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"antithetical" poems
When we think about the choices in our lives When we fight and we bicker and become bitter When we think there is only power or powerlessness If we can realize that there is power and powerlessness Then haven't we began to acquire consciousness In that instance haven't we began the process of choice That there is those who have not have given birth to this consciousness To those who have only lived powerlessness And know nothing else Haven't you owed them part of your consciousness That you have ceased to be one of them Or your mere power has denied one of them That there is no choice for them Because they haven't birthed that consciousness And if you choose power they'll remain powerless Because within you there is no loyalty, right? It is a choice predicated by an erroneous concept of self-preservation It is a treacherous dichotomy; doesn't make sense This is not an indictment of your desire not to suffer Because surely to hold power would cease your suffering But it is this type of power that thrives on the proliferation of powerlessness This conceptual understanding of what it means to have power That is not what we've come learn, but readily ascribe to That a mind and body can cultivate power That can be harvested, shared, communal For the sole purpose of the survival of the other, not the self That that can survive in this world is impossible Its antithetical to the modes of production In which our societies operate and thrive How can workers begin to derive power from their collective efforts How can workers' purchasing power equal the power of the production of their labor How can any community in any corner of the world escape The misanthropic missions of first world free trade capitalism When will we reclaim our escaping humanity When will we cease to keep feeding the system with our minds, our bodies, our labor How much longer can we become fodder, scraps, waste feeding the machine And don't think that you are safe when you have made it When you have entered the circle of dominance Because it is then when you will loose your humanity or die It is at that apex of power that your presence becomes Just as dispensable as that of the powerless Because to maintain that circle of dominance Requires a total conversion to misanthropy The rigor with which your power will be required To keep proliferating powerlessness will give no break And when you become useless, it will replace you So that we must realize that the modes of production That we allow to exploit us In powerlessness, or the semblance of power Can never safeguard our humanity How much further will we allow power to be concentrated So that soon we ourselves, or our children won't have a choice Won't have the consciousness of power just powerlessness
0
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 9:49 PM UTC
Modes of Production: Power and Powerlessness
When we think about the choices in our lives When we fight and we bicker and become bitter When we think there is only power or powerlessness If we can realize that there is power and powerlessness Then haven't we began to acquire consciousness In that instance haven't we began the process of choice That there is those who have not have given birth to this consciousness To those who have only lived powerlessness And know nothing else Haven't you owed them part of your consciousness That you have ceased to be one of them Or your mere power has denied one of them That there is no choice for them Because they haven't birthed that consciousness And if you choose power they'll remain powerless Because within you there is no loyalty, right? It is a choice predicated by an erroneous concept of self-preservation It is a treacherous dichotomy; doesn't make sense This is not an indictment of your desire not to suffer Because surely to hold power would cease your suffering But it is this type of power that thrives on the proliferation of powerlessness This conceptual understanding of what it means to have power That is not what we've come learn, but readily ascribe to That a mind and body can cultivate power That can be harvested, shared, communal For the sole purpose of the survival of the other, not the self That that can survive in this world is impossible Its antithetical to the modes of production In which our societies operate and thrive How can workers begin to derive power from their collective efforts How can workers' purchasing power equal the power of the production of their labor How can any community in any corner of the world escape The misanthropic missions of first world free trade capitalism When will we reclaim our escaping humanity When will we cease to keep feeding the system with our minds, our bodies, our labor How much longer can we become fodder, scraps, waste feeding the machine And don't think that you are safe when you have made it When you have entered the circle of dominance Because it is then when you will loose your humanity or die It is at that apex of power that your presence becomes Just as dispensable as that of the powerless Because to maintain that circle of dominance Requires a total conversion to misanthropy The rigor with which your power will be required To keep proliferating powerlessness will give no break And when you become useless, it will replace you So that we must realize that the modes of production That we allow to exploit us In powerlessness, or the semblance of power Can never safeguard our humanity How much further will we allow power to be concentrated So that soon we ourselves, or our children won't have a choice Won't have the consciousness of power just powerlessness
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53
I watched through tears --That streamed like the one out back And the scattered clouds --The ones that floated overhead for years A twilit ridge inurn the sun. It was one of those rising hills of my youth, One my infant eyes always thought Gave birth to the moon Time and again. With its innocent face smiling That worldly crispness is lost And the foggy past is far more defined. Who are these forms I've lost? They are but phantoms, (I tell myself) And now intangible, those memories Acidic and dusted with sugar Held suspended and taunting, like Feet at the mouth of an open casket. The cold, bitter knives of impersonal Reunion And rejuvenated promises --Only now remembered, only now forgotten— Illuminated once again In the dark. Passing onward and through --Like our time together— Exactly like wind through these **** dead branches And this grave: winter-bare. I remember the vivacity How enlivened the sky, that I Each day for granted took And how so much smaller, in my youth, The mountains afar looked. But there is no home, It died when I left. The poison I fought Has become the blood which pumps the heart, Now corrupt, Antithetical. Nothing is more colorless, not sky, Nor hill, nor moon, Or ever more formless Than what I once called home. Now that only exists is deteriorated A rotting house: Four walls and a roof to keep Hatred dry, Windows and lamps, so Hatred has eyes, And all the people that Hatred hates most. How cozy it must be to sleep in One’s own bed, no? To have some stable place, And an ounce of certainty? As for me, that will never be Again. Though the house is open, Lock, room, and all The home is closed forever Without a proper epitaph. Vain death. Vain, Vain, Death. Now all I can only turn back And flirt with shadows Just outside my arms Walk with images Shifting, growling, and oh, so dark --mere abstraction --future so stark-- With no companion but defeat. I can’t hug a memory, Nor cry on recollection’s shoulder, Nor can my mother or sibling console me, And I cry alone. Maturation is merely widening a distance, so I should let them go, Bid them adieu Because, I can't be homesick For a home I can't go back to.
0
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 11:17 PM UTC
Homesick
I watched through tears --That streamed like the one out back And the scattered clouds --The ones that floated overhead for years A twilit ridge inurn the sun. It was one of those rising hills of my youth, One my infant eyes always thought Gave birth to the moon Time and again. With its innocent face smiling That worldly crispness is lost And the foggy past is far more defined. Who are these forms I've lost? They are but phantoms, (I tell myself) And now intangible, those memories Acidic and dusted with sugar Held suspended and taunting, like Feet at the mouth of an open casket. The cold, bitter knives of impersonal Reunion And rejuvenated promises --Only now remembered, only now forgotten— Illuminated once again In the dark. Passing onward and through --Like our time together— Exactly like wind through these **** dead branches And this grave: winter-bare. I remember the vivacity How enlivened the sky, that I Each day for granted took And how so much smaller, in my youth, The mountains afar looked. But there is no home, It died when I left. The poison I fought Has become the blood which pumps the heart, Now corrupt, Antithetical. Nothing is more colorless, not sky, Nor hill, nor moon, Or ever more formless Than what I once called home. Now that only exists is deteriorated A rotting house: Four walls and a roof to keep Hatred dry, Windows and lamps, so Hatred has eyes, And all the people that Hatred hates most. How cozy it must be to sleep in One’s own bed, no? To have some stable place, And an ounce of certainty? As for me, that will never be Again. Though the house is open, Lock, room, and all The home is closed forever Without a proper epitaph. Vain death. Vain, Vain, Death. Now all I can only turn back And flirt with shadows Just outside my arms Walk with images Shifting, growling, and oh, so dark --mere abstraction --future so stark-- With no companion but defeat. I can’t hug a memory, Nor cry on recollection’s shoulder, Nor can my mother or sibling console me, And I cry alone. Maturation is merely widening a distance, so I should let them go, Bid them adieu Because, I can't be homesick For a home I can't go back to.
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84
Trouble through calmness Fancy of simplicity Smiling through sadness Just a little antithetical Mere dislocation and unison Sewing our lives apart Burning because we are in love Thirsting for no more feeling We're disgusted at being so fed up Prying from the freedom Running and crying from trying and safety We're alone while we're together Noise against the silence Kisses and shots from a gun the time is going on pause Just a little antithetical Mere dislocation and unison Sewing our lives apart Morning sunset It's the beginning of life But the end is dawning Quickness not too far behind The end makes us scramble For some semblance of stability Looking for what is not lost We await for the night's sunrise
0
Jul 28, 2011
Jul 28, 2011 at 8:07 AM UTC
Morning Sunset
Cheers from inside the catacombs of just-alive vagabonds & miscreant self-delusions of sagacious sabotage & pyrrhic moonscapes, brandishing our eternal return a tabula rasa for respect & character - bottoms up, too. Mona Lisa Shroud of Turin, ******* on a trunk. Gamble 66 for trays, dealing steam carrots. Gag reflex to polite televangelists giving viewers auspicious immunity. Habits cede to Power, acquiesce to Power, love power. Peculiarity can recognize & organize to displace. Something suspicious may run amok , antithetical to the divide & conquer trite. Defeating paragons, i , Plumed Serpent of release & capture beats, borrowing color from a skylark in forever-flight, conjure remedial winds Guide inimical bows subsumed in a cosmo-prole dew against the fasces of a few.
0
Apr 7, 2010
Apr 7, 2010 at 10:20 PM UTC
So many firsts, yellow jailbird.
if i have to explain it to you then it probably never existed in a well-represent'd enough form to deserve acknowledgement of the highly embellish'd state of your own mind and actions that brought the mingling of souls once cherish'd abroad sunken to fetters of not chains but words with meaning as the force propelling them paradoxical in that propulsion is antithetical in terms of the definition 'fetter'.
0
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 8:43 AM UTC
27thr
I was a strawberry chapstick And you kept your lips dry Rough like bark splitting into my skin A sensation I never attempted to remedy with my balm. I was a beach wave Softly toppling across the sand Rolling over and over until I became at the horizon again And you were a sand castle One which I kept pressing against Never meaning to ruin a master piece but persistent enough to create a diamond of your dirt. I was the falling leaves All shades of amber and chestnut mixing together into the golden wonderland of the season But you didn't like the way I killed your grass You were a rake All sharp teeth piercing into my stems Pressing me together pile after pile lining your garden Suffocating in plastic bags dying out and colors fading. I wanted a love made of reds and yellows Shining glows and warm fires Everything seemed so simple Until I learned that your love was made of blues and purples A soft shimmer of coals burning out We were thoroughly antithetical.
0
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 11:21 PM UTC
Antithetical
i leaned to smoke from film noir the gritty grey frames i first saw in cloudy rooms completely antithetical to the vibrant blockbusters from my childhood if i can afford it i still buy a non-filtered soft-pack and puff them three puffs just before anything is inhaled mostly for effect drama but when i cant i just think of bogart tear the filter off and proceed but it was never so much about the act drawing in a cloud of overly-processed plant matter but about the etiquette if you have ever burned down something without cotton you know it is certainly a messy ordeal but what hepburn and tracy taught what grant and cagney spoke with their actions of course is that there is a reason to this madness i practice and i try to teach that this is an elegant process while taking in a deep breath of something you arent encouraged to love without any health benefits simply out of a base habit some of that **** is going to get in your mouth it may taste bitter too, depending on how your buds are aligned, but grow up you cant keep just spitting where other people will soon walk they never did that my heroes instead they stuck out the tip of their tongue pursed their lips as the face made by a baby on a commuter rail staring at you and you echo back with a tiny poke of your front 10000 buds mostly for spectacle and when that teensy bit emerges within or without the train you have to gently pick with the forefinger and the thumb the infinitesimal bits resting at the tip pluck them away rub those two finger together and pretend that youre only smoking and if you arent looking closely enough ill tell you things are turning back into grey and you turn RIGHT back into the misogynist you hated but emulated youre still smoking though handing out smokes in fact holding up "the walls of jericho" laughing at those who dont know how to fold a sheet oh. but i pledge to quit and you to change and us to bond and my smokes to wain this isnt about the filter-less that i had at 3am its about what i commit and what you can respond with how this can work and the etiquette necessary let me let me pick the fleck from the tip of the teasing tongue just for you and you tell me when i have something in the place that used to be my mustache
0
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 4:03 AM UTC
smokes
i leaned to smoke from film noir the gritty grey frames i first saw in cloudy rooms completely antithetical to the vibrant blockbusters from my childhood if i can afford it i still buy a non-filtered soft-pack and puff them three puffs just before anything is inhaled mostly for effect drama but when i cant i just think of bogart tear the filter off and proceed but it was never so much about the act drawing in a cloud of overly-processed plant matter but about the etiquette if you have ever burned down something without cotton you know it is certainly a messy ordeal but what hepburn and tracy taught what grant and cagney spoke with their actions of course is that there is a reason to this madness i practice and i try to teach that this is an elegant process while taking in a deep breath of something you arent encouraged to love without any health benefits simply out of a base habit some of that **** is going to get in your mouth it may taste bitter too, depending on how your buds are aligned, but grow up you cant keep just spitting where other people will soon walk they never did that my heroes instead they stuck out the tip of their tongue pursed their lips as the face made by a baby on a commuter rail staring at you and you echo back with a tiny poke of your front 10000 buds mostly for spectacle and when that teensy bit emerges within or without the train you have to gently pick with the forefinger and the thumb the infinitesimal bits resting at the tip pluck them away rub those two finger together and pretend that youre only smoking and if you arent looking closely enough ill tell you things are turning back into grey and you turn RIGHT back into the misogynist you hated but emulated youre still smoking though handing out smokes in fact holding up "the walls of jericho" laughing at those who dont know how to fold a sheet oh. but i pledge to quit and you to change and us to bond and my smokes to wain this isnt about the filter-less that i had at 3am its about what i commit and what you can respond with how this can work and the etiquette necessary let me let me pick the fleck from the tip of the teasing tongue just for you and you tell me when i have something in the place that used to be my mustache
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99
darling, admittedly i love you let me turn this lamp on how antithetical to creeping it is always done in the dark isnt it? this is your domain not mine did you see that one where i was butting heads with galactic? wowwsers you creep so hard darling you inspire deja vu it requires me sitting down to regain the notion we cant be separated i mean you will stop holding my hand when you relieve yourself and ill stop holding you when youre too raw to even think about this isnt even a poem its a rant i should re-title this ************ BLUE ***** the story of.... [puke] this has turned to **** i quit
0
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 2:09 AM UTC
quintessential creeping
it is unwise to avoid certainty i've turned silent for landscapes made for deprived mothers queens to deafening men lost of their purposes why have they hidden her crown ? I have your legs but we're running such antithetical courses Mother, I miss you but I cannot come home I gain weight I lose sleep there are no lovers left for me the wind has an ancient distaste now for all the nights I exhaled complacency I want to sleep with my door open I can trust anything under a Libra moon but never another repeated phrase me, you the first place I swam, the first meal this is trust you are love I never learned to love mountains but I was born with memories of them I was born in Florida I've picked apart women that didn't deserve or earn it like petals she loves me she loves me not she loves me when did I learn to grasp ? to keep we should be taught instead to let go before we are learned to catch so we aren't holding on so tightly I strangled myself I learned quickly to let go & became grateful of deep-breaths weary of knots weary of nots I refuse to be my own worst enemy I am all that is mine. all that I find is fleeting. eventually all things will lift, just as they will be dropped or put down to keep, ha ! walk into my room I have nothing it is easier to breathe like this I don't like being alone with shadows   we are all royal skin and salt iron and decay bone over brain over-thinking our day we are alive we are afraid we are okay we are okay we are
0
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 5:29 PM UTC
crowns
Blood in the thoughts Destruction and abyss Antithetical to nurture and growth The bleakness has become real There’s no excuse, Muse, but still you will loose There’s no one to blame this time Take it how you will but it’s not the world Its just you You broke the world and you didn’t even know Trust and worthiness was left wrapped in your arms But you rapped them both without a doubt Now you realized what you did and it’s too far-gone The only dove in the world was entrusted in your arms And you shot it because your veins were raging with blood So you lost your judgment and your sight Don’t blame the sky for being too blue At the moment you knew what you were shooting And you took your aim Now the peace has been shattered down to the ground Even if you repair the wound there will always be a scar And you have just tainted peace a little bit more Instead of protecting it from the same danger Like you promised all along A pact between ocean and the stone that fell Just remembrance, for the pain and joy was being dragged To the depths of the dark hidden ocean floor But it could not stay down forever as it washed ashore Before it disappeared again into volumes of blue But the moon is not forgiving for it pinches the ocean And the stone gets spat out for the pain to be seen on the beach How can it be destroyed before more damage is reached Even the tides of time are having a difficult obstruction In the dissolution of the stone for it keeps building form Every time it comes back to the surface Meanwhile the ocean is fighting to suppress it Make it disappear with only but a trace And the mess you made Better do something with it before its too late Don’t let it drag you away Before you lose the way you’ve made Oceans disturbed, doves broken, and entrustments ruptured There’s no turning back but only looking forward To salvaging what has been kept you moving along If only a treasure you cared not to care So you damaged it deliberately because you were desperate with desire Now take what you will and detach the stone from your ocean Save the dove for the voyage but don’t take from it what is not yours And rescue the entrustments for it will carry you both
0
Aug 5, 2011
Aug 5, 2011 at 6:09 AM UTC
Time After Crime
Blood in the thoughts Destruction and abyss Antithetical to nurture and growth The bleakness has become real There’s no excuse, Muse, but still you will loose There’s no one to blame this time Take it how you will but it’s not the world Its just you You broke the world and you didn’t even know Trust and worthiness was left wrapped in your arms But you rapped them both without a doubt Now you realized what you did and it’s too far-gone The only dove in the world was entrusted in your arms And you shot it because your veins were raging with blood So you lost your judgment and your sight Don’t blame the sky for being too blue At the moment you knew what you were shooting And you took your aim Now the peace has been shattered down to the ground Even if you repair the wound there will always be a scar And you have just tainted peace a little bit more Instead of protecting it from the same danger Like you promised all along A pact between ocean and the stone that fell Just remembrance, for the pain and joy was being dragged To the depths of the dark hidden ocean floor But it could not stay down forever as it washed ashore Before it disappeared again into volumes of blue But the moon is not forgiving for it pinches the ocean And the stone gets spat out for the pain to be seen on the beach How can it be destroyed before more damage is reached Even the tides of time are having a difficult obstruction In the dissolution of the stone for it keeps building form Every time it comes back to the surface Meanwhile the ocean is fighting to suppress it Make it disappear with only but a trace And the mess you made Better do something with it before its too late Don’t let it drag you away Before you lose the way you’ve made Oceans disturbed, doves broken, and entrustments ruptured There’s no turning back but only looking forward To salvaging what has been kept you moving along If only a treasure you cared not to care So you damaged it deliberately because you were desperate with desire Now take what you will and detach the stone from your ocean Save the dove for the voyage but don’t take from it what is not yours And rescue the entrustments for it will carry you both
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49
Pilate asked Him, “What is truth?” when Jesus stood on trial, Bearing witness of the Truth to all who heard His voice. Though philosophy rejected it, stood in denial, Still, the Way, the Truth, the Life allowed mankind its choice. “What is truth?” though, sounds urbane, superior to law. Hermeneutics of humility smooths out the field. I seem more sophisticated, cultured, not bourgeois, If it’s all a mystery, still hidden, unrevealed. So I claim, “There are no absolutes; it’s relative,” Disregarding that my statement’s antithetical. My assertion controverts itself (though tentative), By proclaiming proclamations “theoretical.” Next I try, “Who really knows what truth is, after all?” All my friends agree with me; they wisely nod, concur. Confident in doubt, with inconsistency banal, Logic cast aside, to diametrics they demur. How about “There is no right or wrong; it’s in your head!” Satisfying concept until I’m the one abused. Then my default is to judge the wrongdoer instead, Never asking, “Why impose my ‘truth’ on the accused?” “Well,” I claim, “I make my own reality; it’s true.” If you counter me on that, I’ll argue all the way. Think about it, though, because just how can I undo True belief with skepticism; how will doubt have sway ? Really, if I don’t have Truth, I don’t have anything. Two plus two must equal four, or all the rest is void. If we have no premise to employ linguistic string, Then our discourse has no point; we’re barely humanoid. Truth’s the binding to our book, the glue that holds secure Logic, Reason, plain Consistency, our common ground, Making possible each conversation to be sure, Infrastructure of our culture, verity profound. Then . . . Let the relativist hush, he has no argument. Making absolutist claims without the Truth is mad. Only schizophrenics would attempt to circumvent Rationale with their subjective unbelieving fad. Maybe Truth’s “behind the times,” unstylish, square, uncool, Maybe if I cling to it they’ll call me “Simpleton.” All I know is Truth, derided, under ridicule Still is True, and I’ll be its “minority of one.” Yes, I’ll make that choice to speak the Truth against the tide. Orwell’s “revolutionary act,” though I’m alone, Pilate asked Him, “What is truth?” and history replied, . . . that Truth, though spurned, remains civilization’s Cornerstone.
0
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC
Truth Against the Tide
Pilate asked Him, “What is truth?” when Jesus stood on trial, Bearing witness of the Truth to all who heard His voice. Though philosophy rejected it, stood in denial, Still, the Way, the Truth, the Life allowed mankind its choice. “What is truth?” though, sounds urbane, superior to law. Hermeneutics of humility smooths out the field. I seem more sophisticated, cultured, not bourgeois, If it’s all a mystery, still hidden, unrevealed. So I claim, “There are no absolutes; it’s relative,” Disregarding that my statement’s antithetical. My assertion controverts itself (though tentative), By proclaiming proclamations “theoretical.” Next I try, “Who really knows what truth is, after all?” All my friends agree with me; they wisely nod, concur. Confident in doubt, with inconsistency banal, Logic cast aside, to diametrics they demur. How about “There is no right or wrong; it’s in your head!” Satisfying concept until I’m the one abused. Then my default is to judge the wrongdoer instead, Never asking, “Why impose my ‘truth’ on the accused?” “Well,” I claim, “I make my own reality; it’s true.” If you counter me on that, I’ll argue all the way. Think about it, though, because just how can I undo True belief with skepticism; how will doubt have sway ? Really, if I don’t have Truth, I don’t have anything. Two plus two must equal four, or all the rest is void. If we have no premise to employ linguistic string, Then our discourse has no point; we’re barely humanoid. Truth’s the binding to our book, the glue that holds secure Logic, Reason, plain Consistency, our common ground, Making possible each conversation to be sure, Infrastructure of our culture, verity profound. Then . . . Let the relativist hush, he has no argument. Making absolutist claims without the Truth is mad. Only schizophrenics would attempt to circumvent Rationale with their subjective unbelieving fad. Maybe Truth’s “behind the times,” unstylish, square, uncool, Maybe if I cling to it they’ll call me “Simpleton.” All I know is Truth, derided, under ridicule Still is True, and I’ll be its “minority of one.” Yes, I’ll make that choice to speak the Truth against the tide. Orwell’s “revolutionary act,” though I’m alone, Pilate asked Him, “What is truth?” and history replied, . . . that Truth, though spurned, remains civilization’s Cornerstone.
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45
*the temperatures are devilish tonight   made in hell's antithetical brewery from whence uncharacteristic blasts of cold air    fly at those who are poorly-clad so make this ghoulish frost in my heart go away hold me against your body and pat my back tenderly tell me it's all right to suffer the sting of the elements on a night like this when my imagination runs riot and i see apparitions leering at me from worlds unknown so dear favoured one,do make the cold go away this night and rescue my being from the doldrums of apocalyptic nightmares*
0
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 4:16 PM UTC
make the cold go away
Escape from captivity pulled off when I came of age boyhood begrudged, and bested by brigandage, but willpower sans declaration of independence begot bravery against British brutes bridging caper (involving collusion) to bust loose from cage, and trappings forcibly to plunder artworks and sculpted treasures by classical masters without causing damage taught by professional thieves requiring minimal equipage whereat over time footage sordid memory constantly replayed plunder and pillage unwittingly fostering getaway from hell raising gambits planting seed to gauge optimal instance cut footloose cutting dashing Dickensian goniff to feign criminal shenanigans running rampant with militant spunky gangs "FAKING" das spies zing trumpeting hostage killing and taking, nonetheless swallowing bitter pill reeking havoc as honorable image in order to survive within world wide web of criminals (especially an unwelcome foreigner), where skills as buccaneer really put to test, and tried maximum lawlessness partaken in (dolled up) guise suppressing shied pitifull looking indigent vagabond self away by donning "FAKE" whippersnapper benefiting getting to sally and ride always exuding patriotic pride pleasing ghosts of founding fathers against their autonomy from crown weathering woe be chide recrimination impossible to enforce as bride of Lady Liberty opened arms for those, who made dangerous journey across avast ocean only to confront (whodunit) thuggery this lifestyle ****** looting, and burning WITHOUT choice, but guilt aye didst abide. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Retrospective many generations since marking birth of a nation (The United States of America), now mecca, sans land of milk and honey current president imposed antithetical ration!
0
Jul 3, 2018
Jul 3, 2018 at 6:00 PM UTC
Life As A Highway Robber
Escape from captivity pulled off when I came of age boyhood begrudged, and bested by brigandage, but willpower sans declaration of independence begot bravery against British brutes bridging caper (involving collusion) to bust loose from cage, and trappings forcibly to plunder artworks and sculpted treasures by classical masters without causing damage taught by professional thieves requiring minimal equipage whereat over time footage sordid memory constantly replayed plunder and pillage unwittingly fostering getaway from hell raising gambits planting seed to gauge optimal instance cut footloose cutting dashing Dickensian goniff to feign criminal shenanigans running rampant with militant spunky gangs "FAKING" das spies zing trumpeting hostage killing and taking, nonetheless swallowing bitter pill reeking havoc as honorable image in order to survive within world wide web of criminals (especially an unwelcome foreigner), where skills as buccaneer really put to test, and tried maximum lawlessness partaken in (dolled up) guise suppressing shied pitifull looking indigent vagabond self away by donning "FAKE" whippersnapper benefiting getting to sally and ride always exuding patriotic pride pleasing ghosts of founding fathers against their autonomy from crown weathering woe be chide recrimination impossible to enforce as bride of Lady Liberty opened arms for those, who made dangerous journey across avast ocean only to confront (whodunit) thuggery this lifestyle ****** looting, and burning WITHOUT choice, but guilt aye didst abide. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Retrospective many generations since marking birth of a nation (The United States of America), now mecca, sans land of milk and honey current president imposed antithetical ration!
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61
its monotonous cycle a principle of existence unaware, unforgiving and savage by nature it does not care for the desires of mankind its presence applauded, its absence a silent killer antithetical yet necessary objective in the broadest sense, it knows no judgement mother of mother nature yet harbinger of finality its nonchalant attitude incites disdain and its aggressive demeanour only knows pain forever practical, never an outsider
0
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 6:28 PM UTC
soleil levant
Thoughts of her often Fall prey to the tigress Dimensions apart And still I slip lucidly back to her world The one we created Such random conception, precise of design The product of a ballerina And a poet Silent composers of thunderstorm songs Brewing within a melodic monsoon Seldom shared By two antithetical empaths converging One of the swan The other, of eagle But all their attempts to hatch plans Proven feeble
0
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 12:42 PM UTC
Birds of Passage
Intense is this great, one of a kind country, the United States of America. Intense is the political brainwashing taking place of those left of center. Intense and angry are left wing folks after the witch hunt, Mueller report duped them and everything Russia Russia Russia. Intense is the ratings plummeting of all left wing mainstream media propaganda machines like CNN and MSNBC. Intense is the Impeachment talk by the Imbeciles on the left that have NO POWER in the Senate to do so. Intense is the feeling of a possible clash between pink puxxy hat wearing baby murderers and 2nd Amendment loving American Patriots, Deplorables, Concrete jungle of New York "rednecks" and "smelly Walmart shoppers" Intense I stand in defense of my duly elected President, by the people, President Donald J. Trump! Intense Antithetical and Anticlimactic. written by me... ..
0
Jun 2, 2019
Jun 2, 2019 at 3:08 PM UTC
Intense
Centralized power proves antithetical To your freedom - it’s quite pathetical They ask us to be more ascetical And let them rule - it’s quite heretical Collectivism fails! Not hypothetical Property and Liberty - quite synthetical I’ll stand for freedom and wax poetical It makes the message more aesthetical
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Nov 29, 2023
Nov 29, 2023 at 9:33 AM UTC
Antithetical (Bitcoin Poem 076)
Lisa and I got our emails the same day. She read hers first. She made a small sighing sound, the faintest of protests. Then broke the news, with a scowl, “They’re moving classes online “temporarily.” I don’t want to talk about Corona any more - I want to scream about it. Maybe we’ll graduate, in three years, without knowing what most of our classmates look like - ​​antithetical to university “networking”. I’m lucky, I know - I’m only inconvenienced. I roam, safely, indoors, impatiently untouched by adult, real world concerns, like jobs and money. So I’ll keep my head up and smile like those glamorous, happy girls in ****** commercials.
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Jan 4, 2022
Jan 4, 2022 at 8:20 AM UTC
my my my my corona..
(actually, now at present time juiced well nigh high noon same day) On this January nineteenth tooth thousand and nineteen dogged by an earlier notion searching soul to glean, (while at Collegeville Diner) above place previously wrought poem hammered from this peon expounded possibly seen, asper belated birthday outing now I mean to expound upon nagging , yet keen existential question, sans what purpose validates yours truly within skien of terrestrial webbed wide world, no...no...no not simply pocketing green backs (banknotes, legal, tender, money, et cetera), but now bean older, and displeasing lee not so lean when just a slip (pre) youth decades ago yea, that would be when I hapt tubby a teen with nary a concern, nope not even to preen myself much to the dismay of my late mother, nay no idea why lackadaisical, illogical, and antithetical bee hay vee yore prevailed, but more to the point rarely when young and naive did stray thoughts besiege my mind, that LX vintage sketchy, shady, and seedy gray area bothered concerning, hounding, pestering and fill lay mignon noggin ready toboggan any price you say for this staged coached blarney finding this mortal questioning... ray zing meaning, purpose, and underlying importance, gestalt, design... of life more so today meaning since recent past also taking stock of accomplishments from way back, and feeling stymied okay at a loss to delineate any rhyme or reason to shout hip...hip hooray quite the contrary, which following admission might appear cray zee, but aye decry barely living capped off with oy vey!
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Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 11:55 AM UTC
Wide Awake At Two Plus Hours After Midnight...
(actually, now at present time juiced well nigh high noon same day) On this January nineteenth tooth thousand and nineteen dogged by an earlier notion searching soul to glean, (while at Collegeville Diner) above place previously wrought poem hammered from this peon expounded possibly seen, asper belated birthday outing now I mean to expound upon nagging , yet keen existential question, sans what purpose validates yours truly within skien of terrestrial webbed wide world, no...no...no not simply pocketing green backs (banknotes, legal, tender, money, et cetera), but now bean older, and displeasing lee not so lean when just a slip (pre) youth decades ago yea, that would be when I hapt tubby a teen with nary a concern, nope not even to preen myself much to the dismay of my late mother, nay no idea why lackadaisical, illogical, and antithetical bee hay vee yore prevailed, but more to the point rarely when young and naive did stray thoughts besiege my mind, that LX vintage sketchy, shady, and seedy gray area bothered concerning, hounding, pestering and fill lay mignon noggin ready toboggan any price you say for this staged coached blarney finding this mortal questioning... ray zing meaning, purpose, and underlying importance, gestalt, design... of life more so today meaning since recent past also taking stock of accomplishments from way back, and feeling stymied okay at a loss to delineate any rhyme or reason to shout hip...hip hooray quite the contrary, which following admission might appear cray zee, but aye decry barely living capped off with oy vey!
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55
All Angeles assembled Swords smilingly sharpened And The Lamb is upon the Horse Glittering with a crown A day to replace antithetical. Mercy upon Anti- God Repentance shall then be a mystery When he raises the armour Blood Will after the wind And the bodies will be denied breathe Slain with a horned beast Weeping and grinding the teeth Endless fire upon the unfaithful. Sounds of mercy calling As Alleluia hits in Heaven Eternal blazing with spear strikes While the faithful seat with the most high Only one shall rule and all shall bow Like in the beginning Glory shall be restored Forever.
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Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 4:21 AM UTC
Amargedon
Who decides what historical events adorn textbooks students read, hence a starry notion born grew up while this lumpenproletariat day dreaming, Asian aw shucks husky husbandry furrowed brow gritty farmer barnstorming across expansive fields of baby (barely) barley corn crib bed crop 'pon harvest time, (an maize zing genre), especially when enriched with humus laden loamy muck cob bra, then aye delightfully trumpet from dehorn of good 'n plenti kernel Sanders gave me saluting rank and file fool's capped fecund fashioned earthborn dunce sing tassels, versus growing seasons gone by, when draught of ideas forlorn despite futilely blowing on my flugelhorn high and dry reap peat head paltry yield, asper when this strapping chap a sweaty backed greenhorn pondering why agrarian laborious life of toil omitted as part and parcel of "newsworthy" posterity sagas deeming shenanigans of highborn and/or "FAKE" headlines crowd inborn noble folks, who grease palms of industrialists, whose quaking self importance thwarts aside rural cosseted krummhorn grounded bumpkin mor'n how kapellmeister coaches bourgeoisie helping determine zero absolute value of newborn fated to slave away till body electric outworn, yet paradigm shift of (butter late then ever) jiffy popcorn version sown by seeds of Jethro Tull, whose bonhomie with brio didst reborn agricultural revolution took root, whence before long some did scorn and lamented machinations ordered simple existence ripped and torn, where antithetical views suppressed and unto revolutionaries became legion and well-worn.
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Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 7:34 PM UTC
Upon Contemplating What To Write...
Who decides what historical events adorn textbooks students read, hence a starry notion born grew up while this lumpenproletariat day dreaming, Asian aw shucks husky husbandry furrowed brow gritty farmer barnstorming across expansive fields of baby (barely) barley corn crib bed crop 'pon harvest time, (an maize zing genre), especially when enriched with humus laden loamy muck cob bra, then aye delightfully trumpet from dehorn of good 'n plenti kernel Sanders gave me saluting rank and file fool's capped fecund fashioned earthborn dunce sing tassels, versus growing seasons gone by, when draught of ideas forlorn despite futilely blowing on my flugelhorn high and dry reap peat head paltry yield, asper when this strapping chap a sweaty backed greenhorn pondering why agrarian laborious life of toil omitted as part and parcel of "newsworthy" posterity sagas deeming shenanigans of highborn and/or "FAKE" headlines crowd inborn noble folks, who grease palms of industrialists, whose quaking self importance thwarts aside rural cosseted krummhorn grounded bumpkin mor'n how kapellmeister coaches bourgeoisie helping determine zero absolute value of newborn fated to slave away till body electric outworn, yet paradigm shift of (butter late then ever) jiffy popcorn version sown by seeds of Jethro Tull, whose bonhomie with brio didst reborn agricultural revolution took root, whence before long some did scorn and lamented machinations ordered simple existence ripped and torn, where antithetical views suppressed and unto revolutionaries became legion and well-worn.
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53
Unblinking reflexive opinions lean indubitably, favorably and certifiably with minimal pandering soliciting uber voodoo yawping woos socially quintessentially obviously markedly consciousness brakes alignment defining mine political views loosely yet not strictly, jerry-rigged, hidebound Democratic fealty haltingly pledged ones and twos to roster of candidates slated to challenge incumbent Republicans all to quickly accused, sans participating sinister ruse this active voter puzzled at controversial eyeopening ex post facto fractiousgovernmental harmfully injuriously jaw-dropping suppression within top secret queues during nasty donkey kong braying p's and q's (case in point) scurrilous, opprobrious, and malodorous Clinton administration, where (based upon my recent perusing "The Peoples History” – me strongly endorses (authored by Howard Zinn news worthy revelation, (whose recounting atrocious, calumnious, egregious glaring ignominious knowledge jackbooted, mandated, predicated on blind trust, essentially billeted charade, facade, inlaid faux Hope loose bandied cutthroat gratuity legislation favoring pandering "pork" via pretentiousness to wealthy gentiles Jews abandoning average civilians snuffing out sputtering, grousing, and hoo's flick erring tapering fuse whereat this news worthy informed citizen totally tubularly unaware of any clues pertaining to antithetical maneuvers, (loo win ski) shenanigans, and undertakings today yields genuine boo's toward Clinton, where I despondently feel he renegged promises made to electorate (except top 1 %) got souled (sold) to remaining 99% cheapest bidders as-sized thirteen duff heated no nothing sneezing Schnorrers spluttering phelgm at me at-chews.
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Jun 16, 2018
Jun 16, 2018 at 3:11 PM UTC
Though A Democrat...
Unblinking reflexive opinions lean indubitably, favorably and certifiably with minimal pandering soliciting uber voodoo yawping woos socially quintessentially obviously markedly consciousness brakes alignment defining mine political views loosely yet not strictly, jerry-rigged, hidebound Democratic fealty haltingly pledged ones and twos to roster of candidates slated to challenge incumbent Republicans all to quickly accused, sans participating sinister ruse this active voter puzzled at controversial eyeopening ex post facto fractiousgovernmental harmfully injuriously jaw-dropping suppression within top secret queues during nasty donkey kong braying p's and q's (case in point) scurrilous, opprobrious, and malodorous Clinton administration, where (based upon my recent perusing "The Peoples History” – me strongly endorses (authored by Howard Zinn news worthy revelation, (whose recounting atrocious, calumnious, egregious glaring ignominious knowledge jackbooted, mandated, predicated on blind trust, essentially billeted charade, facade, inlaid faux Hope loose bandied cutthroat gratuity legislation favoring pandering "pork" via pretentiousness to wealthy gentiles Jews abandoning average civilians snuffing out sputtering, grousing, and hoo's flick erring tapering fuse whereat this news worthy informed citizen totally tubularly unaware of any clues pertaining to antithetical maneuvers, (loo win ski) shenanigans, and undertakings today yields genuine boo's toward Clinton, where I despondently feel he renegged promises made to electorate (except top 1 %) got souled (sold) to remaining 99% cheapest bidders as-sized thirteen duff heated no nothing sneezing Schnorrers spluttering phelgm at me at-chews.
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50
Aurora, it needs a break. After years of sailing, it could no longer fake. Ardour could only go so far, antithetical to talent and holding ace. All encouraged in good grace, Almost there. They prevaricate, clearly did not anticipate. A few had a slice of the honest cake, un- aware of how they caused an ache. 'Aye! What absurd thoughts, mate.' Annoyed by the voice inside create, as the pirate couldn't tell. A message from garden or well, are solid facts or silly doubts? Aquivering, he supined on deck. Anxious, desperately he seeks for his answer. Impatiently he awaits for his anchor.
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Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 9:40 PM UTC
Awry
Where is the Kingdom?  When is the Kingdom? Sometimes it seem it is not here; not now and we We just do not know and maybe never shall.  This Is the dark night of the soul when it seems God does Not hear our prayers and we left with only our own Will to survive or not. Resigned or not we endure to The end. Imagine the Lord on the Cross.  Is not this Will to survive God  Himself in ours Self? Or not? Yet there are moments when we realize the Kingdom Here and now is ever with us .  We believe it is Eternal That we are Immortal.  When this knowing passes we are Left with Faith and hope waiting to know Love again. We do not alway see clearly but as the Apostle said: "but as Thru a glass darkly"  So much of what we learn of in our Life : history,  the daily news, and even science  does seem Antithetical to our belief.  Tells us there is another truth that Refutes and denies all that we would believe about  Our's Only the blissfully ignorant are unaffected but even our Children soon suffer from the their parent's acculturation To a prideful knowing. Remember it has been said: that the Foolishness of God is better than the wisdom of man- But We are not wholly lost to the Kingdom.  We know joy.  We Know love.  We  are awed by the beauty of the Creation.   Still we Know what we Know.  Ours spirit, our soul does not Ever totally abandon its roots in all that's holy.  There are holes In the dark glass-moments when we see and know the truth The other more glorious Truth,  The Kingdom is here now on Mother Earth not to come but always was  is and always shall be Revealing itself in so many ways.  There is a riddle here an enigma   There is somethings prevent our constant joyful knowing; that keeps Strangers, mere visitors to the Kingdom.  Imperfect beings . A paradox.  Yes and no.  One We are the children of God ever On the way.  Between zero and One there is nothing.  God has Forgotten all our misdeeds in the Kingdom.  He who makes all Things new means that the Divine must constantly be  be discovered. Perpetually wonderful requires a constant rebirth from the womb Of darkness.  The time between the darkness and the Light is no time Thus we are given the Forever.  We are Forever on the Way and The Way is a constant Revelation  there is no difference between The way and the Destination are One.  God is Love and our  Father In us.  Who ever reads this message will be heavily burdened until He passes it on.  Soon, even now my burden is lite  because I do This.  Christ said: "It is finished..."  So be it done unto you.  All of You, my friends  - Each in your own Way.  It is finished. Happy Easter
0
Mar 30, 2023
Mar 30, 2023 at 2:46 PM UTC
The Kingdom Come Now or Not know
Where is the Kingdom?  When is the Kingdom? Sometimes it seem it is not here; not now and we We just do not know and maybe never shall.  This Is the dark night of the soul when it seems God does Not hear our prayers and we left with only our own Will to survive or not. Resigned or not we endure to The end. Imagine the Lord on the Cross.  Is not this Will to survive God  Himself in ours Self? Or not? Yet there are moments when we realize the Kingdom Here and now is ever with us .  We believe it is Eternal That we are Immortal.  When this knowing passes we are Left with Faith and hope waiting to know Love again. We do not alway see clearly but as the Apostle said: "but as Thru a glass darkly"  So much of what we learn of in our Life : history,  the daily news, and even science  does seem Antithetical to our belief.  Tells us there is another truth that Refutes and denies all that we would believe about  Our's Only the blissfully ignorant are unaffected but even our Children soon suffer from the their parent's acculturation To a prideful knowing. Remember it has been said: that the Foolishness of God is better than the wisdom of man- But We are not wholly lost to the Kingdom.  We know joy.  We Know love.  We  are awed by the beauty of the Creation.   Still we Know what we Know.  Ours spirit, our soul does not Ever totally abandon its roots in all that's holy.  There are holes In the dark glass-moments when we see and know the truth The other more glorious Truth,  The Kingdom is here now on Mother Earth not to come but always was  is and always shall be Revealing itself in so many ways.  There is a riddle here an enigma   There is somethings prevent our constant joyful knowing; that keeps Strangers, mere visitors to the Kingdom.  Imperfect beings . A paradox.  Yes and no.  One We are the children of God ever On the way.  Between zero and One there is nothing.  God has Forgotten all our misdeeds in the Kingdom.  He who makes all Things new means that the Divine must constantly be  be discovered. Perpetually wonderful requires a constant rebirth from the womb Of darkness.  The time between the darkness and the Light is no time Thus we are given the Forever.  We are Forever on the Way and The Way is a constant Revelation  there is no difference between The way and the Destination are One.  God is Love and our  Father In us.  Who ever reads this message will be heavily burdened until He passes it on.  Soon, even now my burden is lite  because I do This.  Christ said: "It is finished..."  So be it done unto you.  All of You, my friends  - Each in your own Way.  It is finished. Happy Easter
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