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baygls 4 lyfe Sep 2014
Like the bike you bought after saving lawn-mowing money for a year, welfare reform was the prized trophy of the conservative governing philosophy. We believed that we'd found the vehicle of social mobility for poor Americans, once and for all. No one should live on taxpayer money without doing some work on their own, right? Everyone agrees, right?

Wrong. President Obama ran over our bicycle, issuing illegal waivers to welfare's work requirements and taking the wheels off the program. The fact is, we never won the welfare battle after all. Out of the 80 different federal welfare programs, the '96 welfare reform really only fixed one. A third of the U.S. population received benefits from one or more of these 80 programs in 2011. According to the Department of Agriculture, one program alone – food stamps – gave benefits to a record-breaking 47.7 million in the last month of 2012, benefits those millions didn't have to work to receive.

Rep. Paul Ryan recently said it's time to use the 1996 reform as a model to fix the rest of welfare. He's right, for at least five compelling reasons.

1. America's welfare programs are redundant and inefficient. As The Heritage Foundation's welfare expert Rachel Sheffield noted, there are at least 12 separate programs providing food aid, 12 funding social services, and 12 assisting education. Average benefits from all welfare programs are about $9,000 per recipient. If you converted those programs to cash, it would be more than five times the amount needed to raise every household above the poverty line. We should streamline redundant programs to save money while getting the same or better value.

2. Means-tested welfare programs are fiscally unsustainable. These cost nearly $1 trillion annually. By the end of the decade, welfare spending will rise from five percent to six percent of GDP. This means every taxpaying family would have to make, and then give up, over $100,000 in the next ten years – just to cover the cost of welfare spending.

Imagine this: If government spending were a pie, welfare would be a bigger slice than defense, education, or even social security. This isn't apple pie a la mode. It's poison-the-economy pie with a side of swamp-our-children-in-debt ice cream.

3. The welfare state encourages dependence instead of lifting people out of poverty. Poverty has actually increased with federal spending on anti-poverty programs. Adjusted for inflation, we've spent nearly $20 trillion total on “the war on poverty.” That's more than the combined price tag of all America's wars. Ever. From the American Revolution through Afghanistan, we've spent less than $7 trillion. These days, we spend 13 times what we spent on welfare in the 1960s. Guess what? In 1966, the share of the population living below the poverty threshold was 14.7%; by 2011, that share rose to 15.0%.

This spending gives people significant incentives to stay on welfare. According to the Senate Budget Committee, if you break down welfare spending per household in poverty, recipients are making $30/hour. That's higher than the $25/hour median income – certainly more than what I make per hour.

4. Welfare dependence creates behavioral poverty. Perhaps President Franklin D. Roosevelt said it best: “Continued dependence upon relief induces a spiritual and moral disintegration fundamentally destructive to the national fibre. To dole out relief in this way is to administer a narcotic, a subtle destroyer of the human spirit.” To become comfortable relying on the work of others instead of your own work will change your character, and the character of the nation. Americans want to give everyone a helping hand, but hand-holding year after year, generation after generation, patronizes, corrodes, entraps. In the words of welfare policy experts Robert Rector and Jennifer Marshall writing in National Affairs:

Material poverty has been replaced by a far deeper “behavioral poverty” — a vicious cycle of ***** childbearing, social dysfunction, and welfare dependency in poor communities. Even as the welfare state has improved the material comfort of low-income Americans by transferring enormous financial resources to them, it has exacerbated these behavioral problems. The result has been the disintegration of the work ethic, family structure, and social fabric of large segments of the American population, which has in turn created a new dependency class.

Is this the America we want? It is not compassionate to leave a whole class of people in perpetual dependence. Behavioral poverty cuts off millions of citizens from a chance at American opportunity, destroying the virtues necessary to sustain oneself. My generation has seen the effects of behavioral poverty – in D.C., Detroit, or my hometown, Cleveland. Whole neighborhoods rot. To many, this cycle of dependence indicts the principles of American society as inherently unfair.

5. Work requirements promote individual responsibility and reduce poverty. Temporary Assistance for Needy Families (TANF) work requirements slashed welfare caseloads by nearly 60 percent. Poverty among all single mothers fell 30 percent. About 3 million fewer children lived in poverty in 2003 than in 1995.
Because I am not a lying sack of ****, I got my info from spectator.org
while humanity lay sleeping
a subtle sound came creeping
a tiny muffled murmur
of the drums  

it crept into our valley
a quiet distant sally
the reverberating tapping
of the drums

oh the drums drums drums
foretell the things to come
the tapping beat calls
hearts and minds to stir

awakened from dear sleep
we discern the growing creep
the mounting host of warriors
tramping on
      
the fifers next came peeling
the swooning mass was kneeling
the flash of brass and horns
enthralled us all

the salute of rifles thundered
leaving all of us to wonder
what this show of force
would mean for you and me

oh the drums drums drums
the flash and crack of guns
the might and mien of country
on display

yes we howl a raucous cheer
as we shout we raise a beer
the march of shock and awe
is on its way

the thundering timpani                                  
soul of a nation's symphony
united in common purpose
all in step

pressing on to foreign fields
with armies, tanks and shields
we offer sons and daughters
to the lords of war

sleek missiles flew and flashed
buildings crumble and crash
the righteous right of the stronger
proved again

but blood will wash the ground
wails of mourning will sound
dead soldiers and civilians
on all sides

percussive cannon blasts
bursts eardrums kills you fast
the awful smashing and the
bashing of the bombs

the popping flap of flags
assure a profiteers swag
much riches to be made
through the spoils of war

filthy lucre that is earned
the value of life is spurned
hoards of begotten treasure
condemns its lord

so spend it if you must
for your gold will turn to rust
and dust to dust your
soul shall return

oh the drums drums drums
calls our sisters and our sons
to step and march along
a deathly roll

constant war begets a madness
unhealed wounds endless sadness
friends and lovers sadly perish
families destroyed

oh the drums drums drums
once so stirring like a sun
the rattling snare of drumsticks
a hissing asp

oh the drums drums drums
we whistle through our gums
past the midnight graveyards
hallowed for our youth

so listen for the drums
the droning of the guns
stand firm for peace
and walk its blessed way

or you can yell yell yell
marching onward straight to hell
where death will greet you
with the devils kiss

he’ll sing you bitter taps
the music that entraps
and commends the young
to the wretched earth

or play Djembe for peace
witness all conflict cease
bongo bops for peace
may it always increase

yes the drums drums drums
the resounding joyful strums
a mirthful dance of peace
may it always increase

so play Djembe for peace
our song will never cease
our dance will be
a whirling prayer of grace

Music Selection:
Fela Kuti & Afrika 70, Zombie

jbm
3/9/12
Oakland
Priya Patel Nov 2013
Always lingering, longingly
Like leaves frolicking in trees
Your gaze entraps me
Tempting me
Mesmerizing me
Engaging me in a lovers dance
Seducing my senses
Only you, only you
Nigel Obiya Mar 2012
The allure of everything bad

The allure of vices that nullify circumstances which make living seem sad

The 'Hollywood' cigarette, the hard liquor... *******, crystal ****

All very romanticized but in reality, isn't that really just a self-induced slow death?

We don't talk about it, until we watch from the sidelines

If only for a second

When partaking one repeats quotes like 'it is what it is'

'I am not a quitter'

You've built up a tolerance for one, so you beckon

The bartender to pour you a second

Social trend like a hot topic on twitter

So now you want more

You ignorantly jab the needle inside you like you don't know what your signing up for

In a sense you don't, for you choose not to

Addiction entraps... but who?

Not you

And the moment you decide to go cold turkey

It appears more enticing in another movie, or in the hands of a fellow druggie

Impossible to reject

Relapse... rubber band effect

Yet even he that doesn't use gets a little curious

One day the stress becomes too much to handle, he's peeved

He's furious

He's heard of pills sold over the counter, and also of those available from dusty cobwebbed shelves

By dealers with hollowed out eyes, ghosts of their former selves

In an alternate reality

Where 'it's all good'

It's all about finding solace in one happy, high family... 'It's all hood'

A distorted image of zoned out smiling faces

Floating around in temporary elation

These vices have comforted and haunted many, way before our so called '******* generation'

The druggie, the alcoholic or the *** addict you see... could be your's or someone else's dad

Or it could very well be you or me

Seduced by the allure of everything bad

I write this expecting it to be misunderstood by many...

For a judgement between bad and good

I myself could be affiliated to one of these vices... or many

Someone reading this may have already renamed it 'The allure of everything good'.
Julian Jan 2016
Gruesome blister on a denatured mind
Chimes rumble the anchored soul foggy with Elysian wine
Flippant ruse ignites a battered fuse rusty with malevolent impotence
Blustery portents beyond expired extent throngs the chapels and pickets along the electrified fence
That separates the grave from the gravity of a physics enslaved
A physics where disillusioned mathematics and decay are as sure as taxes and the last earthen day
Nescient of giant leaps our stepwise ascension is helical and cheap
It snails along with unctuous repetition of pendulous rhythm and sails biologically with evolved and animated meat
The advent of acid and bass is a keepsake for the epicurean chase
Of a fulgurant galvanization of phases that remain unfazed
Trends punctuate vain diversions and lionized conversions both raise and raze
The velocity of money ensures a melliferous alchemy of a well-oiled plutocracy buffered by praise and pay
Ivory-tower elegance is immune to demotic ignorance
When the shot-callers devise the rules to the game with impenetrable clandestine eloquence
Hebetude and lassitude sink abundant platitude and offer trite prescriptions for useless attitudes
But the vogue of disembogued vanity entraps individualism and trains martial raillery
Trends tantalized by preening epigamic tens makes the roosters become owls that neglect nest egg hens
Fatuous ambush of the Kardashian putsch is as clockwork as Big Ben
Murky lies appear in flimsy disguise suitable for mice “say cheese” demise
Privacy cries and answers only lurk accessibly when spurred by wise “why’s” never asked when garish time flies
Tweets and beats make us obese with threadbare wheat cultivated by nescient bleats
Beatific ambition obscured by the wail of sheepish sheep
Outnumbered by obtuse angels and a cute horde of meretricious dissolution that ever wrangles
The shelter turns to rubble and the cloister turns to bustle: useful convolution thus entangles
Agorophilia defiles a voiceless lechery on speed dial
Disembodied violence sprints a green mile bankrolled by the peaceful throngs slowed through the paid but dilatory turnstile
Thus we loiter in queue as the slew of vibrant militarized celerity taxes our pews
Pews which enthuse jingoism eager to apportion sentient deaths through religious abuse
We can surf beams of light chasing verisimilitudes of diversion bright
Of unwagered immersion gambling a pittance for vicarious thrills and riskless fright
To discover the vestige of war, a useless artifact of sore egos we now deplore
An enormity of unmoored evil percolating apace of the paradoxical rush hour from shore to shore
But more decisively than an implacable brush fire on pristine ground abetted by sleek star-crossed winds that soar
Irenic ignorance placates, because a vagrant vacant mind is more a felicity than a bellicose grimy crease
Because excess corrodes squinty detests, and partial enslavement is both a rest and arrest to earth’s untenanted lease
Decries the devolution of pop culture that transmogrifies people into sheep and then makes them sheepish over their peccadillos. It also bashes war as a callous mechanism of useless death. It concludes by asserting the paradox that the throngs in real life slow our movement but we can move at light speed through technological implements. It concludes that useful idiots are irenic if also disheartening. In the earlier sections it laments that materialistic monism is taking over because science has made us deterministic and thus blind to the numinous beyond that staggers beyond our comprehension. It addresses how we are silently monopolized by artful esoteric chess masters immune to trifling quibbles, and how distracted society has become with respect to digital plasticity and consumerist disfiguration spurred on by fatuous and meretricious values. It further satirizes the effigy of modern culture deliberately disfigured with grandiloquence to deploy resourceful linguistic invention. I hope you enjoy this piece!

Here is a response I posted on another poetry site with respect to this poem. It explains the emblems, themes, philosophical agenda and metaphors of this poem so that more people can appreciate the level of meticulous care I preen with my craft
“I understand the charge of hyperbole, that was unintentional. It is an epiphenomenon of protean grandiloquence ( multi-pronged connotations suffering entropy through translation) crafted to emblazon lurid imagery and to conceal arcane mystery with an emphasis on cadence. When you use big words it is inevitable that some words chosen connote more strongly than you originally hoped for when writing it initially. Also, it was not designed to be solely a scathing harangue bemoaning the decadence and anomie endemic to this zeitgeist. You should read the final four or five lines (after I lambasted how war makes human life unnecessarily disposable for expedient aims). In those lines I marvel at miracle of technology wizardry and insinuate that in modern times we can wager much less to gain the same thrills we would have risked life and limb for before. Instead of a bottlenecked turnstile of industry that admits one person at a time like when entering an amusement park (the sluggish pace of premodern industry) to fund the clunky and internecine annihilation operated through rapid-fire death ( “Disembodied violence sprinting ‘the green mile’ A.K.A. a prisoner’s last walk before execution). The pace of society is a central theme of the poem throughout. The gravity of a physics enslaved implies the dilatory and dismal apprehension of a universe moving at an infinitesimally slow rate. A helical and cheap evolution mediated by animal meat snails along throughout history only to precipitate the exponential acceleration of human progress witnessed more recently after the advent of language. The rate of speed (the velocity of money line) is the lifeblood of all culture and all entertainment but it has become such a blur that it obscures the inveterate values of a leisurely stroll rather than a hedonistic galloping gallivant. Ironically, the plutocracy depends on gradate—(thus slow enough to lull people into the “say cheese” mousetrap (privacy eradication)—cultural devolution (clockwork like Big Ben to me evokes the imagery of a slowly ticking clock, a fixture and emblem of the proctor of the old world domineering over newfangled world prospects). Pop culture centered in the Anglophonic world depends on a rapid velocity of vagary blustery with money inuring people to fast-paced changes that abide by slow-moving subterfuge( the Kardashian putsch). The word ambush in that sentence implies that the encroachment of hegemons depends on a furtive approach solidified by an alacritous leap at the heartstrings of mankind in a moment of brinkmanship. The mousetrap is the slow roll but steady bet “say cheese demise”. The irony is that the only way this plan could work is because “wise why’s are never asked when garish time flies. This bewilderingly rapid pace is also the mechanism whereby sheltered obtuse angels are desensitized by breakneck cultural celerity that disabuses their naivety thus leading to useful convolution (paradigm shift). But there is also a lament that “meretricious wranglers” could lead to unmoored decadence bewildered by a smug agnostic relativism tethered to nothing more than the culmination of momentary fads reverberating in a plangent delay chamber like a finely crafted sound effect in a musical production program. The poem ends optimistically by concluding war is a vestige and concedes that partial enslavement (PC culture) is irenic precisely because it shepherds pedestrian considerations predictably in order to secure a stalemate. The Earth’s Untenanted Lease is thus arrested by counterbalanced nuclear specters. This leads to a rest and also an arrest of territorial claims. There is so much deliberate and emblematic imagery deployed here, drenched with subconscious enrichment that is unintended. A perfunctory interpretation of this piece misses so many astute cultural commentaries. The poem ends on a relatively positive note. The final several lines announce war as a vestige but concede that peace is built upon a latticework of acquiescent sheep indoctrinated to despise the past rather than learn from it (this goes slightly beyond what is directly stated). This poem in essence is about the ironic dynamics of history at the intersection of our modern cultural identity.
Paul R Mott Jul 2012
Ants crawl across this floor we’ve fallen on before
Crawling away from painful light meant for death
It takes time and height to view this bitter facsimile
Of the life that was when our legs shortened and
We carried righteous angst in disaffected thoraxes

We lived such a life chased by light unrepentant.
So it went with soldiers straying and fraying
Under the stress of the chase by cruel illumination
While those on the scent of something sweeter
Managed to stay out of the heat and find salvation

Truly miraculous things are these
that have no future but cocoon just the same
poor souls that should be outshined by time
find reprieve enough to shield timid bodies
long enough to find their own legs stilting

No feat of glory to any still around
But to those scattered by the wayside
These hulking creatures are visions of
Promise, a promise that one’s own feeble feelers
May one day cast out into oblivion and latch onto
The stuff dreams are made of and close their eyes
With open mouths for serums of wonderland

Such a shame then, when the hopeful
Can’t be afforded the lofty visions
Of their grindstone nose counterparts
And the wayside entraps them in whorish
Promises of paid-for pleasure

But life digresses while the underbelly
Digests the stumblers of chance
So we have you and me, and the world
Feeling inadequate legs stripped bare
So superior parts could be strapped on

This machination of imagination
Is how we get by that heat of life
What once incinerated futures
Inflicts faint unseen blisters--
Reminders of humility rising

At long last our earth-drawn eyes
Draw level with this glass half empty
But magnified with the intention of more,
More, more, more, colors filling prisms across the sky
Gaining beauty and color from the heat of long ago

But who would care about the minute minutes
Of suffering felt by those not bold or quick enough
When compared to this veritable Monet
Blessed with the gift of chasing pasts away
To be replaced with this gilded new day.

So it goes and so it must be in the minds
Still intact, kindled not hindered by the heat

                             ...

Towering over this glass of possibility,
Our focus is intent, not missing a thing
You and me, and the world all focus
On this contrived concoction of color
Bewitching that betwixt reason and love

All our eyes and all our thoughts
Gather power by the hour
Drawn from this pool of glory
Not a thought dropped into
This wishing well

While we sate our psyches
From this languishing pool
We forget how the same spark
That defined us, as we grew above the fray
Is now returned earthward

Isn’t it entertaining to contemplate
Life in the context of those wretches
Blessed to have the power of immediacy
While we sit serially still, no purpose
But to make these poor ants run.
Raphael Uzor Mar 2014
She wins...
She always does

After a long busy stay
From missing her all day
I go home to her
And she's there, she's always there,
Patient, soothing and tender
Luring me to bed...
As I fight her charms,
Trying to stay up; workaholic impulse raging!

I win...
For a moment or so

Daring to focus
For a couple more hours
Desperate not to give in
At least not without a fight.
She peeks out from our bedroom
Sneaking up from behind,
As I snooze momentarily
But I can't win this fight, there's no use trying!

Accepting defeat, I embrace her
Letting her caress me

She entraps me all night
I'm lost, against my will
I know I'll wake up guilty,
Wishing I could send her away
But I'm stuck with her for life
And she takes so much of my time
Time I could use for work
But no, she won't let go; not when I always yield!

And no, she's not my wife
She's not even my girlfriend
Not some girl from across the street
Just a nobody, named Sleep!


© Raphael Uzor
What were you thinking?
Karen Christian Oct 2009
Reality is drowned beneath the waves.
The bubbling crescendo
Sounding forth its mockery
At my resistance.

Anguished cries are muted
By the vast liquid’s gossamer grasp.
Each arching crest curves around my soul
Cocoon like it entraps me.

Explosive waves roar their obsession.
Each powerful white tipped crest
Rolls with the joy of loves persistent tattoo.

White water propels me headless
Towards destiny’s ocean
Its power rushes through my veins.
Tossing me over the edge of reason
The Tsunami consumes me in its passion.

Heart pounding within my rapturous journey
The water falls away into distant oblivion.
Suddenly I am ****** free of its tenuous hold
It’s vehemence crashing me against the scared shore.
There the marks of our passing remain a constant reminder
Cherished scars to be carried on loves momentous tide

Like a Tsunami come to claim the soul,
Love seeks my full surrender.
eleanor prince Nov 2023
Run... run while you can
before the envelopment entraps you
encapsulating escape with leaden clouds
skies darkened by searing missiles
unburdening caches waiting
for the stirring of conflict
so easy to hijack
as hatred
screams
loudest
drowning
out the pleas
of nursing mothers
as children's faces fend off
old feuds and avarice of arms dealers
sparked by grief over the slaughter and scarring of children and families due to avarice of war
M Eastman Jun 2023
Should Andromeda collapse / Hammering hydrogen entraps
Cresting waves of burnished light / Whitecaps in the endless night
Fly apart with gentle violence / Into eternity of silence
CautiousRain Feb 2016
The river's current starts slow,
chilled streams trickling,
toes shifting, in the dark blue-gray;
almost unpleasant to the touch.

As she wades, the pull becomes stronger;
ice cold, it entraps her chest.

Slwoosh fwssh, she winces as the wind picks up,
and her mind goes still; resilient.

Drifting, her body gives way,
fwuomp, pssshhh.
Almost lifeless do her eyes wash,
away into the water's murk.

Like a ship stranded at sea,
her body struggles to withstand,
water filling her lungs like the hull;
her cheeks pale and wet.

Gasps break the water,
sending ripples as wide as her eyes,
and the tormenting storm laughs;

Each time it moves, grabs, without asking, takes without giving,
and she floats.
Based on a poem I wrote at least 4-5 years ago, and I think this is a better adaptation of it. I no longer called it The River Beneath My Feet, but Drowning Girl based off of the line "A lesson learned from the drowing girl" and I worked from there. No original lines are left in this adaptation, I believe.
Olivia Kent Sep 2013
A body in full glory stands before him.
Perpendicular in patent black shiny shoes, skirt hugging her truest form!
Her eyes wide and  sultry stare deep into his persona.
Finding, vibrant body heat!
A tigress on a hungry prowl.
She strokes her lips meaningfully with her sandpaper tongue!
She has patterns of her own.
Talons painted scarlet, remnants of her last victim!
She wants to seize and devour him.....
To chew on his his bone is her lust!
She desperately needs to eat....
Her tongue starts to trickle in jest....
Daring him to play!
She entraps him in his world of fantasy,
He is tempted....so tempted,
He needs to be fed, has desires of his own......
No fight in him.
He succumbs to her needs!
She expresses her desires.
Gesturing him to drop before her majestic form.
Holds his head in her hands, stroking his hair gently.
Sudden dire urges on.
The gentleness has left,
His hair was yanked.
She pushes him hard onto the bed.  
Craving feed more as they grapple.
He turned, trousers full of promise succumbing to her, at last!
Copyrright, Lady Livvi  06/03/2013.






He turned, trousers full of promise succumbing to her, at last!
Copywrite, Lady Livvi 06/03/2013.
K Balachandran Oct 2012
In a time machine, going back to past,
this  disturbing thought entraps me:
if someone wants to eat me
who should it be?
rather a mystical woman, mature
than a skeptical nymph,
an optical illusionist
who with her eyes,
showed few tricks, to me lately-
perfectly fits the bill
.
If one can pick and choose the cannibals of choice in those days
Amitav Radiance Jan 2015
Induced influences
of the portrayed reality
reflected from the
mirrors of (un)reality
nexus of the rays
entraps you in a bind
Counterfeit enthusiasm
of sinister designs
Brett Jan 2022
Lines on the page are like my personal prison bars;
Where all my arresting thoughts are locked away.
Ink and me, worn and fading
As each calendar day is torn,
Crumpled and forgotten.

Like a black hole, my journal entraps the light;
The turning of a page only paints,
An image of one perpetually falling.
Spiraling endlessly towards a center
I will fall short of reaching.
Jordan Frances Jan 2014
Walking through days as a zombie
Begins to remind you that nothing is as it was
And never will be again.
Numbness entraps me
Pick up my lifeless body
With your bare hands, I beg you
Darling don't let go.

Sinfulness no longer feels exciting or dangerous.
Sadness is no longer sadness.
Happiness is illusive.
Life has the tendency to lose its beauty
Because I cannot feel.

So why not take
One more cut to my wrist
One more sip from the glass
One more drag of the sweet smoke of forgetfulness.
One more dose of your potent love
Or your homicidal lust.
You were my *******, my addiction.
Consume me once again
And let me infatuate you once more.
So that I can stop feeling so dead.
Note: the addicted behaviors listed here have affected me.  At the moment I am in a better and a clean place, but sometimes I wonder what it would be like to going back to quick fixes.
Lyn-Purcell Jul 2020

She who give what's due
Broken echos reach her ears
Pool entraps his gaze


Haiku dedicated to Nemesis, Goddess of Retribution.
Again, one of my favourite goddesses, haha!
I wish she had alot more love also, much like Iris.
Here's the link for the growing collection:
https://hellopoetry.com/collection/132853/the-women-of-myth/
Much love,
Lyn 💜
Gabriel Mar 2014
It is the immaculate consternation of my atrocious reputation,
for pulling intellectualism into the gutter.

For the transgressions I accumulated in a iniquitous fashion,
were merely the adoration's of rebellion.

The methodical maintenance of a maniacal mind set,
created in the interpretation of a world that fails to define me.

But I digress from my reasoning to articulate an irrefutable way of believing,
that love, is what started it all.

Infringing on the desolation of the psyche that wants to be free,
but inevitably entraps its own self.

A true Gemini fabulous and terrible, in all their splendor,
are a mass of waling contradictions wrapped in an enigma.

So to say that it is slightly genius, without a tinge of insanity,
would surely be an exercise in futility.  

There are two sides to a coin, a Yin and Yung,
the things that defines us, is being in constant change.

Intuition is strong, but decision not so great,
if I could do half of both choices,
it's a path I'd gladly take.

No longer is there hiding,
no more walking on the fence,
no longer will I settle or be a part of false pretense.
Asim Javid Sep 2015
A silent tempest of million waves.
Screaming against my psyche
with billion raves.
Unnerving my soul from
the clinges of hope.
Entangling my mind with elegant dope.
Even in calm,  when i lie in my bed.
A beautiful destruction out there
in my head.
In every fight,  it gets it's win.
Poisoning with notion,  that i am the sin.
Entraps every light entering my soul.
Darkening me inside,  dark like  a mole.
Crashing and crushing me
with walls of despair.
Left on the sidewalk,  beyond repair.
A wave is coming and
nature cannot save.
May be,  I am meant to vanish in this
flagitious wave*.
Layla Dec 2013
This year alone, death has engulfed my soul
like euphoria entraps an addict.
Instead of getting high I'm falling low.
There is pain in my soul and it's not escaping any time soon.
There is a door in my brain that has been locked from the first day I understood somebody I knew died.
Somebody I loved died.
They were gone like a burst of wind we cannot chase, but feel ever so quickly.
It wasn't my grandmother.
Who at age three I loved completely.
By age four there was no more grandmother to help me keep score of life.
She was on the moon for all I knew and now I know better.
From age four to six I didn't question it.
By age seven I forgot, why my grandmother wasn't a forget me not
Why she didn't come back after she disappeared like the flowers do
BUT
I could never forgive and forget.
I could never forgive a God for taking family away from over ten little girls.
10 little girls from age three to age sixty
Mother, Sister, Cousin, Grandma, Friend
I could never forget that grandma = moon.
yet, when I look in the dark sky I find myself full of surprise when I think of her under the glow of a white orb.
Why
I'm not so sure because
the reasons have blurred
Why
I'm not so sure
They say white is the color of purity
It is what you see before death,
And that's what makes it frightening
And it's okay

I was young and every day carved its own way.
Games
Friends
Family
And I guess after one death people think it's the end, but when a man so great came to his fall my heart went down with him
My heart broke
My mouth moved, but soul never spoke.
He may have been the second death that hit me hard, but
He was the true first.
Then another man took the blunder.
Thee weeks in and he fell under under the spell of unlimited sleep
And I cried
For the injustice of leaving five kids young
One thirteen
And one Twelve
One nine
One three
and (another) one (one)
My eyes were waterfalls
Mist
Noise
Gushing water
Yet, what I lacked to acknowledge was within every waterfall there's a rainbow.
The crystals fell creating puddles of salty pins.
They hurt to step on.  
They hurt to think.
They create tiny stab wounds within my heart
Within my brain
Within my faith
They create spaces of emptiness
Spaces of freedom
that i seep from till one day I'll end
Some people say one death is the end.
I say it's the beginning
Diverseman2020 Sep 2009
Her smile lasts a lifetime
To one's heart
She styles with a cultivating conformity
Her silk short hair holds a traditional divergence
Fewr words can describe her soulful beauty
How can a man maintain her innocence?
As waterfalls sends droplets
Her visional lustrous appeal
Entraps
A dissertation of enjoyment
orion j Jun 2014
it’s roughly 11:29pm and i have you roaming around in my mind, then again what else is new?
i can imagine you humming along to these tunes while you tangle your fingers in my already so easily tangled hair and i’d count the minutes you spend trying to untangle yourself from me - limbs and all while you’re at it
before you left you made it a point to tell me about how i was like the light of your day and maybe i just might have imagined the caffeine scent that hangs over every single word that spills out of your beautiful mouth in that ridiculous accent of yours.        you’re ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous.                                   i love the way you make shades of blue seem more vivd and i love the way it curves in to rest against my shoulders as i find inklings of you along the sleeves, almost as if you’re right here next to me. i’d fall asleep in an ocean with dreams as succulent as honey oozing from your lips, catching myself saying ‘good morning’ to a silhouette as i realise that i just may have left just enough space for you to slip your arms around my waist as you pull me close enough to rid the glass between our eyes

i’d like for that to happen again sometime, if you don’t mind and i’m sure you don’t judging by your sleepy murmurs that i manage to piece a ‘i wish you were laying here next to me’, out of when you dial me.

you asked me if i was angry at you, repeatedly, oddly enough you can’t help yourself on fridays. i brushed it off with a laugh and a roll of my eyes because you fail to realise that i could never stay angry at you because well, you make me feel so much more than that
[bullet train of emotions just rush into the gateway of my heart every time i lay my eyes on you]
anger is just my daily attire but you make me want to change into something new and that’s why i am so in love with you
so very
in love with you.

maybe i’ll tell you when you ask me if I’m mad at you some friday of a week.

new years day, only someone like you would plan something right out of a reality television show and i wouldn’t switch channels to be honest, your heartbeat on my left as you leaned in and i don’t remember if i shut my eyes when yours graced mine but it was my first time and i know i play the blind card to it but i remember what exactly it felt like and how my heart was jumping out of chest and how you were trembling right against me as i asked you to kiss me again
[its been a few months and i still hesitate at the thought of kissing you because i’m so afraid of tripping up somewhere but it doesn’t make me want it any less because sometimes i feel like your sugar laced sweet every things could spill into me and i’d never forget how special you make me feel]
yes, i am aware that its ‘sweet nothings’ but anything you say means everything to me and maybe i don’t say it enough but the chance of you choking over my sweet abyss wasn’t a factor i would definitely let it slip out once in a while
you’ve asked me to describe what your scent was and well who would i be to say? i mean sure your scent clings onto my jacket no matter how many times it takes a spin in the wash almost like the thought of you contrasting against the carnival of fairy tale blue fairy lights i hang by the side of my bed, i’d like to imagine that you do the same, i’d like to imagine that you flip through the words left stranded in those pages i’ve spent days rewriting and taking minutes of my day to ensure that you’ll be able to read it - whenever you feel the blue from your clothes painting your spirit, i’d like to imagine that you curled up with your jacket at dusk the same way i did as i tried to dissect parts of me from you only to find that i really couldn’t
it’s the next day and 11:50pm, but you’re still on my mind,
“you’re like the light of my day i can’t get you out of my head sometimes,”

sometimes i flinch when someone makes contact with my side and my shoulders but for a second i think that it just might be you cause’ i’m so used to you pressed up so close to me as you run your nails down my side in the darkness that swallows me whole late at night as you pull me closer eyes still on the screen ahead of us as i learn to let go and take your palm in mine, running my fingers over yours delicately just to remind myself that you are here and you are mine and that this moment is ours and ours alone like the others i’d store in the attic of my mind whereby i’d use the fireflies as light to read off the water colouring you’ve left in my mind.

i know you’ve never called me yours apart from that one time whereby i couldn’t differentiate between the sincerity caught between the tides of those flamboyant words of yours that entraps me with every breath as i submerge under the tides.
David Moss Dec 2014
A new force begins in this century

With ancient notions of greed and scarcity

It pushes us hard

It hits our home

But last time i checked

We aren't alone

In fact we are more than enough

Community is key when the times are tough

And in numbers we hold still

We hold steady

We hold true

We are ready

And as we stand, shaken, surrounded, subdued and silent

Still we stand strong, together and without violence

And it all starts there

It all starts when we start to care

By separating past and present

By stimulating body and mind

By speaking out when something's left unspoken

We can find solace in these soul-less times

Within moments we are undefeated

In these moments we are truly divine


So exhaust yourself

Brake yourself

Challenge yourself

Remake yourself

And if you still don't understand the truth to the questions

And you still have to ask a selfish and backhanded 'WHY?'

Then fine

Lets find

Lets define some final answers to the demons in your mind


Have you considered that perhaps together if we share them

Lay it all out and bare them

That half the fear of it all

Might just simply unwind?

No way you say?

Well what if i told you

That the vessel that holds 'it' all in

Your pain

Your struggle

Your self proclaimed entitlement to 'sin'

Those things that you thought was just yours to fight alone at home without having ever known you aren't the only one that fights it on your own....

Your disdain for the insane frame that entraps your brain that leaves us crippled and maimed through what feels like the end of days.....

What if i told you

That your own shell is the only thing

That's truly stopping real change from happening?

That the struggle from within each of our minds defines the rest of time well at least the rest for all of mankind?

You.

Me.

We.

Everybody.

We must reach through it.

Cause if we don't, who in hells name is going to pursue it?
Wednesday Feb 2014
Sometimes my hands get really itchy
like my bones are trying to crawl their way out of
the skin that entraps them

I get really nervous when I can’t write
You speak in riddles and you're making me crazy

And last night I told you that if hell was real
According to Dante there are 7 levels
and I think I belong in all of them

And we talked about heaven
and you said that you think heaven could be here on earth

And I laughed and said maybe in bits and pieces
but I think my heaven is all chopped up

And then it was silent for a long time
and I realized that you were subtly saying
that it felt like it was heaven with me

Maybe I just shouldn’t speak but I want you to realize is
I am all dark and sin
I am rust on your shine
Terry O'Leary Mar 2013
A sylph appears beneath the night -
beguiling smile and touch invite...

As honey flows and nectar drips,
Sweet laughter ripples 'cross her lips...

Her crystal eyes are flashing blue -
They beckon with a ***** hue...

Her silken strands of flaxen hair
Are waving wildly in the air...

The music plays, her swirling dance
Entraps me in a mystic trance...

She disappears as nighttime wanes -
I'm left bewitched, my soul in chains...
Joe Cole Jun 2014
It wasnt often but when I did
Ardbeg would speak in my stead
and Ardbeg then would rule my head
It would speak the words I never could,
the words that should never be said
She entraps me in her golden snare
her pungent aroma fills the air
and the level of the liquid there
slowly and surely drops
The words oft unsaid then leave my mouth
for Ardbeg takes control
and speaks for me
The amber nectar in that bottle there
took my soul then destroyed the love I had
She has now gone, taken part of me
but the Ardbeg still remains
bluedomes23 Sep 2013
It’s been a more than a week now
I still welcome the feeling
Bleak, sad, melancholic
As the sun kisses the day goodbye
As the red petals fall to the coarse ground
No grace no energy, no charm.


I had a deep fall, painful and chronic
A fall without any precaution
To him deemed unworthy
As committing a sin so passionate
As not following orders so easy
Everything came smooth, yet mistaken and immediate.


At all times, my mind entraps the thoughts
Of his sweet words and warmth
So sudden, they had perished
So hasty he has changed
As the wind blows the leaves of a dying cypress tree
As the strong waves erode the coast


Puzzled now how to mend
The shattered dream he had left hanging
To move on as if he never existed
To comfort thyself, and live life anew
As the caterpillar metamorphoses to a butterfly
As the sun creeps in the mountains to give light for a new day.
copesthetic Nov 2014
and I never thought I could fathom
distance
distance is the space between your brain and heart that entraps all of your secrets webbed between
distance
distance is the gaping hole of your mouth when I first told you that I loved you
distance
distance is what rips our hearts to shredded material as they try to reach each other but they simply cannot
and I never thought I would fathom distance
distance is the air time that my tears have before they decide to land explosively on my pillow every night
distance enables the heart to yearn
liz Dec 2018
there is no such thing
as a complete end to love.

despite the goodbyes, the
thank u, next quality to these
love affairs that somehow clog
my pores & leave me breathless

this love is the clarity i needed
a remedy, a rush of fresh air
after the cloying sweetness i had
that entraps as much as enchants.

sure, love was the golden thread
that made the tapestry of exes
worth my time & affection;

but good goddess, i do believe
you have the midas touch

cold clear love, a quenching
of all the insecurity and loss
transmute the gold into grace

i don't need wealth i need you
all this new love
laid out like laughter between us.
03 dec | 1:33am
hi, i dislike december for lots of reasons but this makes me smile, so please enjoy it as you see fit.
Surrationality Jan 2014
Book holds for Reader
The secret to divinity,
Between ink and fiber
Lies the universe.
Sustaining itself by
Luring others inside,
Book fools Reader
That escape is within
Then entraps them in the
Fantasy that life could be
Like Reader's favorite Book.

But Book lies to Reader.

Great literature is proof
Against God.
For God created World,
Author and Ink and Paper-
Reader and Book.
But Reader wants to escape World
    (created by God)
And travel into Book
    (created by Author)

His creation has outdone Him
And has been outdoing him
For centuries.
Rachel Giudici Aug 2014
I am hallow and your cryptic messages echo echo echo in the cavern depths of my mind. and I erase myself into a hallow dark nothingness because your voice reckishays so beautifully into my abyss. to let your essence fade within me until i can feel your silence, is a sound I cannot regurgitate. I hide in you more than i do myself and the feeling of vulnerability entraps my soul inbetween-and i taste it on my exhale and you sense it on your inhale but you will always breath it out and ill always breathe it back in. the dictionary in my head is composed of emotions and my fragmented thoughts will appear on my tongue in words that know well solitude. so don't ask me to compile a sentence when nonsense is such a poetic language. and maybe you're shocked by your own electricity but i know that when my socket lips meet your outlet I don't need my eyes open for you to feel my stare. I started in a void, rap music drains me into being comfortably numb like the security of a scratched cd that will repeatedly mumble mumble mumble mumble mumble mumble nonsense until you can handle the silence again. Sedation. but silence does not exist-there will only ever be nothingness.

and memory is a misconception. and my memory is paranoid fading fading fading fading deceptions that i mutilate into some kind of black hole limbo of existence. I forget memory does not exist. not even the best moments are worth remembering into ghosts, shadows, silhouettes, silhouettes, silhouettes. I wont remember but i wont forget...an inbetween. I've never felt so lonely as you keep a memory but forget me within it. my extinction to you is inevitable. Forget me to death. I only know the sensation of breaking, breaking, breaking. but you say my name in halves like it was meant to be broken. like the last syllables of my names are the sound of my last breath. a secret spilt in the killing, your last words to me were my first name. that was the most purpose ever put to my accidental label that my parents branded me with because mistake, seems more like a nickname than a first. first times aren't anything more than any other time. Innocence costs more than its worth, and my worth to you and you and you and you over and over and over again was never a matter of giving or taking because purity and promiscuity are just different forms of the same breaking, breaking, breaking. you **** me like a mortician dissects a ****** victim. and i ******* like a corpse in a dirt smothered grave, ***** to the bone. love has everything to do with it because loving me is the promise of i will die for you. will, not would. and i love you like the ceaseless immortality of time measuring my bodies end in mortality. so all jokes aside, id rather say ill ******* to death than ill love you because it more crude, offensive, and morbid to ever suggest my love for you could end at wood. intensity, burdens, accidents, rejection, characters, you don't know me past an expiration date. You don't know me and my caffeinated brain at 3:22am 156 days past last, high on an artificial happiness overdose. To never sleep as a self inflicted insomniac. Intoxication, addiction, I understand survival. I never write anything short. I never write anything worth saying. Irony is the core of infinity and infinity is temporary and my muse is the epitome of all. And in the end, you are every question and i am a single factual answer.
my muse
Lindy Jun 2015
In Carson you took my hand as we crossed the whitecapped river - cold water cramping toes, we minced our way along algaed rocks like cats tiptoeing on ice
But in Tillamook we hunted Dungeoness crab and I roared for you
Did you hear?
We were hunting our kin - and I wondered if this could be sacrilege to the Cancers, perhaps not
But I heard the quiet "Thankyou," given to each one as you lowered them into the ***, the reverence in your voice soothed me like the pounding of the Pacific arm along that beach - my own golden shore -
I thought I had lost it you see -
Hidden in the dunes we consumed the flesh of the ***** and sat down to watch the sun melt into the blue
I wanted to say thank you too
But the words escaped me like your bandanna flying out from the truck
Like those ***** in the bay below who felt us tugging at the lines and crawled out of the ascending baskets, escaping death from our mouths
I like to think that we are them as well
Because we both run from comfortable prisons, the pillow that cradles the head but entraps the heart.
Renae Nov 2014
A love story
Is an irresistible fable
It entraps the gullible
Eating up ideas like morsels
Wrapped up in legends
Noses in a book
Of warriors
and peasant girls

A love story is a lie
Telling tall tales
of hero's
Who rescue
& carry away
their trophy

A love story is a wish
The young girl craves
desires in her heart
Lingering in her mind
Currupting her reality
She sets fire to everything she touches,
I think as my mind burns.
I can't have anything, she takes it away.
Engulfs it. Entraps it.
Monopolizes it.
I can't have anything of my own.
I am sent spiraling into a retrograde.
Screaming at her to stop
as I try to grab the things out of my
burning house.
"DON'T TOUCH THIS, DON'T TOUCH THIS DON'T TOU--"
Everything she touches turns to ember.
She will ruin everything I love.
I just need to hold on to one thing.
Anything.
She sets fire to everything that is mine!*
My mind burns.
I scramble to save anything I can salvage
as the flames bellow in
and the smoke engulfs the room.
"COME BEFORE THE FIRE GETS TO YOU.
DON'T TOUCH IT, DONT TOUCH IT, DONT TOUCH--"
It's a race between me and the flames
as they dance around the floor, walls,
ceiling.
The room is swallowed in smoke,
and I stagger outside
coughing and swaying.
I can't salvage anything before the entire
house burns down.
I look,
disheartened at the place where
foundation used to be.
Nothing now but rubble and wispy smoke,
knowing this would happen from the beginning.
"Look what she did," I say as I clutch the lighter.
Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned.
-Buddha
Alan S Bailey Dec 2016
The Raw, Wild West Indeed!

I'm in a raft you gently paddle
The sense of this argument that comes
To me and tells me I've been a wild fool,
Better off smothered, a tool,
That entraps me in this triangle
of guilt, fear, and waves of madness.
I am on the verge of a total meltdown
Because you sing gently and dip your oar
Into the water quietly.

All the time!

It's now finally sundown,
Still the ebb and flow of my nerves
Are unsettled as the world spins around me,
My stomach in a knot I can't breath.
This is the end and *my heads numb,
I can not feel,
There is one thing on my mind and it won't
Go anywhere so it disappears a distant hush.
There is the scent of flowers on your tidy scarf,
It reminds me of the fragrance of too much
Cologne. I try to escape but you hold all the keys,
*I just wish your boring "epic" show of modern
Over perfection would leave me alone!
Thomas Crone Jan 2015
Once every few years she is around,
but she is still around. She is around enough nough to shine light on the constantly dying life that is my own. She is around every few years when the trees hold their supreme grace. Every few years, in the Summertime she is around. And every few years we meet, in the countryside blanketing the city. It's on a bench, we meet. A bench overlooking a crisp-yellow field of sunflowers, much inferior in beauty, to her radiant stare. She sits down beside me. The smell of her perfume overwhelms my senses, like a single wave in the ocean, greeting a lonely rock. Before any bit of music flows from her luscious, but naked lips, she presents a cigarette. The damp and silent air is filled with the subtle crackle of a match being lit. The flame, meeting the tip of the cigarette, now burning with complete compatibility. She exhales a perfect funnel, and we watch as the smoke disappears into the gentle breeze. She offers it to me, as I take a breath to decline, she entraps my vulnerable soul with her mesmerizing gaze. Michaelangelo himself could not have created a more perfect pair. Like two planets, holding all the beauty and mystery, in the universe. I remove it from her silky hands as she smiles. A small but powerful smile holding the very definition of perfection. "Hello." I feel helpless as the warm tone of her voice fills the air around me. My ears have not heard a more aesthetically pleasing sound since the last time we met. It is as though I am hearing the word for the first time. "Hello," I say back. We sit in silence for a while. Side by side, her leg gently pressed against mine. Not a word yet spoken, and I cannot be more satisfied. She eventually speaks. She tells stories of the years passed. The world, shrinking as I listen. Word after word as the sun begins to slowly retire. Hours pass and she falls asleep in my arms. Upon sunrise we will go our separate ways. But in this moment of time standing still, I rejoice.
IPM Jun 2017
I'm lying in my little
home,
my dim-lit phone, I'm all
alone,
now staring at my dim-lit
phone,
I miss your call, I miss your call...

At last, this scent entraps my
nose,
the smell of rose, it must be
yours...
and yet, my body isn't
close...
it's not near yours, it can't
be yours...

-This dream again! It's night, I'm home,
a giant hole, I call it
home...
a little light - it's just my phone,
I'm all alone, I'm all
alone...
Aria of Midnight Apr 2015
Let me tell you about public buses
with their rolling wheels and upright seats
where the driver entraps in his own world
and as the passengers, we in ours;

but there's a strange occurrence
when strangers share the same seat--
suddenly, we are sensitive
to their slightest movement
the deepness of their breath
our legs touching slightly, sometimes
ramming together throughout
this epic journey.

then, it's our stop;
we are at the window seat, our eyes darting
outwards, with a speeded heart,
our eyes focus on our
impending bus stop.

but before our words form
the sounds, articulate the words,
this stranger has already shifted
with a smile.

"Thank you," you say, stunned,
wondering how they knew
your feelings.
Hank Dorsch Oct 2011
Run
Times wasted never show to the outside world,
But it's in a whirl to me.
The twisting confines of my mind
Just tangle up more as I look to find
Whatever is unsearchable, unchangeable.
Unified disgust entraps. Fall leaves crack.
And I can’t help but look back.
And question the answers,
While they answer the questions.

Fools to the autumn sun
But I can look past the fun
Replace it.
Replace it.
I turn and run.
Larry B Mar 2011
As the borrowed sunrise, kisses the sky
Your beauty entraps my very being
My future, imprisoned as you walk by
Determined to keep my heart from fleeing

The moon and stars grow jealous of your smile
The mutinous stars, refusing to shine
The moon hides her face in blind denial
But in your presence the flowers will pine

Ten thousand poems are written of you
In declaration of undying love
The artists of old have painted you true
The vision, the poets were speaking of

My love is measured by each breath you take
Sealed with the promise that my heart will make

— The End —