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Leiak, omnipresent vague pneuma-dancing spirit, ductile pious water of epiphany and extraordinary example, lives on the water with his parasitic chin in the Vernarthian epigram; he is seen with his jocular back, breaking the lines of the swamps between muscles and silhouettes. Before the First station..., primitive of the three remaining nights before reaching the volcano of Patmos, its deluge begins. "

It bathes in the Davidian, Alexandrian, and Vernarthian rains. A little touched he is seen and insubordinate in the astragali that he has gained in his allegories, squeezing his chest, exactly for the good of a wonderful Hellenistic city statue of the Dyticá, where he imbibed Vernarth's putti, adhering to the hydric spheres that fell over the ceilings of the heavens that Eros himself and his crush, which struck the heart axis of Medea, totally extracted from Zefian's quiver, constricted in Borker's nanotechnological sub-mythology. From the comedy of Attica and in the superb speeches of endo-adverbial satire, he stigmatized verbal changes of creation, superimposing them on tops of excesses carried by heavy drops inside some amphorae brought from the eastern sunset, tracking happiness that arrived on the western shores, waiting letters of sigh and loneliness stretched out on the thalamus full of stretch marks. So Leiak expanded, where everyone made fun of him being a satyr by essence, but being unaware of it. Perhaps as a unitary gesture of shadows when going to dawn, before having the best light that they put in figures or pirouettes, without disgracing him as a satirical minority in the Epicurean doctrine, he is inquiring a happy life through the intelligent search of innate pleasures, the ataraxia and in apocalyptic friendships with Zefian, Borker, and Kaitelka.

Borker did not intend to heal himself of trifles at all; it will be a habit to venerate the revelations against polytheism, to then cling to an interiority that points to corroded execration from the root to the top of the fallen tree, with force blinded by the blindness of the Automaton, as far as it is concerned. By itself, of identical significance in the background; but with so-called change that he tends to totally eliminate the last trait of personification of the divine. From this dilemma, the values will be spikes in his hands, sheaves in both, and what he envisions of Hellenism will be the property of nano-technology, submitting under the lens of time dividers that have never been pieces of rest under the Duoverse-Universe., the lens will be your Iridium and the microbes that govern us will be the atomic force, to discover them. What atomistic world will there be between Borker and Leiak, if in this nanoworld; The nanometer is one-billionth of a meter ?, What will be enough to start being tiny in this great epic, which is called Vernarth intra-spaces and inter-Verthians of the universal macrocosm, which will now approach the microcosm of human consciousness, and the laboratory of Epicurean affabilities in Ataraxias decreasing the passionate intensity of the Hypothalamus, and the supra desires that can alter the mental-corporal balance, strengthening in misery that they reach said balance, and finally happiness, which is a meta-plane of Epicurean convergence that runs after the lost. Ataraxia is, therefore, tranquility, serenity, and imperturbability analogous to Vernarth's soul, reason and feelings in his dislocated world, and the hemispheres of himself that will be rationalized in their slightest longitudinal measure, in what fits and in the precarious!

Passionate laboratories were magnetized every time Leiak walked on its extension, and his hands went beyond his fingers, touching the Constellation of Aorion, to indicate that the longitudinal metric of man is measured beyond the fingers of the Duoverse, where it appears the Extra-Cosmos in the proximal of a nano-scale is a submultiple of the conferred means of the Saint John the Apostle pattern. The scientific notation will be the safeguard of the magisterial scientist exponentiated brain; 10.1 mm = 10-3., the kilometer or km, is the opposite equivalent in what submultiples of the meter are called a micrometer: 1 μm = 10-6 m. In this scale we find bacteria, which constitute the main group of microbes, hence the name of the submultiple between observation scales of the macro and micro world of this being of Holographic Lux called Leiak, having the composition between this nanoscale, and the opposite of 1 μm = 10-6 m. projected onto a bacterium, which in turn is ten times larger than a viral body. Sizing enough to balance the biosphere that will surround the Automaton Mandragoron.
Leiak's world is an outpatient virtual laboratory, as it is valid in colloquial language, adhering to measures that differ by the conception of transliteration or decimal mathematical positioning. The letters and lines have been interpreted by Leiak, they are Vernarthian Parapsychologies that oscillate gaps of mismatch of billionths of wasted knowledge, in displays of ghostly reigns and in no-man's-land. This nanoscale makes us nano-poetize themes of ultra interference of the Epicurian decree, of tranquility, serenity, and imperturbability, with the meagerness that we know of the enlightened after a thousand moons writing under the stars:
"Woman when you touched my life with the grace of your fingers, I could see how the kind nights closed my eyes, caressing the entire Universe." This is undoubtedly Epicurean Nano Poetry, but the Author is Tagore "

The exponential oscillates in the parameter of the outstanding Astronomer of the divine verb and poetic thinking, in the most intimate and dynamic Hindu techno-language. Quantum mechanics here is the debit of the iconic remnant reached, by parameters not achieved below the average intelligence, providing lost data far from collecting and storing. Tagore's logic is nano-poetry, which balances billionths that are not achieved by occupying the Corporal Dytiká (poetic sunset) and the synchronic soul, rather the material simultaneity of the fifth element of will, emotional and objective desire, condensing into matter already conferred consciousness, in gaps in fit at all times, but linking it to her divinity as intelligence never before out of date; V.G. The Mashiach is always linked to the vertebral and communicational axon of the plasma nano-particles by grasping its infinite numinosity, making this scale it's one billionth, and being within the Eras that will be the largest average of the macrocosm, in the quantum itself of the Christian Era and in other Quantum worlds.

Strictly speaking, the molecules are angels without a will, but the dispensers are the consciousness of Leiak, which transfers hybrid consciousness, for purposes of regulating and shaping the ravings of intelligence and atheistic consciousness, and for purposes of the great remnant always present and active in the emergency. Spirituality of the Mashiach-revolutionized. The by-product will be Zefian's Tetra Sagita with its ergonomic tip, opening up doubts and tracing the future of a rewritten bible in the same character and fidelity, but with the omnipresent Mashiach of a Scientific Eucharist.

Leiak walked through minefields, and in some, he saw universes come out that exploded in livid colors, among them Vernarth, who had been recovering from malaria, and who helped him create a culture composed of a great artifice of immutability, for those who are close to his Greek spirit. Overwhelming those who lack the will, clarifying where the great art galleries of the world will be, not because of their current works but because of those they will have to exhibit? From the rushing philosophical delta, germs of dominance were trickling, distinguishing properties that did not germinate under his feet. Bread and water of the hundredfold fruit of all the lesser forces that resist on the thirty and nine with fever, more than the narrow borders to be discovered, in democracies that will prosper in the hands of kind tyrants, and not in the unitary Ecumene. Vernarth did not denationalize from his grass crops, he was Hetairoi more than all the commanders of Alexander the Great because his native country never sank next to him, he only prospered in centuries where he had to rise again silenced and prostrate oblivion.

The chaos of an absence accuses a majority of sadness that greets the Celtic Gauls for the axon of the anointed cosmos of the divine autarkic world. But not in seditious wars devoid of bread and water that does not support them, nor by papyrus did nets that do not contain them either, in the spiral retransform the land of all, as a plural work done here, by the Mandragoron Áullos Kósmos, intends. The male rectors will trust their works in the widespread Greek language, called koine (common). A language that writes has its own feet to write new divisions, and ordinal paragraphs to fulfill in proskínesis or obeisances in those who have golden knees or not! They will continue to make separate book stores or libraries for Filososfia or science sub-themes that will tackle the top of Profitis Ilias. For all large cities and nations, it will only be Leiak's legacy, of having large spaces for dialogues where no one can resist his man-made preaching, holographic rain forest, and times that not even in billionths will make him melt spaces of ignorance, diverge from the juxtaposed principle of unpopulated urban schools do not deserve.

Says Leiak: “Every time it is more intense to turn the dislocated nature of man, my literary idylls are at the end of everything with his genre works. Life and it's agitated think idyllic of removing the talus, which is not swayed in my chest by the Metelmi..., but by my breath of death! "
Dyticá Leiak's twilight
梅香  Oct 2018
to the girl.
梅香 Oct 2018
to the girl
whose golden heart
was never tarnished
despite the afflictions
the world allowed her
to experience somehow;
♡ — i hope your heart stays the same
and will always be aflame
for the things you love doing
because dear, you are amazing.

to the girl
whose illustrious mind
was never obscured
even if she was aching;
♡ — i hope you realize
that you are impressively splendid
more than any could ever poetize
and that your feelings are valid.

to the girl
whose beautiful soul
never stopped blooming
like flowers in the spring
despite the adversities
she has encountered;
♡ — everything you do
is always appreciated;
and your existence
is a tremendous blessing
and adds vibrance
to this somber world.
for issa, who in spite of all the woes,
still chose to disseminate love and kindness out into this world— you are so majestic and you are capable of doing the exceptional. i am proud of you, i believe in you and i love you. ♡
Matthew Harlovic Jun 2018
when you finally saw the scars, you dubbed it as art.
i cried violently and you thought it was poetry.
you compared my mutilation to a memoir
as one of my greatest devotees.

© Matthew Harlovic
MicMag  Nov 2018
Poetize Daily
MicMag Nov 2018
Let's try to craft one poem a day
A month of our thoughts conveyed
Just give it a shot
Why the hell not?
Let our words find their own way
November 2018 Poem-a-day Challenge.
I'll be following prompts from Writer's Digest this month. Feel free to join along if you're looking for inspiration!
Jill Tait Aug 2020
From sadness to happiness I can pen what I please.. Life in verse is my contagious disease.. an obsession to compose, contrive and create..to where I am now from my initial birthdate

If I think it..I poetize it..that’s just what I do.. then I add each on a website to show them to you..I’ve no doubt in my mind I could run out of themes from amidst my imagination’s shred’s of seams. but as long as I can I will narrate you my life from a fisherman’s daughter to a Mother and a wife

I stumbled on poetry by absolute chance.. now I get lost in my bubbles of rhyme and romance.. fictional folklore is my favourite fantasy.. though from time to time I may write about tragedy.. So whatever gets tangled up in my head.. I put my pen to paper and unleash it instead
MBJ Pancras Sep 2015
I see her!
She smiles at me with her
looks!
I watch her!
She gazes me with her smiles!
I read her!
She writes in me with her thoughts!
I study her!
She paints in me with her lovely innocence!
I perceive her!
She draws in me with her perceptions!
I dream of her!
She floats in me with wings of love!
I poetize her!
She becomes the muse of poetry!
I adore her!
She hugs my heart with her beauty!
I love her!
Because she loves me!
I made her my poem!
And she's a poem in my world of fancy!
She flies in my world!
And I fly in her world!
And both fly in our world!
And our world is the world of love!
Love for her!
Yonas Mengisteab Jun 2018
Let us all be poets
Declaring certain places regional capitals of poetry
Where we could meet to poetize on the affairs of the world
And re-launch those best dreams of mankind
Which the politicians have betrayed.
These capitals should be out in the country
Where there are hills and valleys
Where there are streams or lakes
So that we may all be reminded of the beginning of time
And of the purity of the first days.
Annual assemblies will be held in the open
The first meeting under a full moon
All the debates, resolutions, minutes, and decisions in poems.
We shall assemble regardless of race
We shall be egalitarians
We shall be socialists
Concluding the first meeting with the dimming moon and stars
And sleep through the morning
Rising at noon for the next debates.
We shall be opposed to exploitation
Of one race by another
Of one individual by another
Of one country by another.
In this way we shall make of exercise of power
Sublime affair tenderness
Mobilizing every conscience for the task of human liberation
And the co-operation of peoples
Across the face of the earth.
December 1970-March 19171
Today I am inviting you the poem called the tenderness manifesto by Mbella Sonne Dipoko from his book “ BLACK & WHITE IN LOVE” enjoy reading
xmxrgxncy  Jul 2016
unoriginal
xmxrgxncy Jul 2016
All the words I want to poetize have already been spun

the silence is deafening

your heart is like stone

what else am i to say?

i feel so
unoriginal
JaxSpade  Dec 2019
Helix Aspersa
JaxSpade Dec 2019
I love the way you

Do it


So..

       Slow


Mesmerizing


All the time you..

Harmonize me

With your

Soul


I love the way you

Do it


So..

       Slow


You paralyze me


And I

   Can't

       Move


But I don't need to


I love the way you

Do it..


Synchronizing

With my soul


I love you baby

The way take you it


So..

      Slow


So slow

The way you're moving

Across me

In the night

Through the morning


I love the way you

               Adore me


You're so tantalizing
They way you take it

So..

        Slow

You poetize me

I love the way you

                       Spoke

And grow inside me


They way you do it

        Is tranquilizing

You take me to another world


The way you do it

      I love you baby


The way you

Take it


So..

       Slow

                  
Anais Vionet Oct 6
Peter (my bf) flew away early this morning,
like Shakespeare’s eagle, “leaving no tracks.”
Now I lie here, as a leftover or Millais’ drowned ‘Ophelia’.

That’s an image ripped from adolescent, female visual culture.

Time‘s adversarial magic drags us ever future-wise,
eroding sweet moments we would cling to.

Shall we poetize?

I want a quiet afternoon,
on the bright side of the moon.

It’s an actual-factual place,
convenient, in close outer space,
like mythical Elysium, Shangri-La or Valhalla
where I’d still be intertwined with my fella,
like characters from literature or legend.

A place where “I’ll get to it tomorrow,”
is, alas, an everlasting pass,
because on the dusty, unreeling moon,
tomorrow never arrives,
our lovers never have to go,
and we can relax, ******* clothed,
simply enjoying the everlasting earthrise.
.
.
Songs for this:
To The Moon by Meghan Trainor
Moon River by Frank Ocean
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 10/05/24:
Adversary = an enemy or opponent.

Shakespeare’s eagle, “leaving no tracks.” Henry V
Lyla Jul 2019
I don’t really like my poetry
I often write when thoughts pop into my mind
Thoughts I can’t let dissipate
And float away like a passing breeze
No
The thoughts I poetize are
Strong winds
Pushing back - again and again
Forcing me to write
Something

I don’t like these winds
These winds form my poetry
Into something
Not me

Too literal
The winds scream into my ears
As I write
Line
After line
I don’t like my poetry
I wouldn’t even consider this a poem, just a thought *****

— The End —