Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
As bronze may be much beautified
By lying in the dark damp soil,
So men who fade in dust of warfare fade
Fairer, and sorrow blooms their soul.

Like pearls which noble women wear
And, tarnishing, awhile confide
Unto the old salt sea to feed,
Many return more lustrous than they were.

But what of them buried profound,
Buried where we can no more find.
Who ( )
Lie dark for ever under abysmal war?
(C) Wilfred Owen
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2019
Spring upon the rose and live on the flow
delve into the fragrance goes full tilt
on the petals never gone with the wind.

Let it be like it's without a form
without a visual show,
let's not forget the truth
even in a pitch dark invisible mo
the moon puts up a show.
And believe it or not that all round sweet spot
artistic paragon paradise could be the next stop.

The butterfly paradise slips out to fly
wafts into the enduring scent of a paint so bold.
Lo, on its picturesque wings it has all the eyeballs
where does it reach out to no one knows.
It's on the other side of the pool
only the Queen Fathima knows that sweet spot!

Any pause is deadly heavy-handed on that route
death is no more is totally unknown,
and time is rife for beauteous eye on for good!
If only one can hold to their eyeballs
all that walk on that secret alleyways of God!

Oh, they flower in the fire
and dip into the sea in a drop of water
pan out to the other world within the world.
This time Moses resists is for the open eyes
peep over the burnt Mount Sinai.
Gaze on wearing the burnt kohl - the shady
pollens down the Ultimate Burning Beauty!

When it's live in the true terra incognita
could be over the paradise's rainbow
the one truth seekers most sought after show
before long the rest may fade into kohl. 
Godsent beautified feminine paragon Fathima
leads lifting the black screen off the bat casts a gaze
from each of her never-blurred myriad fractal pixels.
All in all even the never known pi digits in totto
soak up in the one true description of realty show!

Be en-route, it's only the chosen eyes' wonder show
the handsome swans in paradise are on their toes.
skbmart Nov 2013
Aara Priyanka Chopra Beige Net Saree. This bollywood wedding saree is beautified with resham thread embroidery on pallu portion and panels of the saree.Shimmer embroidered patch patti is placed at border of the saree add extra beauty to the saree. Blouse pattern shown in image is only for photo shoot purpose. Ara Priyanka Chopra Beige net Saree color of the product may differ from that shown on your computer screen. Aara Priyanka Chopra Beige Net Saree difference in color is mostly due to flash, monitor or camera settings. The images shown are only for you
skbmart Nov 2013
Aara Priyanka Chopra Beige Net Saree. This bollywood wedding saree is beautified with resham thread embroidery on pallu portion and panels of the saree.Shimmer embroidered patch patti is placed at border of the saree add extra beauty to the saree. Blouse pattern shown in image is only for photo shoot purpose. Ara Priyanka Chopra Beige net Saree color of the product may differ from that shown on your computer screen. Aara Priyanka Chopra Beige Net Saree difference in color is mostly due to flash, monitor or camera settings. The images shown are only for reference.
Now when the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared,
Alcinous and Ulysses both rose, and Alcinous led the way to the
Phaecian place of assembly, which was near the ships. When they got
there they sat down side by side on a seat of polished stone, while
Minerva took the form of one of Alcinous’ servants, and went round the
town in order to help Ulysses to get home. She went up to the
citizens, man by man, and said, “Aldermen and town councillors of
the Phaeacians, come to the assembly all of you and listen to the
stranger who has just come off a long voyage to the house of King
Alcinous; he looks like an immortal god.”
  With these words she made them all want to come, and they flocked to
the assembly till seats and standing room were alike crowded. Every
one was struck with the appearance of Ulysses, for Minerva had
beautified him about the head and shoulders, making him look taller
and stouter than he really was, that he might impress the Phaecians
favourably as being a very remarkable man, and might come off well
in the many trials of skill to which they would challenge him. Then,
when they were got together, Alcinous spoke:
  “Hear me,” said he, “aldermen and town councillors of the
Phaeacians, that I may speak even as I am minded. This stranger,
whoever he may be, has found his way to my house from somewhere or
other either East or West. He wants an escort and wishes to have the
matter settled. Let us then get one ready for him, as we have done for
others before him; indeed, no one who ever yet came to my house has
been able to complain of me for not speeding on his way soon enough.
Let us draw a ship into the sea—one that has never yet made a voyage-
and man her with two and fifty of our smartest young sailors. Then
when you have made fast your oars each by his own seat, leave the ship
and come to my house to prepare a feast. I will find you in
everything. I am giving will these instructions to the young men who
will form the crew, for as regards you aldermen and town
councillors, you will join me in entertaining our guest in the
cloisters. I can take no excuses, and we will have Demodocus to sing
to us; for there is no bard like him whatever he may choose to sing
about.”
  Alcinous then led the way, and the others followed after, while a
servant went to fetch Demodocus. The fifty-two picked oarsmen went
to the sea shore as they had been told, and when they got there they
drew the ship into the water, got her mast and sails inside her, bound
the oars to the thole-pins with twisted thongs of leather, all in
due course, and spread the white sails aloft. They moored the vessel a
little way out from land, and then came on shore and went to the house
of King Alcinous. The outhouses, yards, and all the precincts were
filled with crowds of men in great multitudes both old and young;
and Alcinous killed them a dozen sheep, eight full grown pigs, and two
oxen. These they skinned and dressed so as to provide a magnificent
banquet.
  A servant presently led in the famous bard Demodocus, whom the
muse had dearly loved, but to whom she had given both good and evil,
for though she had endowed him with a divine gift of song, she had
robbed him of his eyesight. Pontonous set a seat for him among the
guests, leaning it up against a bearing-post. He hung the lyre for him
on a peg over his head, and showed him where he was to feel for it
with his hands. He also set a fair table with a basket of victuals
by his side, and a cup of wine from which he might drink whenever he
was so disposed.
  The company then laid their hands upon the good things that were
before them, but as soon as they had had enough to eat and drink,
the muse inspired Demodocus to sing the feats of heroes, and more
especially a matter that was then in the mouths of all men, to wit,
the quarrel between Ulysses and Achilles, and the fierce words that
they heaped on one another as they gat together at a banquet. But
Agamemnon was glad when he heard his chieftains quarrelling with one
another, for Apollo had foretold him this at Pytho when he crossed the
stone floor to consult the oracle. Here was the beginning of the
evil that by the will of Jove fell both Danaans and Trojans.
  Thus sang the bard, but Ulysses drew his purple mantle over his head
and covered his face, for he was ashamed to let the Phaeacians see
that he was weeping. When the bard left off singing he wiped the tears
from his eyes, uncovered his face, and, taking his cup, made a
drink-offering to the gods; but when the Phaeacians pressed
Demodocus to sing further, for they delighted in his lays, then
Ulysses again drew his mantle over his head and wept bitterly. No
one noticed his distress except Alcinous, who was sitting near him,
and heard the heavy sighs that he was heaving. So he at once said,
“Aldermen and town councillors of the Phaeacians, we have had enough
now, both of the feast, and of the minstrelsy that is its due
accompaniment; let us proceed therefore to the athletic sports, so
that our guest on his return home may be able to tell his friends
how much we surpass all other nations as boxers, wrestlers, jumpers,
and runners.”
  With these words he led the way, and the others followed after. A
servant hung Demodocus’s lyre on its peg for him, led him out of the
cloister, and set him on the same way as that along which all the
chief men of the Phaeacians were going to see the sports; a crowd of
several thousands of people followed them, and there were many
excellent competitors for all the prizes. Acroneos, Ocyalus, Elatreus,
Nauteus, Prymneus, Anchialus, Eretmeus, Ponteus, Proreus, Thoon,
Anabesineus, and Amphialus son of Polyneus son of Tecton. There was
also Euryalus son of Naubolus, who was like Mars himself, and was
the best looking man among the Phaecians except Laodamas. Three sons
of Alcinous, Laodamas, Halios, and Clytoneus, competed also.
  The foot races came first. The course was set out for them from
the starting post, and they raised a dust upon the plain as they all
flew forward at the same moment. Clytoneus came in first by a long
way; he left every one else behind him by the length of the furrow
that a couple of mules can plough in a fallow field. They then
turned to the painful art of wrestling, and here Euryalus proved to be
the best man. Amphialus excelled all the others in jumping, while at
throwing the disc there was no one who could approach Elatreus.
Alcinous’s son Laodamas was the best boxer, and he it was who
presently said, when they had all been diverted with the games, “Let
us ask the stranger whether he excels in any of these sports; he seems
very powerfully built; his thighs, claves, hands, and neck are of
prodigious strength, nor is he at all old, but he has suffered much
lately, and there is nothing like the sea for making havoc with a man,
no matter how strong he is.”
  “You are quite right, Laodamas,” replied Euryalus, “go up to your
guest and speak to him about it yourself.”
  When Laodamas heard this he made his way into the middle of the
crowd and said to Ulysses, “I hope, Sir, that you will enter
yourself for some one or other of our competitions if you are
skilled in any of them—and you must have gone in for many a one
before now. There is nothing that does any one so much credit all
his life long as the showing himself a proper man with his hands and
feet. Have a try therefore at something, and banish all sorrow from
your mind. Your return home will not be long delayed, for the ship
is already drawn into the water, and the crew is found.”
  Ulysses answered, “Laodamas, why do you taunt me in this way? my
mind is set rather on cares than contests; I have been through
infinite trouble, and am come among you now as a suppliant, praying
your king and people to further me on my return home.”
  Then Euryalus reviled him outright and said, “I gather, then, that
you are unskilled in any of the many sports that men generally delight
in. I suppose you are one of those grasping traders that go about in
ships as captains or merchants, and who think of nothing but of
their outward freights and homeward cargoes. There does not seem to be
much of the athlete about you.”
  “For shame, Sir,” answered Ulysses, fiercely, “you are an insolent
fellow—so true is it that the gods do not grace all men alike in
speech, person, and understanding. One man may be of weak presence,
but heaven has adorned this with such a good conversation that he
charms every one who sees him; his honeyed moderation carries his
hearers with him so that he is leader in all assemblies of his
fellows, and wherever he goes he is looked up to. Another may be as
handsome as a god, but his good looks are not crowned with discretion.
This is your case. No god could make a finer looking fellow than you
are, but you are a fool. Your ill-judged remarks have made me
exceedingly angry, and you are quite mistaken, for I excel in a
great many athletic exercises; indeed, so long as I had youth and
strength, I was among the first athletes of the age. Now, however, I
am worn out by labour and sorrow, for I have gone through much both on
the field of battle and by the waves of the weary sea; still, in spite
of all this I will compete, for your taunts have stung me to the
quick.”
  So he hurried up without even taking his cloak off, and seized a
disc, larger, more massive and much heavier than those used by the
Phaeacians when disc-throwing among themselves. Then, swinging it
back, he threw it from his brawny hand, and it made a humming sound in
the air as he did so. The Phaeacians quailed beneath the rushing of
its flight as it sped gracefully from his hand, and flew beyond any
mark that had been made yet. Minerva, in the form of a man, came and
marked the place where it had fallen. “A blind man, Sir,” said she,
“could easily tell your mark by groping for it—it is so far ahead
of any other. You may make your mind easy about this contest, for no
Phaeacian can come near to such a throw as yours.”
  Ulysses was glad when he found he had a friend among the lookers-on,
so he began to speak more pleasantly. “Young men,” said he, “come up
to that throw if you can, and I will throw another disc as heavy or
even heavier. If anyone wants to have a bout with me let him come
on, for I am exceedingly angry; I will box, wrestle, or run, I do
not care what it is, with any man of you all except Laodamas, but
not with him because I am his guest, and one cannot compete with one’s
own personal friend. At least I do not think it a prudent or a
sensible thing for a guest to challenge his host’s family at any game,
especially when he is in a foreign country. He will cut the ground
from under his own feet if he does; but I make no exception as regards
any one else, for I want to have the matter out and know which is
the best man. I am a good hand at every kind of athletic sport known
among mankind. I am an excellent archer. In battle I am always the
first to bring a man down with my arrow, no matter how many more are
taking aim at him alongside of me. Philoctetes was the only man who
could shoot better than I could when we Achaeans were before Troy
and in practice. I far excel every one else in the whole world, of
those who still eat bread upon the face of the earth, but I should not
like to shoot against the mighty dead, such as Hercules, or Eurytus
the Cechalian-men who could shoot against the gods themselves. This in
fact was how Eurytus came prematurely by his end, for Apollo was angry
with him and killed him because he challenged him as an archer. I
can throw a dart farther than any one else can shoot an arrow. Running
is the only point in respect of which I am afraid some of the
Phaecians might beat me, for I have been brought down very low at sea;
my provisions ran short, and therefore I am still weak.”
  They all held their peace except King Alcinous, who began, “Sir,
we have had much pleasure in hearing all that you have told us, from
which I understand that you are willing to show your prowess, as
having been displeased with some insolent remarks that have been
made to you by one of our athletes, and which could never have been
uttered by any one who knows how to talk with propriety. I hope you
will apprehend my meaning, and will explain to any be one of your
chief men who may be dining with yourself and your family when you get
home, that we have an hereditary aptitude for accomplishments of all
kinds. We are not particularly remarkable for our boxing, nor yet as
wrestlers, but we are singularly fleet of foot and are excellent
sailors. We are extremely fond of good dinners, music, and dancing; we
also like frequent changes of linen, warm baths, and good beds, so
now, please, some of you who are the best dancers set about dancing,
that our guest on his return home may be able to tell his friends
how much we surpass all other nations as sailors, runners, dancers,
minstrels. Demodocus has left his lyre at my house, so run some one or
other of you and fetch it for him.”
  On this a servant hurried off to bring the lyre from the king’s
house, and the nine men who had been chosen as stewards stood forward.
It was their business to manage everything connected with the
sports, so they made the ground smooth and marked a wide space for the
dancers. Presently the servant came back with Demodocus’s lyre, and he
took his place in the midst of them, whereon the best young dancers in
the town began to foot and trip it so nimbly that Ulysses was
delighted with the merry twinkling of their feet.
  Meanwhile the bard began to sing the loves of Mars and Venus, and
how they first began their intrigue in the house of Vulcan. Mars
made Venus many presents, and defiled King Vulcan’s marriage bed, so
the sun, who saw what they were about, told Vulcan. Vulcan was very
angry when he heard such dreadful news, so he went to his smithy
brooding mischief, got his great anvil into its place, and began to
forge some chains which none could either unloose or break, so that
they might stay there in that place. When he had finished his snare he
went into his bedroom and festooned the bed-posts all over with chains
like cobwebs; he also let many hang down from the great beam of the
ceiling. Not even a god could see them, so fine and subtle were
they. As soon as he had spread the chains all over the bed, he made as
though he were setting out for the fair state of Lemnos, which of
all places in the world was the one he was most fond of. But Mars kept
no blind look out, and as soon as he saw him start, hurried off to his
house, burning with love for Venus.
  Now Venus was just come in from a visit to her father Jove, and
was about sitting down when Mars came inside the house, an said as
he took her hand in his own, “Let us go to the couch of Vulcan: he
is not at home, but is gone off to Lemnos among the Sintians, whose
speech is barbarous.”
  She was nothing loth, so they went to the couch to take their
rest, whereon they were caught in the toils which cunning Vulcan had
spread for them, and could neither get up nor stir hand or foot, but
found too late that they were in a trap. Then Vulcan came up to
them, for he had turned back before reaching Lemnos, when his scout
the sun told him what was going on. He was in a furious passion, and
stood in the vestibule making a dreadful noise as he shouted to all
the gods.
  “Father Jove,” he cried, “and all you other blessed gods who live
for ever, come here and see the ridiculous and disgraceful sight
that I will show you. Jove’s daughter Venus is always dishonouring
me because I am lame. She is in love with Mars, who is handsome and
clean built, whereas I am a *******—but my parents are to blame for
that, not I; they ought never to have begotten me. Come and see the
pair together asleep on my bed. It makes me furious to look at them.
They are very fond of one another, but I do not think they will lie
there longer than they can help, nor do I think that they will sleep
much; there, however, they shall stay till her father has repaid me
the sum I gave him for his baggage of a daughter, who is fair but
not honest.”
  On this the gods gathered to the **
Alexander  K OPICHO
(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)

from north in Kaduna  of Okigbo to south in the Rhoben Island
of Mazizi Kunene and D M Zwelonke who sang the song of Shaka;
in Zulu Heroism that beautified our face in the armpit of Ezkia Mphalele,
the sons of Africa in the knighthood of poetry,chantery and incantations
you are hailed with with glory and dignity for your service to humanity
your service to literature and gods of poetry in the spirit of the song
that we chant in the spirit of love and peace the glory of hour heritage
is an eyesore to the lazy ; who though ill will can stop the flow of African river,

Sing our songs and chant our spirituals as you write our poems
open your poetic ***** for the world is a ******
in which the seed of African poetry will plummet and flower
to glory of man the essence of Godliness,

Let Soyinka and Achebe sing our songs without fear of home
As Okot P' Btek  revamps from the ashes like a phoenix
to re-plant the bumpkin in the old homestead of Taban Lo Liyong
Who sang the cacotpic song in the dystopia of black diaspora
when he saw another ****** dead in the guest for Nocturnes of Senghor
who feared  Marxist poetry and African songs which Aime Cesaire chanted
in the mayoralty of Paris.
I went into this with
eyes and thighs
wide open.

I cannot sanitise my position
My legs astride
Your waist.

I cannot analyse our predicament
I sympathise truly
With her.

But, this affair started together
both to blame
no shame.

I'm beautified by your attention
Call it love
I'm mystified.

I only know I cannot
I will not
Give up.

I'm sorry that you're married
as am I
that's life.

Or is it oversimplified lust?
just never leave
I'd vaporise.

But, before we go back
to our partners
glide inside.

Again.
© JLB
Her soul is tainted in a dark mystifying mist.
While her body is lightened and beautified by a warm cooling mist
liakey Oct 2021
absent from my life,
but dancing forever in my mind.

preserved perfectly:
idealized and beautified,
immortal, god-like.

wanting to let go,
yet holding on too tight.

memories, exaggerated:
they haunt me,
notoriously unreliable.

close my eyes;
take me back in time…
before I was bloodied by his arrow.
Rewrite of “?”
I plucked a shamrock for him,
Beautified with the glamour of the green,
Mystified with the aroma of the wild.
I am keeping it for him to give,
May love & luck shall be his,
With all the shamrock blessings.
Today is St Patrick's day. I m fascinated by the Irish shamrock, blessings n the celebration of the green. The poem is inspired by the spontaneous thought of the past "recollected in tranquillity." The thought of shamrock luck, charm is simply aesthetic. It has certain universal charm. A simple plant becoming the symbol of luck is truly beautiful. Simplicity can represent such thoughts of luck. It represents not only Trinity & mysticism but also youth and aura of liberation. And truly it's charming, I must say.
Dánï Dec 2014
Too much of everything is sometimes just that- too much.
When you're at your lowest you get closer to the high yet think you'll never be high again.
And when you're at your highest sometimes the air gets thick and no breath is let in.

The lows are so painful, so dark and so fearing. You see no way out and your open sky develops a ceiling. You're surrounded by smooth walls, no place to help you grip your way up,
and when the top seems too far you start to look at things through a half empty cup.

The cup being smudged with finger print stains doesn't help, you see all your efforts gone to waste and lose faith in yourself. The water at the bottom blows everything out of proportion, and your failures are brought to sight in a new light, your hopes and dreams start to seem foreign. We think the world is cruel and whoever allowed it is, too. Why are things the way they are, why do we deserve such horrible things, why can we be scarred? Why aren't things perfect, I'd be so happy if things were perfect, if I didn't care about anything and no harm was felt. If no one was possessed by something so evil, if mutual respect was a given and acceptance was pressed. If only there was no one to be against or no one against us, no one to feel threatened by or depressed. If all things good were mandatory, obligatory and all things bad were kept in fictional stories. Horrors and terrors was only experienced in movies while bliss and happiness was all that was permitted.
But on the ground you feel close to what's high, so close yet at the same time so far. One feeling helps supply our faith and the other nullifies it. It's a turmoil we need to purify and the thought of the high gives of hope of it being beautified.

There are two sides to everything

Being high is the best and when we are we feel so passed blessed, we feel chosen. we feel we have a message to profess and manifest, it's a feeling that cannot be ever suppressed nor fully expressed. We're at our peak and no thing seams bleak. We might weep but it's out of happiness, and we might feel stressed to get rid of anything we detest, no matter how little.

We find the urge to get rid of all things that have or could bent and dent us. All things that have sent us to the depths we were at once..
When we're high sometimes we feel a superiority, we feel the need to direct whatever happens next. The feel to control is what needs to be assessed and corrected, it needs to be addressed and made ***** before it's possessed and infected with something not able to be mended. We start to get seemingly positive outcomes by using negatives, and that wasn't what was meant.. We get too high and don't notice how wet the ground is, and in our state of mind it's easy to slip and get wrecked. We get too high to remember what it's like down when we were swept off our feet and made to kneel. We get high enough to scoff at the fuss and to dismiss the idea to discuss our situation, our foreseeable yet unfathomable stump. We're too high to think we can be stumped, and when it happens to us we'll feel as if thought it has been dumped on us. We'll cry saying it isn't fair and though things might seem beyond repair we'll say we don't have a care because we still have that residue high, we still have that feeling of superiority and think nothing can go wrong anymore. The high helps yet it is suffocating, it can be put up to debate but the truth is we can't await for history to repeat itself. We can't let people imitate the wrong we need to educate and indicate them to where the facts have proven to be right. No need to obligate- a sound mind will always correlate and initiate collaboration.

We need balance and we need guidance, we need help and we need to learn how to seek it. Sometimes we'll find it in things we can and can't see, regardless, by doing so we might finally find inner and outer peace.
-d.***
Sam Park Jan 2014
The distressed clenches his or her heart in agony,
Someone ripped it apart and left it for dead.
The distressed wipes a single tear from his or her face,
Hoping, Waiting, Wishing,
For the returned of the beloved.

This is *******.

There is nothing to be beautified
Over the pain of losing your love.

It's ugly.
It's the reason for grief, insanity, hatred.
The glorification of heartbreak
Is what causes the heart to reach farther
For something that cannot be reached anymore.

Love is not pain,
Heartbreak is not beautiful.

Love is beautiful,
Heartbreak is pain.

Alas, the beautiful facade of heartbreak,
Is deceit.
Have a look at this intricately fashioned globe
How it has been beautified with perfect contrast
Soothing green carpet and calm blue canopy
Compels you to admire its each and every lobe

Have you ever imagined it without these colours?
How it would appear with all its ink gone…
Dull, boring and blank is a portrait without paint
Life would surely lose all its vivid flavours

Have a look at the sky, brushed with black
How it has been studded with priceless jewels
Far beyond the reach of Kings are these colours
Dazzling for the artist is this silver round on black

Have you ever imagined it to be washed off?
How it would appear with all its glitter invisible
Surely no one would bother to look above
You and I love to live due to these colours

Have a look at whatever you swallow and chew
How it has been made mouth watering for you
The perfect blend of colours tempts you to eat
Nature has already garnished all that you need

Have you ever imagined all this to be colourless
How it would appear with its blank coat
Probably no one would relish this feast
Your sense of sight might seem to be useless

Have a look at the humble king of flowers
How it has been made a symbol of love
Those red chunks resting among green carvings
So inspiring is this beauty which nature showers

As I look towards the roof of this globe
The rays of the golden ball give me hope
Colours encourage me to move despite all obstacles
I owe my existence to these conspicuous colours

Written by: Fakiha Hassan Rizvi
Sana Jul 2015
Some people are of God,
The thinning of their sole, torn shoes and worn clothes tell the tale only hearts of God hear. How blessed, for their treasure lies within, no fear of loss, no fear of pain because the glacier of faith they carry within is too magnificent to be beautified, yet too fearsome to let any fear linger around the edges.
Everyone of us is a keeper of that glacier. It's only, that the burns sometimes melt the forted edges of  iceberg of faith. But the keeper knows exactly when it happens, and when it can happen. And do we not sometimes melt and do we not always gather our blistering crystals, do we not bear the burns on our palms and yet we stand strongest after the burning waves of fate pass on? It melts, it smoothes, it shapes and after all the carvings in the keeper's castle, makes him even more majestic.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
unlike the book of Enoch's proposition, i deem fallen "stars" (we all know they meteors, but religious language loves metaphors) as disgraced saints, given there's so many of them they can sometimes outnumber angels, so yeah, in reverse of religious blah i deem fallen stars are disgraced saints, rather than disgraced angels.

and upon having written the words that i had,
i felt a sharp indentation on my right hand,
as if someone was pressing a sharpened
avocado seed into it, that i knew was the thumb
of my guardian - there was a reason why
i masturbated prior to puberty aged 8,
that i might know the difference in the ways
it might be taught: circumcision and
religious obedience, and the non-circumcised
with their indolence and hedonism threshold -
or how to marry the monotheistic man
with the man of no theistic concerns -
who came later than the circumcised woman -
who in stories of a Prince f Egypt was beautified
in her agony: as passing the fruit to man -
from paranoid despots of Egypt eager to keep
a harem and let her not simply enjoy the company
of other men, but of greater peril from these despots,
that she could wield a greater satisfaction
from her own hand than his excavation of power -
never before was this story told in the crude manner
it deserved - the shame on poetry, and the subsequent
undermining of poetry! to every, EVER poet out there
readying himself for a renewed reinterpretation
of his horrid book, a word of caution: you will not
gain any other technique from this, no pun-joke,
this is metaphor versus imagery, after all imagery
deciphers metaphor, the ideogram of meaning,
thank god the Chinese were allowed to sustain their ideogram,
otherwise using these skeletons i'd never achieve
a worthy playing field, no table tennis table, no
squash cube, no tennis court, no football pitch...
given the survival of the Chinese ideogram i can climb
a tier higher from what's encrypted,
i can, thanks to the Chinese ideogram morph words
above the tier of sounds, above the tier of grammatical
categorisation that are governed by time / timing, and
enter the only realistic realm necessary, the poetic:
to treat "holy" but subsequently metaphorical texts
for a revision changing metaphor (hallucinatory images)
into imagery (the times when certain tools were
anticipated, of that said: Galileo and the telescope
and the *oculus rufus
of Jupiter
it's appropriate karma and the dishonouring philosophy's
feeling of superiority that merely matches them with
Koranic scribbles that poets finally can box the other
strand of language use into oblivion...
poetry and the freedoms to suffice its continuation...
true via a real example: the "prince" of philosophers,
no other than Spinoza, polishing lenses,
as every philosopher after him, sharpening the meaning
of words, trying to eradicate Thesaurus Rex from
human existence, trying to coagulate synonyms into
a single meaning, i.e. prescribing words
of fluidity and subsequent poly-elasticity a mono-usage,
their prize lost, their dittoing of up-kept credentials,
their dittoing but lack of approximation ~******* up /
or simply buckling under the strain...
sharpening of the eye, they mistook killing off poetry
but by doing so, they encouraged Sophistry -
the art of rhetoric... poets never spoke to convince people,
they spoke to entertain people, why are these
apes running the mental life of people?! never put
your eggs in one basket... the poets were condensed into
the same cauldron as the Sophists, even though
poets preferred to speak from a page or the prior written
than from the heart of a deceiving others...
at the time of Spinoza doubt was still a considerable evil,
only when denial emerged were people finally considered
easy-zoological specimens of study: a doubtful faith
is a faith non-the-less, wavering faith, but at least
not an offshoot of denial, which only breeds bad faith
(as Sartre described) and ends up being a confession in
a *******'s bedroom by some duke of *****-nilly.
in the end, all i have to say is: the preliminary poem
always aids your sober affairs that later becoming drinking
affairs: that the Chinese ideogram resilience allowed
us to translate "holy" texts of pure metaphor into
pure imagery, and create the paradigm of desecration
justified like a Mongol in Baghdad...
where the true Golgotha is situated -
that poets aren't sophists, and that by attacking
poets, philosophers created by far the more zealous
version of criticising poetry: a Surat in the Koran
and the current flowering of unnerved sophistry in
politics: not that much a case of speaking with a persuasive
manner, but a way of speaking toward a persuasive
lie that doesn't endanger the status quo.
so what saves modern poetry from despair and dodo?
the Chinese ideogram, thanks to the Chinese ideogram
(working from the book of Genesis) i can pass an object in
the form of metaphor (apple) via jingzi / mirror
and get imagery back (*******) - only because
i am passing one skeletal object of spelled simplicity
into another object of akin spelled simplicity
via something resembling carpals-metacarpals-phalanges
(the wrist) - as the title suggests: wrist-mirror -
only thanks to the Chinese up-keeping of their ideogram
i can transform metaphors into imagery,
the fruit of knowledge into ******* -
or puns into jokes;
this is why i'd only take two books with me to the grave,
Ezra's Cantos and Russell's history of western society:
it's because of them that i get to keep
the desired momentum.
David Hilburn Sep 2022
Rose of a champion
Thought, in a beautified accord
Set to waiting hours, a needs complexion
Where we are, the tale of unity to its peaceful order...

Skip, argue or define
The truth, we removed by bounty of pouts...?
Sated avarice, and the curtness of kin caught in a notorious lie...
Welcome a shadow to breath, when a harrowed eye allowed...?

Is a requited girth, of when, any of a decency's curse?
Has found me, in a live and by chastity's purpose
Handsomer skills that agree, in no known terms...
I had the taste of pride, like a reality of sin, to accuse

Why...?
No man with a tradition of sincerity, is this island commit
Without the sigh of me, the irony to dwell and seek tight
The course of another ship of fortune, that has seldom to wit:

Look, an eye of poise, if not intellects poison...
Made manifest by the only few, of bared conscience
That has us for curiosity's fool, but you, for another hero to loan
A flower of understated chaste; a victim of letters of prescience?

Tall tales of nothing more than a drunk hysteria?
Here is your mind, in my way for one more timidity...
Think and details of weal, we will know until votes ***** drama
To a reaching hour, no one above another, like acts of humanity...
Nickolas J McKee Feb 2022
You’re the next Jesus Christ,
Waiting to be crucified,
Among your flock of sheep.
Blue eyes ready to slice,
I, your prophet beautified,
Heresy to stab deep.
Let’s gather around you,
To magnify your glory,
Nails to skin under glass.
Raindrops rising from dew,
Superficial & weary,
Ready the blinding mass.
Hosanna of the high,
Dare you me to deny…
Benjamin Adelaar Oct 2010
The footprint of this place
is a freshly razored face.

Mother Earth’s been ‘beautified.’
trees, grass, roots, shrubs,
stubble shaved from the chin,

neck and face smooth.
Underneath this house.

The whiskers have been shaved
        she’s dolled up
But in gruff’s stead
        there’s a wart on her face
A fossilized, mortared blackhead.
Ivy Mukherjee Sep 2014
Silence is needed .

Silence is a massive part of your brainstorming session .
Let it be your studies , your workspace , your next project session or about your love .
And by love I didn't mean it to be a human being only .
Love is a strong possession , which can be about your newly bought Fountain pen or can be about your new social innovation .
But silence is needed , for making you stronger and your presence to be valuable .
Silence should be there as pure bliss , to give you a thought of match making .
Do you remember , how much you inhaled with silence and those breezy nights ?
Just cherish once about them and think where you were before some days and where are you now ; standing all alone and strong challenging all the facets of truth and society .
Yes , silence is needed .

Chaos can't always bring you to the path where you desired to end up with .

Silence doesn't make you socially introvert . It gives you the space for differentiating between you and what you will be .
Ask one poet or a writer or any person who loves to think at the end of the day , 'what is silence for them ? How much does it matter to them?'
Then come back to me and say again .... " I hate silence."
Silence is subjective . It is needed , but not always . And that also doesn't signify chaos should occupy the space .

Silence is needed to make space in those beautified chaotic nature .
mark john junor Jun 2014
the backyard lawn freshly cut
provides vivid perfected image of summer
half in shadow of the rubber tree
half in unyielding sunlight
i feel at peace drinking this scene in
i feel the strength of possible futures
i feel the beautified past
summer my old friend
summer my home

barefoot reluctance in the shallow pool
splash her sunning
she gives mock angers and throws a grape at me
this grape of wrath falls to sandy ground
to lay sweating in the sun
forgotten fruits of our laughter's and joys
seeds for tomorrows we will always dream of
and dreams planted in stealth of night
growing to smiles we share today
summer our silent companion
summer our dear home

her voice as she talks is echoed by birdsong
she blends into the days beauty
she is the days beauty
i kiss her while she talks on the phone
she shoos me away
then grabs me and pulls me back in again
and bites my lip tenderly
summer my friend
summer my home

laughter and joys can be seen
in the fluttering's of birds
in the plane climbing into clouds high above
in the insect crawling with intents to the
spent remains of my breakfast
summer is full of life
summer is my home
he’s interested in disasters,
the kind of catastrophes that the media has a field day with,
the kind of accidental atrocities that are awe-inspiring in their horrid glory,
the kind of things that have self destructed spectacularly – so much so that the remaining debris becomes a masterpiece on the ocean floor, a memorial for beautified trauma.

and I guess that’s why he’s interested in me.
I'm your favorite disaster
Tasneem Moosa Sep 2017
My blood runs red in my blue veins
I feel just as you do, exactly the same
Cut me open and see inside
That which is in me is beautified
So as with you, our hearts are all true
Irrespective of the color that our skin exudes

If you were to hurt me would I not cry ?
Asking you forgiveness, the reason why
Just as you would if you were to die
Be judged by the same man in the sky

Do we not love and fear?
Hope and dream for all things?
That this life would be gentle and kind
That we might live and learn unconfined

We are born and we die in the exact same way
Are similarities not enough to keep a color war at bay?
Skin, hair, money, status and power
Are these the things we fight for that will slowly devour us?

I search for a world where this will no longer matter
That for this reason no more blood shall splatter
When the color of my skin will not make me less of a person  
But rather a sister to love and trust in

I want this world to see through the my eyes
See what it means to truly accept and thrive
What we could be if only we stopped fighting
It would be love and life uniting.
Yousra Amatullah Apr 2022
You are so beautiful Ma Sha Allah Allahouma Barik.
Yes! I'm talking about you!

Imagine someone putting you together, piece by piece.
Every detail, every inch, every atom that makes you YOU was put together with utmost wisdom. His wisdom.
He swt wants you to look the way you actually look; amazing.

He wants you to have that skin color and texture. He wants you to have those beautiful eyes, even if you can't see through them. He wants you to have that beautiful nose, lashes, eyebrows, arms, legs, hands, feet and so on. Even if certain parts do not work properly, even if you do not fit into the beauty standards of today's world. And even if people start calling you names.

Remember, He named you first.
He swt named you with utmost wisdom, care and love.
Don't lose that name. Please, don't lose the way He created you just to fit into a beautified lie..

Love, I want you to understand that there is wisdom in every inch of your body; His wisdom. Meaning you're constantly carrying His wisdom around. That way you're constantly reminded of your name, of who you truly are;
A servant of Allah swt, crowned with the beauty of His wisdom

🤍
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)

My heart has gone out for all families on the street
That came out of the erstwhile street boys and girls
Kudos to your creativity as you make life from nothing
Blessed bye your bravado and sense of oblivion
With which you have held the riches of the world
In which effortlessly swim the powers that be,

Beautified be a street family in the all quarters of the world
Wherever you are kindly be ennobled
Whether in India or Chicago of Americas,
Be it Nairobi, Lagos or Jo’burg the infernos of urchinery
Good times and chances befall you children of the street.

Great beauty with you is condemnation of the tribe
In Africa where ethnicity is the bricks of tribal mall
Your names are conditional but not tribal connotation
They sing songs of exclusion but not chauvinism of ethnicity
I was in Kenya at the city of Eldoret, I visited your platoon
In the suburb of Langas, I derided not in the glory of your nomenclature;
Some of you festooned in the street emperor, as other wallow in mauverick titles
Like; Cop-puncher, ****-cooler, ****** breaker, top sniffer, hotel sentry
And many other accoladic names as you feasted me on your virtuosity.

Royal is your blood as you bivouac in the blizzards
The blood in your vein came from the state panjandrum
During the libidinous hour in the wee of the night
The teats you suckled were of your undergraduate mothers
In the high powered Universities of bourgeoisie education
Never regret in your ego for great is your genetics
It was solely misplaced priorities of your vulnerable mothers
That had you dumped on the street garbage in the oblivion of society
But great you are because 10% you hitherto make
Of the ostentations African population that is whoopingly a billion!
Time is coming for your final say, bivouac wherever you are
For your day is very soon.
mzwai Jul 2015
1. The seconds roll by and you're starting to realize that you are becoming wearily accustomed to this way of living- the way where you are so obsessed with emotions,now that you do not feel them, that you are surrounding yourself with accidents. Almost as if you want to be in the same area you were at before you crashed and burned, by re-instituting an old lie you thought could never be accounted for, and crashing and burning a second time- all in the exact same places.
You've started changing and merging so much that you're sure you've left everyone without them even knowing it. As if you move with stealth whenever someone starts to realize just how tragic you can be- how you don't really need to feel to make others weary, you just have to be there. Your existence is enough.
Maybe that's why nobody really knows you, it's like being a thin piece of paper in a world where pen can only leave ink on thicker substances- whenever somebody asks you "Who are you?" you just turn your head shyly, and read from someone else's page.

2. It's been a while since you've substituted blankness for a renewal you thought you could find inside of another human being. You tell yourself that their words inspired yours, but are realizing it's not true. Love was not made to make the expression of detrimental things beautiful- the absence of it was.
Now that you're here as a mosaic of bruises that were left from somebody's poor negligence, you've begun to see that loneliness is an escape that treats you better no matter how hollow it is or how much work you have to put into fulfilling it.
Your hands get strained, your spine starts to curl, all under the weight of forgetting the emotions you had when you were writing for someone and not about them. A weight thats heavy and makes you miss the feeling of being in love more than you miss the person who you were in love with.

3. Instead of only being able to find inspiration when you hear specific footsteps walking away from you, you've tried to simulate their echoes every time you close your eyes, and then hoping for the best. With love, you knew about the withdrawal symptoms before you knew about the substance. When you had it and watched it fade away- you were left with that familiar feeling. That familiar longingness.
But now you understand what you must do when people enter a home uninvitedly. The next time you have it and lose it it will hurt, but it will not hurt in the same way.

4. Sometimes situations have a way of making you both aware and unaware of different things at the same time. Being in this state you realized; there is more than one way for a person to actually disappear.
And it never starts within them, it always starts around of them.
You started seeing less, feeling less, talking less, hoping less. You just followed what was there for you and hoped you wouldn't fall into a hole deeper than the one you were already in back then.
By the time you'd lost enough of yourself, you had the motivation to climb back up but just not enough physical strength to actually do it. You just followed the path and blamed its emptiness as a feature of your own intentions. When in actual fact, you only followed it like that because nobody wanted to lower themselves to be able to have the ability to walk with you.

5. A natural stationary position of yours is the position where it looks like someone has pushed you to the ground: you are always posed at that exact position, where you have just been pushed and you are simultaneously trying to get back on your feet.
Whenever you find yourself at a dead point that is caused by something that isn't a human being, you realize that it's always been 'too long' since you've dealt with a heartache that you are not used to.
Too long since you've carried a dilemma whilst thinking, "I don't know why this is here. I don't know why I am feeling this."
It's become this sort of pleasure that you sleep with knowing or not knowing just how far away healthiness is. Lying in bed all day pretending like you are whole- pitying your own broken heart as if you were not the one who broke it yourself.

6. It is hard to convince yourself that you are an optimist because of the way you express hurt like it will actually start saving you when you are not just feeling it, but when you are actually seeing it as well. But then again it all makes sense when you begin to realize: you beautified terrible things when terrible things began to happen too regularly.
It is not that you are trying to feel more of the pain because you are putting it into words.
It's that you are actually doing the opposite.

7. It's hard to keep up with your own identity when you are constantly turning people that know you into strangers.
You sometimes want to say it was spontaneous, but you've always known that it started with one small problem who always lied whenever they claimed to care more than they actually did.
They'd treat you with a kindness that had no actual action and you got used to depending on it like it was the only thing that you had left.
I guess when you get older you realize that sometimes people make mistakes and open things they're not supposed to- sometimes they rip holes in your mind that are big enough for the thought of their love, but not big enough for their love itself.

8. You're discovering that submission is more a habitat than a personality trait. You've pulled so many defenses around you that the only thing you dominate is the ability to come up with a false pretense. All the things that once meant so much to you seem to be running and fading away- they seem to be blackening out like the developing of a Polaroid in reverse. Slowly suffocating an image until the surroundings are disappearing slowly and malleably. Leaving only the person in the picture- surrounded by the blackness of the film.
Deemed to become an island in a great mess of things that could've been-
Deemed hopeless and passionless, hopeless and passionless.

9. You may or may not have been stronger when you were younger but you were definitely more content and aware. How many times have you looked at an old picture and thought "what happened during the years? was that really still me?" It is almost as if the time between then and now turned into a vast ocean and you were fast asleep whilst you sailed on it. You sometimes sunk and you sometimes rose above, but you were always unconscious. Always unconscious.
You guess that it is all what is eventually planned for you. But you can't help but shudder at the thought of it.

10. You hide away from attention because if people start to see just a little, they might eventually see too much.You're hoping one day you can show yourself as whimsically as you once did before you were forced to hide from a light that demolished you after it blinded you.
Maybe one day you'll exist under the presence of something that doesn't need to hold you to give you the same feeling you once needed to be able to carry on hoping.
You're just looking for a motive to keep you surviving even if it is only partly- You're just looking for an excuse to become addicted to something that doesn't have a heartbeat,
For once.
Eduardo Sep 2015
He shouted
the music booming
smoke like tendrils around her face
tiny tremors marching beneath,
the same ones that led him to this place,
the ones that pointed to Her,
Her,
always Her.

Her,
                    the one beside the bar
Her,
                    the blue eyed specter with leather boots
Her,
                    the final note in the euphony known as Saturday night


                                           She shouted back
whites of eyes glowing against the black light,
his faint neon smile revealed,
tiny tremors pushing forward,
the same ones that brought her there,
the ones that brought him,
Him,
always Him.

Him,
                    the one muted by the music
Him,
                    the dark haired calamity with red adidas
Him,
                    the only one to hear the cacophony of night

              
                  They shouted
                             led by the echoes inside
                             into the street
                             tiny tremors beautified by the fresh air
                             the same ones that vibrate beneath
                             the ones that marched
                                                         ­          and pushed
                                                     and gazed through the window
                             the ones that lead always to her
                             the ones that always brings them close
Tiny tremors engulfing them
Them,
always Them.
Nonso Amawuru Nov 2017
UNNOTICED
The first time i saw you
I couldn’t get my eyes off you
You smiled at everyone in that room but me
I guess your smile was what caught my eye
Was it the way you walked
Maybe it was the way you talked
I remember you sounded like the whispers of angels

  I was heading home that day smiling like riches kissed me
Too shy to explain the reason why
My friends see me as tough
As the one who doesn’t fall in love
But that is the biggest lie i live with

You were strangely too beautiful to forget
Your face as smooth as polished marbles
So i painted imaginations of us
I struggled to understand why i felt this way
I reached back in time wishing i told you how i felt
But i wasn’t so sure that you would feel the same way

I came back every time i had a chance
To behold your sun bright smile
To see the soft freshness of your skin
I wished your  gentle eyes would fall upon mine
I stalked you without you knowing
From a distance i loved you for you
In my dreams i constantly see you

In my own fantasies i took you on uncountable dates
I pinned pictures of you in my bedroom
I knew i loved you better than the one you love
I made myself to believe that you are mine
You are a human adorned in splendor
The honey that sweetened my life without knowing

Days turned into weeks and so it continued
I was comfortable with loving you from a distance
Why? because i was too scared!
Too scared that you would say NO
Too scared that i would mess things up and lose you forever

I know you might call me a coward
But would you blame me?
Would you blame me for being scared to lose you?
You were mine and i wasn’t yours
Yea truly most times it makes me really sad

                                                            ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­              
Without you knowing you melted a heart as cold as ice
Without you knowing you made me fall in love
Without you knowing you brought sunshine to my life
Without you knowing your voice became what disarms my demons
Without you knowing i smile in my loneliness
Without you knowing you are the love of my life

In your world i am but a foreigner
In my world you are everything
The stars that beautified my planet
The sweet violin constantly repeating in my head
You have become the commanding officer of my happiness
Yet in your world i am still the UNNOTICED.
stranger to the love of my life, the one who brings happiness and uncontrollable smiles in my world
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)

My heart has gone out for all families on the street
That came out of the erstwhile street boys and girls
Kudos to your creativity as you make life from nothing
Blessed bye your bravado and sense of oblivion
With which you have held the riches of the world
In which effortlessly swim the powers that be,

Beautified be a street family in the all quarters of the world
Wherever you are kindly be ennobled
Whether in India or Chicago of Americas,
Be it Nairobi, Lagos or Jo’burg the infernos of urchinery
Good times and chances befall you children of the street.

Great beauty with you is condemnation of the tribe
In Africa where ethnicity is the bricks of tribal mall
Your names are conditional but not tribal connotation
They sing songs of exclusion but not chauvinism of ethnicity
I was in Kenya at the city of Eldoret, I visited your platoon
In the suburb of Langas, I derided not in the glory of your nomenclature;
Some of you festooned in the street emperor, as other wallow in mauverick titles
Like; Cop-puncher, ****-cooler, ****** breaker, top sniffer, hotel sentry
And many other accoladic names as you feasted me on your virtuosity.

Royal is your blood as you bivouac in the blizzards
The blood in your vein came from the state panjandrum
During the libidinous hour in the wee of the night
The teats you suckled were of your undergraduate mothers
In the high powered Universities of bourgeoisie education
Never regret in your ego for great is your genetics
It was solely misplaced priorities of your vulnerable mothers
That had you dumped on the street garbage in the oblivion of society
But great you are because 10% you hitherto make
Of the ostentations African population that is whoopingly a billion!
Time is coming for your final say, bivouac wherever you are
For your day is very soon.
am a butterfly
Only that I don't fly
I undergo metamorphosis
Under constant change and transformation
I grow day in day out
I was an egg
Then a boy,
Crawling like a caterpillar
I turned a butterfly
And beautified with lines
And phrases of poetry
I am a butterfly that can't fly.
Change inevitable
When the birds of spring sang with joy
To hail the blowing breeze pampering the face rapidly with moisturizing coy
When rays of the shine stand very kind to make the life neither hot nor too cold
Life rushes through the mobility of less anxiety or creating abundant tumult  
Shining novelty on juvenile tress’ robe bestow jubilee to those hurry to work
In confronting the bundle you expect to parole
Life is so lovely what are you feeling for?
- “ seems… GARLIC…?”
The most beautified Criollo … ladies of shadow…listen to spring and smooth song of returning swallows
- “ sounds GARLIC..?”
Sender of magic rockets to Apollo… ladies of shallow…   smell of plant mingled with heavenly blossom of sharp blue, it is a time to define the final intentions supposed to follow…
- “ feels GARLIC…?”
Drowsy, numb, with mouths open, shoulders down like zombies out of tomb… who are you? mighty dancers with delicate willow with strong sense of itching on our marrow
- “…ladies of GARLIC…”
Nobody comes, nobody goes, life is so hollow, what it supposed to be full of energy …you You talk a lot…just go!
smell strange not from corpses but from walls, earth, and ceiling… what is it?  
- “….life is …GARLIC…”
On Remembrance of days we were not acknowledged enough to health and may not very happy but a routine life we had. Never think to enjoy spring, to enjoy times we are in an assembly, and to enjoy our talking through avoiding extra complaining on trivials.
Dan Gilbert Sep 2016
To my dark scar, my black mark,
The shadowy spectre that follows,
you have constantly fought me down.
But know - I will not stand for it anymore.

I will reduce you to lower than anonymity
you are less than a stranger or an enemy
I will stare straight through you
you are not even nothing to me.

I no longer believe the lie that I need you
I will deny you the attention that feeds you
You are no more my inspiration or my muse
instead I choose to see things differently.

You will not be beautified or elevated,
You will not be derided or hated,
I won't dignify you with a single thought,
but, from now on - I will stand above you.

I am greater than the pin ***** of your existence
my heart beats with strength and persistence
You will not longer be the fear that lies in me
I will see the truth shining behind your darkness

You have tried to take my living breath
but I have already hit the depth of depths
and you can do me no more pain -
time and time again I will find my feet

and though you may bring me to tears
and poke my imagination with a thousand fears
I will not bow to you, my eyes are fixed on something higher,
and I will be wholeheartedly blinkered.

I will be me and that will be good enough
I won't measure myself by any of your should'ves
I will not blindly pursue an expectation of emptiness
instead I will profess my own self worth

I will see all of my differences - indifferently
they are beautiful and flawed but are unique to me
The rights to this story are paid for and they are mine
and I vow to myself that I will hold onto my pride

And when you rise up in me and begin whispering
when you are sat upon my shoulder - I won't be listening
I will block you out, I will sing above you
I will sing unashamedly because my voice is mine
and you will no longer dictate my course.

And when you are the brick wall standing in my way
And you try to cause my reason and my sanity to sway
I will rush you,  I will break you and I will crush you
You will be no more than the dust beneath my feet
And I will run faster and stronger than before

And I know it won't be the last time I say this
But this will be my statement of intent and I will believe in it
And so right now, right at this moment
It ends.
For me this is a poem against anxiety but it could be against any number of things really and so I left it open. I suffered from anxiety and depression for a long time and I wrote a lot of poetry from that place and thought that it was something that I needed until a few years back when a shift occurred. I still suffer from anxiety but at one point  I realised I never wrote anything that was against my anxiety/depression and so decided that I would and this poem is the result.

I am currently recording some of my poetry for a project and this is one of the poems I am recording... so if you like it keep an ear to the ground for news! Dan
Molly Dot Jul 2013
All this poetry I write
is here for a reason.

I am feeling rather nostalgic tonight
my room is clammy and hot
whilst on the inside, I'm in a freezer
unable to move from the isolation

I am currently listening to a song
it is singing me to sleep
and singing all my consciences
without me having to think too much
philosophising everything

I'm tired of being here
alone all the time, and
I can't carry on being second best
even third, fourth and so on
like a never ending cycle

the term 'wallflower' is so perfectly beautified
and evokes imagery of aesthetically-pleasing nature
but I find this so hard to believe
as I feel like a wallflower
but certainly the opposite of beautiful
more like the uninviting sight of a prickly ****
needing to be dug up
because nobody likes its presence

irrelevance is probably the only term I can use to describe
just how things are
no one wants the companionship of someone
who perceives others' opinions as negative
all the time
and their own thoughts are just as diabolic

the thought of myself
ever being denoted as beautiful
is at the height of impossibility
Geetha Jayakumar Aug 2017
Travelers of unknown time
Walked several steps with rhyme
Build the bridges with droplets of ink
Traces of which remained lastingly in their hearts.

Perhaps the morning rays flows from her thoughts
Mingles with the fragrance of fresh page slots
She sighed on seeing the setting rays of fall
Verses knitted in twilight spilled from her heart.

She gathered words that slipped from her palms
With stream of petals she weaves garland
When the ink leaves its imprint
Feathers drizzles on someone's heart!

Ink that drizzled from her pen beautified themselves
Passion never dies as they enlighten the bookshelves!

© 2016 Geetha Jayakumar. All rights reserved.
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)

My heart has gone out for all families on the street
That came out of the erstwhile street boys and girls
Kudos to your creativity as you make life from nothing
Blessed bye your bravado and sense of oblivion
With which you have held the riches of the world
In which effortlessly swim the powers that be,

Beautified be a street family in the all quarters of the world
Wherever you are kindly be ennobled
Whether in India or Chicago of Americas,
Be it Nairobi, Lagos or Jo’burg the infernos of urchinery
Good times and chances befall you children of the street.

Great beauty with you is condemnation of the tribe
In Africa where ethnicity is the bricks of tribal mall
Your names are conditional but not tribal connotation
They sing songs of exclusion but not chauvinism of ethnicity
I was in Kenya at the city of Eldoret, I visited your platoon
In the suburb of Langas, I derided not in the glory of your nomenclature;
Some of you festooned in the street emperor, as other wallow in mauverick titles
Like; Cop-puncher, ****-cooler, ****** breaker, top sniffer, hotel sentry
And many other accoladic names as you feasted me on your virtuosity.

Royal is your blood as you bivouac in the blizzards
The blood in your vein came from the state panjandrum
During the libidinous hour in the wee of the night
The teats you suckled were of your undergraduate mothers
In the high powered Universities of bourgeoisie education
Never regret in your ego for great is your genetics
It was solely misplaced priorities of your vulnerable mothers
That had you dumped on the street garbage in the oblivion of society
But great you are because 10% you hitherto make
Of the ostentations African population that is whoopingly a billion!
Time is coming for your final say, bivouac wherever you are
For your day is very soon.
Dánï Apr 2014
We all have it in us, that gene to ****,
How if given the chance, we'd fight for our life.
Pretend to not be capable but, surprisingly, become very strong willed,
We'd do the most horrendous crimes out of desperation and strife.

It's a gene I wish to not have because,

I find it kind of funny, kind of melancholic,
How being a survivor is beautified.
I'm sorry, but I find no logic,
In fighting to live, while living to *die.
-d.***
Body I am a butterfly
Only that I don't fly
I undergo metamorphosis
Under constant change and transformation
I grow day in day out
I was an egg
Then a boy,
Crawling like a caterpillar
I turned a butterfly
And beautified with lines
And phrases of poetry
I am a butterfly that can't fly.
SOCIAL POINTS
facebook: Kirui Frank Junior
twitter: kirui frank junior
lingedin,google plus,whatsup or elswhere by Kirui Frank Junior.
I am a fly
Bright Uduji Apr 2015
Surprisingly, I breathe steadily as the spring’s summer sunshine,
though distant it may seem, strikes me ever so overwhelmingly.
As The Silver birch trees, re-beautified, like a bride on her wedding day, gracefully gives shade to my naked skin, I begin to sense a warming feel of solace within my restless soul.

My mind ponders on, while my eyes marvel at nature’s eternal spell of change; for in the blink of an eye, a dark, cold and unforgiving season is rapidly changing into another so bright and beautiful, it begins to resurrect my dying belief that just as seasons come and go, my change will come.
Scribbles: It's Inspiration is from the changing of seasons from the cold of winter to the warmth of spring going into summer and how that interlinks with hope, faith, love and belief for all things better, coming in due time.

The silver birch trees used in this poem, are one of the most common trees in the UK, it's that one which all the leaves fall off during winter (but I guess that happens to them all!) however it is beautiful to see it's leaves come back to life during the spring; It makes me believe in miracles :)
Santana Aug 2012
Lie
Beast.
Living someone else's days
behind a vacant face.

Lies.
Lies.
Truth,
lies.

An elusive heart pumping in the dust
stone cold
meant to rust.

Infinity... this naked art.

You and I
we are one dozen lies
a better lie I could never tell.

Forever...

Is this truth?
You wonder.
This rotten fountain of youth.

Simply, where madness lies
where it finds itself,
screaming aloud.

This way madness shows...

and these lies, beautified.

Beast?                               ...lies...
It is only                           ...me...

— The End —