I wrote a serious one, although it's rather dense.
FOUR O'CLOCKS
Four o’clocks are the smallest worlds,
Two pinpricks short of perfect eyelid gray
So close it feels like dust.
Four o’clocks make blind musicians,
Leaden air on hands and necks and faces
Keeps the only time that never really mattered,
Makes breaths like little blasphemies,
Thankless for the onetwothreefourfives that deafen silent almosts anyway;
No time for thanks.
Four o’clocks make us small enough for comfort,
Coiled up in paper bodies.
Still we miss the point.
The eyelid grey is only close because I cannot touch it.
Four o’clocks make Russian dolls,
Time stretched so thin I have a hundred echoes.
Still I miss the point.
We ought to break all the mirrors,
Maybe then we can remember to forget about the onetwothreefourfives.
Four o’clocks make liars,
Reflections of the green light bear us back and back
Until the leaden air forgets, and all I do is sixseveneight.
Five o’clocks forget their smallness,
Pink and blue and yellow cast a paper shadow.
Gray truths turn to black and white and two dimensions remember all my dreams too late.
Fingerprints were mountain ranges, now too big for comfort,
Now too small for almosts.
Still I miss the blasphemies.
Still I miss the point.
Onetwothreefourfive; no time for thanks.
tomorrow is being baked today
You know you want it...
Violets are grey.
**** off,
I am colorblind.
violets are brown,
who s*** on my garden?
^didn't make that up
FOUR O'CLOCKS
Four o’clocks are the smallest worlds,
Two pinpricks short of perfect eyelid gray
So close it feels like dust.
Four o’clocks make blind musicians,
Leaden air on hands and necks and faces
Keeps the only time that never really mattered,
Makes breaths like little blasphemies,
Thankless for the onetwothreefourfives that deafen silent almosts anyway;
No time for thanks.
Four o’clocks make us small enough for comfort,
Coiled up in paper bodies.
Still we miss the point.
The eyelid grey is only close because I cannot touch it.
Four o’clocks make Russian dolls,
Time stretched so thin I have a hundred echoes.
Still I miss the point.
We ought to break all the mirrors,
Maybe then we can remember to forget about the onetwothreefourfives.
Four o’clocks make liars,
Reflections of the green light bear us back and back
Until the leaden air forgets, and all I do is sixseveneight.
Five o’clocks forget their smallness,
Pink and blue and yellow cast a paper shadow.
Gray truths turn to black and white and two dimensions remember all my dreams too late.
Fingerprints were mountain ranges, now too big for comfort,
Now too small for almosts.
Still I miss the blasphemies.
Still I miss the point.
Onetwothreefourfive; no time for thanks.
Violets are blue
I hate rhyming
Penis
maybe they weren't brought up right.
or maybe just dumb.
Heres one from me:
Theres a texture pack in my signature
you should click it
because monkeys eat bananas.
was that prose my friend?
'cause haikus use syllables
they're 5-7-5