I say life is painful and dreary
As it’s difficult to fully live
When not well equipped
Through a journey not chosen
Lost hope in a torturous struggle
For being misunderstood
With emotions uncontrolled
And dictating every move
So I change angle and look for the good in things
I try - “get a grip” - as people tend to say
But difficulty remains
When others take the lead
So, with tracks of tears
My journey remains decided
But not by me
We dryly sweat when she with maiden tongue
Rebukes with haste the wicked ways of men
For all do writhe and feel most tort'rous stung
When from calm lips eschew our mortal sins
Are we not well equipped to follow rules?
When now the forms of long ago return
And look to us who do not come as fools
For time and heart require no subtle burn
But ne'er was one brought down too far from grace
To cry from fear alone with need to flee
For deepest cuts spur us to upward race
And that which does not kill will make us free
When deep within our souls we still believe
That curse of hope is still our best reprieve
Raw and straight
It is something without hate
It's a new feeling
He speaks with charisma
And I'm oh so involved
I guess I can fly
Because he makes me feel so high
He shows his care
A passionate delight
A single person in this mass world
But I can see his might
If he were to ask me what I feel
I'd say what was real
It might be too early some can say
But what is time
In relation to love
It doesn't even rhyme
I wasn't searching for it
Not well equipped
But here it is
I'm at the bottom of a mountain
With a view from aloft
Calamity is a storm of icy rain and striking fires.
Casting you about in a boat of your own design and build.
Preparing for the approaching storm with a firm rutter.
And you will survive, only if though willed.
Calamity is a renegade goat of raging fury and slyly forte.
Hammering its way into you aiming for the throat of your own girth.
Heat and eat hearty meals to be able to retort.
And you will survive, and be of worth.
Calamity is a surprise, you cannot see it’s approach.
So be prepared and well-equipped.
Stomp it out like a fire or upon a roach.
And you will survive, through your own wit.
Time is going so fast now
I am trying to keep up
yet I know I am killing me
for I am going all the way
Don't worry for I am well equipped
for I am a child of war
I am one hell of a fighter
I know not the word Defeat
I am forever a servant to words
may I die still writing
and who wants to challenge that
Let's have a bath in baby oil
I am the bad boy of Poetry
and I live and die by it
for I will do what I have to
for I am going all the way
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
© 2011 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Living and dying
are not so dissimilar from
and being pushed
by the current
It is not a matter of
how well equipped you are
to swim upstream,
It is, however,
a matter of application.
Death is a wondrous thing:
not in that I envy the dead
but in that it so defies language.
Death, of itself, is a rather dull topic. Uninteresting.
But the implications of the asymmetrical nature of Life
reflect many of those we theoretically deduce and induce of the Universe itself.
We, and all the things around us,
are but spontaneous expressions and manifestations
of that which defies description.
We arise, we exist, and we return again.
It defies description not because no one has experienced it,
or because we don't try to translate it when we do experience it,
but rather because no one has the capacity
to translate this experience
into the languages we happen to use
it can be shared with others
become common knowledge.
(Assuming also that others would be willing and able to understand)
In fact, I feel that we've all died already.
Maybe once, maybe an infinite number of times.
We just can't seem to recall it,
and even if we do,
it mocks us with it's ineffability:
I feel that death is the inevitable night
from which one awakens
at the dawn of the day of one's Life.
Circles beget Spirals.
Many legends there be back in days of old;
Legends of bold knights upon their noble steeds.
This be a tale starring a knight and his steed
As one and the same.
'Twas in the Renaissance city of Poitiers
The prodigy of a holy knight was born;
Sir Nathanëal of the Salomon bloodline,
Lineage of victors.
He bore the heart and voice of an archangel
And the loyalty of a priest to his God.
No other horse he rode but his first and last;
Alas, his loyalty had cost him dearly
In the midst of the Battle of Moncontour.
Thus came the end of Nathanëal Salomon.
Or so it had seemed.
By the hands of benevolent sorcery,
Nathanëal and Divinitus lived again,
This time sharing a peculiar physique
Of both man and horse.
Thus, blessed with fur of white and a mane of gold,
Well-equipped with lightweight armour and claymore,
He walked the outskirts of France slaying evil
As both knight and steed.
© Jordan Dean "Mystery" Ezekude
A cold quest from a fable that knew no moral,
And no one could understand the nature of embarkment,
To begin with.
This desert was well equipped with the dismal dusts of
Desolation, as well as apt in full with a barren hidden
Something shrieked a shrill-shivering scream
But twas the cry of the cracking in my own head
Which had ushered an alarming response.
Furthermore the clouds were dying
At a slow and prolonged pace-
Allowing their thinning whisps to shrivel
Into shrunken heaps of condensed natural failure.
I held no judgment close to me.
For what was taking event before me had no
Means of apprehension-
And I spread myself across those open miles,
To feel this world pass through me
In piercing sheets of dull pain.
Then I was rusted,
And with the ever-dying atmosphere
Of what was once called by beauty,
There, with the black hunger
Of despair, I gave myself away.
The world had succumbed me in
Grayscale and intentions
Spewing blackness thick and sticky,
Hot and metallic like the calm of blood.
Nothing offered resource for hope,
And the only chance I had
For anything different
The war between my head and heart is no longer able to be ignored,
No treaties, no compromising, no other alternative other than an armed battle,
One will prove to be weak, unable to withstand the power of its rival,
A dual to the death, victory awarded to the last man standing
My head is well-equipped with spears of reason,
with good judgment as its shield,
It uses logical tactics in attempts to diffuse its opponents strengths,
While best interests are the bullets, loaded into heavy machine guns
My heart appears less official, but not to be underestimated,
It’s canons are fired with passion as its driving force,
It has no shields, no armor for protection, making it vulnerable to destruction,
But the power and strength that lives within its burning love is more explosive than any nuclear warfare
My head, while more prepared, lacks the endurance my heart has.
My heart, while superior in strength, lacks the protection my head has.
A bloodshed battle,
Both putting up a great fight,
But one must fall,
For the other to rise
Casualty of one,
My head lying lifeless on the battlefield,
Triumph achieved by my heart,
Victory awarded to its majesty
Impossible it is…to fight the power of one’s heart.