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Close your eyes,
my beauty, oh my
***** little demon,
my succubus,
my muse,
me silly reason for,
silly being.
Feel my heart.
It wont stop beating.
Faster and faster,
slothily increasing,
it wants to burst, explode,
and I say, let it be so,
I feel the blood pour out unevenly,
the circulation failing,
as I smile greedily,
The **** of death coming from
deep inside of me,
spilling from my intestines and out onto
the kitchen ceiling,
where I am stuck
where my mind breathes,
where these halucinations that we call
our reality,
these lies we tell ourselves,
to sleep just a little,
bit more comfortably,
the hate we have ourselves,
of our worldly greed,
that we deny and then,
**** hungrily,
the shame in our hearts,
as we think about society,
and what they want from us,
and how we bow to,
artifical ceilings and devices,
I look down from above,
upside down or
in fact, right side up,
die my little heart die,
burst, burst!
Feel the ecstasy and do not reverse,
I say to myself,
as no one is listening,
and why should they?
I'm just  a death kid,
versing.
Joyce Aug 2015
On a good day, the Sun shines on you.
You are in a Disney movie, stretching your arms,
As the first light of day hits your toes.
And all the sores of the previous nights,
Reduced as mere soap suds down the drain.
Last night's shower is a preview of the first one today, and coffee smells like the freshest brew straight from a pre-packed foil. Nothing beats the thrill of a morning cup.
Life is a sitcom, waiting for the supporting characters to show up and raid your ref, and then! The punchline.
You plan your day.
You invite a good day.
You laugh out loud.
On your best day, you lounge.
You drink your cup and eat breakfast straight from the pan, and the pan loves you for calling the kettle black.
You write your notes on some discarded tissue previously used to wipe off dust.
You are free versing with the staunchest disregard for tones and rules of archaic poetry; sometimes, disavowing a semblance of order.
Because the best is you.
It is now.
And you are but a small supporting character,
Patiently waiting for the chime of the next five punchlines
Martin Narrod May 2014
Memory

     is  the birth of cool, it is rapture and ignominious spokesmanship unearthed. Packed into a slatted-wood crate, milking the obsession from cash-toting hands. Freeing itself from your bottom lip while life ticks itself away on a digital stock-exchange display. I am down and you are up, and you save pennies while I search for Chrysanthemums and vanilla-scented candles. Scent is my fifth grade spaceship,
     I hide it in my pocket and take it into the forest when the week is over. Adventure is the part of our story that's caught in between complaining about money and having clean sheets. Tuesday, Thursday, Friday and Sunday my hands mend themselves back from bleach, their crevices cave under bright lights, I go to the garden strip and put dirt on my face, over my shoulders, and on my back. I make a altimeter from an alarm clock, and worry what will happen if your feet should ever touch the ground.
Relief
     is a sarcophagus, the satiny silk chrysalis I weave into invincibility. I make myself a small child with a demon-proof lair, no one comes in, not even you.  I see

     how drugs take out your heart and put you anew, fresh: orange, pink, ultramarine. A wave is a soft gesture for twilight, a slow walk among the greying statue towers, bliss extracted from person to person tedium. How you exclaim about **** music as if your temple home was unfocused by jazz or synth-electro.
     I forgot your room of quiet had no bells, no hope, and no notes of resolve. Tragedy was the desert of your six to sixteen, while I made an opus out of crystal glasses and Cran-Raspberry jars. Then it was the relief, Neptune's hands on your *******, red dots of ecstasy connecting you to a higher vibration. You felt it was time to start exercising. I didn't **** you for modifying your perception of color, degrading in a salt pool- I didn't own your ****** it was just a place I went into to write.
    
    Three years later. I was growing backward, I was sixteen, making you the muse in my doorway, a James Bond goddess unraveling my fingers on her silky skin, except your golden crown was really a turban of snakes, and instead of silk I was groveling underneath you. That was the sweat that Ryan Shultz said I garbled up into two pedestal doves, I aimed by eyes straight at the city of gold, and then inside me shucked out every piece of self-respect and vitrified my spirit, castrating my lips and my tongue for something to come to or come at, he said I lived under pointed stars and that lying isn't a good way to get over past phases of silence.

     A few days ago, it all game back to me, in a random series of songs on an iTunes playlist. One memory from an isolated beach outside a strawberry patch near Santa Cruz, a second, two hands cupped over the ears, my face closing in on her smoothed-out pink bottom lip on an over-exagerated car ride to the San Francisco airport, and the third was the mention of non-vegan banana cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, a birthday I celebrated several years earlier. All of them in the coda.
    
     Verse four unbelievable. It caught me straying from the next stressor at hand. What's next? I move my cold hands from a keyboard versing strange relapse of mind, or I tear out another page, whip across town, and peel stamps onto a postcard to send.
     They were all tails from a memory. A slowing ghost that cooed at me from far away, beating me up and down, pulling my eyes away from a scent I continually tried to remember.
D Conors Oct 2010
It's London, all the time,
when at night I close my eyes,
it's when and where I get to roam and dwell,
in the city I know inside-out so well,
where all the narrow streets and cobbled stones,
teacups, pint glasses, and fresh scones,
lend themselves into the misty English air,
of London's ancient, yet so modern flair,
of Piccadilly, and Hyde Park Corner's box,
riding Black Cabs, or a big Red Double-Bus,
evening gas-lamp walks with ol' Saucy Jack,
fish and chips and shandys for a perfect snack;
then the changing of The Guard at Buckingham,
where native Cockney's and young mums with prams,
gather for a view of Lizzy's Royal Family Show;
but, my, how rich the April sun sets and does glow,
over the rolling raging river Thames of yore,
where ancient Roman armies marched to shore,
proclaimed: LONDINIUM! -the regal rest,
of civilised peoples and the Royal Crests,
where lives and deaths would go and come,
yet The City despite all odds has lost and won,
in the hearts, souls and minds of all who take,
great London as their true hearth and home to stake,
and arise and fall the poet's versing nights and days,
whilst Big Ben chimes his toll in the foggy haze;
and alas, London from my slumber dissipates,
to that of which I yearn and love, asleep or wake,
knowing where my home of soul-keep lies divine:
in London, my dear London; it's London, all the time.
__
London:
http://beautyineverything.com/3366195864
d.
27 oct.10
Simple Static Oct 2013
Honey meets tongue,
Leaves taste buds stung and mouth melting
violently versing vows, Spilling out
fermented
Thoughts caught aloud
Dribbling down toward where they ought not
Time stopped us In a clockmaker shop
Cooking empty pots of dead doves in forgot sauce
Some day in december's When
Plans were dismembered
For the scent of Butter bubbling curiosity
Found horse hungry, So, suddenly he broke free
Trampling Predictable  logic.
chasing her tail to town
When, I, sir pain, thought id taught again, then again
the art of invading castles,
Without being found.
Trolling, rolling through The inner out of bounds
A shoeless, shoreless yet Very sure way To get around
None catching on of course Till swordsman number four
Split with silver This world on wheels we made
With a crash
left some
Birthday suit vision
Standing
stunned
stupid
Abashed with a gun to the  mirror
Which crying, stammered:
If you let them dear,
Just let them,
They will Listen,
To your  chime, chiming Bells inside,
Rhyming you dread hearing songs from"
Said defense:
"Who wants to play each blow to the heart
With lawless abandon to The head?"
"letting harsh  light burn holes and leave marks wherever they feel"
Don't think so Solomon!"
Vision laughs,
reflection kneels,
Hands praying
And In the periphery, as a way to break scene here
we see the mailman Crying tears on a map
Who once watched little Ms steel-sturdy
put on her full act.
Wood chips flew thenmsky went black
Pupils dilate to her shell-shocked state Of Before,
before hell bent on Withholding,
before Taking hostage of clowns who are all ******* with
Lilith, the queen
The state that led our wayward siren to begin driving round  
in Some man-made beast
She calls Ed.
Since your life revolves around winning and losing
Let me help you boast
I lost, you defeated me - to thee I toast

You do not drink?  Or do you?
I'm now certain you never speak the truth
Fooling some, but shocking others
To me, you are no Ruth

Loyal to no one but the voice in your head
That constantly feeds your perfection
I'm aware of my flaws
Perhaps that you see as our connection

It saddens me that you won't let me help
You're the other side of the mirror
From a time not so long ago
When I faked a life that made me shiver

You may be older
But twice the life I've lived
I'm well-versed in the school of life
No longer contrite nor miffed

Harmony and peace you say you represent
Not from the angle I'm standing
Perhaps the nicer you presented
To the Buddha that I saw hovering

I'm closer than you think
Closer yet I'm sure I'll be
I'm here for the long haul lady
Not how you'd thought it would be

27 years you texted him
On the day that would've been your anniversary
The lights at our house nightly grow dim
Celebrating our paperversary

You accuse those around you
Of the very things you do in time
Protective of your home?
How was your tour of mine?

Happy **** day, thinking of you
Love you still always have, always will
Why these things you find necessary to send
To someone who now is mine after you threw him away

Mistakes is how I see these inappropriate outbursts
Made by you or regretted by you
At the very least a charm to feed your enjoyment
Quite the bracelet worn to pay your dues

Heavy enough to hold down your wrist
But no not in this circumstance
Hate and discontent
Part of your ebb and flow your pageant stance

I suppose I'll continue to study you
Helps me in my course of study
Psychology and Criminal Justice
My special project, not my buddy

Making the most of what has crossed my path
As long as you keep coming at me
Another page to my thesis you'll add
Prayers for us both, survival to thee

Tomorrow's another day
The Lord versing me in forgiveness
Personal success for me come what may

December 13, 2013
How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean
Are thy returns! ev’n as the flowers in spring;
To which, besides their own demean,
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.
Grief melts away
Like snows in May,
As if there were no such cold thing.

Who would have thought my shrivelled heart
Could have recovered greenness? It was gone
Quite under ground; as flowers depart
To see their mother-root, when they have blown;
Where they together
All the hard weather,
Dead to the world, keep house unknown.

These are thy wonders, Lord of power,
Killing and quick’ning, bringing down to hell
And up to heaven in an hour;
Making a chiming of a passing-bell.
We say amiss,
This or that is:
Thy word is all, if we could spell.

O that I once past changing were,
Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower can wither!
Many a spring I shoot up fair,
Off’ring at heav’n, growing and groaning thither:
Nor doth my flower
Want a spring shower,
My sins and I joining together.

But while I grow in a straight line,
Still upwards bent, as if heav’n were mine own,
Thy anger comes, and I decline:
What frost to that? What pole is not the zone,
Where all things burn,
When thou dost turn,
And the least frown of thine is shown?

And now in age I bud again,
After so many deaths I live and write;
I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing: O my only light,
It cannot be
That I am he
On whom thy tempests fell all night.

These are thy wonders, Lord of love,
To make us see we are but flowers that glide;
Which when we once can find and prove,
Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide.
Who would be more,
Swelling through store,
Forfeit their Paradise by their pride.
axstrohostonaut Nov 2019
(Part 1)




Standing on the mountain,
Slaying hordes, creating a blood-splashing fountain,
My sword slicing and slashing,
The bones broken, the bodies slayed, the blood gushing and splashing!!

When the foghorn blows, I know they want war,
My power will unleash itself, my sword will slay, no matter who they are,
Be it my mother or my brother,
For me, there is no such thing as fighting for each other…

I believe that in very corner there is anger and hate,
Talking about my sword, it you shall rate,
It is of fine diamond, sharp as the sharpest stone,
Swift enough to slice an apple in the air, and sharp enough to slice off any bone!

I watch with glee as the silver knights roar out the battlecry,
I watch as they grip their mighty swords, and start dashing, running to me, wanting to die,
They gallop on their horses, the ground shaking and trembling beneath their mighty army,
Maybe there is too much of a score, but surely to one knight I will make a death all charmy…

I grip my fine sword, as my eyes pierce the view, my head covered by my hood,
My face darkened by the hide covering my head, I'm death itself, standing on these lands for up to no good,
My green luminescent pupil-less eyes judge that of the knights there is a one-hundred four score,  
As I stand there, dressed in my black hide, my fur boots, I remembered how I used to say, "The more tough it is, the more gore…"

Suddenly, with a blink of an eye, we are face to face,
The horses shriek at me, as I leap at the knights,
A sword pointed at my heart, an arrow at my head, and swinging for my head, there is a rusty iron mace,
I grin, knowing that ****** will I make the nights!!

The eyes lock for a moment, the moment tenses,
There is anger in every heart as we stare, not just give nervous glances,
The time freezes, it's like in a slow-motion,
And suddenly, I basically activated an anger-rage potion!!

My jaws snap open, and air ripples around as my roar that is heard thousands of miles away explodes out of my jaws,
The knights' ears ring from the loudness of my roar,
The diamond sword tighter I grip with my finger-like claws,
And swing to my right at lightning speed, slicing the heads of the knghts' being four!

Blood gushes in a circle, while I give them no sign of good-luck,
My sword slashing, the clash of metal, my sword stabbing each knight like a duck,
Piercing the skin with my sword, I rip out their intestines with a flick of my hand,
The arrows zip at me, the arrowheads piercing my skin like it is sand…

I feel my bones snapping from the arrows, but pain doesn't brings me down,
Pain only makes me more angry and stronger, me it doesn't drown,
I'm a ghoul whose strength is not explained,
As I slice the knights and dodge the arrows, I remembered how when I fought, the blood rained!!

I stab a silver knight, driving my sword right through his ribs, ending his pain and troubles, then flick my hand and cut off one's head,
An arrow pierces my temples, but yet I'm still not dead,
Dodging swords and arrows, I slam my fist on the ground,
The air ripples around me, and the air pushes off the knights and arrows around!

My cloak swooshes from the force of the air,
I'm made of tough muscles and skin, fair?
You, an army of two-thousand-four knights, versing one thing that looks like a ghoul,
I'm too powerful, and already a thousand knights are slayed, ye fool!!

I came here for diamond, treasures and gold,
I'm a thing, I have no age, so I'm neither young nor old,
I'm empty inside due to my powerful god-like strength, making me heartless and cold,
As I stand there with muscles tense, blood pooled on the grass, I watch the knights standing, mighty and bold…

I call them warriors, I call myself a ghoul,
As I get back in battle, I slice off one's arms, making him from pain just drool,
He falls on the ground as my sword finds his head, the fall breaking his rib bone,
As I slice off heads and arms, legs and waists, dodging arrows and receiving blows of swords, I speak in a demonic voice, "You ain't alone!!!!"

Slicing bodies, smashing bones with my fists and legs,
My sword creating a gushing fountain of blood,
Smashing ribs like they are shells from eggs,
You are fighting someone, who in war is a god!!!

As the arrows slice right through my skin from the force of the archers' metal bows,
I squat, my legs bented as I dodge all the blows,
Suddenly I push off with my legs, zooming into the sky,
The air ripples around, pushing back the knights paces away, as I zoom to the stars, up so high…

I gradually slowen down cause of the gravity, as I start falling down through the mist,
I face the Earth as I start zooming and searing through air  back down, my diamond sword ahead of my head, clinched by my ****** fist,
I see the army of a thounsand, gawking and looking up at the speeding comet in the sky,
"Here I come to gain my gold and make you know only one word, 'die'!!!"

My sword finds the ****** ground, as the ground explodes in a tremendous explosion and boom,
The flame unleashes and covers the sky, covers the lands, bringing upon the army a burning doom,
From space one could see how a big chunk and piece of Earth has exploded with fire,
Few minutes pass, and the as the smoke and fire clears, the victory is given to the hooded figure, giving others what they deserve and need to desire…

Slayed is the army of two-thousand and four,
It was rather too quick, I wish for more,
At least mine is all the treasures and the ore,
There was no other way to gain my treasures, so I gained them with gore…

I stand in the crater, formed by my victorious fatality,
If they want to steal my gold, they deserve such a brutality,
I'm death itself, and a ghoul,
If you spot me, remember to give what I want and don't be a fool………



-Mishka Wayz
This is created by me,  yes. It was hard to do this but at least I did it. This is a fantasy which I created.

The ghoul, is a guy, but he is so sinful and evil, and full of darkness and gore, that he calls himself a ghoul. He thinks he is a thing. But anyway, his name is Scardebego Whipsidol. Yes, I created the name and poem myself and everything is created by me. Sorry if there are any typos or it doesn't makes sense.
Also, Scardebego's strength is unexplained, and he is selfish for treasures. He slays anyone who dares touch his gold. He had a mother btw, and a family, but he was cursed by his greed for gold and treasures, that's why he killed his family and that's why he is so powerful and god-like, but sadly, dark and monstrous.

He can breath underwater for 78 hours until death  (3 days) (He has fish gills also)
He can burn alive for 78 hours until death  
He is dead only after more than a billion arrows (The poem takes place in the times of LOTR, but if it was bullets, he would die after a million of them)
He dies in acid and lava and mercury after 78 hours
He can live without his body parts for 78 hours (Head, legs, arms) (Also if his chest is torned open)
His full speed is the speed of lightning
His voice can be demonic and deep at times, and sometimes he can roar so loud your ears will shriek from the loudness that you won't be able to hear after a time (You might go deaf)
He sometimes doesn't speaks at all
His bones only break if he falls from the height of the moon
If his bones is broken, he can easily snap it back into place and his bone heals over time
His eyes shine at random moments, but mostly his face is darkened by the hood, making a hollow black-like void

No copywriting please



There. Cheers Lol
Reilly Cole Oct 2013
Black Versing White
Pale Marble, Veined With Gold, Beauty & Light
Smoky Onyx, Pulsing Charcoal, Ash & Soot
Battling Since The Beginning Of Time
Good Verse Evil, Yin & Yang, Light & Dark

Battling, Time With Out End
Shown In A Million Ways
Woman Verse Man, Black Verse White, Heaven & Hell
Always Seeing Things Either Good Or Bad, Black Or White

Then There Is Gray, Neither Good Nor Bad, Neither Chaos Nor Order
Named By Many Names, Limbo, In-Between, Plane Of Spirits, Neutral
Not Good, Not Order, Not Heaven, Not Bad, Not Chaos, Not Hell
Gray, See The World In Many Shades Of Limbo, Black, White & Gray
Fay Slimm Sep 2016
Poets Like Me..

Suspended at portals of rigid
and well-defined
thought reclines most whimsy,
which poets like me
welcome and use to un-stick
rusted up vision.
Freeing the mind we care not
where reality ends.
Wonder notices even the tiny
and gasps at gross,
the newly dry gossamer wing
seen as fillagreed
diamonds with eyesight, night
versed with ghostly
metaphor, the tides as emotion.
Humanized nature
allures the inventive in scribes
bent on perception
where real meets make-believe.
Awe, understood
as a lever appeals to romantics
like me addicted
to all ethereal's seducing fancy.
Idealized love
presents realms of impassioned
expression, themes,
versing spirit personified holds
complusion, creative
vision awakens to other worlds
where, finally winning
utopia becomes no mere illusion.
What feels real merges
and mixes with linguistic flights
of beguiling imagery.
Life through the eyes of all poets
like me changes
at will from the galling mundane
to that which excites
inspiration for evocative writing.
Ma Cherie Sep 2016
Hey Jealous foolish woman
       I don't even know your name
        Mine is written on this page
           I'm not the one ashamed

        Poets singing dreams to you
         versing ink stained sheets
        You haven't really got a clue
         as they sit about your feet

        no need for Jealous words
          it's really all fair game
          Poetry and love that is
       I'll put your heart to shame

     You think you're such a mystery
         I know the kind you are
          You and I have history
            I left with open scars

        Jealousy I'm killing you
           by my Poison Pen
         Stupid thought to have
          my lil ' Jealous friend

         I might seem so naive
       but I am so much more
          I really can't believe
        you're antics such a bore

          Have some self respect
            act more dignified
              show a little class
           you need it simplified?

            go hide in a corner
       like the beaten dog you'll be
         taking nasty bites
       won't get the best of me

       You couldn't just fight fair
       I barely touched the blade
       didn't drop a bit of blood
        As down your pen is laid

Cherie Nolan © 2016
For Gwendolyn Farrar, Aeerdna.. my Gypsy sisters & Dyrr Keusseyan- remember Poetic Justice, my man SydRivers, Stephan, Papaya, JamesA... thank you for inspiring my Rhymes and being so  thoughtful it with your comments  this is also for everyone else who isn't jealous or spiteful!
Love conquers all. : )
wordvango Dec 2016
pain absolves me
such a sad indicator
of a wasted life
like versed is the past tense
had versed does not sound quite right
have versed even worse
will have versed
I verse away
content to strike contrary
along a course others might
not even contemplate
trying to ride a rim into
another thought or word
you verse
he/she is versing
it's all so good
I have to stop
putting nooses on it
just accept
now, that is another concept....
Helen Raymond Oct 2017
Startling set of subtleties laced between the shadows of common things
The shred of darling darkness you've disgraced by denying it the light
Admire the simple songs, ignore the undertones hiding between the notes
Versing the sunrise, ignoring the dewy tears in Apollo's eyes
A masterpiece can't be complete without the sum of invisible brush strokes
Secondary shadows playing with our perceptions, slip through the seams
They are quietly quintessential, unnoticeably indispensable
Writing anonymous autographs in photographs & autobiographies in poetry
Unnoticed, unremarkable, ineffable, and invaluble subtleties that contribute to the beauty of life
riding through a vibrating sleep,
cut in grooves so fine and deep,
I have found it son,
get me cake,
and have some fun.

Theres something you gotta know,
its about what you eat, and how you grow,
don't spend it all at once was never a verse worth versing,

Im taking it all in, revolving ribbons of roads untangle infront of me
set into a space cap searching for snap back,
Oh I believe in yesterday, looks as though its here to stay

comment in the box bellow,
for a case of cheap merlot,
its about what you eat and about how you grow
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
poetry and philosophy can only teach ethics with systematisation, with systemising itself as itself and nothing off itself requiring replicas of art: of acting to suit the scientific concern for cloning or computerisation of analysis with being artificial in the quotient of intelligence expressed via the infinite synthesises of care, miscarriage and history; both subjects care for ethics - both care for linear allegiance to the ancient greek flux to permit infinite multiplication of change and changes, along with the additions and the desertions... obelisk adds to the addition, the algebraic multi- adds to the hyphenating minus compounding, paradoxically. well, carelessly the testimonies gave windows the narcissus effect... and the mirrors the antidote of thinned air vampirism of h. g. wells' plot.*

1st. hello is about a blind girl
sculpting a head with a charlie chap' moustache...
2nd. hello is about a deaf girl
versing the telephone into violin vibrations;
both are fun-****-as-hell
given i'm the one in lycra-spandex and botox
friendly mode on stage, as
the exploiting artist.
Martin Narrod Feb 2014
Memory

     is  the birth of cool, it is rapture and ignominious spokesman unearthed. Packed into a slatted-wood crate, milking the obsession from cash-toting hands. Freeing itself from your bottom lip while life ticks itself away on a digital stock-exchange display. I am down and you are up, and you save pennies while I search for Chrysanthemums and vanilla-scented candles. Scent is my fifth grade spaceship,
     I hide it in my pocket and take it into the forest when the week is over. Adventure is the part of our story that's caught in between complaining about money and having clean sheets. Tuesday, Thursday, Friday and Sunday my hands mend themselves back from bleach, their crevices cave under bright lights, I go to the garden strip and put dirt on my face, over my shoulders, and on my back. I make a altimeter from an alarm clock, and worry what will happen if your feet should ever touch the ground.
Relief
     is a sarcophagus, the satiny silk chrysalis I weave into invincibility. I make myself a small child with a demon-proof lair, no one comes in, not even you.  I see

     how drugs take out your heart and put you anew, fresh: orange, pink, ultramarine. A wave is a soft gesture for twilight, a slow walk among the greying statue towers, bliss extracted from person to person tedium. How you exclaim about **** music as if your temple home was unfocused by jazz or synth-electro.
     I forgot your room of quiet had no bells, no hope, and no notes of resolve. Tragedy was the desert of your six to sixteen, while I made an opus out of crystal glasses and Cran-Raspberry jars. Then it was the relief, Neptune's hands on your *******, red dots of ecstasy connecting you to a higher vibration. You felt it was time to start exercising. I didn't **** you for modifying your perception of color, degrading in a salt pool- I didn't own your ****** it was just a place I went into to write.
    
    Three years later. I was growing backward, I was sixteen, making you the muse in my doorway, a James Bond goddess unraveling my fingers on her silky skin, except your golden crown was really a turban of snakes, and instead of silk I was groveling underneath you. That was the sweat that Ryan Shultz said I garbled up into two pedestal doves, I aimed by eyes straight at the city of gold, and then inside me shucked out every piece of self-respect and vitrified my spirit, castrating my lips and my tongue for something to come to or come at, he said I lived under pointed stars and that lying isn't a good way to get over past phases of silence.

     A few days ago, it all game back to me, in a random series of songs on an iTunes playlist. One memory from an isolated beach outside a strawberry patch near Santa Cruz, a second, two hands cupped over the ears, my face closing in on her smoothed-out pink bottom lip on an over-exagerated car ride to the San Francisco airport, and the third was the mention of non-vegan banana cupcakes with cream cheese frosting, a birthday I celebrated several years earlier. All of them in the coda.
    
     Verse four unbelievable. It caught me straying from the next stressor at hand. What's next? I move my cold hands from a keyboard versing strange relapse of mind, or I tear out another page, whip across town, and peel stamps onto a postcard to send.
     They were all tails from a memory. A slowing ghost that cooed at me from far away, beating me up and down, pulling my eyes away from a scent I continually tried to remember.
Poetic T Jan 2018
Nobody likes me,
           I may as well make them
     all eat worms...

Where once there was ridicule,
           now there's  just silence.
          Everybody hates me....

But now there no longer versing,
               now its just me rehearsing
my tears for there funeral....

Once is for sorrow
                 twice is a rehearsed verse
        third times the charm..

No one will know,
          that I'm the one that
                        silenced there verse.

Once they spoke,
           twice they made me cry,
  third time I cured the disease...

I'm happy now that I can sit quietly,
        I'm smiling now that words are dead.
              ill sit here in silence,
And absorb the silence of there passing..
Elizabeth Jun 2013
In every way, they are forgotten
And we under think their power, their purpose.
We seldom ponder what we would become without them,
And never stop to thank them for what they have done.


Mother,
     Thank you for taking my temperature via forehead
     For stirring my Mac and cheese
     For washing out my clothes' stains

Father,
     Thank you for changing my diapers
     For versing me in ping pong
     For writing down my painting's names when I could not spell

Lover,
     Thank you for rubbing my back
     For holding mine in yours
     For loving me tenderly

Friend,
     Thank you for braiding my hair
     For painting my nails
     For grabbing the tissues when need be


I presume mine becoming frail, old, and flimsy
What will we become in this aging process?
I doubt we will mature like fine wine or expensive cheese.
Ridden with disease and pain, we will fall to my sides. And no one will be thanking us anymore (not that anyone ever did), because we will be nothing.
Do nothing.
All the knowledge, will power, exercise will never change the **** outcome.

Someday we will stir our daughters Mac and cheese, or remove her stains from her shirts, and someday she will do the same for her daughter.
Yet this all must die someday,
There will come a time where I can no longer stir the boiling noodles on the stove,
No longer shred the brick of cheese from the fridge.

There's not a ****** thing to do but wait.
Crestfall Jul 2017
Tears,
Fears,
You disable my stability,
Exploit my fragility,
Destroy my credibility,
Hinder my capability.

Tears,
Fears,
Bind me to a wall of pain,
Strangling, chafing, the strongest chain.

Tears,
Fears,
If you were a person,
You'd shoot me for poor versing.

Tears,
Fears,
So numerous,
Nothing about you humorous.

Tears,
Fears,
A weight in my step,
A world on my shoulders,
A snapping of my honor as I fail to find my misstep,
Nothing to keep me warm as it all grows colder.

Tears,
Fears,
Someone's crying over this,
I know it was my words, frigid as the abyss.

Tears,
Fears,
Not really my own,
They're telling me to get off this throne,
It's made of broken hearts; that's well known.

Tears,
Fears,
My jar of hopeless souls,
Filled with gaping holes.

Tears,
Fears,
You tear apart my connections,
Confuse their directions,
Prevent all corrections.

Tears,
Fears,
I must be cruel,
A true heart breaker,
Playing the game like they're all fools,
Quite the faker.
©Crestfall
Joe Wilson Apr 2015
The natural home of the poet
Is not among society’s elite
But away from the riches and finery
And the fat-cat country seat.

We’re the eyes for the one who’s the underdog
The one struggling hard for his kin
The one who lost out when they took all the jobs
Who stands in the food queue again.

We’re the questioning voice of the sickly
While hospitals have wards that are closed
Who wonder why governments say ‘We all spend more!’
And ponder where it’s been disposed.

We have Portakabin classrooms that just shouldn’t be
And walls full of mould in our schools
Yet pay and pensions in the Westminster bubble
Go up yet again, as we’re treated as fools.

It’s quite true we don’t wander around with the rich
For our hearts and our minds are elsewhere
We’re keeping a watch on corruption at large
And versing your created despair.

©Joe Wilson – Were we really all in it together…2015
Poetic T Jul 2017
The world is a mirage of echoes,
versing past my vision like illusions.

I try to reach out, but shadows hold
no grasp of my disappointment.

Failures  mirror on myself as they cling
to my insides like teardrops of acidic despair.

They melt away at the picture perfect hollow
smiles that are cracking within each falsehood.

I'm tired of the scars of my past, stories that
bled, healing but still bleeding beneath myself ..
Poetic T Apr 2018
When I venture eyes slightly glazed
           at that ****** light permeating
my room like an unwanted guest
                               knocking at my door
at 8:00am in the shock treatment of my
                                    
                                               awakening.


But still versing hymens of my woeful
                                   acknowledgement.
Covering ones self like a concrete tomb.
                  covering light with plasters
of inconvenience, hiding the cuts of awakening.

I will slumber, entombed beneath shallow blankets.
                          Never arising
                           to the wants of another day.
Clinging to the beauty of darkness,
                               I awaken to the reality of another day.
Fay Slimm Nov 2016
Take your own words from the poems of nature.
Add golden dreams from a rainbow or two.
Polish with good thoughts culled from right motive
And create something beautiful ~ ~ ~ do.

Phrase pleasant songs for the message to loners.
Add poetic ballads to comfort fear's due.
Burnish the spirit of youth with fine versing.
And create something beautiful ~ ~ ~ do.

Keep penning acclaim of peace for the needy.
Add some generous lines of compassion too.
Write with sound rhymes of positive thinking
And create something beautiful ~ ~ ~ do.
Mike Adam Jun 2016
and I am deaf too,
and too dumb to speak
kind, loud and slow
to your yearning ear.

and also too blind,
with distance unsighted,
this burgeoning love
too readily blighted

no language too pure for
your precious flower
no sentence to capture
our rapturous hour

dissonant rhyming
and unstructured versing
metaphoric tussle
empathetic cursing
Sally A Bayan Jun 2020
(my world)

Azure sky domes over clouds of cotton white,
freshly washed clothes on the clothesline,
sway freely to summer winds...sun is bright,
so generous...............it hurts my eyes.

through a rumble of overgrown bushes, i enter,
my hair, nose, fingers, elbows get tangled
in spiders' webs...i step back, leave their corner
freedom is well-guarded...fortified is their world.

in a nearby school, the flag waves with dignity
national anthem plays...its lyrics vow loudly
to preserve precious freedom...faithfully.
school scenes slow me down...but, i hurry

now, home to my own freedom, my world,
my world...a safe bubble, like...a microcosm,
a microcosm long existing...a secret world,
a secret world i frequent when i need to,
when i need to be...alone, creating poetry,
...creating poetry on life's nitty-gritty
...and trivialities...

inside my world, muse eases the tossing,
turning mind...helps shape scenes to a tee,
lets me go rhyming.....or free versing
in couplets, sonnets, a dirge, or a ditty...


Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
June 11, 2020
(I wrote of freedom, because tomorrow, June 12, we celebrate Independence Day in  the Philippines.)
Kurt Philip Behm Apr 2019
No matter how great the versing
  writing always lacks the note

That music plants inside our souls
  words by their nature rote

Its melody takes you skyward
  all reason left behind

Pure joy out front to then surround
  —what substitutes as mind

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2018
if King anticipated writing for a scared audience, of ****-pants... i'm more anticipatory of versing it so... the monster who took a **** was actually trying to fathom the victim being able to do so: likewise.*

i: does that imply
         affirmative action?
can it be merely ? per se?
   a noumenon -
without the pluralism
of having to exclaim
   a marking equivalent
of simultaneously
  citing a divergent
                   credo?
the non-inquisitive uhoh?
catcher in the rye
if i tell you:
    ooh-o for a smacker-worth
of interpretation?
- how else to encompass
     a concern for a revert?
a pronoun with
the riddle of possessing
            many nouns...
oh the laboursome affair
of a setting sun
in the eye of a man:
retiring with an anticipation
of sleep:
   lost in regaining consciousness
with the e.g. of dream.
Nat Lipstadt Sep 14
like a sonorous bird on a wire, his lyrics delivered with/in, a gravelly impish grinning wink, with a high voltage  current currency that makes you cry, why did I not write that, godfamn it, which rhymes doncha ya know

so pickup your electronics, grumpy and
cursing, compelled to start versing, bested by
the best, reminder to self you are an also ran, you be back of the pack, and the love out there, freely given to the artists we aspire to be makes me,

an ***-piring foolish man, who kicks up
beach sand into his owned eyes, them two
regular betrayers… and that’s a rap and a
wrap of another baddie po~em

— The End —