#voluntary - Hello Poetry

I never thought I'd see the day that I didn't think the pain would be the death of me. The pain of a life lived in Voluntary solitary. I never realized I made myself a prison when I put my walls up so I didn't have to listen to what they had to say. Then, one day, I decided to listen to someone new, and their voices finally started to drift away. But it wasn't the voice of God, or an angel. It was someone who wanted to be a friend. And that's all I needed to be free in the end. The message I hope you take from this tale of woe is that not everyone's out to get you. And some people can even help you grow.

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Nov 22, 2022

Nov 22, 2022 at 1:05 AM UTC

zackripley

Voluntary solitary

I never thought I'd see the day that I didn't think the pain would be the death of me. The pain of a life lived in Voluntary solitary. I never realized I made myself a prison when I put my walls up so I didn't have to listen to what they had to say. Then, one day, I decided to listen to someone new, and their voices finally started to drift away. But it wasn't the voice of God, or an angel. It was someone who wanted to be a friend. And that's all I needed to be free in the end. The message I hope you take from this tale of woe is that not everyone's out to get you. And some people can even help you grow.

11

Really, 'Twas exciting, How I planned her birthday, And along with her other friends I did that, To surprise her the next day, 'Twas exciting, Really. ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡ We were all colleagues and batchmates, Teaching underprivileged kids, Those kids at Swapan, Yes it was, Exciting to teach 'em, We felt responsible & fulfilled, I even felt that she was the one for me. ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡ We trained our students to sing a song, Of course the birthday song, They were happy, I was too, For her, that was, Her girl friends tasked me, So, I brought a birthday cake for her. ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

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Oct 27, 2024

Oct 27, 2024 at 12:21 AM UTC

Atul

October 27, 2009

Really, 'Twas exciting, How I planned her birthday, And along with her other friends I did that, To surprise her the next day, 'Twas exciting, Really. ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡ We were all colleagues and batchmates, Teaching underprivileged kids, Those kids at Swapan, Yes it was, Exciting to teach 'em, We felt responsible & fulfilled, I even felt that she was the one for me. ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡ We trained our students to sing a song, Of course the birthday song, They were happy, I was too, For her, that was, Her girl friends tasked me, So, I brought a birthday cake for her. ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

24

Here's to those who suffer voluntarily, who rise above the mean and merely momentary pleasure that we feel sitting on a couch, eating Cheetos, watching reruns of "The Brady Bunch"; those who exercise, walk fast (raising weights with their arms in rhythm to their feet), jog, or actually even run -- as long as there's no clear goal in mind, no Olympic medal, no short-skirted cheerleaders proffering kisses; residents of Blakely, Georgia, and Moosejaw, Saskatchewan, who steadfastly resist removal to California and similar climes, knowing intuitively that delight in perfect weather is born in sub-zero winters, in summer's humid swelter; those who do without air-conditioning, using the money for a violin or books or trips to the local swimming pool; those who fast, mortify the flesh, -- or at least skip breakfast occasionally, refusing to indulge every ****** whim, letting them ripen, at least now and then, into actual, robust hunger; monks in solemn Kentucky silence, some, I suppose, are misanthropes, here I speak of those with a normal affection for chat and hubbub who restrict themselves to a reverent silence, speech being used only in extremity; blood donors.

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Jun 14, 2019

Jun 14, 2019 at 8:27 PM UTC

lucius-furius

Here's To Those Who Suffer Voluntarily

Here's to those who suffer voluntarily, who rise above the mean and merely momentary pleasure that we feel sitting on a couch, eating Cheetos, watching reruns of "The Brady Bunch"; those who exercise, walk fast (raising weights with their arms in rhythm to their feet), jog, or actually even run -- as long as there's no clear goal in mind, no Olympic medal, no short-skirted cheerleaders proffering kisses; residents of Blakely, Georgia, and Moosejaw, Saskatchewan, who steadfastly resist removal to California and similar climes, knowing intuitively that delight in perfect weather is born in sub-zero winters, in summer's humid swelter; those who do without air-conditioning, using the money for a violin or books or trips to the local swimming pool; those who fast, mortify the flesh, -- or at least skip breakfast occasionally, refusing to indulge every ****** whim, letting them ripen, at least now and then, into actual, robust hunger; monks in solemn Kentucky silence, some, I suppose, are misanthropes, here I speak of those with a normal affection for chat and hubbub who restrict themselves to a reverent silence, speech being used only in extremity; blood donors.

29

Cursed by technology Born to be a prodigy Roamed the earth to become well versed in ecology. Broke the dirt with the farm hand’s anthology Made a stony hearth from the girth of this broken land’s economy. Pitched my yurt where the man can’t bother me. On top of luscious greens, In the field of dreams, No more do I pull the weeds of society. All my proceeds grow seeds I don’t need deeds just look at these feats Grab an ear of corn if you haven’t heard of me. Burn what you don’t need, An idea of greed, the illusion of necessity. Brought to you by bold thieves Who trade lives but don’t sleep Hold banquets but don’t eat Grow food but don’t feed. Ripped from your roots. Dropped on the streets in the sweltering heat. Drying like souls of the ****** every last one of us lost lambs. What they want for me, it’s not a part of me I won’t take place in the injustice that’s been bought for me. But what I brought for me is a hypothesis, Tranquility so deep a Buddhist monk couldn’t offer me More than what my coffers could proffer me. I’m not crazy but I have started the uncoupling That’s got me to this mental brink, Out of this poisonous sink, No longer do I drink- from this sea of doubt Where the irradiated mind has its teeth pulled out. I put my knowledge of “earthology” into this horse and plow I raise sow in the north for truffles of course Sell them for hundreds of dollars an ounce to chefs in New York I make herbal oils richer than kings from thorny things and rosy beings Contemplating the meaning of life while looking at my fig-leaves And I will pick the fruit and share it with you Confuse me not with a more treacherous youth Whom only seeks to toxify you with some new indoctrinated truth Give you some of their lead paint proof, glyphosate too. Their cell phone hooks filling your time with Facebook looks, And a MySpace laze With honeycomb glaze There in your man-made maze Where you don’t speak for days. I have seen the ways good people choose bad things to happen due the deceit Of the industry they’re tapping’ Where is the Chaplain? He’s got this book , and his grubby hands are in the pocket of the fat man Who takes the holy waters and turns them to black sand. Tossing grains in the air it’s unclear “whether” we can breathe it in With no name and no face one rigged rat race, We look for those Rebels M.I.A.

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Mar 18, 2016

Mar 18, 2016 at 11:44 PM UTC

autumn-briarhart

Grass Roots Truths

Cursed by technology Born to be a prodigy Roamed the earth to become well versed in ecology. Broke the dirt with the farm hand’s anthology Made a stony hearth from the girth of this broken land’s economy. Pitched my yurt where the man can’t bother me. On top of luscious greens, In the field of dreams, No more do I pull the weeds of society. All my proceeds grow seeds I don’t need deeds just look at these feats Grab an ear of corn if you haven’t heard of me. Burn what you don’t need, An idea of greed, the illusion of necessity. Brought to you by bold thieves Who trade lives but don’t sleep Hold banquets but don’t eat Grow food but don’t feed. Ripped from your roots. Dropped on the streets in the sweltering heat. Drying like souls of the ****** every last one of us lost lambs. What they want for me, it’s not a part of me I won’t take place in the injustice that’s been bought for me. But what I brought for me is a hypothesis, Tranquility so deep a Buddhist monk couldn’t offer me More than what my coffers could proffer me. I’m not crazy but I have started the uncoupling That’s got me to this mental brink, Out of this poisonous sink, No longer do I drink- from this sea of doubt Where the irradiated mind has its teeth pulled out. I put my knowledge of “earthology” into this horse and plow I raise sow in the north for truffles of course Sell them for hundreds of dollars an ounce to chefs in New York I make herbal oils richer than kings from thorny things and rosy beings Contemplating the meaning of life while looking at my fig-leaves And I will pick the fruit and share it with you Confuse me not with a more treacherous youth Whom only seeks to toxify you with some new indoctrinated truth Give you some of their lead paint proof, glyphosate too. Their cell phone hooks filling your time with Facebook looks, And a MySpace laze With honeycomb glaze There in your man-made maze Where you don’t speak for days. I have seen the ways good people choose bad things to happen due the deceit Of the industry they’re tapping’ Where is the Chaplain? He’s got this book , and his grubby hands are in the pocket of the fat man Who takes the holy waters and turns them to black sand. Tossing grains in the air it’s unclear “whether” we can breathe it in With no name and no face one rigged rat race, We look for those Rebels M.I.A.

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