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Best Famous Boyfriend Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Boyfriend poems. This is a select list of the best famous Boyfriend poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Boyfriend poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of boyfriend poems.

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Written by Emanuel Xavier | |

WARS and RUMORS OF WARS

 “Ye shall hear of wars and rumors of wars;
see that ye not be troubles;
all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet”
-Matthew 24:6

1.
I escape the horrors of war with a towel and a room Offering myself to Palestinian and Jewish boys as a ‘piece’ to the Middle East when I should be concerned with the untimely deaths of dark-skinned babies and the brutal murders of light-skinned fathers 2.
I’ve been more consumed with how to make the cover of local fag rags than how to open the minds of angry little boys trotting loaded guns Helpless in finding words that will stop the blood from spilling like secrets into soil where great prophets are buried 3.
I return to the same spaces where I once dealt drugs a celebrated author gliding past velvet ropes while my club kid friends are mostly dead from an overdose or HIV-related symptoms Marilyn wears the crown of thorns while 4 out of the 5 weapons used to kill Columbine students had been sold by the same police force that came to their rescue Not all terrorists have features too foreign to be recognized in the mirror Our mistakes are our responsibility 4.
The skyline outside my window is the only thing that has changed Men still rape women and blame them for their weaknesses Children are still molested by the perversion of Catholic guilt My ex-boyfriend still takes comfort in the other white powder- the one used solely to destroy himself and those around him Not the one used to ignite and create carnage or mailbox fear 5.
It is said when skin is cut, and then pressed together, it seals but what about acid-burned skulls engraved with the word ‘faggot’, a foot bone with flesh and other crushed body parts 6.
It was a gay priest that read last rites to firefighters as towers collapsed It was a gay pilot that crashed a plane into Pennsylvania fields It was a gay couple that was responsible for the tribute of light in memory of the fallen Taliban leaders would bury them to their necks and tumble walls to crush their heads Catholic leaders simply condemn them as perverts having offered nothing but sin Queer blood is just rosaries scattered on tile 7.
Heroes do not always get heaven 8.
We all have wings .
.
.
some of us just don’t know why


Written by Ruth L Schwartz | |

The Swan At Edgewater Park

 Isn't one of your prissy richpeoples' swans
Wouldn't be at home on some pristine pond
Chooses the whole stinking shoreline, candy wrappers, condoms
 in its tidal fringe
Prefers to curve its muscular, slightly grubby neck
 into the body of a Great Lake,
Swilling whatever it is swans swill,
Chardonnay of algae with bouquet of crud,
While Clevelanders walk by saying Look
 at that big duck!
Beauty isn't the point here; of course
 the swan is beautiful,
But not like Lorie at 16, when
Everything was possible--no
More like Lorie at 27
Smoking away her days off in her dirty kitchen,
Her kid with asthma watching TV,
The boyfriend who doesn't know yet she's gonna
Leave him, washing his car out back--and 
He's a runty little guy, and drinks too much, and
It's not his kid anyway, but he loves her, he
Really does, he loves them both--
That's the kind of swan this is.


Written by Tony Hoagland | |

Grammar

 Maxine, back from a weekend with her boyfriend,
smiles like a big cat and says
that she's a conjugated verb.
She's been doing the direct object with a second person pronoun named Phil, and when she walks into the room, everybody turns: some kind of light is coming from her head.
Even the geraniums look curious, and the bees, if they were here, would buzz suspiciously around her hair, looking for the door in her corona.
We're all attracted to the perfume of fermenting joy, we've all tried to start a fire, and one day maybe it will blaze up on its own.
In the meantime, she is the one today among us most able to bear the idea of her own beauty, and when we see it, what we do is natural: we take our burned hands out of our pockets, and clap.


More great poems below...

Written by Denise Duhamel | |

The Threat

 my mother pushed my sister out of the apartment door with an empty 
suitcase because she kept threatening to run away my sister was sick of me
getting the best of everything the bathrobe with the pink stripes instead of 
the red the soft middle piece of bread while she got the crust I was sick with 
asthma and she thought this made me a favorite

I wanted to be like the girl in the made-for-tv movie Maybe I'll Come Home
in the Spring which was supposed to make you not want to run away but it 
looked pretty fun especially all of the agony it put your parents through and 
the girl was in California or someplace warm with a boyfriend and they
always found good food in the dumpsters at least they could eat pizza and 
candy and not meat loaf the runaway actress was Sally Field or at least
someone who looked like Sally Field as a teenager the Flying Nun propelled 
by the huge wings on the sides of her wimple Arnold the Pig getting drafted
in Green Acres my understanding then of Vietnam I read Go Ask Alice and 
The Peter Pan Bag books that were designed to keep a young girl home but 
there were the sex scenes and if anything this made me want to cut my hair 
with scissors in front of the mirror while I was high on marijuana but I
couldn't inhale because of my lungs my sister was the one to pass out
behind the church for both of us rum and angel dust

and that's how it was my sister standing at the top of all those stairs that 
lead up to the apartment and she pushed down the empty suitcase that
banged the banister and wall as it tumbled and I was crying on the other side 
of the door because I was sure it was my sister who fell all ketchup blood and 
stuck out bones my mother wouldn't let me open the door to let my sister 
back in I don't know if she knew it was just the suitcase or not she was cold 
rubbing her sleeves a mug of coffee in her hand and I had to decide she said I 
had to decide right then


Written by Nick Flynn | |

You Asked How (formerly Even Now She Is Turning Saying Everything I Always Wanted Her to Say)

 At the end there were straws
in her glove compartment, I'd split them open
to taste the familiar bitter residue, near the end
I ate all her Percodans, hungry to know
how far they could take me.
A bottle of red wine each night moved her along as she wrote, I feel too much, again and again.
You asked how and I said, Suicide, and you asked how and I said, An overdose, and then she shot herself, and your eyes filled with wonder, so I added, In the chest, so you wouldn't think her face was gone, and it mattered, somehow, that you knew this.
.
.
Every year I'm eight years old and the world is no longer safe.
Our phone becomes unlisted, our mail is kept in a box at the post office, and my mother tells me always leave a light on so it seems someone is home.
She finds a cop for her next boyfriend, his hair greasy, pushed back with his fingers.
He lets me play with his service revolver while they kiss on the couch.
Cars slowly fill the windows, and I aim, making the noise with my mouth, in case it's them, and when his back is hunched over her I aim between his shoulder blades, silently, in case it's him.