Quotes about squirm, page 5
Dandelions
caught in the fog
that separates the distance between us
drowning under waves
waves that stir up trouble
slapping a desert with more dust
searching for the source
of talk that hurries and cowers
beneath the cloud of a rumor
before i can crush this weed
they pronounce it a flower
now i'm twisting and turning
waiting for this bond to break
bearing the consequences for words i never owned
and even after they scatter
they will move in on you and make themselves at home
a feeling that i will never shake
and the part that aches the most
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poem by Aria Siren
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Secretary
My Master is a man of might
With manners like a hog;
He makes me slave from morn to night
And treats me like a dog.
He thinks there's nothing on this earth
His money cannot buy,
And claims to get full wages worth
From hirelings such as I.
But does he? Though a Man of State,
And fabulously rich,
He little guesses that his mate
Is just a bonny bitch.
For he is grey and gross and fat,
While I am tall and slim,
And when he's gone it happens that
I take the place of him.
Oh God! The beauty of the blow
When I will blast his life;
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poem by Robert William Service
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Claim For Fame
The journey is brutal when you arrive nowhere
striving for unsaid perfection.
Life drips. Your wounds snap the love.
A tale becomes a twister.
Between the blinds is buried, the window. In dark
a depression fills the room.
The untethered loneliness.
Fearing from self.
A time to become insane without anchorage.
My ruined book becomes a home for spiders.
Bewildered dreams rise like vampires from the skull.
I will not mourn the body.
The spirit walks like the white light.
It was a thwarted desire, to die empty-handed
beside the troubled mind.
Was there a path to truth?
Being, what lies are?
The soul rustling the shadows of mortal thoughts.
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poem by Satish Verma
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Prison As Metaphor
The time was almost right
for the recitation of a poem
when the judge asked me
if I had anything to say before sentencing.
I wanted to say Yes – why the 'anything to say' ritual?
To make me squirm
before the varnished gavel comes down?
Oh, and why the gavel ritual?
But I said No.
I am guilty
so there is nothing else you need to know about me,
My crime, not me,
sits in a cell with green walls
When I arrived I would not lie down
Because that would make it my home
A voice on the radio says
“My life feels like prison.”
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poem by Michael Philips
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Strangling watch he re-arranges
How long will it last, this happiness I'm feeling?
Long enough for me to shed the skin I'm peeling?
Slow baked beneath the golden yoke of summers ego
Lay the sanctuary of winter’s snow.
Lies asylum for those that know, for those who seek
The glow of the forest trail, who await the girl named Guess to show.
Always to try, always to fail, whether it be upon the
Astral plain or it be digging in dirt for the glow worm
Awaiting an excuse.
Watch him squirm, watch him change,
Strangling watch he re-arranges
Deranged within debauchery,
Whilst accusations of sorcery made him laugh,
Made him cry, If only he had the time to pass he said as he whimpered
His last sigh, as he kissed the sky goodnight, mourning the death of
Memory, the death of the sun he would never again have kiss his cheek
Goodbye.
poem by David Lacey
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The Cow and the Sow
The grazing Guernsey cow said to the wiggly-eared sow,
“Is it because of all your babies that you’re happy now? ”
The wiggle-eared sow thought as her babies had their meal.
Then said, “Happiness is from inside me. It’s just how I feel.”
I love my babies as they root and squirm with thirst.
They add to my happiness, but it starts in my heart first.
Well, the grazing Guernsey was confused and did fret.
She was unhappy with herself since she had no babies yet.
The wiggly-eared sow sensed the grazing cow was sad
And said, “You’re beautiful and of that you should be glad.
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poem by Gregory Huyette
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The Dentist’s
Your mouth hurts inside for the pain comes from the teeth,
Pain is destructive to the teeth, its gums are bleeding;
Must we learn further help and admiration, or just weep?
First, the aching stops and then the dentist stops,
We all feel murdered, but why?
Firstly, mouths are meant for munching, fully chomping
The food residing in the head, feeding the brain as fast as it can;
We are not dentists, but full doctors, but full nurses,
As hospitals go, we stand firm on our teeth chattering away in the cold.
We felt absurd knowing your teeth.
The main worry was when it made me squirm, and then burn,
Too late, the drill was performed, with too much work,
And that was purity and goodness in the process,
For me, for me, and for those who call themselves the dentist.
We do find teeth a chore, always to be restored.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Sperm or No Sperm
All of a sudden he decides,
He wants to be in his children's lives.
They have been long on their own.
And alone they grew up...
Until they were grown.
Now 'daddy' decides,
He'd like to be a father by their side.
All of a sudden he wants to play dad.
Even his ex-wife and grandchildren...
Don't think of him.
And when they do those thoughts are sad.
He has lived his life,
Being one of the 'boys'!
And now that he has put away his toys...
He shows up...
To annoy!
And all who witness this,
Agree!
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Swamp
There's a swamp at the end your bed, he said,
at the end of my bed there's a swamp.
My daddy told me so, he did
whenever I wouldn't stay in bed.
There's a swamp at the end of your bed.
The swamp at the end of my bed
is filled with icky worms,
they squirm about and wriggle.
They're horrible, slippery worms, they are
They're horrible, slippery worms.
Still, I stole my daddy's boots last night,
I stole my daddy's boots
and when the hand strikes 12 O'clock
down to the end of the bed, I'll go
to the end of the bed, to the end of the bed,
down to the very edge.
Down in the quagmire's inners
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poem by Ruth Walters
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France
Because for once the sword broke in her hand,
The words she spoke seemed perished for a space;
All wrong was brazen, and in every land
The tyrants walked abroad with naked face.
The waters turned to blood, as rose the Star
Of evil fate denying all release.
The rulers smote, the feeble crying "War!"
The usurers robbed, the naked crying "Peace!"
And her own feet were caught in nets of gold,
And her own soul profaned by sects that squirm,
And little men climbed her high seats and sold
Her honour to the vulture and the worm.
And she seemed broken and they thought her dead,
The Over-Men, so brave against the weak.
Has your last word of sophistry been said,
O cult of slaves? Then it is hers to speak.
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poem by Cecil Edward Chesterton from Poems of the Great War
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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