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"wimpy" poems
#teamara As in the nub of the remains of crayola crayon that’s been used to color in so many smiling cartoon suns on a piece of paper- Her favorite color is yellow. And I don’t mean a wimpy *** pastel yellow or sometimes a pale yellow I mean her favorite color is bright *** yellow. Like Pikachu yellow. Like she’s almost nineteen but she’s still willing to play Gameboy Pokemon yellow. There’s something innocent yet corny kind of yellow about her. She’s beautiful like yellow jirasol petals She’s intricate as yellow thread woven in a Rasta Dom She’s yellow like gold and Africa She’s sweet like pineapples and delicate like daffodils I still don’t know why her favorite color is yellow Maybe it has to do with her fascination of Asian men… I mean! ...with the continent of Asia She thinks she’s more like pink Japanese cherry blossom trees in the summer But I know she’s truly yellow petals on Paolo Verde trees blowing in the wind spreading around Tucson A metaphor for her love She’s yellow like the color in the middle of my pride rainbow- She supports me She’s yellow like the big painted sun at the hospital with a big grin I wonder why nobody smiles at hospitals The place where life is easily given as taken Where we are reminded that our health is sometimes taken for granted Other than that great big yellow sun She is the only that radiates yellow and smiles In waiting rooms, she seems like she’s the calmest Even though she’s the only one going through surgery She’s so beautiful on the inside her body can’t even take it She doesn’t deserve scions or scalpels to even be considered touching her bronze skin I wish instead they would strip down the color yellow from my life And give it to her to make her smile so bright that even word “cancer” would cease to exist But still. Even through pain and hardships She still smiles. Not only is she yellow when she’s happy She tends to radiate yellow even when she’s gloomy When I’m upset, her aura has way of rubbing off on mine And I get insight to why her favorite color is yellow *** she’s the kind of yellow that represents strength She’s yellow like tall forts made from gold bars She’s yellow like flames that roll of her tongue when she spits fire She’s yellow like a crayola-crayon… except she can’t be broken From her, I’m learning That even when you’re hurting You can still shine bright like your favorite color.
0
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 3:55 PM UTC
zack
yellow.
#teamara As in the nub of the remains of crayola crayon that’s been used to color in so many smiling cartoon suns on a piece of paper- Her favorite color is yellow. And I don’t mean a wimpy *** pastel yellow or sometimes a pale yellow I mean her favorite color is bright *** yellow. Like Pikachu yellow. Like she’s almost nineteen but she’s still willing to play Gameboy Pokemon yellow. There’s something innocent yet corny kind of yellow about her. She’s beautiful like yellow jirasol petals She’s intricate as yellow thread woven in a Rasta Dom She’s yellow like gold and Africa She’s sweet like pineapples and delicate like daffodils I still don’t know why her favorite color is yellow Maybe it has to do with her fascination of Asian men… I mean! ...with the continent of Asia She thinks she’s more like pink Japanese cherry blossom trees in the summer But I know she’s truly yellow petals on Paolo Verde trees blowing in the wind spreading around Tucson A metaphor for her love She’s yellow like the color in the middle of my pride rainbow- She supports me She’s yellow like the big painted sun at the hospital with a big grin I wonder why nobody smiles at hospitals The place where life is easily given as taken Where we are reminded that our health is sometimes taken for granted Other than that great big yellow sun She is the only that radiates yellow and smiles In waiting rooms, she seems like she’s the calmest Even though she’s the only one going through surgery She’s so beautiful on the inside her body can’t even take it She doesn’t deserve scions or scalpels to even be considered touching her bronze skin I wish instead they would strip down the color yellow from my life And give it to her to make her smile so bright that even word “cancer” would cease to exist But still. Even through pain and hardships She still smiles. Not only is she yellow when she’s happy She tends to radiate yellow even when she’s gloomy When I’m upset, her aura has way of rubbing off on mine And I get insight to why her favorite color is yellow *** she’s the kind of yellow that represents strength She’s yellow like tall forts made from gold bars She’s yellow like flames that roll of her tongue when she spits fire She’s yellow like a crayola-crayon… except she can’t be broken From her, I’m learning That even when you’re hurting You can still shine bright like your favorite color.
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43
sometimes when i am trapped inside my own mind and feel like i’m drowning in the taste of air, suddenly i am eight years old years, bobbing up and down in my wimpy life jacket my legs unsupported and there is still a chip on my shoulder a mile wide. sometimes i am still the five year old who balled her eyes out when her parents accidentally forgot and were late picking her up from preschool, sometimes i am still sixteen years old and in love with you sometimes i am a person i never thought i’d manage to grow into, sometimes i am a person i’ve yet to become.    i am juxtaposition of a thousand different versions of myself. i am equally the eight year old girl still afraid of the water as i am the almost-adult you so naively believed to be fearless, my self-assurance a really good halloween costume. i am a newborn at the same time as i am frail ninety year old grandmother. i am brave and i am terrified and i am naive and i am jaded and i am clean and i am ruined; i am a blank slate and i have been scribbled all over, my skin is smooth and untouched my skin has laughter lines and stretch marks. i am the creator and i am the destroyer, i am everything and nothing at all. i am the ocean and i am the desert. my lungs are failing as i’m breathing fine, and i can see the end and the beginning in equal clarity. sometimes i’m too old for my skin, weary like i’ve lived a thousand lives already and sometimes i am four years old with my knees hugged to my chest. sometimes we are two and sometimes we are twenty, sometimes we were nine and sometimes we are ninety. we are young and dumb and reckless at the same time as we are old and wise and careful. sometimes my father is still a gap-toothed five year old and my mother is still a tired old woman with shaking hands, and my brother is still an angry teenager with a bad hair cut. we are existing simultaneously and growing up is just getting really good at pretending that you’ve got your **** all figured out when you still feel like a lonely middle-schooler without a date to the mixer, alone in the middle to gymnasium floor. but that’s the thing, isn’t it? when you are cut open, when you are bleeding, when you have gaping holes in your nervous system your flesh heals over it scars, brand new. we are bleeding and we we are healed, we are ******* up and we are doing just fine.
0
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 10:49 AM UTC
daniela-elena
“we are tucked inside ourselves like russian nesting dolls”
sometimes when i am trapped inside my own mind and feel like i’m drowning in the taste of air, suddenly i am eight years old years, bobbing up and down in my wimpy life jacket my legs unsupported and there is still a chip on my shoulder a mile wide. sometimes i am still the five year old who balled her eyes out when her parents accidentally forgot and were late picking her up from preschool, sometimes i am still sixteen years old and in love with you sometimes i am a person i never thought i’d manage to grow into, sometimes i am a person i’ve yet to become.    i am juxtaposition of a thousand different versions of myself. i am equally the eight year old girl still afraid of the water as i am the almost-adult you so naively believed to be fearless, my self-assurance a really good halloween costume. i am a newborn at the same time as i am frail ninety year old grandmother. i am brave and i am terrified and i am naive and i am jaded and i am clean and i am ruined; i am a blank slate and i have been scribbled all over, my skin is smooth and untouched my skin has laughter lines and stretch marks. i am the creator and i am the destroyer, i am everything and nothing at all. i am the ocean and i am the desert. my lungs are failing as i’m breathing fine, and i can see the end and the beginning in equal clarity. sometimes i’m too old for my skin, weary like i’ve lived a thousand lives already and sometimes i am four years old with my knees hugged to my chest. sometimes we are two and sometimes we are twenty, sometimes we were nine and sometimes we are ninety. we are young and dumb and reckless at the same time as we are old and wise and careful. sometimes my father is still a gap-toothed five year old and my mother is still a tired old woman with shaking hands, and my brother is still an angry teenager with a bad hair cut. we are existing simultaneously and growing up is just getting really good at pretending that you’ve got your **** all figured out when you still feel like a lonely middle-schooler without a date to the mixer, alone in the middle to gymnasium floor. but that’s the thing, isn’t it? when you are cut open, when you are bleeding, when you have gaping holes in your nervous system your flesh heals over it scars, brand new. we are bleeding and we we are healed, we are ******* up and we are doing just fine.
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58
Of course the two of us                                                                                 want to get away from here                                                             We were so innocent  Running                                                             Hand in hand To the outskirts of this                                                              Upside – down  town  Where  were  we  going?                                                          To  the  mansion  we  had  built  with  daddy                                                High in the sky of the     towering sycamore tree                                                      But now going back           walking the dirt trail that supposedly                                             brought us to        dreams             Kicking aside pebbles we pushed                                                                with        all our           might       to                                                                 to        escape              from        the                                                                   Monsters                chasing    us                                                                    Seeing                              the                                                                        Wimpy                   vines                                                                            That                      were                                                                               once               chains                                                                               and       shackles                                                                               intertwined                                                                              imprisoning                                                                            all of the trunk                                                                           seemed   unreal                                                                          But  I  had  made                                                                         Peace   with   it   all                                                                    When I saw our shanty hut                                                            Atop the mangled, dwarfed skeleton tree
0
Mar 24, 2012
Mar 24, 2012 at 8:52 PM UTC
elle-1
Treehouse
Of course the two of us                                                                                 want to get away from here                                                             We were so innocent  Running                                                             Hand in hand To the outskirts of this                                                              Upside – down  town  Where  were  we  going?                                                          To  the  mansion  we  had  built  with  daddy                                                High in the sky of the     towering sycamore tree                                                      But now going back           walking the dirt trail that supposedly                                             brought us to        dreams             Kicking aside pebbles we pushed                                                                with        all our           might       to                                                                 to        escape              from        the                                                                   Monsters                chasing    us                                                                    Seeing                              the                                                                        Wimpy                   vines                                                                            That                      were                                                                               once               chains                                                                               and       shackles                                                                               intertwined                                                                              imprisoning                                                                            all of the trunk                                                                           seemed   unreal                                                                          But  I  had  made                                                                         Peace   with   it   all                                                                    When I saw our shanty hut                                                            Atop the mangled, dwarfed skeleton tree
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25
My father was not good to his body when he was younger. The smoking and drinking and snorting and fighting and drinking and crashes and drinking were not good for him. My father was not good to his body when he was younger. One summer, when he was 16, everyday he would take a bottle of wine from his mother's liquor cabinet, buy a pack of cigarettes at the corner store, meet up with his friend Mario, who also stole a bottle of wine, and together they would ride down to the river and smoke and drink and swim. Everyday, for a full 1970's summer they did this. And now he tells me, that at the time they were having fun and they were not worried about money or addictions or the future. They were just having fun. My father was not good to his body when he was younger. One day, in the dead of fall 1981, he and his friends Mario, Mark, ****** and John all got together at Mark's apartment on the corner of 51st and Diablo boulevard. They hit the town, drank, snuck into movie theatres, harassed girls and had a good time. They returned to Mark's apartment at 2 am and thought it a good idea to steal Mark's mom's new car. They decided to go to Reno. Driving, as my dad put it, well above the speed limit on Highway 49, they collided head on with a big rig. There were no fatalities but my dad broke his shoulder and suffered a minor concussion. Mark's mom chose to not press charges nor did the driver of the big rig. The next day my father was back at work, refusing to adhere to the doctor's orders of taking it easy and wearing a soft cast, entrapping his left arm against his chest, climbing under cars, changing oil, and repairing engines. My father was not good to his body when he was younger. One cold winter's day, in December of '82, my father's ever faithful companion, Mario, picked my father and his dog, Wimpy, up and they drove over to a small burger joint named Big A's. My father ordered two bacon cheeseburgers and a large rootbeer. Mario got the same, only with a single bacon cheeseburger. My father father gave his second bacon cheeseburger to his pitbull Wimpy. My father was better to his dog than he was to his own body. Now, my father coughs himself to sleep every night, and has chronic bronchitis. His liver and kidneys are shot and he plans to not live passed sixty. He will be turning fifty in two weeks. My father was not good to his body when he was younger.
0
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 12:04 AM UTC
jeremy-duff
My Father Was Not Good To His Body When He Was Younger.
My father was not good to his body when he was younger. The smoking and drinking and snorting and fighting and drinking and crashes and drinking were not good for him. My father was not good to his body when he was younger. One summer, when he was 16, everyday he would take a bottle of wine from his mother's liquor cabinet, buy a pack of cigarettes at the corner store, meet up with his friend Mario, who also stole a bottle of wine, and together they would ride down to the river and smoke and drink and swim. Everyday, for a full 1970's summer they did this. And now he tells me, that at the time they were having fun and they were not worried about money or addictions or the future. They were just having fun. My father was not good to his body when he was younger. One day, in the dead of fall 1981, he and his friends Mario, Mark, ****** and John all got together at Mark's apartment on the corner of 51st and Diablo boulevard. They hit the town, drank, snuck into movie theatres, harassed girls and had a good time. They returned to Mark's apartment at 2 am and thought it a good idea to steal Mark's mom's new car. They decided to go to Reno. Driving, as my dad put it, well above the speed limit on Highway 49, they collided head on with a big rig. There were no fatalities but my dad broke his shoulder and suffered a minor concussion. Mark's mom chose to not press charges nor did the driver of the big rig. The next day my father was back at work, refusing to adhere to the doctor's orders of taking it easy and wearing a soft cast, entrapping his left arm against his chest, climbing under cars, changing oil, and repairing engines. My father was not good to his body when he was younger. One cold winter's day, in December of '82, my father's ever faithful companion, Mario, picked my father and his dog, Wimpy, up and they drove over to a small burger joint named Big A's. My father ordered two bacon cheeseburgers and a large rootbeer. Mario got the same, only with a single bacon cheeseburger. My father father gave his second bacon cheeseburger to his pitbull Wimpy. My father was better to his dog than he was to his own body. Now, my father coughs himself to sleep every night, and has chronic bronchitis. His liver and kidneys are shot and he plans to not live passed sixty. He will be turning fifty in two weeks. My father was not good to his body when he was younger.
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14
When you're a writer, you get invited to strange gigs sometimes, where usually, the audience is arty farty or even a bit precious and pretentious. You know, the blue rinse set. But I was once invited to recite poetry in a bar, where I knew my audience might be ****** or maybe even abusive, and wouldn't give a **** about writing. Yeah? Well, I'm a bit of a word warrior, really, so I didn't back off. I stepped right in for the fight. I said straight up that my poem was especially for people like them who thought that writers are wishy-washy, woffling, **** weak and luke-warm. So then I said, PPPHHHaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrtttttttt. Very loud. I told them this was some royal raspberry, just for people like them, who thought this was going to be another boring poem. And then I threw in a few words like, ah, **** doggy fashion, finger up the **** you know, just to liven things up. I told them what I really thought. ***** You! Especially seeing as how you think poetry’s some wimpy, bleeding heart, limp **** stuff. Right? So let's get right down and ***** here. Which is much more interesting, eh? And do you know what that says about you? No?  You bleeding, blinkered, blind-as-bats broomstick-up-the-arsed, boring, bonehead ******** So don't call this poet piss-weak any more or I'll hit you bang between the eyes and up between your thighs. I've got some things to say you'd better not ignore. When it comes to words, I'm a gouger and a biter. I'm a brawling, hard-as-nails, no-holds-barred street fighter. I'm a writer. Yeah, well, no surprise here. That made them quieter. I'd shut them up. So what did that prove? I'd just abused and confused them. It made me think, well, why did I bother? Poems are for believers and lovers, aren’t they? They don't need me to fight for them in bars. Poems just are. Yes,and some of them might live as long as the stars. Mike T Minehan
0
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 9:56 PM UTC
mike-t-minehan
Bar Fight
When you're a writer, you get invited to strange gigs sometimes, where usually, the audience is arty farty or even a bit precious and pretentious. You know, the blue rinse set. But I was once invited to recite poetry in a bar, where I knew my audience might be ****** or maybe even abusive, and wouldn't give a **** about writing. Yeah? Well, I'm a bit of a word warrior, really, so I didn't back off. I stepped right in for the fight. I said straight up that my poem was especially for people like them who thought that writers are wishy-washy, woffling, **** weak and luke-warm. So then I said, PPPHHHaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrtttttttt. Very loud. I told them this was some royal raspberry, just for people like them, who thought this was going to be another boring poem. And then I threw in a few words like, ah, **** doggy fashion, finger up the **** you know, just to liven things up. I told them what I really thought. ***** You! Especially seeing as how you think poetry’s some wimpy, bleeding heart, limp **** stuff. Right? So let's get right down and ***** here. Which is much more interesting, eh? And do you know what that says about you? No?  You bleeding, blinkered, blind-as-bats broomstick-up-the-arsed, boring, bonehead ******** So don't call this poet piss-weak any more or I'll hit you bang between the eyes and up between your thighs. I've got some things to say you'd better not ignore. When it comes to words, I'm a gouger and a biter. I'm a brawling, hard-as-nails, no-holds-barred street fighter. I'm a writer. Yeah, well, no surprise here. That made them quieter. I'd shut them up. So what did that prove? I'd just abused and confused them. It made me think, well, why did I bother? Poems are for believers and lovers, aren’t they? They don't need me to fight for them in bars. Poems just are. Yes,and some of them might live as long as the stars. Mike T Minehan
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47
President Comb-Over, Quite the despicable guy Got himself elected But the wise folk wonder why. Obama wore a tan suit Conservatives went insane, But this Wimpy lookalike butterball Sports a totally artificial mane. If ****** predation were a soccer game This **** would win The World Cup. If you ignored the news and his tweets You’d think someone made this horror show up. He’s lied and cheated and swindled his way In to more lucrative deals than he deserved Then a large minority of certifiable idiots Elected him so he could to pretend to serve. He took the Oath of Office, quite smugly But that’s where his integrity would end. He set about making deals for himself His trophy wives, his offspring and friends. He made few attempts to cover his tracks, Mostly just shouted blatantly obvious lies By which he was fooling no one intelligent. Just the moronic, the foolish and unwise. He relied on the vagaries of human nature That voters are among the laziest humans And would rather vote for a rascal it seems Than take a chance on an honest new man Or woman, or gay or an experienced soul That could take over the Presidential reins Instead of driving our country straight to hell And making huge profits off the remains. Brent Kincaid 4/23/2019
0
Apr 23, 2019
Apr 23, 2019 at 2:46 PM UTC
brent-kincaid
PRESIDENT COMB-OVER
President Comb-Over, Quite the despicable guy Got himself elected But the wise folk wonder why. Obama wore a tan suit Conservatives went insane, But this Wimpy lookalike butterball Sports a totally artificial mane. If ****** predation were a soccer game This **** would win The World Cup. If you ignored the news and his tweets You’d think someone made this horror show up. He’s lied and cheated and swindled his way In to more lucrative deals than he deserved Then a large minority of certifiable idiots Elected him so he could to pretend to serve. He took the Oath of Office, quite smugly But that’s where his integrity would end. He set about making deals for himself His trophy wives, his offspring and friends. He made few attempts to cover his tracks, Mostly just shouted blatantly obvious lies By which he was fooling no one intelligent. Just the moronic, the foolish and unwise. He relied on the vagaries of human nature That voters are among the laziest humans And would rather vote for a rascal it seems Than take a chance on an honest new man Or woman, or gay or an experienced soul That could take over the Presidential reins Instead of driving our country straight to hell And making huge profits off the remains. Brent Kincaid 4/23/2019
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34
Is there a poem in a sidewalk? Paths of cratered concrete, cracked By morning frost and midnight freeze, Wimpy weeds grow through the fissures. Children fall and skin their knees. Is there a poem in a sidewalk? Canvas for a budding Rembrandt, Using colored chalk as paint, Drawing flow’rs, and stick-man family, Curbing not her young restraint. Is there a poem in a sidewalk? Adults dare not let loose the leash, As they exercise their dogs, and ease their own stress, Must carry bags and tiny shovels, To clear the concrete of the mess. Is there a poem in a sidewalk? Scooters, skateboards, wagons, bikes, Off the path, then on again While yielding the right-of-way To lovers walking hand in hand. Is there a poem in a sidewalk? Collecting children at the corner, A guard, with yellow vest and sign, Moses parts the sea of traffic, Cautiously keeps kids in line. Through front yards, across drive-ways, Toward bus stops, stores and schools, Gathering mown grass, autumn leaves, and winter snow. There are poems in small town sidewalks, Imagination on the go. Phil Lindsey 1/11/17
0
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC
phil-lindsey
Small Town Sidewalks
Is there a poem in a sidewalk? Paths of cratered concrete, cracked By morning frost and midnight freeze, Wimpy weeds grow through the fissures. Children fall and skin their knees. Is there a poem in a sidewalk? Canvas for a budding Rembrandt, Using colored chalk as paint, Drawing flow’rs, and stick-man family, Curbing not her young restraint. Is there a poem in a sidewalk? Adults dare not let loose the leash, As they exercise their dogs, and ease their own stress, Must carry bags and tiny shovels, To clear the concrete of the mess. Is there a poem in a sidewalk? Scooters, skateboards, wagons, bikes, Off the path, then on again While yielding the right-of-way To lovers walking hand in hand. Is there a poem in a sidewalk? Collecting children at the corner, A guard, with yellow vest and sign, Moses parts the sea of traffic, Cautiously keeps kids in line. Through front yards, across drive-ways, Toward bus stops, stores and schools, Gathering mown grass, autumn leaves, and winter snow. There are poems in small town sidewalks, Imagination on the go. Phil Lindsey 1/11/17
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31
Demon of complacency Yours is the face I see I never wanted to look back I knew my life was on the track. For far too long I had thought I had the whole world caught. I should have been afraid Thinking that I had it made. Excuses and ruses, I had them Emotional accounts, I padded them. I ignored all my past mistakes. I figured they were just the breaks. And now it is my time to shine. I knew for sure I would be fine. I could go back to my bad ways I would have nothing but sunny days. The bad things that happened to me All came about quite accidentally. I am so much older and smarter. I know so many tricks of the trade. I have this race made in the shade. Crashing and burning a non-starter. I could whip any monsters in the room. I was sweeping with a brand new broom. Demon of complacency Yours is the face I see I never wanted to look back I knew my life was on the track. For far too long I had thought I had the whole world caught. I should have been afraid Thinking that I had it made. I was sure I could run around With the gang I had always found The drinkers and smokers of **** I have all the protection I need. There is no reason for me to be Locked up in a kind of high security. I can take a drink or a tiny hit Now that I know when to quit. I miss my friends and fun and dancing. Besides you need it when romancing. I would be some kind of wimpy pain If I didn’t offer a bit of champagne. So, I know I can make it. I’m strong. If someone is worried, they’re wrong. A person can drink a few times a week. I’ve outgrown all the worry, so to speak. Demon of complacency Yours is the face I see I never wanted to look back I knew my life was on the track. For far too long I had thought I had the whole world caught. I should have been afraid Thinking that I had it made. Brent Kincaid 4/11/2015
0
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 2:57 AM UTC
brent-kincaid
DEMON OF COMPLACENCY
Demon of complacency Yours is the face I see I never wanted to look back I knew my life was on the track. For far too long I had thought I had the whole world caught. I should have been afraid Thinking that I had it made. Excuses and ruses, I had them Emotional accounts, I padded them. I ignored all my past mistakes. I figured they were just the breaks. And now it is my time to shine. I knew for sure I would be fine. I could go back to my bad ways I would have nothing but sunny days. The bad things that happened to me All came about quite accidentally. I am so much older and smarter. I know so many tricks of the trade. I have this race made in the shade. Crashing and burning a non-starter. I could whip any monsters in the room. I was sweeping with a brand new broom. Demon of complacency Yours is the face I see I never wanted to look back I knew my life was on the track. For far too long I had thought I had the whole world caught. I should have been afraid Thinking that I had it made. I was sure I could run around With the gang I had always found The drinkers and smokers of **** I have all the protection I need. There is no reason for me to be Locked up in a kind of high security. I can take a drink or a tiny hit Now that I know when to quit. I miss my friends and fun and dancing. Besides you need it when romancing. I would be some kind of wimpy pain If I didn’t offer a bit of champagne. So, I know I can make it. I’m strong. If someone is worried, they’re wrong. A person can drink a few times a week. I’ve outgrown all the worry, so to speak. Demon of complacency Yours is the face I see I never wanted to look back I knew my life was on the track. For far too long I had thought I had the whole world caught. I should have been afraid Thinking that I had it made. Brent Kincaid 4/11/2015
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58
Pity the wimpy Democrats They suffer in defeat. Year after year they don’t learn Like Republicans you must cheat. Stuff all the ballot boxes And monkey with the machines. You’ll never get a **** thing done If you keep the elections clean. And band together solidly With your chosen party. Lie and cheat and dissemble And act like a pompous smarty. Never worry about what is right. Just brazen it through out loud. It seems jerks do the best When catering to the crowd. Buy votes from everywhere Especially from big industry; Big Oil, Big Banks and Pharma Kiss their butts shamelessly. Make sure all the factions That are stealing the country blind Understand you have their backs And treat all of the poor unkind. Go on tour and television And make out you’re the good guy: Dare the opposition to debate Then Ignore facts and lie. Remember the public is stupid And doesn’t know what goes on. Run a crew of cheaters on the side, It’s what elections depend on. But most importantly, you must be The most obnoxious candidate. Start early and spend the bucks. It’s deadly for you to start too late. Run the most famous people: They must be Christian and straight. No matter how you cheat and lie Promise America will be Great. Cover your butts before you start. Plant a lot of baseless rumors. Make baseless stories about their past. Swear voting wrong causes tumors. Do what it takes, Democrats The GOP has no compunctions If they could just get by with it They’d beat you with truncheons.
0
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 9:02 PM UTC
brent-kincaid
PITY THE DEMOCRATS
Pity the wimpy Democrats They suffer in defeat. Year after year they don’t learn Like Republicans you must cheat. Stuff all the ballot boxes And monkey with the machines. You’ll never get a **** thing done If you keep the elections clean. And band together solidly With your chosen party. Lie and cheat and dissemble And act like a pompous smarty. Never worry about what is right. Just brazen it through out loud. It seems jerks do the best When catering to the crowd. Buy votes from everywhere Especially from big industry; Big Oil, Big Banks and Pharma Kiss their butts shamelessly. Make sure all the factions That are stealing the country blind Understand you have their backs And treat all of the poor unkind. Go on tour and television And make out you’re the good guy: Dare the opposition to debate Then Ignore facts and lie. Remember the public is stupid And doesn’t know what goes on. Run a crew of cheaters on the side, It’s what elections depend on. But most importantly, you must be The most obnoxious candidate. Start early and spend the bucks. It’s deadly for you to start too late. Run the most famous people: They must be Christian and straight. No matter how you cheat and lie Promise America will be Great. Cover your butts before you start. Plant a lot of baseless rumors. Make baseless stories about their past. Swear voting wrong causes tumors. Do what it takes, Democrats The GOP has no compunctions If they could just get by with it They’d beat you with truncheons.
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48
With the first Roar Galaxies fell out of your Void. Here we scream to throw out all that checks and chokes us. In a Roar you created the limitless Creation of yours In a Roar, we wish to destroy the listless creation of ours. Hoping our roars will resonate with your mighty Roar of Creation. Tear we did the chords of Sound Open we did the doors of the Profound. May every wimpy sound we make be in tune with your Roar.
0
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 10:22 AM UTC
vamsi-sai-mohan
Rudra(the roarer)
With the first Roar Galaxies fell out of your Void. Here we scream to throw out all that checks and chokes us. In a Roar you created the limitless Creation of yours In a Roar, we wish to destroy the listless creation of ours. Hoping our roars will resonate with your mighty Roar of Creation. Tear we did the chords of Sound Open we did the doors of the Profound. May every wimpy sound we make be in tune with your Roar.
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15
Alright all you pigeon chests Came the sound of thunder from the open door As Big Bad Bart replaced the space Giant mountain man of lore Making his way into the bar Sweeping Nancy boys out of his way Stepping up to the the jukebox Kicking it till some good ole country boy music played This mountain man has made it his goal To grab hold and unsissify Any Wimpy Wally's That happen to catch his manly eye He started off his conquest Out in the great North wood First stop The Red Eye Back Door Saloon Need I explain the name to you He went in with his moral barrels a blazing But there wasn't much he could do Village people the only band on the jukebox Y.M.C.A. being the only tune He didn't let that little nitch stop him Or slow him down by any means Giving America back to the menly men And not the mousey men with their girly dreams Till the day that Bart locked eyes with Stanly In that San Francisco flower bar Those two haven't left each others side Going through life now arm and arm They spend their time skipping through fields of pansies Giggling freely hand in hand The way Bart now feels this was meant to be Mia Mono, Man to Man Bart's lumberjack buddies can't believe it And don't know what to think of their friend Although they all secretly admit He does look good in those Hot Pink Hot Pants
0
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 7:21 AM UTC
mike-hauser
Big Bad Bart (Mountain Man)
Alright all you pigeon chests Came the sound of thunder from the open door As Big Bad Bart replaced the space Giant mountain man of lore Making his way into the bar Sweeping Nancy boys out of his way Stepping up to the the jukebox Kicking it till some good ole country boy music played This mountain man has made it his goal To grab hold and unsissify Any Wimpy Wally's That happen to catch his manly eye He started off his conquest Out in the great North wood First stop The Red Eye Back Door Saloon Need I explain the name to you He went in with his moral barrels a blazing But there wasn't much he could do Village people the only band on the jukebox Y.M.C.A. being the only tune He didn't let that little nitch stop him Or slow him down by any means Giving America back to the menly men And not the mousey men with their girly dreams Till the day that Bart locked eyes with Stanly In that San Francisco flower bar Those two haven't left each others side Going through life now arm and arm They spend their time skipping through fields of pansies Giggling freely hand in hand The way Bart now feels this was meant to be Mia Mono, Man to Man Bart's lumberjack buddies can't believe it And don't know what to think of their friend Although they all secretly admit He does look good in those Hot Pink Hot Pants
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36
A house, sitting on the slopes of a verdant hill, has a different view of things even on things heavenly , --a star in the western sky.                                            A star with silver sheen, smiles down at the children playing in the engulfing darkness in front of a hut , thatched with  braided coconut leaves. Chilly wind blows, children shudder, their tattered clothes flutter, they are hungry still , looking like withered pepper vines, facing blazing sun, all day long waiting for their parents to turn up after day long toil in the rice paddy yonder. The jackals howl, chicken in the coop, respond in fear. From afar, strains of music waft, from Syrian Orthodox Church in tea estates atop the high rages of Kerala mountains. "Why they are so late?" the youngest, a frail anemic girl asks- "They may have gone to market to bring us delicacies for Christmas" the eldest girl, a cheerful but wimpy one quips, hiding her own fears... Tomorrow is the day of Christmas, (if they don't get their wages..) Night descends from the hills in thick rolls through the slopes, flooding their hut and them all in inky darkness, without any hope, the boy and the girls, not ready to  loose hope look up to the lone silver star, even when darkness eats them up. The star gives them it's happiest of smiles at the saddest of times, it ever did... a drop of tear from the eye of the hapless star falls on a child's tattered dress. O
0
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 8:17 AM UTC
k-balachandran
A Christmas can also be sad like this
A house, sitting on the slopes of a verdant hill, has a different view of things even on things heavenly , --a star in the western sky.                                            A star with silver sheen, smiles down at the children playing in the engulfing darkness in front of a hut , thatched with  braided coconut leaves. Chilly wind blows, children shudder, their tattered clothes flutter, they are hungry still , looking like withered pepper vines, facing blazing sun, all day long waiting for their parents to turn up after day long toil in the rice paddy yonder. The jackals howl, chicken in the coop, respond in fear. From afar, strains of music waft, from Syrian Orthodox Church in tea estates atop the high rages of Kerala mountains. "Why they are so late?" the youngest, a frail anemic girl asks- "They may have gone to market to bring us delicacies for Christmas" the eldest girl, a cheerful but wimpy one quips, hiding her own fears... Tomorrow is the day of Christmas, (if they don't get their wages..) Night descends from the hills in thick rolls through the slopes, flooding their hut and them all in inky darkness, without any hope, the boy and the girls, not ready to  loose hope look up to the lone silver star, even when darkness eats them up. The star gives them it's happiest of smiles at the saddest of times, it ever did... a drop of tear from the eye of the hapless star falls on a child's tattered dress. O
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34
Let me introduce the royal players: Everyone wants to corner the King He may be Lord of the board But he's the most powerless thing! His lady has to defend her man He's pretty much a sitting duck And not one to take command! The other pieces....what will be their fate?   They exist to save the wimpy monarch All the wrong moves...Checkmate! Manning the front row are the peons, the pawns Lucky to make it across to promote their rank Like helpless turtles, they inch forward on The Bishops, like royal clergy in robes of red Diagonal in direction, they stride and they glide Moving this way..and that way...behind or ahead Shapely horse heads, the gallant Knights In L - shaped ways, they gallop in battle Noble beasts who prove their might! Set upon the four corners are the Rooks Castles, they have straight-line tactics, Advancing away from their nooks Oh, the lovely, noble Queen, not forsaken! She rules! Nearly limitless, so watch out! Yet if not careful, even she can be taken! If Her Majesty is captured...you've lost the very best! You might as well admit your defeat You, who play this game called Chess Let the games begin!
0
Aug 19, 2010
Aug 19, 2010 at 6:04 PM UTC
dorothy-anderson
Chess, Anyone?
Let me introduce the royal players: Everyone wants to corner the King He may be Lord of the board But he's the most powerless thing! His lady has to defend her man He's pretty much a sitting duck And not one to take command! The other pieces....what will be their fate?   They exist to save the wimpy monarch All the wrong moves...Checkmate! Manning the front row are the peons, the pawns Lucky to make it across to promote their rank Like helpless turtles, they inch forward on The Bishops, like royal clergy in robes of red Diagonal in direction, they stride and they glide Moving this way..and that way...behind or ahead Shapely horse heads, the gallant Knights In L - shaped ways, they gallop in battle Noble beasts who prove their might! Set upon the four corners are the Rooks Castles, they have straight-line tactics, Advancing away from their nooks Oh, the lovely, noble Queen, not forsaken! She rules! Nearly limitless, so watch out! Yet if not careful, even she can be taken! If Her Majesty is captured...you've lost the very best! You might as well admit your defeat You, who play this game called Chess Let the games begin!
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29
This is my Epic word play, like crippling cliches, putting Shakespeare on a delay, my sentences run a relay. I speak so quickly you need a replay, but it's still too slick, thats what she say. I bring dismay like a dark cloud on a clear day, roar so loud I make the lightning pray. Under my storm the whole world becomes my prey. Scattered and running, screaming and shouting. Fighting and scratching, clawing and doubting. This pouting crowd is weak not meek. They sneak peeks at secrets they can't keep. Living in dreams when they don't sleep. This cheap world carries no beat. Throws fire with no heat. Full of tricks and no treat. It's a bumpy ride with no seat. Hope to God you soon meet, cause the Devil's no cheat. I hear them cry, sigh, whisper, and wan. I walk this wire like a liar, the path of the insane, but I can't complain. For it all leads to my reign. These wimpy whimpering children fear their fate. With no appetite to sate, locked in a fence with no gate. I can dangle hooks with no bait. And still they snap and still they bite. It's alright, it's still their right to lose sight of the site. It's not a lack of sense, but too much ignorance and impudence. I grant you my two cents. A text to get vexed and hexed. My free verse is like *** An ******** hat trick, built brick by brick. No one's immune but no one gets sick. I'm tired, I quit, hit me back with a single bullet, no clip. Don't miss and don't slip, or else I'll dip, strike back, your throat I'll split. Swallow your soul and spit out the pit. It's critical you stand and don't sit. You'll need to run, the sun is burning out, it's no fun shooting blanks for a toy gun. Crooked angles over the horizon shows that we're done. This has been my Epic word play, a day of artistic dismay on display. The he said she said scene like a play, causes stress make my hair grey. But I promise you this I.O.U. is A.O.K. I never right a check that my *** can't pay. You may be the light but I am the way.
0
May 26, 2010
May 26, 2010 at 10:15 PM UTC
richard-allen-pogue
Epic Word Play
This is my Epic word play, like crippling cliches, putting Shakespeare on a delay, my sentences run a relay. I speak so quickly you need a replay, but it's still too slick, thats what she say. I bring dismay like a dark cloud on a clear day, roar so loud I make the lightning pray. Under my storm the whole world becomes my prey. Scattered and running, screaming and shouting. Fighting and scratching, clawing and doubting. This pouting crowd is weak not meek. They sneak peeks at secrets they can't keep. Living in dreams when they don't sleep. This cheap world carries no beat. Throws fire with no heat. Full of tricks and no treat. It's a bumpy ride with no seat. Hope to God you soon meet, cause the Devil's no cheat. I hear them cry, sigh, whisper, and wan. I walk this wire like a liar, the path of the insane, but I can't complain. For it all leads to my reign. These wimpy whimpering children fear their fate. With no appetite to sate, locked in a fence with no gate. I can dangle hooks with no bait. And still they snap and still they bite. It's alright, it's still their right to lose sight of the site. It's not a lack of sense, but too much ignorance and impudence. I grant you my two cents. A text to get vexed and hexed. My free verse is like *** An ******** hat trick, built brick by brick. No one's immune but no one gets sick. I'm tired, I quit, hit me back with a single bullet, no clip. Don't miss and don't slip, or else I'll dip, strike back, your throat I'll split. Swallow your soul and spit out the pit. It's critical you stand and don't sit. You'll need to run, the sun is burning out, it's no fun shooting blanks for a toy gun. Crooked angles over the horizon shows that we're done. This has been my Epic word play, a day of artistic dismay on display. The he said she said scene like a play, causes stress make my hair grey. But I promise you this I.O.U. is A.O.K. I never right a check that my *** can't pay. You may be the light but I am the way.
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28
i'm sorry for leaving, for not explaining. i'm sorry for taking you for granted, for making you feel unwanted. i'm sorry for swearing, for being unsensitive and unwilling. i'm sorry for being annoying, for always being irrelevant and spamming. i'm sorry for always thinking about you, it's not like i want to. i'm sorry for letting you go, it's just i think you deserve more. i'm sorry i'm such a mess, maybe i should think less. i'm sorry i don't have a good body, i'm just born wimpy i'm sorry i cry a lot, because i'm tired of the battles i've fought i'm sorry i think a lot, changing me into someone i'm not i'm sorry for being sensitive, for always thinking negative i'm sorry for being hated, for being me and for being complicated i'm sorry for giving up, for always ******* up i'm sorry for losing control, for overreacting and for not doing as told i'm sorry for everything, to everyone for anything i hope you'll forgive me, even though it's not easy.
0
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 1:40 AM UTC
complexanxiety
i'm sorry for...
i'm sorry for leaving, for not explaining. i'm sorry for taking you for granted, for making you feel unwanted. i'm sorry for swearing, for being unsensitive and unwilling. i'm sorry for being annoying, for always being irrelevant and spamming. i'm sorry for always thinking about you, it's not like i want to. i'm sorry for letting you go, it's just i think you deserve more. i'm sorry i'm such a mess, maybe i should think less. i'm sorry i don't have a good body, i'm just born wimpy i'm sorry i cry a lot, because i'm tired of the battles i've fought i'm sorry i think a lot, changing me into someone i'm not i'm sorry for being sensitive, for always thinking negative i'm sorry for being hated, for being me and for being complicated i'm sorry for giving up, for always ******* up i'm sorry for losing control, for overreacting and for not doing as told i'm sorry for everything, to everyone for anything i hope you'll forgive me, even though it's not easy.
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16
Another day Another dime Another useless Unheard rhyme Another day another dime On the ladder I do not pretend to climb Another day another dime Another way for me To waste my time Another day another dime I make a dollar for you And lose some of mine Another day another dime I bear the burden Of your wimpy spine Another day another dime The suffering you leave Is your greatest crime Another day Another dime There will be no justice It's all broken this time
0
Jan 19, 2021
Jan 19, 2021 at 5:47 PM UTC
calebajohnson
Another Day
Another day Another dime Another useless Unheard rhyme Another day another dime On the ladder I do not pretend to climb Another day another dime Another way for me To waste my time Another day another dime I make a dollar for you And lose some of mine Another day another dime I bear the burden Of your wimpy spine Another day another dime The suffering you leave Is your greatest crime Another day Another dime There will be no justice It's all broken this time
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28
This is the tale of the Kid’s doll, the wallygog. A doll meant to look like A pale pitiful human hog With a clammy white body With wimpy yellow hair And blue button eyes, And cotton belly to spare. It is so unattractive that It must be that this toy Is meant to insult them, White girls and boys, So that playing with it Puts them in their place As objects of ridicule Laughs in the white face. Because look how sad, With wan sewn-open lips And imitation Gap clothes Sewn to shoulder and hip. How foolish and rude Is this toy made by fools. Who can truly ignore What is meant by this tool? Yet is so popular now The silly Wallygog today; Some children refuse As they grow, to set it away. They carry it around And it leaves me agog That they never understand What it means, this Wallygog.
0
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 3:40 PM UTC
brent-kincaid
THE WALLYGOG
This is the tale of the Kid’s doll, the wallygog. A doll meant to look like A pale pitiful human hog With a clammy white body With wimpy yellow hair And blue button eyes, And cotton belly to spare. It is so unattractive that It must be that this toy Is meant to insult them, White girls and boys, So that playing with it Puts them in their place As objects of ridicule Laughs in the white face. Because look how sad, With wan sewn-open lips And imitation Gap clothes Sewn to shoulder and hip. How foolish and rude Is this toy made by fools. Who can truly ignore What is meant by this tool? Yet is so popular now The silly Wallygog today; Some children refuse As they grow, to set it away. They carry it around And it leaves me agog That they never understand What it means, this Wallygog.
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32
Ode to My Hero (Me)            to be sung by Donald Trump     with apologies to Gilbert & Sullivan's                    H.M.S Pinafore As a callow youth I served a term as Senior VP  of  my Daddy's firm His moxie and his money so suited me that now I am the ruler of the Trump fam'ly When asked a question,  my Golden Rule is to bluster loud and flaunt my cool,     And this evasion so well suits me that I've become the master of chicanery. With legal suits, I've made so free that all my smitten lenders bow down to me For I pay my lawyers so liberally that I never lose a dollar on a bankruptcy. If now and then my luck runs out I've buckets of money from my TV route, And since my ******* up name is Gold the money keeps a 'comin from the young  and old. For my great fame they pay and pay and their paltry savings they fling away on Trump U studies  they're sure to find, will empty their wallets, not fill their mind. So listen and learn from my Trumpery and join white men who hate Hillary They holler hosannas for their hero DonT, though for Trump adulation they can't beat me! My heads not troubled by policy woes 'cause I learn all I want at beauty shows I've put up very well with my three wives, my yachts & my mansions & my gambling dives. I've exalted myself unsparingly and tossed off little lies with impunity Let fey foes fault me as vain & mean, their rightful envy leaves me quite serene. With my big mouth and red regal head I've clobbered all my rivals until they bled With frank contempt I dissed Jeb B bashed Carson & Kasich and Ted's lady. There's hardly a Republican left to fight and,  in wimpy Dems,  I inspire fright while fearful folks seek my mighty arm to shield them all from ISIS  harm. Now I've come to the end of this very fine Ode to march with pride on the Presidential Road For my boundless bluster's so elevated me that now I am the ruler of the GOP. If another Trump you aspire to be, you must never, never fret about decency. Just stiff the losers and brag like me, and you may be the Grand Old Party's nominee.
0
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 5:36 PM UTC
irwin-shishko
A Trump Ode
Ode to My Hero (Me)            to be sung by Donald Trump     with apologies to Gilbert & Sullivan's                    H.M.S Pinafore As a callow youth I served a term as Senior VP  of  my Daddy's firm His moxie and his money so suited me that now I am the ruler of the Trump fam'ly When asked a question,  my Golden Rule is to bluster loud and flaunt my cool,     And this evasion so well suits me that I've become the master of chicanery. With legal suits, I've made so free that all my smitten lenders bow down to me For I pay my lawyers so liberally that I never lose a dollar on a bankruptcy. If now and then my luck runs out I've buckets of money from my TV route, And since my ******* up name is Gold the money keeps a 'comin from the young  and old. For my great fame they pay and pay and their paltry savings they fling away on Trump U studies  they're sure to find, will empty their wallets, not fill their mind. So listen and learn from my Trumpery and join white men who hate Hillary They holler hosannas for their hero DonT, though for Trump adulation they can't beat me! My heads not troubled by policy woes 'cause I learn all I want at beauty shows I've put up very well with my three wives, my yachts & my mansions & my gambling dives. I've exalted myself unsparingly and tossed off little lies with impunity Let fey foes fault me as vain & mean, their rightful envy leaves me quite serene. With my big mouth and red regal head I've clobbered all my rivals until they bled With frank contempt I dissed Jeb B bashed Carson & Kasich and Ted's lady. There's hardly a Republican left to fight and,  in wimpy Dems,  I inspire fright while fearful folks seek my mighty arm to shield them all from ISIS  harm. Now I've come to the end of this very fine Ode to march with pride on the Presidential Road For my boundless bluster's so elevated me that now I am the ruler of the GOP. If another Trump you aspire to be, you must never, never fret about decency. Just stiff the losers and brag like me, and you may be the Grand Old Party's nominee.
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50
They say she sleeps ad infinitum Eternal recurrence burns my furnace Warm my bedded head In her sleep she swoons and croons Cockatoo flown past what I'd grasp for Can't catch that flack slack back snapped crack My pursed lips perched like a mourning dove Shoos yew canoes past blue pools and coos "No new news" In this hallway I walk through it Acknowledge and be with me here Not there at the end She begs for company An affirmation of the sufficient subsets, Experienced in essence through forms She can't sleep
0
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 3:00 AM UTC
spooky-doopy
yew boats on a wimpy lake night
They say she sleeps ad infinitum Eternal recurrence burns my furnace Warm my bedded head In her sleep she swoons and croons Cockatoo flown past what I'd grasp for Can't catch that flack slack back snapped crack My pursed lips perched like a mourning dove Shoos yew canoes past blue pools and coos "No new news" In this hallway I walk through it Acknowledge and be with me here Not there at the end She begs for company An affirmation of the sufficient subsets, Experienced in essence through forms She can't sleep
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16
Middle-school adulthood Picking on people is cool. Nothing important is going on That has anything to do with school. Glasses make people four-eyed Not being thin means they’re fat. Stutters and stammers are funny And being snotty is where it’s at. Ding **** bell, being rich is swell Don’t  be wimpy, not a smidge Tree-hugging liberals can go to hell. Revel in your white privilege. You want to vote for a Democrat? Have you lost your silly head? Just check all the GOP boxes With Daddy’s choice instead. Now you’re all grow up today And have a lot of political power Which grows and grows  stronger Each hour by Republican hour. So don’t weaken now, baby Do what you know is right. Stick to your supremacist guns. Because you know white makes might. So use your sarcasm as a tool Secretly whisper against the weak. And those weak-kneed pacifists, Those flag burning, long haired creeps; Ignore them all; give their nose a tweak. Just like the women you dated and married They need to follow your lead in life. After all, they don’t count the same as you. The important thing is they’re just a wife. Ding **** bell, power is swell You never suffer, not a smidge Don’t worry if you can’t spell. Revel in your white privilege. Never vote for a Democrat, Don’t be that kind of stupid head. Just check every the GOP boxes Faithfully keep your state red.
0
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 3:59 PM UTC
brent-kincaid
MIDDLE SCHOOL ADULTHOOD
Middle-school adulthood Picking on people is cool. Nothing important is going on That has anything to do with school. Glasses make people four-eyed Not being thin means they’re fat. Stutters and stammers are funny And being snotty is where it’s at. Ding **** bell, being rich is swell Don’t  be wimpy, not a smidge Tree-hugging liberals can go to hell. Revel in your white privilege. You want to vote for a Democrat? Have you lost your silly head? Just check all the GOP boxes With Daddy’s choice instead. Now you’re all grow up today And have a lot of political power Which grows and grows  stronger Each hour by Republican hour. So don’t weaken now, baby Do what you know is right. Stick to your supremacist guns. Because you know white makes might. So use your sarcasm as a tool Secretly whisper against the weak. And those weak-kneed pacifists, Those flag burning, long haired creeps; Ignore them all; give their nose a tweak. Just like the women you dated and married They need to follow your lead in life. After all, they don’t count the same as you. The important thing is they’re just a wife. Ding **** bell, power is swell You never suffer, not a smidge Don’t worry if you can’t spell. Revel in your white privilege. Never vote for a Democrat, Don’t be that kind of stupid head. Just check every the GOP boxes Faithfully keep your state red.
Continue reading...
41
I can just picture it Your super close to finishin Nutting into ***** socks Tugging at your wimpy **** I know that you think of me To an unhealthy degree Writing all those angry songs A loser limpdick sing-a-long I can't seem to blame you much I have that effect on all I touch You didnt deserve it though So now you get to watch me go While I upgrade to bigger **** and you get to imagine it I'm smiling up at someone else While you sit at home and touch yourself So obsessed with my life You're a cuck without the wife I guess you couldnt handle me We're from a different pedigree No longer on that failure **** Or living in a trailer **** Crybaby **** don't work no more So stomp your feet across the floor All the way to mommies room But she don't love you either dude! Man you cant seem to catch a break My ******* were all a fake But if you need a diagram You know where the **** I am I'm out here focused on myself While you threaten to **** yourself I bleed success and excellence I am too good for this all this mess Remember who the **** I am When I destroy you on the stand You say you used to be abused? What a ***** boy *** excuse I am not your baby girl I'm rocking someone else's world So take some notes and highlight bits It says right here that you ain't ****
0
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 8:12 PM UTC
RatQueen
crybaby
I can just picture it Your super close to finishin Nutting into ***** socks Tugging at your wimpy **** I know that you think of me To an unhealthy degree Writing all those angry songs A loser limpdick sing-a-long I can't seem to blame you much I have that effect on all I touch You didnt deserve it though So now you get to watch me go While I upgrade to bigger **** and you get to imagine it I'm smiling up at someone else While you sit at home and touch yourself So obsessed with my life You're a cuck without the wife I guess you couldnt handle me We're from a different pedigree No longer on that failure **** Or living in a trailer **** Crybaby **** don't work no more So stomp your feet across the floor All the way to mommies room But she don't love you either dude! Man you cant seem to catch a break My ******* were all a fake But if you need a diagram You know where the **** I am I'm out here focused on myself While you threaten to **** yourself I bleed success and excellence I am too good for this all this mess Remember who the **** I am When I destroy you on the stand You say you used to be abused? What a ***** boy *** excuse I am not your baby girl I'm rocking someone else's world So take some notes and highlight bits It says right here that you ain't ****
Continue reading...
41
(20 minute poetry) Popeyed I look at the goil with the olive complexion and the ink drips like oil from the well of my fountain pen. It was always the goil that Bluto desired as Wimpy ate burgers looking awfully tired. Though Popeyed I tried to make Bluto see that the goil in question was the goil for me. Lliving a cartoon is like life on the moon where there's no air to breathe, but being here where the atmosphere is rare unlike the burgers that Wimpy won't share is fine. The goil is mine and if I eats my spinach there will come a time when I knock Bluto out. (It always sounds like goil to me when Popeye says it.
0
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 7:53 PM UTC
john-edward-smallshaw
The sailors girl
(20 minute poetry) Popeyed I look at the goil with the olive complexion and the ink drips like oil from the well of my fountain pen. It was always the goil that Bluto desired as Wimpy ate burgers looking awfully tired. Though Popeyed I tried to make Bluto see that the goil in question was the goil for me. Lliving a cartoon is like life on the moon where there's no air to breathe, but being here where the atmosphere is rare unlike the burgers that Wimpy won't share is fine. The goil is mine and if I eats my spinach there will come a time when I knock Bluto out. (It always sounds like goil to me when Popeye says it.
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17
When each of us, reach another, a soul can be eternally saved; the path has been laid out and you must be courageously brave! Are you willing to die to self? Can you access the mind of Christ? Do others see that you live for Him? Do you have… His everlasting Life? Better than a sermon on your lips, is a contented spirit of humility; in Life’s brokenness, you can shine with His Light and vulnerability. Christianity isn’t for wimpy souls; many have died, having been martyred. Become born-again on this very day; Faith with Christ, can’t be bartered. . . . Author notes Inspired by: John 3:7; Matt 28:18-20 and You can preach a better sermon with your life than with your lips. -Oliver Goldsmith Learn more about me and my poetry at: http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
0
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 11:46 AM UTC
joseph-j-breunig-3rd
Poem: Better Than a Sermon
When each of us, reach another, a soul can be eternally saved; the path has been laid out and you must be courageously brave! Are you willing to die to self? Can you access the mind of Christ? Do others see that you live for Him? Do you have… His everlasting Life? Better than a sermon on your lips, is a contented spirit of humility; in Life’s brokenness, you can shine with His Light and vulnerability. Christianity isn’t for wimpy souls; many have died, having been martyred. Become born-again on this very day; Faith with Christ, can’t be bartered. . . . Author notes Inspired by: John 3:7; Matt 28:18-20 and You can preach a better sermon with your life than with your lips. -Oliver Goldsmith Learn more about me and my poetry at: http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
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Get a job. Get a girl. Get a house. Get a coffin.   Get a jump on the morning and eat an omelette of worms. Get a newspaper with your morning loaf and read that thing cover to cover. Get real, get prepared, get in line. Get your orders from the horse's mouth and follow them to you're told otherwise. Get a grip of yourself, young man! Don’t get yourself in trouble, infected or in jail. Don’t get up after midday or go to sleep after midnight. Don’t get used to coming in first or you’ll be a wimpy sore lose. Don’t get cocky kid; don’t get smart. Don’t get ahead of yourself and think you're the man to lead all the others. Don’t get too big for your boots, young man.
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Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 1:06 PM UTC
c-j-baxter
Mostly Bad Advice
Get a job. Get a girl. Get a house. Get a coffin.   Get a jump on the morning and eat an omelette of worms. Get a newspaper with your morning loaf and read that thing cover to cover. Get real, get prepared, get in line. Get your orders from the horse's mouth and follow them to you're told otherwise. Get a grip of yourself, young man! Don’t get yourself in trouble, infected or in jail. Don’t get up after midday or go to sleep after midnight. Don’t get used to coming in first or you’ll be a wimpy sore lose. Don’t get cocky kid; don’t get smart. Don’t get ahead of yourself and think you're the man to lead all the others. Don’t get too big for your boots, young man.
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