banana is the middle ground of old age and youth bc it is the combination of baby and nanna. all bananas are 40 years old
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“Morpheus my heart is yours, always was and will be. It’s my butt I can’t ignore. Morpheus I’m gassy!
Oh my heart it aches to play, but my gut will have its way. Oh the day I’d dark and long and I’ve already gone! I’ve gone.”
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it is a part 3 of 3 but i’m not sure on posting the others, they should be done in the next week. <3
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Pooetry. The crossroad between shitposting and poetry.
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the four horsemen of notes app genres
* chaotic grocery lists
* "pOoEtRy"
* 3am depressing realisations
* out of context earphones times observations
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why not
cuz #FacemojiAI "ɪ'ᴍ ᴘᴏᴏᴘɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴘᴀɴᴛs" 💩💩💩 ʙᴜᴛ ᴀᴛ ʟᴇᴀsᴛ ɪ'ᴍ ɢɪᴠɪɴɢ ʙɪʀᴛʜ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀᴘɪᴇᴄᴇ 🎨👶 #ArtFromTheRearEnd #ShitHappens #PoopArt #ButtSeriously #ToiletHumor #OopsIDidItAgain #Pooetry #Crapchat #PottyMouth #FlushedWithSuccess #BottomsUp 🍑🚽💩
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I only ever write when I drink so I immediately forget it the next day and don't remember it for a while so every time I open my pooetry folder in the notes app it's like reading a new book of poetry that I've never seen except it's all kinda dogshit
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Arent i sucha crisped up snacc just lkke a little rat mmmmm pooetry
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Poetry Poo-spectives
Join me for a special episode of the Spilling the Ink talk show as we celebrate National Haiku Writing Month with Anton Cancre and Amy Zoellers. Get inspired and learn about the art of haiku as we dive into some deep haipoo.
It’s the first Saturday of the month, and that means SPILLING THE INK will be all about the poetry. Amy Zoellers joins me along with special guest Anton Cancre to celebrate February as National Haiku Writing Month. Anton is one of the poets and the editor of HAIPOO: 7 POOSPECTIVE IN POOETRY. I have poems in this collection as well. It’s sure to get weird. Ending this week’s PUBLISHERS SHOWCASE…
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Cuando escribo sobre ti, me gusta terminar la oración con una coma. Me aterra la idea de poner un punto y seguido, y con el paso del tiempo darme cuenta que era el punto final.
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Baby
I carve four letters into the page darling baby mine
Your words intoxicate me, lovely and sweet as honey wine
Over and over they bleed onto my page, in my notebook margins, penned
It’s permanent ink but scratched off quick, a firm fast life bookend
Baby is an odd nickname, one for ones or twos or threes
But to call a woman your baby means she could bring you to your knees
Bring me to my knees oh love and make it swift and neat
Call me baby as I go, an un-bitter bittersweet
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I find comfort in the eviler things,
in the figures of vengeance and suffering.
In the pernicious creatures lurking in the dark,
tempting, sinful, whispering wisdom and sweet deals.
My fearful mind often wanders into a swamp
of brown and green and sweet smell of rot,
each step bringing me lower into the thick
waters, filled with roots and carcasses
until the overwhelming buzz of life can no
longer be heard, my head well under the surface.
I feel the embrace of the marsh itself,
or the putrid creature it inhabits,
covering, cradling me in wet leaves and
soft algae, its humanoid torso rumbling with
low, calm voices. Gleaming eyes, hidden
behind a curtain of liana and proud deer-like
horns offering silent protection. This being
will reside in the depths, and I withing it, accepting its shelter.
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Its been a while.
The voice came back-
And its been killing me daily.
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First of all, dismiss ideas, and social background, and train the freshman to shiver, to get drunk on the poetry of Hamlet or Lear, to read with his spine and not with his skull.
Vladimir Nabokov on how to discover Shakespeare.
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Claustraphobia
sets in by noon, the sky is
dark and gloomy too
I laugh because it's
something funny from last year
I stop since it's gone
the hours melt like
my heart did in May;
still is to this day
I think long and hard
working on art, realizing
destiny is mine
if I wanted to
I could run away to be
happy, finally
escapism at
it's finest, I do it quite
often, only to help cope
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Planeta Ziemia
Krystian Jęrzejec
Planetę ogarnął szał
Deszcz iluzji się lał
Budząc do życia
Kwiaty fałszu
A duch prawdy
Spał
Świat zasłonięty kalką
Jestem białą pustą kartką
Pośród kłamstw
Wylanych jak tusz
W bibliotece dusz
Mój ogród płonie
W nim szklane słonie
Ogniem trawione
Najwyższą cenę płacą
Życie tracą
Za ziemi oczyszczenie
Boże !
Ześlij otuchy promienie
Daj nam instrukcje
Jak żyć
By nie niszczyć
Twoje stworzenie
Planetę Ziemię
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