Best Pull Off Poems
I went to my closet
To pick out a mask
Many to choose from
Am I up for the task?
The image of sensitivity
Or do I want to appear strong
Maybe the mask of co-operation
I can pretend to get along
Do I dare go with ugly
Can I pull off being mean?
Perhaps I can go with sexy
Or try dawning obscene
This mask that is two faced
I have had it on before
It got me in trouble
I won't wear it any more
What about pious
The mask of a saint
Or maybe this clown
Colored with paint
I wouldn't mind being a hero
At least for one day
I could be a philosopher
If I had something to say
All of these masks
Here in my pile
I think I will discard them
Just be myself for a while
Harassing me for days now
Landing on my eyelid
Nosing up my nostril
Tickling my ankles
and every other exposed body part
Little bastard...
Fly-Swatter? Jack be nimble, Jack...
Folded bath towel? (Lamp destroyed)
Raid? Sprayed til I sneezed and choked
and had to quickly retreat outside
(I may have poisoned myself)
Little bastard...
Last night it buzzed me awake
I injured various body parts
(Bloody nose, ruptured eardrum)
Little bastard...
I want to murder it
I want to assassinate it
but I want to capture it first
pull off it’s puny little wings
and watch it scramble on the floor
all the while crawling behind
laughing, shouting and jeering
'How you like THEM apple peelings?'
before I jump to the ceiling (Boink)
before I stomp and then grind
in a mad and homicidal rage
Little bastard...
Epilogue:
Whew! I’m feeling pretty okay now
The medication helps immeasurably
I know now why they’re called Asylums
They are refuge from a brutal environment
a world dominated and controlled by---Bssst!!
Little BASTARD...
I went to the dentist today.
The lady who cleaned my teeth had hair fit for a Weasley with large piercing eyes to compliment. Her name is Sierra, and she is 22 years old.
She asked me if anything had medically changed since the last time I had came.
I told her about my chronic pain and alopecia.
"Is that all?", she innocently questioned. I told her about my anxiety and insomnia.
"What's that sore on your chest?", she probed. I told her about my dermatillomania.
She nodded and got out her tools.
Here, is where I thought the conversation would end.
I'm so thankful I was wrong.
She looked at me with her large eyes and told me that she too has anxiety.
She said she has PTSD from some family issues a couple years back.
She knows what it's like, how it feels.
She sat behind me and asked me how I was coping.
I thought she meant with my mental disorders and informed her I was ok.
The only answer I can semi truthfully give these days.
She asked me if I was sure.
Told me I have sad eyes.
Asked if all of it together was overwhelming.
Deep breath in, deep breath out.
Yes, it is. It always is.
The only word that managed to escape was yes.
She said that only people who have it can see it in other people.
I have it, I know what she meant.
She recommended certain Melaluca oils to help.
Recommended melatonin for the insomnia.
Said I should text her, call her, Facebook her.
Heck, even make an appointment just for the sake of talking.
She'd go on break and we'd go outside just so I could vent.
Shared with me an inspiring image she loved.
It is a picture of Jesus, smiling, holding his hand out to Peter after he's fallen beneath the waves.
How even though we fall beneath the waves, Jesus isn't disappointed or mad with us.
She said he'll always be there for us.
She said that she knows it's overwhelming, and hard.
But keep your head up above the waves.
She recommended I read a novel titled, "Redeeming Love".
She said it helped her immensely.
Somewhere in here she mentioned I have striking features, and pull off bald better than most.
So much love and compassion radiated from her very words.
I've forgotten what that kind of love feels like.
People who spread compassion and understanding like flower petals give me hope.
Thank you, Sierra.
By Ezar
As snow flakes fall to cover the side walk my people get tired of the side talk
Work for me You won't be financially but at least you put a couple gifts under the tree
At least you can get your car fixed while I pull off in a new mercades
Oh ya make sure you fill out the paperwork for welfare
I will have my secretary sign it while I set by my pool in Bellaire
Have you ever been there you can smell the sweetness of success in the air
How is Jamal doing
I almost cried when I heard someone was at his school shooting
Thank goodness my son goes to the same school as the son of Patrick Ewing
You can stay in my guest house if you thinking about moving
Rent free that's the least I can do for someone who works for me
I was going to stop by but that part of town is too rough for me
I wanted you to meet my daughter she just got her masters degree
So she can take over the business after me
You know how important it is to leave a legacy
What collage is Jamal going to or is he still going to the army
I hear they pay for college tuition
I told my son its not worth it when your arms and legs missing
But I understand Jamal got to do what he got to do
Giving Jamals hand he got to move how he has to move
Well I have to go watch for the stocks on the news
See you on Monday I hope your situation improves Peace
That first kiss--De-lish! Smooth like Hagendaaz!
I was in my fourteenth year, too green to see his flaws.
I, the skinny Yankee teen with glasses on her face
met the proverbial "preacher's son" (I doubt in God's good grace).
On the brink of womanhood that summer, still a child,
butter on cob of Iowa corn, I melted when he smiled.
He, my best friend's cousin, was older, fun, and tall,
entrancing me with teasing eyes and sexy southern drawl.
Snuggling in the car's back seat, I got a secret thrill
hearing on the radio, "Won't you marry me, Bill?"
Adolescent daydreams wrapped in tune of "Wedding Bell Blues,"
the music, his accomplice, helped him with his ruse.
The kisses were delightful though my memory now is dim
of the moment when precisely all changed upon his whim.
Unhappily, one balmy Alabama night I learned
the kisses I enjoyed most with him he later spurned.
Soft and playful smooching, I learned while in the South,
would be replaced by lustful tongue that slithered in my mouth!
(how I felt as a young girl anyway; it takes a special guy to pull off "proper"
French kissing AND also the first kind I liked so much!)
. any way
youwant toseethem
theblotches inthispicture
represent
you
they
canonly
symbolize
thoughts that were
alreadyin your mindall
youcandois try tomakesense
ofthemand piece thisbroken
puzzle back together
hardly
aneasy
task
http://www.rorschach.org/ -the inkblot to the left of the title banner was my 'inspiration'. I
was hoping to pull off something roughly in the same ball park.
It is a gorgeous spring day, there are greens on both sides of the road.
The smells are fantastic, and my hair is blowing like I’m on a cycle.
I’m actually driving my new purple trans am, windows down, music blaring.
The white racing stripes might have been a bit much, but
Not for me. The sun is beaming on us with magic happy.
BRRRR BRRRR GRRRR
Should I try to outrun him?
He’s gaining on me fast. I glance at speedometer. Swear.
82 m.p.h. This is what happens when I listen to the Oldies.
I pull off, waiting, heart beating fast.
Lanky patrolman pulls himself out of car, gets younger as he gets closer.
“Hi,” I say, brightly.
He says, “License and registration, Ma’am.”
He is carrying his ticket pad, and a pen.
My hands are shaking as I start stammering nonsense.
He studies my license a second, says, “Just a minute, Ma’am,”
Walks back to his car, slides in, sits down, spends an hour or two in there.
I get worried I might have accidentally handed him my big-limit Visa card.
My heart is thudding, as I watch him laboriously walk back to my Trans Am
Who is not feeling so fine and foxy now. “It’s your fault!” I tell her. “You did this!”
“You were going 81,” he tells me. Eighty-two, I wisely don’t say.
“I am giving you an opportunity to slow down, and today, I’m giving you a warning,” he says.
No smile. No expression. He could give a mannequin a lesson in subtle.
I cannot help it. “Why?”
A glimmer of an ant’s smile starts in the left corner of his mouth, for a second, but he quickly snaps it off.
“Here’s the deal, Ma’am,” he tells me. “I stopped this car yesterday, on this same curve. I wouldn’t feel right about giving you a ticket on the same corner, at the same speed after letting your 17-year-old daughter off with a warning.”
In my head I picture my adorable blonde daughter who was wearing white hot-pants yesterday.
As a last hurrah he says, “I’m going to be out here for another two hours, Ma’am.”
We both smile.
This is the best warning I’ve ever had!
"Beauty & The Beast"....
Our different up bringing, the social status says hell no,
the body chemistry, the man in me says yes yo,
it's fo'sho, I've caught her vapors and me she's feelin',
the negative whispers, plus about her parent situation, they be illin',
opposites do attract, on those facts we should be chillin ',
so tell your parents to off, ya'ridin' wit da villain,
she said, "fo'realin", if you want me, the gangsterism has to cease,
she's a square trying call shots, storytellin' beauty & the beast,
with the pen I release, flowin the truth from a troubled youth,
beauty was the only thing good and pure, could I pull off the coup,
not being in the preppy loop, keepin' it thuggy, rough & rugged,
on the down low the thugness makes her hot, danger she dug it,
we get hugged up, it's so ed up that we gotta hide and sneak,
It's a sexy sensual manifestation, when your making love on the creep,
thinkin' of her on money moves, makes my concentration weak,
I always hit my peak with her, storytelling beauty & the beast....
RaymontG
This write is not to judge, but deter. An ode to all vultures.
You're like a person hover
amidst of fluffy cloud.
Some look up to you as a potent,
but you are brittle in nature:
your act is like of dark spot
that hid behind a glittering light.
I know you're strong, but
you have not admitted that.
Use your inner power; you might
even stronger than those
you jealous with passion.
You rested your mind upon others strength,
Pirating perspiration: an act
of deteriorate others strength.
A poison to their mind, even
if they are speaklees,
tis already a curse.
You had better pull off
before your time lost
in elusive world of prospect
where your eye would wink
In extreme shameless
as a thief in amidst of millions eyes.
WHY MEN ARE CALLED GROOM AND WOMEN BRIDE
Hullabaloo and cacophony etched in your Union,
Soliloquies to break up with your said-protagonist of a spouse,
You forgot your beautiful euphony, word fusion
When the beginning of two you can't even denounce.
Six months will turn sixty years, hopefully,
Only if you refuse to pull off the plug.
Hope to reminisce your days in the solitary.
Scattered equations be fixed like a computer bug
Malfunctioning & calculating 2 plus 2 as three.
Why is the newly wedded Man called GROOM,
And the woman, full of mystery, called BRIDE?
Her chromosomes which is genetic info room
Is like a deep ocean even as you swim with the tide.
Wedding day was when you 'ere commissioned as GROOM
For the new task of a durational long learning passage.
Nobody calls her WIFE on wedding days but BRIDE,
Your Union overtime will birth it's own adage:
Man "grooms" his BRIDE to become the WIFE.
That's why Men are called "Bridegroom" when he's trending,
Grooming connotes patiently nurturing, teaching her to thrive,
Helping her become and carefully tending.
The altar is for two madly-in-love MATURED mates,
Patiently inclined to groom and to be groomed.
High expectations may automatically results to hate,
To become a WIFE she must be graciously groomed,
It doesn't mean one has the edge.
Before thinking separation, have you groomed her?
Give time for understanding, your universe will merge.
The HAND will need to be patient with the PUZZLE
Else a scattered piece, a show of tumbled King,
Broken Queen will surface, alongside dilapidated Castle.
She's to be your WIFE but still your BRIDE inspite the ring,
Just GROOM the BRIDE, don't painfully hustle
Cos your Union isn't a semantic struggle tussle
If only you follow Divine steps to avoid the hassle.
VickWizzy
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright © 7th May, 2020.
Men of Honor in the mist Kokoda 1942......
Men of Honor in the mist,...
Sometimes by a bullet kissed,...
Shoot the buggers they'd insist,...
Threeo plonked, lee enfield .303cal.
Japs dead, not missed....
Men in khaki dyed to green ,..
Kokoda men so bronzed and lean,.
Fought the bloody Jap so mean,...
Die did run till khakki/green....
Move in silence in the green,...
Keep your mouth shut, be unseen,..
Pull off a shot when you are sure,...
Head shot got him, yes one more....
Jonesy shot as we pulled back,..
Found him eaten on the track,..
Kill a Jap for sure today,...
Shoot the buggers make em pay....
Walk with death there every day...
Fix your bayonet, smell of hay?...
Keep your guard up, bayonet parry...
Butt slap drongo Jap, old Harry... Don Johnson
As Don Johnson2/25th Aussie Btn. said of his time on the Kokoda track in 1942, you would
smell the mouldy hay smell when the Jap was close. The dyed green Aussie uniform became 2
colours in the constant rain, green and khaki patches. (did we invent camoflague
uniforms)You heard the rattle as the Jap put a bullet in the barrel of his Arisaka rifle.
After his 5 shots the predictable Jap would come for you to bayonet fight you. So you'd
spike him or plonk him with unit .303.. The Japanese were losing many cargo ships to Yank
Submarines during the war, as payback they put American, British and Aussie prisoners on
board to be sunk to die on their way back empty to Japan....
http://www.scullywag.com/kokoda1942stoush
Written: February 13, 2023
____________________________________________
An anathema for,
pilose nettle burns,
an art form of unstable feathers,
tropes across the ivory cuticles.
Melted mascarpone in a figurine,
pearlescent obsidian,
hooping sapped spirit,
sight of the blue sky.
within her boneless flesh,
the artist grumbles severely,
in a strained, velvety voice,
jumping into the air.
Prima picture goes away,
with feeble equine acclaim,
the nest of the forlorn swan,
embracing an ethereal dawn.
Whimsical soprano,
barely etched in matte black,
diploid remains,
a flawless fleck of fascinating fright.
Rakish Requiem for an,
unrequited magnum opus,
rushing on pinewood stains,
on the cusp of collapse.
As she droops on the ladder,
the impresario draws the
opera curtains closer,
while soothing music,
numbs her toes.
When Requiem strolls,
across the stage to the tune of
Mozart pianissimo,
he manages to pull off,
fulfills a task with accuracy.
2nd place contest winner
I slip on through the smoke screens
hitting just a little too close
night vision is a bonus
to help me see right through
no different from what I discovered
some things will never change
and I leave you like I found you
with nothing rearranged
I once passed you on the road
your thumb out, hitchin a ride
I was carrying a heavy load
construction made a difficult drive
no places on the shoulder
no pull off posted by sign
I stop in the middle of the street
getting ticketed for my time
dreams are just for dreaming
made up of hazy fantasies
real life is for real living
not framing in a picture frame
you take what He hands down
place it with all the rest
you do with it what you can
hoping that you safely land
so I stand on solid ground
as the world spins round and round
it is my competitive nature
that won't let me back down
I once took my best shot
got a ribbon for second place
but I was in the running
I accept my trophy with grace
Today's Bio
Point blank
Sorry for letting you down.
I have a major case of writers block.
I could not even pull off a simple collab.
You guys and gals are lucky.
I have no inspiration.
:(
SKAT
I do not know what I'll find
if I pull off your hijab
Perhaps a cobra lurks to bite
Whose venom will kill wit
I've bared my heart into sonnets
Sadly you will never read them- you aren't lettered
You're rather numbered counting naira notes
by the fireside where you fry awara
but I know you'll listen to my eyes
that tells the number of stars
exploding within by this stuttering tongue and frosted sweat
thawing under the radiance of your dimples.
In the dark corner where the cry of almajiri crowns the night
I will be waiting to elope with you arm in arm via our eyes with wings
where we can stand above the earth with every altitude heavenward
veiling the steeple and the minaret.