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Jason Adriel Oct 18
i brought my Fear and Trembling to the hills
i don't want to think of the stacking bills
those trivial things no longer give me the thrills
or the quiet love that slowly kills

“...why bother remembering a past that cannot be made into a present?”

that line had me bent
all the things i thought i could mend
why must i fall towards the deep end

i must reflect upon what is past

but life must be lived forward...;
a poem on the quiet reflection i had in a train on the way home.
softcomponent Jul 2017
as the air slithers thru my barely-opened window,
and the lisdexamphetamine begins its pulsing thru
my veins, I think of my abrogation of poetry for
manic intellectual pursuit at the highest academic
degree. The pace of an angry, deletrious, passionate
mad gift of insanity that will always leave me with
un-relieved pressure in the mind, migrated to the
solar plexus, where it builds and builds and builds
until the steam must exit lest I explode in the trapped
heat and experience a heat-death perhaps not unlike
that predicted for our universe, billions of years from now.

And I asked myself a question I recognize someone has
already asked and answered for me.

"What is a poet?"

Hello?

I asked, "What is a poet?"

Soren Kierkegaard glances up from his study in the office
I've established for him in my mind. He repeats the question
for clarification, and declares:

*“What is a poet? An unhappy man who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music.... And people flock around the poet and say: 'Sing again soon' - that is, 'May new sufferings torment your soul but your lips be fashioned as before, for the cry would only frighten us, but the music, that is blissful.”
Katy Owens Sep 2014
Sometimes
I wonder
am I more saint
or sinner
Is it
self-preservation or
selfish and me-centered?

And how,
how can I know
when Your voice feels
so far off?

Am I saint
or sinner
self-preserving or
self-centered?

Your voice isn't sounding
all I hear is silence
And I beg,
I plead,
Lord,
am I a saint
or a sinner?

Sometimes I can't breathe
my soul
suffocating in
questions without answers

What
do you see, in me?
Saint
or a sinner?

Do I delight or
disappoint,
You and others with
this life I'm trying to live?

Questions
begging answers
can't rest until
they're found

Saint
or sinner,
self-preserving or
self-centered?

"God creates out of nothing. Wonderful you say. Yes, to be sure, but he does what is still more wonderful: He makes saints out of sinners."
― The Journals of Soren Kierkegaard
Terry Collett Jun 2014
Sonya spoke
of Kierkegaard.
I sat enthralled,
not by the Danish philosopher

or his philosophy,
but by her,
the way she sat
outside the Parisian café,

her long blonde hair,
her blues eyes
like deep fires,
awaking

my ****** desires,
the way she waved
her slim hand.
She was eating

her second croissant.
I liked the way
she licked
her fingers after,

each one
at least twice,
as if they
were small penises

waiting in turn
to be done,
one by one.  
She sipped her coffee,

licked her lips.
I studied
her small ****,
firm and tight,

waiting to be touched
or ******.
She spoke
of Kierkgeaard's books,

of the leap of faith.
I thought of her
secret garden
waiting to be dug

and ******.
I sipped coffee,
held it on my tongue,
around my mouth,

savouring it all,
the taste,
the warmth,
the slight bitterness,

sweetness,
each in turn.
She spoke of
Fear and Trembling,

Either/Or,
The Sickness Unto Death,
and other books
he'd written,

that Kierkegaard guy,
while I sat there,
drinking her all in,
hair,

eyes,
**** and hands
and fingers
licking and *******,

while sat dreaming
of bed and her
and digging
and *******.
A ****** ENCOUNTER IN PARIS IN 1973.
SL Weisend May 2014
To be born, is to emerge as a soul within a verse  

existing through eyes, ears, nose, and feelers.      
Persistent as the bindweed thriving in a blind spot
and the rat-fleas riding around in the cellar.
            
All life contains this soul, it’s in; the drumming and the drift,
the way one shifts to their feet when battling the throes,
and the persistence of plague, which
encodes each cell with a rhythm and a role.  
                                        
To drown in a river is to **** that portion of the river’s soul,
as there is no way; no lungs, no mouth
to resuscitate waters that can no longer flow.
The soul needs a body to show; the body needs a soul to breathe out

to be re-born, is to re-exist in recurse of a soul already given,
that is, unless, the soul has already been driven out.      

S.L. Weisend-  2014                      

— The End —