Play Poems - Poems about Play

“S” by Lanier Thomas So, Seeing Successful Salubrious Senators sitting Supposedly serving Silently subordinate Society, so sickening Stomachs, several sundry sullen Students spurned supporting such senators....Read the rest...

nothing moves, silence! echos of voices,past awake! faces appear,then ...Read the rest...

Zounds! longing for a merciful descent into the terminal ground where smoky eyes semi-watch streams of semi-(dis)information exhaled from smoking brains on a mission to search & deconstruct ticking clocks taunt timely bombs lost in purple blobs of orange haze awaiting purging deluges sprinkled with white bolts of blinding hell the raving raven's feathers flicker while flippant tentacles grope...Read the rest...

Mesopotamia The Fertile Crescent once was ~ Then Babylon rose...Read the rest...

English words that end in “let” are called diminutives – did you forget? All were once of larger size but were easily diminutized by the suffix “let” appended where the word naturally ended. (Think of it like a tail tacked to...Read the rest...

Heretically speaking …I am at odds with myself ...Read the rest...

She is oblivious to the fact That she can make my mind Tedious Which makes me furious But imagining her smiling upon Makes my heart troubled as ocean On a stromy night...Read the rest...

Hey dear friend! In the truth you know, that I've shared with you. Don't you dare lie, and tell me that you understand my pain. Course truthfully, YOU DON'T!!! Please tell me it's gonna be okay, NOT "I know how you...Read the rest...

. . . . scream* . . ...Read the rest...

. . . . . . . . . . . . . d r ...Read the rest...

Gerry leading the weekly walk* if only giraffe's could talk ' I could show you where to see me' & 'in which hide to be'...Read the rest...

My lips the vacancy sign, my heart the hotel You ran up room service again. left burn marks on the mattress. Rude to the staff Yet you seem to always be welcomed back With my lips flashing like a neon vacancy...Read the rest...

I’m wrying to trite poetry, I’m doing it all the day, Wrying to get the turds out, To must jean what I say. Rumtimes the syme hust jappens, Other wimes it’s tierd, And the jeaning is all mumbled, Fexactly as I eared. So...Read the rest...

My nights are often restless, My dreams are often broken. The tremors are often heard, Within words not often spoken. I'm tossed about in silent motion, Until I'm cocooned within the covers. The darkness holds me tighter, Than the embrace...Read the rest...

Flackmoth wishes his love of legumes was not accompanied by foul fumes. Not having to release a whiff of flatulence would prevent incurring that other offense and social stigma, the “stinkma.” ...Read the rest...