Not Built For Goodbye
I wonder if you somehow knew?
When you heard my infant cry.
That I was somewhat different.
Im not built for goodbye.
As a child at play with friends
How I longed for them to stay.
But when they’re mother called them in
I’d watch them walk away.
It seems I would grow used to it.
When there’s goodbyes I must bare.
No matter just how hard I tried.
God knows I’ve known my share.
When lovers left, the tears would fall.
Could it be it’s my mistake?
Each love when it reached its end.
Again my heart would break.
I knew one day the day would come.
You would spread your wings and fly.
And on that day I must be strong.
But I’m not built for goodbye.
So mother, turn away from me.
So you won’t see me cry.
The child once held inside your womb.
Not built for goodbye.
Edwin C Hofert
Black Manta and Jayna sing's
Sexy Mermaids
Written By: Dristter A. Niente
and Lex Luthor
-------------------------------------
"because of its inherent qualities
I don't know what to say
the ship in the harbor
follows me
every step of the way
it might sound crazy
maybe I'm insane
I saw blackbeard neath the pelmet
just the other day
I aint got no issues
she replaced theJolly Roger
with a pink and blue pelmet
I saw her blackbeard
I couldn't look away
thar she blows
I know there I go
Neath the pelmet
I saw blackbeard
Dobros get your jolly
she told us all
strangers in the night
a ship big and tall
thar she blows
and there I go
i saw a blackbeard neath her pelmet
---------------------------------------------
ple growth wood and cured resin
gives it it's sound
----------------------------------------------------
The making of the Scarecrow is a documentary
Narrated by Lex luthor
dawn lifts its pale glimmer
mist drifts low
a single bird trills a soft note
the stream brightens,
dew gathers stories
the world feels newly made
I made you a god
The planets align
I’d break my own bones just to build you a shrine
I’d pray at your temple
I’d give up the devil
Send him straight back to hell just to get on your level
I’d live on your altar
And rip out my soul
I’d walk through infernos and bleed on the coals
I’d walk out of heaven
The angels can cry
I’d give up forever just to be by your side
A treaty for two
A careless devotion
I’d drown just to touch the bottom of your ocean
I’d worship your body
I’d swallow your sins
And kiss every square inch that no lips have been
My face in your neck
I’d arch to your touch
I’d pull you in deeper and surrender so much
I made you a god
So take me away
You’re a holy addiction I’d die for everyday…
When in this grand spectacle
Life's, left out or lost
You've felt, and teary
Repeat that, as God's Love-seed
In a womb planted:
"I'm still here; still me".
Clay and dust made food
The sloth must be fed daily
Consciousness enslaved
I don’t remember
the smell of the candle
or the trying light
of the flame
In each of these restful poses
To sleeping's own posture
What he boasts in never leaves her;
An eye for fine sculpture.
Idol. Harmlessly inactive!
Disabused of, disturbed!
Through whose then cracks, sounds again for
One with living perturbed.
Three months and you're gone.
We keep up to date
Make up time lost to closed windows,
Re-open doors and
Let the light in all
At once blinded and dazed.
Make up time lost to petty fights
Closed off minds that wander, sometimes,
towards each other-
Now unrequited.
Make up time in people
Like roots, expanding,
Respirating, out-with-the-old that never
really dies because water never really runs out, but circulates
Bones. Muscle Fibre. Tendons. Joints.
Talk to that small part of yourself that remembers a piece of her
A tiny thing that never fits quite right,
Made-up time that can teach only
In hindsight
The poison of idle hope.
Pitch colours and throttled laughter.
A pain in the back of your skull that you wish was something more.
Make up time in sensation
Relive the inanimate
The comfort of its permanence.
(when my wounds have stopped bleeding and) [their eyes close for just a moment]
(i remove my sharpened bandages yet) [earth cares not of my turmoil i am blanketed in]
(why is there shame in hurting) [skin that was molded greatly in the eyes of no one]
(stars that glimmer for the sake of the night) [seldom bothered by the crowd]
(please i have nothing left to offer get me off) [the tables that merely overhear murmurs]
(this world that munches me bit by bit) [scratches again and again]
until nothing can be made of
(me) [it]
They walk in spotless, pointed shoes, through burned fields
hands in front, folded in prayer.
Their talk drips honey, over the graves they dug themselves.
calling it mercy.
They are artisans of fog,
blurring horizons with smoke and mirrors.
Every wound they make is a misunderstanding,
blamed on the victims of their attacks.
They weave fig-leaf halos out of denials,
as snakes unwind and recoil in the grass.
Their smiles are taut, righteous, and rehearsed
eyes gleaming with the confidence of a practiced con.
They speak of love, but leave heart-shaped tattoos,
as mementos and curios in their wake.
To face them is to stand before a mirror,
that swears blind your reflection never existed.
They fear no reckoning.
For the wrongs are always someone else’s.
Their smugness is deaf, dumb, and blind,
born of sacred, frozen certainty,
worn like virtue naked on face and sleeve.
They polish ashes and call them grace,
reclaiming the fire for yet another fight.
They dress the wound, deny the blame,
their forgiveness ever lame—
in virtuous disdain.
Ford dear
Vision in my eyes
Sounds in my ears
Drowning in my tears
She steady coming near
Never causing fear
Wind in my beard
Smooth changing gears
When takin care my steers
She’s my Ford
She’s my Ford
Tough but dear
I need a language to talk to the stars
and haunting poetry to haunt my life.
I seek meaning intertwined within meaning
I need music to soften all strife.
I need breath filled with inner space
and a peace of silence in every sound.
I need heaven to be spoken of again,
I seek what flowers have already found.
I need the dawn wind in my veins,
wondrous visions always in sight.
I need hearts to pump gushing love
till even darkness is made of light.
A recorder is not a flute,
and a guitar is not a lute,
I said, from the piano stool,
sounding like a fool.
A platypus is not a duck.
It does not quack or cluck.
These are things I know.
'Tis our Lord that makes them so.
A sofa is not a chair.
A toupee is not a head of hair,
but if you're a fly,
alight, when you drop by.
Clouds aren't made of cotton candy,
beaches, oftentimes, are sandy,
and if you're a crab,
stop by. Take a yellow cab.
So, I whistle as I roam
barefoot, looking for a home
and a love that's kind and true.
Tell me, where are you?
God made a woman
To be a companion for Adam
So, he won't be alone
He is to love, provide and
Respect her, God didn't make
So, she would be mistreated,
Disrespected, beaten and use
As a sex toy
Sub Categories
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.