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falcon45ca

Poetry & Creative Writing

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Posted (edited)

So

    Often it may feel

(though truth ain't always real)

Hearts

          & Minds

May collapse, &

                  thus divide

 

 

The

   truth of

what was told

rolling stones

         oft' covered in

     Mould

 

May

   it ever be

ne'er the 

        truth 'twixt

You &

      Me

 

Cuz'

       it's so

   easy, when

 honesty's the

  way to

       deceive me

Edited by falcon45ca
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you may be the apple of your wife’s eye, sarg. 

but your rotten to the corp.

 

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There once was a man named Sweeney

Who somehow spilled gin on his w**nie

Just to be couth

He added vermouth

And then slipped his date a martini. 

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Good thread.

 

I hope to contribute.

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6 hours ago, Jimmy McGill said:

There once was a man named Sweeney

Who somehow spilled gin on his w**nie

Just to be couth

He added vermouth

And then slipped his date a martini. 

Such dry humour, one's driven to drink

Sly rumour, or bloke's mind on the brink

Lass shaken & stirred

A double's inferred

For last call, she delivered a wink!

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Simple, smiling friend

A treasure, so it would seem

Shallow pools still drown

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Hey

here's 

The man

called 

JACK

 

Ever 

the self

proclaimed 

Victim of

ATTACK

 

& if

you look

through

The lie of his

EYES

 

His endless

self-deceit

surely

Comes as no

SURPRISE 

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18, 19

       Hooked on Methamphetamine 

Told me 

She went home

      Told me 

To call home

But I know she

        Ain't even got a phone

 

16, 14

       Miniskirts, I feel obscene 

Maybe

I should go

        Maybe

It wont show

Steady streams

       Still feel the flow

 

Welcome to Hell

It feels like Paradise

 

Some may say it's too hot

Some will say it's real nice

 

Maybe it's just right

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Posted (edited)

These dirt grounds with shoe-prints

Are desperate fields of wars;

And rain fills all the indents

With change like waves to shores.

 

Edited by 112
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Posted (edited)

Fickle lil' sliver 

   Always fallin' out 

The Quiver 

 

Say that's it OK,

But

   We all  know

Martyrdom,

    Ain't

                      a style 

Just the lie

  That they tell

Us

          All the while

 

They ask you

   Get on your 

         Knees,

         Never

A

Please 

 

Don't you like it, don't you want it,

Don't you have it? You can run from 

 

It

 

        You owe, & you owe

         Always

         Cuz'

 

They tell

Ya so

 

Even tho it was not!

  Yet you get what you got,

Now it's all on you, the blame,

           This Putrid Vulture

The same

 

     

Ain't a thing

  Yet we obey

 

 

Break Free, break free, be free

 

Break

Free

 

Please be

 

Edited by falcon45ca

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The old man spoke stately with softness, great with power and warm wisdom, which he imparted in his young counterpart and pupil through reciting incantations, not of ancient rite or ritual but of his own tongue, what he uttered and by strength of will turned to mantra, to gospel. He was a prophet detailed like a hippie, wearing a tie dye shirt and scuttering around with a bandana on his head. He and the young man shared likeness.

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Look! 

 

at God's

 

PERFECT!

 

       lil'

             Monster...

 

And I can't yet spell

 

Phrankinstein

         

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Ever lifting,

      thus a Cloud?

 

Soft,

 

    Supple 

Sweet taste revealing

 

Rotten

 

Leering,

 

 

deceitful evil

 

 

Who smiles & winks,

                           (the while devouring)

 

 

A new beginning

 

Yet still flowering 

 

 

  

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I punched my hand through frail and fragile window like it was paper. Sure, it was a stupid thing to do, & the sound of blood splattering against the rusted fire escape told me my hand was paper too. But hey, that's my &^@#in' dog, and my eyes are as red as my hand right now.

 

 

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You're right

 

9 times out of 7

 

Is this the cost 

you're payin'

 

To make a Hell

Out of heaven?

 

If that's the case,

 

 

Please allow me 

To chase

 

Simple statements 

you say...

 

 

Or rather 

to Acquiesce 

 

& just simply obey?

 

 

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Posted (edited)

Mine own and my father's worldly insights,

Which we both have but have never been titled for--

As the artist's glasses we have are recognized only in the short recognition of those we meet every-day,

And that is all it needs--

Spur me to continue down two paths:

Those colourless brick-layed ones,

Followed by my forefathers in speaking out against malice

And evils as I come across them,

But also the new one 

Which runs into grounds not even the insects have come into contact with,--

And resembles the impressionism I saw in my dad's paintings,--

And which is why I will brave the winds where the waterfall's power once overwhelmed me

As if I was touched by a god gently guiding me toward myself--

And so I affirm this life as it was granted to me by either the chance of the ineffable or the benevolence of something great.

 

God bless, everybody, whether he's alive or dead.

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Posted (edited)

I've laid atop

 

A cold mountain, Sun shinning 

 

So bright

As to pierce the Eyes

 

Of God

 

& shatter the face

Of a pure, servile 

 

 

Demon

 

Who looks at me,

plainly, yet sweetly...

 

 

A pain we both yet

May share

 

What happened to my neck?

it disappeareth, lost in a

 

Cackling cacophony

Beguiling hatred, disguising 

 

Pain.

 

 

 

I'm on top of the World!

 

Rose

 

 

 

Please don't touch me

 

                  While 

                                           I

 

 

 

       Fall

Edited by falcon45ca
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Spill oil atop the Piano, as Christ regales, composed, beneath the baby Grande.

 

Watch, sticky black, viscous matter, descend upon...

 

Thee? Me?

 

Beelzebub betwixt the withering tree

& soil

 

Manure fed with

Dis

 

Honesty

 

 

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Posted (edited)

The mad vex of the sun shining through the canopy of the trees,

Aged variously and of relative mass,

Reminds me of a time from my past

I cannot remember; but the sensations,

The subtle glow on my face of orange then shade,

And everything like is all I love about the present:

It is here forever and spent with those we feel still fondly of,

And it is white and stately and can only flee, a dove.

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