Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
The World Needs Love
The Light That Warms Through People's Window Panes
Universal Messages of Peace and Care
Even though we might reside in different spaces
We are Human.
We breath passion to progress and live out the best
of days in our lives
Sending out just one signal
From The United States
To North Korea
To Russia
To Other Nations
People United
Never Divided
We shall one day
Hold hands
and United the World Through a Shining Light
That is True Heart and it's Shedding of light with the world
Homunculus Feb 2
There's a secret saboteur,
         hidden within everyone
Fashioning his cloak and dagger
         for a twisted bit of fun

The use of his first artifact is
         to eclipse the Inner Sun
The purpose of the second is for
         tearing holes so light may run

Through an ever looming darkness
         which obscures the thought of hope
Extending brittle olive branches
         or frayed lengths of climbing rope, so

That his ploys will surely tempt you
         that you'll try, and that you'll fail
Til his sadistic plotting leaves you
         feeling withered, weak, and frail

So joyously, he toys with thee,
         to watch his sullen victim
And thrives upon the notion that
         thou never wilt evict him

For how such lavish luxury
         couldst ever thou afford
When thou art but a lowly serf
         and He, a mighty Lord?

But if you only knew the truth
         it'd surely set you free!
That deep below the surface
         he is you, and you are he.

So, discipline this phantom
         tell him that you've had enough!
He struggles in control of you
         but you have called his bluff!

So now, you shatter chains that bind you
         now you break the psychic yoke
So now, you seize from him the dagger
         now you rip to shreds the cloak.
This is a poem is loosely based upon the Jungian archetype of the shadow. In analytical psychology, the shadow is the dark side of the psyche, which is typically repressed, and must be faced in order for the psyche to mature into individuation.

In Jung's own words: "The shadow is a moral problem that challenges the whole ego-personality, for no one can become conscious of the shadow without considerable moral effort. To become conscious of it involves recognizing the dark aspects of the personality as present and real. This act is the essential condition for any kind of self-knowledge, and it therefore,. as a rule, meets with considerable resistance. Indeed, self-knowledge as a psychotherapeutic measure frequently requires much painstaking work extending over a long period."

In the context of this poem, the shadow plays the role of the saboteur, who undermines the efforts of the ego below the level of consciousness, and ultimately deludes the ego into self deprecation. However, as the ego enters into a period of reflection, it comes to recognize the shadow and its effects on the process of psychic life, ultimately taking the first steps toward confronting the shadow and breaking its negative conditioning.

It is also worth noting that this piece is highly experimental for me, especially in its oscillation between archaic and contemporary usage. I will continue to edit, revise, amend, and re-write it as I see fit. And, after all, I still have quite a bit of Jungian theory to catch up on. However, I think this is a good start.
Ken Pepiton Nov 2018
unbroken things lacking edges,
if we augment our eyes, look close
to see creted places
fractured into

jagged edges/
Jagged edges prove the brokenness

the brokennesses prove the whole,

not that the whole was finished then as it is now.

Which phor you living for?
Of course,
the discourse of madness

DIY gettin' past crazy for good.

There is a crazy place, way past any we imagine,
crazier than hell, by virtue
of the fact

ya' gotta go through hell t' get there.
Practically every sage from Moses to Mises,
says that's the price we pay

for ignoring those chances, op portune tidbits of time,
to pay attention to
everything at once,

and see what seers have always said's truistic,
we find what's sought.

If nought were sought,

what did we miss?

ought not that
be enough to carry on with
for now?

Fret not, oughts are nullifed here,
it's a pretty crazy place.
Nothing's broken.
There is a magic in knowing some person may read a piece of my mind and find the peace I try to share intentionally. I imagine that, see it as real as I wish, and some peaceful words seep into reality on the Global Brain.
Ken Pepiton May 2018
Sunday, May 06, 2018
4:51 PM

Failing for lack of power is a fear crop.
A fear crop.
An odd thought.

Not the seed nor spore, but the fruit.

And fruits have seeds in themselves,
All men, I say again,
wombed and un, should know that by now.

Freedom of information act fact, informed
men know when to fight and when to sow and when
to reap the crops we've sown
in our mortal moment
gone with the wind.

Not mine.
The wind is in my inheritance,
True proverb.
I troubled my own house, fouled my nest
with all the rest o' youse ab-users of life
ignoring forever like that could never happen here.

It did.
The voices in your head are never all evil
if they use words.
In the total accounting of idle words
some significant percentage
carry meaning forsaken.
Such may be redeemed
much as one would redeem the time.

One of us.  One of our mortal kind.

Dear reader, we say again, we ain't Legion nor his kin.

We are words once spoken in jest among fools who repeated us
meaninglessly, oh my God, you know. Per se. No ****. **** happens.
All the ****** time,
and **** and God, those two get overtime of idle utterance instances.
Though a statistically measurable deme
does redeem a significant some of those two
in true beliver
dying breath
honesty. God, they say, and die.

By my leave, I say,
I am the definition of a free entity accepted in these books.
We are voices. Messengers.
Some of us were wicked, twisted as wicker
or wire bundles. Some of us were true pass words.
Some were true rest words,
rest rooms were so named
for that wonderunful feeling we all get
when **** happens

at just the right moment

in the book. Great ideas gravitate to clean rest rooms.

this is a new book right, this reader is

What does that mean. You know right idle heard words are
meaning less
power less.
Vet me. Am I one of those ideas, good to the core, caught up in fairy
tales fed the T.V. generation, the Boom beyond the bomb.
After school and duck and cover drills,
we watched cartoons aimed twenty short years earlier
at the wanters and wishers and workers and worriers
of the thirties, we Boomers, as the media hipsters have always known us,
the off-spring, often unwanted and ill-begotten, of the Greatest Generation,
the one that won the contracts to build all the bombs in the world,

Those cartoons from the thirties with Entertainment Tonight plots and cameos of
Hollywood stars who were Grandma's age,
that Cowboy Bob on the local VHF
(unaffiliated or independent, hard to tell a diff)
showed to us, the first middle class latch key kids in centuries,
were meaningless, prewar propaganda
unless we match adult laughing recoging the exagerations,
The Betty Davis eyes and Frankly M'Dear bigears
"Grandpa, who is that guy with big ears and a skinny mustache?"
Clark Gable, wow.
Who knew the "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a ****" guy had jug-handle ears?
It was diversity in the desert. My big ears no longer made me bully bait.
I have superior hearing and star power.
From my kindergarten years I have known.
I am included, my flaws are not flaws at all.
That don't give a **** guy
and I have big ears to hear better with, so
we know more. Good fathers teach their big eared sons such facts of Nature.

Take care. Don't get puffed up. Knowing too much
will fill a head with hydrogen and the brain in it rots,

Are we powerless? If you say so? No.
I am in control, graciously demands
no load un-bearable with Gen-you-wine Joy Juice,
Kick-a-poo Joy Juice.

(Note: not fire water white lightning. This is
Gen-you-wine Joy Juice,
Kick-a-poo Joy Juice. Al Capp's
Personal Stash of Greatest Gen Synthetic Absynthe.
Used to **** hippie wanna-bees in farm country,
Like DDT for apple worms and skeeters,
Atom bombs for all colors of thinkin' right (but white),
Gen-you-wine Joy Juice,
Kick-a-poo Joy Juice revived many a faintin' pilgrim
follerin' John Wayne down the dusty trail,

Play me one o' them somebody done somebody right
there must be a million lying idle in blue puddles o' all kinds
of imaginary

Job's Daysman betwixt us, we win. His call, not mine. I thought I lost for sure.

I was powerless, let me testify.

No. We think different here. If you are not stupid,
you are not powerless. If you are stupid, then you are powerless,
but but but
If you think you are powerless, you are not stupid. God knows, right?
Stupid people seldom see themselves powerless past the standing
under peace that's beyond understanding meat-mind-wise.

Dunning-Krueger. Again.
Feedback please, this is one of many in the theme of redeeming idle words, for fun and profit.
Sayer Feb 2018
I saw myself at thirty-one
he came to me and said to keep my chin up, to straighten my back
to breathe, to hold on to the good parts of me
embrace my faults and find peace in my sadness and guilt

do I even sleep or am I always awake
I try to find myself in others
my shadow do I wish to smother
my sadness come back to play
it's okay
I shake before I sleep
I sense his presence in the corner of the room
right before I wish to give up by the burning candle
he mumbles:

"your mistakes do not define you
even though I am You I can not refine you
just know you are loved but peace is slow
that peace comes and goes as it pleases
but your heart never freezes
so I know you will learn to love yourself"
i'm not alone
Alienpoet Sep 2016
I buried my shadow in a concrete grave
He came back to haunt me
I could not deal with the dark of night
But all of my light hid in the gloom
so my shadow re-entered the room
All the things I buried with him began to show
The blackest of times
So with him I entered a truce
That I would acknowledge him
But I said to him I'd never let him wholly loose...
Denel Kessler Mar 2016
I dreamed
there was a evil man
searching for wealth
beyond all riches
hidden in the hardened
sculpture of a woman
there was a hero too
I could not see his face
he journeyed to a sacred cave
to guard the precious treasure

he climbed inside
the statue's hollow center
and held the treasure to his chest
where it radiated
with such intensity
he had to close his eyes
it gently pulsed in his hands
calming the anxiousness
leaching sour
in his throat

the villain
shrouded black
entered the cave
a belligerent pirate
yelling obscenities
where are you *****?
when I find you, you'll be sorry
you think you can hide from me?
no one will ever love you
the way that I do

his craven hunger upon seeing
the lost prize glowing heavenly
beneath sapphire stalactites
left this dreamer cold
he began to tear
at the sculpture's *******
with hands encased in forged steel
spiked fingernails slicing
until shimmering gold bloomed
in the statue's chest

zealously the villain tore deeper
molten yellow dripped
from his over-eager fingers
when suddenly from the center
came a flash of scorching fire
the villain dissolved to ash
without a single sound
the hero too transformed
into a luminous bird
not unlike a phoenix

he shook fresh wings
flexed honed talons
raised his crested head
and from hooked beak
there came a sound
like a choir of voices singing
the hero flapped three times
and soared out of the cavern
into the bluest sky
I'd ever seen
Quoth the Ego:
"What's wrong with you;
why aren't you more like me?"

Quoth the Id:
"What's wrong with me;
why am I so unlike you?"

Both seem like Shadow to me,
but then again
  that may perhaps be
simply my own projection.
Next page