grab some tea baby, it's midnight. this is today's slam thread.

Up too late. Up too late.
Reddit. Close Reddit. Tildes. Close Tildes.
Wash some dishes. Dry some dishes.
Up too late.
Trying to focus. Failing to focus.
Read a little. Write a little.
Wash a little. Dry a little.
Failing to focus.

There's a type of poetry called poulter's measure;
lines of twelve and fourteen syllables are in this treasure;
the reason for the name a question, unasked, begs;
the answer is too long for verse, but has to do with eggs.

If for further details your heart should strongly burn,
I suggest to Google or Wikipedia you turn.
There's limits to any self-referential poem,
but they are at least something you can safely try at home.

I thought I’d cook up a poem today, but my bag of words
broke before the kettle and skittered across the floor;
bouncing off the moldings and sliding under the fridge.
Well, crap. No quiet clack of pintos or lentils here.
They hurt my feet with sharp lego consonants and a slip of marbled vowels.
All I can do is gather them up,
peppered with cat hair, dirt, and a mixed metaphor.
I guess the bottom of my mind could use sweeping.
No pottage for me tonight - just a carton of intellectual take-out,
and a secret love of dust bunnies.

FUCK

it is imperative that you fart,
lest pressures grow and tear you apart.
But remember this, see;
just as with comedy,
timing elevates it to an art.

~On Butterflies~

Oh, tiny, fragile, wondrous jewels
Who float so lightly in the breeze,
The ones who scorn you: Simple fools,
Who have small brains with some disease.
They point and laugh at wingéd bugs
As if to make a poignant jeer,
But only 'cause they ne'er got hugs
From Mom and Dad in early years.
If asked which color they'd prefer
To decorate their bedroom walls,
They would to stinky poo refer
By choosing that of bathroom stalls.
Their cortices are slight and withered;
Their mental powers, microscopic.
Their caprices wander there and hither,
As they jump to stupid topics.
Their families all pretend to love
The time they spend with butter-haters,
But quietly pray to God above
They'd die in big, explosive craters.
The friends they make regret the day
They met the ones who scorn the 'flies,
And likewise they all meet to pray
That each and every falls and dies.
So listen, readers young and old,
And heed the yarn I wisely weave.
I'd best, if I may be so bold,
Suggest if you hate bugs, then LEAVE!

can't write a thing
when you won't take the time
to scribble one word

Here's something I just finished:

The sun shines on the earth for free,
the source of all its verdancy,
from lowly squill to lofty tree.

Though briars choke the lives they climb,
the sun counts climbing as no crime,
just shines at its determined time.

Judgement lives within the ground
as night comes, dark creeps, without sound,
from earth, 'till all above is drowned.