Best Cross Out Poems
As every meeting ends in a goodbye, a shopping trip always ends in a good buy. That's life. But the sales are over and I hope this time to avoid a buyer’s fate.
Oh, how I like thin collarbones of empty hangers, touched to death lonely blue dress, a cash register, still warm of residual heat and a young sales consultant, too beautiful for this world.
She's tired, she can't wait to go home, but professional curiosity gets the better of her.
- How can I help you?
That simple question always gives me the creeps. What does she mean? How can she help me? Can she help me, say, relieve sexual tension? solve Riemann hypothesis? understand the meaning of life? But what if she really can? Shuddering with sweet horror, I feel in the shining perspectives of her question the presence of an unknown, but such a mind-blowing meaning that, if I could understand it, it would cross out the meaning of the existence of myself.
She looks at her wristwatch and I cowardly give up:
- A pair of shoes, please.
- Fine, I recommend this one. Please note on material: it's vantablack, the blackest substance in the world. They make of it men's shoes, black holes and hearts of the sales consultants like me.
two shoes for the price of one -
a thrifty buyer
will not miss his benefits
"Thou art That" (Chandogya Upanishad 6.8.7 of the Sama Veda)
You wanna know what’s something you are not?
It is that easy. Take a piece of paper,
divide it into two parts with a pen,
entitle the left side as “I”, the right
one – “It” and then think twice about who
you are. A mate? A son? A spouse? A father?
Etcetera. Write down them on the left
and think again. What’s It? A pen? A paper?
The writing table you are sitting at?
The house you’re living in? Write down
them all on the right side and then cross out
the features which are neither You nor It.
Is “I” of you entirely determined
by features “man”, “taxpayer”, “citizen”?
Cross features out. Cross out everything
that’s not the real Itness which includes
all sets of Its throughout the universe,
reducing both lists until just “I”
and “It” remain. Read the result aloud...
Hm, I am It. The rest is I am not.
01.08.2019
Something I Am Not Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: craig cornish
writing is daydreaming on paper or sometimes straight into a computer.
notes crossed out, smacked around, slashed, re-visited, starred, circled,
checked, underlined, slashed out again, retrieved.
after print has happened, it all begins anew. I count the syllables,
make six hundred tally marks on the page, slash out, cross out, circle,
write OKAY in big letters, draw arrows, put Xs, start rearranging.
Using 1, 2, 3, and A, B,C, as I valiantly try to figure out where
the next line is going, or whether to even keep it.
I sit down to figure it out, and decide it will be easier to begin
again, rather than edit what has already been typed. So I begin again,
slashing, dashing, drawing, starring, circling, smacking, cracking,
discarding, resurrecting.
the life of this writer.
The semi circular motion of a semi colon is neither a separation of an apostrophe or a mere dot of a full stop. Perhaps the embrace of a bracket within a sentence could harness and calm words. It is imperative form and involves structure but editing can eradicate meaning so don't cross out or erase those words that come from the mind to land on paper,parchment or text. Deletion is not a recommended task. All words arrive from a source. A recording from within translated. Would one really bake a tasty pie, curry, or other fodder then place in a bin? Would one put on nice clothing then jump into mud? No no no. And to create is not to crease. So go jump up and down on a hill waving one's arms in a motion understood by the skypaths of time. Depersonalization Zr Z xxxx
Cross out
Erase
Start over.
Ideas just wont flow,
The pen just wont write.
Correction won't write.
New paper,
New pen,
Damn this wind
Close that window!
Where was I?
A million thoughts
And not one makes sense.
Where is my Thesaurus?
What the hell rhymes with time?
Lime
Dime
Mime,
Forget time!
Hell of a headache,
I need an aspirin.
Make that a shot,
Or two,
Or three
Where was I?
Cross out
Erase
Start over
Letters, written by unsteady hand
on newspaper, margins of "occupant" mailers
blank sides grocery lists,
big X across the back of a page.
One day, I saw it: a grandparent
cross out a whole page, turn it over
and begin a letter.
But why? There is paper everywhere.
Use everything until it is worn out.
Depression era adults:
born just as the Twentieth Century
rolled onto newspaper ink;
having scraped by, never bought a piece of paper.
When I was on my own, working,
using paper by the skeins,
I sent my great grandmothers stationary
and scented drawer liners for Christmas.
There are regrets that hide
between spaces of seconds,
their beguiling smile tainting
the contents of an empty sigh.
Each a jigsaw piece lost beneath
the tiles of faux façade,
leaving fabrication incomplete,
and there is no holy water
to quench thirst of dried lines,
scattered like delta from salted pool.
Simplicity is complicated,
compressed silica throwing back imperfection
of stormy existence; weathered eras
melded like reclaimed glass
into a chimera of age and memories.
Finality is so much closer now,
yesterdays number more than tomorrows
and the trickle becomes a torrent
as kisses cross out innocent youth,
eroding that mountain of expectation
into a hillock of realisation,
and all about, scree that becomes
grit laying on the p(l)ain of my history.
Bees make honey; hens lay eggs.
Brewers mash and fill their kegs.
Chefs make meals and cows give milk.
Spiders spin their webs like silk.
Knitters turn out scarves and sweaters.
In Vermont, they fashion cheddars.
Artists sketch or draw or paint.
English teachers cross out “ain’t.”
Donkeys carry; doctors heal.
Actors act and robbers steal.
Farmers till and hoe and reap.
Mothers rock their babes to sleep.
Every creature has a niche
To satisfy that nagging itch.
As for me, I’ve learned that I’m
Itch-free when I resort to rhyme.
Friends and enemies
I didn't eat an apple
Green or blue
The only thing that I know is
I no longer know you
The first time I saw you
You were good
The last time I saw you
I waved to you
But you waved at others
And made me a fool
I don't know you
And you like me
We are like friends
And enemies
You have changed
And I am now nothing
All I can do is
Stare at you
What happened to you
Who made you change
I will punch him in the face.
You and me
Friends and enemies
Let's cross out enemies
And be friends again?
some words shouldn't be said
like wishing someone dead
and all those words of hate
will make hate inflate
there's too much anger
for this head banger
back when Quiet Riot was big
I was partying like a pig
never mind using your fist
cross out fighting from the list
hand shakes and greetings
at twelve steps meeting
it cleared my head some
and gave me freedom
New
Life,
Easter
Forgiveness
Sins as scarlett
Washed me clean, cross out my sins
Release the hold of the evil one in life.
My life was my book,
every word scribbled onto the pages were
memories in my mind, every letter was a choice I decided to make
and every page turned was a new day full of old experiences,
it wasn’t a printed book, It was handwritten,
perfect for me to chaotically scribble every
mistake I made and cross out the things
I didn’t want to remember.
But no matter how many lines were crossed
over the thin sheet it was never enough
to erase them,
so I decided that I’d had enough.
My book hadn’t been finished but I was done with remembering,
I’d closed the chapter and told myself I’d never
look at that ink again,
because I was afraid if I smudged it, it’d be left on my skin forever.
Jesus Christ life Began at Conception in his Mother's Womb, After His Death He was Placed in a Tomb.
He Died For our sins on the Cross out of Love,
Now he is Seated at the Right hand of God our holy father in Heaven Above.
The Son of God Was Homeless with nowhere to lay his head, After He was Crucified and took his last Breath the soldiers Poked him with a spear to make Sure he was Dead.
As We Celebrate This Holy Easter Season,
Let's Remember For God so loved the world that he gave his one only begotten Son to save us is the Reason
My computer's my friend
more so than my pen
With lightning-fast fingers
thoughts needn't linger
I can change my mind
with the tap of a key
No need to erase or cross-out
and that's fine with me
Some long for the days
of paper and pen
Bobbies on bicycles
the chimes of Big Ben
So let them long ~
I'll type my song
to silky-smooth speed
not written but keyed
Aureate, curls on my bed,
On a bleak morning, cross out
"Day ten" - eighty days left…