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Heidi Johanna Dec 2020
Some words exist
Without being spoken
Prudence knows
The time to come open

The mature in love
Wait
Carrying the weightiest part
And their jewels to kings
Omar Acevedo Jul 2020
I look threatening, but I am kind,
I look ignorant, but I am prudent,
I look alive, but I am death.
A tri fold, then a bi fold, then a bi fold again
The smooth ridged friction causes my fingers to stumble,
Over the inscribed words of duty, honor, and justice
Though my marks cover the blank space
The core message stands resolute

Through the bite marks when I’ve no hands
Through the creases of each fold
Through the crossed out notes of yesterdays and before

The ideals stand unwavering on the rock of unassailable surety

“that’s not right” “its not what we do” my ingrained and flawless surety
Of right and wrong often splashed on my friends
Regardless of then asking to be soaked
But
They knew that this was coming
They knew ever since they became friends with me

I stood as bright and shinning as any statue to some ethical boundary
Completely unashamed of my brilliant and righteous judgment

Though still toeing the edge of my seat, I am quiet.
I’ve learned to let them do as they please,
Leave the bowing of others
To the truly untainted teachings
Of wisdom
To wisdom
'Tis damp, cold and lonely - not much bigger than a closet
But the little room within me is mine.
It has no niceties such as an address but
To one side – when pressed upon hard enough –
The walls open revealing the many hidden chambers inside.
But the walls have no doors and until now no one has ever
Stayed long enough to find out the secrets hidden inside.

Then here you come along – you who has scarcely warmed
Yourself against these thoughts when I feel that look.
You spin around and around in the small wit that I am -
With the most perplexing look I have ever seen.
With words I press upon you to sit here within my thoughts
But the case of your look is the case all by itself.
All I can feel is your resentment for bringing you in here.

My hard planked thoughts and plastered breaths are not
Favorable - even to my own sensations – as if I am trapped
In some sort of desolate, silly omnipotence –
But I dare not mention my little hidden room within.
Though not a thing is left to be wished there is nothing
As terrible in it as the knowledge that you think I am possibly
Absent of the capacity to supply you with your inner most basic needs.

The glow of health and happiness somehow leaves your cheeks
And your brisk lively conversation seems forever removed.
Like a stone in the road, I seem to bring you
More distress and I wonder what stupidity had led me
To bring you here to fumble around in my mind.
As if we are both too delicate to communicate -
Our tangled tongues and fingers say not a word.

I want to say,
“Please, please press harder against these walls
And you’ll see, you’ll see that the muscle and tendon
That covers these internal walls are
Just a parody for my own protection.''
I feel the mistake of moving this thought closer to you now.
At first you squirm to get further away from it
But in doing so you struggle and push against the thought.
But herein - a single thought falls from my mind.

I watch as you ****** it up an unfold it and
Proceed to open my imagination to this wrinkle entitled
“The Little Room Within.''
I watch you as you read peering through my facade.
You proceed to pull out another wrinkle
Then another - and another
Until the room within me is no more.
We enter deeper and deeper inside of each other
Like children on our hands and knees –

– And I –

I
follow
you
all
the
way
to
the
inside
of
me......
Here I'm trying to express something inexpressible. That separation of body and spirit depicted here as the little room within.
Simon Monahan Nov 2017
O Counsel! Now I am bound to withdraw,
I must - for there is no prudent rhyme or
Melody that I might compose, save awe
Or list’ning silence, unless to the door
You lead me, and open it as well, for
Guidance and discerning are yours, and none
save you directing has e’er glory won.

O Counsel! I may distinguish right from
Left, but no more; to mark right from wrong, such
Judgement belongs to thee. Life’s very drum
Beats in or out of tune, little or much,
According to thy reckoning; your touch
Is my rule, for whate’er song the world sings,
Thou alone art the measure of all things.

O Counsel! Hear me, and to me descend!
Sweet Prudence! Guard against folly and fad!
Good Judgement, on whom I wholly depend!
Decisions without thee are all but mad,
The path which follows thee is sweet and glad!
Advisor, as discreet as thou art great,
Whoe’er seeks thy word second, asks too late!
Dhaye Margaux Mar 2016
If you come to me in the middle of the night
Don't presume that I will open the door right off the bat
Never question my sophrosyne, it is for my protection
For I was once a prey of pinchers, my great destruction
When I welcomed them with my open arms
They just robbed my house and did much harm
Sophrosyne: prudence
Mark Lecuona Jan 2016
I thought it was always the right measure
I’d notice how they had everything one could invent
It was as if an artist had drawn their pedigree
Yet it was darkness that the sun eclipsed
The life they lived was picked clean by the false messages they sent
To wake up to this realization was to know there was nothing left to find

I’ve learned that a place-setting once was life itself
When the news traveled slowly the time was spent on finer things
Now we quarrel and abandon the soft edges
But you must know that a pillow exists in my heart
Where you may lay your head close to whisper of the birds of spring
The walls still stand strong all around paying my reticence no mind

I’m sure you will be alright either way
I have not heard of any true calamity in my absence
And though I could never deny
That I’m as common as a yellow can on the shelf
And that I’ve never once felt that nerves immobilized you in my presence
I’m filled enough with life to strike fear into the silence I might leave behind

Indifference is not an act of desperation
To allow time to pass swiftly by without so much as a wave
Is to trust that fate loves as much as I do
And the wind I feel upon my face is upon yours as well
Let us find ourselves my love as it is sanity that we must first save
For I cannot take your hand without first knowing if you are my kind
Alan S Bailey Dec 2015
When men brought him the Pandora's box, guns, the angel of "light,"
The "innocent and perfect" of all love, armed himself to the teeth,
To bestow such "safety,"  around children when armed, allows us to risk
The lives of all while the just "feel safer" having one, "less likely harmed,"
He is enlightened of all things and kills to survive, lives by the sword,
But "can not die, will not die." He is the advent of all this and more,
And he started this practically perfect way of staying safer in order
To find more "dangerous targets," even children, to shoot at in war.
WistfulHope Apr 2015
My consumption is somehow sinful but in a fabricated way that makes honey seem like cyanide, or perhaps just the opposite (, I'm not sure in truth). Delight is suppressed by my self-skepticism working to root out my faithful and trusting naivete. Somehow skepticism gets lost in my incessant wanderings and wonderings and surely in my pensive ponderings. I debate what your truth is and if you have seen the same paintings that hang in my walls and in my memories. It must be acknowledged, the chance that you have forgotten and remembered the entire Nothing. My only prayer is that you might have insomnia.
Ya kno'?

For a fellow poet on here. I'm slightly curious if they'll happen to read it.
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