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Midnight Thinker May 2019
On my gravestone under the name,
“Memento mori” the only phrase,
Written as prayer in dark frame,
These words ’ll glow like endless blaze.

It’s all for humans I’ve to say,
Remember living through each day,
We’re the mortals in short play,
Thus, keep on riding in own sway.

Under enormous sky grave lies,
Along the hills and northern star,
So small in size but so apprise,
Why does man see it so bizarre?

Before the human closed own eyes,
When vanished last man’s memoirs,
And sounds of those crying skies
've passed beneath the fading stars.
Ever present life...
Ever present life...
3ver press a k̫͘ń͙ḭ̧̼̳̠͔f̢̺͙̥̣e̵̮̯̟̙̰ͅͅ

against the dying, glowing l̵i̎̓ͣ̚ghͦt͂͌ͧ͌̄ ̛ͣͧ͐̾ͦ̅ǒ̐ͩ͌̓̾͋f̡ͥͪ̑͆ ͝ļ̉̆̎ͮ͛ͪͩĭ̶̎̉̐f͑ͪ̓e͗̏͛ͥ͆̏͐?


W̡̠̘̭͛ͪ͋ͦͤa̘ͫ̆̒̈́͆i̗̳ͭͯ̾̇́̓ͫt̫̍ͭ ͈̠̯̻̖̪̹͌͑̽ͮ͛ͮ̃a̬̪ͫ̅̅ͯ́̈̓ͅ ̵͓̱̰͚̬͓̪̿͆M̞͍̤̤̱ͩ́̆̇i̪̬̟̪̹͍ͦ̓͗ͪ̐ͫ̐n̻͈̦̥͕͉̍͛͆̋̐͊u͍ͮ͌͛ͣ̀͘t̯̣̓͊̍̐̄ͧͦ­̭̝e̺͓̱͈̬̫̊ͯͥͨͯ͜ ̹͔̳̞̇͂͢this can't be me!̝̙ͦͧͧͥͫ̕!!

CHECK MY FIELD, REALIZE!

Still Sun Tzu
hit my enemy first
in the verses
no physical damage
no trauma purses to manage
I already lived afflicted with curses
from savage researches

Till I learned to shift my boundaries around me,

...That there’s still power in !̝̙ͦͧͧͥͫ̕category!̝̙ͦͧͧͥͫ̕

But not enough to stop me !

I broke the two ton shell OF CULTURE
but I’ll never stop hearing this ocean swell
sailors fly by wave to the 9th sign

Hi.



Î̝͎̪̮̣͎͈̮͖͈̼͕̞̠ͭ̍̓́͛ͣ͠͝ͅn̫̭̹̼̰͇̱̠̠̐̾ͨͦͪ̓̎̅̌ͬ͌̀ͦ̚͟͢ͅ­̭͉̲̱̙̼͎fͫ̆̐̾̂̃ͯͯ͌͑̄̌̀̅͂̔̋̀͘͏͎͇̭͓̜i͈̮̞̙̭͖͇͇̝̗͈̜̽̓̾ͪ͛̿͂ͯ͂̇̌ͣ̓ͦ̿ͮ̈͘͘­̗̤̞͈n̷̷̡̠̘̘̦̬̣̺̟͖͍ͮ̾͂̈́͟͜ĭ̙̳̩͓͕̍̃̌͂͋ͪ̂ͧ̓ͨ̉ͨ͌ͨͤ̈̚͟͜͝t̵̴͖̣̳̤̊̈̎ͥ͊́e­̛̺̭͚̻̠̞̙͍̞͚͉̝ͨ͑̉ like a Shepard’s tone.
      
   
    Passionate like a Shepard's SON.

Intricate like a l̀e͊ͧ̓͛̑ͦ̃͠o͐ͭp͒͢à͢r͒́ͬ̅ͣͤd̑̍̿ͤͮsͦ̋ ̊̈́̀ͯ͐̅́tongue.

[[God said to me]]:

Work under the light of e̴͏ff͠ort͞ SON

You cannot break the stone without the Wind and the Ocean.

So we wander back into the liquid crystaline vision
Waves wander and ponder up through and fill my being
We release the storm my drips speaking.

But I can't hear cause there's still Too Many Lights.


Easily distracted
by how others say
"stay away from illicit people ..."
Illicit people ...?
More like
people illicit

[!?meaning?!]

formed inͧ̒͂ͭ s͑͆͒ͯͪ͊̚tͩͩ̂ͬͬͬ̌e͆̏͗̽e̚ṕ͒l̅ͮͤͧ̉̈ẻ͋̈́ͨͪ̓sͤ̆̍ͥͮ ̉̓̚

Responses from the ghost markers
self-induced parasites better host dollars people!

FC*K that!

>NO MORE BEING SILENT MY LOVE <
-Just watch and listen-

Tectonic plates shift
when I talk back

Demonic cosmic rift silent
when I talk rap

people never seem to mind
unless you say I did that

But you better believe
This ***** not much more than a formality.
Fancy phantasm shorn from reality .
Never base your life in a fallacy.
No waste your life chasing the phallus see?


L̎̒i͐ͤv̡e̓ͪͪ̔̾ͤ ͥm̓̐ͨ̑̈̄҉a̎g̒̽̍͛̽iͩͩ͑͟c̎ͬ̏̕ ̡̂ͫ̒̊ͧͪ͆
Like Harry Potter,
I always catch the snitch
end the game break my fist͆̓̽..̔͌̓͏.̛̾ͩ̒ͣ

So few leave this life of crime
now I teach yoga
super stack your spine
till that ***** aligned  
so try and find me
I’m in orbit right outside the mind b.

To look up my next move in the dictionary
doesn’t make it a **** move, this is :

"My **** is hairy, I let it out at night like Bigfoot
and its OH so scary!"

Now WHATEVER YOU believe .̔͌̓͏.̛̾ͩ̒ͣ
.͆͊̚҉̦̝̪͈̗̝.̜̭͔̖̲̓̍̈́͗̉̽
.͆͊̚҉̦̝̪͈̗̝.̜̭̓̍̈́͗̉̽
I’m married to my Wife,

my Diction,

God and Mary.
Easter EGG???????????????????????????????

I'll ask of the berserks, you tasters of blood,
Those intrepid heroes, how are they treated,
Those who wade out into battle?
Wolf-skinned they are called. In battle
They bear ****** shields.
Red with blood are their spears when they come to fight.
They form a closed group.
The prince in his wisdom puts trust in such men
Who hack through enemy shields.
A skaldic poem composed by Thórbiörn Hornklofi in the late 9th century in honor of King Harald Fair-hair and his berserker warriors and one of the earliest accountings of berserkers. Translation from R.L. Page Chronicles of the Vikings. Toronto: University of Toronto Press 1995, 109.
KateKarl Jan 2019
All that lies here are my bones,
A wooden box, this new gravestone.
My mind is left where it was born;
Go to my bookshelves when you mourn.
Epitaph for a creative writing course. Any criticism welcome!
gabrielle Jan 2019
the field full of
beautiful grass

cold wind and
cold stones

a lot full of glooom
the lot, full of tombs

sudden revelation
of you are gone

after all weary fights
and my fault insight

i haven't said sorry
and you were gone fully

in the warm heavens and clouds,
my soul is within you.
"you were mine"

wait for me, i'll be with you again, someday.
Brandon Conway Aug 2018
The green field I used to frolic and play
Now shrouded in darken clouds greyed
With soil planted with nothing but graves
Vine and stone tablets with epitaphs engraved
Kim Jun 2018
Entangled in an ivy mass,
Surrounded by the lush long grass,
Some purple flowers show their heads,
Inbetween eternal beds.

On the graves, people weep,
On the people deep in sleep,
People live and people die,
After death it's here they lie.

Trust the dead and do not fear,
Their hearts and souls are always near
They do not live deep underground,
It's inside you that love is found.
oddmanout Apr 2018
There you are in marble
all that may be left

****.

I thought we had more time
I knew you held on
The last thing I said to you was on the phone
doubt you even heard it

They talked about God at the service
how you're with him now
your pain is over
and you're happy
God loved you all along

Then why did he forsake you
for years of pain and torment
your own body treasonous
deteriorating from inside out
Should I thank God
or be mad he let you through it
Better minds than mine
have never figured that out

I got a tattoo of your initials on my ribs
I know you hated em
but I figured you'd make an exception
I miss you

But at least I have you in marble
the dates you came and went
and a nice little poem
of how you're safe now
Julia Apr 2018
Alone on a Friday night,
I sit at home,
wondering where you are
wondering who you’re with,
since no longer is it me.

It’s been a few months now
from when we said goodbye,
for the last time.
Remembering your hand in mine -
the kisses you gave my lips
if I talked to much.
You were always good at
shutting me up.

But then, I remember,
how I let you in
let you see this naked heart
only to leave it in the winters air.
I push you out, I try to let go;
why am I letting myself hold onto
a skeleton in a closet
that doesn’t deserve to be resurrected.  

No longer do I grieve  
over the death of you.
You buried yourself deeper
when every “I love you” became cold,
flowers were sent as an apology,
and promises turned empty.

No longer do I cry your name
late into the night
to keep the side of the bed warm;
I like sleeping alone.
For it is better than being in love
with a gravestone.
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