"architected" poems - Hello Poetry

Both latter and former, contrary and congruent Neither gas nor solid, the river moves fluid. No end and no beginning, just water moving… swimming… A formless former that is a powerful latter Contradiction through symmetry and space within matter Passively energetic as potential becomes kinetic Transparently reflective and silently phonetic Thermally dynamic and fluidly frantic The waters maintain a static chaos through mathematical mechanics. Mechanically architected and architecturally mechanic Water seems the perfect medium for analysis of a dynamic. Dynamic existence and persistent resistance Statically chaotic seems the architect’s insistence. Equilibriomatic, with addition subtractive Empirical measures fail to analyze the passive. What simply is, simply is… Invincible to mimicry or microcosmic reenactment. Experimental methods seek to unify the synonymous Attempting to prove the objective with a subjective hypothesis. Learn from the water, let its metaphor be imminent…. For the divine externality lies not without, but within it.

0

Mar 5, 2015

Mar 5, 2015 at 3:53 PM UTC

bad-luck

Potential Kinetics and Silent Phonetics

Both latter and former, contrary and congruent Neither gas nor solid, the river moves fluid. No end and no beginning, just water moving… swimming… A formless former that is a powerful latter Contradiction through symmetry and space within matter Passively energetic as potential becomes kinetic Transparently reflective and silently phonetic Thermally dynamic and fluidly frantic The waters maintain a static chaos through mathematical mechanics. Mechanically architected and architecturally mechanic Water seems the perfect medium for analysis of a dynamic. Dynamic existence and persistent resistance Statically chaotic seems the architect’s insistence. Equilibriomatic, with addition subtractive Empirical measures fail to analyze the passive. What simply is, simply is… Invincible to mimicry or microcosmic reenactment. Experimental methods seek to unify the synonymous Attempting to prove the objective with a subjective hypothesis. Learn from the water, let its metaphor be imminent…. For the divine externality lies not without, but within it.

20

Dear future husband, I’m writing this now, because my future self might be convinced that I love you. Might be persuaded by my desire to find true love. Problem is, it’s always just a phantom of my fantasy. Love, I mean. I want it so bad I start hallucinating. I lose myself The truth is, I don’t know if I dare. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to set my self loose like that. Loosing control is my biggest fear, and isn’t that what love does to you? Makes you put aside all logic, and let you act upon your heart? Can I ever fully trust myself in someone elses hands? I doubt I will ever be that brave, which is why I’ll never truly love anyone. I just don’t have the capacity. I might be in love with the idea of us, but not with you. You see, I’ve spend years burying what my heart desires for not only you but myself. It was too late to dig up years ago, so why now? Most of the time, I don’t even want to. I build these walls for a reason. Young and pretty, but never yours. Smart, so I’ll will never let you know how I truly feel. I just don’t think I’ll ever be able to axe my needly architected buildings down. Some days, my mind decides to do so, but I’m simply too self destructive to take any action All this time I've spend on becoming a selfmade woman…Would love mean giving that up? Deep down I realize volunerability is a strength, but there’s too many things thrown on top for me to see that anymore. So my conclusion is I will never truly be able to love someone. It would be a riot against myself. I was never much of a rebel.

0

Sep 10, 2016

Sep 10, 2016 at 10:43 AM UTC

louise-ruen

A Love Letter

Dear future husband, I’m writing this now, because my future self might be convinced that I love you. Might be persuaded by my desire to find true love. Problem is, it’s always just a phantom of my fantasy. Love, I mean. I want it so bad I start hallucinating. I lose myself The truth is, I don’t know if I dare. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to set my self loose like that. Loosing control is my biggest fear, and isn’t that what love does to you? Makes you put aside all logic, and let you act upon your heart? Can I ever fully trust myself in someone elses hands? I doubt I will ever be that brave, which is why I’ll never truly love anyone. I just don’t have the capacity. I might be in love with the idea of us, but not with you. You see, I’ve spend years burying what my heart desires for not only you but myself. It was too late to dig up years ago, so why now? Most of the time, I don’t even want to. I build these walls for a reason. Young and pretty, but never yours. Smart, so I’ll will never let you know how I truly feel. I just don’t think I’ll ever be able to axe my needly architected buildings down. Some days, my mind decides to do so, but I’m simply too self destructive to take any action All this time I've spend on becoming a selfmade woman…Would love mean giving that up? Deep down I realize volunerability is a strength, but there’s too many things thrown on top for me to see that anymore. So my conclusion is I will never truly be able to love someone. It would be a riot against myself. I was never much of a rebel.

12

Both latter and former, contrary and congruent Neither gas nor solid, the river moves fluid. No end and no beginning, just water moving… swimming… A formless former that is a powerful latter Contradiction through symmetry and space within matter Passively energetic as potential becomes kinetic Transparently reflective and silently phonetic Thermally dynamic and fluidly frantic The waters maintain a static chaos through mathematical mechanics. Mechanically architected and architecturally mechanic Water seems the perfect medium for analysis of a dynamic. Dynamic existence and persistent resistance Statically chaotic seems the architect’s insistence. Equilibriomatic, with addition subtractive Empirical measures fail to analyze the passive. What simply is, simply is… Invincible to mimicry or microcosmic reenactment. Experimental methods seek to unify the synonymous Attempting to prove the objective with a subjective hypothesis. Learn from the water, let its metaphor be imminent…. For the divine externality lies not without, but within it.

0

Oct 17, 2015

Oct 17, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC

librocubicularist

Potential Kinetics and Silent Phonetics

Both latter and former, contrary and congruent Neither gas nor solid, the river moves fluid. No end and no beginning, just water moving… swimming… A formless former that is a powerful latter Contradiction through symmetry and space within matter Passively energetic as potential becomes kinetic Transparently reflective and silently phonetic Thermally dynamic and fluidly frantic The waters maintain a static chaos through mathematical mechanics. Mechanically architected and architecturally mechanic Water seems the perfect medium for analysis of a dynamic. Dynamic existence and persistent resistance Statically chaotic seems the architect’s insistence. Equilibriomatic, with addition subtractive Empirical measures fail to analyze the passive. What simply is, simply is… Invincible to mimicry or microcosmic reenactment. Experimental methods seek to unify the synonymous Attempting to prove the objective with a subjective hypothesis. Learn from the water, let its metaphor be imminent…. For the divine externality lies not without, but within it.

20

Hate is never describes as pretty Never looked at like a blooming flower Sprouting life into the ground Bringing fresh air into the sky For the wind to carry high Hate is never described as a butterfly Every flap of flight signed by grace and beauty with a ballpoint pen Every color a screenshot of pure emotion Every movement architected to perfection modeling God’s holy touch Hate is always described as Ocean waves washing you down to deeper waters until your dying in the very thing you need to live Or thorns and weeds growing in a garden, attacking every plant like they are thoughts in my mind Or fire spreading and growing and burning everything it touches, flames licking at my body till I’m ash Hate is always described as poisonous, cruel, evil, Because that is the way it makes you feel Hate is really a sculpture Every line shows something new Every curve a double meaning Every smile hiding something cold Every eye revealing something untold Hate is the sculpture and the sculptor Mastermind of its own masterpiece no one sees the flower in the fire that burns in my soul No one sees the roots in the deep wading water threatening to take hold If hate was a fire, we wouldn’t allow it to control Hate blooms and blossoms into our life slowly It starts as a fleeting thought Planting roots in your mind Then your questions becomes answers A system stems and builds leaves of loathing that infiltrates your heart The despise desperately develops in the depths below my diaphragm And a flower of hate blooms from a beating heart I don’t even want beating anymore Hatred is a flower. It blooms it doesn’t seize It grows roots so deep Twisting and turning around every ***** every emotion, every thought Until it’s impossible to **** it without killing yourself Hatred is a flower and it makes you into soil Decaying in despise and detest of love Until body deflates in the darkness of your soul -S.L.K.

0

Sep 23, 2025

Sep 23, 2025 at 5:03 PM UTC

sleek

The art of hating yourself

Hate is never describes as pretty Never looked at like a blooming flower Sprouting life into the ground Bringing fresh air into the sky For the wind to carry high Hate is never described as a butterfly Every flap of flight signed by grace and beauty with a ballpoint pen Every color a screenshot of pure emotion Every movement architected to perfection modeling God’s holy touch Hate is always described as Ocean waves washing you down to deeper waters until your dying in the very thing you need to live Or thorns and weeds growing in a garden, attacking every plant like they are thoughts in my mind Or fire spreading and growing and burning everything it touches, flames licking at my body till I’m ash Hate is always described as poisonous, cruel, evil, Because that is the way it makes you feel Hate is really a sculpture Every line shows something new Every curve a double meaning Every smile hiding something cold Every eye revealing something untold Hate is the sculpture and the sculptor Mastermind of its own masterpiece no one sees the flower in the fire that burns in my soul No one sees the roots in the deep wading water threatening to take hold If hate was a fire, we wouldn’t allow it to control Hate blooms and blossoms into our life slowly It starts as a fleeting thought Planting roots in your mind Then your questions becomes answers A system stems and builds leaves of loathing that infiltrates your heart The despise desperately develops in the depths below my diaphragm And a flower of hate blooms from a beating heart I don’t even want beating anymore Hatred is a flower. It blooms it doesn’t seize It grows roots so deep Twisting and turning around every ***** every emotion, every thought Until it’s impossible to **** it without killing yourself Hatred is a flower and it makes you into soil Decaying in despise and detest of love Until body deflates in the darkness of your soul -S.L.K.

41

Structures of organizations with rules and standards, So what is this world that offer a simple touch, Or embrace with sensibilities of our inner desires. A joke this life can be, And laughter of echoed eternality, Inner grasp by a tug upon our hearts. These laws that we follow with honor, Ripped by the people who architected and dismissed, Or disowned by the powers that may be. Do they not keep their words they utter, And do they have no chivalry or honor left, For all is a voice with empty shell in the dark. All things in life is but a ghastly shadow, But your inner truth will be your lighthouse!

0

Apr 10, 2016

Apr 10, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC

dawn-of-lighten

Your Most Honest Walk

Structures of organizations with rules and standards, So what is this world that offer a simple touch, Or embrace with sensibilities of our inner desires. A joke this life can be, And laughter of echoed eternality, Inner grasp by a tug upon our hearts. These laws that we follow with honor, Ripped by the people who architected and dismissed, Or disowned by the powers that may be. Do they not keep their words they utter, And do they have no chivalry or honor left, For all is a voice with empty shell in the dark. All things in life is but a ghastly shadow, But your inner truth will be your lighthouse!

14

In the house of poems there are no words only sheaths of rapture color and puzzle cutouts on an empty table mute composed of shadow thin aching smoke ghosts desires aphotic and tender twisting souls in labyrinths lurid *** shake sweet inky ******* that turn earth to pleasure domes and shadows like cimmerian children in harsh judgment ******* on purple night shade candies burning incense and black candles uncrossing energies foreboding while subterranean crystals refract burnished glows pulsing blood diamonds in sacred heart manias throb with warm breathy kisses on plates of ash engulfing a terrace of pink flickering tongues drooling and biting that turn mere pleasure into inflammations of ecstasy oozing creme de menthe saliva where souls levitate and flutter on bilious stained beds copulating being impregnated with verse smelling of warm **** cauldron fetuses curl in their little crib's and bubble tapioca lyric wrangles afterbirths purged poems emerge like sand bars and palm tree islands from sopping woven tunnels and flow stone stalactites as pink ballet pastries with architected calves caress upturned posteriors dancing in glitter frilly word tutus while torrid confessions dreaded breakdowns and resurrections dress themselves in garments of language re-pleat quickened by eloquence in the house of poems

0

Jun 17, 2017

Jun 17, 2017 at 4:18 AM UTC

ashna-ali-khan

In the house of poems

In the house of poems there are no words only sheaths of rapture color and puzzle cutouts on an empty table mute composed of shadow thin aching smoke ghosts desires aphotic and tender twisting souls in labyrinths lurid *** shake sweet inky ******* that turn earth to pleasure domes and shadows like cimmerian children in harsh judgment ******* on purple night shade candies burning incense and black candles uncrossing energies foreboding while subterranean crystals refract burnished glows pulsing blood diamonds in sacred heart manias throb with warm breathy kisses on plates of ash engulfing a terrace of pink flickering tongues drooling and biting that turn mere pleasure into inflammations of ecstasy oozing creme de menthe saliva where souls levitate and flutter on bilious stained beds copulating being impregnated with verse smelling of warm **** cauldron fetuses curl in their little crib's and bubble tapioca lyric wrangles afterbirths purged poems emerge like sand bars and palm tree islands from sopping woven tunnels and flow stone stalactites as pink ballet pastries with architected calves caress upturned posteriors dancing in glitter frilly word tutus while torrid confessions dreaded breakdowns and resurrections dress themselves in garments of language re-pleat quickened by eloquence in the house of poems

59

What's a palm Sweating in panic Or a stomach Whining as the whistle of alert To someone like you? What's a voice Too clenched, Or a word Misplaced To you? What's a sentence Repeated Or a song Sung drunker than a foul man, To yourself, long-lashes? Flutter-hair. Architected smile. Ancient-Greek eyebrow, Curved In a musing love. You found a little else, Didn't you, a Little chick to Perch with you? Let's jump and find our wings Let's take feathers for what they're worth And leave those flightless birds To the foxes, With a taste For emus. It's no one's fault really Just slavery And I'm free when I know you Popping like sparks onto my knockout vision.

0

Mar 18, 2016

Mar 18, 2016 at 8:54 PM UTC

Porto-graffiti

Nice Niche

What's a palm Sweating in panic Or a stomach Whining as the whistle of alert To someone like you? What's a voice Too clenched, Or a word Misplaced To you? What's a sentence Repeated Or a song Sung drunker than a foul man, To yourself, long-lashes? Flutter-hair. Architected smile. Ancient-Greek eyebrow, Curved In a musing love. You found a little else, Didn't you, a Little chick to Perch with you? Let's jump and find our wings Let's take feathers for what they're worth And leave those flightless birds To the foxes, With a taste For emus. It's no one's fault really Just slavery And I'm free when I know you Popping like sparks onto my knockout vision.

34

Can love be defined in one true form? For this love is the greatest masterpiece Architected by the moments that stop the beating of our hearts. This love is the cool breeze on a hot summer day, the beauty in the sunrise after an agonizing night. This love is a true release, the one that brings the relief of all of the tension and heartache. A reminder of life in the midst of all the pain and loss. The most refreshing comfort in an uneasy world. A repair to all that is broken, mending all pain, all wounds. This love cannot be explained in a moment, or in any given time, For it is infinite. It is timeless. Immortalized by the host of my heart.

0

May 27, 2014

May 27, 2014 at 4:11 PM UTC

dreambeliever

Love's True Form

Can love be defined in one true form? For this love is the greatest masterpiece Architected by the moments that stop the beating of our hearts. This love is the cool breeze on a hot summer day, the beauty in the sunrise after an agonizing night. This love is a true release, the one that brings the relief of all of the tension and heartache. A reminder of life in the midst of all the pain and loss. The most refreshing comfort in an uneasy world. A repair to all that is broken, mending all pain, all wounds. This love cannot be explained in a moment, or in any given time, For it is infinite. It is timeless. Immortalized by the host of my heart.

13

The architect architected his own demise, gradually over the liquor-brined years and then in milliseconds. The architect drank, hunched over every last bar, as a release, as a habit, as a stumblebum crutch, as a gaping maw. He staggered one night out of the dark tavern into the SUV that he click-clicked open without a thought despite past offenses. He never saw the couple on a motorcycle out on date night, or so he whimpered to the officer, muttering “my life is over." Faced with 28 felony charges, he was right in a way. And yet his life wasn’t over like theirs, no, it wasn’t over like theirs.

0

Sep 23, 2018

Sep 23, 2018 at 12:54 AM UTC

joseph-s-pete

The Architect

The architect architected his own demise, gradually over the liquor-brined years and then in milliseconds. The architect drank, hunched over every last bar, as a release, as a habit, as a stumblebum crutch, as a gaping maw. He staggered one night out of the dark tavern into the SUV that he click-clicked open without a thought despite past offenses. He never saw the couple on a motorcycle out on date night, or so he whimpered to the officer, muttering “my life is over." Faced with 28 felony charges, he was right in a way. And yet his life wasn’t over like theirs, no, it wasn’t over like theirs.

10