"ascribed" poems
If (WO)men are the ones that suffer an exacerbated amount
Of the violence, the **** the abuse, and everything that comes
with and from struggle and alienation;
it is because of their femininity that men at times
have come to believe that their contributions soften institutions.
That at times throughout history neither capitalism, neoliberalism nor revolutionary experiments like that of Cuba have placed femininity as compatible
with progress or resolution.
In which case femininity must be hidden, silenced, or displaced with no purpose or place to belong.
Thus everyone closely associated with this femininity such as homosexuals, transgendered (WO)men, and "effeminate" males, (ignoring, subverting and negating the lesbian identity because of their gender) have come to be marginalized by a structural system of exclusion.
(WO)men carrying the highest burden for originating the associative distinction
Homosexuals battling to find love by constantly having to assert their masculinity
Transgendered (Wo)men afraid of expressing their through identity.
Lesbians fighting to legitimize their own identity separate from the directives ascribed onto them by virtue of being born women.
Males who are labeled effeminate because of their sympathy toward those who struggle and are alienated.
And every other individual who refuses to deliver to give a marker to their identity and a degree to their femininity.
Hold fast in your femininity and embrace the rancor that society grants you
As a homosexual I speak with you brother and sister, not for you
Realize that our self-ascribed degrees of femininity and identity are as revolutionary and transformative, and thus necessary, as those of Che Guevara, Mohammed Ali, Harriet Tubman, or the Dali Lama.
That because we have decided to embrace our degrees of femininity, problematic to any movement, at one point or another, we have inadvertently decided to align our selves with those who are alienated the most by the systems in which they live.
So that in this way we must make our struggles deliberate and political. Let our degrees of femininity become legitimizing banners of solidarity for anyone who suffers in any corner of the world.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 12:48 AM UTC
The diverse assortment of enrapturing conviction
Is but cacophony to most other than me,
Discord to the passionate,
Defending concepts they find true
Clamor to the indifferent,
Those value peace and human happiness
Above factual correctness
For years they’ve all, with incessant attempts
Given their utmost to indoctrinate me,
The most easily swayed of all—
But I’ve found in the rupturing of the fervent,
All ideology, ethic, doctrine,
And in the serenity of the agreeably pacific
I’ve found faith, hope—I’m sure that’s my own,
Art is by no means meaningless, I find,
Especially so when inherent by human ability
And ascribed to this lyrical poem I’ve crafted
Consisting of what I, by my means, find true
Diverse conviction is beautiful.
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 11:48 AM UTC
What happened on Weehawken Heights,
that warm midsummer’s day?
There are several versions of the “truth”
but none for sure can say.
The Principals were both well known:
Hamilton and Burr.
Aaron Burr had made the challenge,
Hamilton would not demur.
Hamilton choose pistols as the weapons
Then Burr proposed the site.
Per the Irish Code Duello
It was all proper and right.
Dueling was illegal,
so the Seconds looked away
so they could plausibly deny
that they had seen the fray.
Each man walked off ten paces,
and Mister Pendleton yelled “Pre-sent”!
Most think that Hamilton fired first;
wide and right, his shot was spent.
Aaron Burr was deadly accurate:
His shot, its target found:
Alexander Hamilton, wounded,
swooned upon the ground.
“this wound is mortal, Doctor.”
was all Hamilton could say.
They bore him to the City where
he passed on the following day.
Aaron Burr also fled the scene,
evading prosecution.
He had “Full Satisfaction”,
this hero of the Revolution.
What is full satisfaction
when Burr’s Star was past its season?
He never more held public trust,
indeed, stood trial for treason.
A person can be haunted
by a ghost that none can see.
Burr’s brilliance had been blighted
by a sort of infamy.
Towards the end of his own life
Burr said of his enemy:
“{Had I known}The world was wide
enough for Hamilton and me.”
On July 11, 1804, Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr fought the most famous duel in American history. These two heroes of the Revolution were political enemies and Hamilton had done much to exclude Burr from the Presidency and from the New York governorship. Burr,feeling he had been defamed by Hamilton's published remarks demanded the "Full Satisfaction" of a duel. My account generally follows the account of the historian, Joesph Ellis. Any errors are my fault. Any items in quotes are words ascribed to these two famous individuals. Aaron Burr never after held public office and eventually stood trial for treason for his alleged attempt to set up an independent country in the territory Jefferson purchased from France. After several years living in France, Burr returned to New york where he faded into obscurity. Alexander Hamilton is buried in the churchyard of Trinity Church in downtown New york.
Towards the end of his life, Burr remarked: "Had I read Sterne more and Voltaire less, I should have known the world was wide enough for Hamilton and me."[35]
Jan 17, 2012
Jan 17, 2012 at 7:04 AM UTC
Oh this feeling, the way you make me feel
is naught but solid and true. Ever present,
and always makes me feel slightly delusional,
it sometimes falters, but is widely consistent.
Theres a shift in the weather, a difference in the air,
its something of a sweeter aroma, delightful to the senses.
Its calming, giving rise to these joyful fantasies, but they are
sometimes taken to far, so I keep them penned up behind fences.
There are adjectives plenty to describe you,
and many qualities can be ascribed to your name.
For your heart is golden, your words wise, your view
on life is positive and difficult to thoroughly maintain.
Your profound adoration for puppy, child, and rose
Is much to blame for my insane admiration of you.
Theres something about your personality that grows
increasingly in such favour of something within you thats true.
Ay, yes, Its true, theres something wonderful about you,
It sees me through the deepest swells when I am blue.
I could sit in your presence and be grieved by sorrowful news,
and still you'd bring me comfort, and remedy my bout of the blues.
Why do you hide away what beauty you possess,
don't flaunt it true, but please don't sequester it.
Make proud your heart in your beauty, as it pleases
the eye, and makes glad the soul who cherishes it.
I find myself laid low to the ground,
when your hand lowered extends out toward me.
I find myself happy and in the presence of love found
and in my arms, is the person who sees me free.
There is something in me that wants me to scream
nothing of pain and agony, but in joy and profound happiness.
For there is something in my life that whilst it may seem
temporary, is the permanent source of so much joyfulness.
Dec 11, 2012
Dec 11, 2012 at 7:58 AM UTC
i seem to only see three constellations in the night
sky these days... the modo -
it be the sign of: the age of scorpio,
there's but the big & little dipper (respectively)
º
º
º
º
º
º
º
do these people really need to be spoon fed?
the smaller dipper is akin to the big
dipper, hence to write in the other
and last constellation (minus that odd rhombus
without a name) -
and believe me when i say: orthodox
astrology doesn't agree with me:
º
º
º
º
º
º º
i guess i managed to draw the right
schematic,
besides the point, there are but
three constellations in the night sky
around here, and one is a revisionist take
on the scorpio...
**** you hippies, and your age of aquarius,
this is what a scorpion looks like,
and nothing what you've indicated,
i'm starting to think that astrologists
did poorly in geometry class...
but i'll end it on a positive note...
*there is more dignity in being ascribed an
epitaph, than being given a "proper" burial...*
and by "proper" i mean: the leech family
members waiting for inheritance,
the sycophantic actors of attendance -
throw me into a mass grave, i don't mind
for a "proper" burial...
there is no dignity in whatever burial
ensues as many will do...
but allow man to transcend
the date of birth ** / yy / zz
and the date of death zz / yy / **
with an epitaph...
however "wise" the man was in life,
his dignity only arrives postmortem,
in the form of an epitaph...
but one epitaph overshadows a thousand
quotable mentions of the man, when alive,
but one epitaph of a david,
overcomes the oeuvre of maxims of a goliath.
whatever argument for light pollution exists,
even when in the scottish highlands
i didn't see any more stars...
there are only three constellations in play
on the night sky,
and one of them is the genuine scorpio
constellation,
with the orthodox constellation being
bogus, fake, unnecessary...
i, i've spotted the constellation of scorpio,
and i did so: with my naked eyes!
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 8:21 PM UTC
before existentialism, and nietzsche in mind, philosophy was written
or spoken of accepting the socratic rigidity of words,
the rigidity of words known through
the socratic method of inquiry:
the simplest of questions imposed on
the meaning of words; e.g. what is virtue?
but with existentialism this old method
of inquiry, the poised posing bewilderment
lost its quality, in that the new method of
inquiry was given to stress not a method
of questioning but that of ambiguity,
even though this new method that simply
said the reverse of what is virtue as
the preservation of a narrative: "virtue" concedes
many variations exampled true, e.g. -
this dittoing going against - previously said /
as above - became staged against
a brick wall - since this method, the existential
method of brushing aside inquiry and entering
the realm of ambiguity was already present -
the pluralism of meaning found in certain words;
it isn't a question whether red or blue can
be ambiguous, this allocation of noun
and quality is all too pervasive - so when
an ambiguity is allowed to exercise its stressor
posit - the word in question is allocated
a verb orientation in its exercise of use and example,
further diluted by the quantity and lack of example,
and ascribed contorting
adjectivity due to the dilution of meaning: with lessened
recognition of sought out qualification to sentence
an enzymic perfection of: banker and philanthropist,
priest and maximilian kolbe, poetry and lack of envy.
even though these examples are idealistic,
they provide the obvious ambiguity already apparent,
hence the double ambiguity of opposites, ideal opposites.
in shorthand - if socrates were to come
upon reading existentialism - his questions
regarding the virtues would be bound to free floating
terms in the ditto bubbles of flimsiness of non-inquiry -
bewildered by the number of prompts to question,
there would be no necessary ambiguity to many other
terms of inactivity - such as the previously mentioned
red and blue, dog and glue, but too many, it would seem,
should a strict belief in categorising virtue as a noun
but not a verb be kept - for categorisation of such nature
only provides a linear cascade without due action
or cared for imitation - ending with the only chance of virtue
chanced and seen as an unvirtuous person
doing crossword puzzles in silence - and already
virtue's opposite is engaged in defending itself
and justifying its ills by first forcing many synonyms to
cover it in ambiguity, and asserting itself as an adjective
within a noun framework blunt: virtue v. unvirtuous
will only confiscate siamese phonetic mingling to ease the definition;
i guess that's how rhyming was born, the opposite
of alphabetical ordering: a, aardvark the violet's blue
****** a doughnut with you.
Sep 22, 2015
Sep 22, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
Higher;
higher still
touching the sky,
on towers of finite currency.
How long does it last,
what is it worth
to be a member
of the bourgeoisie.
Head above water,
just getting by
ascribed or achieved wealth,
still living a lie.
Wealth above others
a sacrificial chamber
not what it's portrayed to be
but filled with lust,
loss and danger.
Faces of dignitary,
Laugh as they're spent.
While you invest in the world
and compare what you rent.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 3:40 AM UTC
Frail demeanor of library index cards
packed with Dewey’s decimals
stared upon so many times
some of you stigmatized with graffiti
“Read This” and “Don’t Read This”
as if the vandal knows
I wish to ****** each one of you
good precise direction you give
care in punctilious hand print
of maimed athenaeum tenders
all with long stretched noses
bridging reading spectacles
eyeing out naughty gigglers
stigmatized themselves by
rolled up quaffs
with pushed in pencils
or retractable ballpoint pens
writing implements held so delicately
while you were ascribed
O index cards of my shielded youth
how you protected me, informed me
Guided me on treasure hunts
where my imaginings still take me
away, in isles of knowledge
information coded in numbers and letters
Yours is the power
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 8:21 AM UTC
Today through the desperate shouts of man our equality is defined as rain pours down like cries
Cries of those who died and still dying; cries of widowed eyes
Today we are all the same…everyone is prone to be soaked by the drops of truth resembling rain
And maybe we all feel the pain
But as the raging voices shout and scream, they are perpetually shattered by every single drop of sky
Every man is alone, today... every man on his own today…
The rich get richer devouring all our rights and confiscating all our sense of security and hope
And the poor get dumped in wells of their own regret; wells unlike the theatrical scenes do not include a savior or that miraculous rope
Genocides are no more Armenian alone, for death knows no nationality
And we stand here waiting for our time to end, accepting the methods of brutality
They've killed our minds, the children of our thought
They've killed our conscious and with money they bought
All the days we fear the unknown, and the unknown is not death for death is safe and obviously common
For death is known and sacred yet the informal is rotten
We are lost inside fake walls
And long halls
Loathing ourselves within those fake walls and longs halls
And the unknown follows us, it's high time we realize that it is the thing we despise
With all the deception of outer images, and human disguise
At least we still have an ascribed right, at least at some days
Today through the desperate shouts of man our equality is defined as rain pours down on our self inveterate ways….
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 5:07 PM UTC
I want to finger paint you against the sunset, encapsulating your beauty for a moment in time, enraptured by the glow of fading light
I want to catch your gaze as you laugh, your eyes alight with glee ascribed to the humor of something so seemingly mundane
I want to kiss you beneath the stars, each one singing a tale of long since forgotten lovers who have carved their paths below them
I want to hold you for endless minutes, the touch of your skin scorching into my memory the intimacy and intricacy of such fleeting embraces
You are divine essence in motion. You are ethereal.
Dec 13, 2021
Dec 13, 2021 at 9:02 PM UTC
I lay beside you at night and hear you breathe
measure the slow way your inhale fuels your exhale
I lay awake and wonder
what it might be like to lay in a bed without you there
Your hushed and heavy breathing
has become a rhythmic and haunting reminder of our union
Once bliss to my ears
the knowledge of never having to be alone
this night music haunts me now
I run all day
run from the reality of my anxiety
run from the feelings about us I don’t want to feel
I run all day
but when I lay next to you
I cannot escape the tearing longing to be elsewhere
I have seen what my eyes were not meant to know
I have tasted a fruit that leaves all other food bitter in my mouth
I must eat and drink of our love
the sustenance to which I ascribed myself in matrimony
But now I lay beside you and hunger and thirst for another life
the rough bonds of our union chaffing against my flesh
cutting into my heart with tough circles
and tight knots
When the silence comes
I hear your breathing
and I fear these bonds will strangle me
shudder at the pressing doubt
that these coils will ever again feel like security
With the sun I dream of futures for myself
I busy myself with tasks and assignments
goals and lists
appointments and responsibilities
so much that on good days
I can almost forget that I am bound
Yet every night the rising moon signals me
I must return “home”
the place we now share and call ours
jabbing at me that I am not my own
I will never again be my own
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 6:37 PM UTC
Like a bouncing putty, I can still bounce.
Look at me, I can dance.
I am not drunk,
Just only a bit tipsy,
I am chemically off balance!
From roses to doses,
They did, they do and are done watering roses with alcohol.
Since I was conceived my blood is that much of methanol and that disturbs my devotion.
She had turned her womb, my temporary home into an ocean of *****
From which i was swimming in whisky,
As much as this is risky, I was sleeping on bedrums.
At times I woul'd feel drums booming such that my heart skips beats,
But still pump methanol, my source of oxygen.
She had turned her womb into a savannah biome,
My life was dry but still i survived.
What a beautiful galaxy within which I existed?
Made of Heineken stars and clip drift ropes,
That keeps on drifting and leaves me tipsy!
Like a bouncing putty, I can still bounce.
Look at me, I can dance.
I am not drunk,
Just only a bit tipsy,
I am chemically off balance!
I wonder if Black labels is the reason i am black?
If my birth in autumn would be ascribed to autumn harvest?
Only lucky Brandy is my name, rather than smin off spin.
Like a stranger in his own element,
For my first foot steps I waddled, twisted and turned.
For my first blood test, mother came back in mascara ***** tears
Not because I was positive neither negative but alcoholic.
my blood is invalid, that is the product of the woman in *****
Like a bouncing putty, i can still bounce.
Look at me, I can dance.
I am not drunk,
Just only a bit tipsy,
I am chemically off balance!
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 9:56 AM UTC
Its just ink.
Though I lay it down
They say I lay it down
From the depth of my inner
To the facade of my smile
Matters not if in the end its just ink
From the thick of its grip
No gripe that it fits
Its said I laid it down
God knows I ache from its motion
But crushed I am that in the end its just ink
I think of all the glamour
Inhale every scent she wears
Tear apart my heart to get the darkest crimson
Mix it in the well, they say I's lays it down
Brand it in my skin. But to her its just ink
Its a link, a moment of some progress
The greatest of our progress.
She said I laid it down, but we both shared the crown
And though just a granule on the shore
An annual creed of "Adore", not sure
Why its just ink
We watched the moon sink behind violent waters
Every night from the window, broken clouds soar with loud hues of pink and purple
Not every moment is a high hurdle to scale, its why the pen sets sail,ill will, I lay that down
Good moments are grand ones, so why those ascribed only known as just ink?
Just think.
A past where ballads were written on the battle fields
Pledge our allegiance now to a flag that waved under duress
Love stands grander a chance by that test
A scream is like cannons while a tear is like bullets
Hit the page and leave holes. I bared arms now I lay them down. These wounds no longer just ink.
-Xin-
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 11:32 AM UTC
Responsible for nothing why don't we fade
into oblivion together, draining the shame
ascribed to our names with the gaze of
the all-important outside eye?
Why don't we fall back from the game we play
when each move we make causes pain?
I am Not.
Never and Non.
Lost.
Troubled and Gone.
I am Not.
Never and Non.
Forever all,
Always for nothing
Til I'm troubled and gone.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 5:57 AM UTC
my whole life, i have ascribed my identity to feelings
rather than concrete items and ideas.
i have been made up on abstract whim-thoughts
this presents, as you may believe, unstable ground
i would like, more than anything else, to have an idea as to the person i am.
i pick people apart like a vulture and steal their personality traits
to badly pass them off as my own.
i have no confidence that the person i am in this moment
typing this anything-but poem,
will be the person i am next year, when i forget about writing down my words and letting the world in on my secrets.
i have assigned my many fleeting names to colors, videos, a collection of short stories
but never a permanent solution
and now, i sit at a crossroad
and beg to be hit by a passing vehicle
i am a student who tries, i am an artist and a writer, i am a best friend, a girlfriend, a human being who is present in every day life.
i am not the color yellow, or the myth of the angel, i am a small girl with very tired eyes and even more tired ideas
its typical to lose sight of who you are
but i have never once had a clue as to who this soul is
i have spent most of my life pretending to be other things
feeling "real" is just as foreign as any other emotion
when theres no "real" to fall back on.
i, unfortunately, am trapped in a mind of someone who has woken from a long nap
i wander disillusioned, answering to the description of hopelessness like a nickname.
this adapted persona,
if it is, indeed, a persona,
is different in a dissociated sense.
my fear and inability to take action and base my personality off of someone else
gives me implications that,
halfway through high school,
i may finally be on a path to understanding who it is i am.
i was told that you start developing a concrete personality
at the age when you're old enough to understand words and make coherent sentences.
who would have guessed that,
at sixteen,
i am just opening my eyes and understanding words i would have previously thought so common?
if this person is who i am stuck with,
and it has taken me so long to figure it out
based on a time slowing curse
i will continue to learn that i am not made up of feelings and thoughts
but up of the art of continually creating myself
and asking myself is this life of not knowing,
of guessing,
of trial-and-error and discovering unheard of mysteries
better than a dinner-plate life planned out in front of you?
i guess i will never know
or, maybe i will.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 5:55 PM UTC
For her sundered from space and time
at the dawn of phenomenon,
not the little pettinesses of our world:
and
a portal to the unknown beyond -
the sky flaming red at dusk,
still in the lake the late summer hill
little a bloom in the bush hidden,
even shy a smile devoid of guile,
little every joy here;
Thought they,
faint of heart she was:
but every swoon carried her across
the world of the river of lights
In Her presence dawned on this
forlorn our earth -
Beauty since the beginning of time
exuberant in the hills
in the plumes and vales
and in the cruel hearts of men;
And grandeur, of the kind
unbeknown before, as the king
her father sewed up an empire vast;
And perfection in works
unknown before -
in every weave and hew;
All that men ascribed to her
father the great.
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 5:37 PM UTC
poetry masquerades under too much
freedom of ineffective
politics, which it does not which to
engage with, namely it's own:
far-left mummification,
the far left mummified its heroes,
the far right cremated theirs...
one took the route to
Prometheus absence as subsequent
lack of camp-fire eagerly hell-bent;
what truth is woman? the woman worthy
of socio-political affairs, or affairs
of paranoid idealism signature sentenced
as counter-argument with haircut stylistics
and tattooing? a healthy visible status,
rather than an unhealthy counter, status
or no status, one ascribed the guillotine phobia,
the second a necessary Buddhist heroism -
both left reward-lost: dream of troll maidens,
dream of perfected bedroom antics with
so much **** reducing acting to naught
and theatre to desperation with the ignited
insignia of bureaucracy rather than
bored harpsichord rebels hash tagging
emily davison for bets and awareness in having
monopoly - of her beauty i'll speak but little,
am i the shopkeeper, the merchant,
easier under the Niqab than for her fancy of ******
taking place... dreadlocks un-kept,
and three signatures on lips that made kissing
a pain... removed, thus revenged...
if i knew woman i'd have kept one...
but since i know none, i kept cats, bypassing women
and imagining children; and all the better
for my liking, such that the world shrunk
to the size of Lichtenstein - oh but the few
buttered friendships are there to be spoken off
in old age... the few that remain have already leveraged you
to bite the worm closest to the heart,
in times when educating yourself equated itself to being shamed;
when education became shame and trivia quizzing,
when education became Latin bulimia
and even that didn't fertilise the earth to spawn
the awaiting, unearthed root for what came to be
known as the chattering colour: as death stood,
in its wintry palace, jokingly mannequin.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 8:31 PM UTC
Papa,
Had you held her,
She'd be the death
Of you.
We see it
In her lineage,
Which we
Ascribed to you.
Eons of Irish tribes
Coverge in her
Blood lines;
She is like
The ripening fruit
That cures and makes
Fine wine.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 11:35 AM UTC
Words and sentences
I hear are mine;
I won't cite you,
It's not a crime;
Yet you may read
Your words in rhyme,
And see my name
Ascribed as author.
I don't profer
One excuse:
Switching phrases
In our pockets.
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
planetarium drifts across the black
rotation of stars changing position
soft roar, a jet lifts
red light blinks into the distance
unseen southern cross
below the horizon at this hour of evening
cooler air of floating leaves
satellites drift on mapped orbits
tiny connections
govern all in this darkness
major explosion
invented & recorded with the silence of
space junk polluting frontiers
the vacuum of nothingness
plane gone
different land nearing
other meanings ascribed to night
gods & other beings of fiction
trap & trick & bear false influence
dark again in a northern land
planets emerge with their sparkling colours
full moon
ceremony of paper lanterns lifting heavenly
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 8:12 PM UTC
King Richard and his honor guard
saw advantage slip away.
Northumberland betrayed his king
and stayed out of the fray.
King Richard spied his rival's arms
on Bosworth field that day.
Lord Stanley on the sidelines stood
as if in Richmond's pay.
Richmond did not care to fight.
His men struck Richard down.
They stabbed at him repeatedly
till blood royal soaked the ground.
The battered and contested crown
-found in a thornbush there
-was placed on Henry Tudor's head.
as Henry knelt in prayer.
The naked body of his foe
was tied across an ***
Had ever a King of England
been so dishonored once he'd passed?
Two princes of the House of York
were in the Tower Lodged
Their deaths ascribed to Richard's hands
the truth- known but to God.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 6:18 PM UTC
There’s too much light
deluge of photons
an affront to Night’s ambiance
Harsh sulfur streetlight glow:
trickery. illuminating
arteries of Artificial
making the Night
dull dark distant
confined to human construct
robbing Mystery
masking subtlety
devouring nature
the Immensity
the Antiquity
the Beauty of Stars: gone
Lost
blotted out
by buzzing wasp’s nest
Denizens’ sting
to eyes & minds
inflaming consciousness
no longer can you Feel
small and lost
under the grandeur of nocturnal sky
all is set
before you
here to there
Elsewhere to home
Home?
Sleep in Darkness?
listening & thinking
‘til sleep succumbs
No, now rather
befalling Sickly
pallor of computer glow
we stare with blinders
all else fading
save the screen
before us
******* us in
trapping us
excising thoughts
keeping us
from ourselves
that is why we fill the night
Out of fear. To hide
but not from monsters
nor from ghosts goblins gremlins ghouls
not from lurking eldritch terror of yore
but from ourselves
from Feeling and Being
for fear of perceiving
tactile intuition in the air
of what lies ahead rather than seeing
for fear of walking by ourselves
just ourselves with unencumbered thoughts
and seeing through the facade
the facade of daytime ascribed meanings
the facade of of who we are
the facade of light
The facade that Darkness
is what is lacking
that light is normality
That light is beauty
light is hope
light is life
but it’s just that
a Facade
we plastered ourselves: an Illusion
But there’s truth
at Night and under stars
truth in the sensation of dusky hours
Artistry in ink
the allure of “unknown”
feeling small and lost
Under soft Milky Way
floating over dew laden grass
caressed by cool currents
There’s Truth
& Beauty
in the Night
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC
When I find the girl of my dreams
She needn't be gallant not supreme.
Neither must she be
Pristine and part of the scene.
She does not have to be
Just like me.
My dream girl might be many things, with many traits ascribed to her,
But I only need her
To be one very special thing.
Mine, for now and forever.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 8:25 PM UTC
There is no such thing as life!
Not as it is made out to be anyway- something different.
Life! it's merely a label ascribed to aggregation of little particles.
That is what the sum total of all human drama is,
in the annals of human history, like both, a movement of a whole people
to get rid of ******* fascism, or the struggle of one person
to get rid of bowel movement - seemed like a good idea in the darkness
but with dawning of light, comes back to bite you in the *** -
just aggregates of little particles aggregating in different ways,
evolving to make a better aggregate,
War is a part of this – for a better aggregate, so is Love.
Why not a selfish materialistic weasel be then? Some ask,
After all it would not matter if I were to risk being heroic, would it!
Aye! it would not matter. But then, so also doesn't failure,
complete utter – never finding a lover – failure.
It simply does not matter, so why not?! Why not try?
Why not go up, or down if you will, in a blaze of glory.
You really have no excuse, not to scale your summit,
not to awe every moment of your so-called life.
When your story is finally writ, before your pyre lit,
the only question for the coins will be
Did that stiff ever say **** it and then awesome it?
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 10:24 AM UTC
this is where i was supposed to tell you
(what I was going to say)
i guess you know now that I didn't
because if I had told you these last few lines would have rhymed
would have been details into the synonyms my heart has ascribed to your name
this is where i was supposed to give in and admit
what all my little footnotes of blushes really mean
that i really wouldn't mind it if you kissed me
this is where i was supposed to tell the truth
but all i can write are lies
because this is where i'm terrified
terrified that somehow you'll read this and know
even though i didn't say anything at all
this is where i beg myself to let myself say just one little thing
just one little anecdote, just one little truth, please?
this is where i was supposed to open my own file
and read what my subconscious wrote
this is where I stay in stasis
this is where i erase this
backspace.
Mar 8, 2010
Mar 8, 2010 at 6:25 PM UTC