Best Smart Poems | Poetry
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The Best Smart Poems
Beard looks weird,
that's a lyrical genius to be feared,
you wrote a 6 year song and got the facts wrong,
fired with the hair and safety still on,
I guess that scope's just a tele,
with sights and hopes on the tele,
Machine Bun Shelly,
initials, MBS, Caps empty,
Mostly Bull Sh……
a superficial sipping soup to his belly,
or is it breakfast for a serial prodigy,
steadfast out selling cereal probably,
problems with his intellectual property
so he's just a prop to stop and see.
6'4 and standing taller,
picking on a man, his wife and his daughter,
who needs protection ay,
you're a big and bad ball-less brawler,
that's the shallowest level you can resort to,
and though it's none of my bees wax,
you did it to be witnessed and receive plaques,
but it was easy and witless like corny flakes,
the business doesn't need Autotune fakes,
forcing the rhyme like all you want is a smoke,
not literally you'd choke, that's such a weak joke,
clearly begging for your songs to be bought up,
as if we went from Shady please stand up,
to Kelly put your hairband up,
and yeah I admit some of it was good, but look,
with 6 years to write it should of been off the hook,
your best and you took as long as you could,
when your next hits out you'll remember when you last stood,
and you'll be mocked by the only line that was any good,
MGK can't stand up,
that'll get you like Cranbrook,
from Cleveland Ohio,
leave now and fly home.
Note the depth and the many double entendre in this,
written within an hour of hearing that diss,
MGK's peak, now for the diss-appearance,
I've heard you can't write your own lyrical sentence,
that's dense, how you ever gona go the distance,
now go into the distance with your spoon and bowl,
you had your 15 minutes so back to your hole.
Part 2: Picking the rhymes apart and taking a shot, on my page to read now.
* the second line is a double entendre,
a serious comment about Eminem and a sarcastic one about MGK, you know, cus rhyming beard and weird is amazing haa.
* Hair and safety clip on
* Just a tele, a telescope
* Initials - cus MGK initials but Eminem doesn't M&M
* Caps empty - Capital letters in MGK, I'm calling him Caps as he uses them and he's out of ammo, bullet caps empty
* Machine Bun Shelly - cus of the bun and the bullet shells
Copyright © Nick Trim | Year Posted 2018
Enter the Everest that devastates as he never ever rests and demonstrates,
his quick wit picnic of traits, that place, with lickety split flicks on the page,
the tricks of a contortionist wrist that emits embers at pace,
as he commits and performs on the centre stage,
with the impact of a storm from the biblical age,
the act of an adorned prolific rampage. Irresistible talent abundantly apparent,
you thought you'd witnessed ability but until now you hadn't,
when the rest in the business appear to be unskilled and transparent,
as their best rhymes diminish right here to be unfulfilled and redundant,
thus divested of finesse while it's clear to see you're thrilled in this moment.
Rhyme Battle XI Contest of Juli-Michelle 3/11/2018.
Copyright © Nick Trim | Year Posted 2018
I'm a grit teeth beginner breaking out the cage,
growing strong and fitter with wit coming of age,
squeezing letters out of lemons got me in a rage,
but this bitter will get better and steal the stage.
I'm out to lay a new way suitable to a renegade,
angrily squashing this yellow fruit into lemonade,
using the skin to pave a golden route in the trade,
writes rooted in the age of this transitional upgrade.
No scourge can submerge the courage I preserve under the surface,
that purrs with an urge to hand carve words with power and purpose,
this marvellous occurrence undoubtedly surges to resurface,
and repeatedly emerges delivering perfectly superb verses.
Attempts to pull curtains on my spirit,
only teach knowledge that I inherit,
I react and catch before impact to my merit
and you can't collapse the soul of this poet.
Everyone falls but my core's impenetrable,
and my mental resilience is unbreakable,
they can't remove something unshakeable,
trying is a mistake that'll make you miserable.
I've learnt to benefit from attempted attacks
aimed to prevent the way that I vent and act,
catching the weaponry and adding to my stack,
I've a determination that I'll never let crack.
I'll elevate as I stimulate with flow
and levitate the audience to show,
I'm able to continuously demonstrate
that my work is something to celebrate,
even though my opinion will make them hate.
Coming back is what I do,
don't make me come back for you!
Copyright © Nick Trim | Year Posted 2018
What does it look like
From over there
Describe the sights
No details spared
How does it taste
Is it always delicious
By the look on your face
I’m a bit suspicious
I happen to be
Opposite to you
On the humanity tree
Like yellow and blue
I imagine your half
An enlightened bunch
No need for math
Just an arrogant hunch
It seems quite ironic
To say the least
That, in fact, you’re ignorant
Yet too smart to see
Copyright © Anna Hopper | Year Posted 2018
We have a mouse in the house.
Not an average mouse
But rather a mouse with some nous
That trips traps as it goes traipsing through the house.
A mouse whose downfall I am planning
Even while I am jotting.
A foolproof trap I will find,
Before I go out of my mind.
It will be one of a kind,
That will attest to my state of mind.
And show beyond doubt that I have more nous
Than a mouse.
It will send a message to all mouse kind
That it is time to leave this city behind
In case I lose my nous
And sacrifice the house to get rid of a mouse.
Copyright © David Smith | Year Posted 2016
the shortest road
is the one that you know
the longest road
is the one that you love
Copyright © A.O. Taner | Year Posted 2016
Teaches as Mother taught us
contest-Senyru of being misjudged
Copyright © Judy Konos | Year Posted 2015
I am of soft, delicate skinned casing,
Housing an iron, logical facing.
I grant my femininity free reign
To follow dictates of my manlike brain.
My seductive charms can attract a man,
But he may run far once I show my hand.
My quick, mental wit delivered deadpan
Cannot be handled by males with no span.
Only those of equal mental process
Will see my smile and know any access.
Feelings don’t phase my skill to analyze,
Even when I flash my come-hither eyes.
I don’t have masculine strength or muscle,
But in games deductive, I can tussle.
Call me feminine, demure or girly,
Such true adjectives won’t find me surly.
Color my world with sheer lace all pearly,
Just remember my sharp brain is burly.
... CayCay Jennings, a Libra
May 27, 2016
Copyright © CayCay Jennings | Year Posted 2016
You think you've got swagger but really you hobble,
you've got the jet lagger and you're drunk so you wobble,
don't start on me mate 'cus I will bring trouble,
to put it into slang words I'm Barney Rubble.
I will ruffle trouble
'cus I'm on another level
that bombs with the base
and stings with the treble,
I'll strut face to face with any ace rebel,
and put them in their place with their constant bull.
When I rhyme with my contortionist wrist
it expels a mist that sits around my fist,
I spell magic out on paper,
I'm playing with danger,
Mr. Wizardry the word selectionist,
squiggling fiction at speeds that feed friction
into rhymes that are non stop hot and cool,
so flames don't flame on the table top,
journey with me to witness the plot,
the earth shaker creator of perfected hip hop,
starting revolutions so that mumble is forgot,
dislodging the rust and rot it coughs that clots
and instating my Barney Rubble at the top.
That last verse was just a small handful,
a sample of something that you cannot handle,
a scan like a bar code,
so lets open up the road and I'll unload these words,
I can't conceal this skill that rolls like wheels,
a Rolls Royce wearing heels,
in fancy halls doing dancing drills,
with golden walls
to an old skool beat treat.
I wont get signed up by any record label,
but I'm still rhyming better than mumble's able,
just admit you're tapping your feet to the beat
while my rhyme sits on top solid like concrete,
with the dancefloor crammed full,
they're pulling at all angles,
making the memories
that'll last 'til they're O A P's,
they think they've got swagger
and they're like Mick Jagger,
they're more like Sepp Blatter
but a little bit fatter.
You can call me Trimendous and true,
you thought I'd flew crashed and was screwed,
but I took it back to what inspired my act,
an old skool hip hop sick rhyme attack,
I rhymed in flight with this write
and its smile's wild with sublime delight,
there are no poetic rare words
and I don't need swear words
in this dictionary spared verse
with airstream rhythm you can't burst,
I'm wearing this deserved set of words
that pilots and surges to my re-emergence,
a certainty that was never urgent
and not an encore from behind the curtains.
Copyright © Nick Trim | Year Posted 2018
Intelligence rises from ignorance when elevated by common sense...
One Liner Contest
Sponsored By Silent One
Copyright © Charlie Smith | Year Posted 2016
Because she was a buxom blonde
and he lacked a sage Adviser,
(like a naïve fresh off the pond)
he fell for and idealized her.
If he had been but the wiser
and much more careful with his heart
as if he were a mean miser,
he’d have ne’er been fooled right from the start.
Poems for one of cheap, impure heart
make the Poet look un-clever
and like a fool, which is not smart:
hence his case from her did he sever!
A lesson learned late than never
is much better than to be fooled,
played, conned, gulled and duped forever—
and so in her cheap wont he is schooled.
Copyright © Ngoc Nguyen | Year Posted 2016
He and I went to the same school,
we were in the same class.
He never studied with me
or played with me.
He was too cool for me
and I didn't know how.
When we each went our separate ways,
back to our homes,
he had help with his studies,
while sometimes I found supper.
He got to sleep with just a blanket,
feeling warm and toasty,
while I slept with just a blanket, too, feeling cold as if I was outside,
perhaps I was.
I never wished I was him,
why would I?
why would I want to be someone,
someone who wouldn't want to play with me?
He never got the higher grade.
Now as he receives his paycheck from me,
he asks me how.
How did I?
I paused and smiled,
you never played with me,
no one did,
so I kept myself busy.
He said thank you for his bonus,
I said, no!
Thank you for not playing with me.
Copyright © unfamiliar flower | Year Posted 2017
It is a fact that before I wrote True Colours,
I was stuck in a world of black and white bipolar,
encaged in my seat on a non stop rollercoaster,
eating one meal a day cooking bread in a toaster.
Do you know if from here I should.....
Nope wait, if it was you then would....
No I hesitate, before I wasn't sure I could
write so shall I carry on with doubt I'm good.
Should I continue to write?
Stick at it and improve I could?
Would I get better each night?
It's tricky to know if I'm good.
I wish for a talent but it's not apparent,
it's something I want but maybe I haven't.
I'm a thoughtful fighter
with a physical dominance,
who puts pen to paper
with a mental confidence.
The anxiety causes stress
and that makes me a messy mess too,
nonetheless I guess all I can do,
is pursue hopelessness whilst I continue
to harness this writing skill and improve,
while I remain myself and stay true,
or I could give up what do I choose?
It's amazing how the praise can make me lazy,
and all because the bar was raised.
To think that that's where it remains is crazy,
without the application my skill decayed.
Living off past glories and falsely self assured,
hides the fact the present leaves them bored.
The reward is forgotten without consistency
and the reputation plummets into history.
You need to bounce from test to test like a ball,
contest with the very best and prove you're no fool,
then you must not allow the standards to fall,
you must allow a new hunger to be installed.
I continuously doubt what I am all about,
I'm a drought that sprouts limited amounts,
it's the same bounce of the ball in all my bouts,
my mouth shouts in repetition and I've lost count.
I continuously doubt what I'm all about,
I'm constantly worried and living in doubt,
I'm in a black hole will I ever get out,
I continuously doubt so that's what I'm about.
Why would I refuse to continue after I didn't refuse to begin.
Copyright © Nick Trim | Year Posted 2018
Depression will steal your motivation and desire,
and use it to build a heap and then light it on fire.
You'll start to feel hate much more, but for no reason,
and your behaviour toward close ones nears treason.
The drugs and alcohol you use do not help your mind.
When you're hooked on one or the other you don't unwind.
You don't connect with girls because your head needs a rest,
and before you knew it was depression you weren't reaching to be your best.
The daily drugs and booze cause emotions to supress,
and never being sober with them present causes stress,
and what do you do to take it easy? You get high off your face,
and that buries the unresolved down and harder to trace.
But you are young, healthy and handsome,
avoiding fruit and veg eating burgers in buns.
You get high into the early hours and then pass out,
so you're unbearable at work, with anger you shout.
And you start to ignore little problems, you keep them inside,
your humour turns into tense, and from friends you divide.
You would have talked things through, but now you just hide,
and your mate lives this lifestyle too, so the friendship slowly dies.
Things you don't agree on create stress to just respect.
So you think you're no longer alike and the bond is wrecked.
You end up alone and isolated but, the lifestyle stays true,
you sit there writing poems because you don't know what to do.
But you'll tell your mate to read this because it reaches beneath.
You can forget to say things in conversation and fail to clear grief.
We were both in a bad place and our friendship met a thief,
it became political and about sides but now that's an old leaf.
We never actually fell out, and never exchanged fists,
maybe we were both paranoid and that was the fateful twist.
All the others were starting a plan while our life's fell to bits,
we messed each others life up with our very same bad habits.
We probably had to drift to find our own perspective,
sever the link and walk alone to develop how we live.
It'll never be near to what it was like before, but, we've an unbroken bond,
we fell out with all the others but from one another we just wondered,
I don't need to wonder I'm sure that there is still more beyond,
what went wrong for so long will prove good and right in yonder.
Sometimes in life we need our space,
but it doesn't mean that all is lost,
things need to move before they fall into place,
and in a few years we will say it was worth the cost.
Copyright © Nick Trim | Year Posted 2018
I started to read at the age of three
and know all the winners on Jeopardy
have posters of Einstein all over my walls
the theory of relativity my favorite of all,
Since my parents and teachers and I all agreed
I skipped grades and earned an early Doctorate Degree
I'm a walking talking human encyclopedia
my brilliant brain to yours far superior,
Just ask me anything about history, math or science
I love to hear myself talk even about the latest appliance
in detail I'll explain to you how it all works
as I'll never quite understand your cranium quirks,
The few friends I have all belong to the same club
where the MENSA rules mean an IQ of 130 and above
when I get together with my ordinary family at the holidays
I try to explain the cosmos to them and they all walk away,
I've even heard them whisper he's just a know it all
avoiding eye contact with me as they scamper down the hall
but since I'm a rocket scientist genius I can't help but take delight
in having your full attention as I explain Einsteins theory of light,
I guess my family's new nick name for me is really quite fitting
no longer called Einstein but now known as Sheldon.
Copyright © cheryl hoffman | Year Posted 2017
"TALKING TO GOD BY A BOX FAN"
it's 3:33 in the morning and
I don't know what to do.
everything is upside down.
there are red eyes sitting
over the kitchen table and
they are all laughing and
eating and singing.
I haven't slept right in weeks
and you wake me up in the
middle of the night to write.
I just took a pill and I'm
waiting for it to put me down.
no one is around.
they're out and silent.
I have my own out and silent
and it's in this room.
they create a heart inside a
man and let him sink.
I need a knock on my door
from an old face.
why is it when a man is soaked
in love the rain never stops?
why is it after they create
a heart inside a man they
leave him to write poetry in
bed at 3:33 in the morning?
By: Chicano Eddie
Copyright © CHICANO EDDIE | Year Posted 2018
The step from intelligence to wisdom could many decades take!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
01 August 2018
Copyright © Demetrios Trifiatis | Year Posted 2018
I get up early, a rancher with chores
Hay grows in fields, animals shuffle, roars
Dawn breaks its steel grey grip on my land
And I, well, I have a clear bottle clutched in hand
The first swipe, the one that burns the most
Clears the head, lifts the fog, begins my dose
Work ahead, hours on the grind
A key in my hand, the tractor is mine
Muddy boots climb my *** to my seat
Prepared I am, for this summer heat
A seperate, full bottle in pocket, the engine is turned
Key to the right, another throat tickle burned
Through the gate on into field I find my day anew
View as of now, not quite so askew
The rows start straight, a farmers simple task
They soon grow crooked, I can't find my flask
Fuel runs low, a hassle to refill
Inebriated I find it easy to spill
Unwiser still, I light up a smoke
Finding my way, to field with a toke
Stoned and drunk I arrive at my field
I'll try it again, a little more even keeled
A drunken chuckle to nobody in sight
What a great poem, another forgotten to write
A vision of an old boss, his hatred of me
I laugh, again, to no person I see
He works all day at his nine to five
And I'm drunk on my tractor, happy alive
Copyright © Bic Gi-Sa | Year Posted 2017
This is probably the first second time
On a third bases I have had a fourth thought
On my fifth victorious experience.
My victory proves that numbers don't lie.
Since the sixth sense
Is not found on Seventh Heaven.
As we wish for an eighth day
As part of the weekend
For we are doomed on Mondays
Deja vu is the tenth occurrence of victory
Utter wonderful words on Twelfth night
With no fear shake your spear on Friday the 13th
No Jason about it
Don't be sad about it, be gay.
No February 14th in my life
Hopefully in 2015
Then my life will be sweet sixteen
Or super seventeen
Then am legally 18
Get married at nineteenth
Then its goodbye to the teens
But I am still stuck in the 20th century
Cos that's where the true meaning of life is left
And on right my 21st Birthday I got the perfect key
The key to open up my door to the 21st Century.
Its all in the numbers of life.
Copyright © Vuyolethu Sithatu | Year Posted 2016
Look, Spoken & Served
I myself with Oneness, sorting through this mess and disaster,
With truthfulness, bringing faster, craftier, eternal factors,
Smells like hell departing with ignorant laughter,
Through the storms of days after,
Into the good news, from the one who knew darkness to outlast ya,
With a staunch persona, don’t compare,
To any man’s power, its conscious power shared,
The brains awake, causing good and evil to circulate,
Like internal relations, neglect their sight in this earthquake,
Swords of wisdom to the hater, in another verse,
Seeking wise knowledge through this hell for what it’s worth,
Look, spoken and served,
Clutch another word fighter putting steps to the word,
These are the seeds, Skater styled proverbs,
The unrighteous pay a ransom to get what they deserve,
Bang on about a lord, confined to a cell,
Subatomic waves sell by wearing a pleasant array real well,
The exterior can be the teacher, but distortion can spray,
Like featured deep riddles badly retreat and reach ya,
Indestructible feature, I’m the narrator you select,
In company with the Upper Deck, I don’t neglect or disrespect,
The heavens and earth combined, the ultimate divine line,
The one percenters, promotions of evil grandeur in the airtime,
Bear in mind my rhymes, the tools of my trade,
Aid my veins, insane in this game I came, this is a raid,
Played out conscious praise in the day, when dues will all be paid.
date written: 4.12.2015
Copyright © Quincy Mac | Year Posted 2015
A superb virtue—
Use for good, and not evil!
Smart is always good . . .
Man’s differentiation . . .
To be nurtured at all times!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
May 15, 2015 (Tanka)
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2015
They always ask
Why are you so smart?
But I'm not smart
I'm just wise
Which gives me the common sense I need to know when and not to speak
To know that I should do my homework as soon as I get home and to study with all the time I have to spare
To know I shouldn't waste my time with fools who will only give me burdens to bare
I am wise and I have enough common sense to know that I need to use it so I can be successful and make the right choices in life
And just before my death
I don't know who I will become in the future
But I know to search for my passion
And to never run away from it
I am not smart
But I know i am wise
So I will at least grow up with common sense
Just enough for me to make it somewhere
And to help others get there
So you can call me smart
For being wise
But don't just say I'm smart
Because that's not what made my brain swell in the first place
It was what got me from there to here
Then to now
It was I within wise
Giving me this knowledge
Situations I've been through
Everything that taught me to understand things
So I guess I am smart
But firstly wise
That's why I am smart
Copyright © harmony raymond | Year Posted 2016
On that same afternoon
in a commune not too far away,
hope got caught while
stealing from the market of desires;
luck got expelled for
cheating on the bonus questions;
love, on the other hand, turned into
rain and escaped the cloud
of acquired fears.
Copyright © A.O. Taner | Year Posted 2017
Ever since my parents bought me a Grundig TV for my room,
And every week day unquestioned and without fail,
I've watched the Channel 4 News avidly, glued to it,
From when I was ten when my ship did at last sail.
I fell in love with Jon Snow instantly as a father figure,
A socialist or social democratic who would interpret,
Political and social events in a way that I understood,
Without any superiority or cold, aloof mood.
My best subject at university was marketing,
Came top in my second year Easter class exam
And everyday when I watched it I analysed Jon’s socks and ties,
Until I was 17, I could predict to myself the next days dyes.
This made me so happy and empowered me to continue,
In that Christian fundamentalist world of criticism and guilt,
But the C4 News was my little secret which I kept to myself,
As I was taught not to love things like that, of a worldly, societal lilt.
I was a devious child towards my parents and their religion,
And lived by admitting only to liking that which I loved,
So that they could have the satisfaction of disciplining me straight,
But pass me by as someone who religion did very much hate.
I had my own sequence, mathematical formula in my head,
And the first day I got my television when the light was ahead,
Because my dad used to monitor what I viewed with intense interest,
I did not flip channels somedays, to suggest no deviation was in my head.
And when Krishnan Guru-Murthy joined the show in 1998,
(I had predicted it from his way at BBC news presenting);
As he reported in Newsnight and BBC 24’s current events programme,
And I thought he would compliment Jon Snow and for youth be an emblem.
I'm hesitant to say that I used to be able to,
Predict when he would grow a beard in playful discourse,
But I knew that he would always shave it off again,
‘Cos that concerned, innocent face is not for recourse.
I like Garry Gibbon, love Kathy Newman, Jackie Long and Matt Frei,
And Paul Mason always gets to the roots of the economics issues;
Lindsey Hilsum and Helia Ebrahimi give such good reports,
And Geoff White always excites me with his technology eye.
Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2015
The System Disk
That wide open plan,
The desktop area so spacious,
A vast canvas so beautiful;
Why do you sit there,
Open to all for their curiosity?
When you to me call.
Oh cupboard, that hard disk brimming with identity,
Memory no problem, even lacking files;
Proficiently organised with raging delight,
Amorous filing system which you employ.
All disks are obvious, seen by me,
Begging to be viewed, added to or changed,
Offering usage stats and permissions,
That are not just the programmer’s privilege,
But any user's decree.
No LOGO, no dos,
No text-based system to beat,
No floppies to be distorted,
By the drives' magnetic wheels.
Encrypted files are offered,
But that requires some introspection,
About whether or not your loved one,
Would really infraltrate your disk,
And read your documents.
My computer is a reflection of me,
My order or my mayhem;
No longer my prowess and endeavour,
‘Cos my articulations are my graft,
Not the machine’s mechanisations.
Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2015