"vendetta" poems
A wind blows like a wilderness of wolves
A vendetta, an apocalyptic vendetta
In its unpredictable, accidental quality
That swerves images of realization into tragedy
Neglecting all with swift intent upon a fallen fortress
In complected interests of caresses
Neither invited nor encouraged yet displayed
Displayed vividly with exclusive claim to that oppression
That howls by casting itself as a consequence of transgression
Upon a conventional expectation that claims a privileged sense
That persuades without an orator grotesquely amputated shapes
Extending extraordinary artifice as its priceless wealth
But who, yes who, has envy of so rich a nothing
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 12:23 PM UTC
You are a complication
a welcomed conundrum
our passion is mutilation
your desire a dungeon
The dilemma of us
a selfish cycle
a vendetta of trust
soft touch feels spiteful
Inevitable tragedy
so deliciously inviting
a seductive catastrophe
are we loving or fighting
my heavy mind
dragged behind me
a devilish heart
out to blind me
Love me problematically
I accept your burden
adore me traumatically
bittersweet like my bourbon
so torture me until I smile
: )
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 11:49 AM UTC
My little Dahlia,
My little Dahlia.
How fair you do bloom.
So pure white,
So pure white.
Brighter than the sun at noon.
Smile so bright,
Smile so bright.
The sight of you brings me joy.
So happy,
So happy.
Happier than I child with a toy.
My little Dahlia,
My little Dahlia.
So sun begins to set.
It is so late,
It is so late.
The moon brings us to bed.
Though a quiet scream,
Though a quiet scream.
My Dahlia for I cannot see you.
I am so scared,
I am so scared.
My Dahlia, where's the sky so blue?
What happened to you,
What happened to you.
Your white innocence had changed to dark.
Woe is me,
Woe is me.
My love is covered in red as blood.
Vengeance is mine,
Vengeance is mine.
V stands for Vendetta.
Your passion so red.
My red one to wed.
I'll paint you picture perfect in your grave.
With knife and blade.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 1:24 PM UTC
i'm living on a solitary prayer
vandalized my ego to make it rare
with teeth stained with lies i've told
and promises lost in the cold
i tussle and taser to hide my lovers
and all that i am - a mess or tastemaker
sprinkling tersely on my mercy seat
will make my season go complete?
i pull the labrys & the throttle
artefact-sprites in uranium soil
declaring my truth atop of the flagpole
i'm the custodian of haute culture
a flotilla of judgment riding skyhigh
like dido's love-lachrymose down demise
they say "better rethink your useless vendetta"
but first we'd better get out of their siberia
where the masses doubt the angry fix
"ignore the (g/h)aze above the pyramid
if we only couldn't have any more
locked in dominican ****** wards
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 6:21 PM UTC
Bad blood.
Yes, that's the substance
That appears to be touring amongst us
Stains of a silent vendetta
Howling against my cranium
Classically, such a rhythm dances
With a carelessly, continuous tune
Am I but an indefinite design
In this fearsome game?
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 6:56 AM UTC
Humorless soul burning plunder
Of fraternity and success
By unnamed ,unseen blood and flesh
Escaping through unimaginable pits of hell
Not leaving a folklore,a story to tell.
A new decease spreading through mankind
From a single human body
Frightening name, shrieking mankind
Whenever this disease comes in contact with them.
Appropriately a plague
Running in tempt
Spreading to face
Something like vendetta ,something unsafe.
Entering into new age
Through the plague of dissatisfaction
Morose ,cruel,not leaving a fly unhurt
Being risen as group of beasts...
Dissatisfaction,a word which shouldn't exist
Flows now through the blood stream of every body
Leaving poison to spread
From toe to head
Keeping love in custody.
Why this plague of dissatisfaction?
Why an unturned page?
why this spread of cruelty?
Why not try but fail?
Unanswerable questions,i think these are for me...
I'll just sit and stare at the poem as the
Plague of dissatisfaction spreads till eternity.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 11:39 PM UTC
Broken Boy, Broken Boy, Please do not cry!
Your eyes is filled with terrified tears.
Can you see your father is nearby?
His eyes burns with the fury of Ares-
Causes your spirit to whimper in fear.
Like fragile porcelain dolls been shattered,
He brutally beats your bruised body-
Leaves your spirit broken and battered
Broken Boy, Broken Boy, Please do not cry!
Oh be a sweet darling good boy and listen!
Can you hear the sound of your father’s fist crunch?
Drowning in deluge of emotional distress,
Your eyes has lost its innocent glisten.
With each punch,
Your aura of gentleness gradually dies.
Your heart cold like gargoyles in fortress
Broken Boy, Broken Boy, Please do not cry!
The Broken Boy has now become a Man.
His haughty handsome face sneers with disdain.
His soul now barren as the desert of Afghan.
His subconscious mind haunted by past pain.
Lost in the wilderness of his own wrath,
His breath is drunk with the taste of violence,
Has he grown up to be a psychopath?
Broken Boy, Broken Boy, Please do not cry!
You have become a man of vendetta!
Following the footsteps of your father-
Belt your boy till his skin turns magenta-
His affection for you begins to languish.
This abuse is a never-ending cancer.
Like you, your son shall wear a mask of anger
To camouflage his heart’s suppressed anguish.
Broken Boy giving birth to another Broken Boy
Will the curse of Broken Boy ever end?
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 10:53 AM UTC
I am the young girl running around the house,
looking for the pony,
on Christmas morning,
while the ship is slowly sinking,
in a manure flavored sea.
I am the armless tennis player that
is convinced he will defeat Roger
in less than an hour,
using just one ball, over and over again.
I am Roy Wright at the beginning of the trial,
with a big stupid smile in my pocket,
and a tinny black book in my soul.
I am the faithful survivor of unfaithfulness
and I will be the one that lands on his feet,
in Scottsboro heaven.
I am Bartolomeo V, the one with no vendetta,
having a croissant,
waiting for Nicola to shave, before we take off in one of
Rothko's paintings. May the 5th be
with the ones who actually did it.. and, you know what?
I honestly think Cronaca Sovversiva is a great title,
even though I haven't read the ******
thing and I have no sympathy,
whatsoever, for any anarchist.
Hell! It's hard for me getting my **** together in complete order. I don't want to think what would become of me
in complete anarchy.
I am the one that wakes up every day
with a stupid smile under his nose,
not remembering the scent of yesterday's failure.
The one that starts dreaming as soon as he gets up,
ignoring the fact that he might be an ignorant
*****
with no desire to go to outer space,
but with huge hopes up his sleeve for
M. Damon and his agricultural knowledge.
I am in favor of all fancy schmancy Earth saving knowledge,
and I am aware that all that space debris in my head
will do some serious damage one day.
If they ever figure out how to get it all in.
I am the tic, that will come after the tac-toe, this time, and not the other way around!
the encore of every good concert,
the yin for the panda ****
the slim leg for the flamingo,
the gambler,
the rambler,
the day rider.
I am the Syrian boy that just learned to swim and
all of this infinite blue soup
is nothing more than a Saturday stroll.
I will get in the back of that truck and I will breathe
the purest air that someone could ever breathe,
I will sleep the sleep of reason and monsters will not be produced.
You have my word!
I am the skin before the needle shoots up
all its ink.
I will be perky. I will be green.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 5:58 AM UTC
so
here we Are:
Arnold......Shortman,
Shorty......Meeks,
Mr......Meeseeks,
Ezekiel......Whitmore.
Morphine,,,,,,Morpheus,
Neo......Geo,
OG......Sour,
Sour......Diesel.
DeeDee's......Brother,
Cousin......Vinny,
Vinny's......Lover,
Brothers......Grimm.
Grim......adVentures,
Billy......Madison,
Hansel,,,,,,Gretel,
Chelsea......Grin.
Grimace,,,,,,Misery,
Mister......eBonic,
Bonny,,,,,,Clyde,
Kyle,,,,,,Kenny.
Kenny......Powers,
Powder Puff Girls,
"Girls Girls Girls",
Girls Gone Wild.
Wilee......Coyote,
Coyote......Ugly,
Ugly......Betty,
Betty......Crocker.
Doctor......Parnassus,
Doctor......Krieger,
Doctor......Horrible,
Doctor......Evil.
Evil......Knievel,
Felix......the Cat,
Captain Jack Sparrow:
"Captain......my Captain".
Tinman,,,,,,Scarecrow,
"Rowrow Rowyer Boat",
Bo......Burnham,
Earnest,,,,,,Vern.
Verdict,,,,,,Votive,
deVotion,,,,,,Vengeance,
aVenging......Evey,
V,,,,,,Vendetta.
Denace......the Menace,
Crystal......Globes,
Snow,,,,,,Aesthetics:
Skeletal......Shedding.
Head,,,,,,Tail,
Sally,,,,,,Jack,
Jack......Rabbits,
Magic......Hatters.
Shattered......Glass,
Glasgow......Smile,
Guile,,,,,,Vega,
Akuma,,,,,,Ryu.
You,,,,,,Me,
Beneath......the Bleacher:
Jeepers,,,,,,Creepers,
Reapers......of Seeds.
Seeds......of Chucky,
Chuckie......Finster,
Principal......Muriel,
Yuri......Gagarin.
© Copyrighted Jesse James Adams
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC
Life is a writhing swirl who's information is meaningful but the information does not exist for the purpose of being comprehended so it is only taken in and interpreted as well or as usefully as the perceptive devices.
Nothing significant has a vendetta against the individual beings' happiness or success, though beings may appear as food or some other form of fulfillment to other beings. Beings will view other beings as their appetites would view any other thing. No one can exist in the view of another. Don't expect others to view you as you do. You are NOT their center, only your own.
Everybody thinks everybody else is insufferably selfish and everybody is right.
Love is interesting though. More on that after more data is collected.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 12:24 PM UTC
They say no matter
How crazy your mother becomes
You're suppose to love her all the same
Yet when your the victim
Intestines scattered across the floors
Testicles torn from your body
Deprived of manhood
You look at her and simply think
"I'm a victim to your insanity"
You contemplate the vengeance
Venture forth on a Vendetta
For the safety of huMANity
Because who knows how many
Nuts she will crack
She's the Nutcracker from a horror film
Many nut shells left in her wake
Unfortunately we are all victims
To somebody's insanity
Whether it be our own
Or our manhood depriving mother
In the end you still have to grow a pair
To survive any kind of insanity
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 1:18 AM UTC
*If you have sinned on Earth.
I'll make you pay for it on Earth itself.
Hell's way too far and too vague for the eyes.*
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 10:17 AM UTC
I.
The pen
Taps
Against my leadened desk,
All reverberating echoes and
Roaring staccatos:
Something to keep the soldiers
Rooted
In the chalkboard trenches alive-
A cackling reminder of
Freedom.
II.
Peeled away is the blissful world of
Morphine-addled haze
And round edges
The smell of pine trees
And Monday Vendetta.
Up in smoke.
Offered to the gods.
The great big furnace in the sky—
I carry them with me in an ashen urn.
As the days pass
A rhythmic stutter
Lumps
At the bottom of my throat.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 8:35 AM UTC
As the hail makes love to the streets
I query its vendetta with I
What had I done to be defamed
By such unforeseen chagrin
The sound ‘tis the ****** of the horizon
Echoes that of a violinist scarred by ****** mortification
The harmony plays in quite a lovely manner
Could hook one quickly if not careful
Appeased I sit in a wooden, black chair
And saturate in fine rock refrains
A pacifying compensation if I may say
A scripted version of hell
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 8:48 PM UTC
a partial lobotomy of grey matters only to broken mothers of lost soldiers,
pentimento fading a revelation of humanized
modernized sentiment beyond the reaches of fingerless hands;
jagged bangs cut across the face of Burn-Victim Barbie if she were
seven feet tall,
imperfect,
9-dimensional shattered knees.
vote or die downward spiral protecing six-fingered man of mystery:
my name is the youth of America,
you killed my voice,
prepare to suffer in the solitary expression of the empty room.
peanuts for peanuts in a gold star self emporium with
thinking as a feeling sport contested by numerology in all matters moral.
Our very own
Satan as Hamlet,
set in a post-9/11 forgotten Washington,
drowning Ophelia in an ocean of plastic bottles non-recyclable.
meditation of the Om on a springboard of economic dis-stimulus:
up with the people!
in the midnight Vendetta,
too young to learn or sin originally,
masterful drunkenness shrouded in opera scenes from a hat.
fast track to a treble cliff diver
if you ever were my home.
Mar 12, 2011
Mar 12, 2011 at 10:39 PM UTC
Empress won’t impress
just to please
With a vendetta against aggression
she brings violence to its knees
Tiger striped thighs tantalise
though single handedly she
plays tonight
on a mission, led by zebra striped eyes
she rides the northern lights
Peace and presence, her only weapon
an Empress needn’t corruption to threaten
Jan 11, 2021
Jan 11, 2021 at 5:09 PM UTC
You treated me like I was your toy,
I had plans to become your boy,
I thought of what all,
But never imagined this fall.
The fall of our love,
The fall I will serve,
This isn’t what I deserve,
I thought our love could preserve.
Yet we are standing here,
With eyes full of tears,
We could have been peers,
If you had kept me as your dear.
Instead, you asked me to help you,
I thought this was to grow closer,
But you were just my player,
and your game ---a love slayer.
I would give you that,
You are a very good liar,
And I am just a cryer,
Now start finding your new buyer
Wrong is what I am not,
for even after your plot
My heart still loves you,
All it is perceives blue.
Are you happy now,
After treating me like a cow,
Is your personal vendetta complete,
can I find someone else to please.
But I will still ask you,
Why did you choose me,
What made me a key,
What is that you plea?
When I see your photo,
Tears fill my eyes,
my hairs start to rise,
While my mind still ask---
“Why me?”
My love for you was true
But you treated me like your crew
Now I need something strong to brew
To forget that you ever flew
Sep 17, 2025
Sep 17, 2025 at 2:47 PM UTC
With eyes of black obsidian
And eagle's beak of nose
Black turban of the Taliban
Worn everywhere he goes,
Warrior of God's mountainside
Mujaheddin, known by name,
Pashto is his verbal tongue
And Allah's quest, his fame.
Razored knife in braided belt
Long"Jezail"musket points to sky,
A gimlet glint to garnet gaze
One thoughtless move , you die.
Gliding fast from rock to rock
Gazelle like in his easy grace,
Silent as an adder's strike
Assassin black with turbaned face.
For centuries invaders came
To vanquish this stark land,
Persians,Romans, Russians
And British redcoats tried their hand.
And recently the Yankees
Came with automated war,
To find themselves engulfed
And fleeing for the exit door.
Inexorable Afghanistan
Has bleached their bones as one
Vendetta for the insult
While there's air to breath and gun.
Like Shah Massoud, the warlords
Descend from mountain cave
To slaughter all who venture
Be they terrified or brave.
Tribally disconnected
From Islamabad to Kabul,
Tajik versus Pashtun
Versus Koranic Islam's rule.
No prisoners are taken,
The women always use their knives
And ravines echo shockingly
As tortured slowly lose their lives.
But the sunsets are glorious
Valley mists by morning rise
And row by row of fractured peaks
Rise in grandeur to blue skies.
And the children croon to goat herds
As they graze high meadow's green
And above the taloned goshawk glides
Ever watchful and unseen.
Hulks of Russian gun ships
Litter valleys and the plain
And the ghosts of many nations
Walk these dusty roads of shame.
For the legacy of the Afghans
Is a ****** litany of war
And the road to their tomorrow
Is paved with promises of more.
Marshalg
Wanganui
30 December 2009.
www.worthyofpublishing.com
www.hellopoetry.com
Jan 3, 2010
Jan 3, 2010 at 9:15 PM UTC
It's raining.
And people are dying.
Somewhere. Everywhere.
Nowhere. On television.
And I don't care.
And their life is static
stuck in the waistband
of some dude's underwear.
And he scratches his *****
He's shocked and ****
He calls himself a "God".
He sent his son to die
as a guilt trip
and to spike book sales.
But he's scratching his *****
And his wrist brushes
against his waistband.
He's pinched by the shock
of electic death.
It's raining.
I'm sitting on the edge
of my bed.
Closing my eyes
and pretending
my feet are hanging off
a shopping cart.
My parents are pushing me
and I'm facing my mother.
She looks young enough
to avoid
every thing.
I don't care. I don't care.
There are snares
hitting the cymbals.
And there's
a jazz musician. He's
nodding his
head
back and
forth.
Back
and forth.
I don't care. I don't care.
It's raining.
And we zoom in on God.
And, clearly, I have a vendetta.
Have I been subtle?
He answers, "No."
Did I meet a jazz musician?
He shrugs, "Yeah, I guess."
And the room slows down
to a jumbled vibration.
And he smiles. Smiling.
Smiley-smile smiles.
There is no ******
like the second hand.
It's raining.
I don't care. I don't ******* care.
My dad yelling.
You have daddy issues!!
You ******* *****
And the room slows down
to a jumbled vibration.
What's true is a tumor
and it grows and grows.
It's raining.
Music is the shout
in a raindrop.
The wrists we forfeit
is the church of
an eternal solitude.
And we is I
and the mixture of
animal-speak
that swallows my
brain.
It's raining.
There are joggers
in the park.
Their feet are smashing
the cement.
Slow down.
They don't care.
Then seven billion
joggers enter the park
and smash the cement.
My family is unearthed:
the swallowed inertia
of an undying thought.
It's raining.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
reading your ***** text
like love letters
the words take over me
with a vendetta
of turning me on
like your body
every line gets better
picturing you in my mind
as I'm reading every line
using my fingers skillfully to reply
wishing it your body I was touching on the whole time
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 9:05 PM UTC
I wanted to write something
About how people are never as important as they think they are
And how the actions of others don't really affect me.
But I waited for inspiration to strike, and it just wouldn't come.
Not that there's not evidence.
So I'll just write this note.
No poetry, no prose.
I'm not sorry if I offended you.
I'm not sorry if you think I dislike you.
I'm not sorry if you think I have a vendetta against you.
Honestly, it's all in your head.
You don't matter that much.
May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 7:15 PM UTC
hes a bone fetcher
in black leather
with a better vendetta
to rip your netherworld
to split your feathered murals
to leave you striped, cold and curled
watching you unfurl
as you beautifully twirl
into the abyss
by that in which you enlist
by that which is not
dismissed
by the soft kiss
from the whispering lips
of the ventriloquist
never to commit
to the ****
never to admit
to the thrill
the anti
of human will
the hand
that crush and ****
the vigilante
the potion in a pill
the loyal fan
the scope glare from the hill
Everything and nothing
in one inverted exhale
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 4:49 AM UTC
Next to me, you're tiny
so small
Compared with me? weak,
you're just a doll
But you need affection
I just want the best for you
Bad at detection (you are)
But you're good at what you do
Let's just...
Take this off so daddy can see what's there
Oh you're uncomfortable?
Well, life isn't fair.
And baby, please
I can't feel a thing
So let's just lose
This rubber thing
Don't say no
It's not polite
I won you fair
In that barfight
You're mine now
Skin, bone, and all
So open up now
You're taking the fall
(So weak, so small...)
I am not getting what I want
Persistent I will be until attainment
Come on baby, please don't be a ****
Now cry a little now for my entertainment
Apr 8, 2010
Apr 8, 2010 at 7:18 AM UTC