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How can somebody be so beautiful.
Do they know their wealth that I have felt?
Look into the eye of them, are they sought from Bethlehem.
A spirit so pure, or is it me who is insecure.

Skin as soft as the morning glow and connection which seems to flow.
Try to grip on what is next, searching still for more context.
Chakra points are burning bright, every form now feels tight.

All I want is to pursue but in the end will likely lose.
I am him, she is her and we're not meant to be together.
(@PoeticTetra - instagram/twitter)
Aaron E Jan 18
Art is working within a frame. Knowing and exploring that frame, using contrast, drawing attention across the field.

It’s an extension of language. Which is metaphor. The default art of language is the frame we operate from within. The words we collect along the way, to place along the veritable canvas of open air.

You need the frame to create context, but it’s also limiting. And it’s only when we understand where our context collides with other broader or more pervasive contexts that we can reconstruct our frame. Transcend it, and paint a newer, more comprehensive picture within a newer, more robust, frame.

So how big should your canvas be. Smaller frames require concision. Bigger frames allow more expansive exploration.

One would think, by those descriptions alone that a larger canvas is better, but it also requires more discipline. We can easily lose ourselves in the expanse and be left with nothing but irreducible chaos. Jungle. Space. Ocean. Not because these expanses are truly irreducible, but because we haven’t developed enough to place any kind of conceptual frame around them. We can’t place them into a useful metaphorical context, besides pointing into the void and reveling in its mystery.  Dreaming up monsters or messiahs that only reflect our fears and ignorance.

But this isn’t a canvas it’s a concept  and it’s hopefully a clear description of why overconfidence in our understanding can lead us to creating a frame larger than we can effectively navigate. Painting ourselves into the void, swallowed by reflections of our own shortcomings.

It’s not pessimism.

Each person is a natural artist gifted with the capacity for communication and supreme adaptation. Very fortuitous developments compared to say; ******* ants out of a tunnel with an incredibly well adapted snout, or establishing mate worthy dominance by bludgeoning a competing male with large outcroppings of bone. Music, written word, spoken language these are the result of our creativity. Our propensity to shift the scope of our picture. Capture understanding from depth by reducing it.

Language only has the frames we construct within it. We must place the borders around our picture somewhere, and playing within each arbitrary space is what creativity is. The self limited but transcendental use of ones space or time.
While this isn’t what I consider “poetry” working through it helped me get some peace from my pessimism, which I thought was poetic.

Digging through this tangent really has stumped me in a way that makes it difficult to reduce into some coherent poem with any kind of resolution, but in this case I’m not as frustrated as I normally would by that.

Spinning these particular wheels has been a fruitful experience in its self.

Cheers.
Naomi Firestone Feb 2019
Who is Truth?
Is she the raw unabridged feelings that you barely allow yourself to know?
Is she a close encounter between strangers that stir up longing and desire?
Is she a story told that is so magnificent she could pass as a lie because Context was not invited?

Who is this judgement called Truth?
Such complexity and unconscious motivations constructing a tangled mesh of stories entwined...
Where in this beautiful mess does Truth reside?
Is Truth a relative to Social Mores, Societal Conformity, Religious Beliefs and so on?
If so, I don’t want to know Truth…

When I invite Truth in I must also invite Self Exploration. I must banish the enemy within for it has no seat at my table of self discovery...
Truth is the universe full of mystery
and we are infinitesimal cells in the circulatory system...
So i say just enjoy the brief ride and don’t think too much.
Sabika H Oct 2018
Give me a backstory
and I'll show you a different character
each time.
Give me a time and place,
and I'll show you my morals were lies
and my standards are non-existent,
and that I've had you fooled
in every single appearance;
and I'll make you realize
that my lies
have been consistent.
Don't get it twisted, this poem isn't about me.
Elizabeth Zenk Jul 2018
[]
large letters on the page of words I've used.
it doesn't account for repetition.
it doesn't account for context
[]
I'm a little peeved.
ostra May 2018
i was
black and white
until you arrived
colors in hand
ready to create your masterpiece

but what if
i enjoyed being black and white?

i have nightmares now
i used to dream

i hate the dark
i used to enjoy its calm

i am quiet
i once was outgoing

you created
a colorful piece of art
but did you ever
think about who the art was
before?
wanted to post something because im lonely and crave attention. this is from sept. 2017, when i was actually happy ****
Cameron Banowsky Mar 2018
You’ve got more than meets the eyes
You’ve been praying your whole life

And you’ve been saying what socialized
you’ve got no belief and you don’t realize

And how can you wonder why?
Life’s moving faster than our time.
One day you are gonna die.
What will you have left behind?

Don’t say you’re sorry, don’t apologize.
It’s truly not my life to fully recognize.
But take those covers of your heart’s eyes
But when you do, don’t act so surprised

Now you’re not allowed to wonder why
I am just showing the truth where it lies
If it is painful that’s something worth the mind
Just remember not everyone is kind.

Remember not every one is kind
Remember many are still very blind
Remember again not everyone’s kind
Now think of those still in disguise
Candlelight is romantic, unless
you're in a dungeon.

Context changes everything.

Context makes you look down
at the bridges you build and realize
they are plywood: thin, cheap, but
soggy enough from this rain that
they're impossible to burn.

Realism is a myth. Everyone has a lens.

People believe what they want to believe,
or they believe the worst. Sometimes they
alternate, tense and relax at all the wrong
moments, a sigh of relief before the crime
has been committed.

Everyone loves a hero until they are up
against them.

The unforgivable becomes forgivable
in the right context, ****** as self-
defense, or in war. Fear and arousal
provoke identical symptoms in the body.
Sometimes the boundaries bleed together.

Sometimes ethics surrender in the face
of love.
Stephen Rutledge Apr 2017
A walk to a known place,
I cannot help but glimpse the mirage of your face,

Finest of hair and the brightest of eyes,
It's here you caught me by surprise,

Serene moments like these were made to please,
Casted aside was our unease,

Yet, every moment predated,
If only you could have waited.
Gracie Knoll Jul 2016
Water does not help a bird like it helps a fish
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