Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
She was seated there
Alone
Alone in darkness
Her amorphous shadow displaced
On the cold floor
By the light from the dying moon
The silence was too loud
And so were her thoughts
Depressing suicidal thoughts
Her soul banished
In an abyss of grotesque
Psychological torture

From a distance
A coruscate of hope
An opportunity to escape
Her anathematized reality
All of this because of him
The man of his dreams
The one she knew
Was absolute for her
The only one who wouldn't relinquish  her
Like everyone did
Death!
Surreptitiously he
Approached her
And she  whispered

"Take me with you"

But even he had a type
And she wasn't his
And just as she was before
She remained to be
A piece of **** in a ****** society!
in my backyard
beautiful!
with alluring flowers
wild flowers, purple haze
green, with a shade of russet

Nature at it's very best,
the visual perception,
of my garden
brings,
to the mind and soul
a great aesthetic rapture!

This is my pagoda
I come here to meditate,
in the spectre
of beautiful  aura
and to be at peace with nature,

Amidst my temple
a spliff I shall spark
with a profound  purpose,
to bless my mind
and to bless my soul
with sagacity,
from the universe!
I drift off to be found by my new reality, an amorphous existence where winds carry a challenging honesty,
the incarnation of rhythm itself

Amidst the breeze, I meditate
swaying in the rhythm,
my limbs become like quicksand,
a physical contemplation
of the depth of character

A quicksand entity,
I am the being who abides
the infidel to patiently infect,
and engulf,
A suffocation mentality
Mathew O'meara
in **** there's caring
when you care
you share
when you share
you love.
A nation is healed.
Sometimes even the most perspicacious people do some dumb **** in the name of love!
I'll probably be getting drunk on some alaskan thunderfuck or smoking some courvoisier yeah my world is discrete from yours.
I see things differently.
two swazi gold joints
a cup of abyssinia coffee
a pen
my journal
Story of my life
A grey sky
An empty world
A broken heart
A plethora of loneliness
read between the lines
with an eagle's eye,
only then will you
unveil and decipher,
the hidden secrets of a poet
The poet
is the artist,
who uses acrylic
in the form of words,
the pen
is his mahl stick,
to write is to paint,
the reader's mind
is his canvas,
where the magnificence
of his works is manifested
In poetry lies the greatest form of art
Art is a hell of a *******
drug, I tell you
it surreptitiously creeps
into you in a way that is
utterly indecipherable,

and lures you deep;
deep into it as the void above...

For the eye loves
what it sees,
and what's been seen
by the eye
is rather fascinating to the soul,

Amidst all these
prodigious emotions,
a harmonic converge
between the eye and the soul
is created,

Fostering a sui generis ecstatic rhapsody!
"If it makes you happy
don't quit that ****"

He said,
blithely exhaling purple haze smoke
in his cannabis pagoda.

— The End —