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I am the flower of untouched perceptibility, the unique breed nobody could ever find in any imposing gardens. Do not chase to haunt me and the richness of my petals’ sap if you are not a holy breed of spirit as I might wither and get my seeds of knowledge scratched in your unjust volition. I am the pearl, the mermaid chain of blushing moon tides.
Dead Rose One Aug 2017
consciously, willfully, I wish it

quietly the Sunday, the sun day, drifts toward,
in its natural game, set, overmatched,
the foregone conclusion, nightfall diminishment

the water songfully swishes,
as the tide departs for places unknown, this then, now
the only natural authorized aural apparition,
the power boats renounce their normal noisy conditioning,
honoring their silenced, under-sail brethren,
as well as admitting their noises disfigure
the fast approaching majesty of the end of
our summer seasoning of humanity

consciously, willfully, I wish it

once again, lush is the quietude,^
now given up, surrendered and surceased to wonder,
how come I to write of these moments so oft,
thenever-ending quest to re-inscribe it on my sensibilities,
in vainglorious hopes that this stamping will last, be the last,
see me through the turgid frigidity of my Lucifer life,
come the fall, the winter, the early dark,
the daylight's brevity, the hurricane season of the mind,
that...need I say more?

consciously, willfully, I wish it

the particular white cloud formation of the moment at hand,
shall stay in place,  be the capstone of my summer living vision,
become permanent part and parcel
of the sclera, the white of my eyes, and when
I will write, soon enough,
my vision white weeping clouded,
you will weep knowingly, sympathetically

consciously, willfully,
I wish for that as well*

Mike Rollain Apr 2016
I've never believed
In stars, the fire burns within
Defiance, freedom
PrttyBrd Oct 2014
There are choices to make and*  choices  that make  **you
Frank Ruland Aug 2014
I swear to God if I had a dime
Every time I've heard that line
There wouldn't be a reason why
That I'd be here making rhymes
Would be so rich that I could die.

Meet me where the horizon breaks
There we will meet face-to-face
Burning skies; fortunes and fate
A Great Divide and a guilting grace
All you know is your timeless hate.

But inside I know that it's okay
Seen this  before; known this place
You heathens are all the same
Boast yourself whilst promoting pain
Oh, what a stupid game to play.

Lived a life filled with ***-for-tat
Known nothing but karma lacked
You're you, but just who is that
In the mirror with a face so black.
All I can hear is, "watch your back."

I swear to God if I had a dime
Every time I've heard that line
There wouldn't be a reason why
That I'd be here making rhymes
Would be so rich that I could die.
I wrote this poem in regards to the anonymous person who texted me, "Watch your back..." this morning." If you wanna be a man, be a man and tell me what's up. Oh, and....
Frank Ruland Aug 2014
Acrimonious angels aplenty!
Belittled and bedeviled;
Carelessly caustic.
Do I dare discriminate
Eventually's and evermore's?
Forgotten tombs of falsehoods.
Gloomy ghouls beguiled
Henceforth with hatred!
Innocence, inadvertently ill-fated.
Justice is just a word.
Lament, if leeway allows.
Monsters walk, stalk, mock these halls
Never needing to know Nirvana.
Oh, no.
Purgatory pleases pissants plentifully
Questioning our place is out question
Redemption may be our Reckoning
Sacrilege: Sordid subtext for the soul
Too little, too late
Usurpers, unusual, but not unexpected
Vigorous is thine volition
Whereas mine is weathered and withered
Xenaphobes... one-way mirror
You speak of things you don't understand--
Zephyr, just take me away.
Frank Ruland May 2014
What a marvelously machined masterpiece
A coming together of inadvertent ill will,
and an undeniable capacity for personal payoff.

Never before has a tool been so beautiful,
so empowering. Yet, all the while humble, itself
Something of a stark symbol of volition.

Oh, such a small but deceitful device
All the powers of Virgil, himself
right in the palm of your hand.

With a trigger to squeeze, a barrel that breathes
fire, and a grip to grab that gives you all the glory
of a god endows with eight doses of existentialism.

So, what have I to fear?
Not you, or your sticks, or your stones
And as for your words? Just try me.

With one in the chamber and eight down low,
I have nine chances to reap what they have down.
Nine harvests, before I must reload.

— The End —