I have no idea why I am not a man
I have always wanted to be one
The boys could yell out answers in class
I got slammed to the floor for yelling them out
I despise things women are supposed to like.
Cleaning, cooking, dusting, moping, vacuuming
I will not do them; they are redundant and boring
I have no idea why I am not a man
Motivated by jealousy
she spitful undermined
my intentions
far to much to
mention: intruding
on my happiness
making it harder for
me to be
the person I wanted to be
as stoic as it seems
I'm lacking happiness
lacking valor rantings
it's more like constant chantings
in a relationship
I'm pushed to the side
interferance with my advances
in awe taking second glances
I couldn't beleive what I
saw
the odd one out
just tagging along
I know the melody
but they won't let
me sing my song
feeling excluded
moping around
sorta like ah
big silly clown
get it back together
and mosey along
fix what broken
right that whats wrong
The Baritone;" We don't need know skoo bee doo de woops, we gonna do ooh-ah ooh we"
scram Mister let me sang with your Songstress, I'll show you it's
sopposse to be!"
"the smell of dance clubs and dancehalls got me reelin"
I'm reelin
and I'm dealing
with a newly felt feeling
make ah melody
make ah melody
aint nothing specail
about what I'm feeling
make ah melody!
ooh-ah ooh:ooh
ooh ooh
ooh!
A grumpy day once came my way
sat down beside me, moping
Conjuring my best smile
I asked it, ‘Where is hoping’
It fired its poison arrows
condemning all that’s good
I took my leave, graciously
I knew I really should...
The day sat still a second
then stumbled to its feet
Shouting, ‘Yes, yes, I confess
Life on earth's too sweet'
I found envy
in the windswept field
filled with bright buttercups
and pollen laced gusts.
Tall grass thrashed
where the angels flashed
and flaunted silver wings.
Made of faith,
exuding grace.
I found rage. Eyes
tied to weights, awake
lying next to carrion
a convulsing vulture ripped away
Her ivory dress, caked in gore
the bald bird always needed
more
I sat silent in the grass,
moping. Hoping it would pass.
Needing something to be the bolt
to shock some sense into me.
Lone atop the hill, it was
just my luck.
Lightning struck.
An ultimatum arrived
The voice behind it
Was a familiar one
No more moping around, it said
Get up and engage in daily sounds
It was fed up of my, what if's?
My doubts, my deep sorrows
And the what about, tomorrow’s!
It sat on my chest heavy
My voice dry and parched
Not heard for sometime
I could not recognize it
As my own, it was low
As low as my breath
Till it gained courage
Wrapped in encouraging words
It sat on the edge of reason
My friend it seemed, not a foe
I cleared my voice, and it
Seemed to have a say
As it voiced my thoughts
That were circling in my head
As it broke out, from it's shell
I felt it already knew me well!
That voice that was just a child
Grew louder as if inch by inch
It quickly gained height
In a seamless crescendo
Rising from within me
Something greater than emotion
Overcoming my very being
My lips now seemed so freeing!
4.10.23
Mournful melancholy makes her miserable,
Murky moods move her to morosity,
She's miffed and morbid, her mind is mourning,
Moping about in mellow melancholia,
Marred in misery, misty-eyed, she's mortified,
Melting in maddening malaise of malcontentment,
Malfunctioning malignancy has made her mean,
Melodramatic memories magnify her misfortune,
This monotonous, mundane, mirthless morning,
She's a mangled mess of merciless moaning,
A mere mortal mutilated by melancholic musings.
9th May 2023
Contest: Anatomy of Melancholy
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
The clan began singing before I saw the hippy dippy van.
It ripped around the mountain, and we heard its ceiling fan.
hollering and the wailing came to our ears with the smacking too.
It was the wild McCorlick Cousins, straight from Kalamazoo!
They are evil and they’re naughty, and they make us all laugh.
We were not surprised at all to see a contraband giraffe.
Their father is crazy, and their mother is beyond coping.
They came tearing down the street. No one here is moping!
For once laying here on my bed while my door is open.
Allowing the kitchen's fluorescent lights to emulate
Atmosphere of a more peaceful hospital I used to know.
Lagging the sunrise, he sizes the day
Sleep was a stranger, came deep in the night
Try though he may, he can not make a plan
His instincts tell him not all will be well
Coping, there between moping and hoping
Pouring coffee, ignoring the cough he
developed, enveloped in sweat last night
Off to the shower, he's dreading the hour,
the 405 drive, and then to arrive,
with nothing to say, in meetings all day
To make matters worse, the trip in reverse
Stare at the ceiling, devoid of feeling
Resistance, futile; existence, brutal
Six months estranged now - it's time for a change
----------
Lannet: 14 lines of 10 syllables like a sonnet, but internal rhymes only
https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/lannet-poetic-forms
In the early hour
a tired soul reenergized
that’s been moping in the dark
eagerly follows where
the rising sun may lead
I walk and walk
until I can walk no more
fill my lungs of lilac blooms
soak in the effervescence
and quench my thirst of morning sun
AP: Honorable Mention 2022, Honorable Mention 2022
Posted on July 4, 2022
Thomas was a cat who was born into a charming life
Once upon a time he had a gorgeous amorous wife
She disappeared in the middle of a storm one day.
He did not wait around, knowing her need to play.
He was a sage old dude, who could entertain himself.
He did not waste any time moping, did not sit on a shelf.
He developed his psychic abilities and oversaw the village.
Ready for all attackers, who came to accost or pillage.
He was the steady look out, the wise cat who knew the score.
He protected the kittens, the old maids, the widows and more.
They appreciated his efforts and fed him lasagna at his door.
He was known as Tenacious Tom in Tomcat County, forever more.
She has the power
The power over men
The power over woman
She is strategical about it
She is psychological with it
Ur mind will be consumed by her
Ur life will seem incomplete without her
Her spell is a hard one to break
Trust the one who speaks from experience
Her intent is clouded by riddles and giggles
Wandering and moping fill ur life, not truly knowing
Only the thought of her arouses ur fantasy
Her feelings are all that matter to u both
Her seductive grin towards u marks ur sentencing
Cold blooded is her nature
She was voted most likely to ghost someone
No one knows that better than he who speaks from experience
Gargoyles loom above the streets all around
On every block of this city people mill around
The cafe of the day, classy stripes on the cups
And food so different from those all around
Lost for an age, in the grandest of libraries
They escorted me out for lurking around
I took a dismal bus ride all the way across town
Lost in the view of tree-covered hills all around
Here they sow trash and reap skyscrapers
Not a star in the sky, bright lights all around
At night I rush into my lover’s arms and delight
Arms of hope sustain days, of moping around
The river flows by carrying boats up and down
I, a stranger, watch everyone hurry around
— Untitled —
Defining, refining, and timing the rhyming
And hours of thought to perfect the fine line-ing
Clerical, lyrical, sometimes, a miracle
To get a line right could feel a bit spiritual
Hoping, not doping, and a lot oh “oh nope-ing!”
But when you are through, there will be no more moping
~J.D. Cromwell
To be a poet
one must be so emotional;
Well, not necessarily.
We're only really capable
of understanding feelings
And investigating our emotions.
It doesn't mean we cry all day,
or pass nights in dark rooms moping.
We have lives; come home from work or get in on a night bus back;
It's from all these experiences
that we can draw out words.
From mundane to extraordinary;
we become inspired.
Our strength is versatility
and life ignites our fire.
We all do not have to be
constricted to intensity
or ponder so seriously
on what it simply means 'to be'.
We can be strong, flirty, mean
or to be brim with confidence.
For, what does 'to be a poet' mean,
if you cannot explore yourself?
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