Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Julian Mar 2019
Tantalized by the fractious limerence of a vestigial habiliment of the old order, we conclude that hypertrophy leads to a limbo where random permutations alloyed by the rickety limits of concatenation subsume concepts that are equivocal but populate the imaginations of newfangled art forms that jostle the midwives of rumination to lead to unique pastures that are intuitively calibrated to correspond to definitive unitary events in conceptual space that sprawl unexpectedly towards the desultory but determinative conclusion of a meandering ludic sphere of rambunctious sentiments cobbled together to either rivet the captive audience or annoy the peevish criticaster when they dare to inseminate the canvassed and corrugated tract of intellectual territory created ad hoc to swelter the imagination with audacious ingenuity that is an inevitable byproduct of lexical hypertrophy. In this séance with the immaterial realm of concept rather than the predictable clockwork reductivism of a perceptual welter that is limited by the concretism circumscribed by spatiotemporal stricture we find that an extravagant twinge of even the smallest tocsin in the interstitial carousel of conscientious subroutines compounding recursively to pinprick the cossetted smolder of potentiality rather than extravagate into the vacancy of untenanted nullibiety can spawn a progeny of utilities and vehicles for dexterous abstraction that poach the exotic concepts we fathom by degrees of sapience malingering in lifeless bricolages of erratic abstraction in manners useful to transcend the repose of abeyance and heave awakening into the slumberous caverns of still-life to make them dynamically animated to capture ephemeral events that defy the demarcations of wistful indelicacy of the encumbered bulk of insufficient precision.

Today we embark on a quest to defile the anoegenetic recapitulation of canon that litters the dilapidated avenues of miserly contemplation that has a histeriological certainty and feeds the engines that enable novelty but ultimately remain rancid with the stench of the idiosyncratic shibboleths of synoptic alloyed impoverishment that leads to the vast wasteland of cremated entropy that is a stained foible of misappropriated context interpolated usefully as botched triage for daunting problems that require a nimble legerdemain of facile versatility that we easily adduce to conquer the present with the botched memorial of a defunct salience. Despite the travail of scholars to retreat from the frontier into the hypostatized hegemony of recycled credentialed information, we often are ensnared by the solemn attrition of decay as we traverse the conceptual underpinnings of all bedrock thought only to dangle precariously near the void of lapsed sentience because of transitory incontinence that is contiguous to the doldrums of crudity but nevertheless with mustered mettle we purport that the very self-serious awakening to our hobbling limitations is akin to a prosthetic enhancement of ratiocination capable of feats that stagger beneath the lowest level of subtext to elevate the highest superordinate categorization into heightened scrutiny that burgeons metacognitive limber. Marooned in the equipoise of specifiable enlightenment countermanded by the strictures of working memory we can orchestrate transverse pathways between the elemental quiddity of impetuous meaning and the dignified tropes of transitivity that bequeaths entire universes with feral progeny that modulate their ecosystems with both a taste of approximated symmetry and a cohesive enterprise for productivity that rests on the granular concordance of the highest plane to the indivisible parcels of atomic meaning that solder together to exist as intelligible if strained by the primordial frictions guaranteed by the brunt of motion incipient because of the metaphorical inertia created within insular universes to inform sprawling conurbations of mobilized thoughts designed to reckon with the breakneck pace of the corresponding reality to which they explicitly and precisely refer to.

We must singe surgically the filigrees that amount to the perceptible realities that transmute temperaments into the liturgy of routine conflated with the rigmarole of neural dragnets of reiterative quips in an elegant game of raillery with our supernal contumacy against the rigid authority of aleatory vagaries mandated by a dually arbitrary universe in a probabilistic terpsichorean dance with the depth of our dredge for subliminal acuity or the shallow bellicosity of common modes of glib contemplation characteristic of the basic nobility of improvisation. This basic interface with the world can either be mercurial or tranquil based on the interactionism of the enfeebled trudge of surface senses or blunt intuitions and the smoldering impact of the vestigial cloaks that deal gingerly with the poignant subtext evoked in the cauldron of immediacy rather than pondered with the portentous weight of imperative singularities of uniqueness derived from the plunge into the arcane citadel of microscopic introspection so refined that the ineffable drives we seek to fathom become amenable to the traipse of transcendental time that rarefies itself by defying the brunt of compartmentalized bureaucracies administered by the fulcrum of stereotypical notions of acquired gravitas imputed to mundane pedestrian quidnunc concerns that defile humanity rather than embolden the subaudition of gritty punctilios that show the supernal powers of the axiomatic divinity of sharpened sentience to reign with supremacy over the baser ignoble components of bletcherous nescience that leads to knee-**** platitudes that provoke folksy peevish divisions. We should rather orchestrate our activity by heeding the admonishment about the primogeniture of poignant sabotage buffered by the remonstration of innate tranquility and finding a whipsawed compromise of rationalization with true visceral encounters with the fulgurant quips of brisk emotions that grind industriously into amorphous retinues of the trenchant human imagination to either equip or hobble the leapfrogged interrogation of veracity and more consequently our notions of truth and fact.

When we see the hackneyed results of default ecological dynamics, we find ourselves aloof from purported transcendence because the whimpered bleats and cavils of the importunate masses result in a deafening din of cacophony because we strive throbbing with sprightliness towards the galloped chase of tantalization without the luxury of a terminus for satiation. Obviously a growth mindset is the galvanic ****** that spawns the imaginative swank of the pliable modulations of our perceived reality that, when protean, showcase the limitless verve of our primordial cacoethes for epigenetic evolution rather than the stolid and staid foreclosure of impervious sloth that memorializes the gluttony of speculation about fixed entities rather than imperative jostling urbanity that dignifies the brackish dance with dearth and the exuberant savory taste of momentary excess because it engages the animated pursuit of limerence rather than the exhumed corpse of wistful regret. Nature is a cyclical clockwork system of predatory instinct met with the clemency of the prosperous providence enacted by the travailing ingenuity of successive cumulative generativities that compounded unevenly and unpredictably to predicate a fundamental zeitgeist calculated to engorge the fattened resources of the resourceful and temper the etiolated dreams of the fringed acquiescence of a hulking prejudiced population of dutiful servants that balk at the diminutive prospects of a lopsided distribution of talent and means but slumber in irenic resolve created by the merciful hands of defensive designs that configure consciousness to relish comparative touchstones rather than absolute outcomes that straggle beyond a point of enviable reference to shield the world of the barbarism of botched laments clamoring for an uncertain grave from the gravity of the orbiting satellites of apportioned wealth both sunblind and boorish but simultaneously inextricable from the acclimated fortune of heaped nepotism and herculean opportunism. The intransigence of the weighted destiny of inequity is a squalid enterprise of primeval abrasive and combative tendencies within the bailiwick of the indignant compass inherent to the system that fathoms its deficiencies with crabwise and gingerly pause but airs a sheepish grievance like a bleat of self-exculpation but simultaneously an arraignment of fundamental attribution erroneously indicted without the selfsame reflexiveness characteristic of a transcendent being with other recourses to clamber an avenue to Broadway without malingering in the slums of opprobrious ineffectual remonstration against the arrangement of a blinkered metropolis of uneven gentrification.

We flicker sometimes between the strategic drivel of appeasement and the candor of audacious imprecation of the culprits of indignity or considerate nutritive encomium of the beacons of ameliorated enlightenment because we often masquerade a half-witted glib consciousness lazily sketched by the welters of verve alloyed with the rancid distaste of squalor and slumber on the faculty of conscientious swivels of prudential expeditions with an avarice for bountiful considered thought and wily contortions of demeanor that issue the affirmative traction of adaptive endeavor to cheat a warped system for a reconciled peace and a refined self-mastery. We need to traduce the urchins that sting the system with pangs of opprobrious ballyhoo and the effluvia of foofaraw that contaminate with pettifoggery and small-minded blather the arenas better suited for the gladiatorial combat of cockalorums tinged with a dose of intellectual effrontery beyond the span of dogmatism rather than the hackneyed platitudes that infest the news cycle with folksy backwardation catered to the fascism of a checkered established press that urges insurrection while tranquilizing dissent against the furtive actions of consequence hidden behind the draped verdure of pretense whose byproduct is only a self-referential sophistry that swarms like an intractable itch to devolve the spectator into a pasquinaded spectacle of profound human obtuseness that pervades malignantly the system of debate until the reductionists outwit themselves with the empty prevarication of circular logic that deliberately misfires to miss the target of true importance because of the pandered black hole easily evaded by creatures of high sentience but inevitably ensnaring the special kind of dupe into a cycle of bellicose ferocity of internecine balkanization. The vainglory of the omphalos of entertainment is also another reckoning because it festers a cultural mythos of glorified crapulence parading a philandered promiscuity with half-baked antics that gravitate attention and the lecheries of gaudy tenses of recycled tinsel alloyed by debased aberrations of seedy grapholagnia that magnetize as they percolate because of the insidious catchphrases embedded in pedestrian syncopation that ignite retention and acclimate to mediocrity the sounds of generations discolored by faint pasty rainbows rather than ennobled by majestic landscapes of ignipotent mellifluous sound that stands a supernal amusement still for the resourceful trainspotter.

Despite the contumely aimed in the direction of contrarians for deviating from the lockstep clockwork hustle of stooped pandered manipulation that peddles the wares of an entirely counterfeit reality, I stand obstinately against the melliferous stupefaction of entire genres of myth and subcultures huddled around the sentimental tug of factitious sophistries regaled by thick amorphous apostates that cherish the vacuous sidetracked spotlight with fervor rather than pausing on the enigmatic querulous inquisition about the penumbras that lurk with strained effort beneath or above the categorical nescience of the shadowy unknown that often coruscates with elegance even in obscurity. I fight with labored words to spawn a psychological discipline that invokes the incisive subaudition of the pluckily pricked exorcism of true insight from the husk of buzzwords that constellate auxiliary tangential distractions from the art form of psychological discernment that predicates itself on the concept that the rarefaction of rumination by degrees of microscopic precision enables the introspective hindsight of conscious events that can be parsed without the acrimony of cluttered conflations of the granular prowess of triumphant ratiocination that earns a panoramic perch with the added luxury of perspicacious insight into the atomic structure of the rudiments of our phenomenological field and the abstractions that linger beyond perceptual categorization. When we analyze the gradients of anger, for example, we can either be ****** into a brooded twinge of wistful resentment or we can decipher that through heuristics designed to cloister the provenance of subconscious repose with ignorance there exists a regimented array of tangential accessories embedded deep within the cavernous repository of memory that designates a cumulative trace of compounded symmetries of concordant experience immediately perceptible because of the tangible provocateur of our gripes and the largely subliminal tusk that protrudes because of primal instinct that squirms with peevishness because of the momentary context preceded by the desultory churn of smoldering associations swimming with either complete intangible sputtered mobility through the tract of subconscious hyperspace or rigidly fixated by an arraignment of circumstances with propinquity to the deep unfathomed flicker of bygones receding or protruding because of the warped and largely unpredictable rigmarole of constellated spreading activation.  
When we examine the largesse of the swift recourse of convenience we forget by degrees the travail that once bridged the span of experience from patient abeyance in provident pursuit to now the importunate glare of inflated expectations for immediacy that stings the whole enterprise of societal dynamics because it vitiates us with a complacency for the filigrees of momentary tinsel of a virtualized reality divorced from the concretism that used to undergird interaction and now stands outmoded as a wisp beyond outstretched hands straggling beyond the black mirror of a newfangled narcissistic clannishness that shepherds the ostentation of conceit to a predominant position that swaddles us with fretful diversion that operates on a warped logic of lurid squalor and pasty trends becoming the mainstays of a hypercritical linguistic system of entrapment based on the apostasy of candor for the propitiation of fringed aberration because of the majoritarian uproar about touchy butthurt pedantic criticasters with a penchant for persnickety structuralism. With the infestation of entertainment with the ubiquitous political cavils engineered by the ruling class to have a common arena of waggish irreverence we forget that sometimes the impetuous ****** of propaganda is cloaked by the fashionable implements of a rootless time writhing in a purported identity crisis only to gawk at the ungainly reflection of modernity in the mirror and remain blissfully unaware about the transmogrified cultural psyche that feeds the lunacy of endless spectacle based on the premise that one singular whipping post can unite an entire generation of miscegenated misfits looking for commonality to team up against the aging generations that cling to the sanctity of cherished jingoism against the intentionality of a revamped system that malingers with empty promises using exigency and legerdemain to obscure the mooncalves among their ranks that march on with quixotic dreams that tolerate only the idea of absolute tolerance and moderate only when feasibly permitted by the anchored negotiation of the fulcrum of totemic governmental responsibility between factions that wage volleys of invective at each other to promote a binary choice of vitiated compromises of mendaciloquence that ultimately endanger the republic with either the perils of hidebound conventionalism and nativist fervor or the boondoggles of fiscally irresponsible insanity cloaked with rainbows and participation trophies. Reproach can be distributed to both sides of the aisle because ironically in a world where gender is non-binary the most important reproductive ***** in the free world is a binary-by-default despotism that polarizes extremely ludic fantasies on the left met with the acrimony of the traditionalisms on the right that staunchly resist the fatuous confusions of delegated order only to the sharp rebuke of the revamped political vogue that owes its sustenance to a manufactured diplomacy of saccharine lies and ubiquitous lampoons that are lopsided in the direction of a globalist neoliberal bricolage of moderately popular buzzwords and the trojan horse of insubordinate flippant feminism that seeks to subvert through backhanded manipulation the patriarchy so many resent using lowbrow tactics and poignant case studies rather than legislating the egalitarian system into law using the proper channels. I myself am a political independent who sides with fiscal conservatism but libertarianism in most other affairs because the pettifoggery of law-and-order politics is a diatribe overused by sheltered suburbanites and red meat is often just as fatuous as blue tinsel and sadly in a majoritarian society the ushers of conformity demand corporate divestiture in favor of an ecological system of predictability rather than an opinionated welter of legitimate challenges to a broken system of backwards partisanship and wangled consent. Ultimately, I remain mostly apolitical, but I am a fervent champion of the mobilization of education to a statelier standard that demands rigor and responsibility rather than the chafe of rigmarole that understates the common objectives of humanity and rewards conventional thinking and nominal participation to earn credentialed pedigree when the bulk of talent resides elsewhere.
Sid Lollan Aug 2017
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

(Authors of (obligatory)
Redemption: what is true genius if it ain’t dead yet?
Let you, who **** it, not be present for its resurrection.)

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

i had a nightmare:

i opened the door of my ranch-house in the boonies of
southern pa.
out-into the grasses of the old Congo;
There stood the Lion.
20 feet away
i, frozen in the magnitude of his vision;
spirit, dominated by his
completely;
Not even a growl.
i remained
paralyzed—he licked the backs of his paws
and combed a wiry mane...
…a halfa-second was a year if it was a halfa-second now...
but
somewhere in there
i regained my legs and without knowing
pivoted,
grabbed the doorknob. Twist. Open. Step inside.
turn to close the...doorway is gone, the house has vanished
And
HE WAS RIGHT ON TOP OF ME

i was nothing but-a body of plastic fear
molten,
melted and cast into mannequin limbs and head.
i could feel the Lion’s entire, real
spirit crushing spirt
on my hollow caste self.

his breathe stunk of blood that
forced my replicaego into infant curl…
…Finally, the beast roared a canyon
i shivered!
a shiver that shook inside my head
thru the spine to shake
my bones inside the bed.

Thru the constricting red curtain of bloodclot eye
spy the tiny eclipse
of the Black Crow inna massive sheet of african sun;
i must be dead already.
The Lion feels the Crow perched onna cape fig nearby
and his muscles tighten accordingly, his beastly hunger
displaced by boiled-blood anger.

Eye-to-Eye
with the beast
where Fear has reached saturation-point;
it is Nothing if it is Everything…
…the Crow lets out a hiss
like spikes of radio-static, interrupted by series
of whooping-caws…
…stomach vibrated by the Lion’s low,
almost internal growl. For the
first time, his tranquilizing orbs
divert from mine
to capture the Black Crow perched on the dying cape fig.
uncertainty taps my shoulder…then…i feel my body;
the weight releases
and as i motion to rise from the grass and dirt, the Congo dissolves and i’m
sitting up on my mattress with broken springs in the humid
summer slumber of southern pa.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

-What security?
programmed,
under deep-cover;
jungian re-uploads. Them. Resurrected witha blackmarket
medicine a Witch Doctor devolution;
Replicate, regenerate, forever
<01100101 01100001 01110100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01110100 01100001 01101001 01101100 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01100111 01110010 01101111 01110111 00100000 01100001 00100000 01101000 01100101 01100001 01100100>
Bottom feeding grave robbers and tomb vandals are all they are!-

-Better check what ya put down here…liable to shape a ghoul,
and you know this haunt is made-up of enough spooks-

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

Professors of chaos preach:
O wanderers!
write me the manifesto
walking atop a line of hot coals
-I smell me some burning soles-

(They intend to:
Pour, pure from cold-clear spring-spout
      into muddy-brown-clay, dissolved,
rushing against dried-up bones of gully-walls…
…the Crow just sits above
         and laughs there

Don’t ya see it?)

History
is not about the past,
but
about what the present
can mold the past
into
for the future.
-the marble’s trajectory sure to
flip onnit’s axis d’pending on which record you dig-

(One mistake
can a coward make
or
one accident happen
up-on that a martyr stake’d.
etched in the rut of each separate fate;)


The lion
must roar for his P R I D E
        (or?)
lion wears his hide
as a mascot
Black Crow eats crow egg blues
        black crow spotted me yellow in the bushes
pants down, gun-in-hand
-send your prayers-

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Your Tranquilizing Love  

Your love is like a tranquilizing
of the dark, you even took my heart
and broken it down
Deep, deep down from on reaper

In my heart
I find a love for you sometime
ago even in the pain of age
But hate comes to my mind like a
cold rhyme of the dark side
  
I lost all feelings with time
A heated-up night of summers blues
came like a firecracker in late June
  
For some reason, I don't feel the same
as I Once did in my life
I can't explain it
my heart had gone so numb
  
But letting you go was the best thing
I could had ever done
Your love is like a wild storm
that never goes away
  
Your dark Love
brings me so much heartaches  
so much shame of your sick way’s
You take even the smile off my face
Your love is too much for me to hang on to
  
I let you go so give me back my soul  
My heart has gone cold
This old love of yours is to old

You kept running deep in my mind
I find myself praying night and day
For the image of you to go away

you make me want to scream  
you even haunt me in my sleep  
I am not the best person in life  
But I am not a bad one
  
I don't deserve your kind of love  
Darkness is your game
your love is so fake it gives heartaches
I can't live like this
Set me free please
let me be

I made a promise to always love you  
I will never break that promise  
But not the same way you love me
If you come out of the dark and change
to light of day  

My love for you will run deep
Like the Mediterranean Sea
Your love in the dark that is killing me  
You have taken all my strength from me
  
Your love is lukewarm
I was always loyal to You
I never cheated on You
I was always there to hold you when you sleep
I even watch you dream
  
You are always about you and your needs  
You gave me lies
and false dreams of what a love could be
  
Never had I made you doubt my love for you    
I never broke a promise I made to you
I was always true even when
you cut my heart in two  

But only you did all those bad things to me
And even called me Nona of your dreams  
Your accomplishments were you with me
the woman of your dreams
Your true happiness

You always told me God gave you and angel
and her name is Lilly  
But your love hurts so much it made my heart
bleed many seas
I want you to never suffer nor cry

You told me You had Loved once before
but that love had faded
You never Love anyone as You had Loved me
I was the best thing in your Life

You even said I was the gift from God
but I must ask witch one is that
I promise I won't allow anyone in my heart
because you already killed it
  
That promise is true  
You have me running on confused  
Love is a word I will always fear
The turning of your voice
the deepness in your brown eyes tells so much lies
that runs in my mind
  
Something I want to let go  
I hope you understand why I want you to
move on without me  
I want you to stop hurting my life  
You make my life feel like I'm a failure.

Poetic Judy Emery © 1998
The Queen Of Darken Dreams Poetic Lilly Emery
The Queen Of Darken Dreams
Shall I sing my telugu sonorous song
Which will stay for so long?
Like the cool breeze it touches your every part
And like any great art it surely soothes your heart

Have you ever heard of the great Bards
Annamayya and kshetrayya who sang
With a lot of godly emotion
And inexpressible passion?

I am very proud of my culture and song
Which will definitely make you throng
Your song may be sweeter and fine
But I like my song because it’s mine

God is undoubtedly music
We can’t understand his magic
Music is really intoxicating and divine
It is much more tranquilizing than  even French wine
Bonni Nov 2013
Gazing past my somber expression
etched upon the windows reflection.
Silently observing the snow's caress
soft, fragile, cold, much like myself.
 
Kinship is shared,
as I gaze out from my window,
observing them cascade,
caught in a moment of limbo.
 
I, just an insignificant snowflake,
weak, insubstantial, easy to break.
Diminished by even the softest touch,
transforming, melting, to lamented sludge.
 
Many will cast eyes upon my silent fall
but with a millions others, I am too small.
Tranquilizing, a melancholy presence,
lethargically dropping in evanescence. 
 
Some may glance and discover elegance 
but rarely can they withstand my elements.
K Balachandran Dec 2012
Sliminess of the mermaid, makes me come alive, strange?
don't blame me for this, that you would think an aberration,
I've long forgotten the human logic, from the moment I realized,
fate has joined me with her, the mermaid, a  longing unfulfilled for long,

This sensual yearning sans prospect of consummation, baffles others
but not me, life has many dark alleyways that go nowhere. 
Aren't we illusions ourselves?  Viewing sun's intense ways and moon's
hesitant tranquilizing gaze, through water's blue buffer is narcotic.
From under water only a  cool simmer , different experiences,
fish fin caresses, guilty pleasures of carousals with masked shark beauties,
underwater world has no pains, ever heard about
stilling pain by swimming long distant nights?
*Or is it because, I don't see my own teardrops shed underwater?
Magnetizing physics
Magnetic chemistry
Precise mathematics
Bubbling biology
Histrionic history
Attired economics
Refined fine arts
Electrifying looks
Electronic vision
Scintillating psychology
Ventilating physiology
Tantalizing mechanics
Tranquilizing metabolism
Dynamic damsel
Oh! What a scientific disposition?
Kudos to the Big-Bang Beautician.
Magnetising physics
Magnetic chemistry
Precise mathematics
Bubbling biology
Histrionic history
Attired economics
Refined fine arts
Electrifying looks
Electronic vision
Scintillating psychology
Ventilating physiology
Tantalizing mechanics
Tranquilizing metabolism
Dynamic damsel
Oh! What a scientific disposition?
Kudos to the Big-Bang Beautician.
arubybluebird Jul 2013
It's 3:09 PM, I've just deactivated my facebook account. Not planned, or thought-out...just so. I know, it's a foolish and stupid thing to even take the time of noting down in words but so it goes. I'm not horrible, I've been worse. I'm just not...doing too good. I don't feel well, and quite frankly I'm too exhausted for the whole staying positive *******. Things like deactivating my lame facebook account and not owning a cell-phone by free-will...it's my way of modernly disconnecting from the artificial world I've held part of and the people in it. It's not that I'm trying to isolate myself or become anti-social completely...it's more like...I'm just trying to find some air, some real ******* fresh air to breath. I've been listening to Man Of A Thousand Faces by Regina Spektor on repeat this past week, and I just need...I just need to let my own self be. I'm at a distant public library away from home as I type this. It's one of my favorite places to visit and spend some quality free time at. Surrounding myself with books and records and strangers is one of the most tranquilizing methods I know. It's difficult sometimes...to accept that I'm twenty years old and in far reach of accomplishing my dreams. It's difficult to accept that my father's heart could fail again...it's difficult to accept that my mum has vertigo...it's difficult to accept that my uncle is dead, it's going to be a year since and I still cannot bring myself out of selfish denial. Loving is difficult, caring is difficult, trying is difficult, beliefs are difficult, feelings are difficult, I am difficult...and the thought of wanting to cry makes me want to cry because it's so exasperating and draining and overwhelming and humbling. I haven't written or posted much on here lately, but doing so right now gives me this tiny and odd and inexplicable crumb of...hope? It's difficult to accept death as much as life itself sometimes but nevertheless I accept it. I cope through it in the stupid little ways that I can. I become torn and furiously passionate all at once. I can only love as much as my heart can manage and work hard and try hard and cry when I feel like ******* crying because feelings are beautiful and meant to be exposed.
todo en él es lugar adecuado .
I was rummaging through some posts from my old blogspot today.
go steady with me. I know it turns you off when I get talking like a teen.
Natasha Moghe Aug 2018
What exactly is it that's cemented to your heart?
Is it the roses that travel through your veins, painting your heart red?
Is it the sound of the blue salt foamed waves that floods your memory with her?
Is it the melodic tones that echo through the car speaker, tranquilizing your torment  ?
You don’t need to remember, love.
Your heart is a pulsating instrument of wavering feelings.
Lakin Dec 2015
with your sparkling eyes
like crystal ****
and tranquilizing words
smoother than
****** gliding in innocent
veins,
you should stay away
from dark alleys and
promiscuous street corners.

above all else,
avoid her greedy fingers-
She's a user.
I hope the double meaning of the poem is noticeable. enjoy **
Matalie Niller May 2012
Too tired to sleep too stubborn to fight
eyes resist both closing and capturing pictures
leaving one (Me) to be in a state of zombified negligence and grump.
Sleepy funk, like dreaming a boring black and white
film covers retinas and lenses
brain swirls in intoxication of running on E
and not even the fun kind
just the Empty kind that needs some juice
or nap
or maybe just some lovin' from a certain someone ****
though that's a stretch
and muscles are currently too ****** to reach that far
or scratch broken ribs of progress or even to
drink much of anything
just trying to be happy
though one needent need to try
just breathe and try not to wish for the night
because today may be the last or next to last
and the uncertainty just causes more anxiety
so the cycle of strife rains on its acid and placidity
until finally I'll crash
or implode, or cry
and it'll be great
because breakdowns are necessary for life and peace and tranquilizing.
Axel Jun 2015
Staccato's of clasping chains.. feverishly flaying your wrists...

As a rabid dog chewing off its own limbs to crawl away.


You hide in my shadow.. The only place where they cannot get you...

While your children burn...

A sour scent of ***** floods richly within these forsaken walls...

A tranquilizing melody of ****** gargling


I will mutilate the memory...

I will stain the status you built...

I will pluck your fruit and devour it with voracious appetite

Gnawing your rotting tongue bit by bit...

i drink sepsis that drips from the shank of your thighs..

My hunger everlasting...

Ravenously, depraved, my claws rend and maim your angelic wings...


A carpet of feathers gusts at your final gasp....

A cold lick on your eyeballs...

We drag you into our grave...

Rats...

Swarms of rats...

And i wear a crown baptized and blessed of your blood....

Adorned with warm and beating entrails of the defeated and the devoured...

Bricked in walls....


I can still hear you clawing during the  most sleepless of sleeps...

And taste your rotting tongue...
JC Lucas Oct 2013
The clock reads three A.M.
And you are listening to radio static
And you are picking feathers from your naked pillow
In the light of a nightlamp you kept near your bedside as a child
To keep the gorillas in your closet from eating you
Or whatever it is gorillas do with small children from the western world

And Somewhere in a country overseas,
A man is standing vigilantly on a beach
Waiting for the small mail boat from his home country
(which just so happens to be the same as your home country)
He is waiting to get any kind of word from the western world

Are you still out there, western world?

The childhood memories collecting dust on your shelves
and faint sirens soon lull you into a sleep that is barely more than a deep thought
where you dream of a girl with pineapple hair and an intoxicating aroma
And you think to yourself
Who still gives a **** about the western world?
And   then you kiss her lips and remember why YOU give a **** about anything in the

Western world

Is anyone out there, western world?

Anyone out there practicing western medicine?
Eating at some massive fast food chain that serves the parts of the pig you can't even name without vomiting?
Sitting on a couch made of the skin of an animal who your ancestors relied on to survive?
Buying jewelry for a member of the opposite *** whom you met no less than three weeks ago?

And in your light, restless dreams
you smell the pineapple girl's tranquilizing neck and you think
Is this happening anywhere else in the western

World?

Are people asking themselves questions they already know the answers to
And picking feathers from naked pillows at three o clock in the ******* morning while the sirens and radio static blare on
Because they're too proud to answer the questions that they know the answers to?
Is there anyone else confused in this vast low-budget carnival that is
the Western world?

And the answer is yes
This is happening everywhere
In this
Western
World.
Alpha Apr 2022
It rained outside,
Me sheltered beneath a bridge.
I took a look around
And saw a tree up on a ridge.
It stood solely, solemn there,
The tree itself already downed;
Cut and brought away,
At this thought I frowned.
I let my eyes go on
And raised them to the sky.
Gray and dark and cold
Looked at those clouds high.
With tranquilizing drips
Fell the heavy rain
As if it would weep
For that poor tree‘s pain.
There were many of us
Who sheltered ourselves there.
The trunk all exposed outside,
I thought it wasn‘t fair.
It was a freezing day
But I was, as always, not cold.
I stood there, listening,
To a bird that sung so deeply woed.
It was narrow there,
But if I had been alone,
I would have stayed for an eternity
Thinking of my beloved ones.
This tree yonder, I thought,
It must have hosted once birds that used to sing.
Now it‘s gone, and the birds will be, one day, too.
And that, I thought, is a sad thing.
Wrote this one for a task in our English lessons.
I rather liked it, so I decided to publish it here.
Neha shimoga Apr 2016
She sat next to me,
a soulless body.
She hid her face
behind the darkness.
She stretched her
hand and showed
me her scars.
She pulled her
heart out and
kept it right in
front of me.
A heart that
was black
and poisoned by
the dart of phony
love.
I looked into her
agonising eyes,
where the spark
no longer existed
She touched me
by her flaccid
fingers.
My world which
was colourful
became a caliginous
place to live in.
As soon as she
touched me, my
heart started throbbing
And my eyes started bleeding.
I could feel her unendurable
pain .
She had just come out
of a fiendish storm and
was afraid of falling again.
But yet she fell again
for a prince who
came on a white horse.
His tranquilizing words
healed her cuts but
little did she know he was
just another mephistopheles
who came to ruin her.
She thought he would never
hurt her but his actions made
deeper cuts .
She had passed her inadmissible
pain to me which ******
the soul out of my body
leaving an empty mind
and a shattered heart.
The chain had just
Started and I realized that
I was the first one who was
targeted.
She is not afraid of heights, deep water or love . She is afraid of falling, drowning and a broken heart .
Hey there
Skater girl
You got me all twirled up inside
When you made those turns
I get goosebumps
When you swerve right by me
I'm pretty sure it was you
And not the evening chill

And yes it was late
The lampposts were on
And the traffic lights
Out of sight
Why should anyone
Tell you when to stop or go
You were an unchained thing
You had the road all for yourself
And I had that night
To see you scribble in your strides

You did ballet, not on thin ice,
But on rough pavements
For life was not always
A smooth and clear ground
It can be a lonely
Concrete street
It can be you right now
Free and astound
With me in the distance

At first glance
It'll seem like
You're free-rolling
But I know
It's really art
In its abstract form
The solid, rigid sound of wheels
Scraping ground
Is tranquilizing
To our left is a quiet parking lot
And at the right, a multipurpose home
While I'm sitting on grass
In a suit

Please don't mind me
And keep on skating
Skater girl
Doodle me a way
Map me a dance
With the tracks of your skates
In this fast-rolling world
Randy Jane Nov 2011
This is not going to go as planned. Talk about unsettling – I am completely without seat.
Afraid to talk, or I’ll throw up.
And I’m shaking on the inside
And clenching the edges of papers
In small, isolated seizures
And it’s rushing on like a freight train
Like a highway spun backwards
And I’m standing, alone,
Silent
And breathing heavy.

This is the moment when I fall back on alcohol.
When I imagine the soft fluidity of liquid bringing me into collapse
Seducing me, sedating me,
Tranquilizing my hip-hop-wired nerves.

All I want to do is scream, once, at the top of my lungs,
Into my pillow?
Could imply ****.
Unsure if whether or not you will put your hands on me your eyes on me,
I don’t want that, can’t have that,
You haven’t earned that.
Don’t even know why you like me
Or if I do, if I should, why should I like you
When you’re tall and have a low voice
And might be depressed,
And I’m ****** up, too manic
Don’t wanna get into this cest pool
And really out of nowhere when you’re just about to bolt
You ask me, like it’s nothing,
If I’d like to go for a drink.

And I ****** well did want to go for a drink
Even though I don’t want to go for a ******* drink!
Because your hands are big
And sweaty
Which would ruin everything,
And I don’t know anything about you
Or me,
And I would just be saying the same, old, ****
And it wouldn’t be fun,
And we’d enter into the same, old, ****
Like playing a game of pool
And – whoops! – I showed too much cleavage, and hey, don’t you dare try and show me how it’s done,
With your hands on my hips,
Like that one time at work,
Which thrilled me.

I’m just a bundle of contradictions. And I don’t think this is right.
I’d really like to shut this off like the lights like the zone of electricity,
But it’s still there
And I bet you’re so calm.
And I’m sure I’ll smile, when it happens.
And I’m sure it’ll go ******* well.
I’m not taking a lick of joy from that,
Only anxiety,
Sallow, brown anxiety.
And great, ******* it, this isn’t going to work
Get me out of it
Climb out of my skull
Onto the pavement
Liquor me up, or I’ll never make it through this ****.
It’s time to go. Man up. Grow some *****.
**** me.
No peeking! Oh great owl
For the expedition
Is no more enlivened,

Oh no, the market women
Cannot afford the upkeep
Of this treacherous mileage,

Now see, the priest does not
Even know what to *****
And what to swallow,

For the tranquilizing effect
Of her beauty, put my heart
Into trance every new moon,

My beautiful African queen,
Please speak the prophecies of
The ancestors to my dwindling nature,

For the halcyon days of my
Youth is no more hale and hearty,
And never be a quisling to my heart.


© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: nanaspeaks@gmail.com
Jay M May 2020
Do any of my words make sense?
Living a life in constant defense
Scared to let the walls break
Scared that all people want is to take
I put pages of my mind on display
See who comes out to play
To tear or to read
This warning I hope they heed;

I’m fragile, despite my walls
I’ve recovered from my falls
All I want is to be myself
Not let that rot, sit on a shelf
Indeed, I can be a little dark
But at least I’ve got a spark
Breaking way to a raging fire
Of care and desire
To live my life
And hope that it be not alone
‘Tis dim on my own

Can’t you see it in my eyes?
The truth, there it lies
Awaiting for a gentle soul
To dive into the rabbit hole
And aid me in climbing out of its depths

Yes, all is well
A well puppeted shell
Internally, all is numb
Emotions down to but a crumb
For reasons unsure
Some thought ‘twas a cure
But all is rather obscure
When all is teetering on the edge
Longing for some kind of knowledge

Then, on occasion
It returns
In an immeasurable quantity
A crack in the stone dam
Then come the surging waters;
Is this who I am?

Feeling nothing for hours
Then suddenly it devours
My very being
As though from blind to seeing
All once more returning
Then greatly yearning
Reminded of patience
Finally, content
For one must be patient
Best not to come riding in
Like a knight upon a horse
Claiming a grand win
Oh, but of course

Is something not missing?
A faint ring,
Ring ringing in the ear
Faintly one does hear;
A calling
Memory of one falling
Caught by none other than the one hearing

A tease
Putting at ease
Hope burning bright as a November fire
Keeping one warm
Fueling a wishful desire
To embrace what chance may provide
Still, one must hide
Behind the bark of a mighty pine
Before approaching that wonder of thine

True, a mortal heart does sing
Key placed in the palms
Of one singing sweet psalms
O, what a sacred thing
The key to a mortal heart
Coveted at the hands of a work of art

Forests visible in those gateways
Where a dazzling soul doth roam
Seemingly floating in its gentle essence
A blessed, pure home
When one is in its presence

Planes the hue of Florida sands
The edges of a vast ocean
Such tender hands
Crafting, weaving words upon parchment
Placed to lure out emotion
A symphony of words
Yet all are lost
When hands meet

A tree has roots, in a mortal’s case ‘tis feet
That travel distances near and far
Look up, make a wish upon a star
As they carry said mortal across the material plane
To greet one so meek
Trembling ever so slight, scarcely able to utter a squeak

Is this truly a mortal
Standing before one so small
Or an angel in disguise?

Voices brought out
Then such is in momentary drought
Like the push and pull of an ocean wave
Words come out in a strangely familiar flux
Until there is a slight disturbance

A time limit is presented
Such a short time remained
A comment made regarding such;
“O, how those that raise us
Shan’t rule us forever.”
Says one

In a surprising and subtle reply,
From the - angel? - ;
“Indeed, I am sure they can’t,”
“And surely shan’t rule me forever.”
Delivering such words with the sweetest expressions
A reassuring smile and the most gentle of eyes
Igniting a brilliantly burning flame of hope

O, how one needed not linger
But linger one had;
Turning between the calling authority and the angel,
Finally turning to the angel
For a sweet moments embrace
Lasting for several heartbeats
Wrapped in the tranquilizing wings of an angel

Slowly slipping away
Uttering a farewell
Yearning to stay
Indeed, bidding adieu was a taste of hell
For the one who fell
For an angel

As the distance grew ever greater between one and the angel
‘Twas as though there was the tugging of a string
One of scarlet red
Bound is the heart and head
Of one so small
And an angel so fair

As one rests a scattered mind
What interesting things dream-walkers would find
The meek one, in a flowing gown of blue
Gently tamed mane of darkest brown hue
Skin of dampened sand
Gateways of rich soil with but a touch of emerald partially buried
Barely noticeable by any whom dare gaze
Into the eyes of one so pitiful

Dancing alone upon the stern of a grand ship
Under the roof of a painted white gazebo
Overlooking the vast sea below
With the sway of a hip
One slowly dancing doth call;

“Angel, o angel of mine,”
“Hear me now, and allow,”
“For my voice to reach those divine ears of thine.”

From the heavens doth enter the angel,
In a suite of raven black and deep ocean blue
Silken hair of earth with ends of gold
Wings unfurled, of purest white snow
In pale moonlight, a heavenly glow

Approaching one so small, one so unworthy of such wonder
In that moment, doubt is cast asunder
The angel taking the hands of one so small,
Whispering into an ear;

“‘Twas for me you did fall,”
“Just as ‘tis you I fell for,”
“Down from the heavens,”
“For not heaven,”
“Nor the Earth, nor hell,”
“Could ever keep us apart.”

Spun about like a ribbon in the hands of a dancer
A question with the perfect answer
Then taken back, mane just brushing the wood below
Gazing up into the gateways of the most heavenly fellow
Before being given heaven’s kiss
Delicate lips of an angel
Meet those of a human
Truly, could this
Not be a moment most blessed?

Arising to meet once more with entrancing eyes
To dance in the nights bliss
Fading gently into darkness
Then returning into the waking world
What a vision ‘twas..

Rising in the pale light morning brings
Wearing tokens of an angels affection
A warmth fills the heart
As ‘tis time to start
Such a peaceful day
To explore all it could be
Wishing to spend it with thee

Venturing through a valley of words
Searching for those best to utter
To whisper to an angel
As ones words are none compared
To those smooth as butter
Parting from the lips of the angel
In the start having repaired
A once damaged heart
Now pulsing, beating for the healer

Hoping, yearning to see the angel once more
Attempting to craft a plan
A day, not near yet not too far
This wonder is of lore

Perhaps 5 weeks after the last
The day remaining the same as the one past
If such is possible, of which one pleas it be
Let one catch a moment with thee
One day, as the angel did once say
Maybe things shall be okay
Open the curtains, shine a little light
Then, hopefully together, take flight
Into a world of their design.

- Jay M
May 13th, 2020
For the angel I fell in love with, who never ceases to surprise me.

I started writing this as a poem about how my emotional state has been as of late, then it just...well, it got better and blossomed into a poem about the love of my life.
Senna-Mia Rahner Feb 2019
Love her.
Love her like she is a masterpiece that you saw in a gallery
She just stuck out

Her raven hair
Long and elegant lines carved by a brush
Her eyes
Bright colours that shine even in the darkest nights
Her delicate curves
Flowing down the canvas
Her emotions drown you in a feeling you can't describe
One too powerful for words
Her laugh drenches you in a feeling of utter enjoyment
Her texture is soft and tranquilizing
You get so lost in her presence.

Love her.
Love her like she is a masterpiece you saw in a gallery
She just stuck out.
her
Though a wimpy, tiny, and puny
(smaller than a breadbox) Ogre
whereat my portable minuscule
fingerhut size adobe abode ex
posed to Strunk and White raw
grammatical elements of style,

I counted Flip (Wilsonian) view,
to camouflage myself anytime
and anywhere as significant add
vantages. The obvious down side
(i.e. severe limitations to pull off

major coup) forced me to axe
paunches pilot while taking a chopper
if I van nah miniaturize daring deed
(done dirt cheap) reconfigured,

retouched, recorded by Das scribe
named Magnum Opus. Indeed,
this chance to golong (equivalent
of Olympic gold) foretold peering
into granule size barren crystal ball.
Preliminary steps undertaken

to pull off impossible mission;
mo' difficult than a blind man
taking eighty steps to Honah
infiltrating 70+ shades of gray area

prime Donald Trump real estate.
A priority prevailed to act on
the QT (q-tip) lest cover get blown,
and suspicious communique encrypted
to gal lobe trotting henchmen.
Urgency spurred daring deed,
cuz targeted subject in question

(majority population counted
as debouched, delirious, and
demonstrably dangerous
demagogue, in short a "FAKE"
president! Security details
(like stray cats on the prowl),

could sniff out ploy to re
program depraved, deranged,
and detached supposed Master
at helm. His audacity, effrontery,
and isolationist iffy ideology
placed him squarely as half baked
cookie monstrosity against

United States Commander in Chief.
First order of business necessitated
tranquilizing this doughty, haughty
enemy of the Lumpenproletariat!

Renown chemist friends of mine
(actually War tin buddies) alias
Diet Coke and/or Diet Pepsi
secured an ampule Taj Mahal

~ circa 1631vintage. One ampule
viz pill could knock out a giant –
sans, Jack and the beanstalk fame.
No ifs, and or bots, the secret
got pulled off without spilling

figurative (jelly) beans. Once
inside auditory labyrinth, I
immediately noticed striking
deus ex machina ***** riot ting
resemblance to microscopic cave.
A thick baad *** sieve sludge
of cerumen sis tah

(waxy substance) deaf finitely
posed an initial dilemma,
which audio slave solution
entailed collaboration to build
a toothpick fence. Pensiveness

unexpectedly found subject
reflexively scratching, poking,
and jabbing inadvertently
finding me toward ground zero.
Brandon Edwards Aug 2014
The clothes I wear,
The appearance I keep,
It is not me!
And at times, as if I'm a cross-dresser I wear clothes made not for I.
Cloths of contentment,
Material of merriment,
Fabrics of fulfilling delight.
All sewed together by a needle of negativity.
By thread of tranquilizing pain and depression.
I cross from sad to happy only in appearance.
Only after dressing into clothes not meant for me can the smile on my masked face be renewed.
When will the cross-dresser I am cease to be me?
I am not literally a cross-dresser.
ahmo Mar 2015
She marches to no beat-
a purpose seemingly incomplete.
If she challenges her every breath,
is she not obsolete?

I can't say that I don't understand.
Weaving  bruised patches on a quilt
with a jagged stone in each hand
is enough to fill a riverbed with blood.

With such an affinity to this bed of rocks,
who am I to judge?


But you.
There is nothing more to hate
in agreeing that you hold such a fate.
If a smile is the only emotional currency,
how can you not shine brighter than gold?

She marches on against the current.
She wades in the winter wanderlust.
She is a beacon of cerulean light,
and a cup of warm coffee
on a red eye flight.

The ice sheet that covers your bones
is the warmest blanket
on a winter night.
If the gate is ever open,
I'll never cease to highlight
your tranquilizing, infinite light.
Cmi Jan 2019
Looking into your eyes
I see the ocean of peace
Behind the roaring
Waves

I feel the cool breeze
Of Himalaya
In your
tranquilizing forehead
I smell the fragrance
Of bliss
In your sweet grin
Spreading far
Pulling me towards you
I get drawn
From the most
Magnetic
Pull from your
Heart
I get ******
Into you
Live in you forever
Making my Permanent home

©sobbingsoul
Giani LaDavia Jan 2013
Underneath the rainfalls,
between the quiet walls,
of the retirement home.
This is where my heart lies.
Retiring from the depths of passionate want.

At the retirement home,
there is the tranquilizing smell of hush and peace.
It is kept colder than my memories.
This is where my body dies.
Retiring from a recycled depression.

The walls show no emotion.
But it gives me time to think.
I remember the night when we sat in the bed of your truck,
conversing for hours.
I stared at your glassy eyes,
as we wondered how Sunday was given its name.
Since it rains every Sunday.

It rains everyday at the retirement home.
This alcohol feels as though,
it’s not working like it should.
But you are a melody.
A melody that is whispered and heard,
flowing through the halls of this prison
"If we are all fading into the void,
why not do it carelessly?"
There is no sunlight, to call us home.
Fading into void quote from my friend Clayton Damren
Bohemian Mar 2019
"I"
With all the delights that this day has pumped in me,
I shall exhale,evaluating.
Nothing frights me though,
Yet at times my humility easily goes.

A fearless vagabond that I have turned into,
Even the merciless,to look into my eyes, does not dare.
I am in no haste,
Even my trots have the power to leap and make a thud such that everybody fall off their steps.

Your stares that I descry,
No more make a difference to me.
For I am immune and have no envy,fear,agitations,trepidations or gluttonous desires.
It is no shame,those sights be such a common thing and all the same.

I have no back story and none coming forth,shortly or in this life,
I don't hestitate to yell what many of you cannot spell.
For all the stabs faced,
Birthed a scabbard and a sword in one frame.

The truth could be my lingua franca,
Forlorn be the brethren of my creed.
Repressed and silenced are my alarms of seize fire over the border,
Mollifying and tranquilizing be a part of my duty.

To stand the repercussion of my sins counts in my atonement,
For it is never an evanesce,too late.
I fear no hell or purgatory,
For I have witnessed worse in some eyes.

Victimization is a poor retreat,
To harangue them and present self with an ode is no feat.
Patience is my dagger to time,
And threatening each other we walk rakishly hand in hand.

To trail back,
Is not for me that fatal.
I emancipate the baited,
And buster am I of existing parasites.

Liberty is my boundary,
I would dare not to annihilate a choice.
But I do not condone either,
For I hate to feel withered and there is no way I may let go.

I am relentless,
I would not mind if you address me as a bovine.
I am cathartic and hysterical,most of all a contributor here,
An energy straight from plasma,unsimplified.
Dark n Beautiful Aug 2014
A treacherous heart set its mark
the lion roar into the wee hours
of the morning
My caramel body responded to his every word
kissing my shoulder was a sigh of relief for those emerald eyes
Is Irish balsam a match for this Ebony beauty?
My beautiful lips,
he long to kiss
we unfolded like hesitant daffodils in springtime
I never heard his spoken words
I only saw his mysterious face
How could I be in love with the eyes of the Irishman?
And the tongue of the drunken sailor
I knew that if he knew how I felt about him
his poetic way of thinking would
a set off romantic setting into cyber space.
making a love connection
without the distraction from a harsh world.

A Irishman and his midnight lover,
the mind, body and soul havoc the hearts
into believing that love is worth fighting for
Distant, time, space or even race,
Couldn’t take tear us away from cyber space;
my ****** quest was answered.

"Nibble my ear, I wrote
and softly whisper my name
a soft touch could command the heart to accept love
however, the thought of his emerald eyes,
his manly hand holding and caressing
my long slender legs while his hands and lips
Transcends heat from his
hot balsam breath upon my neck
his tranquilizing cologne made me sigh with relief:

Locking eyes against each other image
a mystical force  rock the airwaves and into cyber space
Let me set you drunk with desire
Gentle hold my face and look deep into my eyes
True love never dies
Our tomorrows look promising
We were one with the soul
Cmi Apr 2019
So far
Yet so
Close
So
Intimate
So loving
So sweet
So tranquilizing
Your look
So mesmerizing
Your presence
So soft
Your touch
Always lives
In me
Your eternal love
♥️
©️Sobbingsoul
Dark n Beautiful Jun 2016
A treacherous heart set its mark

My beautiful lips you long to kiss
became the daffodils in springtime
As it slowly, unfolded by the sound of his Tenor voice.
I remember him, but I never remember his ****** touch

All poets are not romantic, but our poems can
creates a romantic setting, allowing us to see and feel
the words in each line.

A famous writer once wrote.
Have a heart that never hardens,
and a temper that never tires,
and a touch that never hurts.”—Charles Dickens


The mind, body and soul havoc the hearts
into believing that our love is worth fighting for
my caramel exposed **** reveal my darkest secret
my ****** quest was answered.

"while nibbling my ear he whisper my name
the sound of his voice, command my heart to accept love
or was it was the feedback from those dilated eyes?

the thoughts of his hand caressing my inner thigh
his hot balsam breath, working the curve of my neck
breathing life into the foreplay: my imagination of his
tranquilizing earthy cologne made me sigh with relief;
that set me drunk with desire, with the deep power of joy

We cannot quench the thirst without our vision, our heart, our life,
Or our passion, restoring our relationship wouldn’t be answered
vamsi sai mohan Mar 2014
She is the raconteur.
Her presence is boisterous,
Words lack to depict her beauty,
Or does it relish the redundancy.
She is the replica of rapture.
The eternity that is encapsulated in her eyes.
Her benevolence is bolstering,
Her gestures are sporadically jesting,
Her looks are lavish,
Her voice is tranquilizing,
Her touch is tingling,
Her walks are wallowing,
when she strolls in the street,
entangled eyes ogle at her.
(her dimpled face,her cramped dress)
................................
.........................­.......
This persuasion is to her as
She leans herself in his arms,
With her neck unbend on his shoulder,
and strand of hair leaping on his lips,
as she then aligns herself  poking him passionately,
admist gazes with her enlarged engulfing eyes,
by which he is transfixed and couldn't answer her no more
when she questions him "How do I look",
With the wry suggestive smile on her visage....
Nikki Dec 2014
Frail is life with its deceptive elegance
As we live off the tranquilizing ignorance
Unconvinced of the reality we choose to accept
But unwilling to change, there is nothing left

Words amalgamated cannot be separated
They cannot be taken back, nor cremated.
As you set your delicate hand above the flame
Sacrificing flesh for your hearts reclaim

— The End —