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Mnemonic devices,
Order entices.
Yet, what drives the daily thirst?
What directs what we hunger for?
Strange tonics,
Concordance appetizes.
But who bottles what they distill?
What facts in feed do we receive?
Rough slough,
Sloppy knowledge.
Mayhaps, where few are not free pastures?
What cages themselves in self-battles?
Petty sows,
Birds that cuckoo.
i find the crossroads
i have a tendency to
walk into
during times like these

it’s empty here
except for the invading gusts
of mannerless winds
that don’t say “excuse me”
or “please”
as they pass me

i await for a vehicle
my preference would be
an expensive one
like a really nice rolce royce
to make this quick
painless but pricey

i can feel weight on my chest
about such a lightness in my life
i have people
but there’s this recurring
lack of soul
that makes me feel
ancient and aimless
like lost history
that everyone is familiar with
but no one truly knows
anything of

i feel like the homeless men
i pass by on 137th street
they go by unseen
might as well be six feet deep
in a cemetery

i observe my helpless will
crave for the ability to slow
my mothers inevitable aging
as it shuffles through files
and memory after memory
in search of some hidden
ancient
wisdom to stop time

my dwindling creations
collect dust
in a digital shelf
while i deal with the rust
i’ve allowed to form
in my bank accounts
credit score
and stomach

there’s so much maintenance
towards the inflammation
in my life
that there’s no more antibodies
for anything else
so much struggle to hold
this boulder up over
my neck
which makes me strong
but this constant sweat
leave no more water
for tears

i don’t crave opportunity
i don’t need a friend
i love my lover and my mother
but they ain’t meets to an end
of the never ending fear
of simply not being enough

i crave release from my own responsibilities
i find this tug of war between
sacrificing the self
to overcome it
in order for the greater goods to be
fulfilled
as well as this death of my ego
while
making sure my soul
is still grounded
to be *******
exhausting

i crave a pasture

allowing me to float over the singular blades of grass
allowing me to become
weightless
in the face of all this
pressure

i remember being a boy
and in my island the hills
and mountains and beachfronts
have their own voices

i remember distinctly climbing highly
or swimming far out
or exploration between the tree lines
to be a form of soothing
not therapy
but rather warm rejuvenation

where i wouldn’t think about
my finances and debts
or my relationships and ties to
characters i love
the ones i tolerate
and the ones i’m trying to love
i wouldn’t think about
stability or a consistent routine and schedule

i’m all grown up now
and my creativity compared to
the vast
and endless universes
i’d hide in
as a boy
are a forest fire
compared to my candle
at twenty three years old

i lay here silent
in the middle of this crossroads
waiting for that kid
to come hold my hand and teach me something
because he had the right answers
or at least better answers
he cared about the right things
he genuinely saw
the divinity
in all
and now i’m old enough
to struggle finding the silver lining
in anything

i remember being so creative
that life was almost missing suffering

where the lack of it wasn’t even anywhere near my awareness
and i wasn’t anywhere near as brave
or strong
or wise

it’s almost like the more i know
the older i get
the more i go through
and the more bills i pay
the less of a human being
i become

where the
****
is this **** car
already

hurry up

-melancholicreator
i crave a pasture
Blind Eye Jan 2020
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https://dennislaj.wixsite.com/website
Rachael Anderson Dec 2019
I know not if those eyes are green or blue;
I only know they hold pastures and oceans.
Warm, lush pastures that draw me by their comfort,
In which I sit and speak and soak and rest.
Tossing, swelling oceans where my power
Is forsaken in the never-ceasing waves of beauty.

You claim they boast a tint of gray, but I must disagree
The gray appeared when those eyes began reflecting me.
JT Nelson Dec 2019
Pasture hills sloping
Green blades rushing
Wave after wave flowing

Falling and rising
Following
Chasing

Sailing straight
Clouds ignoring
The grounded race below
I love the sight of the wind whipping through the grass on a hilly pasture
Logan Oct 2018
A boy’s bloodshot eyes
guide his body
atop the dry
mountain pasture

The daylight wanes
A mass of tents flank him

He shakes his head
with a wince
to the sight
of a tent that he calls home

The daylight wanes
A mass of tents flank him

The words welcome home
are scribbled
on a cardboard doormat
with permanent marker

The daylight wanes
A mass of tents flank him

Looking at the vast open land
below, he sees



    billowing clouds form shadows
    that undulate across the terrain 



The daylight wanes
A mass of tents flank him

He rests his head that night
feeling peace
knowing
this too shall pass
b Oct 2018
i might leave a greener pasture
for a field of blue roses.
and some time spent
on the coast.

these hands were built
for bricks and
failure. made for
disappointment like a
bowling alley gutter.

dont even get me
started on the rest of it.
i have too much of a
bad thing and we are all
children at play.

i am known to leave
a good thing behind.
but ive never had
a great thing before,
so im not sure
how to feel.

i could start softening
the mortar again,
or just suffer in silence.
Joanna Charis Aug 2018
Just like a wanderer lost
in the pastures of your soul;
Take this heart of mine——
it’s yours to keep and to hold.
Crystal Freda Sep 2017
She awakes
as the dawn nearly awakens
Rising above the river banks
the moon is slowly disappearing.

She walks on the pasture
watching the lake ripple
as the wind brushes against her
she looks to the sky.

A blue light sky
a color between dark and light
shines where the flowers lie
turned to periwinkle dandelions.

Her hand picks up the tips
as her breath touches the top.
Nearly brushing her lips
watching where the petals go.
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