So what’s the plot if 6 turns 9
On this old rainy day
What’s looming up behind the line
What you don’t have to say
Its way too obvious for words
And silence fills the air
Only disturbed by chatting birds
There’s always life out there.
The serpent hissed,
on the first day of school,
looking around to find a group to poison
a group to fool.
It's slitted eyes wandered around
searching and searching.
at last the serpent found,
the fools laughing and smiling.
The serpent went,
its black heart beating with eagerness
the smell of innocence. it was addicting.
The fools invited the serpent with open arms
unknowing of the doom that awaited.
Thus, the damage begun,
gossip spread like wildfire
'did you hear? the fools did... how ridiculous!'
The serpent drank it all in. like ambrosia
The fools had been fooled.
The serpent went home, delighted by the turns of event.
It was night,when the fools came
painted red with revenge
for the first time ever, the serpent felt...scared
the serpent backed away, all while hissing
The fools smiles turned haunting
The serpent went missing
and the fools waited,
for another serpent to come hissing
Ordinary days, just like before,
No one knows the feeling of being ignored.
It's always that one who makes the heart beat fast,
In every way, giving the heart a blast.
That someone is too far from reality,
The impossible hits differently.
Too good to be true to notice,
Even in the smallest way, there's no space.
It’s always you that gives a butterfly.
It’s you that brings a fast-forward to imply.
Gives the benefit of the doubt to try,
Risking something just to be with you and cry.
You’re my “what ifs” sometimes,
And also, you’re my “at least” every time.
It’s better to give a little shot,
Than to give the negative and make a plot.
Hallmark?
sappy stories of rich or
upper middle-class people
starting businesses or
trying to save existing ones
handsome men and
beautiful women
newly divorced
or never married
modern versions of
daytime soap operas
you may not watch for a month
and not miss anything
good thing my wife has
a television in the guest room
downstairs I can watch
ANCIENT ALIENS!!!!!
(7 word poem).
Netspeak--social or not?
Hermits suspect plot!
my love life is like a plot in a grand novel,
where dawn stands tall,
yet dusk must kneel
and grovel.
each chapter of it dims as twilight nears,
unleashing darkness that feeds on
the carcass of
waning years.
yet expectation remains high...
waiting for another page
to turn and turn
until old age.
meanwhile, the plot keeps thickening...
bringing to life
more of the fears
in a world full of strife.
yet love keeps its shine in the distance,
like a mirage that gleams in space,
offering false satiation,
only to fade into non-existence.
but the story will never end...
until the Author of all things
chooses to write an epilogue
of how much of his love we all depend.
It occurs that safety measures
Are more dangerous than dangers
Who’ll protect us from security
Lives beyond the clouds obscurity
God takes ultimate control
He’s the One who knows it all
Tells that safety measures bit
We should treasure in complete
Otherwise a little devil
Mean old master of the rebel
Will set trouble in our minds
Thus to evil we’ll abide
With God’s blessing we’ll become
Little devil’s human scum
If we see an extra plot
In the safety that we’ve got
My garden plots my demise
Haunts me like a living soul
The care I give is appreciated, yet expected
Each time I weed takes a toll
When it's time to prune
All hell breaks loose
The clods grow stones to throw and wound
The ears of corn hear all that I say
They stalk me, following every which way
The sly potatoes sprout eyes to spy
And the others sharpen their spears to slay.
As I sweat with tools through the rows and rows
I hear the whispered names they call
I know the slang they use , ( crying, "hoe!")
Meaning a loose woman and I'm appalled !
We know not wherefrom arises our heart’s muse
and to be truthful, there’s no planning involved,
as we pen our words, offering no excuse,
though writing with the hope that all be evolved,
including us as well, a thought that does amuse,
since God is incharge, no problems need be solved,
so back to the start, in sync with beats of heart,
thus doing nothing, we craft a work of art.
.
Puff
her cheeks
pixie
spoke
her thick
speak's
both
beg'd
and still they were fast
in smile
their
mode
Pop
hern mine
sees
froze
Poof
there'z no wordz
I'm waiting for you
while I hear the clock
I'm waiting for the smiles
that you paint in my thoughts
I'm waiting while my mind
creates a plot
where I dig in your heart
to see what you are made of.
Jessica
Don't know how many years I have left
Could be one, could be ten, could be twenty
Pretty good shape for a man of eighty-nine
But I'm starting to think of it plenty
It's only natural as you get along in years
To start wondering when that day will arrive
When your numbers are up, the end of the line
No matter how hard we try to survive
Can't imagine people who end their own lives
They know they'll be gone and forgotten
Everything they've lived for since childhood
Must really have reached rock bottom
Even with what seems like my upbeat nature
Must admit it's on my mind quite a lot
Guess it's only natural considering my years
We eventually reach the end of the plot
In all honesty don't think I'll be leaving just yet
With my family history of longevity
Living well into their late eighties was common
So worrying is really not necessary
Interrogated, tortured
And killed (dissolved in acid)
Just the way
The Government had willed and ordered.
An oppositional voice
Finally stilled.
On the home soil
His blood was spilled.
Exposing the cruelty of our government
And their sick agents
Who hatched such a heartless plot.
Wild Leafs flutter in a hue-laden town,
windows creak open, spritely faces gleam,
cheerful air burgeoning, no need to frown,
sweet fragrant coffee dock, a gust of hot steam,
just rejoice as the heavens don their gown
Bus stop close at hand, joyous high alert,
laughter billows skyward without panic,
rainbow veneered archway, daylight concert,
broadcast on the pavement, sound of manic,
street painter chalk marks granite slab, dull gray berth
It’s autumn and those colours bound to show,
bright clad walkway, budding Rembrandt canvass,
red hot sun trail blaze, smoldering, aglow,
ice cool fall in situ, magic atlas,
urban setting nod to season wide flow
Power lines a home for migrant songbirds,
they chirp at streetwise citizens in train,
who brave the latent chill in eager herds,
huff and puff swarm enduring tingly rain,
rapture in a plot for winter blizzards
Oh poetry is easy?
Tried now you’ve got anxiety;
Credit us as artists;
With metaphoric plot twists
we can transform reality.
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