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Julian Mar 2019
Tantalized by the fractious limerence of a vestigial habiliment of the old order, we conclude that hypertrophy leads to a limbo where random permutations alloyed by the rickety limits of concatenation subsume concepts that are equivocal but populate the imaginations of newfangled art forms that jostle the midwives of rumination to lead to unique pastures that are intuitively calibrated to correspond to definitive unitary events in conceptual space that sprawl unexpectedly towards the desultory but determinative conclusion of a meandering ludic sphere of rambunctious sentiments cobbled together to either rivet the captive audience or annoy the peevish criticaster when they dare to inseminate the canvassed and corrugated tract of intellectual territory created ad hoc to swelter the imagination with audacious ingenuity that is an inevitable byproduct of lexical hypertrophy. In this séance with the immaterial realm of concept rather than the predictable clockwork reductivism of a perceptual welter that is limited by the concretism circumscribed by spatiotemporal stricture we find that an extravagant twinge of even the smallest tocsin in the interstitial carousel of conscientious subroutines compounding recursively to pinprick the cossetted smolder of potentiality rather than extravagate into the vacancy of untenanted nullibiety can spawn a progeny of utilities and vehicles for dexterous abstraction that poach the exotic concepts we fathom by degrees of sapience malingering in lifeless bricolages of erratic abstraction in manners useful to transcend the repose of abeyance and heave awakening into the slumberous caverns of still-life to make them dynamically animated to capture ephemeral events that defy the demarcations of wistful indelicacy of the encumbered bulk of insufficient precision.

Today we embark on a quest to defile the anoegenetic recapitulation of canon that litters the dilapidated avenues of miserly contemplation that has a histeriological certainty and feeds the engines that enable novelty but ultimately remain rancid with the stench of the idiosyncratic shibboleths of synoptic alloyed impoverishment that leads to the vast wasteland of cremated entropy that is a stained foible of misappropriated context interpolated usefully as botched triage for daunting problems that require a nimble legerdemain of facile versatility that we easily adduce to conquer the present with the botched memorial of a defunct salience. Despite the travail of scholars to retreat from the frontier into the hypostatized hegemony of recycled credentialed information, we often are ensnared by the solemn attrition of decay as we traverse the conceptual underpinnings of all bedrock thought only to dangle precariously near the void of lapsed sentience because of transitory incontinence that is contiguous to the doldrums of crudity but nevertheless with mustered mettle we purport that the very self-serious awakening to our hobbling limitations is akin to a prosthetic enhancement of ratiocination capable of feats that stagger beneath the lowest level of subtext to elevate the highest superordinate categorization into heightened scrutiny that burgeons metacognitive limber. Marooned in the equipoise of specifiable enlightenment countermanded by the strictures of working memory we can orchestrate transverse pathways between the elemental quiddity of impetuous meaning and the dignified tropes of transitivity that bequeaths entire universes with feral progeny that modulate their ecosystems with both a taste of approximated symmetry and a cohesive enterprise for productivity that rests on the granular concordance of the highest plane to the indivisible parcels of atomic meaning that solder together to exist as intelligible if strained by the primordial frictions guaranteed by the brunt of motion incipient because of the metaphorical inertia created within insular universes to inform sprawling conurbations of mobilized thoughts designed to reckon with the breakneck pace of the corresponding reality to which they explicitly and precisely refer to.

We must singe surgically the filigrees that amount to the perceptible realities that transmute temperaments into the liturgy of routine conflated with the rigmarole of neural dragnets of reiterative quips in an elegant game of raillery with our supernal contumacy against the rigid authority of aleatory vagaries mandated by a dually arbitrary universe in a probabilistic terpsichorean dance with the depth of our dredge for subliminal acuity or the shallow bellicosity of common modes of glib contemplation characteristic of the basic nobility of improvisation. This basic interface with the world can either be mercurial or tranquil based on the interactionism of the enfeebled trudge of surface senses or blunt intuitions and the smoldering impact of the vestigial cloaks that deal gingerly with the poignant subtext evoked in the cauldron of immediacy rather than pondered with the portentous weight of imperative singularities of uniqueness derived from the plunge into the arcane citadel of microscopic introspection so refined that the ineffable drives we seek to fathom become amenable to the traipse of transcendental time that rarefies itself by defying the brunt of compartmentalized bureaucracies administered by the fulcrum of stereotypical notions of acquired gravitas imputed to mundane pedestrian quidnunc concerns that defile humanity rather than embolden the subaudition of gritty punctilios that show the supernal powers of the axiomatic divinity of sharpened sentience to reign with supremacy over the baser ignoble components of bletcherous nescience that leads to knee-**** platitudes that provoke folksy peevish divisions. We should rather orchestrate our activity by heeding the admonishment about the primogeniture of poignant sabotage buffered by the remonstration of innate tranquility and finding a whipsawed compromise of rationalization with true visceral encounters with the fulgurant quips of brisk emotions that grind industriously into amorphous retinues of the trenchant human imagination to either equip or hobble the leapfrogged interrogation of veracity and more consequently our notions of truth and fact.

When we see the hackneyed results of default ecological dynamics, we find ourselves aloof from purported transcendence because the whimpered bleats and cavils of the importunate masses result in a deafening din of cacophony because we strive throbbing with sprightliness towards the galloped chase of tantalization without the luxury of a terminus for satiation. Obviously a growth mindset is the galvanic ****** that spawns the imaginative swank of the pliable modulations of our perceived reality that, when protean, showcase the limitless verve of our primordial cacoethes for epigenetic evolution rather than the stolid and staid foreclosure of impervious sloth that memorializes the gluttony of speculation about fixed entities rather than imperative jostling urbanity that dignifies the brackish dance with dearth and the exuberant savory taste of momentary excess because it engages the animated pursuit of limerence rather than the exhumed corpse of wistful regret. Nature is a cyclical clockwork system of predatory instinct met with the clemency of the prosperous providence enacted by the travailing ingenuity of successive cumulative generativities that compounded unevenly and unpredictably to predicate a fundamental zeitgeist calculated to engorge the fattened resources of the resourceful and temper the etiolated dreams of the fringed acquiescence of a hulking prejudiced population of dutiful servants that balk at the diminutive prospects of a lopsided distribution of talent and means but slumber in irenic resolve created by the merciful hands of defensive designs that configure consciousness to relish comparative touchstones rather than absolute outcomes that straggle beyond a point of enviable reference to shield the world of the barbarism of botched laments clamoring for an uncertain grave from the gravity of the orbiting satellites of apportioned wealth both sunblind and boorish but simultaneously inextricable from the acclimated fortune of heaped nepotism and herculean opportunism. The intransigence of the weighted destiny of inequity is a squalid enterprise of primeval abrasive and combative tendencies within the bailiwick of the indignant compass inherent to the system that fathoms its deficiencies with crabwise and gingerly pause but airs a sheepish grievance like a bleat of self-exculpation but simultaneously an arraignment of fundamental attribution erroneously indicted without the selfsame reflexiveness characteristic of a transcendent being with other recourses to clamber an avenue to Broadway without malingering in the slums of opprobrious ineffectual remonstration against the arrangement of a blinkered metropolis of uneven gentrification.

We flicker sometimes between the strategic drivel of appeasement and the candor of audacious imprecation of the culprits of indignity or considerate nutritive encomium of the beacons of ameliorated enlightenment because we often masquerade a half-witted glib consciousness lazily sketched by the welters of verve alloyed with the rancid distaste of squalor and slumber on the faculty of conscientious swivels of prudential expeditions with an avarice for bountiful considered thought and wily contortions of demeanor that issue the affirmative traction of adaptive endeavor to cheat a warped system for a reconciled peace and a refined self-mastery. We need to traduce the urchins that sting the system with pangs of opprobrious ballyhoo and the effluvia of foofaraw that contaminate with pettifoggery and small-minded blather the arenas better suited for the gladiatorial combat of cockalorums tinged with a dose of intellectual effrontery beyond the span of dogmatism rather than the hackneyed platitudes that infest the news cycle with folksy backwardation catered to the fascism of a checkered established press that urges insurrection while tranquilizing dissent against the furtive actions of consequence hidden behind the draped verdure of pretense whose byproduct is only a self-referential sophistry that swarms like an intractable itch to devolve the spectator into a pasquinaded spectacle of profound human obtuseness that pervades malignantly the system of debate until the reductionists outwit themselves with the empty prevarication of circular logic that deliberately misfires to miss the target of true importance because of the pandered black hole easily evaded by creatures of high sentience but inevitably ensnaring the special kind of dupe into a cycle of bellicose ferocity of internecine balkanization. The vainglory of the omphalos of entertainment is also another reckoning because it festers a cultural mythos of glorified crapulence parading a philandered promiscuity with half-baked antics that gravitate attention and the lecheries of gaudy tenses of recycled tinsel alloyed by debased aberrations of seedy grapholagnia that magnetize as they percolate because of the insidious catchphrases embedded in pedestrian syncopation that ignite retention and acclimate to mediocrity the sounds of generations discolored by faint pasty rainbows rather than ennobled by majestic landscapes of ignipotent mellifluous sound that stands a supernal amusement still for the resourceful trainspotter.

Despite the contumely aimed in the direction of contrarians for deviating from the lockstep clockwork hustle of stooped pandered manipulation that peddles the wares of an entirely counterfeit reality, I stand obstinately against the melliferous stupefaction of entire genres of myth and subcultures huddled around the sentimental tug of factitious sophistries regaled by thick amorphous apostates that cherish the vacuous sidetracked spotlight with fervor rather than pausing on the enigmatic querulous inquisition about the penumbras that lurk with strained effort beneath or above the categorical nescience of the shadowy unknown that often coruscates with elegance even in obscurity. I fight with labored words to spawn a psychological discipline that invokes the incisive subaudition of the pluckily pricked exorcism of true insight from the husk of buzzwords that constellate auxiliary tangential distractions from the art form of psychological discernment that predicates itself on the concept that the rarefaction of rumination by degrees of microscopic precision enables the introspective hindsight of conscious events that can be parsed without the acrimony of cluttered conflations of the granular prowess of triumphant ratiocination that earns a panoramic perch with the added luxury of perspicacious insight into the atomic structure of the rudiments of our phenomenological field and the abstractions that linger beyond perceptual categorization. When we analyze the gradients of anger, for example, we can either be ****** into a brooded twinge of wistful resentment or we can decipher that through heuristics designed to cloister the provenance of subconscious repose with ignorance there exists a regimented array of tangential accessories embedded deep within the cavernous repository of memory that designates a cumulative trace of compounded symmetries of concordant experience immediately perceptible because of the tangible provocateur of our gripes and the largely subliminal tusk that protrudes because of primal instinct that squirms with peevishness because of the momentary context preceded by the desultory churn of smoldering associations swimming with either complete intangible sputtered mobility through the tract of subconscious hyperspace or rigidly fixated by an arraignment of circumstances with propinquity to the deep unfathomed flicker of bygones receding or protruding because of the warped and largely unpredictable rigmarole of constellated spreading activation.  
When we examine the largesse of the swift recourse of convenience we forget by degrees the travail that once bridged the span of experience from patient abeyance in provident pursuit to now the importunate glare of inflated expectations for immediacy that stings the whole enterprise of societal dynamics because it vitiates us with a complacency for the filigrees of momentary tinsel of a virtualized reality divorced from the concretism that used to undergird interaction and now stands outmoded as a wisp beyond outstretched hands straggling beyond the black mirror of a newfangled narcissistic clannishness that shepherds the ostentation of conceit to a predominant position that swaddles us with fretful diversion that operates on a warped logic of lurid squalor and pasty trends becoming the mainstays of a hypercritical linguistic system of entrapment based on the apostasy of candor for the propitiation of fringed aberration because of the majoritarian uproar about touchy butthurt pedantic criticasters with a penchant for persnickety structuralism. With the infestation of entertainment with the ubiquitous political cavils engineered by the ruling class to have a common arena of waggish irreverence we forget that sometimes the impetuous ****** of propaganda is cloaked by the fashionable implements of a rootless time writhing in a purported identity crisis only to gawk at the ungainly reflection of modernity in the mirror and remain blissfully unaware about the transmogrified cultural psyche that feeds the lunacy of endless spectacle based on the premise that one singular whipping post can unite an entire generation of miscegenated misfits looking for commonality to team up against the aging generations that cling to the sanctity of cherished jingoism against the intentionality of a revamped system that malingers with empty promises using exigency and legerdemain to obscure the mooncalves among their ranks that march on with quixotic dreams that tolerate only the idea of absolute tolerance and moderate only when feasibly permitted by the anchored negotiation of the fulcrum of totemic governmental responsibility between factions that wage volleys of invective at each other to promote a binary choice of vitiated compromises of mendaciloquence that ultimately endanger the republic with either the perils of hidebound conventionalism and nativist fervor or the boondoggles of fiscally irresponsible insanity cloaked with rainbows and participation trophies. Reproach can be distributed to both sides of the aisle because ironically in a world where gender is non-binary the most important reproductive ***** in the free world is a binary-by-default despotism that polarizes extremely ludic fantasies on the left met with the acrimony of the traditionalisms on the right that staunchly resist the fatuous confusions of delegated order only to the sharp rebuke of the revamped political vogue that owes its sustenance to a manufactured diplomacy of saccharine lies and ubiquitous lampoons that are lopsided in the direction of a globalist neoliberal bricolage of moderately popular buzzwords and the trojan horse of insubordinate flippant feminism that seeks to subvert through backhanded manipulation the patriarchy so many resent using lowbrow tactics and poignant case studies rather than legislating the egalitarian system into law using the proper channels. I myself am a political independent who sides with fiscal conservatism but libertarianism in most other affairs because the pettifoggery of law-and-order politics is a diatribe overused by sheltered suburbanites and red meat is often just as fatuous as blue tinsel and sadly in a majoritarian society the ushers of conformity demand corporate divestiture in favor of an ecological system of predictability rather than an opinionated welter of legitimate challenges to a broken system of backwards partisanship and wangled consent. Ultimately, I remain mostly apolitical, but I am a fervent champion of the mobilization of education to a statelier standard that demands rigor and responsibility rather than the chafe of rigmarole that understates the common objectives of humanity and rewards conventional thinking and nominal participation to earn credentialed pedigree when the bulk of talent resides elsewhere.
mia ransom Jan 2010
This little man that I know with money in his sockets and routine in his pockets has self proclaimed that he is a tight ***. When I envision a *** such as this, I imagine a bundle -- of securely aggregated, perfectly sharpened number two pencils. The businessman just shy of adulthood and too tired to remember –even the beginning of his of disclosure, denied his struggle to acclimate a multifarious lifestyle, appropriately suggested in the form of a triangle, and a circle, both of which embody polar opposing adaptations of humanistic routine.

The two shapes: The circle, denies the break in motion by imposing a constant cycle of diligent compression, there is no room for pause only steady flow and relentless drive. This influence of life impression slows down the heart, body, and soul while speeding up time. This particular commitment accommodates the dry colorless beings that embrace and accept boxed imprisonment.

Traditionally, the triangle denotes rhythmic patterns that elevate and drop to a point in which imposes a healthy reflective pause: progression, reflection, balance. As stated, as a provincial approach, a regular triangle flat on its base, peaking at the top represents a healthy, solid life routine. In contrast, the triangle can be flipped upside-down introducing an entirely new dynamic, composed of flat-lined monotony, tapered off to a regressed realm of destruction, regret and disorder. Despite the uniqueness of the standard triangle model to the man in question, it is important to compare the negative reflection, for it applies to the entirety of this investigation.

We used to be lovers, he and I. We shared my giant pillow-top that I bought on the black market for a meager two-hundred fifty. -- A mere steal at that rate.


We occasionally exchanged ideas, mainly about ethical concerns related to globalization and the environment.

I attempted to give him a cooking lesson once, but that failed, indefinitely. The bust was not my doing, but simply, a great disinterest on his part; or better yet an inability of not being better than me at something.

Everything has gotten so crowded.
Poetoftheway May 2017
Never Acclimate!

~

For Mr. Keith Wilson, an Answer...

from the British Isles to the Shelter Island,
a former colony, a scion of a special relation
a question arrives, wind wafted, upon wings of bytes
it is not an inquiry of heated
weather

rather,
an inquisition question of heated
whether

will we grow acclimated to the heat
of impossibly unjustifiable man murdering himself?

by acclamation!
we announce
not ever
Manchester
brandon nagley May 2015
Acclimate away you accustom to rabble streets, calculate thy cantankerous beef with another diabolic past!!
Destine connoisseur,

Old things get older while thy love stays newer!!!
What a hope to hope for something!!!!

Bare faced sophomore,
Soporific enducing trips to styles of maxed out galore....

Domineers on every corner,
Where youngest of mourners art ourn own children,
Gravitational to all pull ins,
Guided by ourn own sins we set our own adversities!!!!

When wilt we climb out of ourn own hutch?
Our brittled bunch doesn't think of two but one!!

Jilt all thou will falsifiers,
Killers and liars,
Were all wrapped tight to the same metropolis line!!!

Okaying thyself?
Canst we OK what's wrong and not fine?

Schzoid scribble ******* in,
Undeniable on planet green earth!!!

Underhanded,
Diploma drop ins,
Morphine moratorium so Grey thy sounds are!!!!

Yet thy smiles so beautifully wide!!!!!

Seek as thou finds,
Find all though you mayeth hide!!!

The scorch is over to be bear!!

Where is the opulent Queen who I seek?
Yet hasn't found me yet...
Justin S Wampler Apr 2015
Look!
I'm super ******* clean!

I stepped into the falling water
and inched my way toward total
submersion. It was steaming hot
and my skin had yet to acclimate.
Upon said acclimation I lathered
up a palmful of smell-good gel
and got to work on my armpits
and my torso. I washed my way
down to my belly button and then
I retrieved another handful of body
wash. As I worked it into my hair
then my beard, and I used the excess
suds to scrub my **** and my nuts.
From there I covered my thighs and
worked down my legs. I turned away
from the showerhead and scrubbed
my ******* clean with one more dollop
of Old Spice. I stepped into the burning
streams of water and rid myself of the
day's sweat and grime in one big,
dark puddle swirling down the drain.

I took one more dab of soap and
worked it into a foam.

But I hesitated before I washed my face,
because I realized that I had just
scrubbed my *******
with the same hands I use to
wash my ******* face with.

But I then sighed and did it anyway.
Marina Morales Feb 2015
Maybe
Just maybe one day I'll acclimate enough little yellow butterflies in the depths of your stomach to spark words of
passion
longing
excitement
from the tips of your long capable fingers
I'll collect enough of the color yellow.
Maybe it would one day be stronger than my  growing green?
Maybe one day it will hurt less to think of you,
or to talk about you
Perhaps the yellow will give us more time
The Yellow.
more memories and laughs
to show you
That you are seen and that you are heard
And that it's no use to use your words
so many words
on earthly sun-soaked terracotta or frayed and faded blue
I look into your deep hurt eyes framed with lace and promises
I gave you red and I'm painting with yellow now
please accept my yellow
I grew it in my chest just for you
Just to plant the warm glowing cocoons deep into your stomach
Hoping
They just might become butterflies and we can live our lives together hand-in-hand.
Maybe once they emerge it won't hurt so much anymore and you will smile.
And maybe, just maybe after a while you'd realize you don't need to keep using your words for girls who never cared to hear your heart that beated yellow with all it's might
Who never reciprocated with the strength of the yellow you gave them.
My chest
it now hums and glows with much yellow
a perfect place to rest your head, my Love.
I felt sad before, yet now I feel a sense of hopefulness. Lightness, if you will. Maybe I'm an idiot?
IsReaL E Summers Dec 2014
I don't kno what this word means.
But honesty and heart are the means.
I know it like I know a dream.
Lets move foward to the scene.
I want so bad to be the best...
To let loose this dinosaur caged in my chest.
But I care not for fame.
And I feel ashamed.
At this life in which I rest.
My only goal, (my hearts m-o)
Is to help the ones in need.
I scatter seed, to those who plead...
And pray for rain, so they may grow.
This may sound crazy. But I get words in my head sometimes, after my heart wants to say something. Sometimes they will come right in the middle of a rhyme... but whats really cool is (so far) they have been perfectly placed. And perfectly timed... as if God was showing me He is my help. To encourage me. My deepest wish is to encourage you as well.  Peace
-Izzy
Brandon Conway Oct 2018
The quill's sodden ink evaporates
while this bell jar encapsulates
leaving these dreary words to permeate
only to rain back down and stagnate

this terrarium, my lonely estate
pickling eyes that spate
people peer through the glass only to deprecate
while I slowly start to acclimate

two horizons squint until light dissipates
allowing the darkness to overtake
monsters crawl out to dilapidate
snarls and growls devastate

this is fate this is fate this is fate this is fate
is it too late is it too late is it too late is it too late
echos verberate echos verberate echos verberate echos verberate
this is fate and it is too late these echos verberate and I ruminate
I ruminate and ruminate and ruminate and ruminate

with a languid gait
a countenance set straight
while I desperately try to create
a happy blissful sunny green free state

it's not too late it's not too late it's not too late
meditate meditate meditate meditate
don't let the glass alienate
pick up the hammer and swing
                                                       till the glass B    E      K
                                                ­                                R    A      S.
What gives this is something I just can't take finally looked in the mirror and recognized  I'm apart of the most hated race/ black lives matter when a white cop shoots a black man in face/ It never matters when we do it to each other it's rather ok/ I'm just saying what I see you can say what you say/ we can agree to disagree the decree we still slaves/ to a system we victims to the transatlantic trade/ To a degree no one to blame now, we're  blocking our own way/ opportunity knocks but we stuck in that ol maze/ it's not like back in the day yet still in the same phase/ I tried not to write this it's been lingering for days/ why'd  Harriet walk so far how come Fredrick said hey!/ that's not how it should be/ we know Martin had dreamed/ Malcolm by any means/ 400 years you see/  they just wanted to be free/ What they fought for at that time is promptly  upon us/ I oppose riots protest and violence to fight back seek knowledge/ Relay that to the kids so they can understand the science/ as to acclimate any climate/ alliance to survive this/ Visually loud a silence/ we hate each other we are the misguided/
I was sitting playing slots
It was two a.m. and vacant
When a man came up and asked
Is this seat beside you taken?
I turned and told him no i'ts free
I looked deep and saw despair
He dropped his rumpled duffle bag
And plopped himself into the chair

He let his body acclimate
More to the warmth, than to the seat
I turned and played my game some  more
This man was basking in the heat
I watched him pull the tickets
From his pocket one by one
He laid them out before him
Until he'd counted twenty one
He fed them to the slot machine
Some kicked back, he got real tense
When he was finished I looked over
He had put in just ninety cents

The tickets were the remnants
of what others may have lost
But to him, they were a rental
To keep him not from getting tossed
He watched me for a while
Not hitting one button on his side
I could not help but look over
No matter how I tried

His hair was grey and matted
His fingers showed the stains
Of many years of nicotine
His eyes just showed the pain
He lit a smoke, second hand I'd say
He'd pulled a bag from in his coat
It was full of butts, all well worn down
Already ****** down someone's throat
He gave a cough and coughed a bit
Like he was getting set to speak
Then this man, slid over some
And in a voice, weary and weak
He said 'you got to line them up
I'll give you some advice
I knew that slots were random
But, this man....he had a price

He stared close at my empty glass
I'd just finished a cold beer
He coughed again and then he said
Son, it's surely dry in here
I waved a drink girl over
And I signalled to her "two"
I mean, it was cold outside
And I couldn't let him go  with out a brew
He kept eyeing up my ashtray
Where I'd left half a cigar
I knew that he would have it
in his grasp, before I went too far
I watched as he kept staring
Looking round, checking his back
He was fidgeting, and shaking
Waiting for the drink girl to come back
He had no bills to tip her
So as he saw her coming near
He got up to use the restroom
He said son....please watch my beer
I tipped her for the two of them
He was watching from the door
I guess when you've got nothing
You've got to learn just how to get more
I lit a second cigar up
clipped the end and took a puff
He sat back and breathed the smoke right down
Until his lungs had had enough
I asked him if he'd like one
His eyes lit up at this
He said thank you and was grateful
He said sir, I'd be remiss
But, can you cut it with your cutter
It's been so long since I've had one
I used to smoke them in Miami
When I used to winter in the sun
Lately, though, I've had hard times
I'm not half the man I was
I can't tell you what I used to have
I can't total up the loss
I lit the smoke, he ****** it in
Almost passed out from the taste
He said, I see these on the street some days
All crushed, son....what a waste
I used to winter in Miami
Watching jai lai, betting big
spending cash like it grew on trees
His eyes, they danced a jig

You know, now, when I think on back
I'm more thankful now than then
But, son, if I had the choice
I'd do it all again
Now, I come on in here
I pick my row seat in the fifth row, son
The fourth one in by the third glass door
The second seat, just over one
I listened to his seating plan
I looked around and tried to see
He said, you're looking at what seat I'm in
Looking for door number three
I'm kidding with you, there's no seat
I just move around to where it's warm
to where I might find some conversation
A place, some shelter from the storm
I knew he was a grafter
And in the end would be found out
He was looking for the easy way
Of this there was no doubt
whether he'd ever seen Miami
didn't matter all the same
But, in truth how many drifters
Know that jai lai is a sport and not a game
I finished up and told him
Keep warm and find a bed
He told me thanks, and shook my hand
And ran his hand over his head
I got up and I left him
Leaving five bucks on my machine
A fresh cigar in my ashtray
all where it could be seen
I walked away in silence
Heard the ticket get spit out
I then turned to see him leaving
Looking around for his next route
Whether he'd ever seen Miami
had cash, or food to eat
didn't matter in the long run
As he searched out another seat
John F McCullagh Nov 2011
Her husbands’ death had come upon him quick.
He’d always been so full of life and song.
She’d had no warning that her Tom was sick.
until he crumpled to the sidewalk and was gone.

The very day they put her husband in the ground,
a Jet black Lab with no collar or license
that she took to calling “Pepper” came around.
“He must belong to someone.” was her sense.

She put up signs and Ads and asked around.
She made inquiries to find the owner of the Lab.
No one in town had seen the dog before
the day they placed her man beneath the sod.

Pepper stayed faithfully at his mistress’ side
They took long walks down Beachcomber Way
Only Pepper heard the tears she cried
and stayed by her till the sadness passed away

Three winters they passed in that little town,
a town that made its living from the sea.
Eventually she felt strong enough to work
and re acclimate to life and company

As Spring’s warmth dissipates the winter gloom,
Sadness cannot forever shadow hearts
The heart is a perennial and so will bloom
as soon as the snows of sorrow will depart.

Then, on the anniversary of the date
the day they placed her husband in the ground,
She called and called but Pepper didn’t come-
The Jet black Lab was nowhere to be found.

She put up signs and Ads and asked around.
She made inquiries to find her dog again.
but no one ever saw the Lab in town.
The stray will go where he is taken in.
An animal companion can be a great comfort to the elderly, the sick and the depressed. In this poem about a widow and a black Labrador retriever, the dog can be interpreted by the reader in a number of different ways. It is hope that whichever meaning you apply allows you to enjoy the poem.
Claire Waters Dec 2013
antioxidants, to help
we are poisoning ourselves with every breath
the records in the corner
crumbling underneath the dust in their crates
crunchy warm voices bounce off the sunrise
spinning around and crashing like cymbals
mist at 7 am and a cup of black coffee with two teaspoons of sugar
far away from life
in a corner, under a desk
all my friends want to be cool
i want to hide and be happy in a field
with a mug of steamed milk, with a sweet person
who tells me many things that make me smile
and query, and discuss
they will be the kind of person
i would braid my hair around
when i was listening intently, who would interrupt
themselves to point out a bird startling
and spreading it's wings
or how beautiful winter is under the surface of the sadness
how death is somehow majestic, in the way that
the earth can bring itself back to life after it has lain still and alone
for many months, she can still yield all the possibilities
of fruits in spring
he seemed confused by this idea
i was not upset by this
i was just a bit melancholy but not because of him
because of everything around us
he sees it as cold and uncomfortable
he doesn't understand why i walk outside every night
to teach my body to acclimate to the conditions, this winter
so i can accept it and become it without freezing over inside
and learn to love it as much as the warmth
he rolls his eyes, they all do, they roll their eyes and turn away
and ask why i don't put on more layers instead
why not three sweaters instead of one
why not fight it more, to keep your last skin thin and flawless
i only have one left, i dunno
one skin left, have to get it weathered quickly
before life boomerangs back
this skin is careless and has nothing left to care about
she laughs until she's crying and holding her belly
and she doesn't feel anything but tightening
everything is corroding us from the inside out already
i want to at least breathe in the direction of the moon
once a night
chords a7 am cmj7 once and a while a7 am fret directly above cmj7
Hunter Green Sep 2018
Its a moment in time,
it finds me ever so often.
Like a vague dream that lingers throughout the day,
Or like a childhood home that isn’t gone but isn’t the same.
I miss it with so much of my heart,
And I go back to it often,
It reminds me where I came from, why I am me,
It reminds me of true friends who deeply care.
The moment seems passed,
but the friend I think of often,
I can’t think of a better person than the one of this moment,
I wouldn’t wish any life without them in it.
Its funny because they’re here,
But consistency doesn’t come often,
I see a future in their eyes that I can’t forget,
It’s home and I feel I am always chasing it.
They’re not the one,
at least now,
But their character stays with me often,
Like your deep passion that leads you to a life career,
Like those postcards of paradise that lead you to your own .
I don’t know why she’s stuck around so long,
I don’t know why it comes back so often,
The peacefulness is kind of melancholy and lonely,
But the kind of lonely that you share with another.
Its almost taunting its place in my life,
How it follows between friends so often,
It never seems to fit, like a daisy taken with the weeds,
Like a singer in the shower, with no audience to listen.
I want my friend close,
But how with pain so often?
I can’t seem to bring the past to the present,
I just want to acclimate to the change without loss.
I could go on forever,
My heart cries often,
This may just be a guide for one to come along,
It may just lead me to a home with similar peculiarity.
I will carry this flower,
I will smell it often,
I won’t forget the past with all the good it brings,
I will take what I’ve learned and trek to my home out there.
Man Nov 2020
the voyage of innumerable miles
furnished strength, of a thousand sails
guiding each yonder the reach
off to a boundless expanse
of the new tomorrow

in countenance
with arms outstretched
to tolerate contentment
to acclimate to the average
and want for far less
smiling
NEEDLE!  Through the middle of a razor-edge!  Face in face out face sin face spout!  I cannot see through the masochism of honesty, corrupt the faucet and leak and drain into a towel of wet PAIN!  Holes rid themselves of fantastic-type dust! (And on the cusp of agony's grateful constitution hereby is a sitar scimitar). Unwilling to grow old into throats of bold and I am here today so what does it matter?  Cough n' clap n' clasp n' rappin' sapping my soul's voidy tounguester. Have I become throats?  Or abomination ropes?  Tungsten blow-hole deep neath the depths of water-disgust!  Rapture came along with whipping writhing throngs of toothpaste convolution tongs pulling out the wrongs and wrong doings of King Kong's rightful songs.  Randomize architecture so that a building can grow from blue dirt into the sky and spread at the top and cover the entire planet of the human-beings where there'll be forever-shade shading shaded, faded, blue.  Tuesday is a monkey banana bonanza bizarre bizarre scarring n' scaring little toothpick carrying caring creatures faring their merry way past curds and whey fields.  Acclimate to constipate and betroth-berate irritate-type tube tape.  Youthful castor plaster made from youngster disaster number: one.
It's all I felt like writing.
Geno Cattouse Nov 2012
Standing barefoot in the broiling sun
Sitting by the rivers edge
kneeling at the alter
Humming a tune at the precipice.
wondering aloud  at the crossroads.
Thinking of the days gone by.
Never to return.
America what lies in store for you now.

The sun will surely rise.
But will you.Will you acclimate to the brutality to come.
Fitfully you will sleep and regret will haunt your dreams.

Will you know the cause of your demise, The wolf will stalk and grin.
Your fortitude will falter as strength becomes a commodity.
How far to the bottom,and then.

The fall is not painful but the sudden stop is brutal.


The wind will surely blow
Your thread-worn garments will flap and flutter in the wind
You see comfort has departed. Take care America.
Reckless Rome.
Beaux Feb 2015
Like two cold feet hitting a hot bath
Acclimate or Remove
Readjust or Escape
Let us torture the body
What is clean?
When water becomes righteous
Flowing like honey from the Heavens

Two hot feet in a cold bath
Refill or Drain
remain to stay, no same
Ripples run from the body
Like you, they return
weaker & further apart
May this molecule be abundant

Engulfing the body. . .
*. . .now the lungs.
Brandon Conway Jun 2018
I remember that first dose
From the gawky greeting to affecting adios
In the drunken darkness I prowled
Watching that boisterous dancing crowd
I thought you a goddess, a toothsome treat
And from the golden apple did I eat
Small bites
Became all nights
All nights blurred into days
It’s all kind of a haze
And now
I can’t take more of you
My receptors are bound by your molecules
Our relationship is a sigmoid curve
Your affinity to my nerve
An agonist, baby, is not what I need
To ween off this goddess dependency
I now just tolerate
I mean I just acclimate
But without you my heart palpitates
I am nauseous, I sweat, and I shake
An antagonist is what I seek
For I am far too weak
I mean without you I am nothing but lonely and depressed
In a dark alley needle obsessed
Brandon Conway Jun 2018
A flake of gold I found in your soul
A boom town it shall never be,
Except for the one digging your hole
How you were left suffering.

Curse those murderous mines
And **** those mosquitoes,
I wish it were me a thousand times
Your soul off to greener meadows.

Don't be scared to cross the gate
Baron Samedi now guides,
Loneliness to acclimate
A widow's final goodbye.


"I never knew afterwards for how many hours of that journey I had flown with a corpse for company because, when I landed, the man was quite dead." ~ Beryl Markham
Sarah Bat Oct 2014
dear father

when i was six years old i used to play doctor on you
with the medical kit the doctors gave me acclimate me to being in hospitals all the time
now i'm 21 years old and you're laying in a real hospital, dying
leaving me again
you used to be someone i looked up to
but you took that person away from me when you raised that bottle to your lips
when you raised your voice to me and said things a father should never say to a daughter
things no one should ever say to anybody

when i was 16 we kicked you out of the house
and you left us with a pile of rubble to build into a life
and my heart and soul and brain are full of shrapnel
the bits and pieces, sharp and biting are shaped like words
they are are shaped like 'fat' and '****' and 'stupid' and 'never amount to anything' and 'no better than me'

when i was 16 you made a choice
you made a choice that hating yourself and getting drunk was more important then your family
more important than me
i've never heard anything so ******* pathetic in my entire life
than to never have the ***** to get better for the people who love you

when i was 19 my mother got sick
and you dealt with it like you deal with anything
you got drunk and made our lives miserable from hundreds of miles away
even then everything was about you
everything is always about you; your problems your ****** childhood how terrible you think you are how awful this makes you feel

**** your problems
you had 53 years to deal with your problems and you didn't
and now everyone else has to deal with the aftermath
like an island full of land mines so no one knows where to step
you took your problems and used them to abuse everyone else and never took responsibility
and you never will because dead men can't take responsibility for anything

did you really need to take one last thing from me?
you took my childhood and tore it to pieces
you shattered my self esteem, destroyed my sense of worth
you took the person i called my dad away from me
and now before i have a chance to come to terms with all the things you did
you drink yourself to death

i can't confront you about the things you did
it won't mean anything when you don't even know what day it is
do you even remember speaking to me the other day
do you remember i'm still mad
do you even remember all the awful things you did to me

call me spiteful but i'm angry you won't have to live a long life remembering the way you abused me
while i am forced to remember it every day
every time i look in a mirror
every time i cry about something that 'doesn't matter'
every time something is just a little too loud

how come you get to ruin your brain and ruin your body and die and forget everything
and i have to live every day remembering
how is that fair
how come you get to make yourself the victim when i'm the one fighting to survive

how dare you
how ******* dare you
the audacity it took to do all those things to me, and then drink until you forgot them, and then drink until it destroyed you
one more awful thing on a long list of slights you and alcohol have enacted against me
couldn't you have at least not done this now
tracy died three years ago the sixth
how could you ******* do this to us
especially to mom
weren't you supposed to love her?
are you even sorry?

how am i supposed to mourn someone i haven't had the time to forgive
how am i supposed to mourn someone who died a long time ago as far as i'm concerned
how am i supposed to feel when you're dying and taking all my options away from me
one last time

there is no excuse for the things you did to me
there never were and there never will be
and i will probably never forgive you for them
and now i will never forgive you for dying before i had a chance to heal
and for taking any chance i had to tell you how much you hurt me away from me

i will try to mourn the man who drew dots on softballs so i could see them better
and let me draw on his back and put bows in his hair
but it's hard to mourn someone you buried more than five years ago
i had to tell myself the old you was dead to keep myself alive
i don't know what a difference your real death will make in that endeavor

how is that even half dead and hundreds of miles away
you're still ruining my ******* life
and hurting my feelings
i would feel better about your death if i knew it would take away your voice in my head
but i know that it won't

if you ever get better i hope it's with the knowledge of all the pain you made me suffer
i hope you know what you did
at least then both of us our miserable

i told you i loved you when i talked to you on the phone but i can't sign this letter with a lie,
your daughter
CastorPolydeuces Mar 2013
When thoughts stream through my head-
They acclimate into a presence-
Dark and smothering-
Sinister Nothing.
Lane Jun 2014
I never met my grandpa,
he fought in Vietnam.
He didn't die in battle.
When he got home,
he attempted to pick up the pieces,
of his shattered mind.

The unimaginable things he must have done
all for the sake of fighting for his country.
The cruelty he must have seen
all for a government squabbling.
To return, with angry faces meeting him,
as if it was his decision to go to resort to arms,
as if PTSD wasn't enough of a punishment.

He returned to his family
struggling to acclimate to the environment.
Tried to shake off
the horrific nightmares of war
that led to bloodcurling screams
keeping the entire block wide awake.

He returned to his job
construction work, paving roads
seeking solitary work,
afraid he would snap.
One day, he crashed.
Pinned into the machine
on a hot June day.

As the sun
baked the blood in his face
this man paid for whatever sins
he committed, and then some.
slowly, he inched his way to Death's doorstep,
with a crooked smile, and a guiltless heart,
finally having peace, in a life of turmoil.
Nikki Mar 2015
heavy and hollow, intolerable weight
knees crumble , inability to acclimate
'where am i going? does this every stop?'
my tears embody the falling raindrops

heavy and hollow, the gravity draws me to the darkness
the inescapable, eternal void of sadness
A world without you, I'm not ready for
All the "somedays" we had; nevermore

Can't help this feeling of abandonment
My heart is gone, it's empty and vacant
Sora Apr 2014
Gays are no different
Because we have eyes, though some of us may be blinded
We have ears, though some of us might be deaf
We have fingers and toes, although we may not have all twenty.
Gays are not hell bound
Because we eat shellfish just like you do
We are flame resistant just as you claim to be
We have sinned, like every other person out there.
We are no different
We are wired differently as is every human in existence
We dress differently just like you
We all love differently, but we love anyway.

We say as our ancestors rebelled
We don't carry Satan on our shoulders as you have tought your children
We do our best to hold in the hate
And we feel as though we can acclimate others to their peers
We do not though, force ourselves on you
As you do to us

So we like
rainbows
I can guarantee we fine more pots of gold than you
So we have our wn clubs and bars, because you have yours
She's a woman and he's a man, and there are no picket signs at their door

NOthing breeds us to disown and hate  but ourselves- so that is who we can blame or that's who we can talk to*

Gays are no different. So don't hold me from walking down an aisle
Inspired by Freedom To Marry and Same *** marriage court in Oregon.
High rise buildings don’t shed leaves.
And the trees are too far below to be seen.
‘Fall’ carries a different context in concrete
With gravity at play, its threatens to be mean....

There are pockets where nature is trimmed to size
And planted to add value to unreal estate
I should miss the mess, the sights and the eyes
And instead I watch my senses acclimate.

A pumpkin cinnamon latte, in Starbucks terms
Offers cultured aspirants a slice of respite
I am not ungrateful, but I can still reminisce
Not because of my earnestness but despite....

Memory of colours, orchestrates fall
A cacophony of wistfulness without a plot
I can’t even pretend it is autumn in my mind,
When the artifice around me is still so hot.

©️Arshia
6.10.18
#afutureisticpoem
#ifclimatechangecontinues
alexis hill Jan 2015
I didn't want to fall in love with
postage stamps
to put yourself onto paper like that
seems inaccurate.

but while I'm lonely, crying; I wanted to turn to you because you were never there to turn to
but I couldn't turn to you because you were never there.

And by there I mean here, with me, where you should have been.

I didn't want to fall in love with train tickets, holding my piece of glossy paper like the lotto.
I just won the opportunity to see you.

to lie with you in bed
be held
share a cigarette
attempt to contain the laughter.

See, when I step off that platform
and our eyes meet
I am flooded with excitement for it's Christmas and my birthday
all at once.

I am going to try, to care for you from a distance.
especially when those vast 70 miles seem to eat away

see I'll be checking the mailbox everyday, saving every paycheck to see you next.
I will wait learn to acclimate
I will learn to adjust.

And perhaps fall in love with the 70 miles that separate us.
Nihl Jun 2023
I emerged as the middle son of a resolute military family—a nomadic existence bereft of any fixed abode to call my own. No town or state bears witness to the imprint of my childhood, for I have been consigned to the liminal spaces, perpetually suspended between homes. It is an accursed experience, fraught with the ache of belonging nowhere, and yet, it bestows upon me unexpected offerings.

The bonds of friendship, woven through the thread of shared memories from childhood, elude my grasp. There are no cherished recollections etched upon the walls of a familiar dwelling, no nostalgic imprints of camaraderie nurtured through the passage of time. Instead, I traverse the vast expanse of existence as an eternal outsider, a wayfarer devoid of a place to call my own.

And yet, from this tempestuous journey of perpetual transience, there have been a few select gifts bestowed upon my nomadic soul. A unique charisma courses through my being—a bittersweet manifestation of my transient nature. It is a magnetism that dances on the periphery of attention, challenging the captivation of others with its fleeting essence. Like a passing zephyr, my presence tantalizes but eludes, leaving behind an ephemeral imprint upon those who chance upon my path.

In the ebb and flow of a life unmoored, I have come to cherish the transient beauty that accompanies impermanence. Like the fleeting bloom of a wildflower, I embody the essence of transience, embracing the delicate fragility of the present moment. It is within these ephemeral spaces that I find solace, for I have learned to embrace the inherent impermanence that weaves through the tapestry of existence.

Though I yearn for the stability of rootedness, I have discovered the gifts hidden within the nomadic rhythm of my life. The absence of a fixed abode has granted me a fluidity of perspective, a capacity to adapt and acclimate to the ever-changing landscapes that unfold before me. I have learned to find solace in the transient connections I forge along the way, cherishing the fleeting encounters that breathe life into the narrative of my existence.

As I wander through the kaleidoscope of human experiences, my heart bears witness to the beauty of impermanence. Like a wandering troubadour, I carry within me a melodic resonance, echoing the transient nature of existence itself. In the fleeting moments of connection, I seek to infuse the lives of others with the warmth of my presence, knowing that our time together is but a fleeting vignette in the grand tapestry of life.

And so, I continue to roam, forever embracing the ebb and flow of impermanence. With an unyielding spirit and an open heart, I navigate the uncharted terrain that stretches before me. For within the transience of my being lies the essence of my journey—a pilgrimage through the fluid landscapes of the human experience, where every encounter, no matter how fleeting, becomes an indelible stroke on the canvas of my ever-evolving narrative.

This ebb and flow of friendships and romances have woven a tumultuous pattern, their threads intricately tied to my family's enduring connection to the military. The comings and goings, the hellos and goodbyes, have become an all too familiar refrain in the symphony of my life. And as the seasons of connection have passed, I have become somewhat numb to their transient nature, a casualty of circumstance and repetition.

In the wake of these constant comings and goings, I find myself standing on the precipice of adulthood, bearing the weight of an unyielding separation. A veneer of detachment and professionalism masks the turbulent sea of emotions that surge beneath the surface. The few friendships I do manage to form are delicate, like gossamer threads, easily frayed and dispersed by the winds of impermanence. It is not that I lack the capacity for presence or charm, but rather the ever-lingering expectation that these connections will be short-lived. I have learned, through bittersweet experience, that relationships, like the changing seasons, are ephemeral and transient. What begins as a radiant summer romance inevitably fades into the distance, like the distant memory of a winter's chill. And I bear the weight of this impermanence, not as a burden to be cast aside, but as an intrinsic part of my being.

I perceive the world through the lens of a fleeting observer, a witness to the beauty and fragility of existence. Like a breathtaking sunset, each encounter shines brightly in its own fleeting moment, bringing a tear to my eye as I cherish its transient glory. But as quickly as the sun sinks below the horizon, so too do these moments slip away, leaving only the treasured memory in their wake. It is not a fault to be placed upon the shoulders of those who share these moments with me, for their presence is a gift I hold dear. No, the fault lies within myself, in my unconscious acceptance of impermanence.

And yet, amidst the ephemerality that shapes my world, there is a profound wisdom that has taken root within my soul. I have learned to embrace the beauty of the present, to revel in the moments of connection while acknowledging their inherent temporality. Each encounter becomes a masterpiece in its own right, a brushstroke of color upon the canvas of my existence. And though friendships and romances may come and go like the tides, leaving imprints upon my heart that reverberate with both joy and sorrow, I have come to accept their transience as an integral part of the human experience.

In this dance of impermanence, I have discovered a resilience that allows me to move forward, ever open to the possibilities that lie ahead. Each goodbye, though tinged with a touch of melancholy, becomes an opportunity for growth and transformation. I am a wanderer in the realms of connection, forever seeking the fleeting sparks that illuminate the path of my journey.

And so, as the chapters of my life unfold, I walk the delicate tightrope between attachment and release. I embrace the bittersweet symphony of impermanence, knowing that every encounter, no matter how fleeting, leaves an indelible mark upon the tapestry of my existence. Like a precious gem, each memory is polished and treasured, while I carry forward, forever attuned to the ephemeral nature of the world around me.
Sarabella Adler Dec 2018
In her eyes you see the forgiveness, you refuse to give yourself

That makes you angry, because who is she to forgive you for things you’ve done to yourself
It scares you, because it makes you aware that you could tear her apart the same way, and she’d have the same look in her eyes
It warms you in a way that you can’t acclimate to, after adjusting to years of the cold
It makes you think she must be so deeply flawed, to dignify you and all of yours
It has you thinking in a way that is new to you, for once your desires aren’t the force that drives you
You would lose the acceptance you’ve been craving, to save her from someone who can’t accept themself  
You don’t even realize this self-sacrificial heart you’ve grown proves that this is what you deserve
So you give her up, and you can only hope that one day she’ll be happy

But what you never saw in her eyes, is that with you she already was
Mark Toney Nov 2019
Fresh new book opens wide and swallows me whole!
Taking time to acclimate I catch my breath,
Focusing as scenes and characters unfold
To instill memories of their length and breadth.
Finishing one book a month is my firm goal
Few subjects considered are out of my depth
Reading encourages to take life in stride-
Back to my book! See you on the other side!
11/7/2019 - Poetry form: Ottava rima - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2019
Wang Di Jun 2019
Acclimate, my love
from all of the yesterdays
bestowed upon you
you charmed the life out of me
like an umbilical beast
i was sleeping then you woke me
with the hell of green new spring
weary tones your voice alone
wandered room to room
filled with cigarette smoke
no new ways that arise
no more delicate smiles
just ice jagged pale chest
rising like an uninvited guest,
from a frozen hall long + dead +
repressed + tightening a noose around my neck
please excuse this mess
gargantuan willows enrage the yard
ivy fingers ice-picking
sobbing graves below
flowers all groan, beneath the weight of new snow,
so they begin frantic
to acclimate and grow,
veining like the frothing blood,
cob-webbing the dining room floor
with a fist of bones,
gods hand reached in through the snow
closed the door
we don’t hear from him
not anymore

u would give anything to feel alive
the day after you died
I saw your face in a cloud in the sky
Brynne Miller Feb 2017
Beating fast, both your wings and your heart
You ascend and keep climbing, anxious to reach the peak
Uplifts you, exhilarates you
Until you acclimate and feel nothing
Slowly deadening your senses one ‘I love you’ at a time
Until you are like a balloon
Stuck in the rafters
Slowly deflating
Until you drift to the ground and are swept up at the end of some marvelous party.
Devon Leonel Jan 2019
The tempest did not last long
Though while it rampaged it was terrible to behold
Stinging sheets of rain falling nearly sideways
On the fierce breath of the raging wind
A gale force ripping up everything in its path
Sharp stabs of lightning, the only illumination
Across a dark and battered land
And then
The storm blew out
The world dropped away
All that remained
Stillness
Silence
Quiet
Spinning through empty space
Trying to reorient
Moments of feeling grounded again
Like feet finding passing asteroids
Stability for a time
Too soon, the rock floating away in its orbit
Leaving only space
And darkness
Straining to find the next moment of solid footing
Eyes that acclimate to the dark
Learning to navigate the emptiness
Between those moments of steadiness
Then, without warning, a blinding flash
Remnant of the maelstrom
A bolt of lightning searing through space
The afterimage, glimpses of times gone by
Visions of moments that never came to be
Shadows of a future once dreamed of
Eventually fading away to blackness once more
No way to see what lies ahead
Or what direction “ahead” even is
Just drifting
But
Still
Trying
To move forward
Through empty space
The storm isn't raging but the cold emptiness is almost worse
Chaos is constant,
Liberties are lies.

The volatile nature of the ever shifting storm,
Beats life into a reaction.
Adapt to live,
Concede, change or die.

The rigid line of order,
Keeps the coin from flipping.
Exist within the lines,
Habituate, acclimate  or suffer.

Fall through the metaphysical event horizon or crawl the grey production belt.


Both paths converge and blacken,
The same rust stalks the journey.

Stepping outside the picture,
So vast you could not see.
Always growing larger;
The unstoppable progress of infinite possibility,
Could there really be any consequence?
As a fog within the mist,
A lake under the ocean.
Should we quantify significance?

Pushed or dragged from cries to silence,
No man has had control,
The stream within the river,
Ignorant in its role.
Amanda Kay Burke Jul 2023
All my days are bad ones without you
Look to the sky like "what should I do?!"
The way I'm living would surely evoke a frown
In grave probably rolling completely upside-down
Thinking back when problems were few and so small
Universe seemed so frightening but you weren't scared at all
But presently I realize you kept your fears hid
Type of bravery that is heroic to a kid
I would forfeit anything to rewind time to those days
Hate that you are gone at least the memory stays
Found how to love myself by looking through your eyes
Reflection in the mirror today I don't even recognize
A lot would do differently if I had a second chance to change
Take all the hurtful words and for compliments exchange
Steal all the ways I treated you so ******* bad
Erase decisions that in the end made your soul feel sad
Now you are not here to view me turn my life around
Kills me to know I lost the opportunity to make you proud
But I still try because it's what you deserve
To make up for always getting on your last nerve
And if somehow watching me from afar
Hope you discovered how beautiful you truly are
And that you meant the world to me and so much more
In your absence it is difficult to remember what's worth breathing for
You were essential to daily routine
I loathe to myself for not telling you how much to me you mean
It was obvious I loved you because I told you almost every day
I never voiced APPRECIATION until you passed away
Now it is too late to express my gratitude
Last impression of me is my bratty attitude
You just wanted to spend hours with me but I had none to spare
After the amount you'd sacrificed I was too selfish to care
Yet never held against me my inconsideration
Unconditionally showering with adoration
I wish I regretted while you were still alive
So I apologized for all the attention I deprived
Now my neglect and unfairness haunt like a ghost
Ashamed I behaved childishly towards the one I cherish most
I assumed there would be time to rectify my actions later
Guess that is the consequence of being a procrastinator
And oh what heart wrenching lesson I have learned
By your generosity that forever will go unreturned
This remorse anchoring me to mistakes does weigh a ton
Shackles reminder of the ******-up **** I've done
I yearn for you to witness the sincerity when I speak
Whispering "I am sorry" for tears I caused to roll down your cheek
Presently dreams are only location sight is blessed by your face
Even there it's clear I am nothing but a disgrace
You once tamed insecurities like animals so wild
In the corner of my mind they sit piled
I'm working to scrape by without help from your hand
How could toes possibly walk when I am hardly able to stand?
Your guidance is vital to navigate road
Arms lack the strength to carry heavy load
But you taught not to quit even when things get hard
What doesn't **** will make me stronger although it may also leave me scarred
So in your honor will continue dragging along my feet
For success strive when it'd be simpler to admit defeat
Because I desire to be courageous like you were and confident too
It was as if a light switched on the instant you stepped in the room
You were one of a kind
Impossible to replace
No distraction capable of filling the empty space
But I will eventually acclimate to life void of your touch
Though at this moment all I can focus on is how I miss you too much
Izaac Rains Apr 2017
There's a beauty in darkness that isn't always noticed.
When you become void of one of your senses,
when the water of sightlessness hungrily rushes your lungs, and you acclimate yourself to the fact that the fear can only last for so long,
you will be freed from the burdens of sight.
From the overbearing pictures of the outside world

— The End —