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Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
Erase All Brinks

*The title and the realization of this poem, commissioned unknowingly today by Pradip Chattopadhyay.  This poet's banner is empty, no history, no philosophy of life, no self-aggrandizement. He lets his poems do his walking, share-telling of his steep and steppe plains, journeys through the poetic minutiae of the city street, the hallowed hallways of his plain people who speak in meter and rhyme.  Thankfully, he lets us walk in the footsteps of his eyes, letting us sink into the soft sands of his visionary visions.  As I commence this essay, unknowing where it will begin, nor it's inevitable end, I pray I do his commission, and him, the justice and the honor due them.

~~~~~~~~~


Brink: the edge or margin of a steep place or of land bordering water; any extreme edge; verge;a crucial or critical point, especially of a situation or state beyond which success or catastrophe occurs.

~~~~~~~~~


if we would we could,
erase all the brinks,
write but of the simple,
mysteries of men and their marigolds,
speak only of daily treasures so oft,
overlooked and left unpronounceable
as merely common

if but could, would we not
do away, dull the extremes,
unsharpen the gorges and the verges,
no melodrama, but only mellow,
let life be more than lurching from
success into catastrophe,
the difference tween the two,
only a finale tally

boring?
walk the precise precipices of the daily
with eyes open, there be enough small plates
to satisfy the gourmand's need for beauty,
comedy and tragedy, all well supplied

take the cancer-struck, the love-unrequited,
the grandpa's passing, the joyous adoration of new births,
these hillocks, un-green valleys, mountain ranges of life will
n'ere be ended and will beg us, nay, demand of us
write!

in between, and of the days of in-between,
far the greater, more the numerous,
keen and ken, sift the softer edges of diurnal
takes and tales of simpler majesties,
write me in meter
of the meter man
who totals
your usage of the world,
your measured presence here,
in words of watts and volts

speak to me of a hard week's pay,
the working man's lunchbox,
his rules of thumbs for living clean,
wives, who through endless henpecking,
remind husbands that they are beloved,
endlessly,
of sneezes and mustard fields

Let us erase all the brinks,
scribble me words birthed in everyday
inkblots, mine the veins of the wonders of real life,
put aside the cutting of woeful veins that bleed your
demanding need to be paid attention,
to right now

step back from the brinkmanship of the dramatic,
find the sensitivity of the sensible shoes daily worn,
use your talents to celebrate your talents,
there will be plenty days when the tally ends red,
and you will be more skilled, better comprehending
the special needs of those days,
to speak and tell of the uncommon,
if only we practice to
write, speak well of the common
A Pradip passing comment outs a passable poem...
Marooned

Vapid beauty of this room
Frothing carpet, ocean blue
One wall me, the other you
What lies between is residue

Scribed on soggy, shipwrecked parchment
Questions asked, time forgotten
Who are we?
What do we know?
Into these questions Summer flows
And thrashes at your Autumn’s brinks
Yearlong they torment my brain
Infringing on every season

If not for the manic scheme
To love and having loved be loved
This correspondence to a distant land
With stars, more numerous and brightly lit
Than my burgeoning highway exit
Would by no means have left my hand

But if, against all odds, it will prevail
Extolling truth’s folly, my sorrowful tale
Quells with reason my groundless pride
At having docked on your passionless harbor
Unloading platonic cargo during our youth’s ebbing tide
Must not create union of body or mind
You swallow my horizon, like the sun twilight
Though, one need not chase that orange orb for tomorrow

In this night without fortitude, lewd humor consumes me
Singing with the mouth on my head and your voice inside
I plunge into darkness
Skimming its silky surface
Before zipping it behind me

Shall I drown, as I have lived?
In vain, my dreams your subjects
Taken for ransom in your heart’s Tripoli
Not surmising recompense, I forfeit this
A note belying resonance
Of my heart’s last echoed throe
One desperate effort, giving up
Feed every vestige to the void
Wading, torso encumbered
Each sullen relic of your memory
Falls to the deep’s frigid ebony
Then, only too late am I cognizant
That my own breath is tribute yet spent
Therefore if I were to float or swim
I’d give you every ounce of who I am
Convince you to relinquish me
From your tepid, spurning sea
Then lying beneath moist underbrush
Slowly, breathe no more
MMX

This is basically a revision of my poem Anstoss

My recitation here:
http://youtu.be/v7LdsUwUCEM
Cindra Carr Feb 2012
Wastelands of dry parched nothingness
Forced pursuit of pale mirages filled with life
Wavering brinks of relief in the scorching heat
Washed away life of golden liquid
Dehydrated stumbles in the dreaming darkness
Faded taste of malicious lies
Water in feverous dreams
Dried up mouth in waking sleep

cc071211
A W Bullen Mar 2017
Cold stoles the coast in geisha voiles
of pawned Atlantic mourning, where

The plangent skirl of larids
carry through the vast exquisite
plains of February emptiness.

Aloft on coronal ruin, she flew
in free form falling, between the spheres
she grew in brightness, and by her stroke,
the moping shale, appeared , as if transformed.

She blessed the face of stained glass saints
hung loud on hallowed walls, From a
palisade of glinting brinks, she
hauled deserted chapels into
parishes of lambent wake
their majesties , reborn.
Ders Jul 2018
I got a lil buzzed a lil ****** but not enough and not in time I’m covered in oceans of emotion I can’t keep up with these tides anymore pulling me out to the brinks in my mind I’ve never been afraid of drowning but it’s the lifeguards putting my head under why did I think I could swim I never should have trusted the ones who taught me should have learned how to breather underwater but I’m no mermaid I’m no better I’m not equipped for this please just let me burn burn burn
I don’t want my turn to win top trophies I never even wanted in the game who told you to put me in I cannot out play you cannot withstand this heat I talk like I like it I don’t mind it I just don’t want to be the center of the roasting *** I’m blocking kicks and getting punched I’m throwing fists they hit the heavens fall back on me liken frozen fury a storm I’ve been living in a game so sick you never make it out alive I try to die don’t choo know the rules I try to die who put you here don’t choo know I’m the underdog that hasn’t won yet
Michael W Noland Sep 2012
i am of the light
despite
my shroud
that crowds the villains in the toppled telemetry of my steeds
galloping gallantly from the burning cities of my dreams

i shall gleam from her or he
that which delivers
their truths faithfully to their dreams
open wounds turn invitation
in the pity of hungry thieves
who dared to dream
of peasants king-ed.
as we sing
sing
of desperation
in passionate confessions
of jaded wisdom
passed on through every failure
never to falter
in the betrayals of Walters
lost
in loss-less flac files
i have miles to go
smiles to grow
daggers projectiles
from mild mannered children
freshly ridden
of maniacal miracles
spiritual
but not stupid
we are troopin
this lucid movement
grooving
to the repetition of the drum
the gas blow back of a gun
the bursting bubbles of bubble gum
having fun
i learnt goodly on the run

learned nothing in victory

learned nothing in simplicity

complacently

snickering it all away
bullet by bullet
case by case
and eventually the blade
in my compassionate displays
we shall congregate
and hate ourselves
**** the donks to hell
dwelling on the cellar doors
that darkos teacher adored
in verbal massacre
of the written literature
of cracked brain fixtures
seeping the lines
in cold tingles
down the spines of maniacs

just relax

mix it down on a track
spit the thesis into pieces
through the creases of cracked sneakers, and out the speakers
of trouble seekers.

mistakes make us

deliberate chaos
tossed  
upon the fakers
who cry to think
the dream
became a reality
mistake us
for serrated blades that rip the hearts from beasts
sometimes i stop to think
while having a drink
conclusive brinks
of sanity creaks
of my humility
secreting
frivolously
the disposing of my jealousy
of your feelings

hellaciously
i rip a felony
from a face
in appealing agony
antagonizing me
in the frenzied forensics
of my oblique
outlooks
none of us
were ever crooks
speaking to self
while being booked
in hell
Think you've been linkedIn
that you're as safe
because you're connected?
yeah
well,
take a long look at Brinks Mat,
money for old rope
robbed by them old blokes you
passed on the way here
and you still think you're linkedin?
stick a pin in any map and that'll show you
that there's a pinhole in the map, you see it and
believe it because the pin was in your hand and
Linkedin?
being Linkedin is a pinhole in the sand forever
caving in
forever falling through the castles that you build,
filled with this desire to set those sights of yours just a little higher
you'll give in to every whim,
make believe you are the pin, but baby,
you are not Linkedin
it's just a ******* scam.

Men with pins have a multitude of sins and lies disguised as truths and sold in fortune telling booths by Gypsies all related to the seventh son of **** knows who is the biggest pin of all.

Don't you fall into the trap of thinking you're linkedin because that's just crap and you're bigger than that, almost as big as Brinks Mat thought they were, but we don't go near there,

anymore.
saryachan Jan 2016
Conglomerate softness
Plying blissfully the scars off my wounds
An addictive activity with bleak endings
Leaving a small dent on my skin soon

A memento of this visit
Comforting words and faces explain greatly
The niceness in which days daze away sadness,

So I savour this.

A kiss of kindness disguises itself in the random acts of allegiance
Only friendship commits
On the edges of wit,
And the brinks of sanity
I treat my own mind with such levity that fails to address the subject topic.

One day I’ll get past this
Like the seasons which pass by the skies like temporary trips
Staying long enough to make you feel sad when it’s gone
But hopeful that it’s not lasting
Bombastically feeling nostalgia for everything.

The world makes me happy
In the way that happiness only exists within this realm
The only one we know
And for every day that I grow I show the fruits of my labour
Flavouring the air with words that fall out my mouth like crisp apples
Perishable but delicious and nurturing,
Though this apple tree can’t really fend for itself
It has gardeners who defend its’ health,

And I am so grateful
For this help to grow,
Hopefully through these fruits
I can show you
as well.
L M C Oct 2014
gazing blankly, but thoughtfully
toward the rising sun
with tired eyes, empty pockets, hearts sick with denial
he never thought it would turn out this way
she did and
so it went

skimming the brinks of sanity
while skimming the crystal water
with shimmering stones and
damaged dreams

glaring at the sun glinting off the water
you think of how far you've come
and how much further you must go
and you think to yourself

life and death are one in the same

black holes never existed, he says
event horizon, that from which
nothing can break free
would be
an anomaly

the cosmic visionary says so
we adhere to all he alleges
no questions asked

she smiles and replies,
ask no questions and
get no answers

in that case, he says
will you be my antidote?

I'll keep you free from malady
as long as you
keep questioning
Arpita Banerjee Mar 2017
Tired yellows on infant flowers
Are like resignation on new lovers.
Rains drop, when the sky blinks;
Fetching tears on abandoned brinks.
The sweaty smell of gestation,
Signifies the mangoes’ manifestation.
I close my eyes and hear
The inevitable drum roll caving near.
Spring reclines under the parapets of roofs,
Crushed like a migrant under our carriage hoofs.
Summer.
The Harbinger of Life.
Possess these seeds and fertilize
Their voluble dormancy
In the flames of insurgency.
Requiem for a silent spring
chase philip Dec 2013
I am a Heart Breaker superimposed upon this soul a spiritless spec of a man a melody story written from me to thee a hopeless dream of what i mean A man, A legend, This legacy is simple lyricy and artistry My mind is gone my words remain I’d travel across all seven seas to see eyes that loved me yet some divine comedy has mocked me this lion of god has torn me her words stain my consciousness her devotion leaves me motionless & hopeless I stand here superimposed Circe is having her way with me my mind resembles Heisenberg's uncertainty its the cat in the box the apathetic emotion not progress but congress If it’s my state coup d'etat it this is a war against myself and everyone else

a broken boy with a bright mind a thousand familiars hold me down my eyes see something that doesn't drown alive & asleep the lion of god toys with me my love & sanity toils on the brinks of the blind a forgotten repression moves to take from me my essence a sweet blessing a devil that used to run me a god that only i can see or only i thought to believe a stupid soul that gives me immortality yet is stuck in the world of the ****** superimposed
it's a work in progress but i'd really enjoy hearing some feedback its one of my first poems
Traveler Jan 2021
Our universe is like a bolt of lightning
Suspended between
A negative and positive force
The past that connects the future
The conductor is intelligence
Conscious energy
Ever flowing

Unfortunately faster than we can think
So it appears our world is on the brinks
Yet beyond all worry and fear
Our energy is pure
Traveler Tim 🧳
Michael W Noland Mar 2013
At the will of my wants, I grab at the bag my city has to offer, and coffer up the cash in my crash of a party that never started in the alarmingly empty vessels, settled under the rain, and below the fog in a swamp of frogs, and snakes, where i stake my claims, and state my name at the door.

Its darker here, but there is something more, hiding in the mud, the trees, and under the floor, rising up in waves in a haze of euphoria.

You just know it, it just is, just this feeling of forgotten forests rotting through the ages, of ageless storms that sweltered its soil through the toil of horned beasts, preying on predators creeping through the sleet, reeking of meat that melted in the summer heat.

Now its just a bar where i drink and type into this thing, completely unaware of the people staring at my cheeks flexing as i think, and i think, the sun will rise this time, but i still sink a bit deeper each day, and sign my life to work, in the murky smog where im begotten of beguiled planks that i march right off of.

Smiling, and inspired by the brinks i keep to my chest for the best of dreams to be achieved in the melancholy belief, that it matters to see the light in darker things that often freeze in the shadowy breeze of intellect, but once in, it is infectious, a pleasurable sedative to align my derivatives prism-ed from my vision to the sprawl of letters on the screen.

I pluck and pick what goes into it, and tune out the ridiculous ******* spread all over the dim-lit dimwits dozing in the smokers pit, reciting lines in inadequate rhymes of how they aligned their life's away, with babies and wives, equipped with knives that still hang from their backs.

The solo drunk drools the best, as he laughs.
Ders Oct 2016
I couldn't sleep because I was thinking about two things
One was lust and one was living
Both contained thoughts of you
But when I realized again it was all in my head
Then my thoughts again became of dying
I want it painful
I want to enjoy it
I want to feel something worse than what I've felt
The constant rejection of everyone I've ever loved
Has pushed me to the brinks
Its why I gave in to the devil I think
If I'm not good enough for anyone
If I'm not even close to something you would want
Then why am I even trying because all I want is the love I give out
If I'm meant to be alone I gotta know
If I'm meant for no one I won't mind
I'm not sure my place in the world but I hope to always be by someone's side
If not I gotta figure it out soon
Start a new spiritual journey
To the depths of my soul's existence
Figure out where I'm called and what I'm supposed to do
Will it even really matter?
Will I be able to make a change?
I must stop the Devil's work against us
Add some love to the world before I hit the grave
I hope it's not all for nothing
And I hope I find my mate
CH Gorrie Sep 2012
The State is stitched into itself, crocheted
by two hooks of its own creation
into a multiform mirage; man obeyed
his design --- he flirts with devastation.
Despite the deathly brinks, he continues on,
blinded by an insatiable desire.
In West California, sprawled on a lawn,
a boy laughs at his power over fire;
cross-legged monks in Sansara's clasp
sit in bare caves while snows rage outside:
they boy's enamored with all he can clasp,
the monks yawn, meditate: endlessly they've died.
Michael Marchese Sep 2018
We triumph for those who have known us in glory
And in utter ruin remember the story
Acknowledge our valor, our power to keep
Braving all odds unheeded, march into the deep
Preserving a legacy not quite our own
Be of foes we have bested to reclaim the throne
Or of people we’ve wrested from brinks of despair
Abject in their poverty, dreamless nightmare
As we serve higher causes of righteous assurance
Our quest ever dauntless against the abhorrence
An amoral mass of the impure intent
In our ascent raise them from endless lament
To depart from a world to for years we have been
But as shadows to those of us living in sin
For it is but of ours time itself meets its fate
And begins to devour us all in its gape
BDH Jan 2013
Winter blasts,shrieking as pierced crystal in moonlight,
her figure trembles by the brinks edge.
Striking the center of her mind was a lost knight,
grabbing her sobs with tears frozen midcheek, before free falling from the ledge.

Spring, she wished to forget, when maid and man met,
stolen glances,verbal advances, a skins breach of indecency.
A single solitary evening was set, a tryst between Lachlan and Lizbet,
a tangled two caught in treasonous secrecy.

Blistering and bold, the summer, unforgiving,
imprisoned Lizbets' waist increases.
Lachlans' fate--no longer with the living,
a Lord may punish adultery as he pleases.

Fall, where all surrender to die,
a babe forced out silent, the demise of labors hope.
Barely clad the woman lingered, as did her lie,
the sentence one of repugnance and a length of hanging rope.
vircapio gale Mar 2013
entertain the knowing of a term
amid how many names to paint that known
--depends on
termless origins
rising co-become
conditional a part for one unknown
~ wholly always ever-new produced in co-consuming-birthing all
~ intertracing weaves of what was thought was thought
connective tissue waves to render
individual arrays of signing signlessness,
precise obliques, pretend unends
all captured all undone and finally
defined
in seamless positings of word
yet freely boundless
always having ever been alive in proto-symbols
wet then dry of life
beyond the ken of humankindly limits
seen at brinks of sight



  



.
Chandrakiirti defines "pratitya-samutpada" as “the arising of things in dependence of causes and conditions” but it is also taken to be "dependent origination," "dependent arising," "conditioned co-becoming," "co-dependent production," "interdependency" or "interconnectedness," "the multiplicity or diversity of forms," "emptiness," "compassion," and "the Middle Way"
Dee Thomas Jan 2011
The city streets call me by my name and I feel myself transforming
The summers sweat and beasts regret, I ******* blood is warming
Ghost of past and wicked outcasts, like locusts they come swarming
Shrieking winds rest, in clouds possessed keep winters tears from balling
These city streets know my name, I show no shame and I can hear them calling

The wolf is preying, sneaky shadows conveying from depths of the city’s bowels
The angels fleeing, to avoid seeing the stench of wolf’s breath as he growls
Beneath your skin he slithers, the sun it slowly withers, closer now he howls
Virus catches the lowly, disease creeps so slowly across the urban sprawling
These city streets know me by my name, I like this game, I can hear them calling

Death is on madness brinks, the psychosis it stinks and night is now unveiling
The angel’s morn while bodies torn and I can hear their blaring sirens wailing
Casualty in scales bring sin’s costly sales and the blinded fatality is unfailing
Rumors of sinister presence known, the evil grown into darkness’ eyes entailing
Immortal screams and failed daylight dreams, the devoured come a crawling
The city knows me by name we are one in the same and I can hear her calling

With my control now at bay, I can hear her say; your strength in my grasp is declining
I overlook restless streets, my heart lifts as it beats and in this moment time defining
Pavement becomes crowded ominous thoughts shrouded; captured by the golden lining
Promise of my own demise, lost in heathen’s rise and her blood soaked teeth are shining
She calls to me like a lover’s touch, entwined in lust, so much in love and I am now falling
These city streets know me by name, we are one in the same and I run to her when she comes calling
It is dark but it seems I have been inflicted with a love for the city and I share it with many. My mother loves the country side and I am truly drawn to the commotion and life that buzzes there. I grew up in the city and I would sit in my window and just watch it move. When I am gone too long I miss it and I have to find my way too it.
Sam Greig-Mohns Mar 2012
All or nothing
Brick by brick, please don’t slip

Fingers grasping tighter now
Harsh gasp as the stones cut deep
Look down between your feet
Why do all those people staring look like sheep?

Heads turned up and mouths agape
Silent cheers and little sneers, tearing eyes
Fall, fall there all waiting for it

Another step upwards
You’re on your way, hold tight now don’t forget
This moment there can be no regret

Teeth grit hard as the blood runs down your wrist
It feels good doesn’t it, hot and slick
Just of bit more of this messed up ****

The brinks in sight fingers grasp tight
Another step onwards upwards
Brick by brick as stones cut deep
Look at all those people like mulling sheep

Sharp laugh pulled up and over, other hands are grasping tight
Over the wall you tumble free at last

The sheep have passed
Eyes no longer cheering, calling, tearing in those silent voices
Fall... fall... fall
vircapio gale Oct 2015
it felt good to leave the tourists behind
---with their cast-iron grated stairs
and photo-flashing-falls,
question-comments cookie-cut---
embrace the woods:
soaking wet approach,
brinks of shivers in the dripping wind,
an old, broken filter
   slurping bubbles from a cardboard tired puddle;
whisperlite stove finally working,
the first cous-cous dinner warms our little white dog
   dreaming on my rising falling chest
   pressed by sleeping bag and snort and sigh;
we sleep our psoas sore--
unknowing we have just begun...
haven't yet begun!
yet bodied abject pain to shock our senseless raw
   with scoured glimmer-vasts of love beneath
a frozen fly on Frosty Mountain
zippered hail in midnight breath,
i *** in numbness gusts--
i bite my smile ice,
whoop the sleeting world for we are here at last.
Universal Thrum Mar 2014
We’re all looking to do something real
And the words, you’ve got time
Are the biggest lie ever uttered out of the human mouth
What that really means is that we don’t know what to tell you, we can’t, first of all, the realness is too personal, everyone has their own version of what is real, time and space are relative to the observer after all, Einstein proved that, but only if all natural laws hold constant, and theoretically those probably break down somewhere after the age of 22,
No, you haven’t got time, time is an illusion, just like the trophy award ceremony where everyone wins and gets patted on the back for trying,
No, stop telling us we’ve got time, we’ve got time to flail in the wind, we’ve got time to do work, but finding the realness is beyond time, it’s the kernel stuck in the teeth of our soul, we need to water this kernel, and philosophically, everything we do may be watering this kernel, but in practicality, it feels like we’ve been going nowhere with all this time we’ve got, stop telling us we’ve got time and tell us to travel, to explore, to roam and push our consciousness to the brinks of the universe, tell us to be unafraid, not of the fact that there is still this thing called time ticking away minutes before we die, but tell us to be unafraid of what we might find when we come face to face with the realness, tell us to be uncompromising in our search, tell us to stay away from any who would tie us to the ground and care about anything other than the realness
Because we’ve all got time, until we don’t, then what are you going to say to reassure the disaffected grown youth? Sorry, but you had time, and now you don’t, we can’t coddle you anymore with stories about time and how not to worry about it, time to join the ranks of the real world. Make some money, stop wasting time.
Olga Valerevna Sep 2012
time shrinks
she thinks
like ice in rinks
and overflows the sinks
she blinks
seeing shades of pinks
they're links
living on the brinks
a jinx
[she] turns into a minx
and drinks
unlinks
empties out the sinks
and shrinks
Eugene Nov 2018
I never thought that I could live this long.
I never would have thought that I could stay alive.
From the brinks of death, I never would have thought of living a broken life,
And stand up to this day in my family world's full of lies.

How long has it been since I was cured?
How long has it been since they damaged my heart?
How long has it been since I continued living this kind of life?
Or how long has it been since the scars continue growing inside my heart?

If I am going to take a chance of stepping, will it be okay If I do that?
If I am going to risk the chance of moving on, will it healed my heart?
If I am going to turn a blind eye of what's happening into my life, will it be enough to erase the scars?
If I am going to take a chance of believing, will I be able find happiness of following what my heart desires?

I never would have thought of this growing up;
Of living with your stepmother, stepbrothers, and your own biological father.
I never would have thought of sticking to them for too long!
If I have all the means to live alone, it will only caused them to be puzzled with my existence.

Chances are there for my life to go on living.
Chances are there for me to have faith and go on believing.
Chances are there for me to find the happiness that my heart keeps on seeking.
But, I don't have the chance to wipe out all the scars inside my heart including painful memories even if I forgive everything.
Mims Mar 2017
I'd love you like I love,
Summer,
And a warm breeze,
I'd love you the same way I love rusty old swings,

I'd love you like grass,
And  trees,
And love you like holding hands,
While we walk on the beach,
I'd love you like,
Entangled feet,
Under soft blankets,
With the tv casting shadows on your face,
While you laugh,
Oh God I would love to make you laugh,

I'd love you like thrift shops,
And old photographs,

I'd love you like summer nights,
On the roof,
Or in bed watching movies,

I'd love you like I always would,
Forever,
Never waver,
I'd love you like all these things,
Like warm coffee on cold fingers,
Or sunsets by the lake,

I'd love you day,
After day,

Like the ice skating rink,
I'd love you like, the song,
Temporary love,
By the brinks.

And I know I am young,
And you're miles away,
But there's a feeling here,
That's making me stay.

And I'd love you like this,
And i promise I would

Please let me darling,

I promise I could.
Sherry Asbury Jul 2015
I wrote poetry tonight of sunsets and ponds,
worthless topics in light of the state of the world.
Just ended a hospital stay...needed to be mellow.
But this godawful earth gives me the heebie jeebies.
Forced confinement that came with cable t.v.
I wallowed in insanity and stupidity that seemed
                  to have no freakin end
We are teetering on so many brinks, but what was on?
A series about a guy makes a chain of hamburgers
on the family name...
Watched them play on a lawn big enough to choke a goat,
swim in their waterfall pool and frolic in designer clothes.
A series about mansions that cost millions of dollars
and could each house the homeless population of this town.
     Freaking carbon combat boot prints.
Worked all my life.
Me and my three cats struggle - disability does not

               buy mansions!

The world in on a precipice so **** scary
God himself can’t tip it back.

Korea, Iran and all those Isis ******* that put
bullets in the heads of six year-old boys.

And they show wanton consumption - reckless regard
for the land - don’t tell me they earned their money
and deserve to have obscene disregard for others.

When the rich have to  pay their fair share...
when life is equitable and no one goes hungry
or sick
or without education...

Then maybe it won’t be so sickening.
The Mahatma said, "Be the change you want to see in the world."
Ellie Martin Feb 2016
let me out! she said for once
but the tides pushed to her brinks
the waves drew her back into the depths.
on the good days
Gage D Sep 2016
A friend once said she wished she could get as inspired as I do sometimes,
And I certainly hope she finds her inspiration,
But never in the way I have.
I've found my inspiration in the gutters of people souls, myself included,
In witnessing the lashes someone can put in someone's spirit with their whips of words,
I've been the sufferer and the abuser
I found it in the anguish I came from, from finding a dying parent
Finding a quiet friend in a casket
From the brinks I brought myself too
It's tragic, I could never wish this on her
I wish her to find her inspiration humming from the strings of her guitar
From biting sips of wine
From a man who hopefully sees her as she is
And hopefully never from the abyss from which I take my chances
She should get hers from fast nights and slow dances,
From laying low in high places,
I think of you often,
By her I've surely been forgotten,
I wish the best,
But one thing I know is I'll keep the rest
TheNightsKeeper Oct 2013
I am tempted but also forsaken
With all the words I write I feel
Intense

I constantly imagine myself
Fighting for this light
Struggling

I dream hoping I will
Finally take my first breath
Inhale

The essence of your soul
Drives me over the brinks
Insanity

The only way I have you
Is my only escape
Your Light

Is my Sanity

*You
Jay M Jan 2021
Their song
Tells of ages great and long
Warriors found and forged
Along the beaten path
Souls deeply bound
Great foes emerged
Faced with mighty wrath

Drinks all shared
Stories of deeds dared
Battles to the very brinks
Of what sanity each knows
Upon steeds of white they rode
Bringing but death and remaining humanity
No matter how ill the journey may indeed bode

Not every battle
Was fought riding in the saddle
With sharpest sword or strongest ax
Nor concealed dagger or fearsome fist
But in walls of roaring metal
With sharpest words and strongest facts
Concealed stagger and fearsome twist
Leaving wounds to bleed
Perhaps more than a visible ****
Fuel to deed great or foul
Perhaps to lash and scowl
To yearn and to feel
To learn and to heal

- Jay M
January 21st, 2021
Like battles of fantasy, but not quite.
Beaux Mar 2018
Their words pushed me into the water
They became waves stealing my breath
They turned to brinks around my wrists
     Pulling me
     Down
     Down
     Down
“It’s easy to swim” they said
They moved easily through the water
“You just need to try a little harder”
     I sank
     Down
     Down
     Down
My lips parted allowing the air to escape
Cold water rushed into my lungs
I gasped searching for any amount of relief
     I fell
     Down
     Down
     Down
I felt the ocean floor against my feet
Fine sand floated around me in a haze
The darkness enveloped me in a cold embrace
     I accepted the end
     I drowned
     Drowned
     Drowned...
A poem about depression
F White Feb 2015
I thought of the giants whom
I planned to conquer when
I'd reached an eligible age:

build a house out of my goals
furnish it with a child in white
rule by 28 with a future bright.

but now in the clearing of brinks and
cliffs, facing the threshold of the sum of
three decades.

I stand, with one boot unlaced,
mirror in hand
a deviant Janus.

I try to block
the bird, as she whispers "Close."

*Meet your knight
or meet the night.
but for love of god
walk a road, ANY road,

before it forks you over.
copyright fhw, 2015
Hayley Neininger Feb 2014
I have this house of a heart
Each pump of blood
Blows open a window artery
Leaving all the rooms a bit too drafty
And I have never been able to find a sweater
Because there is no light in a rib-caged heart
It is not a sanctuary of a place
It’s one that keeps time and rhythm, yes
But the rhythm is only echoed back into itself
Confusing my muscles red as brinks
The rhyme throws off the time
And the record that places in my house of a heart
Skips and repeats its song
So I can never remember to feel around for a sweater
Or even to wait and feel that it’s too cold.
Etched Mirror
He was a giant with wavy hair wearing a pair of Stacy Adams
He tried to teach me, his non-conformist son
He was never on the run, he was ever having fun
I was locked up in me, envy maybe?
Wanting to be him one day, not likely.
But in spite of me I was, I fought the genetic inevitability

I watched him shave, I watched him lather his face
The blade scraped and made this sound
Tiny black hairs on porcelain abound
That laughter and that smile
I watched his habits good and bad
He was the Father some young men never have
I miss him now, love him still
Some see me and get chills
He tried to teach me, his non-conformist son
He was never on the run, he was ever having fun
I was locked up in me, envy maybe?
Wanting to be him one day, not likely.
But in spite of me I was, I fought the genetic inevitability

I watched him drink, I knew his pockets would be like brinks
I capitalized on the stink from his pores
He drank till there was no more
There he was passed out on the floor
Mom was a little sore, but she helped him up
and man could he snore
He took me out on tours of his favorite haunts
Sides of his family with cousins and Aunt’s
Down in the country folk , with a **** well and some goats
He tried to teach me, his non-conformist son
He was never on the run, he was ever having fun
I was locked up in me, envy maybe?
Wanting to be him one day, not likely.
But in spite of me I was, I fought the genetic inevitability

They poured and he drank, then I heard boy that’s your cousin
Here I’m thinking I’m bout to get some country lovin
This non-conformist was genetically rearranging
Little by little I was becoming more engaging
I heard him say this one time
“Boy don’t tell your Mama” and he walked upstairs but I was quiet
Maybe I was more like him than I should
I was only five but understood
The mirror etched  was more than a reflection
It was a connection to his soul, my sons like me I’m told
He’s a non-conformist and it shows
He’ll have his own tales to weave
And though I no longer grieve
That day I saw my father shave
Will forever be a part of me
Jack S May 2018
How come one can pass through a day believing that he has at least seen and achieved mediocre happiness to arrive home and realize his sadness?
A sadness of sorts. Not really sad. More lonely
Though he is self-driven (something his parents and piano teacher are quite proud of)
And yet?
Yet he cannot find fulfillment.
He brinks on the edge of smart individual to scaling the wall of genius
He attempts all things at his disposal and excels to the top of his pond only to look over the edge and see the vast ocean of bigger and better fish
His self-motivation pushes him to yearn for the ocean, the means for his fruition
Even if he was to reach the ocean, gain some weight and eventually become the biggest fish of his kind his satisfaction would not be present
No
The self-motivational man is plagued by eternal shortcomings in the fields of self-satisfaction and self-love
He holds no value for the compliments and praises that he receives from his loving parents
The love displayed toward him do not present an argument valid enough to convince his deductive mind that he is worthy of self-love
His scars become trophies and his trophies a pile of garbage.
His greatest sadness is that he sees a way to fulfillment
Just before him
He could reach-out-and-touch-it should he try
He wants nothing more than to stretch his hand forward and accept the path to love: the path to happiness: the path to satisfaction
And yet?
He cannot bring himself to grab it.
He reaches his hand forward again and again. The ethereal means within his grasp. And yet he cannot take hold.
He cannot hold it because this power before him is greater than him
Everything he has done so far has been done by him and now he must sit back and receive the ethereal grace?
He must surrender
He must not be driven by himself but instead a higher power and although he recognizes the authority of the higher power he does not submit to it
He yearns to be in its presence
And yet?
He cannot surrender for to surrender to it is to deny everything he has ever known.
To accept its grace he must be made new
He must be born again
Until he surrenders entirely (most likely in a long time for the self-driven man is stubborn) he shall experience the lonely dissatisfaction which already plagues him
Until he surrenders entirely his happiness will only be mediocre and fleeting
Disappearing as he walks through his front door and even more intense during the minutes of isolation that he showers each night
And so he passes through life master of nothing, poisoned, for he cannot deny who he is to accept an antidote which he knows is supreme.
brandon nagley May 2015
I want to be complacent, a replacement to this hole all others call a heart!! Dust from the start!
I want to be comprised of no compromise, and teased by one's wild garden.. I feel indigent to the search, where the Indegenous perch, and strike their venom fangs!!
Narcissism runs paid to high, for everyone's a god these days!
How wrong, how misled!!
Did you bump thine head at thy crawling from the womb? Or still intombed?
Postulate truth I adventure, for I seek no gold diggers, just this aaorta to grow bigger, as frowns can go their own..
An amour' unknown, curdled in with the lumps!
Didn't you know a little lump leavens the whole bread?
Knowledgeable pragmatic...
Rebut me all you will, for I do not need pills, only the comfort of a woman's attire! Flamed as fire!!!
Vociferous with one I want to be, virtuoso's, making melodys angel choired!
I need none invective, only an erudite of plebian Babylon!!
A daughter and son to raise amongst the brinks of end of days impromptu!!!
Tacitly I wait, where heaven is at her gate,
Only if I knew what time!
Old poetry from prison lol love old stuff yayy

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