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1
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

2
Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with
perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.

The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the
distillation, it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, buzz’d whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and
vine,
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing
of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and
dark-color’d sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,

The sound of the belch’d words of my voice loos’d to the eddies of
the wind,
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields
and hill-sides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising
from bed and meeting the sun.

Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? have you reckon’d the
earth much?
Have you practis’d so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of
all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions
of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look
through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in
books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.

3
I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the
beginning and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

Urge and urge and urge,
Always the procreant urge of the world.

Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and
increase, always ***,
Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of
life.
To elaborate is no avail, learn’d and unlearn’d feel that it is so.

Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well
entretied, braced in the beams,
Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical,
I and this mystery here we stand.

Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not
my soul.

Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen,
Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.

Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age,
Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they
discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.

Welcome is every ***** and attribute of me, and of any man hearty
and clean,
Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be
less familiar than the rest.

I am satisfied - I see, dance, laugh, sing;
As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the
night, and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy
tread,
Leaving me baskets cover’d with white towels swelling the house with
their plenty,
Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my
eyes,
That they turn from gazing after and down the road,
And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent,
Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is
ahead?

4
Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and
city I live in, or the nation,
The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old
and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss
or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations,
Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news,
the fitful events;
These come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.

Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,
Looks down, is *****, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,
Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,
Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.

Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with
linguists and contenders,
I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait.

5
I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to
you,
And you must not be abased to the other.

Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not
even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn’d over
upon me,
And parted the shirt from my *****-bone, and plunged your tongue
to my bare-stript heart,
And reach’d till you felt my beard, and reach’d till you held my
feet.

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass
all the argument of the earth,
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women
my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love,
And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,
And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap’d stones, elder, mullein and
poke-****.

6
A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more
than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green
stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see
and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the
vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I
receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the ******* of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out
of their mothers’ laps,
And here you are the mothers’ laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for
nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and
women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken
soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the
end to arrest it,
And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

7
Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know
it.

I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash’d babe, and
am not contain’d between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,
The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and
fathomless as myself,
(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)

Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female,
For me those that have been boys and that love women,
For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted,
For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the
mothers of mothers,
For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,
For me children and the begetters of children.

Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,
I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be
shaken away.

8
The little one sleeps in its cradle,
I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies
with my hand.

The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill,
I peeringly view them from the top.

The suicide sprawls on the ****** floor of the bedroom,
I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol
has fallen.

The blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles, talk of
the promenaders,
The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating thumb, the
clank of the shod horses on the granite floor,
The snow-sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snow-*****,
The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of rous’d mobs,
The flap of the curtain’d litter, a sick man inside borne to the
hospital,
The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall,
The excited crowd, the policeman with his star quickly working his
passage to the centre of the crowd,
The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes,
What groans of over-fed or half-starv’d who fall sunstruck or in
fits,
What exclamations of women taken suddenly who hurry home and
give birth to babes,
What living and buried speech is always vibrating here, what howls
restrain’d by decorum,
Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made, acceptances,
rejections with convex lips,
I mind them or the show or resonance of them-I come and I depart.

9
The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready,
The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon,
The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged,
The armfuls are pack’d to the sagging mow.

I am there, I help, I came stretch’d atop of the load,
I felt its soft jolts, one leg reclined on the other,
I jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and timothy,
And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps.

10
Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt,
Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee,
In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night,
Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-****’d game,
Falling asleep on the gather’d leaves with my dog and gun by my
side.

The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle
and scud,
My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from
the deck.

The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me,
I tuck’d my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a good time;
You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.

I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far west,
the bride was a red girl,
Her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly smoking,
they had moccasins to their feet and large thick blankets
hanging from their shoulders,
On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins, his
luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck, he held his bride
by the hand,
She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her coarse straight locks
descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach’d to her
feet.

The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside,
I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile,
Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and
weak,
And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured him,
And brought water and fill’d a tub for his sweated body and bruis’d
feet,
And gave him a room that enter’d from my own, and gave him some
coarse clean clothes,
And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness,
And remember putting piasters on the galls of his neck and ankles;
He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and pass’d north,
I had him sit next me at table, my fire-lock lean’d in the corner.

11
Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,
Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;
Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.

She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,
She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.

Which of the young men does she like the best?
Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.

Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.

Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth
bather,
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.

The beards of the young men glisten’d with wet, it ran from their
long hair,
Little streams pass’d all over their bodies.

An unseen hand also pass’d over their bodies,
It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.

The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the
sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them,
They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending
arch,
They do not think whom they ***** with spray.

12
The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens his knife
at the stall in the market,
I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break-down.

Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil,
Each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great heat in
the fire.

From the cinder-strew’d threshold I follow their movements,
The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms,
Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so sure,
They do not hasten, each man hits in his place.

13
The ***** holds firmly the reins of his four horses, the block swags
underneath on its tied-over chain,
The ***** that drives the long dray of the stone-yard, steady and
tall he stands pois’d on one leg on the string-piece,
His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast and loosens over
his hip-band,
His glance is calm and commanding, he tosses the slouch of his hat
away from his forehead,
The sun falls on his crispy hair and mustache, falls on the black of
his polish’d and perfect limbs.

I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop
there,
I go with the team also.

In me the caresser of life wherever moving, backward as well as
forward sluing,
To niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object missing,
Absorbing all to myself and for this song.

Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt in the leafy shade, what
is that you express in your eyes?
It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.

My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and
day-long ramble,
They rise together, they slowly circle around.

I believe in those wing’d purposes,
And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me,
And consider green and violet and the tufted crown i
X

Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed
And worthy of acceptation. Fire is bright,
Let temple burn, or flax; an equal light
Leaps in the flame from cedar-plank or ****:
And love is fire. And when I say at need
I love thee . . . mark! . . . I love thee—in thy sight
I stand transfigured, glorified aright,
With conscience of the new rays that proceed
Out of my face toward thine. There’s nothing low
In love, when love the lowest: meanest creatures
Who love God, God accepts while loving so.
And what I feel, across the inferior features
Of what I am, doth flash itself, and show
How that great work of Love enhances Nature’s.
I

Awake, glad heart! Get up and sing,
It is the birthday of thy King,
     Awake! Awake!
     The sun doth shake
Light from his locks, and all the way
Breathing perfumes, doth spice the day.

Awake, awake! Hark, how the wood rings,
Winds whisper, and the busy springs
     A consort make;
     Awake, awake!
Man is their high-priest, and should rise
To offer up the sacrifice.

I would I were some bird or star,
Fluttering in woods, or lifted far
     Above this inn
     And road of sin!
Then either star, or bird, should be
Shining, or singing still to Thee.

I would I had in my best part
Fit rooms for Thee! Or that my heart
     Were so clean as
     Thy manger was!
But I am all filth, and obscene,
Yet if Thou wilt, Thou canst make clean.

Sweet Jesu! will then; Let no more
This ***** haunt, and soil Thy door,
     Curse him, ease him
     O release him!
And let once more by mystic birth
The Lord of life be born in earth.

II

How kind is heaven to man! If here
     One sinner doth amend
Straight there is joy, and every sphere
     In music doth contend;
And shall we then no voices lift?
     Are mercy, and salvation
Not worth our thanks? Is life a gift
     Of no more acceptation?
Shall He that did come down from thence,
     And here for us was slain,
Shall He be now cast off? No sense
     Of all His woes remain?
Can neither Love, nor sufferings bind?
     Are we all stone, and earth?
Neither His ****** passions mind,
     Nor one day bless His birth?
   Alas, my God! Thy birth now here
   Must not be numbered in the year.
Its timeto yoke the joker


yo to the emcees that think they could get with me
i wet em like an ocean tide personality like jekyll and hide
which means im a killa slash for short drama no comma imma
brutal emcee eatin' 'em up the best of em im the lyrical cannibal
flesh rent devil sent no need for repent
comin' with wickedness born with 8 flows if ya only knew
******* come in the sets of three im givin' wishes for free
the rap genie aint' comin' to be a hero the black zorro thorrough
shoot up the barrio dead eye hawkin' assassin' blastin'
with the greatest tech mouth shots or physical shots it don't matter
whatever it takes to get the job done
my posse cocked d slapped you *******
you can smoke all the spinach you want and you leave like popeyes
get it naw forget sensitive ******* i knit it
write in graffiti love hoes shape like Nefertiti queen b goddess
never a ***** **** in my encore **** with me and ill bring the war along with gore
******* never been a softie
daddy had to be a gangsta **** hustler drug dealer all summed in one
so i had no choice but to pack a gun
but meanwhile im onto bigger and better things like rappin' on the mic i cling
flows tighter rhan pliers leave emcees wrapped up like cable wires
the sire embraced higher learning spurning over obstacles
turn complexity into miracles
how could i ever fall if i never fall failure not an acceptation
id rather sells drugs and extortion and get caught wit 25 big ones
fed time **** the state time im on the grind one time
always wanna see me fall black man finna rise planet of the apes style
hot and wild j ceasar with these skills i spills sendin' chills
its an ice age all over just say its over when big yosef grab the mic
prepare for fright when i ignite blast through hearts like a cannon
i just smoke ya ya mediocre its time to yoke these jokers
yea
 
Aaron LaLux Nov 2016
I open my eyes,
to The End of one of the Lord of The Rings movies,
not sure which one,
because honestly I haven’t seen any of them,

I’ve met Elijah Wood though,
several times,
can’t say we’re the closest of friends,
but we do know each other,

I find it such a strange sight to wake up to considering where I’m currently at in the world,

The End of one of the Lord of The Rings films,
there’s a round wooden door right before the film fades out,
and even though I haven’t seen the films I’ve been to New Zealand,
and know a Hobbit house when I see one,

I turn the screen off,
I’m on a bus in Myanmar,
it’s supposed to be a VIP bus,
but I don’t feel Very Important,

still dwelling on past relationships,
like the one that I had with a young Hollywood Star,
I loved her honestly I did,
but sometimes you can not save someone from themselves,

I watched in horror,
as she turned from Starlet to Harlot,
from overnight success,
to plain as day failure,

she used to be such a Turn On,
until she became a Turn Off,
I told her she should turn in,
instead she just got turned out,

it’s too bad,
I guess not much I can do about it,
I’m just a Lost Poet from the Lost City of Angeles,
I am not God nor am I a Savior,

I’m from the city,
where every Wonderful Dream,
is built upon,
a thousand Horrible Nightmares,

I try to close my eyes to get some rest,
I’ve got a long flight in the morning,
Yangon to Kuala Lumpur,
a rendezvous with a friend on an island,

and it’s already been a long day,
so some sleep would be most appreciated,
but I’ve lost a lot of sleep to dreams,
and this night is no acceptation,

I’m tired yet wired like always sleepwalking in a daydream,

I open my eyes again,
to The Beginning of The Sixth Sense,
Bruce Willis is just waking up,
rubbing his eyes I feel like him,

which is actually relevant,
since I am good friends with his daughter,
wrote her a birthday poem and read it to her,
at her Birthday party at her mom’s house,

real life seems so surreal sometimes,

my mind drifts,
between past regrets and future hopes,
trying to move past regrets and into a future of hope,
and we all want to think we know the answers but really nobody knows,

so we explore,
the lands of the World and the minds of the Man,
in hopes of discovering,
some Great Secret that will set us all free,

well I’ve got news for you,
I’ve been revealed a great secret,
and the commonly believed great secret,
is that there is no Great Secret,

still I want to know,
and so I ask this question,
if we are really living in a Matrix,
then who programmed the Programmers,

now before you call me crazy,
let me allow you to refer to Elon Musk,
who recently said in an interview,
that we are likely living in a Simulated Reality,

and he’s much smarter than you or me,
so he probably knows what he’s talking about,
now let’s take a moment out of our regularly scheduled program,
to reflect on exactly the severity of the implications of this is,

reflect,
we are living in a Simulated Reality,
and maybe Elon is the Messenger,
maybe he is the bridge between our two worlds,

reflect,
once I let it all soak in,
everything that’s happened in my life starts to make a lot more sense,
I start to see why I was literally conceived in Hollywood where I began to literarily write,

I open my eyes…

∆ Aaron La Lux ∆

New book available worldwide now, here:
https://www.amazon.com/Holy-Trilogy-Vol-Masonic-Psalms-ebook/dp/B01N3QR3E4
brandon nagley May 2015
I've learned,
Either one will except thou or like thou!!
Thus one major problem,
I don't want to be liked nor excepted!!
I needeth love!!!!!!!!
IrieSide Apr 2017
Attentive eyes
    and nervous jitter,
trembling hearts
await their fate

barbaric practice
of modern acceptation
fear is faced
  in university fashion

Navy blue professor,
    of conductor hands
Giving presentations in college.
Jo Jul 2013
Infatuation
Acceptation
Completely comatose
Exuberant compassion
Affection, I suppose
Heart excessive beating
Mind eccentrically flailing
All of the above
Are the signs and symptoms
Of the steps that lead to love
I'm laying in bed hearing sharp sounds in my head.
Smelling the sent of pine from a memory of the trees back at my first home.
Thinking about that time when i wasn't so a lone.

Getting shivers from the slivers on my skin.
I Watch the blood leak out as the razor blade goes in.
It Sends A sense of fear and chills down to my bones.
But you'll never know what it's like to feel alone.

Trapped inside the mind, seeking a way out of something i just can't find, or get out of.
Loss and fear rush through my head and that's why i can't love.

The limit of acceptation to feel comfort of by any means is at its own stand still.
Which has me thinking, "These thoughts could ****! What's wrong with me? Am I ill?"

At times i feel that people and the life around me are living and i'm just the time keeper.
Other times, it's like the world is on pause and I'm the attention seeker.

How can life put me through this? It's made me so sore.
This is hell for me On earth,
And that makes me not want to live anymore.
I do not authorize the duplications of my writings photography or any personal information
K Alexys  Sep 2015
Come in.
K Alexys Sep 2015
She's abandoned.
She's sick.
She's so sweet,
Her heart is thick.
She's full of flaws,
Scars on every inch of her skin,
She doesn't speak because no one listens.
Depressed but mistaken for happy.
Locks the emotions away when she's angry.
Pleases everyone else without acceptation for herself.
She adopted a lonely spirit,
Whom replaced the one she was born with.
Over time they beat the crap out of her,
She could only feel more alone, then.
She has so many experiences that you just would  not believe.
They'd sound like stories and even more they'd make you feel like you had just gotten beat.
They'd make you feel the need to feel free and alive,
She's been killed and brought back to this devil of her life.
She's been destroyed and put together again so many times,
She doesn't know when it'll end but she's already gone inside.
Her mind is so open you could walk right in.
Have a seat, look around, ask any questions.
You can pick her heart up and she won't even gasp,
Until you drop it and the pieces cut you like glass.
She'll run for the broom and pick it all up,
Sew together that beautiful cut.
She hopes that now she's worthy of your presence and memory.
She wants to be cared for,
She needs company.
Every day is the same for her, nothing ever changes.
The suffering is routine and she hides all the pain.
Even though she's so hurt that she has a knife by her bed,
She can not seem to think of leaving her head.
If someone should come in and sit down and read,
They too,
Will have the knife,
But never be able to leave.
Victoria Rose Mar 2011
I run from the fear of failing

Speaking bigger than the actions I take
The smile is a perfected performance
To hide from the situations thrown my way
Ditching the people with my future plans
To hide from the world’s unsure
It’s up to me to face the demons
The things that build up outside my wall
Diseases spread from inpatient complications
Killing confidence that allowed my mind to flow swiftly
Pushing away at the generosity of hearts
To run isn't the solution I need

I run from the fear of failing
Tears stream with words that I cannot say
I lose myself in the unpredicted reality
Ghosts of regret attach at the seems
I’m still not letting you in
Mars can burn and crash
Acceptation is an action
I feel the darkness drag me down
Smoke suffocation inflates my lungs

I’m leaving the world tonight
Grasping isn’t a concept I conceive
Left out in the forgotten cold
Running is a self inflicted blow
Breathing is a complicating gesture
Mixed liquids coarse down the curve of my neck
In the wake of my vanishing my heart spurts emotion
Eyes shut without demand
Running seemed so much easier then this
Before the candle flickers out
Companions flow by on clouds of mute
Belonging without inspiration
I can’t outrun memory

I slip into failure
Objects of desire stumble down the cliff of mercy
Sharp edges are in my future
Head hanging I fall
Meaningless everything seems when you're leaving

I run from the fear of failing
Speaking bigger than the actions I take
The smile is a perfected performance
To hide from the situations thrown my way
brandon nagley May 2015
Accretion,
                     Tis I seek!
Permission,
                     Of ones love to keep!
Partition,
                     I gaze for none!
Secretion,
                     Of child play fun!
Direction,
                     To giveth me her hand!
Completion,
                      A wedded band!
Ommision,
                       I want none more!
Suspition,
                       Please close thy store!
Assumption's,
                       I enquireth zilch!
Corruption,
                       Sleeps with filth!
Attention,
                       Wrap me as waddling infant!
Kitchen's,
                       To cook a meal of terrace's far and distant!
Affectation,
                       Of two fallen cherub's!
Alleviation,
                       Of the bug's and scarab's!
Abstraction,
                       I paint as a picture,
Benedictions,
                       Of one pellet, two triggers!
Complications,
                       Of breathing do I feel,
Irrigations,
                       Another deathly pill!
Saturation,
                       Man made queens to beasts!
Irritation,
                       Where art thou? Queen of settled feast?
Obliteration,
                       I lurk the high hilled tops!
Incarceration,
                        Where ghoul's meet thy cops!
Palliation,
                        To make sensual love in darker nights,
Excruciation,
                        Where art thou light?
*******,
                        Of kings and consort souls,
Acceptation,
                        Wilt thou come mine love?
Steelyvibe Jun 2018
Let there be no mistake
No error or contradiction
It is already taking place
This is not science fiction

Wake up and look around
We already have acceptation
Everyday a little bit more
Is changing our inception

Our body parts have changed
Towards final automation
All our senses have been controlled
For our reincarnation

A telescopic vision
Storing hyper information
Mechanical robotic limbs
A cyber man mutation

— The End —