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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
emanuel-martinez
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
The bar was full                in the basement of my mind and i read the manual, my buddy hunched over on a stool beside me. “it’s a cinch he said” not really, though, because people don’t speak in dreams. (i ascribe to them 50‘s slang expressions) my beer was magically empty and others were magically full studying alien life forms in this book this manual and wanting to puke. dreaming is stressful and so is life. where is the best place to hang a bathrobe?
0
Jul 1, 2011
Jul 1, 2011 at 11:08 AM UTC
sansara-justinovich
Sodium Toothpaste
The bar was full                in the basement of my mind and i read the manual, my buddy hunched over on a stool beside me. “it’s a cinch he said” not really, though, because people don’t speak in dreams. (i ascribe to them 50‘s slang expressions) my beer was magically empty and others were magically full studying alien life forms in this book this manual and wanting to puke. dreaming is stressful and so is life. where is the best place to hang a bathrobe?
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17
Men of few words are the best men Shakespeare's Henry V (Act 3 Scene 2. Line 41) yet men still pleasure themselves oft, the music of their voices soothes their conscience, even as it irritates those unchosen few who must deign to listen to the ration of their excuses. I fare not well in this endeavor, for as poet and recorder of all that be known as human folly, more is always best or at least, better! for no man knows the limits of his import, his web of self-deception cast far and wide, for it must perforce hold him aloft, on all the tissued lies he hath convinced himself to be the absolute truth, and nothing but... so let us ascribe to those fools who call themselves mistakenly, men a smokey, fleeting honour, for many words they do employ to plead their case, proving well in a fashion most contrary and contradictory that their worth is worst, when they speak long and eloquent of their vainglorious heroics and medals, watch their words ascend, and like smoke, forever disappear. that is why, young reader, heed the lesson of the American cowboys who say little, but walk tall, and sit straight in the saddle, and sing consoling songs of lonesome love around the dying fire.
0
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 2:14 AM UTC
nat-lipstadt
Men of few words are the best men
Men of few words are the best men Shakespeare's Henry V (Act 3 Scene 2. Line 41) yet men still pleasure themselves oft, the music of their voices soothes their conscience, even as it irritates those unchosen few who must deign to listen to the ration of their excuses. I fare not well in this endeavor, for as poet and recorder of all that be known as human folly, more is always best or at least, better! for no man knows the limits of his import, his web of self-deception cast far and wide, for it must perforce hold him aloft, on all the tissued lies he hath convinced himself to be the absolute truth, and nothing but... so let us ascribe to those fools who call themselves mistakenly, men a smokey, fleeting honour, for many words they do employ to plead their case, proving well in a fashion most contrary and contradictory that their worth is worst, when they speak long and eloquent of their vainglorious heroics and medals, watch their words ascend, and like smoke, forever disappear. that is why, young reader, heed the lesson of the American cowboys who say little, but walk tall, and sit straight in the saddle, and sing consoling songs of lonesome love around the dying fire.
Continue reading...
56
~ we the people, long have known the write of passages and poems, whether bellwether, envisionist or revisionist, too oft have thought this journey long, and weight of hope and change to another there belongs; yet i subscribe that we as scribes, can right this ship, not merely write it's wrongs; for we it's pride with hearts ascribe, and note-by-note, as carpenters and soldiers, we its authors and its poets, in words, in deeds, writers, of a patriot’s song; with deepest definition, and inner soul reflection, it's stanza, chorus, bridges, we must lovingly inscribe. ~ *post script. i know i am but one of many, who disillusioned, feel alienated, and could just as easily choose withdrawal as my reaction to our nation’s political plight. this then my belief, my plea, my hope we’ll see, withdrawal is not an option, that our words, deeds and even our writings carry weight, and bring with them hope and change to each community within which we each serve.  we are not merely writers of our history... we are authors of our destiny!   if you are not an American, hope and pray for us, please, for we desperately need your support!!   if you are, pick up the pen... pick up the charge... be the change!!*
0
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 2:03 PM UTC
se-reimer
of carpenters and soldiers
~ we the people, long have known the write of passages and poems, whether bellwether, envisionist or revisionist, too oft have thought this journey long, and weight of hope and change to another there belongs; yet i subscribe that we as scribes, can right this ship, not merely write it's wrongs; for we it's pride with hearts ascribe, and note-by-note, as carpenters and soldiers, we its authors and its poets, in words, in deeds, writers, of a patriot’s song; with deepest definition, and inner soul reflection, it's stanza, chorus, bridges, we must lovingly inscribe. ~ *post script. i know i am but one of many, who disillusioned, feel alienated, and could just as easily choose withdrawal as my reaction to our nation’s political plight. this then my belief, my plea, my hope we’ll see, withdrawal is not an option, that our words, deeds and even our writings carry weight, and bring with them hope and change to each community within which we each serve.  we are not merely writers of our history... we are authors of our destiny!   if you are not an American, hope and pray for us, please, for we desperately need your support!!   if you are, pick up the pen... pick up the charge... be the change!!*
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30
An art movement is a tendency or style in art with a specific common philosophy or goal, followed by a group of artists during a restricted period of time, usually a few months, years or decades or, at least, with the heyday of the movement defined within a number of years. Art movements were especially important in modern art, when each consecutive movement was considered as a new avant-garde; According to theories associated with modernism and the concept of postmodernism, art movements are especially important during the period of time corresponding to modern art. The period of time called "modern art" is posited to have changed approximately halfway through the 20th century and art made afterward is generally called contemporary art. Postmodernism in visual art begins and functions as a parallel to late modernism and refers to that period after the "modern" period called contemporary art. The postmodern period began  during late modernism, which is a contemporary continuation of modernism;             and according to some theorists postmodernism ended in the 21st century.       During the period of time corresponding to "modern art" each consecutive movement was often considered a new avant-garde. Also during the period of time referred to as        "modern art" each movement was seen corresponding   to a somewhat grandiose rethinking of all that came before it, concerning the visual arts. Generally there was a commonality of visual style linking the works and artists included in an art movement.                      Verbal expression and explanation of movements has come from the artists themselves, sometimes in the form of an art manifesto, and sometimes from art critics and others who may explain their understanding of the meaning of the new art then being produced; In the visual arts,                           many artists, theorists, art critics, art collectors,                                     art dealers and others mindful of the unbroken continuation of modernism and the continuation of modern art even into the contemporary era, ascribe to and welcome new philosophies of art as they appear. Postmodernist theorists posit that the idea of art movements are no longer as applicable,                    or no longer as discernible, as the notion of art movements had been before the postmodern era. There are many theorists however who doubt as to whether or not such an era was actually a fact; or just a passing fad. The term refers to tendencies in visual art, novel ideas and architecture, and sometimes literature. In music it is more common to speak about genres and styles instead. See also cultural movement, a term with a broader connotation. As the names of many art movements use the -ism suffix, for example cubism and futurism, they are sometimes referred to as isms
0
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 6:54 PM UTC
johnny-noiπ
After Modernism, The End of the Road.
An art movement is a tendency or style in art with a specific common philosophy or goal, followed by a group of artists during a restricted period of time, usually a few months, years or decades or, at least, with the heyday of the movement defined within a number of years. Art movements were especially important in modern art, when each consecutive movement was considered as a new avant-garde; According to theories associated with modernism and the concept of postmodernism, art movements are especially important during the period of time corresponding to modern art. The period of time called "modern art" is posited to have changed approximately halfway through the 20th century and art made afterward is generally called contemporary art. Postmodernism in visual art begins and functions as a parallel to late modernism and refers to that period after the "modern" period called contemporary art. The postmodern period began  during late modernism, which is a contemporary continuation of modernism;             and according to some theorists postmodernism ended in the 21st century.       During the period of time corresponding to "modern art" each consecutive movement was often considered a new avant-garde. Also during the period of time referred to as        "modern art" each movement was seen corresponding   to a somewhat grandiose rethinking of all that came before it, concerning the visual arts. Generally there was a commonality of visual style linking the works and artists included in an art movement.                      Verbal expression and explanation of movements has come from the artists themselves, sometimes in the form of an art manifesto, and sometimes from art critics and others who may explain their understanding of the meaning of the new art then being produced; In the visual arts,                           many artists, theorists, art critics, art collectors,                                     art dealers and others mindful of the unbroken continuation of modernism and the continuation of modern art even into the contemporary era, ascribe to and welcome new philosophies of art as they appear. Postmodernist theorists posit that the idea of art movements are no longer as applicable,                    or no longer as discernible, as the notion of art movements had been before the postmodern era. There are many theorists however who doubt as to whether or not such an era was actually a fact; or just a passing fad. The term refers to tendencies in visual art, novel ideas and architecture, and sometimes literature. In music it is more common to speak about genres and styles instead. See also cultural movement, a term with a broader connotation. As the names of many art movements use the -ism suffix, for example cubism and futurism, they are sometimes referred to as isms
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64
they always seem to ascribe the stone age with inventing the circle, dinosaurs and the loathing of x-ray via Archaeology - ᛟ, or an ancient egyptian manuscript... got the ******* wheelie on that ***** boo yah! this is even weirder than Wittgenstein's observation of late Copernicus... ᛟ-ray... huh? you've been a peasant and you're still curating a chance sharpening edit? where's the ******* wheel with romans after ancient egyptians and the babylonians and for fuck's sake Hindustan! O... where's O in Sanskrit? so who got the cartwheels? the romans? huh?! a.d. b.c. buttered-up **** if this makes sense... forget the universe, alien civilisations... my own makes as much sense as a gram of pepper and salt sneezed with. hey flamingo! here's a signature in sepia! banging on the bathroom floor - with Disney - passed in those days: Lion Kong or King... oompa loompa ooh ooh gorilla tyrant said so too. they invented the wheel but forgot to phonetically encode it with something similar... runes, right, Scandinavian... ᛟ... i.e. O... but i'd like to see ᛟ in a roller-coaster... just for gorging on a regurgitation of jokes - and so i can slang and slapper quick a blah in Jamaican slang and say... yah mon' poo daddy do a diddy eff a flex wit bling bling, cursor vector to noon and da dwarfin of a shadow. **** man, they invented the wheel but waited for the romans to write the O... and it was music by then... suddenly! huh?! the **** is this? whiskey straight up. no wonder.
0
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 7:14 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
ᛟ vs. O bypassing stone-age
they always seem to ascribe the stone age with inventing the circle, dinosaurs and the loathing of x-ray via Archaeology - ᛟ, or an ancient egyptian manuscript... got the ******* wheelie on that ***** boo yah! this is even weirder than Wittgenstein's observation of late Copernicus... ᛟ-ray... huh? you've been a peasant and you're still curating a chance sharpening edit? where's the ******* wheel with romans after ancient egyptians and the babylonians and for fuck's sake Hindustan! O... where's O in Sanskrit? so who got the cartwheels? the romans? huh?! a.d. b.c. buttered-up **** if this makes sense... forget the universe, alien civilisations... my own makes as much sense as a gram of pepper and salt sneezed with. hey flamingo! here's a signature in sepia! banging on the bathroom floor - with Disney - passed in those days: Lion Kong or King... oompa loompa ooh ooh gorilla tyrant said so too. they invented the wheel but forgot to phonetically encode it with something similar... runes, right, Scandinavian... ᛟ... i.e. O... but i'd like to see ᛟ in a roller-coaster... just for gorging on a regurgitation of jokes - and so i can slang and slapper quick a blah in Jamaican slang and say... yah mon' poo daddy do a diddy eff a flex wit bling bling, cursor vector to noon and da dwarfin of a shadow. **** man, they invented the wheel but waited for the romans to write the O... and it was music by then... suddenly! huh?! the **** is this? whiskey straight up. no wonder.
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35
why make videos these days... they're easy target, for people who read, or largely (pretend to) read...    the bare minimum...    journalists with the equivalent of the bare minimum of journalism:   namely?                                   literacy. a journalist these days... wow!              they can read! they can write! read & write?! **** me! a double whammy!   you sure we shouldn't ascribe them policing stature &                                authority?! like...                                   simultaneously?! let's face it... they have investigate the double curriculum venture... we know how donkeys play the bet...        they gamble with a worth of a carrot, and always return with stick's worth of motivation to gamble stupid once more.
0
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 9:15 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
modern day criticism of journalism
why make videos these days... they're easy target, for people who read, or largely (pretend to) read...    the bare minimum...    journalists with the equivalent of the bare minimum of journalism:   namely?                                   literacy. a journalist these days... wow!              they can read! they can write! read & write?! **** me! a double whammy!   you sure we shouldn't ascribe them policing stature &                                authority?! like...                                   simultaneously?! let's face it... they have investigate the double curriculum venture... we know how donkeys play the bet...        they gamble with a worth of a carrot, and always return with stick's worth of motivation to gamble stupid once more.
Continue reading...
30
Our wilier webs woven with the distractions of self-absorption can come to feel cheated if we use them only for halfhearted games of catch and eventual release. He’d overlooked that part. Then there was an obligation to prey who so willingly strayed upon the taffy pull of his sweet and sticky strands. The scrunch up of their wee faces squeaked, “We deserve to have our glued-down expectations met with a most gruesome expertise.” He’d just wanted to watch them struggle a smidge, at first. It was a test if this muscle the scribes ascribe as rightly plagued by pangs was in him perhaps despicably defective. With each tripper-by trapped the examinations grew more tortuously complex, and when none raised even the slightest murmur of a palpitation, he gave the web its dripped-dry due, at last. “The murderous truth will out,” they say. It did, monstrously. Now his bound but gagless masques are always well-attended.
0
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 7:40 AM UTC
francis-scudellari
Never underestimate the power of telling people what they want to hear
Our wilier webs woven with the distractions of self-absorption can come to feel cheated if we use them only for halfhearted games of catch and eventual release. He’d overlooked that part. Then there was an obligation to prey who so willingly strayed upon the taffy pull of his sweet and sticky strands. The scrunch up of their wee faces squeaked, “We deserve to have our glued-down expectations met with a most gruesome expertise.” He’d just wanted to watch them struggle a smidge, at first. It was a test if this muscle the scribes ascribe as rightly plagued by pangs was in him perhaps despicably defective. With each tripper-by trapped the examinations grew more tortuously complex, and when none raised even the slightest murmur of a palpitation, he gave the web its dripped-dry due, at last. “The murderous truth will out,” they say. It did, monstrously. Now his bound but gagless masques are always well-attended.
Continue reading...
32
How can I ever explain it? Not without a full disclosure I will tell you every bit Your kindness to which I demure Soldiers fight their own private war Mine to protect the Hill Tribes Willing to suffer all the gore All credit to them I ascribe Upon arrival in Da Nang I gathered my field gear and rifle A mission with Colonel Vang Preparation seemed but a trifle My kind mountain Hmong Tribal ladies Give a great gift to me, your sons I will escort them through Hades I'll teach them to ****** with guns Wet their tongues in cobra's blood I have come to save you from doom The coming communist red flood Boys already made their own tomb We shall fly the flags of the Hmong We'll rally boys from the villes We must slaughter the Minh and Cong The Hmong will have their own Bastille I will take a dragon to wife Boys will nurture in her foul breath They will worship their ****** knife We'll dance the ritual of death I’m the lost soul forest monster Others have come before today They are pathetic impostors We will flow through the night to slay Other boys born beneath the palm They have come to steal your life's breath It's them that we target to bomb I'll walk among you as Macbeth My Duncan is among your kin Banquo will haunt me til I rot I will be fixed with mortal sin Unable to wash away the spot I will hide my hands from Odin A conundrum in which I'm caught Future will be among the Jinn My destiny from this foul plot Your sons buried in sacred ground They'll not be stained with my darkness Peace for them will be so profound How many thanks can I express Those boys in valor's selfless crown From gallantry, their future gone Sins I keep and can't beat down For many years, I must atone. I, far removed from battles roar Do fondly remember those boys Their smiles and laughter before Stand out among life's greatest joys No more the fierce warrior am I Just an old man with memories I am needing to just say goodbye And maybe, maybe my conscience appeases
0
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 6:33 PM UTC
bernard-t-windwillow
Warriors Lament
How can I ever explain it? Not without a full disclosure I will tell you every bit Your kindness to which I demure Soldiers fight their own private war Mine to protect the Hill Tribes Willing to suffer all the gore All credit to them I ascribe Upon arrival in Da Nang I gathered my field gear and rifle A mission with Colonel Vang Preparation seemed but a trifle My kind mountain Hmong Tribal ladies Give a great gift to me, your sons I will escort them through Hades I'll teach them to ****** with guns Wet their tongues in cobra's blood I have come to save you from doom The coming communist red flood Boys already made their own tomb We shall fly the flags of the Hmong We'll rally boys from the villes We must slaughter the Minh and Cong The Hmong will have their own Bastille I will take a dragon to wife Boys will nurture in her foul breath They will worship their ****** knife We'll dance the ritual of death I’m the lost soul forest monster Others have come before today They are pathetic impostors We will flow through the night to slay Other boys born beneath the palm They have come to steal your life's breath It's them that we target to bomb I'll walk among you as Macbeth My Duncan is among your kin Banquo will haunt me til I rot I will be fixed with mortal sin Unable to wash away the spot I will hide my hands from Odin A conundrum in which I'm caught Future will be among the Jinn My destiny from this foul plot Your sons buried in sacred ground They'll not be stained with my darkness Peace for them will be so profound How many thanks can I express Those boys in valor's selfless crown From gallantry, their future gone Sins I keep and can't beat down For many years, I must atone. I, far removed from battles roar Do fondly remember those boys Their smiles and laughter before Stand out among life's greatest joys No more the fierce warrior am I Just an old man with memories I am needing to just say goodbye And maybe, maybe my conscience appeases
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60
the lyrics intimate, me inside recognized, and I find it hard to believe, not to recall my chest actual aching from a lost love, a busted heart,that my family physician told me not a thing  to be done, and time the only known cure and that was only twenty five years, a just short “long time ago” but there is no such a thing as time when the wounded heart is pierced fierce, there is no round the bend visible to tell you, love will come again; and you’re so cautious,  won’t trust, to open, but irony it’s the only way to find it one mo’ time, to give yourself up in whole, not just parts, and you “discover” writing poetry helps, and a new life long habit is forming that is a kind of meds that you disburse to oneself later be this song below, Bonnie Raitt makes you ache with her rendition keeping no secret she’s been there truly used to look to ascribe fault, but learned, t’was a time waster, more accurate, each of us had our own fault lines, dormant, till not, and when the lines touched and connect, it was an earthquake off the scale, and the tremors just keep on coming but the chest ache was so intense, close my eyes, and relive it,  and makes me feel kinder, more human, less angry? more forgiving cause there is no mark of Cain on someone’s forehead to indicate that one is suffering the aftermath, the aftershocks, of this loss, so be patient when encountering a human who sighs out loud often, as often as as every breath listen to the song, it will untie your chords, maybe making some memories resurface, for better as it is part of writing only love poetry
0
Dec 8, 2024
Dec 8, 2024 at 9:33 AM UTC
onlylovepoetry
my wounded heart
the lyrics intimate, me inside recognized, and I find it hard to believe, not to recall my chest actual aching from a lost love, a busted heart,that my family physician told me not a thing  to be done, and time the only known cure and that was only twenty five years, a just short “long time ago” but there is no such a thing as time when the wounded heart is pierced fierce, there is no round the bend visible to tell you, love will come again; and you’re so cautious,  won’t trust, to open, but irony it’s the only way to find it one mo’ time, to give yourself up in whole, not just parts, and you “discover” writing poetry helps, and a new life long habit is forming that is a kind of meds that you disburse to oneself later be this song below, Bonnie Raitt makes you ache with her rendition keeping no secret she’s been there truly used to look to ascribe fault, but learned, t’was a time waster, more accurate, each of us had our own fault lines, dormant, till not, and when the lines touched and connect, it was an earthquake off the scale, and the tremors just keep on coming but the chest ache was so intense, close my eyes, and relive it,  and makes me feel kinder, more human, less angry? more forgiving cause there is no mark of Cain on someone’s forehead to indicate that one is suffering the aftermath, the aftershocks, of this loss, so be patient when encountering a human who sighs out loud often, as often as as every breath listen to the song, it will untie your chords, maybe making some memories resurface, for better as it is part of writing only love poetry
Continue reading...
38
Ascribe to the Lord all glory laud and honor He is our King Oh bless the Lord and worship Him in the splendor of His holiness.... Psalm 29:2 cj 2016
0
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 2:09 AM UTC
cynthia-jeany9
Ascribe
Ascribe to the Lord all glory laud and honor He is our King Oh bless the Lord and worship Him in the splendor of His holiness.... Psalm 29:2 cj 2016
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11
I know that I will at times struggle for words…or even use too many to say too little. Expect this. It is part of me. I will try to connect myself to the world, to circumstance, to people, with words. I attempt to stitch my fingertips to what I touch, see, and feel, with what I say. I attack with words. I defend with words. I seek, run, build and dismantle with words. There is sometimes in me a necessity for silence. But it does not come often enough. Why? It is because I fear it. I fear what silence means, because words are tangible, hey can be defined, put in boxes, made to be straight or curved, applied in context, and analyzed even for meaning separate of context. But silence? Silence can mean so many things. There are clues with softer edges that require much more foreknowledge to obtain. Silence can be shaped by emotion into something in the mind of the beholder that it is not to the one who sits quiet. Words too can be misconceived, but with words, things are definable and misconception is almost always evident to one or the other. With silence, misconception is often left in ignorance. Both the silent and the listener are unaware of the other’s thoughts and intentions with silence. Silence is at least as powerful a tool as words. They may both change the courses of lives. There is a time for silence and for speaking. But it is my mind which fails to know when silence is more necessary, because my mind almost by nature uses words to explain or ascribe meaning to almost everything and anything I experience. See how long this single entry is? To explain words and their role and importance to me I am using words, because in my emotions, words are bridges, and silences are those bridges burning. I am using words, but I will learn to use silence.
0
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 4:31 PM UTC
LuminUmbra
words and I, silence and outcry
I know that I will at times struggle for words…or even use too many to say too little. Expect this. It is part of me. I will try to connect myself to the world, to circumstance, to people, with words. I attempt to stitch my fingertips to what I touch, see, and feel, with what I say. I attack with words. I defend with words. I seek, run, build and dismantle with words. There is sometimes in me a necessity for silence. But it does not come often enough. Why? It is because I fear it. I fear what silence means, because words are tangible, hey can be defined, put in boxes, made to be straight or curved, applied in context, and analyzed even for meaning separate of context. But silence? Silence can mean so many things. There are clues with softer edges that require much more foreknowledge to obtain. Silence can be shaped by emotion into something in the mind of the beholder that it is not to the one who sits quiet. Words too can be misconceived, but with words, things are definable and misconception is almost always evident to one or the other. With silence, misconception is often left in ignorance. Both the silent and the listener are unaware of the other’s thoughts and intentions with silence. Silence is at least as powerful a tool as words. They may both change the courses of lives. There is a time for silence and for speaking. But it is my mind which fails to know when silence is more necessary, because my mind almost by nature uses words to explain or ascribe meaning to almost everything and anything I experience. See how long this single entry is? To explain words and their role and importance to me I am using words, because in my emotions, words are bridges, and silences are those bridges burning. I am using words, but I will learn to use silence.
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1
I could ascribe to you few things. Few metaphors represent your wondrous making. If I were to compare you to the roaring waves, far reaching sourced from still ocean depths, like the conviction of your voice, I would miss your true joy at growing from fault. If I were to compare you to the setting sun, sharing the glory of its day on painted sky, like the skill of your hand, I would miss the grounded feet with which you walk If I were to compare you to the intricacies of a watch, it’s beautiful movement formed by delicate layers, like the way you put one foot in front of the other, I would miss your collaborative tick. If I do not tell you how wonderful you are I will miss you. If I do not listen to your dream then it will sour the sleep. If I do not shout I will miss your echo. I hope to soon rid any other miss* from this paper, as our Ruler has more notches for us to mature. Now I will be happy right here, sitting across from, lying next to, on the other side of your screen.
0
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 12:47 PM UTC
PinkFlamingo
Memory of my Heart
I could ascribe to you few things. Few metaphors represent your wondrous making. If I were to compare you to the roaring waves, far reaching sourced from still ocean depths, like the conviction of your voice, I would miss your true joy at growing from fault. If I were to compare you to the setting sun, sharing the glory of its day on painted sky, like the skill of your hand, I would miss the grounded feet with which you walk If I were to compare you to the intricacies of a watch, it’s beautiful movement formed by delicate layers, like the way you put one foot in front of the other, I would miss your collaborative tick. If I do not tell you how wonderful you are I will miss you. If I do not listen to your dream then it will sour the sleep. If I do not shout I will miss your echo. I hope to soon rid any other miss* from this paper, as our Ruler has more notches for us to mature. Now I will be happy right here, sitting across from, lying next to, on the other side of your screen.
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19
Trying to rip a paper down the middle, Because I only need a half sheet. And as I'm ripping it, It does one of those little microtears by the hole punch, Where it tears away from the line that I'm trying to rip it at. You know, the thing where you're like, "Paper can't you just follow directions?" Picture it? Okay. It tore on either side of the hole punch. And for a moment, I reflected on how incredible that was. How beautiful the forces that move things are. You see, in trying to tear the paper along my little pre-folded line, I put pressure on both sides of the paper. Near the hole, that pressure became too much. In an instant, one side of the hole punch began to tear a little, And allowed for some of that pressure to be dissipated. But it wasn't enough in that instant, so the other side tore. By the time that both sides split, The pressure was no longer too much And it didn't tear any further. Though the paper is non-living, Let alone non-sentient, It follows the same doctrine that living beings do: Give a little so that you needn't give a lot. It tore just enough To no longer need to tear any further. Perhaps this is not so brilliant. Perhaps all things simply tear Until the force exerted cannot tear them anymore. Perhaps that is how we work too, And we only ascribe some sort of meaning To the fact that we stop tearing. Perhaps the very nature of being able to tear Includes within itself the inevitability Of not tearing anymore. Disheartening, maybe, Because it means that we are not the arbitrators of our defense, That resistance may be futile, And we need only allow our own microtears To dissipate the forces which barrage us To stop their onslaught. Empowering, maybe, Because the paper did not give all of itself, But only enough to allow itself to not be torn any more. How indestructible may we be, If we only drop our defenses a little? And yet, perhaps not, For it was only each half which succeeded. We mustn't forget our dear friend the 11" by 8", Which was torn asunder Even as his fragments held true. Some forces are just too strong.
0
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 2:34 AM UTC
zach-lubline
Microtears
Trying to rip a paper down the middle, Because I only need a half sheet. And as I'm ripping it, It does one of those little microtears by the hole punch, Where it tears away from the line that I'm trying to rip it at. You know, the thing where you're like, "Paper can't you just follow directions?" Picture it? Okay. It tore on either side of the hole punch. And for a moment, I reflected on how incredible that was. How beautiful the forces that move things are. You see, in trying to tear the paper along my little pre-folded line, I put pressure on both sides of the paper. Near the hole, that pressure became too much. In an instant, one side of the hole punch began to tear a little, And allowed for some of that pressure to be dissipated. But it wasn't enough in that instant, so the other side tore. By the time that both sides split, The pressure was no longer too much And it didn't tear any further. Though the paper is non-living, Let alone non-sentient, It follows the same doctrine that living beings do: Give a little so that you needn't give a lot. It tore just enough To no longer need to tear any further. Perhaps this is not so brilliant. Perhaps all things simply tear Until the force exerted cannot tear them anymore. Perhaps that is how we work too, And we only ascribe some sort of meaning To the fact that we stop tearing. Perhaps the very nature of being able to tear Includes within itself the inevitability Of not tearing anymore. Disheartening, maybe, Because it means that we are not the arbitrators of our defense, That resistance may be futile, And we need only allow our own microtears To dissipate the forces which barrage us To stop their onslaught. Empowering, maybe, Because the paper did not give all of itself, But only enough to allow itself to not be torn any more. How indestructible may we be, If we only drop our defenses a little? And yet, perhaps not, For it was only each half which succeeded. We mustn't forget our dear friend the 11" by 8", Which was torn asunder Even as his fragments held true. Some forces are just too strong.
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54
It's a sing-a-long, to some sacred, long-forgotten song. It's a late night discussion over dark beers about all the love that eluded, and all the albums that we wasted. It's a counter-culture night, playing Dylan's Highway 61 on vinyl amidst ribbons of incense, and blankets our grandmas made for us. It's blacking out from Zach's concoction of *** coke, and lime, only to wake to Rachel's black hair and amber eyes. It's finding joy in philosophical discussions, in coming up with novel terms for being drunk off our ***** in trying to make God make sense, in watching the sunrise at some breakfast diner. It's holding a newborn nephew, telling your sister you love her. It's realizing the sweetness of time, reminding yourself to stay alive, sipping on co-bought wine, developing love without clear rhyme. It's a gift without a why. It's a dream without an alarm clock. It's a kindness to which you must ascribe.
0
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 6:22 PM UTC
jj-hutton
The Pretty Things
It's a sing-a-long, to some sacred, long-forgotten song. It's a late night discussion over dark beers about all the love that eluded, and all the albums that we wasted. It's a counter-culture night, playing Dylan's Highway 61 on vinyl amidst ribbons of incense, and blankets our grandmas made for us. It's blacking out from Zach's concoction of *** coke, and lime, only to wake to Rachel's black hair and amber eyes. It's finding joy in philosophical discussions, in coming up with novel terms for being drunk off our ***** in trying to make God make sense, in watching the sunrise at some breakfast diner. It's holding a newborn nephew, telling your sister you love her. It's realizing the sweetness of time, reminding yourself to stay alive, sipping on co-bought wine, developing love without clear rhyme. It's a gift without a why. It's a dream without an alarm clock. It's a kindness to which you must ascribe.
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26
You shall, with vigor, face the days ahead. Speak words that are enriching like wine and bread. You shall, all your goals hit on first sight of aim. As success drives you safe into hall of fame. You shall, with African strength, be the Queen of your home Hold your family together with none to ever roam You shall touch a person, a people, even a tribe Ensuring all glory, to the Lord, you ascribe. You shall be celebrated by both family and stranger In your fears even enemies will keep you from danger You shall smile on hearing that you make others smile too And marvel when they show how the world, they think of you For a sign of assurance that these things will be You shall receive a special birthday prayer from me
0
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 1:49 PM UTC
crossyde
Birthday Prayer
You shall, with vigor, face the days ahead. Speak words that are enriching like wine and bread. You shall, all your goals hit on first sight of aim. As success drives you safe into hall of fame. You shall, with African strength, be the Queen of your home Hold your family together with none to ever roam You shall touch a person, a people, even a tribe Ensuring all glory, to the Lord, you ascribe. You shall be celebrated by both family and stranger In your fears even enemies will keep you from danger You shall smile on hearing that you make others smile too And marvel when they show how the world, they think of you For a sign of assurance that these things will be You shall receive a special birthday prayer from me
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14
Probably a symptom of something to ascribe internal suffering to an external horror. Creeping through my guts my hair standing on end the back of my neck prickling. My God I am crazy or I am haunted but by what has no name. I may be a liar and cold and that did indeed **** a barely born love. It is good that we could not continue as I was not forthcoming to you about the state of my soul. You would have had to endure my nightmares and my fears waking in a cold sweat. I do believe in evil having seen it firsthand dined with it in darkened rooms. And as sad as I am in the midst of my insanity there is not hope but vindication.
0
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 8:48 PM UTC
jon-daniel-shierling
PTSD For The Win
Probably a symptom of something to ascribe internal suffering to an external horror. Creeping through my guts my hair standing on end the back of my neck prickling. My God I am crazy or I am haunted but by what has no name. I may be a liar and cold and that did indeed **** a barely born love. It is good that we could not continue as I was not forthcoming to you about the state of my soul. You would have had to endure my nightmares and my fears waking in a cold sweat. I do believe in evil having seen it firsthand dined with it in darkened rooms. And as sad as I am in the midst of my insanity there is not hope but vindication.
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25
God made me human she was feeling capricious that day actually I was meant to be a frog green and certain, self contained content to simply squat and watch flick a sticky tongue at a passing bug observer of two worlds at home in both a leap-in-waiting able when need or impulse dictates to skedaddle with the nonchalance of a Buddha a gleam of green and gold glistening on a lily leaf or kerplunking into deep cool water Frog had I such toes such elegant legs I too could scrutinise the mysteries of pools, the undersides of lilypads do you wonder Frog whether there are other ponds do you dream a dream of elsewhere do you pause to peer skywards harbour a secret wish for wings ah, what may lie beyond your pool but perhaps I ascribe too much mystery to you Frog you simply are whilst I, I am stuck in wondering, trying to connect two worlds two realities **** **** the divine indifference Tricia Lambert 2010
0
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 5:07 PM UTC
tricia-lambert
ON A WHIM----
God made me human she was feeling capricious that day actually I was meant to be a frog green and certain, self contained content to simply squat and watch flick a sticky tongue at a passing bug observer of two worlds at home in both a leap-in-waiting able when need or impulse dictates to skedaddle with the nonchalance of a Buddha a gleam of green and gold glistening on a lily leaf or kerplunking into deep cool water Frog had I such toes such elegant legs I too could scrutinise the mysteries of pools, the undersides of lilypads do you wonder Frog whether there are other ponds do you dream a dream of elsewhere do you pause to peer skywards harbour a secret wish for wings ah, what may lie beyond your pool but perhaps I ascribe too much mystery to you Frog you simply are whilst I, I am stuck in wondering, trying to connect two worlds two realities **** **** the divine indifference Tricia Lambert 2010
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34
I find it rather funny what changes with time, yet it's also quite strange what remains the same. Though I have once claimed to know my own flames, I have still burned many things and been baffled by the pains. Though I know I used to say I wanted such in my every day, I must confess, I wish I knew of thy rancor, vile ire and ado. I once was puzzled, baffled, by the very thought, addled; that hasn't changed very much I fancy thy antics yet less than thy touch. Thou, who claim'th to be so selfless, who are so caught up, pitiful and helpless, bound by neurotic, insecure delusions; a harlot of Shadow, subconscious profusions. It is not of a person, but of an archetype within which I find inspiration to write, yet, I can't help but ascribe to it a name; a face to complete this linguistic game. I'm not upset, just motivated, I do not want this celebrated, yet here I sit, still dominated, evermore irked and captivated.
0
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 9:30 AM UTC
Anubis-the-Philosomancer
Irked and Captivated
I find it rather funny what changes with time, yet it's also quite strange what remains the same. Though I have once claimed to know my own flames, I have still burned many things and been baffled by the pains. Though I know I used to say I wanted such in my every day, I must confess, I wish I knew of thy rancor, vile ire and ado. I once was puzzled, baffled, by the very thought, addled; that hasn't changed very much I fancy thy antics yet less than thy touch. Thou, who claim'th to be so selfless, who are so caught up, pitiful and helpless, bound by neurotic, insecure delusions; a harlot of Shadow, subconscious profusions. It is not of a person, but of an archetype within which I find inspiration to write, yet, I can't help but ascribe to it a name; a face to complete this linguistic game. I'm not upset, just motivated, I do not want this celebrated, yet here I sit, still dominated, evermore irked and captivated.
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28
The colour red strewn through the rocks Iron rusting over years Untainted by The touch of man With exception of tourists Oils slowly eroding, but untouched By our prided advancements Miles of peaks attracting the world Though, still wild in the sense we define A refuge from the bustle of life We ascribe ourselves to At least to me, it is a place to be alone, to meditate With acres of trees, existing and feeling with them Pulling from their ancient wisdom To sit high upon a peak With notebook in hand and a pen in the other My only defense against the human condition Peering out as far as my feeble eyes will allow Clouds paint elegant watercolours With the rays of the sun Storms creating drama and feeling But I am above it all as Zarathustra was But I am compelled to return As was he, back to the hives of my birth To the city that Jack and his cohorts Loved so much, as do myself This place that has more sun Than the marketed beaches of paradise It may snow here, but that is the beauty of it all The variety of seasons, it is not all-arctic wasteland In the winter months One day I may be swathed in layers Against the cold, the next I can walk around open to the elements, What other place is the weather so differentiable? A couple hours’ drive and you can be In a winter wonderland or arid city An arctic paradise with acres of fresh powder That many do not take the time to sit, Just sit; in a supple seat. Perfectly formed to the contours of your body And look out; simply look out. At what is surround you; high above everything Too often do we become obsessed With the tiny oases of ski resorts And forget the solitude and beauty of its telos It’s not the resorts I love, But the mountains themselves; that is my attraction. A place to carve your own path, to find yourself This is my home, a sojourn for the Beaten As they traveled this country, for those on the trail settling from sea to shining sea Facing the fortress of rock, ice, and pine I may stray for spans of time, travel the word and sea, But I shall always come back to pay homage To the place that has sculpted me And given me sanctuary from society Colorado
0
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 12:40 PM UTC
kendall-mallon
Sojourn for the Beaten
The colour red strewn through the rocks Iron rusting over years Untainted by The touch of man With exception of tourists Oils slowly eroding, but untouched By our prided advancements Miles of peaks attracting the world Though, still wild in the sense we define A refuge from the bustle of life We ascribe ourselves to At least to me, it is a place to be alone, to meditate With acres of trees, existing and feeling with them Pulling from their ancient wisdom To sit high upon a peak With notebook in hand and a pen in the other My only defense against the human condition Peering out as far as my feeble eyes will allow Clouds paint elegant watercolours With the rays of the sun Storms creating drama and feeling But I am above it all as Zarathustra was But I am compelled to return As was he, back to the hives of my birth To the city that Jack and his cohorts Loved so much, as do myself This place that has more sun Than the marketed beaches of paradise It may snow here, but that is the beauty of it all The variety of seasons, it is not all-arctic wasteland In the winter months One day I may be swathed in layers Against the cold, the next I can walk around open to the elements, What other place is the weather so differentiable? A couple hours’ drive and you can be In a winter wonderland or arid city An arctic paradise with acres of fresh powder That many do not take the time to sit, Just sit; in a supple seat. Perfectly formed to the contours of your body And look out; simply look out. At what is surround you; high above everything Too often do we become obsessed With the tiny oases of ski resorts And forget the solitude and beauty of its telos It’s not the resorts I love, But the mountains themselves; that is my attraction. A place to carve your own path, to find yourself This is my home, a sojourn for the Beaten As they traveled this country, for those on the trail settling from sea to shining sea Facing the fortress of rock, ice, and pine I may stray for spans of time, travel the word and sea, But I shall always come back to pay homage To the place that has sculpted me And given me sanctuary from society Colorado
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57
I do not believe the universe is infinite science can explain many things and while I know my thoughts are nothing more than synapses firing connections being made neural sparks hormones flooding it is strange because I am thinking and at the same time I am aware of the chemical processes that are really thinking for me and my eyes well up with tears and my body betrays me I do not know what is truthful is infinity a real number, is there a curved steel wall surrounding our universe I think my thoughts and realize with a sense of dread that none of them are original we are the million monkeys at a million typewriters, except it's not one million, it's infinity we chance upon beauty, it is one in an infinity I am nothing more than a product a link in a chain a predicable formula I will not be that I refuse to be what you ascribe me to You think I will obey I most likely will Soul asunder Secret surrender
0
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 1:16 AM UTC
olivia-amelia
Infinity
I do not believe the universe is infinite science can explain many things and while I know my thoughts are nothing more than synapses firing connections being made neural sparks hormones flooding it is strange because I am thinking and at the same time I am aware of the chemical processes that are really thinking for me and my eyes well up with tears and my body betrays me I do not know what is truthful is infinity a real number, is there a curved steel wall surrounding our universe I think my thoughts and realize with a sense of dread that none of them are original we are the million monkeys at a million typewriters, except it's not one million, it's infinity we chance upon beauty, it is one in an infinity I am nothing more than a product a link in a chain a predicable formula I will not be that I refuse to be what you ascribe me to You think I will obey I most likely will Soul asunder Secret surrender
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23
can you feel me slowly dying as your hand lies out of reach my heart wilts, slowly melting hands numb and barely shaking i long to stare into your oceanic eyes but all i see are the white walls of my confines i wish i could tell you i'm sorry but i have no real excuse i simply play with hearts for the taking but i feel so much remorse could you hear my chest screaming or did you think it was mere laughter you look inside my demon eyes but can't see the love they hold for you only the carelessness and selfishness that you ascribe to me please let me say i'm sorry please know it was a mistake please understand it's only you that i want please let me hold your hand
0
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
mercy
can you feel me slowly dying
can you feel me slowly dying as your hand lies out of reach my heart wilts, slowly melting hands numb and barely shaking i long to stare into your oceanic eyes but all i see are the white walls of my confines i wish i could tell you i'm sorry but i have no real excuse i simply play with hearts for the taking but i feel so much remorse could you hear my chest screaming or did you think it was mere laughter you look inside my demon eyes but can't see the love they hold for you only the carelessness and selfishness that you ascribe to me please let me say i'm sorry please know it was a mistake please understand it's only you that i want please let me hold your hand
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23
The twisting and turning, grumbling, churning, elation, desperation and more. Reflexive minds compacting semiotics until an inevitable meaninglessness rears up in smugness. *"There is Nothing here. Nothing for you Nothing Of you. Nothing."* The mind begins again, fumbling, stumbling, eureka-ing, ambling, grasping and more. Reflexive minds compacting semiotics until an inevitable meaninglessness rears up in smugness. *"There is Nothing here. Nothing for you, Nothing Of you, Nothing."* The mind will not accept, that it, in it's biological supremacy, is simultaneously, Nothing. A joke. Some vapid expression of consciousness. The mind will only protect, that which it most values; Esteem. Reverence of it's own structure. The Marvel. A human, student, sales-assistant, a sister... ...Something? ...Anything?... *"There is Nothing here. Nothing for you, Nothing Of you, Nothing."* The mind is a tool, one of the most primitive. Natural selection adding accessories like some distasteful outfit. The mind means well. Aching to Justify, with inelegant adjectives, it's fondness of itself. Petrified of it's "Nothingness";   The wordlessness that conveys meaning no mind can ascribe to language. *"There is Nothing here. Nothing for you, Nothing Of you, Nothing."* please Stop mind. The thrashing and the squirming, stop flexing your Precocious Verbiage. just stop. . . allow Me to quell your convolution, using your own Pig English; you are unequivocally a  Thing. And, there IS Nothing here. And it is NOT For you. And it is not OF you. //It//Is//Nothing// you, Are a possession, I, the possessor. Therefore you, My most precious of things, Will never fathom Me. . *Because you are Something, and so, you are not.* But I am Nothing. For, I - am.
0
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 12:39 AM UTC
felixuniverse
You're Nothing.
The twisting and turning, grumbling, churning, elation, desperation and more. Reflexive minds compacting semiotics until an inevitable meaninglessness rears up in smugness. *"There is Nothing here. Nothing for you Nothing Of you. Nothing."* The mind begins again, fumbling, stumbling, eureka-ing, ambling, grasping and more. Reflexive minds compacting semiotics until an inevitable meaninglessness rears up in smugness. *"There is Nothing here. Nothing for you, Nothing Of you, Nothing."* The mind will not accept, that it, in it's biological supremacy, is simultaneously, Nothing. A joke. Some vapid expression of consciousness. The mind will only protect, that which it most values; Esteem. Reverence of it's own structure. The Marvel. A human, student, sales-assistant, a sister... ...Something? ...Anything?... *"There is Nothing here. Nothing for you, Nothing Of you, Nothing."* The mind is a tool, one of the most primitive. Natural selection adding accessories like some distasteful outfit. The mind means well. Aching to Justify, with inelegant adjectives, it's fondness of itself. Petrified of it's "Nothingness";   The wordlessness that conveys meaning no mind can ascribe to language. *"There is Nothing here. Nothing for you, Nothing Of you, Nothing."* please Stop mind. The thrashing and the squirming, stop flexing your Precocious Verbiage. just stop. . . allow Me to quell your convolution, using your own Pig English; you are unequivocally a  Thing. And, there IS Nothing here. And it is NOT For you. And it is not OF you. //It//Is//Nothing// you, Are a possession, I, the possessor. Therefore you, My most precious of things, Will never fathom Me. . *Because you are Something, and so, you are not.* But I am Nothing. For, I - am.
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56
I can't believe the **** that you repeat When a television program you've absorbed - Never thinking twice to ascribe Any facts to the gospels you espouse, Nor any reasoning for your emotive response.
0
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 12:55 PM UTC
Chaos
Is that so...?
I can't believe the **** that you repeat When a television program you've absorbed - Never thinking twice to ascribe Any facts to the gospels you espouse, Nor any reasoning for your emotive response.
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5