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William Figg Feb 2015
He smiles.
His future is thought out.
His favorite color is yellow.
He can speak Spanish.

I frown.
My future is a mystery.
My favorite color is black.
I speak only English.

He's talented. I'm worthless.
He's a charmer. I'm a repellent.
He's hardworking. I'm spoiled.
He cherishes. I push away.

Can our opposites really attract?
Maybe in one way.
Fore he is the light that brightens my darkness.
But I shall not be the darkness that destroys
his light.
brandon nagley Oct 2015
Dear Jane Sardua Nagley;

Hello dear queen, I just wanted to write you a love letter just in case anything is to happen to me. I'm trying not to sound nor be a pessimistic being mine love, though with all the health issues I have going on right now and worries on mine mind,it's truly hard to be positive. When daily ( literal demon's attack me) as they do you mentally and emotionally and me physically spiritually and in all form's, ( as who cares if others believe in that or not!!!) As tis you have seen the proof physically and what happened with us the one time face talking on Skype. The breathing coming through the line. Yeah as you and I more than know!!! Anyways what I'm writing to say is though things haven't been most positive for me health wise and things im dealing with as you are dealing with alot; The true positivity that I do have is you Jane. YOU!!!! Yeah I said it queen. YOU ( mine soulmate), YOU ( mine life) YOU ( mine all) YOU ( Mine love) YOU ( mine air) YOU Earl Jane Sardua ( Nagley)!!!!!!! See you always say to me that you don't do enough for me, that you say you aren't good enough for me, that I deserve better is what you tell me.... And that you are worthless you say at times...... !!!!!! Jane nagley!!!! LISTEN TO ME OK? Loll... You ARE MORE THAN WORTHY OK? MORE THAN!!!!! You are PERFECT!!!!! MORE THAN!!!! You are ****!!!! MORE THAN!!!! You are the positivity that surrounds me!! You are gods light and his messenger to me!!! I don't even deserve someone so spotless and beautiful and pure and angelic and amazing!!!! And someone so godly beautiful inside and out Jane!!!! Your inside is more than wonderful and attractive!!! And glowing!!!! Why do you think all people circle around you Jane? *** there's a bonfire!? Lol NO!!!! Because you are bright and a light and everyone from here to heaven can see that!!!! People adore you!!! God cherishes you!!!! I want,need, yearn, and desire only YOUUUUUU!!!! Not thy friend's, not noone here not noone anywhere!!! There's one queen who owns me and who I'm with and need and want hear me yet! Listening? Lol the Queens name is earl Jane nagley!!!! it's YOU!!!! Noone else YOU I'm in mad love with!!! and I don't care who doesn't like us.. And I don't care who sees our love!!! Because our love is something others wished they'd have yet do not!! Yet I pray others can find a love like our's!!! Because I've never been so happy in mine life!!! I've never known love before, fact is as I told you!!! Before you I reached out for any quote ( love and affection I can get) ànd I was never truly loved!!! I never truly felt love from anyone nor did I actually ever love anyone else!!! It was out of lonesomeness I reached out to others!!! Because as human beings we reach out in our loneliest hour's, as the amazing part I told you I cried and prayed to God even with others to send me mine real true soulmate!!! One who will love me for me and me inside and me for mine mistakes and faults I have because I'm far from perfect as you say im some perfect being haaa! lol.... But you know how amazing God is Jane? See people always question God asking him why isn't their prayers answered by him? And why isn't he listening to them.. Or hear them? He does hear us. and alot of times God gives us the ànswers back right in front of us and we don't even know it or he'll give his answer not the way we want it meaning not on our own time but his and not always the way we want our prayers answered.. As I kept praying for years as many do and pretty much gave up!!! Then after I got out of prison in mine loneliest lowest time!!! That's when it happened SLAP BAM!!!! On mine doorstep!! Mine angel God sent me!!! The soulmate I learned for years.. Since before mine birth was sent to me Jane. The one who's look's mind soul spirit and voice hair eyes lips thinking all I ever wanted... YOU!!!! And you are always so afraid I'm going to leave you because you feel I deserve better and that you aren't good enough? Are you kidding me? YOU are MORE than worthy and good enough, and I'm never leaving the answer to mine prayer that God finally gave me!!!! Even in death I shall find you... We will meet in this life no matter how long it takes and no matter if we can't talk for a while at times.. I'm NOT leaving you mine Filipino rose!!!!! I'm going nowhere Jane!!!!! I'm so happy with you, I've never known happiness until you fell from the heaven's!!!! You are mine only peace other than God!!! You are mine comfort, best friend, soulmate, mine lover, mine ALL!!! and this is a letter for all to see to bend on mine knee's for mine queen, in front of your throne: to tell you....

for doing all for me noone else has or ever could....
You are me
I am thee.
I'll forever Love you earl Jane nagley
And honestly daily mine love grows for you.. Dont know how when I'm already madddddddd for you!!! Lol this hearts gonna pop because I love you sooo much and I wanted all to see this to show you that you are worth more than anything on earth!! You are many other's angel to not just me!!!!
Especially mine!!!!!!
And mine other half
Mine half
Me period
As I am you.. ..
You are me!!!!

With love forever and always
Your king
And soulmate and lover.....

Brandon Cory nagley

©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane Nagley dedication ( Filipino rose) soulmate
©Lonesome poet's poetry
i dreamed a rattlesnake was loose in the closet i heard it rattling i was afraid to open the door

a man suffering a toothache goes to see his dentist the dentist administers laughing gas when the man comes to his numb tongue swooshes around his mouth he asks how long was i under the dentist answers hours i needed to pull them all out

he imagines when he grows old there will be a pencil grown into one hand and a paintbrush grown into the other they will look like extra fingers grown out from the palms extensions of his personal evolution little children will be horrified when they see mommy mommy look at that man’s hands!

what if we are each presented with a complete picture of a puzzle from the very start then as our lives proceed the pieces begin showing up out of context sometimes recognizable other times a mystery some people are smarter more intuitive than others and are able to piece together the bigger picture some people never figure it out

i wasn’t thinking i didn’t know to think nobody taught me to think maybe my teachers tried but i didn’t get it i wasn’t thinking i was running reacting doing whatever i needed to survive when you’re trying to survive you move fast by instinct you don’t think you just act

many children are relieved when their parents die then they no longer need to explain prove themselves live up to their parent’s expectations yet all children need parents to approve foster mentor teach love

she was missing especially when her children needed her most she was busy lunching with girlfriends dinner dates beauty shop manicure masseuse appointments shopping seamstress fittings constant telephone gossiping criticizing she was too busy to notice she was missing more than anything she wanted to party show off her beauty to be the adored one the hostess with the mostest

i dreamed i was condemned to die by guillotine the executioner wore black and wielded an axe just in case the device failed in the dream the guillotine sliced shallow then the executioner went to work but he kept chopping unsuccessfully severing my head this went on for a long time

1954 Max Schwartzpilgrim sits at table in coffee shop on 5th floor of Maller’s Building elevated train loudly passes as he glances out window it is typical gloomy gray Chicago day he worries how he will find the money to pay off all his mounting debts he is over his head in debit thinks about taking out a hefty life insurance policy then cleverly killing himself but he cherishes his lovely wife Jenny his young children and social life sitting across table Ernie Cohen cracks crass joke Max laughs politely yet is in no mood to encourage his fingers work nervously mutely drumming on Formica table then stubbing out cigarette in glass ashtray lighting another with gold Dunhill lighter bitter tastes of coffee and cigarettes turns his stomach sour he raises his hand calling over Millie the waitress he flirtatiously smiles orders bowl of matzo ball soup with extra matzo ball Ernie says you can’t have enough big ***** for this world Max thinks about his son Odysseus

when Odysseus is very young Dad occasionally brings him to Schwartzpilgrim’s Jewelers Store on Saturday mornings Dad shows off his firstborn son like a prize possession lifting Odysseus in the air Dad takes him to golf range golf is not an interest for Odysseus Dad pushes him to learn proper swing Odysseus fumbles golf club and ***** he loves going anyway because he appreciates spending time with Dad once Dad and Odysseus take shower together Dad is so life-size muscular hairy Odysseus is so little Dad reaches touches Odysseus’s ******* feeling lone ******* Dad says we’ll correct that make it right Odysseus does not understand what Dad is talking about at finish Dad turns up cold water and shields Odysseus with his body he watches Dad dressing in mornings Dad is persnickety to last details of French cuff links silk handkerchief in breast pocket even Dad’s fingernails toenails are manicured buffed shiny clear

Odysseus’s left ******* does not descend into his ******* the adults in extended family routinely want to inspect the abnormality Mom shows them sometimes Dad grows agitated and leaves room it is embarrassing for Odysseus Daddy Lou’s brother Uncle Maury wants to check it out too often like he thinks he is a doctor Uncle Maury is an optometrist the pediatrician theorizes the tangled ******* is possibly the result of a hormone fertility drug Mom took to get pregnant the doctor injects Odysseus with a hormone shot then prescribes several medications to induce the ****** to drop nothing works eventually an inguinal hernia is diagnosed around the age of 9 Odysseus is operated on for a hernia and the ******* surgically moved down into his ******* the doctor says ******* is dead warning of propensity to cancer later in life his left ball is smaller than his right but it is more sensitive and needy he does not understand what the doctor means by “dead” Odysseus fears he will be made fun of he is self-conscious in locker room he does not comprehend for the rest of his life he will carry a diminutive *****

spokin alloud by readar in caulkknee axescent ello we’re Biggie an Smally tha 2 testicles whoooh liv in tha ******* of this felloh Odys Biggie is the soyze of a elthy chicken aegg and Smally is the size of a modest Bing cheery

one breast ****** points northeast the other smaller breast ****** points southwest she is frightened to reveal them to any man frightened to be exposed in woman’s locker room she is the most beautiful girl/woman he will ever know

Bayli Moutray is French/Irish 5’8” lean elongated with bowed legs knobby knees runner’s calves slim hips boy’s shoulders sleepy blue eyes light brown hair a barely discernable freckled birthmark on back of neck and small unequal ******* with puffy ******* pointing in different directions Laura an ex-girlfriend of Odysseus’s describes Bayli’s appearance as “a gangly bird screeching to be fed” Laura can be mean Odysseus thinks Bayli is the coolest girl in the world he is genuinely in love with her they have been sleeping together for nearly a year it is March 11 1974 Bayli’s birthday she turns 22 today Bayli is away with her family in Southeast Asia Odysseus understands what a great opportunity this is for her to learn about another culture he knows Bayli plans to meet up again with him in late summer or autumn in Chicago Dad wants Odysseus to follow in his footsteps and become a successful jewelry salesman he offers Odysseus a well-paying job driving leased Camaro across the Midwest servicing Dad’s established costume jewelry accounts Odysseus reasons it is a chance to squirrel away some cash until Bayli returns it is lonely on the road and awkward adjustment to be back in Chicago Odysseus made other plans after graduating from Hartford Art School he is going to be an important painter after numerous months and many Midwestern cities he begins to feel depressed he questions how Bayli can stay away for so long when he needs her so bad the Moutray’s send Mom and Dad a gift of elegant pewter candleholders made in Indonesia Mom accustomed to silver and gold excludes pewter to be put on display she instructs Teresa to place the candleholders away in a cabinet Mom also neglects to write a thank you note which is quite out of character for Mom Bayli’s father is a Navy Captain in the Pacific he is summoned to Norfolk Naval Station in Virginia the Moutray’s flight has a stopover in Chicago Bayli writes her parents want to meet Odysseus and his family Odysseus asks Dad to arrange his traveling itinerary around the Moutray’s visit Dad schedules Odysseus to service the Detroit and Michigan territory against Odysseus’s pleas Odysseus is living with his sister Penelope on Briar Street it is the only address Bayli’s parents know Odysseus has no way to reach them when the Moutray’s arrive at the door Penelope does not know what to tell them Mom and Dad are not interested in meeting Bayli’s parents it is not the first sign of dissatisfaction or disinterest Mom and Dad convey regarding Bayli Odysseus does not understand why his parents do not like her is it because Bayli is not Jewish is that the sole reason Mom and Dad do not approve of her Odysseus believes he needs his parent’s support he knows he is not like them and will likely never adopt their standards yet he values their consent they are his parents and he honors Mom and Dad let’s take a step back for a moment to get a different perspective a more serious matter is Odysseus’s financial dependency on his parents does a commitment to Bayli threaten the sheltered world his parent’s provide him is it merely money binding him to them why else is he so powerless to his parent’s control outwardly he appears a wild child yet inwardly he is somewhat timid is he cowardly is he unsure of Bayli’s strength and sustainability is that why he let’s Bayli go whatever the reason Dad’s and Mom’s pressure and influence are strong enough to sway his judgment he goes along with their authority losing Bayli is the greatest mistake of Odysseus’s life

he dreams Bayli and he are at a Bob Dylan concert they are hidden in the back of the theater in a dark hall they can hear the band playing Dylan’s voice singing and the echoes of the mesmerized audience Odysseus is ******* Bayli’s body against a wall she is quietly moaning his hand is inside her jeans feeling her wetness rubbing fingers between her legs after the show they hang around an empty lot filled with broken bottles loose bricks they run into Dylan all 3 are laughing and dancing down the sidewalk Dylan is incredibly playful and engaging he says he needs to run an errand not wanting to leave his company Odysseus and Bayli follow along they arrive at an old hospital building it is dark and dingy inside there is a large room filled with medical beds and water tanks housing unspeakably disfigured people swarming intravenous tubes attach the patients to oxygen equipment feed bags and monitoring machines Dylan moves between each victim like a compassionate ambassador Odysseus is freaking out the infirmary is too horrible to imagine he shields his eyes wanders away losing Bayli searching running frantically for a way out he wakes shivering and sweating the pillow is wet sheets twisted he gets up from the bed stares out window into the dark night he wonders where he lost Bayli

these winds of change let them come sailor home from sea hunter home from hill he who can create the worst terror is the greatest warrior
Hayleigh Nov 2016
One day you'll find someone who makes all those broken pieces of your heart feel like the most beautiful jigsaw in the world, who cherishes your cracks and fills them with gold dust.

She wasn't wrong when she said you deserved better.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2013
Ethereal: A Commissioned Poem

This one knocked me askew! What do I know of
"an ethereal world created through the poetic imagination."

I am a flea of simplicity, a blunt and direct man, who scribes the small, cherishes the little, grabs the middle.
So many here are so far linguistically superior, when matters light, airy, and heavenly are involved.
Hell, I even call god, my buddy, by his first name when ****** stops by to make confession.
But first take nine minutes, patiently, to listen to this, all the way to the end.
Then, and only then, read.

— ethereal (adjective)

light, airy, or tenuous; "an ethereal world created through the poetic imagination;" extremely delicate or refined: ethereal beauty; heavenly or celestial; gone to his ethereal home; of or pertaining to the upper regions of space.

My ethereal is:
Autumn leaves, piled,
wet and slimy,
stench rotted.

Human waste smeared,
in the the diaper
of the olden, enfeebled.

Burnt flesh,
the sulfuric acid kiss
from a rejected hand.

Cigarette smoke stains
yellow post-it's stuck
on human skin.

Men who live in cardboard boxes,
knowing this is
the all of their days

Scowling smiles, a
coin of death,
on the faces of those forced
to sell themselves for money.

Cursing accident traffic,
until you pass the overturned car,
see the car seats, teddy bears,
just litter now, amidst the
safety glass highway tree decorations.

What did you expect,
some of your favorite things?

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens
Brown paper packages ******* with strings
Cream colored ponies and crisp apple streudels
Doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles
Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings
Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes
Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes
Silver white winters that melt into springs

Ethereal is Sandy swollen-springs
drowning mother and child in their SUV.

Froze dead vagrants
under white pristine,
beneath lovely snowflakes
that ****,
no strudel for them.

Mean ones pouring punch
on white prom dresses,
ruining dreams,
such a big scream,
put it in the yearbook,
don't forget the smiley face,

State troopers ringing doorbells
with so sorry so sorry ma'am,
she is not coming home
any more.

You all grown up, learn the real,
this ethereal is the real too.

Wipe that *** look off your face.

You want gossamer and lace?
Wrong poem.
Beat it.
Go whine about your heartbreak
to somebody else,

Ether is the aromatic odor and sweet, burning taste, derived from the action of sulfuric acid.
Look it up, disbeliever, if it matters, it is so

If you gonna use a word,
then know it.
If you gonna claim
the title of human,
try being it,
earning it.

Ethereal is the orderly,
cleaning the *** of the helpless,
one more time,
softly singing.

Ethereal is a car seat, belt,
that saves a child, a teen.

Ethereal is soup,
not a folded twenty,
hot hot soup for the
lying on the sidewalk.

Ethereal is miles of flags
receiving our dead
from overseas.

Ethereal is writing a poem about
someone else's pain
in your words.
just once,
straying away from the word I.

Ethereal is saying,
hey, to the blind,
wet leaves ahead.

Ethereal is human justice,
most un-divine.

Ethereal is not a thing,
nor even an adjective.
But a way of seeing the world.

Part II

Went out into the night,
back to The Village,
Bleecker Street.
where I used to live (#308).

Heard voices. Human voices.
A Room Full of Teeth.
They sang a Partita.
"A simple piece.
Born of a love of surface and structure,
of the human voice,
of dancing and tired ligaments,
of music, and of our basic desire
to draw a line from one point to another."

It was ethereal.
As I wrote these words in my mind,
My ethereals did not battle but blend,
the ugly and the beauteous.
They coexisted in peace?
I think not.
They coexisted in humanity.

All that is delicate,
is only because there is rough.
All that is soft,
is only because there is hard,
Listen to the lines drawn from points on earth.
You cannot choose which points to connect.
For all point to

Ethereal is not a thing,
nor even an adjective.
But a way of hearing the world.
freesoulandpoet Jun 2020
Heartbeat that went live when I cried into the world
Heartbeat that went up the first time I felt happiness
Heartbeat that went up the first time I saw my mother's smile
Heartbeat that goes up every time I am with my friends
Heartbeat that goes up every time I hear his voice
Heartbeat that now goes up with every scream in the world
Heartbeat that goes up every time an innocent soul is taken away
Heartbeat that shatters at every time I hear a girl's cry in the air
Crying for her life and mind taken away by devil's in human shapes
Heartbeat that screams every time inhumanity wins over love
Heartbeat that finally goes up with every hope
Heartbeat that still believes life is worth living
Heartbeat that cherishes life and happiness
Heartbeat that protects true friendship and soul connection
Heartbeat that I listen to, heartbeat hidden in my heart
Hearbeat that pours my soul's scream into lines
Heartbeat that guides my mind out of the darkest depths of despair
Heartbeat that will stop the day I'll leave this world
Heartbeat that will seal my journey
Heartbeat, heartbeat, heartbeat...
It takes a heartbeat to take away a human's life but it also takes a heartbeat to show love, compassion and stand courageously for what's right.
The Elitist Aug 2010
A time comes in your life when you finally get it. When in the midst of all your fears and insanity you stop dead in your tracks and somewhere the voice inside your head cries out ENOUGH!  Enough fighting and crying or struggling to hold on and, like a child quieting down after a blind tantrum, your sobs begin to subside, you shudder once or twice, you blink back your tears and through a mantle of wet lashes you begin to look at the world through new eyes.  

This is your awakening.  You realize that its time to stop hoping and waiting for something to change, or for happiness, safety and security to come galloping over the next horizon.  You come to terms with the fact the he is not Prince Charming and you are not Cinderella and that in the real world there arent always fairy tale endings (or beginnings for that matter).  And that any guarantee of happily ever after must begin with you, and in the process a sense of serenity is born of acceptance.

You awaken to the fact that you are not perfect, and that not everyone will always love, appreciate or approve of who or what you are and its OK.  (They are entitled to their own views and opinions.)  And you learn the importance of loving and championing yourself, and in the process a sense of newly found confidence is born of self-approval.

You stop whining and blaming other people for the things they did to you (or didnt do for you) and you realize the only thing you can count on is the unexpected.  You learn that not everyone will always be there for you, and that its not always about you.  So, you learn to take care of yourself and in the process a sense of safety and security is born of self-reliance.  

You stop judging and pointing fingers, and you begin to accept people as they are, and to over look their shortcomings and human frailties and in the process a sense of peace and contentment is born of forgiveness.

You realize that much of the way you view yourself, and the world around you, is a result of all the messages and opinions that have been ingrained into your psyche.  And you begin to sift through all the junk youve been fed about how you should behave, how you should look, how much you shouldnt weigh, what you should wear, where you should shop, what you should drive, how and where you should live, what you should do for a living, who you should sleep with, who you should marry, what you should expect of a marriage, the importance of having and raising children, or what you owe your parents.

You learn to open up to new worlds and different points of view.  And you begin reassessing and redefining who you are and what you really stand for.  

You learn the difference between wanting and needing, and you begin to discard the doctrines and values youve outgrown, or should never have bought into to begin with, and in the process you learn to go with your instincts.  You learn to distinguish between guilt and responsibility, and the importance of setting boundaries and learning to say NO.  You learn the only cross to bear is the one you choose to carry, and that martyrs get burned at the stake.

Then you learn about love.  Romantic love and familial love.  How to love, how much to give in love, when to stop giving, and when to walk away.  You learn not to project your needs or your feelings onto a relationship.  You learn that you will not be more beautiful, more intelligent, more lovable, or important because of the man on your arm or the child that bears your name.  

You learn to look at relationships as they really are and not as you would have them be.  You stop trying to control people, situations, and outcomes.  You learn that just as people grow and change, so it is with love.  And you learn that you dont have the right to demand love on your terms just to make you happy.  And, you learn that ALONE does not mean lonely.

And you look in the mirror and come to terms with the fact that you will never be a size 5 or a perfect 10 and you stop trying to compete with the image inside your head and agonizing over how you stack up.  You also stop working so hard at putting feelings aside, smoothing things over, and ignoring your needs.

You learn that feelings of entitlement are perfectly OK . . . and that it is your right to want things that you want.  And that sometimes it is necessary to make demands.  You come to the realization that you deserve to be treated with love, kindness, sensitivity, and respect and you will not settle for less.  And you allow only the hands of a lover who cherishes you, to glorify you with his touch.  And in the process you internalize the meaning of self-respect.  

And you learn that your body really is your temple.  And you begin eating a balanced diet, drinking more water, and taking more time to exercise.  You learn that fatigue diminishes the spirit and can create doubt and fear, so you take more time to rest.  And, just as food fuels the body, laughter fuels our soul, so you take more time to laugh and to play.

You learn that, for the most part, in life you get what you believe you deserve.  And that much of life is a self-fulfilling prophecy.  You learn that anything worth achieving is worth working for, and that wishing for something to happen is different from working toward making it happen.  More importantly, you learn that in order to achieve success, you need direction, discipline, and perseverance.

You also learn that no one can do it all alone and its OK to risk asking for help.  You learn that the only thing you must truly fear is the great robber baron of all time:  FEAR itself.  You learn to step right into and through your fears, because you know that whatever happens you can handle it, and to give into fear is to give away the right to live life on your terms.

You learn to fight for your life and not to squander it living under a cloud of impending doom.  You learn that life isnt always fair, you dont always get what you think you deserve, and that sometimes bad things happen to unsuspecting, good people.  On these occasions you learn not to personalize things.  You learn that God isnt punishing you or failing to answer your prayers.  Its just life happening.  And you learn to deal with evil in its most primal state the ego.

You learn that negative feelings such as anger, envy, and resentment must be understood and redirected, or they will suffocate the life out of you and poison the universe that surrounds you.

You learn to admit when you are wrong and to build bridges instead of walls.  You learn to be thankful and to take comfort in many of the simple things we take for granted, things that millions of people upon the earth can only dream about a full refrigerator, clean running water, a soft warm bed, a long hot shower.  Slowly, you begin to take responsibility for yourself, by yourself, and you try to make yourself a promise to never betray yourself and to never ever settle for less than your hearts desire.  And you hang a wind chime outside your window so you can listen to the wind.  And you make it a point to keep smiling, to keep trusting, and to stay open to every wonderful possibility.

Finally, with courage in your heart and with God by your side, you take a stand, you take a deep breath, and you begin to design the life you want to live as best as you can
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2013
Ethereal: A Commissioned Poem

This one knocked me Askew! What do I know of
"an ethereal world created through the poetic imagination."

I am a flea of simplicity, a blunt and direct man, who scribes the small, cherishes the little, grabs the middle.
So many here are so far linguistically superior, when matters light, airy, and heavenly are involved.
Hell, I even call god, my buddy, by his first name when ****** stops by to make confession.
But first take a nine minutes, patiently, to listen to this, all the way to the end.
Then, and only then, read.

— ethereal (adjective)

light, airy, or tenuous; "an ethereal world created through the poetic imagination;" extremely delicate or refined: ethereal beauty; heavenly or celestial; gone to his ethereal home; of or pertaining to the upper regions of space.

My ethereal is:
Autumn leaves, piled, wet and slimy,
stench rotted.

Human waste smeared,
in the the diaper
of the olden, enfeebled.

Burnt flesh,
the sulfuric acid kiss
from a rejected hand.

Cigarette smoke stains
yellow post-it's stuck on human skin.

Men who live in cardboard boxes,
knowing this is
the all of their days

Scowling smiles, a
coin of death,
on the faces of those forced
to sell themselves for money.

Cursing accident traffic,
until you pass the overturned car,
see the car seats, teddy bears,
just litter now, amidst the
safety glass highway tree decorations.

What did you expect,
some of your favorite things?

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens
Brown paper packages ******* with strings
Cream colored ponies and crisp apple streudels
Doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles
Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings
Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes
Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes
Silver white winters that melt into springs

Ethereal is Sandy swollen-springs
drowning mother and child in their SUV.

Froze dead vagrants
under white pristine,
beneath lovely snowflakes
that ****,
no strudel for them.

Mean ones pouring punch
on pristine prom dresses,
ruining dreams,
such a big scream,
put it in the yearbook,
don't forget the smiley face,

State troopers ringing doorbells
with so sorry sorry ma'am,
she is not coming home
any more.

You all grown up, learn the real,
this ethereal is the real too.

Wipe that *** look off your face.

You want gossamer and lace?
Wrong poem.
Beat it.
Go whine about your heartbreak
to somebody else,

Ether is the aromatic odor and sweet, burning taste, derived from the action of sulfuric acid.
Look it up, disbeliever, if it matters, it is so

If you gonna use a word,
then know it.
If you gonna claim
the title of human,
try being it,
earning it.

Ethereal is the orderly,
cleaning the *** of the helpless,
one more time,
softly singing.

Ethereal is a car seat
that saves a child, a teen.

Ethereal is soup,
hot hot soup for the
lying on the sidewalk.

Ethereal is miles of flags
receiving our dead
from overseas.

Ethereal is writing a poem about
someone else's pain
in your words.
just once,
straying away from the word I.

Ethereal is saying
hey to the blind,
wet leaves ahead.

Ethereal is human justice,
most un-divine.

Ethereal is not a thing,
nor even an adjective.
But a way of seeing the world.

Part II

Went out into the night,
back to The Village,
Bleecker Street.
where I used to live (#308).

Heard voices. Human voices.
A Room Full of Teeth.
They sang a Partita.
"A simple piece.
Born of a love of surface and structure,
of the human voice,
of dancing and tired ligaments,
of music, and of our basic desire
to draw a line from one point to another."

It was ethereal.
As I wrote these words in my mind,
My ethereals did not battle but blend,
the ugly and the beauteous.
They coexisted in peace?
I think not.
They coexisted in humanity
All that is delicate,
is only because there is rough.
All that is soft,
is only because there is hard,
Listen to the lines drawn from points on earth.
You cannot choose which points to connect.
For all point to

Ethereal is not a thing,
nor even an adjective.
But a way of hearing the world.
Umi Apr 2018
Open, oh eye of ones heart
The spiral of desire continues with no end to it, if lies are to pollute the world it is time to purify yourself from them all, one by one.
A hearts eye, sees through lies, but that is not its only purpose in a chest full of light and compassion in which it can greatly be found,
It serves so much more, all sealed uner a truthful surface and a righteous core, careless about anothers looks, the way they speak, superficiality such as shallowness are wiped out by it completely,
The hearts eye sees anothers soul and what they truly are, a judgement far away from personal preferences or falsities caused by instincts of ones heart which are likely to bring light headed frivolity,
It cherishes the good, the beauty of the soul except for wealthy appearance, mavelovence within greedy devilish behaviour and spite,
Projected like a story, the fear of what they see is but of themselves, if such an eye hits a devil right on the head, exposing his  treaciousness
What lies behind such a courtain of darkness, may it be good? Evil ?
Come pray by my side, if you shiver from that far away I cannot help you, as sadness clouds your vision in a courtain call of pure grief,
Let me open your eyes, so your wounds may heal.

~ Umi
Anderson Ritchie Dec 2012
Oh this feeling, the way you make me feel
is naught but solid and true. Ever present,
and always makes me feel slightly delusional,
it sometimes falters, but is widely consistent.

Theres a shift in the weather, a difference in the air,
its something of a sweeter aroma, delightful to the senses.
Its calming, giving rise to these joyful fantasies, but they are
sometimes taken to far, so I keep them penned up behind fences.

There are adjectives plenty to describe you,
and many qualities can be ascribed to your name.
For your heart is golden, your words wise, your view
on life is positive and difficult to thoroughly maintain.

Your profound adoration for puppy, child, and rose
Is much to blame for my insane admiration of you.
Theres something about your personality that grows
increasingly in such favour of something within you thats true.

Ay, yes, Its true, theres something wonderful about you,
It sees me through the deepest swells when I am blue.
I could sit in your presence and be grieved by sorrowful news,
and still you'd bring me comfort, and remedy my bout of the blues.

Why do you hide away what beauty you possess,
don't flaunt it true, but please don't sequester it.
Make proud your heart in your beauty, as it pleases
the eye, and makes glad the soul who cherishes it.

I find myself laid low to the ground,
when your hand lowered extends out toward me.
I find myself happy and in the presence of love found
and in my arms, is the person who sees me free.

There is something in me that wants me to scream
nothing of pain and agony, but in joy and profound happiness.
For there is something in my life that whilst it may seem
temporary, is the permanent source of so much joyfulness.
YV Jan 2014
A fatherless woman walks in the street
She struts the streets at night
She walks without a purpose
She seems empty and vague
Her wild crazed eyes glance at the blue men
A paper bill gives her death
Her mother told her daddy loves roughed edged woman
That he cherishes there empty hearts
She promised she would be loved by daddy
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
to live in a society where artistic expression is least expected or not wanted, to live in a society that doesn't allow part-time explorations of a "creative side" of things, to live in a society that doesn't really need art, to live in a society that doesn't make it easy to become artists, to live in a society that doesn't make it easy to become artists, to live in a society that cherishes manual labour and teaches its youth to keep the hands and make do with manual labours as pride-enveloped - the sweat and a goodnight's sleep - to live in a society where art is difficult to muster and call profession rather than a past-time, to live in a society of professional artists likened to the Italian Renaissance, to live in a society where manual labour is prißed (s / z interchange, phonetic antonym proximity: priced), to live in a society where acceptable gambling is shunned like unacceptable gambling is infectious with warnings sold... to live in a state like this... would be to have the stern village everyone-knows-everyone attitude, where outsiders are deemed suspicious without hierarchies of spying organisations... where everyone tends to wear the same underwear - well that would be a society built without a concept of slavery or microwave fine dining... by the way, given the nakedness of English encoding, and the many particular deviations in linguistics and *** alike, you can put in whatever stresses are necessary whenever you see them, e.g. carrot and a carot and shtick - škoda / sh-codices - feel free, explore, the labyrinth is yours - in Polish škoda is a word know as - shame, leveraging on the phrase 'oh well' / '(what) could have been'.*

i used to check my neck-fat dangle bits
and pieces like someone with high blood-pressure,
it was a sorry affair,
i feel more comfortable with a Scandinavian
physique of whale-blubber cushioning
my bones - i told you once, i'll tell you again,
i rather live on ᚦᚨᚱᛁᛖ œyer - got to curl the tongue
rather than simply have a tongue in cheek -
than anyone else - like a thomas hardy novel:
far from the maddening crowd,
obscure, half-witted, raised on an Orca meat diet,
half-sure whether Milan or Venice ever existed,
happy, not really agitated to write poetry,
more agitated to build a boat or fix
a drainage pipe, but not exactly expecting a poem
to be on the cards to be read like tabloid newspapers
are by feet imprinting mud on them discarded
by the time the Evening Standard is printed
in urban streets, promising in hand and fresh igloo
slice of tongue on the index to turn the next page...
later worth less than toilet paper,
that's journalism, at the end of the day
it's worth less than toilet paper, the paper's too rough,
you'll end up cutting your **** up rather than
cushioning out a brown marshmallow - it ends up on
the street, in the gutter, trampled and otherwise,
harsh words about reality-t.v. come with harsh realities...
toilet paper comes with the gentle side of mankind,
seated on the throne-of-thrones, the obscure
fundamentalism of having a heart, being killed while
taking a **** - next of kin: a baby in a ***** likewise fated.
Kim Yu May 2015
Blessed is a soul that lives freely,
Free from the world’s tragedies and pains,
A soul that cherishes life happily
Like a child with no bargains...

Fly like a butterfly
And be as free as you can be,
Find peace within the sky
And move as quiet as the sea...

Try to free your soul and mind
And watch as He puts upon you his love
Leave the material world behind
And forever we’ll be together in the heavens above...
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2018
strike my eyes lovely

for S. B.

by way of introduction,
when you have gone to confession,
freely admitting you have nothing left for others to harvest,
no seed to plant a new crop, and lies and laughter, interchangeable,
there is no poetry left, not even raisin scone crumbs,
one good friend informs that a forgotten five month old poem,
a computer has selected & resurrected, for distinction

so months later you snicker for you have been seriously
self-kicked away from writing, all your vocabularies,
trite and yellowed overused, and you read
really good poetry and are
slapped-seen-outed by the impoverishment of
your own no-winsome word-smithy,
no delusions, even this, but a-quick script, more a thank you note,
and it’s the only lasting quality is the
genuine nature of its intent
but the poem itself falls bottom of the cliff, short on quality,
a victim of your dissatisfaction

let me explain better

she messages you while the time difference works in her favor,
she reads while you sleep the sleep of the soul-exhausted,
she, scoffing at your claims of motivation deprivation,
as she cherishes this forgotten one,
with words that cannot be ignored

the poem

                 strikes her eyes lovely

daggered, this morning phrase cannot go unchallenged  

for this a compliment that any poet would
weep for, be inspired by, stung into action,
provoked, ego flattered and challenged to-do more-better,
what writer could want for anything more!

who can own this ability  
accept this ultimatum of success, a cross-word crucification

to strike down lovely
the readers eyes, almost all once,
almost excuses me forever
for trying and failing so many times

you smile
but not in the chest where
needs to strike you

for if you cannot strike the readers eyes again and again, then...
let the moment gleam, and then disappear,
again and again, stored but not restorative

Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
anyone can be a dritte ***** fetishist... anyone! say one word in german, and the left will deem you adequate for a fist, rather than a lip... or at least that's how speaking german words, with their compound-anti-hyphen "getting together" looks like... the French utilise diacritical marks intended as syllable incissors: but frequently utilise them, unless you're Lacan and say: transcend them... i.e. move them to the side... ensuring that a monopoly on literacy is kept... the only remnants of Saxon in Anglo-Saxon is enclosed in chemical nouns.... the rarity of actually using a hyphen, you literally over-use in everyday sprechen... talk a word of deutsche and you're 1 centimetre away from saluting and to a hymn stating a sieg heil! Germany is originally community building, English, for all it's **** antics, isn't... Germany can have the concept of a zeitgeist tomorrow... German society is as thick as *****... Germans best represent *****... i never lived there, but i have enough instruments to see it... they have a tendency to disregard the individual when the mass is threatened... the Englsih? they don't have that tendecy... they are more into einsgeist than anything else... they are the single ethnic group that cherishes iconoclasm above anything else... i spent 3 weeks in Poland: how many times did i hear the word selfie used? not once, zilch... 0. i know that English is a lingua franca of modern times, but it's so easy to speak, given the fact that so many people speak, that i feel horrid using it... i want it to remain small, the tinniest of tiny in its post-imperial structure... comedy-hysterics prone... debating the question: why are Scots in the Houses of Westminster? making adequate demands? the English will never experience a zeitgiest... they're living in one at the moment, but given the disparity of accents: they''ll never accept it... which is why, whenever i travel to Poland, i have a luxury suite in how i deciphered diacritcal marks... i can't be recognised as a foreigner... but of course the gnat questions in Essex (England) given my Germanic physiogomy... it's self-evident... but why didn't god die in Auschwitz? i believe it to be akin to Jesus having no inkling into the struggle contesting the need to build pyramids... unlike the need for what later became a misinterpretations of Conquistadors seeing the Aztec similitude of Egypt... i.e. the scaffolds... capital punishment... ******* didn't get it... now the entire continent is overrun with them asking for the some obscure demand for a Juan buying them the next round of drinks... the English will never create a zeitgeist... my fascination with the dritte ***** is simply that: to see a zeitgeist... a complete and utter obedient ethnicity... a singular testmanet of a volk... Jews i too could praise, but they're too scattered, too "english" i.e. too individualistic, too disguised... i see them re-owning Israel a bit like some fetish ***** with latex and gimp... what i want to see is the volk, from the mistakes sentenced in Versailles... i want to simply see the volk... well... no can do... i can't see it, history says... it's a natural fetish of history students... American protests don't really do it for me... there's no omni-cohesion akin to a *****-like appropriation of the leader *****... that's the closest i'll ever get with getting to see a theocracy, minus the idiosyncratic psychosis... clear geometry! lines! shapes! regiments! i'm so tempted by it that i can't but lead my narrative with it! the English will never understand this concept... they're too idiosyncratic in their approach... they all think they're unique... or as that motto in school hanged over me echoed, it hanged there in the air like a guillotine, some anonymous dictator spoke to us: you're different... just like everybody else! it was never a concern for keeping a place of origin as ostriches might... ther was always that moral "obligation" surfacing from Hong Kong and king kong... and Timbuktu... which is why i said ω = oo and a pair of ****, or a bottom... and o = +h... or a breath central yielding to an islam of yhwh... versus the need for a macron over the omicron... and indeed the umlaut above the o merely invoked the siamese cut-off of e, so a tongue-curler... but the seeing the volk! we all go mad after a while... i can't see the years according to Adoolf as something worth a romance... it has all the traits of a noumenon about it... but you know why i write this? my grandfather remembers ᛋᛋ-men kleiden im schwarz in my home-town, just before the Russian army came with their youths who preferred to sleep with the animals in equivalent of Bethlehem grottos... he remembered the ᛋᛋ-men, not as kleiden im schwarz: but as.... herrbittebonbon... or should i punctuate that: herr! bitte bonbon! some have a fancy on remembering the romance of the Warsaw Uprising of '44... my only clue into the reality of world war ii was once said by my grandfather... and they gave him sweets... so that he ran home and had to put his hands under the tap, because the sweets were so glue-like, that only water could tear them apart in order that he might clasp something else... it's sad in a way: i ahve no memorial to go to... no need to express a pride... merely fragrant my vocab with a german word or two... to indeed see: that there must have been something human in that ******* embryo at some point... something counter Versailles... i can't feel being touchy about these neurotic spreading their opinions as if their opinions are above the facts that history dictates... and personal memories, however many generations apart... but at least kept... if my grandfather remembers ᛋᛋ-men being herrbittebonbon... i can only wish to have an unlimited amount of ****... given my libido... and the complexity of modern women demanding as they demand: the restrained man, the man not willing to explore easing ******* by having *** while she's in the cyclone... oh well.... thumbs up!

well... looking at it now, i can only see left-politics
without an economic model... or what happened when
communsim was undermined: my grandfather,
a communist party member has a state pension....
so it's not like he's on a 0-hour contract...
   what's missing with the current left-leaning
politics? an economic model...
the left has no economic policy in the west...
it was been weeded out, what with the original
model asserting Marx and Dickens' Oliver Twist
tragedy... the left has absolutely no
economic model, which makes for crude politics:
   once upon a time the workers
in eastern europe celebrated workers
day... and you had absolutely
no protest: i.e. not engagement in
Hegelian dialectics...
    minus: is there really a theological
dialectic? i'm not so sure
given that atheism is populist
in motto, and anti-centrist
and giving up the individual so easily...
i don't trust it...
       so i don't really
respect it, however many intellectuals
take to the pulpit...
   i too ordain myself with a strict rigour
of "religious" akin dynamics:
i drink to excess, daily...
   well... wouldn't you:
given too many wanted you dead...
you'd start to imitate them
and take gambles at your own life,
finally! **** me! they suddenly disappear,
those same people who wanted you dead!
****! gone... blah blah and pa pa much
                i still think i'm more useful
rhyming snipptes i call poetry
and necessarily not rhyme: because i don't
like orthodoxy, whether church or
poetry bound... because it just seems
too much like ping-pong after a while...
   i never knew why rhyme needed rubric, strict,
only identifiable by rhyme...
  never knew why that was the case...
i always thought: impromptu against rhyme...
                  but i'll give Islam
one thing that overpowers the rest...
the fact that "saints'" heads are on fire...
rather than encapsulated in halos...
       i see the item: halo like
the fact that left politics is needy in a care for
anything but a rebellion against an economy...
left-wing politics have no economy to support...
you can't teach people communism
     without being left out in the cold
without Marshall Plan antics of benefits
and left with an idea of Marx...
            the shadow of Hegel looms too heavily
over the attempts...
  the shadow of Hegel is too thick
and coercing... to do otherwise...
                 leftist politics is without an economy:
therefore they have to imitate
  far-right tendencies...
  they have to employ damage...
well: this is coming from someone who's grandfather
was a communist party member...
                        i can't see the left....
i can't see a purpose: an economy as a wanking
hippy commune? really? is that all?
                     smashed windows, is that all?
i always liked the fact that Islamic saints
had their heads set alight... on fire my son,
on fire...
   no halo, akin to the current leftist attempt
at dialectics: by halo i mean: membrane,
i mean: the untouchables... meaning pristine ego...
if only the Sunnis allowed the artists of Persia
to come to their calling, to ease the strain
imposed by Muhammad...
but now... well: if writing is supposedly "holy"
what will the Sunnis ever make
of the iconoclasm of words in adverts?
nothing... are we being temped with a warring spirit,
are we? aren't we?!
   who's waking up the populists?!
you really want germans on the warring path?
of course... let me tell you how *william burroughs

noted the creation of the schutzstaffel
as over-heard:
pet a kitten for month... then gauge its eyes out.
oh i have no care for a romance:
i'm seeing Paris contained in an envelope
citing the address: Hades... arise!
it's not the same Paris i remember, not the Paris
of 2004 or 2005...
       it's really a case of playing with
    an elastic band.... you pull it, stretch it...
but finally it snaps! and yes...
we'll be drinking schnapps in Libya at some point...
i'm thinking: what will ever make a man
relieve himself of using a hammer and a nail
as a carpenter, and take to a machine gun?
there must be an enzyme-point that just festers
in its ability to give momentum...
there must be... perhaps when being global merchants
leaves people too ordained to wait for death
that they start seeking it in the ***** of Mars?
   when utopia nears and merely breathes into
man's ear, and says no word, unlike a god:
that the fatality dynamo begins...
    akin to the fateful comparison of Damocles -
dangling, but at the same time: tickling... teasing...
isn't the Islamic world merely agitating?
  trying to move the Christian world from
fully engrossing the "protestant"-liberal
easy adaptation working from unearthing
the nag hammadi library?
              well... the left is without an economic
model... so it's politics is what it is:
    the original intention of Hegel:
        outlines of the philosophy of right -
what's the genesis of Marx... funny enough
the book is merely a collection of notes on lectures...
      there no thesis involved...
nothing as grand as what could stand alone
akin to the phenomenology of spirit -
they're just notes... just like i'm reading heidegger's
ponderings ii - vi... notes... half-baked scripts...
   so my post-communist inheritence...
just when inflation gripped Polish economy...
and we had the Kantian idea reaching pulpit
1000000zł, i.e. so many denials of a stable 1...
    thus the inner working of modern capitalism...
how certain things are really worth
nothing, as such: £0.000001 -
i can only guess to state, the only class of people
able to experience this counter-inflation    
in western societies are "artists"...
    or artists, in the context of a harold norse
autobiography: memoirs of a ******* angel;
i.e. getting published, giving ****...      
   it would have been easier under Stalin or ******...
at least the chance of martydom
and the holy ghost of censorship...
  at least it would have made sense then...
but the concept of counter-inflation isn't that alien...
it exists for a reason to suggest:
we really don't need so many contestants
in an x-factor show... we don't need so many
artists... counter-inflation is at work already...
   the same sort of inflation that worked its way
to ensure plumbers and carpenters, roofers
from eastern europe at the end of communism
were necessarily exported into western europe...
given the communist work ethic...
    hence the power of money, so inhuman and
akin to an elemental force that man
can contain with pocket-money as a child,
but as a man, can't contain neither forest fire
or tsunami, so too money: with the economic crisis...
money overpowers man, akin to the elements...
the same inflation in poland at work
to shift people is apparent now, but as counter-inflation...
because England can't be known as a nation
of singers... but of nurses and carpenters and
   shopkeepers, hence the counter-inflation:
when a song on Spotify is worth £0.000001 per streaming...
an immigrant plumber from eastern europe is
worth 1000000zł... or how the coordinate (0, 0)
cancels out... and we're left with what's later just
a pedantic fact stated by someone like me: a zzzzzzzz
            we can't control money no more than
we can control seas...
   could we ever not dream of being given enough
money to then not waste them on pointless urges
akin to a lottery win and the easy way, via no
business or syndicate?
   really? there's a reason we live in a time
that's necessarily soulless...
   i can't give it a piquant phrase (only a phrase
as germans put it, chemically, hydrocarbon spelling
akin to zeitgeist - spirit of the times,
and there's nothing holy about it...
   it just moves to the next generation,
and the next poker hand... so **** that trinity
um... person?) - it gets ***** with fashion...
   or as i see it: cannibalism of 20th century trends
as the neo-original basis of fashion in the 21st beginning...
this is the one time i'll get to coin a phrase,
i.e. pick up a penny from the street pavement...
   counter-inflation brought it about...
rather than a zeitgeist where we can share afflictions
and, perhaps succumb to empathy early on...
nein... none of that... let's see what we really see it as:
ebenegeist - or? the levelling spirit...
         ebene-    (level)... ah... even better!
   stufegeist... you hear it all the time!
                         buying a house and getting onto
the property ladder!
                                    stufegeist -
           always that tease, always that ******* carrot
and that donkey... well... that's one way to get
motivational... invert the inflation of Zimbabwe...
  ensure people stop dreaming,
   make a plumber worth £0.000001 in Zimbabwe
and £1000000 in England...
      likewise make an "artist" worth
   £0.000001 per poem / song / painting...
  and likewise make him worth £1000000
in Zimbabwe as a "good" person...
  well... by now completely mentally ill...
   but hey! it's money! look at money like you might
look at water or fire or earth... and it's not
exactly a Monday's edition of the Financial Times...
mind you: given that we're so "advanced",
and given how old the concept of money is...
   is it really not as primitive as it really is
in what it makes people do?
   oh sure, because i'm so not used to it:
i'd rather be paid with the currency of peanuts!
                but then my love for the art is greater
than my ability to buy a brand new kettle...
or a doormat... so... what's the word... m'eh?
I saw an aged Beggar in my walk;
And he was seated, by the highway side,
On a low structure of rude masonry
Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they
Who lead their horses down the steep rough road
May thence remount at ease. The aged Man
Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone
That overlays the pile; and, from a bag
All white with flour, the dole of village dames,
He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one;
And scanned them with a fixed and serious look
Of idle computation. In the sun,
Upon the second step of that small pile,
Surrounded by those wild, unpeopled hills,
He sat, and ate his food in solitude:
And ever, scattered from his palsied hand,
That, still attempting to prevent the waste,
Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers
Fell on the ground; and the small mountain birds
Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal,
Approached within the length of half his staff.

Him from my childhood have I known; and then
He was so old, he seems not older now;
He travels on, a solitary Man,
So helpless in appearance, that from him
The sauntering Horseman throws not with a slack
And careless hand his alms upon the ground,
But stops,—that he may safely lodge the coin
Within the old Man’s hat; nor quits him so,
But still, when he has given his horse the rein,
Watches the aged Beggar with a look
Sidelong, and half-reverted. She who tends
The toll-gate, when in summer at her door
She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees
The aged Beggar coming, quits her work,
And lifts the latch for him that he may pass.
The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o’ertake
The aged Beggar in the woody lane,
Shouts to him from behind; and if, thus warned,
The old Man does not change his course, the boy
Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside,
And passes gently by, without a curse
Upon his lips, or anger at his heart.

He travels on, a solitary Man;
His age has no companion. On the ground
His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along,
They move along the ground; and, evermore,
Instead of common and habitual sight
Of fields, with rural works, of hill and dale,
And the blue sky, one little span of earth
Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day,
Bow-bent, his eyes forever on the ground,
He plies his weary journey; seeing still,
And seldom knowing that he sees, some straw,
Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track,
The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left
Impressed on the white road,—in the same line,
At distance still the same. Poor Traveller!
His staff trails with him; scarcely do his feet
Disturb the summer dust; he is so still
In look and motion, that the cottage curs,
Ere he has passed the door, will turn away,
Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls,
The vacant and the busy, maids and youths,
And urchins newly breeched—all pass him by:
Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind.

But deem not this Man useless.—Statesmen! ye
Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye
Who have a broom still ready in your hands
To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud,
Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate
Your talents, power, or wisdom, deem him not
A burden of the earth! ’Tis Nature’s law
That none, the meanest of created things,
Of forms created the most vile and brute,
The dullest or most noxious, should exist
Divorced from good—a spirit and pulse of good,
A life and soul, to every mode of being
Inseparably linked. Then be assured
That least of all can aught—that ever owned
The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime
Which man is born to—sink, howe’er depressed,
So low as to be scorned without a sin;
Without offence to God cast out of view;
Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower
Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement
Worn out and worthless. While from door to door,
This old Man creeps, the villagers in him
Behold a record which together binds
Past deeds and offices of charity,
Else unremembered, and so keeps alive
The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years,
And that half-wisdom half-experience gives,
Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign
To selfishness and cold oblivious cares,
Among the farms and solitary huts,
Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages,
Where’er the aged Beggar takes his rounds,
The mild necessity of use compels
The acts of love; and habit does the work
Of reason; yet prepares that after-joy
Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul,
By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued,
Doth find herself insensibly disposed
To virtue and true goodness.

                                  Some there are
By their good works exalted, lofty minds
And meditative, authors of delight
And happiness, which to the end of time
Will live, and spread, and kindle: even such minds
In childhood, from this solitary Being,
Or from like wanderer, haply have received
(A thing more precious far than all that books
Or the solicitudes of love can do!)
That first mild touch of sympathy and thought,
In which they found their kindred with a world
Where want and sorrow were. The easy man
Who sits at his own door,—and, like the pear
That overhangs his head from the green wall,
Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and young,
The prosperous and unthinking, they who live
Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove
Of their own kindred;—all behold in him
A silent monitor, which on their minds
Must needs impress a transitory thought
Of self-congratulation, to the heart
Of each recalling his peculiar boons,
His charters and exemptions; and, perchance,
Though he to no one give the fortitude
And circumspection needful to preserve
His present blessings, and to husband up
The respite of the season, he, at least,
And ‘t is no ****** service, makes them felt.

Yet further.—Many, I believe, there are
Who live a life of virtuous decency,
Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel
No self-reproach; who of the moral law
Established in the land where they abide
Are strict observers; and not negligent
In acts of love to those with whom they dwell,
Their kindred, and the children of their blood.

Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace!
But of the poor man ask, the abject poor;
Go, and demand of him, if there be here
In this cold abstinence from evil deeds,
And these inevitable charities,
Wherewith to satisfy the human soul?
No—man is dear to man; the poorest poor
Long for some moments in a weary life
When they can know and feel that they have been,
Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out
Of some small blessings; have been kind to such
As needed kindness, for this single cause,
That we have all of us one human heart.
—Such pleasure is to one kind Being known,
My neighbour, when with punctual care, each week
Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself
By her own wants, she from her store of meal
Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip
Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door
Returning with exhilarated heart,
Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven.

Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!
And while in that vast solitude to which
The tide of things has borne him, he appears
To breathe and live but for himself alone,
Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about
The good which the benignant law of Heaven
Has hung around him: and, while life is his,
Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers
To tender offices and pensive thoughts.
—Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!
And, long as he can wander, let him breathe
The freshness of the valleys; let his blood
Struggle with frosty air and winter snows;
And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath
Beat his grey locks against his withered face.
Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness
Gives the last human interest to his heart.
May never HOUSE, misnamed of INDUSTRY,
Make him a captive!—for that pent-up din,
Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air,
Be his the natural silence of old age!
Let him be free of mountain solitudes;
And have around him, whether heard or not,
The pleasant melody of woodland birds.
Few are his pleasures: if his eyes have now
Been doomed so long to settle upon earth
That not without some effort they behold
The countenance of the horizontal sun,
Rising or setting, let the light at least
Find a free entrance to their languid orbs.
And let him, where and when he will, sit down
Beneath the trees, or on a grassy bank
Of highway side, and with the little birds
Share his chance-gathered meal; and, finally,
As in the eye of Nature he has lived,
So in the eye of Nature let him die!
Nolithando Nov 2014
My biggest prayer is to love her right
I want to…
Love her like Christ loved the church
Love her like her Father in Heaven
Loves Her Love her like the Holy Spirit loves her soul
And love her like she was created to be loved

But sometimes….
Sometimes my flesh tries to intimidate me with that kind of love
Its like my spirit cries out from the depths of this corrupted prison
With the voice of abel screaming that
I have not loved her to the extent Christ loves the church
I want a crucifixion type love

Everytime I hug her I want my arms to be spread out on the cross
And I want to die to my childish ways
Everytime I look into her eyes
I want a crown of thorns to be placed on my head and surrender my thought life to her honor
I want the walks we take in the park
To be nails driven into my feet so that they will lead her with the authority of Moses
I want a crucifixion type love

I want my side to be pierced every time we laugh together
so that ill always remember that she is my rib
Everytime I sleep and dream of her
I want my back to be beaten with a catonine tails
so that I’ll always carry her burdens for her
Everytime I’m not with her
I want to stand before pilate and stand true to my relationship with her
I want those who have seen me to have seen her in ME when we are apart
I want a crucifixion type love

I want a love that will cause dead men to rise
When people gaze on us, they want to know who is this Christ that we speak of
Everytime she falls I want to take her in my arms like my cross and carry her up to calvary
I want men to mock me for not wanting to be like them
For not wanting to squander my love on various women
But to have the passion to pour out my love onto one soul for all of eternity
I want a crucifixion type love

I want a love that was predestined before eternity
I want a love that was birthed in my mother’s womb
I want a love that is willing to give up this world for her
I want a love that is immaculate
I want a love that makes the angel’s wish they were in our shoes
I want a love that will make me pray to God and say
Who am I that YOU are mindful of me to bless me with her
I want a crucifixion type love

I want a love that bleeds purity
I want a love that people will lie on us just to see us split apart
I want a love that will make me run away to a far village,
build a mansion for you with my bare hands
and send you love letters every day reminding you of me
letters that you can keep in a book and spend time reading them every day
I want a love that will make my spirit pray for you
I want a love that will make me walk on water
in the middle of the most dangerous storm for you
I want a crucifixion type love

I want a love that my friends will betray me because of my affection for you
I want a love that after we’re gone,
that for centuries to come men will aim to follow in our legacy
Everytime I rise in the morning
I want it to be my cross being raised upright for you
To stand on the hill of my life and portray a beautiful sacrifice
I want to be placed into the tomb of your heart
The Tomb that your mother and father built
I want a love that will rise with all power over adversity
I want a love that people will flock to see if it is real
I want a crucifixion type love

I want a love that shows my yearning for you
I want a love that even when we argue,
I still have a burning passion & desire to be with you
I want a love that heals
The kind of love that covers the wounds that were dug deep by the knives of infidelity and insecurity
I want a love that makes God get up and dance around his throne every time he sets his eyes on us
I want a crucifixion type love

So with all of that said
Lord, give me the strength to love her like you love me
Like the way you didn’t consider being equal with the Father a thing to be grasped
But you came and gave up your throne for the filth of this world
And in love, you served In the same way
Let me serve her unconditionally infinitely
Let me MAN UP
And quit wasting time playing games
and pursue her like you pursue your church
Because you have chosen me to be entrusted with her heart
So let me cherish it like a jeweler cherishes a diamond
Let me examine it and find out every minute detail about her worth

I want to love her
like Abraham loved Sarah
Like Isaac loved Rebecca
Like Jacob loved Rachel
Like Boaz loved Ruth
Like Solomon loved his Queen
I want a crucifixion type love

So into your hands I commit this relationship
Because I want to love her like you Love your church






A fell in love with this Brent Rice piece the moment I heard it.
mars Mar 2014
Poet: be gentle with yourself
never compare yourself to the coffee house across the street
the one that looks so lonely and wise with it’s brewing tales
and tea leaves
do not forget that you are a magician’s tarot cards, fate
holders and dream menders and plot twisters
poet: be gentle with yourself
you are a small wind hiding from the storm
but trust me your calm will come
remember that you are made of the stars and the universe
and that every atom inside of you is alive just like how
your words are
poet: be gentle with yourself
I know how it feels to hold back from writing
because you depreciate your own self worth
but trust me
the sun shines every day
just to catch a glimpse of you
and the moon cherishes your
fluttering eyelids the way I
cherish you.
Najwa Kareem Feb 2017
A backdrop of gorgeous hues, tints, and shades peeking in from afar draw near, I on one side, it on the other, the two of us bidding for a glance at two white doves on center stage.  
Their eyes converging, their glance coinciding, a replica of the simplicity in which they were brought together, a dual recognition ignited by the burning of hearts and the lumination of souls. 
Affectionate hands coupled in an orbit of serenity, her passionately embracing his with a tug of excitement gushing I’m yours, his tenderly and securely supporting hers and in acceptance of gifts of admiration and approval, he is humbled whilst mesmerized by her captivating beauty and elatious smile.  
Two distinct bodies standing still between an air of transparency and vulnerability, they occupying an endearing space serenading to sweet melodies reminiscent of one exclusive life. A bit of haze lingers behind her, her ***** drumming to a cheerful step toward his, there she waits in an affirmative reply of what much he has to offer her, what much he has given her. He consumed by her presence, his face speaking something his mouth cannot. A yearning for each other unspoken, the romantic harmony of a moonstruck light and a synchronized kiss. Their bodies held captive by their souls set free. 
An impartial unfinished hallow sits as a canopy above, gracing its cascading rays on the couples’ faces creating unique shadows on each, one caressing the other in a playfully warm exchange. Overwhelmed by his serenade, emotions overflow and an innocent blush appears, his heart unburdened, skipping to a resounding beat and the words, I found my soulmate. With a slight rise of her jaw, she’s smitten with this king, the delicate skin of her countenance warmed by the glow of his, a pink dusting of her freshwater pearls.  
A love affair unconventional, a duo in adoration, a marriage of crisp airiness and a desire for discovery ringing true, a fondness between man and woman precious like a round cut diamond, weightless as dandelion fuzz blowing in the wind, beaming identical to that of a fluorescent night star, the twosome looking into one soul rejoices intimately at their romantic chemistry and unyielding bond. 
A gracious audience of ink, navy, and Prussian blue, antique and porcelain white, emerald green and scarlet pink in a pose of calm celebration, honors the mister and missus with an exuberant ovation. Entangled in a web of love with a sincerity stringing them in unison, the two in a trance cherishes a declaration so glamorous, a devotion so light.
This poem is dedicated to a soul's light romance of a recently married couple whose display of love moved and touched me.

Had this one Day not been.
Or could it cease to be
How smitten, how superfluous,
Were every other Day!

Lest Love should value less
What Loss would value more
Had it the stricken privilege,
It cherishes before.
Corvus Oct 2016
There's a time, somewhere between 12am and 6am,
When all artistic, damaged or insomniatic souls
Feel like they're completely alone
Even though we're all awake and feeling the same thing.
12am is still too loud, still too car engines and shouting,
And 6am is too light, too exposing and awake, aware.
It's blackness but for the starlight puncturing holes in the sky,
That's when the magic arises and enchants us.
The way the moon looks at us and begs us to untrouble our weary hearts,
So we do it, and we do it willingly.
She is the most unfaithful lover, and it is beautiful.
How she cherishes each whispered secret so deeply
That it leaves a crater on her being.
How she takes on our pain unflinchingly,
And only needs 28 days to feel whole again.
There's a time, somewhere between 12am and 6am,
When the most trapped souls can feel such freedom.
Not entirely convinced that insomniatic is a word, but it should be.
You come along... tearing your shirt... yelling about Jesus.
     Where do you get that stuff?
     What do you know about Jesus?
Jesus had a way of talking soft and outside of a few
     bankers and higher-ups among the con men of Jerusalem
     everybody liked to have this Jesus around because
     he never made any fake passes and everything
     he said went and he helped the sick and gave the
     people hope.

You come along squirting words at us, shaking your fist
     and calling us all **** fools so fierce the froth slobbers
     over your lips... always blabbing we're all
     going to hell straight off and you know all about it.

I've read Jesus' words. I know what he said. You don't
     throw any scare into me. I've got your number. I
     know how much you know about Jesus.
He never came near clean people or ***** people but
     they felt cleaner because he came along. It was your
     crowd of bankers and business men and lawyers
     hired the sluggers and murderers who put Jesus out
     of the running.

I say the same bunch backing you nailed the nails into
     the hands of this Jesus of Nazareth. He had lined
     up against him the same crooks and strong-arm men
     now lined up with you paying your way.

This Jesus was good to look at, smelled good, listened
     good. He threw out something fresh and beautiful
     from the skin of his body and the touch of his hands
     wherever he passed along.
You slimy bunkshooter, you put a **** on every human
     blossom in reach of your rotten breath belching
     about hell-fire and hiccupping about this Man who
     lived a clean life in Galilee.

When are you going to quit making the carpenters build
     emergency hospitals for women and girls driven
     crazy with wrecked nerves from your gibberish about
     Jesus--I put it to you again: Where do you get that
     stuff; what do you know about Jesus?

Go ahead and bust all the chairs you want to. Smash
     a whole wagon load of furniture at every performance.
     Turn sixty somersaults and stand on your
     nutty head. If it wasn't for the way you scare the
     women and kids I'd feel sorry for you and pass the hat.
I like to watch a good four-flusher work, but not when
     he starts people puking and calling for the doctors.
I like a man that's got nerve and can pull off a great
     original performance, but you--you're only a bug-
     house peddler of second-hand gospel--you're only
     shoving out a phoney imitation of the goods this
     Jesus wanted free as air and sunlight.

You tell people living in shanties Jesus is going to fix it
     up all right with them by giving them mansions in
     the skies after they're dead and the worms have
     eaten 'em.
You tell $6 a week department store girls all they need
     is Jesus; you take a steel trust ***, dead without
     having lived, gray and shrunken at forty years of
     age, and you tell him to look at Jesus on the cross
     and he'll be all right.
You tell poor people they don't need any more money
     on pay day and even if it's fierce to be out of a job,
     Jesus'll fix that up all right, all right--all they gotta
     do is take Jesus the way you say.
I'm telling you Jesus wouldn't stand for the stuff you're
     handing out. Jesus played it different. The bankers
     and lawyers of Jerusalem got their sluggers and
     murderers to go after Jesus just because Jesus
     wouldn't play their game. He didn't sit in with
     the big thieves.

I don't want a lot of gab from a bunkshooter in my religion.
I won't take my religion from any man who never works
     except with his mouth and never cherishes any memory
     except the face of the woman on the American
     silver dollar.

I ask you to come through and show me where you're
     pouring out the blood of your life.

I've been to this suburb of Jerusalem they call Golgotha,
     where they nailed Him, and I know if the story is
     straight it was real blood ran from His hands and
     the nail-holes, and it was real blood spurted in red
     drops where the spear of the Roman soldier rammed
     in between the ribs of this Jesus of Nazareth.
'Tis noon. At noon the Hebrew bowed the knee
And worshipped, while the husbandmen withdrew
From the scorched field, and the wayfaring man
Grew faint, and turned aside by bubbling fount,
Or rested in the shadow of the palm.

  I, too, amid the overflow of day,
Behold the power which wields and cherishes
The frame of Nature. From this brow of rock
That overlooks the Hudson's western marge,
I gaze upon the long array of groves,
The piles and gulfs of verdure drinking in
The grateful heats. They love the fiery sun;
Their broadening leaves grow glossier, and their sprays
Climb as he looks upon them. In the midst,
The swelling river, into his green gulfs,
Unshadowed save by passing sails above,
Takes the redundant glory, and enjoys
The summer in his chilly bed. Coy flowers,
That would not open in the early light,
Push back their plaited sheaths. The rivulet's pool,
That darkly quivered all the morning long
In the cool shade, now glimmers in the sun;
And o'er its surface shoots, and shoots again,
The glittering dragon-fly, and deep within
Run the brown water-beetles to and fro.

  A silence, the brief sabbath of an hour,
Reigns o'er the fields; the laborer sits within
His dwelling; he has left his steers awhile,
Unyoked, to bite the herbage, and his dog
Sleeps stretched beside the door-stone in the shade.
Now the grey marmot, with uplifted paws,
No more sits listening by his den, but steals
Abroad, in safety, to the clover field,
And crops its juicy blossoms. All the while
A ceaseless murmur from the populous town
Swells o'er these solitudes: a mingled sound
Of jarring wheels, and iron hoofs that clash
Upon the stony ways, and hammer-clang,
And creak of engines lifting ponderous bulks,
And calls and cries, and tread of eager feet,
Innumerable, hurrying to and fro.
Noon, in that mighty mart of nations, brings
No pause to toil and care. With early day
Began the tumult, and shall only cease
When midnight, hushing one by one the sounds
Of bustle, gathers the tired brood to rest.

  Thus, in this feverish time, when love of gain
And luxury possess the hearts of men,
Thus is it with the noon of human life.
We, in our fervid manhood, in our strength
Of reason, we, with hurry, noise, and care,
Plan, toil, and strife, and pause not to refresh
Our spirits with the calm and beautiful
Of God's harmonious universe, that won
Our youthful wonder; pause not to inquire
Why we are here; and what the reverence
Man owes to man, and what the mystery
That links us to the greater world, beside
Whose borders we but hover for a space.
wulfhug27 Feb 2014
Is it weird how I remember one of your favorite artists was Frank Sinatra?
That Red you adored.
On your lips, on your nails, clip clopping heels on the floor.
That you were born on the 18th
In one of the J's of summer.
That you eyes were "fat" you called them
and Sad..
and beautiful..
I cannot look at them anymore
they are filled with everything
Is it weird that I remember
how full the face of you
how alluring, proactive, your smile
I remember even, how you hated your nose
It was too wide you said.
How your cheeks were too thick for your taste.
Its weird.
How in class, as we learn about Shakespeare, I still look forward
for that little second
to telling you, showing you what I've learned of what you like.
I miss how I got used to out short
random chit chats.
You'd inspire me to come to love an idol of yours
and not only for you she now lives inside
Marilyn Monroe.
Her beauty you desired, her beauty you longed for and admired
and I to
she only reminds me of you
just of you
I wonder how would that be to know?
How you were the Spain to my Romano
and my Romano to your Spain.
How you made me love Spain, Antonio- Carriedo.
That Tomato ******* head.
How you portrayed him, with your joy
all of you joy and with the underlying of your sadness
was his sadness
made him beautiful.
My heart cherishes your Spain, and cherishes you.
Its odd, how I remember your voice.
The exact tone, and that sometimes I hear it, or want to
and find myself remembering a time when
you spoke the words I love you
always, careful, but openly.
I miss you. I do. I think of you every passing day.
Its as if you were dead, good forbid it, far ahead it will come but for now its all the same.
You are gone from my life.
I'm sorry,
so sorry....
but no more regrets. I miss you my friend.
You were one of the best.
For Jerrica.
Marshal Gebbie Jul 2011
Were that I were bounteous,
Were that I were strong,
Were that I had substance
I would sing for freedom’s song.

I would sing, as does a blackbird
With a resonance so clear
As to wake the deaf of humankind
And hound their jaded ear.  

To awake their sense of sameness
To jolt their sense of fair,
To arouse the warmth of brotherhood,
To cleanse our racist air.

For the blacks, the whites, the brindle
Are homogenously one,
You break the skin, the blood is red
We’re born beneath one sun.

Each man loves his mother’s warmth
Each man holds his wife,
Each man feeds his children
And cherishes his life.

So where’s the racial difference?
What makes this problem start ?
What prompts the cold Kalashnikov
To **** that other heart?

What prompts back alley beatings
Of infidels who stray ?
What price religious difference
By men who say they pray?

Who is this God who fosters war ?
How can he profess to be
A champion of sanity
To unleash this killing spree ?

Were that I were bounteous,
Were that I were strong,
Were that I had wisdom
I would sing for freedom’s song.

I would sing for racial harmony,
I would sing for such a day,
That men could laugh together
Be they black or white or grey.

For the United States of Humanity.
2 July 2011
Shane Hunt Sep 2012
If love is a fire,
this is a funeral pyre;
ashes falling
like nuclear winter.

Like a blowtorch,
*** had soldered us together--
I'm too paralyzed by fear
to hope for something more.

Only in the black of night do we see each other.

We barely speak
outside the foul-mouthed foreplay
and passionate epithets exchanged
in our sweat-soaked moments
of collective agony.

Like so much of my life,
this has to hurt to feel good.

A smack on the *** must suffice
when a kiss on the lips can **** you.

I don't dare look at her face.

There's so much I say
in spite of myself—
A litany of confessions
in my expressions.

Not that she would notice--
her eyes are outside,
aimed at a horizon I can't see.

We share this silence
because it's the only thing
either of us still cherishes.
Valentine Mbagu Aug 2013
The tears of love in my heart can neither human nor spirit understand,
for my heart is bruised in grief.

The pains of love in my soul can neither words nor speech utter,
for my soul is soiled in sorrow.

The wounds of love in my spirit can neither care nor treatment heal,
for my spirit is sealed in distress.

My heart desires you though you have refused to change your mind.
My soul seeks your love though you have refused to come back.
My spirit cherishes your love though we can't be together forever as lovers.

lf we are not meant to be together as lovers,
why then does this feeling hurt so much?
If we are not designed for each other as one,
why then does my heart cleave to yours?
If we are not destined for one another as soul mates,
why then does my spirit cherish your love?

It hurts to know that we can't always be with the ones we love.

Seeing that we can't be together forever as lovers,
for my inability to change the destined destiny;
and my inability to change your mind.

My prayer is that you find the love of your heart.
My desire is that you find the desires of your heart.
My passion is that you find the love of your life,
someone who will love and cherish you.

The tears of love in my heart, you alone can clean.
The pains of love in my soul, you alone can stop.
The wounds of love in my spirit,
you alone can heal.

With tears in my heart will your love be seeked,
though am bruised in grief.

With pains in my soul will your love be cherished,
though am soiled in sorrow.

With wounds in my spirit will your love be desired;
though am sealed in distress.

My life was lived in loving you, now you leave to love another.
My heart beats for yours, knowing you alone can clean my tears.
My spirit seeks your heart, knowing we shared so much.

Oh! The days of sorrow and loneliness has caught up with me.

A broken and wounded heart you leave me with.
A new path you are treading without me.
A new life you are moving to, without me.

my heart frees you without any guilt.

But remember it hurts to love and not be loved in return.

We promised each other to live together forever as lovers,
you assured me of dying by my side.
All these promises are now forgotten.

Goodbye my friend.

As you leave me to groan in tears of loneliness for love,
remember my tears are ceaselessly running;

wailing and waiting for who will clean my tears of love.
Gregory Dun Aer Mar 2017
To you:
Who deserves every chance at happiness.
I hope he loves you more than I ever did
I hid my heart behind a ribcage too tightly sealed
I shielded my heart from the thieves inside my mind
I've been blind to not realise the thief is beautiful
with a musical voice that sounded like an angel's choir;
one that I could never tire of.
A big part of me knew that I wasn't good enough, I just knew;
through all that he does, I hope he makes you feel rich
And I hope that he loves you more than I ever did.

I hope he makes you happier than I ever could
I never understood how you could look at yourself in such a light,
you're bright, funny, pretty, beautiful and a million more words
some I've never heard of, but I don't understand
how you managed to find hate against yourself.
I hope I helped you felt a little better about yourself,
I hope I helped you see yourself through my eyes
and the eyes of anyone you have ever met or will come to meet.
I could bleed an ocean, drip by drip from an aching heart
but if it was a start to make you see yourself as a piece of art;
the masterpiece that you are. I would.
I hope he makes you light up with smiles everyday
and say all the right and perfect things to make you feel loved.
I hope he hugs you tight within his arms, holding you to his chest;
I hope he knows he is blessed to have you in his life.
I hope you see that you're magnificent, great, never just plain good,
and I hope that he makes you happier than I ever could.

I hope he reminds you of what it was like to live in dreams
that seamless paradise where everything is so well connected;
the things you expected is right in the palm of your hands,
all the plans you ever made have all in some way came true
the blue that you ever felt in your heart is obliterated
and all the situations you find yourself in makes you happy.
I hope he lets you fullfil your dreams, everything you ever wanted;
I hope he helps you achieve those dreams.
I've seen a glimpse of what your dreams are like,
they are marvellous; and your happiness away from the nightmares;
I hope he cherishes them,
and I hope he cherishes you.
I hope he is always there putting you above the TV or computer screen,
and I hope that he makes you feel like you're living in a million dreams.

I hope you know; I'll be ok. I'll learn to be ok,
no matter how hard it might become for me,
but I hope that he loves you with all of his heart;
and I hope that you find everything you want in life,
the light that brightens your eyes on why you are in many ways amazing,
the racing heart sensation that you would feel with him,
I hope that you will be as happy as you ever wanted.
I hope he loves you more than I ever did, ever do and ever could.


The guy stuck in his own mind, trying to find a way out.
Update -18th march 2017 [to him] i hope you never ever hurt her. Please don't hurt her
mj cusson Nov 2012
I have to say the canvas has been painted over yet again.
Can you not decide as to what is pretty?
Skulls bashing for a piece of flesh is not a picture worth painting.
If you were to paint with the fire of the sky, people will still find reason to hate you and your art.
For you see people are selfish and believe what they want to believe.
A painting of blood looks beautiful to a lover of bloodshed.
A painting of flowers looks beautiful to lovers of serenity.
Fine art is dead; people look at the Sky and laugh at him despite his beauty.
Meanwhile, those who don’t find humour in the sky, laugh at the ground because they do not see any beauty in dirt.
Be in love with the dirt, appreciate both the dirt and the sky.
For a true artist makes the dirt beautiful and the black of oil he cherishes; for you see:
Both at one time were your forefather and your fore father's father.
Do you know how it feels to hate yourself?
Every bit of your skin, laced with the burn of hatred.
A visit in the mirror, it makes you flinch
How can anyone love me, if I can't love myself?
Many potential lovers and friends,
Pushed away because of your own selfishness.
Some create scars on their skin,
Some force themselves to go without food.
Some are just a shell of themselves,
Pretending to be something they're not just to fit in.
Not comfortable in their skin,
Not comfortable anywhere.

Sometimes, you just want to hide under your blankets
And forget the world for a while.
My child, I feel your pain. I know your anger. Your angst. Your hate.
I am a servant to my own mind, to my own self-esteem.
I look in the mirror, and I see so many flaws.
Raccoon eyes, love handles, big hips, crazy hair.
We pick ourselves apart, until there is nothing left to love.
And because of this, we search for others to love us,
To fill the void that once was our own self-acceptance.
The saying is true, though.
To truly love another, you must first learn to love you.

Your insecurities will force you to push the one you love away
Until one day, they turn away and never come back.
What was once your happiness, is now your downfall
And you're even further gone than you were before.
But my dear, that is why I am writing to you.
Your raccoon eyes? While they are curable,
They're just a sign of the war with your mind.
Not getting enough sleep, working too hard,
You can do this. You can win.
Love handles?
It's only human to have some extra fat on your body.
Not everyone can be tight all over their body.
My struggle with body image has been a vicious one
But now I know, the one I love will love my body
No matter if it is round, or if it is flat.
Big hips? My dear it's genetic.
I used to hate mine, they made my thighs big.
Hips are bones, there is nothing you can do to fight it.
Hug yourself, and realize someday once you grow to accept it,
A guy will wrap his arms around them and cherish them just
as he cherishes you.
Crazy hair? Who doesn't have issues with that?
Throw it in a ponytail, in a braid.
Don't let those silly follicles define your mood.

Love yourself. You are worth it.
Every person in the world is beautiful.
Not everyone will be nice,
Not everyone will compliment you.
Some people thrive off of negative energy,
And will do anything to tear you down.
But my dear, there are many nice people out there as well
And as long as you look the other way to those who try to discourage you,
The nice people and their feedback will far outweigh the mean.

Beauty is in everyone,
Someday, this world will learn that.
But sometimes, you are all you have.
Be kind to yourself, and love yourself.
Look out for yourself first,
And someday, love will find you.
And when it happens, you will know how to love back.

Take it from me,
I've lost one too many from my insecurities,
And I promise, it will make you realize too late that your insecurities
and your battle with them,
Are nowhere near as important as the person you can potentially lose.
Salmabanu Hatim Nov 2018
Twinkle twinkle little star,
Every night you glisten so far,
My grandchildren live afar,
Tell them they are the best by far.
I have no one to say,
Grandma,please don't go,stay,
Only a little while,
I love to see your happy smile.
For long I have not felt you sleep on my shoulder,
A chance to hold you a little longer.
I would love to feed you with icecreams and cookies,
Shower on you cuddles and kisses.
Day and night,
I miss my grandparent right,
To store your beautiful childhood memories,
To form a strong bond that every grandparent cherishes.
The pages of my life have you missing,
For what I have and cannot have
my heart aching.
Remember,though we may be apart,
You will always be in my heart.
My grandchildren live oceans away from me.We meet once in a blue moon.
Poetry comes at the end of the day
When the lights are turned low
And the sun goes away

A poet writes best in the mid-afternoon
With birds in the trees
and mud on the boots

A poet rises in the morning
Even if it might be storming
Oh we write in the rain, if it be pouring

A poet thinks in the evenings
Because we write better when dreaming
And because sometimes
it's better than sleeping

A poet cherishes every part of their day
Beacause each one is never the same.
Writing poetry means you can leave the ground
And never have to come back down
Brian Oarr Jul 2012
The artist chose concrete to sculpt The Kiss.
Playfully made the woman taller than the man,
his gaze uplifted, filled with total captivation ---
lemur eyes, mustached smile, desire unmistakable.
Her arm about the nape of neck, hand caressing cheek,
certainly she cherishes him, intentionally stokes his passion.
Concrete the perfect medium for immortality.

This image implanted firmly, as I take my morning walk,
when it hits me, somewhere between Key Bank,
7-11 across the street, and John Deere lawn equipment,
why it is, women place such importance upon relationships,
why they love us, despite flaws numerous as wharf rats.
They have an unremitting need for romance.
That's what the sculptor knew and finally I do too.
See the statue here --->>>
Creep Feb 2015
You're worth more than a poem.
But for now,
I'll try my best to make this much more than just a poem:
but a message from me.

What you don't know is,
every time she feels down, she rereads all your kind words.
When she's bored, you're not on,
she rereads them.
She spends all her time thinking about you.
She cherishes you,
You're the best she ever had.

She takes everything about you,
devours them, slowly savoring all the good bits (which is everything),
and then keeps them tattooed all over me,
never to be removed.
Each and every letter, engrained onto me with a flourish,
a kiss,
trailing her hands behind, stroking the way the gorgeous letters look
all aligned together to make such beautiful sentences.

Her eyes trail every word,
her hands caress the wonder machine that brought her you,
her ears thrumming with the sounds of you,
the music notes floating into her ears,
the way water flows,
for you are better than just any ordinary ocean.

You may call her an ocean,
but you are more than that.
The ocean only takes up 75% of Earth.
You are much more.
You are her sky,
her universe.

You hold the stars in your heart,
twinkling like little rubies.
Just like the moon and the sun,
you see everything.
The clouds are your façade,
and the rain,
your tears.

And all she wants to be is the satellite,
to explore you and learn everything about you,
to always circle around and around,
to never leave.

I know you won't break me,
or her.
And for that,
I am forever in your debt.
So come to me when you need me,
I will do anything to serve my prince.

With Great Love,
The Creep's Heart
There's my valentines day gift for my boyfriend ^^ Je t'aime, et merci beaucoup pour ton attention et amour. Vous êtes beaux et tres sympa. :) happy valentines day, mr. Right!
(Sorry this ***** ^^")

Comeback when you hear this song
By 2PM
Brotherhood defined.
A hero cannot be a hero without a little help. They always do better working together.  A boy’s gotta have a friend.
They say a man isn’t a man without a loyal person to back them up 24/7. Luckily, I don’t have to worry.
From our humble origins deep in the heart of summer, a certain friendship flourished from that awkward hello, and graduated to bear hugs and conversations deeper than anyone could imagine.
  advise. Much needed advise. The desire to hear his thoughts and the desire to step on stage with my best friend marched on. From looking deep into his heart only to see the pain that he knows so true.
and looking into his heart to see the pain and heartbreak that he has endured. But then I saw the smile that seldom showed itself.
You see, I can hear his voice from a mile away.      
and the phrase, “hey buddy!”, I know I can count a bear hug and much needed Attila time.
when the stars shine bright and the planets align there is no force on heaven or earth that is to be reckoned with his and mine
he’s the only one I know who can lift my mood up from an ugly 0 to a 10.5.
he’s everything as a friend, and more as a brother, as we go on this epic adventure together.
if sticking with this guy is wrong I don’t wanna be right
and when he’s around I shine in all light.   The only one who cherishes 115 and keeps it sacred
I mean, he’s the only guy I know that can recite every song with me, then go play black ops zombies for like a billion hours.
because as they say, the only way to survive a mad world, is to embrace the madness.
And when in this guy’s presence, I do not feel sadness.
  we both tumble deeper down the rabbit hole of brotherhood and then we teach the mad hatter and even the Cheshire cat about speed cola and quick revive even though it smells a bit fishy
Dempsey and Nicolai all day. He’s like a mystery box, cause you never know what’s next.. However, there is no teddy bear to take him away from me.  He’s here to stay…forever.
So to whom it may concern, no, we are not gay. That would make too much sense. No, he is my brother. He is a thundergun and I am a ray gun. Batman and robin.  Han Solo and Chewie. Sully and Mike. Bro’s for life.  
Where breakdowns are worth more than cash, and McDonalds is our ultimate getaway…yeah…I’d say…that when im with my best friend, life is pretty good.
when we are together, the memories start recording, I hear the “beep beep” and know that I’m bouts to lose mind with ‘dis guy. I’ve been through a lot. So has he. But we can always count on each other. Because that’s what matters, right? Bro we’re tight. Ready to shine the light. And raise hell in the night.
friendship is more than we give it credit for. When you find your best friend, there isn’t a better feeling. when the silence breaks, and your passion flies, you never know what might happen. From reciting our favorite band quotes, to rupturing our eardrums because we just had to hear from Attila just one more song. Whether its , “breathe in, breathe out”, or “The stars at night are big and bright”, and the soft ones like hey Jude.  When I feel like im in the dark, he’s able to lift my face, wipe my tears and tell me that the pain that certain man causes me is obscure. He can lift my spirits into freefall, and I feel the wind. The glorious wind. He’s there for me, and somehow I can see the portal of existence flashing before my eyes. The portal of friendship, lifelong friends deciding to collaborate on anything and everything. I wouldn’t rather have a different friend. From the time that the pumpkin king came on stage, and from the time he rang in my ears with the banshee scream. It resonated with me.
when we make it someday, and we’re able to say, “yeah, we made it today” then the stars will shine. The heavens light shall be seen. Let’s make this one count. Take a look around you. Each one by one. There’s a friend somewhere to be seen.  Find your friend. Make it count. Because they’re the one who’s gonna cover your back. Cry with you. Laugh with you. And yeah, probably fight with you.
there’s always someone you can count on, so take a look. Find your friend. And don’t think about it too hard. A friends a friend. Period.
The problem is, men cannot admit there’s a friend.
according to men, its gay to hug.
but the thing is, it shouldn’t matter what gender you are.
if someone wants to hug their best friend, then so be it.
True bothers don’t give it a second though.
because they are…we are…family.
Isaac Golle Jun 2012
I'm just gonna be real

And tell you exactly how I feel

This life has been a steal

And so there's not a single emotion I conceal

I mean, what's the deal?

I watch as my friends turn into slippery eels

More and more I being to see what is and what's fake

It's almost more than I can take

When I look to those I love for a break

They just remind me that life is not a piece of cake

It does nothing to help my heart that aches

I feel a sense of despair

I have been betrayed and regarded as thin air

I look for Christ in those who claim to know Him well

And yet it is an act they simply cannot sell

Every piece of my soul moves to yell

It is an act they simply cannot sell

In those I once placed my trust

I now feel regarded with disgust

The world has many things to offer

But one thing it lacks is satisfaction

It scoffs and scorns our every action

All the while giving a false sense of traction

By my friends I have been forsaken

What is this foul path they have taken?

I looked for Christ in those I love

But found Christ only comes from above

It is for the King alone that I will sing

For He surpasses everything

To the King these troubles I will bring

For He alone brings peace to everything

Hope in the world is a hope that is lost

Hope in the King is a hope without cost

I looked for Christ in those I love

But instead found Christ waiting with open arms above

The world will disappoint

But Christ will anoint

I cherish those who seem not to cherish me

Christ cherishes beyond what I can see

I looked for Christ in those I love

But only truly found Christ in the hope above.
Verse 1:
Why am I so disconnected?
My soul is screaming out to me in a passionate furor.
Sanguine and red hot flames are running down my spine;
I’m blazing through misfortune with opulent eyes.
I see death all around me but in my heart there is hope,
Time has healed past welts now the Lord shall cleanse me once more.
In time it has been revealed to me that the Lord has the sinew,
to fight off the eternal of death and the Cimmerian.
Eternity is all around me, your flames scorch me whole;
I lie on the bed covered in anxious goo.

High on octane, I float above cloud nine,
I have a heady feeling, and then I’m lifted into the Sun.
God has granted me the will to move on,
The Universe imparts to me an elixir to your soul.

Verse 2:
My spirit lies in front of me separated from my soul;
I’m an incorporeal being who no longer has a definite form.
                           You’re the one I long for and I know that you’re all I see,
“I truly wish that you would take to time to actually notice me!”
Why can’t you see that I would lock your heart away?
I’d store it in a chest full of my sacred and cherished dreams.
You’re my goldmine, the apple of my eye;
You’re that mellifluous melody chanting in my ear.
You’re a divine masterpiece and I love you with my eyes;
I wish I could eternally gaze upon you and make your beauty my muse.

High on octane, I float above cloud nine,
I have a heady feeling, and then I’m lifted into the Sun.
God has given me the will to move on,
The Universe imparts to me an elixir to your soul

Holy and pure is that pearl with your name inscribed,
Your name inscribed upon it and it befits my enamoring crown.
I want you to adorn me with your brilliant and glimmering gems;
Please complement my apparel with an extravagant diadem.
I love the eyes you possess, those diamonds that seem to gleam;
I desire your magic spells to fuse me with your soul.
I went insane for but a moment but to me it has been revealed,
That sanity belongs to the one who cherishes His dream of love.

High on octane, I float above cloud nine,
I have a heady feeling, and then I’m lifted into the Sun.
God has given me the will to move on,
The Universe imparts to me an elixir to your soul
Song lyrics in regards to an unrequited love or someone who is unaware of my clandestine ardor towards them. If you have any constructive feedback or anything that I can build upon please share your thought with me! :)

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