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Cory Ellis Jun 2013
Hey guys. This isn't truly a poem but a paper I wrote for English class. I wanted to share this view with people and this is the only vehicle I knew to use. So here it is. I hope you enjoy it.

The amplifiers were turned up to ten. The young and fresh crowd looked at us with anticipation.

What were they waiting for? As the music began I noticed the subtle movements and growing tension in

the crowd. Men shook their heads and we shook ours in a violent duet between the crowd and

performer. Women and men flailed their limbs as they awaited the ******. We knew when it was

coming; they did not. When we decided to let it all go I witnessed something crazy! There was a brief

pause in the music and when it began again we kicked it into overdrive. We shook our heads with a

more frantic pace. We jumped about like madmen. The crowd erupted; it became its own entity. You

could feel the heat and power of this new creature. We were locked in a violent psychic-sphere of

crazed young teens and when the ****** was over there seemed to be a sense of relief and happiness

in the crowd. Had my after school hobby become a healing agent, even if only temporary, in society?

This papers purpose is an attempt at piecing together the phenomena of catharsis by merging

philosophy, psychology, history and spirituality.

First, to understand the psychology of catharsis we must think back to the roots of this behavior. Since

human life has existed we’ve formed crowds for various reasons. The first reason held the sole purpose

of protection. Tribes of people, men as hunters and women as gatherers, teamed up for the benefit of

human survival. Erich Fromm says that “the meaning of life is not to be found in its fullest unfolding but

in social service and social duties; that the development, freedom, and happiness of the individual is

subordinate or even irrelevant in comparison to the welfare of the state.”(Fromm, 1947, page 51) This

states that a crowd is actually very necessary to the function of human life. The second reason crowds

gathered was in form of revel, shamanistic healing and worship of deities (Ehrenreich, 30). Men and

woman would often enter trances, speak in tongues and become involved in a collective ecstasy while in

worship of their God. In later years, politics, entertainment and rebellion or protest was a main factor in

the gathering of people (Ehrenreich, 102). People gathered at Festivals that were in the midst of being

suppressed and would dance in mockery of their Kings or leaders.

What exactly is catharsis? Catharsis is a purging of emotional tension brought out in a crowd through

the viewing of a tragedy or tragic play. In the article “The Power of Catharsis” Kearny says the following

More specifically he (Aristotle) defined

the function of catharsis as 'purgation of pity and fear'. This comes

about, he explains, whenever the dramatic imitation of certain actions

arouses pity and fear in order to provide an outlet for pity and fear.

The recounting of experience through the formal medium of plot,

fiction or spectacle permits us to repeat the past forward so to speak.

And this very act of creative repetition allows for a certain kind of

pleasure or release. In the play of narrative re-creation we are invited

to revisit our lives — through the actions and personas of others — so

as to live them otherwise. We discover a way to give a future to

the past. (Kearny 1)

I figure that, even though he states that it is a purgation of pity and fear, it could also be involved with

many other suppressed emotions. Take my introduction for example. These kids were not releasing

pity and fear, they were releasing their angst! They were releasing their desire for competition.

They were making up for the violent feelings of agression they felt in their body that had been

suppressed by society for so long! They were revolting! Could catharsis also be used to purge other

emotions as well such as ****** suppression or communicative issues?

How would one come about actually attempting this catharsis that I speak of? We need to first look at

some ways in which people have controlled crowds in the past and realize that crowds form by

themselves but often look for leadership due to what Nietzche called that “herd mentality.”

In the article “Seducing the Crowd” by Urs Staheli it mentions that repetition is a key factor in beginning

to control the crowd. (Staheli, 69) This means that through repetition you can get the crowd to side with

your beliefs. The crowd could begin to think about what your suggesting and potentially be swayed by

the other people that are now following your ideas. It could also be repetition of body movements as

well. What better vehicle is there to sway a crowd than music? It’s repetitive in instrumental and lyrical


Another way to “******” a crowd is to act like a madman! Specifically how I stumbled upon this in

the first phenomena place.

The leader himself is possessed and hypnotized by the ideas

and visions he holds, obsessed to such an extent that he cannot rationally exercise

control over the crowd. Instead, he devotes himself to fascinating the

crowd by more ecstatic means.8 He often resembles a madman but fascinates

by the mere power of his determination. What distinguishes the leader from

the rest of the crowd is his will alone, not any particular intellectual capacity

or a superior morality. (Staheli, 68)

The theory is that through mythological story telling or acting tragically and in a spectacle, we can

actually release negative emotions and potentially even heal neuroses or psychic ailments. Later in the

article he goes on to say that a shaman was actually documented to have cured a woman with a blocked

birth canal and in labor by telling her a story about a warrior trying to exit a cave that had monsters on

the outside trying to get in.

The function of a shaman is to heal his tribe. He uses drugs or plants to change his state of mind and

then by going over to the other side of reality he invokes spirits that help to heal.

In the séance, the shaman led. A sensuous panic, deliberately evoked through drugs, chants,

dancing, hurls the shaman into trance. Changed voice; convulsive movement. He acts like a

madman. These professional hysterics, chosen precisely for their psychotic leaning, were once

esteemed. They mediated between man and spirit world. Their mental travels formed the crux

of the religious life of the tribe. (Morrison 1967 pg. 71)

This shows an ecstatic crowd dancing and chanting while one man acts out a tragic spectacle. Through

this spectacle the shaman acts like a madman. This causes wild emotions within the crowd and allows it

to release their built up and suppressed emotions. Also, the dance and chants bring them to a feeling of

unity and oneness!

One may not believe in the spiritual shaman because of their own beliefs about God and religion. Some

may not believe in the other world that parallels our own.  It is a skeptical concept without a doubt and

there are probably many people who disagree with the legitimacy of the shaman. Is there a way that we

could think of the phenomena in a psychological sense rather than strictly spiritual? The answer lies in

Carl Jung’s theory of the unconscious mind and dream therapy as well as in Nietzche’s philosophy on art

and aesthetics.  

Carl Jung believed that there is a conscious mind and an unconscious mind. The conscious mind is the

everyday mind that occurs in waking life. It is rational and helps us survive. The unconscious mind can

be found in dreams or whenever you experience a déjà vu (Jung 1964 21).  He also believed that through

the study of dreams you could heal certain aspects of your psyche that have been altered by neuroses.

Symbols and archetypes make up dreams and the unconscious, and often you will find that archetypes

appear in the form  of people. Jung believes that through living in society that men and women have lost

touch with their feminine or masculine characteristics depending on their gender. Dreams can help us

get back into union with these lost roles through connecting us with our anima(female) or animus

(male) through symbols in our dreams or unconscious minds. Jung wrote that when society was

formed people took on roles and caused a dissociation in their psyche and caused a duality rather

than a unity when they suppressed one side of their mind.  He mentioned that at all times the

unconscious mind is connecting us on a psychic level.

How does this tie into shamans and catharsis? It seems like something completely different all together

right? My theory is that the shaman or crowd leader brings forth a forgotten union of the masculine and

feminine forces in the universe. Nietzche believed that there are two polar forces that are natural in this

world and in art. These forces are given the names of deities in his book “The Birth of Tragedy.”

The first is the Apollonian force that is masculine. This force in art governs form and dreams. The

Apollonian artist directly takes ideas from his dreams and brings them to life whether it is in form

sculpture or poetry. Apollo appears through an oracle often in tragedy or in visions of the waking life.

The second force is the Dionysian which is feminine. This force governs intoxication, revel and ecstasy.

Dionysian artists are improvisers and dancers and are usually tragic figures. Nietzche believed there are

three different types of artists: Apollonian, Dionysian and the fusion of both (Nietzche 1872 14). This

latter artist is what I believe the shaman is.

Through connecting these polarizing forces he fixes the psychic neuroses in his own mind. He becomes

a unified artist, or a magician of duality. The shaman, as stated above, takes drugs to intoxicate himself.

Often the drug of choice is wine or alcohol though it could be hallucinogenic drugs as well. This tied with

repetitive revel is the Dionysian side of the spectrum and also helps draw the crowd’s attention through

spectacle and repetition. Everybody is ecstatic and experiencing the collective vibrations of the crowd.

Through his intoxication he is able to go into the unconscious mind and produce dream symbols in

reality! The crowd follows the leader into this unconscious mind and brings back forgotten wisdom of

mythology and archetypes. This is the Apollonian side of the spectrum because it deals with the

unconscious mind and dream images. It also could be this “other world” that traditional shamans speak

of. Now the psychic duality is merged and a tie is formed between the masculine and feminine forces of

nature! People feel at one with themselves and the crowd and the societal suppression is vanished

briefly. All the neuroses caused by the suppression fades away in the ecstatic revel. This is the appeal of

the rock concert. Notice how many leading figures of rock bands have androgynous features and

shamanistic nature. This is because they have fixed the psychic neuroses in their own mind and become

at peace with the masculine and feminine duality of their psyche.

Stumbling upon this phenomena in my rebellious youth was very eye opening. Ever since I have been  

very excited about this theory and I’ve been trying to piece it together. It seems to be coming along

further and further in my study of this. What exactly this ancient wisdom is; I don’t entirely know. I

do know that I have witnessed this in reality and the subject is interesting and fascinating. My theory

still has a lot of work before it is completed but I think that within this article I’ve given a decent

amount of history about the topic as well as my own thoughts. Whether this phenomena is true or

not, we can leave that up to the psychologists and philosophers to decide, though I think many may

agree. Either way, catharsis surely does exist and it is a fun way of entertainment as well as a

therapeutic option for many stressed out individuals out there
Andrew Klein Sep 2010
Catharsis is finally putting that ******* in the past.
Is changing rather than conforming
is finishing last in a one person race and not caring.

Catharsis is waking up 8 hours later
Next to someone you love
On a Saturday morning.

Catharsis is staying there all night
Unaware and oblivious to the paper you had to write.

is ignorance
is bliss

is waking up together
even if you live alone.

Catharsis is taking the past
From around your ankle
To the past
And leaving it there to die.
Even if it's the only past you know.
This was written during a transitional phase when a lot of changes happened in my life and how cathartic the present can be in retrospect.  I hope you enjoy it.
CK Baker Dec 2016
six lanes
in a sight line
past the cedar shims
and trim tempered insert
past the washed mural
and water stained tiles

covered eyes
fight for focus
over cork strung ties
and dark distant bridges
foot crawlers on lemon pegs
under clouded halogen light  

dreamers contend
in a variation of chant
(throwing it off in a
drawl sequence)
a glimpse of the guard
and warm towel assignment
forge comforting relief
in a task filled day
I wrote this back in July;
I was going to leave it private due to "personal discretion,"
but I feel that allowing it to be openly read will be good.
I've posted and taken down this poem a couple times,
but this time I'mma leave it up for they who are interested.
If physical ******* closeness
equates to you Peace of Mind,
then go **** them all, ******,
and I hope it ******* works.

Though, ******, I think you'll find,
there won't be Peace of ******* Mind
unless the person you tend to ****
is the person you tenderly ******* love;

I know it can be ******* nice
to just be close and ****,
but even then, a simple ****
is never ******* simple.

I respect your ******* right to chose
to **** without a thought of your ******* "love"
but it is that it was so ******* easy
that makes it hurt so ******* much.

While I'm sorry to be writing this,
I know ******* well I shouldn't be.
It's as if you embarked on the Path of Revenge
without the foresight to first dig two Graves.
I'm not going to ******* dwell and brood;
I'm going to express my ******-for mood:

While I appreciate your ******-up honesty,
and don't mean to make you regret it;
you ******* had an opportunity to chose,
and you sure made your ******* choice!

You ****** it up.
You ****** him.
You ****** her.
You said you didn't know why,
but you sure ******* did it anyway.

I forgave you twice, ******.
You wanted me mad at you.
Then, you ****** him and
got what you wanted.
******* two.

Don't you regret it?
If you somehow didn't,
I bet you ******* do now.
You've made your choice,
now live with the consequences.

You've ******* sickened me.
Third time's a charm.
Maybe it's a ******-up Karma
for how we got together;
"I don't do this kind of thing"-
*******! It's become a trend!

Maybe I should have gone and ****** my ex, too,
the day before our friends' wedding
without even a ******* thought of you, Love.
What a Lover you proved to be!
Congratulations, you ******* sickened me.

You don't have to say you're sorry,
I know you are; if you have a heart.

I respected you.
I trusted you.
You ******* disappoint me;
maybe you're better off this way:

So, I wish you the best of ******* luck
with whomsoever it is you decide to ****,
but, being hit yet again by that emotional truck,
this time it's yourself who you can go and ****.

[Stop and Breathe]

I do still ******* love you,
though I don't ******* know why.
That's what makes it hurt so much;
it makes me sort-of want to die.

**** this feeling,
and ******* for leading me to it.

I do still love you,
though I don't ******* know why.
I will try not to hold it against you,
I will try to rise above such a Grudge.
[Stop and Breathe]

**** this feeling
and ******* for making it so real.

I do still love you.
[Stop and Breathe]
You don't have to say sorry.
Just be sorry
for a minute.

You are young.
You have things to experience
and lessons to learn.
You need to be free.
You need time.
Live for now.

I, too, am young,
I have things to experience
and lessons to learn.
I need to be free.
I need time.
Live for now.

We are all young.
We all have things to experience
and lessons to learn.
We all need time.
Live for now.

I'm happy I get to help you, I'm sorry it can hurt.
I truly mean no harm; I seek Catharsis.

Catharsis is a form of Self-Discipline;
to be able to be there for your self;
to not **** it up for someone else just because you're peeved.
To outlet things constructively,
if sometimes offensively,
in order to further your self
and your self-understanding.

I do still love you,
for what it's still worth.

Maybe after the tides have changed
after the ******* firestorm of pain has subsided,
we can try again to hang out
but, I must say, I wouldn't hold my breath;
Like a final catharsis;
 this alternative result resolves chance.
I'm naive; but it's a cure to my heartbreak.
Do you get my pain?
The drastic change, pointlessly grabbing at the air,
as my breaths get thicker and weaker.
I'm voiceless; my options are choiceless.
A final catharsis, warped by the carnage.
I'm seemingly heartless, this wasn't my target.
Now my mind's lethargic, at least it's harmless-
All feedback is welcome and appreciated!
Catharsis is my blood on these lines
I exhale and beat myself dry
I ****** and die all over this mouse
A little less of what I was
And a little more less human.

Catharsis is when I tell a girl
A two page response on why I want her
And I never hear back from her again
And I sit there alone and close my eyes
My heart not even beating the whole time

Catharsis is working all day for minimum
Wage working all night for my own delight
Knowing tomorrow is sleep in daylight
And my body is dying a little faster
So my mind won't have to think these thoughts much Longer.
Ally Ann Aug 2018
I thought my catharsis was death,
slowly falling into a hole of darkness
rotting against soil
that would bring life again,
giving up eternity to be happy
for one single second
I thought death would bring me closer
to peace.
Six feet under sounded like
an inevitable place
found too early by my fate
of unhappiness within
tired eyes and cracking bones
it was too late to turn back
from the future I was building myself
with glass and dirt.
I thought relief would come
right after the pain
left my body,
singing songs of who I used to be
but destroyed in order to be whole again,
memories of what could have been
but became impossible when I chose
to look for release
in a damaging
damning place.
I found catharsis
in killing who I was at the time
and becoming someone new,
painting a picture of rebirth
and taking it out on the page
instead of my skin,
looking beyond an inevitable demise
and seeing light.
I found catharsis
within myself,
begging to be created new
in the image of someone
that was happy
and believed it.
Dah Oct 2013
In this poem I am not speaking to you
but to myself: As I write,

sentences form their own voices, their own
moods and opinions such as rebellions,

loves, harmony and disharmony. The universe
is not so perfect. My epiphany: A fathomless

consciousness is composed of collective mind
stretched across the magnetism of space only

to exist as ambitious matter—dense and absurd,
light and heavy; humanity has existed

for thousands of years in cold-slumber; unconscious
and inhumane; thrashing about in between

life and death where in the final moment
everybody longs for catharsis.

From my second book: 'The Second Coming'
©dah / Stillpoint Books 2012

all rights reserved

"in the final moment
everybody longs for catharsis" —from Polish Poet Zbigniew Herbert

Search Amazon: "the second coming/dah"
mira Sep 2016
green, the water is blue
and green and cold
(the moon into blood)
(the sun shall be turned to darkness)
inward lethargy that will not melt again
but i do not know

the sun shall be turned to darkness
and the moon into blood
before that great and terrible day of the lord

catharsis is not melting or boiling or freezing but it is
an inward lethargy that cannot melt or boil or freeze
catharsis is not melting or boiling or freezing but it is
(before that great and terrible day of the lord)
Liam C Calhoun Aug 2015
Raindrops now sprinkle an earlier day’s
suicide, so too, lightning strikes my beer can.

And come the moment where I’d wished the
moon there, I’d yet to find the means to seize
it. It’s an unwelcome catharsis as our cratered
dream, along with the car, the keys, the
carnal, and caprice, are possessed, tucked a
deep blue jean pocket, and just above your
rear, perfection had I ever traced it; now
untouchable, rendered my choice.

Raindrops now sprinkle an earlier day’s
suicide, so too, lightning strikes my beer can.
Tom Leveille Apr 2014
let it not be confused
let no one else's name
ring throughout these sentences
let this be a hatchet
let me put this to rest
this is not a test
i don't want to think
about shipwrecks anymore
i am tired of folding apologies
into origami birds
and placing them
at the headstones to your tantrums
this is not is not geology class
these are promises
written on razorblades
      & if you are getting choked up
        then maybe you should be

maybe we should be buried
with our telescopes face down
my mouth is full of sorry
all for being honest
we are falling out of orbit
we are burning bystanders
so cast away your callous condolences
because no one is clapping
in this waist deep water
this is not a baptism
so do not tell strangers
that this was a chance to drown
any differently
i am not a catalogue
of constellations you cannot name
this is not mythology
so stop believing your horoscope
i am not a wishing well
i am just a wall for you
to paint post nuclear fallout & antonyms for catharsis on
we destroy the things
that are not ours-
the wanton ways
we embody wrecking *****
and then cry over the rubble
this is not a heap or a mosaic
this is leaping
off a thousand story building
with no one to catch you
at the bottom & maybe
that's why some quiet moments
are so fragile, maybe that's why butterflies have mimicry
your words are black powder
and poetry is your musketry
i guess that makes me your blindfold
Tom Leveille Mar 2015
so you're disappointed
that you're disappointed
and maybe that's to be expected
some folks make beds
out of their catharsis
differently than others
it's this list
of things you lost in the fire
or how jealous you are
of people
who never came back up for air
you're crying
so the faucets leak out of solidarity
& someone asks you
why the floor is wet
so you tell them
"we've been weeping here forever"
then they want to give you
a mouth full of presupposition
by saying
"are you going down with the ship?"
& you look them in the mouth
like Leo is handcuffed to a pipe
five decks down
you look at them
like you just woke up
from that dream everyone has
where all their teeth fall out
maybe it's an intervention
a hearse vs station wagon origin story
a clearance sale
& everything's gotta go
or maybe it's the dream
where you're at the docks
from your childhood
and there's a little girl
unmooring all the ships
because she thinks
they'll float away
but every time
she unties them
they just sink

                                          they just sink
A recent theme in my Writings
has been Umbral Catharsis:
cleansing of and by the deepest parts of Shadow;
a lesson in the form of a ceaseless Nightmare.

On one Hand,
I am sorry that many of my recent writings have been woeful or otherwise dark; I've just needed to get the feelings out of my Mind and onto proverbial Paper so as to free up Mental Space so as to allow for new growth, and so in that way
I am not sorry at all for what I have written and said;
it is healthy to reflect:

To make of Suffering, Art
and then to share that Art
for the purpose of any Art
is to be borne witness to.

Recognize the Shadow
Observe the Shadow
Familiarize the Shadow
Quarantine the Shadow
Learn from the Shadow
Transmute the Shadow
Incorporate the Shadow
Express the Shadow

and finally, get the **** on with your Life!
Such is Umbral Catharsis
Sidney Jan 2015
Something very special is happening to the world right now.  I will do my best to describe it.
Not only are we nearing the peak of suffering, darkenss, and evil in the world, we are also
nearing a complete unfolding of the purest, truest, beauty, peace, and love that is greater
than humanity has ever experienced.  This is truely a cathartic time.  Savor it, treasure it, and learn from it.

On a personal level, since January 1st, 2015, I feel like my soul is on the brink of simulatenously bursting with
joy and love as well as sobbing in old hurts.  Sometimes when the pain and love in our hearts reaches a critical
level, a major emotional release is made and that is called a catharsis.  I have been riding along one giant,
prolonged catharsis since Jan 1st.  It is somewhat like a fantastic ****** that never ends.  How bad can that be?

The best part of my life right now is not knowing what will happen next; whom I will meet tomorrow; and what
crazy, amazing situation I will find myself in.  I have this unshakeable and deep feeling that 2015 will be a pivotal
year in my life.  It is like passing through the eye of a needle, and on the other side is the unventured, the unknowable,
the great mystery.  This is both a terror and also completley thrilling.  I sense that 2015 will be a year to remember
for humanity.  Whatever happens, will have some measurable mark on all of us.

So what do I do with this?

Enjoy it. :-)
Madisen Kuhn May 2013
i love good cries,
loud sobs that soak your pillow
the kinds that come at the end
of a perfect book

you’re gasping for air
as droplets of salt water
trickle down your cheeks
into the corners of your mouth
as your chest raises and falls
and your vision is blurred
by the tears

but your mind is so clear
and your every thought
in that moment
feels so meaningful
and important and right

it feels okay to just
let it all out
it makes you feel like
you are free
She faces choice
She wants to be who she was
The torment isn’t gone, she expected it to
Evaporate, over time
Time has passed, and it still resides inside
There is one way out
She wants to **** it all away

Sharp objects, broken mirrors
A hatred of self-identity,
Hate her, Scar her, Erase her
White, ****** flesh, covered in sickly red lines
Carve, cut and bleed
This will erase
All pain

The blade, slowly ripping through
Digging down deeper, exposing that which sleeps;
Within, it pours out of her
The blood cleansing, she slips away
Euphoric, she is the creator
Of her very own
Julian Jun 2018
The ******* of embezzled glory staunchly defend their counterfeit stature by defalcating the public trust of industrious societies governed internally by compunction and sabotaged externally by the tempests of acerbic fate met with inclement aleatory convergence. To supply a society with ingenuity without being complaisant or officious with unctuous pleas to the overlords we must fashion a new vogue that taps the bustle of giants and aggrandizes the margins to oversee their own creative destinies with scaffolded arrangements of titanic promise and justifiable fluidity to conquer the blinkered dogmatism of a dissolute chastity to inveterate apocryphal tenets of factitious but unmerited perspectives. Democracy crumbles when the convenience of sensationalism supplants the resolve of those that fossick hidden wealth and promulgate validity instead of undergirding pomp with precarious prevarications of duplicitous omission guarded gingerly by the gatekeepers of a ****** sanity that whitewashes the discussion with invented hobgoblins and purblind catharsis. To defeat simplicity and enshrine byzantine elegance as the paragon for voguish commentary rather than abide by a bowdlerized decorum for appeasing simpletons with divisive balkanization through identity politics we can overcome the impediments to human progress that are engineered to persist because of the inertia of the listless and the stubbornness of doctrinaire politicization and invent vivacity and festivity anew. We need to divorce ourselves from pedestrian quibbles of hero-worship that endanger the vitality of the common discourse because of fastidious pedantic disempowerment that ravages us with debased dreams by underscoring nuisances and tolerable nightmares that emasculate the virulence of the liberated individual and subvert his ambitions to contend with a picaresque world of limitless promise and self-motivated internal wealth.
      The bane of modernity is how chary the world becomes because of fractured histories intersecting with controversial destinies and the antidote to that poisonous self-defeating self-censorship is the audacity of brazen challenges to expurgation through assiduous resourcefulness and delicate diplomacy in wrangling controversies with outspoken courage rather than whispered resentment. Temerity waged in inclement circumstance is justified and curiosity stoked by lambent flames of fulgurant individualism should be fortified to the extent necessary to conquer the feckless spoilsports of unctuous puritanism and institutional obedience. The quacksalvers that blather about inconsequence strand the imagination in a desiccated desert that is ostracized from the palettes of the artistic whim to wield efflorescence rather than squander life in pursuit of perfunctory lucre or tenuous solidarity around banal idealism promised by social justice warriors that forget the biggest war being waged on humanity is on the ingenuity of the common discourse and the liberty to opine about real issues rather than saccharine conventions of emasculation through linguistic imprisonment and epicurean slavery to fashimites who relish the buzzword but never the enlightened audience that scoffs at feeble attempts at cultural commentary like Childish Gambino’s “This is America” music video. This particular artifact is a demonstration of how childishly fickle the plebeian mentality really is, stitching together a bricolage of violence to engineer controversy and serenading it with the most banal music imaginable and exhorting people to herald it as a high artform while inundating the world with unimaginative comic book movies and Star Wars rip-offs because of the lucrative business of formulaic replication. “This is America” should be regarded as a parody of itself because of how hackneyed its design is and how cacophonous it sounds and mocks its audience with lowbrow tactics of adding tinsel to trash and marketing it as the glory of tatterdemalions rather than the refinement of true cinematic achievements that have been relegated because Warhol’s Campbells-Soup-consumerism trumps true belletrist in the public view.
        Cultural watersheds punctuate our history with salient achievements in experimentation, but the formulaic profiteering of buzzword sensationalism and yellow journalism and the ostentatious glorification of promiscuous boasting and fancy cars tantalize the mice to continue playing slot machines rather than penning a novel or doing something promethean. The world scoffs at Trump but ignores the bigger institutional caveats that endanger us much more than a pragmatic albeit unconventional pontificator who is complicit in constructing a false narrative to enslave mindless people to fret about eminence rather than delight themselves in the consequential nuances of established refinement that used to serenade the world with flourish and spectacle. The world kowtows to the crusade against flavor-of-the-week enemies of the liberal-conservative syncretism because it has been conditioned to believe that synthesis is the only logical solution for the polarized worldviews of churlish people that become parvenus not on their merits but on their marketable pitfalls and their public foibles. Peccadillos are more important to people than virtues and this makes society morally bankrupt if we loiter around Astroturf causes that have been infiltrated by corporatism and venal debauchery and acquiesce as disempowered gossip hounds that hunt in packs to find jest in aberration rather than achievement in self-created narratives that defy the stupid purblind boorishness of the mainstream media and its haughty liberalism or the persnickety condemnation of priggish conservative moralities that had an expiration date 50 years ago. Who the **** cares about transgender-touting-gender-fluidity quidnuncs and the snooty obsession with lurid personal endeavors of reputable people that made minor ****** transgressions in a world policed by wide-eyed feminazis that seek to ransack men of their vital virulence to spotlight their unjustifiable oppression. Women are oppressed but the carnal nature of their calumniation and their vindictive powers of persuasion are deployed with such vehement vigilance and such distaste for the majority that the world relegates itself to quibbles of celebrities rather than substantive issues. There is a systemic feminization of society occurring that seeks to demarcate despotic uxorious pleasantries as an incarceration of vocal dissent against supercilious women and their tamed men that slavishly grovel in repudiation of anything prickly.  Men historically have oppressed women but the solution to this quandary isn’t a reverse discrimination where the minority concern is spotlighted as a majoritarian issue that overshadows the disproportionate nature of our society where nominal accreditation is afforded in a non-meritocratic way to absolve people of their carnality and demote the vigorous defense of human liberty as secondary to compromise solutions that appease more people than they offend but simultaneously result in suboptimal conditions that reward arbitrarily coachable people while jettisoning anyone witty enough to be capable of insubordination of a hedonistic epicurean world obsessed with appearance and ravaged by the decadence of formulaic profiteering at the expense of originality and true promethean art that is herculean enough to defy hackneyed tropes and siphon the best elements from a piecemeal world variegated with complexity but stifled by fomented hatred.
The solutions to these problems is to create a watchdog group of artistic critics who become eminent and ubiquitously heard enough to offer creative consultation to the artistic endeavors that we consume and the music that is curated for fastidious ears that crave euphonic originality rather than the banality of easily dovetailed bass-heavy cookie-cutter garbage and the gaudy tactics of talentless rappers whose swagger derives from  the intersection of opportunism and the divestiture of an industry that rewards gloated supercilious epicureanism and meretricious marketability. Am I the only one jaded by second-rate superhero movies that infest the cinemas that borrow from Michael Bay while thrusting pulse-pounding but narratively bankrupt movies down the throats of consumers that might prize the cinematic originality of the heyday of filmmaking? Is it always high art to invent controversy that is witless or half-witted just because it will create buzz? Shouldn’t we condemn the laziness of society in acquiescing to the penury of the modern cultural narrative which belabors the dead horses of racism and sexism ad nauseum? Shouldn’t we fight the war of against inequity through legislation rather than hibernating about scandalous eminence and testy malfeasance?
          Liberty should be championed above all else and we are turning our backs on the future unless we muster the resolve to diminish the sway of the common narrative and aim our spotlight at consequential endeavors rather than the tropes of prosaic and pedestrian bastardization of art and culture. We need to fight artistic laziness which has ravaged our culture and castigate the tactics of wannabee celebrities that use lurid tactics to attract an audience by bedizening themselves with Pyrrhic ostentations and rampant fakery to create more melodrama in a world that needs to be less histrionic. YouTube celebrities swarm us as they get high on ******* and lean-- at our expense-- and vandalize property and convincing nine-year-old’s like Lil Tay to flex her money like it is infinitely renewable in a finite world where all our attention is wasted on artless artifice of less talented people that know how to engineer a ruckus by strutting themselves beyond all decency and selling out to a corporatist nightmare of enslaved convenience. We need to be more vocal about the dissolution of artistic merit and the formulaic repetition of successful formulas that jade us and make us yawn about another retread of a previously successful idea that is milked to the point of cruelty.                                                         ­                       
       Let’s change the narrative and focus on creating true art rather than reacting to the meretricious tinsel of the vogue consensus which is so impotent in its ability to rivet audiences because it has become so notoriously lazy. Fight laziness in art, dismiss your news feeds, be resourceful, seek true happiness rather than find yourself hoodwinked and duped by the idea that Trump is the most important issue or getting caught in thought loops and brooding about sexism and inequality. Let us strive to be egalitarian but within limits that would also appease hominists rather than just the hypertrophy of the leftist narrative that seeks to cage us with the doublespeak of complaisant conformity.  Reject the unctuous charlatans that pretend priggishness when their banausic purpose is barbaric but beguiling to be a lullaby for laggards. We need to fight for the future of civilization rather than hobnob with convenience and loiter around decrying false perpetrators rather than systemic injustices that could otherwise be rectified if enough people fought for it. We can invent a future that is a great festivity serenaded by cultivated artistic refinement and forget about the trifles that divide us. United in ambition and fueled by ingenuity we can defeat artistic laziness and be resourceful with how we decide what is newsworthy. Spurred by the argosy of proactive motivation we can change the world in a substantial way by deciphering the subtext that governs the world. The subtext is everything!
Rina Steinberg Feb 2014
Thoughts of ancient visions and past tribulations
leave uncovered scabs on my soul,
vulnerably marking it like Cain's.
Unknown forces move me to replay situations of what was and no longer is.
pulsing through my coronaries,
leave me with a burning sensation
that isolates me in yesterday.
Catharsis is a joke.

Each hour or year I absorb my sins and the sins of the world.
They are beginning to clot,
And the tears do nothing but  inflame my eyes and my conscience.
Hark! conscience- swollen,
swollen like a cancerous infection of the mind
surging through my neurons,
covering them with concrete as it claims them.
There is no purging.

Quiet fears leap from my mind and
Trickle down my neck,
Clinging to hair follicles as they creep,
At my focus.
I shiver.
With apprehension
Of a potentially empty tomorrow,
I tremble at the thought of satanic beings.
Catharsis is a sick joke.

From our
safe windows,
we crane our necks,
past the slow
motion wreckage
unfolding in Homs.

We remain
to marvel at
the elegant arc of
a mortar shell
framing tomorrows
deep horizon,
whistling through
the twilight to
find its fruitful

In the now
we keep
complicit time,
to the arrest
of beating hearts,
snapping fingers
to the pop
of rifle cracks,
swooning to
the delicious
intoxication of
curling smoke
lofting ever
enough to
recuse any
of an
with the


From our
safe windows,
we behold the
urgent arrivals of
The Friends of Syria
clean sheets
and 4 Star
room service at a
Tunisian Palace
recently cleaned
and under new
promising a
much needed

The gathered,
a clique of
this epochs
movers and shakers,
a veritable
rouges gallery of
prelates, Emirs and
state department
with portfolio
from the
darkest corners
of the globe.

They are
eager to
the misery
of Homs,
deflect and
lay blame
with realpolitik
official commissions
of inquiry,
grave considerations,
issuing indictments
of formal charges for
Crimes Against
in the fascination
of interviewing
process servers
to deliver the bad news
to Bashar al-Assad
and his soulless
if papers
are to be

Yes, the diplomats
are busy meeting
in closed rooms.

In hushed circles
they whisper
into aroused ears,
railing against
gun running
and China’s
chess moves.

boast of the
intrepid justice
of tipping points
and the moving poetry
of self serving tales,
weighing the impact
of stern sanctions
amidst the historical
confusion of the
of civil war.

of Arab League
envoys roll up
in silver Bentleys,
crossing deserts
of contradictory
navigating the
endless dunes
with hand held
sextants of
hidden agendas.

The heroic
Bedouins are
eager to offload
their baggage
and share
on the ground
intelligence from
their recent soirées
across Syria.

They beg
a quick fix,
the triage of a
critical catharsis
to bleed their
brains dry
of heinous
release from a
troubled conscience
victimized by
the unnerving paradox
of reconciling
discoveries of
perverse voyeurism
with the sanctioned
of their respective
ruling elites.

The bellies
of these
are distended;
grown queasy
from a steady diet
of malfeasance
an ulcerated
world parades
in continuous loop;
spewing the raw feeds
of real time misery;
forcibly fed
the grim
visions of
the mangled
of mortally
to crumpled
piles of smashed
concrete that were
once hospitals.

We despondently
ask how
much longer
must we
look into
the eyes
of starving
emaciated from
the wanton
of the world?


From our
safe windows
we wonder
how much
longer can
the urgent
before it
our common
humanity in
a final

My hair already
singed by the
endless firestorms
sweeping the prairies
of the world.

How can we survive
the trampling hoards,
the marauding
plagues of acrimony
fed by a voracious
blood lust aspiring to
victimize the people
of Homs and a
thousand cities
like it?


From my safe
window I stand in witness
to the state execution of
refugees fleeing the
living nightmare
of Baba Amr.

The ****** of innocents,
today's newly minted martyrs,
women and children
cornered, trapped
on treacherous roads,
slaughtered and
defiled in death
to mark the lesson
of a ruthless master
enthralled with the
power of his
sadistic fascist

I cannot avert my eyes
marking sights
of pleading women
begging for the
lives of their children
in exchange for
the gratification
of a sadists

My heart
is impaled
on the sharp
spear of
children mowed
down with the
serrated blades
from marauding
jeeps of laughing

I drop
to my knees
in lakes of
a grotesque
horror stricken
image of myself.

My eyes have
murdered my soul.

The ghastly images
of Homs have chased
away my Holy Ghost
to the safety of a child's
sandbox hidden away
in a long forgotten
revered memory.


From my safe window
I seethe with anger
demanding vengeance,
debating how to rise
to meet the obscenity of
the Butcher of Damascus.

The sword of Damocles
dangles so tantalizingly close
to this tyrants throat.  

The covered women
of Homs scream prayers
“may Allah bring Bashar to ruin”

Dare I pray
that Allah trip the
horsehair trigger
that holds the
sword at bay?

Do I pick up
the sword
a wield it
as an

Am I the
John Brown
of our time?

Do I organize
a Lincoln Brigade
and join the growing
leagues of jihadists
amassing at the
Gates of Damascus?

Will my righteous
indignation fit well
in a confederacy
with Hamas and
al-Qaeda as my
comrades in arms?

Do I succumb to
the passion of hate
and become just
another murderous
partisan, or do I
commend the power
of love and marshal
truth to speak with
the force of

I lift a fervent prayer
to claim the justice
of Allah’s ear,
“may the knowing one
lift the veil of foolishness
that covers my heart in
cloaks of resent, cure
my blindness that ignores
my raging disease of
plausible deniability
ravaging the body politic
of humanity.”


physician heal thyself.

I run to embrace my

I pine to understand it.

I undertake the
difficult regimen
of a cure to eradicate
the terrible affliction.

the notion
of a shared
is a cunning
sedition that
the unity of
the holy spirit.  

The bell from
the toppled steeples
still tolls, echoing
across the space of
continents and eons
of temporal time.

The faithful chimes
gently chides us
to remove the wedge
of perception that
separates, divides
and undermines.

Time has come
to liberally
apply the balm
that salves the
open wounds
so common to
our common
human condition.

The power of prayer
is the joining of hands
with others racked
with the common
affliction of humanness.

My eyes are wide open,
my sacred heart revealed,
my sleeves are rolled up,
my memory is stocked,
my soul filled with resolve,
my hand is lifted
extended to all
brothers and sisters.
Lift us,
gather us
into one
loving embrace.



From the safe
windows of
our palaces
we live within
earshot of
the trilling
of exasperation
flowing from
the besieged
city smouldering
under Bashar’s
symphony of terror.

Our nostrils
fill with the
acrid plumes
of unrequited
lifting from the
the burning
of shelled

Our eyes spark
from the night
of sleeking
flitting along
the city’s

The deadly jinn
inject the
paralysis of
random fear
into the veins
of the city
with each
head shot.

lavish in their
macabre work;
like vultures
they eagerly
feast on the
corpses of their ****,
the stench of bloated
bodies drying in the
sun is the perfume
that fills their nostrils.


From our
safe window
we discern the
silhouettes of militants
still boldly standing
amidst the
mounting rubble of an
unbowed Homs

Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!
Allah Akbar!!!

raising pumped fists,
singing songs
of resistance,
dancing to
the revelation of
refusing to
be coward by
the slashing
whips of a


From my
safe window
my tongue laps
the pap
of infants
suckling from
the depleted
teats of mothers
who cannot cry
for their dying
tears fail
to well from
the exhaustion
of dehydrated


From my
safe window
my heart stirs
to the muezzin
calling the
desperate faithful
from the toppled
rubble of dashed

We can
no longer
shut our ears
to the adhan
of screams
the silent
voices that echo
the blatant injustice
of a people under siege.


From my
safe window,
I pay
Homage to Homs
and call brothers
and sisters to rise
with vigilant
that hostilities
cease and
humanity be
respected and


From my safe
I perceive
the zagroutas
of sorrow
manifest as a
whiling hum,
a sweeping
blue mist,
the coffins
from the rubble
of ravaged streets.

The swirling
chorus of
joins my
rising in
with the
black billows
of smoke
from the
of scorched


From my
safe window
I heed
the fluttering
of avenging
as they
the black
lifting from
the scattered bricks
of the desecrated

It is the
for our
a new
a New Adam
is destined
to be formed
from the
stones of


From our
safe windows
we peer into
the perfect image of
falling tears
dripping blood,
coloring death
onto the
blanched sheets
of disheveled beds.


From our
safe windows
our voices are silenced,
our words mock urgency
our thoughts betray comprehension
our senses fail to illicit empathy
our action is the only worthy prayer


From my
safe window
I hear the
mortar shells
walking toward
my little palace,
the crack
of a ******
the wiz of a
passing bullet
its presence
into my


From my
safe window,
my palms scoop
the rich soil
of the flower boxes
perched on my sill.
I anoint the tender
green shoots of  the
Arab Spring
with an incessant flow
of bittersweet tears.

Music selection:
John Coltrane
A Love Supreme

Hudson Everett Sep 2013
I close my eyes
But I can't close my ears
I still hear you
I hear the silence you leave behind
When you are not around

I try to focus
Can't calm my mind down
To a reasonable speed
All I can do to stop from spinning out of control
Is to breathe in and out slowly

Not knowing how you are kills me
Not talking to you changes my day from bad to worst
In an instant we could connect
But you need to breathe too

Deep breathing
We are caught in the undertow
Heads above water
Why don't we walk on it
Sometimes I imagine that you are right here with me

So many times my mind has wandered off
Letting the shadows on the wall give me hope
I cannot easily define myself
Or my feeling
I don't want to talk about it

I want to write these words out of my system
Flush it out
Flush it all down the toilet
Burn it up
Burn it away
I have had enough of this melancholia

I just want to be needed
I am an addict
Addicted to myself
And also to you

I am shaking
Breaking apart into pieces
The edges are fraying
And I am melting down into a pool
A puddle of loneliness and misery

I should be alright
I am young, so resilient
So tough, I can adapt
Life goes on

But I need you
I write for catharsis
Let it all bleed out
You would understand that
You understand the draw of draining yourself

For a moment of feeling
For a minute of reality
Let the pain set in
Let the world fade out

I am caught up in this
I am so scared of living

Don't throw me away
That is just what I expected
I wanted you to be different
Not abandoning me

I am muttering obscenities
At the top of my lungs
I sometimes wish I was never born
But all of it has been worth it
Even if we are just friends
In the past

That made it worth it
You are that important
I am not saying I won't ever move on
I am not saying you are the best thing that will ever happen to me
Just, you are the best thing yet

Using the words
and You
I realize do not matter
Because you already know
That I care and I am there for you
In any and every way

Kissing you, although it would be great
I could not do it
I would not die without it
No matter how much I want it

I am writing this in order to let it out
I will probably make this public
Just because that is my nature
But I do not expect a response
Or even an acknowledgement

Mostly I just need to talk to you
To know you are still alive
Even though it scares you
Even though it scars you

I am so self involved
So self obsesses
But so focused on the negative aspects
I eat myself alive

I am funny
I can write
I am tall
I am a good listener

So I don't want to worry about anything
I do not need to freak out
I don't need the anxiety
But if it comes with you
I would take it
In a heartbeat
Colleen Cavanagh May 2014
The build-up is slow.
Repress the emotion, the expression of feeling.
Catch the tears before they fall, and
Break the grief with your forced smile.
The fall is unexpected.
Once the tears well over the dam,
Once the frustration boils over,
Once you cannot weep in silence anymore.
The catharsis is quick.
The screams come all at once.
Cheeks are wet with rivers of sadness,
Forced smiles are shattered by frowns.
The aftermath is painful.
Looking around to see who remains;
Who hasn't left me?
Who hasn't been scared away?
The realization is shocking.
Those whom I've trusted most,
Those whom I've loved most,
Have shied away, saving themselves.
But the end, the end is striking, renewing:
You pick me back up,
You put me back together,
And I remember how to love again.
Amitav Radiance Jul 2014
Poetry is like gusts of fresh air
Harbinger of the soul’s catharsis
Flowing emotions through the pen
Concealed pain written across the pages
Healing the pain which was long buried
Kwanele Nov 2014
two beats. one heart
    i want to become one with you.
love love love.

     one? what is one? 
    the lowest cardinal number. 
     half of two. 
you? one...
     You're? the one. 
two beats. one heart
 us? one.
one? you. myself. ; peculiar beings ; one? we are one. 
always and forever, I have hoped to find the one.
always and forever, I have hoped to find she. who amounts to one .
you? her? one? my love.
forever and always I hope to have you as one. 
forever and always I hope to become one with you.

the word said like a mantra. 
the word said like the last prayer.
the word amounting to; you. one. Nirvana. serendipity.
      four words; four hearts; one.

through you many things have been found, love, lust, love, serendipity, nirvana, catharsis, love , art, love. 
together? catharsis ; can become. 
two beats. one heart.
two hearts. one beat.
   in sync. love.
i love you
   three words. mantra.
you you you. i love you.
catharsis; you and i. forever and always. Nirvana. 
 Words; life. You; life support. Us; love, hope.
well hoped.
From the BBC today,


Why does Taylor Swift write so many one-note melodies?

"It's easy to get distracted by her celebrity, but Taylor Swift is a once-in-a-generation songwriter. From the very beginning, she's displayed a knack for melody and storytelling that most artists never master.

Take, for example, her first US number one, OUR SONG

Written for a high school talent show, it's a fairly typical tale of teenage romance until the final lines: "I grabbed a pen / And an old napkin / And I wrote down our song."

That's smart, self-assured songwriting for someone who wasn't old enough to vote. Notably, the lyrics insert the musician directly into the narrative - something she developed into a tried and tested trope.

But Our Song also establishes another of Taylor's trademarks: The one-note melody.


Repetitive melodies that centre around a single note are part of that appeal. They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech.

"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."

"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."

"They emphasise her relatability by mimicking the cadence of speech."


Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics. They can relate to your song but if they cannot sing it themselves putting themselves in the 'first-person perspective narrative' they cannot feel as-if they have BECOME the artist and are living that moment as they remember it. Taylor Swift sings about teenage love and angst something EVERYONE ON EARTH understands.


Cadences are singing statements that confer a discipline and unity.

Song acts as a catharsis. The artist shares their pain in a way that is universally understood. If you want to sell a rock, literally a pebble, you will not sell it if it doesn't look like a rock. If it doesn't do what rocks do. If it is not what people remember a rock to be like. Nor will it sell if it is just like every other rock they have ever seen. It cannot convey an emotion unless it elicits emotion.

One cannot even begin to feel emotional if one cannot remember easily the past and that includes lyrics one has heard that evoked said emotional state.

It is horrifying to see HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS that rhyme be obliterated in exchange for an intellectual or individual perspective NOT SHARED BY THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE.

If you want to sell and make money you better start thinking about the 99% of people who are not geniuses.

If your sole goal in life is to attract a genius to give you a great job because of how, "smart," they perceive you to be then fine.

You are not an artist.

You are an employee.

"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."

"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."

"Rhyme sells because the people you are selling too can remember your lyrics."

Thrice Times Great. ⁻ᴴᵉʳᵐᵉˢ

                              EVERYONE ON EARTH
                      HOW BADLY EVERYONE INSISTS
                                         HOW BAD
or employee?
BBC article conclusion.
Jacob Oates Jan 2014
I could give you an emotional catharsis cavorting a chorus between pleasure in my prose

and upheld distortions in the pain of the throws of each moment I've held up to my nose

to tell if I can still recall it fresh, the scent of the locker room ribbings and hometown chiding's

"This is who you must be"

Make you come to grips with the absurdity of having to compete for attention to voice in a craft that

is by all intents and purposes subjective

much as all success is subjective

much as all states of mind are subjective

much as I tried to deflect this disconnect, correlation not implying causation

Work not determining happiness

Pain not conducive to Catharsis.

Instead, let's make em all laugh

Because it's already stacked into a sick joke

Speaking truth to power self congratulators talk about field workers like a **** case study

A case study my grandparents walking with Cesar Chavez wrote pages for with their backs

I  don't want to hear more trustafarian folks tell me about the struggles of my people


I want poor folks to tell me how full of **** I am

I want to shout out truth bombs to a crowd that doesn't want to hear it

I want be a contrarian to remind people that they're alive

I want to rap battle with the parishioner as he lays another childhood friend into the coffin

Car Crash, Car Crash, Leukemia, Car Crash, always take my golden ones, have another road rash
You gave me thoughts of god distraught I locked myself atop the lofts compelled to pressure, mom and pops have got the answer down on lock, I'll hail thee mary full of grace til I can't feel another trace, the news that I was read today was sad so I can pray the shame away, get *****, take the blame away, get *****, touch myself again to make me feel like I'm a man, but I don't know what that should mean; if I'm a man am I unclean? ***** Mexican poor boy, embrace that ****, and crack a smile.  Depression is a myth you see, and god is real so follow me. You have a healthy fear in you, and this is good for this is true, the fear of god, the fear of love, the fear of judgment from above, and fear to let yourself be heard, you couldn't say a single word, the fear of if she'd ever know, the fear to let your demons go, the fear of hope, the fear of help, I think you even fear yourself.

"Parce domine Parce Populo tuo, ne in aeternum irascaris no bis"

Oh lord please let me be misunderstood, please let my illumination and voice go beyond the choir

I don't need a bunch of yes men in my life

I don't need people who've never tasted death, tasted pills uncounted and unmarked

Never woken up groggy to the feeling of "thank you what forces may be, I am still alive"

I don't need to preach to the choir.
Tom Leveille Feb 2014
so i get this idea sometimes
that you enjoy being coy
when it comes to me
to conjure momentary spectacle
& make me wonder
if you paint catharsis
on the doors of a home
you've never lived in
as a memory of our first night together
because i do, i remember you
beaming white on blue
speaking softer than any storm
i ever knew, i often think that maybe
you live that night in your mind
when your pillow is cold
& you can't sleep, it makes me wonder
if you do as i do, and rewrite three years fictionally beginning with a kiss somewhere
maybe a balcony or a quiet car
on the sand or in a sunlit grove close to your home but always a familiar scar on the maps we know we know by heart
i wonder if sometimes
the idea of me loving you is too real
and if it teems under your tongue
to stay observant but distantly intrigued
if by this distance you think it safe
to get a dog and pass time
on the couch with a journal & some wine
what i really wanna know is if your fingernails ever wish to have my skin under them
or if they would boast
about winning a war with my headboard
i wonder if you can imagine me
meeting your parents in your apartment & shaking your fathers hand
as a first of many calloused palm readings
and if you know that i trembled before them
how insignificant i had felt
to not know their daughter
in the way i had envisioned
how i picture such poignant moments
so tangibly sharp that sometimes
i replace  my memories with little stories
i tell myself that i can't count on two hands
the number of times i've seen you
& that i don't feel like a crater
when i recollect our collisions
i want to know if you still find madness
in the words that have always been about you
i wanna know if your imagination of me
looks more like an anniversary or an obituary
Leon Hart Apr 2013
I know of no other catharsis
other than this...poetry
it's my escape from the world
I have a million words to say
even the most repetitive never gets old

I breath in words
and, breathe out an image
I take in pain
and create a colorful painting

Oh poetry, take my experience
and, create  life with purpose
an entity with existence
evildum Apr 2015
when every morning
the things that used to sooth
exhausted heart  
and hands become unwelcome
stalkers that assault
the mind like smog
and fumes bathing Manila;

when the obnoxious cycle
of age-old lies and greed
grows stronger every minute,
where can one find deliverance?

or is there such thing as deliverance
anymore? refuge of pen from pain?  
but it only accentuates the misery;

the faster the words
populate the page, the deeper
the memory stabs the heart;
yet, is there any other way
than this catharsis?
berry Mar 2014
what you need to understand about me is that i am nothing more than misplaced passion and a pair of blindly swinging fists that tremble with unrighteous anger. so allow me to apologize in advance for the fires my subconscious starts. i am a clumsy compilation of ill-suited lines that will never see life in your poetry. at least, not like they used to. you are a book filled with with pictures i never got to take, and every day i am forced to sit idly by while she starts a new roll of film. the missile crisis reincarnate is inside my chest, so forgive me for not being able to control when i shake. forgive me for fumbling with syntax so crassly. i know better than to spew hate and call it poetry. please understand that the endless series of sinking ships in my head makes it difficult to form coherent thought. my thoughts, will **** me, if your absence doesn't first. i think about your hands more than i am proud to admit, and when i picture them reaching for her i feel so sick. i'm sorry. i am so sorry that i haven't yet learned how to moderate the volcano in my throat. i'm so sorry for spitting fire with my eyes closed. forgive me for confusing anger with bravery and burning down too many houses to count. in my misguided thirst for blood i weaponized memories and threw them like daggers in every direction, but the only one being hit is me. i am so tired of bleeding, i am tired of this one-sided war, i am tired of being a war. i tried so hard to be catharsis personified but i have to face the reality that my arms would only hold you like a grave. i loved you like rainwater, and lost you like time. you were never mine. you were never mine. you were never mine. i have to say that to myself every day because it eases the pain of watching you belong to anyone else. but i can't ignore the surplus of "what if's" wreaking havoc in my consciousness. i think that's why i get so angry when i picture you laughing with her instead of me. i am blocking out the memory of the night you told me my laughter could cure your sadness. ******* it. i am trapped in a nightmare where the walls of the home we built are lined with photographs of her. this is why i can't breathe at the thought of her smiling when the flash goes off. they say that nothing good stays; i have never been good at leaving, so i guess that makes sense. you once referred to me as an anxious mess you would spend the rest of your life cleaning up, and i can't get that out of my head. i hope you know, that after everything, i would still sit and collect dust on a shelf in your house forever, if that's what you wanted me to do. but i know it's not, so i'll go back to apologizing. i'm sorry that my rage doesn't have an off switch. i'm sorry for being a literal spitfire. i'm sorry for being an earthquake under her glass slippers. i'm sorry that my mouth is a loaded gun and that i have ****** aim. i swear to god i'm trying not to shoot so often but this is one of the hardest things i have ever done. so until i learn control i will burn in silence with the safety on.  

- m.f.
mira Sep 2016
we can go wherever we want
we can even go to
because we can't live here anymore
all the boys are talking to her,
they're drowning in blue and talking to her
it is hard to understand
in a similar way it is hard to understand
flowers growing,
maybe it is your birthday.
all the boys are talking,
their eyes are closed and they're talking to her
it is hard to hear when i sleep
Richard Spain Apr 2012
Catharsis is a cleansing, so deep in every way
We don’t know where it will come from
It won’t come to us every day
It cleans the body, the soul, the psyche and the heart
So deep we didn’t know ‘twas there
But provides us with a restart.

Upon a time before this, my life had been so good
Simple certain, clear and loving
As every partnership should
A premature end arrived, so far before its time
Robbing life of its clarity
Leaving a mountainside to climb.

Starting out was a mission, sent from up above
‘Twas a journey without guidance
Rejecting and accepting love
The past had been long dying, the future not yet clear
The present was so uncertain
Waiting a word that I could hear.

She’d told me that I must go, my help was needed now
My future was now decided
A new furrow I was to plough
The route to go was unclear, masked by hidden pitfalls
Problems I’d not met before
Answers helping to scale walls.

The road was full of challenge, ignorance and mistakes
To rescue those who needed it
To rebuild there from life’s earthquakes
She told me of an angel, flying close to the ground
I knew that I would be left
Love was the greatest healer found.

Through this time of recovery, my life again seemed good
Simple certain, clear and loving
As every partnership should
The end came just as before, so far before its time
Robbing life of its clarity
Leaving a landslide to climb.

Starting again was so hard, no word from above
‘Twas a journey without guidance
Rejecting and accepting love
The past had been long dying, the future not yet clear
The present was so uncertain
Waiting a word that I could hear.
May 2011 - after a folk concert!
Erica Sooter Dec 2012
If I could get on a plane right now, I would.
Leave everyone and everything behind;
making my own destiny
from the wings in the sky.
I want to prove you all wrong
I want to prove myself wrong.
Overcoming complexes born into me.
My fight is hard
but i do not want to be
what genetics and family history
tell me I will be.
I'm going to break that trend
change my name
change my game
I'm going to rewrite this story.
That's what drives me to be
I want to hear truths,
not sugar-coated compliments
that make me doubt sincerity.
Why is it so hard for me to believe?
I'm gonna fly.
Airports feel like home to me
people leaving
people coming.
"Someone's last goodbye
blends in with someone's sigh"
you're either going off
or coming home.
My soul roams
looking for faces I don't know;
trying to guess their stories.
I AM good enough
I may not talk your ears off
have a hot ***
or stand out brilliantly
but I am enough.
Those who cannot see
are blind.
There will always be
the enemy
trying to bring me down.
Self-worth is my weakness
and he knows it.
But I have my armor, I have my sword
I have my cunning wit.
This war is mine.
This war is yours.
How invisible it all seems
and yet it is here
bursting from my very own seams.
Take my hand.
Do you feel the electricity
humming in my bones?
Jumping off a dock
the icy water
jolts my heart
and I feel alive.
Your hand strong in mine
run with me.
My clumsiness
causes me to trip.
Some say enduring
I say annoying.
If I had wings
then I could fly
and not trip upon uneven ground.
Stairway to freedom
to feel the wind on my face
and in my hair.
A car rushes to sunnier shores
music blasting
lungs filled with songs
as we speed down that old highway.
A family truer than my own.
I'm at home on the road
sea salt on our skin
stories by a fireside
the stars as blankets
friends as pillows.
A feeling of unconditional
That does not often
weave itself
into the patterns of
daily life.
Brothers and Sisters,
though not by birth
are almost of a better kind;
you have to find them
and enchant their hearts
as they do yours
with no ties of blood
keeping you together.
My space.
My place.
My spot in life
is wherever I currently stand
or sit
or sleep
or think
or love
or dream.
Here I am.
Andrew Martin Jun 2015
Rain rain go away
We don’t want you here, your gloom and misery
your nourishment and catharsis.
We don’t want to be baptized under your command
or be surrounded by budding flowers
trickling streams
mud puddles.

Rain rain go way come again another day*
Why do today what we can put off until tomorrow.
Let’s procrastinate the harbinger of life, the unrelenting cycle
Evaporation condensation precipitation evaporation .
We cannot delay, sit back and listen to the gentle patter.
Just enjoy the grey.

sweet ridicule May 2015
not quite sad more of an intrinsically motivated obsession with the universe that inspires a certain degree of sadness.  like the first time I kissed his neck and the universe understood this intrinsically motivated obsession and inspired a certain degree of sadness. there is reality and there  is my reality

and mine is unavoidable and thunderstorms in-front of and behind me and graceful rain on my head at all times and so much so so much to think about it and the fruit snack wrapper on the floor is blowing away and the fan is clicking and I have math to do but I don't care what a radian does

I only care that I don't see a god in the millions of dying people and the four year old locked in the basement of her addicted mother's house. Hemingway says that all thinking men are atheists (and women this is 2015 and I am brilliant) and I am pure atheist except when rain comes down and I believe that everything is connected in some way

and I sat on the trampoline with my 13 year old sister and let the rain fall on my face and slide down my shirt and drip into my belly button and I think I reminded myself why we are alive and then the lightening scared me enough to shake my doubt away

we are all okay sometimes.  and my brain is exceptionally faulty--frontal lobe doesn't act normally and she told me that it's like it flies away and I can't find rationality until it settles and comes back to earth and I am rarely on earth.  and I scared him because too much passion can break more than glass and

it's hard to realize that for every second I hate it is only because I love to the point of insanity and I can't hate unless I love unless I am drowning
in hopeless desire for more than human for invincibility and driving with the windows down and music blaring everything else out

then I remember I am someone else's child and it is only fair to care for that girl so I slow down
I put my arms out every time I walk in the wind so maybe it'll take pieces of me with it and turn me into the alive person that i crave that I desire that I fume for much more than


but I can't just be touched to feel love I just watch eyes to remind myself why this planet is here why the oceans are filled with salt why people are dying to live why people are living just to die

I love again each day right after convincing myself I don't and it's not touch I remind myself how to live in those eyes and I broke the glass the glittery strong slippery now shattered glass so the least I can do is let the glass fix itself slowly

but I don't believe in god I believe in love and rain and passion and desire and this is my catharsis
this is fascinating
I don't know where these words came from
I once was a Person far too set in my ways
to realize how much what I didn't do
hurt the person I love.

I one was a Person too consumed by Self
to see past it's Illusion
and into the beautiful Truth of my life.

I once was a Person lucky enough to be close to you;
and though you say I didn't fail, I sure feel like I did.
I may not have failed you, but I sure failed myself in the process.
Maybe I didn't, but it sure made me think
about how I could change;
and Change has been made.

I'm sorry for the things I did that I shouldn't have
and for the things I didn't that I should have.

I'm terribly sorry my actions and inactions
made you seek your course of recourse.

I hope you can find it in your heart to give me another chance,
I know you may well not want to, and I don't blame you;

Time can be good.

To quote another poem of mine; Age:
"It does take Time
to find and travel your Path,
but it can begin at any Time,
and one can stray at any Time."

I'm sorry I strayed.
I think it can begin anew.
More beautiful.

We had something.
What's gone is gone.
We have potential.
We can begin anew;
begin something new
and more wondrous
than either of us can imagine:

I think we can grow together,
You nourish me.
I want to do the same for you.

I love you.
I miss you.
I adore you.

I miss you so much.

You complete me.
I know it sounds cheesy.. but it's true.

Last weekend at the wedding
when I laid down with you sobbing
about the things I was sobbing about
I had a realization:

I can see myself marrying you;
perhaps not quite yet, but I'd be down.
Normally thinking of marriage freaks me out,
but with you it doesn't.
It would be an honor.

You push me towards a better me
even if I've unintentionally resisted:
(That's part of what's changed
I see how I've been resisting now.
Sorry it took so ******* long ><)

You got me to write things down and share them.
You got me to try new things and to push my comfort zone.
You inspire me to pursue my passions;
to not be ashamed to get in front of People and share them.
You think in ways that the Ordinary can't even imagine.
You make me feel like I belong and that I am loved..

Something so very precious is being lost;
within me
and between us

I really hope we haven't thrown all hope out the window.
I think we have something far too dear to just toss out.

We both need to change, for ourselves and each other,
but I feel that we can do that together. Perhaps better.

I'm really truly sorry it took me losing you
to make me realize what I already had in you.

I'm really sorry it took what it took:
I'm really sorry it took so much Time.

I was stubborn and stupid.
I strayed.
We all can.

I value things differently now.
We all should.

My Shadow and Ego had been puppeteering my Mind,
but I've felt the metamorphosis, the renewal, the cleansing;
the Change has crept up and consumed me.
My Worldview has shifted, from the inside turning out.
The World is more beautiful now;
and so are you.

You are the full Moon
in the night of my Mind.
I know I truly love you.
[Please, Forgive me.]
I feel a heavy void within me, tearing my soul
I feel like crying, but the tears escape me.
I want to scream but I have no voice.
I want to hold you..

At least I slept last night.. that's improvement.
JJ Hutton Feb 2013
we're on a break,
meaning we catharsis ****,
often in public places,
often with an edge of violence,
much like the session in the
family restroom, here at
Big Daddy's Bar-B-Que (travesty, travesty).

still waiting for Em to to finish "tidying up."
and the brisket is salty.
or it's the leftovers from her forehead.
she should have cut her fingernails.
thinking of a way to hide the blood trails
running wild on the back of my t-shirt.
catharsis, she says. it's healthy, she says.
Elvis croons over the arcane stereo system
and a white-haired woman with gelatinous
arms taps her fingers on the tabletop along
to "Teddy Bear."
the waitress keeps a hawk's eye on my
half-empty/half-full glass of water.
and I'm afraid to take a drink.

here comes Em. she's an athlete. and we're on a break,
meaning we don't see each other's parents.
don't nod and listen.
and don't say things like, "oh yeah, your sister Sarah. how's she?"
hallelujah, hallelujah. Em played point guard in high school.
her last official sporting endeavor. but twenty minutes ago
she told me to look up a complicated position
via iKamastutra on my phone
because she's an athlete, and I'd be "amazed at what
machine [her body]
can do."

but I hate when she says **** like that.
catering to an I'm-almost-certain-peg
of my fantasy. harder, harder
and before I finish, she insists on
it makes me uncomfortable
we're on break, and to argue
would be a crucifixion to this "vacation."

I think about Elvis.
and wonder if any
woman is still alive that
swallowed his ***.
and when it's down
to just one, does that mean

"well that was fun," Em says.
her mascara wasted.
the brisket is salty.
I take a generous drink of water.
I hear the sound of breaking glass.
the waitress has busted
a bottle of ketchup in her
rush to refill my 2/3rds empty cup.

"mazel tov," I say.
Ayelle Garcia Jul 2014
This is my epiphany,
To old self bid gone.

The servant-hearted,
Selfless and genuine soul,
Sheer blessing to us.

The Almighty God
Loved me for all that I am,
A love so ardent.

Such comforting wind
Sweeping off between my hair;
Here goes the chimes ring.

Great continuum,
Why such distance imposed
That wall between us?

Oh that lone guitar,
Let me caress such old strings
And I'll sing sweet songs.

The wheel of fate turns,
Made me search off the cosmos,
All leading to you.
An anthology of haikus I did for our Asian Lit class.
C Apr 2011
I am a
of your heart
but not your tongue
Which whips
with shout
all this
Try not to see my glaring mistakes
when uncaring I am trumpeting arrogant aches.
I became lost in channels of the self and now-
I have smoothed out my spikes,
inverted my aversions, diluted my delusions-
I have incrementally expanded my positive mentality.
I am the Xenolith within the conglomerate
uncomfortable with chafing sand.
Displaying dependability with the straightening of back,
gone is lithe youth's unbecoming stand.

I shall trust inappropriately and love exponentially.
I shall treat you, The Stranger-
even stranger
like family.

— The End —