when it’s
Daily. There’s pain
in the absence of touch.

I’m not ******* boy crazy,
I just want to be loved.

— The End —