Nothingness:
Nothing,
Non-Existence,
Infinite, Eternal black space stretching out
Beyond imagination.

Yet even Nothing is a Something
That Exists.
Even Nothing could create
The Big Bang.

Everywhere we look
Subatomic particles wink and blink
Into Being
Then vanish
To reappear.

We are never stable
Ever changing
In tune
With mathematical equations.

The wonder of it all.
Force, energy, matter
Incredible piles of rock
And clouds of gas.
Supersuns and bottomless black holes.
All indifferent to the fact of their own existence
Until Life appears
Perhaps inevitably
With minds to witness
These incredible happenings
That happen
Until the end of time
If time can end.

Paul Butters

A follow-up to my "Nothing" and "Existence" poems.

She was a wild fire, he was burning ice
frozen by the cold flames in her Eyes...
She was a sky, he was a cloud for the rain
always falling for her in a pleasure of pain...
She was a dream that robbed him of sleep
yet an illusive reality he couldn't grasp or keep...
a grape on a loose branch, he never stopped gaping
for he was no fox to start sourgraping...
she was a wave in an Ocean he'd never learn to surf
he was an incomplete circle, she was that better half...
She was his everything, but he said nothing
she lived gracefully, he died to say something
as she was a flying Eagle he'd never ceased to watch
and he was the same old tree hoping someday she'd perch...

Richard 5d

There was a glorious deer,
the deer thought he was a beautiful lion.
Some rainy day he was hungry,
he thought he could hunt weaker predator.
So he was waiting in a bush,
thinking about his enormous teeth in a fresh meat.
And then he saw hyena.
It was easy to catch for a lion,
he jumped from the bush,
the hyena was surprised.
But the deer believed.
He did it.
But differently.
The hyena jumped at him in the fight,
he jerked his head, the antlers penetrated.
Intestines burst from the belly.
And the blood on the tongue of the deer,
it gave him the feeling, feeling that something,
something is wrong with him.
It was not him, not his terrifying teeth,
he realised he is not the one who he thought he was.
And the love he felt for yourself changed,
it was unquenchable hate.
He is not fearsome lion,
he is just a harmless deer.
He hated his new appearance he realised he had.
He had done something terrible, he killed the predator.
The predator could have the family, friends.
And the killing deer is not a secret.
They will be looking for him.
So he hated his new self even more.
He was not able to do nothing brave.
And all he wanted to have, was love.
The same love he felt when he "was" the lion.
But now without mistakes like this.
But it looks to be impossible to love yourself again,
again with the view.
Hopefully, the hind he loves will help him to find it,
to find his lost love. To believe in yourself again.

Metaphorically I'm the deer. And this is the story.

I mean, I have never killed anybody, it just represents the situation. The reverse.

A sorcery
of flying
heels that
extol porphyry
that has
gemstone wheels
as topographic
glance never
enhance more
than now
this romance  
sweeter than
yore in
her parts
of bodily
desire ground
in philosophy.

Happiness is hard.
We project onto others
subjective pleasure.

"If we only wanted to be happy, it would be easy; but we want to be happier than other people, and that is almost always difficult, since we think them happier than they are."

-Charles de Montesquieu

we are all just tapping in
to our former genius
to reconstruct what life
has washed away.

musings from the acid riddled summer of 2010.

Pain prevented a normal departure,
Causing a delayed start in the race.

While the other runners were ahead,
Misery slowed down my progress.

When the athletes were moving with stride,
My pace was stalled as struggles mounted.

Challenging myself to complete the course,
No longer in a contest for time.

Trying to end despair on the track,
Attempting to sprint without discomfort.

Determined to reach the final destination,
Happiness prevailed as I crossed the finish line.

Seasons after seasons
you will spend your autumns
trying to seek answers
in fallen leaves
until one summer
when it’ll occur to you
that what you’re seeking
is not in the fallen
but in the falling.

Jack Mandala Jul 8

It was an overcast night. The Moon cast an illumination across the gray sky which created an unusual sense of contentment.

As I was dozing off on the back of the boat, I zoned in on the constant ripples of the bay, containing a zig-zagged reflection of the architecture posted above it.

It was consistent. The small waves. Some looked like they were constantly chasing the boat, but could never catch up.

This awakened my senses. It looked as if the other ruffles were trapped under the navy blue blanket, yearning to break through the film by gliding in arbitrary directions. It was as if God was attempting to divulge some enlightenment I desperately needed. It was as if I had some connection to the seemingly near pitch-black setting.

And it came at an instant. The ripples either followed the boat, or went off in their own directions. Our lives can be compared to ripples in a bay. We have two choices. Attempt to fill someone else's shoes, or make your own. The constant chase towards the boat represents our desire to change ourselves to someone else- it won't produce the result we desire.

The other ripples make their own paths. Some gaining so much momentum, they become waves, crashing to shore with a bang. This is the result of creating our own lifestyle, based on our own ideas of happiness and success. Not all will make it to shore, but the ones that do sail in the path their own heart desires.

But then again it's just some damn waves
Next page