Oh peanut butter, oh peanut butter
Why must you cause my words to stutter?
When lacking jelly or toast with butter
I long to abandon you for another
And without milk, your flavor stutters
BlockThe words aren't coming
The flow has stopped
The spindle runs thin
The flowers cropped
The letters dropped
Hand on her chest
Wishing she wasn't
Entwined in this mess
The honored guest
To maritial ties
All too late
To bid her goodbyes
StructureI'm not a fan of structured poems, at least
When they're imposed on me, like subtle frames
Of written code which keep each line the same
The trapped voice a bird that yearns for release
Allow the flame to grow, please free the beast
Don't snuff the candle's fickle, frozen flame
Set meter and rhyming, you are to blame
Rendering my creativity deceased
But for you, I'll accept the forms you wish
Consume, swallow words with a grain of salt
My heart, wrapped in paper, I'll give to you
In a stanza, a line, or a swish
Of reason, confining words to a fault
Just don't think you're the only one who knew
Lucid - WIPI'm lying here on a table. Nothing but the sweet hum of machinery, both around and within me. They'd mentioned something beforehand about my hearing. Something about sensitivity that wouldn't hurt in higher decibel ranges.
My hand twitches to touch my new ear, but it remains limp by my side, paralyzed. I think they'd mentioned something about the risk of muscle atrophy in low-gravity environments. Something like that.
I'm hearing my heartbeat now. It's strange to hear such an organic sound in this sterile environment. If I cut myself, would I still bleed red? Or had they replaced my blood with a substitute? Was it still red, or another, foreign color?
With a slight click, a bright light switches itself on from overhead, illuminating the capillaries in my eyelids. Still red...
Squinting, I try to turn my head, but my neck won't obey me. As if reading my though
Ghost of the PastEver been haunted by a ghost of the past? You know, those recurring memories of a time long gone, the ones that float uninvited into your head? Maybe it's triggered by a memento, or a visit to a sacred place, or the mere mention of a name. The moment relives itself in your head, then disappears, leaving you with only a scrap of cloth or a pressed flower to remember.
But what if these ghosts aren't really ghosts at all? What if they're still living, breathing creatures? Maybe you never see them anymore. Maybe you live too far apart. Maybe you see each other on a daily basis, but you both pretend the other no longer exists. Maybe you're enemies, or even friends. Either way, you've both made an unspoken pact to never speak of the moment again. In a vain attempt to smother the memory alive, you flood it with fresh oxygen, fresh consciousness upon which it can feed.
Is it better this way?
PerfectionistsA writer in a group of artists
Is hardly a place to fit in
In a glance, one can admire a picture
But writing takes much longer to sink in
We've all learned our native language
But not all have picked up a pen
Yet sketching is somehow extraordinary
Simply because not everyone can
We can both stare at a vase for hours
Yet come up with an empty slate
And our details of realization
Rarely come sooner, but late
For despite our apparent differences
Our goal is the same: to learn
And only by way of practice
Can this mastery of skill be earned
LifewishA mourning dove hobbled across the road
And I wondered, "Why didn't it fly?"
Does the pleasure of crossing the pavement by foot
Outweigh the risks if it should die?
Maybe the bird remains ignorant
That a passing car could lead to his demise
Unsure of the dangers in the world of man
With no sense of fear in his eyes
Or perhaps he is simply cocky
As he struts across the road in pride
Knowing all vehicles will stop their procession
In order to let him pass by
But I, for one, think he enjoys it
In the way a human walks instead of drives
So the next time you see a bird walking
Maybe you should be the one he walks beside
ScrapVersion 2.0 is ready
The beta is complete
Its release date is tomorrow
And I've heard it will be l33t
This one's fully moddable
No need to deal with flaws
And it's piracy-protected
So you can't break the law
The calendar is built-in
You'll remember all your dates
And the autopilot feature
Will ensure you won't be late
It's compatible with everything
The computer, the tv, the phone
And it'll download all your contacts
So you'll never feel alone
But if you choose not to upgrade
You'll be alienated, at best
Your communication will be archaic
And your accuracy, second-guessed
This isn't really an option
Conform now, or be scrapped
Humanity is overrated
Believe me, the entire brain's been mapped
We've discovered all your problems
And fixed them, one by one
Even those pesky emotions
We've sparked the revolution
NephelaeToday is a sad day.
Why is the sun shining?
I thought the sky was supposed to reflect emotion
Like a heaven-mirror
Answering the prayers of the living
In the form of precipitation
Are the clouds our gods now?
They are notably absent
In this clear sky
An expanse filled with light
Dear Santa Please Send Me a Toyboy!Dear Santa please send me a toyboy
A stud full of much zest and vigour,
Because I’m small,
So I’d really like someone who’s bigger.
I know I’m getting on a bit,
Let’s just say 90 plus!
I’m a wee bit loopy,
And a wee bit droopy,
And I look like the back of a bus!
There’s just a few warts on my old face,
A hundred and ten if you’re counting,
But though I’m a hag
I do need a shag,
‘Cos my passion is steadily mounting.
I suppose my BO’s a bit strong.
I’m generally known as ‘Miss Whiffy’.
A bloke minus a nose,
Would be good, I suppose,
As long as he had a good stiffy!
I’ve one leg that’s shorter than t’other,
But I’m sure the right man wouldn’t mind.
And my underarm hair,
Resembles a bear,
But I know I’m a bloody good grind!
My bosoms don’t really exist now
And my bottom has sunk to my feet.
I’ve no teeth in sight,
But on a dark night,
SantamasGive me iPhone 6 for Christmas,
Give me puppies, give me mirth,
Give me money, cookies, movies;
Give me Christmas with no worth.
Terse VerseEvery poet's forced to cease
Where stopped by language limits,
And wrestle with thoughts that tease;
Stuff too much meaning in it.
my mirageTut on the Nile
in like Sphinx
so wealthy it stinks
land of plenty
face on the twenty
The Three Garridebs: Dr. Lysander StarrA/N: “…old Dr. Lysander Starr, who was mayor in 1890." “I never knew a Dr. Lysander Starr, of Topeka.”
A dream of a mayor.
(‘Cos he was never really there.)
His mustache is so curly
Around and around it's hypnotizing
I'll make him some dubstep so synthesizing
Man, that 'stache is so curly
The Problem of Thor Bridge: Mr. Joyce CummingsA/N: Mr. Joyce Cummings, the rising barrister who was entrusted with the defence… “I will see [Gibson] in the morning, when steps can be taken for Miss Dunbar's vindication."
Mr. Joyce Cummings
Will never reach his up-summings.
After the evidence-showing,
Mr. Cummings is going.
The Sussex Vampire: Mr. MuirheadA/N: Our client, Mr. Robert Ferguson, of Ferguson and Muirhead, tea brokers, of Mincing Lane, has made some inquiry from us in a communication of even date concerning vampires.
Ferguson appears in your stead.
Would Doyle have tried to engulf
Your child with a werewolf?
Death by ColonoscopyGasoline is what it most resembles--
That high-octane concoction for your cleaning
Relies upon the basic fundamentals
Applied to pipes and valves in need of preening.
Like carburetors sputtering to life,
Upon consuming lubricants and fire,
Intestines active with vocations rife
Explode in songs of torrents they inspire!
Though chrome might shine when doused in caustic juices,
And pistons made of steel defy combustion,
Membranes of flesh are known for gentler uses,
Refined for tasks related to digestion!
I dutifully swallowed Satan’s nectar
And rode shit creek without a surge protector!