Saturday, 13 April 2013

She.

Prowess,
Power she possess.
Six is just a symbol,
She'll be selling it for less.

Cornerstone,
Never lays alone.
Pound her with a shovel,
She'll dig her grave on her own. 

Thursday, 11 April 2013

NaPoWriMo: Day 11

You cannot quantify love.
It could be the brisk morning and the dew;
That is love to a lemon.
Cool and cooling,
Droplets on its yellow sweet skin.

You cannot quantify love.
It could be that heap of shit;
That is love to the beetle.
Stench and stinking,
A honey like, sweet taste.

You cannot quantify love.
It could be razor sharp to a wrist;
That is love to another.
Dripped and dripping,
Red pools of passion.


Stench of Destiny

The meter is running up,
Up like my heart beat before we crash.
Before we collide with our destiny;
Much like how me and you weren't meant to be, but were.
Burn my feet on the heated rocks you threw.
Trying to evade your love raping me;
The smell of it, lingering on my scarred flesh.
Drenched in that God awful stench.
The pong of your love,
What was not our destiny,
But was.

NaPoWriMo: Day 10

An Unfitting Together

We are actions that belong together,
Like a nose and a smell;
A pinched nose and a stench.

We are the oneness of nature,
Like the oceans and islands;
Hurricane forming oceans and dead islanders. 

NaPoWriMo: Day 9

Thirst

Her marble teeth bit into her red stained lips.
Sharp edged, pearl daggers,
Stabbing tender flesh.
Red raindrops silently gushing out,
Dripping like the tick of a timer,
Into coffee scented recollections.
Blue eyes searched conniving,
Drinking in the unperturbed ambiance,
Of a foggy city's cafe.
The clank of teaspoons against saucers,
Tenderly washing out her ears.
Until the cling of a bell sneaked up on her;
Hairs jumping rabidly on her skin.
The dark silhouette approaching,
She let down her lustrous hair,
And at the moments touch,
Her pearl daggers and ravenous claws,
Exposed.

Wednesday, 10 April 2013

NaPoWriMo: Day 8

Ottava Rima

Let's make a vision of lost sight.
Take daydreams by the hinges and ride on the tides of imagination,
A scientifically ruined canvas basking in crayola delight.
Forget the theories of evolution or creation.
Pencil sketch ocean tides on higher heights.
Wind up your God and make him a 'Jack in the box',
Paint portraits of Hades and forget the equinox.

NaPoWriMo: Day 7

A brute

There it stands.
It is a brute.
It appears ugly.
It is divine.
Shall we call it love?

NaPoWriMo: Day 6

Mad as a hatter

The madness,
The kind of a hatter.
Sanely insane,
We are as such the human race.
We are this madness,
The kind of a hatter.

Friday, 5 April 2013

NaPoWriMo: Day 5

Baby, no more

Question the glint in my left eye,
Why?
Are those sparkling water tears,
Running down your coffee brown?
Dusted lashes,
Draped mascara.
Cry baby,
Don't cry anymore.


Question the glint in my left eye,
Why?
Is the man sticking it to you,,
In your thick coffee brown?
Portly stature,
Panting bosom,
Virgin baby,
You're a virgin no more.

NaPoWriMo: Day 4

Misery Needs Company

You say you want to comfort me,
but you don't leave me alone.
The misery of company,
it's like sucking on a dessicated bone.

I told you that the tunnel's light,
And the ocean's colder blue; 
Were brighter than the crisp cold night,
And harsher than Poseidon's hue.

Now you're falling fast into the vast escape,
Of my mind's dark, empty slopes.
Lingering in the depths of death,
Dancing with glorified ghosts.


Thursday, 4 April 2013

NaPoWriMo: Day 3

What if Mother Nature was a whore?

What if Mother Nature was a whore?
A woman who spread her legs as wide as the oceans reach,
So that vessels could land and flourish,
And birth the human race.

What if Mother Nature was a whore?
Perhaps it would explain why dandelions look nothing like sunflowers,
Or why the Sun is nothing like the Moon,
Although they are siblings of the sky.

Mother Nature must have been a whore,
To birth the the sea and the sky,
So similar but not alike.
Vast and Blue, but fathers by masses much unlike.

What if Mother Nature was a whore?
Would we continue to revel in her beauty?
Or expel her from our graces,
As we did Mary Magdalene, the Bible's harlot.

Mother Nature, you whore.
Birthing ugly and beautiful all at once,
Daddy, Daddy, Father Time.
Mama Nature is a whore.

Tuesday, 2 April 2013

NaPoWriMo: Day 2

Yesterday

Yesterday seems far away,
Lurking in the distance,
It's remnants remaining in today,
Holding on with mulish persistence.

It says, "question the rising of the sun,
From the East and not the West.
Question why the wind chooses to run,
And never lingers for a rest."

Yesterday is a truth, waiting to be told,
It hold's on to our memory,
So that even when ours get old;
It can whisper these secrets in our reverie,

So we call it Déjà vu.
A 'Frenchly' named phenomenon,
A machete cutting through,
The fungal growth our hopes have grown on.




Monday, 1 April 2013

NaPoWriMo: Day 1

I'm a bit late on the start... But late is better than never.. Though never late is better. (Not sure where I heard this but it's running circles in my mind. -.-)

A Woman's Demise

She walks in beauty, like the night.
Supple peaks poking out on both sides of her.
A glorified woman;
Who's youthful exuberance echoes through the streets,
Yes, she walks in beauty, like the night.

She walks in beauty, like the night.
Show stopping the luxury cars that pass her by.
A graceful movement of her hips;
Seducing the headlights of their chariots,
Yes, she walks in beauty, like the night.

She walks in, Beauty.
She is the night.
The cold smack of a whip like the wind,
Or the crackle of a rubber band on five hundred dollar bills,
Yes, she walks in beauty, like the night.

She walks in beauty, but like the night;
The men she lay with are quick to draw;
And without notice, she's on the road,
Walking towards the sunkissed horizon,
Her beauty, like the night, is no more.


Prompt:
Write a poem that has the same first line as another poem.
First line from Lord Byron's (George Gordon) She Walks in Beauty.