Best Fabricate Poems
"I dream of Candy!"
Sweet cakes and peanut butter squares
A living diabetic's nightmare. -- My heart
sings to the beat, Under the Neutron Star Crunch
Sweet sugar cookies and peanut butter bars
Taunting whoopers,
Dancing dum dum's,
The sweetest silhouette show - in my room
Dreamy, Creamy Cupcakes in the afternoon
Cinnamon Cheerios cascade on my spoon
Sweeter than my sweet tooth
Now and later - a forever honeymoon
Jigglin' my jelly belly boo berry Butterfinger delight
I'm in love, licking the icy ICEE all night long
Extra freshness, once I crop a top off of a mountain dew pop
My eyes sparkle like diamond dazzle razzles in the sky
I LIVE to fabricate my very own sugar extract R.E.M. Sleep
Savoring the sound of saliva trapped in my mouth
THIS night - ovulated buds - wait to feast!
Enjoying delicious dulce music sleepy symphony
Braggin' and embracin' a pinata pillow escapade
Enchanted by a cotton candy crave - calling my name
Lalaloopsy licorice and lemonade tea
The best-wet dream I've ever seen
Marshmallows of solitude dulcify every fresh fantasy
Enticing in a bright slushy skittles daydream freeze
One fat sunny bowl of cereals and cane
Crackerjack spell --- chocolate chip swirls,
Caramel lumps constipate the brain
Sizing - peanuts and in a popcorn party payday
Wrigley's wild winter Spearmint Breath parade
Give me, give me, some Gummy bear Dessert
---------"Another Fruit Ninja hair DAY!"
Watermelon Taffy stuck on the top of my gums
Swallowing the whiteness in a whistle pop bar
I FELL LIKE A SWEET SUGAR STAR!!!
Glaze of glory erupts deep down my throat 24/7
Bubblicious, mint twist, Sunkist the best Twizzler breakfast
Yummy in my twinkie tummy, drooling over frosted flakes
One more strawberry smoothie 44 oz cup
Counting each and every Pez popping'' up
Goodnight light,
It's time to get lost under the midnight moon pie sky
SELF- Huggin'' and snugglin'' to a new sugar rush high
:-D
fat girl cries
big fat tears
splash
crash
down her chubby cheeks
down her pillar like neck
which was once
much like a swan
now gone
fat girl sighs
big fat sigh...
a heart groan of a sigh
from the empty place inside
where beauty's not allowed to reside
fat girl sleeps
a big fat sleep
time obliterated
memories conjugated
into happy streams
peaches and cream
all over her dreams
everything perfect...it seems
fat girl awakes
a big fat awakening...
life must go on
she lumbers to the mirror
stares at her big fat figure
rolls here and there
and though she acts
acts like they're not there
she's not allowed to forget
she's not there....
not yet
she exercises
torturous kilometers by
holding on to handles
beginning the treadmill
to help her say goodbye
to the fat girl
who is pretty on the inside
but unseen
unseen
people are so mean
she medicates
they fabricate
rules...
she must subjugate
the need
to drown her sorrows
to eat it all away
why is she alive
alive another day?
fat girl cries
bit fat tears
her big fat fears
grow though she shrinks
kilograms slip away
will it ever be OK?
will they love her for her mind?
will they ever be kind?
to the little girl inside
who tries to hide
fat girl cries
will you dry her eyes?
Eileen Manassian
Apologists Are Too Funny
Apologists have been saying for 2000 years,
Jesus will return, you can dry your tears.
But they have always been making this claim,
About the truth of Christianity’s fame.
They always fabricate a ridiculous excuse,
That’s always been considered abstruse.
But Jesus said that some wouldn’t die,
Before he returns from his home in the sky.
He was wrong and no one cares,
That it didn’t happen and their heirs,
Just keep on believing no matter the year.
These foolish souls have so much fear,
That they might be wrong and their god is a hoax.
So they keep on believing, stupid folks.
So for millennia, there’s little change,
When they offer their answers, they are unchanged.
But they’re always quick to tell you you’re wrong.
That their beliefs will always be strong.
They cannot debate and accept the fact,
And refuse to accept the failed contract.
If any other religion claimed the same,
They would say it is false and lame.
Fools and obnoxious they always become.
A waste of time, they’re just plain dumb.
Now Bobby, don't try to look coy.
You mischievous naughty young boy!
You've guzzled my sweets
From 'tricking or treats'
I've seen through your devious ploy.
Oh Bobby, say have you no pride?
You've acted so sneaky and snide.
Your ankle-length socks,
You sneaky young fox
Are stuffed with marshmallows inside!
Don't flutter those big bambi eyes
Or fabricate more porky pies.
You're caught in a fix
Hand over my Twix
I'm bigger than you, so be wise!
20.10.19
If I Were Your Brother Poetry Contest : sponsored by Bobby May
Inked Confession
Innocence stolen
Defending my elders extremism
Fields of olives, roots never sowed by me
Dagger dripping red
Inch by inch the watermelons are mine
Dancing in glee, I bury tiny white robes and red stains
Forever blind to, denying all crimes
Faded Morality
New flowers will bloom on top of Ghazi
We thieves soon to face our just reward
Their children lie buried in the ashes of sorrow, in silent grief
Insanity, Oppression, Fabricate
Insidious allusions of grandeur
offerings of the human flesh
forever, crimes inked in history
Iniquity, Oppression, Forlorn upon a childs bones
Once under the rubber moon,
elves wore pointed hats.
And I, a traveler from another star
wrote my resume.
It said,
"This is my resume
wherein I write without a rhyme.
Trust me or not,
it is the same".
Why should I be seeking work
at this late hour?
It is enough to drain away
the years,
to fabricate lies to sew upon my pillow.
Every turn of the road
in this wasteland
reveals a scorching desert,
with no monument in the sand.
Somewhere soon,
during a glad month,
there will be a rose in the desert,
a monument in the sand.
And the air will be filled
with sweetness.
And all who see
will want to taste the dew
upon the rose.
Your love song lapsed into ancient French that April day.
I only understood the words of spring and heartsore
lapsed. Only love and heartsore, I understood your ancient
words of the spring-day song into that French April.
You fabricate my pauses into repetition, silence speaks
of ages strung to rhyme in love’s difficult service
you strung into pauses in service to ages. Fabricate of
love’s repetition, rhyme speaks my difficult silence.
We practice tedium of vows till language breaks apart.
As if art should aim at science, rigorous, quantitative,
rigorous language breaks tedium. Science vows a part of
quantitative practice till we should aim “as if” at art.
Till we lapsed into language. As your ancient ages only
fabricate quantitative French strung to that difficult
practice, science speaks of tedium and understood rhyme.
The spring in service of love’s rigorous vows. April
pauses, heartsore. You and I, apart. If love should aim
my words at day, repetition breaks into silence of song.
It's difficult to fabricate a verse
whose words convey like water in a stream,
but one should try, for there is nothing worse
than words that cannot flow nor form a theme.
I wish to write with words imbued with spring:
the kind that bloom within the reader's mind
and linger with the scent that season brings;
no better words than these can writers find.
Though, words of autumn also can console,
and so I'd like my words to warmly fall
as different colors toward a common goal;
and, like that season, may such words enthrall.
Upon my page I wish for words like oil:
acutely bold and never poor in point,
the kind that gurgle under ivory soil
and long to meet the eyes that they'll anoint.
Have not you ever yearned for words like song--
the sort of dialect that sings when said,
or maybe words whose voices carry strong
within the reader's mind and ring when read?
I want my words to thrive like fervent fire--
engulfing every eye that wanders near,
to dance with little match and never tire,
for words should last and never cease to sear.
It's also my desire to write like ice,
with words akin to water-- smooth yet sound,
the kind that naturally form and gleam concise
when brought to light where thirsty eyes are found.
But every word at least should taste like wine:
a flavor fermented and rightly earned--
the kind when sipped again, tastes more refined,
the kind that urges readers to return.
Stars fashion and project,
twinkling fields of galactic dreams we fabricate,
and perfect.
Dreams can confuse
although there's times we contemplate
the muse
We rise
and meditate
... whys.
Stars fashion and project,
although there's times we contemplate,
... whys.
Lines of ancestry
and musty records
feature fractured glimpses
of times long gone --
but we deem that we gain
some understanding, some insight,
some feeling
for our predecessors.
Those histories we
think we know
are never true.
We choose from many options,
all skewed by a plethora
of factors that suit
a current bias, and we bend
and blend and fabricate
imaginary
pasts.
Life is Love’s toy to enjoy, not to fabricate and annoy
Love’s circle remains unbroken, within are glories unspoken
You can’t handle the truth…
And so you lash out in pain
You hurt and you maim
Innuendo, the game
Flaming, you flame
What a shame!
A SHAME!
You can’t handle the truth…
And so you fabricate lies
Dress up a pretty disguise
Compliment mesmerize
Word trophy prize
Not wise
Not wise!
You can’t handle the truth…
And so you implicate
With hints you sedate
Your conscience placate
Pride vindicate
It’s still hate
It’s HATE!
You can’t handle the truth…
So you write a small rhyme
You cover the crime
Throw around grime
Slippery slope slime
On heartache you climb
Not this time
NOT THIS TIME….
Eileen Manassian
There you sit,
My baby grand,
Elegant and serene,
Full of untapped potential.
Your keys that sing
Like lovely songbirds
When struck right
Lay silent in waiting.
From across the globe,
Masterpieces arise.
From ballrooms and church halls,
Your melodic voice rings.
You are a siren; formerly loved
For allure and charm,
Now discarded over the ages,
Though your grace still holds true.
But alas, your beauty is being forgotten.
Your dissonant chords
No longer a means of expression,
But a chore forced down throats.
That is not what you are to me.
I take my seat in front of you
And brush the dust from your keys.
Little black birds on telephone wires
Scattered across the pages
Flit around in spite of me,
Impossible to keep up with.
I glance at the familiar names
Written at the tops-
Beethoven and Bach,
Mozart and Chopin.
They did not fabricate your marvel,
But simply tamed those
Little
Black
Birds.
I saw a gorge, a remote vision from distant, far far away from the surface, how sharp, how precipitous, how deep!
A singular, unsurpassed, cavernous cleft;
a crevice among two gigantic hills, how intense and steep!
The rocky walls of the mountains though withering,
canopying the remote sight from the brink of the rugged cliffs.
The highland though barren, is pampering the rivulet flowing,
emerald- azure, though erosive from shrink!
Its ages disposition, the geologic uplift and abrasion,
elevates the surface to fabricate its tapestry inch by inch!
The diverse, vivacious habitats in its bosom, in seclusion, are dozing,
in remote lowland, far from the tainted world in miff!
The robust gorge, all of a sudden, for its persistent profoundity,
a rare attribute in mortals, became my cause of envy!
Was pondering " where is that Gorge like once perceived devotion, allegiance from human inclination has gone? "
Nowhere the professed deluded ones, stands near its awe-inspiring abiding supremacy, the Gorge, the mighty!
Alas! The demons have taken away humanity's infallible dedication for substantiality and profoundity,
only to be as hollow as floating cotton balls, with no eye, no reverence for sublimity!
The Gorge is the apostle of Almighty's emblem of constant flow of unfathomed steadfast solemnity, beyond earthly folly!
Aeons ago, God's supreme contour, silhouette against the brilliant encompassing sky,
The persistent Gorge, determines to flow distant, diligently, from the lavish absurdity, from the sheer mortals idiocy!
Human devotion, so fragile, so freckle, so self-centric,
wish have an inch depth of the perpetual, perennial Gorge, the mighty!
Neither, any earthly disposition, can comprehend,
nor approach the grand Gorge, in reflections, so fickle, so tiny;
as insignificant as their fleshly existence,
in the face of the abiding Gorge,
the exalted composition of the Almighty!
Do men have a right to live or is it an obligation
for men to survive in this world of full of disgust?
That decision, though no one but men themselves have to make,
the blind evil almighty WILL,
the way, way, greater will than that of men,
does not allow this world as the world that for men to live with
at least comforts—in fact, though we must struggle to survive,
come to think of it, this bitter human world may well be
a better place than paradise, no one ever visited heaven,
but we are told so.
Then, where in this rotten world
the seed of tragedy hides its effects on human lives,
and makes men more miserable than ever?
Perhaps, though, the reason for tragedy may have resulted from blindness of the evil almighty WILL.
It rests on men’s lives for men cannot gouge their eyeballs
out from their eye sockets to become blind themselves like
the evil almighty WILL.
If the blind WILL’s temperament is to exact obedience of men
to its one-sided tyrannous power, all phenomena men can feel:
rains, winds, moon, sun, and twinkling stars
should be the implements of torture to men.
The helpless men under this absolute power,
however, should not allay the will that is to live
with colorless asceticism, the will of desirelessness,
but create gigantic eyeballs and stick them in WILL’s deep
and hollowness like the bottom of a bottomless pit to provide
it with a sight of acute discernment.
And if it can be done,
rains, winds, moon, sun, and the twinkling stars
are just another movement of the part of universe,
the beginning and forever blessing to all mankind on the face of earth.
Nonetheless, there problems in human society
remain still, and that is, even in this great blessing,
men would add more ugliness to the ugliness that men shaped
and carry as a second nature. [History proves it.]
Then, eyeballs that see the world with keen eyesight
should fabricate,
not for great WILL,
but for men themselves, to see rightly.