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Hi beauties
I am a Monk
Available for
Just a song
Your welfare
I long
I meditate
To be legitimate
Come near me
Don't hesitate

Hi beauties
I am a monk
Come near me
Don't hesitate
God sent me
On special duty
Inculcate happiness
In you
O my beauties

Hi beauties
I am a monk
Make you
Learn some
Breathing exercises
Yogic postures make
Spreading legs easy
I pleasure you
In my bed
You taste God
In your head

Hi beauties
I am a Monk
I ******
I sedate
Barren land
I inundate
Your orbs
I  honk
I often bonk

Hi beauties
I am a monk
Lofty standards
I keep
Funds flow in heaps
For a price
You can be my keeps
You learn
To serve pegs
Red label
Scotch whisky
Old Monk
Before you do
Yogic exercises
And *******

Hi beauties
I am a monk
I meditate
To be legitimate
I make you
Taste God
Before God
Consumes you
You are consumed
By God

Here is
A word of caution
I am a monk
I tonk and tonk
If you're wrong
Inspired by stories of some gurus. How their empires burgeon and collapse, prognosis is more or less the same.
Daniel Cuzzo Dec 2020
(A Q & A on “upgrades”)

Hahaha, upgrades, NOT FUN.
HANG ON to your identities

Get ready to meet the new YOU
All 24+ of them

Yes, HOLD to that love and light
to keep track.  I’m SURE
all our past lives have no
karmic knots or ties
for us to rectify.

Have a piece
of sprouted grain pie
and sleep easy.

Maybe some
taking like a duck
to water...
I'm more like a
scared, unprepared
to the universe.

For every upgrade,
there is a reminder:
it’s just the beginning.

If you stay
in one lake
you’re either
REALLY awake…
or just faking it
until we “make it,”
so to speak.

I’m no master,
but I do understand
that’s not entirely how
manifestation works.

There are NO perks
for fooling ourselves.

WHATEVER you feel
whether you are DUCK
or you’re a navy seal…
If you feel it is real:

Just know that
all the love and light
bursting into this planet:
is NO substitute
for the inner work
we have to do
Daniel Cuzzo Dec 2020
When I was young
I couldn’t decide
If I liked you more than mom.
But before I did
there were business trips
two weeks long.

Random dads took me
to soccer practice
a rotation of friends
that I didn’t have
were convinced
to take there or back
until you got a Mercedes
and “friends” rode the Benz.

You’d take us on vacations
I was supposed to be happy
I did and I tried,
I needed you when I cried though
or before that.
Perhaps an explanation,
why humans treat others ******.

And it REALLY bugged me:
as the first one to get a cell phone
might not have been Bill Gates
but you.  You and your blocky phone
at the fourth of July Barbeque
trying to hold a call in the field
insistent on facilitating the deal.

I guess it doesn’t matter
but unfortunately, it does
because if you don’t make it
I’m NOT closing my heart
so the parts of me
that remember
waiting for you at the door
like the dog we got later,
lying in your lap,
watching Charmed, Texas Ranger
and making ice-cream sundays,
will obey, as sincerity
allows me to love again.

The “mom poem,” was easier.
She has her faults: they stayed the same.
We eventually learned to laugh at them.
You act as though you have it together.
You’re not super happy but optimistic
and driven:  that’s pushed you to now
were I don’t know how to rectify
HOW much you’ve supported me,
loved me
and how much you never knew me.

Mom never pretended to know so much.
If so, we’d soon laugh or heads off
as she pronounced all words wrong
put the right shoe on her left
and walked back in the house
at least five times
after walking out the door.

It’s funny, after all deliberations
I might love mom more.
I admire the entrepreneurial side
the desire to be your own boss.
You believe 90% of taught lessons:
I guess you’re a good son.
I tried out your view of success
I guess I’m a bad one.

I’m still ****** you insisted
The job that paid $1.50 more/hr
was the right one for me
and I’m sorry I listened.
I was miserable, depressed
BUT blessed by books
fantasy hooks gripped me
like no other person before.
And that was the door
or perhaps a partition
thinking what I wanted
was only imagination.

At 16 I could volunteer
and it would not matter
if I had built a resume
recording what it paid.

Let’s NOT get into
the value of the dollar.
brave the Atlantic
to slave in sweatshops
eventually, get rights,
then education.

Grandpa worked forever
at the supermarket
missing baseball games
leaving you to verbal abuse
of grandma and her fear of men.

This is why I did not
want to write a “Dad poem.”
It goes through generations
“he taught this,”
“I felt that,”
when some go bald
they wear it,
others put on a hat.

My dad collected hats
but didn’t wear them.
New skills, diversification,
he didn’t like the gardener’s work
so he did the landscaping.

All of this in service
of the “American Dream.”
Grandpa said “we got it good,”
so dad must have it better,
while the world tilts
battlements are built
next to peaceful cities
bombs dropped
taxes lost, funding
wars in the solar system.

But we’d never think farther
than our own backyard,
extending to vacations spots
and those map-dots skipped across
in succession hardly breathing
before leaving for the next one.
You always said it was because
you wanted to get home.

You “couldn’t sleep in hotels,”
whether the mattress or smells.
Mom says “dad got home at 2AM
and he’s asleep.”
I’d go about my day.
Nothing I could do until he’s awake.
And awake, he’d have 1,000 tasks
bills, more phone calls, fixing house.

I’m partially a **** to criticize
he’s a dutiful servant in 3D eyes,
Upper-middle-class home maintained
food obtained, college paid –
-unless you don’t want college:
then you’re forced.
The word “freedom” did not compute
with doing things that would refute
all his hard work and effort.

And therein lies the division.
I can count things I’ve proven
to him on one hand.
And it’s only after I’ve BROKEN
that I could demand relief
because I was his son
and he was the chief.

He is both a good chief
and a father
so why can’t I love him?
I’ve forgiven my mom,
there was a time I hated her.
It’s because we don’t
see each other.

I embody uncharted territory
and here’s my dad stuck in our last
VOYAGE across the Atlantic,
and his son is into spiritualism –
– even made some predictions:
that happened, yet you ignore
the myriads of ways I can be more
by blaming my specialty
for my misfortune.

And HE’S right, until now.
I allowed HIS successful prediction.
I’d never “been productive,”
until I saw hope, started sorting
every shredded seam out.

“Is he not impressive?”
my mind is shouting
“I don’t appreciate him,”
and unless I do hurting,
ripping my heart,
I can’t heal or start
to breathe easy.

You played in the pool
all the time.  You’d throw
us up and play games.
You’d help us build
skateboard ramps
you rewarded me for grades,
you paid for most of my books.

Ping-pong a 1,000 times
basket-ball 500
karate until I kicked the neighbors.
Math 1,000 times too,
you taught me all night
my teacher even thought
I was so smart.

Can I feel bad
for losing you now?
More:  intuitions says, more.
When I was mad
that I had finally graduated
and you were going to golf.
You canceled golf to see me.
And yes, it made me happy.

Just ME and mom and dad.
When I was volunteering
we’d got to Church together,
we’d sit on blankets in sun,
I’d watch TV at night with them
go to movies because
I had no friends.

And THAT STUPID cell phone
could have been used in reverse.
monopolized his business time
DEMANDED he pay attention.

But I never did.
If he didn’t realize
I was not to remind him.
THAT was my stubbornness.

I lost track of the times
he hugged me
before going away.
I used to keep track
but after a while
even mom forgot
where he went
and they spoke every day.

In my journey, I was angry,
so much of what he taught
had to be UNDONE.
It was HELL, getting off
psychiatric medication.
They had me diagnosed
with Aspergers adding to depression
(A “hip diagnoses” at the time)
$4,000 for ANOTHER label
where I was deficient.

Are we destined to feel ******
if we don’t fulfill their vision?

But can I blame them for dreaming
about all their children’s futures?
Yet carrying them out
like all these spiritualist manifestations
that he ignores so often
but resembles SO MUCH –
anyone who thinks counter to them –
becomes the problem.

I guess I’ll bit the bullet and say,
thank you for LOVING:  the problem.
Thank you for wanting me to live
when I wanted to die so often.
Thank you for driving me home
when I broke and you held back
your “I told you so” ‘till I healed.
Thank you for holding back
when I changed business for writing.
Thank you for toeing the line
as I tried to sort my messed-up head
for the 1000th time
and giving me the space to do that.
Even if I felt alone,
you were there.
Thank you for that.

Being broken is just
more pieces to stylize
a new creation.

This might not be the last
I may be broken.
I’ll be broken every time
I try not to tell my son
what to do.
I’ll be broken
every time you’re not there to
talk about how much you ATE
when you were a teenager
even if it’s LONG passed
the 1,000th time.

I’ll be broken when
I remember the awkward walk
when I walked fast and you slow:
the EXACT opposite of before.
You always had to be somewhere
and I was ALWAYS lost in my head.
But I was exercising,
and you were sorting out the cancer
that threatened both your sisters.

“Another preventable tragedy,”
is what I thought.
His family, by design, filled
with doctors and nurses
and two of them might be dying
to cancer in the same year.

I could do NOTHING, and I knew.
Telling him cancer was curable
would make HIM truly be ME:
the well-intentioned rebel in the family.

to tell his sister about “Plandemic”
THE SAME sister that just died of cancer,
and she told him a string of ****** words
that made him FOREVER shut off
the inquisitive part of him
His wife, his sisters, BOTH families.

Am I to make him
FINALLY believe his son?
I sent him two emails,
links for the “Plandemic II video,”
encouraging him to reengage
his “follow the money” skepticism.
But after sister’s death
he’ll likely honor her memory
by believing what she believed,
inherited by American Dreamers
who need to hold on until the end.

Dad, all I can say is, I love you
and to sleep well.
Let us watch time unwind,
we can agree that mom told me,
“dad got home at 2AM and he’s asleep.”
As much as my heart breaks,
I won’t wake you.
I TRULY understand and bow
to your endurance and strength.
I’m happy you return to sleep here
somewhere familiar, to those you love.
I’m happy that I’m your son,
that this is the bed where you’ve led
and dreamed of us for so long.
I’ll NEED to go about my day
as I have to live well, for all our sakes.
And awake, I have 1,000 tasks
helping build a world that is MY dream.

Dad, there are ways I’m like you
I’ll LOVE only one woman
for a lifetime.
We may massage truth,
but it’s too hard to lie.
I want to be “fun” for kids too.
Yes to space, land, trees, sun, a breeze,
I DON’T need to be in Hawaii though.

But you milk the time zones
so you can tell that as an excuse
to all your capitalist colleagues:
no one complains, if living the high life.

I look down from your 8th-floor balcony
and YES, I record videos of the sunset.
My eyes, my heart, can never forget.
But I see the homelessness, inequality
and feel guilty for inefficiency,
huge electricity bills, sewage treatment
that’s awful for the waters:
dying corals and snorkelers asking
“why are they white?”
I listen to the indigenous
wanting to become self-sufficient
to grow on THEIR LAND again
and not keep EVERY scrap
for tourism.

I prefer a wooded land
NO WHERE in high demand
where I CAN MAKE it so:
my eco-garden will glow.

It hurts when you say innocently,
“They sell this pesticide at Home Depo,”
and you get so into spraying
you use Roundup on the grass,
finally, pay a sod company
to cover for your stupid ***.

But we’d shower naked
when I was young
I knew how you were hung
and then I heard jokes about
Chuck Norris.

It seems odd to end it like this,
but I’m finally at peace
and when I joked about
your stupid ***
I might as well compliment
your other half
and level out
the criticism
that’s slowly
fading away.

Thank you God,
for a life this way.
I’ve learned what you said,
yet you're saying to end it
with something about Dad.

I said it to mom,
I’ll say it to you,
I’d want you in my life,
if I had a choice,
I’d always choose
to be your friend
even without
all that

My friend said it,
and I say it:
“I see you.”
What I see is noble,
what I see is love,
what I see is home,
what I see is good.

Thank you, Dad.
This is the hardest poem I've ever had to write to date.  You might think "had to write" is an embellishment.  The poets I love, more often than not NEED to write.  I've read some E.E. Cummings, and I have been compared disparagingly to his creativity...LOL, everyone is different, I'd take Sylvia Plath any day.  Comparatively, I felt she needed to write.  Cummings...I don't have the insight to understand what was behind his decisions.
Mystic Ink Plus Oct 2020
If you can't find
God in you

You will
Never find God

Right there
Deeply embedded
A light inside

All the best
Genre: Inspirational
Theme: Awake
Psychostasis Oct 2019
The first time my third eye opened, the world was horrifying to view.
I could see my entire life, each mistake glaring at me and pounding against my psyche.
Every good moment collided with the bad,
The future turned inside out and bathed me in a gory downpour of the viscera of moments to come.

Now, each time the sparks and fires start in my brain, it reopens
And with this golden eye of the blind gods, I'll stare into everyone's souls.
I'll watch all of you and judge you by the contents of your very essence.

I'll see you in the way you refuse to see yourself.
Because if people see what they want to see,
I've made it my duty to see the truth in all of it's slithering glory
As it encircles the apple, and beckons me forward.
Psychostasis Sep 2019
The room buzzes around me as I sit and stare into the wall stretching into eternity before me.
The flesh mannequins grin they're crooked and deceitful smiles, and speak in encoded tongues.
I read the lines between them and their words,
Slicing context from the arteries like my box cutter draining my poisoned blood.
The voice whispers for me to leave them to their own repetitive stories
And to isolate myself from the prying eyes of God.
As I close my blind eye, and rip open my third one,
The brain fires begin.
I live within the cataract blinding God
Psychostasis Sep 2019
A bloodline sharpened and honed by years of misfortune,
Until it comes to a fine and refined point like the tip of my jawbone blade.
I am the prophet.
The future seer from a family destined to muddy the waters.
I stare into the eyes of the abyss until its gaze falls into my trap
And my third eye opens
Revealing what will be in visions from days yet to come.
Emma Cheung Sep 2019
I lost the faith
I never had
And became the laugh
That echoes itself
Crashing off damp cave
Interrupted by drops
Of condensation.

I found the faith
I never had
And saw the hills move
With steady rhythm
Grass green as a child's
Cow parsley swaying
With the cold wind.

The sky was still
And the ocean flowed.
The eggs round
And fragile
Sat in their nests.
Everything remained in
Its place, but everything
Was different.

I became the laugh
That laughs with others
I drink whole milk
And gaze into the sun
Blinded by purity
Deafened by possibility
In the arrested daylight of
the present.
Emilia Jan 2019

i am more than myself.
the sum of my parts;
brain, liver, heart
only make up a fraction of what exists within this body.
would i understand this better without the prison of thought?
would i feel more without glands and adrenaline, or less?
i dont ever 'believe' anything.
instead, i 'know'.


there are colours we can't see,
a whole world is hidden to me,
yet my father still believes i am insane when i tell him about the universe.
we can't prove we're the only one.
the world i was born into is a prison; why was i born here?
why was i born me?


why do we like some rhythms better than others?
i only had two things to list, but two is a bad number.
why do we sleep?
because we get sleepy, but why?
i feel like a five year old searching for answers that no one has.
nine billion people in the world...
chances are someone has to know, right?
sometimes i get depressed and existential and my dad makes me justify why i believe in a soul. i think we can answer every one of the 'whys', but only if we ask them in the first place. science and spiritualism arent enemies.
Sajida Maryam Sep 2018
Why the perfections seem imperfect
When the perfectionist perfected the perfection!

Why is the soul seems empty
Even when everything's around
Why is the heart feels so void
When desires fulfilled
Why the inner self seems neglected
Even it's respected
And why the world seems so empty
When its creations are perfect!

Why everyone's restless
What's really missing?
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