"yells" poems
A tree falls in the forest,
and it doesn't make a sound.
A man yells in the forest,
and local wild life forms a mob.
A man falls in the forest,
and he doesn't make a sound.
A tree yells in the forest,
and we all run like hell.
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 3:41 PM UTC
Like bladed birds of steel they glide and wing,
Across the ice without any dismay,
Fearing no hard body check or cold swing.
They circle the net in frozen ballet,
Flitting about like puck-handling mice,
Tenacity drips from each ounce of their play.
They dazzle with grace all over the ice,
With a jump, a spin, and a pirouette,
Always ready to pay a high price.
They give it all ‘till they’re soaked through with sweat.
We watch with joy from our perch high above.
Our yells, their chirping—it’s quite a duet!
These men change the game with the drop of a glove,
And so, bloodthirsty, we give them our love.
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 12:43 PM UTC
I.
Hear the sledges with the bells—
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they ****** ****** ******
In their icy air of night!
While the stars, that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
II.
Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten golden-notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
III.
Hear the loud alarum bells—
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now—now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the ***** of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—
Of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
IV.
Hear the tolling of the bells—
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people—ah, the people—
They that dwell up in the steeple.
All alone,
And who toiling, toiling, toiling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone—
They are neither man nor woman—
They are neither brute nor human—
They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry ***** swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells—
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
10.5k
What I fear isn’t hairy eight legged creatures crawling into my mouth at night
What I fear isn’t the whole “Something’s gonna come out of the dark and eat me,” while I’m trying to get a glass of water in the middle of the night.
Nor even when my father angrily yells at me
Because in all honesty he starts regurgitating spit from his mouth making it so hard to take him seriously when he’s drooling.
What I’m afraid of is…
I’m afraid of tomorrow…
You see,
Once upon a time
On a Saturday Night
I was so excited to finally finish writing my second chapter of my fan fiction
Talking to a few friends.
And relaxing from my stressful day of a Saturday.
Then suddenly a wild message about financial aid appears,
Now,
This isn’t where my fears start coming to life
This isn’t even where my thoughts were being provoked.
This was just a simple conversation about financial aid information.
You see,|
My friend knows little about financial aid and my friend asked about the information I know.
I thought, “Well I have limited knowledge on this…I’ll give my friend my best answers and hope it turns out alright.”
Well,
Things didn’t turn out the way I had imagined it.
You see,
This private conversation evolved into a group chat
And even the financial aid information conversation evolved into, “How are you
going to pay for your college expenses?”
You see,
I don’t fear of creatures with eight legs,
I don’t fear of monsters in the darkness
I don’t even fear of my father’s angry tone!
I fear what tomorrow’s going to be
I fear that my future will only just be a dream.
It’s so hard to be focusing on where I’m going to be at next year when this year looks like the saddest thing on Earth.
It’s so hard to concentrate on tomorrow when today looks like a horrible nightmare.
Today,
I’m stressed
I’m not stressed about my grades
I know I work harder than the average student.
I’m not stressed about the guy I might like
Because right now,
A boyfriend is not what I be needing.
I’m stressed that I may not get a job
I’m stressed that my dad may lose his
I’m stressed that my mom can’t find another
I’m stressed that I won’t be able to pay for my ACT Ticket
I’m stressed that I won’t be able to afford my SAT Subject Ticket
I’m stressed that I won’t be able to pay for my college apps
And I’m stressed that I can’t get fee waver
Because according to the government my parents make too much for me to have
one
When in reality
My family barely survives on a paycheck.
It’s getting harder and harder to survive on that paycheck
Because presently speaking
It’s getting harder and harder to pay to keep on living.
And because I don’t have a job yet,
My parents are still forced to pay for me to keep on living.
I’m stressed that I’m not going to have a tomorrow
I’m stressed that I’m not going to go to a college to pay college expenses for
I’m stressed that this fear is going to keep controlling my life!
But…
I can’t let that happen…
I can’t let this fear run my life.
‘Cause sooner or later its going to run it down tot eh ground and I won’t be able to recover from that
I can’t let this fear consume me,
Because I’ll never find a way out.
I fear something…
I don’t fear eight hairy legged creatures crawling into my mouth at night,
I don’t fear monsters eating me alive while I’m trying to get something to drink.
Nor do I fear my dad yelling at me.
I fear of tomorrow.
I can’t focus on where I’m going to be at next year when today is all foggy with no sign of light.
Dec 11, 2011
Dec 11, 2011 at 4:29 AM UTC
#
There was a time
within me
I wanted to be
an actor
beaming
on stage
or a screen
big or small
no matter to me
after all
The exposure is nice
I guess
and all that kind of stuff
but that’s not what drew me to it
Just being an actor
was enough
I enjoy performing
and have a memory
for lines
One of those people
who can quote
a whole movie
It plays in my head
can fast forward
and rewind
But it’s easy to recite
the work of another
One who already
searched within
and discovered
what to emote
the affect
and such
To replay like a puppet
That’s not saying much
Could I nail
the scene
and get the feeling right?
When other actors work with me
maybe they might
get inspired
to the point
they become lost in the scene
We’re reliving
the story
A fantastic team
When the director yells
“Cut!”
all applaud and cheer
Tears in the eyes of some
touching memories
they hold near
The performance
The “art”
that’s what matters most
A singer belting out a song
or a comic
at a roast
The thought of it now
gets me giddy
and inspired
but yet
here I sit
In my chair
I am mired
Never took that step
Overcoming
all that fear
My doubts and insecurities
Worry how much others care
That fear
of failure
or that I wouldn’t
“measure up”
A deer frozen
in headlights
I am forever stuck
And as the time continues on
The days, and months and years roll by
Which is the greater loss?
If I failed
or never tried?
#
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 4:20 AM UTC
How deadly is the sight of the flying witch,
she's mighty and flawless, her name is Lynn
elegant and graceful in her broom she'll go,
All of her victims had that exact same thought.
She seizes you with kind words
and for your soul offers you gold.
With her, you enjoy flying,
for you trust you won't fall.
Once in her cave, she speaks with friendly words
she fills your belly and fabricates a loving home,
It's hard to see her as from the underworld
It's hard to see what's about to come.
Before you realize she attempts to take control,
eating the brains of whom you call your own.
She's yelling and screaming, how putrid is her soul.
The witch is evil, but no one cares of what you know.
Now down the stairs she complacently goes,
raises an eyebrow, it's diabolical, it's smug
she then smiles to her husband, a mere puppet of hers
Satan is that woman, the witch who yells.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 4:14 PM UTC
I asked my mother for a glass kaleidoscope,
but instead she handed me three shots of wine
and a field guide to running galactic bases,
which I guess is her way of selling dreams
at low prices. I have yet to understand a coffee shop's symmetry,
so I embrace the scrupulous company of a dragon-riding-a-butterfly.
One spin around the Milky Way leaves the butterfly
with holey wings and the dragon vomiting in my make-shift kaleidoscope.
The apple tree in the corner of the living room ruins the symmetry
of the space and I have to chug another glass of wine
to make up for the peach tree I couldn't dream
about and another wrong note sung by the basses.
The song's in too low of a key, which is the basis
behind the evil chinchilla's plan to mass-produce butterfly
farms as part of a larger goal to pillage the dreams
of dreamers. Luckily, we all have a handy-dandy kaleidoscope
and a bag (or two) of bitter-tasting wine
stolen from their boxes -- too much symmetry.
My brother put a block on local news; the symmetry
of our county's border was too much for me to bear. He bases
his action (when mother asks) on the wine
he didn't drink, so I throw the broken butterfly
out the window where it lands on my nephew's spinning kaleidoscope.
He doesn't know it yet, but that drum he's banging will envelop his dreams.
A hike to the top of the cliff (a leap) re-energizes my dreams
and I still can't relate to the maple leaves and their symmetry,
but at least I can look through a lampshade at the kaleidoscope
of trees dancing below me. There are seven thousand bases
yet to run and they still haven't caught the butterfly,
so a boy yells, "Drink!" and I take another sip of wine.
The dragon and chinchilla are tipsy from the wine
at this point and discuss the difference between dreams
and electricity while my mother sautés the butterfly
in ice cream and abstract ideas. The symmetry
of my right ankle is still a bother, so I tell the basses
to sing a quarter tone flat while I collide a scope.
Off goes dragon-with-butterfly (once again) and I finish the wine.
I make my nephew a chinchilla-skin kaleidoscope and rinse the rocks stained with dreams.
My mother comments on the apple tree's symmetry while the trees below keep running bases.
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 9:27 AM UTC
He’s no longer responding
It’s perplexing
Because no one knows why
Yesterday he was doing just fine
And in this room it’s frightening quite
Because everyone knows he’s about to die
His mother angrily yells at the doctor
While she stands over his bed
Why! Why!
My baby
This is my son
And he’s not going to die
Devante Devante
I can hear her repeating my name
But the sounds of the world has finally gone mute
And the lights of the room ceiling
Slowly
Fade to black
And if you crying over my shoulder right now
I’m sorry
I tried to fight it
But I just couldn’t fight my way back
I was to lost
Let myself be overcome with pain and misery
Unhappiness was my purgatory
But at what cost
My life
Yes my life
I gave it away
I’d do anything just to feel a little less
It’s why I injected myself
With an illegal amount
Of morphine
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 2:56 PM UTC
As I watch you sleep, you wonder through vivid dreams,
This must be the reason for your kicking and muted screams.
As you slept, I held you so tightly, even though your naked body excites,
Which is a blessing on cold winter nights.
But as morning creeps in and the light starts to begin,
I create with a tiny lick, the most arousing sensation.
And as her vestigial legs slide so easily, I being the lovers embrace,
Bathing in her ocean of taste, great emotion fills her face.
"Oh, I am sorry sweetie, did I wake".... "oh no my dear, I did not want an oversight,
For a wish or a dream in the night, a touch so softly, there is no fight.
I figured I would stir you in the seeking of a snack,
But don't you worry a little bit, just relax and lay right back
For there is no greater act, then to lick our passionate parts so sweetly,
In between your thighs, while I drive my tongue so deeply.
But what I do with my tongue at midnight, when there is no one around to hear the yells,
I would go into more detail, but a gentlemen never tells!
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
Did I notice little birds early in the morning,
Flying and hopping, chirping and tweeting..
Different families of birds chirping..
Brown, yellow chested, black with long tail and orange beak, house sparrow too,
Hens and cock's crow too...
All are busy talking
Do they ever listen too??
**
As a child I remember,
**
I Came back from school and twittered about my day,
Each evening my family sat around each other,
And all had to speak at once,
None of us there were listeners..
So what one could hear was lots of twitterati..
My mom just said hmm and hmm..
Never really heard my endless stories..
My brother was gem...
He always heard..
Don't know how much.. Though
Each sentence of mine ended
on
.. Is it not bro?... And yes said he always..!
From those carefree twittering to this day,
Life has moved so much..
**
Life always moves, one always grow,
From constant chatter to a deep silence.
And so
**
I wonder do birds ever become silent..
From Cuckoo to Wisdomed Owl
From experienced Eagle to the chirping house sparrow..
Do they too grow silent when old??
The early morning chirping,
Is it from young birds??
Are the old one just saying hmmm
Are they listening ?
Or are they talking?
Ever wondered what happens in birds world??
**
Though nothing much changed now in my house..
**
We still speak at the same time
We hardly have ear for other's stories..
But now we don't speak our heart out..
We are not those chirping type anymore,
We speak about our performance,
We speak about our achievement
We speak about the praises we receive..
We give our Wisdom,
We give our advice..
**
But we hardly speak about ourselves..
**
Sometimes, I still long to be that child again..
Twittering my tongue constantly..
Till my mother yells "Shhh! keep quiet"
And my brother says.. I am listening.. you say..!!!
**
Alas, life moves on, life always make one grow..
**
Sparkle in Wisdom
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 2:15 PM UTC
What a face
"Sells"
Abruptly she yells
Matte burning dry
Just try
Too moisten her lips
She's the Red devil
From hell why does her
orange face peel sell?
The right color
a psychic won't tell
Wishing well drenched
He touched my orange juice
"All Frenched"
She loves to slice and
he peels what appeal
orange saffron sauce
One last juicy squirt
divorce
It's time for fresh squeeze
Too frozen concentrate
The happy hour "Orange" feel
no other place like fate
Ten times real
"One" face peel has been
love absorbed
Like lemon meringue
Tainted love
Bitter grind soft butter glove
Do you mind orange flame
(The Spa) sells to be loved
Tra la so kind all Grunge
Going "Wawa" coffee cruel
Other colors haha
Movie set Orange payroll
lounge tease squirt
But destroyed by the evil
spell curse
Summoned on sunburst
But we need the Orange
before the sun comes
Like clones orange, you glad
we have "Green Apple"
phones
One step beyond orange
zones
I don't want to burst your
orange sauce
Grand Marnier starry twist
of orange
Two timing orange yogurt
Taste to tangy it hurt
Hey Yo Orange peel Spa
Still sticks Orange Julius
flirt
O outrageous P pick
What turns us on and gets us sick
Plan your work and work your plan
Never offend her
Let's see the chef make you love her
Creamified dreamlike Whip free
The orange mousse pie
Let me hear it yummy to lie
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 11:43 AM UTC
all aluminum alloy ammo
bane bat brakes badly basters back bones
come call cthulhu Cristo cuz
dead ********** dominate de download
even elven eternal endowments
fail frivolously flaming for fair fraudulence
grant good goggles give grandiose gratuity
how hella homeboys have how he has
If I ignore I implicate its implore
jack jacks jacks
kay killla kooks krack
LAPD locks la lackeys
maybe mom made mad monoxide
no, no natural nix NOx neutralizes
oh over overt opp only overlay orphic
please protest politely panic pretenses perpetuity
quiet quivers quiet queens
remember rage reaps reciprocity
so sour sits supplanters sat
to tell them to tare trail *** tat?
universal unhappiness underlays under us
victory validates victors vanity
why warble when winners wont waste worry wanting
x-axis x-rays Xerophagy Xanax Xanthorroea
you yodel yonder yet yahweh's yells Yarrish
zero zag zealots zoos
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 4:40 AM UTC
Papa bear whistles
Mama bear sings
Baby bear jumps
and he yells out loud!
Papa look what I have found!
a yellow hibiscus for mama!
Papa bear grins
Mama bear smiles
Baby bear struts with pride!
Mama bear, Papa bear and baby bear
are enjoying their walk in the woods.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 10:53 PM UTC
let me tell you this story
of how i felt better
after a while
first it was my brother that left
then it was my mom
and then my father
who isn’t even my father
wasn’t even around
always too busy to play a board game,
leaving me to play Stratego alone
my brother too old to play with
a younger sister
who plays with his hot wheels
but my father
who didn’t help me
when i needed him most
who didn’t listen when i
made it so blatant that i was hurting
who didn’t hear me when
i was sobbing so hard
and didn’t realize that
i was trying so hard
to not be there
at all
ever
and then there was him
a boy who said he loved me
but wouldn’t listen to me either
said i didn’t have the right
since his parents were split
since one
and there was also him
again but with a different face
who said he loved me
but was with me for the intimacy
who saw my cuts
and instead of listening,
slapped them,
which stung
which made me tear myself up
some more
then there was him
but in the form
of a feeling
that told me he loved me
and kept me warm at night
leaving me heart empty
and my soul bare
it felt right
to be there
but my father
wasn’t my father
and getting to the point
i think i’m trying to make
he’d rather help his girlfriend
and her daughter
than help his own blood
even if she claims suicide,
claiming it’s only a phase
but the scars show it true
that it was no fad
and oh,
i’m not allowed to cry
it seems i’m trying to manipulate
by showing my feelings
i’m not allowed to show affection
because then i’ll be
manipulating
and i can do no right in his eyes
everything i do
is
manipulating
and betraying
and it’s no wonder,
he says,
i have no friends
because i am so selfish
and
worthless
a piece of ****
that will never amount to anything
ever.
he screams,
you do nothing for me
i do everything in this house,
he says,
all you do is take and take
and i’m sick of it
i want some appreciation,
he yells,
connie wouldn’t do this to me
because she loves me
you’re just like your mother
manipulating
and a liar.
please understand,
after being told so many times
by multiple people,
that it seems
i have begun to understand and accept these as truths
and that i really
have no worth at all
and the feeling i have come to love,
(a sense of numbness
that is mine
and no one else can understand)
kept me
simply on the edge
until that night,
but once again
i have gone off track
this is getting much too long
and from the beginning
i’ve been trying to explain
that i don’t feel this way
all the time
anymore
and while i want to
rip apart my flesh and
ruin my hair
i’m starting to feel better
and as if i am something quite nice
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 5:46 PM UTC
Author: Kristen Stevens
Current mood: contemplative
That would be my nephew. When I came home from work the other day, I sat down in the chair and from out of nowhere Anthony pops up and yells "I'm Ironman!" complete with mask. then I hear a giggle and and he pulls the mask off and says "don't worry Nini. It's just me." (Cause you know I looked worried ;) Anyway, he started asking me what I was going to be for Halloween and could we get candy like we did last year. I assured him that yes candy would be forthcoming. As to the costume, I had no clue. Still don't. I've been thinking snowman 'cause it's bound to be cold that night. If you have any good ideas...well they are bound to be better than mine.
Sep 21, 2010
Sep 21, 2010 at 8:01 AM UTC
"Hey, Charles! I won't be back."
His friend yells out before
Continuing to eat the face off
Of the young Latino he had met.
"Ok! I guess I can get home.. Somehow..."
He mumbles to himself, signaling to the
Bartender that he wanted to order
Something off menu.
He pays no attention to the trans
Woman who sits down beside him.
"I'll have a watermelon sangria, please."
he requests softly, but confidently.
The lady by him chuckles,
"Watermelon? That's odd."
Her voice is rich with flavor,
And humor.
"It is odd. But so am I." He mumbles.
"It seems that way, doesn't it? Well,
at least now I can call you Melon
Rather than ask your name!"
"A rather odd nickname for an odd person."
And so their conversation continued.
It became all the more lively once
'Melon' had had a couple rounds.
Both drunk and desperate, they
Kiss passionately in the gay bar,
Paying no heed to the others
Yelling "Get a room!"
Roaming hands.
Stumbling up stairs.
Drunken giggles.
Broken speech.
"You're so beautiful." He whispers.
Skin against skin,
Burning hot,
Both mad with desire.
Panting.
Groaning.
Moaning.
Ecstasy.
It's late at night.
They manage to call
A taxi, and go home.
Home to Melon's apartment.
The next morning was spent
Drinking ****** Mary's and
Making an account of what
Happened the night before.
That, and more ***
Hot, ****** ***
Passionate, lively
And loving ***
Charles sits up in his bed.
He feels something sticky.
"Oh, that's disgusting!"
****** *** indeed.
He stands up to clean himself
Off in the bathroom, but he
Hears the shower running.
"Did I get laid last night?"
He peeps into the shower
And sees the woman from
His dream. "Eva?" He asks.
"Who else would it be?"
"Why are you in my apartment?"
Charles exclaims. Eva turns and
Raises an eyebrow at him.
"I live here, Melon."
"Since when? We hooked
Up just last night!"
"Darlin', we've been
married for 4 years!"
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 12:39 AM UTC
A late hour. Don't even look at the clock.
Every fiber of my good sense yells go to
sleep and I do not. Every bit of logic
understands that I need to wake in fewer
hours than I needed to sleep in the first place
Still I sit here
Listening to music.
Writing a poem. Staring idly
at a browser window. The lights are on, the blinds
drawn. When the sun begins to rise, I will not see it
I've seen several sunrises recently
I remember what they look like.
In the midwest somewhere, a tweaker sits
awake for the third day. Chasing vapor and ghosts
He's seen the sunrise too, perhaps an hour later
He may or may not remember
We run from the cousin, but he finds us
The sandman cometh. And
Enter night
and what dreams may come
Locked in the struggle we all lose,
Running from comfort and sanity at full-speed
10.03.11
D.B. Guy
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 2:55 AM UTC
When he comes home, I go into panic mode,
The walls in my brain closing in,
The bile in my throat rising,
My teeth sweating in anticipation of what is to come
When he comes home,
I hope to god that I pass beneath the radar,
Nothing more than a sigh on the breeze,
Nothing more than a ripple in a pond
Nothing for him to notice
When he comes home, I make myself as small as I can,
Hoping that he’ll ignore me like he has all these years,
But knowing that it’s a futile attempt,
Like trying to avoid the burning sun
When he comes home,
The nausea roils in my gut,
Reminding me that I am nothing,
That I will never be anything more than what he paints me to be
When he comes home,
I am reduced to “yes sir” and “no sir,”
To eyes that are glued to the ceiling or floors,
To fidgeting hands and twisting fingers
To nothing more than a decoration to stand in the corner
When he comes home,
I try to retreat to my room,
I try to give him the space that he seems to need,
I try to leave him be and let him sleep,
But nothing seems to work, and he yells all the same
When he comes home,
My home becomes nothing more than a battlefield,
One that I cannot escape,
One that there is no running from,
One from which the injuries are only seen in the trauma that is left behind
When he comes home,
My life becomes nothing more than a play,
A tragedy in which no one survives,
A performance that I am supposed to know,
But stage fright has taken over and the lines mean nothing to me now
And I am frozen, hoping for the curtains to fall to cover my fear
When he comes home,
I quietly
Exit
Stage left.
Jun 17, 2023
Jun 17, 2023 at 9:15 PM UTC
Hands clinging to rocks against the mountain side,
strands of hair falling to my face.
Almost to the top, just one more step.
"Pull up your socks!" Everyone below yells, nagging me to do so.
I ignore, focusing to make my way to the peak.
"Pull up your socks!" The repeat, daggering at my toes.
I am anything but a child of theirs.
I continue on.
"Pull up your socks!" They scream again, my eyes rolling.
I arrive to the top.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 6:13 PM UTC
Never feel sorry for what you feel.
Always keep your feelings real.
Never apologize for others mistakes.
Learn to **** out all the fakes.
If you get hit by someone its not your fault.
Some relationships need to halt.
Bruises heal and the mind takes time.
I'm trying to guide those here by rhyme.
Don't get hooked on anyone's charm.
It may not last and can do harm.
When someone yells, bullies and calls
you names.
That is wrong, don't be ashamed.
If some never apologize and the lack empathy to you refuse.
They play head games and this is called emotional abuse.
So do not feel sorry or let your self become depressed.
Go put on a smile and go get dressed.
You deserve to be happy and never this way.
For those who suffer this fate....please get away.
I am not saying leave everyone that do these things read up above.
Some make mistakes and still genuinely do love.
Some are only going to bring you down,
Instead of happy times, mostly frowns.
When they hurt you and tell you to many lies.
Maybe time to say goodbye.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 6:22 PM UTC
Blaze of a rubble-car a man in faded jeans shouts, hurls a bottle -- smash -- a thousand shards of
broken glass shine orange on crowded street.
Shouts, cries, infants sobbing loud---sirens, car alarms, a man ***** back his hand,
holding a brick---the crack of a driver's-side window breaking. Wild yells---everyone is
sprinting. Fire & wailing.
Sunny afternoon---birds sing in treetops; a woman under shade on sunlit grass in brown rags & an
old hijab sobs over a slab of concrete, decorated with flowers
and a photograph
with a golden frame.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 11:00 AM UTC
Even when your eyes are closed, the colours of the world surround you,
Your imagination keeps you awake.
Sounds, everywhere. The ticking of clocks, the drip of faucets;
It forces you to stay awake.
A flood of thoughts and memories come to your mind,
Turning each into monsters, clawing at your emotions.
The sound of them are overwhelming;
The colours splattered everywhere.
You decide to listen to some music, your favourite song,
the one you have listened to probably a hundred times this week.
You hit repeat because that's what would calm you,
Even though you’ve listened to it so many times you think your ears will bleed;
The sweet sounds an addiction.
You continue, to drown out the sounds your mind provides.
The constant, deafening yells of danger,
The vivid memories of all the times that you’ve failed.
The music gets louder to drown out the terrible sounds your mind provides,
To cover the ugly colours in sweet melodies.
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 1:35 AM UTC
WASHINGTON IRVING WROTE A NOVEL
ABOUT ICHABOD CRANE
LITTLE SLEEPY HOLLOW
WILL NEVER BE THE SAME
LITTLE SLEEPY HOLLOW WAS CURSED
BY A HORSEMAN MOST DREAD
HE WAS RIDING IN SLEEPY HOLLOW
IN SEARCH OF HIS HEAD
THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN WAS
IN THE REVOLUTIONARY WAR
SO FOR HIM SEARCHING FOR HIS HEAD
WAS NEVER A CHORE
ICHABOD CRANE WAS
A TEACHER MOST STRICT
WEATHER THE GHOST STORIES WERE TRUE
WHO COULD EVER PREDICT
ICHABOD TEACHES THE CHILDREN
OF FARMERS IN THE VILLAGE
BUT ITS THE YOUNG GIRLS OF FARMERS
HE SECRETLY WANTS TOO PILLAGE
KATRINA VAN TASSEL A
BEAUTIFUL YOUNG STUDENT
ICHABOD FALLS IN LOVE WITH HER
BUT WAS IT VERY PRUDENT
HE WAS INVITED TO THE TASSELS
FOR A PARTY MOST RARE
KATRINA AT THE PARTY
DISMISSES HIS WITHOUT CARE
ICHABOD LEAVES THAT NIGHT
ON HIS HORSE HE RIDES
ITS AN EERILY DARK PATH
HIS HORSE DOSE STRIDE
ICHABOD IS SCARED AND SEES
A LARGE DARK MAN
HE YELLS TO THE STRANGER
AS LOUD AS HE CAN
SO ICHABOD RIDES SCARED AND FAST
BUT ALONG SIDE COMES THE MAN
NOT WILLING TOO PASS
ICHABOD NOTICES THE RIDER
REALLY HAS NO HEAD
THIS JUST FILLS ICHABOD
WITH THE MOST SINFUL DREAD
ICHABOD AND THE STRANGER
RACE TO THE TOWN CHURCH
FOR THIS IS WHERE THE GHOST STORIES
FIRST CAME TO BIRTH
ICHABOD RACES TO THE BRIDGE
AND NERVOUSLY LOOKS BACK
THE STRANGER HAS DISAPPEARED
OFF THE GHOSTLY TRACK
BUT HE NOTICES THE STRANGER
HIS HEAD HE DOSE HURL
ICHABOD FALLS OF THE HORSE
HIS WORLD IS IN A WHIRL
THE NEXT DAY ICHABOD'S
HORSE FINALLY RETURNS HOME
WHERE IS ICHABOD
WHERE DID HE ROAM
THEY LOOK FOR ICHABOD
AND FIND HOOF PRINTS
AND ICHABOD'S HAT
SO NOW THE FOLKLORE IS BORN
IN SLEEPY HOLLOW THAT'S THAT
" WISDOM IS LIKE MANURE IT'S NO GOOD UNLESS IT'S SPREAD AROUND ENCOURAGING OTHERS TO GROW"
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 5:47 PM UTC
The first fight club was just Tyler and I
pounding on each other.
It used to be enough that when I came home angry
and knowing that my life wasn't toeing my five-year plan,
I could clean my condominium or detail my car.
Someday I'd be dead without a scar
and there would be a really nice condo and car.
Really, really nice,
until the dust settled
or the next owner.
Nothing is static.
Even the Mona Lisa is falling apart.
Since fight club, I can wiggle half the teeth in my jaw.
Maybe self-improvement isn't the answer.
Tyler never knew his father.
Maybe self-destruction is the answer.
Tyler and I still go to fight club, together.
Fight club is in the basement of a bar, now,
after the bar closes on Saturday night,
and every week you go
there's more guys there.
Tyler gets under the one light
in the middle of the black concrete basement
and he can see that light flickering
back out of the dark
in a hundred pairs of eyes.
First thing Tyler yells is,
"The first rule about fight club
is you don't talk about fight club.
"The second rule about fight club,"
Tyler yells,
"is you don't talk about fight club."
Me,
I knew my dad for about six years,
but I don't remember anything.
My dad,
he starts a new family
in a new town
about every six years.
This isn't so much a family
as it's like he sets up a franchise.
What you see at fight club
is a generation of men
raised by women.
...
You aren't alive anywhere like you are at fight club.
When its you and one other guy
under that one light
in the middle of all those watching.
Fight club isn't about winning or losing fights.
Fight club isn't about words.
You see a guy come to fight club for the first time,
and his *** is a loaf of white bread.
You see the same guy here six months later,
and he looks carved out of wood.
This guy trusts himself to handle anything.
There's grunting and noise at fight club
like at the gym,
but fight club isn't about looking good.
There's hysterical shouting in tongues
like at church,
and when you wake up Sunday afternoon
you feel saved.
Aug 12, 2012
Aug 12, 2012 at 9:25 PM UTC