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liz Oct 2012
Trivial they may seem
one worded acknowledgments
provide the greatest of hopes

sing into my seashell
slung around my neck
it tremors with my heartbeat

lay vertically on my pillow
and let the coolness
influence your words
Andrew Parker May 2014
Condolence Cards Poem (Spoken Word)
5/19/2014

Congratulations: On landing your dream job!
Congratulations: On buying your first house!
Congratulations: It's a beautiful baby you brought into this world!
Congratulations: Marriage is so monumental, see you at the wedding!
Condolences.

Can you measure the amount of acknowledgements we forfeit,
to cheap card stock and cheesy colorful cutouts?  
Like each event in life is a round in sports,
requiring an announcer to stand on the edge of the arena,
shouting the play by play.  

We play pretend that cards can say what we feel.  
But I feel like unless if those purple, blue, vanilla,
or pink for valentine's and mother's day envelopes
can enclose an entire paperback novel,
I know that my feelings can't possibly be enclosed inside.  
As if feelings could surmount to anything less than a lifetime of experience.  

For when has then phrase, "I love you" ever conveyed the entire message intended, but without the soft gestures accompanying it, or perhaps the longing gaze of eyes and 'I Do's' entrenched in one another.  
For when has the phrase, "I miss you" offered up the subtleties of staring out your window on rainy day, listening to piano symphonies sinking into the sofa sipping away sorrows on wine?
For when has the phrase, "I am sorry for your loss" ever actually meant sorry, as if it was you who were the perpetrator of a ****** and were seeking exoneration through a sorry excuse of a phrase uttered by people who just don't quite understand the meaning of the term 'sorry.'
Condolences.

I stare at the Hallmark Sea in front of me and I wonder.  Are life's memorable moments so easily categorized?  Into baby showers, bar-mitzvahs, and birthdays?
What about cards just for barbecues with random neighbors?
About cards just for breaking your precious vase?
Cards just for being a ***** the other day?
Just for breakfast you made me in bed?
For binge-ing on alcohol with me and not leaving me almost dead?
What about cards just for thanking you for buying me a stupid ******* card?

Tell me where is the corporate branding on cards for being broke?
On cards for broken homes?
On cards for being homeless?
On cards for getting cancer?
On cards for cutting?
On cards for self-loathing and depreciation?
What about cards for being in the moment or sharing a cup of coffee?
Instead what we get is the catch-all, Condolence Cards.

Condolences - an expression of sympathy with a person who is suffering sorrow, misfortune, or grief.  
Condolences - an expression of sympathy with a person who is suffering sorrow, misfortune, or grief.  
Condolences - an expression of sympathy
Condolences - a person who is suffering
Condolences - sorrow, misfortune, or grief.  


I didn't realize most people's sympathy being expressed equated to blank stares like paper on paper, means nothing but thin and flimsy papers, feelings forfeited, grounded up like big beautiful trees teeming with life, chalked up into tiny pieces of toilet paper for you to wipe your crap on, leaving behind a Hallmark - Condolence Card.
Simon May 2021
"Being Processed Overload", doesn't come with many benefits, when your already tolerant of one thing, and one single thing...ONLY...!
By any chance, what do you think that one single ONLY thing is...?
Well, it's nothing more than what's come beforehand, or afterwards...
After all, what becomes fully "silence" at the end of the day, is nothing more than what is generally written, or seen, or even displayed (fully), "between the lines".... And it won't make a single slither of sense, unless your willing (to give yourself that one single "affordable" chance), to not be in a state of "Processed Overload", anymore!
Implying, that the most obvious results ("had"), and ("will"), always hide from deep within the states in-between the things that "can be seen", and the parts (of those very "things", that for some strange reason haven't fully yet been discovered), had remained entirely significant in part towards those very things that..."can't be seen"). Hiding, (when you least expect them to do so).
So, the whole point of being processed overload, is the very claim, that you are witnessed to something that can't be entirely seen... Or else, you'd become entirely "Overloaded" with too many processes!
When you’re already dealing with enough as it is... Especially when those very states in-between are hard enough as it is to see ("from within"), to begin with.
It's a full contact sport (when life get's significantly rough for your own eyes to become terribly outwitted by all that processed overload)!
It's when a totally realistic testament for truth (in itself), when being faced with so much, (without enough benefits to help you grab hold onto what's entirely tolerant that comes and goes either beforehand, or even afterwards...) Eventually speaking, it is the very basic lesson of things being entirely...ruled out.
So, it doesn't keep sticking too you, like a VERY BAD THORN IN YOUR SIDE! Forevermore telling what you should and should not do. And lastly, forcing you to see reason, as nothing more then for "control" to be seen as a pure...illusion.
While being so discouraged of (once being able to see from within, "at one moment" beforehand, then entirely fully dropping afterwards, when met with yet another, "specific moment", that most important...)
This most potential realization, (if at all you have caught onto it by now, of simply being so, where you'd learn from it, as who knows...you haven't particularly been doing it to begin with, as of yet...) Then, it's safe to say, that (while you try and try some more, eventually coming around to some type of partially known/partially unknown progress being involved...), doesn't exactly mean there's a type of significant progress in your failures, (for simply being able to understand).
You understand because you think you've made progress with the main issue, which is now clear for...ALL TO SEE!
Then suddenly out of the blue, (and as if it hadn't already been obvious enough...) Things start eventually becoming baseless. Coming to a very abrupt "fixated" halt!
But that doesn't actually mean you have seen (and then most prominently, "recognize") "why you do it!" Which forces you to start believing that everything is truthfully..."unclassified." Enabling everything (you once held dear).
Typical beliefs (within your own once secured belief system), now suddenly become...flawed!
Since the only expectation, was other's approval (apart from your own). And if you’re not able to see what is obviously in the states from in-between, then you’re literally going to see a one-sided viewpoint of everything for the remainder of your life. Controlling you in a pure illusion... From never explicitly being able to see (the other half of that entire viewpoint), with a straight open-mind.
Meaning, lifestyles will remain forever warped!
And your own lifecycle will continue to both shift drastically. Which in tune will remain as the very same dramatic "repeat", forevermore!
For the lack of reason that slowly but surely keeps both flowing inward, and outward... But not in the right type of recognition for your very self to both handle with careful consideration towards that very recognition, or for that very basic of acknowledgements just so you can handle yourself as you make your way through the different "fields full of clutter" (that seem to forevermore block your sights from simply being able to see clearly), with careful consideration...for your own identity to bear!
Because at the end of the day, identity (especially one that is trying to ALWAYS find different ways to sense, then fail here and there...)
Is nothing more than a tired effort...full of such actions...that keeps significantly turning into consequences...full of doubt.
(However, it may never be real doubt happening, when the consequences are just blaming you for your past, AND present faults of a tired effort that can't use their own actions very well anymore, when you’re also not seeing clearly again, anymore, either). Except, when your own presently perfect and overused (always in the limelight) doubt that of course, starts "sugar-coating" the very truthful actions (when you know you obviously already did something wrong), with nothing more than a good old dose of...guilt! Your regular and normal perception of things becomes utterly...twisted! Mangled! Bent out of shape! Stringing you up and wrapping you ever so tightly! Abruptly popping out a random pitiful bow (like on a present) full of both negativity and unprecedented bad luck on top of an entirely disfigured and misshapen present! (Not to mention the very wrapping paper that had become this HUGELY distorted pattern, that influences you in such a wrong sort of way, because again... So, you won't see clearly!) Until there was nothing left but...silence!
Silence at the end of the day, is seeking pleasure (in the moment of doubt, which significantly amplifies guilt), without taking the necessary time to fruitfully take noteworthy details into account...), that you truly have been "duped" this entire time...by your already currently corrupted self...who had been entirely "compromised"...long ago!
(And here's the very sad, and worst part... You didn't even see it happen....) Totally not your fault. It's just lives very bad tempos full of those constant rhythmic beats (that turn entirely into HUGE gimmicks that detests the very pattern...), which doesn't become soiled...when it's (even worse then EVER before), where the very beats have been already weeping alongside your own strides full of hesitant footprints that don't relate to the same old size shoe of the many lookalikes of footprints that followed after the other.... Almost as if everything then started with a beat full of such a rhythm (that came and went, as it naturally would). Then become suddenly confused when it's nothing more than for the sensation/feeling to become abruptly filled...as an everyday common joke. Then...for a pattern literally too weep alongside moving forward ever so gently, (by gently striding with the slightest of common footsteps you could literally muster, where there's no such accumulation where everyday common footsteps could be seen...) But here's the catch (which comes with a GREAT kicker involved...), where you can seriously see it from within, (and not entirely from the outside of yourself). Which entirely distorts this very meaning to begin with.
Even if you had... It had already been too late! When you were truthfully blinded from the very...START!
If only whatever comes (beforehand), or fully starts tolerating the (state that comes beforehand), where the (state of coming afterwards), then of course comes...after, (that which "what is beforehand"), is then helpful enough in being simply portrayed as nothing more...than what you could have already fully expected.
Except, when you anticipate something even more wrong...because your very own expectations (about the very main situation at large/involved), had become unsteadily stranded for dear life. Drifted away, since the very compatibilities didn't match up correctly. (And while being potentially forevermore left adrift without so much as a single change of scenery, (since you'll always stay the same...) Because you simply didn't know how too! Or even worse, being so processed overload, that you have let everything grow around you like this constant "Underbrush"!
An Underbrush seems to always be full of such twists and turns! Overly protruding vines that both poke and ****, according to your very own limitations wasting away the only strength that you held bear for so long... You are just lucky enough...you had lasted this long...! A truest claim among such miracles, that can only tolerate itself long enough...before it truly realizes what's been in front of it's very self (this entire time). And at which time...forces you to again, realize (and then sadly force you to then in its entirety, to acknowledge...), at just how much you've been in the "wrong"...this entire time....
Which in doing so, HEAVILY influences the very reasoning right out from under your own logic, which makes your own reason EXPEL that very logic, and just...throws it directly straight out the window like it's some yesterdays unimportant choice of reasoning! (Even going as far as to then look at it like it's pure...trash!)
(When today, it isn't truly looked at as the very center of one's own ordeal!)
I mean, of course it is...but your now stuck in that very illusion, (where now thinking control is this very illogical, negative, immoral, etc.), piece of obstructed, and nonsensical piece of doo-doo! ...And that isn't right about ANYTHING! Except, for what you have yet to ("properly see").
Guilt then (forevermore) forms into doubt...and the same lifecycle repeats, repeats, repeats...REPEATS! Until it had ****** YOU DRY! Of every type of energy reserve, you had (within yourself), in order to now begin compensating the very same structure of energy again, (in your very self, by simply using back-up energy reserves, or whatever "juice" was left from those previously already still presently being ****** dry/infected energy reserves that had already been literally either fully, or at the very least, nearly ****** DRY in itself!), of everything it held within it's personal possessions from both ends of the same spectrum.
Just so you can then simply "use" in order to clear away the many obstructions that have spread FAR AND WIDE...!!!
But word of both warning, and that of course of...caution.... Is that it's not going to be some easy and sane type of task, where you are able to just miraculously cleanse...EVERYTHING!
Just so you can then become (even more) an inner victim of your own already corrupted self.
"Being Processed Overload", is a state of INTENSE "ramifications"...of being filled with an already unrecognizable consciousness!
Limiting yourself (by chance itself), is a necessary battle for the forthcomings of both an "inner war" to begin seemingly out of NOWHERE! And for the efforts (if there was actually ANY from the very start), to not simply follow thoroughly through from what was already too structurally important from the get-go.
Simply hinting at, if you can truly follow-through with that main logic, (if you haven't already "expelled" anything worthy of your own self, from not EVER AGAIN being actually able to equip yourself and combat the very such obstructed force from within...) Then you might just have that very chance at recognizing what had truly happened to you.
carminayasmin Jan 2019
but that feeling had lost me some time ago now.
but yet,I had missed the innocent despair of hopelessness;
it just coincides so perfectly with the isolated night.
13 jan 22:59
Delta Swingline Jul 2017
Here it is in a nutshell:

I want to know that it isn't all for you.

That you knew we were part of this too.
That you knew we went through the same kind of pain.

That you missed me.

That you wanted to make it better.

But if this is all there is.

I'm still going to take it.

Because it's better than nothing.

But hey,

I was there.

I was there.

I suffered.

It isn't all about you.

You can't tell me that you missed anything about our friendship?

Then I guess there wasn't one to begin with.

I almost went to the same dark and empty spaces.

I tried so suppress everything.

I suffered.
And I suffered just as much as you.

You don't get to "win" at having the worst outcome.

Nobody won.

Just because you weren't there to see the pain, doesn't mean it wasn't there.

Just because you never saw me do anything, doesn't mean it never happened.

I was here.

And I've been here the whole time.

Okay.

I'm done being mad.

I'm done.

Being mad.
Done.
Laia Blackthorn Apr 2022
Someone's story just ended in
page fifty-three
The pen fell and no one can pick it up to
start again
The last goodbye is an unfinished line in
chapter eight
Phantom words will be this story's only
friend
"Hello" is now forgotten where the ink bleeds
"the end"
Nobody knows when their acknowledgements go next…
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
you just asked your enemy to hijack
the war in sexism
and extrovert it into religious acknowledgements
of purpose not bound by ethnicity,
how you solved the prize of waking the far right in me...
i’m staggering to compare or comprehend...
the LEHI...
we lost original islam in nag hammadi...
with the scrolls....
we forgot christianity... we tried to forge an awareness
that muhammad tried to prevent with islam
of honour lost in the sacrifice of femininity to masculine endeavour...
whatever that means...
my memories of paris?
my memories of paris are filled with canadians, talking about nabokov...
drinking wine, eating cheese on baguettes, and listening to two guys
playing bob sinclar’s love generation...
while the parisian girls congregated for a would-be-**** giving the monk
in tense... paraphrase...
cruelty to animals: precursor to world war iii... the war of sexism...
that is mingled with cold war ii...
soon enough the ******* will be our children
and we will not wish to father them...
with us only weakened by stating truth and her weakened by
stating lies...
under what legal obligation are two strangers
supposed to gratify an ugly woman’s pride
with man to cherish a child / children with the tribe / state law surfacing?
where’s the obligation of strangers to gratify
a *******?
we’ve become service societies... all the manly jobs are gone...
exported to china...
power brokers are women... and they’re not ready for house-husbands...
10,000 or how many years of evolution meant
that men became transgender... started sprouting ******* and ****
and fed the younglings with scientific placebo lactose:
win-win... we’re all all defending crumbs and dust architecture
of idealism and realism against the invading horde of revised islam
non-concurrent... some said the word mongolian... some said:
that’s the land where communism flourished and the pope took a ****...
now the west is going bankrupt trying to trotsky the rest as competitive...
no, wait... there’s the islamic model of no acquiring debt...
interest free dynamics... keep shylock in the poetic cage...
so if communism forcefully failed... imagine what anti-interest
islamism will do to the west... it will... simply.. destroy it;
you made communism an enemy and had a pivot-head to assault...
now you have islamic economics... and all you can think of, is, oink:
selling the formula 1 empire... great tactic shorty... great tactic;
i’d rather be a plumber in poland than a poet in england...
i’m no swiss... but my words are better than rolex when hanging to
a dangle of true; god i hate this place...
i’ll destroy it in whatever capacity i am capable of;
well the capacity of being drunk... the best assurance i am
akin to with not buying a kebab and doing the ***** tango.
Guy Random Oct 2010
Walking a lonely road, stepping over the dry leaves;
Waiting for the sunset, to leave me alone with my thoughts;
Observing the reality is not simple, but feeling it is even harder;
This always follow a change, when u feel theory in real;

For every stand u took, for every right u did;
For every step you took back, for every voice that was suppressed;
A laughing comment may be the reason, or a smile or a ignorance;
Good’s became good joke, deeds became dramas;

Prophets preach love everyone, reality ends in loving ourselves;
No sorry no thanks, rude a person becomes without acknowledgements;
Follow your heart, stop taking free advices, ironical part we do;
Edison said 'value in disaster, start all over again', how hard it is to do;

Ideal is a word that has no practical example;
Even Mahatma Gandhi was only close to ideal;
Resistor to transistor, ideal behaviour has bookish domains;
And what a irony, even great of greatest are running towards this misconception;

Fooling someone is an upcoming talent;
Your last laugh, was it on a ***** act or someone loss??;
Listening advice is a harder job than firing suggestions;
Selfish is a attribute necessary to adopt;

Opening book on a regular day sometimes become crime;
Everyone pretends to be last day hero;
Hardly one dares to take a stand, for someone unknown, for public benefit;
Forgetting, one could be in same place;

Here conscience becomes a vital part;
Doing what it allows, or changing it accordingly;
Does varying conscience have a value? Choice enters in play;
Choice to be what you should be or what you are accepted to be;
(c) goyal.madhav@gmail.com
I am a student and this is what I feel is happening all around in real world..
http://www.blogger.com/profile/05955009719386496175
cameran Feb 2014
Sometimes all the anger I have reaches it's peak and it explodes.

What I would scream to her,
You act so fake around everyone, but no matter how hard you try you'll never be true

What I would scream to him,
I love you! I love you so much it hurts!

What I would scream to them,
Nobody likes it here, so stop pretending we do!

What I would scream to the world,
Stop acting! Stop fake smiling! Stop pretending! Just please stop!

It just can't be kept in.

I'm angry at the world, and it's angry right back at me.

c.r.k.
"Your not a very good actor."
Roni Shelley Jun 2013
Tonight I was face to face with a boy who used to ask me out
Constantly
Years ago
Today I ordered a scoop of chocolate ice cream from him
as if it were some usual encounter with a Coldstone employee
No acknowledgements
Just him, me, and the held out ice cream between our distance
It's funny how things change
It's funny how things have changed
And it's quite hilarious how I've changed.
I tend to always search for a group to "fit" in to
But on the contrary I do not.
And just because he forgot who I was
I, along with him, did too.
Amy Y Aug 2015
deep breaths and quiet murmurs
take up more space
than chatter, clinking glasses, and toasts.
the air feels stuffy and thick
polluted with grief, clouded with misery.
the static from sorrow resonates
on muffled frequencies.

it seems i’m tuned to FM
too often to hear
every sigh
cough
swallow
and grunt
that rest unmasked in AM

the acknowledgements page
is skipped over, skimmed through
to get to the good parts.
what happens when that page
is dog-eared and bookmarked
when we are thrown in
no life vests
to swim to the next line

this is shuffling feet and awkward balance
it’s ice water crying, bleeding on wood
it’s 5 o’clock shadow and mismatched socks
wrinkled dresses, broken zippers, and frayed rope
it’s the depths of our lives when we’ve strayed on the outskirts.
it’s a dimly lit candle, flickering in the dark
illuminating the dust left forgotten on the nightstand.
this is the grit, the film on the lens
this is muddy water

it’s crumbling walls that hit speeding cars
danger: falling rocks.
skinned knees and bruised elbows.
this is it.
the hum of the dryer, the drip of the faucet.
the things that never bothered you
when you cancelled out the background noise.
this is the shifting light of night to dawn
telling us, yes - of course, there is more.
Unknown Jan 2014
I’m not felling poetic
- just lonely.
So I’m writing to get rid of some **** feelings.
There are other ways, you know,
to "relive the pressure"
the thumping
the vacuum

but people don’t like those friends I've made;
the friends who sit on  my wrist
whispering sweet acknowledgements...

You see,
I know that what pokes at my consciousness is real
- because they are.

*Do you understand?
Sarah Bat Jul 2012
I want to be a part of someone's story
That’s all really

I will settle for a page

A place in the acknowledgements

A chapter would be nice.

I don’t need to be a main character

I can be a silent member of your Grecian chorus

As long as I am included in your story.

I will settle for simply being a part of someone’s story

But what I really want

Is to inspire someone to write their story

Or change what is already written.

I want to deeply affect the narrative of someone’s life

Stories are not monologues

They are dialogues

We can learn from each other.

Love is like allowing someone to co author your life

And that’s all I want really

I want to be a part of somebody’s story

I want to help somebody write their story

And for them to help me write mine in turn.
III Sep 2015
There is a man
I notice sometimes
From classroom windows
Across the school
Who rides a raging
Metallic beast
With a razor reach
And craving for cuts
Of grass that never stops growing,

He’s soaked in a midday sun
Peeking around a sea in the sky
Dotted with whispers of white,
And drenched in his thoughts
As the hum of the engine
Shrugs off the blurred haze
Of traffic close by,

And he ponders:
“Does this grass feel pain?”
As his blade sweeps away
The shagged green fingers,
For sometimes among
The clean straights he trims
And behind the static of
Mindless television too late at night
He imagines the grass
Sprung from the ground
To be himself,
Lost among a crowd,
Nothing more than a hint of color
In some dizzying hue,
A hair on the Earth
No one would care to lose,

And while he sighs
Once every week or so
And shifts into gear
The lawn to be turned slick
And shiny,
Well kept
By some unsung hero,
The subtle acknowledgements
Chime in hushed admiration
To his unhearing ears.
Static crackling ecstatically; manic pop
Transistor hissing and spitting; sideboard atop
                                      First when there’s nothing…
                                      But a slow glowing dream…

Pirouette such as whirling dervish makes
Adolescent prancer twirls; leg warmer fakes
                                      All alone I have cried…
                                      Silent tears full of pride…

Breathless incantation; future forged in dance
Performance fascination; leap upon the chance
                                      What a feeling...
                                      Bein’s believing…

Neon flashes bedeck wrists and bonce
Peers laughter flash like fire; a ponce
                                      Take your passion…
                                      And make it happen…

The music shields, deflects. Antacid; taunts abate
Rhyhmic dreamer energized; blind to all the hate
                                      Pictures come alive…
                                      You can dance right through your life…



As Bergen-Belsen ghost yet still aware
Lost dreamer segues silently on fetid air
                                       Bruised and battered, I couldn’t tell what I felt…
                                       I am unrecognizable to myself…

Shuffling as garish Geisha; white but not with paint
Breathless as fifties bombshell; heaving sick and feint
                                      At night I could hear the blood in my veins…
                                      It was black and whispering as the rain…

With steel partner; straight firm and slim of hip
Rigid in rigor’d waltz; moving labouredly with drip
                                      I walked the avenue, ‘til my legs felt like stone…
                                      I heard the voices of friends, vanished and gone…

Faithless rusting engine combusts toxic blood
Failing sack of sinew lies where dancer stood
                                      Night has fallen, I’m lyin’ awake…
                                      I can feel myself fading away…

Monotone white noise; assuring beep
Dancer dreams in endless sleep
                                     There was a time when men were kind…
                                     There was a time when love was blind…

©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness – 2018 – All rights reserved)

Acknowledgements:

1. Flashdance… what a Feeling (1983 – Giorgio Moroder, Keith Forsey & Irene Cara)
2. The Streets of Philadelphia (1993 – Bruce Springsteen)
3. I Dreamed a Dream (Les Miserables – Claude Michel Schonberg, Herbert Kretzmer & Alain Boubil)
The difference 40 years can make in a gay dancers life....from dream to nightmare in the ***/AIDS crisis, inspired by the music and news of the 80's and 90's
SaWal Mar 2018
Shaded, faded, degraded
But i promise you my ending verse would be I MADE IT

Grated, rated, penetrated
Hope is with what all my pain I traded

Waited, bated, segregated
You trying, well so am I, therefore you won't see me retrograded

Pierced, teared, speared
Failing is something I never Feared

Cheated, bleed-ed, mistreated
No appreciations, no acknowledgements, little bit of understanding is all I needed

Raided, shredded, perforated
No matter how dark the tunnel gets, for them dreams I WILL MAKE MY OWN WAY

Alackaday, doomsday, mayday
I have felt them all that's what makes 'it' so special- MY PAYDAY

Bitten, smitten, mistaken
Words above define my ride, feel my rhyme and make the most of THE ROAD TAKEN..
winter sakuras May 2016
As the sunlight streams through the light green pigments of the leaves on the trees,
As students hustle back and forth,
occupied with due dates, missing work, exams, and the prospect of summer,
As you get ready to leave,
I am missing you.

I met you my sophomore year, when you were a senior,
old but young, naive but open, worn but alive,
I was so surprised by how accomplished someone could be,  
You worked so hard even the Gods praised you,
Yet you never really noticed our acknowledgements,

I smiled nervously, stuttered on small words and shaky laughs,
I sat there facing the light of someone's universe,
the person who wasn't really human at all,
but a being so flawless and true,
so godlike but so mortal,
so confident but so nervous,
so attractive to someone who desired so badly to love,

Too many things spoken about one-sided love,
but I felt no need to say even one word to anyone,
because you were too precious to share,
too sophisticated to understand,
too rare to enjoy,
too emotionless to feel anything,

But I held what I could of you in my heart anyways,
never really thinking about the end,
everything was drawing to a close,
and now in just a few days,
in just a few seconds,
in just a few words,
you will be gone entirely from my life.  

A memory in the back of your mind,
of someone who faced you for a few minutes,
of who glanced at you while walking by,
never really understanding why,
I will cease to exist,

I'll love you forever,
for I am the moon interdependent on the prospect of you,
I will weep every night into the oceans,
hug the tides and whisper to the mountains,
ask the stars to shine for you,
the mortal sun shining for my lost soul.
Louise Jun 2014
You offer me so much
but you're not sure what I want
I try so hard to explain
maybe I need to change the font

Always the same conversation
each and every time
but those all important words
seem to be lost or left behind

Acknowledgements are made
improvements last for a while
I can see you trying to hard
fighting to maintain the smile

I know you honestly love me
you always try your best
I feel I'm asking enough of you
my needs should be much less

The loneliness creeps back in
I feel myself withdraw
You don't seem to see it though
we just carry on as before

I then can't bring myself to ask
for you to spend time with me
I wish you'd notice the divide
and for you too, to feel the need

You tell me just to 'speak'
and let you know how I feel
but why don't you want it too
it's always my appeal

This is not your issue I know
my sighing heart is not whole
I'm faulty and permanently broken
and none of it's your fault
This was written a while ago but it suits my mood right now.
Lesley Nov 2017
I am the cheese
Swiss cheese
Standing alone
Riddled with holes
Riddled in life
In mind
This cheese stands alone
There is a hole
Not diminishing
Not healing
Still ragged and raw
Still bleeding
Your name on it
Label maker
Stick-on
Cut out
Super glued on
Oh Super you
Not healing
The start is in the forgetting?
Or perhaps, different ways of remembering?
Release all pain
This is the trick I fail at
If no gain, then pain
Something I am good at
I pick at the wound and make wider
I peel off scabs again and again
The red bright in my grey grey mind
The red a bright dot tattoo
Memento
These moments though
There is a perfect catch
Perfect chance
Perfect dance
I fail at catching the rhythm
Stumble & fall
Hole soufflé
Cold duvet
A hole by any other name…
I fail to catch the rhythm
(Not complimentary
But clashes of personality)
The dance, the chance
So much is lost on me
But You…
I fall through
The hole wider now than before
Oh Alice, be careful what you wish for
You riddled through
Riddle you
Standing alone
You failed to catch the rhythm
The chance, the dance
So much is lost on you
Riddled with holes
Riddled in life
Standing alone.



.......................................................­..........................................
Acknowledgements:
‘The Farmer in the Dell’ nursery rhyme (1820, GE)
‘I am the Cheese’ YA novel by Robert Cormier (1977)
All rights reserved.
jamie Apr 2016
i’ve been thinking a lot lately, mainly about why i seem to lose grip of the people around me so rapidly. people i’ve grown up around, people i’ve known since i was buck toothed and wearing crocs with socks. it feels like over the years something in the air shifted and so did the balance in my brain, no longer do we roll our eyes  nor do we playfully nudge each other. this has evolved into an inside joke that i am no part of; a box only with square holes but I am a circle. is it my fault though, that i’ve never met the person?  in my mind i have sculpted a figure and fit us into scenarios– laughing, closed eyes, arched backs, silent acknowledgements, understanding palms, wordless hugs. yet i promise myself never to open up. the key is to be mysterious, to not divulge information like a water dispenser.  this key will be the death of me and my sanity.
Anais Vionet Nov 2020
Mad kings are sly devils,
and like math homework,
they’re hard to get rid of.

Like ex-boyfriends they
waltz the line of patience
with dawdling acknowledgements
and sluggish departures.

You find yourself the airline
agent, “Sorry sir, your departure
is booked and ticket printed -
please proceed to the gate."
In fashion (and politics) one day you're in... and the next day you're out.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2018
it makes so much sense to imitate being german in england, to find an obscurity of an anglo-pomeranian, or an anglo-slav, like in the army of jarema wiśniowiecki: the germans who served in the artillery core, not having retired from the 30 years war: yarema'h! the pogrom of the men a tier below the cossaks... as was said: the houses you'll burn, and whatever looted goods you find you will take... the women and children you will send into the wilderness, and the peasants (i.e. men)? you'll thank them... and so they hanged.

- the current affair -

but there are: besides the points to be made here...
    i once took it upon myself to drink most
of the nights, but leave at least one night
sober... thanks to the pyeongchang olympics
i took it up myself to inact a program:
one day drunk, a day and & night sober...
  but **** me: it's hard watching the sports
that would get more views in public
space if staged in Europe: than
    over there...
     perhaps if staged by north korea:
or china, the public would be told:
    you don't attend: we'll lock up your family.
if we're already having a second cold war:
you can be assured that a 3rd world war
comes when this "war" comes to an end:
but i like to think of it as a: second cultural
exchange programme...
     9 hours later i'm smoking cigarettes
in the dark watching the olympics that are
apparently "excluding"...
   the coverage is a bit ****, but i still watch it,
because i wonder:
     could that african outrun the
     milky-way on ice skates?
          or rather: is the milky-way not
expected to be: son aquarius?
            some might call them:
  the "para-olympians" in realm aquatic
in the summer...
     or as i like to say: just call them
submarines and we'll get another
        picture of drowning migrants...
        but it breaks the heart watching these
sports like a bleeding-eye Inso -
      then the coverage is a bad as the attending
crowd...
                 i do need to sleep, though,
so for the next week or so it will end up
with me having the motif of:
   one day drinking and a night asleep,
countered with one day sober and a night
awake and the next day also awake,
   and then a night of drinking...
        because you know what i've learned?
i feel no shame,
        if i feel shame:
      i turn it into a peacock's tail and
parade my metabolism...
   because it really is a case of "alcoholism"
being a form of metabolism...
    give me a litre of whiskey and
a 115kg frame...
   and i'll give you a sober reply
while showing you what 25ml of
the same liquor: does to an anorexic girl.
                  
- a month prior -

it seems that the only reason as to why
I slept so soundly on my hiatus,
was because I slept beneath a blanket
of an entire body of people;
perhaps I found nothing consolidating
to end argument universals contra particulars -

but I did find that the basic unit of
universals is the analogue,
which in the meaning of particulars
is best understood as: anagram.

Who am I to note the frightening obvious *******:
whereby the sophist is the pristine
student of language,
"liberator" of a meagre worded breath,
echoing the rattling chains of fellows
who might follow suite, such slaves of language,
akin to men who keep a pristine kitchen...
But there are limits,
even on these forsaken tiers,
to neither slave under language,
nor leech off it in the most sacriligous
**** titillating dyslexia:

      i never met a dyslexic pole...
    perhaps a pole who did not obey
an orthographic rubric of an "aesthetic" -
a schooling -
   but there are too many clear
syllables in the language:
  the english simply call it:
   if only it had a few more vowels...
vowels are cruxes for the english
when graphemes are not
noticed in siamese of the original
roman graphemes of vowels:
even though: CH is easily
              chirp and cheap...
      i make music from listening
to sport commentators.

    Moldovan wine, past the 7 to 8 annum transition,
pulverizez the "6th sense" that's non-sense, i
   d est thought, in that alcohol numbs
    the pentagram coordination,
in exchange for a concentrated scalpel-like incision,
subsequently alleviates one from
experiencing a barrage of sensual overstraining...  
to claim a magic...

no lysergic acid Pythagorean shortcuts...
thought is a *non
sense,
  which means that it cannot be approached
with a penta-coordination allied
          to the body: 5/1 vs. 1/5...
the mind is not a coordinating focal point of man,
perhaps one of woman, hence the pulverising
shortcuts made in psychology coupled with feminism:

the long awaited rat ala femme...
         hence the fractions of coordinating
the senses around a non sense...
thought the precursor of soul,
  soul the precursor of god the extending thing,
   retracted man in posit qua: res extensa...
alcohol, is properly championed sharpens thought,
non sense into five subtle acknowledgements
of protruding assertions
  (linear synonym antonym game
                     via contra cruxverbum) -
with alcohol thought is allowed bloom,
once thought rods itself of a moral conundrum
  of an "ethical" choice -
    no philosophical answer is readied
in a world built upon cyclone and wheel
to imply absolute with nothing more than
the zenith of scythe - and a nadir of hammer...

but thought outside a moral judgement
is both a blessing and a curse:
akin to the Arabs and oil.
Yet what persists in the digressive circumstance
of I unto ?, well...
    thought is a non-analogous "sense":
soliloquy... drinking exfoliates thinking
which cannot be coupled with thinking
per se / the other... since thinking cannot
allow a direct confrontation with all five
senses coordinated: thought is a luxury for
the mind akin to health being a luxury for the body...
a penta sigma coordination of thought is impossible,
as stated by prophets who cannot attest
to a synchro-synchro coordination,
circa consolidation of the thesaurus dichotomy:
uni particular, subjective (1) objective (0.1)...
for those who know how to drink:
aqua igna agitates thinking while sedating
          the senses: ergo?

How many years of ****** and
how many of Communism? if only for
Deutsche fraulein it could have secured
the Slavic worker his babuschka in retirement.

Jedyny grzech martwych jest: vox uber gott.

No one is taking pictures of each othet: ergo?
Whoever takes the medium of photography seriously,
takes the immaculate selfie has narcissus
turning in his grave, shouting:
font forget the clown!
The rest of them are sitting ducks, and yes,
there is an evil twin of the mirror in hell:
it's called: a photograph.

the narrator of photography died,
ergo selfie: ergo an experiment
          in solipsism: gagging narcissus.

i through | ask the mirror:
     past a vanity of pretty -
     curious mirror: i though | see a ? or a ! (i ask)...

and why did i sleep so soundly on my
Spartan holiday?
     minus the drink?
           i slept among my own kin...
even if i did not speak to them beyond
buying milk and a loaf of a bread...
i returned to a hollow filled
with talking shadows of what
would constitute a past, mine disowned
yet theirs owning...
   i a body in transit:
         in england: apparently cheaper
than a chinese toy imported
freely:
        the refugee mecha-monkey escaping
Beijing, on a ship-load added
to cheap bicycle locks...
                that: can freely move...
a man is half what he can add to
an economy:
                because what he brings
are apparently refugee trades and things...
instead the refugee:
   who brings of what talk of trade
and of what things?
  shackles of war are a noble burden
i am sure...
           as noble as the sudden sight
of Kosovans in Ilford sitting idle
in cafes...
          seen for a year... soon to disappear.
Vaishali Feb 2019
There is a shrapnel wound
At the nape of my neck
Tracing crimson deceit
In an eclectic pathway
Trickling over ridges
Of my fractured ribcage
Love is an explosion
I was the site of damage.

We were reckless hours
Crammed into ticking seconds
We raced time
Beat it to the finish line.
We were a thriller
We only got
The acknowledgements right.

I'd paint us in eloquent words
Masquerading it
Into an artform.
But we're no shooting stars
We're grotesque,ugly
Despicable scars.
You see
Love is seldom poetic
It's the casualties
We remember it for.
Ritika Dutta Apr 2020
They say,

I'm naive

I have never been in a relationship,

True that.

But still,

I perceive myself to be a hopeless romantic.

'Cause I'm kinda old school

For whom holding hands and

Soulful conversations mean much more

Than tinder dates and flings.



If I love you,

It would be

without clauses and pauses

Without tears and heartthrobs

Without terms and conditions

Without turpitude and regrets.

But

With roses and dates

With gifts and cheap thrills

With eye-contacts and telepathy.

With commitments and acknowledgements

With purity and transparency.

Call it cheesy,

But I call it romance.



Chase sunrises and sunsets with me.

Share your craziness with me.

Come for a stroll by the Marina with me.

Run your errands with me.

I'll be contented in my pseudo-utopian world.

But,

If you break my heart,

'Cause I'm kinda fragile,

I'll reminisce the times we spent,

The playlists and long drives.

No, i won't abhor you.

I'll cry in pain.

No, i won't curse you.

I'll sob in vain.

As your emotions turn turbid

And you become opaque,

I'll walk away

With despair.

And tethering emotions .



They say,

I'm clueless about love

I say,

Come out of your own

Stereotypes and idiosyncrasies

Love ardently.

Not based on infatuations

And momentary crushes,

Not based on your

Whimsical intuitions

But on your

Steady fidelity.

Because there's beauty in this

Adventurous venture of sensations,

Juggled by impulses.
Maddy Nov 2019
The dream is coming true on 12/2.
Part of proceeds going to paws for purple hearts which raises and trains support dogs for first responders and veteran dealing with ptsd and Depression.
Amazon.com on 12/2.
Put on your boots and dance in the rain got its start when I joined Hello Poetry so the website is listed in the book acknowledgements.
I will keep writing here. Thanks to my fellow poets and Elliott.
Bob B Jul 2022
As loads of information emerge,
We see the tactics Trump was using
If he didn't win the election:
To STEAL it IF he thought he was losing.

Lawsuits Claiming Election Fraud:

First, he filed his frivolous lawsuits.
One by one, they were dismissed.
******* up charges don't hold water.
The evidence just didn't exist.

Fake Electors:

Then he resorted to fake electors--
Another carefully thought-out plot.
His fraudulent scammers would help him win.
At least, that is what he thought.

Using States to Overturn Votes:

Fake electors didn't work;
Therefore, Trump asked certain states
Not to certify the results.
That would have put us in dire straits.

He called many legislators
And asked them all to cancel votes.
Since they'd love to keep him in power,
He knew that would float their boats.

Using Congress to Overturn Votes:

So then Trump urged his sycophants
In Congress, "Please, do what you can
To help me win!" And some of them even
Tried to help the desperate man.

DOJ Interference:

Claiming widespread election fraud,
He asked Bill Barr to get to the heart of it,
But since there was no evidence,
The DOJ would have no part of it.

Using the Military:

Using his unscrupulous lawyers,
He tried to concoct another means
To keep his power. The military,
He thought, could seize the voting machines!

Sabotage on January 6:

That idea hit a brick wall.
Still lacking ethical sense,
He decided to pull off his scam
By putting pressure on Michael Pence.

On January 6 Trump's mobs
Stormed the Capitol, trying to
Sabotage the election process--
Basically, performing a coup.

As Trump watched the chaos on his TV,
For three hours no one could sway him
To call off the mobs. His major concern?
How could Michael Pence betray him?

And Now What?

A long, premeditated scheme
To steal an election is what occurred.
Criminal intent appears
To be so clear from all that we've heard.

If folks aren't held accountable,
Concerned people have the impression
That what transpired at the Capitol
Will end up being a training session--

A training session for coups in the future.
If that happens, it will devour
Our democratic system and end
America's peaceful transfer of power.

-by Bob B (7-31-22)

Acknowledgements: Many thanks to Ari M.
Jonathan Moya May 2019
The Walnut Street pedestrian bridge hides it sorrows
in bevies of Instagram brides, cheerleaders,
band members wearing their school ts ,
leashed dogs sniffing the edges of Statue of Liberty green wanting to dive after the slowly moving boats on the Tennessee river below, couples holding hands,
wisely staying to the middle away from the joggers jostling through on both sides.

The daylight dilutes the fear of falling with its clarity,
each step is defined with certainty on its planks,
and a cheerful civility keeps everyone safe.

On the Bluff side dogs will bite the air
in a frenzy that lasts until the second span’s crossing,
attacking scents over a century and two scores old,
when thirteen years apart the noose corpses
of Alfred Blount and Ed Johnson swayed
in rhythm with the Tennessee river.

The last walkers are the frantic and anguished,
calculating the blind spot and time for a late night jump,
one where no will be around to talk them down
and not even the insomniacs looking out from the bluff
will be watching and listening for the splash.

A mid point plaque details its  construction
with brief  acknowledgements to those
who have fallen in its creation. No roadside crosses
memorialize the blood shed into its rust.

Underneath the Tennessee flows,
no one seeing its blackness,
nor the mixing and depositing
of everything that has cried.
unabashedly dole out unadulterated
indirect flattery to a porcelain moon goddess.

I found myself figuratively
falling head over heels
inexplicably, cuz courtesy the website
Prose | A virtual community
of readers and writers,
an attractively enchanting female participant 
unwittingly, unsuspectingly and unknowingly
triggered the writer
of these words to become beguiled
and emblazon the sentence
mein kampf and hard times
(ambiguous coded message)
to further an electronic exchange
of mutually assured emotional construction
inadvertently, inextricably, and inordinately
bending, forging, and nudging our lives to coincide
with a mutually profound realm
of hidden cerebrally ******* treasure,
not unlike an archeologist
accidentally stumbling upon a rare discovery
of unknown persons
(recording stone age arousal
of fondling buttucks of babe in the woods),
who trod across the terra firma
across the lunar landscape
when **** sapiens
merely consisted of
scattered and vulnerable tribes
analogous to any other animal
seeking basic instinct
for ultimate procreation of race
likened to the Gibbs brothers
titled song Stayin' Alive
courtesy survival of the fittest.

Hopefully herewith
a genuine amorous proposition
as the modus operandi
to reciprocate thru cyberspace
will at the least provoke a mild chuckle,
whereby I can envision upturned smile on her face
imagining definite essence of beauty to interlace
slender fingers, while I best dismiss rash fantasy
of any substantial tactile expressions of affection
simply predicated upon infatuation
grown from approximately
a half dozen positive acknowledgements
expressing pleasure at reading my postings, 
whence immediate and uncontrollable lust
burst forth like a giant fountainhead
a minor inconvenience Atlas shrugged
toward a lovely specimen of the fairer ***,
which faux pas will most likely
seal fate against further discourse,
nevertheless sentiments spill forth unbridled
blindingly, and sheepishly guiding me toward 
a veritable stranger, though if these eyes
chanced to be blessed
with even a single cursory glance,
no doubt she would look -
obvious dissimilar constituting a generic gal
cuz espied genuine
incorporeal karmic manifestation
would immediately exhibit
the epitome of elegance and good taste
though already penultimate
consummation of actual ******* doth outpace
rhyme or reason, and logical positivism
dictating ditching broadcasting assiduous fantasy,
plus such juvenile premature ejaculations
(unsuitable to a casual
boyish looking sexagenarian),
who like a fool rushes off,
where angels fear to tread
expressing amorousness,
cuz downplaying the necessity
of erecting respectable
initial trusting platonic friendship
and preliminary stages of casual familiarity
reinforcing initial intuition
nullified thru the Internet,
which mecca for social media platforms
dispenses with conventional established paradigm,
and promulgates instant gratification
blindsiding rational behavior
aptly crafted with the storied novel
by the late writer Tom Wolfe
when he coined the phrase
"Old rotten Gotham
sinking/slinking into the behavioral sink"
a metaphorical phrase
that describes the city of Gotham
(from Batman comics)
as being in a state of extreme
social decay and decline,
where overpopulation, stress,
and lack of resources leading to widespread
societal breakdown and dysfunctional behavior,
much like the concept of a "behavioral sink"
observed in animal studies
where overcrowding causes
erratic and destructive behaviors.

My humblest apology for scattershot thoughts,
cuz I quickly dashed off the above
cuz the missus wants time on our only laptop,
a MacBook Pro (Retina, 15-inch, Mid 2015).

— The End —