Falsely accused
Of selling my cards in Macdonalds.
It was misunderstood.
I  was ganged up
Stories made up.
By people in the queue.
Or was it even true.
But I know the truth
Are you depressed
Write it Out
Do you feel lonely
Write it Out
Do you have pain
Write it Out
Devote all emotion to writing
Write Write Write
Don't hold back
Scream with written words
Disclose every feeling and thought
Empty your heart to pen and paper
Rip off thé emotional scab
Allow that wound to erupt like a volcano
Burst into words of flame
Let all the infected lava boil out ... EXPLODE
Write it out ... Shout it out ... Spit it out ... Get it out
Knowing that you will be the only reader of your writing
Say what you think ... What you feel
Not what you think another might want to hear
Write until you are exhausted ... Nothing left to say
Read it several times ... Read until you tire
Take a deep breath and set it to flame
Then let it GO
Written by Sean Achilleos 17 July 2018©
Amazon: Sean Achilleos 'An Affair with Life' The Philosophical Poems of Sean Achilleos
YouTube: Sean Achilleos

Sean Achilleos' Music is also available on the following platforms:
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Sean Achilleos' Book 'An Affair with Life' is also obtainable from the following platforms:
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Words, while being paths of study,
Can't lead to oneself, for the intellect
Can't lead, as life doesn't follow.  
The corporate structure's convolution's
Devolutionary direction differs.  Stray
Not from your heart path: you being who,
What, where, when, how, and sometimes
Why, forever asked, and unanswered.
Viva la Evolucion, viva la Green Party.
To walk in seasons is to question,
A flower is opening.

Ooh...this... just an amazing grace note
     recalling how I felt like an ass
and wanna toot 'bout me getting steered
     (as a heavy metal kid Rocker)

     toward befriending a brass
see gutsy, horny,
     and MainLine snooty upper class
action button down

    (grace fully slick as vaseline), airily glinting
     forcibly hawked, laundered, and pawned
     by the instrumental
     Mister Deangelo O'Donnell, High School

     (mud flapping, ornery hearing,
     and quid juicing Ska Welch ching)
     music teacher oompah crass
tone deaf when aye trumpeted desire

     to master the Coronet
analogous to pursing lips
     blowing tightly held grass
blade between two abetted,

     cinched fastened opposable thumbs,
which tooting a supposed aural aphrodisiac
     to attract a zaftig well proportioned lass
     (ideally shaped like a miniature Tuba)

with one steel funnel like mouthy mass
that probably explains, how such a gal
     could easily emulate
     facial pucker earning pass

to illustrious honorable first chair
and blasts gratitude akin
     as Gabriel would declare
heavenly expressions conducting

     angels thru atmospheric ether
alighting on mortal ushering melody
     with rites of harkening
     springtime Renaissance Faire

solar rays golden raiment
     splays rainbow fragments off
     beveled, bellowed, and
     bedecked polished flare

audiological sound waves trick
     saw toothed reflected
     silhouetted orchestral shadows
to dance as conductor's baton gear
musicians horns ensemble
     epochal feast to hear.
Prom night,
Fun, too much to drink,
A quickie in the car,
I got stuck.
Both young,
Barely out of school,
Long way to go,
I, a mistake.
Tears and frustrations,
Family discussions,
Keep  or abort,
Final decision,
I, out.
What about me?
They never asked,
I could have been cute as a fawn,
Bright as a new dawn,
I would have loved the world,
Many stories I  had heard.
Now, I will be gone,
Not to be born,
Before it's too late.
Late - ly
I can feel the i - tch, I know:
It's preposterous.

Wh - y is it, that I
never can de - cide
who it is I am, with
con - fi - dence?

Modern tools aside,
I still take the r - ide
taken near distantly by
my an - ces - tors.

Late - ly
I can feel the i - tch, I know!
It's preposterous.

Now, kids, please listen
as you read my voice
how you like. How you like.
I thought I would die by
the time I was twenty five
at fifteen -- but look at me.
Now, kids, I'm touching
twenty nine with a cer -
tain newfound confidence.
I survived the prescription pills,
the gender redefinition, as well
as the hormone therapy, and I
want to tell you that I,
believe in you. I believe in you.

Cel - ebrate all of your pain
at your whim and as you live,
well, the pain will become
your friend and your impetus.

Lately, I can feel the itch.
I know it's preposterous,
but I must continue to
explore and change
unless I aspire to
placidity, and I
don't-- in fact
I never will.
Once more, kids, with confidence.
Misfits, hold out, survive.
You're important.

Why should I even get up?
I know I'm meaningless.
I know life is a pointless endeavor.
I know I'm unlikable, unloveable, and pathetic.
So why do I get out of bed?
There is no reason.
I should just stay right here and never leave.
Left with the only person who can hurt me now.
But even I don't want to stay here completely.
I'm still telling myself,

"elizabeth, you need to get up."
Daisy P Jul 7
there is one thing that I know for sure
and it is this:
my hands will never stop reaching for you even though I know full well that they will never touch you

can you teach me how to let go?
I don’t know why they just expect you to know how to move on
sara Jul 5
It became a long
and drawn out mess.
You push me back, I'd pull you in
just to counteract the loneliness.

I don't really want you,
I'll confess.
I just want things that I'm not meant to;
the feel of forbidden sweetness.

I will wear a little less,
each time you say no more;
just as you feel like you forget,
you'll smell the smoke beneath your door.
Sorry if this offends anyone

but just so you know he deserves it x
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