prompty - Hello Poetry

In his reluctant gaze life is given so arbitrarily, with dreams laced in shoes untied.

0

May 9, 2024

May 9, 2024 at 7:06 PM UTC

In his reluctant gaze life is given so arbitrarily, with dreams laced in shoes untied.

chemical elevation. we discussed myth entourage - my father’s idea of myth is halted when his own legacy comes into play - she says it’s out the door, I say it just walked out bigger, maybe, but it’s just good car conversation, no greek allowed. seek the chemical elevation. the sky cog burning wheels howling in the night with the meek. Dreams become blisters, beacons become road signs, we skip leg days, AI skips darwinism and peer-reviews poems. We’re building a boat against the sea, the wood from the old one has age rot and lost its heart to the bucolics of the captain.

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Jul 21, 2023

Jul 21, 2023 at 10:10 AM UTC

Untitled

chemical elevation. we discussed myth entourage - my father’s idea of myth is halted when his own legacy comes into play - she says it’s out the door, I say it just walked out bigger, maybe, but it’s just good car conversation, no greek allowed. seek the chemical elevation. the sky cog burning wheels howling in the night with the meek. Dreams become blisters, beacons become road signs, we skip leg days, AI skips darwinism and peer-reviews poems. We’re building a boat against the sea, the wood from the old one has age rot and lost its heart to the bucolics of the captain.

22

Autumn again, as expected. The old are gone, and now their hubris burns on our youthful years. The weight of spring is light. One day, we'll remember it and share a laugh.

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Oct 7, 2019

Oct 7, 2019 at 1:37 PM UTC

Chris

Autumn again, as expected. The old are gone, and now their hubris burns on our youthful years. The weight of spring is light. One day, we'll remember it and share a laugh.

8

I have the soul of a drunk. Her legs spread out, all silence and no heart. Sometimes home comes to mind.

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Jun 19, 2019

Jun 19, 2019 at 3:48 PM UTC

random acts of yielding

I have the soul of a drunk. Her legs spread out, all silence and no heart. Sometimes home comes to mind.

4

Standing in marble awe, contemplating this winter night, my soul searching continues, ruining the age of another wine. Walk with me, in the maze park. The north will settle, we'll light another cigar. Here lies, optional, my emotional litter - the tiredness of walking over water and taking over the sins. Paying no mind to this finite state - the gone moment of our walk lingering on the shoulders of my solitude. See, these are simple equations, and they are my solace - the exciting unknown divided by knowledge. This is dawn setting on someones window, yet to bloom, yet to rise.

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Dec 2, 2018

Dec 2, 2018 at 7:12 PM UTC

stabjji

Standing in marble awe, contemplating this winter night, my soul searching continues, ruining the age of another wine. Walk with me, in the maze park. The north will settle, we'll light another cigar. Here lies, optional, my emotional litter - the tiredness of walking over water and taking over the sins. Paying no mind to this finite state - the gone moment of our walk lingering on the shoulders of my solitude. See, these are simple equations, and they are my solace - the exciting unknown divided by knowledge. This is dawn setting on someones window, yet to bloom, yet to rise.

22

There’s no crime in writing. It has always been here: the thrill of choosing the words that benefit other words the most. There’s a simple rule in writing (maybe the only 1): A thought comes out and hopefully, when written down, turned into strings of words, the idea it provides may provoke an exciting way of seeing the world. Sometimes it happens. Sometimes, it never does. To some, words are enough. Others need music or imagery. I guess to each his own and that might serve the truth that we, each of us, are Unique and that in our Differences we get excited by our own Differences, which in turn provide us of our own Uniquenesses. But whatever: I say what I say, at the end of the day. And your judgement is your own. Still, truth be told, no harm done in letting it all out, all at once.

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Jan 2, 2018

Jan 2, 2018 at 8:39 PM UTC

truth be told

There’s no crime in writing. It has always been here: the thrill of choosing the words that benefit other words the most. There’s a simple rule in writing (maybe the only 1): A thought comes out and hopefully, when written down, turned into strings of words, the idea it provides may provoke an exciting way of seeing the world. Sometimes it happens. Sometimes, it never does. To some, words are enough. Others need music or imagery. I guess to each his own and that might serve the truth that we, each of us, are Unique and that in our Differences we get excited by our own Differences, which in turn provide us of our own Uniquenesses. But whatever: I say what I say, at the end of the day. And your judgement is your own. Still, truth be told, no harm done in letting it all out, all at once.

36

To me, words are this: the perimeter of reason. And if you solve the puzzle and order them correctly, you can calculate the area of the entire universe, and no more will you be lost in its complex mysteries.

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Dec 29, 2016

Dec 29, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC

Untitled

To me, words are this: the perimeter of reason. And if you solve the puzzle and order them correctly, you can calculate the area of the entire universe, and no more will you be lost in its complex mysteries.

9

I remember the most beautiful moment of my life. I couldn't have been 4. Everybody was gathered in the park, a gathering to watch the sunset and there was music playing. This was a single moment lost in the 90s fever: The singer had just died, and I think we were celebrating his poetry or his clinginess to life. But at the same time, nobody was talking about it. There was just silence and the sunset - a meaningless collection of sensations to all but a childish mind. I've since tried to talk to some of the people I reckon were there, but none of them recall any of it happening. They would have me believe the best moment of my life was a dream.

0

Dec 29, 2016

Dec 29, 2016 at 10:50 AM UTC

Untitled

I remember the most beautiful moment of my life. I couldn't have been 4. Everybody was gathered in the park, a gathering to watch the sunset and there was music playing. This was a single moment lost in the 90s fever: The singer had just died, and I think we were celebrating his poetry or his clinginess to life. But at the same time, nobody was talking about it. There was just silence and the sunset - a meaningless collection of sensations to all but a childish mind. I've since tried to talk to some of the people I reckon were there, but none of them recall any of it happening. They would have me believe the best moment of my life was a dream.

18

in a mental december haze looking out the window for my love. it's the falling season of motions in the leaves that gather around and cover the ground, and the lost road now belongs to those whose feet wander around not searching for nothing, yet finders of all that is worth.

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Nov 28, 2016

Nov 28, 2016 at 5:28 PM UTC

DECEMBER HAS COME

in a mental december haze looking out the window for my love. it's the falling season of motions in the leaves that gather around and cover the ground, and the lost road now belongs to those whose feet wander around not searching for nothing, yet finders of all that is worth.

9

music is rain mingled with the sun. I remember a day when purpose could be found with ease, now, I strive: what once was winter love has touched the summers of my life and forever molded the seasons. poetry became too personal. At some point, the pain was too real when put into words, and that is why I turned to music. When making music, your feelings are also mingled with the notes, and you don't feel any pain. It's incredibly beautiful, just like a poem, but it doesn't hurt you. But I can't stop to wonder that all these things are a filler to hold on on this ever maddening road, until the time is right for us to meet again. because that's where my life really shines, right? I won't remember the filler days. I live for the moments that we create together, and maybe the art that I produce out of it. But that's it, sadly... or happily. I know I'd trade it all - the most beautiful poem or melody, it doesn't mean a thing to me when put next to what you mean to me.

0

Nov 26, 2016

Nov 26, 2016 at 9:11 PM UTC

Untitled

music is rain mingled with the sun. I remember a day when purpose could be found with ease, now, I strive: what once was winter love has touched the summers of my life and forever molded the seasons. poetry became too personal. At some point, the pain was too real when put into words, and that is why I turned to music. When making music, your feelings are also mingled with the notes, and you don't feel any pain. It's incredibly beautiful, just like a poem, but it doesn't hurt you. But I can't stop to wonder that all these things are a filler to hold on on this ever maddening road, until the time is right for us to meet again. because that's where my life really shines, right? I won't remember the filler days. I live for the moments that we create together, and maybe the art that I produce out of it. But that's it, sadly... or happily. I know I'd trade it all - the most beautiful poem or melody, it doesn't mean a thing to me when put next to what you mean to me.

37