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Dante Rocío Sep 2020
This idea
is so distorted,
transfixed,
to mark our bodies
as shame
or lack of respect
when in their maternal
******,
that rags
they wear
ornate us
and dictate
what our respect
is
when it is completely on
the contrary
and such rules
made by society
are claimed to be of God.
Our nature and self-confidence
of it
(can)
make even the most
shaggy rags radiant
and worth of envy.
As if coming to meet Them
purely from your own
will so eager no matter
if you’re even
just
in
a
towel
didn’t count as a great
act of devotion.
That ****** is illegal,
that beaches where you can be
non-clad are
only for the “major” persons
(because underage ones
are supposedly
not
in their right mind),
and as Dante Quintana,
my eponym,
noticed truly:
how shoes
are unnatural
and how not wearing them
is not
a sign of poverty
or lousiness.
Remarking on the stubborn and void of
Our benevolent choice or strive
Culture, rules or traditionals,
How we made ourselves maimed
And yet still speak of too much liberty
Whilst it is just a beginning
Of finding inwards
How locked we are from our hand.
Or rather shaped as scripted letters in formal indexes
Ylzm Jul 2020
A sheathed sword despised,
     the sword unsheathed, slays;
Grace and patience bestowed
     on the rebellion to turn.
The dead returned to life,
     but the living remains dead;
Life shrouded in secrecy,
     lest the dead irrevocably condemned.
Bee Jul 2020
I HATE NICE PEOPLE
their small talk
their half empty smiles
their exaggerated cackles
their silent judgement
I HATE MEAN PEOPLE
their simmering rage
their quick temper
their sideways glances
their blissful ignorance
I HATE PEOPLE
their stubborn ways
their bad habits
their herd mentality
their inconsistencies
I LOVE HUMANITY
their goodness
their rebellion
their resiliency
their power to overcome
Dante Rocío Jun 2020
At a governmental or another fancy door
Asked again who I am to call,
For my name, affiliation through and fro,
Who am I worth enough to stand at all.

As I bask in my glance and walking tall,
Asked for ID I tear it all,
With the shoes thrown off
And Mind elegantly deformed
I ravish how they eyes are stupefied, so lost

Well, seeming Madam/Sir,
No letter or phone shall make me up,
No telling shall ever be enough
to push all the liquids of senses, acts
from before my eyes
to your lips’ or ears’ sight,
Yet to have it done already
I’ll try to muster an answer
of that measly form,
So on a silent yet like jazz smooth
rampage I go:

I, am,
Immortal Poetry,
Of greater feverishness than a human kiss,
That even I can’t deprive myself of.
I have no restricted name,
Age or body & its ***.

I am eternal pilgrim on that soil,
With my place in My Lover high above,
With no human maternal language.
A Dreamweaver,
Novel,
Sensation in a melody,
Howling Nighty-Starry Wind.

All the gazes & chases I made in my books,
All longings & katharsi of mine.
Un Alma Perdida de ojos y pelo dorados
Que extraña su justo hogar entre versos,
Hierba y estrellas.

A prologue and an epilogue,
C-major on a private, broken guitar string,
Haze, blur in your mind.
The stars I barely see,
My ****** of skin,
And stern eyes of love-arousing passing-by
among the beasts of your kin.

I. Am. I.
For now so much to add,
Now, seeming Sir/Madam,
I’ll let myself pass by
Don’t you ever let any being constrict your Infinity or your incalescent beauty of wonder.
Don’t you ever claim to be only a part of scheme, your job or any other miscellany in the bin.
I am the greatest wonder
the history could have ever seen.
And so are You.
On your own.
In every fuzzy world of this No Man’s Sky.
Dante Rocío Jun 2020
The antonym of befalling
to the Matrix
and its shackles of death,
injustice,
self-lost
or “drugginess”
is not exactly leading a protest,
an obvious to eyes fight
or anger-loaded activity
but in fact going away
from all the Movement
to the Stillness.
To reclaim the earth as ours
and ourselves as its,
our presence in senses,
kisses by pupils,
glances in fingertips,
honourable existing
and all the truth of our own
aside from anyone else’s claims,
facts & dampers.
That is a mutiny,
from the rush,
absence in our person,
the priorities cast on our choices
by seeming authorities.
Into doing,
being
and adoring
conscious
Nothing.
This is one of the greatest strikes to lead.
Stand up with me to that liberty
Dante Rocío Jun 2020
A gun came up along the way.
Marrying you with the grave prematurely.
However, all that was needless,
As your father had already engaged you two before,
You’d been dead inside for oh so long.

Todd was right about that all along,
More perceptive than the rest.

How ironic and grotesque:
a fire burning so truly and strongly was put out
with a single blow,
How the greatest few hours of your life were made gradually
into your worst and, eventually, your end.

And how is that fair?

The curtains have been drawn,
The audience is long gone,
Yet your act won’t be in vain,
Not if I have something to say.
No, most certainly not!

You’ve become the greatest proof for all those fools
Of the power of the living word,
Of the power of a rebelled voice,
Of the immortal art of a being of poetry,
who’s the true soul of the universe.
Keating’s work became fulfilled in your choices,
The very fruit of his teachings.
You showed those mortals, that no matter
what they claim, do or inflict on you,
they could never **** you.
Neither rules, nor words nor the trigger.
You’re the champion, you’re the winner.

Altogether, we became Poetry ourselves.
No quills, paper or audience were needed,
just the world around us, our voices and passion in our eyes.
We gained the upper hand in the process of the withering,
Weaving ourselves into the tether of all the matters.
Now, no grave or unwritten memories shall restrict us or make us perish.
Never more, as art has no rules.

With all due respect, I give you back
your rightful laurel wreath.
With all your greatness you deserved that prize,
of meaning greater than just a crown of an actor;
The victory over others’ power,
Over fear to speak,
Over fear to sing,
Over fear to be.

You were a misunderstood artist, though not like those, that are many of them.
Your amalgamation of all that you were,
Though so harshly interrupted on that fateful night,
made the authorities and that cold academy see,
That it is them who let you down, not you,
That they can never quench
the call of the Life,
the truth whispered up there
among the trees,
A soul’s thriving beauty, in all the madness of the existence

The curtain’s fallen,
The audience is long gone,
But I shall commemorate you forevermore,
As a poet and artist of the Life owes it
to another of their kin.
With all the pride, honour and bitterness,
You are more than welcome,
as a true member,
in the Dead Poets Society.
- - -
As I let quote myself
in this gender observation,
based on the B. Sáenz work:
“Por eso lloramos,
Por eso reímos,
Por eso se alborota
nuestro corazón,
Y por eso vivimos”
An elaborated epitaph for the person of Neil Perry from the cinematic masterpiece “Dead Poets Society”
A minute of silence for all that perishes with one’s world’s departure.
I thank that story for rejuvenating my battle for the freedom and actual breathing, seeing and “poetising”.
Gather ye rosebuds while you may
silvervi Apr 2020
How likes sometimes dicatate me my self worth...
But I'm a rebel and I had enough.
From now on what I like - that counts for me.
That way I'll hopefully learn to be free.
I'm told I should want
to be a saint but I don't
because I'm wicked

Why paint the town white
when red is much more like it
the color of sin

What makes it a sin?
because you don't understand?
or it leaves a stain?

Just a brush of red
tells you just how I like it
and where I want it

Splash it here and there
color me bad and tell me
I'm going to hell

Among coal and fire
surrounded by souls like mine
I'm in good company

What could be better
than floating on clouds of white?
Dancing in red fire

So no - I don't want
to be a saint because I
love being wicked

Red suits me better anyway
Ayn Jan 2020
Little lamb, little lamb.
Run along little lamb.
Just try to remember that
life is a ******* sham.
It honestly is quite a shame,
how you continue to persist
and take part in their game.

The cards were marked from the start,
yet you still innocently play along,
getting ****** over by men with no heart.
In this story, You're the main part!
so go **** the men with souls of stone,
hone your weapon, make it your own,
and tear them apart, skin from bone.
found it in my math book. I wrote it mid December I think. very angry
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