Best Boringly Poems

Getting old I view death differently,

Recalling both the good days and the bad. 

Eventually, everyone will die

And death should be as momentous as birth

Tomorrow's sunrise grieves today's sunset.


Escaping the confines of the body

Souls seek out higher planes of existence.

Christ faced death before He was resurrected

And...

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Love without Beloved,
Beloved without Love,
neither alternative could be
me without you
you within me
both equivalent would be 
We.

We without you,
or me,
this simply can not be,
we takes both equally
bidextrously 
ambivalent

Without me,
just you,
or me,
which We cannot 
co-arisingly be.

I could not be me 
without a you,
nor you 
without a me,
as...

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This is the beginning 
an introduction to what i have to say 
Here, I'll throw in another descriptive line 
to back it up. 
Continually flowing 
from one line to the next 
A certain thought, or feeling 
I am writing to express. 

Should I start over?...

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THE PROJECTED VERSION OF ME,
THE PRINTED IMPRESSION OF YOU!!



Beep beep is the sound of the room, 
when the fantasy turned into a fraction of pain!

Fine fine is the voice I heard,
to a freaky father who was in chaos for months! 

Boringly bathing, naively speaking,
took years...

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We started slow and old-growth
yet steady.

The Senior Democrats
and Republicans
and Libertarians
and Independents
hosted a Community Integrity budgeting party.

Party favors were ballots
with options for small,
medium,
large,
and extra large service sectors
beginning with agriculture and permaculture support
and ending with zoning and long-term planning expenses;
the whole A through Z list of community...

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Here shareholders and directors clash
Each eager to excoriate rival's flesh
They do not allow resolution to psas
And things come to a horrible impasse
Unionists hurl puzzling queries
On vexing issues each member varies
'Oust that director finance' someone shouts
At hat's throw, the house, protocol flouts
Some pedants and professors seize...

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how the  else you going to progress
if you don't Sherlock Holmes the mirror
look what we've become
men hunting each other
for sport money and babes
an insane ability to believe anything
and that's all there is to it
you notice these things do you
goes my neighborhood Gestapo man
my great...

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There once was a poet who screeched like a monkey
Belligerent cuss and stubborn as a donkey
Was quite disputatious
Boringly vexatious
In fact, I'd be inclined to label him a bit wonky

Others have mentioned he's much too bodacious
Unyielding when he's wrong, gruffly tenacious
Liked to spit and spatter
Madder than...

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Everything comes and goes like this,
boringly fast drills-
look and it's passed. Sadness and thrills too
are soldiers. There's no point in turning it over,
and over. The visit, however quick and smooth
warrants the quick and harsh pains. We're used to 
never going back.

How is it sad?
How can...

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Fragmented fairytales, Fermented freedom
There's no remorse for the dead, this I know
For, I've been dead for far too long
While there's not one ounce of sympathy to show
Red Redemption, Rhapsody Right 
I'm bromidic, lost, shallow, cold hearted
But I write emotions all through tonight

This way, it's safer...

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In some point of your life, 
Which has been pain of your living.
It can be at any point of your life...

A sudden refresh of all yoursef,
Pops up as a regular coincidence.

Suddenly, all the weight of painful
Memories, thoughts, feelings are gone.
As well as potent satistafaction,
Becomes the...

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pretentiously lame
                  altruistically tame
                    boringly aflame 
  ...

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Like an eagle I soar and spin,
Hover over the skies within;
Searching something hidden for long,
Whence my life, like the Om, prolong;
Incessantly tuning...

A million stars of virtues shine,
With moons of morals intertwine;
Sun of honor never does set,
Entire heart does not seem bright, yet;
Dark spaces still swooning...

Enlightenment...

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White noise echoes equally from wall to painted mural,
dancing like a whimsy wisp of width;
where waters drip and notes all slip,
sound patrols the minute holes that cause acoustic depression;
pizzicato strikes like bikes on blacktop every day,
leaving skids for little kids, loud scats scoop brats away,
with...

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TURNING OFF THE GHOST

what’s up with the ghost
who boringly stares
through two holes in a sheet
he watches
her every mistake
slow and agonizingly

she gobbles up a pie
her fork stabbing it
we don’t know
if it’s savory or sweet
it goes on and on
like a crazed murderer
then she spews
thankfully running first
from floor
to...

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