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I am wounded,
I am scorned,
but here I exert my pain
in permanent ink,
and here in my words, it will stay;
the red webs in loose skin,
an arm of scars;
a tome to tell stories
of depression,
for it seems that love withers
and tears stain.
Writing is where all my emotion goes and where it lives.
Ken Pepiton Oct 21
When AI is making babies, the best
we may imagine is
some sense of attraction and repulsion,

is there imbalance inherent in this scheme?
Say we wish we knew where wishing, the idea
forms from.
Were you taught to wish,
were you taught to pray, did they seem the same,
if, on the other end some thing
had to
had to, no question, had to happen for the answer
to be the
actual change of everything involved,

reality, every little thing matters, thus the rule
account for every idle word.
Because they are not empty, everything has been thought,

go Goethe "Think them all again." as it comes to you,

this is a-an ah musing idea, as a bubble of thought come
to being realized, in your mind. You understood that.

Nothing in the tree of knowledge is illegal if you know
the story has a moral, made from words you
wrestle with,
very trickster ladder-like Eschering blessed progress
a word to the wise
is enough.
That is a thought hermits use
to prevent repetition
of I don't know.
Enough.
Another from March of '21, I don't know why, perhaps for you to ponder.
Jeremy Betts Sep 29
There's no light
There's no end to this darkness
I still fight
But I no longer proclaim, "I got this"
Out of spite
I continue this meaningless process
In spite of
Just about every swing being a miss

©2024
If they could, if they won't
Steal my thoughts
That keep me company
It is like time stopped
Every thing fond of
Came to a stand still

If they could, if they won't
The stillness, the familiarness
of my surroundings
Squeeze the self into oblivion
But will they let me be

Writing is therapy
For the hollow and curious
I dream Ink Pots and quills
That is what stirs and thins
my viscous blood
If they could, if they ought
Let them know
I'm a seed

26th/August/2024
Jeremy Betts Aug 15
You're heartless and cold
Leaving my heart a mess
You pieced out your soul
Mine fell prey to your emptiness
Was it your plan to let go?
I wonder as I struggle with the process
I believed in what I was sold
You bragged like this was a side quest
I didn't notice I was enrolled
In your narcissistic contest
You were waiting for me to fold
Ready for another conquest
You reveled in my fall
You mocked my best
I gave you my all
You left me the rest

©2024
Jeremy Betts Apr 1
Does a poem write itself?
Do they exist before created?
In essence, existing all around us
Absorbed into the psyche
Processed through the brain
Sent to a hand
Finished through the tip of a pen
Too then again
Be consumed by another human person
Producing a new translation
A different interpretation
But there's limits to randomization
Will we ever get to the point where every thought has been expressed?
Every possible sentence arrangement has been recorded and sent to the press?
Is there still the possibility that an original thought can be had?
It's a silly concept but maybe
One day writers block will be victorious
There's only so many different ways that these words can be organized into
Though, I can't imagine what that'll look like
When every thought has been thought through
When nothing's new
Will it still continue?

©2024
Zywa Oct 2023
Mosquitoes may drink my blood
I stay here to enjoy myself
the blood of the moon

the fireflies in the garden
and the whooping children
around a campfire somewhere

...Behind, a freight train rumbles past
...Once the hooves of bison pounded there

My dreams are blind and nameless
They **** on the spot
and eat when I'm away

Maybe it would be easier
without them, but when I see them
asleep, everything is fine

...Behind, a freight train rumbles past
...Once the hooves of bison pounded there
Song "Buffalo Replaced" (2023, Mitski, album "The Land is Inhospitable and So Are We")

Collection "Reaching out"
xjf Aug 2023
The more words I learn
The more apt I get at conveying the precise notion
But
The more words I learn
The further I separate myself from those I’m writing to

I cannot explain to those
That I need to hear me
In such a way which is meaningful
To them
for me

I toil on
Learning to say something simpler
Clearer
Despite the barrage of stimulus I wish to demonstrate
I toil on
Saying what's been said
Stealing greater sculptors scalpels


I am undone
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