I fold my hands.
My posture is straight.
They throw their quiet cruelties—
Expecting me to shatter
To deflate
I let the hallway echo.
Let them wait.
Their petty insults
Left at the gate.
I guard the inner strength I cultivate.
A heavy bruise.
The jagged words they grate.
They look for fractures,
Flaws to celebrate.
But deep within
this quiet, living state,
I drop their heavy anchors
to their fate.
Unbroken.
No one gets
to touch
my living soul.
I am who I am
Who else might I be
The goof, the ham
A whole oddity
I cannot correct
With all do respect
The me in myself
Flaws you detect
I won’t moderate
My soul won’t deflate
To fit in a square
Be basic, not great
I find, I’m a lot
A mess, a knot
Perhaps too much
But not a robot
I’ve tried to change
To rearrange
Blend in the crowd
The feeling was strange
I chose to retire
Instead of re wire
To temper myself
Would kill my fire
So I dried my eyes
For, I am just I
I chose to be me
Instead of a lie
Defenestration must remain articulate,
they must know why they’re being tossed.
When the loud anger begins to deflate
a lot more than a line has been crossed.
What grows is a flare for the avant-garde,
that desire to push against the hardest line.
You may come out of the ride a bit scarred
as your soul and a vision begin to align.
Leaning in to this total transformation
harness a brand new heroic personality.
Unlocking an as yet unclear destination
I face the future with unwavering tenacity.
Peace and Peacefulness and Peacableness in the World
Seems like just a myriad of Hope more than anything else;
A mere and sheer illusion.
Mr. Peace will only be born or borne or achieved
When the emphasis is on JUSTICE.
When world leaders begin to deflate their egos and think more of/on the masses.
Right now Peace is not on their menu or Agenda
As is Greed an Power and who can make the best war heads,
And how much money they can get in their bank accounts before their tenure ends.
What An Enormous Pity and Shame.
As long as so much selfishness and heartlessness remains in the heart of man,
True Peace in the world would never be achieved.
So sorry for saying this.
But it is our Bad, all our fault.-All Man's fault- Human Nature.
Lying still, in a dark room.
It’s easy to sink into it.
Let myself deflate.
The room gets darker endlessly.
If I step off this bed,
The sounds will turn back on.
So my eyes stay closed.
As my toes move slightly.
Don’t lie in a contorted way.
Or the sounds will figure it out.
Come back for you.
To take you to the hospital.
Lying still, in a dark room.
And the room settles with me.
I can’t lie in this contorted way.
So I lie in a different contorted way.
Dark room.
Deflate.
Endless.
Step.
Slightly.
Sink into it.
Into the ambulance stretcher.
Again.
I was on a high
riding on a sunray
feeling the love
That seemed to bother you
so you had to go on the attack
making a point to deflate my balloon
It annoyed you terribly
that I might be happy
you had to spew your venom
I have news for you
I’m out of harm’s way
you cannot spit far enough
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Alternatively, to incorporate eggs by hand: Let dough cool in saucepan, stirring frequently, until it registers 145°F on an instant-read thermometer. Add eggs 1 at a time, stirring well between additions until each egg is fully incorporated before adding the next, until a smooth, shiny paste forms.
Use choux right away, or hold at room temperature for up to 2 hours before using; how you use the choux will depend on the application, though it’s important to prevent a skin from forming, either by transferring the choux right away to a pastry or zipper-lock bag and keeping it sealed, or pressing plastic wrap directly against the choux’s surface.
load the pastry bag, pipe choux leaving enough room for them to double in size
Choux pastries typically bake for 25-35 minutes at 400°F (200°C). Baking time can vary slightly depending on the size of the choux and the oven. It's important not to open the oven door while baking, as this can cause the choux to deflate.
Corked off glue, oral mucosa clamped, oyster bald razor, thumb running along twine binding the package, a conductor testing violin tension. Hairy balls of fire, a jackdaws caw, drawing her in with dirty sticky wet joy. Creaks on bed springs, open windows, neighbors staring, a drumbeat counting down to rupture. The squeezebox gripped tight, seething under bare back muds. Breath, a bird in a cage, jabbing at the bars of her ribs. Burnt-out fluorescent light, firefly flash caught behind bone. Hands unwrap with surgeon’s grace, flesh revealed: pink, marbled, mutinous. The cuts: rare, exotic jewels radiating a savory sheen. A finger tests the muscle, a pianist poised over ruin. And then: a grunt, “the trick,” a gesture, sleight masking ripened fruit. And my snake, swollen, pounding, thick and huge, slithers through her smooth underbrush. The Calvary arrives, a swarm of bees in spurred leather. Engines rev, Bouffants tumble, spiderweb eyeliner, one blink from collapse. Ten-gallon hats deflate, soft as old balloons left out in the sun.
Starlings chime down an alleyway.
Corked off glue, oral mucosa clamped, oyster bald razor, thumb running along twine binding the package, a conductor testing violin tension. Hairy balls of fire, a jackdaws caw, drawing her in with dirty sticky wet joy. Creaks on bed springs, open windows, neighbors staring, a drumbeat counting down to rupture. The squeezebox gripped tight, seething under bare back muds. Breath, a bird in a cage, jabbing at the bars of her ribs. Burnt-out fluorescent light, firefly flash caught behind bone. Hands unwrap with surgeon’s grace, flesh revealed: pink, marbled, mutinous. The cuts: rare, exotic jewels radiating a savory sheen. A finger tests the muscle, a pianist poised over ruin. And then: a grunt, “the trick,” a gesture, sleight masking ripened fruit. And my snake, swollen, pounding, thick and huge, slithers through her smooth underbrush. The Calvary arrives, a swarm of bees in spurred leather. Engines rev, Bouffants tumble, spiderweb eyeliner, one blink from collapse. Ten-gallon hats deflate, soft as old balloons left out in the sun.
Starlings chime down an alleyway.
Without air, even for a single minute,
I would not be able to live, nor survive.
What does the invisible gas have in it?
What keeps me healthy, happy, and alive?
I breathe mysterious stuff that I can't see...
or can I spy, as my lungs deflate, inflate,
indelible impressions of memories
of friends, of loves, in my breath devoid of weight?
Or in the precious, sparkling moment, now,
as the airy breeze is pierced by the sun's warm ray,
gleaming on leaves rustling on every branch and bough,
does a lilting birdsong, this medium convey?
Future dreams, too, are in my respiration,
and while time may bring me breathless to my knees,
Every vision, hope, and aspiration,
May one day become a new youth's memories.
In a world painted shades of rose,
Where costs are hidden, no one knows,
A silent burden, an unseen fee,
That rests on women, unfairly.
A razor's edge, a bottle's hue,
The price deflate for things in blue,
Yet when in pink, the cost ascends,
A subtle tax, which never ends.
A shampoo bottle, a gentle scent,
But dollars more are often spent,
For lotions, creams, and fashion threads,
For something that society spreads.
They say it’s choice, it’s just supply,
But why should pink make wallets cry?
In aisles where colors softly gleam,
It’s more than just a consumer’s dream.
For girls are taught from tender youth,
That beauty’s cost is simply truth,
But let us break this rosy chain,
And paint the world with fairer gain.
No more the silent tax we pay,
Let equality lead the way,
For every dollar, every cent,
Should reflect what’s truly spent.
“When lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed, . . . ”
the weary high-school student read with a sigh.
The sun had long since set and darkness loomed.
Each night, homework and slumber for Todd’s time vie.
His interests do not in somber poetry lie.
With misty eyes, his teacher, so deeply affected
while reading Whitman’s lines aloud, hoped to stimulate
an appreciation for their timeless themes. Often, she corrected
the class for childish, insensitive actions that tend to deflate
a teacher’s hopes—passing notes, napping, etc.-- Do better times await?
No efforts to cajole them into class participation
with rewards—extra points, field trips, etc.—have gone far;
but their interests in other areas rise to elation:
etching on metal, acting, sports, and playing the guitar.
Perhaps their view of poetry will someday be up to par.
I finally saw the debate,
My spirits prepared to deflate,
For I’d heard it was rough
(Lies are hard to rebuff)
But I needed to get it all straight.
I agree that Joe Biden looked weak
And he fumfers when trying to speak,
Yet the bully he faced
With his falsehoods disgraced
Every viewer while raising my pique.
Why Bash/Tapper allowed him to rant
While ignoring their questions, I grant
Made him look like a fool,
Though, despite ridicule,
To his fans it will not disenchant.
Both debaters most likely rehearsed
And in private, each other they’ve cursed.
Still, to watch made me mad
For, though one came off bad,
It’s the other I’m dreading the worst.
Envy the green eyed monster
can be harnessed to achieve a goal
I currently have a want for fitness
it's eluded while my life was on hold
So I am mustering up my health
and working on my stamina
And feeding up my ego
because in the end its chutzpah thats its anima
You have to attack with vigor
and have a plan you adjust along the way
You have to be single minded
and self congratulate to make it stay
For envy does not really serve
and it can actually deflate your cause
Because you don't ask for advice
and align with those who have achieved what you want
For those that have blazed those trails
can tell you their recipe
It may be the thing you can exactly do
or it may be an energetic zing
But use your emotional energy
to fuel your restless tide
And keep an open mind
and move ahead with pride
Turn Envy the Green Eyed Monster to you can do this!! You can! - Artimus (C) Susan Manley 3/11/24 8:43AM
Fourteen pounds; that’s a bucket of lard
And losing that shouldn’t be so hard
It’s turkey, pud and let’s not quibble
A pretty frequent midnight nibble
It’s one whole stone of belly fat
Inflating what was firm and flat
Slimline tonic won’t do that
So did I eat an alley cat?
Six-point-three-five Kilograms
Twice what sometimes fills our prams
Were I pregnant, for my sins
Could be that I’m toting twins
But I’ve had lots of Christmases
And I’m sure when I tell you this
Six weeks watching what I eat
Will make my tummy nice and neat
The trifle’s gone, as is the meat
All the savoury, all the sweet
It’s time to watch my waist deflate
With smaller servings on my plate
And so I put away the gin
And tonic with no sugar in
For gin gives me an appetite
That makes me nibble late at night
So, fourteen pounds; that is my goal
A resolution in my soul
But, by the gin, before my eyes
A box - unopened - of mince pies!
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Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.