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Shannon Aug 2018
The only time in an ordinary life that dying seems beautiful is when you are a teenager. That beautiful time where your skin is tightly wrapped around you like Saran Wrap and your mind believes every tear you push out of your eyes matters, counts towards something. You cry because your heart got broken? That matters, put it in your portfolio of beautiful broken pieces. You cry because you did not make the team/the grade/the cut/the audition/the clique/the bus … all of these things matter when your book is full of hauntingly empty pages. What nobody tells you is that once you fill your book with these small slights, you have less and less pages left for the big stuff that’s coming. The big stuff that should really fill your book. By the time you have something to write in your big book of beautiful broken pieces, you’ve filled it with so much crap and nonsense that there is nothing left to say.
I have nothing for you then.
Stop readingStop mother ******* reading.
I have nothing.
I am ******* empty.
I have nothing.
This was the beginning of a short story I am writing. I came back to it a bit later and think it would make a great essay.
Awake Manimeth ... wake up !!
fire goes out on the horizon
the horizon line curve your hands as if your two
absorbed will press tu face burning fire,
burning your nose in your clasping his temples into the void ...

this, you utter your conscience gema rance decorating your
mind since the beginning of their training,
then manimeth sat with his face to the sun;
this stroked his hands and fell on his altar,

saying...:

" i meditate on my heart that wants slow its beat,
you want to beat my mind as heart deserter.
hold my senses whose hands beating,
without it is felt by my conscience.


they slip jewels of the universe for my thoughts
looking sit shore maze of ideas ...
ideas for those of the shores of the sit of edge
invisible planet to me now situate them
away from an image as the desert rushing the
cosmos ... "

that over Sun ...., look wheel by tiger eye iris
as a party lights,
transparent wheel and bouncing off the moon brains out. those are crushed envious by evil,
believed to enjoy bliss of pardon for their sins ven slips on themselves not falling the storms of flower seeds on themselves.

my locked tongue  snaked
my fingers clubbed ...
but the surge of infinity breath of faith  
embrace a creed,
illogical swings embrace the path that is pursued by the logical paths.

Look at that hunt ... !!
accecivity is rotating in your arms portals
it is your illogical outfit uncover your personality,
sheltering beautiful but your radio influence
**** about feeling kingdom kindness of you and your evil,
in a dialogue on allowing a ***** sheet for you
you are feeling for your pleasure human luck
it levitating or for response to where can
losing my world comfort foliage of my true
world...

but me accecivity headlines
enrich my delicate sides harmless.
the accecivity during a month ago pain
in my sides of my increasing progression winds,
without passive dominate chastise my sorrow.

but my altar in his platform
admit my dreams of eternity making my
fire, sun and moon as a whole,
and these three elements astrophysics  be myself wish
light ends but not born.


Manimeth wake, the offense !! here she comes
flinch you comes your depth impure
it comes from the **** that is cut your belly,
is torn of your life as a minute  
pressed to become the second of your life
by leaving your altar for the occupy another.


Wake araise up manimeth,
he opened his eyes and saw all the brown,
vio his hands embodied in flowers,
vegetative as psychic strength dermis and growing herbs.

your eyes dwarfed compassed
basin as lost their eyes suns
galactic orbits looking to occupy.

Manimeth but is illuminated,
and then quantifies wind gusts
they occupy your space that as wind dies
your roam in between ,
as rivers of light with new species of light protecting
messages for detainees interfered.

winds here are understood,
go there for you receive them
willfully why he decided
traveling my words mounted on the wind
to arrive to you.


In the oven,
where the hosts of devolution swept
violent with feeling my beloved ...
it is hence the examination of my self-awareness  
mammalian waves as you want all breastfeeding order by continuing creation of new exams
of worlds in creation
in lines and creating stable appearance worlds ...
floating stable wishes ...

i crossed as parchment
bowling for that wind fragile,
carrying my heart fire sealing
for the whole universe my doubts,
heartrending voice screaming like
inertial manimeth running away from me,
only leaving me sitting in my altar jeweled
only with my hands in flower converted
and my mind as ethereal form compressing
worlds now meditate in my heart ...


Jose Luis  Carreño Troncoso
August 8, 2002
TANTRIC MANIMETH MEDITATION KUNDALINI
Einstein-Rosen Bridge

"A wormhole can be visualized as a tunnel with two ends, each at separate points in spacetime (i.e., different locations and/or different points of time), or by a transcendental bijection of the spacetime continuum." -Wikipedia

UFO

A metallic or translucent disk with
little people, gray skin, large eyes
also translucent or ephemeral and
moving within a fixed space.

Ask yourself;

"What do people from the future look like?"

"What would someone see if they looked through the other end of your tunnel?"

Think about it;

"In the future our Sun becomes destabilized altering the physics of our local space therefore an Einstein-Rosen Bridge is possible once the star begins to collapse."


Our Sun is dying

We are studying the past...
                                                               not physically here,
craft move erratically
                                                           because they are not physical.

The other end of the bridge.
                                              They are us.

The tunnel moves, jostles
as physics, space-time, change.
Who watches The Watchers?


Physical beings cannot
                                                      travel through time,
Can they see through it?
                                  Can you?

You're traveling through time right now,
in your mind,  
                                                     with your imagination.
                                                    ­  


What does the other end of your tunnel look like?

A
UFO
?
UFO's solved
The shortest distance between two points of travel.

The fastest method for achieving a result.

Quickest answer for a resolution.

Marrying equals.

  All terminology meaning essentially the same thing; synthesis. That is what the two-party system is meant to be doing. It is the point of checks and balances. A check is a stopgap. A balance is a measure.

  No one wants to ban personal firearms. No one wants mentally-ill people to own them. No one advocates violence by school teachers to assuage future potential violence. No reasonable person wants children to grow up in a police state school system. No American believes that State and Federal government can agree on what should be done in all states.

  We will not be arming teachers. Nor will we be banning guns. There will never be armed guards at public schools. States and the Federal government disagree on so many levels there will never be consensus on change when it comes to this issue. So, change the issue in a way that offers a stopgap as a measure.

  The President of The United States issues a proclamation that all land directly adjacent to the front of all public schools will be bought by the federal government at today's market price. That price will be fixed provided the states do two things. Use state eminent domain laws(every state already has them) to file a claim on said properties and assess the value thereof for the federal government.

  Secondly, establish police precincts on said property.


    Ask yourself;

"How many children would die if the local police were directly across the street from the school at the time of the shooting?"


And,

"Would Conservatives or Liberals be against this proposal?"

  
Also,

We should all remember that these shooters plan their attacks and would have to plan around the police being there immediately after they begin one.


  Problem solved...
                             ...and no one touched a gun(right) to do it.
From the BBC today,


Excerpt

Why does Taylor Swift write so many one-note melodies?

"It's easy to get distracted by her celebrity, but Taylor Swift is a once-in-a-generation songwriter. From the very beginning, she's displayed a knack for melody and storytelling that most artists never master.

Take, for example, her first US number one, OUR SONG

Written for a high school talent show, it's a fairly typical tale of teenage romance until the final lines: "I grabbed a pen / And an old napkin / And I wrote down our song."

That's smart, self-assured songwriting for someone who wasn't old enough to vote. Notably, the lyrics insert the musician directly into the narrative - something she developed into a tried and tested trope.

But Our Song also establishes another of Taylor's trademarks: The one-note melody.

Excerpt

Repetitive melodies that centre around a single note are part of that appeal. They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech.

"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."

"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."

"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."

Rebuttal

Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics. They can relate to your song but if they cannot sing it themselves putting themselves in the 'first-person perspective narrative' they cannot feel as-if they have BECOME the artist and are living that moment as they remember it. Taylor Swift sings about teenage love and angst something EVERYONE ON EARTH understands.

ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG.

Cadences are singing statements that confer a discipline and unity.

Song acts as a catharsis. The artist shares their pain in a way that is universally understood. If you want to sell a rock, literally a pebble, you will not sell it if it doesn't look like a rock. If it doesn't do what rocks do. If it is not what people remember a rock to be like. Nor will it sell if it is just like every other rock they have ever seen. It cannot convey an emotion unless it elicits emotion.

One cannot even begin to feel emotional if one cannot remember easily the past and that includes lyrics one has heard that evoked said emotional state.

It is horrifying to see HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS that rhyme be obliterated in exchange for an intellectual or individual perspective NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE.

If you want to sell and make money you better start thinking about the 99% of people who are not geniuses.

If your sole goal in life is to attract a genius to give you a great job because of how, "smart," they perceive you to be then fine.

You are not an artist.

You are an employee.



"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."

"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."

"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."

Thrice Times Great. ⁻ᴴᵉʳᵐᵉˢ



                                           BECOME
                              EVERYONE ON EARTH
               ALL POETRY BEGAN AS RHYME IN SONG
                      HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS
            NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE
                                         HOW BAD
                    
                 artist?
or employee?
BBC article conclusion.
Dr. F. Wilhem discovered it by accident you see?
   The first man downloaded was no longer man.
He suffered dearly until the plug was pulled,
    and we started over again; with biologists.
Geneticists, Embryonticians, TransEugenecists,
    all celebrated the new fast-growing body.
No more deaths at old age expiry, on battlefields.
    for a price all would live eternally; eternity here.

It did not work. The bodies worked, the software recorded
    but the people were insanely bi-polar. Insane in fact.
Until we switched the torso and genetics in tandem.
   then somehow the surviving person retained all memories!
They were in fact; themselves! Just in a different gendered body?
   Unfortunately for everyone this was a major psychological shock.
Unexplainable, sure, evolution took four billion years so...
    ...more time, more time, more experimentation is all we need.

Wilhelm changed it all.
When he added the shock,
added the <human> response,
turning the machines into
Humans.

They are truly A.I.
...verily human in fact.
Animal-ish, peaceful
then angry, terrible or
violent.

Artificially Intelligent;
Humans.



"What good is it to change a person,
              ...merely into someone else?"
-Al Abd Azaz


To see beneath the surface,
and know the ocean tydes.

To see beneath the surface,
and know the ocean tydes.

To see beneath the surface,
and know the ocean tydes.

When one is forced to stop drinking, the first thing felt is shame. It is recognition that coerced abstinence was inevitable. The court told me No alcohol and I said Okay. An assessor of the state told me If you picture life past 30, you stop now: he might have added For the longevity of both you and your relationship(s), but it might be his own history stopped him. The morning I crashed my car was not cold like today. Suburbs are generally quiet at four-thirty; runaways choke-chain drooping eyes to a bedpost for a few more fickle hours, hoping (praying) body keeps pace with hunger. I was hungry, and we went to get food. My brow beats ripples into the airbag. In county my sheltered white life was a blanket doused in gasoline. The sheltered white mind may scream but the sheltered white body cowers under concrete. In class I was assured Alcoholism runs in the family. The gene plagues Hendrix men as a curse of choice. It's a gun in a knife case. Six months sober; it still itches. I'm still hungry. The state told me I was Lucky [I] didn't **** someone. I was selfish. I was selfish because I thought they meant me.
This poem is inspired by Mary Hickman's second book, "Rayfish."
SM Dec 2017
From the outside, the overwhelming brick structure appears as a haven to heal for the sick, but from within, it serves as a prison, where the sickness terrorizes the inmates doomed here. A bright red cross glows above in the moonlight, appearing as a beacon of hope, despite all those within the structure feeling hopeless. The large glass doors slide open by themselves, welcoming in all who dare to come near. Beyond the glass, white coats rush by in a blur in all different directions, hurrying to serve their independent duties of checking blood pressure, feeding patients, giving baths, monitoring heart rates, and giving medication to the helpless.
A heavy metal door swings open to reveal a labyrinth of a hundred overwhelming hallways. The white walls extend for what seems like miles. A fluorescent buzzing light runs along the ceiling to the end of the corridor. The bright hall strains the human eye as it stares into the abyss of the neverending white hallway, illuminated by the blinding lights. The only color emerges at the very end of the passage, where a faint red exit sign glows. It appears as the only escape for those within, but only reveals a staircase to the other hundred halls beyond this one.
The sagging eyes of a receptionist light up for a moment at the sight of another living human at this early of an hour, but the excitement is not reciprocated by the other, due to the sorrow of being among these white walls again. The only other creatures she often sees here resemble zombies attached to IV bags, who slowly stumble down the hall to get a taste of the freedom beyond their prison beds. They desire health. They desire happiness. They desire escape. The shoes of the visitor clack across the cold tile, passing by identical rooms filled with dormant bodies on bed rest. Most bodies are told they must only stay a couple of days. But a couple days turn into a couple weeks. A couple weeks turn into a couple months. A couple months can turn into the end of their lives. The visitor wanders in a maze of all the bodies who appear the same, hopeless and trapped they are still.
Gray indented chairs from being sat in for too long line against the walls of this boxed in room. The lights are duller here. Waiting. The visitors can finally rest their eyes, they can finally rest their soul. Magazines fall off the wall, unread and unkept for months. The chips stacked in the vending machine taste stale, but still the most delicious dinner available to the visitors who have made these indented chairs their home away from home.
The only sound escaping into the hall from the patients rooms are quiet sobs and beeping heart monitors. Among the rooms, the visitors kneel alongside the bed with a rosary in hand. A prayer escapes the lips of the grieving as death dances over the bodies of their loved ones. The bodies are still alive, but the bodies are not living. The rooms are stenched with sorrow, sickness, and sterile. White sheets, white walls, white light. The white fills the rooms, but darkness still looms. Each room reeks of bleach that cleanses the metal instruments and IV stands, while it destroys any sense of humanity for the bodies trapped within. The blinds on the window are shut, keeping out all of the outside world, besides a single beam of moonlight that shines in the only hope left in the darkness of this dull night for the bodies of the alive, but not living.
I know these are supposed to be poems but it's fine, don't worry about it. I had to describe a setting that makes me frightened or uneasy for my English class. I decided to describe a hospital at 2 in the morning because thats kinda spooky. Hospitals are where many lives are brought into this world and many are lost. People are crying in the halls, saying prayers, and finding out terrible news so often and their was something unsettling about a hospital to me at 2am when I was a young child, so I decided to base the essay off that. Read it if you'd like. Thanks!
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