"brevity" poems
~for L3igh~
the briefness of brevity,
the quality of giving
and indeed, it is a-quality,
a luxury item so affordable,
yet, so totally, rarely purchased,
When
giving up the
requisite,
only the lonely, but
always the critical,
relevant or necessary
exquisite
in a few words
Let us practice:
I love you,
but only the very
first time, in a memory
bronzed and burnished,
putting to shame the way
too short modesty of
forever…
uttering a precious
precision of a soulful
thank you
to a passing
stranger, who runs
into your home afire,
saving all of your
family's lives
could go on, and on,
But that would not be,
A Concision,
instead,
a concession, to the
very few times in a day,
in the world's entirety,
when those are the words,
are only the only,
a sufficient holy,
a devout summary
spectacular,
akin, but only a
just, derivative of,
a sincerely uttered:
Thank You God^
nml
Oct 5, 2025
Oct 5, 2025 at 8:02 AM UTC
is when they mess with your head
light fires in your mouth
and make you hide in your bed
put stones in your heart
to drag you deep down under
they fight and they fight
their screams predictable as thunder
the rain is the part that gathers in mom's eyes
when she keeps you up late
to tell you lies
lying on the couch
her arm over her face
foundation in streaks
like old dry erase
it's when she lets you stay up late
to read to her specially
just to give her departure
more brevity
when she kisses you on the cheek
and holds you tight
then calls the cops on dad
that same night
when she only gives you presents
to make you feel bad
when she feels better
by making you sad
emotional abuse
is when she calls on a restricted number
tells you she loves you
but won't let you see your little brother
when she slaps you in the face
slams your arm in a door
well
maybe that's not
emotional abuse anymore...
when she tells you she loves you
but leaves anyway...
abuse is abuse,
it all feels the same.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 1:10 AM UTC
*consciously, willfully, I wish it
quietly the Sunday, the sun day, drifts toward,
in its natural game, set, overmatched,
the foregone conclusion, nightfall diminishment
the water songfully swishes,
as the tide departs for places unknown, this then, now
the only natural authorized aural apparition,
the power boats renounce their normal noisy conditioning,
honoring their silenced, under-sail brethren,
as well as admitting their noises disfigure
the fast approaching majesty of the end of
our summer seasoning of humanity
consciously, willfully, I wish it
once again, lush is the quietude,^
now given up, surrendered and surceased to wonder,
how come I to write of these moments so oft,
thenever-ending quest to re-inscribe it on my sensibilities,
in vainglorious hopes that this stamping will last, be the last,
see me through the turgid frigidity of my Lucifer life,
come the fall, the winter, the early dark,
the daylight's brevity, the hurricane season of the mind,
that...need I say more?
consciously, willfully, I wish it
the particular white cloud formation of the moment at hand,
shall stay in place, be the capstone of my summer living vision,
become permanent part and parcel
of the sclera, the white of my eyes, and when
I will write, soon enough,
my vision white weeping clouded,
you will weep knowingly, sympathetically
consciously, willfully,
I wish for that as well*
8/27/17
6:35pm
Aug 29, 2017
Aug 29, 2017 at 10:38 AM UTC
If you should hear me
Say Ave,
Don't presume
You hear me pray;
It's just one way
For me to say,
How 're you?
If you should hear me
Say Shalom,
Don't assume
You heard a Jew,
I'm only offering
Peace to you.
If you should hear
Namaste,
Don't be amused,
I'm not Hindu,
I bow to the good
I see
in you.
Then again I say
Waz sup,
You don't think
I'm Gangsta,
You know I mean to say
Les hang togetha.
Does it really matter
What you heard;
The silent or the spoken word.
Words spoken in brevity
Are heard with sincerity;
But there's none more true,
Than
I Love You.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 7:35 AM UTC
After dark, energies flow in manners that pleases them most
braided together in lust, two king cobras were seen spiraling up
when darkness like a camouflage sets in thickly around,you're
the marijuana of my mind, seeking far horizons of pleasure.
I willingly seek oblivion, when pink pointed goosebumps
like tarantula's love bites, results of mating time cruelty
infest all over my body's landscape, signatures of ecstasy.
I feel your lips become, moist, soft, honey from each drips
never enough,for me, is it possible to get inebriated more?
Your sighs and moans speak the vocabulary of a forgotten
ancient language love hurriedly resurrected for us from past,
brevity is the crux of that lingo of erupting jets of desire,
it teaches you to moan in fifty different tones in all;even more?
Your sharpened nails etch cave murals on my itching back
that has the searing taste of blood, in hot hot chilly red.
my taste buds of lust, begs for more and more of it.
You are the marijuana fueling my narcotic flights that land
in your misty land, enveloping my senses as a whole.
"The night is still young, hear what the darkness whispers"
I hear you speak like an oracle, on things about to happen.
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 11:50 AM UTC
Trying to find solace in the suburbs
when everything seemed superb
like that cookie-cutter,
picket fence,
faux fur mentality
they instill at the start
Just an infant with scars
He reached for her baby bump,
Then slammed it hard
onto the stairwell
She fell, wept, and held
That lil princess
and prayed she'd never have the same hell
All grown up. Alive and well
shes got different demons
different intricate cells
It's been said
she is special she is awake
But, in many ways
She is the same
As that ANGEL who carried her 23 years ago
That's debt I'll always owe
A gift I'll never own
Carefully Constructed
and Creatively Sewn
shoved a soul into that shell
That'll one day guide her back home
Shes got her mamas tough, yet gentle heart
her smile, brevity and love for art..
she can write her *** off
like her
the wrote and the writ
Yet she's plagued by guilt
every ******* minute
GUILT for the life that she'd been given
GUILT for each exhale emitted
She prays that God will have the sense
to go back in time and hit OMIT
(on all chapters even close to the word 'human'
there's GUILT for feeling guilty even more for despising your own )
"I must've slipped through the gate, admit it!
Or recruit another for your mission
regretfully, I must solicit
that I'm not fit for this position
I'm no hero
I'm the villain
If ya look close you'll see
I spit venom"
Mama walks in
smiles and says
"WE.
ARE.
WOMEN!"
"Betta recognize and
quit your bitchin'
as of today, you are living..
You are loved
You are safe
You are ************* winning
WARRIOR,
CREATOR,
QUEEN,
GODDESS,
INCARNATE..
We are strength & We are the faith
never to be broken
but we still stay brave
The Legend wont start
or end with you
Its a fight stretched out
through time
You will understand soon
No matter how much you ask
"WHY"
It wont stop circumstance
wont stop lies
wont stop suffering
and will NEVER compromise
Your in the way of the wave, child
This..... the secret to life
When in the way of the wave...
its only a matter of time
S0 if youre searching for solace
Will you promise
To memorize this line
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 3:54 AM UTC
Missing blissful memories,
Cherished thoughts.
Memories in webs,
Tangled knots.
Binding grievances
Pave the way.
Unfettered thoughts
Have their own say.
Moments felt,
Moments understood.
Times are past,
Graveness its hood.
Calm seas rejoice
In silence.
Storms are but
Reasons to penance.
Regret hopes to
Unbind the will.
Will’s infant cry
To escape.
Bewilderment stares
With mouth agape.
Confusions unfold
In graves.
Souls depart
To hellish caves.
Brevity speaks
A thousand words.
Wilderness stands
On a million swords.
Confused and petrified.
Thoughts again
To guide.
A vicious circle
So unholy.
One committed
To every folly.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC
I met him at the dock,
While the witch's hour watched
Lovebirds dive nakedly into the sea.
When he kissed me at sunrise,
I inhaled with the hope of holding Brevity.
That next night he left me on a sidewalk
With the taste of salt on my lips.
And as I let go of my breath, I swear
I felt a breeze dance between my fingertips.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 6:47 PM UTC
Shouting for longevity,
Slamming at the counterers…
- upon your dignified respite!
Would-be detractors without brevity,
Before the wine-dark Sea at night…
A pleading to philosophy of commonly renowned,
Beating sand and posturing, uncouth before a crown;
“Priam please!”
Sun and Moon,
two sons shall plead,
nay, -beg in tandem with the man;
“He serves the seas, trust him please, our father; this priest of Trojan-land!”
Laocoon
“Fear the Greeks, of mind I speak, approval by a van-i-ty; it surely is a death you seek!
An asp this horse, gift no more and tragedy in due remorse,
I beg of you my call to heed, wooden-burnt this crispy steed,
…alight in flame, glorified name; Poseidon shall endorse!”
Priests of Apollo
“Ridiculous! Worship we must, now bring it to the City thus!”
Laocoon
“The actions of accursed Kore,
Need I remind you all Paris caused this war?
For he mocked this god, the abyss it knows, with terror comes a deadly tide,
**** that fool and his fiddling pride!*
Burn this beast we must with haste for Greeks they have a certain taste,
Their acts meant always to confound, wily, since they were unbound.
What harm may do, to rest at shore? Consult the stars of yester-yore.
Assign no chore, one heaven’s night, plus a day, to sit upon our princely shore?”
Setting
(read/spoken at the fastest pace the reader can go)
A horrid hiss above the wave as two doth slither from out the cave…
The creatures from the darkest days, ancient spectacle for the knaves, bear witness to the punishment, commanded by a great trident, hearing screams of bannermen, for King and council a shocking twist, serpents ****** from out the mists, encircling priest and his kin, the howling they had done no sin, never be forgot-ten, as Typhon cried out merrily, serpents and the tragic sea; swallowed up all the three.
Priam
“Farewell dear Laocoon and two sons with thee!” *
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 4:13 PM UTC
I L U like my ***** clothes
Love being forgotten
On my bedroom floor
I L U like chores love the
music that helps them
forget they're chores
I L U like ***** dishes
Love hot showers and
the other side of the sink
I L U like I love spilling
Salt, and warding off the evil,
By tossing some behind my back
I L U like I love
Breaking rules about
my own supposed
non-Superstition
I L U like black cats love
Bad luck, cause to them,
It's just Friday, you know?
I L U like the hot dog bun
Loves staring at the beef patty,
Wishing "if only, if only"
I L U like bread loves
Being forgotten till we're really hungry
And then we're all ungrateful, like
"Hey bread, you remember us?"
And bread is high above us, like
"Always."
Not even a hint of scorn
I L U like the first time I saw
Jurassic Park, The dinosaurs
Were real enough
sans chicken feathers, and
Who needs modern science anyways
when love has no fossil records?
I L U like the weather loves
Surprise parties.
I L U like painful
surprise party memories love
being forgotten on my bedroom floor
I love you like Mayflies love living,
oh so briefly, once a day, every single day,
Chapter one to chapter none
I love you like mayflies love themselves,
brevity and all, stirred by nothing but
the glow of Dawn's light,
Dead by dusk, the Mayfly never
knows its final form.
It dies
in complete
incompletion,
but that's okay.
It drank the salt ocean,
it breathed the living air,
And that's how I want to L U
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 4:26 PM UTC
~~~
for our children and their children
~~~
the reason we say so oft,
in whispers emboldened,
I love you
to our children
is not the utility of
its summarizing brevity
no, no.
it is because
the eloquence of simplicity
supersedes any other poem
we could ever write...
~~~
July 26 2015
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 9:14 AM UTC
i
i washed up for a living,lily,
for a while there
this is something george**
and i have in common..
on the whole i was treated
decently
pearl divers are a breed unto
themselves..
mine was a life of ease
over eating and boredem
it was hard on the spine
and knees..
a piece of cake compared
to digging holes
(surrounded by the boss
and his extended family..)
the pop wagon on friday
cement as a whole
the olive oil factory or
carrying bricks..
ii
the pop wagon on a friday
took only two hours
brevity
that was the answer..
the cement truck on
tuesdays
took two and half
hours..
but ended in tears..
the shift in the olive
oil factory
could last eighteen hours..
digging holes an eternity
carrying bricks up stairs
works up quite a thirst..
never mind soon be..
be in pauli´ s soup kitchen
where wine smooth and cool
as honey bees..
chicken and macaroni..!
iii
the cement was high in lime
and invariably chafed the skin
and in that hole it would set
to be picked out with olive oil
and a pin..drunk,the screaming
and carry on..
we laughed and held them down
better digging holes..!*
*it was so painful..!
**down and out in paris and london
by gearge orwell
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC
I try to sing this melody
Of my own fidelity
But I lack this morality
That tells me the reality
Of a life in harmony
With spirits heavenly
I am my own entity
And when I show this identity
It has no truth to humanity
So I speak in brevity
To hide the perplexity
That only few conceptually
Embrace with full integrity
To soar in the clouds joyfully
Like the eagles in serenity
And the gods of heredity
We are the truthful society
Yet know one knows it verily
I will continue transcendently
Like the lotus in her artistry
I will paint mindfully
The visage of prosperity
In all its beauty
So vividly
Until I rest solemnly
In my garden above the galaxy
Where all who truthfully
Flew with divinity
In utter tranquility
While this world unfaithfully
Decayed presently
In the lies of commonality
In this globe of duality
Don’t sing this parody
Avoid the practicality
Your song is skillfully
Hiding from the animosity
You will have your symphony
In a sky of pure unity
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 2:24 PM UTC
The truth is, I’m not really sure who I am. She told us to draw ourselves and then to draw our souls; so I drew my face scratched and uneven, just as I’ve always seen it, and frowned at the result both in the mirror and on the paper. The only soul I’ve ever really known was the one that shone through the strokes of the keys I punched, the scrawling of ink on paper in mismatched arrays of awkward thoughts, disorientated and unorganized, shaded different spews of emotion and rearranged through the lens of ever last viewer’s eye. Even so, this soul that is composed of words that defined me painted a picture vivid in its contrast, though blurry from both afar and close enough to squint, no details able to be made out. These words that have wrapped around my soul rubbed raw from the time my skin first flinched at the cool March air cannot be deciphered by their author, though I know somehow that their letters flowing into one another say more than any curve of my face ever could. These words are black and white, two extremes crafted in the pallet of the Universe’s toolshed, and perhaps that’s exactly what I am. Black or white. I’m dark and lost and scrounging for some rusting wall or tree branch to cling to as to ensure the shimmering waves, onyx and charcoal in their nature with the flow of blood in its spine, do not flood into my mouth at a rate in which is too quick to balance myself upon them, or, I’m white, drifting snow from a cloud scraping the vast expanse of brilliant blue gazing as a sky above all the world, pure, innocent, unscathed with the potential for creation in vibrancies yet unknown, or to be ripped to bits, scattered amongst piles of cream and autumn leaves drained of their color beneath months of shivering frost. And so, perhaps any physical representation of my being would be all wrong, because that’s not what I am. Myself, my soul, it resides in the murky depths of heights I’ve yet to discover, tethered endlessly and uncertain among the caverns of my inners, pink and mushy, stirred and ****** untouched from the harsh light of a world encased in brevity.
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 8:20 PM UTC
<>
for the early morning teach
<>
she's young, beautiful and thinks her life is cursed,
in the past, subject of some of my poems, her health to nurse,
yet, as is normative, you fall into & out of a well of touch,
until you accidentally once again path cross,
she provides a precision mathematical status update
"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."
it is 1:38AM for you,
the not unnoticed ironic minute and hour
when the night ether has prematurely worn off,
rising time close but not nearly close enough,
a dark dose of a sleeping nurse's aide seems inappropriate,
and TV reruns seem like an insult to your brain
instead you turn on some belle string musique,
a Grande Messe des Morts,
a chorus,
singing a high mass for the dead,
while opening all your various email luggage and baggage,
smiling as you read a poetess's message of
laughter behind tears
"i'm fairly certain things are like at least 38% worse."
and Mississippi ******
your uncontrollable mixed drink of her emotional
Grenada grenade cocktail,
flavored with musique, paintings, and words and a nearby beloved's
gentling sleep sounds,
has you writing your own protest poem,
your very own,
oy vey, grande messe,
about lives that were supposed to be
pictures of perfect artistry
and for but a word or two,
instead, a painting of a life that got hung upside down,
and indeed,
leaving a grand mess and no one to help clean up
alternatively weeping, laughing as you are thinking,
smiling recall
Laurel and Hardy's summary definition
of living a life's of ill begotten, misventured adventures:
"Well, here's another nice mess you've gotten me into !"
but 38% worse?
not an even-steven rounded up 40%,
should I write you only 38% of a poem, teach?
or more accurately, more mathematically,
138% of what was writ before?
and you recall your older, prior words
about the love hate affair between
you poet,
and the beauty of written brevity
(her style)
and you give her this then,
this rambling, scrambled, attention paid notification,
word attentiveness, a summary of your readings
of her cheddar sharp and honey mustard sweet retorts of
pained poetry,
it is insufficiently but perfectly sufficient,
a summarizing phrase that opens
and yet
briefly encapsulates all that
you are feeling for her
"thinking of you"
or the 38% larger version thereof -
***"Well, here's another 38% more
nice poetic mess
you've gotten me into!"***
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
Two men, one poem.
This day, on this site.
Two men wrote to me.
One called me brother.
The other, an arrogant *****
Called me little.
One shared his life,
With humility and gratitude,
Then, I lost it.
Wept. Baby like.
Honored me with trust.
Swapped spit stories
That bled into my brain,
And a tattoo appeared on my
Writing arm, one word,
Humility.
One boasted of his beans.
His bean counting reads.
Analyzed his trends,
Predicting by Christmas (!),
He would have this many.
His **** poems he informed,
Would be published.
What need did he have
For punk-u-ation,
His rants, his **** stream of words.
Better than mine,
Just cause his stuff I said,
Not my cup of tea.
What a crazy place this place.
Holy and ******** sided.
Humble humble, always humble.
He invoked, this arrogant one,
God's name.
Not knowing I talk to Him.
So I rang Him up and said,
How did a little peenus-genius
Find his way onto this
Holy Place, HP, of kindness.
He smiled in brevity.
Did I not create both,
Angels and devils?
I love God's brevity.
His commas, his question marks,
His pointed punctuation.
I love that He could create
A man whose sight of
Me, unseen, but found capacity
To love me in ways
Undreamed.
Because I peered in to the man's reveal,
Saw quality, value,
Saw humility.
So of arrogance, I said,
I would write.
But it is of humility
I will sing,
Of loving human kindness extraordinaire.
Of weeping endless.
At the joy afforded me
To read so many lovely poems,
Here.
If my poems never see the
Imprimatur of a publishing house,
It matters not,
For I have seen a human being
Weep real tears reading mine.
I have shed rivers of my own
Upon discovering yours.
Humble, humble.
If it is glory you seek,
You will find it,
All alone. ************
Me, I live here, in the midst of a
Good Company.
Sept. 7th, 2013
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 4:49 AM UTC
Saul. Babbittz.
Slight variation of the name Paul - sometimes pronounced
with the
"ah-oolll"
of Raul - to intrigue cashiers and toll booth attendents.
These words seem meaningless and even less interesting than the blank white background each letter invades.
And still I thank the God in my stomach that wakes up every once in a while to capture butterflies before I leave the house so I can turn down the sounds in my head that stir the butterflies to a frenzied mess of tangled neurons and synaptic maladjustment.
My interaction goes something like this:
cashier-"do you have a bonus card?"
me-(holding out the pad of my thumb - serious like lava)
cashier-(looking at me with a confused look)
me- "I thought thumb scans were enacted throughout the states. Sorry about that, I just got used to the thumb scan back home in North Dakota".
cashier- (dumbfounded, slightly annoyed)
me- (chuckling-embarrassed smirk) "you know, like a dystopian tracking system?"
cashier- "uh, not really" (avoiding eye contact, rushed transaction) "freak" (under her breath).
butterflies again
I've never even lived in North Dakota!
Just uncomfortable enough to prove that body heat activated "degree" does not provide 24 hour protection...
Next transaction a day later:
me- (silence)
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 9:10 PM UTC
Cotton Candy Man Poem
(6/7/2014)
He was simple sugar,
spun on hot air,
soaked in pink,
a tasty treat.
He was cotton candy.
I would wrap him around my finger,
like I could coax a ring out of sugar and thin air.
To have felt him melt in my mouth,
each time the tip of my tongue got a taste.
He was cotton candy.
He was a carnival with all the best attractions.
but balloon darts pop when you pour enough money into the game.
but a dunk tank is just a plunge into shallow depths, a break from the sun.
but elephants should be free, not tamed by fire and humans' greedy desire.
but a clown without their makeup might as well be a less creepy comedian.
but won over stuffed animals are just like cotton candy,
a squishy substance when you need a stable solid.
Step right up!
Spotlight on the star of our circus show,
see the cotton candy man.
His heart made of sugar,
a toxic substance.
His breath's brevity enough to set off cotton candy's chemical reaction,
scorching hot air against pink paint,
there is nothing sweet about being spun.
Dyed in bright colors to deliver a warped reality,
he was seemingly a healthy vibrant,
unlike the poison within.
He was cotton candy,
and I, a circus ******
craving him, freshly spun.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 4:46 PM UTC
**the sighs in our chest that emanate from a different kind of
breast cancer**
wrote these words prior,
then, certainly uncertain of the exactitude of their meaning,
clearly unclear of their useable intention,
yet the too real wrathful sensations
that inspired their caesarian creation,
the sigh's very own exhalations,
floatations devices for the interned-no-longer emotions,
escapees via the crevasses of chest ribs splitting open,
return to glory thanking me for freedom given
let posterior eloquence suffice, let brevity guide
my self's interior diagramming,
lengthy explications and deep analytics, I leave to you,
the astonished medical examiner and the horrified mortician
chest ripped, my hand reinserted, the blighted scourges,
the abscessed cancers, the obsessive relentless cankers,
asking shamelessly why have I returned to the crime scene
*the sighs are air-borne, ready for air plucking,
all cloud seeded, deeded for poets to seize and commence,
to plant and invent, a mountain top trickle to a mighty
river of poems to be recovered and discovered,
unrehearsed and unleashed
but you and I have unwished, unfinished business,
as of yet unwritten, one last poem to honor our
mutually assured destruction,
for this day will be
rewritten differently*
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 10:11 AM UTC
allocation of supreme alliteration illustrates perpetual contemplation and concentration that dictates a maligned mastication of federal incarceration of elongated complementary probation leaving you cuffed and based on baseless accusations conducted in aboriginal abbreviations masked task force concluding a course of brevity conducted in coordination then coordinating and copulating condemnation for a homeostasis of thought bought scolded eroded and shot inefficacy perpetrating cultural holocaust irrelevance somersaults galactic static of mathematical bombastic smack addict glued shut in a craft attic floral resurrection gartered section of ****** selection she moves fluid through unaltered perfection of cosmic bypass past the point of extemporaneous infinitude reciprocating fortitude of sinews congregating fabricating visuals of vitality soldering axonal membranes on the cerebellum and cortex simulation of sensual vortex demented fusion more blessed I am that which stands to understand the incomprehensible unconsidered options of racial conflicts the screaming round of unaltered copper fiber severing life from the living only now can we debunk the years
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 9:01 AM UTC
I don't know what to write anymore.
But I can't stop thinking about flickers of your lips
and splatters of your touch.
When the rain pours just for you.
Something has to flow.
When water runs over your shoulders and down the drain
like the wisdom of the world.
In the brevity of your light I stole a slice of the sun for my own.
Lying deep inside a dormant orbit.
As the rain begins to weigh you down like the gravity of Jupiter.
My light, my love will be all yours.
Lay with me and tonight we'll steal the moon once more.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 9:09 AM UTC
Save My Soul, (But First), Rub My Feet
thus a poem auditorialy conceived,
but!
the sexuality of the deceiving dualities,
irritates erogenous, exogenous perceptiveties,
plethora of intensifying variables, a not-serious,
harmless remark yet bring us to myriad of
marauding reversals, add-venturing into harm’s way…
much to discuss, but this
topic bettered by much
trading of traditional bantering
brevity bettering our wordless battering
insinuating, sensational signals bring
us backwards & forwards
to an exploratorium of wide boulevards
back to new unfamiliar venues,
narrowing alleyways & places we were before,
places before we were before where,
no unnecessary commas to separate,
distingué, distinct
tween the instinct of old and new,
an uncommon commonality experiential revisionism
now I understand what you said to me,
a tenderizing of
the sole synapses directing
the brain, the old ooh ‘s, aah’s
reigniting what what lay dormant,
at long last,
by opening doors to alternations,
ven diagram of digressing yet intersecting
old & new pathways,
from the souls of her feet,
to, too, two,
we become diamond
on souls of our heat
May 30, 2023
May 30, 2023 at 4:50 PM UTC
Diamonds may be a girl’s best friend
But at the cost my dear, at the cost
Of never boring them, you are their
Entertainment, they are your love.
Diamonds if they could talk would tell
A causatory tale of distance and dirt
You, a perfect diamond, a pure light
In the compressed dirt of their lives.
Diamonds reflect the compression
Which is the brevity of our lives
What remains forever of a passing
Love that would be forever distant.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 11:19 AM UTC
Tearing the sky
storms and thunders grunted
eliting the trees!
First rain drop fell
floating like angel, like dead leaf
rinsing my brevity.
Gestures of steams
driven the beauty of crazyness
to mingle with my soul.
Charmed by enthralling
rhythms of mismerising rain
my heart became wet!
Strokes of poetry
in the ruined part of my heart
reverberated unconsiouly!
Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 4:01 AM UTC
I went to sleep and woke up in a future,
Where I saw you for the first time,
Through eyes that adored you everyday,
I didn't have to consider if you'd be mine.
You stood there in the clear day,
Looking back at me to take your hand,
I reach out but I'm sinking as you rise,
Looking through eyes - you erode it all away
Anguish in the brevity of life,
and the divide of futures.
I'm impatient,
Give me Dreams,
Give me Touch, Sweat and Reality,
Give me One more Moment,
The Reunion.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 2:00 PM UTC