I’m the harshest critic,
the truest of nonbelievers,
when words of love are used.
Soapy words will not deliver
so please stop trying to be smooth.

Don’t compare me to a summer’s day!
I know that’s from some Broadway play.

Waste not flattery’s rose
praise not my grace,
at least not to my face,
you’re better off praising my clothes.

Forgo sweetness, promise nothing
then you may be onto something
say it, straight up, I won’t faint
trust me, sir, I am no saint.
.
.
A song for this:
Words of love by the Beatles
.
Maddy’ Music challenge:
“Write a poem based on three words from a song.”
Song: 'Words of love' by the Beatles 1964

There are pieces of you everywhere,                                                      ­                                       
   for as far as the eye can see                                                     
        ­                                                                 ­                                                          I want to erase you, but I don't dare                                                        
                                                                ­                                                        
in case you're still in love with me                                                               ­                     
                                                                ­                                                      
So, now they've become chess pieces                                                           ­             
                                                   ­                                                               
that I move strategically                                                    ­                          
                                                                ­                                            
Praying that my love decreases,                                                       ­                               
                                 ­                                                                 ­                      
so, I can start healing                                                          ­                                      
                                                                ­                                            
Playing a game with my love,                                                            ­                    
                                                                ­                                                
don't know if I'll win or lose                                                             ­             
                                                                ­                                                        
I have been playing this long enough,                                                          ­        
                                                        ­                                                          
this game between me and you

they said the clown was sorrow-shaped.
so I looped up in greasepaint—
swallowed a sunbeam,
coughed out a smirk,
and called the ache comedy.

somebody whispered
i fear the bruise.
nah,
i catalogue it.
line breaks for scars,
syntax for shame,
run the hurt through a voice modulator
’til even god can’t tell if i’m praying or riffing.

i’m not dodging the wreckage.
i just built a couch in it.
named the crater: “home?”
drank laughter from a cracked thermos
and kept warm in the glow of a rerun i never starred in.

i’ll play the ghost
if the script pays in quiet.
but don’t staple my name to your healing
and call it holy.

the truth?
clowns rot too.

some nights
i wanna peel off the latex,
lose the joke,
shave the wig,
and just exist—
not perform pain
in a dialect
you can quote later.

In a world of fake
I‘ll still be true
Through my heart ache
And I’m still blue
And love is love
And is never ending
From low to above
And now Im forgetting
The way you felt
In my arms
“Play the cards your dealt”
But when I do I hear alarms

Precocious baby, tempered to a china-blue hue, you
Had not been ripe as a morning glory
Before riots mongered in the plasma of your shapeless head.

Haunting as an omen, you
Had drank from the cord of my cold-blooded artery.
Turned my insides out like a shimmering dime bag
As we fell to the earth.

A moment of riverbank fog,
In the earliest morning,
Before the timid sun rises over the horizon,
Aghast from the surging push of a breeze,
Watching the tall grass sway like fingers out car windows.

The musk of Petrichor and Dew
Pervades every olfactory nerve,
Invading taste and thought like an intrusive guest,
Submissively I drop to my knees,
Bowing to the bountiful grace she bestows upon me.

As the waters clear,
And the sweet mandarin orange paints the sky,
I am comforted like a swaddled babe,
Perfect and clean.
Unlimited in my pursuit of peace,
I am burdened only with impatience,
Blessed with the soothing effect of her touch,
Awash in the company of the ancient groves,
Enthralled by the emerald city as her Vedant kin call to me.
From clay to bone, and back again,
Gaia, watch over me, all mother.

turn back the clocks, rewind it
there's something else behind this
not that hard to find it
but hard enough to fight it

Deep water springs,
that life it brings,
I don't fancy the sea,
only the day we met,
Confidence
shatters as it allows
a memory unforgotten,
I love but will haunt me.

I met two couples today
caught behind love’s curtain

one eighty-five and eighty-three
other twenty-one and twenty-three

twin flames
one a waning
a dim hospital wing

dual embers
both a growing
a sunlit park

I always said I wanted
the love of age
that testament faltered today

You make me cry,
In a good way.

I've never felt anything like this before,
Cradled in your loving arms,
Don't need therapy.

The time we spend together,
Is better.

The man takes a drink
And the drink takes a man

What if in my waning years
No child, friend or Love I find
close beside to truly know my mind?
This my midnight fear I ponder:
As time marches on
will I be left behind…

i’m still the same words in a new font
same old punchline but more nuanced
the same marathon you’ve been running
under all the layers, an onions still an onion

A frog eating flies in a bog
Told a princess, "I'm a prince, not a frog!
     I'm cursed with a curse
     That your kiss'll reverse."
So she kissed him, and he turned into a dog.

Fighting For Life

       Once there was a time
When all I could do was cry
I didn’t know how to live, everything
Would be alright if I could die

I never worried about Heaven
I was living in Hell
So like a turtle afraid of his own shadow
I stayed hidden in my own Shell

There were unsuspected Angels
I encountered along the way
And with their guidance and an
Unseen force I’m still alive today

Today I live a life so blessed and
Love is the overwhelming sense I feel
If I didn’t know any better
I would swear that it wasn’t real

I can only figure that even when
I was struggling with all my Strife
And I didn’t think I had a reason to live
I was actually Fighting For Life

Written By:Charles Kean
06/04/25

First type:

They revel in their past glories and successes.
They practically insist on being heard and hope they will be admired.
They are loud, very loud and insensitive.
They repulse others.

Second Type:

They say only a few words-- and in neutral terms-
moving away from themselves as they don't wish
to attract any attention to themselves.
Such people are self-sufficient unlike the first type.
They are likely to be amiable and pleasant people.

Between the two, the first seem to predominate--
such is the weakness of human nature

my heart used to flutter
when you texted me
I would gush at every compliment
but then
I was impatient to be called yours
you cut our situationship off
and decided we should be just friends
it broke my heart
as tears streamed down my face
but soon enough
I accepted it as that
but then
you became distant
and stopped replying to me
you left me on read/seen
it made my heart heavy
and stomach churn
I stopped begging for
your attention
and affection
now I no longer care
I do not feel anything for you
my heart is steady
I don't look forward to
your texts
I barely think of you
I am done
done with this mess
I will wipe my hands of
this situation
and leave it in the past

My mother once told me I was talented
She encouraged me, and told me to fly
But yesterday night, she whispered to self, "the only thing my daughter is talented at is becoming a disappointment."

Estos poemas los desencadenaste tú,
como se desencadena el viento,
sin saber hacia dónde ni por qué.
Son dones del azar o del destino,
que a veces
la soledad arremolina o barre;
nada más que palabras que se encuentran,
que se atraen y se juntan
irremediablemente,
y hacen un ruido melodioso o triste,
lo mismo que dos cuerpos que se aman.

born in the artic snow
she chromed
her heart
in steel

flames could
not
touch that heart

always a half a step ahead
sure
a few stumbles
but never a fall

and moonlight is just
a heartache in disquise

till one day
leaning out a car window
a scar upon his cheek
and the luck of the draw

was the jack of hearts

and the queen of diamonds
had
never met
anyone
quite like

the jack

of hearts,

black-haired blue-eyed
her beauty inspired
stupid men
to commit foolish acts

and as he smiled
the queen of diamonds
thought she had

the jack of hearts,

blue sky shimmering
in her eyes

jack became
the brightness
of her day

and the jack of hearts
saw a flame
flickering in her eyes
that he had never seen
in any women's eyes
before ...
                
               act. 2

... a strange destiny
was unraveling
and one long poker hand
was over
and the snowflakes came
down like ashes
under the street light

and then
the jack of hearts
walked away

a pale spirit fleeing
a graveyard
into the wall of night

and the queen of diamonds
cried

the sea into sky

with eyes
like twilight
waiting

to eat away the day

I’m a human library.
My heart is single page with one bleeding word.
An empty carcass pervaded by nothing but
shelves and books.
Cut me in half, letters shall pour out.
Calligrams in my fingertips.
My eyes spell a p o l o g e t i c, in advance to the librarian tasked with decoding my being,
Death by literature, cursive written fate.
I’m a human library.
My brain misspells the word love on purpose
It always only finds the characters that spell your name,
as if it was the only way I was taught.
I used my fingers to write memories in every
system I could comprehend.
I understood what it meant to be a library.
A walking poem.
A talking blue ink pen.
I have touched every pain-cured wall
in this museum,
so ask me anything about him, the pages to my mind will unfold
and you will be filled with the same knowledge
As that of a librarian that used to work in a morgue.

Once a pain
Now a love,
Once ignored,
Now unforgotten.
Sun came out,
I was enlightened.
Words flowed through,
my fingertips,
typing into poems.
I could talk through some words,
None would probably judge it.

I earned my bread
from the stubborn flesh of my body—
but it didn’t feed me,
didn’t fill me.

The moon had ripened full;
I cut from its cheese
and laid it in my bread.

From the next day,
I saw it sulk—
growing smaller,
then vanishing.

There are bugs under my skin
tiny little crawling things
I can feel them there
itching with their tiny legs

It aches somewhere deep
their teeth biting at the flesh
muscle and bone torn
by little pincers too small to be seen

They're there underneath my skin
crawling and itching
under there until it aches
and I can't get rid of them

I can feel them crawling
underneath my skin
their little legs brushing my nerves
and biting into muscles

Worms and ants and pinchers
roaches and beetles
all the tiny little things
all inside me

There's an ache there
that I can never reach
no matter how deep I scratch
they're always there

you fancy your mouth with cunning words
but you mistake everyone a lesser men than you

you blind yourself with confidence in your craftsmanship yet you shame others for things you are ignorant of

you dress yourself with the clothes of a free thinker yet you are as narrow as any

you dont realise your patterns and that is ok.

You are human. You will not be perfect. You will realise your hypocrisies too late. You will fail to improve.

You will end someday, and that is the only free thing you will ever be a part of.

My wet mouth, has left...

the heft,
of you,
to dangle low...

with your flavored ***,
still chambered,
in my strained
throat...

These hazy lips,
have swept
your member, in their
paint strokes.

And you, remain...
glittered, and glazed
in the shifting flickers,
of my
lip stain

Your thighs, and hips
are slick,
with spit,
restrained,
in chains, and clips...

do they eclipse
the pain?
When my fingertips
slip,
in sinuous ways,
between your straining limbs,
to maul, and grip,
your disco *****,
in a limber fist,
and to give their haul,
just, a little
twist...

"Mine...
You are mine..."

A sotto voce drawl,
on the "bottom" line,
as I scrawl these nails,
down your softened spine.

Now let's see,
what can happen,
when we cross, some lines.

Which one, is the Master,
and which one, the sub?
When a brat has got you lashed,
and stuffed
with your cheeks gashed,
and your back, up...

give that thick ****, a slap, but
I rub and tap, the plug,
until I feel you... clamp up...

Ready? I think you're ready.
I think you're hungry...
I think you need me.
But I hate, to disrupt you,
while you're lovingly feeding.

So let's give you something
that's fun to eat, then...?

Now, open.
Wide.

I'm gonna measure your throat,
with the bulk,
of the biggest, of mine.

Now I'm dragging the width,
down the bridge, of your nose,
and the fat, of your lips...
snap you, back, with a grin,
and a slap, of the tip...
As you grasp, at my hips,
through the strap, and the belt,
and latch on, to the shaft...
and then melt,
down the sides.

"Mine...
You are mine.
Don't you know...
that you are *******, mine?"

...With your lips, spread,
to ****...
as I'm thrusting,
inside.