Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Khushi 1h
The song I sung has taken a turn ,
what once was evil, now had to burn .
With all the spirit and nature in guide ,
not all is ours, what we provide ,
to free the soul from burden of hell,
and nothing humane-WELL ! WELL! WELL!
The sight and motto to be the "GOOD",
still standing there ,where you once stood ?
Kept the people by your side ?
But nothing's left except that PRIDE .
Insane , how it worked on death ?
Body is freed and the soul at debt .
The chemtrails running white on blue,
has been once me ,now it's you .
Vibrating air and sleeky wind,
couldn't erase what has been sinned.
This poem explores the burden of pride, the cost of sin, and the struggle between redemption and downfall. It reflects on how the soul carries debts even after the body is freed.The references to chemtrails, air, and wind symbolize lingering traces of actions—things we cannot erase, no matter how far we drift. Nature here serves as both witness and guide.
The shoulders of your throne, so sit and cross yourselves.
Raise your head, above all earthly selves.
Pride shines bright upon your brow,
For humble hearts know little now.

This is my heart, I laid it down,
Upon the path of your renown.
If it should weep, or cry in pain,
Feel no sorrow, it will rise again.

Not pain it cries, but tenderness,
Beneath the feet that I confess,
Hold all my loyalty and grace.
I love the pride upon your face.

Advise me not to let it go,
Forbid such words, and watch it grow.
Each cell within me starts to hum,
When your approaching footsteps come.

Your walking here, an honored tread,
Deprive it not, or it is dead.
No mercy show to longing eyes,
A look, a smile, a subtle guise.

Walk onward, do not turn away,
For they will follow, come what may.
I fear for them, not for myself,
Your powerful steps, like precious wealth.

You are the Queen, so rule with might,
And take our loyalty as your right.
Without an army, you still reign,
Our hearts beseech you, ease our pain.

Torment us with your beauty's sting,
Know that denial deeper things.
Your judgment, fair or not, I crave,
Your sweet content is all I save.

Consult your heart, and only it,
Let love's own counsel be your wit.
The fairest roses bloom anew,
From every step you take, it's true.

Choose what you wish, a fragrant prize,
And give to me, before my eyes,
A single rose, however brief,
To cherish through my joy and grief.

The lover pampers, then withholds,
Demanding more than stories told.
My heart, in chains, I can't deny,
I call to him, he passes by.

And I amazed, my heart so strong,
Softens to him, although so wrong.
It endures, though free, it's true,
But it submits, only to you.
I know you only want to talk                                                  because you  know  I'm  going to walk                                                                I  met  your childish silence                                                          ­ with  strength  and defiance                                                         ­  You  thought that I would cave                                                             ­ Stand  back while you misbehaved                                                       ­    Now  that  your  tower moment is here                                                         all  that ego has disappeared                                                      ­    While  you  gathered stones to throw                                                     I  was growing on my own                                                              ­          You  were full of foolish pride                                                trying  to  conquer and divide                                                           ­  You  always knew I dealt in truth                                                           and  that's something you can't do                                                           This  is your consequence                                                      ­                     This  is your tower moment
Unlike any other day, I wasn't rigid today.
I was breezy and free; bent wherever I wished to be.
I've been wet, I've been greased;
I've been lathered, I've been seized.

I'm black, I'm brown; I'm also blonde: like a crown.
I'm styled, different in each, and sometimes far for another's reach.
I've my friends, young and old;
They can be straight, or have twisted desires to uphold.

Some of my friends leave my side; others go gray.
Our roots are cruel; it ignores our cries.
We may as well perish; if left dry.

I get cut in half or quarter; in a fortnight or two.
You'd assume I say put; I do not.
I fear no pairs of steel; I'm not alone.
I, am a forest of sable strings, zenith this body whole.
Arii Jul 31
I look into the mirror
That’s
Foggy and blurred,

And wrap myself around
The shape
I see in return.

Put a face to name,
And name to face,

Turn my back and suddenly,
That’s

Not

The

Case?

Watching from afar
As another cries,

Helpless to do anything but
Keep it inside

And escape the mess
that’s only mine,
Navigate the maze
Inside their mind.

Holding out a hand I could never take,
slamming on a door that I couldn’t

Break,

But now that you’re
holding out
the key to

me,

One can finally
See—


Past the

mirror

Image.
“A butterfly cannot see its own wings.”
Ken Pepiton Jul 21
Only, Aitia tells us, she who claims
     credit in the annals f'good and ill,
        claim and blame, remaining both
           cause and effect.

Fectual efforting securing hope to evidence,
edification using squared and plumbed walls,
Luther's vision of the mighty fortress, Oral's
Christ 900 feet tall, not knocking
on the U.N. building, but holding
the financially afflicted
threatening to flop

City of Faith Medical Center, vision,
not apparition, Magi distinction, imagined
an image seen where only the imagination
can picture it, whatever it may become if done.

The Media mocked the vision, for being mental.
The Ecclesia mocked not the ancient seer's art.
The Faithful mocked the enemy of such prophecy.
---------------

------------
Uncle Toby spared a fly.
Ben wondered with one resurrected.
Who was the one in Wittgenstein's bottle?
-------------
**** the pesky rotters.
National Myths are sacred.
Allegiance before education, insist.

- peace planted from good seed
- **** to one is mustard to another

The economy of war,
the ecology of psyche maladaption
re developed fundamental certainty,

family safety, reliable local forces, home
feeling, full smile face felt at the recollection,

where the heart is, always, was the saying,
home, is there, at the very centermost pillar
holding all any actual hero stands under, bowed,

as Atlas actually holds up Uranus, the sphere
of heaven, from the inside, one must imagine,
from the old told tale
of how the Greeks agreed,
what to **** for, proudly
about the fickle pride
of contentious gods,

we become an aggregated immovable force.

Boom it's 1995, and Newt is teaching history.

Wall-builders Ministry, believing Ezra, yes,
who struck the deal with the old tale, yes,
we can serve as middle men, Nehemiah,
has a cadre under oath to the city, yes,
Jerusalem, since Melchizidek, we serve
the unspeakable name in which we trade
our hearts and minds for the hope of glory/

And all the money in the world, or else.

Dystopian Peace pass, hard climb,
milk and honey on the other side.

Id-entity
I'd imagin'd e'goes,
we'd say, or coulda said,
suppose we got a super ego

I am.
Being, we all agree, we
are, collectively imagined weforms,

whatsoever we agree to, and reality
confirms, ever where we look we see,
we have at some point past agreed, it's
this state, inner and outer, seening using
mortal impetus and wondering what if it

is perceived as proprioceptive, where is now
at the speed of thought we use to read

at a distance, spooky, single point per-
fection piercing all we ever infect
for war, inflaming the pierced
weform superior I, plural I,

we all respond, and I, and I,
we can take the land, ah,
we have imagined that

just and right, same rights used
to take away the buffalo, and make
the top soil blow away, just a hundred
years ago, many lifetimes, just now, not
yet so dim a product of proclaimed rights,

opposed, by possessors using first claims,
ignoring earlier infectious pride methodology,

to make believe, be sure your story
cannot be denied, be very sure,
your worth, on balance, trial
bit by bit, against the weight,
of a Morgan Silver Dollar,

sure, who could not throw such a dollar
across any river in Arizona, any little leaguer
who made the team, even some who didn't,

so what if George Washington did that, we
all could, but who would?

A silver dollar back then, really, who would
throw a dollar away?

-------------
Take my time, for yours,
use it to think some more

little lies, little foxes, cunning
creations of the collective mind,

loosed on mission, to spoil the vines.

Preventing sour grapes or sweet, suppose,
the nonsense can be seen as animation,
the symbolized reality seen so easy,

we live long after shadow puppet operas,
we live in days of Slime Rancher and D&D,
we live future lives, using literal magic, letters,

as I write, I know, I think cognate thoughts, same
as you, my unseen reader writing at tensest instant
as we converge in gaseous weform, mere words, once

upon just such a time as this, a holy sacred secret got
out and about in the Zeitgeist, via paper based media,
from Pergamum, the library there, where the evidence

was, ah, was, and if we knew now, what we could have
known then, as it ever is, we wistfully acknowledge,
ignorance serves to balance innocense, knowledge,
itself being likely that which your holy book forbids.

----------------------
Tiers,
terraced gardens,
told of to desert children,

first feel the letting, feel ef said,
effing effort letters feel form said,
as my momma read, to me, a story,

about a flat-bottom boat, on a river,
and I imagined that it must have been,

a good winter, for a river to float a boat,
with a good dozen men in it, but, as a boy, 'y
biggest river I ever saw was the Sandy in spring.

Tractors crossed it easy.

Well, dusty old memorabilia, tech too few kept,
100 meg Zip disc Bernoulli multi plane read writes

Holding the work of many days, months, years agone,

decay from inaction all the coherence gets unsticky

at the tensest instant, when the servers were down,
down near the base of the race to these weapons,
of mass construction, messaging face to face,
angelic, in spirit and function, letting letters
form words instantly transmitted and, if
we wish to, instantly translated, and

then, we slow, go into thick thought mode,
sticky wadded up threads of all we thought,

ought to have
known, having been
shown, this is the way…
'e, eh
says the spider to the fly, oh,
no,
Ich bin Wittgenstein, kommen Sie.
My duty to the muse today. No pay, just a pleasant way to roll with happy Sisyphus on the down side.
Cadmus Jul 17
🤴

Approach, dear dreamer, if you dare,
But know my skies hold thinning air.
My steps are stitched in woven flame,
My name, too sharp for lips of shame.

You came with hands of dust and thread,
A crown of noise upon your head.
No sword, no gift, no golden key,
Yet thought to tame a storm like me.

Did Daedalus forget to warn his son?
Even Icarus soared closer than you’ve done.
You chase the sun but dread the cold,
A heart too timid, a hand too old.

I dance where only giants tread,
I feast where lesser men have fled.
I wear the stars, I breathe the skies,
I kiss the sun where eagles rise.

So take this truth I lay in rhyme:
A throne too high commits no crime.
It’s built for those who carve through air
Not those who knock and gasp for prayer.

🤴
Footnote:
This poem is a declaration of unreachability - a message to those who approach greatness with presumption but without worth. It evokes mythological imagery (Daedalus, Icarus), not to flatter the dreamer, but to caution them: wings of wax and hollow pride won’t carry you where gods walk. The throne is not cruel for being high - it is simply not meant for the unready. This is not arrogance. This is altitude.
Reece Jul 13
Ouroboros lived in a forest,
He could’ve been like anyone before us.
He lived his life filled with pride,
Masking plenty of issues on the inside.
Ouroboros always believed he was in the right,
Despite the many times he was on the wrong side,
He lived his life filled with pride.
A constant cycle,
In the shape of a circle.
He never learned from his mistakes,
He just brushed them off onto another day,
His friends and family wished he would change,
But he remained the same.
Ouroboros lived in a forest,
He convinced himself that it wasn’t due to his poor choices.
He could’ve been like anyone before us,
Poor Ouroboros.
A constant cycle of believing you're constantly in the right,
A never-ending circle consistently spinning because of pride.
Is it worth it to throw everything on the line,
Just because you can’t accept that your side,
Of the issue isn’t the only one on people’s minds?
Poor Ouroboros,
A somber chorus,
And the poor forest can’t ignore his cries.
All this strife due to pride.
One day i will be gone.

Then you will see. All of you.

I can use cryptic messages to hide what they did.

To defend myself more then anything.

I try to help people.

So they don’t have to suffer alone.

But the truth is you never stop suffering.

The volume gets turned down. But the show is still playing.


*******.
You don’t know me.
I will not forgive you.
K
Next page