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Relax, begin to Imagine you are in the proximity
to immerse yourself into a precious moment.
It is that needed time you have brought into being, and is intrinsic
to experience composure, equanimity.
Smooth - melodic - ambient music with simple cause,
low and soft will, in its incipiency invalidate
trending previous troublesome thoughts,
silkily, sauntering, lingeringly pauses,
to softly embrace your audible senses
with silence which conveys complete assurance,
that the here and now is yours, no-one elses,
ataraxia created by you, for your true inner self,
It continues; envelops remaining unsettled interruption
embraces the heart, and encourages serenity,
all the remaining negative, solicitous intellection
are temporarily, tipped out of your consciousness,
you are experiencing them leave, then transcended
with blissful tranquillity for your indulgence.
You are asleep with your eyes open, it feels so benefic,
the mind is calm and clear no longer confused.
Melodious sound continues to provide atmospheric
momentum to this sensibility folding into the soul.
Joyfully you are enduring moments of pure inner solitude and
wrapped in perfect peace, consciousness uncommitted.
There is no expectation of time, not at all
just the psyche drifting, changing shape, density, profundity.
You feel wonderfully restituted, calmed; uplifted.
You sense it, knowing, this absence of tension you sought,
this, your perfect you, is transient and will slowly begin to regress, reluctantly,
relinquishing this blissfully serene, conditioned emotional stillness, to be restored.

Then you turn the telly on!     All gone.

Michael C Crowder        March 5th 2019
the power of clearing one's mind, so reality erases the experiences
Sid Lollan  Sep 2018
309
Sid Lollan Sep 2018
309
What’s the connection?—
        a secret kept best between plug and socket.
               Prophet man gone the old electric way,
[and durn’ an election year, no less]. Epigrammatic burps, and
  occasional flatulence, of intellection,      
I can’t help
        but admire my own kindofbouquet, it ain’t easy—
                 when Christ was crucified like gas…

…There’s a million and more clichés I could toss around as mud and dirt;
       Alas!,
                         I’d rather speak in terms of glass, [plateglass, stainedglass etc.,
               germs and love, and guns and lovely lovely ca-sh,

today’s math; burnt and sad, self—Walking [my] small town streets, sure to stray faraway of dense windows,
        and passerby's in ugly masks, with karaoke mouthpieces,
                       Ballads of boredom on precipitate tongues, Shoo!—away
and blow apart minstrel clouds.

        No taxis, [ever]
        just men and women in ordinary cars, pedestrians,
                   in obvious shoes,sporting unconscious denim,northeastern scowls
—fashionable scowls,
         nuanced grays that distract from the spots of ill sun [hostage winter sun;]
                 scowls like Northeastern sky herself.

“I’ve surely lost my perspective”
                 [An empty phrase, really. A neat vaguery, I submit.]
        I had a perspective, I still got it;
        Though not much use it does me being how singular it is,
                                       Optics and all, no shades of reflection,
Dense windows of thought, so dense,
       —it’s now a microscope! Hell, all i can make out is a loose collection of colors,

A broken box of loose wires
          and some kinda bang-up dodgy liberty, those frayed connections, too.
                Nothing as tidy as plug and socket,
        however,enough
                to keep the lights on.
Moe Awad Jan 2010
My true feelings are obscured by pure bitter intellection.
My brain is the main heretic of my soul.
My thoughts… I know them well.
To each his own cognomen but yet I am confused.
Auto-Da-Fe…
But that won't work.

When I try to fathom I break.
And when I behold myself I shake.
No matter what I do, I will be held beneath the rest.
Because a sane person would help himself.
What's worse is that I know better but yet…
Perfidy…
I used to trust myself.

That’s why I write.
That’s why I write in a way that leaves all doubt behind.
Because that's how I clear my mind.
My condition hold's a banner that reads "Don’t Stop!"
But my conscience feels the need to make me be a better version of me.
So I will stop. Eventually…
Procrastination turns into never.

I am on my death bed now.
Toroidal chains erupt from thin air around me.
They tighten their grip around me in lento.
I hear a crescendo.
My sense of hearing finally decodes the glass that just fell from my hand.
I don’t see a grim reaper or Baphomet anywhere.
That gives me a little solace…
The end is near and once again, after all this time,
All I can think about is…
"What if?" ...
~An original piece by Moe Awad~
Pratham Sharma  Aug 2016
My Path
Pratham Sharma Aug 2016
Oppressed, I was by all,
They thought just in moment I'll Fall.
But they don't know of what I am made,
Rebel is my path that you can't Barricade.

All Alone, I am fighting All,
Bring the next one I ain't tired of Brawls,
I might lose, But won't quit.
I'll try again with a knock-out Hit.

Depressed, I have always been made.
I worked in the Sun and they sat in shade.
But they Didn't know Where I have Been?
On My Path of Success where you have never been.

They hit me with their words, really violent,
I continued my work hard and remained silent.
Now when the outcome of hard-work arrives,
Their intellection will get weaken and I'll Thrive.

Addressed as a LOSER, I always was,
Now I don't hear such, In sound of round of applause.
But your offenders will continue to abuse,
Ignorance is my Path, Now It's Your Turn To Choose!
haley  Dec 2016
Canto II
haley Dec 2016
Upon entering the vast crystal dome
we venture through the endless
that such vile creatures call home.

Before me, occurring a ghastly sight
of those cursed to these depths
are confined to the blackest night.

Embedded into the surrounding walls,
irregularity complicates the network
when one wanders the immortal halls

of a timeless place that captures its victims
to intensify the thoughts inside their head,
eluding the state of true mortem.

With heavy rope held agonizingly tense
woven within their eyes and mouth
blocking all intellection of the sense,

the creatures meander aimlessly forevermore
nervous and cautious of their movements,
bloodied and grimy from the soot-ridden floor.

I question my Lover out of curiosity:
“Why must these souls dwell in a daunting
labyrinth without physical perceptivity?”

And the Lover addressed sweetly: “My one and only,
Greed is a moral infection of the human mind,
be wary of the heart and the desire Lustfully.”

He then turned, and I followed him through
up to a Beast whom I would not dare test
for he validates the lack of your virtues.
Andy  Oct 2019
Epoch
Andy Oct 2019
If there are wonders of worlds unknown it wouldn’t be found in this missive. All ingenuity and innovation of tenders and obscure precarious peasants in town are forgotten. A tailor-made war machine ingenious to no purpose, but disassembling of pragmatic purpose driven people by torts in similitude to lay-flat bacon with no flavor. Style was not the first itinerary as well, as reason and intellection more likely found slung out a window in the dark grey burdensome MOCO morning clouds to dry than the vestige of its unrecognizable token. At the day of the making of the great ingenious monstrosity of marvel the crown and the crowd were all in awe, awhile the people gathered in the halls giving pittance and lamenting what they saw. They were counted with their many items that they made not similar to the machine that they stood in obeisance for.

  October 28th broke darkness to a drab MOCO morning as brilliant light gives way to long pale grey cloudy skies of foreboding obstruction. What has come to pass fills the streets with unfriendly noises. Obnoxious street sounds of trucks and rude commuters in the morning melting *** of the county seat steered a drab venture for the driven. For some, the events of the day couldn’t come too soon. A sober male erected himself in an uncomfortable bed, eyes raptured into a day fore lorn by prophets of paisley drapes and trinkets once despised. Little left to vacillate upon he strikes his life for the fare he will need for the day without a meal and those owed are far greater than he can afford to pay. He deserves far worse. He makes his early drink in one thousand ways and questions the preliminaries that compulsory routine has degraded to utilitarianism as he is burdened by health of the sort the homeless are afflicted.

    Sitting undisturbed, busy rifling through an ordinance of papers, the judge peered out over his bench checking occasionally to appear meticulous and still aware of off-guard court officers and clerks. It’s a wonder how influential the long satin Khaki painted walls aligned with disheveled faces of the father’s of the 9th District were in forming his disposition. It might not be obvious by the look of his sparse schlocky beard or furry eyebrows but, his portrait was as predestined as the grain on the gurney he rode in on. A paladin in white, a fury fine form, ready to leave his post modern imprint in-line with the greats. This wasn’t what he loved to do; this was what he was born for.

    The tight soldier-course front-line of blue and teal is disrupted by our pocky pitched Siren dousing more among the brown of cross wood than the grain that red oak can display. Cordial banter in the echoes of the hall were far off despite the close good mornings and whimsical felicitations exchanged wittily without regard to fairness. Framed words are hard to come by in the sentence seat of the unjust. The fake philanthropic mating calls our Siren sounds before the wind are so grotesque in full sight they are only left for a sailors burial song or dirges in the dark by wearisome travelers and laborers neglecting the fear of their next day as they did the day before. Singing is a requirement in the back minds of the proud. of the proud.

— The End —