Conflicts surround us:
The open, kind hearted vs the selfish exploiters
The fundamentalist vs the superficialist. Deep feeling driven vs superficial motivation.
Only in times of struggling, or briefly in the heat of the moment do people band together and become kind hearted, and open their eyes to the deepness of experience or truly show their selfish selves. Subconscious repressed rage comes out.
What I hate is the middle zone. The lull of comfort, where people forget who they truly are. Their memory, their emotions are only enhanced in those times of emotion. They lull into a sense of superficialness.
The lack of struggle in the modern world seems to lull everyone into superficial interactions.
Am I made to be an exception? See people as they truly are. Commit to my bit of helping others as the fundamentalist, the kind hearted, deep feeler at all times in the midst of this superficial world. To bring the best out of others, to induce this deepness in them too.
No, perhaps I am just the same.
Nov 6, 2025
Nov 6, 2025 at 6:40 PM UTC
I don't think I can have my heart broken again.
Whether it be driving a wedge between the click,
Or a rule that must not be broken, a test of loyalty,
Or pain, insufficiency, lack of opportunity itself.
But I guess I can fill myself with pain.
It will harden me. Make me clinically precise.
But will it matter at that point?
I guess I can write poetry again.
Oct 2, 2025
Oct 2, 2025 at 8:20 PM UTC
Your eyes glimmer open,
Barely aware of the slow, soaring music,
The sounds of a thousand grainy strings, and faintly, a piano, horns
Flowing through your mind.
You find yourself in sub-darkness,
In the corner of a room,
At least it seems so.
It seems to breathe,
Merging its edges into shadows.
The faint outlines of figures are visible,
Some seated, some standing,
Captured by the half-eaten light.
You long to see further.
Yet it is not your sight, nor distance preventing this.
Whether it is an imperceptible, seeping pain
Blinding you,
Or if they keep out of your gaze,
At the cusp of your reality,
You convince yourself you cannot tell.
A dull, slight pressure rests on your head.
Not pain. Not ringing. But a loose grasp on either side,
Melting into a muted warmth,
First into your chest,
Then drips down.
The air is warm enough.
It is not uncomfortable.
What if the faint chills are
In you, holding you awake,
In your skin, where sensation is dying.
You are feeling somebody's pain, perhaps yours,
Somebody's love, perhaps yours,
Once.
This will linger on indefinitely,
This complexity no youthful, deep feeling could muster,
Through which reflection can no longer cleave.
You know where you are.
Yet this is out of conscious reach.
This is where you come
Now that you cannot feel anymore,
So, you learn to cluster your pain and love,
And scythe your brain until it cannot think anymore.
Yet you are still lost.
How long has it been?
Will this last minutes? Days? Until the end?
Is it possible to move forward?
Or perhaps lull into this world,
Perhaps lull into the past,
Force those ghosts,
Into this reality.
Sep 28, 2025
Sep 28, 2025 at 7:12 PM UTC
I'm a bit tipsy on your hair,
Your grey eyes,
Or perhaps the way you play with it, your gaze,
I'm tipsy on life,
I only seem to think straight,
When I'm tip
sy.
Maybe I'll stop so
on, it's rushing to m
y head,
No, wait.
The more I think, the more my head swirls,
Maybe I can keep it together
Long enough.
And then we can run away,
And be tipsy,
On our smiles.
We'll s
ee tomorr
wo.
Dec 10, 2024
Dec 10, 2024 at 8:10 PM UTC
The icy river glides away,
In it, scattered, glints the sun,
Trickling out of a mountain,
Enveloping it all in a piercing yellow.
Yet it is serene;
No birds or music,
Just a glazing chill
Tickled by golden heat.
A time ago it was stronger,
Warmth filled the rushing river as if it were a spring,
Overwhelming yet not boiled nor burned,
A perfect, sleepy, tender mist.
But then, it decayed,
First mild, then to an acrid, consuming, cold,
Through which no ray could cut, until
The glimmering sun distracted the frosty river into serenity.
Now, perhaps, as the sun is eaten by the riviera,
As it stretches in passionate, auburn glory over the winding body,
The glistening surface might trick the unmelted ice.
But that's all, nothing changed. For this sun, it's time for goodbye.
This night, as glimmering fades to twinkling,
The river does not sleep. There's hope that
The chill will fade, feeling will return.
And as a new glow sprays the sky,
The icy surface shines as he weeps.
Dec 9, 2024
Dec 9, 2024 at 10:40 AM UTC
Thousands lie in rows, for years,
Brewing with impressionistic tastes,
Making their debuts all the time,
Or are they clinking and rolling out, until
A poster is discoloured down the range, or
Someone's back painted red.
But in honesty, I don't get what you mean here.
Because while
It's true I'm ageing a little slow for my liking,
I'm not sobering up, yet I wasn't drunk to start,
Yes, I'm being a little too selfish,
And I guess I have played paintball before,
You see
I don't seem to need to hit the metaphor,
Or play on words, or wonder,
Any more.
Will I be able to wander as I get older? Either I'll mull myself to senility, or maybe I'll get a hole in my foot.
Dec 8, 2024
Dec 8, 2024 at 10:32 AM UTC
Can you hear her?
Is she blonde,
Or a cute brunnete,
Or curvy?
Or slender,
But you wouldnt understand;
She stands tall, though,
She doesn't understand my jokes, hic,
She can't see my love
Until it's perniciously obvious, hic,
Or care until I deeply know,
She deeply knows.
Maybe you can't see,
But, hic,
She wouldn't know if I fantasised about gazing in her eyes.
Jan 4, 2024
Jan 4, 2024 at 9:34 PM UTC
Soon there will be serenity, I fantasise,
While plodding along uniformly along a turbulent path,
But if a bump is too big, what should I do?
I'm not in the state to buffer in transit.
Am I walking as though I'm in the place I hope to be?
Though if I were there, I would know how to get there;
I'd be experienced in traversing this changing climate.
But I've experienced a lot, so what exaggerates my response?
Is it delusion? It's hard to tell sometimes; my desires gets ever closer.
Perhaps its a logical error; correctness is often relative in such matters.
My surroundings must contribute, but shouldn't.
Or maybe it's simply habit? Addiction?
But as time proceeds, everything becomes more convex;
Views layer on each other, with the fundamentals out of sight.
Other's views can help or, more often, obscure further.
Though still, every so often, I understand and see a little more.
Jan 1, 2024
Jan 1, 2024 at 9:47 PM UTC
Watery words
Flow across your ear,
Can you bear to hear,
Something you feel but can't see,
If you love enough.
This palace of psychology can't tell
If it's being carved from the inside.
Nov 16, 2023
Nov 16, 2023 at 6:38 AM UTC
Today I have some hope.
I hope it lasts
Past the careful tiredness of interaction,
To the investment you can hear in her voice
And feel in her form,
I hope that she hopes too,
But beyond a lustful desire,
Or lies I'll tell myself,
Though it feels refined,
Convex with experience,
It makes me giddy in anticipation,
The perfect balance between wanting
A tentative balance,
Or flowering anew.
Sometimes I forget
I can do this;
Memories last,
The emotions curate,
From depths of dashed
Hope, it feels invisible.
Sometimes I forget
The real level
Is unholily watching me above the clouds,
While I swim in a mild, synthetic sea.
I'll wait tentatively,
But not really;
I hope I don't.
Nov 11, 2023
Nov 11, 2023 at 3:52 PM UTC