Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Paper dolls gathered all around
With sticks and stones
And bones in the ground
All wait in line for venom
To course through the pins of violent delights
Ice and fire
Fire and ice
Voodoo in its politest form
Whimsy, witchcraft and throwing rice
Burn the ghosts of a ferocious past
And a love left forlorn
Red Fox Nov 2015
This is a little one sided
Cause I need to **** like I'm about to get indicted
Forget all those candles
And your need to light them
Come here and let me feel your tightness

Excuse my demeanor
I'm usually the politest.
Not trying to be loquacious,
Just a tad persuasive.
Don't have time for chit-chat
Just want to use my lips to make your lips flap

But, let's forget that
Tie you up
Go 50 shades
Place these furry cuffs where your wrist is at.
Maybe I'll be the perfect guy
Hem you up in a bathroom
Bite and **** on ya lip like a vacuum.

Maybe, just maybe I'm jumping the gun.
But these thoughts were fun.
So before I come off crazy,
Let me just say Hello to you, ***!
MdAsadullah Nov 2014
Dark souls within garbs bright.
Elegantly attired men in white.
As if politest creature on land.
Travel miles in verdure or sand.

Palms joined before the *****.
A traditionalistic Indian custom.
Faces with unending smiles.
False promises in stockpiles.

From street to street in clusters.
From door to door like beggars.
Their words like song of psalms.
Red or black, color of their palms.

But all are like seasonal bugs.
Many amongst them are thugs.
Their actions draws intense flak.
Tis a choice 'tween red or black.
Shivpriya Apr 2019
The residual feeling of
politest departure with
the loving manner,
sings out its heart to you.

This systematic means of the
language entreats its unquietly
wordlessness to give an
affectionate embrace to
your benignity.

The lover of this epic love
seems to be astounded by the
expounding intervention of your
tender verses.

-Restoring overtures of a trouveur endures an unnecessarily
worrying heart.

Shivpriya
#beautifulthingsandemotions
Abbie Victoria Apr 2019
I give you A nod, A how do you do.
You nod right back, in the politest way too.
I give you wave, on this particular day,
You copied my wave, in a similar way.
I moved to one side, to let you get by,
Yet you waited for me, without saying why.
I smiled at you, as you moved on behind,
I think maybe we’ve passed, some other time.
I change my path, from this way to that,
Then suddenly I see you, coming right back.
Is this simply A minor coincidence,
One of those that makes no sense.
Then I stop, I see you there,
Fixated on me, with your dark stare.
I dart to my left, you move to your right,
Your following me, I know your type.
I start to move, I pick up my pace,
Thats when we begin to race.
I criss and I cross, to shake you off.
I duck and I dive, to bide more time.
I have to stop for it’s no use,
For me to try too lose you.
You check mate me right throughout,
Without A SHADOW of A doubt.
caring but not careless
wanna see you happy
but won't sacrifice my will to live
when there is no greater good to it
won't kneel
won't expose my belly
for no ******* reward
for no reason
believe me
i like some part of you
i understand your story
but that doesn't mean i accept *******
i accept your humanity
and your right to **** up
and attempts to fix your mistakes
but i won't take this
even though i'm not perfect
i shouldn't have to be miserable
to make you happy
ishaan khandpur Aug 2019
Clique clique,
The white shone bright,
The politest of no's,
We don't accept you tonight.

Day's of hope,
They told us we could,
Make right a world gone wrong.
They say no, but their vote does go,
To the right they believe in now.

The smiles are haunting,
The people daunting,
Do we breathe the same air?

Our words are common,
Once they're spoken,
Yet you believe we'll never be there.

Polite and political,
Your medals shine,
It's a world just made for you.
Our thoughts unwanted,
Bills are glowing,
Right in front of you.

There's nothing wrong,
Yet nothing right,
And that is scary too.
It's the middle ground.
Not black and white,
That often gets you blue.
Muskan Kapoor Mar 2018
I am not to be remarked
as a lonely woman,
‘cause you may not know
or I may not seem so,
but I am
a big bad wolf.
Don’t you dare stare at my *******,
even if you are
desperate enough,
just remember,
that these little beasts
are looking right back at you.
Don’t you dare notice my curves,
even if you do
settle upon the extra weight
I carry,
be manly enough, to not judge me.
Don’t you dare look at my skirt length,
even if you are shameless enough to do that,
just remember
the shorter it goes,
your brain is shrinking to the same size too.
Don’t you dare assume that my smile means “**** me”
‘cause in the politest way I can say,
it means
“*******”
I crushed my cigarette into the
safety of flat, white ashes, watching
the smoke tread up among
clouds creased into these
craven shapes that
gingerly fade and
escape the sky—and
muscled up out of the
white-knuckled, cloud-muzzled,
muttering sunrise, some
quaint cut of an epitaph’s
cousin:

Mold grown over the
mold again—note

What blistering gifts
entrained in a thumb-
print, callused from
picking at so many
bolts, stripped

all of it soft as the
shirts that my grandmother’d
offered me, dregs of a dew-damp
aside, those
delicate flannels
my grandfather no longer
fit in—as well as a pair of white
oversized socks that had haughtily
disregarded the fact that my foot was
larger than what strange sole he squeezed
in a work boot.

                              —

My grandfather’d kept a bramble of anvils
thumbtacked together to shoulder a shed.

Each house he’d had, four
mortgages coldly afforded from
whispering proverbs to pistons, wearing
incomparable thumbprints down into
black-iron casts of milk glass-smooth tonsures
from loosening lockjawed bolts and Heineken caps,
from sussing the sweat and the schmutz
from an engine; had
   each a similar shed,
you’d dare not mention
aloud for fear of it filling with
dybbuks reduced to
woodgrain gusseting
ribs of young Bluebeard’s
           bloated potato barn—once,

he ushered me over to witness
the door uncurl from its verdigrised hinges, and
                 rolled out a rusted patio table like
          Sisyphus taking a day at the races. He

always wore these paper-frail v-neck tees
and jeans to cover his crepe-paper body. He,
well into his sixties, still could calmly suspend himself
straight from a t-***** fence post, perfectly
level with earth, even given its
gaily lazing curve, yes, perfectly

parallel. Parallel meaning that he and the

earth should never meet, for a moment, the
two of them **** near perfectly twain, except
for the stock stiff fencepost spelling out mercy
or mercy me, maybe, too deep in the flickering
woodgrain, really, for anyone willing to see it—

He gave me the patio table to salve and
sell as a vessel of oenomel vintage. He’d

never quite found the time to refurbish it. There-
by the anvils staked their claim, and I asked,

amid a frank flurry of each of his
four hunched children scribbling
names on an **** of moldering heirlooms,

"What’s with all the anvils, Papaw?"
"You can’t have my anvils," he mercifully
muttered. "No, really," I spluttered, "why

all the anvils"—now, this old
man that my father (his former
son-in-law) commonly
muttered of, clambering
praise, your grandfather works
              like an animal; this small
                                          man, whose
                                          legs, reflecting
                                          a maglite, just
                                          might elbow a
                                          hole in the Hoover
                                Dam, this man, who
spent every cheeseparing hour
immersed in a moat of work
with a snorkel of maybe
two Heinekens nightly, told me,
colder than stars collapse, "I wanted

to take up blacksmithing—albeit
I’d yet to find the time for it."

                                  It recalled
my father’s father once confiding
in me (a seduction, really, that led
to him asking me, telling me, "You," yes,
"you should chronicle [what was] my life"),

that Arlene, my father’s mother (replaced
by Darlene, some years later) had wanted for years
to be but a dressmaker—that, evermore tacitly
tragic still, that he, whose life had demanded
a chronicle, went to "my local baker and said,

you should train me. The Baker said, 'no.
You wouldn’t much like it.' I asked him again,"
and we’ll leave it at that. He’s retired and

twice now, once
as a cop and once
as a, what’s the politest way to say it, a
corrections officer, a
                                          prison guard, left

whittling down his
ribs and knees with
a sharpened spoon he’d
honed upon how many
broken bowls of spaghetti-
ing dreams drawn up in a listless
bone-braced cyst. At twenty,
he’d sired two children already.

A tidldibab is, of course, an invented name
for a bone with a hole in it somebody took
for an heirloom instrument, one that be-
queathed the urge to make music out
of, well, just about anything really—

That was the mold
grown over with
mold again: note

what blistering gifts
entrained in a thumb-
print, callused from
picking at so many
bolts, stripped.

— The End —