Category Archives: poetry

A Lay with the Violet Rose

Woman

Woman

A Lay with the Violet Rose

I wonder what became of the girl who once said she believed in me.
Is she still meandering about the earth with her delicate feet, white as snow and tender as lavender?
Her wide eyes still captivate my psyche, along with that petite body that so elegantly steals the hearts of men who dare gaze upon it whilst glaring in awe as she lies down in translucent garments atop a lofty sheep-fur-covered sofa like the white Queen of Sheba that she is.
I doubt she ever bore love for me, nor any sentiment of good feeling other than that of admiration for my talents in the art of crafting words, melodies, and thought into one unified element;
Though she did have an exceptional affinity that gravitated towards my cock.
She loved it. And in return for her love of it I gave it to her. And she loved it. So much so that her tight pale perky little ass swelled up after the endless pounding of my pulsating, blood-engorged, steel-hard cock that endured so long a thrusting it shot out my love juice almost as vehemently as dragonfire.
The fluids emitted all over her buttocks and violet dress, which was partially covering the rest of her back. I carried on slathering my slowly receding phallus along the curves of her ass and thighs as she lied on her stomach along the bed.
She carried on with the heavy breathing, in awe and in bliss of the obscurely gratifying sodomy.
I then seized the suckling of her breasts and neck with my tongue and swiftly rose up from the bed.
None of us spoke; and nothing was said.
We both got what we wanted, and despite the ecstasy wrought upon her by the beast of her wildest and most inconceivably deepest fantasies, she still didn’t love me.
I was fine with that.
But before I left, and that would be the last goodbye, she told me, and in stressed expressions, that she believed in me and my art and though we may or may not ever cross paths again that she’ll surely feel me through the work I do and will never cease to seek inspiration from it, be it in the open or private.
And that’s all I really have to say about her.

by Mensur Gjonbalaj

March 12, 2015

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In My Dreams

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In My Dreams

These dreams I dream are godforsaken torture.
A day of good work and fun ought to be complimented by a night of sweet rest and slumber.
But you still haunt me every night.
From the moment I lie in bed I begin to fade away from reality
and into the inner annals of my deceivingly wretchéd subconscious.
I see you, laying next to me, whispering in my ear, and caressing my feet with yours in that strange way.
Deep in my heart I miss those memories,
though now they are only memories.
When you come to me I feel the calmness of companionship;
It’s as if you’ve never left and have always been here.
I see your face as if it had been the only face I’ve ever seen with my blind eyes.
The room is dark. But you illuminate it.
I don’t think much of you during my days.
You don’t even come up in passing thoughts.
Nor are lurking behind the melancholy lyrics and tender melodies of songs.
Yet you are always there with me in the dark of night.
Perhaps, that’s where you ought to dwell, in my dreams.

By Mensur Gjonbalaj
March 9, 2015

Pain

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Pain

Pain

The cold wind scowls across my body,
burning my face and leaving my body frozen in agony.
The pain is intense.
But as I take a moment to disregard the fleeting discomfort
it occurs to me:
Life is pain, existence is torture.
Comfort and life aren’t synonymous.
There is nothing I can do to stop it.
It never goes away and will never go away.
I’m stuck in a frenzy of everlasting toil and doom.
I take the pain.
I embrace the pain.
I become the pain.
This I know all too well
and for all too long.
All I’ve ever feared was the pain taking me.
And if it does triumph over my governing,
Well, what difference does it make?
I’ll never escape the tragedy that is life.
Whether I take the pain or the pain takes me,
It’ll forever remain one in the same.

By Mensur Gjonbalaj
January 6, 2015

Papaoutai – Stromae

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Papaoutai - Stromae

Today I’d like to share a song by a Belgian recording artist, Stromae.

Papaoutai

Dites-moi d’ou il vient
Enfin je saurais ou je vais
Maman dit que lorsqu’on cherche bien
On finit toujours par trouver

Elle dit qu’il n’est jamais très loin
Qu’il part très souvent travailler
Maman dit travailler c’est bien
Bien mieux qu’être mal accompagné
Pas vrai?

Où est ton papa?
Dis moi où est ton papa!
Sans même devoir lui parler,
Il sait ce qui ne va pas.
À sacré papa!
Dis moi ou es-tu caché!
Ça doit
Faire au moins mille fois que j’ai
Compté mes doigts
Hé!

Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es, où t’es où papa, où t’es?

Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es, où t’es où papa, où t’es?

Quoi, qu’on y croit ou pas
Y aura bien un jour ou on n’y croira plus
Un jour ou l’autre on sera tous papa
Et d’un jour a l’autre on aura disparu

Serons-nous détestables?
Serons-nous admirables?
Des géniteurs ou des génies?
Dites nous qui donne
Naissance aux irresponsables

Ah dites nous qui, tient,
Tout le monde sait
Comment on fait des bébés
Mais personne sait
Comment on fait des papas
Monsieur je-sais-tout
En aurait hérité, c’est ça.

Faut l’sucer d’son pouce ou quoi?
Dites nous ou c’est caché,
Ça doit…
Faire au moins mille fois qu’on a
Bouffé nos doigts
Hé!

Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es, où t’es où papa, où t’es?

Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es, où t’es où papa, où t’es?

Où est ton papa?
Dis moi où est ton papa!
Sans même devoir lui parler,
Il sait ce qui ne va pas.
Hein sacré papa!
Dis moi où es-tu caché!
Ça doit…
Faire au moins mille fois que j’ai
Compté mes doigts
Hé!

Où est ton papa?
Dis moi où est ton papa!
Sans même devoir lui parler,
Il sait ce qui ne va pas.
Hein sacré papa!
Dis moi où es-tu caché!
Ça doit…
Faire au moins mille fois que j’ai
Compté mes doigts
Hé!

Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es, où t’es où papa, où t’es?

Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es? Papa, où t’es?
Où t’es, où t’es où papa, où t’es?

English translation:

Tell me where he’s from
Finally I know where I’m going
Mother says when we search good
We’ll be done looking forever

She says he’s never very far
He goes to work every day
Mother says working is good
Better than being in bad company isn’t it?

Tell me, where are you papa?
Without even talking to him he knows what he did is wrong
It’s holy papa, tell me where are you broken, you must
It’s been at least one thousand times, I counted my fingers

Where are you? Papa, where are you?

Even if we believe it or not
There’ll be a day we’ll believe it no more
A day or another, we’ll be complete papa
And one day or the other we’ll be going away

Will we be hateful?
Will we be admirable?
Broodstock or geniuses
Tell us who gave responsibility without caring

Ah tell us who it is
Everyone knows how to raise a child
But no one knows how to raise a father
Mister know-it-all,
We would have inherited, that’s it.

Sucking his thumb too much or what?
Tell us where it’s broken,
It must be at least one thousand times we have eaten our fingers

Where are you? Papa, where are you?

Tell me, where are you papa?
Without even talking to him he knows what he did is wrong
It’s holy papa, tell me where are you broken, you must
It’s been at least one thousand times, I counted my fingers

Where are you? Papa, where are you?

By Stromae
2014

Forbidden Love

Forbidden Love
There’s a girl I like.
She’s beautiful.
A face like no other with hair black as night
and eyes that sharpen my sense of sight.
Olive skin, with a tint of gold,
and a body so curvaceously tight
It’d be sinful not to hold;
But the sin is her.
Poets write their poems of beauty and love,
whilst God sends down his decrees from heaven above.
Musicians sing songs of passion-fueled cove
and strum the strings of penniless songs
to the tales of fantasy.
Mine is not a fantasy, nor is it mindless banter.
It’s a classic coming-of-age piece about a man of age in pursuit of a coming-of-age beauty.
Forbidden love.
Society is corrupt.
Age is but a number, and a number we judge based on what we believe to be appropriate.
But what about nature?
Has nature no say in what is natural?
After all we are the product of nature and natural existence.
So who’s to say what is right and wrong?
What I see in these fabrications is no consistence!
I’m no fiend. Only an admirer in awe of the sublime.
Where’s the reason and rhyme
in forbidding love between two souls consenting to enjoin?
If it’s wrong then I beg to differ on what people see as right.
Natural attraction is no crime.
See, I’m a speaker of truth.
I talk of what is natural and beautiful.
Those who decree otherwise only feed lies
So that they may cover up deeds most pitiful:
Incestuous and child-crazed demons who do not follow their mere desires
But instead practice rituals instilled by a most diabolical power.
I like going far like this.
She’s that delicate, she’s that sweet.
I want to taste her lips, I bet they’re better soothing than wine.
I want to caress her smooth and soft skin.
Those ample and fresh breasts, they ought to be suckled.
As for her pussy, I want my tongue in there licking up the outer and inner walls of her pinky flesh.
I want to suck the juice out of it and lick her clit so vivaciously that it gets even more wet
So that I could enter my hard, throbbing dick inside of it and rock her til she’s in a state of inescapable bliss.
That’s the beauty of life.
I don’t make things like this up,
It’s all God.
He made us.
The devil didn’t. He’s just jealous.
Call it forbidden love, call it sexual deviancy.
It is what it is and is you ever tried living maybe you’d see the beauty behind it.

Mensur Gjonbalaj
December 2014

How I Make My Music – A Poem by The King of Pop

Michael Jackson

Michael Jackson

Today I’d like to share a poem by the late and beloved King of Pop, Michael Jackson. His music will live forever and he will go on being the greatest entertainer of all time.

How I Make My Music

People ask me how I make music. I tell them I
just step into it.It’s like stepping into a river and
joining the flow. Every moment in the river has
it’s song. So I stay in the moment and listen.
What I hear is never the same. A walk
through the woods brings a light, crackling
song:Leaves rustle in the wind, birds chatter and
Squirrels scold, twigs crunch underfoot, and
the beat of my heart holds it all together. When
you join the flow, the music is inside and outside,
and both are the same. As long as I can listen to
the moment, I’ll always have music.

by Michael Jackson