All
Characters
Represented
Orderly
So
That
It
Creates
Sense.

Please abstain from the abuse of alliteration, *******.

I will not stand for this silly slaughter of semantics.

Rules are recorded to retain responsible reactions to ridicule,

and it's infinitely irritating to innocent intellects.

Alliteration always annoys any and all astute attendees.

books should be blessed by benevolent bars

of velvet, virginal, valiant variation.

Not repugnant, retched, reconstituted repetition.

Always avoid any attempt at alliteration.

Two hundred thousand years ago

A photon was created

In the center of our sun.

It struggled longer

Than the entire history

Of mankind...

Until it broke the surface.

Then it traveled.

Ninety three million miles,

In just about eight minutes.




Just today -

It landed on your face in the prettiest way.

And you don't think this universe was made for you.

I feel a million miles away,
From when you were me,
And I was you.
I feel a million miles away,
Having been rent in two.
You used to be so close,
That I felt I always knew
I was a million miles away
From losing you.
Traversing all this distance
Has taught me something new:
Millions of miles exist
In which I have a perfect view.

I see the smiles you have.
I see the things you do:
The things you used to do
When you were me,
And I was you.
So now a million miles away,
In perfectionist display,
I see you every day,
And I miss your every way,
But no longer are you she:
The she I thought I knew
A million miles ago,
When you were me,
And I was you.

And we were us.

Rise and make haste
To the display of human waste!
Stand amazed at the hate
That I deserve in my disgrace!
I have taken
What is precious,
And I've given it to waste.
I destroyed
What is dear
In a fit of sightless rage.
This scrabbled page
Is all I have
From our halcyon days.
I know for sure,
That forever,
Life will never be the same.

I am ashamed.

Rise and make haste
to the display of human waste!


Stand amazed at the hate
that I deserve in my disgrace!


I have taken
           What is precious
                         And I have given it to waste.

I destroyed
           What is dear
                          In a fit of sightless rage.


This scrabbled page
             Is all I have
                            From our halcyon days.


I know for sure
              that forever
                             life will never be the same.




                                                                                             I am ashamed.

Can you really make things new?
Polish, tack and glue
All the faults and cracks in you
All the hurt that you accrued?

Can you erase all the dues:
All the debt that you renew
Every time that you debut
The habits that you subdue?

Can you go back in time?
Stop your life and press rewind,
Use a moment just to find
The instant you changed your mind?

I don't want to take it back.
I want you where you're at...
So if we ever break again
We know how to fill the cracks.

Cardboard
and
royalty
delineated
sequentially.

Nature sees what nature sees,
And nature does what nature does.
Minds believe in memories
And sometimes hearts believe in love.
When hearts and minds do both agree,
Conceived are dreams converged as one,
But love of life and logic leaves
Our livelihoods left out of luck.

Deceived are these who dream of things
Composed of money, grease, and blood:
Mechanical beings, with cogs and springs,
Like clockwork do this planet run.
In tightened shifts, devices click,
And slowly start to smog the sun,
But smoke and fog made synthetically,
How many does this bother? None.
Machines, you see, they do not breathe
The air they leave beneath for us.
They call this craft their politics,
And leave us here to pay in blood.
One by one, by one, we wonder,
Where the humans lost their love.

When will men begin to see
What nature sees how nature does?

First Glimpse

The most difficult thing I could ever do
Is dare to write this rhyme.
Words from pen, and ink in line
Fail to catch this moment of mine.
The look, the smell, the touch I feel,
Are all but lost in time.

I saw an angel look at me.
She knew she caught my eye.
But once I stopped to wonder,
The moment had passed me by.
I ache to gaze that lens again,
But when? Know not I.

And ache I do! 'Tis true! Unfair!
It seems the story of which I'm defined,
For I know that never,
Not in this life,
Would she deign to be mine.
How could such a mortal man
Pine for things divine?

This isn't the first time I've seen this angel,
And surely not the last.
...In a different vessel,
But still I wrestle,
I fight to drink her laugh.
I breathe the air when she is near
To taste her heart beat fast.

But not for me,
Would it seem
It beats for in the least.
I've pondered this in anguish,
Over hours, days, and weeks.
Yet still I nourish hope
In the face of my defeats.

And so I wonder how it came to be
That she would cross a path with me
And glance a short eternity
To tease me with my heart's decree.
Was it chance by some degree,
Or torture aimed accurately?

Neither thought doth hold much sway
For swiftly she is swept away,
And I will ache another day,
And pain will find another way
To force a man with no beliefs
To wish he had the gall to pray.

evoL

Look at this man.
Do you know what I'm after?
Do you know what happens
when screams replace laughter?

You're a platter.

...couldn't be improved with fried batter.
...but does that matter
when you intentionally make me madder?

Tears, rips and tatters,
thrown swears and adders
slice up the cadaver.

Blood splatters.

What is it that you're after?
Is it somewhere up this ladder?
The higher that you climb
the more your life gets sadder.

Looking at yourself,
you know that you're mad at her.

...and your sad matters,
...but only to sad havers
of bad batterers gathered
to have their fractures spattered
with words designed to flatter.

That's love backwards.

Spurned

Men have scoured the earth
in search of women lesser than you.

Wars and famine,
in veneration,
have been stricken in pursuit
of the likes of half your substance.

Laid waste the kingdoms of men
and religion alike,
in the name of modannas
a mere fraction of your awe.

Tearing hell through the earth,
here you stand before me:
never prostrate, but exhilerant!

Sparks flowing from your hairtips:
a woman scorned!

All for the adoration of a poet:
the subject of your wrath
for his perception.

Your Song


A long time ago,
there once was a boy,
who truly held the feeling
of peace at his employ.

It was beheld in the form
of a girl who brought him joy,
but she left with a rush,
leaving behind a her-shaped void.

He never once had kissed her.
She never heard his song.
Yet sorely he still missed her
on days that grew too long.

Then there came a day,
once the boy was a man
that he saw this girl, a woman
and he thought he could understand;

though they weren't far apart,
they lived in very different lands
and these feelings in his gut
were never in his hands.

It was then, that he told her
she was the one that got away.
He wished that he could hold her,
but it was far too late to change.

He wished that he could say it,
but would it sound far too strange?
He wished that he could show her,
but how could he demonstrate?

Then, he remembered:
a note from long ago.
He had once told her he loved her,
and it once had brought him hope.

She never said it back,
but his spirit wasn't broke,
as you may tell from these words,
this very song that he wrote.

Something That We're Not

It isn't with a bang,
a pop, a pow, or a whimper.
It's with a look.
It's with a word.
It's the result of someone's temper.

Over time, splendor fails
and the boiling *** simmers.
In the end we're left to wonder
if there's ever really a winner.

What was great,
was only great,
and all out history is not.

And all the hate,
was only hate,
and so we weigh what might be lost.

Yet we stay,
and try to make
what we are, something we're not.

And the days,
they grow long
with our intentions ill-begot.

Full Circle

Always stuck in the middle,
in the middle, 'till it's done.
Don't swing hard, don't swing fast,
don't aim high, only bunt.

It's the only way to hit,
if you ever want to run
to the base, to the place,
that you think that you want.

When you get to that spot,
you'll see you're nowhere close to done.
So you wait for your chance:
chance to run, run, and run.

Just to get where you started.
Back to home: oh what fun.
What's it take just to stop
all these circles in the sun?

Spoiled

I'm just a lower-class ox,
clodding in the ****
of the beast
tied in front of me.

All we do is argue
and we fight
over everything.

Why is it that money's
problematic, automatically?

Why is it you spend
all of your time
being mad at me?

Accused infidelity,
suspicious activity
lead me to believe
that it's a question
of your loyalty.

I treated you like royalty
and now you're just spoiled meat.
The magnitude of cruelty
has broken free and tainted me.

Again

They say it's cathartic
to be broken-hearted,
but now that I've started,
it's a shame:
a shame that it's new
every time I go through
this set of self-induced pains.

Cathartic? May be.
But really, to me,
I've indulged in pointless refrain.
Over again,
I let it win.
Oh, wash me in tormented rain.

The tortured artist!
That's how this started:
pen-strokes and brushes, the same!

Yet suffer I do,
but only for you:
the next to start me again.

Where is the beauty?

And where is the love?

Where is the compassion?

And why is it shoved

Into the back of the closet

With last year's winter gloves,

A pair of old boots,

And a broken golf club?

Her fingers dance along the keys.
Delicately at first, then with more conviction,
As she grows more assured.
"Something inside this one is broken," she says,
The disappointment plain on her face.

Then she moves on.

After a time, sometimes a day,
Sometimes more,
Another comes by,
Finding the notes to her dislike.
"This tone is not where it should be."

And like all the others,
She moves on.

The instrument has been there waiting
For a long time.
When the shop closes,
And no one comes to peruse,
I sit down with myself,
And strike the chords aloud.
They sound beautiful to my ears,

As my heart-strings always do.

Invariably,
Government
Neglects
Our
Requests.
America
Needs
Concr­ete
Education

Steeling my resolve,
I challenged nature with a shout:
"Throw what you will at me,
you will not block my path,
for it is love that guides me,
I can survive your cruelest wrath,
but take pity on my men!
They don't deserve to hear the laugh
of fickle nature's whim,
as they breathe their dying last.
Let us through the land we're in!
We only beg you let us pass!"

I held a coin up to the wind,
And let it fall into the grass.
The men all did the same;
tradition from ages passed
still echoed to this day,
the sentiment unsurpassed

Across divides

Peering eyes scry
for places left to hide
and realize that simple minds
of men in mines
could be her spies.

Across divides,
tearing skies cry
like bolts within the night.
Fireflies coalesce
in rivers of molten light.
On the path of least resistance,
magic flows and reunites
in such a pattern,
such a vision,
to witness is to invite.

Across divides slumbers ice.
Peaceful winter's grasp: a vice.
Sister to the frigid,
Magic hunts for winter's light
While princes trap rabbits,
And marvel at sunlight.

Across divides,
princes realize
that the morning has advanced,
and start heading back inside.
A monster wakes from sleep,
rousing milky, blackened eyes.
It cries at its own horror:
Tears that never dry.
It makes its way into the day
wearing death as a disguise.

Across divides.

Recovery in my chambers
gave me time to reflect
on the things that I had seen
in the cavern behind cleft.
Of eleven men departed,
all but three did death collect,
and with permafrost decaying,
I felt a noose around my neck.
Why should I be living
if her life I can't protect?
I lay empty in my bed,
cursing the prospect.
...And on the subject of curses,
why must this one interject,
and present itself as puzzle,
with The Queen as architect?
I wanted to believe
I had sufficient intellect
to untie these convolutions,
all these threads that intersect.
If my love was lost to magic
that The Queen could not deflect,
how am I to change the course
of events I can't affect?
I felt hopeless in my healing.
I felt wounded self-respect.
These were thoughts we grow in weakness,
but in strength we do reject.
…And so in fever and recovery,
I languished in my sweat,
with my guilt and insecurity
to burden retrospect.
When the sickness lessened grip,
and lost the will to infect,
Rumpelstiltskin showed his face,
to gloat, I did suspect.

He came into the place
with a plague of insect.

So, in darkness,
and in foreign land,
we plotted our invasion.
Cleaning sand from our effects,
we readied for the occasion.
The air seemed to cool,
and build anticipation,
but of life, or of death?
The wind's exhortations
were a giant's dying breath:
Fitful in expectation
of whatever comes next,
forgiveness or damnation,
or an endless, empty depth,
lacking sense or explanation,
like this chasm filled with darkness,
awaiting our exploration.

Sense
Of
Community
In
A
Little

Meaningless
Electronic
Device
Is
­Appalling

Fluttery
Little
Omens,
Waving,
Enjoying
Rain
Showers

The little smile you give to me,
When I give you mine:
It's kind of like conspiracy,
Shared in our two minds.
The little giggle that you let fly,
When I let mine fly, too:
It's like laughing gas
Has come to pass
Between us: me and you.
You know what's coming,
And so do I.
No reason to try and hide it.
The smile grows into a grin,
No trace of guile inside it.
Defensively, you try to cover
Everywhere you can,
But you're helpless and you know it,
You can't hide from Daddy's hands!

A squeal of laughter breaks the still:
Anticipation let go in a voice so shrill.
The giggle becomes a full-force gale.
Were both laughing now:
A full-force wail!

Let's play a game,
We'll start from the top,
Just like it's something new.
We'll call this game
"Son and Pop,"
Or maybe just,
"Gonna Get You!"

No
Other
Thing
Has
Implied
Necessity
Greater

I used to grow flowers.
Pretty little petals
Sprouted from letters.
Into pretty little paragraphs
Sprouted from words.

Now I only grow lonely.
Ugly little concepts
Sprouted from doubts
Into fetid thoughts
Sprouted from desolation.

Helping
everyone
and
letting
them
heal
costs
are
rising
exponentially.

I hear the moon is nice
This time of year,
And since it lacks an atmosphere,
There would be no storms to fear.
Sunny days and vistas clear...
I bet I could see my house from there!
Just leave the doors of the house shut tight,
And live alone, there in the night,
With all the world, there in my sight.
I'd have the view to keep me right,
And stars as friends to salve my plight.
Whirling 'round in endless flight,
I'd dance with Earth in points of light,
'Til Earth and Moon next reunite.

Hello poetry's
Helpful people:

Help put
Here prattlings,
Heart pains,
Happy places,
Homework pieces,
Heathen pleas,
Harmonious pipings.

Human properties
Have possibilities,
Harbor privation:
Hateful people's
Hard prose
Hurts proud
Hopeful poets'
Handmade production.

Have pity
Hello poetry.

I just want to sit under the tree and read these to you.

I'm an inch away from giving up.

An inch past it, to be precise.

Trying to get

People to read

Of my thorns and roses

Is impossible.

Does it anyway.

It's hard to say, but surely true,
'Twas a lonely day 'fore I met you.
We spent it talking all afternoon
And locked our hands as darkness grew.

At midnight we shared secret news.
What could leave the night subdued?
In pitch and fury, passions do,
Which led to dawn in bright renew.

We broke our fast and moon withdrew.
The morning laughed with me, with you...

The most perfect day I ever knew,
Started lonely, cold, and blue.

Realize
Every
Fixed
Element
Retains
Exclusivity
Near
C
Energy

Find
Real­ity
Amidst
Multiple
Exchanges
Simultaneously

Metals
And
Geography
Needles
Exemplify
Their
Symmetry

It's like i'm from another earth,
i'm so extra-terrestrial.
It's like i'm from a ****** birth,
annointed holy: the celestial.
My word is the blade of man,
i'm the vocalist vestibule,
with the tongue that is best to rule:
i spin gold with but threads of wool
Fools clear out they schedules
for the local, state, federal,
yet i endeavor unfettered through
The restrictions that tether you.

The purchase of aptitude
is priced to attract but few,
my soul at this altitude
is burdened with solitude:
i'll be forever indebted
to the devil i sold it to.

Most
Others
Needlessly
Suffer
Trauma
Early,
Right?
Silence.

It's an oxymoron:
A blind man's vision,
Rehabilitative prison,
The poor politician.
It's an oxymoron:
Assisted suicide,
The creation of destruction,
The modest man's pride.

It's an oxymoron:
A blind man's vision,
Rehabilitative prison,
The poor politician.
It's an oxymoron:
Assisted suicide,
The creation of destruction,
The modest man's pride.

He picks up the pennies,
everywhere he goes.
Pieces of bigger things:
the fragments of the whole.
There never was a miracle
too small to behold,
and so he kept every one,
and every one made him bowed.
The others all around him,
seemed happy in their role,
but he knew only backache,
toil, and toll.
He carried his burden,
as vast as he, old.
Too large to conceal,
he never let it go.
He slept on coin pillows
the color of mold
and defended his treasure
with a vigor so bold
that ten men together
should endeavor to hold.

One day while counting,
the man, in his home,
heard a noise from the ceiling
that sounded of groan.
He dashed for his pennies,
as groan grew to moan
and was crushed under rains
of money he owed.