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a dogma
that inter-
nuncio drew
sultry where
gotham despite
arms was
proctor of
circle that
could emboss
pathos in
guise of
rouge that
flew in
grace still
an alkaloid
with quantum
effect beyond
Coleseph Nelzsun Jan 2016
"Don't waste your hate. Rather gather and create. Be of service. Be a sensible person. Use your words and don't be nervous. You can do this you got purpose. Find your medicine and use it." - Nahko Bear

Our medicines are the gifts and passions that make us so uniquely elegant
Still those who doubt and hold you back will say those things aren't relevant

But it must be shared and given to heal others and your self
This does not just concern your purpose; its an issue of your spirit's health
Do not neglect your talents and passions. Find that spark and fan it till its a flame. And burn all that surrounds and inhibits you to ash with your flaming glory.
You have been through so much
Wounded and bruised on all sides
Standing at the edge of this cliff;
Feet slipping with disturbing thoughts
The world is a narrow path, dotted
With uncertainties and cruelty
A terrain, victory so unpredictable
Coup de grace may seem the only option
You, you have the warriors ethos in you
Shield thy heart from the volcanic ramblings
Forlorn hope, in frontal attack, come what may;
Conquering your personal demons and fears
You win, from the inside out!

Copyright 2014 || McDaniels Gyamfi
Press on ye soldier of life. Life may seem so complex at times. Don't dust off or throw in the towel. Lift your head above the storms and stay positive. Troubles do not last a matter of fact, things change and takes on new meaning. This too shall pass, as you hold on to your inner convictions and persuasion of hope. Stay strong, my friend!!
rook Oct 2014
All I've ever had in my possession were bones.
The framework of a biological nuisance, something empty
on the inside, though full of what any of us may call life.
At the least, the semblance of which we can be convinced:
parading a corpse across the bridge, most talented thespian in space;
and medicine, the hobby you picked up so you could learn to ignore death.

You are too old, now, to foolishly believe you can outrun death,
the inevitable silence that haunts your dreams and soaks through your bones.
You breathe in too quickly, too aware of the emotional cavity, of the space
between your thoughts and your actions. Your words have always been empty,
a reminder of the very symbol of your own faith, though you aren't convinced
that you, yourself, can ever measure up to that vivacity that floods his life.

Repeat that in your mind, over and over; that the anomalies in this life
can be proven as effects of the reckless and the brave, that their death
is ultimately yours to cause or to save. So, of your own importance, you are convinced,
and you know you are the best, always have been -- always, Bones.
So don't waste your energy on the thought that all of his promises are empty
and trust, instead, that this lunatic, this love, will survive all of space.

There's nowhere for you to escape this bitterness; indeed, no space
for you to claim as your own, your sanctuary. No chance of a separate life
when you've had all you can stomach of this insanity, this empty
endless game you've boxed yourself up in, until you surrender yourself to death,
to the simple cessation of your repetitive motions -- but, no, Bones;
he will never stop. His life will continue, his body and soul immortal -- of this, you are convinced.

No, he'll keep on going, as perilously as before; of his invincibility, you are convinced,
but you, yourself are, as ever, determined to follow his failures through space,
to diligently spout your expletives and condemnations and advice; you are now, as then, his bones,
and you never forgot that. Just as he never forgot who takes credit for his life,
his bones, his common sense --- you alone have, time and time again, forced death
to hang its weary head and return and yet, his own promises are empty.

You've learned to scoff at his vows of safety; his idiocy, you could handle. Still, empty, too, were his promises of faith. His loyalty, he proved, but you stay thoroughly convinced
that alone would he remain, had you considered your logic. Somehow still, like death,
the logic was an inevitability, and you learned to detest one trait in all of space.
You can see his faith fading as it goes, as logic proves itself a thief of your life,
and you lament the truest fact of all -- no longer could you be his bones.

And so I've managed to pull my empty shell together, as he never could, for in space
nowhere can I hide from the death of my ethos; yes, in space alone I dedicate my life.
And I am, as he was convinced, an honest man. I end as I begin -- with all I've ever had: Bones.
space. the final frontier.

— The End —