NonsensicalRoses are blueDinosaurs are purpleThis poem makes no senseToaster.
LinesRoses are red,Violets are blue.Some poems have four lines,Some poems have five,Like this one.
Shrek is Love Shrek is lifeShrek Is Love Shrek is Life.I was only 9 years old I loved shrek so much, I had all the merchandise and moviesI pray to shrek every night before bed thanking him for the life I've been given.Shrek is love I say, Shrek is lifeMy dad overhears me and calls me a faggotI knew he was just jealous of my devotion for ShrekI called him a cuntHe slaps me and sends me to go to sleepIm crying now, and my face hurtsI lay in bed and its really coldA warmth is moving towards me.I feel something touch meIts shrekI am so happyHe whispers in to ear "this is my swampHe grabs me with his powerful ogre hands and puts me on my hands and kneesI'm readyI spread my ass cheeks for ShrekHe penetrates my buttholeIt hurts so much but I do it for ShrekI can feel my butt tearing as my eyes start to waterI push against his forceI want to please ShrekHe roars a mighty roar as he fills my butt with his loveMy dad walks inShrek looks him straight in the eye and says "Its all ogre now"Shrek lea
Bus Ride WritingsThe poet writes,with a pen running out of ink, in neat cursive writing,which is very hard to do when you're looking over her shoulder.© 2012
NonsensicalDistorted voices,from across the way.Whispering to me,telling me what to say.I put my fingers to the keyboard,but cant bring myself to write,words flowintoeachother,one sentence at a time.I miss letter,forgetting my initial intention,then I try to rhyme,words like asphyxiation.Choking on my own words,losing myself in metaphor.Is the flower a flower,could it be something more?What is this that I write?Can I truly call it poetry,or just a smattering of words?Fitting together, impossibly.My muse, he makes no sense,and she hides away.Every time I call upon them,it never seems to stay.Distorted voices,from across the way,whispering to me,telling me what to say.But my fingers don't press the keys,a soundless piano.Never hearing itself sing,it's voice it will never know.This poem is ironic,and I write with frustration,I seem to be losing it all,along with inspiration.I repeat a stanza,for effect, though I meant to end.This poem isn't even real,it's just
A Prescription for LoveI've always thought that love was blind,maybe it is,but so am I.It seems my glasses don't fit the prescription,and the emotion is blurred,just a nonsense description.I tried contacts one day,it took hours to get them in,and realize I was looking the wrong way.But the contacts weren't strong enough to see,the blindingly obvious truth,that you'd always been there to worry about me.My eyesight continuously deteriorated,to the point where everything,or anyone I could see was manipulated.As it got worse I thought of removing the eyes,using my senses to see,but does not love see from the mind?I thought about laser eye surgery,and went in for the operation,coming out, you were the first I could see.My mind clear, my eyes no longer clouded over,I searched for something irrational,something to make me a believer.I always though that love was blind,but then again,so was I.© 2012
a minimalist walked into a barHe died.The end.
Silly Little Bumblebee-For CelestialMemoriesSilly little bumblebee,setting down in my hair,catching yourself in my curls,buzzing everywhere.Silly little bumblebee,crawling over my body,tickling my hand,galumphing playfully.Silly little bumblebee,I am not a flower too,I am just a strange girl,who simply adores you!© 2012
Unchprompti have two waysof dealing with anxiety:masturbation, weedand honestly, masturbatingtakes some time,maybe effort,so i just stick to smoking.
You Burned My RiceI never believed in love until I met you.I was stuck to the frying panlike the rice I burned this eveningbecause I was too busy thinkingabout how watched pots do boil.And as the fumes of my charred dinnerreached up to gently caress me slap me sillyI realized how dinners alonewere nothing like eating with you.I never thought I was alone until I met you.© 2013
Meli MeloIsabelle et IsabeauElle l'écartèle. Lui creuse son tombeau.Isabelle et IsabeauElle perchée sur l'échelle, lui pendu à l’échafaud.Isa belle et Isa beauLa ressemblance est telle qu'entre les deux, il n'y a qu'un mot.Isabelle et IsabeauUne pucelle mariant un gigolo.
Some Poems Rhymeï»¿Roses are red,Violets are blue.Some poems rhymeBut this one doesn't.