cutting the brush away only to discover thorns this prickly cactus person who has become burdensome in their self-loathing is no more a plant for my *** to spare a drop i should want not and waste none
There’s irony In our struggle to resolve In our vain attempt to state That if we decompose the world And isolate The properties of every element We can construct it bottoms-up In all its former glory
Yet nature still resists For it is not made of the details But of all that manifest between It is not balanced on a needle But emerges from the pattern sewn From the answer, not to “Why?” But to “Why not?”
If we just distance the objective From the subject, that is subjective by default, And take a glance from far enough The universe unfolds A whole Much larger than its parts
The same way motion Is not defined for isolated sole Same as color Is never measured by a single pulse The same way poetry Does not exist within a single word Creation Is not the grains, but the coast whole That lets us know just where The sea begins
Third installment in the series of poems inspired by physics (see first poem in the series for explanation). For further reading: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coarse-grained_modeling
And now I can get over you the way I should have Knowing I didn’t do all that I could have Now I can wallow in regret Cause my ego had done nothing but bring me dread. Remorse. It’s my own fault my hearts so coarse Now you have two daughters with her For better For worse This whole time I thought I was cursed But I was just getting ready to ride the hearse In a hurry to be buried I’ve done my worse This is all new This part ain’t rehearsed You went from not even crossing my mind To being featured in my verse It hit me like a ton of bricks I hope this feeling Ain’t the type that sticks
If my man finds out He’ll have a fit He’ll pick a corner for me to sit Like a piece of furniture But I guess this is what I get..
Therapy.. can’t kive with it.. can’t live without it..
perfect poise between diction imagery and tone measured rhythms and true fine feelings that fall like soft rain to mirror humans in tender moments and coarse grim cameos of things best forgotten things nuanced and bitter this vast field of experience is the business of poetry the art of aptness the art of compactness and incredible depths leading to damp squibs we search nevertheless for unique form and content that exercise in futility till at last we rest from our labours and we understand at last poetry like life is a bitter-sweet illusion
28 May 2018. some re-writing in the last three lines. sounds better to me and feels better too. my thanks to all the guys here keeping my poems alive.