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It comes when you don't expect it.''

Everyone has at least once in a lifetime a breakthrough.
When that happens they are two more ways that will seek and find you for sure, to make you choose just one of them.

Keeping up your breakthrough,
or Self-destruct it are these two ways to choose from.
The Self-destructive way will always appear glimmery and seem promising for more breakthroughs.

But there only can be one space for the real breakthrough in lifetime you can hold on to.

Like all veins lead to the heart.
Like each individual plant that leads to its root.
Like all fallen leaves with only one journey's end.

To add one more breakthrough to the one you already have,
can lead you right to self-destruction.
So be aware and focused for your next breakthrough cause they won't be many.
by Zouhayer Ben Amor
Jellyfish Jun 2012
I dreamt that I'd tell you,
  I dreamt I'd convince you.
I dreamt you would love me
and I too would love you.
I dreamt of perfection,
a dream so romantic.
I dreamt you would smile
and carefully panic.
I dreamt you would hug me.
  I dreamt we would both see,
together we're better -
  I dreamt you weren't choosy.
I dreamt up the ways
of how I could tell you.
I dreamt up bouquets
and a time and place too.
I dreamt that I told you.
  I dreamt that I could do.
I dreamt that it happened.
  I dreamt of a breakthrough.

instead i told you
at 3am   drunk   on facebook
*and i took it back the next morning
The pain hurts less than regret.
Dondaycee Jun 2018
Why do I have a name?
Why do I feel ashamed?
My skin is darker; kind of black,
I could play the “Why” game and watch the results change into an X looking back,
That’s darker; X squared is smarter than that,
Only with a Y does he search for a trinity in a period for unity, and equate to form,
Yes, I know, I’m speaking as if this information is the norm,
I’ll break it down,
Why do I have a name? I feel obligated to last,
I’m bound by blood; big tree, big three, red ***,
Why do I feel ashamed? Discombobulated because of the past,
Discombobulated,
Cause be: past,
Effect be: last, because my first name took me away from my last,
The irony in me losing my identity and stumbling across DNA so that I could explain how me having red skin was apart of the past,
They asked for my name,
I did not answer,
I do not approve,
They tried to label me: Insane,
I did not attack,
I do not ask; this is my mood,
I do not apply the perception if intuition reply; “data not available”,
That means it does not enter the conception if the logic wasn’t of relevance,
Hesitant, if the manifestations replaceable,
My skin is darker, black,
I was embarrassed to inherit this,
My skin is darker, fact,
Merit in gene pool looping with heritage,
American, as a liability,
Arrogance, it’s sensibility,
Aye Merica, cannabis keeping lies from billy,
Narrowness with the third eye, his sense ability,
Now I could ask why for anything,
And I’ll find the answers when I look back,
Now if I lived in the moment, I would have known everything , I too smart to ever think of sticking to these structures in order to scratch my back,
And if my ego is itching, it’s time for a backpack,
Curiosity; wondering why, had to backtrack,
In third period, he saw her,
Told her back that,
They became one, had a child, another tax bag,
Stability was hard, he spent money,
It didn’t come back,
He cried for God, he was hungry for help; received a PI; this is abstract,
With H in the middle, Phi transitioned circles into spirals, indeed he snapped back,
New lid, imagine looking up and seeing green; snapback,
Did you catch that, how the man’s breakthrough was philosophy,
A philanthropist using philharmonics to express the three in blackjack,
Why play games when we know the outcome?
Like working and supporting economics,
But we all know this experience is not fun,
You’re nobody if you’re not one,
Tried solitude but it’s hard to be spiritual if you’re not one,
Afraid of a breakthrough, so he pulled the trigga,
All that pain because he was just another *****,
Trying on advance shoes won’t make him no quicker,
I’ll be ****** if he lose, we gotta fill the picture,
I’ll be ****** if we lose, we gotta feel the pictures,
Express yourself, invest in health,
We gotta divert from all these written scriptures,
We gotta desert when we see the liquor,
We got a dessert when we see the mixture,
How it’s thicker than DNA, DMT, and Trinity together,
If I relocate promise me you’ll remember me forever,
I went from X and X to X and Y a linear measure,
This androgynous way of perceiving, is how we as a species all come together,
Acceptance is dark and I had a head start,
That’s archetypal for a breakthrough,
Because I’m convinced; I’ve conceived the belief that choice is what makes you,
Choice is what make you,
Choice is what made you,
Understanding choice is the breakthrough.
Danielle Jul 2019
Your Breakthrough is not to be left in the hands of others.

Your Breakthrough is not to be dwelled on in despair.

Your Breakthrough is Yours and Yours Alone.

Work on Your Breakthrough until what you yearn Comes Through.

Don’t Quit!
Life: We must Grow Through what We Go Through- That’s the true Breakthrough.
Unpuresoul Jan 2015
My tears aren't of pain
I have nothing to gain
I just have to keep my demons tame
It's hard to do when you're insane

I cry from my shadows point of view
Hoping my life will reach a breakthrough  
Thoughts flow through my head like a typhoon
If I am to die it will be to soon

How many trials must I endure
To take the test is to be sure
My heart is everything but pure
I will fight; it is my turn

Have you tried suicide, it is quite nice
For if you fail your life will not suffice
The gate keeper is the one you must entice
While you take the chance and roll the dice
Shofi Ahmed Jan 2019
Zero is enduring
zero is deathless.
Nothing is up to it
none can mirror it
though forever
it's an open case.
The eyes are yet to
see an open face!

Because like it's
nothing is in perfect shape
purely a perfect circle!
Nothing matches it
as like Fathima is none else!

Ever more sprawling pi decimals
never go unnoticed propelling
to the end surge before her.
Before the original one
Fathima is yet to be mirrored.

All the planets turn circular
before the unseen perfect circle.
Fathima nails it snapped it up
circled it with her hair!
Before the furthest sighted eyes,
the dot at the earth's centre
at its pool of primitive water.

Fathima embeds in a loop of her hair
thus supercharges the water!
It finds the cut, the golden ratio,
constant continuity in her hair's inner flow.
And the Big Bang happened
there, their breakthrough!
The potential worlds to be
from the first drop of water
she gets them all buzzed out.
From down the rock bottom,
from the zero null
Fathima finds and raises the sun!

Nothing is comparable to it on the ground
nor up on the high, we only see the fire
of a heavenly phenomenon is beyond the sight!
tonight we gather
to mark a
commencement day

four decades on
from a late June
afternoon

exchanging
embraces and
bon voyage wishes

departing a grand
chandeliered Rivoli
embarcadero

bound
to glorious
destinations

our bold sails
welling with
youthful
exuberance
in pursuit of
dreams
and intrepid
endeavors

our life
journeys
are blessed
with rich
abundance,
the grace of
challenge and
the gift of days

this evening
as we reconnect
to share the joys
and wisdom gleaned
from well lived lives
we will also celebrate
in multicolored splendor
the lives of classmates
who have commenced
journeys to other
destinations

though their
earthly sojourn
is complete
passed friends
remain alive
in our memory

surely the spirits
of the beloved
will walk this
room tonight

forever young
their quiet presence
will gently touch
tender hearts

they’ll appear
as they once looked
on their finest day

and as we relive
the bits of our lives
we shared with
one another

we may feel
the grasp of a
warm hand
as we once did
during that
snowy evening
west end walk

we’ll dance with them again
around Tamblyn Field bonfires
gyrating in a shared
ecstatic ebullience

we’ll applaud most likely
to succeed lives
most beautiful smiles
and crack up
to the hilarity of
class clown jokes

we’ll taste the kiss
of an after dark
Lincoln Park
rendezvous

groove to the
rock steady
beat of a
bad company tune  

we’ll submerge again
in a Yellow Submarine
to embark on an epic
Greenwich Village
journey

we’ll roll down
the shore on old
Thunder Road
windows open
hair blowin
radio blastin

we’ll taste the sweet sip
of Cherry Cokes
and Root Beer floats
at Roadrunners

chasing lost love salty tears
spilled over ***** upperclass home boys
and the soft blush sentiment of a
first French kiss

wouldn't it be nice
to swoon to the
fantasy and
winsome yearnings
of favorite
summer songs

filling our head’s
with mind
blowing collages
starring
team mates
drama club
second takes
heady chess club
checkmates

we’ll marvel at the disruption of
premillennial breakthrough science projects
created by pocket protected slide ruling
entrepreneurial math wizards

we'll recall droll gossip
by drab hall lockers
dim gym showers
awkward dances
Yippie people power

patriotic assemblies
cool sharp dressers
right on brother
Que Pasa lil sista

rock and roll album covers
Simon and Garfunkel poetics
Go Go Boots kickin
FM radio psychedelics

Midnight Confessions
emphatically blared
from the cafeteria jukebox
Civil Rights, Earth Day
and righteous
anti war activism

tribes of hoods, Ra’s,
jocks, artistes and tie dye hippies
everything is groovy
lets get a sandwich at Ernie’s

first carnal explorations
Moody Blue Tuesday trysts
man could she speak German
boy do I dig her dress

we did hard time together
at split session detention centers
ate chocolate chip cookies
cracked up to Mr. Thomas’s
Ides of March tragedy

took first tokes and
sips of Boones Farm
we partied hard
and did no harm

admired academic brainiacs
and the civic commitment
of student govie reps
shut down the gubmint
was never a threat 

basketball rumbles
Bulldog football
**** Ludwig soccer teams
nimble cheerleaders

leggy majorettes
kick *** marching band fanfares
compelling masquer presentments
Park Avenue wayfarers

they were
crew mates
on The Soul Boat
rode shotgun
to Midnight Rambler
Doobie Concerts

cruised hard in
the Root Hog
Rat Raced Louie
in tiny white Pintos

we booked
many a mile
with our lost
friends

on the road to
this evening

authoring
volumes of
fabled odysseys
and fantastic
recollections

their stories
are our stories
telling our stories
keeps them alive

some may say
gone too soon
but the measure of
a well lived life
is not counted
in days, nor
accomplishments

but how one has loved
and how much one was loved

quietly there
always with us
forever to be
a wholesome
part of us

as the brothers
from Cooley High
would say

lets tip a sip
for the brothers
and sisters who
ain’t here….

God bless
Godspeed
enjoy the evening
vaya con dios mis amigos

Music Selection:
Pat Metheny
Mas Alla


RHS 74
Class Reunion
Elks Club
Rutherford
11/29/14
I love Sunny Days after weeks of Thunderstorms and Hurricanes;
         *Breakthrough.
(C) Al'Nysa Goodwin -metaphor
Shofi Ahmed Apr 2017
Open your heart paint your dream.
Do it in the broad daylight,
it’s your colour scheme.  
If the twilight falls on your colour plate
before you’re done painting the noon,
keep drawing down the moon!

Breakthrough at the first light.
No sunrise is any bird’s sleeping pillow.
They are on their wings, out and tweeting,
singing on the past night’s dreamscene.

Any of the fair duo, the Sun or the Moon,
sleek sunny golden or the silver line,
neither one of those can you catch.
They know their science  
like you count your time.

You can set your mind any time,
pick any number to count your time,
but you won’t have the last one.
There isn’t one, the mind is spotless fine.
But if the solar-lunar duo can count the last:
ask them to stop the time.  

Be truthful as you speak.
Open the heart into your eloquent word.
Never think you are alone, you are
complete with the complete world!
Ceida Uilyc Jul 2015
I could tell you,
But you’d laugh at me.
Because it is bare, raw and pure.
You gloat on the preservatives.
You discard the genuine.
Listen to me, my friend, there is a part of the world, where even a bulb is never, ever, witnessed in real, but reel of the sanskrit Cartoon slots. The peppy  and ‘lone B-grade Cartoons .
Filled with Flesh.
The stories of tantric mantras, with a sliver of diminishing hearth,
on the
Dimensions and depth of the Yoni in the resin of shellac
on the Immaculate ceremony,
In a woodpecker hole just underneath the sealed power of the Yakshini who truly screws it up if you have taste of her once.
the one who harbingers drunk loners of Kavadiyattom alley after 3:20 am.
She takes them to the crown chakra of palm trees.
Shows them the world.
she pushes them off the crown and the falcon falls in endless spirals of a inhuman push that pushes the concrete innards to a danlgling mass of amoebic copulation.
Breath comes back.
It is a big nauseating gag of Kumbhakarnan's long sadya that lasted for half a decade.
Of the soma saras that made the entire India go, ga-ga and believe they've seen the god.
But not one nor any saw the same face, colour, shape or even vibe of the god they had seen alone.
They agreed in unison that all their hallucinations of beautiful humans in Flower UFO s and high-tech cloning, were a vital hair in the nostril of the cosmos.
They made, each a god out of their genuine mix of memories.
Or in the, priest's ways,
Hence, the 2.3 Billion populous of the country had the same, well, odd Spiritual benefactors.

Keeping it all aside, lemme be honest, I'd follow many a fairy god-mother but give my milkey teeny tooth to the special one.
Hinduism tells you God is omnipresent.
Hinduism tells you God is within you.
It also says, there is no God.
The clipper to snap off the confusion of this, lies in the same cheap stained-yellow cliche of love. It entails everything. You, me, animals, plants, cosmos, vibes, thoughts, dreams and the universe.
It tells you to live with your body mind and soul.
From Kamasutras that teaches sense.
The excitement, control and breakthrough of it.
Like tao did under his exposed roof without the sacred dung of from Hindu Land.
This is the secret of a rumoured Mohini,
Of her 1000 per hour ******* during the her/ his/ its 352 incarnations.
which was the reason for Big bang.  
Amidst the sultry scant of the voluptuous *******,
Their skin,
a vernacular reflection of a dusk on the Japanese gold beaches, And the mounts,
firm and glowing with the rusty shade of pharaoh’s Gold anklet.
The gooey glaze of yesterday’s glamour in the wink of a gay galore.
Paulo Ceolho’s Holy Communion with God,
Or like the Japanese Tengaman says,
Or rather screams,
That all it it takes is a little *******.
So, yes.
That precise art of attaining a consciousness, from where your mind was
Afloat
Wild
Free
Satiated
By yourself
You’ve just consumed the essence of you
Your Ojhas
And the tiny matter that teaches the universe
Of a Shunya.
That, momentary sense of lapse of your body mass,
Or the breakthrough into your eye of the crown.
Only to join the mundane bustle of the 10,00 speakers on all four
JBLs, Boses and Pioneers live looping the zillions of sanskrit mantras under one roof.
In your Ear drum.
A synechdoche of the Gods and their jacuzzi of amphetamine bubbles.
Splashed from a white Elephant's bejewelled Snout, which has the
crowned ring in your pineals.
Secret lies under
the rotten bone chip of Hussain Sagar
deep under the ***** green lake,  
drowning the rainbow Buddha in the city of slimy immortal maggots on ham.
Open your eyes.
For the Gods will
Else
Cut your eyelids off
to show you that
the city's shardminds await you.
roaring
Playing close to the fire demons of Redland
A nail close to your wide open lid-less
White flowing eye.
Hear the city scream.
The deafening chaos,
In unison,
Intoxicating their venomous fruits
of the delirious worlds
Or simply put, divine prayer and offering
for
the Omnipotent,
Omniscient
And the
Om.
Shunya.
Or the cyclic abyss of meaninglessness.
But,
Like, the wilted azures
that seduced those flies,
From a far far away,
To come the praise the combs of their bellies,
Filled with the red from the omnipotent, dead, weak and evil
In one little fly belly.
They came from the
land called Lullaby.
To go there
from here,
But, first,
bear the Weasleys' infamous extendable ears and heed me now, for I say twice and See him Come.
The snake, the tangy smell of goated black rub and blueness.
Siva shouldn't come?
Not yet. A little DMT more in the brain and perhaps the spark will happen.
Better than the potions of those gigantic forest priests.
No, Heed me, now.

3 Dodos Walk-afar,
And, take the lone left-laden log
the one that is,
limitless Long
loyal and  let alone
By those
languors which
Killed
Lord Leopard Loot'.
While,
Lord's Lass
Lays lolled lambs,
Lolled ‘long le ******,
Leech on the laiden log,
leading to Lord Lava,
Yes.
The bridge of Casilii Po.

Of the Lord.
Guarded
By these bubbling bellies with a drop of the world's make.
Assassins.
the Fly, flies.

retain the scarification of theolden curse,
Older than the rocks underneath this gurgling lava,
On which reincarnation steams.

As destiny should have it,
the astrologers had seen,
3 centuries back
That at a Sphinx’s Wedding,
a war of Vision,
will break.
It will
Bring the Stars
Out of those melting blue nightsky of Neruda's wails;
And the diabolic estrangement inflicting Eagle,
From Meena’s vibes,
that rubbed of a distinct scent of Malabar embedding a little of everybody in the village,
on its Kasavu lines posing
at the focus
of Sahib's Ferguson or Baker.

The gold turned white.
A liquid white, like that of the sap,
For that,
***** on a parrot green rubber plant
And work your fun with the white gluey milk,
fragrant than the sap
Like the  Ylang Ylang buds freshly kissed by the drooly dew,
sealed away
elegantly in a crystal Indigo bottle by the pen stand.

One that glitters if you look at its surface, but smells of naphthalene ***** in the sink
in
that
creepy trailer in
mid salem night of the tut.
Colourful.
This is colorblind.

White is motile.
White is wriggling.
White is life.
With a **** of Eve’s fabric-less
Skin.
White is divinity
feeding you excess of everything,
With an tenfold over dosage injected intravenous, by a silver-haired-glow-in-the-dark-dodo-cupid;

She is divine.
**** Her.
**** her on a Pyre.
**** her innards on a fire.
inflame the bubble
of her her oily effluent you found on the toilet seat
Instil in her, the seed of your sodomic occult,
Not by compassion, but through a hiss and sting
of the
flawless venom of the diabolic.  
Then. Disinfect your fruit that you flicked off the paradise.
And bellow to the blowing gurgling below.  
A reign of ****  nihilism,
moaning the mood-swings-of-a-98-year-old-menopausing-Bhairavi of the Indian Aghora Tales;
And Shelly, fueled in his undiminished hearth with the help of his impetous West Wind,
dreaming lucid,
on a flight in the sky for one week,
with Lucy’s sewing  sequined buttocks,
Stinging their luminescent, lactating, lustrous skin,
Like a tatto machine, lifting rays into the epidermis
So that it roasts, burns a soot and neonifies the only colour
A shade of
The rave, rainbow-red karmas of human existence,
Its little greedy quantas waltzing around the matter
And of its unleashed illuminations
That fuel the same vessel in the universe,
infamously known as,
the
black hole.
Uggh!!
All characters and plots are fictitious.
Your nightmares are yours, not Caesar's.
This is truly the fruit of my insomnia. I have been awake 52 hours now. Had to rant the wakefulness out.
It is unedited. All those offended, I didn't mean it, you did.
at the break of the dawn
the dusk dawned, *****,
overshadowed, and devoured​
the golden splendour of the
morning.

trees of darkness appear from the
silhouettes of the sky, skedaddling
beyond the eyes, destroying the
visage of the holy sun

and the dawn breaks through with
the offering of a thousand sacrifices
consuming the deep darkness,
rolling sapphires​ into emerald with
the light of a gold-diamond.
Shofi Ahmed Oct 2017
Time and again the sun
been through the black box
and comes out of the dark night
absolutely smelling of roses.

Ah, the dreaming firstlight!
Stunned roses lost for words
every bird wakes up singing a song
but the breakthrough sun won't stop!

The grey twilight is a sigh
the sun vanishes away.

Saves every drop of colour
as if it hasn't got a clue
its far from the shades of the blue.

Deep into the dark black night
the light of the day goes unseen.
There is a sea within!
Wish, if only it can colour in.
Teresa Grace Sep 2012
Trapped in silence
Unconscious face
Hopeful lost
Dreams speak
Power replies
Physical doll
Intention revives
Silence is thought.

Revision without result
Three days without rising
Purpose refocused
Locked sustained energy
Achievement unleashed
Confidence gained
Consciousness stable
Rewards on the table
Tyler Dolch Feb 2012
Do the words that you rhyme still matter over time , or do they fade into the abyss like a memory you miss?
Do they fade away from you, like every friend seems to do. Not because of choice, but because of a voice,deep inside your mind, you search but never find.
Do they fill throughout your brain and exist with every pain?
Does the daylight contradict , what your nightmares constrict?
Are you afraid of today, because of what the past used to be, or fearful of the future because its a lock with no key.
Do you walk towards the light and see it in your sight! Or does darkness follow you, the light to never breakthrough?
Do you think of what could be ,if your mind could be free, Or does the darkness begin to ensue like a storm beginning brew?
Does the pain go to your brain, coursing every vein, you question if you are sane! Is this what life is to be , or is this only for me.
Do you question every thought, every sentence, every answer that could be. Why? Why do these nightmares happen to me! Is this what my life is to be ?! Or I have simply lost my balance and this is what I see.
Turn off the lights so then you can see, the darkness of a mind,
when that mind belongs to... Me
Brittle Bird Dec 2014
You told me to write about
what scares me.

At first I thought, well, everything scares me.
That sense of endless possibilities is what caused my writers block
in the first place.

Sorry.

Further down the road, my depressive nihilism kicked in.
Nothing can scare me,
and nothing really matters.
It's the illusion of life
pointing its big, daunting finger
and laughing.

When I finally hit both ends of this,
felt everything and nothing,
it hurt somewhat, yes, but-
I began to write.

Now my words reflect
everything I feel and don't feel,
everything that is and isn't.
Now, I take everything that passes through me
and make it into something else,
something completely new.

In this moment,
I have complete control over my little universe.
There is a world out here,
more vibrant than I ever imagined.

So thanks for that.



-e.r.n.
To Mckinley. :) Hi
LRB Dec 2013
I kept running and running
Darkness embraced
Too much space
Out of place

I see no light, nothing
Weak in the knees
Heart on freeze
Look to the steez

But now I realize, the stars touched my mind
How about you just do you, and I will do me
And hope some day the cold and heat
will shape our puzzle pieces
to Another
Maybe we will fit a fit that we didnt just give each other


So I look high and proud, dignity
Love will never fade
We may come astray
You with me, always.
Stu Harley Nov 2018
while
one quarter of
this
world erased
and
nothing left
but
the
breakthrough moon
Stu Feb 2019
Who do you call when your brain is on fire?
When sunshine strips
begin to fade from the bed sheets,
And you find, yet again,
That you've allowed a day's worth of stability
To deconstruct itself.
For a while, a silhouette you will remain,
Chasing the origin of light,
Only to fall into the one thing blocking it.

What happens when a brain is burnt out?
Drawing out breaths that latch to the cold air,
When you stand with weary muscles,
A title wrapped around your forehead,
And a frustration festering.
Holding close to the last remaining memories,
Of security, of solidarity, of purity.
Losing yourself to yourself,
Costs less and less each time.

When do you decide a brain needs fixing?
When the ride home is full of regret,
And your legs cannot stop shaking.
A miserable night will be swept under the rug,
So dogear the scripture you spoke belligerently,
And the world will suddenly seem small.
A breakdown happens when most needed.
A breakthrough happens when least expected.

How do you fix a brain?
Probably, the day without questioning it all,
Will be the day you figure the most out.
If we can get a mixed up mind to settle,
Then the first thing to learn would
Be the acknowledgment of a new, better life.
We will all survive our demanding brains,
if only someone will show us the way,
Will someone please show us the way,
Before another brain is ignited?
For an old friend.
Shreya Dristi Jan 2019
I am awake

alive. aware. tired... but, so awake
ready. content? drained... but, ready.
ready for what's next.



soak.

soak while enveloped in His cloak of soundness, of serenity inconspicuously emerging from the crossfire



come to an understanding

a consensus with Yourself



stay.

stay here... in this fractured moment of freedom, of belonging, of peace

A breakthrough.

Gasp for Air before descending back into perplexity.



know

know the Answer

Believe in the Answer to all those unanswered, unanswerable questions

Love the Answer

Thank the Answer


Breathe


आप पूरी तरह से ठीक हैं
आप ठीक हो जाएंगे
आप ठीक होना पड़ेगा

अच्छा?

हाँ.
Helloooo, this is something I've written after years of inactivity, life's been really busy guys...

P.S I can understand Hindi but, I have never studied it, forgive me if I have made a mistake... I just love the impact Hindi has. My mom speaks Hindi so I just have an unconditional love for it huhu

Btw the title is 'Zinda hoon yaar' - which means I am alive, my friend

The poem is quite vague but, I think it perfects sums up what I was feeling when I wrote it
ragadoomatroska Sep 2014
Here you stand
On the verge of a breakthrough.
Yet you let it all go
Letting paranoia get to you.
You cast your eyes down
And wait for the ground
To give way beneath you.
"This is not a breakthrough!"
You scream,
"This is breakdown,
Shake down,
Fall to the ground --"
But that's because you it all get to you!
You let fear sink in
And that question rise within you.
What if?
Yet you never even ask
Because you say that the truth is too much for you.
And you don't dare lift your eyes
Because you claim that's just too much, too.
But, with your eyes cast down,
You can't see the world around you.
You dwell on the past
And worry what the future will come to.
You live as if all those "what if's" will come true.
You state at the ground and say you're destined to fall through.
You say you can't help that you let it all get to you.
But if you'd simply look up,
You'd know,
You're on the verge of a breakthrough.

Look up,
You're on the verge of a breakthrough.
(March 17th, 2014)

My life resides on the Border between Breakdown and Breakthrough, And this is basically me screaming my way through it.
Stu Harley Oct 2015
lord
finally
i am broken
no one else
to call upon
but
you
oh lord
i
only
ask
for
your
love and mercy
because
there is
no one else
and
i need
a life bridge
a blessing
a breakthrough
from heaven
a taste from destiny
Keiko Sep 2012
I have been mistaken for quite sometime now--
    I do not need you to release me with the truth;
    Only I have the power to do that.

I have forged these chains of ignorance with passion;
    Blinded by solemnity
    I hopelessly waited
    for you
        to rescue
            me.

How foolish, for only I hold that key--
        As it should be.

So I will say my "goodbye" once more
    And shut the door
    because I am strong enough to
And these chains will be vanquished
    by my own
            heart,
   mind and
        soul.
Stu Harley Jul 2015
God
shall
season their hearts
with belief
until
a breakthrough
CE Green Jan 2019
Year’s end.
Shades collapsed a spell
Amidst nocturne Hex.
Thought wandering back to Diet Coke infusion caffeine memory, goldfish sized. The days where it ends.
Loathing, topspin grim.

Time sprout.
Shades up a touch
Among daybreak incandescence, rooibos serenade, shutting the irrationality switch off.
The days where it begins. Where I learn.
Perhaps I am myself again.
After all we have been through. I am set as a stone. I have wilted dry, my silence keeps me a muck. I have no strength but the air of intake. Force of gravity makes my place. chipped and weathered, years of mistakes. I'll still stand here till the day breaks and the earth quakes. Hidden in plain sight, I still give out a hell of a fight.
Hank Roberts Apr 2012
When we have too much fun
We’re just like those monkeys they
Tested ecstasy out
on and they ate all they had
in twelve hours. Recovery now
was important here.
It’s like the leaf,
lost in the wind,
trying to find the
branch it fell from because it can’t.
It’s the shirtless man with a striped tie
That declares us insane,
Sort of how the call us un-American
But, they take all
the pride out of it anyway.
The con is telling me how to keep
things straight while he changes
His wig from dark
to light, loafers
And not Nike.  For this
to work, David and Goliath
Need to shake hands he quietly says.  
you lost all depth,
you only know about the solar sun.
Given the apparent magical surrealism that the months of April is the month of fate for and death of writers, artists, dramatis, philosophers and poets, a phenomenon which readily gets support from the cases of untimely and early April deaths of; Max Weber, Miguel de Cervantes, William Shakespeare, Francis Imbuga, and Chinua Achebe  then  Wisdom of the moment behooves me to adjure away the fateful month by  allowing  me to mourn Gabriel José de la Concordia García Márquez by expressing my feelings of grieve through the following dirge of elegy;
You lived alone in the solitude
Of pure hundred years in Colombia
Roaming in Amacondo with a Spanish tongue
Carrying the bones of your grandmother in a sisal sag
On your poverty written Colombian back,
Gadabouting to make love in times of cholera,
On none other than your bitter-sweet memories
Of your melancholic ***** the daughter of Castro,
Your cowardice made you to fear your momentous life
In this glorious and poetic time of April 2014,
Only to succumb to untimely black death
That similarly dimunitized your cultural ancestor;
Miguel de Cervantes, a quixotic Spaniard,
You were to write to the colonel for your life,
Before eating the cockerel you had ear-marked
For Olympic cockfight, the hope of the oppressed,
Come back from death, you dear Marquez
To tell me more stories fanaticism to surrealism,
From Tarzanic Africa the fabulous land
An avatar of evil gods that are impish propre
Only Vitian Naipaul and Salman Rushdie are not enough,
For both of them are so naïve to tell the African stories,
I will miss you a lot the rest of my life, my dear Garbo,
But I will ever carry your living soul, my dear Garcia,
Soul of your literature and poetry in a Maasai kioondo
On my broad African shoulders during my journey of art,
When coming to America to look for your culture
That gave you versatile tongue and quill of a pen,
Both I will take as your memento and crystallize them
Into my future thespic umbrella of orature and literature.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez, an eminent Latin American and most widely acclaimed authors, died untimely at his home in Mexico City on Thursday, 17th April 2014. The 1982 literature Nobel laureate, whose reputation drew comparisons to Mark Twain of adventures of Huckleberry Finny and Charles Dickens of hard Times, was 87 of age. Already a luminous legend in his well used lifetime, Latin American writer, Gabriel Garcia Marquez was perceived as not only one of the most consequential writers of the 20th and 21ist centuries, but also the sterling performing Spanish-language author since the world’s experience of Miguel de Cervantes, the Spanish Jail bird and Author of Don Quixote who lived in the 17th century.
Like very many other writers from the politically and economically poor parts of the world, in the likes of J M Coatze, Wole Soyinka, Nadine Gordimer, Doris May Lessing, Octavio Paz, Pablo Neruda, V S Naipaul, and Rabidranathe Tagore, Marguez won the literature Nobel prize in addition to the previous countless awards for his magically fabulous novels, gripping short stories, farcical screenplays, incisive journalistic contributions and spellbinding essays. But due to postmodern global thespic civilization the Nobel Prize is recognized as most important of his prizes in the sense that, he received in 1982, as the first Colombian author to achieve such literary eminence. The eminence of his work in literature communicated in Spanish are towered by none other than the Bible, especially  in its Homeric style which Moses used when writing the book of Genesis and the fictitious drama of Job.
Just like Ngugi, Achebe, Soyinka, and Ousmane Marquez is not the first born. He is the youngest of siblings. He was born on March 6, 1927 in the Colombian village of Aracataca, on the Caribbean coast. His literary bravado was displayed in his book, Love in the Times of Cholera.  In which he narrated how his parents met and got married. Marguez did not grow up with his father and mother, but instead he grew up with his grandparents. He often felt lonely as a child. Environment of aunts and grandmother did not fill the psychological void of father and mother. This social phenomenon of inadequate parenthood is also seen catapulting Richard Wright, Charlese Dickens, and Barrack Obama to literary excellency.Obama recounted the same experience in his Dreams from my father.

Poverty determines convenience or hardship of marriage. This is mirrored by Garcia Marquez in his marriage to Mercedes Barcha.  An early childhood play-mate and neighbour in 1958. In appreciation of his marriage, Marquez later wrote in his memoirs that it is women who maintain the world, whereas we men tend to plunge it into disarray with all our historic brutality. This was a connotation of his grandmother in particular who played an important role during the times of childhood. The grand mother introduced him to the beauty of orature by telling him fabulous stories about ghosts and dead relatives haunting the cellar and attic, a social experience which exactly produced Chinua Achebe, Okot P’Bitek, Mazizi Kunene, Margaret Ogola and very many other writers of the third world.
Little Gabo as his affectionate pseudonym for literature goes, was a voracious bookworm, who like his ideological master Karl Marx read King Lear of Shakespeare at the age of sixteen. He fondly devoured the works of Spanish authors, obviously Miguel de Cervantes, as well as other European heavyweights like; Edward Hemingway, Faulkner and Frantz Kafka.
Good writers usually drop out of school and at most writers who win the Nobel Prize. This formative virtue of writers is evinced in Alice Munro, Doris Lessing, Nadine Gordimer, John Steinbeck, William Shakespeare, Sembene Ousmane, Octavio Paz as well as Gabriel Garcia Marquez. After dropping out of law school, Garcia Marquez decided instead to embark on a call of his passion as a journalist. The career he perfectly did by regularly criticizing Colombian as well as ideological failures of the then foreign politics. In a nutshell he was a literary crusader against poverty. This is of course the obvious hall marker of leftist political orientation.
Garcia Marquez’s sensational breakthrough occurred in 1967 with the break-away publication of his oeuvre; One Hundred Years of Solitude which the New York Times Book Review meritoriously elevated as ‘the first piece of literature since the Book of Genesis that should be required reading for the entire human race. The position similarly taken by Salman Rushdie. Marquez often shared out that this novel carried him above emotional tantrums on its publication. He was keen on this as his manner of speech was always devoid of la di da.so humble and suave that his genius can only be appreciated not from the booming media outlets about his death, but by reading all of his works and especially his Literature Noble price acceptance speech delivered in 1982.
Stu Harley Dec 2015
goodbyes
shall
never
leave you
oh load
but
faith
stays
with you
while
my prayers
breakthrough
Ron Peacock Jr Nov 2011
It’s been said to cause success,
Yet its’ face is boldly grim.
Some even say it makes or breaks you,
Kills your soul, or fills the brim.

It’s been deemed the roughest test,
Where preparation meets implausible.
Whenever passion makes a breakthrough
Sounds of hell’s end become audible.

It’s received reviews of stress,
Of endless torture tearing through.
Leaving good men self-departed,
For they had no will to make it through.

It’s been seen in years of the past,
The trials of Job denote it well.
As Satan crushed his joys,
Job consummated to prevail.

It’s been said, “show no regret!”
When you look deep into your mind,
For this test is truly an artist
Creating a man, from pure divine.

So why let discouragement corrupt
Your trip through the abyss?
For it’s been said to cause success,

And that’s one hell of a gift.
Commuter Poet Jan 2016
There was a moment today
When I felt it
In my chest
A warm cascade
Of utter joy
At being alive
Simply being
Who I am

My body tingled
My eyes lit up
My face broke into
A most natural smile

And I was just
Happy
To be who I am

And then
I snapped back
To myself
Like a rubber band
And how instantaneously
My mind
Took back control
Returning me
To my default
Of feeling
Less than I am

To accepting
The compromise
Of a smaller life

Of deciding
To be bound
By a lesser reality

To be fearful

But
Oh!
To feel free
For one split second

How wonderful to know
That unrestrained joy
To imagine
That I could live like that

How encouraging
To believe
In being happy
Just as I am
Written 10th January 2016 as I recall my day with fellow SGI Buddhists
Harry Toye Aug 2011
No Food, No Water,
Ten million died in 03,
Have another drink.
Keith Ren Sep 2010
The door was cracked..

And in a dark shower,
I was visited upon by horrendous visions,
demons of changelings, melting and reforming.

My Door opened and I released until,
coming into focus,
I saw the core of me:
an imperfectly smooth shorestone,
not yet made experienced by the shorebreak.

I released again in the darkness,
and was regarded, and nearly greeted
by a young deer.

She was still,
but perhaps not peaceful.

I faced myself and released,
and saw feathers.

I felt them follow my shape.

I felt growth.

With another release I saw an alligator,
which I tried to distance.
Until I saw it's eyes.
The two animals were not friends,
were not enemies.

I breathed,
and lingered in the darkness.

I thanked God,
and stopped the water.
Work in progress
but was still compelled to post
Keith Ren Sep 2010
I swell under pretense,
A lightening greed.
I want for my 'peacefuls',
My want learns to need.

I dread so the mirror,
But I know how I learn.
The purging of ballast,
And the healing that burns.

I hot-turn the water,
And off-switch the light.
A growing sits, waiting,
In darkness tonight.
Donna Aug 2018
White clouds now turned grey
Pitter patter raindrops sing
A rainbow blossomed
:)
Impulzez Nov 2012
Beyond the butterfly feelings

In the whirlwind of our intimacy
A full option sensual desire
Distance distancing distance
All at once till we hit the ******
The zenith of pleasures and feels
Like the breakthrough of Miracles
Sounds of Soughs, ex and in hales
Hot Moments of breathlessness
Scratches of speechlessness
Mouth agape, dead-in-moments
long squeezes, short grips, sweats
Body vibrating, breath whispering
Emotions revealing, turn ons
Passions imploding, hard ons
Intense kinetic motions of kardias
Slippery shining fleshy mammalians
Till the moment of implosion: ******
That sweet ecstasy moment when
all that exists is what you feel

— The End —