Short Blunt Poems
Short Blunt Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Blunt by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Blunt by length and keyword.
When it comes to sex appeal, I think you're really cracking,
It's just in style,wit and charm that you are sadly lacking x
Blunt and sharp, are two types of humour.
Sharp humour striking as an acute knife.
If after show you will find body of a viewer,
It's means, your humour, no doubt, pretty fine!
There are people dying
There are women crying
The men are lying
And ostracizing
The men are flying
And falsifying
Its horrifying
It's mortifying.
This day
Words stray
Harsh way
Crisp choice
Stern poise
Deep voice
Feel hurts
Dust dirt
New skirt
Leap our
Clear shout
Firm pout
Kind tears
False fear
Clout clears
Leon Enriquez
26 September 2018
Singapore
Soft light and warm
a touch welcomes home
bed red and hot
heat rushes up
fire pulse and ache
welcomes us again
like waterfall
empty and full
soaked until I know no more
something calls me here
drinking sweet red and full of fear
drunk on pulse and desire
thoughts began to dewire
I've been working on it.
If I were a nib or stylus I'd be worn away.
Sometimes there's
too much space to fill with words,
sometimes there's not enough.
I'm digging my way out
of A Marriam-Webster dictionary.
I hope when I surface
I'll be empty-handed
but a lot sharper.
Craggy rats and batty facts,
stupid slaps of morbid hats,
sordid snacks coming out with lacerations of the ax-
horrible hacks doin' these attacks.
I'm loopin' it like rope to attach,
only catch ever is a brat,
lettin' um' off as I scooter around and knack-
I've got so many I'm like 'just laugh'.
Man whore
What's her name
What's her name
It sounds so
Familiar
In ringing ears
You drank too much
Again
Man whore
Whose she
Whose she
And why won't
She leave
Your head's pounding
How do you get
Her out of your bed
Man whore
You didn't mean it
You didn't mean it
You never do
You hope she
Understands
Walks out
And never calls
Form:
winter’s calling wind
blown messages least most falls
torn tween autumn fall
winter’s lull at last
approximate two half months
left to receive cold
and influx of snow
winter’s alarming burst of
temperatures below
thirty degrees and
under distance sun noon day
yet it still be cold
1/30/24
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2024©
Sharp
the thorns
who draw blood
from feared fingers
approaching the blooms
Grand garden gatekeepers,
patient and poised guardians
Watchdogs for their botanicals
keeping sound every velvet blossom
Granted ~ butterflies and bees entry
Protective the thorns as sentry
Diligent, the rose's friends
Weaker as Summer ends
While a rose withers
thorns become dull
on frail stems
point less
blunt
On the verge of genius
is where my inspiration stops.
Midway between the mundane,
and complex is where my wits commence.
The very thought of failure
freezes my blood, and binds my soul.
The individual memebers of society,
collectively hinder my celestial
ascension.
The best of my arsenal threatens no one.
My verbal assualt is cold hard, and blunt.
My intellect is bold brazen, and blunt.
My demeanor is driven scarred, and blunt
Form:
Corners blunt and blue
a hardened mold to meet
carry baggage seldom seen
a soap box on the street
Borden's white dare to fade
a peddler pulled the page
farmers daughter drawing near
soon to become of age
Streets still hold her beat
in calls that thrill the ear
reached echos and passing feet
smoke has disappeared
Decades do loom and roam
here tomorrow is standing still
memories that found a home
weathered, dustmen mill
They're really masked buzzards.
Singing sweetly like pretty larks.
Until they plunge a blunt black beak
deep inside your giving heart.
Once you're fully bled dry.
You'll be fed talons of worthless gems.
Gangrenous oxygen from broken harps.
Over your bones they'll hiss strange melodies.
Dump your soul in a shallow bowl of their own making.
They'll claim victory. Drinking at your expense.
It's best to quickly close every valve and never-never let them in.