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Ozioma Ogbaji Apr 2015
As beautiful as the famed city of Atlantis
Gloriously flourishing in her perfection
There is a place where my soul and heart is
A perfect place without grief or deception

Where my heart is always merry
And peace blossoms like the cherry
The sun smiles at me gently caressing
My body as the birds sing melodies-
So beautiful they keep me guessing-
The beauty of future melodic memories

Like the Cedars of Lebanon
Beautifying the palaces of Ethiopia
Purity, love and perfection adorn her every season.
This place is within me; this place is Utopia
"stop trying to make the words
sound pretty
and just say it."
"i'm not-"
"yes
you are."
you
were correct.
i was
looking for
the most
beautiful
words
to say
such an
ugly
thing.
and now that i
reflect on that
i am
proud
of my attempts
to decorate
the words.
it takes great
skill
to do such
tasks
and you
should
not
rush
the
beautifying
of
such
unattractive
things.
Alyssa Underwood Dec 2015
Feasting table under a shading tree
Swaddling robe that warmly cleans
Mirror beautifying while it reflects
Sword that pierces yet never rejects
Light penetrating the blackest hole
Water filling and healing the soul
~~~

"For the word of God is alive and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart. Nothing in all creation is hidden from God’s sight. Everything is uncovered and laid bare before the eyes of Him to whom we must give account.

"Therefore, since we have a great high priest who has ascended into heaven, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold firmly to the faith we profess. For we do not have a high priest who is unable to empathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are—yet he did not sin. Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need."

~ Hebrews 4:12-16

~~~
Onoma Nov 2013
...shake off...
who's Whoville's
lifelong dispatch!
without cut n' dip
deeper...O's to Joy...
possible not...

resplendence gesticulating
wildly... momently...
whilst depth lapsing...
beautifying its Void.
Shiv Pratap Pal Aug 2019
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
T­his poem is self translated version of my Hindi language poem titled "शिव स्वरूपं" published in pratilipi on (Dec. 2017) Can be read through the link ==>> https://bit.ly/2P4j7vE
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^­^^^^^^

That face of Lord Shiva is most beautiful in which he holds Ganga in his hairs
The Moon feels blessed by beautifying the head of Shiva as a glittering crown

The Serpants also became jewellery by themselves and decorated his blue neck
Shiva holds the trident on one hand and plays the Damroo from the other one

He has seated himself on a mat of Tiger Skin and rubbed pyre ash on his body
He has left elephant and the horses and decided to travel on an old Bull Nandi

By such an amazing face form, he is always ready for the welfare of devotees
The cruel and wicked have always been afraid of his eldritch face and form.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^­^^^^^

Shiva (See Line 1): A God (The Destroyer) in Hindu Mythology
Ganga (See Line 1): The Holy river whose flow and speed is controlled by the coiled hairs (Jatas) of Lord Shiiva
Damroo(See Line 4): A sort of musical instrument ( Pellet Drum )
Nandi((See Line 6)): A bull in Indian mythology who is the vehicle of Lord Shiva
The Mesmerizing Face of God Shiva
Claude Mills Mar 2013
Life glows from the ashes,
Red and dead.
Rest assured I will not waste

My atoms.  The sea
In which they swim is not
So fickle as life.

From the land Persephone is torn
Into the heat of hell-
But fire can serve a woman well.

In Spring she shoots forth
A million delicate souls.
Piercing

Through flames, the willowherb of this
Barren body will take seed,
Will flower.

In its own way beautifying
My scorched scars,
My cauterized heart.

The fatal lick of a poison dart
Will take only me,
My anatomy.

The tools remain,
They regain their power
And Persephone will rise through me.

I have seen it before,
This end feeds desire.
Life at its finest is paved with fire.
Malintha Perera Dec 2014
A buttercup was beautifying
for the afternoon dance
her cheeks were flushed with water
the garden sprinkler had thrown on.
Her petals were fully stretched to a softness
that even the  butterflies slipped when they trod upon.
the sun beams bounced off on the mirrored smoothness
and a bumblebee looked on hovering above with second thoughts
envying her golden locks.
She bathed in the sunlight turning every cheek for the warm rays
batting her long anthers dipped with thick orange powder.
I watched her shake her hips to the folk wind tunes
tip toeing into my heart
slowly
her yellow liquid lined eyes delving mine
making me smile
when I have almost forgotten how.
Xienab Dec 2013
You planted roses in my heart
& calla lilies in my mind.
Daisies in my palms
& lilacs in my eyes.
Ultimately,
You've abandoned them entirely, leaving them to die.
& I find it utterly heartbreaking that flowers are the most beautiful as they were wilting.
& I find it insanely paradoxical that I could only marvel at them, as they were ending.
-Z.H.
Zak Krug Jun 2012
This looks like nature.
Standing on the edge on the edge of a bridge
above a man made pond
surrounded by asphalt trails
trees cracking under pressure.
I walk amongst the preplanned trails.
A pseudo-wilderness.
Parked my car in a designated spot.
The deep blue sly outlined
by artificial sounds and light.
Listening to the sounds of the Earth
thru headphones.

Runners cross by…
To my left is an old Hackberry
Celtis occidentalis.
I’ve learned about nature
in textbooks.
This particular Hackberry is covered in a vine.
It’s struggling to survive against an exotic species.
Further on down my path is humankind
“beautifying” nature
with preplanned gardens
gazebos
marble benches donated by nature loving proprietors
next to sawed off stumps
these benches give me a decent place to rest.

As I continue my walk I come across
an unsightly dead Black Cherry
Prunus serotina.
Soon it will be disposed of
by a chainsaw.
Nature’s blemishes.
Please help us keep the Gardens clean.
Trash around a metal can.
Why do human ***** monuments in monuments?
Dominance over nature.

The flowers will begin to bloom soon.
This family has come to soon to take pictures.
Spring has only begun to spring.

Please teach your children to appreciate nature.

I turn back towards my car.
Signs guide me on the path to return.
The road most taken.
Of to my right is an emergency station
push for help
nature is being taken.
I pass by a stream pristine
if you do not count the five plastic bottle, crumbles of paper and shoe.
The trees above me blow in a soft breeze
which reminds me of air conditioning.
There are areas marked off for protection.
Protection from whom?
We’ve already safeguarded it in gaudy surveying tape.

Resting upon a donated bench I watch a maintenance man
raking gumballs.
Continuing down my path I think
“How long have I walked?”
Suddenly,
A golf cart coming around the corner overtakes me.
Pushing me onto the grass.
My feet sink into the muddy ground.
I’ll have to wash my shoes tonight.

Coming across native grass still smoldering
a controlled burn.
I realize
humankind has learned to perform the duties of our mother
better than she can.

I pause

lose myself for a moment
before I remember
I have things to do
and
there’s a two-hour parking limit.
On my way out I discard my trash in a dumpster
rolling my window down
to feel the breeze once more.
Hal Loyd Denton Apr 2013
This great white wolf made for traversing wilderness giving it the most identifiable sound for its
Wild uncompromising soul beautifying the night wind adding an extra chilling effect but giving
Unspeakable comfort too it tells of freedom and possibilities latent in us all but he is reduced to
Confinement in a small enclosure pitifully no larger than a small yard his is a life sentence with
All these noble creatures that is at hand what would be so awful to set him free after five
Years and replace him with a kit a lot of his five years would be in youthful play and when he
Did mature and the wear begins then repeat the action we ourselves have and experience this
Fate we have a great white pure spirit that longs to be masterful but our eyes and the things we
See deface and scar our opportunities that are innumerable but dark bars hold us in pens their
Shadows show on our fleece that is white as snow there is the outward physical blackness but
Of the greatest sadness it burrows into the sacred hidden places of the mind this is a tether
Most cruel but outwardly we convulse with misery but can’t clearly identify why misery and
Sadness hounds us without end we all desire love but we practice selfishness and try by greed
To use others to give us what we think will make us happy what darkness grips us what light
Would be found and we would emerge from deep pits if we understood giving helping others is
Where satisfaction out weighs gold and its benefits are perpetual well being to making the soul
Gleam as white as brightest day and this will not become cankerous and subtly start to shrink
Your heart to bitter ridicule of your own self you can go forth groaning or singing blackness
Befalling you at every turn or your heart will be leaping over fast moving streams that have
Depths of joy they rush over your feet and then swirl upwards from your feet all through your
System until your head is invigorated and swimming bestowing on you pleasure your heart will
Leap like a hart you truly will be the envy and guide to others that you unsuccessfully sought at
Other times in devious ways and you were so misguided you were plagued with a unreachable
Denseness you fight with such fervor but it cost the loss of everything but by simple obedience
And surrender to the much over looked and demeaned golden rule all it asks is love your
Neighbor as yourself what a healthy and wise statement love yourself without restraint now
Just go and double it by giving the same consideration to your fellow man and then vanquish  
The darkest and most powerful restraints by confessing I see deaths grip it has perfected traps
That are mine alone and it is not in our power that we can break free but His power is without
Equal why should I languish in this black dungeon when on white wings as an eagle is my true
Potential I was made to fly in bluest skies and to match the cool moist clouds I was made to
Make a show only to be sky bound not locked in myself and become hidden by my black
Outlook that obscures what love I am capable of

Bonus
Imperfections
The kindest evidence the savior passed was the marks he bestowed in the most gentile articulation in this
His wise choices matched imperfection to our needs. One of the most telling attributes of women can be
Her hands but what if they are slightly marred the grace only flows to a deeper level quickness is
Replaced by deliberate action slower more thoughtful and profound a touch placed with this kind of
Feeling goes to a measure instantly felt it is not just the ordinary but a thing of force that unravels
Trouble mysteriously it finds the hidden knots looses them allows love to flow wide and full. Perhaps a
Man no longer strides with a power that has an assurance maybe he is depended on a stick for support
Where power is diffused it only changes channels it makes the heart stronger the eyes feel it too
Humanity in others is recessed the blunder the self efficiency drains from boisterous streams into calm
Assessment a flow that harnesses possibility not vain bravado that can at times wound those who are
Weaker and that are struggling. If times try men’s souls then imperfection can be a clarion call the
Placement of virtue at the lead where sometimes pride is the driving force this writing came from seeing
A woman walking in a sunny scene and she had a blotchy spot on her arm others could observe this and
Be to one degree or another repulsed but to the man who loves her it is a special calling card it
Touches makes the forces revel in a display that sets her apart from all others an instrument of sound
That separates from the den isolates carries a marker that generates tenderness, esteem, and honor
Thou art the tune and sound of a masterful violin play nothing else in my presence nothing else will do
Your imperfections makes another whole don’t ever fret over your special make up it is the breath and
The visitation of the divine in the human form boldly brushed in the shadow perfected by sun light
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2022
title: loop
body:
or holes or days
and oh: or months...
let's pretend years
never existed.

sometimes, it's truly weird... but i'm not English... or British... sure... for convenience's sake, when asked by officials in the NHS... put me down at white British... once was the case of the Anglo-Saxons... well... at best i'm an Anglo-Slav... but i can't allow all these racial "minorities" residing in England to label with me... "reparations"... a "colonial-past"... or... post-colonialism, or whatever the fetish is... i just belong to a people without a colonial past... sorry... that's racist... to be unable to differentiate people ethnically... it simply is... that's how H'america rots... it has no ethnicity distinction... it's either all RACE or ***... can't tell apart the Serb fascists from the Ukrainian fascists?! i can't buy into this whole: i'm white therefore i'm somehow also the inheritor of post-colonialism... i'm on side with the Russians given this argument... sorry... i'm not having it... that's ******* racist: just because i'm white is somehow indicative of me receiving the minority sadism against the British in the realm of post-colonialism... **** no... **** never...you will not put other people's history onto other people: because you're ethnically-blind... just because i'm as white as a Brit doesn't imply we share a shared history... ****-off cupper-neck... come come... milk me the golden **** of Moloch! right now... i'm loving the Russian attitude of... *******... or we'll **** with you...because it simply doesn't make sense for certain ethnicities of the white race to... capitulate to the "racial minorities" of a post-colonial argumentation of: new schematics of how society's to be orientated... nicely... just nicely... i'm seriously thinking about ******* off to Liverpool... the women seem nicer... less paranoid... less-stuck... less... ugh... yucky... itchy... whatever it is with having... over-value delusions of... obviously having bypassed the safety-net of becoming a nun...

the day started well enough... i must have drunk about half
a litre of whiskey: forgetting to take some naproxen
to ease me into sleep.. woke up with cold sweats
at: some time just past 5am...
some nightmare... Holocaust related? i don't remember...
but if you're waking up sweating and shivering
at the same time... lucky for me... i meditated on this towards
work: well... the horrifying has already happened...
i never understood the argument that 6 millions Jews
died in the Holocaust... technically... those were 6 million
Polacks... while France capitulated to **** Germany
in whatever span of time...
  it took longer for Poland to capitulate to both:
**** Germany and Soviet Russia... and we're talking:
a nation that only recently emerged after being non-existent
given the partitions... while France... a colonial power...
anyway... had two coffees... a precursor of a bad idea:
showered... applied 7 different "beautifying" products
to my hair, beard, face... armpits... collar bones and neck
and hands...
   ****** off... as ever... one hour early:
why do i mismatch my timing whenever travelling to
Wembley... if i catch the fast (Southend Victoria train)
i can get from Romford to Liverpool Street in under 20 minutes...
since... the train doesn't stop at: Chadwell Heath,
Goodmayes, Seven Kings, Ilford, Manor Park, Forest Gate...
Maryland... straight onto Stratford...
and then Liverpool Street... and then that's another
20 or so minutes on the Metropolitan Line to Wembley Park...
well... nice weather... spring is in full swing...
another two coffees from McDonald's... sitting on a bench
on the Olympic route...
eating an almond croissant... oh looky-looky...
company... starlings...
                        i was surprised: where did the pigeons *******
to? so i'm going to be sitting on this bench
by myself... drinking a 4th coffee... eating an almond
croissant... smoking a cigarette after the "feast" while
having this troop of 4 or 5 starling beg me to pinch
of my croissant... ****'s sake: the day is starting to look
beautiful... i couldn't resit...
plus... there's that added bonus of looking mythical...
eh? even mystical... since a few coworkers already spotted
you and you're not some old man in a park
throwing breadcrumbs to pigeons...
you're throwing pinches of an almond croissant to starlings...
i always said: better a soul of an old man
in a young body than... the complete ******* opposite
of... whatever leads to dementia: lax...
old men having tantrums of teenagers...
                       just looks silly... and it was sort of like
that today... with the Scousers... Scouse...
   i was expecting such a lively, lovely atmosphere...
i swear... the further north you go... the lovelier people
become... my heart poured out at the Liverpool fans...
the Manchester fans? eh... not so much...
they're sort of like Londoners... stiff-upper lip: tense...
paranoid... i don't know how to describe them:
proper... after today i'm thinking about visiting Liverpool...
******* for the weekend... maybe book a ticket
at Anfield... but just go and see the city... wander...
get lost... find myself...
        i'm tired of continental Europe... then again:
i'm also tired of the south of England...
           4th coffee in... i thought i was going to die...
a thumping in my forehead... i already have high blood pressure
issues... four coffees in... almost zero food:
calorie intake: for someone 6ft2 and 98kg... it's not 2000kcal...
for the first time on a shift
i had to do my jacket up so that my neck would
be covered... the tie was suffocating me...
with ideas of dropping dead from a heart-attack...
thrice prone to *****... the one time i did i enacted
being a cow... i swallowed it back down... crummy...
eh... flakey... sort of like when you...
bring back milk that's half digested: when it splits...
into cheese and lactose juice... acid...
on my way back home: a most glorious full moon...
cider... sweaty shirt...
and this... fiddly ******* the Metrpolitan line...
mixed-race... sort of reminded of Harley Dean...
fiddling with her blonde-tinged curly hair...
i always found curly hair... um... hmm...
too infatuating... she does her make-up...
her lips with a crayon and then some quasi-lipstick...
cute nose, cute forehead...
and she just keeps looking at me...
with the most doe-esque intimidation of:
          why don't you react to me?! why?! why?!
she's so ******* blatant: she can't hide it...
i'm sitting there with my shirt undone...
   oh right... hairy chest of a pirate... thick bulging neck...
babe... i'm tired... i've been up since 5am...
started the shift at 9m... just finished come 6:30pm...
of course i'm *****... ever time i become tired
i need to relax: since i've been keeping this hardened
**** in my ****-pocket since this morning...
i'll get back home... sit on the thrones
and do the no. 1, 2 and 3... which is **** while sitting
down... relaxing my ****... taking a ****
and subsequently jerking off...
but she was so blatant... d'uh... pretending to look
into the glass behind me for her reflection...
checking her phone without taking a selfie...
how her hair would look better arranged if she
has a pair of sunglasses perched on top of her head...
truly... a pretty little number...
but i was already coming down from a high of:
Scouser women... are all the English girls so pretty
up north? like i said: i think i need to take a weekend
trip to Liverpool... or Newcastle...
i was taking aback when a married woman
approach me... started talking... gripped my hand and
then proceeded to kiss my cheek...
infatuated by the beard...
  that's nice... that's why life is worth living...
random strangers... coming up to you: infatuated
by your presence... having no reservations:
no inhibitions... needing to kiss you... touch you...
always with the northern types...
and i'd agree... southerners: the fairies...
Londoners... so ******* Victorian: reserved...
it's like playing poker 24/7...
   most of the time i find myself of keeping a trustworthy
line of conversation... i just become mute:
bored... i don't like the nitty-gritty of small talk...
what the **** do we have in common?!
absolutely nothing... beside... what?
trying to keep each other comfortable?
no... i'll use my silence to strain the fact that:
we're not friend in school playground... we're not...
but it's different with northeners...
i witnessed two grown men... cry... because they
were refused entry for being sick... puking...
grown men crying... because they couldn't be part
of the Liverpool choir of: you're never stand alone...
mind you... coworkers getting ****...
deservedly: too eager... too eager... push and shove...
can't we just talk? once you get that *******'s worth
of an SIA license you start losing the plot...
machismo... ugh... talking about people who can't
tell the difference from judo from throwing
watermelons...
oh but these northern girls... a married woman
just walk up to you... tipsy... tipsy as:
custard is most definitely pale, high noon sun
yellow... grabs your hand and kisses your cheek...
times like this: i feel... gratefully alive...
it's so very little but at the same time: so much...
i can forget the 5am wake up call...
of the nightmare that stirred me...
i couldn't possibly cry over football...
something beautiful, like Prokofiev? sure...
lucky for me we managed to seize about 10 cans of beer
from someone... who managed to bring those cans
of beer home? moi...
beer... relaxing to some Type O Negative...
i'm pretty sure there was this other woman
on the train: fixated on playing with her...
she kept stroking it... stroking it...
some other day...
like a cat with an itchy scalp... what the **** do they call them?
archetypical clues?
i heard that once... if a woman in your vicinity is
fiddling with her hair... she's into you...
i seriously want to forget these stereotypes...
i prefer the more direct approach...
she comes up to you: a complete stranger
and kisses your on your furry cheek...
it might have been sunny... it might have been warm
today... but the tenderness of those lips...
i need to book a weekend break to Liverpool...
seriously... i need to visit Liverpool...
those woman are insatiable! i need to ******* to Liverpool!
i already can't stand the claustrophobically
constipated London girls...
   it does my head in!
            what happened to: perchance: some... foon?!
on a *****-nilly... what the **** is this?
the ******* Black Dahlia... no... wait...
the Black Narcissus nunnery? the ******* hills are full
of music?! or is that... filled, with?!
this is a trajectory toward a death-cult...
o.k. whatever... i'm getting slowly more drunk
and relaxed and... not in the mood of...

whatever... i just can't face up to having to faces...
it's enough that i already juggle two tongues...
but i can't face up to having two faces;
i see people taking themselves overtly seriously
and i'm thinking about... puking:
and then swallowing the puke that doesn't leave
my mouth... like a cow's digestive schematic.
Neeloo Neelpari Oct 2018
In your saddest times
Your gaze wanders
To the farthest point of the room
You gain confidence
From the girl beautifying
The heart of the blue wall
Who has freed all the butterflies
With a open cage in one hand
Happy-sad colors of freedom
Caressing her other lone palm
What could be alluring than
This silky smooth art-work of
Brushed silver-gold-pink-yellow
Electrifying than Karwachauth Henna

© Neeloo Neelpari
Henna - Paste of green leaves of henna plant when applied on palms leaves beautiful colour, applied by Indian women on wedding and festivals

Karwachauth - A day of fasting by Indian women showing love and dedication for their spouse
g clair Oct 2013
"We will be replacing the curb and parts of the sidewalk. The trees will need to be cut down along with the one in the middle, We have marked them with pink ties."

Wha????

Two Towering Old Maple Trees
Our trees.
each bordering the sidewalk
but also near the curb
in front of our house
each holding memories
which go back beyond my ability to remember,
and yet each a solid part of my growing up in this house...
When I first met my husband and he would park his 68 Camaro under one of them. I was still climbing trees at 16. My sister carved her name and her bf name in the same tree. They were always there. ALWAYS. Like something you just KNOW is going to be there. Strong. Withstanding any weather for 52 years. Like our dad. Steadfast present trees. Part of our existence. Planted by the township when my parents moved here in '61 just before my birth. Part of me. Us. Our family. Our lives.

Shock. Utter disbelief. Anger. Bargaining. Acceptance? Not yet.

Our beloved Maple trees. Our beloved littler tree, now growing strong. Shade and privacy. Beauty. Sweetness. Life. Seasons. Cycles. Strength. Presence.
Our beloved trees. Two are steady and strong at 52 years are now towering over our house,
beautifying our street along with many others.
A younger tree, a sycamore? ( has those little helicopter seedlings that spin when they come down) ,  is center stage, next to our mailbox, but towers just the same
next to our mailbox. Leaves are still green.

" Will you also need to remove that one?"

"Yes.: They all have to come down."

" But...but...."

"Has to be done. The roots ruin the sidewalk. We will be replacing the sidewalk as well."

"And will you be replacing the trees?"

"No but you can plant new ones on your property."

"Okay..........thanks."

Shock. Tears.

I vow to the smaller one that I will find a way to pull it up...transplant it just a few safe feet away."

I am broken. I just lost my father who LOVED our property. Loved this street with it's trees.

I am in tears as I type this. I can never tell my mother, who moved away a month ago. She is equally in love with our trees and was always frustrated when the township would come along and cut the branches so they could not touch each other across the road. WE LOVE our canopy of maples and now the  ORIGINAL development with the OLD trees, the apple of my father's eye...my mother's eyes will become like a desert.  It was one of the only things Mom and Dad had in common, a love of our trees. The shade trees. What else is there?

Oh..... I will take photos. I will take movies. I will save branches. I will fall apart. I will go out tomorrow and buy two Bradford Pears and place them in exactly the same spot except on our side...to distract me from the carnage. I don't know HOW I am going to deal with the trees coming down. It's like taking part of my house down. The sadness comes in waves. It brings back the loss of my dad. It is dad's birthday today. Would have been 85.

I am so glad my father and my mother did not have to see this. THANK YOU GOD for that much. And for the Pear Trees which will flower in the spring and grow tall. Thank you. I am not okay but I will be. We will be. We will plant again. "Restore the Shore Club".  

My mom always called our neighborhood 'Shore Club' as that was it's proper name when it was established, but it came to be known by it's current name, Hamtown, later.
(HER:)

Waking up with distant eyes
Body numbed in its dreamscape
Still, forced to extract, remember
Unwanted scenes, a mental ****
You can’t deny nor really escape
An incoherent theater plays out
The nighttime chronological film
Your memory drills the decor
Into your emerging, lethargic brain
You strive to piece it together
It makes sense, you want an encore

My web of dreams is wrought with
People in deeply masochistic scenes
Boudoirs and antique settings
I delve in these repeated lunar sins
Inspired by or tormented in a moon fire
Some hazy mornings I remember that my empire
Comes from those profoundly symbolic rooms
Child of the cross, blessed in a white cloth…
Now naked and proud, embedded in… who?
Silky velvet eyes, dark corners and dooms…

Or, like a prophet, dreaming about my family’s priest
Last night a call that hurt so much that was so clear that was
Unreal. A letter of blessings he wrote by hand
Tools on a table, gifted, in the shape of a small casket
In this horror I besought my heart to have erred
A premonition, coming from so vivid a past emotion?
What are your dreams made of?

(HIM:)

Waking up with distant eyes
Body numbed in its dreamscape
Still, forced to extract, remember
An uninvited guest, a dying ember.
Dreams like false memories are hazy
Fading away hastily- vaguely
Still remember a few things namely
A hedgehog hissing and running around
something similar to a floating clover coin
I'm staring at a red colored behemothic door
There's a note scotch taped on that door
It gives me feelings of a signboard.

Blurry visions; I made the decision
to head for it but wait!
The hedgehog is still running around
It looks at me and starts screaming
Strangely the room is teeming
with darkness; Am I dreaming?
I think I am but I'm heaving
Believing whatever I'm seeing
Fleeting valor but I keep reeling
I'm getting closer to The Brobdingnagian
But where's that gnawer? I'm not seeing
him anymore; It was here before

I'm standing in front of the door.
Floor squeaks but I ignore
This blackness is stevedore
Bugbears came back for an encore
Hefty tidal bores inside my heart
Ready to wipe out everything I have
I look around, I see coal-black
No door knobs, no thoughts gob
I'm trapped in this **** room
My head throbs, I'm no Dom Cobb
Need to escape from this maze
I play a bit part in this Big Sleep
I'm not Bogart but a trash heap
Fear streaks, grey doubts peep
I know I'm dreaming but I still keep
seeing what I don't wanna see
I'm more dormant than The Mauna Kea
Trapped in this room like a bumblebee
My mind's worse than a potpourri

I was looking inside for a skeleton key
Then I opened my eyes suddenly
Why is it always like a movie without an apogee?
I looked around to find somebody
And I saw you in the mirror
Staring at me blatantly
So I'm asking you- Hey, tell me!

What are your dreams made of?
Waking up with distant eyes

Body numbed in its dreamscape
Still, forced to extract, I remember
the way she smiled; Once again I saw her
Last time I saw her was on 22nd of December
Now that she came once again
I am not afraid of the hurricane
that hit the coast; I was lost
She found me- Long story cut short.
Storm clouds all over the skies
Thunderstorms loud; Heavy lightning strikes
My life was completely disarrayed
But now she's by my side; I'm not scared
Her beautiful smile- all things it repaired

We were talking, Don't remember what
Like old times, a very long chat
I remember saying yes to a few things she said
She smiled, happiness spread
all over my body, no discomfort I felt
All worries eased, all fears calmed
She helped me like she used to help
I don't want this day to end
Just wanna stay here for the rest of my life
I looked around, I'm somewhere else now
Wow! It's beautiful; I'm looking at a painting now
Where is she? She's not with me
I don't see her anywhere near.
I looked around; This place is overcrowded.
Unknown faces; Sadness shrouded
All the memories we made clouded
my path; I don't see a thing
I always loved her
Then why does she leave me halfway everytime?
No matter how much time I spend dreaming
Happing ending will always be an unfulfilled dream
Of mine; I'm screaming
Then I opened my eyes suddenly
Why is it always like a movie without an apogee?
I looked around to find somebody
And I saw you in the mirror
Staring at me blatantly
So I'm asking you again- Hey, tell me!

What are your dreams made of?



(HER:)

“An apo-gee”
Distance away-from earth
An apogee is a dream
It’s an acme, a ******
We dream of having dreams. We lie awake, we dream
We fall asleep, we dream. We think of dreams, we dream
In this so irregular laden-meaning scene that stream
Is new matter at night. Leading us through the deepest
Crevices. We recall a hazy landscape...

Waking up with distant eyes
Body numbed in its dreamscape
Still, forced to extract, we remember
The nano seconds of our journey
Like photographs trapped in a camera
We lie down in bed, in our camera
Which is, my dear, the latin word for room
We are a canvas, we are the mechanism
Behind the machinery of dreams
Our brain sorts through the day, sending messages
Hermes in a tiny globulous sphere.

But you asked me to describe the machinery of that matter
In my dreams, I am sometimes seer, sometimes victim
Sometimes goddess. Females are seldom present
Men, men, men, it’s a men’s world
They’re not like horses, a mere form of their symbol
They’re made of skin and bones, their voices bewitching
In no fantasy realm. A concrete cell or a palace
A de Sade manor but… then… always in a room
I must be making use of some mise en abyme.

An abyss, an apogee
Away from earth at the
Bottom of the sea

This woman you speak of
She must be ghost yet queen
I have not seen nor heard
The flutter of her dress
Maybe in your carnal caress
She walked away
WIth a demeanor so noble
That left you longing for her kiss
This bliss of love! this… miss
I mean, dismiss.

(HIM:)

And I woke up listening to this
This soul kiss that I too much miss
Is a call to fall up, deep.
Close my eyes; Time to fall asleep
In a slit trench counting sheeps
Keeping up my defense
Against the fin-de-siecle pretence
Because everything in here pretends
to be real when they are really surreal
Some dreams are meant to make us
feel that way
They won't let our problems wake us
So they can take us away
From the Groundhog Day, we live every day

Waking up with distant eyes
Body numbed in its dreamscape
Still, forced to extract, remember
The taste of that hot meal I had
I can trace it back though I go from
one dream to another like a nomad

A world so beautiful yet everything seems offbeat
The places you visit, the people you meet
Things you did when you were in the hot seat
And things you didn't 'cause you got cold feet
Sometimes in bits & parts, you remember
The long run behind the paper chase
Hard to remember, easy to forget
Images in our head sometimes deface
the imagery of this imaginary coquette
Dreams- what role does she play in our life?
Look through the lorgnette you are holding
You'll know she's the one controlling you
When you search for yourself in her world
Always incomplete, leaving an invisible mark
Inside your mind, onerous to find
Makin' you blind during the night
When you open your eyes & try to rewind
That old broken disc inside your mind
Nothing you'll find cause there's nothing inside
‘Cause that dream just died.

Waking up with distant eyes
Body numbed in its dreamscape
Still, forced to extract, remember
I wish I don't remember this nightmare
A nightmare is a night's mare
Don't know whose footprints I'm seeing here
Inside I'm hollow, about to be swallowed
by sorrow as my faith in myself is so low
Not so clear still I gotta follow
the trail all by myself, I'm going solo
In my backpack, I carry blessing from Apollo
Make use of your snowshoes, hare!
Going somewhere but I'm not aware
That I'm in the open air, completely bare
Ears impaired but I hear a fanfare
All I see is darkness when I stare
at the road ahead to find out who's there
The Oracle is somewhere near
Waiting to rescue you from this despair
And make this matrix a magic square
You will hear what you wanna hear
If you keep moving forward, dear!

Untamed wilderness and an open sky
The Mighty Huntress is nearby
The Spirit of the Wolf will never die
Smell of fresh blood, ravens fly
Beautifying the color of the night sky.
Don't know why I was chosen as the prey
I don't know what's in for me
If I keep walking through this way.
Then long streams of illusions
Flew in from all directions
I cannot reverse the flow
It's like those silent rivers
Heading furiously towards the sea
Why do I see things that I see?
Gotta keep moving; Do you understand me?
'Cause time moves fast but very slow here
Sound of clock ticks I don't hear
Home's far away- a million light years
from the earth but still near
Suddenly a black hole appears
In front of me out of nowhere
I'm going down through this abyss
I'm not afraid 'cause I know where
I'm going; The Light is showing
me the bottom of the sea.
Almost there, I can see it clearly
I know this is where I have to be
So I closed my eyes slowly
As I reached The Apogee.
----
December through January 2018
Collab with Jordan Rains, his stanzas are marked as "(HIM:), mine as "(HER):"
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
upon the universal statement:
once upon a time...
and subsequently to end with a universal
statement: they lived happily ever after.

well poet ought to shatter the narrator,
he should never allow the narrator
a narrative so well consistent
as to remember a character's standstill
psychology from one writing session
to the next, in between living his very
eventful life (i don't know how irony
is noted, italics or en-dittoed?),
but moving words about is high treason
against materialism, encapsulated by
the merchants' motto: move a stone
make a penny, move a mountain,
make a fortune. so beautifying language
is so horrid? really? we are all going
to be satiated by a dull numbed expression
like adding numbers, while the birds sing?
poetry is just hushed opera, to appreciate
the birds, and on the odd chance,
a raised human verse sung;
so when i give you examples, i wonder,
will you agree or wilt beside me,
from the italicised introduction,
four examples to invoke particularity / chirality
rather than universalism / parallelism:
a. *breakfast at tiffany's (truman capote)

    'i am always drawn back to places where i have lived,
     the houses and their neighbourhoods.
    "african hut or whatever, i hope holly has, too.
b. the catcher in the rye (j. d. salinger)
     'if you really want to hear about it, the first thing
      you'll probably want to know is where i was born,
      and what my lousy childhood was like, and how
      my parents were occupied and all before they had me,
      and all that david copperfield kind of crap, but i don't
      feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.
     "don't ever tell anybody anything; if you do, you
       start missing everybody.
c. steppenwolf (hermann hesse)
     'this book contains the records left us by a man whom
      we called the steppenwolf, an expression he often used
      himself.
     "pablo was waiting for me, and mozart too.
d. don quixote (cervantes)
      'somewhere in la mancha, in a place whose name
       i do not care to remember, a gentleman lived not long ago,
       one of those who has a lance and ancient shield on
       a shelf and keeps a skinny nag and a greyhound for racing.
       "vale.
the ninth gate is truly a film about bibliophiles,
and the alley where i popped open a beer bottle
while two lovers kissed waiting for me to
craft a scene as if a forbidden love was revealed to me,
and indeed it was: no dread of jealousy at not
being coupled, but all the same, hatred
invokes apathy, it cannot claim platonic pathologies
of lovers (first), poets (second) and sibyls / prophets
(third)... hatred is tiresome, it walks no thirteenth mile
the same day, and when hatred exposes apathy
it is assured: apathy breeds no pathology,
love on the other hand breeds a lacerated maggot pit
of pathology; whereas atheism just breeds factual
reevaluation and constant reinterpretation
without proofs, theism plagiarises, and wants
to prove... really really prove... and get *******,
or at least roman catholic castrato songs to boot...
pure narration? just now, you spotted it?
poetic digression is the only way a poet can
become akin to a narrator in the medium of fiction,
poets digress... fictional narrators are all bound
to the titanic... on course for unchangeable history...
poets digress to create their own narrative.
so to begin with (need to ***, need to ***, will
i survive the wording to the end?)...
the generic and easily analogous once upon
a time
is akin to an open field... many directions,
much open space, many congregational opportunities...
in the end few books of fiction are finished,
too much inanimate details and symbols,
not enough images, books without pictures
are stupid, as alice would have said...
slowly but surely the readers drop off,
a bound book with a thread of silk that acts
as a bookmark end halfway through the thickening:
undercooked pasta, raw tomatoes...
but the process from the beginning to the end
makes the acre of gold-simmering wheat
turn into a pinhead...
writers forget the element they're writing
parallel to is claustrophobia, i know,
how can a phobia become elemental?
people get killed, that's the foremost proof for me...
narration in grand novels is a bit like
a growing bulging claustrophobia...
the acre of a wheat field becomes a box-room...
and as this happens the paradox emerges:
we all wish to embark upon a and they
lived happily ever after
, but we're given
a once upon a time, in reality we begin
with they lived happily once,
and end with it was once the case...
i figured i did the worded arithmetic better
in my head a few minutes prior...
but then i became bothered by julien torma's
words. who was julien torma,
he was a would-be-poet on the fringes of the Dada
movement: Dada being like black panthers
and big lebowski movements against the war in
vietnam, although more to do with world war i,
let me cite him just so you get a feel...
lyricism: a venereal disease.
             a poet who is preoccupied with
poetry is a shopkeeper.

on the second point... i think he's more of an antique
dealer, but never mind that,
i get the point, and i don't mind what he minds,
i find any if all poetic endeavours a futility,
but i rather write a poem to be discrete and actually
read fully / contently / due course to express
the way a poem is written with ensō fluid
spontaneity: than oblige myself to write a novel:
better a stack of stones dismantled from a pyramid
shape than a mountain never climbed;
as i told you, poets can't narrate, they can digress,
and poets aren't like writers of fiction,
they can't latch themselves to the narrowing
from acre of field to a box, or a room,
they can't grasp claustrophobia as the drive
for that perfected the end, it's impossible...
they're always shrapnel narrators, a free moment,
a guess; as the paradox of writing dramas,
they're written because they're intended
for what the populace expresses: an uneventful
life to the limit of the total of all predictability:
death - dare not tire of boredom, keep it
like a constantly stretching rubber band, and then
death comes... SNAP! cushion cosy on that morphine
are we?
"DON'T they consult the 'Victims,' though?"
I said. "They should, by rights,
Give them a chance - because, you know,
The tastes of people differ so,
Especially in Sprites."

The Phantom shook his head and smiled.
"Consult them? Not a bit!
'Twould be a job to drive one wild,
To satisfy one single child -
There'd be no end to it!"

"Of course you can't leave CHILDREN free,"
Said I, "to pick and choose:
But, in the case of men like me,
I think 'Mine Host' might fairly be
Allowed to state his views."

He said "It really wouldn't pay -
Folk are so full of fancies.
We visit for a single day,
And whether then we go, or stay,
Depends on circumstances.

"And, though we don't consult 'Mine Host'
Before the thing's arranged,
Still, if he often quits his post,
Or is not a well-mannered Ghost,
Then you can have him changed.

"But if the host's a man like you -
I mean a man of sense;
And if the house is not too new - "
"Why, what has THAT," said I, "to do
With Ghost's convenience?"

"A new house does not suit, you know -
It's such a job to trim it:
But, after twenty years or so,
The wainscotings begin to go,
So twenty is the limit."

"To trim" was not a phrase I could
Remember having heard:
"Perhaps," I said, "you'll be so good
As tell me what is understood
Exactly by that word?"

"It means the loosening all the doors,"
The Ghost replied, and laughed:
"It means the drilling holes by scores
In all the skirting-boards and floors,
To make a thorough draught.

"You'll sometimes find that one or two
Are all you really need
To let the wind come whistling through -
But HERE there'll be a lot to do!"
I faintly gasped "Indeed!

"If I 'd been rather later, I'll
Be bound," I added, trying
(Most unsuccessfully) to smile,
"You'd have been busy all this while,
Trimming and beautifying?"

"Why, no," said he; "perhaps I should
Have stayed another minute -
But still no Ghost, that's any good,
Without an introduction would
Have ventured to begin it.

"The proper thing, as you were late,
Was certainly to go:
But, with the roads in such a state,
I got the Knight-Mayor's leave to wait
For half an hour or so."

"Who's the Knight-Mayor?" I cried. Instead
Of answering my question,
"Well, if you don't know THAT," he said,
"Either you never go to bed,
Or you've a grand digestion!

"He goes about and sits on folk
That eat too much at night:
His duties are to pinch, and poke,
And squeeze them till they nearly choke."
(I said "It serves them right!")

"And folk who sup on things like these - "
He muttered, "eggs and bacon -
Lobster - and duck - and toasted cheese -
If they don't get an awful squeeze,
I'm very much mistaken!

"He is immensely fat, and so
Well suits the occupation:
In point of fact, if you must know,
We used to call him years ago,
THE MAYOR AND CORPORATION!

"The day he was elected Mayor
I KNOW that every Sprite meant
To vote for ME, but did not dare -
He was so frantic with despair
And furious with excitement.

"When it was over, for a whim,
He ran to tell the King;
And being the reverse of slim,
A two-mile trot was not for him
A very easy thing.

"So, to reward him for his run
(As it was baking hot,
And he was over twenty stone),
The King proceeded, half in fun,
To knight him on the spot."

"'Twas a great liberty to take!"
(I fired up like a rocket).
"He did it just for punning's sake:
'The man,' says Johnson, 'that would make
A pun, would pick a pocket!'"

"A man," said he, "is not a King."
I argued for a while,
And did my best to prove the thing -
The Phantom merely listening
With a contemptuous smile.

At last, when, breath and patience spent,
I had recourse to smoking -
"Your AIM," he said, "is excellent:
But - when you call it ARGUMENT -
Of course you're only joking?"

Stung by his cold and snaky eye,
I roused myself at length
To say "At least I do defy
The veriest sceptic to deny
That union is strength!"

"That's true enough," said he, "yet stay - "
I listened in all meekness -
"UNION is strength, I'm bound to say;
In fact, the thing's as clear as day;
But ONIONS are a weakness."
Àŧùl Apr 2015
A: Admiring everything done by the lover
B: Beautifying all habits of the lover
C: Caring always enough for the lover
D: Demonstrating love to the lover
E: Experiencing pain of the lover
F: Flirting exclusively with the lover
G: Glorifying all qualities of the lover
H: Holding hands with the lover
I: Inching closer towards the lover
J: Joking sufficiently for the lover
K: Kindling the flame with the lover
L: Loving every bit about the lover
M: Moving together with the lover
N: Never-ending love for the lover
O: Obeying with wishes of the lover
P: Praying for success of the lover
Q: Qualifying in the eyes of the lover
R: Reinforcing trust with the lover
S: Softening preferences for the lover
T: Trusting forever in the lover
U: Understanding words of the lover
V: Valuing all the feelings of the lover
W: Willing to always help the lover
X: Xenophiling always with the lover
Y: Yearning often to be with the lover
Z: Zooming in on the positives of the lover
Not exactly a conventional poem.
:-)

My HP Poem #824
©Atul Kaushal
Audrey Maday Mar 2015
Riding in an airplane,
Is one of the most terrifying,
Yet most beautiful things,
I have ever experienced.
There is something about the
Rumble beneath my legs,
Of the engine's purr.
Something about the lurch into the air,
That moment when you're
Neither on the ground
Nor truly flying.
Beautifying and petrifying.
And when turbulence is hit,
In the tiny Beech1900D,
The continuous jump, jump, jump,
Of my stomach,
Like an unending roller coaster
Only going down hill,
Lets me dance with death,
If only for a moment,
Before our wheels screech,
Against hot, angry tar,
And I can kiss the ground,
Once more
Jessie Feb 2014
Dirt and Soil are two very different entities:

Dirt ruins sidewalks with villainous hieroglyphs
Tainting mounDs of snow betwIxt blackenEd dishonor,
Staining calloused hands with failed attempts at beauty.
Soil energizes budding stems of life
Beautifying chiLd-rIdden parks along suburban aVenuEs,
Painting hard work and dedication on weathered fingertips.

Everything around me is glimmering with the remnants of a luxurious Soil bath at a ritzy hotel,
While I am clutching my shaking body, sitting in a puddle of mud amidst a ***** tsunami.
Kate Richter Feb 2013
my hair is smoked with diner eggs and bacon
because I was lucky enough to eat this morning
using the change I found in my pocket.

I have plenty of change on me
some of which I used to purchase
beautifying products
to conceal my blemishes-
imperfections that seem so trivial now

I am ashamed
passing by the Cherry Street Coin Begger
eyes casted in different directions, sitting upon a thrifted walker

it seems my compassion is faltering,
maybe it is these salt stained streets or self diagnoses or
layers of grime surfacing under melted snow

but her and I are no different,
trying to avoid the same soot puddles
like land mines hidden
under sidewalks of putty
Guns today run the way we walk the street
Creating a quandary amongst The Den
Tragedy strikes and laws ought be condemned
Twenty-six innocent dead off their feet
A pool of tears puddle from the weep.
The hands of a ****** is where it stemmed
Creating anguish amidst our friends
Hearts of the victims appear to be beat.

A dispute out of view for umpteen years
Is now at our doorsteps like entry mats
Guns wearing make-up are costing a price
Beautifying what is really a rat
Quite frankly the picture is not quite clear
Guns without make-up can justly suffice.
With thoughts for the Sandy Hook victims.
PrttyBrd Feb 2015
It rolls in slow like the fog
Helpless to stop it from stealing
Stealing every emotion you're feeling
'Til you're a bump on a log

Colorful, vivid trails of motion
Consuming visual acuity
Leaching verbal perspucuity
Making reality a useless notion

Wringing  beauty from stagnation
Colorizing gray cement
Brick by brick it paints lament
Into farcical animation

Taking over fantasy
Cartoon smiles and laughing fits
All the fruit without the pits
Beautifying all you see
13015
There are stars here!
There are stars here, my friends!
And as I lie among the streetlight-
-cast penumbras staring at the
Pentahedral crystal hammock jungle gym
    I am with them!
I am with them in wonder
In joy in amazement in ecstasy in open-
-eyed revelation of truth
As I realize I was born not
In a city of shadows
But in a city of such blinding brightness
That I could never marvel at the darkness
             and the darkness is beautiful here.

Perfect halogen moonbeam outlines of imperfect
Bodies frolicking in selfprescribed madness
Spinning in the chemical centrifuge
Until lights become light and
            encircles us
       endlessly
Creating its own central outward
                Gravity
As I become you become me
And we sail this endless sea of
                Blackness
And we fall ever deeper into the great
               Singularity
everconsuming everlasting
        All Encompassing
Feeling Grasping Gasping
            Growing
                               Seeing
                                              Darkness.

I­nstruments of depravity
Forged great, twisted
Spinal curvatures held proud
And feared by the mighty
For our words poison their youth
Revealing our shadowy enlightenment
Clarifying with murky water
Promises of intangible tangibilities.
Beautifying chaotic tangled
Masses forming perfection in
         nebulous
       amorphism.
                     Downward, Downward
                        Circling ever downward
                           Spiraling veraciously downward
Downward the holy!
Downward the giving!
Downward unto Heaven!
Downward unto Hell!
Downward unto Creation!
                  Down.
Where the soul becomes concrete
And the concrete vague
                                                 synesthetic
                                                     ­                     bliss.
     The Darkness is beautiful here.

6 September 20l0
Copyright 2010 @ Tyler Ryan Rodriguez
The Flipped Word Nov 2013
I dreamt and I saw the sky,
The sky above the trees
I saw the truth among the stars
The truth about you and me

I dreamt and I saw the world,
The world for what it was
I found you there in everything
The happiness and the chaos.

I dreamt and I saw from height,
A bird eye view of all
I saw you, higher, stronger and better
Than every brazen wall.

I dreamt and I saw a flower sweet,
A simple beauty alone
I felt you there, nurturing it.
Beautifying every ugly seed sown.

I dreamt and I saw a story,
A story yet untold
It was a beautiful myth, full of colors
About us, audacious and bold.

And thus I dreamt on and on,
Floating perfunctorily
I felt you there in my heart
Dreaming along with me.
Sally A Bayan Feb 2014
All were created,
All exist in this world
For a certain purpose,
Known only to God Almighty...
Even the lowly mushroom
Has a reason  for being.
Here on earth,
We have certain wishes and visions,    
As well as intentions,
To take us to our own successes, farthest from perdition.
But, we also have to fulfill our  missions...
Even in our absence, they will be our arms in extension,
Make sure of a continuation
Like the river that flows endlessly
in the spring, summer, fall through winter...
The water that gives sustenance to life...
It is never easy, but we must make sure of its fruition,
Be up to it,
Be like the sun, which lights every part
Of the universe, extending its brilliance...
Until it is time for the dark
To reign for a few hours...
Be like the moon, as it rules,
Shining, though glumly at times,
Inspiring lovers 'neath its moon glow...
The stars, teasing,
Glittering through the heavens,
Beautifying the night even more.

At this point in our lives...
For a change,
Why don't we help the blind and the old
Cross the street on each long day of their lives...
Listen to those who need to be heard...

We can be a beautiful sunrise
To start the day of those
Who are in the dark...
The warmth bursting forth,
The pulse throbbing,
The heart beating...
That, which gives a sudden spark
To one who is despondent.
Let us be a spring of hope, or a happy feeling,
The lilt....
The reason for a big smile on someone's face,
The reason for a smile to glow
Radiantly...
Let us have that desire to be the reason
So that life and love may grow...

Strain our eyes a bit,
Let them see beyond what lies before us,
Don't we want our hands to be the ones that care?
Make sure our palms are wide open
Let us ask more from our ourselves...
To give more..
To do more than the usual...
For the sake of those who have less...
For those who have nothing...

Be the hot soup
For the hungry and the homeless
The roof over their heads
On a cold or rainy evening...
The warm beds, the blankets
So they can make it
Through their remaining nights
Here on earth...

We would be resplendent if we became
The cream to enhance the taste of coffee...
And why not be
The honey that sweetens a cup of
Freshly squeezed lemon juice?

Through all seasons,
Let us have the good sense
To smother the impulse to fight...
Be the voice that would speak of wisdom
To lead us to a road to freedom,
to set us free
From all sorts of battles...
Let us be inspirations,
The spur, to urge us on,
So all may work hand in hand
Towards one direction...
We can be that heavenly reason,
The light from above,
So that PEACE may predominate
Wherever we may stand,
Whatever we may stand for...

With every single stroke of God's hand,
Let us be that wand, the instrument He uses
To bring magic to all His creations
Here on earth...

Let us be a reason...


(November 24, 2013/10:40 PM)

~~~~~

Sally

Copyright 2014
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
silent Oct 2014
don’t think there’s anything beautiful or romantic about hating yourself. It’s a highly hypocritical point of view because somewhere down the line I’m sure I’ve reblogged something of the sorts, but there is no reason why suicide or self harm should be glorified.

There’s nothing beautiful about physically being unable to move because every day tasks are so daunting you’d rather just stay in bed. There is nothing beautiful about being unable to get close to people without losing large pieces of your self-esteem and self-confidence every time. There is nothing beautiful in logically knowing what you feel isn’t how people see you, that you’re worth something, but still physically not being able to make yourself happy. There is nothing beautiful about cutting yourself, burning yourself, putting yourself in physically abusive situations. There is nothing beautiful in thinking “how many pills do you think I’d actually have to take to die” or “how long do you think it would take if i sliced my arm” or “what’s the least painful and cleanest way to do this”. There is nothing beautiful about being torn about whether you want to **** yourself for yourself or stay for your family. There is nothing beautiful about looking at yourself in the mirror and hating every piece, every inch, every out of place lock of hair. There is nothing beautiful about writing a note, having to tell everyone that it’s not their fault. There is nothing beautiful about not being able to maintain your happiness on your own. There is nothing beautiful about it.

It doesn’t make you special, cool, interesting: it’s not supposed to be a doorway for. attention. People don’t understand that I don’t choose to physically have to stop myself from ending my life. Things like “suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem” and “suicide is so selfish” make me so ******* angry. I get that, I’m not an idiot, if I die I die but tomorrow the sun is going to to come up and maybe I won’t have to sit alone at lunch again, or maybe I’ll make another friend, or maybe I won’t fail another test. But there will always be more of those temporary problems, there will always be more failed tests, there will always be more broken hearts, there will always be more. And whenever I think of suicide I don’t think of it as my temporary problems, I don’t think of it as that 17 on a spanish test or that rejected job application. I see it as, I won’t have to wake up tomorrow hating myself, I won’t have to wake up in the morning and physically push myself to get out of bed (like I couldn’t do today. It’s 11:47 on a tuesday morning and I”m still in bed from yesterday’s clothes because I physically couldn’t change into my pajamas last night, or make myself get up this morning). When I think about suicide I think about realizing that I won’t have to feel this ever-aching pain in my chest that never goes away. I think of all the people I won’t let down in the future, and all the people who won’t let me down. Hell yes it’s ******* selfish, I’m not stupid, don’t treat me like I am. It’s the most selfish thing you can do. But sometimes all I want to be is selfish because I give and give and give and never get anything back in return. I would die for my friends and anyone else that I care about but it’s like if I disappeared they wouldn’t notice. That’s all I want to do sometimes is disappear.

Please, don’t try to tell me that, oh just think happy thoughts. It’s like telling a ****** addict to “just stop” or an alcoholic to “just not drink”. It doesn’t work that way. I give every ounce of myself to other people and other things because I can’t keep any of it, because no matter what I do I feel like I’m not good enough. I have a 3.5 and climbing GPA. I have a mother and father that love me. I have an uncle and a grandmother that are always there for me when I need them. I have two beautiful baby nephews, and a loving sister. “there’s nothing you should be depressed about”, but the externals don’t matter when there’s nothing for you inside.

I don’t know how to explain this, and it’s different for everyone, but for me, there’s nothing to live for but my best friend. I know if I left her, she’d follow me, and I can’t have that on my hands. But that shouldn’t be the only reason I’m alive. That shouldn’t be the only reason I didn’t take those pills. Everyone needs to find a reason to be happy inside of themselves, and it’s so ******* hard to do when I see things glorifying and beautifying suicide and depression.

This is the reason why no one takes it seriously. By spreading this, no one seriously thinks that someone has a problem. By just saying, “oh my god I’m gonna **** myself” people don’t take it seriously. Mental illness is not just something you can get over, it doesn’t just go away, you can’t just think happy thoughts and it’s gone. During the happiest times of my life I destroyed everything I had because I didn’t think I was good enough, and there were always better options. I don’t love myself. I hate myself. I hate that I can’t make people happy. I hate that I’m not enough for people. I hate that I’m not as pretty as anyone else. I hate that I’m not funny. I hate that my own flesh and blood despise me, and are disappointed in me. I hate that I couldn’t save him from his own demons, that I couldn’t get him to just put the ******* bottle down. I hate knowing that some things aren’t my fault but always blaming myself for everything ****** in my life. I hate that all of my love wasn’t enough for anyone to stay. I hate having to try to save people to save myself. I hate having to have some kind of external verification and justification for my life.

Just because I can make jokes and laugh until I cry around other people doesn’t mean I don’t wake up every hour crying, or doesn’t mean I don’t come home and isolate myself because I don’t want my parents to see me destroyed. People need to understand this isn’t romantic. This isn’t something you want to be. This isn’t something you should strive for. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. It makes getting close to people scary, if not dangerous. It makes everyday tasks so much harder than they have to be. I don’t know if any of this made sense to anyone, and I’m sorry if I insulted anyone with mental illness, this is just my views from my personal experiences. Just, think before you speak. Think before you post. Think before you glorify something that could be destroying someone else.

I’m sure people might look at me differently for this. I’m sure people might be surprised that there have been numerous times where if I had gone through with it I wouldn’t be here. I’m sure people might be disgusted, ******, angry at me for speaking my mind. I’m sure some people might think I got it all wrong. But I need to speak my mind, and I need to share what I believe, because it seems like no one I talk to understands how I feel.

k.s

p.s. please if anyone needs to talk, my inbox is always open, anything. I can hold on, but sometimes it’s hard and I always wish I had a crutch. Please, just before you do anything, talk to someone, try to talk yourself out of it, or find someone to talk you out of it. I know I said we need to find something to love within ourselves, and I believe that 100%, but you can’t do that if you’re not breathing. Just try to hold on to find that something. I haven’t been living for the past six months, I’ve just been holding on, and I’m still looking but you can’t give up hope. Please, don’t give up hope.
if you need to talk, degaussingdaisies.tumblr.com/ask
Scott Lasley Aug 2010
Little Luna
sitting in the sky
won’t you come down
and play with me?

Little Luna
sitting in the sky
aren’t you lonesome
beautifying the darkness?

Little Luna
sitting in the sky
how can I reach you
and become one with your serene hue?

I want to be more than
a glowing sphere
I want to light the world on fire
and watch it char to ash


I want to shed my light
on false hopes
and broken promises
disguised by Sol’s cloak


I want to betray Gaia
and steal Sol’s chariot
watching the trees absorb my rays
just for one day


Little Luna
sitting in the sky
won’t you come down
and tell me you love me?
(c) Scott Lasley  7/25/2010
Deneka Raquel Sep 2014
My soul is in surgery.
Tattered pieces are currently being sewn together.
Needles, of diamonds.
Stitched, with Ivory.
Repainted. With shades of ichor.
None but the gods have the power to save what little of it remains.
Their hands, claw deep into my being and it pains,
Once they are through,
It will be as good as new.

My soul needs beautifying.
Lavished with Koi ponds,
To replace the craters.
Polished with Orchids,
To replace the dead roses.
I somehow trust that someday
It will regain its glory.
And that the world will see it smile again.
It no longer wants to be in ruins.
Louise Ruen Oct 2016
Black. The deepest variety of it.
That was   all I saw when I closed my eyes.
Now the black is lit up the whole ******* milky way, and no, I don't mean the candybar.

I might be able to see that and the rest of the world when my eyes are awake and open, but as soon as I close them, and leave my constantly batting eyelashes to rest, I discover an entire universe behind my eyelids.
And among the stars I find you. As the northstar you stand out.
I wish your moral compass pointed north aswell, but I guess the fun was always south
You are surrounded by the constallations of my past, not only making the milkyway a memory lane, but beautifying the mistakes I have made.
There are plenty.
So I guess time really does heal all wounds.
Because my heart no longer feels a big blackattention-craving all consuming hole, but instead like the freaking sun.
Radiating heat to warm up the icy winter and make it feel like summer
All thanks to you, my own Apollo dragging it across the sky in your chariot with the help of your flaming horses.
I call it my own litlle devine miracle.
Everyone gets one and you were mine.

I open my eyes and the universe is gone leaving the world behind.
I see you.
I smile.
This might seem like a love poem - which I guess it is in a weird way, because it's really about my friends or whoever lights up your world.
Odd Odyssey Poet Nov 2022
Open to a breath
The inhale, exhale composition
Tongues written of words only said:
By two intertwined

It chases, of eye’s rushing gaze
A praise to beautifying mirrors of time
Experiences only shared in story
Only by memory—what we do remember
A moment so precious

Ashes upon the smoke of burning passion
The eternal flame of love, internal
Yours exterior is the factor of my impression
Impressed by the taste of sweet desire
Oh so little

Litter my heart, of stained wickedness
It’s surely wrong to meet up like this
But like this, we seemed to be so free

Under the shade of the pink flower tree
Where our first kiss had been
A scene of film, pellicle thoughts
As you still play continuously in my head
How’d I forget our first kiss
Under the shade of our pink flower tree.
Violet L Oct 2013
I reduce myself to ashes of your essence,
beautifying those wild streams from yesterday,
trails from the epicenter of an eternal fury.
Only if the needle stopped, only if the Universe died for you to live.

Covered with the  bittersweet cloak of what is bearable,
Flooded with foam from an endless rage of loneliness.

Delicate hypocrisy, fooling us intermittently
never giving up on the anodyne torment.
In a sovereign sway,
who rules our lives with mild-mannered dourness,
we sneak scaling amongst scarlet scales,
flying towards the impossible,
dreaming of a gaze from memoryless constellations,
crystal metamorphosis bursting inside you.

Lacking apparent moulding,
trusting your smile,
rushing into a leap of faith,
and laughing, absorbed by dazzling darkness,
we look at each other blindly
                   seizing the infinite.
Zulu Samperfas Jun 2012
My treasured drink, a bubbly pink
As I wear my most beautifying dress
that clings to my curves
Let the glass tip horizontally
As my perfect smokey eyes
watch the drink be taken
by the force of gravity
and splash on someone's
white **** carpet next to where my
stilettos stab into their floor
and feel a tiny splash of liquid on my
naked summer skin
and watch the pink stain expand and lighten
and be absorbed by some other entity
You are the drink
I must leave your mark
in the carpet
and walk away
*** effectively
Beautifying tonic
walk walk walk
Switching
cold slowly vanishes
Soothing ...
Cheers warm water n ***
Cheers! Cheers! Cheers!
J J Nov 2019
Luminescent skin, spiralling layers pressed
From inside the curling dagger pollen;
Violin strings draw forth the butterflies
Towards their fate, cerberus lips clasp
Wings of dafodil— spotty mossy green
Outcrosses the budded red drooping dead;
Akashic run, like that of a waterfall
Whence rippling pendulums row,caught infinitely.

Glowing stem— seperating to laughing claws
and mandalas paused along fully harmonious crease;
All falls back to fungal soil underground
For which all life is magnetically supported:
Prestine exoskeleton, flaming bones
that weavith skyward with ancestral ghost
softly chasing, having foundated their creator.

Blonde hair binding split petals via waves
  Of furious vibrations, snapped calm and quiet.

Mature flesh and bone, whom let the pencil
Move over pale canvas—
'I picture a clock that's arms spin fire
Outward. '
Poor woman, legless two years
Prior to her deathday— wonderous harbinger
Who once, overwhelmed by the menial day to day,
let pencil fall,skim and form
   and reform

Beautifying the world -- lonely, bold and brave
Her mind image caught, fished through the haze

And etched for the rest of time to forget.
Tribute to an amazing Czech artist
Xienab Feb 2014
Dear Moon,
Why haven't you lulled me to sleep yet?
Is it because you envy the love I have for the sun?  
Does the way it arises in such an ostentatious matter offend you?
The sun marks the beginning of a day
Whereas you just end one.

Dear Moon,
I apologize for the tirade of indirect emotion
But to be frankly honest, I prefer beginnings
I never liked endings
I never liked goodbyes either
And your crescent figure marks the both
                                            
Dear Moon,
I find you to be rather beautifying
Such a sight worth marvelling at
But every morning the sun graces me with a benign smile and says to me;
*"My dear, I'm out today, be content with yourself"

— The End —