Beneath a skirt of springtime clouds Diana bares her bottom, wide. I stare, transfixed. Such curvature! And paleness that I dare not miss. I reach for her as roses blush. My hope eclipses at arm’s length. Flawless skin but for a dimple. And though I’ve bravery to touch, I find, much to my great surprise, I’ve not the strength to reach her.
10:17 and the summer sun sets.
Sneak outside with a plastic water bottle
of pink lemonade and vodka in one hand
and your fingers locked tight in the other.
Starry sky, tall grass, stolen kisses.
A trail of freckles on your shoulder
and down your shirt.
Soft hands and whispers.
This night is ours
and we know everything is diamonds.
in families there is a sixth sense streaming
from life to life unyielding
with skill born of necessity
we wept and culled the ties
and mourned the loss of our old rules
and skies
escaping's harder than it seems
revere our old customs and tales
we are just what we were: but less
what binds still binds through seas
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
i am all mine
and she is all hers
but we once were all ours
now she lays in winter grass
encased in summer snow
through a state of blank respite
a deity unknowing the lust she mirrors
a standard of beauty is clear
to begin with inanimate time
her voluptuous just past growth
expressing rapture that still cosigns
the eternal paramour her life a simulacrum
and a bespectacled gaze
the world she is viewing is not of here
so truly could she never know or ever care
of this thunderous want to simply hold her palms
and feel her pulse-less calm
despite the fact that no amount of warmth will ever reach her
and no amount of tears could ever bring her back to me
I just wanted my shirt
to hang next to your pants
but my colors are always angry
they go into rants
about how your apples hog the fridge
and your pictures crowd the wall
not like my shoes get closet space at all
The counter is covered
in masks that you wear
a different color for every mood
not that I care
you change those
like changing underwear
so much I can't even tell
if everything I do
is taken very well
because it always is taken
like the taxes or the dead
but the only ghost I see
is the one in my head
a ghost of youth
and the eulogy read
whisked away by a judge
to the land of the wed
we are gathered here today
to witness some misery
two people who settled
for the runner-up victory
not the gold nor the silver
but at least we're on the stand
crying off into the sunset
holding regretful hands
when I just wanted my socks
to share a drawer with yours too
my whites are always angry
remembering life without you
that life so happy
not smothered in blues
my old heart feels borrowed
and it's time to renew
I just wanted my tie
to hang next to your dress
but the man in these clothes
is a slobbering mess
unable to fathom
the way that he's blessed
I know that it's hard
to give up what you own
but I promise it's better
than the pain we have known
or the lack of compassion I've shown
like a classic bait and switch
I'm a salesman with a pitch
to sell you back your life
nothings cheaper than a *****
I'll close down the store
this love business is a chore
I need to retire myself
I can't take anymore
so take me out to the curb
and leave me behind
the greatest gift to be kind
is for me to become
out of sight and out of mind
The Stains of a Wedding Cake
-Amory McKeever (known as IcecreamMan80 on MTGSalvation), 4/9/2010 (original work, yet to be refined)
The rigid formula broke beneath the weight of its own variables;
Miscalculated musings, taunting the dreamer who dared to dream in numbers.
She saw only the outcome and accepted with a shudder
The fabric tearing beyond the horizon,
Never questioning the axioms upon which this event was built.
The necessity was not of this moment, but in her mind,
And though I could see her clearly before me,
She was blind to all around, her focus given only to that shock miles beyond.
Synesthesia swarmed through her upon pulse beats,
And I wondered if my presence would pierce the parentheses
Her mind had fashioned about her,
Wondered if my scent could be heard by her muddled fixture.
I saw in her eyes iron, like tracks set to keep courses unwavering,
And knew from that steely gaze
That her mind had failed to estimate the actions of her hands,
The very fingers torn into that fabric she feared to see ripping,
The distance growing impossible to traverse.
The sleep doesn't come
As the saddness consumes
Aided by the confusion of what is missing
As the heart screams for it's mate
And the answer is just empty echos
Piling weight behind the dark spears
That tear the tender soul
And leave horrendous scars
Without mercy they drive deeper and deeper
The unrelenting passage of time
Only appifies and adds to the pile of shreddings
Torn up pieces of love and care
Shredded by the dark shadow,
That the icy raptor of loneliness
With diaobolical delight
Creates a nest of, and roosts inside
Casting a dank shadow over all
Leaving life, colors, sound, mute and faded
With a mournfully glee rasp, it broods and sits
Giving no moment of solace from the tourture
The pain
The utter sense of loss
That the heart sits and quivers
Not daring to feel
Lest the raptor tales flight once more
Zzapper - :symur::symur:
Instant (R)
Destroy target permanent with a Z in its name. I'm the Z zapper. I zap Z's. I really don't like Z's. I just don't. I mean, who needs them? Z's. pfffft.
Yup, I'm online at all hours, I'm an insomniac, what of it?
How is it that I believe in ghosts, yet don’t believe in myself? Will I suddenly awake from some horrible nightmare, my wife’s head on my shoulder, my horse in the stable? That possibility yet grows slimmer. She is probably nestled in bed, settled tightly with a bachelor neighbor. My horse is tied to a tree, abandoned and starving, probably dead; that, or stolen from me. I’ve sunken to a new state of wretch – where once I found bliss in the bedroom, my vanity needing the soft acknowledgment of another’s skin so that I might love myself, now I need only be told that I possess a seraph’s smile. My ugliness, inward if not outward, shows itself more and more, even as I refuse to take part in feasting upon these fine village girls. My mind drifts back to the place of my rebirth constantly, obsessively. I desire nothing more than to return to the woodlands and search about for my corpse. I will defend it stalwartly, chasing off the wolves and collecting my bones from their dens. Sitting on the forest floor, I would cradle my body, resting my head on my shoulder and crying softly for a young man lost. I would pick each and every insect from my flesh and flick them off into the night. Only when finished would I dig myself as best a grave as I could, and bury my body within its outstretched arms. Feeling better, I think that I would go off to find my horse. Dead or alive, a man’s friend needs finding once left behind. All around me, the trees would swell with the faces of phantom women who trusted me enough to take my hand in the village. The forest becomes alive with their screaming, and they tar and feather me with sap they’ve wept and leaves that they have shed. I’d plead with them, apologize and weep with them. I’m only trying to find my horse, don’t you understand? Let me find him and make sure he is okay and let him free of his rope. If danger has befallen him, help me give him a burial befitting such a loyal animal. I’m sorry, I’d tell the women. But by now the entire wildwood has withered into nothing, and I am left standing back at Bedenlyse, free of foliage, staring out the window towards the timberland copse. The walls echo with the wailing of the captive women. They beg for death from beneath the floorboards, and others pray desperately to God, chained in the attic above the ceiling. They’ve become banshees and harpies, aching to be released from Pandora’s Box. The noise has reached a level that makes sleep impossible. So, to answer my earlier questions—no, I can’t awaken, and no, I can’t believe what I’ve let happen.
and when I never thought
your words would be so violent, like
when I would write rhapsodic
in my element, your fights
and my thoughts process your flaws
were rehabilitated from
the life worth living only when
there's a nice dull alarm
to block out everything you can't hear
and when I never thought
another reality past this
would exist,
and but you really know that I can't tell you no
and but you really know there's nowhere left to go
the fictional is endless
the real a finite hole
and we add onto our lives to pretend there are things we hold dear
and
and when I never thought
your words would be so violent, like
when I would write rhapsodic
in my element your worship
and my thought process your flaws
rehabilitated from
the life worth living only when
there's a nice dull buzzing
blocking out everything you can't hear
and when I never thought
there would be another reality past this
even though it changes
every second
and but you really know
that I can't tell you no
and but you really know
there's nowhere left to go
the fictional is endless
the real a finite hole
Think
A thousand eyes in blurred focus
staring at your face, your speech,
analyzing lies and breaches of decorum,
watching for mistakes.
A thousand eyes to enshrine yourself,
engulfed in coddling half-smiles,
teeming masses move up and down
around your undulating pulse.
A thousand eyes to watch the strain
with profanity compose your body,
conveying yourself down crowded streets
taking too much care for humanity.
A thousand eyes to analyze,
fate subtly preordains the tears:
blink synchronous and catalyze
the fear you hold - and hate.
No matter who is watching,
you'll watch yourself.
Love's a distant memory and caring's here
but feels much less attached.
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
"Fate, it seems, was nothing but a shadow of our dreams."
They tell themselves that meaning has been lost
And lay their souls to fuel the kindling trash pile.
I endeavored to douse it with my tears
And with my fears realized,
I slaughtered lies for all I'm worth.
Through the chorus of cries,
I heard them curse the coldest note of every song.
Distress over all the somber words I've heard
The world tell all the little ones of life.
No thirst have they left to call out for sustenance,
Only ambition to claw at the earth.
And with the birth of spite,
The soul withers down even more.
Though wounds may heal tonight,
The plague remains until they find a way to grow.
Written upon the epitaph of life
Fallen, a flagbearer through strife
Such a trebuchet, foreshadowing both loss and victory
Echoing such origins as benedictory
A quadriga for Mars, the elixir of Neptune
i took cues from a casino worker,
dealing no spades and two hearts.
never considered gambling a fortune
with my pair of high-low
now i take walks in the park
meditative ones; insightful strolls
and there's no more thoughts of numbers or shapes or black or red
plus basic math never was my forte
so you'd substitute the hilt of my en garde's
and i know my form will be a little bit dull
but you'll be a bigger bit relieved
because i waited for the turn
because i never got the open-ended straight.
maybe it was a flush, though.
so i'll saunter off onwards to a further destination
through body with mind, in sweating detoxification
though it'd be a lie, if i said i didn't feel the sensation
but now i don't speak to peddlers despite the temptation.
You're safe and sound inside your snow globe
so comfortable in our corrupted homeland
while I'm on the other side, building a bridge
from nine to five just so I could save you
from that purgatory one day, but I feel like
my efforts are rendered useless
I must have buried my compass somewhere
in the woods, and I'm just too lazy to search for it
Why do I care where I'm going? It's not like
I'm going to end up in another continent
As long as I'm here, where there's enough
trees for me to chop off, I could find a way
to create a connection between us, but
what's the point when you're too afraid
to cross the line? Too afraid to find the
missing puzzle piece to your jigsawed reflection,
so you rather rest in a sick environment
Dare me to cross the line and I'll break the bridge
of my guitar; cut the strings, and tie a knot,
Craft some wings and fly these thoughts
Break the bridge and watch our futures fall!
I offered you refuge from the typhoons,
sent you a package of clouds to hold you up
when the earthquakes shake the ground,
begged the Pacific to control its anger,
because I don't want the tsunamis
to swallow your so-called paradise
And I even snaked my way into your nightmares
just so I could whisper to you how reality
is much more of a horror than your illusions
We feel invincible when we're unconscious,
but vulnerable when we sleep often
Submission is an option we're not willing to take,
for one mistake could make a dozen heartaches
and one regret could drain a decade down this hole
Sitting on top of this satellite, I gaze down at
the labyrinth of empty highways, where you
would search for treasures, but instead,
you'll find trinkets, tadpoles, and tools
that you'll probably need because
when times get tough,
you're pretty much screwed up
Dare me to cross the line and I'll break the bridge
of my guitar; cut the strings, and tie a knot,
Craft some wings and fly these thoughts
Break the bridge and watch our futures fall!
Calm was my mind as my eyes slowly open to see this... Walking, pacing through what remains of all that I know... So many faces rush my fiber, and not a single person can hear my plea... After what lasted for years suddenly came to a flash second of reality... I'm alone...
Wasn't long ago I held the hourglass of time enjoying each flip. Small grains of sand replacing forgotten placements of ones former self. Never truly knowing who really cares, who's really honest, and for matter did I even have the right to question such things if I did...
Spoken words from a poet can be considered sweet honeysuckle to some, and nonsense paraphrases to others. Until one has sat with sincere thought of anothers issues... But then again I haven't found a human yet with compassion to hold judgement for both views.
The point, there's none.. The message, can be had in so many ways...almost a tear comes to my eye... The rest I had was just a single serving of a dream... The beauty of it all, is that tom we're all still waiting for the next day to come. The faces you see, never take for granted that one day you won't indeed see.
I now lay this in a bottle and hope it travels far to you... All pleas are important after this day... The only day, in so many, in so many.... that I feel... Free.
As I sit here writing this poem, I wonder:
Why am I not asleep.
beyond a certain point, the lines begin to blur,
and the world begins to fade.
and as I sit here writing this poem, again I wonder:
Why am I'm still awake.
I am beyond tired. I can no longer think.
but really, all I can do is think, it seams to be why
I'm sitting here writing this poem trying to figure out:
why I'm not asleep.
the night drags on, minute to hour, time is standing still.
my mind is lost, the time blurs further, and truly, it seams that,
I'm Writing this poem in an effort to figure out:
Why I'm still awake.
the sun rise comes, bright an early and I gaze into the beauty.
and, just like clockwork the day progresses, leading into the next night
and the cycle repeats again.
They can't see what he sees, blind, looking back
On his life in Carolina exile
Years swimming through his flooded cataracts
Trawling through the muck of hell-fired textiles
The endless waltz of looms that jettisoned
Coarse flack into the lungs of weary men
Too beaten down to argue or question
Tombstone quotas from snuff-monger captains.
No, they'll never see it; or understand
His cough like a car that won't turn over
Waiting by a salt-lined shack on the sand
To shuffle off a lone, stubborn squatter
Who thought he had seen the last of Barnum
Suffering the ignorance of his sons.
First, a hat tip to Minion of Boredom, who kind of inspired this try.
Second, a note that this was initially going to be a love poem, but, uh, I can't write them right now. Like, literally. Uh, reading this poem will probably explain a lot of that problem. Though this was a while ago.
Several meditations on honor
1.
Let me tell
of the curves in her hair so heavenly
or the curves of her figure
or the way that she walked as I did timidly,
when she walked I would follow, a lemming,
running off cliffs,
or did she follow me?
[When women with men introduce themselves at certain times,
attempting to douse fires,
they precede their introductions with qualifiers.
She was taken,
but that's such a misleading word,
sometimes.]
2.
Most of all
were the things we had
together.
I would think something
she would say it:
we liked the same everything.
A kind of easy friendship,
maybe too easy,
and at the same time
a kind of abject terror.
3.
We wandered the campus like lovers,
dancing on the benches in the middle
of the night.
Yellow lampposts lit the paths we walked.
I told her everything and didn't stop to listen,
there was a torrent,
and something inside me broke.
4.
When she asked of my intentions,
what could I do but say yes?
And when she agreed,
what could I do but nod in response,
the glow spreading to every part of my body?
5.
We were alone together late at night,
but in a different place:
the lights were dark and it was cold [cold!],
my skin vibrating and heart pounding.
We held hands like a couple.
I feigned indifference.
She grabbed my hand and looked into my eyes and I looked into hers
and there was nothing I wanted more,
but restraint and knowledge are curses
and all I could think of was the promise she'd made before we were all uprooted
and came into this new place and talked
and I looked away
[and oh I would wax rhapsodic
about what she would do or what she has done,
and what was I trying to keep together
anyways? And who was I doing it for?
Is it worth that thing called honor
to give up your soul for the ability
to look at yourself at night and say no sir
I never stole anything except for packs of gum from the store
when I was young and stupid, sleeping standing up,
or am I young and stupid now]
6.
I knew he existed
but really he seemed like a ghost,
arcane.
When he visited I saw him. We talked of unrelated things for a couple minutes.
He seemed like a nice person.
They'd exchanged rings. Of a kind.
7.
And when I talked and talked I'd remembered
all the things I'd lost
when I was too young to think about it,
locking my memories into a box:
she'd found the key and opened it,
and left me to deal with the things that escaped
8.
It's awkward when you think you know where everything stands.
I grew out my facial hair, became the master of the long stare;
we talked but only for short intervals,
and the spaces between them grew longer until they stopped.
tension waits
as lifespans propagate
the self-destructing rumor
blooms
what's all this stopping
can't you force yourself
to be motivated,
just like those tests say you're fated
and when I sate
my narcissus complex
I see deep pools of blood pearling
in the centers of my eyes
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
I've cut up all my strings that made me feel
Like a marionette strangled by nonentities
–Atheists, bullies with no balls, and fake emcees
With their delusions, I make conclusions
And flip it into hypothesis,
How could they measure me when
I haven't even reach metamorphosis?
So let me swing half-powered jabs
To prevent the cause of scabs to my rivals
This is survival to the fittest,
So better wear some Oakleys, kid
Because although my weight's not "light",
I'm the brightest fighter ready to write!
I'm fired up, rewired, and ready to terminate,
feeding copycats with my formulae of love and hate
Like chili, my taste is a craze but some couldn't handle me
Like a Benelli, if you come too close,
Your heart will just be exposed, it blows
I'm the dynamite amongst these fishes in the sea
Syringe on my skin, the needle is in!
But my enemies are like anesthesia,
I couldn't feel a thing!
So PLEEAAASEE let me know how these pawns
Could checkmate the King?
Forget conformity! I rather be myself
I'm like a Bible in a juvenile section shelf,
I speak the truth amongst these false prophets
And leave them lifeless,
Spreading influence like influenza so call me sick
I don't need a cure for this disease,
for I'm a wreck you can't fix!
and the pieces star to dribble,
and they wash out in the rain,
floods through rivers to the sea.
is that where you want it to be?
even though that's where it's gonna be.
one way or another,
seeping through your barriers
like photons into dusk
silently settling like fogs in the murk
when you smirk
feel it dripping from your mouth and your eyes
every time it cries
when it dies
well it all goes to the same place,
we will go to once we've said our last goodbye's
That's where I buried off my mom,
tossed her off into the water
and sped off through the park
cast her middle finger like a spark
as she shrugged off into the dark.
and now I'm sitting by a bulwark,
in heavy handed ways,
thinking of the days,
oh the days,
all day long,
visions of them like parades.
where have my dreams gone?
did I lay them at your feet?
no, they were shuttered neath those iron skies.
first class fourescent skies goodbye's
and in that open sea, listing in the waves,
here anything floating is lonely,
but it's easier than building a moat
don't you know, that illusion of happiness
he's a stubborn bastard of a goat.
but even he can't reach you out here,
even if you scream til you're soar in the throat.
And in the restless comonality,
you call a passing phase...
I'm in a daze,
passively rejecting all the parts of you that make
me feel these ways.
and yet what we do with the days of our lives
the pictures we paint of the years gone by
that's what we take of the pain that we're dealt
smear it low across the countryside
and tie it off under a belt.
and this puzzle that's in pieces?
think you can read it like a book?
when you tremble, see your mouth quiver
when I take a look.
tasting every dream you and I had ever took
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
My at-a-glance 'isms': (in no particular order)
1. Secular Humanism
2. Secular Millenarianism
a. Singularitarianism
b.Transhumanism
c. secular altruism
With a mouse held talon tight, the nightly owl told me, ‘Lad, if hatred must be written, best your pen strike boldly.’
How odd it seemed! How very odd indeed that such a turn should fast befall our fated meeting.
Where is the wisdom of the stories? The scholarly bird that represents the will to learn, perched atop the university.
This owl hoots on and on about the hate I feel. I do not outright disagree, but my inner demons are not the reason I am here.
Am I wasting my time?
With a head cocked outright sideways, said the owl gaily, ‘Lad, I sing them as I see them – already now you hate me?'
Round 87 will be upen until... umm.. what day is today?.. ok, April 5th + 7 days.
OR until 10 entries.
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
Beneath a skirt of springtime clouds
Diana bares her bottom, wide.
I stare, transfixed. Such curvature!
And paleness that I dare not miss.
I reach for her as roses blush.
My hope eclipses at arm’s length.
Flawless skin but for a dimple.
And though I’ve bravery to touch,
I find, much to my great surprise,
I’ve not the strength to reach her.
10:17 and the summer sun sets.
Sneak outside with a plastic water bottle
of pink lemonade and vodka in one hand
and your fingers locked tight in the other.
Starry sky, tall grass, stolen kisses.
A trail of freckles on your shoulder
and down your shirt.
Soft hands and whispers.
This night is ours
and we know everything is diamonds.
in families there is a sixth sense streaming
from life to life unyielding
with skill born of necessity
we wept and culled the ties
and mourned the loss of our old rules
and skies
escaping's harder than it seems
revere our old customs and tales
we are just what we were: but less
what binds still binds through seas
and death
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
Gestalt
Umpteen lines across a page
That set a paper's rule,
Constrain my pen's intrinsic shapes,
Bound to rotting pulp and wood
Umpteen years from now
I fear that I will waste away,
My soul no longer bound to flesh
My spirit freed from dermal mesh
Umpteen sleepless nights I've spent
To come to simple truths
That all I cannot say or write or be or do,
I leave to You.
i am all mine
and she is all hers
but we once were all ours
now she lays in winter grass
encased in summer snow
through a state of blank respite
a deity unknowing the lust she mirrors
a standard of beauty is clear
to begin with inanimate time
her voluptuous just past growth
expressing rapture that still cosigns
the eternal paramour her life a simulacrum
and a bespectacled gaze
the world she is viewing is not of here
so truly could she never know or ever care
of this thunderous want to simply hold her palms
and feel her pulse-less calm
despite the fact that no amount of warmth will ever reach her
and no amount of tears could ever bring her back to me
to hang next to your pants
but my colors are always angry
they go into rants
about how your apples hog the fridge
and your pictures crowd the wall
not like my shoes get closet space at all
The counter is covered
in masks that you wear
a different color for every mood
not that I care
you change those
like changing underwear
so much I can't even tell
if everything I do
is taken very well
because it always is taken
like the taxes or the dead
but the only ghost I see
is the one in my head
a ghost of youth
and the eulogy read
whisked away by a judge
to the land of the wed
we are gathered here today
to witness some misery
two people who settled
for the runner-up victory
not the gold nor the silver
but at least we're on the stand
crying off into the sunset
holding regretful hands
when I just wanted my socks
to share a drawer with yours too
my whites are always angry
remembering life without you
that life so happy
not smothered in blues
my old heart feels borrowed
and it's time to renew
I just wanted my tie
to hang next to your dress
but the man in these clothes
is a slobbering mess
unable to fathom
the way that he's blessed
I know that it's hard
to give up what you own
but I promise it's better
than the pain we have known
or the lack of compassion I've shown
like a classic bait and switch
I'm a salesman with a pitch
to sell you back your life
nothings cheaper than a *****
I'll close down the store
this love business is a chore
I need to retire myself
I can't take anymore
so take me out to the curb
and leave me behind
the greatest gift to be kind
is for me to become
out of sight and out of mind
The Stains of a Wedding Cake
-Amory McKeever (known as IcecreamMan80 on MTGSalvation), 4/9/2010 (original work, yet to be refined)
Thanks to Xenphire @ Inkfox for the amazing new sig
“Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by slight ligaments
are we bound to prosperity and ruin.”
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
The rigid formula broke beneath the weight of its own variables;
Miscalculated musings, taunting the dreamer who dared to dream in numbers.
She saw only the outcome and accepted with a shudder
The fabric tearing beyond the horizon,
Never questioning the axioms upon which this event was built.
The necessity was not of this moment, but in her mind,
And though I could see her clearly before me,
She was blind to all around, her focus given only to that shock miles beyond.
Synesthesia swarmed through her upon pulse beats,
And I wondered if my presence would pierce the parentheses
Her mind had fashioned about her,
Wondered if my scent could be heard by her muddled fixture.
I saw in her eyes iron, like tracks set to keep courses unwavering,
And knew from that steely gaze
That her mind had failed to estimate the actions of her hands,
The very fingers torn into that fabric she feared to see ripping,
The distance growing impossible to traverse.
The sleep doesn't come
As the saddness consumes
Aided by the confusion of what is missing
As the heart screams for it's mate
And the answer is just empty echos
Piling weight behind the dark spears
That tear the tender soul
And leave horrendous scars
Without mercy they drive deeper and deeper
The unrelenting passage of time
Only appifies and adds to the pile of shreddings
Torn up pieces of love and care
Shredded by the dark shadow,
That the icy raptor of loneliness
With diaobolical delight
Creates a nest of, and roosts inside
Casting a dank shadow over all
Leaving life, colors, sound, mute and faded
With a mournfully glee rasp, it broods and sits
Giving no moment of solace from the tourture
The pain
The utter sense of loss
That the heart sits and quivers
Not daring to feel
Lest the raptor tales flight once more
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
How is it that I believe in ghosts, yet don’t believe in myself? Will I suddenly awake from some horrible nightmare, my wife’s head on my shoulder, my horse in the stable? That possibility yet grows slimmer. She is probably nestled in bed, settled tightly with a bachelor neighbor. My horse is tied to a tree, abandoned and starving, probably dead; that, or stolen from me. I’ve sunken to a new state of wretch – where once I found bliss in the bedroom, my vanity needing the soft acknowledgment of another’s skin so that I might love myself, now I need only be told that I possess a seraph’s smile. My ugliness, inward if not outward, shows itself more and more, even as I refuse to take part in feasting upon these fine village girls. My mind drifts back to the place of my rebirth constantly, obsessively. I desire nothing more than to return to the woodlands and search about for my corpse. I will defend it stalwartly, chasing off the wolves and collecting my bones from their dens. Sitting on the forest floor, I would cradle my body, resting my head on my shoulder and crying softly for a young man lost. I would pick each and every insect from my flesh and flick them off into the night. Only when finished would I dig myself as best a grave as I could, and bury my body within its outstretched arms. Feeling better, I think that I would go off to find my horse. Dead or alive, a man’s friend needs finding once left behind. All around me, the trees would swell with the faces of phantom women who trusted me enough to take my hand in the village. The forest becomes alive with their screaming, and they tar and feather me with sap they’ve wept and leaves that they have shed. I’d plead with them, apologize and weep with them. I’m only trying to find my horse, don’t you understand? Let me find him and make sure he is okay and let him free of his rope. If danger has befallen him, help me give him a burial befitting such a loyal animal. I’m sorry, I’d tell the women. But by now the entire wildwood has withered into nothing, and I am left standing back at Bedenlyse, free of foliage, staring out the window towards the timberland copse. The walls echo with the wailing of the captive women. They beg for death from beneath the floorboards, and others pray desperately to God, chained in the attic above the ceiling. They’ve become banshees and harpies, aching to be released from Pandora’s Box. The noise has reached a level that makes sleep impossible. So, to answer my earlier questions—no, I can’t awaken, and no, I can’t believe what I’ve let happen.
and when I never thought
your words would be so violent, like
when I would write rhapsodic
in my element, your fights
and my thoughts process your flaws
were rehabilitated from
the life worth living only when
there's a nice dull alarm
to block out everything you can't hear
and when I never thought
another reality past this
would exist,
and but you really know that I can't tell you no
and but you really know there's nowhere left to go
the fictional is endless
the real a finite hole
and we add onto our lives to pretend there are things we hold dear
and
and when I never thought
your words would be so violent, like
when I would write rhapsodic
in my element your worship
and my thought process your flaws
rehabilitated from
the life worth living only when
there's a nice dull buzzing
blocking out everything you can't hear
and when I never thought
there would be another reality past this
even though it changes
every second
and but you really know
that I can't tell you no
and but you really know
there's nowhere left to go
the fictional is endless
the real a finite hole
Think
A thousand eyes in blurred focus
staring at your face, your speech,
analyzing lies and breaches of decorum,
watching for mistakes.
A thousand eyes to enshrine yourself,
engulfed in coddling half-smiles,
teeming masses move up and down
around your undulating pulse.
A thousand eyes to watch the strain
with profanity compose your body,
conveying yourself down crowded streets
taking too much care for humanity.
A thousand eyes to analyze,
fate subtly preordains the tears:
blink synchronous and catalyze
the fear you hold - and hate.
No matter who is watching,
you'll watch yourself.
Love's a distant memory and caring's here
but feels much less attached.
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
"Fate, it seems, was nothing but a shadow of our dreams."
They tell themselves that meaning has been lost
And lay their souls to fuel the kindling trash pile.
I endeavored to douse it with my tears
And with my fears realized,
I slaughtered lies for all I'm worth.
Through the chorus of cries,
I heard them curse the coldest note of every song.
Distress over all the somber words I've heard
The world tell all the little ones of life.
No thirst have they left to call out for sustenance,
Only ambition to claw at the earth.
And with the birth of spite,
The soul withers down even more.
Though wounds may heal tonight,
The plague remains until they find a way to grow.
Written upon the epitaph of life
Fallen, a flagbearer through strife
Such a trebuchet, foreshadowing both loss and victory
Echoing such origins as benedictory
A quadriga for Mars, the elixir of Neptune
燃える時計秘密めく花の香り
www.pokemoncrossroads.com
This is who you have unbecome
there is fire
on the walls
Saturn has taken his
tea O' Father
Spain! the bleeding
hills roll trails
of iron
how many times must
one die before seeing
colors? finally! the walls
are at last black
i took cues from a casino worker,
dealing no spades and two hearts.
never considered gambling a fortune
with my pair of high-low
now i take walks in the park
meditative ones; insightful strolls
and there's no more thoughts of numbers or shapes or black or red
plus basic math never was my forte
so you'd substitute the hilt of my en garde's
and i know my form will be a little bit dull
but you'll be a bigger bit relieved
because i waited for the turn
because i never got the open-ended straight.
maybe it was a flush, though.
so i'll saunter off onwards to a further destination
through body with mind, in sweating detoxification
though it'd be a lie, if i said i didn't feel the sensation
but now i don't speak to peddlers despite the temptation.
so comfortable in our corrupted homeland
while I'm on the other side, building a bridge
from nine to five just so I could save you
from that purgatory one day, but I feel like
my efforts are rendered useless
I must have buried my compass somewhere
in the woods, and I'm just too lazy to search for it
Why do I care where I'm going? It's not like
I'm going to end up in another continent
As long as I'm here, where there's enough
trees for me to chop off, I could find a way
to create a connection between us, but
what's the point when you're too afraid
to cross the line? Too afraid to find the
missing puzzle piece to your jigsawed reflection,
so you rather rest in a sick environment
Dare me to cross the line and I'll break the bridge
of my guitar; cut the strings, and tie a knot,
Craft some wings and fly these thoughts
Break the bridge and watch our futures fall!
I offered you refuge from the typhoons,
sent you a package of clouds to hold you up
when the earthquakes shake the ground,
begged the Pacific to control its anger,
because I don't want the tsunamis
to swallow your so-called paradise
And I even snaked my way into your nightmares
just so I could whisper to you how reality
is much more of a horror than your illusions
We feel invincible when we're unconscious,
but vulnerable when we sleep often
Submission is an option we're not willing to take,
for one mistake could make a dozen heartaches
and one regret could drain a decade down this hole
Sitting on top of this satellite, I gaze down at
the labyrinth of empty highways, where you
would search for treasures, but instead,
you'll find trinkets, tadpoles, and tools
that you'll probably need because
when times get tough,
you're pretty much screwed up
Dare me to cross the line and I'll break the bridge
of my guitar; cut the strings, and tie a knot,
Craft some wings and fly these thoughts
Break the bridge and watch our futures fall!
Calm was my mind as my eyes slowly open to see this...
Walking, pacing through what remains of all that I know...
So many faces rush my fiber, and not a single person can hear my plea...
After what lasted for years suddenly came to a flash second of reality...
I'm alone...
Wasn't long ago I held the hourglass of time enjoying each flip.
Small grains of sand replacing forgotten placements of ones former self.
Never truly knowing who really cares, who's really honest, and for matter did I even have the right to question such things if I did...
Spoken words from a poet can be considered sweet honeysuckle to some, and nonsense paraphrases to others.
Until one has sat with sincere thought of anothers issues...
But then again I haven't found a human yet
with compassion to hold judgement for both views.
The point, there's none..
The message, can be had in so many ways...almost a tear comes to my eye...
The rest I had was just a single serving of a dream...
The beauty of it all, is that tom we're all still waiting for the next day to come.
The faces you see, never take for granted that one day you won't indeed see.
I now lay this in a bottle and hope it travels far to you...
All pleas are important after this day...
The only day, in so many, in so many.... that I feel...
Free.
S.M.
As I sit here writing this poem, I wonder:
Why am I not asleep.
beyond a certain point, the lines begin to blur,
and the world begins to fade.
and as I sit here writing this poem, again I wonder:
Why am I'm still awake.
I am beyond tired. I can no longer think.
but really, all I can do is think, it seams to be why
I'm sitting here writing this poem trying to figure out:
why I'm not asleep.
the night drags on, minute to hour, time is standing still.
my mind is lost, the time blurs further, and truly, it seams that,
I'm Writing this poem in an effort to figure out:
Why I'm still awake.
the sun rise comes, bright an early and I gaze into the beauty.
and, just like clockwork the day progresses, leading into the next night
and the cycle repeats again.
Millionaires, I hear it's good Music (Disclaimer: lyrics not PG-13) Thanks, CC
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
On his life in Carolina exile
Years swimming through his flooded cataracts
Trawling through the muck of hell-fired textiles
The endless waltz of looms that jettisoned
Coarse flack into the lungs of weary men
Too beaten down to argue or question
Tombstone quotas from snuff-monger captains.
No, they'll never see it; or understand
His cough like a car that won't turn over
Waiting by a salt-lined shack on the sand
To shuffle off a lone, stubborn squatter
Who thought he had seen the last of Barnum
Suffering the ignorance of his sons.
First, a hat tip to Minion of Boredom, who kind of inspired this try.
Second, a note that this was initially going to be a love poem, but, uh, I can't write them right now. Like, literally. Uh, reading this poem will probably explain a lot of that problem. Though this was a while ago.
1.
Let me tell
of the curves in her hair so heavenly
or the curves of her figure
or the way that she walked as I did timidly,
when she walked I would follow, a lemming,
running off cliffs,
or did she follow me?
[When women with men introduce themselves at certain times,
attempting to douse fires,
they precede their introductions with qualifiers.
She was taken,
but that's such a misleading word,
sometimes.]
2.
Most of all
were the things we had
together.
I would think something
she would say it:
we liked the same everything.
A kind of easy friendship,
maybe too easy,
and at the same time
a kind of abject terror.
3.
We wandered the campus like lovers,
dancing on the benches in the middle
of the night.
Yellow lampposts lit the paths we walked.
I told her everything and didn't stop to listen,
there was a torrent,
and something inside me broke.
4.
When she asked of my intentions,
what could I do but say yes?
And when she agreed,
what could I do but nod in response,
the glow spreading to every part of my body?
5.
We were alone together late at night,
but in a different place:
the lights were dark and it was cold [cold!],
my skin vibrating and heart pounding.
We held hands like a couple.
I feigned indifference.
She grabbed my hand and looked into my eyes and I looked into hers
and there was nothing I wanted more,
but restraint and knowledge are curses
and all I could think of was the promise she'd made before we were all uprooted
and came into this new place and talked
and I looked away
[and oh I would wax rhapsodic
about what she would do or what she has done,
and what was I trying to keep together
anyways? And who was I doing it for?
Is it worth that thing called honor
to give up your soul for the ability
to look at yourself at night and say no sir
I never stole anything except for packs of gum from the store
when I was young and stupid, sleeping standing up,
or am I young and stupid now]
6.
I knew he existed
but really he seemed like a ghost,
arcane.
When he visited I saw him. We talked of unrelated things for a couple minutes.
He seemed like a nice person.
They'd exchanged rings. Of a kind.
7.
And when I talked and talked I'd remembered
all the things I'd lost
when I was too young to think about it,
locking my memories into a box:
she'd found the key and opened it,
and left me to deal with the things that escaped
8.
It's awkward when you think you know where everything stands.
I grew out my facial hair, became the master of the long stare;
we talked but only for short intervals,
and the spaces between them grew longer until they stopped.
tension waits
as lifespans propagate
the self-destructing rumor
blooms
what's all this stopping
can't you force yourself
to be motivated,
just like those tests say you're fated
and when I sate
my narcissus complex
I see deep pools of blood pearling
in the centers of my eyes
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
Like a marionette strangled by nonentities
–Atheists, bullies with no balls, and fake emcees
With their delusions, I make conclusions
And flip it into hypothesis,
How could they measure me when
I haven't even reach metamorphosis?
So let me swing half-powered jabs
To prevent the cause of scabs to my rivals
This is survival to the fittest,
So better wear some Oakleys, kid
Because although my weight's not "light",
I'm the brightest fighter ready to write!
I'm fired up, rewired, and ready to terminate,
feeding copycats with my formulae of love and hate
Like chili, my taste is a craze but some couldn't handle me
Like a Benelli, if you come too close,
Your heart will just be exposed, it blows
I'm the dynamite amongst these fishes in the sea
Syringe on my skin, the needle is in!
But my enemies are like anesthesia,
I couldn't feel a thing!
So PLEEAAASEE let me know how these pawns
Could checkmate the King?
Forget conformity! I rather be myself
I'm like a Bible in a juvenile section shelf,
I speak the truth amongst these false prophets
And leave them lifeless,
Spreading influence like influenza so call me sick
I don't need a cure for this disease,
for I'm a wreck you can't fix!
and they wash out in the rain,
floods through rivers to the sea.
is that where you want it to be?
even though that's where it's gonna be.
one way or another,
seeping through your barriers
like photons into dusk
silently settling like fogs in the murk
when you smirk
feel it dripping from your mouth and your eyes
every time it cries
when it dies
well it all goes to the same place,
we will go to once we've said our last goodbye's
That's where I buried off my mom,
tossed her off into the water
and sped off through the park
cast her middle finger like a spark
as she shrugged off into the dark.
and now I'm sitting by a bulwark,
in heavy handed ways,
thinking of the days,
oh the days,
all day long,
visions of them like parades.
where have my dreams gone?
did I lay them at your feet?
no, they were shuttered neath those iron skies.
first class fourescent skies goodbye's
and in that open sea, listing in the waves,
here anything floating is lonely,
but it's easier than building a moat
don't you know, that illusion of happiness
he's a stubborn bastard of a goat.
but even he can't reach you out here,
even if you scream til you're soar in the throat.
And in the restless comonality,
you call a passing phase...
I'm in a daze,
passively rejecting all the parts of you that make
me feel these ways.
and yet what we do with the days of our lives
the pictures we paint of the years gone by
that's what we take of the pain that we're dealt
smear it low across the countryside
and tie it off under a belt.
and this puzzle that's in pieces?
think you can read it like a book?
when you tremble, see your mouth quiver
when I take a look.
tasting every dream you and I had ever took
1. Secular Humanism
2. Secular Millenarianism
b.Transhumanism
c. secular altruism
4. Existentialism
5. Intellectualism
6. Atheism
7. Realism
b. philosophic
c. contructive
9. Egalitarianism
b. feminism
11. Liberal conservatism
12. Anti-consumerism
13. Reductionism
With a mouse held talon tight, the nightly owl told me, ‘Lad, if hatred must be written, best your pen strike boldly.’
How odd it seemed! How very odd indeed that such a turn should fast befall our fated meeting.
Where is the wisdom of the stories? The scholarly bird that represents the will to learn, perched atop the university.
This owl hoots on and on about the hate I feel. I do not outright disagree, but my inner demons are not the reason I am here.
Am I wasting my time?
With a head cocked outright sideways, said the owl gaily, ‘Lad, I sing them as I see them – already now you hate me?'