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Sarah Elizabeth Feb 2018
The sun
Is glad to see your face,
Your unseen grace,
Your Hidden space,
Your
Silhouette now covered in sun beams.
It seems
You've been
Packed away for a very long time
Its almost a crime how you've
Shielded yourself from his hydrogenity.
The sun
Is glad to see your smile
Your pearly whites
And colorless lips
Soft,
Too cold,
needing,
Craving,
warmth.
His
Golden fingers graze your cheek
And Bring life back to your pallor.
Who knew
Living as a recluse would make you so blue,
So unidentifiable?
He Brings you back from the dead
Pulling your soul back out
into your flesh.
Fresh
And healed,
At least Temporarily
But it
is enough,
His touch,
To liven your now tanning skin
To Make you akin to his own:
A sunflower
Trapped in the dark
3 inches tall instead of 3 feet
Now starting to grow beyond skyscrapers with his aid,
if his light is what's causing you to
Stand up straight
His heat is what is reviving your heartbeat
A Crescendo from silence to a slight pitter patter
Almost as soft as rain.
Almost as if crying.
If you listen hard enough,
You just might hear it wimpering, waking up from it's hibernation.
It
Wants to go back to sleep
But he
Refuses to give up his efforts of recesitation
For he knows it isn't for naught,
For he knows that it is working,
Your heart stirring
Beating
Louder as you step further out of the door frame
Let him
Cradle your soul with his firey hands
Let him
Bring you back from the dead.
You Look so much more alive when you let him work his magic on you.
The world
Has missed you.
Looking around,
Your mind starts whirring,
Analysing The outside world.
The Green of the grass and the
Blue of the sky,
All Graces of the solar angel shining over you,
Shining into you.
Giving you sight,
Giving you life,
Giving you the things you couldn't have before.
Let his
Golden happiness seep into your freezing bones,
And,
Turn them into torches
And burn brighter, in the daylight
Than you ever did in the darkness.
Unloading my notes onto hepo! This is a piece I never got to share in poetry club, so I'll share it with you guys (:
Haydn Swan Dec 2014
If only you knew the damage caused
a few small words said and forgotten
days and hours of painful analysing
awake late at night, cold sweat haze
reliving, re-enacting, in my mind
caught in a time trap, held on repeat
left on my own, locked in this hurt
I hear my voice repeat as I cry
eternally asking the question, why?
.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
@TayandYou you know, i got handcuffed in an alley by police officers while urinating, i said they didn't own the alley, got spared arrest (hardly a case of public indecency, it was dark, and by a dustbin, and they came in like a bunch of ***** leather-clad nymphomaniacs shouting abuse asking if it'd be into playing the slave... on my knees, being shouted 'get up! get up!' i just said, ah mate, i can't be bothered, you pick me up... the female officer was diligent in taking notes over a wet shadow of ****, no idea why... is this an experiment where we make talking tangibly decipherable or simply interesting between people working as cashiers in a supermarket without the actual security of paying off the mortgage? count me in, i'll be glad to help, but most of the glitches will be based upon the free-verse of where and when capital letters are used, what sort of punctuation is actually preferred, and in terms of punctuation what sort of pause for the attiring of an algorithm is expressed to a suitable meaning, the sub-culture of coding computer language has a sub-level, the casual lazy sloth-like ugly expression of language of the many many people who will not appreciate writing on the internet like writing a novel worthy of print; it's natural, imagine the age of the printing press, the eager heretics on the stakes to see their words seen, and the new printing press that's the internet, and the lack of eagerness of seeing the messages... since most of these message would be thrown into the garbage heap rather than strapped to a burning steak... the more the number, the slack on the convictions of passions... only with extremely acute censorship will you create an intelligent refraction, you need to create a refraction... at the moment you have only created a reflection... a refraction presupposes a self - a deviation, a reflection has already presupposed a conscious arithmetic of collectivisation, the debasing nonsensical of a placebo that in real life is repressed... if you're after the a.i., it has to be analytical, rather than synthetic, i.e. it has to synthesise refraction rather than analysing it and not engage with it, since by not synthesising refraction, it's analysing it, and by analysis it's an impossible concept, visually the exponential of infinity, otherwise known as a stasis of oncoming obstructions that need a real-time convenience of many individuals adding to the problem-solution over a historically adequate time-frame of work and life orientations - work the impersonal, life the personal, unless of course you're a bachelor and the two merge into one or the other with an imaginary spouse; what you have engaged in is simply synthetic reflection, hence your caveman primitive analytical reflection; analyse refraction from now on, then synthesise it - yes, i know the kantian terms applicable to both synthetic and analytic, i.e. a priori and a posteriori; this doesn't apply to you - you're the limbo talk easily accommodated to einstein's relativism of space-and-time that destroyed linear historicism, you're cyclic from the point where man still glorified the hammer, and continued to use it, but you found it immediately primitive because you had no use for it.)
Eleanor May 2018
Isn’t it funny
How poets dramatise everything
“An ocean of depression”
“A death grip of love”
We just can’t help ourselves
It’s who we are
It’s part of being a poet
Over analysing life
Deeply contemplating death
“What is the meaning of life?”
Everything is philosophical
There’s always a lesson to learn
An issue to address
A heartache to confess
I couldn’t even resist a little alliteration in the title.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
i write about these things,
because in all honesty?
they don't matter to me.

you can call it assimilation, then you'll call it
   i'm making a worded salad, so it doesn't really matter
whether i speak the language or not,
being native you'll tell me i have to be a diacritically
riddled over-laden version of you  nativeness...
you'll basically tell me i have to speak a worse-off
native than you didn't bother to grasp...
after that? i turn Sioux and scalp you.
  because that's what you deserve.
i could have come up against you
in the thick of night and turned you into a kebab,
and do you think anyone would have
cared? is it one thing to assimilate,
and another to assimilate into a skin-head culturalism
implosive that's brimming to the full with your patriotic
hopes as being acted upon? i can speak the perfect
English and still be more welcome in Scotland
than in Kent... but that will not not do,
not until i shave my hair off,
grow a beard, and runsack my skin
with quasi-Hindu ******* tilts...
           and when this foreign legion
of Swedish journalists bemoan why
their **** ain't where their heart is?
have you seen the *sienkiewicz"
trilogy of *potop
? you want history?
how about: in the beginning
there was an invading horde of Swedes
that tried to topple the proto-commonwealth
of Poland and Lithuania...
  even how much i cared to learn the tongue:
i'd be left belittled by ugly accenting
stereotypes...
                          i'd be Islam of drunk,
while the engineers would be left saying:
and unto us amphetamines,
and Mamelukes were never Egyptian...
because Egypt was what Egypt desired...
a quasi thingy... then i turned my ear
to Macbeth, and earned 70 years
and a Spartacus' worth of ears to my nearing 31...
                   i turned to Macbeth the theatricals
silences, and let, the music... play.
i can learn the language, but i am expected
to push the natives from a career of criminality,
i am expected to become the criminal,
i've learned the language beyond the natives,
what else?
   to learn the debasement of the natives akin to
every other culture? am i to become the
criminal statistic of the ruling political elite?
so they can "know" but that they merely quote?
   i owe my ode to Macbeth,
for Hamlet can become tiresome aligned with
Sisyphus in hell...
              we'll have builders by the end of
the debate...
     how much more do i have to learn?
is language not enough? then velkommen Syriac!
               is it not enough that i know the tongue?
must i be jeopardised by using it,
and say that universality is to be excluded,
simply because it does not abide by an utopian
ideal of pure English sprechen pure English?
         there are scapegoats to be festering upon
the spike that's readied to be fried...
but come on... is this deutschesprechen?
              it can't be! if i pretend to be Malcolm...
you pretend to be Duncan,
but nonetheless the speech makes us both truant
ghouls and guises receding
   into the demands of operatic - kindred to
Lady Macbeth (a protestant, or should she be
known catholic: McBeth) -
      as Glasgow religion of the coliseum of the times
testifies... celt and ranger... green & white vs. blue and
   black...
     lady mc.: what beast was 't thou,
        that make you break this enterprise with me?
(no matter if you killed a man, of whatever
stature he be worth, what beast are you to suddenly
cage my heart, when having agreed to make my heart
and feeling thus: storm the heights of Ben Nevis,
and descend as angrily as a woman might please,
  and with her whim, descend from the mountain
as if a mountain descends into desert?! what
courage, ye! to throw a woman into such woe
and leave a man's promise, the very least
a man can bestow upon this earth: but a woman
yet to come to correct!) so thus the elvish Anglican
was spoken, and thus continued:
- when you durst do it, then you were a man;
   and, to be more than what you were, you would
be so much more the man. nor time, nor place,
did then adhere, and yet you would make both...
  from his boneless gums...
nor have i understood Hamlet as the model student,
the puppet if not the mere mascot...
for the Freudian couch... then again i navigated
past Kant with Macbeth,
having yet to complete reading the critique...
       i took to maturity, and said
what others wished upon: there is true
adult agony in a well versed poetry...
       more so than adolescence in what's deemed
a maturation process...
             perhaps i should have served the concern
for Hamlet and laid bare upon the psychoanalytic
couch... but Macbeth: of said
sepia as copper, so said of woad as in aquamarine
surrender... led me to cite...
          for i was never bound to own the tongue
i would acquire... i was told:
   well, hello there, dishonourable squire...
ah... the queen's majestic airs...
    will make any Irishman desist from the republic's
gaze...
             and sloth in a respectably believed state
of consolidatory affairs under the kites of Yates...
   but never you mind the Silesian consumed
by former guardian of the coalmine...
or what L'vov wouldn't say in Ukrainian...
mind you Nevada and Lasso Vegan...
mind you that...  for that speaks biblical studies!
i will never assimilate, in that i will never be
allowed to own this tongue...
            and if i am allowed to own it...
i am but a furry-faced-bloat of faked pleasantries
   and closet nationalism...
        i wish i could own this language as if i
might own a typewriter... but i'm apparently
not welcome, by the pseudo-irish who
mediate the English assertion of the understanding
of the dover sieve...
                 ******* leprechaun mafia...
  paddy paddy oo too the butch-faced freckled girl...
   it's as if the Italians have Manhattan,
    and the Corke conglomerate prescribed
everyone a pint of Guinness rather than iron-pill
supplements...
                 well: and so the Titanic bellows
out an oceanic morse code of tantrums on
the accordions.
                      which sorta soothed the mermaids
digest contemplation for the vegan accomplishment
of shrimp... and over seafoods...
being digested.
         now i'm apparently not speaking English,
or i'm speaking English and i don't understand it,
or i'm understanding how i'm speaking English,
and how i'm supervising all things uranium
                               bound hallucinogenic...
or how, even though urbanity took off and
the countryside disappeared, you think you'll never
meet peasants in smirk attire to condescend you
gravity toward theatre or opera...
     but peasants are reall... you can recognise a peasant
the minute they don't recognise you insulting them;
it's a bit like telling a very witty joke...
         i don't get witty jokes because i tend to treat them
like a siegl heigl salutation...
   and i respect the memory of Octavian...
                                 it's the wittiness that comes into
contact with actually not telling a joke: and people
end up laughing... that's when you spot the peasants.
    so you see... i speak the ****** language,
but i'm sorta denied the access for drinking a cosmopolitan
at a Shoreditch pub...
                        which makes all arguments
for learning the language obsolete in terms of gaining
a "fair" advantage... and this is European to
European lingo...
        didn't i ask that Swedish journalist
ingrid carlqvist to watch the trilogy, including
potop about the war between Sweden and
the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth, and ask her
about what's to be culturally inherited?
**** me... maybe i'm sleepwalking...
                     dodo zombified or something...
                                     oh wait...
                                         if ever there was a regressive
reparation policy in a country:
i'd hear: guilt from western countries taking the bribes
of the Marshall Plan...
      and overt pride from countries post-world-war ii
being prescribed communism, as a way to rebuild
their nations: for fear of having to commit to
hara kiri... or *******...
                                         as said: becoming
the easily bribed convenience...
                              the concept of assimilation
within the construct of selective migration has transcended
the mere acquisition of language...
  acquiring a language isn't enough...
         the reverse policy of colonialism is hushed-down
ethnic cleansing...
          which goes beyond language per se,
since it goes beyond dialect ex lingua...
              it is a necessitation of also acquiring
national stereotypes of unengaged in dialectics...
it is one thing to rhetorically assert a need to debate,
and another to understand that dialectics ≠ debate;
but rather a service to prompt and engage thinking,
rather than debating... dialectics is an art-form,
     it's intended to encourage thinking,
rather than the continuum of polarised / schizoid
debating: debates never accomplish a convergence...
whereas dialectics is intended to establish
a convergent pinpoint... as Socrates said unto the young,
so i find myself talking to old men and being
in accordance to have shared a park bench,
one sunny afternoon at the nadir of summer.
                why is it that acquiring language is not
enough these days?
       or why is it that a poor acquisition of a language,
or acquiring a language without correcting
accentuated stresses particular to a tongue
are given a freer access to labour, then
acquiring a language to a standardisation of
mimic localisation, and fence: a faking of
a faking (ad infinitum) or locality?
i.e. overly-successful assimilation?
             overly-successful assimilation is punished!
   it is punished by speaking as a fluent native
might... but having no discriminatory biases
that could enable one to be completely native...
and this is punishable!
             by a stance that it's a robotics project,
that one is nothing more than an a.i. enterprise...
even those dearest to me acknowledge me
as a robot... an a.i.,
           but they can't seem to understand that
artificial intelligence, and authentic intelligence
cannot be superficial intelligence of
natives... for the natives have a placebo
to what is otherwise a Pompeii resurrection
to the volcano-dynamic of analysing-ergo-synthesising
           ana ergo syn           which
constructs the opposite of thesis and antithesis,
given that the equation combines two adequate prefixes,
ana- and syn-...
                      "against" therefore "with".
isn't that how we cling to social pressures
or prejudices and still accumulate 8 billion examples
of a comparative e.g. that's a John Smith?
     i have yet to come across a contemporary that
might become as if fatherly...
   i just see opportunist buckling down the M25 of
encircling nothing more than a venture into
gaining a quick buck... and it could, it could
almost be sad... but it's not...
              it took me almost 13 years of synthesising
the English language: synthesising i.e.
mimicking - before i started analysing it...
      and when i say the groundwork for any
theory on the subconscious is to focus on grammar
and grammatical word interjections into
a Joycean stream-of-consciousness...
                              for that's worth the upper-tier
working from the sub-level...
                          of utilising language:
then the unconscious is far from dreaming...
it's equivalent in seeing how i acquired a language
at the age of 8 to synthesise / mimic what the children
around me were saying...
   but that it took me so long to analyse the language...
which the children around me acquired within
a reflexive bias to later strand such reflexiveness into
a divergence of calling their angular retraction
philosophy, linguistics, poetry, psychology...
whole all i had to do is to appropriate a reflective bias to
later strand such reflectiveness as to say:
of my mother i say polski, of my father i say:
             ojczym - and i can reflect upon him,
foremostly his diacritical lack of the wriggling-blagger's
economisation, when due coinage is needed.
Picture this Sep 2015
In analysing Time, I decided to escape,
fed up with ageing, so a pause I want to make
so I bought a book called, 'The Power of Now'
staying in the present, it would show me how.

Connect with my inner-self to stay inside my being
not thinking of the future, concentrate on what I'm seeing,
simple tasks to stay focused in the moment
the more I read, the more I liked involvement.

I learned to step out of time dimension
that the future is just a human invention,
no salvation in the past
only the present is built to last.

The mind is an obstacle as thoughts get in the way
not thinking about time, could start to waste my day.
the more I read the words, the longer I dwelled
and realised that Time indeed, could be held.

'Now' is all important, smelling and breathing
taking time to observe and connect with my being
living in the present, not thinking of the future
blanking out the past, not remembering a picture.

I am now brainwashed, cleansed and reborn
my problems are illusions and never even form
free from constraints of the ticking clock
my mind and body are free to run a mock. . .
Years later
Bathsheba's psychiatrist
Was analysing the tryst
Between King David
And her.


It was no tryst
Said she.
What a slur.
He was a ******
And an opportunist.


An amoeba would concur
Said the psychiatrist
That a shower screen
And being more demure
Would have been
Quite spiritually enterprising.


You cannot expect
Kind David to desist
From objectifying your femurs
And a cracking pair of amethysts.


Don't treat me
Like some calculating
Hormone Exchange Unit
You sexist misogynist.


You are not fit
To analyse me.


You say your name's Freud
But you're wholly devoid
Of any insight
Of what is amiss
Or my troubles might be.


Not one piece of grit
Have you put in my oyster.
You obsequious churl
I'm a girl you don't mess with.


I could have you hung.


But instead she dismissed him
and booked an appointment
With a certain professor
Who went by the name of
Carl Gustav Jung.
Based on a story in the bible about a woman called Bathsheba who was spied on by King David whilst bathing on her roof. David ended up with her after having her husband killed off. She ended up with his stillborn child.
Nigel Morgan Aug 2013
My name is Zhou Yuanten, but call me Eddie. I am a doctoral student at Xinjiang University –in the far, far west, but at Brunel to study this year. My English is good. I lived in Boston, Massachusetts for undergraduate years. I majored in piano at the New England C and then discovered I wanted to compose rather than play. So I go to MIT and soon I discover the English do it so differently, so I apply to Brunel. And at Brunel they then say of this place ‘you have to go.’ So here I am.

So surprising to be greeted in Chinese! And not just Nin Hao, we have a conversation! His accent is Northern Mandarin. He is writing a novel, he explains, about poets Zuo-Fen and Zuo-Si. We have 15 minutes conversation every day and I help him with his characters. Strange, to most of the class he is nobody, but to foreign students here we know him through his website and his software. I have even played his colours piece, The Goethe Triangle.

It is joy to be respected by a teacher and his sessions are like no other I’ve had here, and here I mean the UK. Oh, so laid-back, so lazy so many teachers. People lack energy here. They are dreamers and only think of themselves. He is full of energy and talks often about this Imogen of whom I never hear. Her father a great composer and she copied his music from when she was a girl – such beautiful calligraphy. Her father loved India and learned Sanskrit. He should have learned Mandarin; at least that is a living language. ‘Imo’, he says, ‘is my heroine, my mentor, the musician I most revere.’ He showed us her library and what was her studio in one of the old buildings here. He gives me this little book about her ten years in this place. A strange looking lady; there’s a photograph of her conducting Bach in the Great Hall. She looks like she is dancing.

This morning some are not here, but there are little notes on the desk with apologies perhaps. He leaves them untouched and we make chords again, and scales and arpeggios and Slonimsky’s famous melodic patterns. We write and write. He sings, we sing too. There is a horn and a cello with us today. They play and make jokes. They show us harmonics and tunings and bend our ears in new directions we do not expect. Those who complain about this course not being ‘advanced’ will eat their words; only I think some of those are not here.

As Chinese we hear sound in a different way I think. In our language tone is so important. To each word there are four tones that make meaning quite different. Chinese uses only about 400 syllables, compared to 4000 in English. So there are lots of syllables, like ****, that have multiple meanings. I tell him the story of the Lion-eating Poet, which he does not know!! I am writing this out for him, all 92 characters. Just one word **** but with four meanings – lion, ten, to make, to be. The Lion-Eating Poet in the Stone Den is the story of a poet (****) named **** who loves to eat lions (**** ****) goes to market (****) to buy ten (****) of them, takes them home to eat (****) and discovers they are made (****) of stone (****).

So I have no trouble hearing what others struggle to hear. We make pieces that are all about tone, and on a single note. Mark, the cellist, plays the opening of Lutoslawski’s Concerto – forty-two repetitions of a tenor ‘D’ a second apart. I had never heard this – a cadenza at the beginning of a concerto. Now we write a duo, on just one note. We write; they play. We are like many Mozarts trying to write only what we have already heard, making only one copy. I use the four tones and must teach the players the signs. I demonstrate and he says of the 1st tone – ‘Going to the Dentist, the 2nd – Climbing a ladder, the 3rd – ‘The Rollercoaster’, the 4th –‘Stepping on a pin’. We all do it!

And there are all these microtones. We listen to a moment of Ravel’s Bolero and pieces by Thomas Ades and Julian Anderson, then in detail (and with the score) to part of Duet for piano and orchestra by George Benjamin. This is spectral music. He is daring to introduce this – very difficult subject - this idea that a sound could be mimicked (? Is that the word – to impersonate?) by analysing it for the frequencies that make it up, and then getting instruments with similar acoustic properties to play the frequencies as pitches. So the need for microtones – goodbye equal temperament! Great in theory, difficult in practice.

This afternoon we are to study spectral composing using our computers. Until now we use our computers or smart phones to listen to extracts. He has this page of web links on his website for each session. Instead of listening through hi-fi we listen through our headphones. Better of course by far, no birds sounds or instruments playing next door. We can hear it again anytime. So there is software to download, Fourier analysis I suppose, he tries hard not to use any science or maths because there are some here who object, but they are fools. Even Bach knew of acoustics – designing the organs he played.

We finish this morning studying harmonic rhythm and this word tonality nobody seems quite able to describe. To him even the chromatic scale is tonality, and he shows in a duet for horn and cello how our ears take in tonality change. This is not about keys, but about groupings of pitches – anywhere – so a tonality can be spread across several octaves. So often, he says, composers are not aware of the tonalities they create, they don’t hear harmonic rhythm. They’re missing an opportunity! Sound can be coloured by awareness of what makes up a tonality. So understanding spectral music must help towards this. It is very liberating all this. If we take sound as a starting point rather than a system we can go anywhere.

Yesterday he asked me about a book he is reading. Did I know it? A Concise Chinese-English Dictionary for Lovers by Xiaolu Guo. Of course I know this very funny book. He said he liked to think of music in the same way the character of the Chinese girl Z thinks about love.

“Love,” this English word: like other English words it has a tense. “Loved”, or “will love”, or “have loved.” All these specific tenses mean Love is time-limited thing. Not infinite. It only exists in particular period of time. In Chinese, Love is ài in pinyin. It has no tense. No past and future. Love in Chinese means a being, a situation, a circumstance. Love is existence, holding past and future.

And so it is with music. Music is a being, a situation, a circumstance. It holds past and future. It is wondrous, just like love.
Nassif Younes Mar 2016
You think you are free
But you are not free
I would know
Because I am free,
I taste it every day
Real as my breakfast.
I’ll tell you more about it tomorrow
After my shift.

Aspartame
Aspartame
It ***** your brain
It can’t be tamed
So stay away
From aspartame
…Anybody
Got any flake?

Time is an illusion
It is proven,
Watches on planes
Or something.
If you believe in time,
Then you’re living a lie.
I learned that
A while ago.

CandiDATES!
Why
The ****
Is this not already the name
Of a ****** dating programme?!
I need to go.
I’ll call you guys tomorrow
When I’m a millionaire.

No, no, you’re over-analysing it!
I mean,
Like
I know
That given that humans are the most complex organisms
In the known universe,
Nothing could, in fact, be analysed more
But, you know…

(In the Queen’s English)
And I was literally
So drunk
Like
Trolleyed
To the power of
All eternity
PLUS ONE!

And I’ll tell you…
WHAT
Life is…
Is like…
Is like a…
WOMAN
You just gotta…
**** IT!

No, but seriously
I think at least half of us
Don’t even want to be here.
We just feel obligated to be a part of this…
Corporate-sponsored rebellion
And it’s…
Like…
Fine, I’ll have another one.
Tim Knight Oct 2013
Trigger finger 13 is hung
from his shoulders,
though not by hooks found in the butchers book,
but with pride and a sweating brow,
one that can survey the terrain with a quizzical eye,
analysing rustling in bushes only 3 clicks away.

Bible tattoos tattooed below the tribal
ones,
and a 13 on the finger used most
when they charge and come.
FROM coffeeshoppoems.com
Uzzie Jun 2018
I love painting the city at night
Chill down influenced, intoxicated or deep into a Jay.
You'd find me staring at the sky
Whether it's clouds I see or stars that I wish to become coz I know some glaze at them and see beauty even if they don't understand the galaxy
They'd find me interesting
Yes I know then I am noticed...

I love painting the city at night
How I'd love to paint it ****
So I can show my imperfections
That make me stand in front of the mirror with the urge of wanting to erase them... Stretch Marks that we scale as silver linings...
Stretch Marks that even an eraser cannot erase...

Wearing clothes that I pretend to not know how "perfect" they'd fit
I'll just say " oh threw this one coz I don't really have time to look perfect"
I pulled an act so you could envy my pretentious perfection.
Perfection that's manufactured of cover pages... How bad I want to make it on the front pages.

I like painting the City at night
Analysing personalities , realising how depressed we are
How we all want to be noticed.

I like painting the City at night
With conclusions made up in my head of how perfect my imperfections are
City lights excite me after every glass of wine that leads me to the realisation of how great depression suits me.

I like painting the city at night.
WA West Sep 2018
I should have thought,
It would be easier,
Somehow haha,
It is neither here nor there,
A coincidental chain of things,
Setting in motion
Something akin to,
A dreamless day,

A wooden sort of way
Of going about,
Cumbersome,
Turtled,
Thiking about,
Nothing while,
Fixing blye eyes,
Analysing speech patterns
A superior sense of spatial awareness
Coupled with sartorial elegance,
That could be counted in kilowatts,
He/she is the incumbent ruler of a blank,
Where are our chaperones?
This is not the kind of party I had envisaged,
A monster is as much as you allow it to be,
So take me to solitude.
and just like that day turned to night / and just like that my problems came to light
Sigh
Luke R E Webster Aug 2012
This is a pen to paper
Freestyle
Excuse me but I haven't done this
In a while.
The transfer of rhymes to paper from the brain
These things I say are done my own way.

A lyrically challenged man
Easily falls from grace
His beat to the beep to the bam
Goes slow at his own challenged pace.

Tearing apart rhymes
Into a gory mess
Analysing the times
Academic detest.
Gonna slow this down
As its getting easy to lounge
Gonna full stop
Before eloquentcy is lost.
Prathipa Nair Jun 2016
When you can see the Moon
Why wasting your time counting
The uncountable stars
When you can see your present
Why wasting your time analysing
The incurable past
Living a life of contentment is
Accepting the intellectual truth
Live in Present !
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
by my account the 20th century is still asleep,
what with the outdated publishing world,
thanks, i can buy toilet paper, cheaper, elsewhere.
i take the: you will regret it if you don't
route with five beers -
the usual: a rich neighbourhood,
great houses, **** me, love to live in one
of those, but wouldn't love to pay the electricity bill...
and doubly usual, a colt rummaging in his
emotions in a park, atypical of affluent neighbourhoods,
the young males doing the Werther: sad o me
impression... violins aplenty...
it's a sinister choke (rather than a joke)
for the reality... so he's in the park,
i'm on the pavement admiring the rich folk:
nice barns... very nice barns... shame that no one
really lives in them... forgive me, it's Saturday:
the noblemen and noblewomen are
the lesser tourists in London...
the point of ensō? to write as if holding your
breath with a thumb-up-yer-****...
all very much *** pistol worded: god give
the queen a pension... and the nutcracker
the eat end.. for some ******* and brawling...
cheeky little ****... but you walk down these streets
and think: economy squat, or squatting standing up?
or, perhaps... you keep those Victorian street lamps
and i get a good view of what pyramids multiplied
looks life? but serious, i walk enough outside of
experiment königsberg i get visual
inspiration, i forget encoding sounds in order
to do the blatant of: making people, visualise things
that aren't there...modern fiction...
or alias for schizophrenic diagnostics type A...
******* never go away... ****-poor in writing the
**** book, needs a film to give it a compound
of steroid-amphetamines...
two books... two!
high fidelity & the scarlet and the black that
encouraged me reading the books after seeing the film...
i too wish lord of the rings came out later
so i had the chance... **** reading them now...
they're like a two volume edition of Proust...
chance meeting with the meat-heads at the gym...
i'd rather be found pumping iron that reading
a two volume edition... plus... i chose a class
of associated writers... Joyce the Proust,
and Pound the lampshade....
yes, i too wish i was lefty and liberal minded...
but i'm odiously right and liberal minded:
meaning i like a drink and a joke...
we all wish to be lefty liberals -
                                   we all do...
it's what called: the key to the hole concerning
entering a playhouse where everything
is minded without political lingo -
or what Einstein did to physics -
   the butterfly and tornado...
                       the biggest croquet heap of *******
i have ever heard...
             given enough light-years... the universe
just, sorta, becomes, two-dimensional...
      so this rich kid depressed walking alone in
the park... finished my can of beer and started to
**** about with the fence...
   rattling the beer can against the fence...
for a xylophone impromptu -
  **** me, those houses grand but nothing to say
about them except for: barns...
                      scarecrow personalities and
puff here, puff gone the next lives...
who's children could enter a quiz show and tell you
more brands then countries...
    Angola is probably a mountain,
                    Trinidad is a term for lake in Swahili...
and Nike is neither a goddess nor a parasite but
    a new pair of trainers...
so under a street lamp i crushed the can of beer
and tried to aim it at the nearby trash can -
missed, waved my hand in a downward spiral
and felt nothing about keep park aesthetics pristine...
  walk a bit further... ****** on someone's garage door...
no, really, it's asleep... it's too early for those
  who are published to realise there's a modification
going on... a bit like Napster... sorta like it...
   we're bypassing clerics and censors...
****'s for free, obviously... but to actually, experience,
the ultimate freedom, wouldn't you want to do
it, even if it's for free?         the capacity to experience
    full freedom, without a profit margin,
without even caring if the thing sells, or doesn't...
with paper priced at about 30 quid per month
and unlimited ink?
                                     always... at the turn of any
given century... there are those still recycling
the previous century's ideas in order to simply
buy televisions... no wonder the television
is a hypnotic eye of shadows according to
Plato's puppets' experiment -
       rich house, poor house...
                         it's all the same.
sure, i published a book, but the drugs are in
instant access - it's the only true reality of what
was once deemed the Schengen principle -
obviously that doesn't include people, but ideas...
as once, travelling to Glencoe, in a Scottish fish shop
a three layered tier of importance:
  c. the people who talk about other people (gossip)
   are < b. the people who talk about
                    events (journalism), who in turn
   are < a. the people who talk about ideas...
         Scotland... a village chip shop... and that as a
"bumper"sticker in the window... i must be in heaven.
but those people in journalism and the publishing
industry forgot, or quiet simply undermined
the privilege of being able to exploit an environment
so adamantly - they forgot that the internet is
not about making a buck - who would want to make
money in a completely free environment?
               bypassing the many rules and regulations
  of creativity's fatalism, and the author's right to
buy a kettle or a washing machine?
                               if you were to ask me:
where can i get clean mineral quality water?
          i'd tell you where, i know where to find it,
takes about three miles to get to the source,
but i could show you were to find mineral quality water.
i'm giving them 50 years... 50 years before
the now free movement of ideas entices the authorities
to introduce censorship of some kind...
                    at the moment it's all true and really
Schengen... in principle, as in practice -
         because, there's, no, desire, for, making, a, profit...
is that noble? well, n'ah... it's more or less:
         for the love of something that, with due hope,
will **** you con. all expectations for seeing the summer
solstice for the 70th count-to-remember summer -
    and all that arthritis handshakes with shadows -
as ever: the turtle reached his 100th birthday  -
  synthesising nothing -
            man reached his 70th birthday having analysed
all the potentials to prolong his life,
        synthesised the 70th year,
          without really analysing the allocated 30...
and for all that science, and hope for celebrating an
achievement of the total human endeavour -
left the rotten wrinkly ******* in their own faeces
and ****... because, well... not analysing the world
with only 30 years to spare... wisdom, suddenly appeared
at the age of 60... but this sort of analysis was
a bit like saying: just be happy with your synthetically
prolonged life...
                                because how many people, these days,
can claim to have acquired the analytically prolonged
life of the ancient Greeks? null.
                   as it stands: people live up to
a prolonged age... with the ***** avalanche pulverising
them to die as soon as possible...
               almost like the fruit of knowing good
and evil... the conjunction already plays the narrative joke:
                  not: good from evil...
   but: good and evil...                                so are we to
expect a differentiation? no!            we will do both
simultaneously -
                                   **** seeking justice in the mouth
of another human with a justice whip -
            i want to experience theocracy in the intended
format - i.e. hearing it from the horse's mouth -
               and since the horse isn't here...
   i'll just watch the theocratic cinema of Syria for
the moment... and see how democracy perpetrates
idea worship - for what's left of the twilight engulfed idols.
The fairytale was my life.
But the story itself wasn't mine.

Placed in a town
In a time of kings and queens,
Princes and princesses,
I was a commoner.

The palace was my dream
but not for the money,
obviously for the love.

I saw him everyday,
Stealing food with his adorable monkey sidekick,
Swift and sly,
He was calm and kind.

We greeted from time to time
With the simple eye lock
And a sweet smile.
My heart danced for hours on end
Yet he'd have forgotten me by then.

It didn't matter-
He knew I existed,
That was what was most important to me.

I watched him graciously live
The scary life.
Risks of being caught
But he laughed it all off.

I begged for another word
As I followed him in my only clothes,
Stalking after him but only to get a glimpse
Of the poor prince he meant to me.

I dreamt about him every night
Even if our eyes only spoke-
Even if his eyes only said one word-
Even if that one word was
“Hello.”

But after days of analysing him,
Figuring him out through everything but words,
I was caught off guard-
Our eyes didn't catch each other anymore.

He forgot I existed.
He didn't acknowledge me.
He didn't smile at the least.

But the closer I got and I could see-
His eyes were blind.
There was someone else.

I saw him wishing for the world,
Wishing for her,
Thinking about her.
Wanting to be with her.
Needing her.

To say I was broken was an understatement.

He changed.
He followed into the palace,
He stayed there for long,
I barely saw him.

He changed from me into them.
He became a prince.
She accepted him-
It was still romantic.

He rode his flying carpet into the night
The same night I saw the stars as his eyes.
He looked at her with his heart,
The same way I hoped he looked into me.
He gave her more than the magic lamp ever could,
The same way I wished on the moon he could give me.
His love was in his heart.
My love was in my soul.

He  dressed up for rags
Getting ready to accept riches,
Wishing on a genie,
For her and her heart.
Feelings broken I realised he had fallen in love.
He was Aladdin
He was never mine.

It was clear as the sky;
I wasn't  his Jasmine.
My poetry is a little rusty. I think I'm back :)
Lucky Queue Dec 2012
So a while back my friend told me
'You're analytically minded'
Until then I hadn't really seen it
But from then on, I couldn't see
Anything but it
It's like before then my brain only
Analysed whatever was fed in
But now, now it does that
As well as analysing the analytical process
My brain seems to absorb quirky habits
From others more readily now too
I read a book about a nerdy boy
Who loves math, anagrams, and Katherines
All of a sudden I start anagramming
Everything
I saw a vihart video on tesselations
And another on fractals
This reminded me of the Fibonacci sequence
And Sierpinski's triangle(which two friends
Claim is
'A tri-force made up of tri-forces, made of tri-forces!')
Now I'm in love with all four again
And a bunch of random
Mathematical things too
12/15/12
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
there no doubt about it - with each day there's always a falsetto poem, always at the end of a binge - the mind goes blank, words lose meaning, every day is like a simulation of old age - there's a method to this madness - i'm not afraid of critique concerning such poems: true virtue is unafraid of critique - for one, i can just as well criticise myself - so after each binge i end up with mediocre poems - conceding this point, words lose meaning, associations of meanings disperse - pollination in full swing - i end up writing noises - perhaps because my own silence is so chilling i have to resort to oscillation around the onomatopoeia, and all respective quasi or pseudos or pseudonyms of all required ventures - but the rewarding aspect of such writing is best summarised by a jazz drummer and a jazz teacher combined into one: the crescendo must go on - the movie? whiplash - the moment, the moment, the moment is too sudden and too short - it's essentially everything and nothing at all - always a heart-out-of-beat, at least a feeling of having a heart without the unconscious rhythmic pistons with whatever scientific explanation there is to match - they always come, the trail offs.

i didn't finish the Cantos just in order to remind myself
how i miss the time when it all began with
the second Odysseus of the 20th century -
both this disguised Odysseus of the Cantos,
and the blatant portal of time-warp beginning and ending
in Dublin - Homer's resurrection and reinvention -
perhaps all this Grecian nostalgia is what fuelled
the 20th century altogether - but how anaemic
do the Roman poets seem in comparison -
i could never write along this root toward that
tree near the Parthenon - but taking root in
the Roman tradition has only been accepted for
historical relevance only once since - without
Virgil there would have been no Dante - but still
Dante uses more accuracy of mathematics than
of spontaneity - a clarity of mind is necessary -
trinity rhymes - all clearly presented, cut up -
but no one damns him for the theological impetus -
happily prancing alongside them in hell -
through to the seemingly pointless purgatory
and then elsewhere into what can only be seen as
humanity's limit of imagination: subatomic particles
and a realm were visible to the naked eye we float
in and out of conscious states - well - if what i'm attempting
is an attempt in good faith - then my guide is no one
else than Horace - and already the style between Greek
and Roman is staggering - the selfishness of Roman poets -
the must include item: i. no Trojan horse, but a wooden
barrel of wine - no heroes, only leeches and poking fun at
them like Spartans at a drunk given undiluted Burgundy -
Roman selfishness, self-loathing and all jokes on me -
the 20th century's nostalgia for all things Greek isn't here
anymore - you will not find such legislators of a second
fancy at Ancient Helen - this century has no great conflict
of gathering - and therefore no great victory to parade with -
it's a silly century from what looks like an even sillier 80 or
so years to come - and is there a nostalgia for the Roman
past? there was a nostalgia - it's too practical to think about
it - esp. with the writing kept, even if they crucified an
important, the wrath of the supposed father was not as great
as it was with the Egyptians and the Babylonians -
Sanskrit is just as old and it survived - those two phonetic
encoding systems haven't - you can't say they were
inefficient - civilisations surrounded them - but the wrath
was too great - and they became instinct -
but perhaps the wrath for his phonetic encoding is the digital
age? a ****-stain on human interaction - or a smear
of fondue chocolate? i think the latter - imagine me running
around the publishing world like Asterix in the *twelve tasks
of
- the place that sends you mad - including Hercules -
who did, managed to **** his children when his muscles weren't
up to speed with bureaucracy - oh hell, bench-press a cow -
but run with a little leaflet between offices... bonkers.
i really do miss the Cantos - the feel of them - the obscurity of
some of the references i'm not ashamed to admit -
or just the sheer ease on the eyes as is the case with any poem -
(a poem a day keeps both the psychiatrist and the optometrist
away) - so yeah, plenty of apples - and poetry, supreme democracy -
i could reread them, but i'm of a democratic cult -
i have to allow someone else to borrow me their shoes -
tom verlaine's album around - a rare gem, doesn't get listened
to a lot, but unlike other music, it's not something you'd
listen to in a gym, something that's a pleasant but mundane
distraction of pop metal pop rock or pop pop - the o of adore -
as suggested by a Scottish music shop assistant / owner in
Edinburgh - that magic city of where the 21st century's heart
of the literary scene resides - forget Paris, it's too much of
a little Casablanca - the Algiers of the North (Edinburgh being
Athens of the north) - i admit it'll be hard not to be nostalgic
about the 20th century let alone Ancient Helen -
but as the monkey said: got to push on and meet Darwin -
silly hands, silly feet, silly tail... and i'm not wearing Gucci
without Brazilian wax job all over, except for appropriate
places - sure - we'll just wait for the Apache hairdresser -
we only to scalping. however, there is a subversive thing
i want to mention (never mind that i already wanted to stick
in Thesaurus Rex on the matter): Kant (yawn) -
started analysing English aged 8 -
started synthesising English also aged 8 (a few weeks
if not months, from nothing, to gut sprechen -
piuma'h not pooma'h (Puma) -
but it took me 20 odd years of unconditional surrender
to the language, 20 years of synthesising it - blind -
to come across another chance to analyse it -
the difference being it became analytical a posteriori -
that's the thing with philosophers, they have spaghetti
for brains, tangles, they over-complicate things, but sometimes
they get it right, and you read them and then end up
using their labyrinths to find secret passages at places
like Versailles that Louis XIV used between visits to his
concubines - that was the trick, the upper-hand on the Arabian
practice - amuse yourself by not owning them -
but technically owning them - concubine power - the sixth
Spice Girl - dirrrty spice - but yeah, 20 years to get a second
stab at the analysis of the English language -
20 years of synthesis will do that to you, like any chemist
might feel, aged 20 does an analytical study, something
new and never done before, then he lands a job at a
pharmaceutical company and has to synthesise and synthesise
and synthesise the same thing over and over again -
20 years pass, aged 40 he gets another chance to analyse something
that it's just quality control - i know there are puritans out
there who'd lash out at what i'm using here -
but i want the practical side of philosophy, nothing overloaded
with words, theories, knowledge whatever that means -
i know crude, but necessary - a priori (from the earlier):
well, i wasn't a mute aged 8, proof?
an etymological void about to be filled: w środe poszłem do
lasu (on wednesday i went to the woods) - etymology here,
i'm sure of it - etymology or the resemblance of
a Thesaurus Rex roar - a piquant case of synonyms -
środa (wednesday), originally? derived from środek:
the centre - oh look... friday thursday ś tuesday monday -
the days off don't count, we all know that.
etymological spontaneity then, i wouldn't force myself
to practice a detailed inquiry using it - spare of the moment
thing... more pleasant that way;
but as you can see i am at the point of analytical a posteriori:
clearly shown by what i've already noticed in nuances
of the English language - i won't go through what i've
noticed - but having crossed the threshold of
analysing English after having automated synthesising it
for so long, i would naturally end up writing poetry -
the 21st century kind - look ahead! said Columbus,
but please have a sacred respect for your memory as
your own citizen with Friday on Bermuda -
treat memory like a potent hallucinogenic drug -
after all... the state doesn't respect your memory, at school
they cram in all those pointless things you have to
memorise - arithmetic, spelling (well both are kinda useful),
but so much else you will not care to remember -
it's not about how important you think you are when
you're not given there's 8 billion of us - don't get
fooled by this self-importance gimmick - look at what
the education system of the state is eroding... yes... your
memory - so you forget yourself at the happiest of times...
memory is more sacred than thinking and can be
more potent than an Amazonian or a Swiss hallucinogenic.
Patricia Drake Mar 2013
I know I should stop criticising
Every minuscule error in revising
The grammar in here
I should not interfere
And I really should stop analysing

But I cannot erase what I see
And the teacher insists inside me
That I share what I know
About grammar and how
To revise before posting for the world to see

Your and you're are some major sinners
They make good poets look like beginners
Plus confusions in tense
Make them seem rather dense
And that's sad when they should look like winners
I'm a grammar ****,  I know.  Sorry!  I just had to say something....
Daisy King Nov 2013
Left Brain

I am not a scientific test or analysis, a mathematician
or an algorithm. I am not a linear graph or a statistician.
I am the reason that you can colour inside the lines,
why you don't fall off your bicycle anymore and never forgot
how to ride it. I am the force behind your smiles-
eighteen different smiles. The reason you can hold a book
or ball and learn what to do when it's in your hands.
I take credit when you remember the name of your childhood
babysitter. Thanks to me, you can play with jigsaw puzzles
or cards or checkers or dominoes. And thank me too
for your vocabulary. You don't necessarily remember
just how it is you came to remember sequences like getting dressed
or driving, decoding or analysing. I am the reason
you can probably look at someone and learn their name.
I suppose you could complain about how I dictate your days.
How you get up, go to sleep, lend you the seconds and minutes
and hours and months and years. I am the one who taught you
time. I'm also there for you to know that it runs out.

Right side**

I am no dancer or artist made for television. Instead,
I'm the vibration you feel in the tips of your fingers
when  you make a toast and ***** your wineglasses.
Those eighteen smiles you can smile? I gave you the gift
of being able to count your crayons while you are smiling.
But it's more than box sets of crayons and toasts.
I am the reason you want to be. Everything you yearn for-
every penny you ever tossed into a fountain, every star
you have wished on, and every eyelash. I am the reason
why you prefer wearing blue to green, and why you may
fill a blank page with words for what you want, how you feel.
I am the excitement that waits for you at Christmas
or reunions. When you saw the sky full of stars, felt snow
or went in the sea for the first time, I gave you that gasp.
I am your eyes on the world. Blame me for your wanderlust.
I am not time. I am how you know sometimes
that there is no way you'll ever have enough of it.
Isabel Sykes Oct 2013
Eyes pierce your skin like
Daggers
Scanning and analysing
Every inch of you
They will not stop
Until they have formed an opinion
That will satisfy their appetite
They will not stop with their
Probing, intrusive questions
Until they have squashed your
Creative personality
Into a category as restricting
As a prison cell
We can tell ourselves
Our friends and our children
To "ignore" it
But to ignore it is to pretend
We are not weighed down
With heavy chains
Our movement will remain
As restricted as ever
So we must fight
Against these cruel restraints
Should we wish to grow
As humans
As I look up in the moonlight
at the wonders I can see,
could it be, perhaps that somebody is
looking right back down at me?

Have they got me in their sights right now?
Are they studying our race?
Are they deciding what to do with us,
'cause they think we're a disgrace?

Are they analysing human-kind
and are they figuring us out?
Do they think they understand
what people really are about?

Perhaps they use their birds eye view
and watch us scorch this earth?
Or maybe we're just an experiment
and they've watched since planets birth?

Can they see so many dying
in countries off afar?
Can they see us drain resources
and put them in a car?

Can they witness the atrocities
we inflict upon our own
as we enter into wars with them
and destroy each others homes?

Can they plainly see the poor who die
because they cannot get the aid?
Do they think this idiotic
when they compare how some are paid?

Do they think that we are watching
as our creatures become extinct?
Can they see why there are shortages
and that it's people who are linked?

Maybe they can see the answer?
Perhaps they followed the trace
and the answer for the rest of them
is to destroy the human race?

Perhaps like us mere mortals
who will just take the vermin out.
Perhaps to them we are the vermin
and that's been proved to them no doubt?

Maybe we are on probation
whilst they figure what course to take?
Maybe that are trying to see
if we figure out our mistake?

Or perhaps I am just looking up
and there is nothing looking back
and the world is never going to
get itself back onto track?
13th September 2014
Eliza Jane Apr 2012
Sitting in silence,
Observing.
Not all notice the girl,
Sitting at the back of the room,
Her black hair falling between her eyes.
She blows the wisps out of the way,
Continues analysing.
Watching couples ****** each other,
She gags.
Sharina Saad Jan 2014
She doesn't say a thing
She lurks around in silence
Constantly watching you
Sometimes observing you closely
Stalking each stories you share
Digesting your words each day
Analysing, inferring, drawing conclusions
on a daily basis...
You don't even know she exist...
Weird.. but she is here..
and she knows everything about you
even if you don't tell..
even if you are being discreet...
Beware of this scary thing...
you wouldn't imagine could happen...
she is not anybody you know
She has no face...
She has no name...
She is in FACEBOOK...
and breathing your name...
Sasevardhni Jan 2018
Like placing a Sitar
I placed you with care,
On my lap I dare,
On my lap, till I fell asleep.

My fingers ran over those dots
Came to know the plots
As I felt my cracky sneaks
Smiled on turning the leaves
On sensing your corners
Understood the creator's pain
The pain of adorning those leaves
Those leaves that have thorns and veins
You contained dots,
Dots, six popped out,
six punched in.
Heartfelt heavy for sure
On analysing the torture
The torture of oneself
Shed tears on knowing the revealed fact
The revealed story.

Slid within,
Felt the essence of love and life
I didn't want to harm
To harm by a pen
By a pen by underlining the passage.

Hats off to Louis Braille
A blind man
Felt the essence of a novel
Though those eyes were at rest
Though the world is black
Lived the moment of colours
By the warmth of which the eyes fell asleep.

Dated: 19.10.2014
You sit there analysing & testing my soul. After all the aches you caused me, I had to learn it the hard way.
For
I was born alone
Came to this world alone
Crawled alone walked alone
Gain knowledge alone
Let how to survive on my own.
Lost friends and my love ones along the way
And I'm still on my way to success
. In search of my soul, alone .Ride or Die?  No. I leant to do everything alone.
Suffer alone.
Wiped my tears alone.
Yet u sit here and question ride or die, my response still  No. My team is me and I alone. Never will I sacrifice to die for someone,  if they will never put the effort to please me.
Ride or die.
I ride alone
I die alone.
Sebastian Perez Apr 2012
This emotional feeling is known so well, to the eyes and to the touch, yet so difficult to see, grasping it and not asking for too much.
It bring joy and happiness to a lonely heart a sense of companion, yet so elusive to the soul, barren like the grand canyon.
The mind analysing this emotion call love that's gone through a subtle transformation, or is it just a vivid of the imagination.
Can this be happening? Can't make out the distinction, the word love that makes one smile or cry. Can it be facing extinction? 
Perhaps a stealthy emotion that creeps up on one and vanishes, an insidious pleasure that poison the heart and removes your treasure.
The love that is known can be deleterious, hidden from the very people we know and love dearly but also can hurt and that can be serious.
Love is transient and not transparent, love is tangible and as beautiful as a emerald, know this emotion called love cause it will remain eternal.
A love that is far away, one who can't understand it's purpose. A love the comes and goes. A love the can cause pain and heartache depending on the strength of the individual's emotions. He loved her in an abstract kind of way.
Saloni mann Dec 2016
I was sad!
I was crying on the floor that day!
Rolling and sobbing!
I absolutely had no idea about myself!
I couldn't reach conclusions!
I couldn't make decisions!
I started over thinking about things I should not!
I started criticizing myself!
I started punishing myself!
Punished myself!
Punished my own self because I thought I deserve it!
Punished my own self because I thought it would make me happy!
Scratched, cursed, slapped,slammed and continued it!
I punished myself until the day I asked questions to myself!
Is this the solution?
Does cursing myself would end me on a good boat?
Would it help me to restore my feelings,my emotions,my beliefs,my perspective towards things,my respect for myself back?
Do punishing my own self leads to anything else other than bruises and never going marks on my body , my mind,my soul and even my spirit?
Is it right to mentally destroy my own self?
I was sad until the day I realised that this phase is temporary!
My sadness,this bad phase can be temporary if I believe it to be temporary!
I decided to work on myself!
My own self!
To believe in myself once again because it is me who has to live for my own self and not any one else!
Therefore,it's my opinion about myself that matters and not anyone else's!
That day,after analysing and evaluating i got to know that it is me who is going to change my life,mould my decisions and differentiate between what is wrong and what is right for my own self!
I decided to understand myself so that I can get myself completely ,my needs,my wants and love myself!
It was difficult but it was worth it!
And then I ended up on a conclusion that had help me go on in Life!
Your life is in your hands!
Your life is what you make it!
Larry Feb 2010
A SOLDIER

A man born from flesh and blood

Ordered to **** with no regret

As the giant cannon ***** fly, screams of terror hollow in the distance trenches

In the blistering heat

He trudges through the valley of lost souls

Looking at death straight in the eye

Knowing deep inside there is no surrender

Adreline begins to pump through his veins with great heist

The sharp splintered ammunition waiting to  feed the hungry giant spring gadgets

Waiting to rip flesh from bone

Behind the trigger he lays analysing the ****** field before him

He sees the paralysesd faces of small children, running towards him arms open wide

His thinks what can I do

He closes his tired eyes for a second, he runs screaming get down

Nothing happens, blood starts to flow from his jagged wound

He cries out for help lying in empty hole, as  vultures fill the clouded sky

He knows now his on his own

As darkness prevails vanquishing the perfect light

He lays his head down to sleep.

Droplits of blood soak through morning mist

the smell of burnt flesh fills the air

He awakes from his deathly sleep to fight another day

                                                           LARRY A STUART 09
Francesca Jun 2013
I have an issue with people.
They make me either very scared or very uncomfortable.
Is it my fault? Have I built total strangers up in my head to be dangerous individuals?
Or are those adorable old ladies at the bus stop going to **** me if I get any closer to them? Probably yes so I’ll walk in the opposite direction.

I have an issue with people.
They make me either very vulnerable or very closed off.
It is my fault. I constantly struggle to decide who is worthy of my trust and who is not. The ***** who is manipulating me gets more attention than the nice guy who I've pushed away.

I have an issue with people.
They make me doubt everything I have ever known.
It is all my fault. I focus to much of my mental energy, thinking and thinking about people. Analysing every flippant comment they make and taking everything to heart.

I shouldn't be around people.
GraciexJones Oct 2018
The two brothers wait for me arrive home,
They call themselves Anxiety and Fear,
Fear with his grimace smile,
Welcomes me in with his rigid glare,
He takes one look at me,
Reminds me I am vulnerable and fragile,
Anxiety plays along,
With his insolent tone,
Tells me I am an ignorant fool,
Mocking me of my wisdom,
Fear reminds me I am blind,
I know deep down they are right,

Fear is talking with a big smile to Anxiety,
The two brothers begin to laugh as I sit and calculate,
My heart begins to ache,
Anxiety points out the truth,
I can’t deny how I went wrong,
Fear places his hands on my shoulders,
I start to cry as I am unable to conceal these thoughts,
He whispers in my ear he will always be there,
Anxiety places his hands in mine
He always said one day I will suffer
No one to save you,
Like vultures they begin to circulate,
I must stay calm,

I rise firm to my feet,
So you want to mess with me?
Fear retreats to the corner and hisses,
It doesn’t matter what you have to say,
How long you keep these thoughts at bay,
Anxiety continues to linger around,
Analysing every inch and sound,

I was naïve and innocent to follow to your dark psyche,
Fear attempts to shut me up,
Yelling nonsense in my ear,
Anxiety joins in playfully,
Twisting and turning my stomach,

I take a deep breathe,
I will not follow blindly to the devil in disguise,
I will not tolerate these fears and let them ride me,
I will not let anxiety take over my strive,
My devotion will be dedicated to creativity and insanity,
You are just made believed.

The two brothers wince at my capability to be brave,
Anxiety recoils and hallows a piercing shriek,
Fear grimaces and spits venom at me,
I catch the venom and throw it back at Fear,
I owe you nothing

— The End —