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raw with love May 2014
I know how to say
"I love you" in
English and French,
and Spanish and Italian,
and Russian and Bulgarian,
and Arabic and Dothraki
and High Valyrian,
and Klingon,
and in any other language
you ask,
I know how to
write "I love you"
in Gallifreyan and
Tengwar,
I know how to make up
a billion different poems
about my love for you.

But still, it won't make you
love me back. I somehow
was never enough for you.
You keep me awake every night
wondering why you left
and I think it's high time
I started looking up
how to say "I don't hate you",
"I've moved on", "I don't miss you"
and "I am okay" in all these
languages in which
"I love you" didn't matter.
ogdiddynash Jul 2017
No tengo - Spanish for don't have*

<•>

woke up bushy and mushy,
"Siri, get my muse on the line,"
wise *** asked which one,
guess she was feeling feisty
as well as girl-gorgeous,
poem perfect on a July 2 Sunday

fake growled and she said
"alright, alright, just a sec..."

"0 Muse, it's me,
it's not even seven am,
got the urge, ready to cruise,
pick me one of my Natman outfit de-skyizes and
let us write many jive poems
let us write till the sunsets texts us

sire, dude,
I'm
just above the horizon,
poems no mas,
unless you will write by
the fire of the maister's grill"

My Muse,
strangely morose, denies replies,

"sorry sire, (she's nice English)
all of the available words
have been purchased until
July twenty tooth"

What, I screamed, threatened and challenged,
must be one of those rude dude tech billionaires,
who think limitless is just another word for more please!

Siri
"get me god on the line so I can maccabee end,
this poetic oppression"

He/She an old friend,
an A list star of many prior writs,
would surely insist that a
special rabbinical dispensation,
could be found to squeeze nattyman me,
a few thousand or so

God  (looking straight at him, makes him crazy)

"so many things I do not have such as,
your prolificacy,
making me jealous that all your poets
rain down in greater quantities
than I can manufacture clear crystallinely
but now is the hour of your power,
the minute of my need,
give me some words please"

the disembodied voice's disemboweled me

"sorry son,
gotta run,
if it is words you want,
suggest get an in with
wordvango and betterdays,
me,  no tengo!
their profligacy,
poems by the hour
have drained the list,
and had I not put a stop to it,
they would have taken them all
till Christmas!"

*So made me some future reservations,
selling them likes suns, 3 for a dollar,
which is even cheaper, (Eliot!)
no ifs and ands about (it)
come see the maister natser,
my words are made of obsidian
and specialty Valyrian steel,
and nobody eats my words
they just-wink at them,
then lift some, a nice steal
cause I never read a poem
undeserving
RE Strayer May 2019
To this day
I will relish
The look on your face
When I took you down
With nothing more
Than a quiver of words
That struck truer
than dragon glass
Sharper
than Valyrian steel
Imagine
My surprise when
You didn't even shatter
Just fell to the ground
Because no matter
How badly
You wanted
To be my monster
Acting as though
You were indestructible

It turned out
You were nothing more

Than a very large
Shadow

Cast
By a very small man.

And you will burn all the same
Inspired by GOT, obviously lol
13 guns to make you realize that the bullet transpierces through you when you hold back,
13 wounds that mark the birthdate of the soldiers in your heart.
What if I told you that the pack of wolves you used to lead
have become some belligerent lunatics?
You were a Valyrian steel with a heartbeat,
a Northern light with a pulse.
Perhaps you were just in dire straits
when the racing bullets took you away under the hands of the ******.
13 fuzz pedals to take you home to your world of riffs and ****,
13 distortions to shield you from the noises you don't wanna hear.
Inclement dead hearts won't resurrect if they
still can't possess the
authoritative prowess to be an indestructible master of war.
13 bullets that you swallowed but you felt nothing
because 13 scythes of the lords of doom did no fear to you.
Your wolves have been wondering every single day since then;
how could you ever end that song?
And your vultures no longer could hear you sing
so they stopped spreading their wings.
Guns. Razors. Knives. Rocket Skates by Deftones.
That's a decent tune but I suppose those three gears are for battles
not for you to dismantle yourself.
13 razor blades that kept you away from consciousness,
and 13 IV tubes that left lost souls crying on your hospital bed.
At that time I realized
you were not just in dire straits
or your 6's and 7's.
The bullets that you swallowed then thrived into your heart in revolt
and it became a cancer.
I should have known.
Deftones girl, are you alright?
(You obviously are not.)
I'll play the song Rocket Skates again beside your deathbed
so that you'll wake up one day
and we would sing marches of heresy.
13 soldiers who continued the legacy of your unfinished song,
13 vultures that fly up high to your transcendental realm,
and 13 last songs from me to you.
Joseph S Pete May 2019
The long-running, much-celebrated show
turned out not to be a metaphor
for climate change, feminist empowerment
or anything anyone at all hoped for really.

The show turned out to be just a symbol for itself,
for failed institutions, institutional disappointments,
a theme mined by a much better HBO program
that ended its run years and years and years ago.

Viewers were up in arms everywhere over errant
character arcs, unearned twists, abandoned storylines,
forsaken backstories, squandered character development,
the burning detritus of lazy writing atop a pile of false promises.

Every institution fails you in the end.
In the end, no matter how much it seems like a marble pillar
or Valyrian steel forged in a furnace of dragonfire,
every institution ultimately fails you in the end.

— The End —