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"abstention" poems
The pad of my thumb sits on your face It fits in that place where your brow and cheek bone meet. Your mouth submits to the taste of my skin It gets my attention. Those thin lips harbor a chase to cure The abstention you know I endure Until I retire the entire set of rules I've laid out, wether weeks or months, In this case, hours, your goal will be completed. Because defeated isn't in your vocabulary I'd even consider it rarely. You win. Which is a win-win.
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May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 2:54 PM UTC
Win-Win
How do you handle rejection? When it hurts more than infection? Even though without an intention? Leading to mind abstention. Not forgetting dejection?
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Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
Rejection
i don't know                                                       glea­ming like an apology what i want                                                       ­your scraped pomegranate summerteeth these winter days, i used to                                                       a pointillist sunset, wish i could inhale                                                                           d­on't tell me that muscle the wide wide world                                                       is made whole by breaking, just to breath it out                                                       back bent toward abstention into your mouth, once,                                                       none so present as yours i never really knew                                                       (­and cracked holy monuments, strength                                                        vines their unlaced exoskeletons) just that i wanted to be strong                                                      ­ atlas was no gardener for a nebulous reason i cannot                                                       to hold up is not to tend. remember                                             ­          wher­e could it be written i'm leaving for                                                      why would anyone say, why would a very long time,                                                      a poet teach the heart survives by breaking? but you have to go                                                     that in black ink my love may still shine bright away    to come back                                                      ­
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Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 12:35 AM UTC
Caretakers
i don't know                                                       glea­ming like an apology what i want                                                       ­your scraped pomegranate summerteeth these winter days, i used to                                                       a pointillist sunset, wish i could inhale                                                                           d­on't tell me that muscle the wide wide world                                                       is made whole by breaking, just to breath it out                                                       back bent toward abstention into your mouth, once,                                                       none so present as yours i never really knew                                                       (­and cracked holy monuments, strength                                                        vines their unlaced exoskeletons) just that i wanted to be strong                                                      ­ atlas was no gardener for a nebulous reason i cannot                                                       to hold up is not to tend. remember                                             ­          wher­e could it be written i'm leaving for                                                      why would anyone say, why would a very long time,                                                      a poet teach the heart survives by breaking? but you have to go                                                     that in black ink my love may still shine bright away    to come back                                                      ­
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Oh, carry me on the winds of a sleepless dream, Where there's fields aplenty upon the fiddler's green, Where the woman is kind and the man is fit and clean, Borne there upon St. Albans' wing. Drift me off upon a fiddlers tune, To a place where the sky is such a brilliant blue, Where hope is abounding like those dog-days in June, Where magnolias sprout forth like passion renewed. ****** me forth upon the lover's blade, A more precarious place no other man can claim, Where hope and love balance upon a precarious edge, So easy to tumble off into that dark and void-filled death. To be in such a state, forsaking sleep, Carries me to this strangest of dream, For without such abstention, And lack of means, My creativity floweth out into an endless stream.
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Aug 7, 2023
Aug 7, 2023 at 9:01 AM UTC
Sandman Abstains
And every breath Spreads fire through her chest Inflaming her identity But burning away her sleep And every step Leashed the stars inside her soul Scarring her integrity But still she didn’t weep And every word Enraged the hope inside of her Harassing her abstention But still etching out her name And every lie Screamed of beauty lost in her Burying her intentions But acknowledging her aim And every glance Painted pictures on her mind Steeling her perspective But showing her the world And every breath Still spreads fire through her chest Ever searing—yet reflective Whispering: ‘you’re not just another girl.’ 10/6/13 -e.n.b
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Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 11:18 PM UTC
Fire
Abstention is what they seek for the out casts. Astronomical interaction. They dismally want you to succumb. Crowded streets for the rats to eat. The path to escape is set. Climbing the sky is the hardest feat, But somewhere out there is a soul that can’t. Their wings only do enough for the righteous, And they all follow like ants. Unsure and out of place they’re spineless. Worthy of divinity they insulate the pathway. Their future so alone; but drag them out like a lepered tyrant, so they won’t poison the entitled. Misfit, Angel.
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Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 4:03 PM UTC
Wings for the ******
1. You don't have to walk in self-discipline and abstention. To transcend the prying eyes and rub off the naked shoulder of moon. 2. Would you come back in dark to light the lamps in my eyes? I need no pain to write the epitaph of an undying poet in jungle of wild screams. 3. There was no beginning no end. So from where you will start reciting the beautiful saga? I don't think of your luxury to pick up my craft and hack me to hundred stanzas.
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Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 2:39 AM UTC
Ars Poetica