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Nathan Porter May 2018
Mother Dearest, Dearest of all
A helper and lover, to all who call
Mother Dearest, Life-Giver to ourselves
I don't know how to tell you
Your love is life to all of us
Mother Dearest, Kindest to the world
You'll rebuild what has been broken,
Like toy blocks fallen on the floor
Mother Loveliest, most beautiful of life
Your smile whiles away the pain,
it cures me of strife
Mother Friendliest, most caring in my heart
You've turned words into a treasure trove
A gorgeous work of art
Mother Wisest, most guiding and most fair
Although I'd object to grounding
You most of all make it seem better just to share
Mother Kindest, most helpful and most sweet,
You have changed the fields of ashen crops
To bounties filled with wheat
Mother Dearest, You're all around the best
And if you'll permit, at your behest
Mother Dearest, I'd like to carry on
For pages and pages, as ever you read on
But Mother, can't you see? The greatest Love I'll ever know, is the one you give to me.
Happy Mother's day all!
Nathan Porter Mar 2018
An author's power
Touched on in the past
Capable of hurting or healing
Of breaking us like glass

An author's gift
Of format and text
It's always hard to say
If they've been cursed or blessed

An author's choice
To craft sweet or sour
Crushing or lifting
Taking or gifting
Words like a rainshower
Wetting my eyes

An author's quest
A story to tell
Giving their best

An author's end
Poor or rich
Known or obscure
Still never better than the rest

Do we all or deserve better?
Do they deserve richer?
An author's life
riddled with grief
with rich, with poor, with worry, with glee
Is there hope for their future? a glimmer of happy ever after?
I suppose
One day,
We'll see
A short poem regarding the life of someone close to me.
  Dec 2017 Nathan Porter
10:00 A.M.
Battery: 100%

12:00 P.M.
Battery: 80%

2:00 P.M.
Battery: 67%

4:00 P.M.
Battery: 45%

6:00 P.M.
Battery: 30%

8:00 P.M.
Battery: 10%

10:00 P.M.
Battery: 0%

10:03 P.M.
Notification: You have one unread message:
from Andrea

"i love you ♥"

10:03 P.M.
Battery: 100%
for all the boys and girls who still yearn for love in our digital age
Nathan Porter Dec 2017
Forgiveness is a fickle friend
Granting second chances
Giving hope for future changes
Building us up after we've torn each other down

But receiving it is somehow harder than gifting
Acknowledging that yes, you do need forgiveness
You've messed up and it's time to own up

Somehow it's harder than apologizing
Because with an apology you have the comfort of confession
but with forgiveness you have only the journey back to trust

Decisions, decisions, trust or patience?
Earning or forgetting?
We have to choose one or the other
And yet either can be harder than the other
as easy as they seem to choose from
Enacting them remains a long hard journey,
or an easy forgetting of why you needed forgiving in the first place

Remember, remember, mistake or malice?
Anger or sorrow?
We are responsible for one or the other
and yet either is as hurtful as the other
As evil as one seems over the other
Enacting them leads to a long hard journey
or a heated retraction of care of the ones whom forgave you in the first place

Loving, loving, choice or chemical?
Lusting or caring?
We can always prioritize one over the other
and yet one is not necessarily better or worse than the other
As shallow as one seems over the other
if either piece was missing
there would be no forgiveness in the first place.
Nathan Porter Nov 2017
An angry acid boils
As I felt my stomach churn
The voice of my loved one filled with tears
As against her my words turn
The day we’d feared with constant dread
The day I thought wouldn’t happen before I’m dead

The actions of that day led to heartbreaking things
I felt as though a demon, tearing away her wings

Guilt leading to my own demise
Knowing I can no longer rise
Never again seeing the light of her face
All because of the tears rolling down my angel’s face
  Nov 2017 Nathan Porter
Nat Lipstadt
The Night King Ego died...

The time, the place, the setting:

T'is some hour for sleep, prescribed,
For me, the reality of sleep, proscribed.

The strains of Bach's
Orchestral Suite No. 3 in D Major
Richard II's words
Give pause, precision refinement of my cause courant.

“No matter where; of comfort no man speak:
Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;
Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the ***** of the earth”

Two am in New York, sleep,
As advertised,
Literally, a passing acquaintance,
Doesn't make it to
The side of the bed occupied by
100% of me.
Seems he went
From chimney to chimney
This past Sunday morn.
Not having a chimney,
He flue right over me.

No matter.
Company aplenty,
Ego and moi,
We, had a long talkie.
A bit of a wrestle, a staring contest
In a mirror, we watched ourselves,
In the pitch black
where clarity is perfect,
For nothing else exists,
But ego and me,
To distract us.

“I'll read enough
When I do see the very book indeed
Where all my sins are writ, and that's myself.
Give me that glass and therein will I read.
No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck
So many blows upon this face of mine
And made no deeper wounds?
O flattering glass,
Like to my followers in prosperity
Thou dost beguile me!”

Called my lawyer just now,
ordered her to commence
the divorce papers, serve them ASAP,
I need to rid myself of
My oldest nemesis, my oldest friend,
Mine vanity, my ego.

Let me explain
myself to myself.
You may tag along for the ride.

Writing is more important
than any of the individual
Five senses
That feed this addiction.
Without sound, sight, touch, smell and taste,
I can live quite well,

But ****** boy mind needs to write
Simple survival.
No write, no life.

But ****** bad boy ego is a curse,
A contaminate of each and every
Line, stanza,word and verse.

"Infusing him with self and vain conceit,
As if this flesh which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable, and humour'd thus
Comes at the last and with a little pin”

At first, for an audience of three
I performed,
Me, myself and I.

But the suckiness creepeth in,
and etches my distorted face,
Salutations and gradations,
demanding confirmation
Of Shakespearen magnification.

Do you like me?
Do you love me?
****** all.

Curse ye King Ego and your vainglorious occupations,
Divorce me, from the sad isle of
Self worth,
Pride, vanity insurance,
The most deadly of the seven
Deadly sins.

Ego desperate in kind responds:

"I live with bread like you, feel want,
Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus,
How can you say to me, I am a king?”

Slime and slippery, want is what you feel,
Taste grief, need friends,
Sly devil, you twist thy cunning tongue,
The reverse, your plain meaning!
You need nothing but subjects,
In earnest and forever praise,
Absent them, you mood and whine,
A pretender, a poseur, a drug addict cursed!

Let us purpose to dispose of thy spirit earthly,
Slow starvation too good for you,
Poison, arrows, the hilt of my blade,
The neck, thine bowel,
Let me embrace,
Prefer your steel hot or cold?

If we both must expire, then it be so, for
My honor taken, my life forsaken,
My poetry in disrepute,
Until that day when I write for me alone,
And ally my scripts, in coffin, with me interred.

"My dear, dear Lord,
The purest treasure mortal times afford
Is spotless reputation; that away
Men are but gilded loan or painted clay...
Mine honor is my life; both grow in one;
Take honor from me, and my life is done.
Number me thus, in the company of
The good but the forgot,
Still will be of cheer goodly,
For tho ***** could not be saved,
Not one good man found in the ****** lot,,
Except for one, the truest audience of one,
Thus I will be saved, thus, call me, Lot.

My battle to destroy my ego is minute to minute hand to hand combat.  That is me, and my truth.
Fully expect a few reads and even fewer "likes."
Which if the poem you comprehend, that would be,
Life is a melody
      You can listen to only once.

    The first thirty seconds, you find the groove,
         it's appealing
    A harmonious rhythm hereto unwritten
       This could be your favorite.

             It is.
       For the next three minutes, you settle in.
               The chorus comes around.

          *You'll be here again.

                  It's fresh, it's catchy
You're enraptured by these certain pitches and the words rhyme perfectly.
   One line flowing into the next, the ends justifying the means.
       Another verse, another chorus. This one feels more weathered
          Routine, maybe. You still feel that groove but your perspective of it has been altered by the change in tempo and direction during the last verse.

           You realize you have fifteen seconds left.
         This was your song. What did you do with it?

       *As you think back, a gentle blanket of white noise embraces everything that ever was, and your song fades
Let me know how you feel.
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