Choosing to write ~ gave me a freedom ~ a practice ~ and ten long years of laboring with word placements. Sent to shadow my convictions when cleverly arranged ~ laced to tie in knots ~ thus I buttered my every send ~ a basket full of metaphors I left for the mend. The bleeding of my instincts furthered my discipline ~ I fox holed my reality for this obsession and polished my every mention.
I sent my journals in a haste without the flare of rhyme. But bursting with flavors to adore ~ a fortune of intense editing. I became infatuated with word placements. So to suit uniformity ~ I graced in a natural tone. Delivering principles with a gentle calmness ~ to fashion the write with harmony ~ yet disciplined and well measured.
Concise placement of my every word ~ together with my every reason ~ slowly allowed my words to free themselves of form. Following this fever to shell out words on paper, I ravished in the ceremony of it and enjoyed the challenge.
Calculating my vision for this send ~ I journal in a freer way ~ and shelter my light ~ and gather in folds. Without the confines of meter or rhyme this diamond of prose offered an elegance I could not overlook. A tool so nifty ~ it polishes you’re every write ~ delivering a gumbo of logic ~ served with the elegance of a waiter ~ thus delivering the promise you expect ~ prominent in formality ~ with a tie of respect ~ I polish and season for your plate. This here ~ is to celebrate and champion prose, a tool of the heart for the heart ~ found beside the poetic soul...
A facilitator ~ a communicator ~ a churning out of compressed diction ~ is the intent ~ distilled by the liquor of life. Justified is the send for those who convey their words in a humble fashion holding words to a higher measure ~ so without apology ~ these limits are on reserve ~ thus I shall flourish only beneath your light and your read.
Within this practice are many who are overburdened ~ grinding away ~ justifying every verse by stringent form. The friction of this ~ is a tightness of pen ~ resulting in the harmony being crimped and left out to dry. Thus to spoil beside the misfortune of lost rhythms. Finding place in the baskets of regret...
Better to milk the essence of your intelligence ~ by way of word play. Then you shall brave away any challenge or measure of the write ~ to unharness the fever of your discipline ~ all in prominent formality. So spread your wings and awaken your poetic heart ~ shelter yours ~ trust in prose.
Keep curiosity close ~ exercise your pen ~ ferment your style ~ it shall knock the boots off your readers. Spin them fancy drape your English. Drench them with your character and master your discipline. Refrain from the intensity of basic poetry ~ the anvil to hide ones logic. Mine the mental of your reason ~ write from the heart and success shall follow. Vent ~ thus glow in this forum of prose ~ to steady your poems ~ a gift to find ~ for another’s read ~ promise them clarity, give them insight ~ it shall gentle you calm ~ found in the readers trusting palms.
Here we leisure on steady rhythms ~ slinging principles as if painting portraits ~ all ventured for the write. Harness your diction ~ and fever in with heavy metaphors. Allow your confidence to gather steam and grow. Lace your language, buckle your soles ~ bamboo your sporadic springs of life with acronyms ~ venture beyond the scope of your greatest expectations and your words shall carry you free ~ to a measure of the highly refined ~ a carriage awaits you ~ to escort your work ~ to the Library of Congress.
Linguistic jewels are found here filtered, distilled and taken in one pint at a time. Gems for the share are found beside the precision of an honest pen ~ and sure as the open cold it shall shine of your dressings.
Prose a tool fit for a Queen and king and a meal for those who join them. A fun formula to escape the boredom of constant rhyme is the fancy. So journal your words for the kind ~ gentle the mind ~ and plate your meal for two.
Touch up your appeal ~ embrace your readers keen ~ champion your form ~ spotless will be the share ~ radiant ~ all with a high luster ~ also defend your every word placement when needed. A clarity to rejoice your sporadic cleverness to posture your diction righteous ~ shall also entertain ~ thus your work shall blossom. Simply amplify your message ~ needle your insight ~ trust your stitching ~ to discipline your style. Measure your wit by the pieces you share ~ and a gift they shall find.
Refine your intuition ~ to bless your pages with good intentions ~ pay the premium with gold nuggets of reason. Dance ~ not strain in your brutal edit. Ground solid your revisions ~ buff them
proper ~ simply hand over your wisdom and polish your send. Carry your principles as the bolt of lightning ~ understanding when to strike out flames with the passion and sharpness of your pen ~ so feather it ~ spin it ~ then spit shine ~ elegant is the commoner’s discipline here for the share.
An elder’s intuition ~ comes with time and reason ~ they fountain our knowledge. Exalt your apprehension of this grand wisdom by passing it to another ~ thus calming the words of your intuition. Yearn for your readers ~ they backbone our discipline by their precious read ~ so venture steady and seam them wise ~ milk them your logic.
Canvas your poetics ~ a castle of laureates awaits your presence. So package your riddles ~ bend your thoughts ~ and send them wisely. Simply puzzle your pieces together ~ without puzzling the
reader. Streamline your messages ~ striking chords by short tunes ~ soil your thoughts to enrich on native grounds ~ a place found by the good write ~ thus your pleasure will reflect you’re deepest of desires. So fancy in your diction ~ this is key to the reader’s heart. Calculate your rhythms ~ to fuel the fire of your every mention ~ all for the connoisseur’s desire. Hope your discipline invites you to the district of the fevered writers ~ refine yours ~ clever it ~ write.
The fast track ~ the short cut ~ the lost reasons ~ leads to losing one’s discipline. The copper keepers ~ saving cents but spending quarters ~ have little value for the fortune here. A same ~ copies worth a penny ~ are left unfiltered ~ resting in a jungle of loose words. Distil your forms in the silos of life ~ simply showcase your talent. Steady away from the cave of lost confidence found by the basket of simple verse and regret. Dive in ~ to a freer form, prose,
Make waves ~ make headway ~ make time, even if a luxury ~ refine your message with your priceless instinct ~ spill out revisions ~ complete your creations clean and it shall be entrusted as your standard...
Erroneously ~ misguided attempts to craft without close attention to detail ~ will shelter the chains of the first draft. Such left compromised ~ a mask for the beauty of your words ~ found beside the lackluster edit. It shall show stains of regret. So ~ correct yours kindly ~ steady away from the misfortunes of the canvas left tame by the product of laziness and one revision ~ in this shape it shall be left unread. So brand your words ~ or rather tattoo them permanent. Enrich your thoughts ~ simply yearn for another’s read…
Bleed a mist of your passions on the pages kept clean for your refined intuition ~ define yourself as a seasoned writer ~ so don’t confuse ~ don’t conform ~ adjust when needed to meal your message. Refine our English ~ celebrate the freedom of this language. Gentle your thoughts to fashion your poetic style ~ deliver the meal of your understanding ~ a gift to quench another’s thirst. Escape the blandness of simple repetition ~ censor away imperfections ~ sharpen the eye of detail ~ to make your blessing uniform ~ suit your readers calm ~ and such embrace them clever.
Merit ~ tenure ~ within this craft are blessings found in the halls of the write, in the spotlight of this art. Learn from the masters of verse ~ but search deep and far ~ for they are few, but great. Thoroughbreds of diction they are ~ dedicated to their practice and here highly respected in this forum.
This tambourine of life I chant ~ is prose ~ it’s a quicker relative of its classical cousin simplicity.
Intense wordplay is now in a fever ~ sew yours proper ~ fashion it to unlock the flavors marinate your send overnight as needed decide if the waters of uncertainty are ready for the share ~ lay heavy in your thoughts ~ sit beside the dancing blue waters of curiosity ~ simply refresh your intuition. A poet you are to this branch of arts ~ embrace your craft ~ become the gardener of your measures. Allow me this ~ I pound in heavy ~ you must bleed in your revisions and edits. This is the truth ~ this is the key ~ polish the write...
The prize in concert here is now at attention. Rejoice in your linguistic grains of insight ~ beach your bottle, to send your last draft ~ sprinkled in knowledge ~ by a toss over your head ~ and daisy chain this superstitious act with one carefree wish ~ a wish to master the discipline.
Drizzling are the beads of life ~ perspired in this mention to quench thy thirst with measure ~ to bend your wits ~ and squeal this pleasure ~ a treasure found by the seams of leisure ~ left tame atop the table of promise ~ a treasure chest of diction awaits ~ an opening up to all poets ~ is always in progress ~ don’t sink to lows of the cave of lost revisions left by the mounds of regret..
Works of leisure ~ found by the pressures of a finely tuned pen ~ are blessed by the fountain of one’s ink. You must torpedo your ideas to blast through the doors of the critics dismay ~ if they simple you today, posture them tomorrow ~ this must be the promise ~ so seek another’s measure. So drape your wisdom ~ embrace the cleverness of your threads ~ stitch even by way of candle light ~ to steady your helpings. Fine-tune until the end ~ to escape to the land of poetics ~ found by the books of leisure.
The keys to the heart and mind ~ are found nude and in it a cold state ~ if your lingo is without the dressings of your wisdom ~ so layer your send in coats to armor ~ keep the warmth of your diction ~ all in order. Make the medicine for your people and they shall share in it ~ by their loyal read.
Constant is the dripping of these words drenched in the rhythm for the dance ~ gentled by pace and brushed in ~ with paints of color. Wrap your lines for a new find ~ the palms of another. Prepare your plate, and serve seconds when needed. Poetry is the discipline ~ the gift is within your write ~ and the reason for this is the truth ~ the truth of the share. Condense your wisdom for another’s heart ~ make it a blessing of the refined ~ and they shall read with intent.
A wastebasket is the reward for laziness an odor left displaced by first drafts sent for the read ~ thus a treason of your intelligence. First drafts are not for sharing. Reward instead is for the precision of a quality work ~ so drape your diction ~ lace in metaphors ~ simple the promise and blanket your style ~ carry us home, deliver us ~ write...
The back seat for this romance is prose poetry. The essence of this style ~ is cleverness ~ or again ~ find the basket. Instincts now lead ~ to self-control ~ sporadically decorate your every mention ~ uniform your experience as the elder of measure ~ dazzle them with humble intentions.
A homecoming ~ and a pleasurable pot of stew ~ are in order for your every word ~ here its justified ~ thus is without compromise ~ a healthy meal ~ a service for two ~ for your poetic heart and this faint writers need to share. You are the seasoned writer and I am only here dressing this fit for two ~ you and I.
Style ~ rhythm ~ comfort food for the wise ~ is carefully refined and is treasure left for a royal keep. Astute intuition ~ and the luster of the read ~ weighs in heavy. Showcase your talent to stairway your confidence. Your piece shall be fit for a royal read, just canvas your hopes ~ pencil it if needed ~ for your every send ~ your every share ~ will prosper ~ if you practice steady and deliver in the delicatessen of poetic flavors ~ yes, prose!
A council of words ~ sent for your delight ~ are reinforced by the share. You see you must dress your send fancy in this forum of fun ~ to seam as the wise and calm. Sit below the blue moon of joy and taste the salt of the waves open at sea. Marinate your thoughts to tame your words, trust the lion of your instinct ~ follow your pens every desire. Spill out from the heart ~ dance on the waves of wonder and live as the poet does in the land of the free.
A poet full of heart I assume suits you ~ you are the master of your desires ~ such I tap dance for your delight. Simply If I may ~ just lose yourself in poetics ~ fence in your every measure ~ spill out from the constraints of simple verse ~ and your soul shall follow ~ trust your measure and sift your every whim ~ serve your plate without regret and bow before your readers and your work shall grow. You are the poet ~ and I but a simple man ~ who enjoys the write. Catch the fever ~ deliver the promise ~ dance with your readers ~ pleasure in the tool ~ the tool of prose...
Copyright Material 2013 ~ By Ray
The whole world looks like a Christmas card
With glistening snow and shimmering stars
From jingle bells to silent nights
To all the sleepy-eyed little tykes
Hopes and dreams reach euphoric highs
As the excitement of our spirits fly
Peace descends upon this world we know
Warmth and love every good parent shows
Mercy and forgiveness fills our Christmas hearts
Families come together who’ve long been far apart
Except of course us black sheep lost to time…
Such memories I still hold dear
And the magic of the season shines
And a hint of hope within my lines...
In that moment, every neuron in my brain was perfectly aligned.
They knew something I didn't, and I don’t think they wanted to tell me, either.
I had to figure it out on my own, hoping to not be mislead.
You whispered to me that you enjoyed stealing the moisture from my lips
and I whispered back that you took the oxygen from my lungs in the process
but I liked the crushed, suffocating feeling in the pit of my chest as I secretly long to feel it again.
I tolerated the bags under my eyes as my face buried in your neck became more and more important to me (it started to feel like home)
and told me not to be ashamed of them because they were proof that you had gotten the attention you deserved.
My sleepless nights resulted in page after page of the notes I took so I would eventually know your soul like the back of my hand.
I only like to write when I’m suffering from insomnia anyways, because that’s when things start to make sense. (Like you, you made sense to me)
Just like things only make sense to you when your breath reeks of intoxication.
I studied the veins on your wrists until I knew them well enough to see the picture with my eyes closed
as you studied my fingertips and made me believe that you could perfectly connect the dots of my pores and still know it was me even if you went blind.
You wanted to know me as well as my worn bed sheets, which gently caresses every part of my exhausted being each night, inch by inch.
I can’t help but smile as I write this, no one was as determined as you.
I was pretty damn determined as well, if I do say so myself.
I longed to know everything about your insanity.
You must have been pretty insane, smoking on the back porch with your friends and still making sure you didn't forget to ask me how my day was.
Again, it makes me smile realizing someone was so hell-bent on knowing me.
Tell me what you remember.
I want as many memories to flood back into my brain so that maybe in some way, I can feel it again.
I was used. Your back-up plan.
You were lost, and you wanted to feel loved temporarily until a better offer came along.
I was lost, and I wanted to feel loved permanently, so I fell for it.
The closest thing to what I had been searching for for so long slipped away like sand through the cracks between my fingers, not leaving a trace behind.
In a way, I should be thanking you.
You've gotten more poems out of me than anything else in the longest time
and now you’re good-for-nothing except curing writer’s block.
Home is were your heart is protected.
Home is were your talent is and were your love is
HOME is were you are protected and
IN our home let love abide and bless all who step inside
IN our home share special time together
IN our home show that you love people
By Chris Conyers
Not sure about the future,
it gets no better, is the rumor.
Not sure about the past,
it sure did go by fast.
Not sure about the present,
right now, I'm popping a tent.
Not sure about the time,
how long do we stay in prime.
Not sure about me,
on that issue, I'll bargain a plea.
Not sure about you,
a friendship still under review.
Not sure how we got here,
someday we will all disappear.
Not sure what life's about,
but I can still make the girls shout.
Not sure about money,
having none, makes eyes runny.
Not sure about sex,
or when I'll get it next.
Not sure about the weather,
when it's cold, I wear my leather.
Not sure why I wrote this,
why are there holes in Swiss.
Not sure about what's real,
or why my skin I like to peel.
Not sure if you're aware,
if I loose my penis, I have a spare.
Not sure if any of this makes sense,
just putting in my two cents.
The past is the time that we have lived already; the times we've made our mistakes and the times we've created memories.
The past is the time that doesn't last.
We only know how important is was after it's done.
But why can't we just realize the good things while they're happening?
If we could freeze time, everything would turn out perfectly.
Our past consists of many moments we reminisce of, but those moments wouldn't have happened without some people.
The people we create bonds and friendships with, and if you're lucky you'll create the most amazing friendship with one person; and you never know, but that person might just end up being your hero.
You'll love everything about them; their smile, their personality, their words or even their voice.
You'll share your interests such as songs, poems or even just whatever makes you H.A.P.P.(Y)
These people are the people that you would do anything for.
You would do whatever it takes just to make them happy.
And this person would give up their happiness just to see you smile.
I guess my point is: memories would not be made without the people who mean the world to us.
Don't get me wrong, I love my life and how it's turning out, all I'm saying is that I think it's okay to re-live those moments that gave you butterflies and shivers.
So take the risks;
ask that person to dance at the school dance,
tell that person how you really feel about them,
make pacts so that you know your friendship will last forever.
Take the risks, before it's too late.
They say "you can't start the next chapter of your life if you keep re-reading the last one"
But the truth is, I don't know if I'm ready to let go of the past, and frankly, I don't know if I ever will be.
It's okay if you keep remembering the past, nobody can tell you to let go because ultimately it's your decision and if you forget about all the good times, then will you be left with any good memories?
I used to often explore the streets at night,
playing on the painted lines that tells the drivers, everything from wrong to right.
'Why not a soul in sight?'
Each evening is beautiful …
and each evening is quite nice.
The evening, even stays quiet til' about quarter of five.
Which is just enough time to explore your mind.
To get lost in your thoughts,
and lose any sense of time.
Questioning every ounce of the world,
on every drop of a dime.
I held away my questions,
until I came to the lines.
I would explore every possibility inside my mind.
I spent enough time playing on those lines to lose my mind…
and all sense of time…
Usually, after about five o'l five,
I'd see the glimpse of a light,
from a car go rushing by,
and I would know it was time to say goodbye,
to myself playing on those lines.
But, the last time I recall,
playing on those lines...
It was quarter until nine,
and I was still in the middle of the street,
dancing on the lines.
When one morning,
a car did not notice me,
and that was the last time I messed around on those lines.
deep down in my head,
I've known for quite sometime..
that I should not gambol my life on those lines..
But, I was lost,
and I kept going…
and I kept…
I losing my mind.
It only takes one thought to drown, and to lose all sense of your time.
and here we go again something completely new
dont interest me i want to copy my old wings
self never recognized the different reasoning
so take my paragraph like you take war police
banging down your door at the alarm of a total
Nobody. gonna shut down this claim that is truly
interesting. but only because the gods got torment
in their left hand and its aimed at the war police
bang bang motherfuckers do or die trying
dont release me till ive gotten noticably interesting
just kidding want that zombie glare of your adderol adding up for one romantic flunk
of an i love you too soon on the release a loaded
handgun adding up for the hanged cliff of a
no i didnt notice that you even had one
damn darling youre a little too marooned for good
i may be an island but ive got too little much time
for a skip and walk away from a main land
so if one siren does end up staying on the rocks
long enough to scare me into so/so sobriety
ill always have a place to be when i get abandoned
but its just another excuse for me to stay dry away warm till rescue in this imaginary existence
cruise line lexus like admiral for excusing favors
aint asking for the roseary im asking for the papers
legally im entitled to two doses of riddlin fuck you
dont believe me fuckers here this is my perscrption
my dad prints them tenfoldin his crowded sub basement but i really need them to keep a day job
ancient time frame of a snitch who didnt know it
root cellar lack of oxygen braincells didnt grow in
see there lets blame it on the unintelligence then
connect that to the fact that hes a convicted felon
ohhh touche and a top hat to you stay straight
snitches only seperate themselves from shittalkers
when they dont know a god walking among them
other wise they can stay down talk shit for days
bang bang another door down from the war police
you didnt know your neighbors were the sameside
as you how do you expect the numbers to blind the truth. ba ba ba ba ba duh ba ba ba ba duh
According to JFK:
"Sleeplessness is discontent,
and discontent is the first necessity of progress!"
No no no that's not it.
It was once said of Americans that:
“Although our interests as citizens vary,
each one is an artery to the heart that pumps caffeine through
the body sleepless, and each is important to the health of democracy.”
Get your shit together!
Daniel Griswold once said:
"The all-nighter has been a failure
This is a hard-line approach that we cannot take.
And why not?
Because you can't learn to defend it in time.
Oh yeah? Watch me.
You will lose and so will they,
but you may as well go for it
the first time we spoke alone,
in an empty voice,
'die liebenden tot sind.'
and when i didn't acknowledge it,
you said it again
till i kicked you and snapped 'i don't speak german, you fuck.'
that wasn't my line.
i was supposed to tell you they were dead from birth,
or something equally poetic.
i was supposed to be a walking paragon of
i was supposed to be the love interest
in the tragic love story of your life,
you told me
we would bring each other down.
you told me the world was cold
and we would drown in frozen lakes together,
when hypothermia turns to terminal burrowing,
we could burrow within each other.
you told me i would kill you.
i spent 5 hours in the shower boiling off my skin.
you and i
will not sink in tandem, you and i will not
fall apart in unison,
i am not your personal suicide pill.
i am not your romantic,
in helpless self-destruction,
you're talking like we'll die tomorrow but i have plans to live a while yet,
if you jump from lover's leap
then you will fall alone.
i think you think
i love you.
i think you think i value
more than the voice of my thoughts.
it is december and the sun is too bright
to look anywhere
but your feet.
it is december and you're waxing poetic
about the boy who broke his neck
falling in the forest at night.
you look me in the eyes like you're trying
to crawl through my cornea.
you make eye contact an act of violence.
dream about me?]
you're trying to be poetic.
i don't tell you about when i dreamed
you snapped your neck
while we walked in the forest,
and i left quickly,
lived peaceful and alone.
i don't tell you about when i dreamed you moved on,
or that reoccurring dream where you spread my legs so far,
they snap out of the sockets.
i tell you i don't dream.
i tell you i don't sleep.
i tell you
i wear boxing gloves to church
but jesus never shows, and really,
i shoulda known he'd run from this fight too.
i tell you
i wear boxing gloves to bed but i just end up
chewing on the laces,
boxer's fractures never visited me.
bar room fractures on the nightstand.
[i dream about you,]
and i take another hit.
you've been in my air for six months.
under my skin for five,
and it's been three months
since you stitched our veins together.
i fall asleep wearing your scarf
and dream of garrotes that smell like you,
dream of strangulation
and bruises on my throat.
i don't love you like a motive.
you don't love me like a person.
you told me i had a clean heart,
you told me i was an innocent soul,
you told me you would corrupt me, don't
your touch doesn't have the power
to make me sick.
only i can do that to myself.
i'm not a virginal sacrificial saint
for you to build altars to.
lets see if we can cut our hearts out with our fingernails.
i bet that they'll look just the same:
bloody and red.
the same size as our clenched fists,
guess it's not your fault
you never learned the difference between the two,
you keep trying to fight with aorta and arteries
while my knuckles bruise your gut.
i taped my hands and i'll tape yours too.
this will be a fair fight-
don't break your wrist
when you break my nose.
i'll teach you i'm more solid than a saint.
i'll teach you i am bile and spit and piss.
i'll teach you to love me human
or not at all.
die liebenden sind nicht tot ist.
die liebenden sind auf einen kampf vorbereitung.