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#inaction
kinetic weather Human hands those that act gentle joined with Butterflies wings
0
Apr 23
Apr 23, 2026 at 9:12 AM UTC
Kinetic weather
No need to be so hostile… Unless, of course; you’re happy being the abused and the abuser… the miserable and the miser… No need to be so hostile… Unless, of course; you think that the pavement is only meant for you and nobody else matters… No need to be so showing; unless, of course you believe that this way you can love like an image that never moves but stays stable… No need to be so loving… Unless, of course - You feel something beneath your skin - Something more than just nodding, gobbing, prodding - giving into nothing - playing the game because that’s what you were programmed to do - Rather than feel the blue - climb back up the marble stairs that dropped you - to the masked and dangerous depths of our inaction and compassion, where we hide and reveal our rarities rudely to a badly written opera script devoid of any course… Unless, of course… you want to look at yourself climbing back to you from that floor, the shining mirror of the chandelier kaleidoscoping your charging spirit horse - you could rejoin them again and become one beautiful being… Unless of course, unless of course…
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Nov 2, 2025
Nov 2, 2025 at 4:05 AM UTC
Unless, of course...
I can never do the one thing I want the most to do, I can only - suddenly: fear, Encroaching shadows. Blindsided, I wish I could say. But no. Not quite. Doubt shrouds my intentions, Like a cloud blocking out - no, an eclipse, Predetermined intervals of near complete darkness, A pattern of uncertainty, a seeming dichotomy- But reliable nonetheless... All the same. Ordered chaos; predictable, unwelcome, regrettable. Torturous, truly. Light again, passing by, gone again- Always. Never. I can never do the one thing I want the most to do. I can only do the one thing I am wont the most to do. And I am helpless to it all. Lost to it all. It is a cruel discrepancy.
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Feb 16, 2024
Feb 16, 2024 at 8:00 PM UTC
Cruel Discrepancy
A broken shell, a living hell, and all I'm left with now is my regret. Better days ahead were a pipedream after our relationship crumbled. Countless arguments. Disagreements. Every day! For my life, I can't believe we stayed together as long as we did. God knows I didn't want her to leave me. How much longer must I wrestle with these painful memories? I just feel regret, unspoken, I just feel the pain; since she left, my life has been a broken shell, a living hell — I can't believe I let her go; it was foolish pride before the fall the day she left when I lost all — I should have held her closer, I should have made her see the feelings I have for her, what she means to me; I didn't say I love her or beg her to stay, instead, I stood in silence and watched her walk away, and all I'm left with now is my regret. Justification is an exercise in futility. Knowing what I could have and should have done leaves an inextricable switchblade in my soul. Love's lessons learned too late — love's loss too great. Misting eyes beseech as memories replay in my head, but they're too painful, and I feel dead. No joy to be found. Oh well, my self-imposed hell. Painful memories open like an oubliette under my feet, plunging me lost and languishing in isolation's labyrinth. Questions left unanswered, decaying in the debris fields of "what if.” Reflection can be a catharsis for the soul, but it can also rip a hole in it, and soon reality roars from guilt's bottomless pit to devour all hope. Sometimes despair is mitigated by occasional reminders of us. Thoughts lingering on happier times, blessed moments mine to treasure. Until the damnable loop of regret dominates to decimate any respite of joy. Vanishing expectations. Weeping willow's silent wail. Xerox memories fade with time. Years have passed, and my thoughts continue to haunt me over what we could have had. Zero-sum game — all I'm left with now is my regret. Mark Toney ©️ 2023 * * * April 22, 2023 I hope you found the above fictional prose poem interesting. I wrote it in response to a writing challenge I heard about. Write a 26-sentence short story (or prose poem). Each sentence must begin with the alphabet's sequential letters starting with A through Z. One sentence must be 100 words long, and another sentence only one word. Would you like to try it?
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Apr 22, 2023
Apr 22, 2023 at 2:07 AM UTC
My Regret
A broken shell, a living hell, and all I'm left with now is my regret. Better days ahead were a pipedream after our relationship crumbled. Countless arguments. Disagreements. Every day! For my life, I can't believe we stayed together as long as we did. God knows I didn't want her to leave me. How much longer must I wrestle with these painful memories? I just feel regret, unspoken, I just feel the pain; since she left, my life has been a broken shell, a living hell — I can't believe I let her go; it was foolish pride before the fall the day she left when I lost all — I should have held her closer, I should have made her see the feelings I have for her, what she means to me; I didn't say I love her or beg her to stay, instead, I stood in silence and watched her walk away, and all I'm left with now is my regret. Justification is an exercise in futility. Knowing what I could have and should have done leaves an inextricable switchblade in my soul. Love's lessons learned too late — love's loss too great. Misting eyes beseech as memories replay in my head, but they're too painful, and I feel dead. No joy to be found. Oh well, my self-imposed hell. Painful memories open like an oubliette under my feet, plunging me lost and languishing in isolation's labyrinth. Questions left unanswered, decaying in the debris fields of "what if.” Reflection can be a catharsis for the soul, but it can also rip a hole in it, and soon reality roars from guilt's bottomless pit to devour all hope. Sometimes despair is mitigated by occasional reminders of us. Thoughts lingering on happier times, blessed moments mine to treasure. Until the damnable loop of regret dominates to decimate any respite of joy. Vanishing expectations. Weeping willow's silent wail. Xerox memories fade with time. Years have passed, and my thoughts continue to haunt me over what we could have had. Zero-sum game — all I'm left with now is my regret. Mark Toney ©️ 2023 * * * April 22, 2023 I hope you found the above fictional prose poem interesting. I wrote it in response to a writing challenge I heard about. Write a 26-sentence short story (or prose poem). Each sentence must begin with the alphabet's sequential letters starting with A through Z. One sentence must be 100 words long, and another sentence only one word. Would you like to try it?
Continue reading...
11
You have never gone after what you really wanted. Sure, at the last moment, you have desperately leaped out and tried to grab on to something as it went by. That doesn’t count; you never stood a chance, you never put all of your heart and soul on the line, to humbly and doggedly pursue anything at all. Maybe you’ve never needed anything, but I think that’s a lie and you know it. You might say that you needed it too much, so much so that even the thought of failing is too painful to endure. You froze that feeling out, called it impractical, unreasonable, unnecessary. Those were lies as well. You can hide behind the lies but they will never feed your soul. There is something you need. Something you want down to the very spark of your being, something that will fill you up with the life force of the universe and set you ablaze to hang in the heavens, among the stars. You can continue failing through inaction, hoping your passion will atrophy, and it might, but that inner you, the you that wants so many things for you, it will atrophy too, until you are a husk of a person. There is nothing sadder than a person who used to have fire within their soul. You can choose to smother yourself or you can choose to go for it, to coax that spark to flame and feed the fire until it blazes forward carrying you along. You can choose. NCL September 2019
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Sep 3, 2019
Sep 3, 2019 at 11:35 PM UTC
Want
Abandoned at a sandy beach, Bleeding sunlight through the countless cracks, I , a lone catamaran, Stared at the infinite ocean. The sun is coming down. The seagulls are flying to eternity. The lighthouse far away has started blinking And the winds are returning home. Gone are the days of stormy adventures. So, are the laughters on the day of good catch. I miss the uncertainties of tempest, And the ballads of ****** A sunset is the most poignant moment in the life. All your memories out there to enchant you, Life is all frolicking around you, And you stare soulless, into a receding red ball. I yearn to break free of this inaction Push away the stack of stones holding me back. And glide down the wet slippery sands Out into the frothing foam of life. Let me float anchorless where the ocean takes me. Let the storm toss me up in the air Let the waves batter my hull Let me capsize in the blue salt water. And then.... there would be peace.
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Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 4:28 AM UTC
The lone catamaran
You can get through this You will if you choose To focus not on what is But on all you can do You found your way in You can make your way out But if you don’t take action You’ll be left there to pout Not the greatest of statues Repels the force of a train It takes a man on the move Telling the conductor “there, you will stay” So don’t wait for a hero Or occasion to fade For the moment you lie down Is when your bed becomes made
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Jun 5, 2019
Jun 5, 2019 at 1:07 PM UTC
All You Can Do
Actions over words What are words without fire Fire that moves and burns the world Licking the flames of your tragedies And taking you towards a new forest Where the pasts have burned Touch the fertile ground of your new mind Promote yourself from writer to soldier Don't you dare take your time Your next words would be your last Your next move could be the first of firsts The builder The fighter The mightier The worthier Everyone knows that glory is in being alive The only thing more alive that words Is your body moving to fulfill the words
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May 29, 2019
May 29, 2019 at 8:53 AM UTC
Soldier
life flew over my head. could I have caught it? perhaps. but I wasn’t looking. rather I stuck to boredom. I sat in this chair three years ago,       and it feels the same. life seemed to have stopped. I thought and thought and thought, while others did and did and did,      and I sit here looking at them. ...I can’t smile at their joys,         it reminds me of my motionless existence. and worse, the jealousy and anger has stiffened my body, fastening me to this chair and prolonging my stay I want to leave, but it’s too hard to let go of regret. I am a bitter man, with eyes of hate; help me if you can.
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Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 6:57 PM UTC
Regret
Factions dance blade to grindstone (action) Scholars scratch pen to paper (action) Thinkers mash pride to danger (inaction) What have I done? Oh, I've lived Meaningless & Ill Longer than expected What all have I done? Eagerly Ejected myself From womb, to wooden womb
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Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 11:05 PM UTC
Half-Life
This world is broken. Hypocrisy everywhere. But it always was.
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Feb 6, 2019
Feb 6, 2019 at 7:55 PM UTC
Open Fracture
A mutilated corpse in the middle of the city Frothing at the mouth A suffocating hostage A sacrilege A sacrifice of religious anonymity You flow and stagnate Making us all ruminate What life has created Is nothing but destruction in its wake In the hustle of the city You remind me of pity Not for you Not for your desperately dark waters Not for your absence of tethers But for me You remind me how small and insignificant Is the mind that dares to see Dares to write Dares to referee Against your will to end No destiny can revoke your decision No human can make you bend In your twists and turns Your tortuitous burns You are resolute That the ones who killed you Will not play the immortal flute Or their resonating glory Of conquering what you are They tried to claim you They tried to blame you They tried to reduce and maim you But from your eternal sleep you may never wake The city may run The city may burn You will support no flora No fauna Rest in peace, Yamuna.
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Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 10:32 PM UTC
RIP Yamuna
I'm somewhere in the middle. Forget-me-nots in a pistol tripping on thought tangents playing a fist full. Feeling my teeth caught, biting deep in the gristle. Seething a heat, not green not at bay to the whistle my impatience is simple I'm awaiting the gavel And I'm somewhere in the middle I fear the venom and rattle and play the innocent ******* beginning to wait to watch the ending begin approaching the line I'm Here. Watching the moment again feeling cold on the fringe seeing it blow in the wind watching it pass stopping to gasp at how fast it was stolen again seeing the difference, between a fold and a bend Peeling the image apart and rolling bones for the gold on the spin Hoping next time I'm not a line up of bowling pins sitting in wait asking the past for a day to do over again I'm somewhere in the middle.
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Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 2:06 AM UTC
I'm somewhere in the middle.
Nothing’s burning. What went wrong? No one desires the simple song you croak out for crumb suppers, ‘cos it doesn’t make them think of feasts. Release the guise of competition - like you’d ever win these heats. Behold who placed: staid mottoes wearing proper faces wrapped in proper chains. Observe their seats in proper chairs: the owners of their stake never relinquishing the bloodline’s hold, impenetrable walls between the well-born and the cold. Who likes us? Weakness does: tremblers demanding ones like you to save their damsel hide. The saved abide all laws convenient to them; for the rest, they cut a deal, and you’re not in it. Be afraid of that. They ratchet up that fire finesse and do damage control: what dare we salvage? Wayward cities? Idle souls? Compress them in a tank of rigid steel mixed by the craven powers. I’ve got mine - don’t call it ours (although I speak for all of you.) We’re through if you don’t show up at my dinners, check in hand in sleeve in shirt in suit on fire - when I’m done, sweep up your soot.
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Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 3:55 PM UTC
Non-Starter
glass half empty or half full? why do we even ask at all? all this thinking takes its toll on our society of analysis anti-action and paralysis it really is a dangerous thing overphilosophizing i mean we've fallen victim to the allure of thinking that we can cure anyone anything and or any problem with enough thinking tinkering and or solving but truly there's really got to be more to cure the modern malady of paradoxes and dichotomies and meta-epistemologies we've come too far for us to merely be just because i think we think if i can really only see what's standing right in front of me once it's gone to the periphery then i'm positive that we'll all have been over inacting and underachieving for far far too long we think too much and do too little it's not like it's a test or a riddle we write creeds and manifestos but there's no credence manifested if we don't give precedence not to kings queens or presidents but to becoming a society- a people who won't go quietly whose thoughts and bright ideas suddenly begin to coalesce into lives being lived to the absolute fullest we need something more we need a paradigm shift made from something much more sure than a philosopher's two cents but if we don't act now if we procrastinate and wait our dreams will just be dreams and tomorrow will be too late so then- if you don't mind instead of stopping just to analyze and think i think i'll take that half of a glass and maybe take a drink
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Oct 6, 2017
Oct 6, 2017 at 7:07 PM UTC
The Glass Half Had
You see the man first Your head above your plate, The fork and the spoon In your hands. You skipped the prayer of thanks, Or to even pause a second To see what you had been served, Even before the server could leave You had your first bite through And you could not tell how it tastes. "You were to escape" You used to say, "Escape what" now you question. Silence flows through you like blood Must have on that man's face, If you were courageous enough You could have counted the slaps That man had placed. Instead you paused and stared Too many answers in you mind On how there were no words But you skipped the right question. You heard the fire, You heard the structure falling And you saw the crowd gathering. There was so much you should do So little you could But you skipped your rule And sat there the way through. Years of rebellion And years of righteousness Washed in that moment of cowardice. You sat there all Just staring and answering The questions you couldn't ask. Do you remember what you suggested? You suggested to walk away To make the man realize his wrong ways But silly you, Why are you so much of a coward , I doubt It was simply you running away. For the thought you skipped to act Was walking to the man And holding back his fist But you so had it all skipped. You sat there, A silent prayer running through your mind Couldn't you tell, You are no help to the world, What were you doing there? And so here you are The sad, pitiful part You worried about not having answers, Silly you, Now you pace With answers alone You decided to skip the questions. Answer- You can either comment on the fire Or ignore the smoke all together But you do nothing To douse the flames You skipped the
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Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 10:30 PM UTC
Skipped
You see the man first Your head above your plate, The fork and the spoon In your hands. You skipped the prayer of thanks, Or to even pause a second To see what you had been served, Even before the server could leave You had your first bite through And you could not tell how it tastes. "You were to escape" You used to say, "Escape what" now you question. Silence flows through you like blood Must have on that man's face, If you were courageous enough You could have counted the slaps That man had placed. Instead you paused and stared Too many answers in you mind On how there were no words But you skipped the right question. You heard the fire, You heard the structure falling And you saw the crowd gathering. There was so much you should do So little you could But you skipped your rule And sat there the way through. Years of rebellion And years of righteousness Washed in that moment of cowardice. You sat there all Just staring and answering The questions you couldn't ask. Do you remember what you suggested? You suggested to walk away To make the man realize his wrong ways But silly you, Why are you so much of a coward , I doubt It was simply you running away. For the thought you skipped to act Was walking to the man And holding back his fist But you so had it all skipped. You sat there, A silent prayer running through your mind Couldn't you tell, You are no help to the world, What were you doing there? And so here you are The sad, pitiful part You worried about not having answers, Silly you, Now you pace With answers alone You decided to skip the questions. Answer- You can either comment on the fire Or ignore the smoke all together But you do nothing To douse the flames You skipped the
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64
Once upon a time, I had a story I could tell. But, now the facts have changed and as I suppose its just as well. For you see, I say my story it is one of scattered dreams. And, I was looking for an ending that would sew up all the seems. But, somewhere in the patchwork, in the throw rug of my mind, there was a loose thread that I just could never find. So, when it comes to taking action you know why I won't take part. For, all it takes is one good tug and my patchwork comes apart.
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May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 6:30 PM UTC
Patchwork of My Mind
and often nights? i - i’ll have no trouble it’s the screens that do me in. the fallen angel the lithesome, spent glow of do-overs it just does me in. i am too possessed by mercurial vapor a dead self at 2 and 3 and 4am egging on, asking “keep looking? it’s somewhere in the archives. it has to be.” i promised, i promised i wouldn’t, i promised or I’d spend months years, decades of life living in the guesswork the in-betweens lying in the pathways between the thought and the reflex. i could scroll a whole lifetime away in wanting. it’s the screens that do me in.
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Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 2:05 PM UTC
screens I
Inaction in action A most frightening thing Eyes flash from green to brown Was that a smile or one of your cute frowns? I can’t tell up from down In this vacant hole I feel like I am supposed to remember Impact has dried up Like a drought that makes farmers Wonder if their crop ever did flourish Or if the dust simply snuck into their heads With paintbrushes and vivid imaginations Of what fresh picked berries once tasted like I want to run Faster than ever to where I once was To where my emotions began To when a kiss was still intoxicating And you smiled at clasped hands Mirrors in my mind turn Reflections of you blur Engraved lessons I’ve learned Were you ever my home? I trace the walls of your character Each knot and groove familiar Reflexive fingertips Gliding over walls as they turn inside out I forgot what all this was about Do I long for a light that once shown Or just another culpable excuse To regain the throne My wishful thinking kingdom Though my senses are honed To both authenticity and mirage I fear I am equally prone Even so. If… If you were ever Or still are And we cross paths again Or maybe for the first time Kiss me with your brown eyes Or were they green? And I will try my best to recognize A love I fear I’ve never seen But I can’t muster pursuit when consciousness is stolen by a dream Inaction in action Is a most frightening thing
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Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 11:25 PM UTC
Hiraeth
We killed Hart Crane Though he leapt To his death A poet’s plan Or perhaps a whim We hold the blame We killed Freddie Mercury And stopped the music The callous political games Blocked possible gains In a needed cure We killed Harvey Milk We were the bullets And the metal frame Held the assassin’s hand We hold the shame We killed The blond burnt boy Encouraging The hate We killed the strung up Beautiful boys The hung up Beaten up Broken hearted Brothers and sons We are the progenitors Of the violence Through action And more often than not Through inaction Maybe a little more guilt Would serve us well
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Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
Killing The Gay
Do not join the fight Do not fight their battles for them You've nothing to gain.
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Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC
Not a Pawn
Much inaction in meaningless actions © Amitav (Radiance)
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Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
There is