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Bunhead17 Nov 2013
[Intro]
Ah, it's a plane, it's a bird, it's a zombie, hahaha

[Verse 1: Meech]
The highest high, I'm Ayatollah
Rubber on my ****, allergic to baby strollers
Blue dream, that amazing odor
Ant is a pyrex, I'm the coke and the baking soda
Juice be the blue flame that create the whole thing
Rap game, crack game, apparently the same thing
If this was eighty-something I'd be in shell toes
Gucci link fat rings ashy *** elbows
Saving every penny trying to get up out this hell hole
For my super-thugs, hustling up off the jail phone
Life's a battle fool you better have your weapon drawn
How could I be scared of death, *****, I'm already gone
Money on my mind, your ***** on my zipper
Breaking up pound after pound, THC on every finger
You gon' need a boost from God to get as high as me *****
Excuse me, I meant to say as high as we *****

[Bridge]
Flatbush Zombie, A$AP Mobbin'
Hit a killswitch and put an end to any problem

[Verse 2: Juice]
Hash and ****, hash in a ****
Got **** by the ton, got blow by the load
If you wanna get throwed, A$AP Ant got the po-tion
Three fly *** ******* with we
Double-cupped them double D's
Hi-high *****, hi-high living
Three young *** ****** running ****, no slipping
Gotta know the game, gotta know the lane
Gotta know the pain, no handouts, ain't **** easy
Dark shades, on my Eazy-E, got ******* on my mini-me
And you ****** in the rap game can't relate
I'm real pimping, no fornicating
**** what you heard, I'm goin' ape
Smokin Grape Ape, **** your mixtape
That's a **** plate, Zombie style
A$AP, never mind these clowns
I love brain, zombie style, never mind these clouds

[Interlude: A$AP Ant]
Juice pass me the ****, Meech where the acid at?
A$AP Ant in this *****, uh

[Verse 3: A$AP Ant]
I'm a demon triple beaming, painting pictures
****** Mona Lisa, blood sheets, creeping for the *******
With the collar danny's, killing ******* sniffing *******
***** Wonka candy *****, three ******, one *****, one clip
One brain dead girl off your mind leave your brains on your moms
Razor blades dipped in bleach, tear your skin to pieces
Dump the body in Tennessee, highway getaway OJ bronco
Cap it baby drive 'em off the bridge, look into my eyes, vivid tears
I see fear, y'all some ******' queers
Grow a ******' pair, I'm 'posed to be here
'posed to be dead, overdosed on shrooms
Let's cruise, drive by on site
Ride like a bike, for my zombie homies **** tonight

[Bridge]

[Verse 4: A$AP Rocky]
A$AP ****** we aliens, cold-blooded *****, reptilian
Acid, acid, ambiens, only **** a ***** if she lesbian
Trill ****** run the city, got the key on lock
Juice got the juice, ***** Meech gon' pop
Addie in the Caddy with the heat on ****
When a Mac go brrra cause the beef don't stop, *****
My name is, that pretty *******
From the land of the lost of the gully and the gutta
See the Preds made a toast for the honey and the butter
Only die for two things, that's my money and my mother, *******!
****** know my name, did I stutter?
****** know me, man I keep it one hunna
I'm a stunna, Hood by Air for the summer
Toast to the God and it cost nine hunna
So-so ru-run up if you wanna
Mac in the backpack, right by the Macbook
And I rep that Harlem
And my Zombie ****** straight out of Flatbush
Lyrics to "Bath Salt" by A.$.A.P rocky ft A.$.A.P ant ft Flatbush Zombies, ****. P On The Boards ... I love them and this song! :D -A.$.A.P MOB
#LORD$ NEVER WORRY #Trap lord #Rap God
Stephen E Yocum Sep 2013
There are times in life
when a man needs change,
And I don't mean,
dimes and quarters.

Remember when you
were just sixteen,
Driving all alone, solo,
in your old man's Buick?
All the windows down,
radio music blaring,
Your bare arm draped
out over the side of the door.
to better exhibit your bicep.

Hell mister, no doubt,
you were ten feet tall,
the king of the road.
Ever wish you had,
that feeling back again?

Cars were always my thing.
I owned some Detroit
Muscle, Full blown Chevy,
Firebird 400, Chrysler Hemi.
Smoked some tires and
went to Court a time or two.
Of course all that was long
ago in my fitter youth.

When I became a Yuppie
I acquired a Poodle Puppy,
a Porsche and a MGB.

But the ***** does turn.
and so then, did I,
And my road got,
a little bumpy.

Along came marriage,
then a baby carriage.
And a big house
In the Burbs.

Then came a progression
Of Volvo Station Wagons,
to Soccer Dad Mini Vans,
to large SUV's.
All for hauling,
any number of things.
Kids and dogs, strollers,
bikes, kites and scooters,
Fellow car poolers,

And less we forget,
"Pulling" things too.
Boats, RV's, Utility trailers,
and all nature of landscape,
gardening, and general
shopping paraphernalia.
Little League Teams,
Drooling big dogs,
Papier Mache Volcanos.
Home Coming Floats,
Once even a Goat
You name it, I hauled it,
Or pulled it!

Years rolled by,
eventually the Kids
flew the nest, got married.
And low and behold,
The wife and I split,
Each going our separate way.
No one's fault, just grew apart.
The thinly veiled allegorical
Previous Patriarchal
arrangement became,
A whole new start,
A workable self allegiance
to just one.

Soon once more, I was the MAN.
I ran out, bought a **** boat
But not having the kids around,
Soon sold it, having found out,
that alone, I was not a water sport.

I caroused around, dated women,
got my pockets picked,
learned a few lessons.
Fell in love, fell out again,
Took a few pretty good blows,
Right on the chin,
Even some down lower.

Round about then,
An Epiphany kicked in.
Remembered my most,
ennobling, happy events,
behind the wheel,
driving Dad's Buick.

As I stepped on the lot.
There was never doubt,
There was only one choice,
I just had to have that,
Little VW Bug Red Racer.

Nothing like your Mother's
Beetle, the engine's up front,
Not stuck in the trunk,
And man it produces over,
200 Big Time Horsepower
Not to mention,
Lays rubber in three,
Of six gears.
Getting all the while,
33 miles per gallon.

Receiving additional help,
from a sweet Turbo Booster,
Just like a big, Indy Track Bruiser.

There's 19 inch racing
tires and alloy wheels,
They look so cool,
Spinning in motion.

Dual stainless steel exhausts,
And best of all,
a cool collapsible,
Convertible top.

Rack and Pinion steering,
Handles like a sports car,
Yet still offers a backseat
To take my Grandkids,
out for a spin.

Dude, it's got,
All the bows
and whistles!

Top Down Driving is such a thrill,
Makes me feel sixteen again.
The open road, the sky above,
The wind blowing thru my hair,
what there is left of it.

Perhaps the only thing that
Could possibly make this
Driving experience greater,
Would be to speed down,
The road, going eighty,
Behind the wheel of my
Little Red Racer,
Completely **** naked,
And of course all the while,
Feel the wind in my hair.

I don't know, I'm too old,
To call this a mid life crisis.
But on the other hand,
Maybe the acquiring of
This little red sporty car,
Has something to do with,
Those Testosterone shots I'm taking.
I'm even thinking, of dying my hair,
naw, lets not get crazy!
The line didn't move, though there were not
many people in it. In a half-hearted light
the lone agent dealt patiently, noiselessly, endlessly
with a large dazed family ranging
from twin toddlers in strollers to an old lady
in a bent wheelchair. Their baggage
was all in cardboard boxes. The plane was delayed,
the rumor went through the line. We shrugged,
in our hopeless overcoats. Aviation
had never seemed a very natural idea.

Bored children floated with faces drained of blood.
The girls in the tax-free shops stood frozen
amid promises of a beautiful life abroad.
Louis Armstrong sang in some upper corner,
a trickle of ignored joy.
Outside, in an unintelligible darkness
that stretched to include the rubies of strip malls,
winged behemoths prowled looking for the gates
where they could bury their koala-bear noses
and **** our dimming dynamos dry.

Boys in floppy sweatshirts and backward hats
slapped their feet ostentatiously
while security attendants giggled
and the voice of a misplaced angel melodiously
parroted FAA regulations. Women in saris
and kimonos dragged, as their penance, behind them
toddlers clutching Occidental teddy bears,
and chair legs screeched in the food court
while ill-paid wraiths mopped circles of night
into the motionless floor.
When I opened my eyes I sat in this body.
The wind ran through thick black hair.
Grass surrendered under my heels.
I didn't hate myself then, or yet, or ever.

Even now, when I part the clouds and look down down,
squinting into the tops of trees that were in my yard.
In the last home I knew, gentle hands fed me food.
We joked and my eyes smoldered for their pictures.
Why did they always take so many pictures?

You probably think I'm angry I had to leave like this.
That with one terrified bullet from two firmly planted hands,
my might and power and God given beauty did not move.
I remember that moment. The air was swept from my lungs,
through my lips, and two angels descended on my animal form.
My soul wound around one of their slender gray fingers,
while the other angel folded up my skin into a cavernous pocket.
We ascended into lush tropical rich radiant paradise--who knew?
Animals are allowed here.

Sometimes I wonder what might have happened if I could have morphed into human form in the right moment.
When I became human, they became animal.
You see, an animal is that which is unpredictable and wild;
terribly aggressive.

But people were scared. Now they have more reason to lock up
their kids behind bright little screens as they push them in secure strollers.
"Look at this game. Isn't it fun? Mommy's here. You're in a belt. You are
safe."

I just heard a sob from below. As I think these thoughts, I can sense
she is crying and missing me, missing a creature she never knew.
She sees God in me. She sees God in everything around her.

To shoot me was to shoot her spirit in the chest, to watch the blood
form in pools while people watched and put away their cell phones
and pushed their strollers to the next set of bars. On to more eyes that hide their secrets from the humans.

[in memory of Harambe the Gorilla]
Tom McCubbin Apr 2015
Tall round beams standing
in salty water, connecting
fishermen and star-fish gazers
with a moon-shaped bay
on the eastern Pacific.

They stand on land and step into sea,
as rolling barrels from Arctic grounds
tickle their lower legs.
A centipede of wood, this
outward- jutting wharf.

The fishermen sink expectant hooks;
the surfers haul shiny glass
banana-shaped boards of foam;
the weekenders come posing
baby strollers for picture shooting.

Each passing wall of blue
energy slows at reach of
shallow sand, deciding
whether to keep rolling or
transform into a steep stack

of snapping water. On big days
the sea legs shake all the
fishermen. They lock away
their sacrificial bait in rusty boxes
and collapse their fibered rods.

On calm days I step out to a
wooden bench and hang my
face between the rails. Running
people pass below, between the
knotted hips and creosoted thighs.

August buries this preserve
in such drizzle. Gulls go bundling
inside their sleek robes
of white feather, leaning
windward on worn bent knees.
mori Apr 2016
the earth will always be there for you.
although sometimes it shakes, for now, it is still and you may sit or stand or lay on it for as long as you'd like. and if you stay there long enough you may feel gravity gently tugging you lower, lower,
lower into the earths core to rot
for we are all simple satellites orbiting the earth; born high in arms and strollers we slowly learn to crawl, walk, run, limp, walk again, hunch over in age -- and no matter how many airplanes we ride high in the sky, everyday we are dragged a little more, sagging a little bit more, into death of the earth and of the bones. gravity is a constant reminder that one day our parents put us down and never picked us up again, and that soon enough the earth will drag our bones into the soil and earth from whence we came.
for it was there, in you, in birth; and soon you will be there, in it, in death.
i've been making so many poems about death recent;y and tbh i think its bc homestuck is ending sorry frends
title's a lyric from childish gambino!!! i think it's from a freestyle he did?? not sure
Ottis Blades May 2013
5 million angels of God with a shortage of love
10 million small feet without a heaven to call their own
orphans of a lost war, children of hunger and distress
the loving nest in their parents arms got blown to shreds.

So they suffer, innocent souls that have no were to hide
in tears of pain, in between heaven and hell Muhammed walks
in a drone strike a child’s future in the last thing on anyone’s minds
Every day war mongers cultivate the future enemies of this land.

Suffer the little children, the infants, the school kids, the toddlers
In the hot desert sand burn and riddled with bullets lie their rotting corpses
their small eyes staring blank into infinity and no one dares to close them
sleeping on ravaged streets barely out of their strollers.

Wish I could send my useless hands to heal their wounds
the American invasion of Iraq became their tombs.

Suffer the little children in sulfur
victims of greed, lust for power and oil
pray to Allah every night to care for them
children without a future, victims of a war they didn’t deserve.

And so they suffer.
Adellebee Mar 2016
I am hopeful now
Walking the seawall straightens me out
The clouds and the waters
One foot in front of the other

Walking the seawall
To my day to day
The choices I've made

One foot in front of the other
Dogs on leashes
Babies in strollers
Or on daddies in front

The seawall
Windy and peaceful
One foot in front of the other

Birds eat
Fresh crab meat
The circle of life
Tug of war
One foot in front of the other

Runners run.
Cyclists, bike
Childs play

The walk to work
One foot in front of the other
my walk to work
Connor Thomas Sep 2012
White, calloused hands
Gripping white soft belly
Bushy white hair
Rubbing clean white face

Unfurling smoke rising
Rising like the tide on a full moon
Into blue sky
Blue as the ocean itself

Lakes north of the Twin Cities
Life living liberally under rocks
Death staring darkly from the depths
Moon glowing brightly above

Train brakes screech
The passengers rustle a bit
Black as the night
Hard as a rock

Rampant youths file into the alley
Raging inside
Ranting out
Rigid bones cease

The drug addicts plead mercilessly
With their alter ego
More more more
**** **** ****

The businessmen do their fast walk
And the women do their little sway
Walking dogs and walking strollers
Clinically insane they repeat

Dark blond hair
Ripped jeans
Tighter than skin
Gay shoes

Beautiful brunette
Big *** ****
Smirking smile
She knows she’s hot

Random dudes street talking
Random chicks street banging
Random kids street dealing
Random guys finish the job

Men in work clothes
Buy love symbols for their niece
And rock shows for their nephew
But nothing for their sons

Watching the sunset
Watching the moon rise
Watching the tides roll
Watching you fake it all

Justine took all the pills
She’s passed out on the futon
This basement gives me chills
I think I heard someone call 9-1-1

Someone in uptown died tonight
Shot
On the street
Blood rained like rain

Red towels from the hotel
Stolen again
Marriot’s free swimming pool
Cost me 800 dollars

*** and drugs combined
Rugs and thugs
And enemy teams
Gunshots, gun fights
His Anaïs Nin-THE MUSE
     Of ****** Souls.

Glancing up from her pipe,
    She saw his gazing to her face.
Eyes connect, she almost freezes in
     bewilderment. Exhaling, lips rise at his, she knows his thoughts.  They
     are her own.

Lighting the Camel, face flickering,
     As the campfire drifts,
Giving way to the glow of the distant
     horizon of the ocean,
He moves his lips to her  neck;
     Lifts her to the blue Ford.

"Dance primal for me, baby.
     These shorts are not needed.
I'll throw dollars you way;
     Or I'll love you forever, for now.
Or eternity. But I must taste you.
     Share every drop of my...
       warm...juice.

That's beautiful. I see you."
     The creases where they should be.
"Glistening slit, where I probe to touch
     your soul; where pain, itself,
Feels the sword, as intensely
     As, deeply, as you feel my ****.

May I join you?" Dance the stars.
     Sway, embraced, bodies toasting,
Celebrating survival; of themselves, the stars,
     Glowing, feeling all their fire burning,
A tingle, a hot chill, moistening her libia minora;
      Now sliding, anticipating his tongue;
Inviting his bell shaped head; come inside,
      find me.

Climbing, standing, rod throbbing, grazing mons *****,
     Precum drips across a tiny patch of hair.
Pulling her, ******* titillate on his chest.
     He kisses her softly, passion deepens; tongues, as well.
I want you. I need you inside me. **** me until I can't move?
     **** my breast, my primal beast. Bite them.

I'll almost ***. You'll pulse at that, then drip.
    Give me that, baby. I need your *** on my ****;
Mixing with my cream, a perfect solution;
     Smooth glide of life. Put your fingers inside.
Stretch my walls. I'll touch my ****,
      My *** covered fingers. My tongue in your mouth.

He grabs her firmly; spins her around.
      His soaking head slips down her crevice;
Across her ****; it tightens, wantinglly,
     Yet like her soul, timidly afraid. This might hurt...
A bit. But if she doesn't have him,
      She will sure die from crave, curiosity, what ifs.

"I'm coming, baby", she cries,
     Distant figures, walking the beach,
With eyes to dilated for detail, see a shadow push,
     Another shadow give and lean,
Over the hood of a truck, banned from the beach.
     They suspect. They do not know...

She is shaking; trembling; pulsating...*******:
     Whimpering, "Please **** me, baby."
Arching a perfect ***, with a dimple he knows intimately,
     She feels his head massage her ***** lips,
Slightly dipping inside. Then "OH MY GOOD GOD!!!
      I...can't...breath!....I...can't...I'm still *******!  

I...can't....oh GOD!  Deeper baby!  I'm gonna *** again...AAHHH..."
     Pushing deeply. Retracting. Slamming.
"Faster!  That ****'s yours!  Just ******* take it!!!"
     **** me!  ****.....ME. **** ME...TO....DEATH!!!!"
She shares her lovely juices, the length of his ****.
    
     The sun illuminati. Not man's, but pure truth.
Now, most assuredly exposed, both the couple
     And ten early morning beach strollers;
He slides out, still strong. Still hard. Very wet.
     To take her up the trembling ***.

"It does hurt, my love. My **** and my soul.
     Be gentle. Tender. Move slowly.
For now. Protect me. Love me.
    Then *** in my depths. I am your muse.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2014
Central Park transformed,
a natural stadium
of tourists, strollers,
drunk on:

spring beer Buds,
or
buds of forsythia

maps upside down,
smiles right-side up

Amazing,
they don't even notice,
'walk on by,'

the white shirted, black suited  
unicorn playing the accordion


or the

violinist
imitating Charlie Chaplin,
playing both her instrument and
her hula hoop,
simultaneously


ah Central Park,
your air is like
a first cup of spring,
a first morning coffee,
a fresh breath of
a special new,
if you know
how to
just be,
in NYC
Just another true tale of life in Manhattan...come walk with us...

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/482482/in-my-sweet-city/
Thomas Harper Oct 2014
people -- blue jeans -- t-shirts -- volleyball -- sparklers -- *** its -- stone bridge -- pine trees -- new trees -- old trees -- fireworks -- grass -- sonic boom -- picnic chairs -- bicycles -- oak trees -- bare neck -- tickles -- sneezing -- bless you -- slight chill -- cloud cover -- police cars -- policemen -- uniforms -- night sticks -- sweat pants -- baby strollers -- skull & crossbones -- muscle shirt -- sweat shirt -- baseball caps -- fountains of sparks -- greenery -- dandelions -- yellow weeds -- wafting smoke -- black man in white shirt -- white man in black shirt -- SUV -- Boxer dog -- red wagon -- smoke stacks -- asian couple -- running shorts -- acrid smoke -- ice cream truck -- double trees -- pony tail -- mosquitos -- fishing hat -- yellow truck -- handlebar mustache -- bad *** attitude -- shaved head -- balloon -- barbeque -- sunset -- affro -- tennis shoes -- multi-colored hair -- canoe -- golden purse -- playing band -- American flag -- folding chair -- name badge -- red, white, & blue -- skipping rocks -- cargo shorts -- matching couple -- bike path -- hippie hair -- low rider -- peace sign -- golden chains -- waning moon -- waxed legs -- hoodies -- striped shirt -- victory dance -- short shorts -- cigar smoke -- watermelon -- Viking's bag -- leopard skin jacket -- skooter -- digital camera -- creepy stalker dude -- tent building -- horeshoes -- personal space invaders -- glow sticks -- picnic basket -- cooler -- smoke bombs -- plaid skirt -- 77 sweats -- interracial couples -- motorcycle -- orange vest -- plastic ball -- face paint -- cops in two different uniforms -- split tree -- pregnant lady -- trash talking horeshoe player -- street lamps -- playing tag -- large blue cooler -- bright green pants -- humorless boy
Kyla Mae Pliskie Mar 2014
a scream of fusses in rustic reflections -- off again, forcing trust is a silent revolution for us. no blades with this parade; grasp hot coals without blinking and YES i am on top of the world. NO i can't feel a thing. Was it the destruction of senses that bordered our hesitance? Blank pages won't fade away with this operation. only collect dust. And i remembered to close this mouth. Eye contact at a minimum. Contradictions lead to continuous disagreement. i feel it even when your voice reverberates though this mind of mine, no real sounds, piles of old junk mail and fast food wrappers left to dye in the open sunlight. weren't we prepared for a battle? Fists up, intellect down. We have reports of a beast-infected stand-still. Plots to ****. I keep my sketches in my pockets, next to packets of mild sauce and cigarette butts. Mistaken for less dangerous, but let's face the music while it still plays for us. Limited is what we have become. Pushing thoughts like empty strollers over bridges and ignoring the collision and the crowds that keep forming. oblivious, but not really... considering we chose this catastrophe. Drawing lines over famous portraits, orchestrating every moment. No regrets, no remorse. Broken bones and stolen show times. As we disguise our characters and dress them under fine white linen, we count the lines. we count the circles. we prepare for the unbroken. replacements are cheaper and easier to find. hollow, determined, violent. place fingertips on pointed objects and close those heavy eyelids. this is the ending. this is the awakening. this is what you wanted.
Chaotic Melodic Aug 2010
This is for those of you that are hopelessly addicted to deeper meanings...
Where you examine the steps you take in the day under a microscope to see
the cracks scrambling restlessly up your legs to find your weak spot.
Your **** of aroused curiosity can only be stimulated via
lightning struck snowy powders dripping gently down your throat and tickling your brain-stem
until you laugh at the crows poking their heads in your back pockets.
They burn holes in your suicidal tendencies like kids playing with matches
for the first time behind the shed.
When your **** gets hard from the fire burning too close to your retinas and
enflaming the world as you knew it, charred and raining ash on the dead roses
that you planted and forgot to water.
**** them, these pilgrims of anxiety crawling across your arms like
stranded orphans in the desert, where the nearest well is spiked with adrenaline aged in
a dying cactus.
Wow you are dark tonight..
As if the dandelion seeds you set free flew back and tried to choke you.
Where are the heart tickling epiphanies now?
Sitting out on break and blowing cigarette smoke into nearby passing baby strollers?
I am not expecting you to like this.
I am just a deluded witch doctor dissecting your brains and attempting to pry out the tumors.
Like an excommunicated jedi knight using his mind to strike flint together.
The sparks smile and dance like college kids on ecstasy, not quite realizing that they are drowning in the undertoe.
They revel in the nostalgic numbness.
Only an IV of sweet lime juice can sustain such wilted leeches.
When lacking in vitamins, your skin is a papyrus to bury under the nile, and
watch from the hills as kids of 2100 and later search for WiFi to connect their burnt out forebrains to.
Coughing up several old moth eaten sweaters that you stuffed away
when your new girlfriend came over.
We hide our pasts like kilos under the coca cola shipments, and no matter
how far you ride the rails, the rats still nest and chew apart the cables that
keep the whole train locked together.
And why is it that we secrete our secrets in our sweat, and cover it up with
cheap deodorants?
Our catch-phrases mask the stagnant breath of our restless nature.
Humans, the bugs in our systems trying so hard to shout out to us that we don't really exist.
Thoughts as fragile as smoke could never support our weight if we chose to
colonize the moon and dig for diamonds in her eyes.
We may find that our stain-glassed windows keep out most of the light, while
preaching to keep our eyes closed and heads held close to the ground.
The civilized dances we partake are only nervous ticks of robotic
drones drilled on overtime.
And we think that these words useless, like grains of sand to let trickle out of your hands.
Our words mean nothing!
Even though you might have felt something in the last five minutes as these
black scarabs have peeled away at your comprehension.
You paint pictures with only black and blue and expect
fresh tongues to offer you green and purple instead.
But how can you expect anything other than the bruises you beat into the walls.
Like magnets on strike, you expect the world to just "let it go."
But I'm not about to rely on that weaker force to guide us.
The paths of unprecedented unraveling is where we are heading.
Where gravity is so pre-"concious-cocreation" and the last street light alive
will keep on whispering its salty sentiment.
You and I are not so different, although we profess to keep our distance
and fear too long of eye contact, as if a moment of silent connection
triggers the virus warnings and ***** up your downloads.
****..
All I wanted was a light-hearted comedy and all you had stocked up in your
dvd cabinet was a bunch of black and white ***** films.
You said the dark side makes you appreciate the light, but every night i hear
those last beaten breaths, limping across the dark hallway with their fingertips sliding
quietly along the walls.
© 2010 Cory McQueen
Marty S Dalton May 2013
It came quickly, roots
broke through marbled concrete

And vines draped off
balconies of skyscrapers

Floor to ceiling windows
disappeared behind ivy

Some beasts melted into shadows
around the corner as their
barks were adopted
by the wind and pushed
in strollers by the howl
and the cold bite

In the air, you could hear
unattended car alarms

And neon signs flickering
on and off as they hum like
a deathbed, EKG flat-line

Hanged stoplights
swayed back and forth
off streetlight arms
bent like telekinetic spoons
spinning like criminals
left on olive trees to die

And the drab color seemed
strangely magnetic and
right
I can swallow a pretty big storm
How much can you expect anyone to understand apocalyptic depression?
Ron Sparks Nov 2017
I walked out of my office today at noon
and slid into the stream of pedestrians -
the hipsters stroking their beards,
the pale professionals blinking in the sun,
mothers pushing strollers through the crowd
with more skill than a racecar driver

before I knew it, I walked past my lunch destination
I kept walking - and watching
the people of my town share a sidewalk
without attacking one another

for a moment I was tempted to take a picture
post it on online,
make a socio-political statement;
if people from all walks of life
can share the sidewalk
can we not find common ground?

I left my phone in my pocket - decided against
adding my unnecessary opinion to the
manufactured outrage
that is the sad truth of social media

I smiled at a pretty lady pushing her baby
she smiled back
and we shared a brief human moment
I kept walking
Jon Tobias Mar 2013
It hasn’t been as cold lately
The train of shopping carts rattles
Vibrate my forearms
Especially as I cross the yellow speed bumps on the ground

The city put those there to trip up skateboarders
And to confuse babies in strollers

Old women on walkers avoid them

There are things designed to make us slower
More careful

I think about my last poetry reading while filling the coolers
And don’t ask myself why when alone
I take myself to the places that make me most happy

My cashier asks me when he can go home

You do everything slower when
You keep yourself company
When you’re lonely
You’re not savoring moments
You just taking your time
Because you can
I set the alarms and lock the doors
The moon has been out for a while
I will go home and write

Everyone is asleep except for me
I crack open a few beers
Open the window so the moon can keep me company

Forever I thought there was something wrong with me
But I have learned
Like the moon
Some things will only shine in the nighttime
Not everything looks like gold under the sunlight
Johnny Noiπ Oct 2018
Black African Black Black Black Black Black Black Black Black Black Black Black Black Black Black Black Black Black Women Black Women Black Women Black Women Black Women Women Women Women Women Black Women Black Women Women Women Women Women Women Black Women Women Women Women Women Women Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Females, Wives, Lions, Males, He stopped school. *******: Opening a poet's poem: Reading the readers of the Jewish friends who had lost the true unity; My father has been fascinated by nature, a mysterious secret, and a massacre of a Mexican girl in Russia. [Cruelty Features: Vertical Earthquake Agency and Sea Fruits] Dog Dogs, Soft Cover and Strollers, Stunts for Hearing, Herbal Remedies for Her Herbal Remedies, For This Practice and Smoking, Science, Robots, Betty Trees, and Body Fruits and Fruits Is a memorable meeting. Pentecostal Tabernacle of the Prophet The Modern Table of the Table. The central angel had rounded the circle of friends with his halfhearted heart with his older sister. A modern machine-like machine, like a robe, begins to listen to the scrap of the heart of the person who is in the heart. Empty song songs are killing the funeral of the people. The ***** Sea hold Saddam's wall, Eva's clothes, Dalmatian black shades, Boxing dolls with real hands, waiter waiters, parents, some female women, prostitutes, women's hair warming, umbrellas, umbrellas, women's vestments. The raid on his knees is holy before his skin; Intervention, silence, censorship, and the rise of planets are in the middle of problems. When the corporation has its new hands, plumbing equipment, beacons, a variety of different items, the solitary and defensive, defensive, medicines "look down on the dark rooms." || Black masculine black black black black black black black black black black black women black women black women black lady women women women women women women women women women , Women, women, women, women, women, gold, gold, or gold, gold, gold, Female, Female, Female, Female, Female, Female, Female, Female, Female Moon Lion Moon Moon Full Moon Hotel Children no longer have children's Uighur ELLE on the walls of humanity. Open to France Open Doorways Greeting My father, a mysterious secret and secretly mysterious secret and the Mexican white girl [homosexuality] Adolescents Distinctness Localization Earth Land Agency Aphrodisiac Honey Bee and Fruits A woman dog, a dog deep in the cold, a crying voice, a baby care Handheld toys for this type of practice and smoking, science, robotics, batteries and aviation and juices Pre-wedding preparatory meeting Pentecost of the Prophet Muhammad Prophet Muhammad's Prophet Muhammad's Modern Table of Contents. The central angel had rounded the circle of friends with his halfhearted heart with his older sister. Like a rose, a modern Latin-style machine, a broken heart, begins to listen to a piece of paper cut off by a broken heart. Empty song songs are killing the funeral of the people. *****'s coast shadows, eagle's clothes, dark shades of psychology, Group dolls include realistic plans, beatings by parents, some women, women's women, women's hair warming temperatures, umbrellas, umbrellas, and vegetation mushrooms in Japan. The raid on his knees is holy before his skin; Intervention, silence, censorship, and the rise of planets are in the middle of problems. The corporation has different shapes, pipes, bumps, different shapes, and the soles, edges, defenders, medicines "look down on the dark rooms." || Johnny Popeye's Black Women & Black Black Women & Black Women, Black Black Women, Black Women & Black Women, Women Black Women & More Black Women Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Women, Female, Female, Female, Female, Female, Female Lunar Full Moon Hotel In the wall of humanity's son Eugene, Eli stopped learning. Open French Open Door Summer Greetings John Sky on the Day Free, Day ****, walking time brown, brown. Writing a hometown poet written by a poet: Lost reading readers of Jewish friends who lost the true unity; My dad was dazzling in a dazzling nature, with a mysterious mysterious mystery and a Russian rock-massacre of a Mexican maiden [Homosexuality] GOSSAMER & OTHERS CURSING IN THE ZONE OF DEMONSTRATIVE HAND-LACED AGENCY LIVESTOCK AND LITTLE LIPS: a person with a deep breath in a red sarong with frostbite dancing, waiting for words to cry, handcuffs guarding her baby care items; a memorial meeting for this kind of exercise and smoking, science, robotics, Betty Trees and Flying Bodies and Fumes Require | Pentecostal Christianity Isaiah's Prophet Prophet of the Prophet Prophet of the Prophet; A Modern Table's Table. The central angel developed his halfhearted circle of friends from his older sister. Modern-day Latin-style machine-learning clothes that begin to look like roses start to listen to the engraved pieces of paper cut off ||
Tick Tock* Strikes
The Clock. Their Numbers
Numbers Mocking Impure Me
Wishing For The  Time To Pass Me By.
Women, Men, Children Question Infidelity
Teens On The Side Smoking Cannabis With No
Absolute Care. Little Children In Their Strollers
Tugging On Their Silky Strands Of Shiny Hair.
If Only I Was One Who Could Live With No
Care. I Watch Time Move Ever So Slow.
I Wish I Knew The Worse Of Me.
As The Time Then Freezes.
©LogenMichel copyright 2014
Castiel Jun 2014
everything is
crowded.

I'm not sure what's
real and what's
fake, or what's
good and what's
bad, or even why
I am still
here and not at
home and just
sleeping
relaxing
letting
go.
Instead I am
here.
I am trapped between
four men and
three strollers and
too many
cowboy hats to even
remember how many there
actually are.
All I can
focus on is how
absolutely
terrified I
am and trying not to
disturb anyone but
also trying to
get enough air in my
lungs that I don't
suffocate.

But that's really
really
really
hard to do
especially now
especially here

So please excuse
me for a
minute if I
make myself
small
or if I start to
whimper
or if I
cry a little
bit.
It's nothing I can
help.
But the worst thing about
it is that when
you're afraid of
parties or
stepping into the pantry or
the city bus,
it sometimes feels like there's
nothing you can
help.

And trust
me when I
say that
almost nothing is more
painful than being
useless.
A friendly message about claustrophobia, people. Forreals.

Oh my god. I've been neglecting my babies D:

I've been out for a while, eh? Truly sorry about that. Last time I wrote was what, two months ago? I'm so sorry, guys. I hate myself ;____;

But I'm back now, see? I'm back with even ******* poetry. Aren't you glad? I am. I missed y'all. <3

Anyways. I'm back with a poem about anxiety (hooray, I know). So, here you go. I'm just easing back into it, I promise I'll be getting slightly less ****** as I start to write again more.
Sarina Apr 2013
Said, I can show you around the blackberry bush –
I planted it last summer, you know, that June you coasted
to university and stopped having crushes on cousins.

Said, you grew your hair long.

I toss it out the window many mornings:
dewdrops as a conditioner and tease strollers with
a crease by my armpit you like(d), my flab on the side –
I impress others now, men cling to the bottom of my skirt
and suckle on the hem to make each thread fray.

Said, but your knees feel dusty up against mine.
There is no big wide world, no plum summit skies below
the cuff of another person’s dress shirt –

just a watch. Remind me how much time I have left
until extinction, no hand held or hug goodbye:
this is a kingdom where nothing can die
and when it does, seeds are sown in the pelt of your heart.

Said, no, I bred this world for the fireflies.

Said, there are berry-droppings on your chin.
You look as if you’ve eaten licorice or caught lung cancer;
I wish you had, I wish I had never called you sugar.
Mariya Timkovsky May 2012
The sun kissed the horizon
The plump Russian babysitters have
Strolled away with their strollers
Long ago.
But I watched her make dinner
On the bark stove she carved into her mind.
She set the table with her fanciest china,
Tonight was a special occasion
I presumed.
She placed a heaping plate of potatoes
On the flower-splattered tablecloth,
Made to match the grass growing
Underneath her feet.
I could almost see the steam rising
From a distance
As she scooped each golden yellow tater
One by one into each dish:
First, second, third.
How sweet,
She’s preparing for our family dinner.
It will be as likely as the willow branches,
Serving as her ceiling,
Will protect her from lightning.
It starts to pour
I start to leave
The horizon has swallowed the sun whole.
I want to run back and tell her
That the willow will not be the only one
Weeping
some day.
The branches will curl onto themselves
And the stove will rust with age
Until it can no longer be used.

I turn
Behind her still thin lenses she peers at me
With twinkling eyes;
Penetrating my already thick ones.
Her head is like a protrusion of the tree.
I want to go back and tell her
To run away with me
Far away from the willow.
But all I can manage is
A heavy yawn
Ready to swallow
The glowing beacon hanging by a thread
In the sky.
How time has flown by
And how I wish,
My little darling,
That my memory of you
Stopped haunting my dreams.

She wanted to tell me
The willow is not as ***** as it seems.
But I’m not meant to make such predictions.
With a regretful tear I turn away
And run up the hill
To what I thought was higher ground.
Maybe one day
She will greet the journey with a smile.
No two people
ever conceived by God
could possibly be more alike than us

We live our lives in perpetual hope
of Country Time Lemonade commercials
and old reruns of “Leave it to ******”

We hope that, around the next bend
on a dusty, sun streaked road
we will find our Mayberry

That place where old men
weighing down sagging porches
speak in parable of better times

That place where young mothers
perpetually in their Sunday best
push strollers edged in brick-a-brack

That place where little boys
have impossibly grass stained knees
at the edge of muddy fishing holes

That place where little girls
pick Black-Eyed Susan's in verdant fields
and play at getting married while the little boys flee in terror

That place where dapper fathers
mow lawns in their shirtsleeves
and tip their pipes to one another in the falling afternoon sun

Together, we dream of this place;
this ideal;
this America.

Together we dream and, together, we continue
down that old dirt road;
hoping to find Mayberry
just around the next bend.
Copyright Ellen Elizabeth Farris 2010
LDuler Jan 2013
They cut down the old oak tree,
The only place I ever truly felt free,
On top of hawk hill
Its branches were tender arms
Its noble leaves full of mysterious charms
That oak tree and I- we were made of the same stuff
I was flesh soft and thin, he was wood thick and rough
But our essence, our core- it was the same
We were both something that no one could tame
I laid in his arms no matter the weather
And sap and blood throbbed together

It seems like places to hide
Just aren't around anymore
Though there used to be so many
I can't seem to find any
But lord knows I've tried

They clean my room
Mop, dust rag and rough broom
And take down the pictures, the memories tacked on the walls
And hide my old dolls
Because I'm too old to enjoy dolls

It seems like places of solace,
Secret and flawless
Really can't be found
Be they above or underground

I'm big to fit in my old tunnel
My secret, arcane land
Where I used to be able to stand

It seems like finding places of retreat
Has become an impossible feat
Places to love, places to pray
Where are they?

My spot in the basement
Magical despite the smelly mold fumes
Has been filled with old strollers and ripped costumes

It seems like places special and hushed
Have been annihilated and crushed,
Have all but disappeared
Isn't that weird?

But perhaps they have become so rare, so incredibly rare
Because we lack the art of simply receiving
We lack the art of simply perceiving
What is so freely given to us
We search instead of discover
Investigate but don't notice
We sift, unearth, and probe
But we lack practice in the delicate art
Of simply stumbling upon
Places to Hide by Geneviève Pardoe Macchiarella is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
thoughts to dump Jul 2013
I've been strolling for an hour along the outskirts of this sad empty town. My stomach grumbled upon the smell of the hot sweet corn cob sold at the nearby park. I hadn't eaten breakfast.

I see a lot of people at the park. There are street sweepers, lovers, and children. I stare directly into their eyes and they signify a common thing. But I can’t seem to describe it immediately. All I know is that I know they weren't happy.

One little girl playing a ball with her brother caught my attention. I always see them here. I know they are happy. They are laughing. The boy tosses the ball into the air then the girl catches it. Sometimes, she runs after it when she misses a toss. Then suddenly, the ball came rolling from her. She had a hard time chasing it. So I run after the ball and luckily I made it stop by blocking it with my body before it can completely reach the street. I’m also afraid the girl might get hit by any passing vehicle.
 
I guess that was a great leap. But I wasn't hurt at all.

Then the little girl picked up the ball and went back to playing. I was still there on that spot where I made the ball stop. I look around to see what the others are doing.

To my surprise, the little girl suddenly came near to me. She smiled, and then chuckled. Her cheeks were turning red as she gradually patted my head. Then the boy took something from their picnic box and later joined us. He gave me a half-eaten sandwich. I heartily ate it. My hunger was then satisfied. I barked twice as a sign of thanking those kids.

“Good!” the boy said as he was touching my back too.

I thought I would be having playmates this time. But the kids have to leave soon since it’s already lunch time. Their mom might be waiting for them.

Then they left. And I was left there at that park where I usually stay during day time. I see different people come and go.

I remembered one time when I met *****. She was so cheerful. We were playing for a couple of hours and soon she needs to go.

The next day, I wake up to the loud voices coming from business people having conversation about investments and sales. I hardly understand a thing about their talk. But I know they were arguing about big amounts of money. I know about money. They are pieces of paper and small circular objects which strollers used to buy food in the park.

Since I have no idea what those two people are dealing with, I just hopped and landed to the ground and ran away from that bench which they were situated.

Why do people keep on arguing about big complex things? This is a question which I can’t seem to answer. I have been living a simple life. My daily routines have never been changed since the day I made this park my home.

As I was running away, I bumped into someone. He was a frail old man with a wooden cane in his left arm. Our slight collision almost made him trip and fall to the ground. But he kept his balance, probably because of that cane which aids him in walking. I too kept my balance. Then, the old man stooped to sit down on the humid grassy ground. I was just there in front of him.
 
“You, little one,” he whispered in a monotone.

I was feeling a little bit of excitement upon being with this man for some moments. He talked a lot about his son named Abe who was taken away from him by the government because he can’t afford to sustain his needs. His wife too met another man while working abroad.

An hour has passed. A little girl suddenly came running near to us. She was Ashley, as what the old man introduced to me. I thought I’d be having companions for today but Ashley only came to fetch the old man because she was looking for him since yesterday. And soon, they left.

It’s always like this. I get to meet someone or some other people but then after a short moment of having enjoyed their companies, they would then leave. I know they have their own homes and lives to attend to. And they wouldn't be wasting their time to some ordinary being like me.

I wished of leaving the park, move to some other place and maybe hope that someone would like me and bring me home. But I guess there would be no one. And I, would always be that same hopeful park dog.
mostly water Jun 2015
framers and confounders,
gold-sifting pitch-shifting
plagiarist compounders,
dreamer cells --
all stragglers and strollers;
trollers, ex-tollers,
frontier comptrollers...

was a pupil for a day,
gave two eyes for an A,
said "I'll tell you what I see just
tell me what to say"

2 fore thoughts 2 free thoughts
of sons of freed slaves,
think tanks and barnacles abound:
I see twenty-six characters in need of an author
to try me line by line
'til beseeched and swayed
I reach the antithesis
Bharathi Devi May 2015
The cool breeze tickles my face,
The sun plays hide and seek.
There is peace in the air,
A quietness that precedes the sunset.

Most of the young baseball teams
Have already left or, are winding up.
The young basket ball players are still busy
Running around the hoop and throwing the ball.

Walkers and runners, people with strollers
Are all there going around that mile long track,
Surrounded by the tall Eucalyptus trees and
Curious squirrels and the dogs that chase them.

The usual Latino picnickers are less in number.
Some are still barbecuing and eating on the benches.
But there is one group under some tents,
Singing with an all female mariachi band.

The same dog walkers that I see every weekend,
With dogs on strollers, in their backpacks, and walking on their sides,
Are having an impromptu meeting with a bunch of their tribe,
With their dogs eagerly expressing their opinions.

There is a Dance 1 show from Redondo,
With the young kids showing off their just acquired talent,
Dancing asynchronously, but trying their best though,
Sometimes, stopping and watching others.

Batting cage is still active, the clunk clunk sound
Adding background music to the park.
People are still sitting around the pond,
Ducks walking eagerly around them asking for food.

There is a group of people busy eating,
Perhaps members of the "Bigger than the Big” club.
I watched curiously about their transition
From standing to the sitting position.

Shadows get longer, sun is bidding farewell,
Dance team dismantles its stage,
Young dancers with wild hopes,
All start walking towards their cars.

©Bharathi Devi

— The End —