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I saw the most intelligent minds of my generation in front of me
     roar and speak their dynamo star speeches,
Dragging themselves to the top of academics working like
     supernatural machines through the poverty of night,
     fixing the tattered paper,
studied the cosmos vibrating and vomiting disgorged facts
     their blue and white skirts blinking across the
     school streets, contemplating ancient tragedies,
     publishing endless magnificent papers,
     about Shakespearean tragedies,
     among the scholars of war.
They sank all night into a their bleak brain of brilliance,
     riding trains to dusk of Sydney and chained
     themselves to their work.
But they floated in and sat through without protesting,
     listening to the hydrogen documentaries until
     the synagogue past three.
Memories of and anecdotes of school trail behind conversations of
     impulse and whatever hazy.
The shuddering noise the wheels, in drunkenness of the seventy
     hours jumping up and down of wondering where
     to go next, the empty museums remain free.
They meet boys yacketyakking, screaming, jumping down off roofs
     drinking, but they go anyway, with no broken hearts
     and lit cigarettes together in our cars at night,
     disappearing into the small town in the rain,
     lounged hungry through the scattered city.
These intellects who vanished into their trembling rooms, and
     shrieked in who let themselves hiccup trying to laugh
     but ended up sobbing to the dark haired naked girl on the
     Korean drama.
Idle as they sat on their bed, when their intellectual thread is
     shrewd optimum, they lost heir boy of three weeks
     because some sweetheart forgot to hand him
     a packet of cigarettes.
The million girls who went to my school were red eyed in the
     morning, but prepared enough to waitress Sunday
     afternoons, the girls would have their night cars, and
     I would have poems and catch a quick snatch of the sun,
     go to empty lot diners at Subway and movie houses
     with vast sordid films, hung out in basements open to
     nostalgic free lemonade and woke themselves up
     the next morning.
Inspired by Ginsberg's The Howl
A confident man feels not a need to speak
on all things with which he does not agree
Though in the proper time and place
he is not afraid to assert his way

And though his words at times cause spurn,
he will admit when they are out of turn
Fearing not the inevitable mistake,
but rather owning it too late

Caring and feeling without hesitation
and not for reciprocal adulation
Emotions are expressed appropriately;
either subtlety or rationally

As honest with others as with himself;
recognizing what he does and doesn’t do well
Claiming to know what he does know
and asks when he don’t

Pursuing tasks for their benefit and or joy
rather than status or fleeting ploys
Those latter things are often great fun,
but worry of them yields none

While in his mind there is good thinking,
he is more occupied with good acting
In order to have concerns of the ideological,
requires labors that are practical

On his confidence, he does not ponder,
as neither he or anyone wonders
of whether he truly possesses it.
We know it.
Anya Sep 14
What is being smart?
I've always wondered
Is it having innate talent?
Or being exceedingly knowledgeable?
Perhaps, having the skills to survive in one's society?
...
Is it a special skill?
Is it something that can be cultivated?
Is it limited to certain people?
...
So what is it?
...
...
...
I'd really like to know
Jack L Martin Sep 13
The sound waves that emanate
from one's throat and mind
echo about;
freely through space and time

Whether those sound waves
are received by
intelligent life
is the real mystery?!
Elizabeth Aug 24
And he talked as if when morning came the sun would no longer shine. The way he talked about life and everything in it made the stars twinkle in perfect moonlight. The way he spoke of the things he loved like they were childhoood dreams come true made my heart dance like a ballerina through the mountains of endless hopes and dreams. And on this night my wish came true, my wish came true that I would meet someone just like you, with a mind so freeing... so beautiful.
Take me on your wings
"I just spasmed
As my life force left me.
At a rate of 2.3 pictometers per femtosecond."

"I hide behind the tears
Of a pretentious moron
Who laments himself at
Every
Available
Opportunity"

"Your premise assumes
That writing poetry
Would mitigate my boredom."

"Doing things you do not enjoy
Will serve no purpose
Other than remind you of how bored you are."

"I feel my life force
Being sucked out of me
Minute
By
Minute"

"Each minute that I endure
The mind-boggling ennui
Is another brain cell
That commits suicide
In order
To save
Its self."

"I may have to resort to poetry soon."
These are his words, not mine.
all for you Apr 15
Him
he was remarkable
he was intelligent
he was kind
he was...the worst thing that ever happened to me
please get out of my life // love always
Cameiyah Sep 2017
She's beautiful
But...
It surpasses skin deep
Because its deeper than that

Poise
By the way she carries herself
Confident
Just observe her walk
Intellectual
Just listen to her as she talks

Her words flow together so smoothly
The tone of her voice shows so much serenity
As she uses her extensive vocabulary In the right context
You'd have to be lying if you didn't Find It attractive

Nobody's perfect, Not even the Perfectionist herself
She screws up every now and then
But...
She doesn't let that disrupt her Composure

Completely versatile, like she's her Own vixen
Creative in every way possible, She Expresses that with every chance she Gets
She's unforgettable

I mean how can you let yourself to forget her ?
Is it a good thing or bad thing that I write my poems in the same perspective every time ? or what ?
w y n n e Aug 2017
79
you don't need a boy who will call you beautiful
you need a man who will call you intelligent
a man who will tell your laugh is contagious
that you made him smile
that you have something to offer
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