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Nat Lipstadt Jan 2014
Dreams of a Child
Created: Jan 23, 2011 5:44 AM
Finished: Jan 30, 2011 4:23 AM
Posted here  Jan 2014
a very, very long poem, but within , I promise,
there is a precise stanza about, for you.  
Take it as my gift.
Let me know which you took home to play.


Some poets care not
for the
discipline of rules,
laws of punctuation.

Why bother brother,
with putting poems
in antiquated jailhouses,
prisons of vertical bars,
or afford the reader,
the courtesy of horizontal lines?

Question and quotations marks
these day refuted,
as a Catcher In The Rye
conspiracy symbology of big lies,,
political interventionism,
to the creative, most natural
right to be crude.  

Inconvenient impositions,
symbolic flailings, of an
over regulated civilization
in the throes of declination

Punkuation is but a
societal annoyance to
today's creative geniuses,
periods, commas,
nothing more than
a pause to think -
who needs 'em?
when we want to stink
up the atmosphere with vitriols
of half truths and inhuman
but oh so gleeful,
concentrated disparagement
of any person worthy of
nationwide late night mocking merriment.

Such free spirits, vivid animations,
within me do not reign,
though upon occasion,
boy got permission slips  
for breaking bad by invention
of an occasional new word.

New words, white truffles
vocabulic incantations,
my own cupcake creations,
meant to burr, or purr,
their tasty meanings, always,
were readily apparent.

Sometimes we rhyme,
sometimes  we can't;
doth not a reading of a
poetic periodic table
of rants, chants
love poems, and paeans
to a shhhh! pretend,
overarching, poesy ego
require some minimalist format?

How I envy you,
kind observer,
possessor of literary powers
untoward and untold,
delicate touches of a fingertip
rule and rue
poetic invention.

You can zoom away or in
for a closer examination
of unscripted revelations,
incinerate them like an
yesterday's newspaper,
thus demonstrate contempt for
less-than-historic ruminations,
as time has done before.

Witness the crumbled ruins of Ozymandias,
king of kings,
and how the critic's machinations
with a dash of tabasco time,
his works, now museum pieces,
in the Tate Modern's room of
Laughable Human Aspirations.

Don't panic, sigh or groan,
kind observer,
infection inflictions,
content of discontentment,  
ancient whinings that the publisher
long ago listed as discontinued,
will not herein unfold.

What has all these mumbled asides
to do with the Dreams of a Child?

Apologies prolific I distribute
for this long winded profligate prologue;
and even for prior invasions
of your contemplative fantasias,
but my intention certain:
**** out the weak chaff eaters,
feigners of faux interest,
who stanzas ago deserted us,
this confessional lore.

These prior lines conceived
to mislead and deceive,
to refer and deter
send away, the hangers-on
who litter our lives,
with whimpered falsehoods.

So, we begin anew:

Today's lecture entitled
Dreams of a Child
were formatted on a silver disc;
this communication's originations,
seedlings of block
roman black letters
on background of cleansing white,
re things that jar me in the night.

Easy slights that waken
from a fitful, pitted rest,
mental paintings
natured in gem colors,
tourmaline auras,
and vibratto hues
of blue zircons.  .  

I have never lain upon the couch,
in the inner holy of holies,
where one whispers
to the Father Confessor
an original composition,
subject, title and inspiration
of said unique origination,
decidedly of one's own choosing,
roots of the essay's telling,
harvested in the root garden
of one's dreams,
where grow herbs,
spicy ones,
flavors of childhood.

The lush and wooded smells
of a forest of childhood scars,
and it's concomitant
putrefying, fruited rot,
awoke and brokered
a stilted, tremulous sleep.

Went to bed a a man
of modest success,
of modest scenes,
a bond trader, who trades
exactly that:
his word, his bond,
his blessing to his
deal constructions,
all of which, ended with an
irrevocable cri of "Done!"

Yet like you,
I am oft undone.


In truth, not dreams, but
spectral moments of
our lives relived,
a melange of ancient lyrics,
taunts of childhood abusers and
peer humilators
who could
teach the CIA
torture techniques
of WORD boarding, par excellent.

Angelic faces of human ****
that birthed in me a holy duality,
anger and a,
love of words,
my vaccination serum.

Granted a love of
human kindness
from teachers who cherished their
high and mighty tight
to publicly humiliate,
knowing full well
that human laws could not
attempt to have them
justly incarcerated.

Where, where were
the supervisors
who let me be spit upon
in the back seat of a
Fifty's station wagon,
by the brothers of
a sainted dead shepherd?

I am still eight,
sitting on a stoop in the
modest side of town,
towel in hand, so handy,
to wipe the tears shed
for cause,
for the car-pool of suburban boys
who "forgot" to pick me up for
Sunday swim night.  

In high school,
in the back row,
I silently ******
the juice of a Sarte lemon and
essayed a term paper,
upon multiple mirrored
reflections of a man
called Camus.

As another self styled, only living
teenage expert
on "alien nations"
received with pride and trepidation,
a sentence of Ninety Eight,
on my term paper,
but the pedantic predators
deemed it an accident
for I, was  inscribed in their
Upper East Side
Coda of Prejudice,
as merely,
"just" a
man of USDA,
B grade quality intellect.  

Hand me downs
I did not get
as I was the
younger, sole brother,
but worn lint lines
of humiliation
when and where my pants
were "let down"
to accommodate growth spurts
were my growing marks of Cain.

Those growth lines
were economic reality signs,
and were rich fodder for
childhood monsters,
Scions of Income Superiority
who lived in ranch homes in
two car, color tv garage slums,
wearing band new Levis.

In the Sixties,
time of my unsilent spring
wore a cross of
teenage hood,
my hair,
worn long,
Jesus style

Worn with labor pride,
for it was
Made in the USA,
I was a most conventional

In the parochial jail
of educated guesses,
where society's lesson plans
of all that was bad
were O so well taught,
I was apart, ahead,
of Our Crowd,
but not too, radically.  

But a spiteful
Principal of No Principle,
deemed my locks a
disruptive influence,
so to exorcise my rebel streak,
so to crucify his "Jesus Freak,"
so to exercise his diminutive spirit
a pompous uber man,
he had me shorn
like a sheep,
in just one day,

He loved his full employment
of his pharoic entitlement,
The Educator's Power of Abuse,

I was so denuded
of human strength,
the Italian barbers of the
East 86th Street subway station,
wept for me,
their cri du coeur,
Angels in Heaven did hear
and from God
did dare demand
an explanation!

He roared in manner celestial,
"Is he not my child too,
and if he be treated
in style *******,
it is purposed and willful."

Pornographic compilations of
slaps across a child's face,
I've got plenty
of and in My Space,
should you care to
add your own,
down under,
got plenty of room
for all comers    

In a Facebook world,
I pride, not pretend,
that having fewer "friends"  
is my honest and true
reflection of who I am, and,
life lessons learned -
quality, not quantity.  

Victims of discrimination
can be most discriminating
in matters of
human games, associations.  
****** or word,
lack of taking care
is not heart healthy.

Tried to forgive
the despotic progenitors,
of some of that which
is good within me
that, irony of ironies,
they can claim the title,

Tried to give them
what I had gotten -
from the happy malcontented  
evil spreaders,

That grace, grace is
the only methodology,
an inestimable but
valuable lost leader,
the only way
to survive on
this planet of
hardtack and
caste striation.  

Though still quick to anger
at the cutters and denigrators
I am quick still to
confess my own failings, and forgive those
of plain and honest folk.

Unfortunately, kind observer,
you had to share my brunt,
syllabic Iwo Jima battles
of a decaying verbal moonscape
to reach the denouement,
for now we have,
mostly arrived

Most likely you too
have long ago
deserted me like
so many others,
no matter,
this modulated breath
was born and released
from my heaving chest and
as I knew it,
know this:

My Absaloms
where ever you be,
presumably and hopefully in hell,
I give you thanks
and a mini bar drink
of absolution.
a tin medal of appreciation,
for the
Marked Improvement
you inadvertently nurtured
in this restless,
voyagered soul.

My ancient enemies
till now, be advised,
forgive and forget
was and has not  
fully formed
in my penitential template,

Unlike your natural capacity
for cruelty and mean
birthed unto you
in your third rate
genetic melange,
forgiveness is taught
in a Master Class
at a famous school of Ethical Drama,
that I did not attend

Though resident in
a better place,
my root garden,
the bitter herbs you planted
still grow but,
are welcome in sweet brotherhood,
until the selah days
of just one flavor.

Though the universe's expansion
is of a pace such that
time and space definitions
will stretch and warp
and need be
refined, replaced,
the governing principle here.
need not be rephrased.  

For goodness
from evil
doth come
and should your
evil spectres
once more try
for resurrection
in my benighted
dream world.
you will find the doors
locked and barred,
upon them a sign
not verbose,

Gabriel Jan 2014
Pretend piety,
Of the temporary variety,
Placed in a shine of "I am better than you high society".

Your words are intelligent,
Your words hold weigh,
But my sentiment makes your feeble words tremble and shake.

It has taken years of mental *******,
To develop the concentration,
To compose these compilations of rhythmic translations!

You think you are the victor,
You feel you have won,
But this is no mere battle, it's a ******* war...son...your pain has just begun.

Because we don't need five minutes alone,
To crush any poem,
But reaching the masses and in between is where, I, call home.

Love and pain are parts of the game, but so are other emotions,
So merely beware, your pen must dip a little deeper into far vaster oceans,
If you think you can contend to my level or quotient...

My friend....
Vexren4000 Mar 2019
Mystic places,
Locked away in isolation,
Human eyes may not go there,
Lain upon unsullied land,
Places found by humans gaze,
Usually will end the days of harmony,
The merriment of the forest spirits,
Broken by loud human voices,
Confusing compilations of ego,
Seep into the innocent trees,
Corrupting the soul of the land.

R W N-S Jan 2014
There are hardly any writers, freaks or conscious investigators for the living. Some one to shed light on the current affairs of  this nation, this Earth, this universe. Not these local heroes either, and not these reptiles behind computers. But some one who can bring us back to simpler modes of information distribution, like a news paper dropped off at every door step, run by revolutionaries and wonder fanatics who think and feel broadly, who don't give in completely to greed or materialism. Emotional wrecks who don't lead any one type of party, who are not interested in leading but, those of whom listen and replay. And, if they do or don't succeed in their studies so be it. We all have our duties in life, there will be another pack of poets right behind them, innovators. You gotta give something up some time, walk away a better individual for it, I think too.
A lot of deep sea divers out there, blind, not sure how to fallow the line back to the boat, scared they might run out of air soon, and they will. I've seen it happen to some good sailors.

How do we gauge freedom, what's right, who is right and why so many ******* questions...(?) At this moment in history we have a few choices and a few rules that must be risen high, on a flag post some where in the middle of this country, big enough so the whole world can see it up there, along with a new flag, too.
It reads, "Don't disrupt or hurt earthly habitats, inhabitants, or insult anyone because of their race, class, gender or religion.
Challenge, feud and collaborate. Don't freak out when ideas appose your own, letting your eyes become red and swollen.
Killing is out - unless it's killing yourself, or harming your own body. It's your body you don't want you want with it, (We just hope it doesn't come to such brutal measures).
Any harm done to another means that you will forced into rehabilitation - you will mediate, talk with counselors, learn to survive in nature, grow your own food, and if necessary be shown opportunity.
If you're a true ******* of ******, we don't have time for you, you are out of here." Some times some people can not be helped.

Is freedom something you would classify as having the ability to assemble your own conclusions? Does your reality in comparison to others appear stronger and less misguided because of the inherent morals, such as right and wrong? Is life a constant battle with others because of their ignorance, and can you find peace in your free-ness with out feeling like you've served justice upon them?

Next II

Some commonly ignored, also opposed at times, ancient mythologies like native american wisdom or south american indigenous ritual have been shattered by historians and scientists alike. Those who believe logic and reasoning are platters on a academic menu best served soon before they've assembled . All the while their dishes in abundance, rotten, sitting on the table surrounded by skeleton men, whose hearts where gray and dusty, dried up like prunes long before they had kicked the spit bucket. They wanted to build realities from recycled evangelical European patriarchal war mongers instead of clutching in the next hand research that exceeds simple Darwinian thought or archaeological speculation, to discover what lay behind our skin and deep within the hallows of consciousness.

"Let's reinvent the gods, all the myths
                        of the ages
Celebrate symbols from deep elder forests
[Have you forgotten the lessons
                        of the ancient war]

We need great golden compilations"

                                                             - J. Morrison

We do need great golden compilations. We've got to accrue volumes of books, music, obscurantist theory, and quantum exploration. We have to reflect, speculate and hover over the body in sagacious transcendentalism,  gag our selves until we feel unsettling and alive. Purge the mind of blackened clogs preventing a courtesy flush, headlong in a spiral, in the spirit of invention.

There are answers and then, there are replies. How do we reply to our own answers
Once upon a Time there lived a peasant
whose poems were whisperings of nature.

Nature aims toward growth, abundance
and decays softly back to succulent soils.

My homeland is not for your feet to step
upon, you belong to surrealistic cynicism.

My psychedelia does not approve of horrors
mundi and skips on every third classical tune.

What was impulsively chosen, can be a mistake
in pompous rituals on established compilations.

Apologies, for all the misdeeds lacking a true
appearances. You implied my life is a great lie.

No, it's not! Sometimes it is a knotted charade,
noose chameleon dreams wanting to create in

Castles build upon puffy clouds, youthful Ars
Poetica meeting a Pat Metheney's wonderland.

Beck is a phenomenal artist loving green lands.
Bachus was a goat. And Artemis protects us all!
To live Beautifully means to live according to Universal Harmony.
Wishing you all, to find the most beautiful, creative and truthful Path toward genuine Life's Art Poesis and bountyful moments of love shared with...
there's something about the idea of sitting down with him and a glass of red wine that he cherishes so much that really appeals to you, something about listening to call it fate call it karma and joking about the irrelevancy of individual objects in this mass world that makes you want to message him immediately

the truth is, you need him because you need someone to save you when you have realised at about 3 am on your way to see him this morning that you are no longer a person to rely on to be there for you emotionally - you're your own bad influence, you're your own a.m. thoughts and bad decisions

the truth is, you wish you were still drunk enough to tell him that he should date you instead; you wish you were drunk enough to kiss him, drunk enough to play with his tie when he kept fidgeting with it, drunk enough to tell him that he's full of **** and you love it

you wish you were sober enough to forget about everything that has happened and get off that feeling knowing somebody told you that you'd be in their head, because your situations have never been perfect and this hurricane is making its way towards your heart faster than you anticipated and this time you don't want to drown in the raindrops of lost desire and empty words

there's something there, something about the two silver rings, one on each hand; something about the way his hair slicks back, about how he wears his glasses and how excited he gets to show you what he can play on piano; there's something there about the touch, about the electrifying feeling of holding his tired hands, and about the way you can tease him and he still takes it, about the way he assumes things but you do too and then you both admit your faults, about the way he tells you to smile more because a smile suits you and that thinking too much can be a serial killer

there's something there, but it's too far away to be understood - too far away to be felt, too far away to be loved

your drunken mind assumes it's utopia, but your sober mind concludes it's hell
PJ Poesy Dec 2015
May morning cacophonies never quiet.
Doves coos, repetitive sharp whistles
rising and falling sounded by robins,
who seem to say, "cheer up, cheer up,
cheerily, cheer up." Jays shrieking
whatever warnings they shriek. Chirps,
tweets, titterings of so many more, combine
in crazy compilations of some
orchestra without their conductor
forever warming up days. I do not own
feathers but all my body hairs do stand
on end, flitting as if they were. Then,
woodpecker taps against hollow
termite ridden tree sounding like
the strike of a conductor's baton.

Nothing comes together. A symphony
never starts, at least not one of any
great composer's. Just the greatest.
I spring from my nest. I do not know music.
I hear it and am it. These mornings move
me to ditter about, find my way,
peck my morning niblings, feel dawn
dress me in sun, make me lust
life adorned with feathers. How
possibility wings bring.

From flock to flock, I dare to fit in.
Learn new mating dances.
I like birds, mornings, mornings with birds.
JSK Jan 2015
You know those blank pages at the end of a book?
The ones there just to make the other pages with numbers line up?
Yeah. Those.
Those are for me.
I get to fill them with all the things that the book didn't say.
All the emotions and double meanings woven
Between the lines.
Scribbled hastily in the margins
The can all be neatly compressed into that
Expanse at the end
All the words there mean more than any plot a chapter could hold.
These paragraphs tell a different tale.
One without page numbers or punctuation marks.
One that is constantly evolving.
Something only I understand.
Only I can see all the things I made up.
The things I let bloom from nothing into nothing.
I create stories so fantastical no would could believe them.
No one can understand.
It's all assumptions and hurt.
Compilations of innocent, mistaken gestures.
The paper holds a ticking time bomb. Waiting to explode and destroy every relationship I've ever had.
Because probably, none of it is real.
I am the protagonist and the antagonist.
The villain and the hero.
The winner and the loser.
No. Just the loser.
The stupid girl who created a magical world she couldn't escape from.
She allowed letters and words to imprison her.
And the worst part?
The words aren't even real.
But I'm still stuck between The End and the back cover. In those stupid, empty pages.
Trapped in my own delusions.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2013
Woke up with children in my mind, wrote two new,
then stumbled on this...
I give this poem to an orchestra leader I know, who understands better than most, that conducting and being surrounded by many, is oft the loneliest task and who knows best the meaning of
"finally, all synchronized in time and space, on a single continuum, within, without and through."

Thanksgiving Day 2011

the picture window,
restless generations,
multitudinous compilations,
children's backyard runnings,
all about, hide n' seek,
uncoordinated coordination,
well calculated randomness,
perfection in its

my bloodstream,
chemical changes,
blow thru my veins,
direction home,
like leaves,
on a November weekend,
windswept from a thousand directions,
endless energy, noise, and commotion,
results of internal tremblings,
the side effects of satisfactions,
in ways I could only dream of...

knowing, nonetheless,
the knowledge rests within,
footage of future days of
quietude and satisfaction,
recalling earlier simplicities,
records recorded somehow
before it happens,
records recorded now and then,
but only for
future consumption.

Harmonies of times,
well deserved,
to be future spent,
now, finally, all synchronized
in time and space,
on a single continuum,
within, without and through.

They say that Einstein erred,
time cannot outrace gravity,
therefore it cannot be
that I have seen the future.
Yet, I know with
unerring certainty,
these truths
posses the gravity,
that thanks,
I have and
will again,
and will give

The remainders,
the children,
the net of our gains and losses,
within them,
        my thanks lives,
without them,
        I am lessened,
through them,
        I am whole,
Why these lyrics? Because they fit me
"at these few hours"

► 4:30► 4:30

Artist : Eva Cassidy Album : Eva By Heart Year : 1998 Important : I own absolutely nothing ...

Wayfaring Stranger Lyrics

I am a poor wayfaring stranger,
While journeying through,
This world of woe,
Yeah, and there's no sickness,
toil nor danger,
In that bright land,
To which i go.

I'm going there to see my Father,
I'm going there,
No more to roam,
I'm only go,
Going over jordan,
I'm only go,
Going over home.

I know dark clouds,
Will gather on me,
I know my way,
My way is rough and steep,
Yeah, and beautiful fields,
Lie just before me,
And God's redeemed
Their vigils keep.

I'm going there to see my Father,
I'm going there,
No more to roam,
I'm only go,
Going over jordan,
I'm only go,
Going over home.

I'm going there to see my Mother,
I'm going there,
No more to roam,
I'm only go,
Going over jordan,
I'm only go,
Going over home.

I want to wear,
That crown of glory,
When I get home,
To that good land,
Well, I want to shout,
Salvation's story,
In concert with,
All the blood-washed band.

I'm going there to see my Saviour,
I'm going there,
No more to roam,
I'm only go,
Going over jordan,
I'm only go,
Going over home,
Well, I'm only go,
Going over home,
Yeah, only...

Made this far, then see

Nat Lipstadt · May 26
Eva Cassidy, **** You
Our house is burning down.
The flames are lashing and tearing
every(our)thing in it's wake.
From the bottom to the top,
Our daughter's doll house,
our miniature planetarium in our bedroom,
my compilations of writings about you/I/us.

Don't rush for the door, dear.
There's still a chance we can subsidise these
gallowing flames that's trying furiously
to charr our ship in the message in the bottle
and our memories into ephemeral ash.

For all the reasons to save what we have,
what we've longed for so long,
what we've built from the pit of our hearts.

We'll find our way through the maze
and through every well wishers curses.
We'll fix everything that needs to be tended to
and we'll grow to love each other once again.
**I'm staying.
Scott T Sep 2013
Let's transcend this sad world baby
Just you and me
Past the sidewalks
And shrinking patches of green
And ministry of sound compilations
And the weight of infinity on our backs
As we circle one of the 300 billions stars in our galaxy
In a universe of 170 billion galaxies
Just you me and a mattress baby
That's all we need
ray Jan 2016
compilations of cold coffee cups,
dancing about in my candle-stained room
to French music from the 50's, today,
contrasting with the cacophony of construction
four stories beneath, below,
the day is blush.
rain as rosewater, fossilizes into flakes on the cheekbones, the lashes.
a quick reading of Kerouac reminds one to
believe in the 'holy contour of life,' whatever 'holy' means,
if it exists at all,
whether America is overrated,
whether i rather play in puddles of Scotland
or some foreign place,
how delightful it sounds, as Edith Piaf's
voice trances my loveless memory.
i'm cold. but we have to be.
No more sugar
its destroying my
internal organs
No more nasty cakes
biscuits crisps
I been greedy
Got to get my health under control.
been eating so much *******
over the Christmas period
To much sugar
makes you fat
and blocks your arteries
and it can cause compilations
Time to make some new years changes
Time for a new me
Been a greedy pig
I am so ashamed
thank-you god for
giving me a big nudge
You are a great Father ..
Jenn Gardner May 2012
Existing, creating, remaining

In constant correspondence with

Fluorescent phantoms stalking
hypnogogic images of

Past selves spilled upon
A marble plane universe.

Fractals of shattered ether,

Taught not
to touch an all,

Indescribably content with systematically

Despairing hairs,
Rapidly engaging in disengagement.

Division of conscious accessibility,
Lately less than half.

Mundane introductions to despairs,

Rapidly devouring
   The residual stillness.

Folk compilations of concepts fabricating
Inquiries into legends of incentive for

Existing, creating, remaining.
the dirty poet Feb 2019
(for my fellow dharma bums)

why is this backpack so heavy?
chicken & country cole slaw
forks & knives & spoons
a bicycle helmet hanging off
a sketch pad
          the next 100 years
          how the beatles destroyed rock’n’roll
a walkman & cds
          the soundtrack to the darjeeling limited
          faust’s first two albums
          tom waits & alan holdsworth
          compilations of local prog rock
          modern blues & albert king
old newsweeks
a black t shirt & blue scrubs
a folder with poems & instructional material
          the brain death protocol
a stethoscope
but why is it so heavy?
must be the hot sauce
prompty Feb 2016
As I write ifs and elses
& grab some dreams
out of the shelf,

I am struck by
a miracle with beautiful legs.

I am struck again
by a feather with a soft spring song.

And I lose my mind
to these little things that belong
to that time before summer.

The melody that echoes in my humming
and your beautiful uncompromising pace
send my spinning wheel of emotions
to never ending places.

To love you is to write you down,
word for word, until the pen loses its ink,
and another days goes by in dazes
and it could rain deserts for all I care.

All of the sudden,
my poem gets touched by other,
and that’s how poetry is made,
you see?

She lives in all of us,
somewhere, somehow,
waiting to be unfolded.

And the day will come
that the best poem will come bursting
out of an entire life of compilations.
Gabrielle F Mar 2010
love poem.

eyes sink in skull quiver
lashes feather, hands reach/check yourself/hands reach
lip on ear, lobe all flesh and sweet little hairs
tastes like:

oh god and then we were on the street
corner and the light made skeletons out of
and he clawed at me! with his drunken limbs
he swiped. put his
mouth next to mine, over mine like a palm (for the first time)

tear away, fling off

slip through space: tumble up the stairway:
heart howling: leave him
swallowing darkness in

frantic gulps.

and you dream of: your bodies
made out of words-thousands and thousands of
minute black crumbling
compilations, language is the blood.


Kiefer D McRay Feb 2013
There's an inner sinking in my ocean.
A billowing crescent, waxed devotion
Whispering within the subtleties of breath.
I believe in what will cause our death.
I believe discovering our inner selves,
In among the mixed revelations,
Dainty compilations facing dilapidation.
The many soulless miners delve deeper.
When you learn who you are past the shouts of the gods.
Shattering composure with their mighty voices.
Left to one's own devices, secreting away the factual answers.
Humans dreaming in spite of their own conscious, forever dancers.
When you learn you're like the rest, a part of the whole.
What will hold up to you? As the best, the beauty of the soul.
Arcassin B Jun 2015
By Arcassin Burnham

"Amazing Lisa"

**** all your evil intentions,
I want your love and your wishes,
Not a victim of manipulation,
But I can't control my desiring thirst for you,
Latching on quick,
Falling head over a ledge for you,
6 hours go by and you just won't shut your mouth,
But I'll stay and listen for you,
More power to you lovely one,
You deserve a ******* Oscar,
By the way how is he?,
Heard he bought you car and it was bently,
Forget that,
I'll love you gently okay,
Pull your hair,
Should I say more that I'll display,
Still don't care about all your evil intentions,
Brass decisions,
Harsh mentions,
About ******* that you work with for the moment,
Love you Lisa.


"Ghost Rider"

Muddy boots,
Biker jacket,
Flames everywhere,
Watching all my enemies seal their fates,
Like cut steak on crystal clear plates,
Wash it down with the bubbly,
Ain't a **** thing funny,
Killing you with my bare hands,
Send you back to hell with daggers all in your tummy,
Skid marks in the streets,
With a side of broken windows,
Hell coursing through my veins,
How you figured,
Step on the gas a little harder,
Due to my anger,
I hate changing into him , they see me as stranger ,
And just when you thought things in my life couldn't get any stranger,
I should have never signed the that God dammed piece of paper.


"Community Service"

Seminole stickers on the wall,
And their not even mine,
Scratching my skin,
Starry eyed at the static tv sitting on my floor,
I have no door,
So privacy is limited,
Life takes a toll,
So I gotta pay it,
Although , I don't believe everything comes with a price,
Barricading the corners of mind,
Bordem strikes hard,
Letting down all your guard,
Sometimes I wonder what It would be like to be on LSD,
Will I break into tiny glass pieces all on my mothers floor,
Enter different relms by opening doors,
Life's not easy when part from yourself,
That's why you know yourself,
To be in the comfort and arms of someone you love,
please don't kid yourself.


"Che­rish You"

So much to take,
please be awake,
Before love,
There was you,
And for that,
I cherish you,

Digital characteristic gal,
I would make you smile,
Who knew one day you'd be my pal,
And even the one,
Looking for fun,
We could see the rising of the sun,
That's today in society,
Don't care about things just the love and gleaming irony,
Screaming love me like you do when you're high!
Up in malibus,
Ripples dancing,
Making compilations,
We're not use to,
This isn't what you use to,
But there really only.....

So much to take,
please be awake,
Before love,
There was you,
And for that,
I cherish you,
Another mix of new **** lol
Steve Jan 2019
No more time left,
held back by false pretense,
suspenseful lust,
prisoners of want,
superstitious compilations,
chasing stars,
chasing freedom,
pockets of sand,
we gain all but dust,
whiskey in my veins,
pain in my heart,
my criminal soul,
****** from the start,
enter my hell,
where was god,
gaze into fear,
a broken man,
sealed my fate,
my deal with the devil,
problem child,
reckless love,
lifeless ambition,
corrupted existence,
capital sin,
unbridled resistance,
live for me,
die for me,
bleed for me,
cry for me,
make peace with death,
make war with hate,
the end is near,
except your fate
Carla Michelle Jan 2015
Fate had met me with hands drenched in blood.
I had met you with sirens wailing in your busy head,
but no, I would not let you diminish me.
I have turned you into my poetry, left and right
I am whisking away thoughts of you on pages and laptop screens,
all of which are dying.
I met you and I had already deemed myself worthy, of saving you.
I wrote you like my poetry,
saving compilations of you in different files but I know now,
it wasn't the way.
I met you and found out that saving you, like saving the Sun
from dying out one day, was not meant for my hands.
I met you, when you uttered to me "poetry is dead"

I know you.
I had known you for my poetry.
I have known you since I had the first
taste of what it feels like,
to be awake.

Now I know, poetry is dead.
You are not my poetry anymore,
for you are the
It may sound like tragedy
But beauty lies in calamity
The obstacles that test us
That make us and test our sanity

Self consciousnessness vanity
insecurities causing pressure
Forcing us to experiment with
Our limitations that help measure

What's important, what we treasure
What we sacrifice for pleasure
Giving us vision of clarity to find
What were carrying buried never

To be seen until bad weather
Makes us reach deep inside
To pull out courage that couldn't
Flourish without desperation to try

Our resilience that's why brilliance
Comes from hardships facing
Us opposed to expose weakness we
hold and learn to control making

The wrong move or fall to the
Inevitable damage inflicted
Helping us discover the strength
Covered never needing it evicted

But the loss of comfort from
bad situations start to train us to know
Our capability til like a distillery
our body produces an adrenaline buzz

That gives confidence like beer does
Like whiskey like ***
A natural substance like adderol
Now seeing the potential that some

Never uncover until there smothered
In fear nerves and sweat
Reminding you that a man
holds in his hands all he needs to stand next

To hurricanes and endure the rain
Cuz if he boards a plane and runs
He'll never know if he can survive &
if he runs the next time u come

To face fear it'll never be done
You'll always live scared your not
Able to stand your ground and reach
Deep down and evolution will stop

So sacrifice causer a loss
Is the cost of what will be found
Learn to be the master
of what happens after a disaster surrounds

Cause a master sees faster means of
recovery then goes to master these
Compilations of complication
s in the Situations of a catastrophe

And then he'll always have with him
the tools to fight Cataclysm
And learn to shape fate and hate
to tolerate misfortune like its Fascism

And by the end the little mishaps
And trials and tribulations
Will be welcome as u learn the pain
is worth the outcome&inspiration;

Not to mention the confirmation
That misfortune brings fortune
Like any adversity brings pain like
Surgery but the aftermath assuringly

Will be more asset than liability as
your left with something intangible
The knowledge that you are stronger
Than you imagined& still amicable

So charge toward fear, stand tall
Never hide or run away
Cuz unless the earth breaks
ull survive the earthquakes, and be ok

Hardships, cataclysm catastrophe
Calamity&disasters; are unusual
Cuz their misfortune brings fortune
So remember tragedy is beautiful
Nik Bland Jan 2019
She paints such things
That the world thought it knew
But in such a way
That each color, each hue
Each texture, so surreal
It transcended the real
And gave off the feel
Of Monique

Born of the embers
Of undiscovered stars
With eyes that would shine
Amidst streetlights and cars
And then outshine the day
With a brilliant array
As if this world, it spake
Of Monique

Emulating sunrises
With beauties of sunsets
A smile on her face
That no soul would forget
Each whisper a symphony
Embedded in history
The untold, renowned mysteries
Of Monique

Prophet and poet
Both will rise and will fall
The words of greats and kings
Will then fade, all in all
Yes the universe sings in praise
Compilations all raised
On the beautiful shades
Of Monique

My voice is cracking
My eyes filled with crust
These fingers will curl
As I venture to the dust
But I would wish nothing more
Than to write a score
Of the love that is stored
For Monique
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
what album?
   roxette's joyride,
esp., given the song
   watercolours in the rain...
   the song comes up
and i could stay up for the rest
of the night, and end up groggy
  hang-over the next day,
pretending vampiric eyes
behind sun-glasses...
like when i ****** her
beyond the seven
seas and the seven mountains
during a summer month
in st. petersburg's
white nights of near
alaskan 6 month period
of perpetual daylight...
asking her:
               are you satisfied?
ah... but to have made
that memory an oyster,
and kept it inside
an oyster shell,
   inside a niqab
of my own eyes peering
into it...
    and had said:
       with this deed:
the world will crumble
into english digestive biscuits
  served at 5p.m. -
and the dust of the ancients'
temple ruins...
  while shiva took my hand
into a ******* dance
for me to see his
beauty, beyond engaging
in his dance with the feminine
aspect, known
        as shiva's "twin": kali...
there, the feline's paw
treads softly, translated
as the sound of a volcano
errupting, with the sight of
mt. etna...
              the butterfly
and the hurricane to be matched.
no, there's no love
to be matched -
        ideal, it wasn't -
but in my idea of thinking,
it became an ideal -
that could never be replenished
with something worth
a parallel grandeur -
only that of my hedonism
succumbing to supra-man
   tastes for the loss of writing
inhibition upon inhibition...
what could ever await me with
  if not another claustrophobia?
not even a death among
loved ones leaves you
sharing a grave by simply
being surrounded
  by "loved" ones, upon one's final
breath, and sight of light...
we live as many men
(influences) - yet die as
solely invited architects of
fate... and toward our end,
lie, in the solid cold of
            singled out epitaphs,
even if these be as simple as:
b. 15th may 1986
      d. 22nd april 2023...
   and that, being the simplest
of all possible epitaphs,
ah... but there are simpler
ones: the unmarked grave...
of how a man's unmarked grave
could have toppled empires...
e.g. the graves of those
under the banner of
  an empire,
      e.g. the austro-hungarian.
of those bound to live and
die in the 20th century,
leaving behind the pomp & circumstance
and discomfort of music prior
to the classics...
         too many genres are
at our disposal these days
to appreciate the classics...
   too many genres are at out
            to try and return
              to the classics, or having
the tenacity to shoe-box
but one genre and join a cult
of punk, indie, or metal, or rap...
    the beatniks had their "jazzy"
   what do we have?
     a flea-market of choice...
a penny-market,
              the attention span of
a 3 minute fluster, or 10 seconds
of an agitated butterfly...
             the spoilt brats that
we are...
             if only to catch the drift
of what prog rock was...
   entire albums, rather than
to seek the diamond in the rough -
a song by whole album's consent,
slightly akin to extracting
a maxim from a 600+ page book...
rather than the horrid "ask"
of regurgitating maxim upon maxim
until the maxim in its origin
becomes a taj mahal for moths.
LDP Mar 2018
We grew up listening to fairy tales,
Hearing how good always trampled evil and that the hero of the story never failed.
Images plastered onto our neurons of a perfected society,
Told to keep our noses down and listen intently and sit quietly.
Love the girl next door,
Pick up a handsome young man from the grocery store.
These fabrications placed in our brains to infect our twisted, contracted, erupted, colorful imaginations.
We are a new breed, a new seed,
We no longer abide by rules, we write our own laws according to our own needs.
Forced to be our own protagonist,
Writing down scriptures of memories and experiences just to disapprove the antagonist.
Waving flags was a threat to legality,
But now we rep our justice in multiple forms so that we can put an end to the brutality.
We're not reckless, we're fed up!
Riots don't start from ignorance, it starts when y'all stop giving a motherfu*!!
Telling us to look the other way,
But how can we ignore it when it's happening every single day.
So we wear bandanas and gloves with skulls on them,
Because we are at war and we are ready to die with the worse of them.
Grenades turn into balled fists being thrown in the air,
And handguns become rallies and protests to stop the racial warfare.
Opinionated and ideas well contemplated,
Executing plans and ideas from years in which they were generated.
Running from the enemies that corrupted the discriminated,
But these bottles of spray cans are the art of the the blueprints that have been explicated.
Multiple indictments cause resentment,
Social Media is the outlet my Y2Ks implement.
Newspapers don't serve its purpose,
Sometimes these actions are planned but honestly we don't take the time to rehearse it.
Babies being born into an era of turmoil,
Burning buildings, trashing neighborhoods with steel rods and iron coils.
Prison yards keep being impacted with our male species,
The government isn't about the smell of freedom,
They carry a fake stench that reeks louder than feces.
So we take photographs with fashionable causes,
Expressing our mentality not trying to suffer more losses.
Strapped with IPhones and Nikons, we're ready to document history,
Women are taking on a new hierarchy that serves as an example to young girls,
Giving them the right to be intelligent and free.
We are both human contradictions and truths walking in a fleshy form not scared of battle,
Coming up with creative compilations and innovative equations to purposely make your mind rattle.
But we have heart...
Whatever we begin, we're gonna finish it from the very first start.
Disciples of the streets, ghetto, suburbia, city, poverty, free-world and religion; we are what you call complex and you might ask why,
But united we stand...fearless full of ambition...
Welcome to Generation Y.
Jenny Mar 2018
don’t question it

the sky is blanketed in gray
its days like these that i feel the emptiness
the black hole that has made its home in the pit of my stomach
I can feel it physically
like something is missing where my large intestines used to be
or maybe i feel it in my heart
my pulse is fast, but I feel slow
My friends tell me that I think too much
I’m too sensitive
i work too hard
are they right?
does it matter?
and now I’m questioning everything
what is beyond our life?
what is beyond my knowledge?
am I educated?
and does the limit exist?
and why does it ******* matter
why does a letter
on my report card
mean so much to me?
I find myself obsessed with percentages
A minus versus A
why does it matter?
why am i frustrated over homework
and as i stand in the shower
letting the water hit my back
I feel so…
so i pass my time with homework
with vine compilations on youtube
but i still feel the darkness
the emptiness
in the back of my head
as i lay on my side staring at the wall
the voices in my head
is too loud
but I’m the only one who can hear it
“will you ever be good enough?”
“what is good enough?”
“what does your future hold?”
looking into my future is like looking over the ledge of a cliff
a plummet into darkness
just like the space in my head
so i don’t think
i don’t think other than the math equations
or the final projects
or the translation exercises
as long as the music in my ears are louder than the voices
i can convince myself this is what will fill the emptiness
at least I won’t have questions to ask
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
in zee olden days of
a ****** megastore
on oxford st.,
    just beside
the Tottenham Court Rd.
tube station...
    for all those who loved
   even the classical
music section, sealed,
behind glass doors...
and those music stations
where you could
listen to an album
before buying it...
  i'm pretty sure i bought
dry **** logic's
the darker side of nonsense...
based on?
    the song asphalt...
and godhead's
album 2000 years of human
    decent times,
there was actually a point
to go to a major high street,
and forage,
  while the girls were buying
clothes and shoes and
         it was always,
from the 3rd party sellers,
always on the discount,
thomas mann's
doctor faustus?
   had to be
       bought second hand...
HMV? it's still there,
on oxford st.,
       but ****** had class...
a rare experience...
      esp. the listening stations,
you'd forage for an album,
ask the technician to put it on,
listening to it...
  and boom!
   into your pocket...
i still remember Sony's mini-discs...
i still remember making
cassette compilations...
   and that strange form of labor
of having to rewind,
   a sound as unique
as the static of pre-digital television...
the noise from the vacuum
of the universe -
  apparently considered to
be the sound, a remnant of
the big bang...
             so... youtube -
         ****... they take the music
shops away...
      i guess youtube was always
about listening to music
before buying an physical compact
disc copy...
              ah... this one
incident bothers me...
   at the still (don't ask me how)
existing Romford HMV...
    i actually had
       a copy of foals
album holy fire in my hand...
but... ****! i didn't buy it!
no listening station...
     only after having watched
dr. foster (a BBC drama)
did i hear foals' song
         my number...
and this is a quasi-nostalgia:
with a drag-along effect -
   given that...
      certain aspects of the 2000s
had to be, re-improvised.
Ademar Jr Jan 2020
Creation, Collision 3 words that Tooke in action
An essay too long needing summarization
Needing an answer to my series of questions
Failures, A failed fantasy to such relaxation
My reflection, your heart's coronation
Has turned to something that felt like a failed mission.
It was my lost, it was an hallucination
That caused me a breakdown to an imagination.
Your the person, not wanting a confrontation
My sensations, here now suffering complications
My feelings, losing hope and applications
Discrimination, for our hearts resulted in elimination
Frustration, these mentalities turning to collections
Memories and compilations, now considered a destination
For such destruction, a simple devastation
Explanations, never fitted in our sights fascination
The stars we used to chase, now exploded in constellations
You're better off without me in your lonely mansion,
Our tensions, just keeps getting higher everyday as
Ambitions of ours slowly fades away.
Your goodbye left me with no continuation,
Argued words and misinterpretation,
Pulls us farther from interaction.
My faction, broken down without an inspiration
To a guy lonely before their intersections
It covered my emotions' population
Consumption, in this heart of mine you captured
Interests going really but only a fracture
Broken down it's potential adventure
For the word of yours' had made me colder
Shamai Nov 2018
Coming together to make sure
That everyone is safe
And happy
And supported
In their life choices

Family can come
From a variety of compilations
Not always blood related
But heart related
And willing to take the step
To compassion and caring

A unit of love

Family as one
Coming together in love
Holy unity

— The End —