"byproduct" poems
I'm transparent like a window
but I'm prone to keeping curtains closed
to cover up my youthful,
aching, naked soul.
I used to be promiscuous;
my essence on my sleeve.
a charming laugh; a crystal glass
from which many a fool drew drink.
A chalice of life;
warm like cinnamon wine,
soft like angel's delight.
Beheld by every eye.
But it never felt right;
I was smoke off a fire,
yet still smouldering coal.
Just a young, beautiful
byproduct of desire.
There's no smoke without fire.
Although, I tried to fan it cool;
the flames ran only wilder.
But as the old wind blows, it seems
a withered tree still grows new leaves.
A dandelion spreads its seeds
but they lie far away from me.
Now, I move transcluently-
ultraviolet invisible ink-
I speak in soothing whispers;
they travel further than you'd think.
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 12:26 PM UTC
When I enter,
the black holes of myself,
they are located,
transcribed upon the
blackboards of our
unified bodies,
the magnification of energy
transversed,
principles demonstrated
by the unconcluding
conclusion of the expansion of
creation,
the rebirthing of one universe
never ending
When I enter a woman,
the discovery sought,
the definitional needed,
the proofs equational,
the factors constant,
not the variable
truths,
the demonstrations positive,
the constants of the universe,
combinational, all within,
a single point glistening
to gentle comfort this
knowledge of my wasting,
the foresight of my limitations
from the day of birth
my matter,
matters,
my energy
neither destroyed or created,
illimitable,
my decline inevitable
and yet!
cannot alter my atomic structure.
my future guaranteed,
my inner light,
traveling so fast,
it has yet
to arrive
When I enter a woman,
the laws of physics
become special theories
of relativity,
we are motion in time,
force and energy
nucleotides rawest refined,
elemental and particle nuclear,
packets of light
exclaimed
When I enter a woman,
organic, chemistry,
interdisciplinary
my body and its life force
shaped as
electric current transceivers
crossing galaxies,
there can be no deceivers,
there but and only
the birthing of heat,
a byproduct of
interjection, conjunction
creation of creativity
<>
she is my proof
long after the
log normal of my nerves,
now parceled to the
invisible of an oscillating
log natural,
fertilizes the sea grasses
that so intoxicate,
flying, carried,
by the invisiblity of the winds,
all-where I have chosen
as my shifting shape,
when this container
leaks and crack'd,
in sentry reentry orbit,
to
the nearest garbage strewn
construction-dead
lot
When I enter a woman,
physics far beyond
the commonplace,
physical transition
to knowledge
of life ever after
death and fear are
time sensitized
passing notions,
crushed by the
consolation of physics,
the eternality
of a time
once begun,
cannot end,
and therefore
this,
my one theory of everything,
the God
I worship,
of course,
he is invisible!
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 8:40 AM UTC
Enigma entity’s ethology entelechy as it relates to clairaudience clairvoyance.
Everyone has a personal futurity fatidic or existential metaphysique.
What we need is a universally acceptable form of id conclusion.
Unfortunately we can’t even agree on the social stigmatisms of ego’s expression.
We are relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity that succeed in a hierarchy of functionally integrateable forms.
There is no functional deontology, even though its visage would seem to portend cogently fecund probity for all.
We are not ethereally sublime, we are corporeally preternatural.
Objective is individual; obligation to each other is not a mandate.
Though many might find it inherently indispensible to some it impedes success.
The depths of debauchery this debacle ensues are almost intrinsically endemic to our race.
How am I going to get there becomes more important than ‘what are we fighting for’.
So, if there’s no unity of purpose how do we decide who we are fighting for.
Will it be good for all or lead to oligarchy and subjugation, the seemingly inescapable byproduct of capitalism, the inherent decadence of socialism.
It’s times like this that make me love the constitutional fortitude of Americanism.
Theoretically I have an inalienable right, hypothetically this leads to anarchy so I’m not allowed to mess with your rights.
This is mandate.
The republic for which we stand.
Mendacious tales of unity, not merely the obstinate tenacities of I, but also the cogent fecundity in the infamous we-ness of us.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 6:04 PM UTC
I exist
on the border
between Reality,
and the Imaginary.
I breathe in belligerent Black,
and Withering whites.
I am incapable of grays,
a gradient of gruesome Grief.
I dance on the Border,
exhaling exuberant fragility,
my border is made of glass.
And I rise from the ashes,
a Byproduct of the
bridges I've burned.
Craving soothing touch,
Yet silently seeking
Incriminating Isolation,
Addicted to my own destruction.
A shattered soul dutifully
Dances on the Border,
Held captive by her sins.
Trapped between Good
and Bad. Happiness
and Heartbreak. Lost
and Found. Death
and Resurrection.
Born on the Border, a
Simple Figment of
Immoral Imagination.
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 1:51 PM UTC
Within each and every one of us
is a unique culture:
Ethnocentrism
reaches just as far inward
as it does outward:
Just because
academia
has imposed it's own
fascist, totalitarian, absolute
definitions
does not mean
that it has final say:
i postulate
such adacemic-fetishism
is merely a byproduct of
propaganda
pushed by Big Money
rather than
a genuine insitution
of respectable edification:
that is
i see it as
a mere appeal
to authority;
a well-known logical fallacy
to those who are in the know.
Tread lightly.
Modern Academics
seems to be
yet another
corrupt branch
of Business;
little more.
Academic achievement
is not equivocal
to intellectual worth:
a graduate's degree
is moreso
a status symbol
than it is
a credential
anymore.
'T'is vile idolatry
in lieu of
an individual's personal philosophy;
that's not to say it's
absolutely worthless,
but it may as well be
in today's job market
(unless it's a business degree!)
Then again,
that's just my opinion.
i guess i oughtta shut up
before Edu-nazis shut me down.
Oops, did i type that out loud?
I'm so sorry, you see,
vhat i meant to say vas:
Heil Stanford!
Heil Harvord!
Heil Berkley!
Heil vhat i am told zu heil!
Heil zhe publishing companies!
Heil zhe holders of student loans!
Heil egredious student debt
in lieu of philosophical discourse,
let alone progress!
Heil vhat i see on TV!
Heil *******
Heil alkohol!
Heil gasoline!
Do not qvestion zhe dogma;
go back zu sleep, you sheep!
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 4:33 PM UTC
I cannot sleep, thinking:
I cannot give you short, bittersweet, sad, delighting, whimsical love poems.
I can give you short, bittersweet, sad, delighting, whimsical life poems.
In cold, rushing spring and river waters,
ash and water-borne soil mix.
A voyage endless.
We too, our voyage.
Endless. End less.
Examine the crevices and ravines that
are the map of your hands.
Your voyage's log, memory storage.
Indestructible.
In the clouds's moisture,
ever recycling, it is all kept, stored.
Your hands well recall
the very first caress,
the softness of the baby skin,
the sweet of the lips,
thirty some long years after.
Dare to dispute?
The original animus,
the anima and the persona combination
the byproduct of blood and tissue,
some call spirit,
some call soul,
is matter that cannot be
destroyed,
nor created.
It only voyages on,
the conservation of mass,
our body, our enlivement,
our spark.
In cold, rushing spring and river waters,
ash and water-borne soil admix.
From this natural brew, renewal.
The voyage is the resurrection
Life ever after.
Life even before.
Life for ever
lasting.
Our voyage is without destination.
Our voyage is our destination.
Our voyage is our resurrection.
Endless. Perpetual.
Eternal.
5:46 AM
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 5:50 AM UTC
I watch the candle burning
The flame flickering
Pushing my hand into its midst
I feel the curious strength of something
That doesn't quite seem to exist
Evanescing, casting shapeless silhouettes
So powerful
It deteriorates that which surrounds it
Simultaneously essential
And malevolently destructive
I like to feel the heat of the wax
Dripping on my finger tips
As I grip it tightly
Pain is only a byproduct of sensitivity
Of which we can never have
In too small a quantity
I'd rather feel the pain
Watching the beads roll down my arm
Than lose that strength
In compartmentalizing
And someday you'll find me
Not burnt, not melted, but
Dancing like a shadow on the wall
Mar 3, 2010
Mar 3, 2010 at 3:07 PM UTC
You are drinking yourself red-eyed and crumpled
on an unmade bed meanwhile I
am hating the world’s promiscuity and signing
autographs that serve no alternate purpose
subsequent to their ink-blotted conceptions and silently
my heart scratches and claws and penetrates
bone, muscle, and choked fat
to get to you
How will we know
when we’re no longer
young enough
to inconsequentially
rot our bodies
from the inside
out?
If I could
I would search for a space
impenetrable
by ants molecules and medium-sized atoms
that exists between
my pale finger tips and
your freckled
bare back moving
slowly up and down
If I could
I would be somewhere where nothing
is the tarnished byproduct of anything
where no one will remind anyone not to
clog their throats or minds or eyes
when they
shiver and choke on scarlet inkblots
and chug gasoline
and wipe away dirt stains
and drink each other’s shame
and form cuts on the soles of their feet
after rushing barefoot through beds of sharp stones
to reach other
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 11:53 PM UTC
Enigma entity’s ethology entelechy as it relates to clairaudience clairvoyance
Everyone has a personal futurity fatidic or existential metaphysique
What we need is a universally acceptable form of id conclusion
Unfortunately we can’t even agree on the social stigmatisms of ego’s expression
We are relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity that succeed in a hierarchy of functionally integrateable forms
There is no functional deontology, even though its visage would seem to portend cogently fecund probity for all
We are not ethereally sublime, we are corporeally preternatural
Objective is individual; obligation to each other is not a mandate
Though many might find it inherently indispensible to some it impedes success
The depths of debauchery this debacle ensues are almost intrinsically endemic to our race
How am I going to get there becomes more important than ‘what are we fighting for’
So, if there’s no unity of purpose how do we decide who we are fighting for
Will it be good for all or lead to oligarchy and subjugation, the seemingly inescapable byproduct of capitalism, the inherent decadence of socialism
It’s times like this that make me love the constitutional fortitude of Americanism
Theoretically I have an inalienable right, hypothetically this leads to anarchy so I’m not allowed to mess with your rights
This is mandate
The republic for which we stand
Mendacious tales of unity, not merely the obstinate tenacities of I, but also the cogent fecundity in the infamous we-ness of us
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 7:25 AM UTC
i've always wanted to apply for CSSSA,
but i'm too scared the rejection letter
will be the future shades of senior year
when i finally hear back from the mailman
who took my essays a year ago,
all bundled up in pre-approved envelopes,
stamped, addressed, received, thrown aside.
-
but that's not for two years,
so i don't know why i'm worried.
-
i've always wanted to do something,
not make something of myself,
even though the verb is the same in
spanish, with a reflexive difference.
-
in regard to this, a wise twenty-something (contradictory)
once told me to let myself feel instead of worrying so much:
"to put it less eloquently, feelings are like **** FEEL 'EM."
-
apparently i haven't felt in eight months.
-
so maybe in compensation,
i will apply to CSSSA,
though the deadline is the 28th,
and the assigned portfolio demands
an utter lack of procrastination--
not my strong suit, you could say,
as a month of homework is still
sleeping in my bed.
-
**** it's all due tuesday.
-
also, while walking home
i saw a norse god namesake
on a balcony-asgard, wreathed
in the byproduct of his last smoke,
and somehow, despite my inability
to feel, that just made me so sad.
-
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 12:50 AM UTC
They're a normal family
As normal as they can be
The father is a veteran of WWII
He runs a tight ship
but one can tell by
looking into his eyes
(the one that works)
that he loves his wife and children
The mother isn't a homemaker
because she's forced to
she actually loves the challenge
of keeping a household in order
it gives her something
to take pride in
The daughter is sweet sixteen
bright as the stars in the night sky
She wants to be a concert pianist
drawing in crowds of thousands
to listen to sweet melodic
sensations
The son is naught but an infant
slowly learning the benefit
of moving in order to get places
his eyes constantly wander
in wonder at his surroundings
innocence in its true form
They are a normal family
But they're not.
Look closely at the father
You can see the mangled remnants of his chest
Where he fell on top of a grenade
He is, indeed, a veteran of WWII.
His name is on the large memorial in Washington D.C.
Just another young man willing to sacrifice
for something he believed in
His wife died in 1926 from complications during pregnancy
She never got to see her daughter's face
as the doctors carried her from the room
The mother's pale face and unliving eyes
staring at a nondescript hospital ceiling
The daughter's crushed skull is the byproduct
of a drunk driver who is still haunted by
the vision of teenage dreams sliced
apart by windshield glass in 1985
He drinks alone at home now
The child has a gunshot wound through his neck
a stray bullet from a gang fight that found flesh and blood,
just as the man who pulled the trigger intended it to
every time the infant giggles, one can hear the gurgle shortly after
This family exists somewhere outside our consciousness
They don't go on vacations to Disney World
You won't see them at the corner grocery store
They don't Celebrate the Holidays
They don't have
a favorite sports team
a favorite pair of shoes
a favorite band
What they have is eachother
four random souls that found one another
lost in the ether
living their afterlife
the best they can
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 10:19 PM UTC
i am from the west coast of california and the east coast of maharastra,
from the suburban houses of tracy and the village bungalows of jandu singha, from golden gate drive and marine drive.
i am from the united states public education system and the indian caste system. i am from the land of opportunities and the byproduct of two different american dreams.
i am from places i didn't choose and places i will never completely be able to leave. i am from the coordinates tattooed on my right arm, the hills with the prettiest sunsets in the whole world, from the love of a man with rigid principles and a woman who broke all the rules. i am from a culture that says i shouldn't but a mindset that says i will.
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 2:55 AM UTC
The beginning of a story
Read with me, if you desire
At dawn a huge explosion
Filled the void with fire,
Cooled and hardened into rock,
Orbits now another star,
A life sustaining prison
Caterpillars in a jar.
A thousand, thousand, thousand years,
Then a thousand, thousand more
Passed as though an eye blink
Before a creature crawled to shore.
What miracle was engineered?
Creating ocean from a fire,
Creating algae in the ocean,
And life from muck and mire?
Was the engineer benevolent?
With a careful laid out plan?
Or is the earth a failed experiment
Where the byproduct is Man?
And if Man was unintended
What results were meant to be?
Would earth have been a better place
With just oceans, land and trees?
Maybe chemical reactions,
On this random, rolling stone
Were responsible for all its life
Chemicals alone.
Astronomic odds against it,
But the odds of Heaven are high as well.
I cannot comprehend it.
That story someone else must tell.
Phil Lindsey June, 2015
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 9:00 AM UTC
**** the ******** they said.
Okay, but let me at least take you to dinner first.
_________________________________________________________
Now wait just one second.
This skin you're in - it's mine, is it not?
I am fairly certain that these sighs belong to me, that this warmth is a byproduct of my night terrors.
Now just who told you that you could wear my skin?
Hey! Hello! You There, With The Eyes!
I am not something to be pulled off a floor and draped haphazardly across such a treacherous clavicle!
(Well, I mean, as a general rule. There was that one time.)
As I Was Saying!
It look me a lot of time to get stretched this thin, okay? What makes you think you can just crawl headfirst into my own exquisite casing? I know you're under there, you sneak. My own personal ringworm. Let's ring around those rosy cheeks of yours, exhausted by my less natural coloring. Clap your hands, why don't ya? Distract yourself with a melody and I'll come up for air to finish off that last verse.
MY hair sticks up more on the left side. MY forearms are prone to alien speed-bumps. MY very own flesh (and blood!) smells faintly of orange peels. Got it?
Listen closely, you.
Not only are you not welcome here -
You may not be excused.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 5:33 PM UTC
I say I'm
not looking
for love but
I'm looking
I'm catching
cold glances
from eyes filled
with the weight of
sorrow been cast in gold
My purposeful fingers
reach up for money from
the gutters, this,
is just what I'm told.
Enter my ears,
enter my eyes,
enter my skin,
into my lungs.
I'm not breathing
oxygen if I exhale
byproduct. I'm out
of luck, won't press it.
I'm out of reason in
speech. Beyond
preventable death.
Regret, turned to
malice. Chest
compression. I
could have been
a good person.
What value in gold,
if I have you?
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 1:07 AM UTC
What do you do
when you realize
you're the aftermath
of someone's abuse?
It was written in the subtleties,
not the clear skin on your face.
You find it etched inside
of a voided smile.
The byproduct
of back handed remarks.
You stayed home
convinced yourself
you weren't really lonely.
But when you went out
you were made to feel the same.
Second guessing became
second nature.
Proving yourself worthy
became a personality trait.
It's not always clenched fist
or hit and run
It's a quick wit
and a razor tongue too.
The kind of love
that makes you
question the lengths
you've walked in life.
Makes you think
the only way is stay put
or go backwards.
The green eyed monster
turned you pale again
and you don't see
yourself in the mirror anymore.
Only someone who paints
her face with a smile
and tells everyone she's okay.
But the aftermath
is still just as deadly.
and your eyes feel sore
from trying to see
the good in things.
It's not always black eye
and a pain in your head.
If the flags read red-
then run.
No matter how far
you have made it.
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 2:20 PM UTC
Carbon is carbon is carbon-
the skeleton key, vitally
important and wholly ununique.
And I am she is me,
diamond so tough that only it
can scar itself,
graphite that is written and
crumbled and erased.
In the air you breathe out,
pleasant for trees but otherwise
deadly, and
trees are trees are trees,
rooted to the spot without me,
taking in the byproduct of our
existence and using it to outlive
us all, to change and fall
and grow again.
Count to ten and then
reach for the sky to the place
where trees climb people,
and remind themselves not
to die
while the people’s hands
stretch and
close around carbon,
tethered by
ineraseable existence,
trying to breathe.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 1:44 AM UTC
the day done
she drifts in with the tide
washes up on my shore with
the tattered remains
of her girlhoods smile
in a keepsake box in the
pocket of her long grey coat
she speaks her thoughts but they are
tangled like seaweed
worn and worn like driftwood
she tells me her intents
and the lost sailor aspects of her soul
and her words linger on the air
like kestrels in the breaking of a storm
wheeling high above
wheeling high above
and the tears flow quietly
each one burning slowly into
my heart
I turn out and set sail
into the inky sea
blind to the trail
but rather than face her downfall
I attach myself to the darkness with a passion
of the task of finding my handmadien
of scorned empire
and saving her from herself
and all her internal wars
she was a shy young woman
in the years on denvers river road
a shatterproof demo for the better living
to be found just the other side of that
infamouse greener grass
that keeping up gets you in the end
a byproduct of the heart attack they give you
at no extra charge
standing naked feeling all kinds of uncomfortable
they question everything except your sanity
they are sure that's the one thing you've lost
I get her home at last
only to find she is nearly only
a chocolate bunny that's been chewed on
and her words telling me she must leave
are just forebodings of nightmares she gets
about Easter egg hunts
and viper roughness of being eaten alive
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 6:47 PM UTC
Enigma entity’s ethology entelechy as it relates to clairaudience clairvoyance
Everyone has a personal futurity fatidic or existential metaphysique
What we need is a universally acceptable form of id conclusion
Unfortunately we can’t even agree on the social stigmatisms of ego’s expression
We are relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity that succeed in a hierarchy of functionally integrateable forms
There is no functional deontology, even though its visage would seem to portend cogently fecund probity for all
We are not ethereally sublime, we are corporeally preternatural
Objective is individual; obligation to each other is not a mandate
Though many might find it inherently indispensible to some it impedes success
The depths of debauchery this debacle ensues are almost intrinsically endemic to our race
How am I going to get there becomes more important than ‘what are we fighting for’
So, if there’s no unity of purpose how do we decide who we are fighting for
Will it be good for all or lead to oligarchy and subjugation, the seemingly inescapable byproduct of capitalism, the inherent decadence of socialism
It’s times like this that make me love the constitutional fortitude of Americanism
Theoretically I have an inalienable right, hypothetically this leads to anarchy so I’m not allowed to mess with your rights
This is mandate
The republic for which we stand
Mendacious tales of unity, not merely the obstinate tenacities of I, but also the cogent fecundity in the infamous we-ness of us
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 3:30 PM UTC
She read my journal
My internal thoughts spewed out of her mouth like *****
Anger. Regret.
I saw him as a book then
And he was easily read
Flipping through his memories, I found tainted history
Tears
Oh, woe is me
this girl, she knows everything.
My incestuous mind
unkind and dark
genuinely written without hesitation
Yet here I stand
Confused, taken aback
Stricken with...
...curiosity, perhaps
Sadness and unknowing
And his eyes apologize while his frown regrets
Perhaps she now feels closer.
There's nothing to hide inside
A relief.
I am disgusted by your actions.
I wonder if he still loves me
He won't take the words back
Ink never erases, and scars remain
And so does my heart
Rooted to my sleeve yet chained to his palm
"I'm sorry", I forget to say
Words so typical end up filling the room
breaking all glass
You made me like this
my words are a byproduct of your insanity
You're sad.
Yes, sad. We are all sad.
You are not entitled to read such things
wretch
I peered into your soul today
Something twisted and half alive
Fault?
A face, my face to place blame
I'll never walk away
Without another war wound
But I'll bleed you dry
Should I question morality? Am I human?
What happened to us?
You seek knowledge, yet cower in its presence
" all loving" I mock the idea
for you despise my words.
My work.
What are they, but a part of me?
Your voice is timid
Your despair, unsettling..
speak
Silence is all I want to hear anymore...
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 11:11 PM UTC
Drugs are ******* great man
Do another line
Or take a hit
Or take a sip of something
There’s enough available to us
That’s legal - or not
That freaking out is overkill
To those availing themselves
Of chewables or smokeables
Or pills or anything prescribed
By labcoat-wearing, overeducated
Pharmaceutical-reps
Masquerading as the answer
That you found yourself
By diving into forums on the web
Your doctor both agrees with
And now disavows
They can’t allow
This kind of undermining
Of the underpinning
Of their industry
And of what’s keeping people healthy
Even only as a byproduct
Of confirmation bias
They cannot acknowledge
If we want to be respected
In this new environment
In which our personal experience
Is more true than the objective
Information taught to more than like
One million doctors
Oct 24, 2023
Oct 24, 2023 at 4:45 AM UTC
I say I'm
not looking
for love but
I'm looking
I'm catching
cold glances
from eyes filled
with the weight of
sorrow been cast in gold
My purposeful fingers
reach up for money from
the gutters, this,
is just what I'm told.
Enter my ears,
enter my eyes,
enter my skin,
into my lungs.
I'm not breathing
oxygen if I exhale
byproduct. I'm out
of luck, won't press it.
I'm out of reason in
speech. Beyond
preventable death.
Regret, turned to
malice. Chest
compression. I
could have been
a good person.
What value in gold,
if I have you?
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 4:49 PM UTC
she gave me white light
it looks like a light sword
making numerous echo in space
I did not ask for what ...I know
no ornamental word would do
futile definitions
flashy ads
waste of breath
15 minutes of clutter
15 minutes of fame
15 minutes of a life
yep Warhol was right
empty containers
to be filled up
to create -fillers
a byproduct of ego
of a selfless time
oh what an an illusion
I live in sometime
not knowing media as the bird's call
true technology is my received gift
with me inside or you
is there a difference?
we are all embodiment
carrier of the code
essence of eternal
not to hurry though
not to resist
resist resists the self just
I cannot trespass the chanting
I shall not think to try
thinking is my only sin
why do we fight?
mo and mu were the same guy
two incarnations in one or three
born at different times
their writers failed just
the difference definer
yes definer and not the creator
'create' remains holy
with a spirit – like words with
spirit-
running memory
activated by sound maybe
the difference definer sets bricks
of flamboyance
en route escape to escape lifetimes
invites the endless cycle of fight
could fray be for peace
and not by cowardice?
fear is my only sin
born from ignorance
of self
as in my- as in your-
not a portmanteau but
an affix by nature
so there is no difference
let fray be for peace
then A joker's viola
let it be a joke for
a joyous while
for a joyous halftime
you don't need do much really
if you can whistle once
under the golden sun
through your belly
somewhere in a cool place
selfless illusion fades
there is nothing else
no book could describe
as such
I have crossed libraries
with my starship
but the source light
not bound to time so yes
for whatever it was
I closed my eyes
slowly learning to dance now
along its wings
it has more to tell then its aesthetics
we cross dimensions while
we perpetually make some
the reflection the waveform
in a little note we harmonize
my fingertips- carrier of a glow
I - the particle of light
we pass
and yes after each turn
there is a you to learn from
or I to be.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 8:09 PM UTC
Who am I ?
Can I ever aspire to touch that shining spot,
Suspended in the entirety?
This base form is bound.
Every agent a shackle;
Every constant a fetter.
And 'this' the final frontier beyond which lies the ever unattainable.
I am but a constituent;
A byproduct.
An aberration.
And such shall never surpass the goal of ordinance.
Or seek to know more than that which is due.
For futile is this search
And that which I hope will ensue from it.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 8:36 AM UTC
I am a beat, I am a clock,
I am a rhythm of some sort;
I’m a carrier on a mission;
The byproduct of an invention;
A battery that is being charged
And depleted low and large.
I am a ball, I am a cell,
I am the will of higher selves;
I’m a layer of the kernel,
Flying on seat "57L";
I’m a letter that was sent to mail,
Set outbound when rings the bell.
I am a curve, I am twirl,
I am sustained motion still unfurled;
I’m necessity in the system;
Of absorption I am the emblem;
I’m a branch of fractal downward;
Of struggles past I ain't no award.
I am a beast, I am a fork,
I am a breach through inert soil;
I’m a head of the hydra snake;
Consolation in all of mistakes;
I’m the blood of the wounded,
The brain of memories faded.
I am a blink, I am a cause,
I am the storm after the pause;
I’m the pity for the angered;
Whose duties have been tempered.
I'm the eye that's about to drool
And the tooth that's bound to fool.
I am silver when I am gold,
Yes I am pale when I grow bold,
Like an etching on a clean surface
I'll be sanded just to be varnished;
I'm the most certain of prediction,
Foreseeable beyond provision.
I am ludicrous, I am lukewarm,
I am commitment amidst cold wars;
I’m the frontier around the form
And the earth that drowns the worm;
Of victory I am some defeat,
Accomplishment left incomplete.
I am a meter, I am a yard,
I am pain that causes no harm;
I'm the scepter of the peasant,
The suffering in the pleasant;
I'm everything that's ever been said,
All that's forgotten once it's been read.
I am a sin, yes I am sought,
I am a child yet to be mourned;
I’m resistance to the inevitable,
Recurrence of the unstable;
I’m the distance of departures,
The first minutes of final hours.
I am a beat, I am a clock,
I am a rhythm of some sort;
I’m a carrier on a mission,
The byproduct of an invention;
A battery that is being charged
And depleted low and large.
Jul 14, 2019
Jul 14, 2019 at 1:26 PM UTC