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Connor Reid Apr 2014
A duality of elan vital, two people
Spectres of emotion
Intertwined by a fuselage of bruised skin & tendon
Tissues become orbital, gushing towards grafts
Helixes of snot, **** and lymph
Boy & girl
As they embrace the animating principle and eachother, they fuse
A one piece tapestry adorned seamless with no hem, beginning or end
Always was, always is
Patiently turning to liquid as their being unzips
Lying figures of runny makeup and genetic *****
Quintessence, a texture of synaptic potential
Corpus Callosum
An entirety of self, lost in imbued disintegration
Theory of mind, looped & bound
I will water the thought
Roots envisaged in dystopian amygdala
Piercing data packets with a frost-like intensity
Forgetting our obsolescence moments ago
A neuron dipped in nylon
Theta waves and the non-euclidean crux of dissociation
Ghosts in the machine, your macro god
The sympathies of fractional distillation
Digitised/assimilated unto the nanosphere
Cold hands and brass backs galvanised in oscillated tears
Commodified, sold out and bought
Stretching, from purple, white and black
slowly losing its colour, amorphous in shape
brushed across a smudge, ambiguously chromatic
Monetised flesh god
An eternity bathed in starlight
Cutting an incision in the sky to allow entropy
Divided dimensions of energy
Fleeting and intangible
No longer a delirium of seperation
All semantics become light
As a rusted vehicle passes overhead
And all the worlds questions fade out of existence
Flutters of red tape and foregone growth of practice
Sinew flayed, integrated towards information
Our minds shared
In circuits and resistors
Photons and electrons
We radiate
Grace Pickard Apr 2014
We're just like Carrie and Mr. Big
You want to be free
We're just like Harry and Sally
We like each other at the wrong times
We're just like Lloyd and Diane
I'll never stop trying
We're just like Allie and Noah
From different walks of life
We're just like Scarlett and Rhett
Independent and Fickle
We're just like Ilsa and Rick
Nothing can separate us forever
We're just like Bridget and Mark
Childhood friends turned accidental lovers
We're just like Hubbell and Katie
I'm just too unique to settle down with

We're just like you and me
Undefined , real, struggling
Gracie Pickard April 17,2014
Connor Feb 2016
"just talk about love, or ***, or starving hearts, or just shut up
and I'll go

but" - Jonathan Richman

(..NIGHT)

A drunken man is blown by bathroom paintings,
with shower curtains displaying crowned sparrows
who laugh at his
crowned ****!
and humor his life!
also crowned
(but only subjectively if you were to ask anyone else)
I'm a burning insomniac surrounded by a whole cast of characters tonight, including the one with with a lazy eye who mirrors Chaplin
and arrived to the party disoriented from recent Salvia.
Then there was the one with a sleek current-edge-type haircut
who spent a few good minutes telling me about the film works of Philip Glass
            B E A U T I F U L
They play Bowie,
the whole social palette disintegrated beneath the weight of intoxication.
I, too, am dazzled from pale alcohol already (eight minutes past Midnight!)
The Dancing Athlete ambiguously dances on an absent television while my head hurts from a blue bulb glowing from a nearby lamp because it's too late for all this
and I'm reminded that I know almost nobody here.

(...AND DAY)

Maybe thirteen hours later, walking with Dante the bearded dog,
my friend wheeled a stranger, narcotic-vacuum-cheeked amputee.
He begged for light, as in a lighter, not that light of GOD, no no,
all the while he showed off his stub leg (cut off at the knee) bleeding out all over the sidewalk when his accident first occurred.

"THIS GUY THREW ME FROM THE BALCONY!" he preached

Past the cathedral narcissus
"JESUS COME/
JESUS SAVE MAN/
JESUS MAKE FIRE/
JESUS WAS A HOLY INDIA"
Across the street, village of enduring tombs and firesmoke,
shadowed tent outlines
breathed-in
playing cards and tricks
mandolin reverberations among tents and tents of
sickly or addict, all listening in on the live performance, a blessed Alice with dreads, lively chords emitted from her skull of ideas.

The forgotten noose of man ****** in a parking lot
by a liquor store, while we pick up some wine, which is, and I quote here "DRY AND CHEAP"
A sunny quiet perched on the field
of gleaming downtown streetlights
thru thinning clouds.
Olympic mountains in view, the kind of mountains only seen in magazine articles to be experienced by those unafraid to die.
All these sad people out here, too!
Their faces expand beneath capital industry,
Elephants occupied with jackets sewn in an anonymous factory.
Quick tip, I wanna write it down before I forget: don't listen to that old music when you're feeling lonely, it's all about love and especially in tragedy this is a bad idea.

I'm sick and wept and my teeth have been growing cameras,
the youth are dressed in drag, carpet cleaners bob their heads to unheard tunes but you can see the sound thru a glass window.

This city, oh, this city..
with bodies sprinting hard by each other and who bike across train tracks associated with very vague childhood memories.
We all float on hands electrified by the night!

Jonathan Richman tonite, who's vocal deliveries have been honest
and romantic, in a passionate sort of way.
He's singing that live track "A Plea For Tenderness"
(I know you were waiting for me to get to this)
and past few days have been strange
and past few weeks stranger, still. Not as bad as a lot of people but man, strange..
that night, and day.
Walking by the Victoria Hospice care center and looking down on my wrists which'll soon be tattooed with loving hands yet oh
so
aggressively pained by abuse because of a terminal disease and attempted suicide (NOT my own life, to clarify)
and it got me thinking on how we're all mutually getting thru this place and every face has seen hearts and seen death almost equal.
It can get to be too much, that's why melancholy has been defined to begin with. But ******* Jonathan Richman had to make this song.

"if I'm better than the wall
(tell me now)"

"Because it's dark at night
and I'm alone at night
I'm so sad and I'm so scared"

Things I've said in my own head and felt in my own time
as has everyone else. I don't mean to specify that this has happened RECENTLY, but it's definitely happened before. These times.

"now, I've just read some writers
from the old days
because I knew, I knew that they'd understand"

but BUT everybody is accidental!
even Rimbaud has stubbed his toe and I know that it'll be fine
it'll be fine
it'll be fine
in Vietnam maybe
and it'll be finer in Varanasi
(maybe-r)
but for now I don't know
I can say it I can try and feel it and understand it and pretend I know it
I gotta get away from people to be replaced by a Hindu I've never seen before
and sleep on a mattress that (like a new pair of shoes) hasn't grown in to my spinal chord and hurts ****** bad at first and is unfamiliar and the weather is warmer than usual
and the horns of traffic will be frightening but that too, will dissipate with time.
I gotta save up my money and hug my wallet like a starved cat
Jonathan ******* Richman's "A Plea For Tenderness"
what a fitting title
for a time like this one now.
I step inside and get in line.
The first thing that catches my eye is a sign that reads: Subway issues codes for a free cookie as a thank-you for completing a survey. Ask a Sandwich Artist for details.
I think to myself, “Sandwich Artist?” You gotta be ******* kidding me.
Who is this ultra superior, ******* that is responsible for this?
Why can’t we accept our job titles for what they are?
We always need to jazz things up so we feel a little more important and less-judged,
but we become more inferior with this kinda ****.

Society is a mind ****.

There are two sandwich artists behind the counter, and one is rambling on about her birthday that is in a few days.
She is SO excited.
Standing to her left is another artist, masterfully creating a sandwich for the gentleman in front of me.
She closes her eyes and replies to her partner with great wit, “Hold a second - I’m throwing you a party right now in my head.”
She opens her eyes, and our eyes unfortunately meet.
Son-of-a *****!
This is making me really uncomfortable.
It’s taking all of my might to not give her what she is clearly hoping for - a smile.
I do.
****, I'm a *****.
The gentleman in front of me doesn’t hear a thing.
He is too busy to notice.
Look at that perfectly, tailored suit.
He must be important.
Mr. Important’s index finger is tap-dancing all over the screen of his fancy phone.
He sure likes his phone, but don’t we all these days?
Technology is the ****, and we are the ******.
But not me!
I have a flip phone.
Yup.
I bought it for $29.99 three years ago.
The salesman pulled it out from storage, and the box had dust on it.
He looked at it as if it was an ancient artifact.
It is.
And I bought it…

It hasn’t been more than a minute, and Miss Birthday Girl starts to ramble some more about her party.
The witty artist closes her eyes and replies,
“Hold a second.  I’m throwing another party for you in my head.”
You’ve gotta be ******* me…
What a redundant swine.
I turn my head to the right and look at the lively advertisement of Coke’s product, Fuze.
It’s a pretty sign for what it’s worth.
I just stare at the **** thing and act as though I haven’t heard her ******* comment.
I continue gawking at the word, Fuze.
My eyes gaze over to the accompanying graphic of a sweaty bottle of some ambiguously-flavored iced-tea.
I probably look like someone who is easily distracted by shiny, vibrant things.
Or someone who is REALLY thirsty and is going to buy me some of that Fuze.
But I am not thirsty at all…
Just angry.
However I do want a large cup to fill, so I can fill it with Fuze and toss it in her face.
With that thought, I figure it is be best for me to leave.
So I head for the door and exit.
I had parked my vehicle across the street, and as I walk towards it, her voice endlessly
repeats in my head.
I sit down in my seat, noticing a plastic bag of dried apricots tucked in the cup holder.
I open the bag, and there are only six left.
Five remain stuck to the bottom as one plops into my palm.
I put the one in my mouth; the flavor is to be expected as well as the texture.
The chewy consistency reminds me of cartilage.
This must be what it feels like to eat an ear.

A small ear, maybe even a lobe.

Nonetheless an ear.

Now for dessert! Xanax.
I unscrew the top of the little, red, metal container that I carry with me at all times -
like a devout Catholic with her rosary.
I place one tab on my tongue, the sweet tang a perfect complement to my lunch.

Maybe, just maybe, I don’t need anti-anxiety pills any more.

Maybe I just need a new phone like the rest of the world.

Na…**** that.
Joshua Haines Feb 2014
I love reading poetry on this site.

The most common used word is love.
Well, actually ambiguous is used a lot. I guess it makes people feel smart about themselves.

Anyway, everyone uses the word 'love', but has anyone experienced it or are we all deluding ourselves?

Besides the point, I've learned that if you want to succeed in writing on this site, you have to make sure you write about how you 'fell' in love and then follow it with 'heartbreak'.

You can be dark, and probably get some 'acclaim' from the broody broods.
Or you can not be completely pretentious and write something genuine.
Good luck, though. They'll call it cliche or cheesy.
So you deal with that...
But first thing is first: You must get artistic.

                                                    ­                                                       Do this
                                                            ­                                        because
                                                                ­                              it some how
                                                                ­                 makes it look like
                                                                ­              you
                                             ­                                        know
                                                                ­                              what
                                                                ­                                      you're
                                                                ­                                               doing.

Make sure
you seem like you
DO THIS
for a l
          i love you more than i can take
            vicious words cause my heart to break
               in god we trust our love forever
                 never be gone from me, oh no, not ever!
                    good bye my love i'll cherish you... ambiguously


Now let's get wordy.
Let's use some words entirely too much like...
AMBIGUOUS
Then after that, it'll be time to crack open the thesaurus and write words that you're not entirely sure that you're using correctly.

The ambiguous alligator bit with a fervor as the metamorphosis of his analysis changed what he thought (DID YOU SEE WHAT I DID THERE). He was chased by hunters, but was devoid of a cwtch (yeah, that's a word. Maybe he's a welsh alligator. I don't know. Parts of this poem are meant to be...wait for it...ambiguous).

the
     alligator's
                   father
                            died
                                   in
                                       the
                                            great
                                                    alligator wars of 1
                                                               ­               9
                                                ­                              7
                                 ­                                             2012 was an okay year, though.

what a tragedy it is to be abstentious at a buffet...(end it ambiguously)
                                                                ­                                              end

Then we have some depressing stuff on this site. Not that there's anything wrong with writing something depressing, but usually it's kind of stuff that you'd read at a seventh grade poetry slam sponsored by Hot Topic and Van's Warped Tour in partnership with AXE Body Spray and Monster Energy Drink.

We'll call this one....

'pain, pain, and more pain'

I knew this girl
name was elle
she rang my heart
like a ******* bell

i was fourteen
she was fine
we had assigned seats next to each other
but her seat was inside of my mind

we talked about deep stuff
like really deep
she told me she had nightmares
and i said i had them too
BUT NOT ALL OF THEM ARE IN MY SLEEP

the real nightmare was that
she had a boyfriend
he treated her really well
but he was a ******* FOOTBALL PLAYER
**** **** **** LOVE IS A ******* HELL

why not me
why the tool
i can play six songs on the guitar
and my parents own a pool

i could have given you everything
i could have given you my heart on a string
but you cut it with your knife
and ******* did it sting

my heart is black
my emotions in a whirl
i'll be like this for two weeks
AT LEAST
until i talk to another girl


I just love some of the poetry I read on this site, and I hope you like mine.

Thanks, guys!
Amrita G Jan 2021
“He doesn’t even care to keep the knowledge of her possessions a secret, not the least worried about it being stolen”
“What’s worse, is that everyone knows his treasure exists. It’s common knowledge in town”
“How long will it take to get stolen?”
“It’s a matter of days, if you ask me.

He was, however, smiling in the corner. He coerced the enemy into being his friend.  This is why he doesn’t actually disclose himself to anyone, because she might be misunderstood, like what was unravelling right before his eyes. This time however, the misunderstanding just helped him protect his real treasure, something he thought no one could possess because……………

What if you need to think a certain way to know something; and you can’t think that way without feeling or experiencing something else. If that’s true, so much of this world remains hidden in sight, and we don’t even know its hidden.

You can, to an extent, disguise what arises from material belongings immaterially. That’s what makes the key to your locked doors. The keys to your secrets and trust. Our experiences may dictate the way we feel. Look closer however, and there will always be these cracks on the edges of interpretation, these nuances in feelings, small differences that stem out into larger and larger branches until you have at your disposal- uniqueness.

So, here is a complex network of questions and possible answers deconstructed to portray different perspectives of personality, trust and secrets.

Let’s start with trust. It should ideally start with mutual respect and admiration.   Most things fade away, so in reality you are not trusting the other person, you trust yourself to be hopeful enough to believe trust will not wither through time, which is why it may seem like it’s your fault or centered towards you when you are betrayed of trust.

Even the reasons for choosing why we trust others is vastly different for each person. It goes to show how ephemeral our mind is at the microscopic level., almost like no one can truly know us. The reaction of others and their understanding of you may be an external input. But after that the interpretation is yours. And interpretation is slowly built over cycles of overlapping feelings and subtle thoughts.
Can we use this as a “key” to explore parts of ourselves whilst keeping them invisible to others? Can we recover old feelings or find out what means a lot to us, but we remain ignorant to?

Many things that matter deep inside, tend to have a personal lock, like an unspoken connection, or a bittersweet memory we like to visit. The most interesting part about these is that the key for some of these is unpredictable! Any future incident could somehow serve as an access to it, which is what makes personal locks so magical. No one can possess it because of no one, sometimes not even yourself, knows it's meaning to you. Such a key is truly unique, two people may go through the same thing, but for one person alone, that experience could serve as a key.  Here, an experience from the outside world can awaken memories, thoughts that we inadvertently treasured. It can, in a sense, almost transport us to a different timeline.

The phenomenon of getting goosebumps from listening to a piece of music (called frisson), and experiencing a surge of sensory feeling could be a doorway to some great things and could be a sign of higher levels of creativity. When you re-listen to a song you hadn’t listened to in many years, you can relive the time you originally heard it to startling detail. You may notice newer things about memories, be aware of nuanced feelings. Essentially, it becomes something that’s only yours, because you can’t predict how you yourself will be. The only key for such a secret is a unique reaction to an external input.

When you listen to this song, even ambiguously (not attaching it to any particular person or experience), even then when you later hear it, it will be infused with meaning. Why? Because the environment around you at that time possessed some emotional meaning, even if you didn’t know it. It became like recovering a part of you. Like recovering your own perspective on what’s in front of everybody.

Suppose instead of attaching significance, you simply create scenarios in your mind. You just imagine instances and do this repeatedly. Over time, the song’s original meaning will tarnish away. Such imagination gives temporary satisfaction, and even though one can imagine a variety of different scenes and emotions; imagination itself, feels the same. It does not carry any value by itself. It would seem that listening to a song a couple of times and then years later seems to be the world’s best time machine, but when we overplay it, and tamper it using imagination, neural networks get diluted and may not be serve as a very effective train of reminiscence anymore. *^


Mulling things over in our mind in loops can change almost everything about it- it may change a happy sentence into a sad one, a normal experience into a special one, and now these emotions that have been created by you, are like small filters that complicate further experiences.
Consider that two people go through the same experiences from birth. They may not feel each experience to the same degree. The second point is that subtler feelings are experienced by each of them. One may react more heavily, and the other may have auxiliary feeling in more magnitude than the other. Though these differences may be minimal at the start, these subtle thoughts become triggers, just like the initial experience.
Look at what’s happened. Now the seed of subsequent thoughts and emotion is no longer EXTERNAL. Its internalized. As they grow, though material interactions give rise to initial waves of thoughts, our lives are culminated by infinite intertwined feelings and emotions- so for each material interaction, a hundred immaterial ones are processed subconsciously. A symphony can’t be broken down to violins, piano, and drums separately. The feeling that arises when they are played in unison is simply “different” though its just a conglomeration of its parts. This is similar to our mind, and the concept of “The whole is greater than its parts”. What’s more is that the thoughts occurs in different order, and a different order creates a different story.
The concept of “personality” is viewed as abstract sometimes”.  Like character is something that describes the mind, rather than the experience. But this is contradictory, as “Personality” is immaterial, while the experience, the derivative, is material. So, there is a possibility that during this invisible conversion process, our internal reactions and what we make of things in our mind may gradually shape our personality more than the experience itself.


In a strange way, that makes us original. Perhaps not completely original, but it’s possible that no two people are the same, even if they have gone through the same things.
But since the development of originality is subconscious, let us look at conscious examples to put it into application:

Often, there is a part of a song that appeals to us, a favorite part.  When we ask ourselves why that particular melody appeals to us, it may be hard to pinpoint the source of what produced your liking in that part.  Sure, it may mean something like “freedom” or “joy” of remind you of a memory. But why does it mean a specific emotion to you? This is an example of how something that has no direct connection with a memory could possibly trigger a feeling. This is a magical occurrence. It’s extraordinary that a melody can awaken in you a unique emotion, that others may not react to in the same way. It goes to portray how subtly different our minds are. Furthermore, when we create things out of that feeling we derive from the music- make a story based on the feeling, write a new song, or even play it on an instrument- now you have made something that is unique from the depths of your mind. Your own subconscious interpretation.  
Frequency of frisson was positively correlated with overall Openness to Experience, as well as five of its six sub facets: Fantasy, Aesthetics, Feelings, Ideas, and Values. *This may also mean that extensive feeling, or sensing is related to creativity.

Sensory influx, the visual imagery, nostalgia, all point towards creativity, and many renown creative geniuses draw on their sensitivity to fuel creative processes.

Highly sensitive people tend to be more creative, as the depth of feeling offers scope for exploration. The interpretation and emotion felt greatly corresponds to the creation of ideas, and is similar to how interpretation even creates association between senses, or synesthesia.
Infact, drawing on nostalgia can increase imaginative processes


You might have heard of the term “synesthesia”, where sensory experiences get interconnected. A person with grapheme synesthesia, for example, associates letters and numbers with colors. A person with musical synesthesia sees colors effuse out of musical notes. Some synesthetes taste words, smell numbers, etc. It is also a fact* that Synesthetes don’t necessarily share the same sensory experience-though there are commonalities ( ex: most synesthetes associate either black or white with zero), the difference in perception is linked to the environment of growth, childhood*, and if its occurrence is natural, then synesthesia is developed in childhood or at birth.

A Symptom of synesthesia is also reading sentences that seem personified, as though a stranger with different personalities are narrating them. It is interesting to relate this to how there might be different personas in our own head, and sometimes constantly make commentary on our life! It’s like seeing yourself through different perspectives, except these perspectives have defined forms, which makes it easier to assign little quirks to them. If this helps us sense and perceive the world better, and makes us see through multi-colored glasses, it can be very creatively satisfying to have internal conversations, in a positive and uplifting way. We can be a stranger to our own experience, and wouldn’t a change of view be enlightening?

Synesthesia also, may be linked to creativity and metaphors, * and is in a way a example of consciously coming up with original sensory interconnections, a creative process that becomes part of character.  It's connecting something unrelated and different, and an original combination of connection.

So the rearrangement of feelings, and extent to which people sense and feel can contribute to original creations. It is no surprise that many artists and musicians have synesthesia.

Such experiences, with music, nostalgia and conditions like synesthesia are examples of a how we interpret and sense can consciously contribute to originality.


The bottom line is that synesthesia obtains its roots from childhood, but morphs into something complex enough to blur lines of emotion. The proportion of how things are mixed is unique. That proportion is the starting line for all character, and the proportion can be random and unique.
Thoughts feel so diverse and interwoven, that experiencing different facets of it itself can seem synesthetic. Seeing a neon sky, for instance, may not just bring happiness or excitement, but very specific sentience, and a connection to memory, even if it has never been a part of your life at any point of time. The neon sky could mean regret and eccentricity, and flashes of senses may correspond to it. You may feel the aesthetic of a place to strange degrees, and sometimes a simple scenery can seem “wrong” or “sinister”.


  “Why does the neon sky seem eccentric?” “why are roses connected to a past memory that had nothing to do with roses?”

These questions have some intangible meaning behind them. So, it’s not just that people perceive things differently, it’s that their reality itself, a culmination of perceptions is unique, and so are thoughts. And don’t thoughts and ideals shape character in some way? Don't these interpretations become a part of you? A filter for how you perceive the world?


Some song forms a golden thread link with some intense feeling which is connected to a memory you never knew you possessed (this memory may be fictional even) which is linked to a whole little city in your world.  Everything means differently. And as we think and think, these meanings become fine-tuned, and create emotions, thoughts and perspectives that shape our individuality. The essence is that your character may have obtained its roots from the world, but your proceedings, both on the inside and outside, are truly yours. And gradually, proceedings reflect character. More than the roots. It’s a many layered mind that could seem impossible to strip down.

Memories can be similar, but the sequence of memories and thoughts, will likely not be the same.


Here we gently skim the daunting surface of the philosophical idea of “Fictional realism”. A main idea here is to try and question what the definition of something has to be to be considered real. We say “It was a dream, not reality” But did it not feel real? When we read a book, or a movie, and voraciously delve into fictional landscapes, does it not truly feel like we are integrated into it, or rather, it is integrated into us? In that case, since we are real and it is now a part of us, can it be real too? Or can it be real, simply because it exists in our minds? Love and loathing also exist in our minds, but we regard them as a real thing, pulsating with its repercussions. Do we regard something as real only if it has a scope for action? Or if it’s something we can touch or see? In that case, the world will be limited, and there would be a loss of explanation for what gives rise to those actions. It would be like saying “imagination seeds reality”.

Memories and thoughts can be similar, but the sequences of them, even if  slightly  different can grow to be hugely dissimilar. If we can consciously create things when exposed to sensory information, why can't we consider the possibility of subconscious creation of individual character?
Adellebee Nov 2012
Flowers you have ruin my towers
My towers above chivalry and chauvinistic ideals
They push out the prohibitions of useless propaganda
For me, alcoholic toxins appeal to my lyrical woes
I think ambiguously when I feel numb and freed of obligations
And the curls of my toes,
Don’t wrinkle with the ties of man
harlon rivers Jan 2018
There was a fog that seemed to hover thickly
over the perceived salience of his musings
  
It was as if there were a veiled mystique
that left hopeful understanding ,
                   ambiguously obscured ...

His soul's cadences fell beyond the pale ,
like a reverberant iron bell’s clamor ,
                   drowning acumen ;

albeit , unmistakabe crystal clear allusions ,
scanning inwardly, rhapsody in his mind's eye

                    Illusive accord ,
                    beclouded by seeming stigmas
                    borne of the flesh ;
                    delicately sensitive nuances ,
                    misunderstood imperfections ,
                    bespoken utterance weighed heavy upon heart ...

In the hush of pensive repose ,
flow of soul streamed forth from its retreat within ;
bequeathed as if darkness
was magnetically drawn towards light ,
purging muted understanding ...

                    Assuredly seeking all questions with verve ,
                    accepting , that all answers sought
                    are not meant to be understood

A realization of those who wish to speak yet abide unspoken ;
the unseen mark of those that wished they had been loved ,
befallen the music of a thundering heartbeat ,
understanding a circle is vulnerable ,
only makes it stronger ―

                    hence ,..
                    it had been written
                    in countless misunderstood ways ...

Knowing he resists an inner-voice to endure silently
for a fear of that which remains indelibly writ ,
tattooed on introspective walls
far removed from the afterglow of light ,
where depth of soul yearns to be freed ;

                    heart speak hushed , deft words avowed
                    in enigmatic tongues ― Vayu doth whisper

                    soul's prevailing tides ebb and flow
                    from unseen depths , permeating
                    deeply within inner realms

The spirit of soul once steeped his heart’s intone :

               "Spell words that bind together passing strangers  
                 Coalesce  thoughts to inspirit those whom often walk alone
                 Append the goodwill of poetry, aspiring to bond individual
                 hearts and minds with words of love and light.  
                 Conjure written  spells to bespeak sincerely ,
                 a faith in unabated love
"

and yet ,   he will write it again and again ,.. searching beyond words

…words grasped from emerging thoughts
                   drawn in to the light
                   searching for other adept words
                   to recite yet another way ,
                   sketch another word-scape ,
                   written with the relentless inexhaustibleness
                   of an unstoppable awakening ...  

Another winter dawn imbues a new day come to light

                   he will write it again and again ,

                                          ... finding another way to be set free ...



                                                          ­       Harlon Rivers
Thank you for reading

Stanza in italics is from :
*Spell Words that Bind Together Passing Strangers*
In my so called startled desperately stance o' interactively yearnings,
So wantonly emerged  the worse anomalies by far
(yet the peak-est good time)  to come..
I'm so naturally stupefied..so inclined on making & molding,
making'& wanting

As trial & error precipitates;
Virtually stagnant in the  stillness o' haven-
Temptation stricken--chaotic world..An idolatry dernier cri chic!
Sets the tone o' a Caring Mom, would tell her kids
Not to be fooled by a a mainstream fool-
A Con Artist as Weird as he/she gets!
For the norm to behold!
On the LOOk-Out
but not lethargic.
Stigmatized out o' the blue, I surely reflected,
In a Dark-Dreary tunnel -- I 'd Die for
&  to Root for-serenity subsides!
As I come out, I see rays o' Guiding light, I reckoned ..
"I have given You EYES to see,Ears to hear and a mouth to speak!" ..
but perhaps as indecisively as I may seemed--
It is what IT is!!..,.
SORDID!..so holistic ambiguously odd for me alright.
I speak my MIND fervently...
But as one may  say, "My Smile can mean a thousand Ships nor launches its Value than Money ..
For every Smile to give out Comes with
a Territory o' Joy & Hope worth-
Every seconds inhaled-Priceless--
The breath o' Eros exhumed ..
I'd rather be ever Smiling along comes..
Head over my shoulder
however excruciating
can be, in life.. .
Neither in Bliss o' Ecstasy nor Dismay.
Just as though to keep my SANITY intact..
Oh My God keep my Salvation up in Heaven above! ..
so Creepy, too
Cloddish to think.to be canny
At all cost!
& not easily persuaded by the devil.
Lurks to get me..
A standstill Safely & Warm in a timely fashion,
In my own Rosy- Scented room thy PRAY, Oh Lord forgive US ALL Sinners, may GOOD Girls & Boys go to HEAVEN & Bad BOYS & GIRLS go to HELL !
I stand uprightly poised attitude
& be corrected if one varies-
The Age of Aquarius in stateliness!
Liam Jul 2015
reality abruptly removed the veil
  realization mercifully provided the light
a binary being seeking his own level
  attempting to rise to the surface of himself

if peaceful existence is based on choice
  then personal dogma tablets need chiseling
if afterlife is fashioned from belief systems
  then intimate mysteries need conceiving

dialogue of a dress rehearsal for an actual life
  faithlessly hidden within lines of complexity
alliterated ambiguously, expressed equivocally
  setting the stage for reincarnation's passion play
Faeri Shankar Jan 2013
Tiny clumps of hair
Once caramel in color
Crumbles beneath the lowest
Lair of pallid
Trampled dust.
A lump in the back of my throat
Rises as the bone shows.
Our teeth have clanked
Collided in battle, our hooves
Finger-less and delving, we were
Ambiguously a hiatus in the water-color
Sticky like honey whilst Satan licks up my spine.
Burning sweet like the water that runs from the Nile
Into the mouths of every little insensate frame and comatose sky
Lacklustre pallor only children could buy.
Zac Carlson Feb 2013
You are a curious fleshy navigator
Explorer of mind and world

You are a synapse searcher
A hemisphere lurker

You are a voiceless idea
An unopened potion

You are beautifully blurry
An ambiguously cryptic existence

You reach my extremities
A nice warm flow

You burst from my body
The only existence I know
Michael W Noland Dec 2012
Ambiguously, he was boggled, beguiled by garbled goggles while giggling out the squiggles, to wiggle the signals free.

Deliberately dallying in the Plato piety of proprietary philosophies, he, dastardly deemed, disaster to be, damaging, to the laughter in the chatter of the baggage handlers to another plane.

Manhandler of a plastered paradise, partly in slices, of silly little vices of sacrifices, that shall suffice with vice grips on the lips of the negative with the spices of nicety.

Lavished in lividly living uP the misgivings of lesserly lessons, blessing the blasphemy, in passionate tuck ins, snuck in, upon drunken hunkering in the bunkers of spunkier spiels.

Languid longevity's of luscious lettering, lest will we, count our kills, never ever to leave a life festering in lectured structuring, besting the busy debuts, of flukless frugality, lucidly, counting the calories of calamity, and randomly rhyming without reason in season-less rain clouds, only allowed to put the umbrella away, and fade in play to the part, where we impart patience on the persona from the coma of commonality.

Immaculately conceived, perceived as a ***** who adores hollow hearts, as we, haphazardly heap on the hilarity, in hepatidal waves, through fazes of the common wealth.

Smile in stealth, love no one else, but self and end up in health, at a lonely age in staged stimuli, reminding me why i'm alive, and not allowed to die, while on rewind through the hard times, to smile on the last lines of laser driven lifelines, laughing at the fragile signs on the finer wines, as they break on the bowes of holy boats in bouts against the sea.

Spewing randomly, he, finds satisfactory solutions to the strengthening of his constitution in loosened blue spells, to dispel his ruthless tendrils from your ears.

The fears fueling the finality in his fractured mentality of maniacal travesties laughing at me.

Its just me, unjustly adjusting for the combustion of the build.

Its lovely here.

Laughing in the lashes.

Signing my entrapment's.

Lapsing out the masses and forming from the ashes of smashed happiness, as it unclasps before my eyes.

Sometimes

It just feels right to be alive.
Michael W Noland Apr 2013
Ambiguously, he was boggled, beguiled by garbled goggles while giggling out the squiggles, to wiggle the signals free.

Deliberately dallying in the Plato piety of proprietary philosophies, he, dastardly deemed, disaster to be, damaging, to the laughter in the chatter of the baggage handlers to another plane.

Manhandler of a plastered paradise, partly in slices, of silly little vices of sacrifices, that shall suffice with vice grips on the lips of the negative with the spices of nicety.

Lavished in lividly living uP the misgivings of lesserly lessons, blessing the blasphemy, in passionate tuck ins, snuck in, upon drunken hunkering in the bunkers of spunkier spiels.

Languid longevity's of luscious lettering, lest will we, count our kills, never ever to leave a life festering in lectured structuring, besting the busy debuts, of flukless frugality, lucidly, counting the calories of calamity, and randomly rhyming without reason in season-less rain clouds, only allowed to put the umbrella away, and fade in play to the part, where we impart patience on the persona from the coma of commonality.

Immaculately conceived, perceived as a ***** who adores hollow hearts, as we, haphazardly heap on the hilarity, in hepatidal waves, through fazes of the common wealth.

Smile in stealth, love no one else, but self and end up in health, at a lonely age in staged stimuli, reminding me why i'm alive, and not allowed to die, while on rewind through the hard times, to smile on the last lines of laser driven lifelines, laughing at the fragile signs on the finer wines, as they break on the bowes of holy boats in bouts against the sea.

Spewing randomly, he, finds satisfactory solutions to the strengthening of his constitution in loosened blue spells, to dispel his ruthless tendrils from your ears.

The fears fueling the finality in his fractured mentality of maniacal travesties laughing at me.

Its just me, unjustly adjusting for the combustion of the build.

Its lovely here.

Laughing in the lashes.

Signing my entrapment's.

Lapsing out the masses and forming from the ashes of smashed happiness, as it unclasps before my eyes.

Sometimes

It just feels right to be alive.
Aristotle’s arrhythmic articulations
Appeared too apologetic for Aphrodite's amusements
Aroused by antisocial media’s alacritous abundance
Amidst arteriosclerosis and amphibiously obeisant Ophiuchus
Asclepius' ascendance was almost an abortion
Arrested by Apollo’s amorous attempts at aphrodisia
Ambidextrous Artemis’ androgynous appointments
Awakened ancient antipathies accentuating allopathic artifacts
Altercations arose among ambitious acolytes and Athena’s anorexic acidoses
Awkward Adonis actively agonized by alarming aneurysms
Allowed Antigone’s ambivalent armistice an aperture of acceptance  
Appointing an ambiguously appealing additive to the Argonauts
An anaerobic Acropolis arose amidst auto-****** asphyxiations
As Amazonian armpit hair advocates approved artificial insemination
Lee Feb 2013
I want to have someone
to write a love letter to.
Something sincere
and nostalgic.
Something bordering on already said
or cliche'.
I'll write one for you
any of you
anyone as lonely as I am.
This poetry all seems passive
and pleading.
I'll write one for you
one of you
just one as lonely as I am.
All my words beat around
and climb the shady subject
aimed deliberately
ambiguously
around its name.
Loneliness
and the want to find someone
anyone.

*I'll write one for you
one of you
one of you who needs connection
as bad as I do.
Danny C Nov 2013
When we met inside a Dunkin Donuts on the corner of two busy streets, I ordered a small coffee. I said I had a lot to get done tonight, so I can't be out too long. If you knew how well I can lie, you wouldn't recognize me on a crowded street. I always ordered a medium before, because it took longer to cool, so we spent more time taking cautious sips through the small opening of a plastic lid protecting a styrofoam cup. But I dreaded seeing you again, because it'd be so long since I remembered the angles of your face, and the deep darkness of your swirling brown eyes, and the straight sharpness of your thick locks of black hair. Because when I'm not lying, I can say I don't miss you anymore. A busy street full of strangers is plenty company for me, and I don't mind my right hand catching a cold November breeze, instead of warming up inside your left. You said you're doing better, that the emptiness of your studio apartment isn't as lonely as it used to be. You said sleeping on your full-sized bed was okay now, that only one side warmed by a breathing body wasn't sad anymore. But you still missed me, my scruffy, uneven beard, the boots I look my best in and your head on my chest. We walked outside so you could smoke a cigarette, and I left quickly. I lied and said we should see each other again. But I hoped you'd lose sight of me on that busy street, becoming ambiguously shaped inside a scrambling river of cold winter bodies, all with cold hands clenched or covered in gloves, not holding any others.
pencaricahaya Nov 2014
We who like poetry,
We who read these heartbreaking tidings.
We are quite the voyeurs:
Witnessing the silent struggle of our fellow poets,
While they wear their "heart on their sleeve".

While they open their heart and pour their suffering
Too honestly to be good,
Too ambiguously to be known,
Too blue to be shared,
But strong enough it can be felt.

It ain't easy to write of your own demise,
And yet you will only talk of these things to the blank page:
Who won't judge, nor bring advise.
Just a release, just a way to express ourselves, that staring page,
Expectant to be carved with our confessions, with our heart:
A love vampire.

And as a friend of mine says:
"Unrequited love is the best food for a poet's soul"
Yet it's bitter no end, yet it's saddening no end.
As a friend of mine says:
"Poets are faded blue"
Yet it's hard to lose all joy, be colorblind.
You don't write to feel good,
You write 'cause you feel bad.

And we who like poetry,
Seek in those lines ourselves,
We rejoice on finding there
A phrase or two that tell
That we're not alone
And that others
Suffer too.
"heart on their sleeve" from A Poet Is by LittleFreeBird
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/889091/a-poet-is/
http://hellopoetry.com/littlefreebird/

"Unrequited love is the best food for a poet's soul"
By Dajena M.
http://hellopoetry.com/dajena-mason/

"Faded blue is the color of poets"
By L@dy
Dove May 2015
A ripening sky-
dotted ambiguously with
molten fibers--

the sculptor’s daughter
And her flesh shavings.


How corrupted,
the christening angels:
the sunsets they cry, and contaminants they hide.
Our faux harvest of a blessed apple,
slaughtering the whole barrel,
Ripping out their cores.

Zipped through bursts of
squints and charcoal,
inky, starless
irises--

Dolly Misandrist; not human;
one after the other, sliced those sonnies up,
Knocked them down like chess pieces.


Perhaps she wanders, and flees-
filled with - fire -
spilling over with sin;
perching on her
Shattered masterpieces.

A flock of birds,
ringing around the carcass,
pounced to tear apart their evening meat--

they chased Dolly the damsel to the state border,
She was fenced in by boys and their
grandfather’s pistols.


Cleared her throat to plead one last swan song,
but was interrupted by the scraps
of bread they threw into the duck-pond.

The first boy shot her right between the chest-
“You shouldn’t have been such a **** Misandrist.”
Eyes-
“That’s for my brother.”
Head-
“Ladies don’t come first where you’re going.”
A speechless, frozen moment passed.
Blank stares. Open mouth. Nothing coming out.
“That *****.”


The trees scurry from beneath
the ocean of stars. Come Sunday morning,
the church pews are full.
of blissbrick meanderings
smacks straight into
purpose, full

don't number
nameless incubating
prior to hatch

unimaginable unknowns
may yet manifest

one potential alteration:
me, singer in this
ambiguously yay rap duo

Vernacular Spectacular
Spitshit Linguistic
or maybe Prolix Helixed

first album:
Straight Outta Whoville

you may know
but you never
quite know

the One is THE
ultimate storyspinner
weaving all our tiny threads
into tapestry bigger
than grey matter
can muster

let it
let go
K Balachandran Jan 2012
Deep in the wild,
when exploration led to
intoxicating moments,
she whined, in a way suggesting
she needed more,
whimpered ambiguously,
let out broken cries,
like yelps of pleasure,
purred a little,
as the engagement
became congenial.

When the waves that lashed
became strong and
she felt out of control,
she yelled out,  so colorfully
braking all barriers of mind,
till her lust exploded,
in a spectacular way,
she wreathed like a bull
struck by the matador's sword,
squirming and murmuring,
till the waves slowly retreated.

Slowly  she opened her eyes
as if she was in a prolonged sleep,
and  then,winked at him
mischievously as if to say
their tango with
intimate moments was
a gift of
**nature's quest
to blend complements
in to
one.
Sal Gelles Jul 2013
the hole
in your filter
let's you speak freely;
ambiguously slandering,
cursing, and hurting
every person
you know.

the hole
in our friendship
isn't going to get smaller;
it widens as you speak more
and more of the disgust
and anguish
i had to go
through.

the hole
in your guitar
is a sure place for my foot;
its destiny's been written again,
and broken,
it shall ring the tunes
i'd tried to get
you into
before
it
all
fell
through
all
the
holes
in
our
friendshit
Rip Lazybones Jul 2014
Ambiguously aged
Restless protuberances
Chilled tundra flesh
Timid breaths
Inclined emotions
Cold stranger, nothing more.
Tyler Oct 2013
“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—”
I took one look at the impenetrable obscurities
That the distance concealed,
And another at the unanswering stones,
That consented mutely to mark the way, if not lead;
At the bending flowers whose faces I could not read;
And heard the equivocal vocalizations
Of ambiguously colored birds, and I—
I walked from the path to sit beneath a nearby tree,
And began to wait.
Adrián Poveda May 2014
Days of accepting the unacceptable, of awakening, of walking without returning to see, to go making stories, arming bridges, arming new ways of being, being the same, to change some incongruencies in life, to have others; return to begin, with out believing in destiny, rewriting each situation in a different way, being conscious of change, but without interpreting it, and only leaving oneself to be, unrepeatable, inconsistent, unrenouncable, ambiguously new, cool and clear, without fear, days of living my way.
Copyright © 2014 Adrián Poveda All Rights Reserved
ahmo Mar 2016
My favorite outfit
was when your heart laid restless on your sleeve-
a paper mache
of a dream I desperately

DIED

to achieve.

Our senses merged in snow,
and before light,
we were buried-
shrouded by a part of you that
had
died.

Every sound you echoed
made marrow leak lazily to
a concrete road constricted
ambiguously,
with hazel
and green,
and the blackest
******* BLACK
that my marrow will ever manifest.

--

Wear your heart on your sleeve.
Without love,
death is the only achievement to achieve.
Terrin Leigh Apr 2015
mimicking my tears, rain plummets to earth
driblets escaping, a plashet appears
caressing the window and kissing the street
elusively pleasant, ambiguously received
beads race down my windowpane
showers of comfort, salient skies of gray

mere melody of drizzle or drops soothes my soul in ways you cannot

perspective is important here
clouded minds find solace
whilst sunny cerebrums, unable to associate
ideas of positivity in days so gray
in one corner: better than resorting to a pill
the other: worse than spouse found unfaithful
opinions pitted, popular pins eccentric
one, two, three, four... will rain redeem their rapport?

mere melody of drizzle or drops soothes my soul in ways you cannot

rain, rain, go away
dark and dreary, "shame you!"
a lesson taught, not genetic
sheets of rain, stale excuse to stay
but I, but I - bid the day hello
when rolling clouds greet my morning breath

mere melody of drizzle or drops soothes my soul in ways you cannot
Reut Gare Dec 2014
Life as to novel; read ambiguously. An unwritten mystery yet to be solved. A work in progress, the outcome undetermined. An adventure of a lifetime; one lifetime to explore. New chapters come with changes, rising and falling.The plagiarized are forgotten, take a trip out of the lines. Destiny dependant on the beholder, influenced by the retriever. Possibilities are infinite; choose as pleased. Once published, irreversible.
wordvango Mar 2015
writing
       ambiguously
tipping
        the scales over
         massacring
English?

finishing
       by polishing
it all by hacking
      to pieces with
a dull hatchet?

forcing nouns
        into untenable
situations,
       firing up verbs
smoking them
        in signals

sent from my tribe's
      only remaining
peace pipe
         choking on all the ashes
absurdly scraped up
            from the dirt floor
of my tee-***?
      
Or is it
me?
martin challis Oct 2014
By John Pass


A kick or two out
against the playful waves

then roll over, look back
so often I've done this, summers

without number, friends or family
on the shore, a ledge

of rock at Ruby Lake
or Lighthouse Park, trees behind

and above them leaning out
for the open light

and reflected light
and my delight not simply

to be swimming, a float
but in the perspective

of people in a landscape
beautifully proportioned

enclosed in a moment
as though in another room

but present, whole, unencumbered  -
the sky always blue

( beach weather ) the shoreline reaching
around, away, each way

a point, or cliff, or thicket
of willow, quietly emphatic

of the people, their intimate
isolation, approachable

passing a towel or plum
getting comfortable, distant

but undiminished, and I

alone in the water, ambiguously

proud of them, pleased
to swim in and be counted

among them


John Pass
John Pass
Poet
John Pass is a Canadian poet. He has lived in Canada since 1953, and was educated at the University of British Columbia. He has published 18 books of poetry since 1971. Wikipedia
Born: 1947, Sheffield, United Kingdom
Books: Stumbling in the Bloom, An arbitrary dictionary, and more...
Awards: Governor General's Award for English-language poetry

I love the lyrical contemplation of this poem, the imagery and the sheer humanity of it. MC
just jabbering gibberish (A - I)

Again, another awkward ambitious
arduous attempt at alphabetically
arranging atrociously ambiguously
absolutely asinine avoidable alliteration.

Because...? Basically bonafide belching,
bobbing, bumbling, bohemian beastie boy,
bereft ******, bleeds blasé blues, begetting
bloviated boilerplate bildungsroman,
boasting bougainvillea background.

Civil, clever clover chomping, cheap
chipper cool cutthroat clueless clodhopper,
chafed centenary, codifies communication
cryptically, challenging capable, certifiably
cheerful college coed.

Divine dapper daredevil, deft, destitute,
doddering, dorky dude, dummkopf Dagwood
descendent, dagnabbit, demands daring
dedicated doodling, dubious, dynamite,

deaf dwarf, diehard doppelganger, Doctor
Demento double, declaring depraved
daffy dis(pense)able dufus Donald Duck
derailed democracy devastatingly defunct.

Eccentric, edified English exile,
effervescent, elementary, echinoderm
eating egghead, Earthling, excretes,
etches, *******, effortless exceptional
emphatic effluvium enraging eminent,

eschatologically entranced, elongated
elasmobranchii, emerald eyed Ebenezer,
effectively experiments, emulates epochal
eczema epidemic, elevating, escalating,
exaggerating enmity, enduring exhausting
emphysema.

Freed fentanyl fueled, fickle figurative
flippant fiddler, fiendishly filmy, fishy,
fluke, flamboyantly frivolous, fictitious,
felonious, fallacious, fabulously fatalistic,
flabbergasted, fettered, flustered, facile,
faceless, feckless, financially forked,

foregone, forlorn futile fulsome, freckled
feverish, foo fighting, faulty, freezing,
fleeting famously failing forecaster, flubs
"FAKE" fundamental fibber fiat, fabricating
fiery fissile fractured fios faculties.

Gamesomeness goads gawky, gingerly,
goofily graceful, grandiloquent gent, gallant,
genteel, geico, guppy gecko, gabbling gaffes,
gagging, gamboling, gestating, gesticulating,
garlic, gnashing, gobbling, gyrating,

gruesomely grinning, grappling, gnomadic
giggly, grubby, gastrointestinally grumpy
gewgaw gazing guy, geographically germane,
gungho, grave gremlin, grumbling, guiding,
guaranteeing, guerilla gripped gatling guns
ginning gumpshun.

Hello! Herewith halfway harmless hazmat,
haphazard haggard, hectored, hastily,
hurriedly, harriedly hammered, handsomely
hackneyed, heady, hellbent hillbilly, hirsute,
hidden hippie, huffy humanoid, hexed, heady,
Hellenistic, holistic, hermetic, hedonistic
heterosexual **** sapiens historical heirloom,
homeless, hopeful, holy, hee haw heretical hobo.

Indefatigable, iconographic, iconic, idealistic,
idyllic, inimitable, idiosyncratic, ineffable,
irreverently issuing idiotic, indifferent, inert,
ineffectual, ingeniously iniquitous, immaterial,
insignificant, indubitable, inexplicable, ignoble
itches, ineffectually illustriously illuminating
immovable infused ichthyosaurus implanted
inside igneous intrusions immensely
imperturbable improbable.
All I hear when I try:

(How is this for ambiguously annoying duo:)


I really love you
(It will not work)
You're the sun the moon and the stars
(You ****)


All I say:

I really love you
(Sorry I did not understand)
You're completely amazing
(You **** too)

Yes we both like being alone a lot but know the other side of the freedom is...freedom and it ain't always free is it?

you're pushing and pulling and raging  and all I am doing is letting you can't you see?

I just don't know how to love you the way we both dream of.

Goodnight and if the new stars shine brightly enough for you, good luck

And numbness blessed numbness til the pain or love or maybe apathy someday will roll in
Can't wait to.  Uh never mind tomorrow is another day to start again. Heart broken? check. spirit crushed? not quite. mind warped? not so much it's been done and why did you drag me here? Is it helping?
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016
much of intelligence is derived from an appreciation of a certain type of music: most notably classical, jazz and ambient / trance / electronic / progressive in any relevant genre.*

the way i dealt with atheists, those great
bores off theology, who try to accomplish
an sedimentary argument of the many
layers incorporating snippets from a range
of dedications, whether geological, biological,
chemical, historical, musical, mathematical
creating a rainbow mongrel theology,
not pure theology, just a poly-diadem theology,
in between that and "hearing" (yes, ambiguously
a sense for an obstruction of clear thinking
that had to spawn the antidote to the cartesian
res cogitans - thinking thing, i.e. res vanus -
empty thing) kabbalistic shrapnel of syllables,
oozing from the tetragrammaton, e.g.: ha ha, ye woe,
to "hear", for being bilingual i explain that
PA is both an informal word for goodbye,
a brief goodbye, and a shortening, pa-,
of the word patrz (look!), both polish examples,
akin to the laziness in the english language,
my laziness is to avoid the diacritical ę, e.g. się,
or in english do not (don't); or the famous
"racist" laziness of ****-, originally pakistani -
so in between that i figured, given that atheists
want the complete eradication of pain,
i figured it would be only natural to pair atheists
with sadists and masochists, to explain certain
things among themselves;
but this thing about the subtler pain?
i explained pain to myself, when it isn't accessible
via a complex schematic of arithmetic,
e.g. (worded): one plus the radix of π, subtracting
100, and then with obelus using a fraction
of ninety-nine over twelve and a half;
e.g. (symbolic): 1 + √π - 100 ÷ 99/12.5.
i can't put cognitive mathematics to give you an answer,
and because i can't answer the equation,
upon thinking about it, i experience the subtler pain
that's an antidote to real bone-rattling pain.
Ysa Pa Jun 2016
You hate roses and bouquets, saying they're too typical
But you're in love with white lilies
You loved chocolates but hated getting those as gifts
You liked oversized long-sleeves, sweaters, hoodies and jackets
You said it made you feel small and the world suddenly gets bigger
Love sunrises but can't wake up to watch it
Love sunsets because of everything about it but the sun
Love the night but hate darkness
Love mornings but can't open eyes because its too bright
Love sound but musically-declined
Love violins but cry when hearing it
Love water but as extreme as fire
Loved the midnight blue
But you're more of a maroon red
You're fearless and full of strength
But afraid of being powerless
You don't know how to love
But you loved me perfectly
You were afraid of love
But that was the air you breathe
Insecure but so sure
You are ambiguously specific
You are also explicitly vague
That was why I chose you
And I think that was why you stayed
Wack Tastic Nov 2014
Even though the mind is never,
at rest,
Expounding upon itslef ambiguously,
Even though we are stopped; at the end,
we are racing!
At this moment,
we all understand ourselves,
with little flaws, faults and fallacies,
About what we're all about,
Even though it all makes sense,
the next turn, corner, windowsill,
Threshold doors float.
flow,
Our consciousness is infallable,
The hubiris of this satire,
That all persons,
At this moment,
Even though the brain constantly perceives,
In our little grandiose heads,
We have it all figured out,
The system of environment has,
been analyzed,
The results were,
inconclusive,
Yet we persist,
even though,
at the flip of a switch,
after all is said and done,
even though we knew our
Ultimate Truth,
sought after,
strived and toiled for,
even understanding chiral inversions,
fractal combustion,
The makeshift mind,
Never failing,
The unbending will,
gleefully wisping,
singing and swaying,
Sunlight beaming,
Booming,
Across the faces,
Flashing on scattered specks,
even though our ugliness,
is beauty,
even though,
love conquers all,
even though,
Truth,
Is malleable,
Our stubborn straight-forwardness,
Makes that realization rigid.
lionness Oct 2016
i am blind
i am swimming
in an unchanging blue.

i am lead
by a luminosity
as dedicated and
unwavering as
god, Herself

i'm indifferent
the pain exists ambiguously
it's silent ferocity
carries me further and further
from the answer

i've already forgotten the question
River Aug 2019
As a child, I took an art class at the Brooklyn Museum of Art
We’d go to different exhibits and the instructor would explain the context of pieces of artwork
Once us kids stood together,
Looking up at a large canvas polluted with ambiguously painted circles
And the art instructor told us that there was some deeper meaning to it,
Though to our uninitiated young minds,
We couldn’t see this

We went to an exhibit one day full of gods made of stone and wood
Idols, the evangelicals would say
There was a god with a protruding belly and a folded face like a shar-pei
And the instructor pointed to it and uttered its name
I was floored.

My mind raced—
Surely, there couldn’t be other gods besides the one I grew up with,
And yet here I was, surrounded by hundreds of them with names and identifying traits and even faces

When I arrived home I demanded an explanation from my mother,
Who being only a nominal Christian at the time
And not well versed in scripture
Couldn’t give me a satisfactory explanation for what I had seen that day,
She couldn’t provide an explanation that could seal the crack in my perception of reality that had been made

When I badgered her demanding to know God’s name,
Since now I knew God isn’t a name but a title,
And that there were at least hundreds of gods throughout history with names
The only answer she could muster was “lord”
So I continued on in my perplexed state,
Though I stopped inquiring about it

Until my mother became involved with a cult,
Who spoon fed us answers that insure certainty and seal up all the cracks in our perception of reality
With a glue that we aren’t allowed to question
But had to apply liberally to our minds everyday

They provided me a name for this God I thought I had known all my life: Jehovah, they called him
And with God’s new name they provided a personality too:
Jehovah is a god who’s sick of everyone’s **** and is going to destroy everyone in a horrific fashion in Armageddon,
except the true Jehovah’s witnesses plus a few good hearted unbelievers who never had the chance to join the “one true religion”

Nice.

So all my questions were answered...
Until they weren’t
Certainty is a drug like any drug,
It only gives temporary relief
And it wears off and you run out of your supply,
Your body convulses violently
And you can’t stop the screaming in your mind
This certainty was a antidote that could control all of your existential anxieties
But in being exposed to reality,
My false beliefs founded in superstition
Withered in reality’s limelight

Reality bites
Because with reality comes an undeniable truth
A truth that doesn’t have to be rationalized
But is inherent and honest
In an unforgiving way
But honest nonetheless,
And I think I want honesty in my life now,
Yeah
But not the “truth” that religion purports to own,
Giving me the “truth” as long as I adopt its rituals, rules and customs
But the truth that belongs to both ugly and beautiful things,
And how in life there are endless, painful contradictions
And how it can be over anytime for any of us
And how no one really knows for certain when we leave our bodies of flesh if there is a continuation of our consciousness
But I want it anyway,
I want the painful, ****** truth,
And not the lies of certainty.
Dillon van Kaam Jan 2018
Upon an evening
Introducing the cold dark night
Beheld a starless sky
Not a spec of light
I felt a presence linger
Upon which I could touch no finger
In my mind there brushed a feeling
So quaint and bizarre
Perceived from immediate space
As from afar
Someone staring at me
Glaring at me
Gazing into my soul
Taking me deeper down the rabbit hole
Ambiguously shifting between good and bad
Slowly but surely driving me mad
I have been ****** with this curse
It hurts like a disease
It just keeps getting worse
Am I who I am?
Who I am supposed to be?
Or am I just an empty husk
A shell of the former me?
Continuing to stare my conscience down
I hardly ever smile, I do more than frown
Yet I have to go on
Hoping I haven't sang my swan song
Trying to elaborate on my way of thinking
I used to resort to heavy drinking
To keep my mind out of the quicksand sinking
Staring death in the face
I see it winking
The devil had a hold on me
That I know for sure
Conniving, plotting, misleading, deceiving
The things I had known to be pure
Is the path I am on now worth of believing?
Or are the tiles shambles
And am I still schizophrenic in perceiving...?

— The End —