nicholasthepoet
American
Every man has a train of thought on which he rides when he is alone. The dignity and nobility of his life, as well as his happiness, depend upon the direction in which that train is going, the baggage it carries and the scenery through which it travels. / - J. F. Newton.
for some,
to exist
is an act
of rebellion.
- nicholas, the poet.
Mar 8, 2020
Mar 8, 2020 at 10:14 AM UTC
when my ancestors told me
that life always
hangs in the balance
I never imagined
that what my soul
was hanging from.
am I an outstretched arm
waiting to be pulled?
or is a
metaphysical noose
tied around my bodiless neck?
constantly grasping for breath,
always in the shadow of death.
- n.t.p.
Mar 5, 2020
Mar 5, 2020 at 2:10 PM UTC
your name
written in ashes
are a stain
from remains
of who
I once was.
- nicholas, the poet.
Feb 21, 2020
Feb 21, 2020 at 7:38 PM UTC
the words on a page from which you read
relay that sense of melancholy
that facts are facts and that’s all they may be
until you follow one family.
evicted from their home and all they know.
thrown into the ring for Nazis to show.
and all this time, the whole world will grow
while on the inside, dead bodies is all they throw
into the holes where they’re laid to rest.
children and women who gave it their best
to save their families from the unrest,
from the flames those dead bodies would later invest.
we always say to walk a mile
in the shoes of others so that we can compile
a list from our minds which becomes hostile
and our souls become so full of revile
that sympathy isn't a word to express
the games they played - survivors chess -
to keep them alive as death will caress
the souls with which the reaper will address,
“pack your bags and say adieu
to this world which was all you knew.”
embrace those emotions of the person you pursue
for these are things no mere facts can tell you.
- n, t. p.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
we hold on to dear life
to the thoughts we don't wan to lose.
we grasp on to our ideals
and our stubborn points of view.
we believe we are so deep
when all we see is superficial.
we feel as if we know ourselves
but is all we are, artificial?
we create who we are
from the fragments left behind.
from the thoughts of saints, prophets,
and holy men of all kind.
we forget that we are mortal,
only here for a little.
from birth we start to learn
to the time when we are brittle.
but of what we have learned,
how much do we know?
after all this time, we gained so much,
but did we really grow?
we focused on the differences
and that has left its scars.
but sometimes you need to **** the sun
in order to see the stars.
but do not fret my friends,
do not be perplexed!
because when we die,
and give all from inside,
we will always give life to the next.
- n.t.p.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
to take a concept and to strip it naked,
and to make love with the emotion,
to caress the bare skin of the philosophical mind,
with such passion, such intimacy
surrounds these actions and encompasses the performance.
mental *** the prostitution of my conscienceness
to the worlds of thought and idealism.
I give my mind, liberation,
freedom to think,
to be,
to believe and understand.
our world, which is meant for us to live and create,
and to express and embrace that psychological intimacy.
that eroticism that a thinker senses,
the ecstacy of the mind is what we strive
to find, and to feel.
this is how we know.
- n.t.p.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
Ice cold hands, fire warm heart
oh my dear, I never thought we'd part
like this, oh **** where did you go?
I thought we only just begun the show!
Knife fights and fist fights, the whole nine yards
the tent is hung and the choirs have sung
I fought so **** hard
up on a noose my emotionas are hung
Welcome to the Carnival!
where you come to **** your thoughts
and all this time I hoped to see
some amazing theatricality
yet you left, with my heart in your chest
I couldn't imagine it would end like this
I came with such a heart of gold
now empty space is all i have to hold
the tables have turned, can you see the burns?
the pieces of heart, left broken on the floor?
oh magic man, show me a trick
a distraction take me away
in this place, I cant stay
the claws on my skin and bones
I dont want this anymore
-n.s.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 11:04 AM UTC
I always assumed
that you could determine the will of a writer
by the quantity of ink
remaining in his pen.
Yet, I have never fathomed
what makes him brilliant.
Is it his degree of education,
his inequivalent repertoire of vocabulary to the common man,
or just born gift bestowed by heaven?
Later, I came to the lucid realization
that brilliance is conceptualized
at the hand of the inner mechanics
and harmonious complexities
that portrait the writer's
heart, mind, and soul.
From which, shape his message
by the process he takes to arrange,
construct, and execute
his philosophies and mental apparatuses
This, ladies and gentlemen, is a writer.
-n.s.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 6:41 PM UTC
from humble beginnings
we become one with the world.
embracing it, living it,
& experiencing it.
from this we gain knowledge,
wisdom, respect,
and distinguish ourselves
from the rest.
however,
we are all part of one being.
one magnificent being.
that has the power to give,
and to take.
this is what God is.
God is not separate,
but with us.
in us.
and we must work with the other parts
of God
to make this
a better place
for all.
-n.s.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC
the hearts of the poets
are not made of gold
but of ink
that flows out of the pen
onto the paper for which
they expresses their souls
from the deepest recesses.
for the poet's works come
from within.
now...
write!
-n.s.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC