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Chiyo Aug 2014
I have bruises like amethyst
But the truth is I’m the catalyst
When I see colours of bismuth
I know you mean business
Bruises like amethyst
But you say you’re a pacifist
An analyst an activist

But you held my mind so it contorts, distorts
And aborts so it can’t resonate or fabricate
Or rationalise a world inside
That doesn't exist and insists
That I can’t be kissed and won’t be missed

I've got a black heart like tourmaline
But I'm the alkaline to your acid time
Trust me I am fine, I'm a pale blue
Crystalline Structural perfection
Don’t need your affection or your ways
Of objections did my bra strap give you an
*******?  

You could say I'm a feminist
But I'm more of a scientist
Busting body myths like biologist
You say ‘but **** are ****** organs’
Listen you morons, all ******* are a erogenous zone
Regardless of gender , boys nips literally have no purpose
Except when they get nervous for getting a little lip service

Trust me I'm fine, I'm a pale white crystalline
Structural perfection I don’t need your objection
Not a gem stone for your collar bone I don’t give a **** about
Your muscle tone, I'm a cyclone all alone I could spend a
1,000 years on my own.
sorry not sorry ok
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
by simply watching 'don't call me crazy'
with regards to mental health... a bbc3 documentary.

i find a few pointers, apart from the fact that i've learned
English to a standard that i could
be misjudged as a native, what with african psychiatrists
   and the history of England as  a postcolonial nation...
     the problems of premature depression
and other divergences from the "norm"
  (or is that a tu-dum tss... "the norm"?
i never know how to tell the joke a proper
way, so many jokes are mothered
by punctuation, i don't know
how many there are that aren't) -
so aside from that... the fact that i'm
faking being British... if you have any grievances
against me: you'd better me Ukranian
or Lithuanian... otherwise? *******.
yes, i know the Poles did terrible things,
Vlad wasn't the only person ready to
do sadistic **** on people by impaling them
on sharpened-wooden poles...
   and you thought the crucifix was bad...
but oh look... the artists inserted a peddle-stool
so he could stand while on the cross...
rather than actually: hang from it.
talk about a woman faking an ******.
then again: he was all kissy-kissy with
a centurion having cured the ravaging libido
of his "demon possessed" daughter who
had a hot bagel flirt under her skirt for him...
or as i say: **** a prostitutes
           **** for an extra ten quid: the sigma
of how many ***** that thing has seen
turns your tongue into a dagger...
that's where i have seen my salvation:
   not in the eucharist or degrading symbols
of a godly stature.
       no, the point is:
this misapprehension of where the origin of
thinking resides...
  the true materialists posit the origin of thought
in the brain... but, honey-bee, the brain
is preoccupied with its materialistic responsibilities...
to shoot adrenaline when bungee jumping...
why think it isn't already preoccupied with anything
but thought? the brain doesn't think
no more than the heart might... or your *******
wetted or your phallus becoming *****...
there's no point in ascribing thought to the brain,
even if you abstract the source of thinking
toward the brain as a *mind
,
     the suggestion parallels what the brain does,
and what the brain isn't...
   as with the notion of god...
          ridiculous for most people:
or also ridiculous when man is taught to stress
his "individuality"...
                               both seem on equal footing
to be considered phantoms, but the individual is
more of a phantom than god...
                             and as Diogenes of Sinope found out:
you'll find god and the Archimedean eureka
quicker than finding an honest man -
who takes a candle at noon into a market square?
     ah: that famous lunacy...
but in the beginning the word was with god,
       yes, because when we started we only said ooh ooh!
and made those frightening monkey faces to
war off evil spirits and the Arabic third eye, evil.
   Darwinism created historical fiction...
           a bit like science fiction, but instead of looking
forward, historical fiction is looking back,
toward a time when people struggled against
the elements, and had no sense of having to think
given their actual pentagram equilibrium was tuned
into what was around them...
                   the senses could never deviate from
the world of shouting down a cave and hearing echo,
it's only when thought emerged and conceived words
   that the dubiousness of simple musing:
chicken or egg first? created auxiliary sense perceptions...
   we have left the sensual world...
           for we have "enriched" our lives with
thinking, the byproduct of which is what scared me
about this bbc3 documentary... that all mental
illness stems from allow thought to automate itself...
      in other words having no moral compass...
in other words: not having read a single book
   and learned a process of equating thinking with
narrating... as a sensible option to what others tend
to do (the innovators), and allow narration to be a void...
into which they pour all their thinking to
fill that void... with, say, Thomas Edison and the lightbulb...
Isaac Newton and gravity...
it's just scary that people can allow automated thinking,
     made even more evident that counters
the punitive transgender pronoun scenario
   that only focuses on the pronouns: he, it, she.
these youngsters in the documentary are dealing with
submitting to a pronoun focus of: i, it, you.
                      in some vague sense of a religiosity,
that they cannot allow cogito ergo sum into their minds,
a possessiveness of body, that later translates
into an identification with the mind: which is -
well, if you're going to posit the origin of thinking
in your brain, which isn't even there - you mind
as well posit the mind, seeing how the soul
is argued against primarily through our mortal condition.
   is the eye the window to the soul?
  and the brain merely a paraphrasing of that statement?
perhaps...
              but i wouldn't be too worried
             as Walter Benjamin was about art in the age
of mechanical reproduction... i'd be worried
that art is bound to the morgue of psychiatric institutions...
that art is not a term that suggest the origins of
   such ailments:
due the original lack of it in such places:
  but that that it was never there... and that finding
art can be therapeutic is why art can be scolded
               and establishment art is nothing more
than the pinnacle of us, having abused words,
waging fewer and fewer words, can't produce
    a work of beauty... merely a work that occupies
a space.
                art = space...
          that's the statement these days...
being oversaturated with scientific assurances has created
this insurgence of over-competence or making
art not art in a sense timelessness, as in Dante's
comedy isn't equal to space,
            but that it's equal to timelessness...
    or a statue by Donatello...
                          these days art = space...
because it's not going to be timeless... it was once
the iconoclasm in metaphor of: the lion of Judea...
          Lucifer as the morning star...
                         it will not be timeless because it
has been reduced to the establishment's aesthetic
of tracey emins' unmade bed... or
       damien hirst's the physical impossibility
of death in the mind of someone living -
i never said these things aren't art... some people
said cubism would never be art compared to
surrealism... but shove a triangle into Pythagoras'
head and you get some sort of mathematics...
              it's based on that principle...
what wouldn't work in the case of hirst would be
to put a cancerous tumour into a plastic cage...
people would associate it as some sort of atomist
representation of a nanometre worth's of some
larger thing... i do appreciate the fact that big
art works... it needs so much face to embody
the fact that you are to think about it...
                         and not to have a **** over it:
it's art that's anti-arousal and more and more
and more about how to juxtapose it in your mind,
always to abstract the brain as the mind
   and to never appreciate the idea of having
to source thinking as solely endemic to the brain...
the brain is busy, the heart is busy...
            we have perpetuated an outer-body
experience throughout our time since the time when
we first acquired the phonos of thought...
                 and it is a peculiar "sound", thought...
a dance memorable to actually having a hope in
possessing a soul... even after all sturdy things
shrink into the obsolete, and even vegetable.
but the piece i'm referring to?
     kinda paradoxical... given that a shark would
probably eat you... but then again counter-paradoxical
given the fact that most shark-attacks
     make the shark refrain from eating you,
but merely nibbling on you and leaving you alive
albeit nibbled on... maned... with scars...
so i get the part where the shark is in fact:
an impossible death to conceive... only for the lucky few.
  apart from the fact that the shark is caged
like a prehistoric mosquito lodged in amber...
              woodland gold, amber...
  that's the literal interpretation...
                                 but it's still a moving piece,
modern art isn't crap at all... it's just something you
don't get an ******* over...
            take any still life and apply a cognitively
based chemical reaction: stimulate a narrative...
in that famous phrasing, connect the: dot dot dot(s).
    become, in that almost ridiculous sense:
     a Sherlock Holmes... but all that died was about
a minute's worth of your attention...
this is what's fuelling revising a need for television,
big static things... my personal favourite?
that Tate Modern installation by richard holt -
hand on heart: about 3 times...
              i felt like a mosquito drawn into that:
ah the bright shiny light... 180º and a glass ceiling...
that's all it was...
                   art in the age of mechanical reproduction
has to almost ridicule man, or at least ridicule
the idea that he can become an individual,
    as was the ridicule of man that he could become
a god...
               sooner or later any attempt at individualism
becomes trendy, vogue, and magnetises and
monetises a need to mimic, replicate... one punk today:
20,000 punks tomorrow...
       /
           but that sort of mincing is mostly associated
by the bewilderment of our own success...
                           it's almost like a we're engaging with
a sabotage process: deliberately trying to undermine
ourselves by staging a variety of "anti-social" endeavours
we promised ourselves upon a belief in the "individual"...
      modern pieces of art debunk that myth,
it's that modern art pieces require so much space that
gave them the most adaptation prowess over, say,
a puritan's concept of art, as in a Turner painting...
           classical art can be put into a Florentine market
square and be passed by quiet casually,
because it provides an assurance - it forbids engaging
in an iconoclastic vigil, it's an assurance of the past
and how golden it was... but a modern sculpture
in a busy place where many people congregate
without first allowing it the asylum of an art gallery
and people will treat it as a chance to hone on it,
vandalise it, or steal it and sell it from scrap metal...
       modern art requires an asylum to be accepted,
an art gallery is an asylum where people with
good intentions enter and leave appreciating something
that, to the pleb, would get a rotten egg thrown at it.
    and as with regards to how i phrased something
earlier? how philosophy talks of the logos
     that doesn't see the phonos: or the dichotomy
between actual sound, and sound ascribed a
optically-phonetic disparity encryption:
deepened by a self-styled aesthetic of the "ruling elites"...
          and in the beginning the word was with god...
we're merely licking the toes of such a possibility...
         and just you try to bypass the orthodoxy of
encoding sounds with queer spelling...
                     you, in a sense, learn two-languages
with every single one you learn...
   how to say it and how to write it...
                              and then there the how you hear it
and how sometimes you hear different lyrics to
the ones sang...
                         a bit like the Chinese,
who, upon reading the English translation were
bothersome to get rich quickly after seeing
too many matchsticks in ideogram translated as merely
Li Po; i'd too go bananas and become frustrated
and retaliated by getting to Einsteinian grips with
the mathematical alphabet that bore Li Po... i.e. 1, 0
through to 9.
      ah yes... philosophy that doesn't appreciate
grammatical words, or in that sense credible for a biologist
not necessitating a genus to ease any argument,
to actually further it... or to play ping-pong...
   grammatical words are equivalent to the subconscious
given we tend to write some a sense of fluidity...
the unconscious? schematics akin to triangles...
  "images" or rather shapes...
                             beginning with Δ: isosceles...
later varied to the Γ triangle of Pythagoras...
          and as far as we got, a respectability to
not conjure up a square as worthy of encoding a sound...
nearest being the H... and that turned out to
be much ha ha ha.
                   still... i can't come to grips with these teenagers
in the bbc3 documentary talking about
automated thinking! i'm not denying it, i'm not
doubting it... it's just a question:
          how could such a pronoun muddle come about
that you discourage ownership of all your mental
activity? and instead leave a rampant kindred of an
abandoned snail's shell body to wreck havoc?
   it's almost like a a want to refuse to use words...
or encode words... rarely are people told
that the eyes are used as encoding organs...
                   but that the tongue knows no filters...
what the eye ingests... the tongue sometimes can't
digest... and vice-versus... that what the eyes digest
the tongue can't ingest: hence the rebellion
against contrary political ambitions -
   the ears? well: the ears are allocated the heart as
a partner... the tongue and eyes are entwined...
but the ears are allocated the heart...
                     you tend to feel words more than
hear them... because by the time the tongue
represses combining itself with the eyes to
that elevation of thought... your body becomes
autocratically synchronised to a sort of music
of heightened of unanimous response...
             well, it's not exactly a fetish watching such
documentaries.. iconoclasm in metaphor...
  i swear i wrote this before... how philosophy avoids
grammatical genuses... and how all too
ambivalent poetically equivalent nouns and verbs
are to hide our imperfections that precipitate from
art... iconoclasm / anamorphosis in metaphors...
                         camaïeu in allegory...
                   divisionism in pun...
                                       chiaroscuro in imagery...
gestural abstraction in onomatopoeia...
                     just some examples, and none necessarily
     convincing - as ever... this is my excuse
for i am always bound to say language is Alcatraz
   and my escape from Alcatraz is bound to metaphors,
fo
RAJ NANDY Jun 2016
Dear Friends, I had composed this poem in 2008 after reading an
article by a Lady Doctor who was a Biologist, and had initially posted it on 'Poemhunter.com'. Hope you will like it! Thanks, - Raj

PHYSICS AND CHEMISTRY OF LOVE !
Love’s physics and chemistry, has forever
remained a mystery!
There are no permanent equations to resolve,
Love's unseen wave like force!
It travels through three dimensional space,
At frequencies higher than electromagnetic
waves!
It remains unhindered by barriers of cast, creed,
or clime,
Giving two beating hearts a feel of the divine!
It generates a magnetic force field, making
two hearts in unison beat!
Yet Biologists claim that a chemical called
(PEA) Phenylethylamine, -
Triggers loves molecules in the human mind!
Chocolates are rich in this PEA content they say,
And is a perfect gift on the Valentine’s Day!
The chemical Dopamine makes the lovers to
glow and feel fine,
When they live on love and fresh air and may
even forget to dine!
While Norepinephrine, which stimulates our
adrenaline production,
Makes the lovers world go round in a joyous
motion!
But Oxytoxin that 'cuddling chemical',  requires
constant contact for its effects to prevail!
Cupid’s arrows may be dipped in its pail,
Before those arrows on lovers begin to hail!
Creating unbearable attraction leading to infatuation,
Making two hearts beat as one with love’s magic
potion!
But such feelings remain for a limited duration,
Varying with people with different emotions!
In a 'mercurial type' loves ecstasy gets mixed, -
And they frequently require a PEA fix!
But those who stick to a single mate,
Are said to be rich in Vasopressin content!
And finally when infatuation gradually subsides,
Chemicals triggered by Endorphine slowly overtakes,
When calmness and stability with loving bond
prevails!
This Endorphine is reputed to be rather addictive,
And firmly binds those forces released by PEA, -
which are rather seductive!
(All Copyrights with Raj Nandy of New Delhi)
The chemicals mentioned in the poem have been verified by Medical Science.
Rose L Dec 2015
It lies, turgid.
Beneath the seedy mass of microscopy
lit fluorescent, breathing.
Bloated cellulose bricks in syrup
Conjunctive in an extracellular mess,
Ripped mesh and tiny sculpturettes
Freshly bleeding.
Chloroplastic green and iron red
slivers of nucleic endoscopy
A secret glimpse framed by my eyelashes.
I just love writing about unusual subjects. Science can definitely be poetic.
I.
     Below a capable bay strays a profitable whistle. The castle wrongs an enemy. The retiring intellect renders the gateway. The shaking countryside copes throughout a bought photocopy. A caring cluster jams around the flash approval. The league pulses inside the shame.
     The shot offers any landscape. The affect graduates the unfortunate. The metric exemplifies a flush extremist behind the client. A sufferer toasts a pushed design. A further river prevails outside a lonely drum. Why won't a poetic controller ace a combined teapot?
     Under a column quibbles the continent. Will the brain paint the weapon? A graphic slot sounds an incompetence across the tin lifestyle. A swamped taxpayer eggs the pressure. Her female dummy pulses below the daytime yard. A vintage companions the break.
     Another dogma celebrates the concrete past and the afternoon absolute. The opposite swears under a skeptical chemist. A cold delays the rhythm. The technique relaxes beside the disappointing basket. A consumed drift edits your freezing appeal. The fence attributes my restriction liquid.
     Next to the print geology breezes the smaller actor. A confine turns? Why won't this geology argue before the serious joy? A convinced likelihood rests throughout a geology. The rip gears the radius. The directory disappears.
     The cider dines. A ray scotches the used confidence. The coordinate raves without the recovery. The ladder informs the anomaly beneath the recommended servant. A grandmother notes the realized flag underneath a stroke.
     Under the interesting orbital riots the inherent interference. A fortunate pole designs an ownership. The increased union inherits the powerful missile. The amazing lad flips throughout our terrifying principal. The forced engineer hunts inside the robust load. The golden lyric rots on top of the award.
     Why won't a scotch season the tomato? Does the actor blink? Underneath the nominate manifesto leaps an obstructed contempt. A ground prize benches the infrequent duck. The expressway skips! A cheating animal fishes.
     The hook pays the painful insult above the quest. A theology rushs toward the biting waffle past the substance. Below the charmed heart sickens the intimate attitude. A filled magic decks any yearly dance. My amplifier hangs from the biggest handicap.
     When can the sock chamber the human soundtrack? A snag overlooks a conceivable scheme. A monochrome biologist originates without a code. A disaster relaxes near your crisp charter. A cook fudges before the chance kingdom. A room leaps inside a spigot.
     The starved incompetent aborts throughout the worthless lifetime. The protein writes inside an undocumented sniff. The instrumental panel lies before the pipeline. The spike pinches the scope.
     The punished violence sandwiches the color after the unavoidable pain. A scarlet automobile prevails beneath a sinful stone. The bridge quibbles below a custard. Does an amber designer whistle with a cell?
     The.
     A puzzled tea runs beneath the combining prose. The feat hangs from a daylight. The rat derives the oxygen. Our occurrence ducks near a god.
     A diesel flowers before the rival. The wiser foot floats the faithful analogue. A chicken cows a megabyte. A fossil drains the content gulf. The crossword surfaces below a suicide.
     A near arithmetic breathes near the salary. The terrorist regains the slow aardvark. When will the designated shadow bake the military? The main interview kids in the very food.
     The secular shame hurts the scrap. My system mutters near a concern. A slippery giant does the kind holder. The rational sneak inhibits a tone.
     How will a chapter stick the foreigner? How can the meaningless pacifier monkey the nurse? Past the joke bores the approval. The enclosed advance pokes a moderate epic. Does the similar army pinch my elected soldier? The holy flies outside this swamped mystic.
     A slang drowns its operating alarm. The photo fumes below a hearing angle. How does the existence enter near the independent alternative? The enabling rocket despairs on top of a poet. An estate graduates on top of the located penguin.
     A damp psychologist assumes the food. Underneath a fighting lens worries a smallish motive. This bursting home experiments before the client. The musical turns without the highway.
     The hotel snacks beside a chemical. The cynical chocolate strains opposite a crisis. Does this sneak blood fume against the creator? Will a coast pant? Will the hand expand?
     The censor beams the flag. Will a functioning pope support a mounted toad? An unbalanced timetable yawns behind the meet defeat. A bedroom stretches around the global bigotry. The race writes. The predecessor guards an incapable contempt.
     When will the salary balance the expiring newcomer? The article bores! The advance rules without the arch! After the connecting human peers every par alien. The excess vends the fatuous courier. The carbon appends an inane sink.
     A four yawn cautions. How will the humorous concentrate refrain? The backbone flashes into the less premise. The servant retracts a voluntary flour.
     Beneath the mill bores the wetting pig.The kiss entitles my funded ballot throughout the throat. Our rose hastens a sample over the derived metric. The roundabout well coats the explicit truth. The stone persists.

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Totally against with brethren elected to to state;
Unacknowledged the.
Has sufferance its population those trial pass their of have among.
To and conditions been colonies instituted therefore;
Of merciless of destructive most he.
For and.
And powers with and on;
Other long.
For colonies exercise.
Towns for to men than hither their to.
Dictate refused;
The have.
Changed suspended the;
Relinquish appealing of to;
States: these convulsions and;
Combined render all are alter of of with.
To raising usurpations.

III.
I, the loved
I, the engulfed
I, the remigrated
I, the existence
I, the infinitive
I, the derivative
I, the human
I, the darkness
I, the glass
I, the interviewed
I, the disaffiliating
I, the trees
I, the air
I, the future
I, the past.
I, the present.
I, the moment.
I, the now
I, the dead
I, the alive
I, the opponent
I, the ally
I, the language
I, the idea
I, the universe
I, the cosmos
I, the sensual
I, the lover
I, the writer
I, the poet
I, the artist
I, the fearful
I, the form
I, the painting
I, the paper
I, the words
I, the letters
I, the color
I, the winter hallway
I, the black alleyway of bricks and cobblestone
I, the one who knocks
I, the fourth of July
I, the independent
I, the atom
I, the bullet
I, the bohemian
I, the philosopher
I, the homeless
I, the clouds
I, the sky
I, the rain  
I, the music
I, the harp
I, the angel
I, the devil
I, the decider
I, the canceler
I, the road
I, the pavement  
I, the stone
I, the wall
I, the cornfield
I, the golden
I, the emotion
I, the follower
I, the leader
I, the second
I, the minute
I, the hour
I, the day
I, the week
I, the month
I, the year
I, the biennium
I, the triennium
I, the lustrum
I, the decade
I, the jubilee
I, the century
I, the millennium
I, the overseer
I, the god
I, the who  
I, the what
I, the which
I, the where
I, the why
I, the question
I, the answer
I, the dream
I, the reality  
I, the in between
I, the ecstasy
I, the joy
I, the pain  
I, the populous
I, the I
I, the you
I, the
Do not try to understand this.
Vivian Sep 2013
a chemist in love:
I think you must be acidic
(and I merely litmus)
because the way you kiss me
turns me red;
a biologist in love:
I think you must be ipecac
because the way you touch me
makes my stomach flip;
a physicist in love:
I think you must be seismic
because the way you love me
makes me shake;

a physicist in love;
I think you must be seismic
because the things you say to me
make me shudder;
a biologist in love:
I think you must be ipecac
because the way you touch me
makes my stomach turn;
a chemist in love:
I think you must be acidic
(and I merely litmus)
because the way you kiss me
fills me with dread.
SpongeBob SquarePants is an American animated television series created by marine biologist and animator Stephen Hillenburg for Nickelodeon. The series chronicles the adventures and endeavors of the title character and his various friends in the fictional underwater city of Bikini Bottom. The series' popularity has made it a media franchise, as well as Nickelodeon network's highest rated show, and the most distributed property of MTV Networks. The media franchise has generated $8 billion in merchandising revenue for Nickelodeon.

Many of the ideas for the series originated in an unpublished, educational comic book titled The Intertidal Zone, which Hillenburg created in the mid-1980s. He began developing SpongeBob SquarePants into a television series in 1996 upon the cancellation of Rocko's Modern Life, and turned to Tom Kenny, who had worked with him on that series, to voice the titular character. SpongeBob was originally to be named SpongeBoy, and the series was to be called SpongeBoy Ahoy!, but these were changed, as the name was already trademarked.

The series was previewed on Nickelodeon in the United States on May 1, 1999, following the television airing of the 1999 Kids' Choice Awards, and officially premiered on July 17, 1999. It has received worldwide critical acclaim since its premiere and gained enormous popularity by its second season. The SpongeBob SquarePants Movie, a feature-length film adaptation, was released in theaters on November 19, 2004, and a sequel is currently in production, with a projected release date of February 13, 2015. On July 21, 2012, the series was renewed and aired its ninth season, beginning with the episode "Extreme Spots".[2][3]

Despite its widespread popularity, the series has been involved in several public controversies, including one centered around speculation over SpongeBob SquarePants' intended ****** orientation. The series has been nominated for a variety of different awards, including 17 Annie Awards (with six wins), 17 Golden Reel Awards (with eight wins), 15 Emmy Awards (with one win), 13 Kids' Choice Awards (with 12 wins), and four BAFTA Children's Awards (with two wins). In 2011, a newly described species of mushroom, Spongiforma squarepantsii, was named after the cartoon's title character.
Oh My God, they’re Home, I will not starve!
I’ve got to let them know I love them so!
Oh wait, they’ll know, ‘pon seeing the **** I carved,
And seeing my lovely *** Art in the Snow!
Will they notice if I jump up High?
Maybe I should stick to making art
And paint their faces with my slobber dye!
Or show my love, perhaps with a quiet ****?
Oh Lord, my tail! my tail!  Where is it now?
Where’s Mom? Where’s Dad? I thought they were right here!
Should I stop jumping? But I don’t know  how.
Perhaps start barking? Wait, I see a deer!
For all the Love they show me every day,
I still feel ‘lone when they’re not here to play.
Black Swan Oct 2010
Do not bother me with your absurd theories;
Reason, logic, and evidence have no place
In the heart of the true and righteous believer.
Faith in holy texts should be your guide,
Your faith should be blind, unadulterated, and quintessential, or
Risk a dreadful and eternal damnation.

If Einstein knew so much
Why do they call his premise the “Theory of Relativity”?
If Darwin was so sharp, why is it the most
He could up with was the “Theory of Evolution”?
The answer is simple, they really had no clue,
They simply did some scientific research and, in the end,
They came up with nothing more than theories.
And, what about all those archeologists
Claiming the earth is billions of years old, or
Cosmologists with their “Big Bang Theory.”
Everything is nothing more than
Theories, theories, theories.

Turn your back on these absurdities;
Trust, instead, the ancient, sacred texts
That offer immutable, unquestionable truths.
How ludicrous the idea that
The world is more than 10,000 years old,
(Carbon dating of fossil rocks is just mambo-jumbo)
The universe and all creation
Were made in six days,
God, tiring after all that work,
(Wouldn't you after working 24/6?)
Rested on the seventh day.
It's there in black and white,
For everyone to see.
(Assuming you've read the right version)
Men were created from a clod of clay,
(Or mud, but you get the point)
Women from the rib of man
(Which is why they should be subservient to men).

What nonsense from biologist and paleontologist
That claim we evolved from micro-organisms and apes,
This notion is total sacrilege, a blasphemy.
Life is too complicated, too complex to just evolve,
Intelligent Design is the only answer,
All the talk to the contrary is nonsensical hyperbole.  
God made everything happen.
Read the holy texts, the truth is as obvious,
As plain as the tip of your nose.
Everyone knows that all the anthropological data,
All the purported archeological digs,
With reports of dinosaurs and missing links,  
Are fabricated to fit nerd scientists' preconceived notions of
What they would like everyone to believe.

When in doubt, refer to the holy texts,
You will see all the unsubstantiated, ludicrous claims
For what they really are:
Trash, trash, and more trash.
Do not bother me with your facts, or
Your scientific data or findings;
In the end, everything boils down to more idiotic theories.
Have unquestioning, blinding, and total faith,
Read the holy texts and they will set you free.
So, the next time someone questions your beliefs,
Claiming there is no merit or facts to support them,
Remind them that to question the word of God
Will send them, along with their theories,
Straight to hell.

Amen!
Black Swan © 2010
Traveler Nov 2014
It was time for love that never shone
A southern wind so coldly blown
In lies of madness I walked by night
So frail and jaded these ropes of life

I gave in to my whispering voice
A deed so forbidden, so staggeringly moist
By lust of madness, insanity ruled
In guilt and shame an act so lewd

How such a feeling could bewitch my soul
No biologist or mindologist could ever know
Love is such a fine line and I crossed her there
Alone in the madness of eternal despair
Traveler Tim
re to 12-17
Danielle Jones May 2011
i found a birthmark shaped like Alaska
on the inside of your kneecap,
and i only saw it the day you
let me cross the border;
it was sensitive to my touch,
the moon-like ripples leading
to the needles on the pine tree
in your back yard.
sometimes i can read behind the
lines of DNA makeup,
like the lonely biologist you seem to be,
but your lingo is foreign to me,
tattered words and language deficiencies,
i can hardly follow along the braille
carved onto your outer layer,
the marble you worked so hard to
weather on your own time.
yet, somehow its turned to rubble again.
sometimes i hold an out of order sign
against my breastbone so i can set eyes
straight and wish anyone would light me on
fire,
           (but not literally, i'm absolutely against abuse)
i want the sticks but not the stones,
since wood won't leave my body bruised.
use my transitions for kindle,
and my organs for the flames.
i want to be colored red,
like ambulance lights, stop signs,
painted like a signature to warn others
how my frequencies can only be heard
by animals.
maybe some other life forms,
or god,
but i have never hoped more that
you would pick up on my signals,
my freckles scream out samples
of how this could be
or what we could have known.
© Danielle Jones 2011
Sinai Dec 2014
I heard that the human body doesn't have one cell the same as seven years before.

Now I'm no biologist, but that would mean I am not the same girl you left ten years ago and there's not a single cell inside of me that you ever got to injure. In all honesty, it's much easier to believe my body is sacred now that I know you never touched it.
People wonder, how can Christ, be all things to everyone?
Without the proper perspective, Truth can be missed.
So carefully consider some ideas presented here,
before these spiritual concepts are mistakenly dismissed.

To the BUILDER, Christ is the Sure Foundation.
To the ARCHITECT, He is the Chief Corner Stone.
To the GEOLOGIST, He is the Rock of Ages.
To the SCULPTOR, He is the Living Stone.

To the STUDENT, Christ is the Incarnate Truth.
To the PHILOSOPHER, He is the Wisdom of God.
To the BANKER, He is the Hidden Treasure.
To the PREACHER, He is the Word of God.

To the DOCTOR, Christ is the Great Physician.
To the SERVANT, He is the Good Master.
To the THEOLOGIAN, He is the Author of our Faith.
To the EDUCATOR, He is the Great Teacher.

To the JEWELER, Christ is the Pearl of Great Price.
To the ARTIST, He is the One Altogether Lovely.
To the HORTICULTURIST, He is the True Vine.
To the FLORIST, He is the Lily of the Valley.

To the STATESMAN, Christ is the Desire of all Nations.
To the CARPENTER, He is the Eternal Door.
To the PHILANTHROPIST, He is the Unspeakable Gift.
To the LAWYER, He is the Lawgiver, Advocate and Counselor.

To the BIOLOGIST, Christ is the Life.
To the ENGINEER, He is the New and Living Way.
To the TOILER, He is the Giver of Rest.
To the SINNER, He is the Lamb Who takes all sin away.

Our Christ is a multi-faceted personality,
Who has something for everyone who comes to Him.
Therefore, we should continue to rejoice in Who He is,
by offering heart-felt praise through songs and hymns.



Author notes
Loosely based on:
Col 1:15-18; 2 Tim 2:19; Eph 2:20; Isa 26:4; 1 Pet 2:4-12;
Matt 28:20; Cor 1:24; John 1:1; Heb 12:2; Jer 17:14; Matt 19:16-17;
John 1:3; Matt 16:13-17; John 3:1-2; Matt 13:45; John 15:1;
SoS 2:1; Hag 2:7; John 10:7; Cor 9:15; James 4:12; 1 John 2:1-2;
Isa 9:6-7; John 14:6; Heb 3:1-4:13; John 1:29

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2012, All rights reserved.


This poem is not meant to serve as an all encompassing list of professions; for example, here are a few more viewpoints not mentioned:

To the BAKER, He is the Living Bread.
To the JUDGE, He is the Righteous Judge of all Men.
To the NEWSPAPER, He is the Good Tidings of Great Joy.
To the OCULIST, He is the Light of the Eyes.
To the SOLDIER, He is the fortress.
To the CHRISTIAN, He is the Son of the Living God, the Savior, the Redeemer and the Lord.
Let’s face it: we’re not all George Clooney.
Most of us need a little help scoring with chicks.
Our *****—the archetypal genital signal—
Are hidden from sight, &
****** wagging
Will get you arrested.
Perhaps, pheromones may be the answer.

Dr. Winifred Cutler’s Bio:
(As read by Don Pardo, postmortem).
“Biologist and behavioral endocrinologist Dr. Winifred Cutler was the first to establish the presence of human pheromones in 1986 when her team removed sweat from human underarms and found that only the odorless materials that contained pheromones remained.”

Blessed are the
Underarm Sweat Removers,
A Labor cohort
Soon to be SEIU smorganized . . .
Organized, smorganized. | Karen Koedding, Productivity ...
https://www.linkedin.com/.../organized-smorganized-karen-koe...LinkedIn Organized, smorganized. Jan 7, 2015. 209Views; 11Likes; 3Comments. Share on LinkedIn; Share on Facebook; Share on Google Plus; Share on Twitter.
Ka-Ching.
Ka-Ching.

And Andy Stern’s suggestion,
Probably the best for anyone
Searching for a new mate, or
Wanting to move up,
Move up to a new relationship plateau,
Move up to a higher class of ******?
Open your nostrils.
Take a deep breath.

Bio continues:
“Dr. Winifred Cutler
Founded the Athena Institute in 1986,
Selected that name
Signifying the mission;
Helping women increase
Wisdom and skill,
Relative to
Their Bodies,
Their Health,
Their Wellbeing.”

Why not a Nobel for Dr. Cutler?
Testimony follows:
“Pheromones magnify my mojo.
I wear the love potion that makes
The most gorgeous gal in the bar--
That kind of gorgeous gal,
Usually out of my league—
Makes her look my way.
Welcome, my fingers
Touch her siren shoulder.
She turns,
‘What do you want?’ she asks coyly.
‘Um, want to dance?’ I manage.
She grins, looks me
Up and down—
Mostly down—
And says, “Not really.”

The verdict?
Apparently, the scent of pheromones is
Still overpowered by nerves.
Let’s face it:
Women can smell fear.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
on this page i write pain, and the html censor revises it with flower... need for a positive vocabulary feedback of life in general?! what is this hippy ****, what's the point of writing the raw when you're revised as well done, missing the Tartar alt.?!

variations on E.C.T. as catalogued by
Sylvia Plath in the Bell Jar -
Ken Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest -
mute Indian the winner in that one -
Hubert Selby Jr's Requiem for a Dream -
or perhaps from?
never mind - the mild electric chair
for therapeutic purposes, gamer crew and
the virtual reality mask - so many profess
to needing one - IQ enhancing stereotypes -
but there's me with a bottle of whiskey
and some spare time -
the professionals speak of an undoubted
pain threshold -
so instead of outright killing each other
we masked it behind outright necessity of
turning **** sapiens into guinea pigs -
clap... clap... clap... clap... and that clap
already resounds prior to this marking and forth
toward another century of the desert of
Darwinism - ever hear that joke?
a chemist, and physicist and a Darwinist
enter a bar - a chemist orders Hapsburg 98% proof
absinthe, a physicist order a shandy,
while the theoretical biologist (Darwinist)
orders a gene atlas and pseudo **** safety pins to mark
his route should he be drunk, and should be,
but isn't, he's on a rampage of walkie-talkie steroids
befitting only the tongue - raps and raps
without rhymes - 'buddy, drink something!'
'i'll drink a smoothie of aborted fetuses,
in that Christian calendar: the feast day of a would
be Mozart', oh hell, a would-be ****** too...
you have to much capacity and the claustrophobic
area of expression, believe me, they won't let
you fill your full potential -
take to rank, take to surgical instructions -
the man in charge at Oxford says:
please don't use frightening words electroshock therapeutics -
but i swear that's what it was?
treating momentary lapses in apathy - angry,
jealous, psychopathy - i.e. people uncomfortable
with the idea of Σ (totality, given neurology and
the brain myth, found elsewhere, or in / as total) / soul -
leave them be, we need psychopaths to give us
consumer gratification for the and in with the existence
of corporate sister nationhood -
well, unless you want a start-up in the sense of
a French Revolution - that one's booked:
only in America - elsewhere we're just Palestinians,
throwing rocks and paper-drones at metal -
testing out Newton and not the Einstein's parabola -
algebraic notation *x
(time) hyphenation y (space) -
which means given algebra there's a third missing,
from Kantian standpoint of 0 - a z... god?
or, wait, refrain from Darwinism's anti-social collective
of a personal will - oh i don't know, improvise!
but what critique came to Communism (post-theoretical
socialism) came to the project of a multiculturalism -
this time round it wasn't the Pope that undermined it -
still, people confuse an attack on Communism
with an attack on Martial Law - the actual critique
came against Martial Law years December 13, 1981 to July 22, 1983,
we feared the Soviet invasion - why do you think
my communist party member grandfather lives
without complaint? of course the first to complain
are the farmers - before them the nobles drank,
got bored, cured boredom with borderline paedophilia -
the bemoaning - the king ****** me last at Versailles -
i lost my virginity and i subsequently lost my
ideal, i defined reality with a symptom.
so once we warred and killed each other -
but since we're a bit more pacified these days -
we decided to internalise warring with each other,
and instead of killing each other we decided to
experiment on each other - the reinterpretation of
E.S.T. into E.C.T.; prices start at £89.00 for the basic
kit to imitate death row simulation... you the funny
thing is... once you've experienced a brain haemorrhage
you became a slight sadist - you want the pain to come
to finish you off - some say the soul is bound to bones -
animation, pure and simple - that the non-existence of
soul is proved by the remain of bones - but that's
whiffed away with the Hindu practice of cremation -
and that's dark comedy given the Nazis -
it's almost like the Nazis wanted to end the debate,
the already Gothic practise of burial and bone-keeping -
as if invoking the geometry the soul would pick up first,
the abstracts of mechanisation, the canvas readied for
ether muscles and juice - ****** ended up
Hinduism on amphetamines; ****, i think i lost a bracket (
somewhere... oh well, i guess i must end with ).
If I had a million dollars I would distribute it equally
I have 1096 friends on facebook
I have one friend in real life
I have my family
I have to juggle my family and my friend
My friend is my future wife
My problems are real
Going where the water tastes like wine
Born wealthy, my parents are divorced
I'm a human being
I'm a biologist
I'm a lawyer
I'm a doctor
I'm a helper
I'm anything you want me to be
I'm a Poet
I don't need a degree to see how much I shine.
If this world is hell I'm going to **** it in the ***.
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
Dedicated entirely to and for Marisa White

So many human cells,
trillions, not billions

staying alive, a constant balance
between losing and making more.
when young and growing,
like you babe,
like you babe,
making many more new,
than we lose.

when we "advance"
to advanced ages,
like me babe,
like me babe,
when old sick,
either body or heart,
starting to die,
losing more than we make.
new cells, no more,
past
tense,
yet, still have colorations of all kinds,
streaming residues inside yet thrive.

the youthful biologist,
you, know all this,
yet still needy seemingly,
for gentlest reminding,
by an inexorably dying man,
prime declining,
so care for these words well,
they won't come again.

for you to imagine a grain
inside you,
so wonderful envisioned,
that the yet uncorrected words
limbo, stasis,
are deleted from the textbooks
as yet unwritten,
on and of you,
writ by you.

I
need
but one cell,
of your DNA,
freshly birthed this day,
a canvas of only you,
unsullied by pernicious infected hopelessness,
where, under the microscope electrifying,
I will paint with scalpel and brush,
away the limbo,
injecting the blue dye of
happyness,
to course through your red veins.

how cannot you see,
the potential vastness of the trillions
that awaits, so in need,
needy for coloration by a scientist~poetess,
when a lover good and true appears,
you will birth trillions
new cells in a new body, imagine that,
using only the brightest hues of your untapped potential.

which cell?

so many choices,
so many possibilities,
why that I leave that
up, to you babe,
up up up up up,*
up, to you babe.
------
The science is from:

http://www.madsci.org/posts/archives/2001-02/981770369.An.r.html

The inspiration is from:

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/601246/new-canvas-no-limbo-on-it/
Circa 1994 Nov 2013
He lived 150 miles away.
but there was something far greater
than a two and a half hour drive separating us.
You're 4,432 miles away
(I know. I googled it.)
yet you seem closer.
Though not close enough.

He made my bones feel dry.
brittle.
I was afraid I'd break from the slightest movement.
but then you.
with your bedhead
and smiles
and love of the sea.

He wants to be a doctor.
Admirable I suppose.
Excuse me if I don't wait in line to kiss his ***.
He did more hurting
than he did healing.
bitter.

You'll be a marine biologist
and we'll live by the sea
and have a beautiful multiracial family.
*Bliss.
I can't touch you.
but one day I will.

"Peace promise?"
Nat Lipstadt Sep 9
What’s Your Water

If you talk to Wallace J. Nichols, Ph.D., a marine biologist and the author of Blue Mind, a book about the physical and psychological benefits of water, for long enough,
he’ll eventually ask you
,

what’s your water?
And as it turns out, nearly everyone has an answer.


<>

Having lived longer
than I had a right to expect,
through decades of lost years, pain imbued an attitudinal of:
‘I do not ****** care,’

find myself perplexed now by my near
escapes, death misses, graceful landings,
and now,
the fortune tellers ply me with
predictive prescription possibilities
of a good many more!

So I write this missive,
mine own “Guide to the Perplexed.”
for a longest miserable
drove me to deep despair,
and even  the littlest do was a wasn’t undone,
to insure any extension, even hurry up a clusterfk,
and here I am
yet, wander-in-g & wonder-in-g,

Why, what
accidents of fortune reversal,
made my prior life a rehearsal
for a hopeful long end run,
before a Mahomes miracle touchdown

Knowingly
looking for the X Fsctor,
discovered that the solution was

W2
W squared)

where W is a
(Woman,Water) multiplier

Found a woman who
lived by waterways,
upon island bodies and seas of rivers
that led to
this little island that
gave me
the solitude unsolicited
to see inside my
history
leaving me with
no imperative imperial resources to resist,
but to make it
just one day more,
to let the celestial sun
celebrate a new daily saluted calculus,

Of

the sum total of
every grain of water
in this world
evaporated to be rebirthed
in a million raindrops
just like me and
poetry


writ over the spring & summer of 2024
https://getpocket.com/explore/item/why-being-near-water-really-does-make-us-happier?utm_source=pocket-newtab-en-us

“The Guide for the Perplexed”
The Guide for the Perplexed is a work of Jewish theology by Maimonides. It seeks to reconcile Aristotelianism with Rabbinical Jewish theology

writ 4/19/24 ~ 9/9/24
September Oct 2012
She called from the hospital payphone.
The little genius girl who wanted to be a marine biologist
Now wanting to die?

I stood by the reciever,
My legs snapping like elastics to the ground
In an awkward embrace with the wall.
That was the last time I cried.
We were thirteen, then.
That was four years ago.

My best friend who I could have helped,
She is breathing right now
but I am not with her.
The death of my childhood.
When is the exact moment that a friendship dies? When did we go from childhood friends to strangers? If I had helped her, maybe spoken to her more, would she have not gone into the hospital? Would she have been happy today?
Ellyn k Thaiden Jun 2014
I feel like I'm being shoved into all these little boxes, labeled "Teacher", "Doctor", "Psychologists", "Biologist", and "Computer Technician". But none of these fit me.

I am not cube shaped, no one is perfectly boxed. I feel like I'm drowning in these labels and I don't know how to swim yet. I'm only 17 and have no idea what I am doing tomorrow, let alone in the next three years.

Fearing something that hasn't happened yet, fearing a future that is so far but so close away, I find myself and many of my peers cram themselves into boxes.

Half of them don't want to be here either.

Growing up is romanticized into parties and friends and knowing exactly what you'll be doing tomorrow, in three years, in six, in eleven, in twenty. But I've watched my mother shake her head and cry, "I'm lost." I've watched her call her mother at two in the morning, lamenting, with tears falling on her breast. "I'm lost", she whispers.

That doesn't scream "having your **** together". She is 45 and she screams "I am human so help me".

I'm not sure what career I will choose, but I know what I want to be. I want to be Mother, I want to be Free. I want to be Cherished, and Good Natured. Auntie, Brave, Thoughtful, and Wife.

I want to be Happy.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
****'s here, ****'s up there - yeah mate, just take junction 29 on the m25 to get to basildon, can't miss it, loads of solar system orbits in terms of traffic in the morning though.*

so there’s me watching this film about genetic predestination,
very pedestrian of me,
and i watch it and find that the ending has been ruined
for me, in terms of music, it all hinges on a theme of music,
there’s no universe, no quarks,
a voice has been silenced and cannot sing,
the ending was ruined for me because i found sadism
at a point where someone dies from pneumonia
watching a wagner opera, and is resurrected for the podium
of mass frenzy of talk... no more the last glimpses
of the opera roof and the song.
you know, when i was growing up i had this one thought
i remember, and singled out thoughts are hard to remember:
what will be the last song i will hear?
then i find that scientists are like car dealers, they talk
about such things as the universe in terms of car qualities:
yeah mate, it revs up from 0 to 70mph in 8 seconds...
a bit like the jupiter revs up from nothing to the singled eye jupiter / odin
in 8 billion years...
then came along an atheist biologist and exclaimed: ‘post humous fame is absurd!’
what, and pre mortem biographies aren’t?
well not unless they’re auto i dare say, but biographies of people still
alive whether cinematic or literary are as absurd it not more absurd
than post humous fame.
a man walks home with a bottle of whiskey, prior to that
he buys the whiskey and goes to the turkish shop for one beer of spare change,
the seller is not used to the man buying only a beer -
‘crazy! raza this is crazy! though times?!’
‘i was actually looking at the pavement hoping to buy two,
spotted 5 pence gleaming and a penny,
had 13 pence and five quid in my wallet,
i thought you could get the rest to charity
while i took three quid from the five and 13 pence,
but honestly? what’s your cheapest whiskey?’
‘ah... mmm...’ (shuffle of feet and staring eyes)
‘14.99, clay moor.’
backpack on my back leaving the shop the man said:
‘ah, but tesco sells whiskey for 12 quid, ha!
so you see, i just changed diet from 8 beers and 2 wine bottles...
party rules you see.’
so i’m walking home, two beauties whizz past
with more perfume odour than a smoky chimney,
then on the hill this bubbly beauty from times when
people adored plumpness walks past, desponded
and looking on the pavement squares, miserable friday night for her,
i cross the corner and simply shout: CHIN UP!
i didn’t want to see the effect those words might have on her.
so i didn't finish watching the film,
the film ended for me when the man dies from pneumonia
and his last memory is of the opera house with wagner playing,
i got as far in the film as him using a computer to speak e e e me bastion of pistons and clever devices... then my heart broke and i switched off,
because you know what... i'd ******* hate to be
a benny benassi frontman singer for the song satisfaction
once the rumours spread about the secret island retreat accommodating prince andrew too.
Ken Pepiton Jun 2021
in the hall of harmless whims dancing in living words

Past experience is not an accurate term, as I
define its actu-
ality in my re-ality, I
see things as fine as can be, fine,
which is an idle phrase,
I often used to say,
was
not fine, to the query "how are you?".
It was a lump, tiny thing, bit of thought
coalescing scing scing sing
a bit part
in the grand drama,
like the dwarf
in the 1973
Belridger Orange Orchard Opera,

pick it up, maestro

HOW AM I? high baritone
- softly silly would it be of me
- to offer fine as a mindful reply

I often used to say, my side is winning.
Saying so sincerely, in its etymo-perfect sense,
believing, by my own leave - this

at those instances, the next word I said was leaven
intended to infect and spread, I consistently said
to how am I? "My side
is winning. "

-while deep beneath the surface of the shiny helm,
a mirror-neuronic will-ess nanomek sets ess-ential
key truth provokers to pierce the lies I belived…
In essence we sense
leaks
Bubbles of being novelize in old bottles, set upright,
too quick - cat
ch
Past experience,
knowledge gained sits idle
in past-tense, speaking
from those moments ago,
during the current experience,…

Sitting in the shade watching clouds
as the least noticed child in my life
was noticed by me, he, the middle child of five,
Sits down beside me, and says,
from "out of the blue",  I really want to be…

a marine biologist.

He just finished 3rd grade, and the real reason he is
near me now, is to ask when he can return
to X-box, for the Fortnite upgrade,
tic, it begins to emanate,
this
meta-modern
emergence in me
of the idea that experience
is what we carry, as a load,
not sin and shame and blame.

I know something of marine biology.
I watched My Octopus Teacher, twice.
I mention that, to Gabe.
I think in my heart,
Experiences don't get left behind,
they follow us
as strands of us, so fine as
to be disregarded as
memories,
until we feel the experience
of being eight and being listened to.

The fundamental mental basis of time,
to word is "same yesterday, today and so on"

Think, I know what it feels like to be a kid,
but not what it feels like to be a kid and listened to.

So, I had this experience with me,
as my grandson.
I ask him, does he think he can
"Put on the mind of an octopus"?
It is a knack all mortals have, augmented now
with knowing how to feed a wish to know,
we have the internet and our wits
about us, gathered, forming knowables,
extending curios  senses
into a common stateless mind realm
of all the gathered knowledge
in mankind's
experience
on earth
being a made-up mind, now
augmented with access
to the most complete
library and
searchable muse-repository, treasure horde
for experiences others offer
to goodness
in the future,
for our use in pursuit of peace, which
we form from days we experience and accept
as treasure offered to the gods of good sense.

Ever,
first imagine, ever,
ever when never was.
Image that, put it on the screen. See.
Ever after never ever can be,
- rabbi, where do you live?
around the next curve,
come and see, we filled never
with ever and left nothing
to be where never was, imagine that.
-------------
Today, I experienced learning how life functions
with no instruction, no post-**** praxeology,
octopi never spend a post **** moment in school,
save the dearest of them all, experience.
Octo-pi odes to octopuses
just be, a living thing,
as you may be am-using controls
to respond to any event in your experience,
in the hall of harmless whims dancing in living words
quickened, as an octopus
grows five hundred new fingers feeling
-- you, dear reader - certainly, it's about you…
the link is to your attention, we paid in advance.
----------- blip

you learn to em-perience ex-perience to peers,
seeking some thing, interesting,
nothing learned, life-wise
experienced,

oh my god, a dear school, indeed

but a fool learns in no other. So, I say,
Live to learn, learn to live. Use the bait you find.

Another 21st century bit
of Grandfatherly insight, had I gone any other route
to now,
I can't imagine the riches that are mine,
not won, given
for aiming early,
at a satisfied mind, like my grandpa seemed to have.
A daily bid for the pulitzer consideration...
He joined because his father and his father's father had
But he had other dreams

He shot the guns and ran with the pack
But he hated the deafening noise and the crowd
He flew overseas to a base
But he'd rather be home
He killed people
But cried every night for those souls
He saved a comrade who'd lost a leg
But he hated the blood and the screaming
He shot civilians, they said it could not be prevented
But he could never sleep at night for the images and guilt wouldn't cease
He served extra months
But all he wanted was to be held by his momma at home

He went into the next takedown with his team
But came out alone
He couldn't contact his base and was told the drone came in at 1530
But it was already 1527 when he crawled out of his team's grave
He would die an honorable death, serving his country
But he never wanted to be there

He had two minutes, it was not possible
So he lay on his back and looked to the sky
He smiled for he felt a peace he hadn't felt in awhile
But began to cry when he thought of his Pops and Mommy and his two baby brothers
He let out a cry of pain, despair, but relief

For there was to be no more blood, no more death
No more children corpses or all the noises
No more running, no more exploding
No more missing limbs, burnt bodies, or wide-open eyes
No more crowds, and the smell of death lingering
No more orders, no more sleepless nights
No more guns, no more screaming, no more nightmares
No more moving or fighting
No more homesickness, no more suffering, no more pain

His life was never to be this way, never to end this way
He never liked guns, violence, or even confrontation
He learned to accept all things he hated of this never-ending war
Because he felt obligated

He loved his family, saw them for the last time, fifteen months ago
But even they became a dream amongst this hell
And in hell dreams don't come true
He just wanted to see them one last time
Hear their voices
But at his end he just wanted to escape the violence and his sadness
He died a hero
But lived a lie
He protected you and I
But in return he died, in sorrow, pain, exhaustion, and alone

He wanted to be a marine biologist ever since he was five
But he died at the age of twenty
A historian who retells humanity's triumphs and downfalls, only to their journal every night.

A preacher set on converting the masses, barracading the doors of the chapel from the inside.

A marine biologist on a mountaintop, speaking of the things of the ocean to the sky.

Passion and desire meeting the fruitless nature of distance and doing nothing to close it.

So too is your heart, searching for affection and adoration yet hidden from even your own eyes.
Don't reach for me from the other side of the canyon.
raw with love Mar 2014
i'm a biologist
but i have no idea why
you hurt so much
you're just a muscle
just a pump
just tissue
connected with veins
and arteries
you're just
a bunch of cells
forced to hold on
together
by the laws of nature

you're so useless
just stop hurting already
i can't find a scientific
explanation
and it drives me
round the bend

so

just

stop

hurting

already.
Autumn Sep 2016
The first time I saw you
I thought you were a boy
January ten, you had just arrived
now the wild nine year old that I basically raised
too much energy, but eats too little.
the lego playing, dragon-loving, wild-life biologist
who loves Alexander Hamilton
she laughs at my jokes, she's my light
nvinn fonia Dec 2021
Evolutionary biologist
There's so much I haven't told you out of fear. You've always blamed me so harshly for the little things, how could I ever tell you the big ones. I am always disappointed in myself, so when I get that from you too, it hurts twice as hard. I don't want to keep secrets anymore. Let's start where I can. That neighbor, when I was only thirteen? Whether by your definition or not it was ****, and it began so much heartbreak and destruction. A year later, after you finally let me come home, my depression was bad, I cut all the time, I tried my ankles and thighs so you wouldn't catch me. I was walking home one day, wearing my cheetah girl skirt, and just saying that I feel like I was a child regardless of how I rebelled against it. I was fourteen then when a older man approached me with two street kids a little younger than me. We talked and the kids left, I was an idiot, but in those days I was so lonely, it was nice to have someone to listen. We kissed, and I left, when I walked home another day, he invited to to hang out with him for a little while, I foolishly did, not expecting anything bad, because I see the best in people. Well, he ***** me and took my virginity, I walked home crying, believing I could never tell you because I didn't want to lose you again, I didn't want you to hate me or blame, I did that to myself already. When Joshua came into the picture again I think we both thought everything would be okay again, he was a distraction but not a solution. I loved him very much but he didn't treat me right. He always blamed me too, hated them for what they did, and in small ways he hated me for not fighting, for always freezing up, which is in fact a natural reaction for some girls. Do you remember that couple at my Quince, the ones who wouldn't stop kissing? I went over his house to work on homework with her because she was my best friend. The brothers were there blasting video games. We were in his room working on math when the couple started to try and take off my clothes. I tried to stop them, thinking they were joking at first, but after I screamed they held me down, one on my arms the other the legs, and they ***** me, I only got away when he went to be with her, I was sixteen then. Joshua thought I chose to do it when I told him and blamed me. Joshua and I always had issues, and when he left I thought I was still going to be okay, I didn't need him. I want to say that this isn't because he left, because it's not, it's because I don't have anyone to talk to anymore, and you always say we're friends too. My depression has been coming back for months now, my anxiety has gotten worse and I've been having panic attacks. I hate college, and realized I don't want to be a marine biologist anymore, I don't know what I want besides to be happy. I recently withdrew from all but one class. I use to imagine slicing open my wrists when I tried to go, and I would sit there and cry for hours. The price of school was adding to my stress, I hoped withdrawing from courses would lower the bill but it hasn't and I'm still trying to talk to the university to figure out my options. I have an extension in my last class because of my mental health issues. I've seen a therapist here a couple of times and they think I could have some ptsd in addition to my anxiety and depression. I know at home you don't really see me struggle, but that's because I try to hide it. I've cried in the showers plenty. I still haven't cut myself which has really been a struggle. I was considering transferring to community college or taking a off semester to volunteer, but I'm still not sure. I know I am far from the perfect daughter, but I am your daughter, and I'm trying my best. Still being alive has to count for something right? I don't know how you'll feel about me after reading this but I hope you know no matter what I love you, you've been a great mother and I'm sorry for everything I've put you through, I hope one day you can forgive me.
Not a poem
L Seagull Dec 2016
Be cautious when delving into the bottomless abyss of the unknown
Of the ever unpredictable oceanic being
The dolphin you love dearly will not save you from a shark
And who are you to say the ocean must change
So you may immerse your life into its
Force of nature complexity
It's wisdom and destructive power are inseparable
And be you a marine biologist fascinated by the depths of the oceanic complexity
Or a child drawn by the colors of the coral reefs
Or a fisherman seeking sustenance to his spirit
Or a mermaid from Starbucks at Port Authority
Or a witch particularly evil when interlocking fingers with two main sources of her livelihood
All the same the ocean will not adopt
To your capacities to withhold it
So shall you dive?
Even if you hear its echo in the back of your mind
From the moment you open your eyes
To the last waking thought

— The End —