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Born Sep 2015
was created from lost hopes
dead dreams
unwritten tales
tough waves

has magnitudes of words to be spoken
to be written
to be heard

profile is simple

If I told you my story*

You wouldn't be satisfied
You wouldn't understand it
you would seek more of it
and still beg me to stop narrating it
you won't bear the pains
but you will crave for the joys

is most about reality, life
not much fiction
Mohamed Nasir Jul 28
A baby born but not a grudge he bares;
Whose blood so clean and pure like mountain spring,
Yet unblemished by scandals, love affairs,
And not a pinch of what sorrow could bring.
And deep in sleep too young to know of love
And lust, of crime was done because of shame.
Of shame of sexual moments that drove
To dump him cold naked without a name.
He knows not now of being called outcast.
But hate would come and callous jibes would tear
His heart as he grows and knew his past.
Their wage of sin for decades he'll bear.
What Devine assignment on him seeing,
Like blissful saint in quiet contemplating.
fearfulpoet Aug 26
school starts soon
smoking joints on the weekday afternoon

in a sidelined shady
freight car, property of
Norfolk Southern

debating if this car will be
northbound or southbound
and master-bating our fantasy
where we want to be taken

knowing full well maybe one of us -
(and they all looking at me)

will get out of this car and live to
see foreign places without having to
return in a body bag

we argue lazy who should go get the beer,
collect the quarters and sweaty dollar bills
and damn if I am  not reappointed
leader of the beer fetching

besides it’s my
tan lab panting needing water so it’s my
responsibility and the nasty liquor store owner don’t hate me that much as the others so he’ll sell me beer without too much shit talk (some for sure)

asking where I’m laying low on a damn hot day like this one

tell him i’m getting on a train getting out of this two bit town which makes him reminisce and ask which direction

could be northbound could be southbound
hell could be west
but for sure won’t be
going eastbound

cause I seen the Atlantic and didn’t like it

too damn big and too damn cold,
too damn mean
zebra Mar 6
i am a fallen star
bornless, motherless
gripped in a wet black screaming tunnel
hiding in pulsing
slippery walls
all red uterine tears
afraid to come out of her
hiding under mothers dark dress
i am a soaking wound in her
descended soul
born of blood and seed
a skull under pressure
sucked by gravity
swallowing mud
beaten with sticks

cold grips cotton swabs and cloth
held upside down
and spanked

now i eat the world
and it digests me
always praying from whence i came
to a lord on some far off parametric edge
a glittering kingdom

i am no thing
stunned thoughtless
to discover
that in orgasm
we are closest to God

more then flesh cries
when lost in its swoon
we are
all halos
fire flares up the spine

and lost in paradise
we are found
in beauties eclipse
all burning moons
tinhearts Jul 26
The heir of pleasance
Within the secret place of my soul
Prayers rise as a misty reverence
Only Your splendor beholds

Intimacy in silence
Our Love encompasses
Privacy emits compliance
Our communion witnesses

In Christ we are complete
No outward buildings do we need
Emerged in the depths of deep
Language the Spirit evokes light to me

All I am and all I can be
Is according to the Spirit
That dwells within secretly
Drenching anointing by merit

Inhaling Your breathtaking fragrance
Expressing my desire to be
Consumed by His benevolence
Submerged in Divine eminency

Illustriousness embodies my soul
True religion arises tenderly
Hearing and obeying in whole
Purity in all holiness invisibly

No outward view is beheld
A vessel to embody the Spirit of the Lord
His tabernacle my soul honors compelled
Being united in One accord

All is hidden deep in Shiloh
His radiance summons mysteries
Yielding caution unveiling my soul
His likeness is found in my treasuries

Born to be
Hidden in a mystery
Awaiting patiently
For immortality
Gary Brocks Aug 28
At four, you took my hand and pulled me to your bed,                                                            
your small form cuddling, curling, you urgently said,
"Tell me… tell me a story! Story, make it long",
I began to tell the story, the story of when you were born.

Drums and bugles, bubbles and balloons,
somersaulting clowns and calliope tunes,
you came out to meet them, on the day that you were born,
and they were there to greet you, through a January storm.

Lions and gorillas marched to military airs,
snowmen and snowwomen danced without a spring time care,
somewhere in the harbor, a tugboat played a note,
and all the while you smiled a smile, upon a birthday float.

Just like a circus troupe, we formed a great parade,
and sauntered to the birthing bed where your mother lay,
she picked you up, she held you, as close as close can be,
her hand in mine, she softly said, “Now... we are three.”

Copyright © 2003 Gary Brocks

Children always want to know who their parents are; their thoughts, hopes, dreams, fears and actions at stages in their lives.
This poem, a poem in several parts (only the first part here), portrays a father for his child, through the manner in which the story of the child's birth is retold at various stages in their life together.
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
Have you ever thought why?
If give and take was the
ultimate measure in life
what did we give to be born
to gain the life in the first place?
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