Best Punctuations Poems
Toilet Bowl Committee (aka: Uptown Hood)
A lavatory confinement
my$h!tdontstinkcomode.com
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If you want to moderate this place, pick up the pace
From the mouth down to the @$$
Your so called kind has no class,
Fed by these political rejects, never elected for what was!
No matter,
They wipe their assets clean with our dreams
Forgetting to wipe their own toilet seats clean
Trying to make us feel dirtier than scat
Feeding off our paper when their toilet bowl water level is low
Toilet bowl PO-poes, wiping without dental floss
Missing everything in between reality
Trying to be kind, saying "One Day We'll Be Good Enough!"
Offering their Golden Plunger,
straight from the Home Depot shelves
No Thank You! My plunger a true gift from Mr. Wal-Mart himself
Next time you feel the need to offer a reference point
Please caption your name when you drop by,
Rinse thoroughly when speaking my name,
Then I will listen when you talk civilized
Correct my punctuations and spelling errors
The weakest trait you wear
You are no Prophet, just white tissue turning brown
Your Justification comes from old dry grapes falling from the vines
Ridicule will never give you the respect, for what you are!
We, the few poets from the hood,
overpower any change you offer Goodwill
Crumbling and flushing what does not meet your standards
Trying hard to force feed us soup, without giving us bibs
Thank you
Toilet Bowl Committee
For clogging up my drain with your bull$h!T
By: Keeping it Real (The Downtown Hood)
Date: 12-15-13
~*~
Living in a realm where
the air seems to
be still as stone,
invisible, like a
ghost of a rose,
translucent and frozen in
time of ruthless seconds.
My heart still
keeps pacing to
hear the flickering
rays of your voice,
flatlined and hushed
beyond reach,
whilst I’m here
searching for
serenity through
sanguine serenades,
woven meticulously
to my soul,
in unwavering waves from
thousand seas away.
What can I do to make you
love me like I love you,
must I steal the stars
from its rightful skies,
just so that I can
please your eyes?
Or should I hide behind these
rhymeless phrases,
where veiled vowels
and nonchalant nouns
within poetic punctuations
pierce through
this bleeding quill?
Would it seem like these
tunes have been tortured
together to descend and
tangle with tainted thorns?
Tormented traps tied
from an invincible inferno.
But aren’t we breathing
within binary
codes constantly?
surfing through the
zigzags of repetitive
numbers and
acrobatic alphabets,
vaporized amongst
empty spaces where
the universe unfolds
parallel paradigms.
Losing human connection
in the deafening silence,
while channelled tunnels
carry wires through
unassigned boards,
falling on our
intellectual swords,
fingers tap against
the cold keys,
unable to feel the
warmth behind words-
misunderstood and
misinterpreted as
mountains eclipse the sun.
So let me grieve over
the unsung sonnets;
maybe one-day I’ll meet my moon
in a sphere of immutable melodies—
forever calming these chaotic calligraphies.
Here, within my dark abyss of stark silence,
I hear the jangling tunes of rusted chains
echo futile summer dreams
like wildflower chimes in the wind,
comforting my inner moon~
still bleeding self-inflicted sorrow,
in need of a balmy muse
as my heart painfully exhales poetry,
breathing in the peace of petrichor,
grieving through my pen on paper
amidst procrastinated punctuations,
confusing the columns of calm
between the quiet quotations of healing.
But somewhere between the
unpredictable lines of emotional storms,
you’ll find our forgotten feelings,
sedated by fireflies fluttering
through the musical mists of sleepless nights,
quenched like once upon a sacred quill,
floating amongst salt and light,
like a crescent’s rose blooming into the blues,
learning to erase the unspoken shadows
lining the boulevard of my weathered soul,
for this is the song of the pearl
resting in a sand-soaked bed
of broken shells,
turning oceanic pages
with metaphors that ebb and flow,
like a collage of dancing diamonds,
cleansed with colors of sunsets
softer than the chorus of h o p e
wrapped like souvenirs
laced in saffron and sage.
I was punctured by punctuations
The words you wielded with such disdain
A ravenous revolutionary
Pitilessly piercing deep into my vein
I pretended such positivity
Holding happy forward as my shield
Your attack so precise and persistent
cold and calculated you would not yield
You left little to the imagination
Expressive expletives flowed from your lips
The harmonization of my horror
I was firmly nestled within its grips
Attacked by your callous conversations
Skillfully white washing every event
They were but measly misunderstandings
Never the nouns that I thought you had meant
The truth is that I perceived your pleasure
Within that capacity of your cruel
Heading towards a cliff like a lemming
Dancing dangerously close like a fool
So I sought out new triumphant treasures
Better lines lead to a more complete me
No more would I dangle dangerously
Halting hearing you speak helped me to see!
Help me smother this irritation ~ with lines and punctuations ~
Feed me pronouns ~ to drown incompetent sounds ~
Nouns to block inevitable frowns ~ verbs to calm nerves ~
Synonyms to perpetuate and penetrate minds ~ antonyms to reiterate in rhyme~
Give me a vocabulary of words to express my perturb ~ why must people be so absurd
Lay
Form: Infinite Dot Thirteen Verse Is a rare form of poetry, where by the poem is made up of thirteen lines and within the poem has interspersed dots for emphasis on the spoken word. However the total number of dots must add up to 33, and the additions to arrive at this number should or may have significance. Examples would be 16/17 or 10/10/13 or mystical such as 12/12/9 and you can subdivide the 12 say as 7/5 to equal 12. There are no other punctuations used, to place emphasis on the specific pauses.
Life in your thirties
Your getting old in youngsters eyes
Yet what has happened to the years before
I was born ...educated ...loved and lost
Heart ached for the what was and isn't now
Time passed thoughts remain
Where are the friends I made along the way
They dropped .......like stones .....
.....why
Did conversation die
Or fade
.......Regrets
Yes many...when I think of you.
Are we but dancers on an unlit stage
Disclosing secrets hidden in the angst of now
Revealing the ups and downs of then.
Singing in the choir of the off key
Whistling past punctuations grave yard.
Our words a chant to taunt the demons
Remind them that we are still here
That we have words and are not afraid to use them.
Do we not hide behind, and within
Each metaphoric medley of madness
Bare the essence of an eager soul
In the nakedness of our ramblings?
Children clamoring for attention
Making mud pies, walking through puddles,
Bravely turning off the night light
Yet still afraid of the dark.
But for myself, I warn you, I am here
Within the words I blend together
A guileless garment maker
Obsessed by the texture of the threads
Stitching errant words together
Into this patchwork that is me.
For I am here, peeking from within the fabric,
Modeling each moment on an unlit stage.
I’m an educated idiot,
Who’s learned to hold a pen.
I find a bit of paper,
And I write things now and then.
My punctuations lacking,
And my spellin is absurd.
My handwriting, so dreadful,
I can hardly read a word.
But I’ve found a way to hide this,
And don’t have to bear the shame.
I just type it on my keyboard,
The computer gets the blame.
Now I write lots of poetry,
I do this everyday.
And when people say, “how awful”,
I claim typo’s, right away.
So if you try to read my ramblings,
And it’s ‘doing in your head’.
If you don’t know what your reading,
Have no clue what I said.
Then be thankful that, I typed it,
Or I’m sure that you would find,
You could not even read a word,
Now that would blow your mind!
Ivor G Davies
She rolls on the dusty ground
pulls her hair
scratch her skin
dress halfway out
to a stranger this may look like the Ingoma dance
she falls on her knees
tears streaming down the cheeks
mouth wide but no sound comes of her screams
"It has happened again." They utter in whispers
She cannot hear the voices
Her nerves gone numb
eyes light out
skin is flooding with goose bums
her heart bleeding faster than the body she has scooped on her laps.
she is paralyzed by the pain...
"Parents should not bury their kids."Bitterly he spit
"But when they defy the law we have no choice."
He pick the gun and disappear in the thickening crowd.
Another body on the ground another bullet to the count
To family and friends it is another mistaken identity
Police man word is "Dangerous criminal."
We could riot in the streets, sing solidarity and slogans
but we know what happens each time
The order is "Shoot and kill."
One by one we will make our way home
socked in sadness and disbelief
The nation will run a headline "What happened to guilty till proven guilty?"
Nothing new really,just a few new punctuations on the last re-run.
Human rights groups,NGOs and lobbyist will pick it up,make some noise,attract more donors then go black
In the village the drums will echo for a week
we will dance round the fire each night calling on our gods for solace.
Then on Friday we will put his shattered body six feet under
hope our son(s) will find peace beyond the misery of us living.
Only right before the flowers on the grave goes faint
another son will be on the ground,another bullet to the count
And the ritual goes on...
Who dare question Uncle Sam?
I draw daydreams devoid of grammar.
Jumble memories with synonyms.
Cook laughter with adjectives.
Flirt with rhymings.
Drool over oxymorons.
My masterpiece is not just another
crushed paper.
Or left stale at the back of a
hotel bill.
Or a long text message
killed slowly
with backspace.
It is not just another word document
punctured with punctuations,
pathetically clutching the clauses,
with wasted verbs,
privileged by pronouns.
It is a canvas hidden with puzzles,
masking the festering wounds,
concealing a story
written in haste and hurry.
Its my medicine that I can't take
for the disease I can't fake.
Ma says I'm a dreamer.
I smile slyly.
She never know I wrote things for her.
How her fingertips rubbing my scalp,
Stifling my hair
brings calm to my storms.
How her laughter to my lamest jokes
brings rainbow to my colorblind eyes!
They say, writers are over thinkers
who weaves drama
connecting sunsets and deaths.
I say YES!
My naked words
quivered with shame
facing your pointy fingers.
So I dressed them with strike offs,
replacing them with meticulous metaphors.
They were as genuine as my freckles.
Also as shy as my face.
Maybe, that's why I covered them
with my hair of laced lies and butterflies.
So never tell a writer
that her poems are plain!
she's not an upset stomach
that throws up thesaurus.
Never suggest a writer
a new Instagram infected writing style!
She'll take it.
And while you smile
She'll break it.
A writer dance for the tune of phonetics.
Plan a night out with personifications
and never think twice to
break up with your judgements
building up a tall wall of ignorance
which lets in only the legit critics.
A writer stitches gore with similes,
Iron it with ironies,
Wears it with the pretense
of happiness.
But when you say -
"It is beautiful"
and walk away,
You killed her with the blunt blade of cliché!
I got a bad review,a terrible review
"Give it up" it said
Please stop writting, you stupid fool
We don't want to read anymore of your ****
Your wasting your time
Your poetry's crap
Can't even spell, punctuations non existent
So I'll write for my fans I've only got two
But they like my work so f..k you
I'll put pen to paper
Join beautiful words
Write a poem for the masses
I could use big words
I don't understand, look to the dictionary for every line
Leave a blankness in your head
Wondering what the hell it said
From this poem your feel astounded
Magnificent,marvellous, absolutly gorgeous
All the beautiful words I've put down
Look lovely, sound wonderful
But don't mean a thing
I'll tell you what is little-known
What school is like if you actually go
I never went to college you see
No chance of a university degree
Pretty much what you see
Is what you tend to get with me
I don't know how to write poetry
All I know is what's inside of me
The rawness, blatant truth
Sometimes happy, mostly not
My writing will shock
Make you see some truth
As raw as possible, this is what I do
I'll never sugar coat things
Make them easier to swallow
The big wide worlds out there and its ****ING horrible
African children dying in pain
Their mother's **** sliced off,raped and maimed
Our boys fighting an endless war
So those countries can have much more
Children blowing themselves up
As their told its the way to God
This governments *****people are freezing
As our war veterans can't afford the heating
What kind of world is this that we live
When people are starving,dying and sick
Don't ask me to change my poetry again
Or I'll shout it from the roof of your office building
Wonder, if God thought of Mother’s pure love
Because He can’t hope to be everywhere,
Nor be where so His children's need might move,
Alone He can no justice do, nor care.
Among things well their worth upon this Earth,
Bare if a few man ever can replace.
Mother's love stands on top, what unique grace!
Why gods and goblins vie for human birth.
If among punctuations God's period,
Mother's love sure is exclamation mark,
All else may hope to be second and third,
In luminance, she's no less than an arc.
Sole saviour, nourisher of new life,
A silver lining in dark clouds of strife.
___________________________________________
Sonnets | 22.03.2017 |
I have always loved to write
real…romantic rhymes
but now I have to feel free to
form a fantastic freeverse
with my creative caps on and my
pleasant pen and pad
I am doing this, drawing words
from the well of wild words.
To flow in this fabulous fountain,
all I need are tender tools;
Witty words, rare rhymes and
some lovely lyrics,
adding the flavour
of impressive
imageries, just to cruise
in the cart of creativity.
Playing with words and using
originality as my errand boy,
I dare to ramble and fumble but
never rumple my art's artillery
keeping each line lovely, lively,
meaningful and readable.
I patronize punctuations
just to paint
a perfect poem with the pen of
passion.
Poetry is all about what you have
to write and how you write it;
where and when you write it
does not really matter… at all
So I just felt free to
write a fantastic free verse in the
fountain filled with fragrant
flowers.
Scraped, friendly freckled face falls to benchtop
Starchy spud plays poker, blank slate envelope
Lost costume spotted cape, super elixir escapade
Layers on shiny raised scars, recovery escalates
Sticking plaster, milky soak soothes, heat tempered
Compost bound bandaid quells Hell unrelented
Derma learns renewal, Nurse dresses fire sore victim
Tugged taut rawness fades, subsiding symptom
Nerida never administers synthetic medicine
She reassures peel press is healing essence
Piano punctuations plod, then pace, parade
Figaro notes frolick over keys, aural first aid
Choral cure prays perfect circle curse moon miracle
Stroking fingers fuse potato to patient, glue
Discarded skin glimmers in kitchen, hopeful sunbeam
Her burn potion infuses through bloodstream
6th May
Quick Recovery
No question mark should precede my time.
No exclamation should startle your thoughts.
No apostrophe should suspend our feelings.A full stop must end the confusion.
Waves crush against the rocks,abetting,retreating from my grip!
How would you possibly grasp water?
The mystery gets worse,when at the horizon the ship's smoke is seen.
Time is,pause,play,slow and the 3D view of the-ship of love-in daylight is like a fading silhouette.
Your not here yet.
Sinking my feet under the wet sand,tuned from the heat of a steady sun.
I reckon,that sunset too is suspending itself.
So! This is how love,pends,when you wait for it at the wrong place?
Where water,earth and mankind converge.
How much longer shall we wait for Love to 'dock.'...
By Carswell E aka the punctuated patient