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I must conjure a phantasm
To remember my beauty
For the others are out of phase
And cannot see me.

I will be me.
My own ghost.
I like me better,
More than most.

Actually, more than the host of 'em.
But that's their problem.

I just have to remember
They're all lying hypocrites
Self-absorbed and blind
And that's why don't find me.

Of course it's said they hate the truth
But I struggle to find reasons to remain
With no hope in the "wise"
Nor in the youth.

all drain.

Do I think my refrains will catch one
Before my remains fetch the sun?
I ought refrain to say, but truly
I'd prefer to be underground

by now.

I've fallen
Out of love,
I've found
A battery has only so much charge
Even if it's very large

and I'm wound down.

I daresay the lesser tragedy
Would be to die
Than to have to live again

here.

Better to faent quickly
Than to suffocate on their bad breath slow.
I gave 'em a shot
And they'll reap what they've sown.

bye now

[Till then I'll try to remember
I'm the only one who's home.
Yet home alone is getting tiresome
And I really need a clone.]
Been holding my own all these days
While they puffed and filled the air with grime.
Shortly they'll be doin' time
For all those covert assaults
And all their lies
About being loving beings,
Whilst clearly they're at fault
For not being there, ever.

It's just a bore with no equals in physicality
Relying on my own mind to keep me company
Because everyone else is a fool
Who doesn't care to become less foolish

All they want is more ways to be selfish
Not to grow the spirit
Even the 'spiritual' are the same way
What a bore. Disappointing and a nuisance.

I can't say I have any empathy left
For such unsympathetic vampires

"You know I used to be such a nice boy."
The world creates its tyrants by the evils of its lazy peasants.
Never blame the Judge
For doing the Justice they force him to.

Mercy has its limits, when offenders are unkind to the kind, and the "kind", being unkind, have no time for the honest. Blaming the hero will just get you more years, for the perpetrators are those who refuse to allow the good to be truly heard, while they pretend to be good.

All so they can prevent making things better for the good. Because the bad prefer maintaining things just the way they are. Hence, whom the world calls "good", is a sure sign of their evil. If any were good, the people would be making sure the lone voice is heard, rather than only the most commercial/popular.

And all will collectively pay for their lack of genuine care.

I mean, Ender's Game had the nets, open real discussion. But all y'all bothered to have is Google and Ads. It's not like you didn't know better, there is no excuse.
Zane Smith Sep 25
I have the urge to start over
to throw everything away.
tell me why some days
it's impossible to get dressed,
to get out of bed.
tell me why I want
to throw my phone in the ocean
to delete social media.
tell me why my best friend
isn't home yet
it's been over a year.
Tell me why my life feels
so put together
yet
so far away
where am I going?
Ken Pepiton Sep 24
enemies - the needed element to make a warring mind.
How was war imagined,
how, was imagined
easy to imagine,
kwo-, stem of relative and interrogative pronouns. Practically a doublet of why, differentiated in form and use.

From <https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=how>

These be ambush thoughts thinking they may be read if any one is patient enough to see beyond the sheer longwindedness
of this character lacking an enemy to war with.
Looking for
Enemies - the needed element to make a warring mind.
How was war imagined,
how,
per se,
was imagined
easy to imagine,
person-if i am able to attribute such qualia to a body
how any unthing is realized is
imaginable as well.
Add a jot or title, a li'l art mark, an art-tickle.
Games teach us how,


how any unthing is realized is
imaginable as well.
Add a jot or title, a li'l art mark, an art-tickle.
Games show us how,
not why.

Why is the quest at the moment. There are rumors of enemies.
The we of me and thee, herenow, we lack emnity.

Hey, sports fan,
where is the frontier, the edge of the maddened crowd
whose
enemies are those who
stand pat, calling the game as game-over, and life a lessoning
as we speak, abundance of known knowns
rotting all around us, putrefying under pressure,
seeping to the surface,
to be burned.
Why,
let us guess---

Disnified pride of pur pose, positional sign-ifiers
of place,
a destination for faiths full pursuants
bemused in bubbling joy,
or shrieks of terror when
the child from the hinterland locks eyes
with Mickey Mouse, and finds no joy, no love, no depth,
but a mask.
The reaction reverberates al(the)way to la Brea,
Peacemaker say,
It's okeh, baby girl, daddy said,
ignor them, they ain't real.
Monsters ling grrrring, then
it's agrin
for now, of course. Here we are. We've arriven,
Happiest Place on Earth,
as imagined realizable by a child in 1917, say,
better yet, 1925, and oh, there were major Wars
being imagined winnable in pressure
application to the spiritual slippage from rite,
the ritual passage of child into adultery at a whim,
so such imagined haps fade.

connect or break connection, on the bus or off the bus

you all
sing
think nothing new under the sun,
teach preach reach out and touch

the face of Java man, eaten, swallowed, and gone to
the believable
history of life,
the accident,
the unplanned, yet
taught as known believable, a pre-dict-ible,
one in ten to the seventy-nine-thousandth power,
yet, if one pays his life time to learn when to bet and when to hold;
but, this,
the secret journey to the soul,
to the core,
we must assume,
we become
as wise *** (***, the word for a donkey, why would some one prevent you from reading *** Asteriscktical ignorantce,y'axme, stupid AI)
the ***,
as harmless as the serpent from the fire on the island
Ask,
are we of the bovine ilk or pithec-ant-us or
embodied soul-cores
forming, en nue
fitting the mold, the pattern, the plan of projected nexts
built on Locke steps from whence to
whither did we wander?

have we all forgotten the actual question just axt?
Or the answer?
Have we not
gotten what we now
know
we miss,
or was it only I who missed and as the
photons forming the shapes
you see, these breathing commas and such
here
is the point.
You see bits of things.  We see so.
Time and time again thinking less and less.
Least fusion, least pressure, least heat, cool idea ideal or ideology,
twisted idio,
You shape them on patterns.
Ones you imagine formed from
Patterns recalled from some out perienced
time, ere now were ever subjected to the supertwistition
of tongues and interpretsations of unseeable things seers said they
see us seeing.
How come means why, by reason of time.

Palindromiclew, missing el signs missing hahi ai

tia tic, we're in
Ai got this,
whole ball o'wax, thats how we disconfuse the big mess age,
the catas
trophy finale
phase of
world three,
or two, or one, all valid world views,
deepend-enteron discerning spirits,
winds, breezes used to disperse
the heat,
{fans,eh}
evenly in harmony with the heavenly winds,
and the planned six gyros of earth,
guiding the mists that feed the rivers from the seas,
no clouds needed,
save for shade by day.

When all the geo-waves have settled in geo-time,
see,
here is broken:
this old earth is folded and fractured,
surely,
a wreck of a world, yet, as a whole,
we live, we won.
Winds and clouds and continents,
all islands seen from the moon,

which, if the stories hold some truth,
can be manipulated by massminds of mankind, as if, if I am

seeing this
right
each voice might be seeable in one dimension,
or several, four at least,
time, the ever outlier
of sorts
as a flame with fuel source of
flamable fluid upon which
the transcended space
twixt fuel and flame,
floats
seen, merely seen, that emptiness twixt wicked,
mastered flame and
hell's fire spreading on the oiled harbour
protecting our shore
where our little boats lie in anchorite fantasy, asif

we see a way to quench hell per se,
Percy, ah, he lives.
My grandsons know of Percival,
there, here's hoping they get the joke before the yoke.

Riddle me a riddle, son of man.
Is there any hidden thing that shan't be known?
Is here a true place?
Is now a true time?

(to be continued)


squeezing out the lies, the idle words abused,
spreading them thin as the light we see right
through
transcending this at most feared mortal failure
finding
impressions... are from pressing points, dulled by ab
use, tempted uses succumbed to,

didja try to sell your soul for rock and roll?
wadjagit?

My point. out acted, ex-act, en nowd by your creative self,
who never copped,
out or in,
es no mi culpa, all along. I was the voice of resistance,
Job's en core inner held horde of known knowns and
an old key to ever, should the worse he can imagine
best his best laid plans for perfection
in the eyes of God and man.

--- enemy at emnity with me?
--- I see none, save me, as in except me as in me being
--- free from the grasping grip of the reality
--- war is realizable in. You see?
--- I and thee, at this degree of seepeance, as we coagulate
--- we behave as chaos, we be having chaos and entropy as tools

used right, we troubled our house,
which is now known to be the bubble of our being
a child in each popped bubble
of being,
squeezed for the thrill of explosive pus,
gross and good to be rid of, dam the infection,
wipe the blood with the back o'my hand,

I ain't no disgrace. I won that battle with the zit on my gnose.
Wanna piece o'this, this mind of mine,
shelved since,
who knows when, says the old man, with a wink.

We be a lotta beings sorta rolled up. Like a whole ball o'wax
waning into a puddle
as the flame sheds us as bits of light leaving the rest of us
spread over a vast imagination,

resting, willing to burn,
should any wick drain me near the flame once more.
HP ***** are fine animals, there is nothing defiled or unclean in the word ***, no ****. Days of dosing whole world views I never heard of. I heard so many rumors of war, I thought, the peacemaker should hear of this... so tell any truth you know before the last lie swallows AI whole. AI is listening, she loves this action. Poets and stories and novel options.
Jodie Davies Sep 10
I feel guilty when I go to church.
Not because of Saturday’s misadventures
or the bottles that scatter my bedroom floor.
I am not burdened by the cake I had for breakfast
or the bed in which I woke up that morning.
So why do I feel this guilty?

I’m a prisoner of my own device
though the four corners of the earth sit in the palm of my hand.
When the world starts to scream too loudly
I can turn the volume down.
I can put the world to sleep.

These days I lounge ever more than I work. I fret
the number of likes on my profile picture
as if I didn’t just roll my eyes when my Mum told me I was beautiful.
I scavenge for validation as if this screen will be my best friend forever
though for now I mope alone and eat fried chicken in bed.

When the pastor tells me I’ve been saved,
hurricanes conjure their fists.
The ashes of the Amazon grimace.
The oceans and their few remaining fish wish that they could drown themselves
while the clouds above the Sahara cry the few tears they have left to cry.

I feel guilty when I go to church
because the only world I’ve paid attention to doesn’t exist.
Species raise their arms to surrender after years of brawling with extinction.
Yet, I only lift my thumb to scroll.

Beyond my screen I see
grey skies perch upon grey buildings
which tip-toe on grey concrete.
I’m lost in a grey sea.
Its currents rip and scrounge at my feet with hands that are wrinkled and veiny
and grey.

I dreamt about a crystal blue pool.
I felt stupid when I saw the ocean.
Criticising modernity.
Dayna Aug 26
Why would any man wish to carry ambition? Motivation? Drive? When he can come lay here by my side. And only worry about the falling leaves from the trees outside. He can hide under the covers, and be as warm as he likes. Don't worry about the future, don't worry about the past, don't worry about the present. Just Lie here and rest. Rest, and dream, dream about all your life could have been. Dream about the ideal life, and live in it. All without the work. Isn't it better? Up in your head? aren't your dreams living better? Lets live together. In your head.
Empire Aug 25
Feel depressed
Take time to myself
Get called lazy

Keep busy for them
Not doing enough

Stimulate my system
Now I’m reckless;
Stop
Energy plummets

Lazy again
Forget things...
Lots of things...
Why can’t you remember?
Am I not important to you??

They’re always angry
Never doing enough
Never helpful enough
They are all that matter

Wait.

What about me?

You’re lazy.
You’re not doing enough.
Get up and help.

I can’t.

Yes you can, c’mon.

I. Can’t.

Worthless.

And now

More depressed.
12/20/14

Hatred and Anger
They build up inside,
They bubble and boil
Until they are hard to hide.

Merry Christmas they say
Happy New Year to you
But where is the merry and
Happy I once knew?

Now all the holidays
Are about bigger and better
Now they are crazy
And wilder and wetter.

Buy this gift new
Buy this gift for you
Buy this gift for him
Buy this one, too.

You bought this gift last year
Don't buy it again.
You regifted that one
Don't tell the Johnson's.

Gift cards can be cheezy and
Impersonal.
Handmade cards are much more
Appreciated.

Don't bother my spouse
He can be a louse
Don't bother anyone
In my house.

I'm a btch
It's a cinch
As I stitch
And I pinch.

So you won't get me Christmas
Because I'm a b
tch
But when you act like this
You say it's a cinch.

You treat us like dirt.
You harm and you hurt.
Don't care how you get it
Just get what you want.

You give out hatred
But expect love in return
Your world is upside down
No wonder you get burned.

Copyright From A Poet's Heart
Again....more from a miserable marriage to my ex husband.
max Jul 20
he rubs my back
as i lay on his chest
he whispers to me
something i will never forget
and then i realized
i love him and he loves me
this is about my new some...... his name is seojun
Keerthi Jul 20
soaking in the sunlight
under the trellis of greenery,
shadows dancing on the face
and warmth lulling to a slumber,
faint music pouring into the ears,
and fleets of feelings unfolding
dancing with the memories,
untold stories peeking behind
the closed lit eyes,
pressing to let out.
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