"wittiest" poems
I try to reconsider being bitter,
but you didn't have to hit her.
You're a backstabbing father and a quitter.
And as a parent it was apparent
that you were incoherent.
Your self esteem was barren.
Wearing a mask that's transparent.
I was oblivious.
You told me you were the wittiest.
It's insidious.
Your personality is hideous.
It was ingenious to me, the way you deemed us to be.
Your English was fiendish.
So much that your seamstress couldn't see.
True sense made me feel like I was a nuisance.
Like you didn't need my two cents.
Now I'm gone for good.
Dueces.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 7:09 PM UTC
Find yourself
against again
all odds, with
the prettiest
****** in
this whole
region.
Gently caresses,
she does,
your genitals
says the
wittiest
repartee.
Come, calm
down, old
man it's
just your
imagination,
wake up to
that headache.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 11:24 PM UTC
heres to another night spent writhing about in bed
like a serpent in the vast cosmic ocean bearing its fangs at each tiny source of light
a plethora of thoughts come to mind right when the head hits the soft stack of pillows
the trees and the leaves rustle as if sandpaper being scraped against a human face
and it leaves behind a deep unhealing **** that will last till the end of each sleepless night
be healed by the time the head leaves its nightly resting place to go out and take on the world
and the wait for the endless repetitive cycle to begin will begin once again
trudging through miles of globulous bile will again have the same lasting effect
as that of half eaten railway platforms and ground up browser tabs
elongated letters as they appear on the windowed capillaries of one's ignited violin
repossessed keyboards that belonged to aspiring writers who could never fill a page
with words that failed to even capture the imagination of the wittiest troll by the bridge
more words will flow through the sphincters present in half alive lighters
it seems this one needs to rhyme, so raise one to the brave baby fighters
streamlined thoughts finally arise as the mind clears up a little
here's another rhyme, this one might come off as a bit brittle
henceforth thoughts shall be placed with greater precision
there are ants residing in the laptop; sleeping with the laptop, a great decision
back into the depths of insanity shall we delve again
sleeping with a colony of ants equals terrible, piercing pain
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 6:27 PM UTC
I grew up around men
I grew up wanting to be one of them
That in their love and admiration
I'd find affirmation
I grew up with big brothers and cousins
Who's approval I'd seek
Don't think "just cause I'm a girl"
that I'm weak
I'll climb that tree with you
I'll go one branch higher
Whilst you try to put me down
I remember being left out whilst
The boys were on adventures
Because I was "little"
But really cause I was a "girl"
Why can't I go and play football?
Go fish in the crab pool?
Be split into gender roles in p.e in school?
I don't even have ****
I'm terrible at gymnastics
I hate netball
Forcing me to stand still
Whilst the Guys can dribble their way forward to success playing basketball.
Equal rights?
You must think I'm a fool.
I grew up with a resentment towards girls
I grew up disliking myself
Having to be the smartest and wittiest
The kindest and prettiest
When my brother said
you have "queen bee syndrome"
It hit home
Cause I grew up with a love for women
The comfort they bring
But a dislike that I felt reliant on them
Often the ones that would listen
It's tiring to constantly feel like
you're in competition
That for me their strength
seems to threaten
When really it should be inspiration...
So I grow now with a vision
That equality will be achieved
Bit by bit and I'll start with me,
My own mentality
And I don't believe
That put downs are necessary
No hate, no proclamations
Of unshifting patriarchy
This will be done.
If I ever have children
They will each get every opportunity
To be what it is they want to be
I will see to that personally
Cause all these boundaries
just deny possibility
Just think of the world it could be
Cause what lies between your legs
Does NOT determine ability
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 11:09 PM UTC
Veronica LaMonica
Played the harmonica
In our local high school band.
She collected japonica
She says it is a tonic
Attuned to a young lady’s hand.
She swears she is not picky
But avoids the ricky-ticky
And goes instead for the class.
She claims not to be picky
But avoids like a big hickey
Anything of plastic or brass.
Veronica LaMonica
Played the harmonica
In our local high school band.
She collected japonica
She says it is a tonic
Attuned to a young lady’s hand.
Veronica is the prettiest
Down to the nitty grittiest
Girl in the local school we both attend.
She’s not always wittiest
Rather hit and messiest,
But I’m glad at least she is my friend.
I’d like her to be more
That’s what this rhyme if for
To tell her she’s the best in the world.
She ’s the very highest floor,
The one have always adored,
She’s most artistically talented girl.
Veronica LaMonica
Played the harmonica
In our local high school band.
She collected japonica
She says it is a tonic
Attuned to a young lady’s hand.
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
There's no rest for the wicked. The plot thickens. The blood thins, then bleeds out onto the thorny thickets biting at bare shins, which sickens you to death times ten. Now you're feeling like a tiger in human skin. You begin setting off on the prowl for substance and the meaning of your life akin to the World's splendor. It's sustenance revealed to your awoken third eye of insight. The mind's eye of you and me, sees bountiful trees breathing and leaning towards your sweeping winds of change. Swaying towards every gaze, starstruck and amazed, chasing the dreams of completing this crazy maze of madness. Tears of joy, tears of sadness, tears that lubricate the gears that moves giant machines for years to come. May they be for peace, safety, and fun. Genes of the spirals behind our tattered, denim jeans holds molecular machines within us. Tiny gears set into motion, creating particular love potions, pouring out into vast oceans of debris floating in currents aligned. Strive for hopes and meanings sublime. Finely layered lines of poetry shine out from the beating hearts of timely martyrs chiming, rhyming, and climbing up the never-ending step ladder of the divinely. Ascension from the tension of the rotting vine of hatred, did I mention the sign of sacred love, which swoops down from above? The dove from it's perch of light, stares directly into your sight. Bright, dazzling displays amaze you more by the day.
Chasing and facing the challenges of anxiety, stress, and worry, obstructions of a 10 story building crumbling down all around you. Dust-bellowing clouds to choke and blindly block your steps around the destruction. Using torn limbs as ****** crutches, stumbling amongst dozens of slain wretches. Bets are placed for survival of the quickest and fittest. The wittiest guy you know is fastidious as the insidious destroyers of tomorrow.
This poem I borrowed from my soul and mind. The lines have spilled out onto shining paper reflecting the light from the mind's eye. All these meaningless rhymes will move tides that waves to you goodbye.
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 9:15 AM UTC
O if I could only write
Poetry worthy of your
Reading!
Find clarity in
Complexities.
Make Art and rhyme
of the unspoken.
Offer up my words
As tokens of my
Vulnerability.
Then, then you would see.
If only I could write a book
worth reading past the first few pages.
Not the type for school that
you read in stages in order to maintain
your vitality.
A book you can drown yourself in
without glancing at a screen.
Words you can devour
rather than glean.
An idyllic scene.
Far from the person you know best.
If only I could write myself
in a play.
My life mapped out from day to day
with instructions on my whereabouts
and actions.
Our conversations would be succint, artful
and with purpose.
I would have long, coherently structured
speeches and
always have the right things to say,
expressed in the wittiest way.
My life would be dictated by
Your entrances and exits.
All my plot lines resolved in
Act 3;
That would suit me.
O if only I could write those words;
The ones worth saying.
Those words different from our
Daily utterances.
Those words you have been
meaning to say but have not
yet had time to shape them round
your lips.
If I could write those words, I would.
Unfortunately it's just me.
But I will try, I promise.
Just you see-
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 10:47 PM UTC
To whom do I liken thee, oh god of gods: William Shakespeare,
Art thou not an immortal god or an incarnate of a spirit being?
Howbeit thy sepulcher, is but an idol, kept sacr'd by all human?
Of a truth, thy wisdom is greater than the wisdom of gods.
Whereupon thy plaque of wisdom, do I invest my foolishness?
I'll treasure thee until the ocean is fold'd and hung up to dry:
Thou art a monument without a tomb, yet art fore'er alive in history,
If I can but fit into thy beard, only then will I be fit to wed myself.
Shakespeare, art thou a supernatural god or an immortal creature?
Howbeit thy enchanting quill doth live, in spite of death, and cannot die?
Thy historic writings I'll idolize, for to thy muse, I am confess'd,
To whom do I liken thee, thou wittiest of all Socrates, if not but a god.
To thy legacies I am confess'd, for thy pen is worth more than gold,
Thou art the enigma of all times, none can exist thus like thee:
The Gigantic Ink that paint'd the pages of history with a historic Art;
Sage, thou art a historic page whose duplicate canne'er be produc'd.
Beneath thy tomb lies an Art, which neither man nor nature can ever forget,
Thou was not for an age, but all time, for nature herself boast'd of thee;
Mellifluous Shakespeare, thy historic impacts makes the silent grave arous'd,
Thou the wittiest sage of all times, whose name doth deck history.
To whom do I liken thee, thou Sweet Swan of Avon, William Shakespeare,
Thou art the Idol of all sages who flights upon the river of Thames,
Shakespeare, thou art the wittiest of all Socrates, whose muse cannot be tam'd,
Of a truth, thou art a historic sage whose name history canne'er forget.
Sep 26, 2016
Sep 26, 2016 at 7:46 PM UTC
She was neither the prettiest
Nor was she the wittiest
But heed your heart
When such a person starts
To stir your friendship
For they may posses that special bond of kinship
Yet alwaysbe wary and afraid
Of loseing that friend to love dismayed
Although your heart may be sure
For such a heartache there is no cure
The pain you will feel after such a year
Will bring you to shed many a tear
Time will pass but this love will never die
No matter how hard you try
Just seeing that person will get you high
Then saying goodbye will make you want to cry
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 7:29 PM UTC
In the morning I can face my reflection
Though I know I may not be the prettiest
Your anger hurts, but I'd have no reply still
Even if I was the wittiest
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 5:43 PM UTC
Her eyes are glowing rubies
Her hair is crimson; flowing beauty
Her aura is an avalanche, the snow ensues me.
How, oh, how could this happen to me?!
Her smile peels back the curtains on the sunshine
And pulls open my chest, like Clark Kent's shirt when it's punch time
Then caresses my heart as if her love was mine
And she would never know
But that is much better though.
Her face glows
Her shape flows
She makes me wish I could see her face at every day's beginning and every day's close.
How could this be?!
I despise romancing!
What potion has entranced me?
I never believed in love at first sight
Until I saw her.
I do not believe in love
Except the agape kind.
But every time I see her
The image remains branded on my mind.
I see her smile expand to fullness in slow motion;
Memorized.
Mesmerized.
Terrorized.
This is impossible!
I am a Stoic!
And yet,
I am a poet.
I could see beauty in the hideous,
Draw meaning from the frivolous,
Confound the wittiest
But now I'm just an idiot.
Because instead of harnessing beauty,
Beauty has harnessed me.
Just days ago, she sat in a car with me
But if she ever knew these thoughts, she'd stay far from me.
I write this in hopes to expel this foolish infatuation
Of a hormonal child awaiting maturation.
See, she makes me think of a life that is merely a fancy,
The simple thought of her makes my heart get antsy
I don't know why, to me, she seems so beyond the usual
And the fact of our different races makes it all seem even more beautiful.
I will look away when in her presence,
Even as I exchange a sentence
No more to be subdued by her essence
And feel like the lowest of peasants.
I do not need her
I will not seek her
I will not flee her
I will not squeeze her
No reveries of a life of me and her
She brings me from equilibrium to ecstasy at her leisure,
And this
Is why I hate to see her.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 2:03 PM UTC
History doesn’t repeat, it reproduces,
It ***** us well
into the darkest hour; we hold it so holy as
it wholly condenses, contracts, cracks, grasps and
Moans. It’s a venereal haunting,
ghosts of a ruthless world that doesn’t give
a **** and only cares about ******* **** up and *******
to be the fittest, survival of the wittiest.
You all want to reproduce your kind
but with the reproduction of your kin
your kind comes out sludge—
the soggy excuse of an abandoned mind
rotting away into “we’re not the first—
it’s always happened, all the time, is that a crime?”
Wreaking havoc amongst a species of your kind?
**** Me! Yes! It’s serious!
To trudge the earth for proof
that birth of war was something
of divine? Is it fine that people die
and never know of the privileged life—the life
We ******* live, ******* for Capitalism
But still getting ****** the same—
Like parents—if you won’t ******* take the time
to ******* notice what’s there and what’s right
what’s not and what is, sometimes—
what is sometimes more than one or two times;
The world is your baby, you can’t just decide
When to care and when to pretend you do
It’s true, getting ****** we all have—just a few
everyone is getting ****** in the entire ******* world
***** ******* with their ********** only want control
Hypocritical ***** in the government—they’re the ones creating ******
We the people, America the ****** swallowing what’s ********** from stores
Money’s flashy in that aspect it can buy whatever fetish
It can satisfy and pleasure
It can torture it can ruin it
It can break a nation’s soul;
Does Earth seem like a hole?
It gets ****** objectively, free of sentiment or affection,
It gets pillaged, ripped and hurled. It fights back
Vulnerable and totally ordinary—rare for our kind.
Who gives a **** Earth doesn’t have a gender,
It’s not going to tell anyone,
You had a lot to drink,
It was social influence:
It was the way of human kind,
******* for any kind of benefit,
Privilege, artificial sentiment
******* to keep going
Like everyone else
Maybe one day we’ll have a family until,
Until,
they too, will die.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 7:08 AM UTC
Yo step into my world like KRS one my gun
Blows away the sun dunned your done no fun
In the dark lurk near the scariest parks
Found my heart at the bottom of an abyss
My fist cruise through the foggy mist dismiss
Wack lyricist and these lyrics will shift
Ya back disc slowly sip the cola jack crisp no lisp
Only to ya chick who's loving it shovin' it
Like the gangsta I am eat green eggs and ham
Dont give a **** suckas cookin' like a grand slam
Keep the street bases loaded imploded quoted
From the drug bible feed bullets to my rivals
Cuz its the survival of the fittest the wittiest
Colder than the coldest im celcius minus
Three million degrees make tracks tongue bleed
Once i cut on the beat nasty movin' Pistol Pete
Bury a **** with one powerful hit ahhh ****
Yosef doing damage from mics i manage
My guns beaminsh freak a bad chica who's Spanish
Let my runs of my hands handle this
See the styles to crisp chickens run from this
Heat to a roast no need to boast none come close
To skills choppin' to H a v o c next to P
Lead by the Triples P's ***** pedigrees and prodigy no apology
For the blood sprees catching wars glee
Creed of demons sealed with nature *****
Got em dreamin' down memory lane
Simplicity black Mark Twain stain brains
I could flatten a rocky terrains strains
A mustard seed moving mountains
Sitting at the fountain of youth sounding
Off with the twenty one gun salute **** your
troops
We ***** as mobsters in black pinned strip zoot suits
Aug 28, 2019
Aug 28, 2019 at 11:47 PM UTC
What is left to say if simply transcribing another's antidotes
Will not knowing an idiom from a metaphor automatically make me an idiot?
Left to our own devices now will be up to the reader who surmises or denotes
Will particles of paraphrases become our own, simply a contest to find the wittiest?
Alliteration in our communication stresses our sounds like more bass from out throats
Faced with future facsimiles will we ponder to produce our own or leave us inexperienced
Seemingly sly salutations setting by the wayside wishing to be brought forward for their own votes
Smooth as a baby's **** some configurations combine to make them the silkiest
Sometimes simple silly slogans become our deepest thought leaving little to decode
Tricky trusty truisms tantalize while beige boring subtitles often stand the test
Reaching for fruit that will fall anyway,does it become easier to the take the lesser road
Reading and receiving often one sided or deceiving, playing differently when put into
writing it will now be left to the reader to decode. R.C.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 5:00 PM UTC
It started with Ovid
And really, it made me turn to stone
Made something long gone throng inside me
With just the way you talked and showed backbone
Yes, it started with Ovid
Inbetween there were the seas
The personal space we flirted in and grinned in
All the while filling up the spaces between my fingers
My name slipping off your lips like it was cherished
And all the while, there were the seas
Then came the Illiad
You were letting students give apples to the prettiest
But I think you didn't see it'd have been you
In fact, you were soon becoming the wittiest
And it slowly invigorated me but I was shy
So we just discussed the Illiad
Now is the time for Virgil
A time of white teeth in wide smiles about stories
A moment of touches of laughs of jokes
And suddenly a sign of another and love well-spent
And so with Virgil,
With Virgil we shall die.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 9:34 AM UTC
You held mine eyes as thunderclaps.
Deafening.
Blinding.
Hearing only of the love, you let me see.
In whispers of technicolour.
Rainbows mount the skyward stairs.
While walking in February snows.
Saw powder puffs of icicles, brush softly on your nose.
They were playing games with you, as once, thou didst with me.
As cold inside you made me feel, believed the words you said were real.
You were a fantasy, existing within a fantasy.
A fable, where the cards you offered,
lain not upon an honest table.
For the land in which the good man dwells is filled with hornets, straight from hell.
Left dangled on a silken rope, whereupon I find no hope.
Love is for only the wittiest jesters.
In my empty heart, your lowly memory slowly festers.
(c)LIVVI
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 6:47 PM UTC
I found him standing on the side road
leaning against his
red Mustang 1946
with silver rimmed wheels
and black leather seat covers.
His eyes draped with
the black shades
and his hair,
spiked like a dude’s
but also, coiffured
like a gentlemans’.
His maroon polo neck,
making a perfect match
with his grey chinos,
underneath which he wore
black sneakers
with a watch in his hands.
Did I mention the veins on his hand !
I looked at him and caught him winking.
With a new gained confidence,
I walked up to him and touched his bulging manhood.
In a flash of a second,
he grabbed me and
laid me on the hood of his car.
And just when
he was about to kiss me on my ****
I stopped him,
with a new found courage,
I stripped him of his chinos right there,
and held his ******** in my fist.
And my mouth gave him
the best *******
Up down, rubbing my hands all over him,
spitting on the right times,
he came for me, grabbing my hair.
He put his hands on me
and came onto me.
I said “you taste like heaven’s personal brand of maple syrup”
and he gave me the most wittiest smile ever,
and whispered his phone number in my ear which is still etched on my mind.
I turned and he grabbed me, because that wasn’t the end.
He laid me on the bonnet again
and kissed me on the **** so hard that I still get wet, just thinking of it.
The way his tongue rolled around my ******** touching all the right places and how his fingers found my spot just on time, when I was about to come, and his touch triggered something, which I never knew existed in me before.
I came hard, on his mouth, and then he whispered in my ear, “you taste like heaven’s *** angel”
And after it was over, he went his way, I went mine,
both with a memory of the best ******* ever.
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 3:22 AM UTC