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DivineDao Mar 2016

I thought it's a tough choice
To follow a tough guy!

Whimsical reason where are you? Come back to me!
Please tell me what happened to all I always believed.
I lost my direction,  goddess of love, she is all I can see,
my muse, my addiction, my love,  my reason to be.

Despite that it hurts me this fire inside,
I’m not willing to fight it, I just want to give up.
I'm losing my mind, I shall recognize,
she happens to be the beat of my heart.

Stunned by her beauty, the moon has to hide.
Softened by her voice, cicadas shut up.
The swans on the pond come close to admire…
the hallucinatory aura she’s leaving behind.

Who am I to be fighting this divine force?
Wasn't she created to show me just how
the blessing of love is granted to those
who dare to fight their judgement with their soul?

I'm bound to accept there is  only one choice…
To let go on my pride, to be honest to me,
to surrender the keys, to accept to rejoice.
to take off all my shields and to let my love be.
Many times love is perceived as a distraction,  as something that must we must control. Human history proves that wrong. My poem is about how impossible is to resolve that feeling with reason.
Hafza Awan Sep 23
The heart would never know, why we love them

We love them so they seem us beautiful
they are beautiful that's why we love them


the mind would never decipher, why we miss them

we miss them and they come to our mind
they come to our mind then we miss them
love is unreasonable.
There's no reason for things to be like this
There's no reason that my heart shakes
There's no reason that I feel this way

But there's also no way
For me to push this down
For me to block this out
As much as I hate it
I miss it

And seeing them their
In long pants
And tube socks
And smocks
And just tubes in general
And the new boy
So nice and shy
I can't help but wish
It wasn't always over

There's no reason for things to be like this
(also this is my 100th poem so that *****)
You chugged down a pint of stout
Reason running in and out
Your friends cheering you on
Until all reason is completely gone
   In a moment of uncertainty
   You poise the possibility
   Of ordering another pint of that hilarity
You get another one and a shot
You feel your head spins and you're hot
You're being cheered on by your friend-squad
Reason's leaving, but you're not
   The evening just began
   And you feel a certain urge to dance
   Then that concludes
   You get the pint again
   And the reason still eludes
About the unreasonably high alcoholic consumption most folks go through at some point.
Heal, Raphael! Saint on Deep Wounds repair
As the Fifth Great Angel will now allow
With Thanks as my Tray for Modesty's care
Her well-written Paper of Words everhow
And that Plus-Filled Bulb called Inspiration
Installed by the Lad diving from your Wing
Your Feather reveals such Uncondition
Like the Seven rest their Model do sing
Thorns, Horns and Unreasonable Intent,
Those Demons you Eight managed to repel
Pre or Post-Ring, one Thing I am content
That Plym's Living Daughters know how to Spell.
Especially you. The First of your Kind
Your Prince rejoices. Please bear that in Mind.
#daleysangels #xlaurenrobsonx
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
October 2013

for Maria and Logan...

you need two hands, one foot.
count my years.
each finger, worth a decade.
each toe, well, a century...


point of inflection,
point of opportunity,
presents itself,
to rewrite history.

a second coat of paint,
gift-wrapped in weak excuses.
how I lied, how I ain't,
grimm-fated fairy tales
somebody created.

invisible suits of gold-cloth
worn to my party of
past rewrit and
future foretold.

one single thought,
seizes my heart,
as I fall to my knees.
cracks my temperate ease,
renders open the
woof and weave
of recycled deceptions,
causing all to be revealed
and ask,

what if the poetry ceases?

you know prostrate?
you taste grief?

have you not but
one pain,
one act,
one deed,
one memorization,
act of cowardice,
act of desertion,
mistake maden, taken,
for which
can never
be given,
be taken,

do, does, did.

let me then
win the birthday lottery,
let floods of relief from
daily chores, not drown me,
chauffeurs to drive,
masseurs to massage,
cooks to cook,
les delicious treats,
keep theologians, logicians
on retainer, if need

none know, can provide,
still and yet, a
priestly sacred chord,
grants relief,
song of hallelujah
the ache of
perpetuity worry,
that ancient pain,
grows fresher daily,
the loss of one,
of my body,
my primal knot
everything should be
permitted to be untied,
on my birthday, no?

this day, these days
breathe through words,
molecules of vowels,
stem cells of consonants,
the fabric, the tissues of life,
veins are a dictionary
of corpuscles,
red blood cells are
nouns of nutrients.

this day, these days,
the infection of my soul
is tempered, kept at bay,
tamped down from the
full flowering
of white blood cells
of rhyme, verse.

what if the poetry ceases?

Though the bones creak,
the body they carry. resurrect
for morning, afternoon
and evening prayers.

thrice daily poetry I recite,
roses red, violets blue,
my marrow transfused.

though my prayers refused,
the poetry act immolates
the fringes of my disease,
for which the common cure
is not currently invented....

what if the poetry ceases?

but be assured, told
scientists hard at work,
on the
forgive n' forget drug.

take a bubble bath in
rosemary and mint
trap some words,
tap some words into
your cell phone bone,
the poetry heat that
provides aspirin relief.

through this poem,
on one day annual,
I am relieved, relived
the muse is feted, sated,

gone for few moments
concerns, worries of
exposure today,
agnostic's foxhole of hell
is dis-remembered,
the gloss returns,
the faux dispatched,

ain't birthdays grand?

what if the poetry ceases?

what rhymes with
could it be

bath drains, rosemary and mint
odors dismissed, the  Argentine disparu,
the Spanish Medievalists,
the Neo-Raphaelites,
all gone,
didn't they have birthdays too?

didn't know
the Renaissance come
and go,
and nobody
tole ya?

please recall t'is the day
after my sweet city recorded my
naissance in the
Hospital of the Flowers
on Fifth Avenue.

the 'crats put the datum
in the bureau with the
night creams and
the statistics
as follows:

on this day + a few,
six or twenty decades ago +
a few centuries,
a question was born,
and an ache that is
sometimes relieved,
by a poem song.

though do not celebrate,
t'is a day to calibrate,
review, edit, tinker,
rewrite, often a stinker.

always one thought recycles:

what if the poetry ceases?

(how will I breathe?)
Notes: my birthday was a few weeks ago. One of a number poems I've written about birthdays.  This one was modified, but only slightly for Maria and Logan.
Brizar Poetry Jan 20
My mom wails that
I’m a mess.
That I need to get my life together.

I’m tempted to grab a mirror,
Put it up against my face
and say:

“Stop yelling at your reflection.
Do you ever think
to decorate this mirror in flowers
or to give it endless kisses
until it kisses you back?”

Loud noises filled with poison
will never love you back.
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