Hoodwinked To Be Used
Divisions and indecisions,
Blatant and admitted.
Does not heal with a mending wished,
By those who claim they represent...
The best reflection of a people's interests.
Aging routines used to demean and defeat,
Only leaves a taste of bitterness...
With a craving for more it,
Obviously seen.
And that which cracks and falls apart,
Has proven to be cost effective...
For those making their quick dashes,
With hopes to lay the blame on those...
To exit fast from trash they've left exposed.
Aging routines used to demean and defeat,
Only leaves a taste of bitterness...
With a craving for more it,
Obviously seen...
On faces expected to clean up these scenes.
Unbelieving they've been hoodwinked to be used.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Many Will Never Recover At All
Leave those alone who are comforted by their own beliefs.
Fragmented realities had at one time brought relief...
To the ones who pocketed funds from such divisions!
Choosing not to listen and making wrong decisions.
Those days are fading fast for them.
From all fronts their outlooks are crumbling within.
Soon those affected can not refuse the truth.
It will be there shared by all.
And those who run from it,
Need not be pursued!
For them there will be no exit!
Let them with limited time persist.
Sit back and watch their minds split to bits.
And feel blessed you were able to see it for what it was.
Some might be able to grow from it.
Unfortunately...
Many will never recover at all!
Since honesty for them,
Was something they felt could be put off!
And reality for them will be a wound to go exposed...
Never to heal.
Creating defeat and their downfall.
With minds sold on treasures gone...
A purpose to exist leaves them nothing left to feel.
But a ground for their hands and knees to crawl.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Craving!
Craving!
An essence within my heart,
Unknown.
Craving!
And yet I know this taste.
A familiarity embraces me.
Craving!
Bathing in the fragrance of it.
Hoping that it will covet me.
Once it identifies,
Which desire it gives that pleases.
Craving!
This life.
And its teasing!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Stop, Choosing to Demean
You've got your meaning,
And still you are choosing to demean...
My love?
Ya gotcha meaning,
But-cha choosing to demean.
Ya gotcha meaning,
But-cha choosing to demean.
Ya gotcha meaning,
But-cha choosing to demean.
Baby!
I gotcha meaning that demeans,
What I say.
And why it is I feel this way.
You're choosing to demean,
How I pray.
For us...
With faith and love,
Everyday!
Baby!
You're choosing to demean.
I see,
You're choosing to demean.
My compassion,
You're choosing to demean.
And..
My strong beliefs.
Yo, Baby!
You're choosing to demean.
I see,
You're choosing to demean.
My compassion,
You're choosing to demean.
And..
My love for you so deep.
But, you choose to be so mean.
And baby...
Stop, choosing to demean.
Baby!
Stop, choosing to demean.
Yo' baby!
Stop, choosing to demean.
Yo' baby!
Stop, choosing to demean.
Yo' baby,
You mated!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Exposed Fangs
When any novelty begins to overstay its visit,
The joy of having it around...
Quickly becomes,
An abusive attempt to get rid of it.
Especially if a tune sung changes in key.
People expect the wounds they've picked,
To be healed overnight...
By someone declaring to have a remedy.
And a cure producing miracles many can see,
With lightening speed that allows a return to routines.
But if it becomes suggested,
An assistance from them is expected...
What is welcomed begins to irritate.
With a pouting that makes once smiling faces,
Drip foam from exposed fangs all over the place.
No one wants to be told,
They must pay a price to heal.
Fresh faces prepared to replace the old,
Will never admit what has been omitted...
From their enthusiastic speeches given to later reveal,
The unpleasantness in making unpopular decisons.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Dropped Jeans
No men popped for them.
Not those raised to lay in playpens.
Hot topics of 'where' the men could be?
Seems to be an ongoing mystery...
To those accepting disbelief.
As if this has been buried in backyards,
And vaulted in concrete!
Instead of glaring in their faces,
Uncovered by dropped jeans.
Exposing aging butts!
Why they haven't given that up?
Why can't they see the desperate need,
For changing?
Could it be...
No one wants to touch the butts?
Or mention a clean hygiene!
Perhaps fresh thoughts of reality...
Would be a touchy subject,
That would to them demean!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Texture of the Mix
The texture of the mix...
Does not sit well on many lips.
Barriars are being broken.
An unspoken mending begins to end...
Divisions and conflicts supported.
With a marketing twist.
Abandoned by many.
While others have druthers,
Not to birth more of it.
And...
Has left the taste for those who wish,
More substance and less ghosts,
To boost and boast...
Empty and expensive visions.
As a loss of cost effectiveness...
Has proven ineffective,
For those intentions meant.
As knuckles grip,
To expose an absence of hemoglobin.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Tired of Being the One Stung
Some have no idea they are loved unconditionally.
They perceive themselves to be the honey,
To an addicted bee.
And when that bee takes flight...
The one who believed the honey 'had' would last,
Discovers too late in a self reflection...
'That' bee was the only one,
Who could supply the honey preferred and liked.
To leave the one left for a taste for some.
When a craving missed...
Abandons a dismissed appetite.
And nothing done,
By those pretending to be 'that' bee...
Could come to satisfy like the one,
Who flew the hive!
After getting tired of being the one stung.
And what had been unconditional,
Is wished to return to quench the taste.
But the one who knows what it takes...
Can no longer waste what is made,
On anyone who believes...
They've got the only hive around.
And 'that' bee wont flee!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Visitor Amongst The Unconscious
Maybe I am a bit more cynical.
With the same craving...
To taste forbidden truth.
On some days,
Yes...
That is exactly what it is I do.
I admit my insights,
Can be rather biting.
But I am not on a mission,
To identify pretentions.
There is nothing mysterious,
About them to be pursued.
They are all over the place!
Like...
Denial.
Decadence.
Thoughtle ssness and disrespect.
'Hey buddy?
Yeah you.
Watch your step!
There is a child in diapers,
Following you.
Don't you hear him calling you 'daddy' too? '
I marvel at the way,
Folks skip with a leap over reality.
To embrace with a welcoming,
Any sign of deceit that is greeted warmly.
With an ignoring of those hungry and homeless,
Surrounding them on the streets.
As if this pasttime entertains,
To become remembered as a bitterness...
Eventually endeared as sweet.
And pretend,
Most do...
As if this is part of the scenery.
I admit my insights,
Can be rather biting.
But I am not on a mission,
To identify pretentions.
There is nothing mysterious,
About them to be pursued.
They are as common as pigeons.
Or garbage on the streets...
People accept as signs of affection!
Maybe I am a bit more cynical.
With the same craving...
To taste forbidden truth.
On some days,
That is exactly what it is I do.
And feeling very much...
A visitor amongst the unconscious.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Songs To Aging Children Come
Through the windless wells of wonder
By the throbbing light machine
In a tea leaf trance or under
Orders from the king and queen
Songs to aging children come
Aging children, I am one
People hurry by so quickly
Dont they hear the melodies
In the chiming and the clicking
And the laughing harmonies
Songs to aging children come
Aging children, I am one
Some come dark and strange like dying
Crows and ravens whistling
Lines of weeping, strings of crying
So much said in listening
Songs to aging children come
Aging children, I am one
Does the moon play only silver
When it strums the galaxy
Dying roses will they will their
Perfumed rhapsodies to me
Songs to aging children came
This is one
song performed by by Joni Mitchell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Bitter Word
I taste bitterness in my mouth
each time I hear the word war.
It's a taste that's born of compassion
from a word that's been heard before.
Too young they die
not knowing why.
Too young they leave
and as we grieve
I hear that word again.
I spit from the bitter taste of it
and it still won't go away.
It's the same old word that drives me mad
and reminds me every day
that man is pliable in the hands
of ones whose insatiable need
never tastes bitterness in their mouth
from the word or from the deed.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Craving
Lying here on the couch
With my heart in the mouth
Realize you were right I was wrong and
Im in pieces and bits but thats nothing you can fix
Cause baby youre still my addiction
Ohhh
Every minutes like a thousand years
Since you were lying here
[chorus:]
In the middle of the night
I turn on the light
Too desperate to breathe
Cause I get this craving
Theres no time to waste gotta get a taste
Satisfy my need
Baby, wont you save me
Got this craving for you
For you...
Yeah yeah yeah yeah
Its like you live in these walls
I hear your voice down the hall
I swear I see your face its everywhere its every place
I start myself past the pain but still it wont go away
The more I try to forget I remember
Ohhh
Every minutes like a thousand years
Since you were lying here
[chorus:]
In the middle of the night
I turn on the light
Too desperate to breathe
Cause I get this craving
Theres no time to waste gotta get a taste
Satisfy my need
Baby, wont you save me
Got this craving
To lose myself in you and were standing in the rain
To keeping you awake through the night
I hunger for your touch
Cause I need you back whats wrong with that
No I cant be without you no more
In the middle of the night
I turn on the light
Too desperate to breathe
Cause I get this craving
Theres no time to waste
Gotta get a taste satisfy my need
Baby wont you save me
In the middle of the night
I turn on the light
Too desperate to breathe
Cause I get this craving
Theres no time to waste
Gotta get a taste satisfy my need
Baby wont you save me
Got this craving for you
Craving for you
song performed by by O-town
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Excuse I Am Making
There are many people who value their bad habits.
I know.
I am one of them.
But the ones who once had them to rid,
Are the people I dislike the most.
Especially the ones who brag,
About making up their minds to quit...
Anything that was habit forming but brought harm,
To their bodies.
How do they know my body isn't craving the taste,
For nicotine?
They don't know this.
AND...
It is 'not' an excuse I am making to continue to smoke!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Expected To Deliver
The creating of feeding greed,
Has slowly become the focus...
Of everyone's priority.
And those who have been teased,
With the getting of entitlements...
Are addicted to the taste of it.
And those they select to then elect,
to represent their interests...
Are expected to deliver.
Regardless if the feasting,
Has little to nothing left.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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We Need Some Demean Time
Give me,
Some demean time.
You need,
Some demean time.
We need,
Some demean time...
To get things off our minds.
And select those days to spew and whine.
Oh...
Give me,
Some demean time.
You need,
Some demean time.
We need,
Some demean time...
To get things off our minds.
And select those days to spew and whine.
At least twice a week sometimes.
Give me,
Some demean time.
You need,
Some demean time.
We need,
Some demean time...
To get things off our minds.
Oh...
Give me,
Some demean time.
You need,
Some demean time.
We need,
Some demean time...
To get things off our minds.
Oh...
Give me,
Some demean time.
You need,
Some demean time.
We need,
Some demean time...
To get things off our minds.
And select those days to spew and whine.
At least twice a week sometimes.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Your Visit With Aging
I don't know why,
You believed I was older than you.
I use to be.
But you and aging have become much closer.
And it seems as if you have been convinced,
To interpret every year you have lived as a struggle.
I'm not trying to interpret my life that way at all.
When aging came to visit me,
I told it to make itself at home.
And if I choose to do what I please...
I'm not making an effort to be rude.
But neither am I going to sit with it to reminisced,
The good old days.
Too much everyday for me is new!
And...
I didn't feel I had to excuse myself from it to explore.
I just do.
You on the other hand...
Seem to want to impress aging,
As a depiction you believe is an acceptable process.
Hey,
We all have our interpretations.
However...
Yours appears to be a bit exaggerated.
But I aint mad at you!
What your visit with aging is like.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Cheap Shot Takers
Faking how what and who terminated,
From retired positions and when.
To generate an attention lacking,
In any of it being given to them.
Those cheap shot takers,
Seem to come from out of the cracks...
All over the place.
As they sip on old and aging lemonade,
To stir up controversy from places low grade.
Sour and dry,
As their dismissed personalities.
With hopes that a difference,
From their embellished memoirs...
Will heighten their nonexistent credibility.
When none of it originally...
Came from them to be made.
Or whatever it was done they did,
Was worthy of a remembered taste.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Reflection
I see my reflection…
In my aging parents.
They’ve grown so old.
The mirror tells me
It’s time to age
Gracefully…
If I look ugly,
There’s one consolation
My hubby will always
Love me.
(Poem themed on Aging)
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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Human Life Can Be Much
Human life can be much like a game of football
The winners we only do wish to recall
The hero as usual kicks the winning score
Tell us something new we have heard it before
For the winner the glory and that says it all
The winner the proud one the winner walks tall
The taste of success it is always so sweet
Whilst only bitterness in the taste of defeat
Even the gallant loser we tend to ignore
For him or her there is never an encore
The winners have earned their right for to boast
And 'tis only to them that we do drink a toast
Human life can be much like a game of football
For those known as losers life's not good at all.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Quicker Than Picked Bananas
Aging!
And showing it quicker than picked bananas,
Are those hanging onto their youthful hopes...
With an inability to disperse from an immaturity.
Clinging onto hopes a cuteness shown can be excused...
Isn't as sick as it looks,
By those exposed to it.
And for those choosing to dismiss this as an acceptance...
Can not one of them explain the presence of an ineptness.
With few people left having a capability to express intelligence.
Or can catch up to adulthood to reasonably be respected.
Since a maturity is nonexistent.
And what is left to spoil and rot quicker than picked bananas,
Is what many people possess and is seen quite a lot.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Thinking It To Be Cemented
Dried dirt and water mixed,
Can and will produce thick mud.
Depending on the amount.
And making a leisurely walk through it,
An experience many will find unpleasant.
No one brags with a standing in quicksand.
Craving chocolate to taste...
Instead of a rope or a tree branch,
Held by someone to rescue them...
From a dire circumstance.
But then...
Who would blindly step into quicksand,
Thinking it to be cemented...
By the falling of Autumn leaves.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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