"cogitate" poems
Verdant eyes, translucent pearls
speak in silent witness,
wounds unfurl
meaning revealed,
interrupted girl.
Safe in solidarity
prolific eccentricity,
the scandal of particularity.
Pouting mouth
grief - filled lips
alluring, set sail a thousand ships;
tempt me to leave harbor.
Arousing euphoria as such,
resistance, amity and distance
amour sans touch
her sense of humor transcends,
appeasing the mind’s thirst
a vogue sultana,
seasoned swagger
hair resplendent flame,
alternating cool, black
asymmetrical coiffure;
nonconforming demure
the renegade metaphor -
singular for sure, no cure.
Muted vanity, bathos piercing
the jaded circumference of banality;
pale protagonist servitude
the sapient palaver of the urbane,
covered patina of pretense,
induced coercion,
the commodity self
appearing abased
wearing lesions of lassitude.
Artistic chattel - eminent domain
preempting genius,
subsidiary of consuming narcissism
external locus of control;
surrender to the tentative,
fettered pendant, Venus in chains
arrested visionary bane
sterile savant, edifice of pain.
The soubrette, dubious incarnation
gravid ingénue of prevarication
imperceptible venue -
theatre of the absurd;
withdrawn siren,
solitude of necessity -
skin - slender veil of shame,
nearness loitering redemption;
moments envisage
the appointment with the soul;
ambiguity eschews clarity
awareness; ineluctable anxiety,
imago - centric confession
sacred pardon, seraphic venation
intravenous textures presume,
the tactile margins of liberty.
Therapeutic retrieval,
Sanguine,
beneath the portico of
individuation;
Your smile I hear,
recovered autonomy
blessed emancipation,
The scandal of particularity;
peculiar treasure
ironically captured
film, canvas,
prose profundity.
Ciphering as an ambling book,
I peruse you,
rendered captive
hypnotic avant-garde fiction,
spectator of denuded opacity
analogous reflection, I Mirror you.
A modest proposal - pontificate the imperative,
forgo the disposal, adapt your narrative,
the scandal of particularity -
resonate the echo, cogitate our propinquity
Love, imagination and destiny.
©2008 & 2011 W.S Warner
Sep 9, 2011
Sep 9, 2011 at 1:20 AM UTC
Is it just I who gets that anxious, squirming
Sensational feeling? Like creativity suppressed—
But by what? My faults? The fates? My own self
For I cannot convey how positively debilitating,
Paralyzing, transfixing—
I don’t want to live in subdued twilight,
Sedated by my own ideas of inabilities,
But who or what, or what in me
Can prevent even the faintest of hindrances
From annihilating the depth of my inspirational understanding…
I’m yet to discern any of the undetectable barriers
Or is it that—metaphysics?
So engrossed, preoccupied, wearied by what
The idea that there’s something
Anything at all, preventing the finesse
As here I cogitate
Dimensions past me...
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC
Oh beautiful rosy shade tree
Do you touch the spirit of me?
Which way will you fall?
I will wait and cogitate for you,
My love, just for me too
A family of giants
That we are;
A body hunched over
With precious shards;
To know so simply the touch
As I sleep alone
In my broken world;
The molasses air
Slowly shroud in mists
Across the straits
To hear our echoes cry,
As I sit beneath the tree branch and ponder
About you, just you;
Sitting there waiting and looking for
Hopefully the spirit heals with time
And tide
Oh gentle waters
Bring my heart home to you.
And sitting beneath a branch
As I sit and pounder
And wonder
About the shores with my favored eye,
And your kiss of past times;
As my mysteries past stir
And arise to thee my love.
Oh sweet spirit
Spirit of mine
Keep me safe for thee
As I sit beneath the branch and ponder
And wonder
About my love for you and me;
So my darling hold me close
Let me feel your love to me
Touch my hair so gently
Tell me of your lasting love
So wrap your limbs around my form
Tell me sweet things
Before I hear the news
Of the goodbye of long ago;
As I sit and ponder
As I sit and wonder
As I sit and dream of the love of you.
Debbie Brooks 2014
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 6:58 PM UTC
A leitmotif of your average smug **** is a proverb here and there.
Spouting them off like the receptor has no care.
Their evidential naivety is blatant and almost impossible to bear.
As an audience member you can do nothing but hide your malevolence and stare.
******* in maxims that are apparently laced with benevolence and care.
You know the kind of oxygen waster I’m referring to.
The type of person that watches BBC 4 and likes tofu.
The kind that does the Financial Times So-fucking-Do-Ku.
Look I’m just saying that clichés annoy me.
I’m not asking you to love me, give me a reach around or employ me.
In fact you don’t even have to enjoy me as I tell you of things that matter not.
Suture yourself hypothetically to a geographically different mind. That mind being mine, oh that maverick-esque mischievous mind of mine, looking at this from my perspective.
In my transcendental endeavours to rid the clichéd ridden world of the afore mentioned adjective.
In the opposite of anachronistic times, we might successfully, surreptitiously rid the world of moral coated rhymes.
We can do this; all it takes is a few. One of which needs to be you.
Break out from being solipsistic, even the blind, the meek, the autistic, those that besmirch the edge of coffee cups with their lipstick.
Yes, I mean you. Here is what to do…
The next time someone spouts off a cliché, punish them, make them listen to an album by “Hearsay.”
If someone says “An Apple a day keeps the doctor away.” Then simply say, Steve Jobs had thousands and the here’s the definite answer, that consumerism inducer still died of cancer.
If a woman says “When I say jump. You say how high!” Don’t even cogitate to pardon her.
If the grass is always greener on the other side – shoot your ******* gardener.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 8:03 PM UTC
Day by day,
night by night,
such a cliche opening;
I hate it.
Usually,
I can sit & write unbounded
but recently my brain's been
cleaved into microscopic encryptions.
It seems almost impossible to
...elucidate my mental paradigm
...or maybe to accept it?
Sometimes...
I find myself
yearning to write about nature
but then I begin to cogitate on
how aesthetic nature is.
Trees and flowers.
*"You and me.
K-I-S-S-I-N-G
..under the trees.
R-O-L-L-I-N-G
...in the flowers.
You and me."*
****
Don't get things misconstrued,
I just love,
writing about love.
There's a girl I've never met
but mentally it feels like,
we share telepathy.
I feel like
...within the distance between us,
there's this distinctive cryptic aura
and I yearn to decrypt it.
****
...told you I just love writing about love.
Ironically though,
I'm far from ready for it.
-d.b.d.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC
I'm not religious.
I'm not even spiritual.
I'm just a cold, soft Vulcan.
The system of the down
has isolated me here
to think, which is what a Vulcan
does all the time.
It's really pointless.
It is desert, hot and cold
served in deprivation,
meditation, and
solitude.
The system has been doing
this for eons.
It's called increasing
systemic risk when stressed.
I make a cognitive chunk
for you to cogitate
over coffee.
Picture this.
Wandering Boy Scouts (BS)
in their pickup trucks,
helpful, strong,
vicious when aimless,
efficiently cruel,
mechanized abattoir makers
mass pit diggers,
merit badge takers.
Smell the BS.
It all goes into baking
gooey brownie BS,
repugnantly pungent,
and redolent of sweet
burning flesh.
Stressed, the down system
spits BS out
randomly to nucleate,
and procreate if possible.
Breeding a new Brand,
with Cult leader Classes
and all the -isms.
Visionaries with their caries;
Pushers with agendas hidden;
Leaders steadfast in conviction,
taking a nation, against
all odds, in Battling Bulges,
****** lines hidden
within clean, pleated
leather skirts
that still reveal penciled
seams up straight
shaved bare legs.
This is how the system
shakes itself; auto
****** asphyxiation.
Vulcan's never shake
the bars of their cells
because there's no barring
except Great Walls
forbidding, with a wink,
killing each other.
To be thy Greek brother's keeper,
is to cut not that brother man,
but the other brother man
down with BS fervor and S&M;
madness, before bondaging
his wounds in mummified
State, taped shut
with a healing kiss.
To have dominion
over the animals
means a bludgeoned
pleasure, or
transplanted
desire.
Dominion to exploit
blunted, unconditional,
emotional resources,
until the system
gels again, vaginally
or astrolly whole.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 11:11 PM UTC
Pour myself another drink
I should stop writing and denounce HP
It has become a voice to my nightly brain fever
More serious disease than syphilis
As it eats away at my brain
I suspect in much the same way
In past a vent for the toxic thoughts off divorce
Preoccupied in bitter tears and hatred
Not seeing its healing potential till now
A display of my emotion
Sometimes intense yet so often lost to others
A soap box of parody that hid a broken heart
An inverse playground of my deepest fears
In that it has many swings and roundabouts
Of love, for others here
Some home so long since gone
Dealings with grief and loss of substance
My family
Now seems like a wrecking ball formed verse when re read
Others I cannot see where I was in my head
Lights on yet not at home
The words don't fit now
I thought STOP!
Delete
But that would be failed testament to myself.
The gin now speaks not me (metaphoric as drinking Bundaberg Guava as good for the kidneys and to wash down my acidophIlus tablets just to clear up that I'm not a wino!)
A bottle opened to embrace
Odd as I can't remember when I last loaded
More so on a school night
I was told to look in not omit myself by helping others
Give me some me time
I have time
I dwell, cogitate to detriment and find no solution
So Yes may be his answer and his inner solace
It is not yet for me.
Goodnight Mrs Kalabash see you in St Louis
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 9:27 PM UTC
The young poetess^ writes:
*Sitting on the edge of brilliance,
that cuts my youthful pride to shreds,
are the verbal shards of bards,
poets, beyond my experience.
Expelling their lifeblood,
I can, but only,
place my hands upon
their open wounds
murmuring hopeful platitudes,
praying that their blood spilled,
is not their excellence drained,
their wisdom wasted and stained!*
The old hoary replies:
Wishful thirsty drinkers
from the cups of youth are we.
We 'presumed' ancient bards
have lived to regret the
burden of our accumulations,
the weightiness of our pages,
owning insights, steeped,
fermented, wine-to-vinegar,
spoiled by age, time-wasted.
Our words, product of visions
grown dim and simp,
under no duress,
we-eager confess!
Better poets were we,
when possessed of
blood hotter, skin smoother,
brow clearer, innocent of fear!
Your eager cuts run
zesty red and freely,
Ours, clotted ones,
anemic, yellowed from
the curse of the boundaries
of too much experience,
purchased pricey rules,
murderers of our uninhibited courage.
You cogitate with
passions unlined, unruled.
We shuffle, bemoan
our drizzling days,
waiting for relief,
and yet, rue
our inevitable conclusion.
We curse our fate, our slow dissolution.
You bless the opportunistic rising sun,
enervated by energies unbounded,
You animate for answers, solutions!
We sit caned and quiet, acidic,
damning Solomon and his caustic words -
There is nothing new under the sun.
Perhaps we know a word or two more than you.
Gladly we'd trade that for youthful hands
that pray, point and scribe, with the eagerness
that sets words upon paper of spirits enflamed!
Time, our master, has shred our writs to pieces,
yet, you young poetess, greet the morn, confident, saying
today I will give birth to the first of many, masterpieces.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 8:55 PM UTC
crescendo on crescendo
the ***** of the brine
calming soothing stroking
the eye the troubled mind
cogitate contemplate
a blue enthralling thrill
blueness into whiteness
back to blue and never still
thoughts reach to horizons
beyond the vast expanse
which stretches out forever
to study look askance
a calmness washes over
weary eye and wrinkled brow
the soul soaks in the soothing bath
of salt and fresh air now
what mysteries does such
a watery world secret
from land bound human frailty
considering as asleep
the depths spread out before us
the life contained therein
oh what a wondrous sight it is
to sight a shining fin
at evening time to lie in bed
and hear the peaceful hush
which rushes up to carry one
far from daily crush
the murmur of the wave
as it sluices sand so free
exciting hissing gurgling
the power of the sea
fact cannot be denied
from seaside comes a calm
inexplicable by most
and pleasant as a balm
to find a safe and lonely nook
somewhere along the coast
for some life's full ambition
unlikely there to boast
in solitude and with close heart
forever then at peace
no troubled inhibitions weigh down those
who take in beach
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 8:10 AM UTC
I’m a fan of my own poetry
I think it is most fine
I cogitate on every word
I swallow every line
Of all the words I’ve written
I hold each poem dear
No matter stones that you might throw
Nor how rude your Brooklyn cheer
I’d rather read my words of wit
Upon a restroom wall
Than Suffer Will and Chaucer’s
Works; inside some fancy hall
Folks today never talk like that
That train left long ago
So give me five my brother
Make it high; or make it low
Come share my homespun wisdom
I don’t promise it will rhyme
But you won’t need a college sheepskin
To interpret every line
I write words plain and simple
So a child of nine or ten
Can enjoy every story
As he reads them in the den
And I don’t need no critic
To explain or to expand
What the words meant when I wrote them
Because they’re already plain
If I never sell a single book
Well that will be just fine
For I’m a fan of my own poetry
And will read you every line
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 11:57 PM UTC
to-day I had a lot of washing to do
as I'd let it pile up and accrue
there were shirts and sweaters galore
and socks quite literally by the score
it is always a pleasure
to empty one's laundry hamper
as it makes one feel
like a satisfied camper
with it all been done
and up to date
I can sit down
to cogitate
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 10:44 PM UTC
Caught in the maze
Of amazing veins
****** cells excel
Tunneling thru’
Vessels and vestibules
Mind oscillates vacillates
In chaotic amplitude
Like a pendant in pendulum
Of wishes and vices
Divine and devilish
Wise and unwise
Pride and prejudice
Dual mind is in duel
Behind the temple
Brain at home in skull
Will and wit seated well in skill
Rein, rule or roam and ruin
Embroidered and embroiled
Embodied and emboldened
Meditate, mediate,
Cogitate, agitate
Churn and spurn
Nurture the soul within
Explore the radiant light
At the end of the tunnel
Mind, the deity on duty
As mysterious as its Maker,
The Brain behind the brain
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 10:17 AM UTC
Caught in the maze
Of amazing veins
****** cells excel
Tunnelling thru’
Vessels and vestibules
Mind oscillates vacillates
In chaotic amplitude
Like a pendant in pendulum
Of wishes and vices
Divine and devilish
Wise and unwise
Pride and prejudice
Dual mind is in duel
Behind the temple
Brain at home in skull
Will and wit seated well in skill
Rein, rule or roam and ruin
Embroidered and embroiled
Embodied and emboldened
Meditate, mediate,
Cogitate, agitate
Churn and spurn
Nurture the soul within
Explore the radiant light
At the end of the tunnel
Mind, the deity on duty
As mysterious as its Maker,
The Brain behind the brain
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 8:08 PM UTC
It all began on the night
I came back
Spotted one in the alley
Thought its bright pink
Had a pretty glow
In the dark.
Then I met one more
And another;
True Love spread
All over town
I would photograph
Each one
With my heart.
Starting to look for it
Proved to be
The wrong habit;
As it is written on the wall
That is when
I would least find it --
And once I had forgotten
Out of nowhere
Someone out there
Made certain
It was now time
To be
Reminded.
True Love is everywhere
True Love comes
In all shapes and sizes
Eternalized
In the most symbolic places
On that brick
On a trash
At times spelled backwards
Others
With a message
I would cogitate on
Long after.
The last one
Was that kind
Its sense
Divine;
It read Love True
And in my heart of hearts
I knew;
What makes Love true
Is the way I love you.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 7:32 AM UTC
Cogitate, Ponder, Contemplate
Think, Think, Think
Never stops
The mysterious Mind
Cease the procession sometime
Let me envision the Black Void
Let me lie in tranquility
And think of Nothing.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
They sit
on the riverbank
on rickety stool
or upturned buckets
elbows resting on knees
hand on rod or simple reel
they sit, they wait
they contemplate
and cogitate
hats on heads
with scrapes and muck and holes
old sandshoes
that have long forgotten
the words white and tennis
shorts or trousers
that sit comfortbably on the hips
and old threadbare shirts
they sit, they stare
into the bright river wake
they take breathes of air
they of the ambience intake
about them is a calm
a stillness, a balm
and tho flys hover
and create bother
there is grace
as they swat
and bat them off
their face
even when they hook
a catch, there is a rhythm
to the fight, of reel and splash
as the duel, to bring the hunted
to heel, be it snagged boot
or that night's meal
they sit, they stand
rod and reel in hand
and thake a punt
on the aquarian hunt
with net and esky
and can of bait
they sit, they wait
and the world
revolves slowly
to them, there is
something sacred
something holy
about the time spent
on the riverbank
catching fish
catching up to oneself
time given to repent
relinquish, replenish
to reinvent, a soul
they sit, they wait
they contemplate
they consecrate
simple things to holy
these old men who fish
on the riverbanks
an ol man river
watches and gently
smiles
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 10:02 PM UTC
we as poets,
are like birds....
in the sky.
soaring against,
the backdrop of
nature's grandeur
while aloft, we espy,
beauty and sorrow
and all the stuff....
that living life makes,
and falls forgotten,
in-between the cracks,
of just.... being.
from which,
we as poets,
glean .....
words and phrases,
that cause us to,
ponder, wonder
and cogitate.
those whispers of love.
sighing, breaths and sorrows
thoughts of futures blest,
of now, i am impressed
and yester's hollow,
and yet to be put to rest.
and bring them home,
with loving care,
to nidificate....
to interweave what we
see, hear and feel... & know
into the nesting chamber
for our wordlove....
for our poem
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 6:10 PM UTC
Who is to blame?
who are the giants who manipulate the game?
corporations ******* our lives dry and desperation, plastic bags,
deforestation
it's given me an inflammation
what in tarnation are we going to do?
You and the Who may be one and the same,
we all have some part in the terrible game
and I'm in the frame for it,
done for a little bit, sat and
watched people ****
all over nature.
The visionary drones on like he sees it with headphones on reading a script while the planet's being ripped out from under our feet,
a bit like, 'meet the Flintstones' and it's in bedrock we'll build our next homes and another generation will fill the forests, harvest vegetation, and the corporation will rise again, tell of its corporate lies again and we'll all believe that they're all sane men.
Who is to blame?
the blind men who read the bible and curse which the deaf man can't hear, but which is the worse.
Rant for a bit
and cogitate,
wait for a bit
and rant a bit more,
bits and bobs and the 'nobs hold the aces
the deck was rigged
just look at their faces.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 6:46 AM UTC
I tend
Like ambling child
To erector construction
Jamming thought in quip
Undoing linguistically threaded intersection
Hopefully without catch
I cogitate
I need supervision
Or I might gobble up the apparatus
Choking on a plastic word
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:20 PM UTC
The Day a Healer Did Weep,
The day did start with desire in the power of prayer,
Yond day would end in horrible, lingering, despair.
The moniters sounded a wretched shrill of doom,
In a blink, an instant, I wast whisked from the cubiculo,
The time did do cometh with swift, and desperate, finality,
While I did pray, and did beg God's holp, did do cometh lethality.
The leadeth leech would not giveth in until did pull away,
With the hurlyburly's end, We did weep together yond day,
This healer with emotion withdrawn, did do break down as a tyke,
The lady did has't this loving effect on all, in the very same like.
Ay, a life ended one warm, sunny, day in K.C,
Nay one erned, but doctors, nurses, and me,
Thither wast nay flowers, nay mourners, nay half staff,
Mine heart ripped ope as with a warrior's gaff.
I cherished, and did protect the lady all our time together,
I did fix all, did maketh things right, cometh high water, or nether,
I couldst nae fix this, nay matter how hard I would tryeth,
Thou can not imagine such teen as I did watch that lady vade, and die,
Nary one knave, nay matter whom they may ever beest,
Can beest did replace, Each life is precious, I wouldst decree,
I wilt declare this to thou, All those yond would listen,
Taketh nothing for did grant, leaveth not a thing missing.
Liveth each moment with thy love as t'would beest thy last,
Leaveth nay regrets in thy future, or eyeless in thy past,
Still cogitate thy love as thou did has't from the first,
Tf 't be true thou pause too long, thou can nea quench such a thirst.
Thither is nary joy in living with regret, teen, and grief,
Liveth each day did share as a gift, and treasure this life brief.
(Translation)
"The Day a Healer Wept,,
The day started with hope in the power of prayer,,
That day would end in horrible, lingering, despair,,
The moniters sounded a wretched shrill of doom,,
In a blink, an instant, I was whisked from the room,,
The time came with swift, and desperate, finality,,
While I prayed, and begged God's help, came lethality,,
The lead Doctor would not give up until pulled away,,
With the battle's end, We wept together that day,,
This doctor with emotion withdrawn, broke down as a tyke,,
She had this loving effect on all, in the very same like,,
Yes, a life ended one warm, sunny, day in K.C.,,
No one grieved, but doctors, nurses, and me,,
There were no flowers, no mourners, no half staff,,
My heart ripped open as with a warrior's gaff,,
I cherished, and protected her all our time together,,
I fixed all, Made things right, Come high water, or nether,,
I couldn't fix this, no matter how hard I would try,,
You can not imagine such pain as I watched her fade, and die,,
No one person, no matter whom they may ever be,,
Can be replaced, Each life is precious, I would decree,,
I will say this to you, All those that would listen,,
Take nothing for granted, Leave not a thing missing,,
Live each moment with your love as it would be the last,,
Leave no regrets in your future, or hidden in your past,,
Forever cogitate your love as you had from the first,,
If you pause too long, you can never quench such a thirst,,
There is no joy in living with regret, pain, and grief,,
Live each day shared as a gift, and treasure this life brief,,
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 10:53 PM UTC
there it was,
sitting in the
tiny rainbow room
of my brain,
you know,
my joy's broom closet,
just behind the third eye.
was an inkling,
it was just a little one,
of an effervescent poem,
written with the love of silly.
it was born from,
the smackerel of hunny
held so stickily in the bear's paw(maw).
the one that lives
on the corner,
and is always looking
for more
it became then,
a twinkling.
it was growing you see,
expanding in girth,
learning of mirth,
the art of the funny.
it was begining to be,
the notion of an idea,
all perpertual motion
and fuzzy with glee.
it bursts forth from,
the closet and into the
brain,
in a wizzing, fizzing, ball,
too hard to contain.
around and about,
it ricochetted.
trying to find
a small pocket,
of spared thought
in which to fit
and sit for a while,
to cogitate it's
self into an amusing,
musing,
of rude and unseemly
health.
but alas and alack,
it could find no berth
in the banality,
no perch for it's caprice.
wrinkling now,
with the loss
of it's earlier gleam,
it suffers from
a bout of hysteria
and screams in futility.
please, let me be,
a thought, complete
and in context.
let me, not suffer,
the fate of being,
just a half arsed dream.
it can see, no worse fate
for an inkling,
with some gumption.
to wither and die,
as a mere
whimsical fantasy.
with, proud and lofty thoughts, passing on by,
with not nary, a glance
in the direction,
and little to no,
compassion,
for the fate of
the poor inkling.
that once ,
had delusions of granduer.
far above, it's humble station.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 1:14 AM UTC
I prefer the unexamined life
lesser I cogitate-- suffer little from strife
Feb 7, 2021
Feb 7, 2021 at 7:43 PM UTC
The things some do
When they're alone,
Would melt the marrow
In your bones.
Some scratch their ***
With such vigor,
Sink to their knuckles
Up their nose,
**** themselves
In panty-hose,
Find their stash,
Find their liquor,
Get high alone,
And that's good for some.
Oh, the things some do
When they're alone.
They scrape the goo
From their eyes
In the afternoon;
Hork out phlegm
In the kitchen sink,
**** loudly,
And not think it stinks.
They pop a pimple on the mirror,
Do nasty things
(I won't say liver).
Oh, the things some do
When they're alone.
They'll surf the net
For ***********
In HD or photography.
They'll roll gobs of wax
From both their ears,
Run naked up and down the stairs.
Landscape private body hairs,
And like a monkey, smell their nails.
Oh, the things some do
When they're alone.
Some deficate in the shower,
********** until they holler,
Then spark a doob,
Check out the mirror,
Then cogitate on tomorrow.
Oh, the things some do
When they're alone,
It's good they're done
Alone at home.
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 11:13 AM UTC
... and WHY.
I write extemporaneously.
Now there's a million dollar word!
What does it mean?
It is defined as working, writing
or speaking without preparation.
Anything that is off the top of your
head. Off the cuff.
Is there anything a writer would like more? To be able to sit down and let those words flow like a spring. The subconscious fully aligned with the conscious mind. This is the very essence of inspiration!
What is the derivation of the word inspiration? To inhale. To breathe in.*
It is like your lungs are your conscious mind and the subconsciousness is the very atmosphere around you!
When I write the words are inhaled. They just come. Very seldom do i cogitate. I want my words to be cogant here. I don't want preconcieved cognition!
Are you totally confused now? Why?
Your vocabulary. There are words you don't understand in my last paragraph. Perhaps the words *cogitate, cogant and cognition?
LOOK THEM UP!* Use a good dictionary and get the definition. The CORRECT definition. Read ALL the definitions and use them in sentances of your own making. That way they are in your head. They are not only part of your conscious mind but your subconscious mind as well!!! SO NOW THEY ARE IN YOUR ATMOSPHERE TO BREATHE!
Am I making sense? Let me know via the site message system if you don't understand.
Look it up. R E A D. Voraciously.
And write. WRITE. W R I T E!!!
*Why do I write?*
To release pent up feelings. When you're able to tap into the subconscious mind it is a release.
AND
For the sheer joy of doing so!
You will understand once you start writing as I do. Anyone can do it.
A N Y O N E.
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 3:53 PM UTC
He sits on the edge of the world
unconcerned with the
dissimulation of
polite society
busy little bee's
bouncing off reality
living the dream he
so valiantly fought to protect
he sits there quietly
saturated in *****
manufactured of
white port fueled
by memory of war
contemplating
nothing
invisible to most
but still
a blight upon their sensibilities and
a horrid fright to the eyes when seen
cold hungry and shivering
they could give a **** to his welfare
they cogitate his insanity
his own undoings
and that smell
the smell of death
lurking waiting to pounce
on yet another of society's outcast
putrid sores covers flesh uncovered
where gnats and flies feast
and maggots dine beneath the skin and
his breath
his breath smells of Dragon Blood
do we even know what Dragon Blood is?
apparently he does
two tours in Vietnam an a Purple Heart for bravery
yet he sits on the edge of the world
bravely trampled underfoot of apathy
absent of coalition
he wishes only to be left alone
to dance in the pain
of degredation
and waltz in the face of death
until God calls him to reckoning
he will sit there on the edge of the world
listening to
the mundane idiocrasy of those who wander by
left to his own maundering
invisible that is
until the olympics come to town
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 1:35 PM UTC