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Ken Pepiton Jan 18
I re all-ized,
steps still count

You run, when you can.

It is the thought, reason being,

you remember running when you could, but

if you never
did

really,
run like a river,
or the wind,

you can only imagine, and that
is just
and fair.

imagine you knew a persona or
knew an I de ift to the point

of being famous for being so
edgy
about in or un fine it or ite in or e volving

valves, like
vacuum tubes, an
cient sparks tamed in qualesecs to the parsecteth

spec of time/space minus friction

non sense.

sophia her self speaks from shadows in riddles,

and every man, wombed, wounded, or un
every one kisses the sun
with that first

"this is the end of what began forever ago"
then "nope"
and only common sense is left the child

see smell touch taste test hear test touch test

bad good, good was first, but we never notice

we newborn bearers of light's burden.

Who, pray tell, who im magied, mal-praxiologically,
lucifer a name for the accuser?

the shining thing and the bearer of the light that may light
all lamps touched by it,

candles on a cake? means nada, right?

this
little light, of mine,
I'm gonna let it shine.
Ain't agonna let no lie put it out,

I'm gonna let it shine, y'know?
No?
Taste, see, good. Prove me. Try. Same as doing,
if you did it in your heart,
if you imagined, did you
do or try?

Do or die, the old warrior who mocks the liar,
whispers, look'em in the eye. He winks.
I am hap ified if one word makes sense common enough to be seen, noticed, maybe being read as the color even blind imagine good. Signal stop. look and listen, go - don't wait for green. Go, I dare you.
JJ Inda Nov 2018
another ink blotch,
a sentiment in darkness,
timeless.
yet, one you forgot.
just a speck
trying to sound off.
a heart- restless,
learning to let go.
another drip of pen onto paper
and then,
type it up so (they) can murmur
and lie aloud again.
Wyatt Jun 2018
Do you ever feel defective?
Like you're nowhere near
where you're supposed to be?
Like everything is just wrong?
There is no metaphor for it,
no artistry in this feeling,
no reason as to why
you are this way.
You go day by day
hoping that it subsides
and then you're met with this realization
that this sensation only grows stronger?
It hurts.
It affects your creativity,
shakes your mentality
in the most crucial years of your life.
Your productivity is paused
and you have no culprit for the cause.
Do you ever feel worthless?
Stuck in a cycle?
Powerless in the jaws of life?
Every day feels trite.
Everything is wrong.
Help me.
Hmm, perhaps titled,
     aye poem already didst aired
though revisiting said theme
     downplayed as thoughts blare

though similar con tent
     invariably communicated
     sans, trademark pi Seine fishtail career
as applies to other questions,

     this chap asks himself,
     an immense task I dare
unleash unbounded kickstarting euphoria
     within psychic calm'n weal

     with a healthy dose of logorrhea
scowl unintentionally reader
     mine re: noun verbosity doth ensnare
though oft times obfuscation veils merely

     a black hole sun (son) prominence
     asthma faux eminence gris
     long ago didst flare
aware if chance encounter

     in a dark alley coal less sing
     burning eyes fiercely glare
yet, an explanation
     would be proffered to hear

this penchant spurring confabulation
     explaining (feebly) zest
yours truly experiences
     expatiating honest to dog ness

     figuratively go win west
word ** seeking me own mother lode acquired,
     via verse a tile materiel undergoing
     electric kool aid acid test

incorporating rigorous (mortise
     and tenon constructed) adverbial quest
which wondrous, whirled,
     and webbed woven semi colon aided nest

reinforced with double entendre
     tongue in cheek jest,
whereby multiple interpretations
     (ala mode literary splotchy Rorschach test)

     tenants in common beau geste
ma own home spun faux
     cambridge analytica gimcrackery defaced book best
bite, with absolute zero
     data snatched aye evasively attest!
Zoe Mae Jan 2018
I wish you'd go away
I'm tired of your voice
I hear it night and day
As though I have no choice
It's been over a year
Since I last saw your face
You looked just like a deer
But I was froze in place
I'm sure you've since moved on
While I dribble out this trite
And my voice is long gone
Like a black cat in the night
Myaja Black Sep 2015
Black Rose
                      Black Queen
              Black me with my black heart
      You think my black clothes are so trite
Because they cant be seen at night maybe
They weren't meant to be seen I keep trying to lay low Its so hard to hide with all this melanin im bound to be spotted
Yes,
it may be a known opinion.
But it has a new form.
Someone that's willing to speak up.

Yes,
it may be a known idea.
But it has been taken into action.
Someone that's willing to do it.

Yes,
it may be a known remark.
But it has been said.
Someone that cares enough to say it.

— The End —