Kitchen Life
You want it to be organized,
Your prep lined up in rows.
Each dice and cut the perfect size,
And service time just flows.
But one little error can descend to anarchy.
That customer is celiac,
And this bread’s not gluten free!
You donkey! Start again!
You race to do another plate.
It’s criminal to make them wait.
Head down and hope they don’t complain.
And get your rhythm back again.
But then somebody burns the steak,
And you’re almost out of lava cake!
The bills are coming in like mad.
Noise. Chaos. Where’s my prep cook!
Damn it. I quit!!
Aeriy.
they raised their pitchforks
the crowd gathered sticks
and picked up stones
ready to break Aeriy’s bones.
voices rang loud in the air
many folks gave a hearty cheer
ready to set Aeriy ablaze
they gathered piles of hay.
they lit the sticks ‘n’ hay
that they’d placed around Aiery’s feet,
a cry was heard from the crowd
— a lad had fallen to the ground!
some folks lost their sight,
others failed to hear a thing
not even the sound of Aiery sing
loudly for the creatures to hear
out of the woods a pack of wolves
appeared before the village
they failed to escape from Aiery’s
loyal, quick & hungry army.
Aiery snapped her fingers
the fire grew stronger
it hissed, & went flying
destroying everything in the village.
the wolves howled and waited
for their Master to head back
to their own resting place
in the dark, misty woods.
#Aeriy.
jeudi, 3 octobre, 2019. ©
Poetic Licence to Kill
Sometimes the rhythm just flows
A writer somehow, he just knows
(Well it might be a she, I suppose)
And the feeling of inspiration just steadily increases and grows.
Like a big flower.
The words of poetry are sweet
And verse can often seem neat
As sentences seem to complete
Themselves without much input from the writer
Like magicness.
A poet has licence, it seems
To say that it’s not what it seems
And the words hold together like seams
As the poet paints a new world composed of his dreams
(or hers, in some cases.)
But today, I decided to kill
And sabotage what I write, so I will
By destroying its rhyme
Whilst at the same time
Completely disrupting the flow of its rhythm and destroying its magic(ness).
Like this.
:)
Forgot to say, if you enter, please tag me. cheers!
Mixed Emotions
I love your smile.
I love your style.
I go the mile.
Though you take me
for granted
sometimes,
asking for more than
you need.
Filling your heart up
with greed.
Don’t let it take over
your mind!
I think you’re cool.
I think you rule.
Although it’s cruel
when you
let anger
and rage
destroy our
forever friendship
Yelling with
quivering lip.
Fury belongs
in a cage!
I love you so.
I want you to know.
I want it to show.
So listen up
now!
Listen to ME.
Don’t let it
take over your
personality!
Be yourself!
I SAID
BE
YOURSELF
AND
SNAP
OUT
OF
IT!
I like who you are.
I think you’re a star.
You’re going to go far.
Just breathe.
Police
You have issued me a task
and all of my you ask
is to write a rhyme
and I do this all the time
I could write about the moon
or the summer nights in June
But instead, let's play a game
and "Police" is its name
What's wrong with English prose
is amoung us there are those
who take a certain word
then redefine it, so obsurd
"Police" is one of these
to understand is a breeze
it's a verb, adjective, a noun
Heck, it could even be a town
How many times can you say
"Police" in a way
That sounds like a phrase
Here is one of the ways
"Police police police Police police policing Police police."
Ignored and Silenced
Mesmerised by nature
I walk and I see
A splendid picture,
How can she be...
"Hey! Look out, man!"
So pretty? Enduring
The malice of mankind,
An abuse, recurring,
But still, she shined...
"Are you blind or something?"
And now yet again,
A structure, being made,
She cries in pain
As green starts to fade...
"Sir, it's not safe to go out there!"
Does it seem so strange
To let ideas rearrange?
And try to make a change?
Oh, please! Make a chan-
.
.
.
"A person has been found dead in an unfortunate accident at a construction site today."
A symphony of nonsense?
A gentle breeze does blow
A sacred bird flies low
To sweep through misty air
To find one who might be fair
Alas a dragon comes this way
Fire
Blast
Blast
Oh the sacred bird
A dark raven does crow
A mind so vast cannot know
To what lengths a bird can care
To find one who might be a bear
Grass singes on the night time's watch as to the time it has no clue.
A ballerina dances through the steamy forest and as for the time, she does not know.
The sacred bird did know
but was wiped out by a foe.
Pencils Are Good And Stuff
A yellow pencil placed,
Just so that it is not covering the words you want to read.
A simple line of yellow.
Simple beauty and it's just a pencil.
So much potential.
To write or start a revoulution 'cause words have power and stuff.
A rounded eraser,
Well-used because I make a lot of fricking mistakes.
Gateways to the mind,
Pathways to the minds and souls and head and stuff of others.
Sharpened to a point,
Like a mind after hours spent writing.
Yup, lots of stuff happening with those there pencils.
Nice and magical and stuff.
Pencils are weapon,
Against words and muggers that want your money in an alleyway.
Yup, they're pointy.
Good for creating a flow to your thinking, but I'm taking that away.
No flow!
Pencils build,
And break the fourth wall that those writers make such a big deal of.
Congratulations.
You just read something attempting to be decent writing,
That had no flow.
You just read about a piece of painted wood,
Stuffed with graphite.
Flow,
Flow flow flow.
No flow!
I'm a writer,
So I can do whtever I want.
Choke on that thought.
Flow, flow, flow, flow, flow, flow
Flow, flow, flow