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  Jul 2016 The Dedpoet
SøułSurvivør
~~<♡>~~

the milk of human kindness
is like honey to the spirit


flattery holding deceit
is saccharine

which poisons the soul


[20W]
SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/25/2016
I want your honest opinion. I feel sometimes like people think I'm too kind and I have some kind of agenda behind that. Nothing could be farther from the truth. I am very concerned about this site. There is negativity here at certain levels. I feel as a believer in the Lord Jesus Christ that that needs to be counterbalanced. But the last thing I want to do is be saccharine. I can tell you everything I said and done comes from the heart. There Is no agenda behind it. But those who have poison in their minds inject poison into other's. There may be some who say that kindness is weakness. That's unfortunate. Those people don't know true strength.

I love you all and I want to show it in concrete ways. I take too long to read because I have a tendency to repost and comment a lot. I also read more than one poem that that poet has written. Is that too much? Your honest opinion please. I appreciate it very much!

♡ Catherine
  Jul 2016 The Dedpoet
SøułSurvivør
~~<♡>~~

the milk of human kindness
is like honey to the spirit


flattery holding deceit
is saccharine

which poisons the soul


[20W]
SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/25/2016
I want your honest opinion. I feel sometimes like people think I'm too kind and I have some kind of agenda behind that. Nothing could be farther from the truth. I am very concerned about this site. There is negativity here at certain levels. I feel as a believer in the Lord Jesus Christ that that needs to be counterbalanced. But the last thing I want to do is be saccharine. I can tell you everything I said and done comes from the heart. There Is no agenda behind it. But those who have poison in their minds inject poison into other's. There may be some who say that kindness is weakness. That's unfortunate. Those people don't know true strength.

I love you all and I want to show it in concrete ways. I take too long to read because I have a tendency to repost and comment a lot. I also read more than one poem that that poet has written. Is that too much? Your honest opinion please. I appreciate it very much!

♡ Catherine
The Dedpoet Jul 2016
I stood upon the horizon
As the sun crowned the day,
The people became beautiful,
Each in their own momentary truth:

The sun star rose
And the light mounted the sea,
The livid wound that is man and woman
Became a broken statue in stone
Flawed by time and suffering;
Death in a time of life!

     In the city an ebony man
     Holds the pyramid at the bottom
     Of the scheme, he is unearthed
     By a bullet not colorblind,
     The song of a lost boy from
     The wonderful ghetto explodes
     And a stone is thrown.

The ripples are;
Eyes see, man feels
His heart yearns for better or
Something more, all he can turn
To is less, shadows of history link
Themselves in a chain and drag
Man into himself, there a giant
Mirror hovers over his sky.

    New York, Saudi Arabia, Bangladesh.
    Shadow cover the heart and man
    Becomes a feverish animal
    That swarms himself,
    Proud and lonesome I see below
    His heart  and money uprooted his
    His natural flow
    (Domesticated bipeds acting out like
    Four legged beasts, though sadly
    Man knows it and does what?)

And yet there birthed within himself
Was given a gift so lovely as the forms
That man throbs with hope;
Stretching the heart into the living
hour man can see the light,
Truth comes into being
And fills himself with an ironic
Harmony. Here, now, we will
Never be this beautiful again,
The beauty is heavy with minutes
As each fade into eternity's
Shimmering river.

    Man's thoughts are split,
    They meander, think something
    Wondrous and split again
    Becoming entangled in a
    Delta of endless rivers flowing
    With the actions of ignorance.
    Must the rush of life be lived
    So rushed?

Day after day,
His mind cannot embody the forms,
The hostility grinding at each other,
The mirror inside liquefied
Into hopelessness and the body
Of his body becomes a tree
Of actions, risen out history's
Roots, roots which lay seeds,
Seeds which become his actions.
Have you ever had a bad cherry?
At first, they're succulent.
You feel thrilled, almost salacious.
You burrow for more.
You fill your hands with their gravity.
Red ones, dark one, even better.

Then you find it; it looks like all the rest.
You're ravenous, unable to pull your lips from its surface.
You expect to crunch down on its soft supple skin.
You find the horror within, it's bland, the taste is thin.
But each one before, held a marvel within.
Your heart is riotous; it looked like all the rest.

The anger has me writhing with a tempestuous din.
The sound of heartbreak yelps from inside.
How could it be that one?
How could it be that little thing that seditiously winks without eyes?
A piece of my soul it takes but it doesn't leave by any window.
It dies within, leaving my gut to wash its sin.

Sometimes you are that bad cherry,
That beast that brings mourning.
I sleep with the scar and heal in the morning.
The cherries look too good today to pass up.
But another bad cherry looms in the wake of my deep thirst.
Just as with you, there's always another day.
I wrote this poem 4 years ago, yesterday.
It may have had something to do with an x-girlfriend of mine.
Anyway, the past is the past.

Enjoy!

DEW
Have you ever had a bad cherry?
At first, they're succulent.
You feel thrilled, almost salacious.
You burrow for more.
You fill your hands with their gravity.
Red ones, dark one, even better.

Then you find it; it looks like all the rest.
You're ravenous, unable to pull your lips from its surface.
You expect to crunch down on its soft supple skin.
You find the horror within, it's bland, the taste is thin.
But each one before, held a marvel within.
Your heart is riotous; it looked like all the rest.

The anger has me writhing with a tempestuous din.
The sound of heartbreak yelps from inside.
How could it be that one?
How could it be that little thing that seditiously winks without eyes?
A piece of my soul it takes but it doesn't leave by any window.
It dies within, leaving my gut to wash its sin.

Sometimes you are that bad cherry,
That beast that brings mourning.
I sleep with the scar and heal in the morning.
The cherries look too good today to pass up.
But another bad cherry looms in the wake of my deep thirst.
Just as with you, there's always another day.
I wrote this poem 4 years ago, yesterday.
It may have had something to do with an x-girlfriend of mine.
Anyway, the past is the past.

Enjoy!

DEW
  Jul 2016 The Dedpoet
mikecccc
A firm grasp
on the past
won't actually make
the present
any less
present.
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