L-o-v-evenly,
P.o.v in a 6 inch
Seamless screen.
Identity between
Hypocrisy and reality
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 6:55 PM UTC
To be necessary is
to have purpose in essence.
Disavowed from senses
of contingent dependence.
Disallowed from connection
in simplest of form,
the necessary are
to be dead and too born.
Existing in realm
of support for all else,
with no reason at all
in helping themselves.
To be necessary is
to have purpose in essence;
contingency aiding
with iris virescent.
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 7:07 PM UTC
Unheard in annual orange glow,
A winter bird shows face
In resilient fashion-
Once the ease of life
Has taken leave in action.
Conditions unfelt and perceived,
A winter bird sees
Nature’s loaded gamble
Once more. It hopes
For unending warm embrace
And about face
A winter bird will mock.
Perpetual preparation,
With lacking exacerbation-
The Winter Bird exits its stolen vacation.
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 6:30 PM UTC
Time passes like no other passes.
Like no other classes: you cannot learn
about time, and how it moves.
You can be shown mechanics,
the seconds and minutes.
Though these illusions alleviate
us of reality-
how gradually
it treks on.
It stops and starts
and starts to stop.
We feel the slots
slipping by, flying by.
There's no way to tell,
when ours will end,
though its grasp eternal,
begins again.
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 2:55 PM UTC
I wonder,
Of my place
Of my time.
I wonder,
Of my thoughts
Of my mind.
I ponder,
Thought of thought
Breadths and depths.
How shallow, or deep
They can tend to get.
For there's no perception,
Beyond my own.
You know not all,
Nor where we home.
It stands alone,
With me out there.
I follow it's word
Without me where
It's humming and pounding
and stillness in shouting
phases the best;
Worse, deaf to the hounding.
Inside my skull
I, mistified,
through blood 'n' bone,
See no mind,
T'which I can name a name
And stake a claim to be
Anything less,
Than Mystery.
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 10:31 AM UTC
He’s not to be admired,
The artistic creative.
No hard work’s required,
It’s not quite where fate lives.
He may stand tall in his mind,
In his accomplishments wide.
But in envy we live,
To stand by his side.
He tricked it.
The system, I mean.
To stick to cliches
We’re cogs in machines.
But he’s seen the absurd.
He’s seen us.
He’s seen how we fight,
How we ****
How we plead for our lives.
He’s seen how we wish,
With but hope at our sides.
He’s seen the machine,
And he knows it eternal,
For we won’t leave it.
We’d rather burn all
Our books and our toys
And the idea of maturity.
Before we stand alone,
And give thought some purity
No.
He’s not to be admired,
The Artistic Creative.
But despite our hard work,
He found where fate lives.
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 4:22 PM UTC
Send me the scent of a blissless silence,
No need for elegance or poise.
Send me something to clear my mind with,
Just something to break the noise.
I may not grasp the elements bountiful,
Yet I see them clearer than you.
And it can't be seen, the shade of beautiful
Beyond a palette of blue.
Though how ironic is this impairment,
That I see beyond the pale.
And oh how chronic is my despairment,
In the search of a great white whale.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 4:12 PM UTC
Sing the scales for me,
The scales of love and commitment
Or of hate and resentment,
Just run me the scales
And tell me the tales
You know the ones
The happily-ever-afters
The smooth-sailing rafters,
The divorce rates rocketing
The greed stricken pocketing,
It’s the people, you know?
And it’s the people you know.
Yet the people you know,
Are rarely people you know.
So sing the scales for me,
One last time.
Sing the scales for me,
So I can hear you rhyme.
Sing the scales for me,
Once ‘fore you go.
Sing the scales for me,
Because it’s you I don’t know.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 6:44 PM UTC
Much like apathy in a loving embrace and hatred in warm such a slumber. Not I in my deepest of thoughts or most shallow of sights shall I wreak the havoc of an incomplete soul. An undetermined body. A man, lacking in personage. Not I.
Still my body may lay, though awash in emotive complexities my mind remains. From the world's forgotten martyrs to the sufferers of society's cold embrace, all of age seem to have a grasp on the emotion. Coming easy, supposedly. Taking hold, regrettably. Wringing the soul for all its worth, assuredly. Though however apparent may be its profundity, however wise may it be to keep avoidance, its eventual presence seems an imperative. An imperative to life. Not my life, nor yours. But life in itself.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 5:31 PM UTC