What once was
The way we thought that it did.
Become aware of how it has been,
And how it shall be again.
So when my mind
Concurs to you who
Loves to lie beneath my skin.
My truth divides
Truth and denial
At war within.
I will close my eyes
Perspectives will tell
A perfect obscenity
Im perfectly numb
You think its simple
I bleed thoughts like rivers
And exhale fears
Turn me to understanding
That I accept why
That I put my fists down
And stop punching walls
Assure me you have not gone
Surround me in my uncertainty
Read me like a book
Then rewrite my pages
Tear our my ending
Finish the beginning
I pray you hear me
And cut the ties that fit my bind
I don't want to stop
I just want to rest awhile
I just want to rest..
fell in love near
a three-pointed star,
sailing down canals
made of concrete,
she landed, on her feet,
and, where they meet,
some color out of space
cries hark and hallow,
Rebecca of green eyes,
emerald traffic lights,
lady on the make,
a giver in a town
full of ghosts
Can the ocean really get flooded?.
when the ocean in my brain gets flooded ......
my thoughts are tangled up
in the tornado twisting and turning
in my head surrounding my brain that fight
through the tossing thoughts, emotions and
feelings that my lips may have trouble speaking
my pen is the oar I use to pull my drowning soul
out from the troubles waters
The ship wreck of words sail through
the rough thinking waters running fast
causing a whirlpool headache as they
fight pushing and clawing at my brain walls
yet surviving thoughts that were able to brake
free from the storm of depression they smudge
a trail through the dripping wet ink falling from
my oar of a writing pen dragging behind the
clustering drift wood of lost words smearing
through the lines of the solid land of paper
my brain calms down a bit to inspect the
rest stop of provided free range of open
writing space clearing the way for all the
injured broken pieces of memories and
lost thoughts that were still floating behind
the mind is trying to stay focus by thinking,
searching for any surviving notions or ideas
that hangs there on the tip of my tongue
tossing out the remembering lifesavers to
pull in other surfacing thoughts that wants
and need to be revived from the fallen debris
clustered crews of gathered thoughts form as
my pen holds the ink of hope and inspiration
dragging my down confused depressed soul
to safety by writing my trapped untold story
ink its flowing through the valleys of paper
marking detailing the saved unspoken words
freed from the clutches of depressions prison
my brain can now release its story through my
scrawling pen that I hold in my writing hand
There are always traps of frustration, confusion and
depression; which is the worse pitfall of them all
the war from the thinking process is never over
preparing for their battle I take the action to grab
the already loaded weapon for writing; the "INK PEN"
Deliberations are a veil of pigmentation
as I see the transparency of every thought.
a nebula of ideas woven in view, can you
see the curvatures that expand outwards.
Bright moments illuminate the surroundings,
as reflections are seen as the weave of conciseness
exhales in majestic colours.
A tapestry of interpretations which is visualized
differently by everyone. All is vivid in the lucidity
of all ideas that form and coalesce. I could almost
reach out and touch this moment of reflection.
All thoughts are individual. It is impossible to take the energy and apparatus to which that energy is transferred through to develop a thought. Therefore no knowledge is taken, all is perceived to wit a schematic and the apparatus developed by our brains to develop the thought. The thought is then subjected to the body and undergoes scrutiny to provide a relevance, priority and application. Therefore it would be safe to assume that all knowledge is neither subjective nor objective but an entirely new word that could exemplify itself as "Understood as developed by ones own." Where I got this schematic for this idea was in counterance to the percieved robbing of thoughts and ideas from books and ideas. Would it be proper to call it the same thought? No. Would it be proper to call it a reaction? Only in the most mechanical of senses that is cause following effect.
This idea would be to liken to a computer having a file copied from one machine to another, while the content remains the same in its physical interpretation on the screen would completely change. As if being opened by two seperate programs. And we are not talking about the files being the same when we talk about ideas, ideas are consequences of what is perceived therefore consequences of the that is copied. Ideas are the effect and in their way, an individual interpretation by how the schematic of an idea is followed by what is transferred.
This idea in itself makes up for the massive hurdle that is misunderstanding between two people, each hearing fundamentally the same things while producing two differing ideas. In summation, an idea is a scrutinized original built on the schematic of that which is perceived and is each independent of a person and their surroundings.
..is odd, weird, -perhaps?
If one could, as if, -everyone,
If we all, just...
We'd all love each other.
By Arcassin Burnham
You could have been everything and anything I was always dreaming
Of but that stubborn attitude had it all misconstrued in so many ways that
I couldn't think,
When life was already bad enough , you just seemed to make it worse,
I think you were on the verge of meeting you another,
When I loved you first , Adored you first , you were my first,
I Hate you even more everyday when your birthday comes, and as you
Smile and kiss another man , I hope your day comes,
When you finally realize that love will stab you in the back,
Everything you do to someone, it comes back, so remember that,
I'm glad I'm not there to tell you that,
I use to think of you as someone I came to when I got bullied,
You used me for all I was, you really thought you knew me.
I wash my demons down with the local brews
Looking out the window panes of dreary nights and days of rain.
A guy and his guitar sing soft beats and sets the evening mood.
His fingers strum the delicate strings, as the music calls to me.
The second round comes and I'm in despair,
As the words that flow leave me gasping for air
The truth in a strangers tune, run down into each stroke of my pen
Here I go again, setting the nightmares free.
Whispering eternally into the void
It can turn the black churning bile of my thoughts
Into incandescent showers of specific epiphany.
Lately I've been laden with the epitome of anomaly,
Loner labotomy, living in self devised autonomy
A private economy of thoughts
That exchange the deranged for sane
Only to flip back again
Turn around, full swing
Indignant incantations ring,
Echoing down the corridors
and reverberating in rusty pipes
The skeletal paradigm
I've unwittingly installed
above once placid pools,
the wellspring of my many muses.
Caught in a rift of dimension
Words begin to leak
Without direct intention
And with little attention for the details
My thoughts quickly become words
That derail more than just a conversation.
My hesitation to engage
Is a fair wage for holding my silence
But the precarious musings of my mind
Must tumble out to spite me.
I tried cutting out my tongue to save face
But a poet who can't speak is a disgrace.