Pen Poetry - Too much to Swallow?
Pen Poetry - Too much to Swallow?
Press progress, profess
Effortless eyewitness exquisiteness,
Nimbleness, neatness. Nevertheless,
Unharness useless unpleasantness
Needless. Nonetheless, nameless
Pettiness process protest.
Ruthless redress regress,
Inaptness, iciness, idleness.
Compress clumsiness, childishness,
Excess eruditeness, erroneousness,
Depthless digress, dumbness.
Possess priceless prowess,
Openness, outwardness, otherworldliness,
Express endless evenness
Terseness, timeless tastefulness,
Re-address random-access role-reversing resourcefulness.
Yin, Yang's yolk yoke. Yes ? … Yes!
Most make believe in anything they read -
'amazing', 'awesome' slip from flippant pen
vow praise, wows raise reaction, and again
to draw attention to their need to feed
from inspiration others gift their greed,
or compensation masking tasking pain
when creativity is on the wane.
Objectives may at times evolve to seed
transparency - yet where all seem agreed
lowest common denominators rein
the fountain which should not need to explain
how this thought led to that poetic steed.
'A mouthful of originality'
too much to swallow proves to minds at sea!
1 August 2008
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Related quotes
Pen Unpriced Poetry
P ress progress, profess
E ffortless eyewitness exquisiteness,
N imbleness, neatness. Nevertheless,
U nharness useless unpleasantness
N eedless. Nonetheless, nameless
P ettiness process protest.
R uthless redress regress,
I naptness, iciness, idleness.
C ompress clumsiness, childishness,
E xcess eruditeness, erroneousness,
D epthless digress, dumbness.
P ossess priceless prowess,
O penness, outwardness, otherworldliness,
E xpress endless evenness
T erseness, timeless tastefulness,
R e-address random-access role-reversing resourcefulness.
Y in, Yang's yolk yoke. Yes? … Yes!
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Too much to Swallow
Most make believe in anything they read -
'amazing', 'awesome' slip from flippant pen
to praise, to raise reaction, and again
to draw attention to their need to feed
from inspiration others gift their greed,
or compensation masking tasking pain
when creativity is on the wane.
Objectives may at times evolve to seed
transparency - yet where all seem agreed
lowest common denominators rein
the fountain which should not need to explain
how this thought led to that poetic steed.
'A mouthful of originality'
too much to swallow proves to minds at sea!
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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ThE pAiN..........
I'll swallow the pain of being misunderstood.
I'll swallow the pain of being no good.
I'll just swallow the pain of not fitting in.
I'll just swallow the pain of not deserving.
I'll swallow the pain of hiding myself.
I'll swallow the pain of having no help.
I'll just swallow the pain of being constantly hurt.
I'll just swallow the pain of being thought as a nerd.
I'll swallow the pain of breaking my heart.
And in all of my dreams, with sorrow I'll part........
poem by Urmila Reghunath
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The Collector
I pick things up, I am a collector
And things, well things, they tend to accumulate
I have this net, it drags behind me
It picks up feelings for me to feed upon
There are times, plenty of times
I wish I could let it go
But it's time to breed
And it's got to grow inside me
There are times, plenty of times
I wish I could let it go
But it's time to make me think things
I don't wanna know
I'm trying to fit it all inside
I'm trying to open my mouth wide
I'm trying not to choke
And swallow it all
Swallow it all
Swallow it all
Swallow it all
I am the plague
I am the swarm
All your heart sticks on me
And I keep it warm
It'll make me stay
It won't let me leave
There are so goddamn many of them
It gets hard to breathe
I'm trying to fit it all inside
I'm trying to open my mouth wide
I'm trying not to choke inside
I am a good boy, and I will
Swallow it all
Swallow it all
Swallow it all
Swallow it all
Every last one [19x]
song performed by by Nine Inch Nails
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Greed
Where there is a need
There is always greed
A rotten exploiting deed
That manifests with speed
When there are mouths to feed
Read between the lines and take heed!
Lurking around is an Inspiring greed
Ready to take advantage and proceed
Even when there is no need to succeed
By now it is agreed, there is always greed
Our desire for more always exceeds our needs
Hence wealth, power and greed have always been married
We always want more
Sometimes I don't know what for
I read to understand what generation of breed
Has given birth to this senseless weed
Because life is a circle of endless greed
I urgently need to know, I plead
Who planted this seed of greed to deliberately mislead?
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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She Won't Swallow It
Warning-Sexual content! May not be suitable for all readers!
Parody of the classic song from the film of the same name The Girl Can't Help It
She won't swallow it, the girl won't swallow it
She won't swallow it, the girl won't swallow it
She walks by, got mine standing at attention
Tight inside of my jeans
Still...
She won't swallow it, the girl won't swallow it
She winks her eye, flirts with me so outragous and naughty
Gets me so damn horny
Only to burn me like toast
Cos no matter how often I ask
She won't swallow it, the girl won't swallow it
She' s got me turned on the most
Yet even if I got down tonight on my knees
I think I know still what her answer would be
She won't swallow it, the girl won't swallow it
The girl won't swallow it
Won't get down on her knees
Not even once just to see if she would like it
Oh yeah
Sad but true
She won't swallow it, the girl won't swallow it
And even when I beg her pretty please
A horny boyfriend down on his knees
She won't swallow it, the girl won't swallow it
Still I'm hopin' and prayin' someday
Her answer will be
The girl will swallow it cos she's just as horny as me
She won't swallow it, the girl won't swallow it
She won't even pretend to mess around with it
In the dark or in the sun
She won't swallow it, the girl won't swallow it
If I give her some good old fashion lovin' way down there
Then should't she do the same for me?
The girl won't swallow it, the girl won't swallow it
Always makes me feel so damn bad just for askin'
Just like a dirty old grandpa instead of the young kinky 21 that I am
She won't swallow it, the girl won't swallow it
The girl won't swallow it
Won't get down on her knees
Not even once just to see if she would like it
Oh yeah
Sad but true
She won't swallow it, the girl won't swallow it
And even when I beg her pretty please
A horny boyfriend down on his knees
She won't swallow it, the girl won't swallow it
Still I'm hopin' and prayin' someday
Her answer will be
The girl will swallow it cos she's just as horny as me
She won't swallow it, the girl won't swallow it
She walks by, got my manhood locked up tight in a vise
As I pant and moan for that little something
That little something more that she just won't give
Still I'm hopin' and prayin' someday
Her answer will be
The girl will swallow it cos she's just as horny as me
She won't swallow it, the girl won't swallow it
2008 Ramona Thompson
poem by Ramona Thompson
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I Swallow
I swallow pride,
I swallow guilt,
I swallow everything he spilt.
I wipe away the remnants of,
What is left of both our love.
I swallow all that is not seen,
I swallow every broken dream,
I swallow when I want to scream,
This by itself is magic.
I swallow if just for his likes,
I swallow and it’s tragic.
poem by Mrs. Cynosure
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Raised to Express
So innocent then,
Were my public aggressions!
My willingness to connect,
All aspects of my identity...
With an outspokenness,
Is not new to me.
Raised to express!
And not to regress...
In needless nonstop guessing.
To do my best,
Is...
Something done I should do first for me.
Raised to express!
And not to regress...
In needless nonstop guessing.
And,
To do my best
Is...
Something done I should do first for me.
Since no one better knows my destiny!
So innocent then,
Were my public aggressions!
My willingness to connect,
All aspects of my identity...
With an outspokenness,
Is not new to me.
Raised to express!
And not to regress...
In needless nonstop guessing.
And,
To do my best
Is...
Something done I should do first for me.
And,
To do my best
Is...
Something done I should do first for me.
Every aspect of my life delights,
Since no one better knows my destiny!
Raised to express!
With no need for nonstop guessing.
Or regress to foolishness.
Since,
No one better knows my destiny!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Victim of his own Success
Man, victim of his own success, must fast grasp opportunity
to offer all equality of chances and advances stress
as the ability to press for rights for disability
the strong ignore, or fail to bless.
Man, victim of his own success, does not deserve impunity
when biosphere supportive he still stifles in the name of, - guess, -
‘Democracy’, free-choice oppress through ways of ta[l]king liberty
as only freedom to repress.
Man, victim of his own success, - tale’s pun, - few marks of modesty
retains, yet with anxiety observes galactic game of chess
while most Earth’s problems won’t address. This manifest dichotomy
highlights concerns we should assess.
Man, victim of his own success, needs to transcend his history
predative, channel energy towards solutions which suppress
his immaturity, redress the balance of society,
extend awareness free from stress.
Man, victim of his own success, must sail beyond tsunami he
created to a safer sea where winds of change may not express
a whirlwind strange that all confess none can control. Society
must change or soon will sink, regress.
Man, victim of his own success, must map return to sanity,
respect with assiduity the planet’s need to convalesce,
create conditions which attest acceptance by humanity
of overview which won’t aggress.
Man, victim of his own success, must understand ecology
requires intrinsic harmony, may join “I wish” to “I possess”
providing much more, - never less, - is harvested with equity,
without the urge to dispossess.
Man, victim of his own success should heed the lessons most agree
accompany pride’s apogee, and not attempt to second guess
the seasons’ reasons or finesse. Where just fat few progress we see
misuse far more than maladdresse.
Man, victim of his own success, beyond base skills of repartee,
should take time off from Time to key into distortions which transgress
ideals which should not ever stress the views of tight community
or vested interests. Nonetheless, -
Man, victim of his own success, must meet the challenges that he
has catalyzed - calamity around the corner waits unless
he acts - declines to acquiesque with urbane equanimity, -
protects his progeny’s success…
Which, victim of its own success, may stray from birthright destiny
to cul-de-sac of history, through compromise, increase distress
or narrow hopes where scope could press for change proactive, remedy
renewed temptations to digress through need to influence, impress,
the generations yet to be, compress its chances - tragedy
whose risks too high remain as we depict the options which depress
the outlook for our century.
(c) Jonathan Robin 1992 -2006
10 October 1992,3 October 2006
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Ruthless
(john duarte/donna weiss)
Night falls so hard
Im just not what I used to be
Left in the dark
You have wasted and walked over me
Its alright, Im not looking for more
I was not prepared to be your lover
Not aware that love could smother me
You get elaborate with your lies
Computer dreams slip through your eyes
Baby, you like to be the king of paradise
So sweet and...
Ruthless
Everybody says your ruthless
And its useless
I dont know how I got through this
You took my love
You were so self assured
You were everything I ever wanted
You always have the power to endure
Thats alright...
Im not looking for more
You do everything you know you shouldnt
I just have to bite the bullet...oh
Dutiful love dont make right, you got my back on that alright
Baby you like to be the king of paradise
So sweet and...
Ruthless
Everybody says your ruthless
And its useless
I dont know how I got through this
Ruthless
Everybody says your ruthless
And its useless
I dont know how I got through this
Five will get you ten Ill find another lover whos born to bend
Ruthless
Everybody says your ruthless
And its useless
I dont know how I got through this
song performed by by Tiffany
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Way Of The Wind
The wind's way in the deep sky's hollow
None may measure, as none can say
How the heart in her shows the swallow
The wind's way.
Hope nor fear can avail to stay
Waves that whiten on wrecks that wallow,
Times and seasons that wane and slay.
Life and love, till the strong night swallow
Thought and hope and the red last ray,
Swim the waters of years that follow
The wind's way.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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111
The useless poem
He knows that his poetry
Is a useless endeavor
As you put it,
There is no money for a poet,
Not even fame when he is alive
Or even dead, perhaps for some,
Whose lines are judged for greatness
His poetry is nothing but a way of laundering
His emotions,
Not even read
Nobody really cared
How many nights did he spend to make a poem?
His heart bleeds
For more pain, his stomach acidifies for more
Harmful corrosive liquids rising to his brain
Through all his intestines and veins
And he goes groggy
Nauseous,
Till dawn breaks he makes his lines
Like a fool
He wants to stop and put an end to everything
He is suffering
He knows the end
Cannot refer to this poem
But to his life
He ends it
His poetry may live on some pages
But (again) not even read because nobody
Nobody really cared
Perhaps someday when another useless poet
Comes accidentally along
Surfing
Or
Writes the same useless
Lines like the way he wrote his
By a slim chance
He shall then
Be read for once
Through this poem
Again
And again
Because in fact
There are many of them
More than you will expect
Rereading the useless poems
Still bleeding asking for care and even forgiveness
(The vice of asking for attention
The uselessness of recognition)
Another one reads it this time
It is, I will not mind, You
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Access To Live Excessively
Where would some people be?
What kind of lives would we all live,
If we were not motivated by someone else's...
Creativity?
Or had access to live excessively,
Off of their resources.
To then make declarations,
What we have 'discovered' belongs to us.
Because we are entitled to take it away from them.
And...
For the many who get up each day,
With feelings of not having to contribute a thing...
But a wanting what is seen to take away,
As if to hunt for it using any means necessary...
To deprive others of what they possess.
With a comparing of their lack of 'initiative'...
To steal or deceive as we have been taught to do,
As a reason to declare them the less fortunate.
And...
In the process,
To protest with others who feel they have not eaten...
Their piece of grandma's homemade pie,
Although have been conditioned to equally leech...
With a taking of two, three or even four pieces.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Dementia
My mother forgot how to swallow.
Before that, she lost my face and my name,
erased from her memory by sickness and age.
Her nurses complained she took too long to feed
They wanted a peg and a tube for the deed
My mother forgot how to swallow
She forgot her late spouse, disremembered her vow.
With the loss of the past there is no here and now.
Once she read to my child, then my girl read to her-
Until all the sounds were a meaningless blur
My mother forgot how to swallow
Jesus and Mary and her patron saint
would loved to have helped her, so weak and so faint,
but she had forgotten the simplest prayer -
the beads in her hand little use to her here.
My mother forgot how to swallow
The night nurses found her while making their round
She was cold to the touch, no pulse to be found
She stared, eyes wide open, at the cross on the wall
Perhaps the Messiah had come after all.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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The useless poem
He knows that his poetry
Is a useless endeavor
As you put it,
There is no money for a poet,
Not even fame when he is alive
Or even dead, perhaps for some,
Whose lines are judged for greatness
His poetry is nothing but a way of laundering
His emotions,
Not even read
Nobody really cared
How many nights did he spend to make a poem?
His heart bleeds
For more pain, his stomach acidifies for more
Harmful corrosive liquids rising to his brain
Through all his intestines and veins
And he goes groggy
Nauseous,
Till dawn breaks he makes his lines
Like a fool
He wants to stop and put an end to everything
He is suffering
He knows the end
Cannot refer to this poem
But to his life
He ends it
His poetry may live on some pages
But (again) not even read because nobody
Nobody really cared
Perhaps someday when another useless poet
Comes accidentally along
Surfing
Or
Writes the same useless
Lines like the way he wrote his
By a slim chance
He shall then
Be read for once
Through this poem
Again
And again
Because in fact
There are many of them
More than you will expect
Rereading the useless poems
Still bleeding asking for care and even forgiveness
(The vice of asking for attention
The uselessness of recognition)
Another one reads it this time
It is, I will not mind, You
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Discovery of Poetry! ! !
I used to write poetry for the fame, attention and exposure
So people can say “CJ the Young Phenomenon such an honor”
But now I see that poetry is nothing to prove but show true art
As I shown my creative ways of I see in this world soul purpose
From down beneath the soil of my life and planting a seed of change
For my children to be surrounded by different sights of art forms
Visual, vocal and hearing each one will open a gate of creativity
With a visual he can see his future and his visual images of faith
With vocal she can speak her fluid words of her masterpiece thesis
And finally with their hearing echoing to the world’s cries for savior
They’ll be the one to stand for the change and revolutionized lifestyles
To live better and to express imagination and creativity for all to see
You’ll see them as scholars, freedom writers, or even saviors to all
But I’ll called them my sons and daughters, my blessings to the world
My children of poetry for all to see and follow and elevate to the highest
As the generation of poetry will excel as the beliefs of poetry are believable
As to keep poetry alive is to express it deeply, truthful and creatively as possible
poem by Compton Wright
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To Seem Detached From Stress
I admit to feeling honored.
And also repeatedly blessed.
To have someone like you,
Make comments...
About those confessions I profess,
And express with an openness...
To seem detached from stress.
I am not always as secure,
As I seem when attempting to impress.
I just feel what I say comes from an honesty.
And being true to myself,
Sometimes has created my own loneliness...
That has left me with moments of distressed.
I admit to feeling honored.
And also repeatedly blessed.
To have someone like you,
Make comments...
About those confessions I profess,
That expresses an openness...
To seem detached from stress.
But I am not that different,
From those wishing more...
And not less,
Of those moments I regret...
To have a happiness,
That will leave me to be...
Feeling free to be at my best.
Without experiencing an aloneness,
Through what is felt at times...
An unwinding road confined,
To a wilderness...
That sits inside,
Of an inquisitive mind.
Traveling as it does without any sign of rest.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Read my poetry
Read my poetry
My poetry is enough
My poetry is independent
My poetry creates itself.
Read my poetry
My poetry is not mine
Everything belongs to my poetry
My poetry creats itself.
Read my poetry
My poetry is psyche and
Alchemy in me
My poetry is independent of me.
Read my poetry
It agony its ecstasy
Its inspiration
Everything belongs to
My predecessors-poet
Read my poetry
Read my poetry.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Sonnet: My Wealth- Poetry
The wealth that God has given me is one!
One in a million earthlings may possess;
A gift that few dream of under the sun;
In such short time, He has given excess.
Maybe, the wealth is not in silver/ gold;
Immeasurable, priceless and unsurpassed;
In centuries, it cannot become old;
And God gave it though I had never asked.
This wealth will do miracles on readers;
Good deeds will happen ev’n after I die;
It will produce good men and good leaders,
And help earthlings to shun evil/ defy!
God will reward me in Heaven again;
On earth, temptations will be on the wane!
10-20-2001
poem by John Celes
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From The Short Story What The Swallows Did
Swallow, swallow, neighbor swallow,
Starting on your autumn flight,
Pause a moment at my window,
Twitter softly your good-night;
For the summer days are over,
All your duties are well done,
And the happy homes you builded
Have grown empty, one by one.
Swallow, swallow, neighbor swallow,
Are you ready for your flight?
Are all the feather cloaks completed?
Are the little caps all right?
Are the young wings strong and steady
For the journey through the sky?
Come again in early spring-time;
And till then, good-by, good-by!
poem by Louisa May Alcott
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