adam-b-1 - Hello Poetry

Gut convulsions sputtering forth into mental explosions emotional rebukes and back-tracking, this feels so right but will be so wrong. I can't take this leap but I must. Perhaps in another life it could be One plus you equals me, alone with my jawbone tight grinding molars enclosed in this room's twilight. Alive and well, loving this emotion simultaneously raising up and crashing down, what a commotion. You wore my hat all night long, made me care about myself, at least for the length of the song. Now Im by myself, once again, while you're at home with him. the committed relationship you're in, while we're just friends. But I see the light in your eyes when we speak. The uplift of your spirits when we face another feet to feet. Are you happy and content within the life that you've built? Or are you ready for something else, subtracting your guilt. I love you more than you can probably comprehend, **** the only time we spend together is as wage-slaves, pacing like hamsters to no foreseeable end. But every moment we laugh and dance about makes me want to raise my arms high and shout "I love this girl and everything she's about!" But I fear it will never be… because you're at home with him and not me….

0

Jul 23, 2012

Jul 23, 2012 at 6:18 AM UTC

Unrequited.

Gut convulsions sputtering forth into mental explosions emotional rebukes and back-tracking, this feels so right but will be so wrong. I can't take this leap but I must. Perhaps in another life it could be One plus you equals me, alone with my jawbone tight grinding molars enclosed in this room's twilight. Alive and well, loving this emotion simultaneously raising up and crashing down, what a commotion. You wore my hat all night long, made me care about myself, at least for the length of the song. Now Im by myself, once again, while you're at home with him. the committed relationship you're in, while we're just friends. But I see the light in your eyes when we speak. The uplift of your spirits when we face another feet to feet. Are you happy and content within the life that you've built? Or are you ready for something else, subtracting your guilt. I love you more than you can probably comprehend, **** the only time we spend together is as wage-slaves, pacing like hamsters to no foreseeable end. But every moment we laugh and dance about makes me want to raise my arms high and shout "I love this girl and everything she's about!" But I fear it will never be… because you're at home with him and not me….

26

Welcome to the noble life, the middle way free of anguish and suffering, loosening your grasps upon desire, releasing your mind and soul from defilement along this noble path. The relationship between you and I we are one with all of this experience known as life a pattern weaving its way through and amongst other patterns and processes the deeper we go we only see more patterns welcome to the noble life, the middle way. please, enjoy your stay.

0

Feb 17, 2010

Feb 17, 2010 at 1:10 PM UTC

The Noble Life

Welcome to the noble life, the middle way free of anguish and suffering, loosening your grasps upon desire, releasing your mind and soul from defilement along this noble path. The relationship between you and I we are one with all of this experience known as life a pattern weaving its way through and amongst other patterns and processes the deeper we go we only see more patterns welcome to the noble life, the middle way. please, enjoy your stay.

14

Faceless books relive life as pseudo-abbreviated scribes the tip tapping of helvetica lies reporting banal times falsified laughter coughed up between every three lines Faceless books wasting precious time gathering the masses for the fanfare of a couple of guys and gals. Crippled by conformity to fit within cyber-society for cyber-friends and cyber-lives, virtually living a virtual life without virtually living in the first place. Posing pursed lips and filming grainy video clips one-liners of the wall signers pretending to pretend to care to come off as they actually pretend to care to begin with. Two hundred and plus empty entities and counting, the next person met can subscribe to my life now.

0

Feb 16, 2010

Feb 16, 2010 at 8:22 AM UTC

Faceless Books

Faceless books relive life as pseudo-abbreviated scribes the tip tapping of helvetica lies reporting banal times falsified laughter coughed up between every three lines Faceless books wasting precious time gathering the masses for the fanfare of a couple of guys and gals. Crippled by conformity to fit within cyber-society for cyber-friends and cyber-lives, virtually living a virtual life without virtually living in the first place. Posing pursed lips and filming grainy video clips one-liners of the wall signers pretending to pretend to care to come off as they actually pretend to care to begin with. Two hundred and plus empty entities and counting, the next person met can subscribe to my life now.

10

An ordinary soul encompassed in extraordinary expectations. Social pressure manifesting itself into anxiety and doubt. A mechanical mess of cogs and wheels churning out endless streams of mental clout. Be what I will and do as I may is what I say. But they say: Be what we will and do as I do, this is the proper way. Try not reform or perform to conform is what I say. But they say: Follow me through this hollow tree and you will see what I want you to be, this is the proper way An ordinary soul encompassed in extraordinary expectations, passed down through electric, media driven sensations of transient satisfaction, a mechanical mess of wound up plastic toy soldiers marching in circles with rubber souls pointing death dealing cylinders at each others backs. Be yourself for everyone else is what I say. But they say: Be everyone, or else. Try for progression's sake, be genuine and certainly not fake is what I say But they say: Try for regression's sake, be fake and certainly not genuine, this is the proper way. An ordinary soul encompassed in extraordinary expectations, disgusted with modern tribulation, choosing self-selected conscious liberation. A singular, personal declaration toward evolution. A natural mess of vines and roots reaching below and above producing boundless rivers of truth and love. This is revolution. Be one amongst many is what I say. But they say Be us. This is the proper way. Be you, is what I say. This is the proper way.

0

Feb 15, 2010

Feb 15, 2010 at 12:10 PM UTC

This is the Proper Way

An ordinary soul encompassed in extraordinary expectations. Social pressure manifesting itself into anxiety and doubt. A mechanical mess of cogs and wheels churning out endless streams of mental clout. Be what I will and do as I may is what I say. But they say: Be what we will and do as I do, this is the proper way. Try not reform or perform to conform is what I say. But they say: Follow me through this hollow tree and you will see what I want you to be, this is the proper way An ordinary soul encompassed in extraordinary expectations, passed down through electric, media driven sensations of transient satisfaction, a mechanical mess of wound up plastic toy soldiers marching in circles with rubber souls pointing death dealing cylinders at each others backs. Be yourself for everyone else is what I say. But they say: Be everyone, or else. Try for progression's sake, be genuine and certainly not fake is what I say But they say: Try for regression's sake, be fake and certainly not genuine, this is the proper way. An ordinary soul encompassed in extraordinary expectations, disgusted with modern tribulation, choosing self-selected conscious liberation. A singular, personal declaration toward evolution. A natural mess of vines and roots reaching below and above producing boundless rivers of truth and love. This is revolution. Be one amongst many is what I say. But they say Be us. This is the proper way. Be you, is what I say. This is the proper way.

27

Paratroopers free fall, 'chutes coiled and caught in a grease ball afro curl reaching down perplexed ****** frames. Diligent chortling mimes trapped in handmade indecision cages, tapping a telling tune of tired games played day after day. A right brained boy with a head full of clout miscommunication with a leftist expat from the north to the south. Jostled connections send out fizzling sentences through blown speakers and an overheated circuit - Bored of the excuses whispers the nameless without a reason there isn't a purpose. Shoot an accusing glare past Father Time overlooking treasonous discouraging crimes Open those whale blubber caked eyes to the other side. It's not what this has done to you but what this has done to us. The hitchhiker gave up, traded his thumb for a seat on the bus. Never was he lost, but given more than one chance. He, no, she, no we were thrown away with his walking stick and his waterproof nap sack. Will we cross this road again? And pick up from where we began? Or never turn back? Always was he lost, but given one too many of a chance But was it worth it? Upholding the "right and proper" stance?

0

Feb 15, 2010

Feb 15, 2010 at 12:08 PM UTC

Time and Time Again We Run With Our Eyes Closed and Our Mouths Wide Open

Paratroopers free fall, 'chutes coiled and caught in a grease ball afro curl reaching down perplexed ****** frames. Diligent chortling mimes trapped in handmade indecision cages, tapping a telling tune of tired games played day after day. A right brained boy with a head full of clout miscommunication with a leftist expat from the north to the south. Jostled connections send out fizzling sentences through blown speakers and an overheated circuit - Bored of the excuses whispers the nameless without a reason there isn't a purpose. Shoot an accusing glare past Father Time overlooking treasonous discouraging crimes Open those whale blubber caked eyes to the other side. It's not what this has done to you but what this has done to us. The hitchhiker gave up, traded his thumb for a seat on the bus. Never was he lost, but given more than one chance. He, no, she, no we were thrown away with his walking stick and his waterproof nap sack. Will we cross this road again? And pick up from where we began? Or never turn back? Always was he lost, but given one too many of a chance But was it worth it? Upholding the "right and proper" stance?

27

You're under this notion, fueled by the flashing colored screen. What you think you need, what you know you need. They've got it so right, they've got it oh so right Living life like we're under the spotlight Lights, camera, action we follow the rhythm believe the system oblivious to the secret faction, solely conceived as a distraction. Impressionable we were, deeply displaced, Young eyes glaring into space, we become what our imaginations trace. Outlines of the human race, told by the man behind the box without a human face. New watch, new ring, brand new play-thing it's all you need, they burn the fuel to your greed. impregnating our every last thought, only concerned with what, when and how- much, we've already bought. Remove the glim and glam of their cerebral spam. the pursuit of happiness isn't in your wallet or your T.V. screen, they'll only tell you it's how you're supposed to be seen. Deceitfully robbing us of our imaginations, confining us to their own limitations. Overthrow their control and shut off your televisions.

0

Feb 15, 2010

Feb 15, 2010 at 12:05 PM UTC

The Man in Our Living Room

You're under this notion, fueled by the flashing colored screen. What you think you need, what you know you need. They've got it so right, they've got it oh so right Living life like we're under the spotlight Lights, camera, action we follow the rhythm believe the system oblivious to the secret faction, solely conceived as a distraction. Impressionable we were, deeply displaced, Young eyes glaring into space, we become what our imaginations trace. Outlines of the human race, told by the man behind the box without a human face. New watch, new ring, brand new play-thing it's all you need, they burn the fuel to your greed. impregnating our every last thought, only concerned with what, when and how- much, we've already bought. Remove the glim and glam of their cerebral spam. the pursuit of happiness isn't in your wallet or your T.V. screen, they'll only tell you it's how you're supposed to be seen. Deceitfully robbing us of our imaginations, confining us to their own limitations. Overthrow their control and shut off your televisions.

30

Standardized empty circles, pencil in each blank completely, tell us your story in less than 12 rows. As the graphite sank beneath cold dead paper stained with a broken biography. Where's my face? Where's my soul? Where's my identity? Am I just a number? A blank filled in? Not enough room to describe so I subscribe to "other".

0

Feb 15, 2010

Feb 15, 2010 at 12:04 PM UTC

The Other

Standardized empty circles, pencil in each blank completely, tell us your story in less than 12 rows. As the graphite sank beneath cold dead paper stained with a broken biography. Where's my face? Where's my soul? Where's my identity? Am I just a number? A blank filled in? Not enough room to describe so I subscribe to "other".

12

I've been lost at the gates ever since conception, middle of a 4-stop intersection with a mouth full of questions, muffled moans and groans sublimate my message, diluting the essence, fragmented and pinned down to the dissection tray, with blurred vowels and words contrived to a sentence. The surgeon contains the lesson beneath his shivering hands, carried across his stuttering voice high strung shattered memoirs, depicting conflicting moments of clarity and calamity, shaking and swerving amongst the wavelengths, searching for an ear to rest in. Blind and burned from the giving hands of deception, greeted by synthetic smiles and idle eyes, confronting and critiquing confidential trials, spoken words in tongue, gasping dry air and stale smoke with hacks and coughs, collapsing a lung. Solved the puzzle, 10 down and 10 across, pervading and staining blank white cubes, with lines and dots invading, crude man made brain-teasing tubes, revealing the question through the only answer: Relentless reflection.

0

Feb 15, 2010

Feb 15, 2010 at 12:03 PM UTC

R&R

I've been lost at the gates ever since conception, middle of a 4-stop intersection with a mouth full of questions, muffled moans and groans sublimate my message, diluting the essence, fragmented and pinned down to the dissection tray, with blurred vowels and words contrived to a sentence. The surgeon contains the lesson beneath his shivering hands, carried across his stuttering voice high strung shattered memoirs, depicting conflicting moments of clarity and calamity, shaking and swerving amongst the wavelengths, searching for an ear to rest in. Blind and burned from the giving hands of deception, greeted by synthetic smiles and idle eyes, confronting and critiquing confidential trials, spoken words in tongue, gasping dry air and stale smoke with hacks and coughs, collapsing a lung. Solved the puzzle, 10 down and 10 across, pervading and staining blank white cubes, with lines and dots invading, crude man made brain-teasing tubes, revealing the question through the only answer: Relentless reflection.

21

Visions from the past, race before my eyes like parts on the factory line. Over these past few years, oh how I've changed. I gave up on a lot of something, ended up with a lot of nothing. I've left my brain, scarred and burnt, now these somber words are all that remain. They remain the one way to keep sane. Warriors to the cerebral pain that challenge me day to day. Contemplated verses on all I've learnt. trimmed thin through all the **** smoke I can't see the end, I've been blinded by the trend Every passing cough and choke carves another notch, my troubles are a joke. On the grander scheme of things, my ordeals seem small and petty. How selfish must I truly be to actually believe that I have it worse than anyone else. At least I can see, breath and speak, eat all I can eat, without worrying about whether or not I'll have food next week. How this sense of selfishness and selflessness make me weak. The guilt of the contradictions amongst my convictions, make it all the more difficult to speak my disturbed mind. Self-constructed illusions of altruism and egotism always end up in indefinite confusion. This literal mess passed off as poetry, is a perfect example of the train wreck the doctors dubbed so eloquently: My Mind. What a waste of time.

0

Feb 15, 2010

Feb 15, 2010 at 12:01 PM UTC

Paging Doctor McGulligan, It Seems Your Patient Has Lost Patience and is Tearing Up the Walls.

Visions from the past, race before my eyes like parts on the factory line. Over these past few years, oh how I've changed. I gave up on a lot of something, ended up with a lot of nothing. I've left my brain, scarred and burnt, now these somber words are all that remain. They remain the one way to keep sane. Warriors to the cerebral pain that challenge me day to day. Contemplated verses on all I've learnt. trimmed thin through all the **** smoke I can't see the end, I've been blinded by the trend Every passing cough and choke carves another notch, my troubles are a joke. On the grander scheme of things, my ordeals seem small and petty. How selfish must I truly be to actually believe that I have it worse than anyone else. At least I can see, breath and speak, eat all I can eat, without worrying about whether or not I'll have food next week. How this sense of selfishness and selflessness make me weak. The guilt of the contradictions amongst my convictions, make it all the more difficult to speak my disturbed mind. Self-constructed illusions of altruism and egotism always end up in indefinite confusion. This literal mess passed off as poetry, is a perfect example of the train wreck the doctors dubbed so eloquently: My Mind. What a waste of time.

34

A desperate desperado shivering as the sun sets, casts it's silky shadows upon the hollows below. Beneath the cascading denizens of light, a puff of smoke waltzes across the December sky, a patient without his insurance with nothing left but callous empty third-person reassurance, "everything will be better" as she said. But better is always easy when your hand isn't writing the letter. Save your proverbs for an open ear, this one is half deaf and full of itself, despite your intent, your lack of action perpetuates malcontent. After all we're all just passing moments gone and forgotten, evicted, convicted of being a gutless mime, going through the motions, minus a true notion. A confused calculator short circuiting under an oil leak spitting out numbers, complicating already complicated complexities subtracting numerals adding funerals dividing families multiplying tragedies It's just a numbers game, and we can't participate we're just the studio audience, recorded live without any life. Flashing signs tell us when to laugh and when to cry, pre-determined automated messages contrived to convince. And I'm stuck spinning in the corner, with my hands on my head. Senselessly blurting out: Why?! But don't mind me, I'm just another lost soul trapped with my head in the sky.

0

Feb 15, 2010

Feb 15, 2010 at 11:59 AM UTC

A Tall, Long-necked, Spotted Ruminant

A desperate desperado shivering as the sun sets, casts it's silky shadows upon the hollows below. Beneath the cascading denizens of light, a puff of smoke waltzes across the December sky, a patient without his insurance with nothing left but callous empty third-person reassurance, "everything will be better" as she said. But better is always easy when your hand isn't writing the letter. Save your proverbs for an open ear, this one is half deaf and full of itself, despite your intent, your lack of action perpetuates malcontent. After all we're all just passing moments gone and forgotten, evicted, convicted of being a gutless mime, going through the motions, minus a true notion. A confused calculator short circuiting under an oil leak spitting out numbers, complicating already complicated complexities subtracting numerals adding funerals dividing families multiplying tragedies It's just a numbers game, and we can't participate we're just the studio audience, recorded live without any life. Flashing signs tell us when to laugh and when to cry, pre-determined automated messages contrived to convince. And I'm stuck spinning in the corner, with my hands on my head. Senselessly blurting out: Why?! But don't mind me, I'm just another lost soul trapped with my head in the sky.

30