Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member


Words of a withering soul
17/Two-Spirit/A poet's workshop    A random poet who's feelings are expressed through words


softcomponent Nov 2014
voices, mirror glance inward-outward
in simultaneous disease-like passion--
divine like bacteria kneading and bleep
-ing up to one to one against to one toward
a unity, a collective evolutionary force begin
-ning in a marshy wallow-- forward to a creature
slithers rocks unsure if fish or finger-- beyond unto
a sharp-claw carnivorous terror (the Divine Right of
Kings) and slowly, in the wake of the destruction the
shattered continental plate lifted like a carpet during
renovation violence, the bacteria stayed away and
under soiled-earth to slowly form toward the muddy
saliva of a strangely-fit mouse-rat....

through the dissipating wake of molten mist, a
sabertooth tiger yawns with a growled-tremor
and an after-bath shake-- ends a trampled scrap
under mammoth foot having indicted this panic
in its desperate mammalian hunger-- this bacteria,
kneading and bleeping, continues its one to one
against to one as a meaty slab metabolized by
opportunistic caveman feeding his cubs and his
loves before courage became the theoretical pond
-ering of Voltaire's and Descartes's and Camus's...
Annie Potaktos Dec 2011
Art is food for the heart and like food it is often hard to find.
It might come from a source that is renewable,
yet how many have forgotten that the brain is even usable.

The inspiration we seek comes from inside our own mind
where the fairies wait, having fed on our own experiences, wishing to unwind.
But as full as they may be, one can clearly see
that they cannot make art till they jump on our heart in hope of making it start.
They first have to tickle it with their little feet
before it can even begin to produce an audible beat.
Maybe giving an idea for a visual treat or a literary feat.

These fairies each come from different locations
as imagination is not limited by any dimensions.
In the world of creation, pain has long been a mighty fairy-nation,
the muse of separation, the dictator of desperation,
the soul's frozen animation, a generous, fugly frog of inspiration.

So next time you feel blue, channel that blue stream into a pen
and you may start to feel better again. Blow a kiss to that frog,
clearing the misty lake from fog. There is no call for divination,
simply let the frog jump in celebration all over your pond(ering)'s stagnation
and it will stir the waters in its elation.

Embracing pain not only does wonders for creation,
it also helps dull that cruel yet just sensation.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2014
prefer celery to carrots
light scrunch over an orange hard crack,
straw red over berries bluest,
coffee over tea,
skies white clouded
all clear, unadulterated uni-tone,
blondes, brunettes, redheads,
even pink or blue haired,
well, ain't going there
(wink wink,
too smart for that...)

but that's just me

colors viral virulent  over manhattan grey~black,
a good Pinot over a glass of Jack,
beach and sea undefined
over lake delimited, outlined bounded,
ocean caught fresh over farm raised,
city slick over country sweet,
striped bass over monk,
tuna bests salmon,
but both miso coated please...

Italian Indian Ethiopian
Sushi and occasionally Chinese,
all grand,
but my kosher deli and dogs, pickles,
yellow mustard ball parked,
tops them all
especially when serving
over tasting portions...

but that's just me

right over left,
naked better than ****,
polite over rude,
Rembrandt tops Vermeer,
but his light nonethess,
extra over ordinarie...

Swiss over white American,
Gruyere beats goat cheese,
citrus tops apples,
sweet melon my
secret passion,
paprika and oregano,
never ever cilantro,
milk over OJ,
especially, grade A
milk of human kindness,
all flavors

love my poems centered,
(except for this one)
with no sugar added,
but a lot of cream and sweat,
both a necessity, not a luxury,
prefer mesmerizing,
crafting hard, laboring,
me writing, you imbibing,
leaving you oohing and loving
because of the appreciation built in
ditties that are semisweet
sugar nadas that populate the
easy come easy go away
poem of the day

but that's just me

like myself hard
cause when I melt,
to a child's grin shyest,
laughter silly me provoking
it is ever so better so...
tears, any kind, don't mind
laughing and sorrowing pouring,
let genuine be my only test
speed limit barrier unlimited

sorta saved a street crossing
phone-occupied-woman yesterday,
put my arm across her body
fast hard, unasked
so she wasn't
bicycle crashed,
both looks well received,
the *** and the gratitude,
but latter over former,
if I had to choose,
but I dont

but that's just me

Joanie M. over Judy C.,
Amy over Adele,
Eva Cassidy over all...
Zombies over Beatles,
Blunt over Taylor,
Rhyming Simon over Billy Joel,
no typos over flaring,
glaring no caring...

your poetry over mine,
cause it amazes,
cause mine,
just old familiar crazies,
just runaround Sues from yester pester days,
transcribed for a someday later
future grimacing laugh of
good god did I write that!

but that's just me

wrote quite the many
literary escapades
this morning,
like the yore,
good old days,
when every glance,
remark passing
made me run
to tablet them
in perpetuity ASAP

placed them before you
scattered thither and dither,
like all that jazz notes
running hands over planes geometric,
most just average,
but all there in hopes
you would love me better

but that's just me

sneaking inside you with
a wink, a tink-ering whimsy,
a stupid smile, a wicked sinning
humongous grinning
with a belly laughing,
havoc raising, me crazing,

*but that's just me
thinking I like celery better than carrots, and the rest you just read...