Do not call my father the dying man,
for his weakness' are not his failure but virtue and a testament of his character.
Do not call my father the dying man,
for while his breathing is labored, every breath is taken with valor and inner strength
Do not call my father the dying man,
for while his eyes are glazed, his heart remains true, his mind unbroken
Do not call my father the dying man,
for while his fingers tremble, and his body is frail; his spirit speaks volumes
Do not call my father the dying man,
for while he is sick, he is no burden, no shameful person
Do not call our father the dead man,
for he always lives within our thoughts,
The memories, the dreams, and the questions that will never be answered.
Mar 22, 2021
Mar 22, 2021 at 2:24 PM UTC
I want to feel your hands around my neck
A soft and warm pressure. Not squeezing, just existing.
I want to feel the comfort of your embrace,
The love in your touch, your feel.
I want your hands around mine.
Jan 24, 2021
Jan 24, 2021 at 1:25 AM UTC
And then you woke up, you felt the soft drip of sweat on your furrowed brow. Trailing down your face in thin streams. Your clothes were soaked, and your bed lay damp. Your breathing was heavy as your forlorn gaze drifted off into the night sky.
And then you woke up, you felt the fright from a previous dream cling to your mind, dulling your senses. Cloaking your ears from all previous sounds that might’ve existed. Your hands lay there trembling, uncontrollable in every way, messy hair in all directions.
And as you lay there breathing, you woke up. The erratic thumping of your heart, beating loud into the night. A soft wail from your mouth, encircling the terrible symphony of despair. Grating thoughts, that never seem to go away. It won’t stop, it won't go away . . .
And then you woke up
Dec 22, 2020
Dec 22, 2020 at 3:44 PM UTC
Nothing’s changed, I’ve just discovered a new part of me.
I don’t suddenly become a different person overnight,
My brain, my body, my personality.
It’s all the same.
But there’s just a difference in the way I perceive myself.
Nothing’s changed.
Dec 22, 2020
Dec 22, 2020 at 3:41 PM UTC
Smother the Smoldering flare inside.
Simmering, Seething *** kettle scorched black.
Subside wrath, suppress anger, succeed.
Be still.
Coldness, chilling ice, constant hush.
No thoughts, no collateral damage.
Control it. ||How can I help?||
Space, slight, broad.
Inexhaustible darkness with few stars enticed.
Burning, ashes caught in the back of my throat.
Shhhh. ||What are you feeling?||
Boundless frost
Desultory embers.
Be nice, be kind, breathe, exhale.
1, too, 10.
Go to sleep.
Sep 25, 2020
Sep 25, 2020 at 10:15 AM UTC
So why don't the polar bears melt with the stars in the sea, and the fish in the clouds?
With the wind blowing the ice away, it makes no noise.
If we are surrounded by water why have we used all our water up?
And even still we sit on damp land where hamsters live as solicitors and sharks as arbitrators who consume fresh oysters with no eyes who recognizes the world more clearly than I, and we'll all go to Mars one day... just not today
Dec 2, 2019
Dec 2, 2019 at 5:14 AM UTC
I hear the tone of a thousand galaxies. Only sweet angels shed whimsical tears
Some thoughts form bubbles in the mind, and with a pop, they are gone. Prancing further and further from the fingertips of those who wish to comprehend them.
They still their breaths and try as they might, halt their lungs but thoughts are fickle things that only come when one does not call for them. This mind experiences assorted thoughts, some plunge like rain from the sky, rapidly and frigid, with no notions of passing by.
While others are sweet and delicate murmurs, some thoughts hold nothing but lie full of animosity and self-hatred, there are those few certainties that cling to our senses like moist cloth on heated summer days.
And there is a singular truth that none can deny. Through these sights, soaring belts of asteroids and the birth of newly hatched nebulas can be seen.
For these gazes see freshly pickled specks of lights dispersed across the realms and heed the sounds of a thousand galaxies.
And in these galaxies, holds dust and nothingness
Dec 1, 2019
Dec 1, 2019 at 11:02 PM UTC
Have you seen my brain today?
I woke up and it was just gone. I'm wondering if those crafty gnomes didn't sneak off and haul it away.
Oh, what a dilemma. I simply don't know what I would do without my brain. How can I think or fasten my shoes, or lick jewels off shelters or watch beetles go passing by?
How can I compose or sing?
How can I burn fire with my eyes or watch liquid turn to ice or plants thrive?
But wait, I can achieve all of those things. My brain hasn't gone missing at all. It's been in my head this whole time
Dec 1, 2019
Dec 1, 2019 at 10:52 PM UTC
In a kingdom full of inclemencies my hubris does not fail me
Profuse and Fierce, Some may call me arrogant
'Hubris!' chuckled I, 'Yes Hubris!'
It's a recording of my failings.
'It's that amorality,' I muttered.
My hubris is my substratum towards my nescience.
It is that aspect that will lean me towards drowning in the sea of my own incoherent imbecility.
It's a deep program in my faulty code, a nightmare towards monks.
It's the ink on my arms, tattooed to my soul.
'Hubris!' chuckled I, 'Yes Hubris!'
It does not fail to show in my wording.
It's the ferry to sea, the net in the ocean.
It is limber as it is inventive, with every exception.
It has no ingenuousness, it is unlike modesty and threatens to surmount me.
It's a sandwich in which has caught every hitch of breath, it leaves me bewitched, no certain pitch that I can tell afore it chokes me.
It leaves no correspondence with those around me, too caught up in my own fantasies that I can no longer celebrate or verbalize felicitously.
Many times I wished that I preserved my receipt so that I could trade in my Hubris for something a little less mucusless for it is something akin to Judas, and I cannot utilize it for anything utilizable.
If I could somehow find a way that would lead me to a resilient recuperation. I would judge that to be more utilizable then this Hubris that encumbers me. No matter how many times I beat it down, it war's like a lion and a bunch of tourists on a safari.
If only this grotesque lion-like hubris was shot by the doter of a hubris poacher. Every generation would be gratified and they would find that it is much more facile to coerce without that unpleasant Hubris.
Of course, I suppose in a way hubris could be utilizable in some situations that required it. If I somehow found a way to trade my hubris for something like modestly and found that I missed my hubris quite dearly. I would laugh at my incoherent imbecility and perceive myself to be remotely mad!
These ravings of my hubris I'm quite sure because I found it so consequential to indite a poem of stark preposterousness. In a contingency like this, I suppose my hubris is getting quite polished, so sharply able to strike down any sense of modesty.
I conjecture this is the terminus of this arrangement, please omit my hubris for a moment. I suppose I should give you some tea afore I dose myself in a salubrious dose of radiation.
Apr 20, 2019
Apr 20, 2019 at 11:01 PM UTC