"comprising" poems
Games between Earth and another space world
But it’s Level 2 through 5 in swirl
Various games testing your ability to win
‘It’s all levels calling the stops at the very end
The wrong Earth message sent to unknown space
It’s the Earth from the outer world of space who wants to erase
It’s the video games of commerce and the Earth responding in defense
Strategy with a theory of game perfection
Knowledge with the power in how one will win
It’s was all the past thinking comprising from then
Level’s up and talent of one’s hands
Video movement and watching with keen control commands
Making elevating scores being a caravan
Earth being on an objective move
The other world with wizardry in fool on the top of being cruel
Professional video game players becoming their own challenge in saving the world
The outer world being defeated and their resources depleted
A delete on the outer world terms
Think positive in knowing you have achieved and the welcomed honor to proceed
Video games being one’s pure success, but those who can conquer are the masters who are the best.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
Imagine a world with no discrimination
A world living in harmony comprising of peaceful nations
The only colour reference would be made to nature
Humans will no longer be judged on their nomenclature
Such is a dream seen by all
But Sir Mandela was the one who took the call
On July 18, 1918, a hero was born
But due to his colour all everyone did was scorn
No one in his family had ever attended school
He was the first one to break this rule
On the first day of school their teacher gave them an English name
This was an African custom due to British bias – how mundane
And that is how Nelson became his first name
He kept it even after he shot to fame
A member of the African National Congress
He gave his opponents a reason to stress
A great politician, revolutionist, lawyer and philanthropist
Served 27 years in jail but never used his fist
Although a controversial figure for most of his life
He won the Nobel Peace Prize for ending the South African apartheid strife
On December 5, 2013, this giant passed away
The things that we can learn from him are a lot more than I can say
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 10:30 AM UTC
Don't you chirp at me.
Eyes closed, the sun stabs her in the mouth.
The taste of fear fills her face as everything come back;
she vomits a good while,
memories stirring and playing themselves in the tune of a forgotten sea
(cause times are changing and that's just what they do).
spit. trust. trust. spit.
Waves crashing against a wall of recollection in a way
that is meant to be kept for the punitive and the exiled.
The train blares outside somewhere
fuzzy focus dissipates quickly
and this slowly comprising function of clarity
comes to a screeching halt as it begins to pour in.
In some state of bewildered entitlement
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 2:40 AM UTC
Did you know the East Indian Bottle Masala includes as many as 27 spices, or that an oil-free pickle served at their weddings is actually known as Wedding Pickle?
These and many such authentic East Indian masalas and pickles are available at East Indian Cozinha (Portuguese for kitchen), a food store started by Christina Kinny at Kolovery Village in Kalina, Santacruz. "I started East Indian Cozinha with an attempt to preserve and highlight our cuisine and culture," says the 24-year old, who has studied Masters in Social Work and currently, works with an enterprise that helps tribal farmers.
What’s in store?
Going back 500 years, the East Indian cuisine enjoys influences from Portuguese, British and Maharashtrian fare. The staples include rice, coconut, tamarind, fish and meats, with spices forming an integral part of the cuisine. For instance, Prawn Atola is a dry dish comprising prawns coated only with Vindaloo Masala featuring Kashmiri chilli, cumin and turmeric. "Most people from our community were farmers and would be out on field all day. So, the masalas and lemon would help preserve their food for a longer time," reasons Kinny.
At present, the store stocks six varieties of masala in 100g bottles (R150 onwards). These include Khuddi or Bottle Masala, Chinchoni (fish) Masala, Vindaloo Masala, Roast Rub, Kujit Masala and Tem Che Rose. She also offers Wedding Pickle, an oil-free variety prepared with raw papaya, carrots and dry dates. "All the recipes have been passed on from generations and are homemade," she informs.
However, making the masalas is no cakewalk. "It takes three days to dry spices under the sun. Then, we hand pound them and pack them tightly in bottles with wider openings," says Kinny. She recalls that in her grandmother’s time, the masalas were tightly stuffed in beer bottles. The bottles were darker, and hence, helped preserve the masala for at least a year, at room temperature.
Lugra love
East Indian Cozinha also stocks traditional 10-yard saris known as lugras. These are hand embroidered by Kinny’s mother, Carol. Previously made only from cotton with authentic gold borders, now, lugras are embroidered with sequins and threads. "She has been in the garment industry for the last 30 years. She also makes traditional accessories like kapotas (earrings), karis (hair pins), anklets, etc," informs Kinny.
read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses
www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 1:52 AM UTC
The great Mughal emperor of 16th century,
He died of multiple ***** failure,
Comprising of the heart as well as others.
They say that he loose motioned his way to death,
Then the ancient emperor had got a heart seizure.
Dysentery had made the dying emperor weaker.
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 5:23 AM UTC
Let’s take a silver train underground
to the back streets of Atlantis
thru the corrugated iron roots &
then to the peak itself, to the
saddle of the last ridge past strewn
boulders,
finally meandering thru cascading snow
wearing miner’s hats on the perpendicular
dark night &
going up to the edge of the Southern Cross
where we reach at last the pure white
glistening glaciers &
begin to chant over bones in rags
of Scorpio
Armless in the sticky substance how could
they ever have had a chance?
Permission will not be required
only poems of blood offered to
the memory of TREE
It is not ice which is eternal
but the fury of the absolute
separating the void from the spirit
of man,
uplifting like life when it is used
against itself,
that is, Radical Love -- & again, we
are reduced to living beings
Caught by the instant
we are taken away
We live in the imprint of the flame
& we are helmeted within the internal
blackness
where the ray begins its passage
across the indignant sky
Vain clouds uncaring in a tangle of
crossbeams
culminate in the hermaphroditic mirror
of the epileptic dancer
asleep
And during sleep
the light is joined
to the light
It is all a matter of getting up
and then to abandon the pain
It is there that the journey beings
in the self generated flame of
Spontaneous Combustion
(Swayambhunath)
The main line running counter
to the triangle comprising the
MAELSTROM, the DOLDROMS & the
SARGASSO SEA where sleeping Atlanteans
dream forever,
this line, this battlefield of the ages,
crosses the divide of my most wandering
backdoor heart.
We will all have to go
if we want to reappear
in the rhythm of the ritual
It’s the wheel of fools spinning
over my bed
If I put my left foot first
they will find a way to call me
by that name
tracking tremors
like glyphs
on drunken walls
in the negative palace
just before taking eave
of my senses
the white powder dissolves
in the sunlight
& making noise like a peacock
he hops on one foot up the mountain.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 4:07 PM UTC
In the shadows of the walls
where laughter once reverberated
as a symphony of gleeful bliss,
intonational inclines arise in the dark
as dancing phantoms haunt
the smirking silence which dissipates
from the splotched, upended floorboards,
while midnight footprints breathlessly creak,
cradling the demonizing affirmations whispered,
the very ones I knew would never become true.
We stood by, powerlessly spectating
as the love we once shared
gasped for air, red in the face,
its gushing carotid bulging in desperation,
four lungs incinerating themselves
with imminent anticipation
of the death gleaming
just over the horizon,
its violet hues juxtaposing
with the glimmering night skies
of faded constellations comprising the celestial
as moonlit silhouettes waltzed across the water,
a bright cerulean rippling in our presence,
the genesis of a journey unforeseen.
Brutal acceptance rains from my eyes,
a rumbling river that reigns supreme
over the rounded stones stacked high
as a towering dam of branches and rubble,
leftover waste long forgotten and forlorn;
hometown fantasies of childhood memories
linger longer than our lost loyalty,
liberating me from the rusted chains
you'd stapled into my brittle bones,
a leash tied tightly around my throat
to **** me from my courageous caution
back into the splintered wheel
dictating our selfish agendas,
empty promises of dilapidated affirmations
now turned weary and worn
with this newfound sense of reflection,
a dichotomy depicting time's own passage,
the consequence of a metamorphic resolution
of open wounds blossoming into eroded scars.
Futuristic visions of lesions now mended
seamlessly fuse with renewed self-reception,
your broken promises stitched with the threads
ripped from the capillaries comprising my core,
blood-stained carpet of scarlet and crimson
fading into an aged and weathered maroon,
never truly waning in its acquainted pigment
yet blossoming into a stained fabric
portraying the promises of the past,
of decayed ruins now industriously erected
into a radiant utopia of gallant, rubious valor,
the final product of an unyielding resolve
to have our story rewritten, our own steadfast evolution.
Jan 6, 2024
Jan 6, 2024 at 6:24 PM UTC
Feet. Gnarled, scabbed and bent at the bone. Where‘s the beauty? I look at my toenails, my arms around my knees, as tears roll down and hit the sidewalk. The splash is exciting, and a thousand images come to mind.
I stand as I take in everything around me, savoring each breath, watching the colors enter my mouth.
The wind. It’s colorful here. Rolling rainbows of blues and greens and reds caress the buildings around me. It’s astounding when it blows.
Last week, the sun exploded into a thousand little ***** of light and they float around me now, serene and inert. Only when I walk do those in my path slowly twirl out of my way.
Slowly, slowly. As if they are moving through gelatin, as if they are slightly begrudged that I‘m counteracting their inertia.
I know that this is beauty. It is beauty that is this place. I would give up every element comprising my being to have this beauty with me when I leave, but I know I can’t overstay my welcome.
I place my foot onto a step behind me and I walk up. There is a balcony above me where I bring my camera. I sit on this ledge and I let my feet hang over and I try to capture everything this beauty is.
But it can’t be done. I have tried so many times to take this place, to put it in my pocket. But it can’t be done. No matter how many times I try, or how many ways I turn my camera, I can’t capture it.
I set the camera down after a couple minutes and I look to my left. A little ball of sun is floating beside my head. I stick a finger out to poke it and, as if by a magnetic field, it slowly pushes itself back when I am but a mere inch away. I try again, and fail. I put both hands out, cupping, as if to net it. I miss, and we play this game for a while.
But the suspense goes nowhere, and the ball of sun finally anticlimactically slips a few feet away. Disappointed, I stand up and walk slowly down the steps, my hand on the edge of the wall next to me.
The suns begin to lose their brightness, and I know it is time for me to go. I’m almost sad, knowing that I won’t see beauty like this until the next time I am able to return here.
Almost. This place is so great, so majestic, I can’t help but leave with a sense of pride, knowing I am privileged enough to come here.
With a final look back, I take in the glow of the setting ***** of sun against the background of the wind. I hesitate at the bridge, to put my hair back up into a ponytail. I slip back into my sneakers and I put on my lip gloss. I’m ready to go back to the side of the world from which I came.
I have to catch my breath as I prepare myself for the world I’m returning to. I breathe in deeply, and I look down, at my feet. Gnarled, scabbed, and bent at the bone. Where’s the beauty?
I take a reluctant, mournful step onto the bridge
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 10:52 PM UTC
I have written poems about rising.
It’s a good subject for poets.
Isn’t a poem itself a rising?
We spend much time revising
what we write and what we do.
There are so many good words ending in izing.
I could write a whole poem
using words symbolizing
so much of life -
it’s absolutely tantalizing.
I watch and read about all the polarizing.
It is a cool oasis lingering here
synchronizing
my words with my feelings and thoughts
realizing the heart of who I really am
comprising ways of saying my truth
without moralizing.
At times it is agonizing -
all this analyzing
how I belong and how I don’t
if I’ll join others or if I won’t.
I look at that guy Jesus
and how so many obsess
about his blood and sacrifice
all the while not recognizing
it’s not so much about our sins
and his need to atone as it is
about the good he did
who he sat with and loved,
the seeds he sowed
who he stopped to touch
on the side of the road.
I find obsessions with power
really unappetizing.
I’d rather spend my time rising
from darkness into light
or embracing my sadness, exercising
and emphasizing what is energizing.
When I do that, it is quite surprising
how creative my muse is helping ME
to also rise.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
oh once upon a time i found a soulmate,
filled my heart, it overflowed, i drowned
so deep to ocean's floor i simply died,
translated to the heavens of the skies,
though years, it was a drop in ocean's depth,
that we would be together in our bond,
against all my beliefs and thoughts it broke,
oh yes, so possible, it truly did,
she changed and fell right through the floor of glass,
past clouds and vanished to the earth below,
so mortified to stone i followed suit
and landed in an open grave closed shut,
to my surprise a new love, moschiach,
did resurrect me from my stateless tomb,
and showed me things i'd missed from my dear love
long past but not forgotten in the mind,
yet she could not accompany me there
upon the clouds in steps rising to sky,
for she was chained to one some distance off,
and she was his, and though our hearts be tuned,
we could not mesh and cleave into one flesh,
yet showed me soulmates are not one for one,
for there must always be another one
somewhere in space and time, like us, like this,
and now standing before my former grave,
with hope for life yet hopeless in my search,
should i climb down and sleep or walk a path?
a path to where? to whom? now death, now life...
and so i wait, eternity if must
be done, somehow, for here alone i can't,
an oddity among the pairing souls,
comprising all that heaven's meaning is
(C)2012, Christos Rigakos
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 5:20 PM UTC
Like a designer drug
An electronic message from you
Via a cellular phone
comprising of dull text
With no promise of a lengthy dialogue
And a somewhat dismissive connotation
Leaves me strung-out
And like my tipple
Gin and peach juice
Leaves me blisteringly intoxicated and crazed
In sheer shock
I then detonate
Like those chemical experiments done by the scientists in the laboratories of research
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 1:02 PM UTC
Poetry is written art
or spoken words from the heart.
I've brought a different outlook
composed inside my poetry book.
With every word comprising lines
I've spent a lot of emphasis and time.
Continuously growing and planting seeds
producing poems I'd love to read.
You may decide to critique
but you can't deny that it is unique.
You can't deny it is written well
even if it is controversial.
I know that you will fall in love
with the style and humor displayed above.
I instill personality
in each and all of my poetry.
I want my books to demonstrate
the thoughts I've longed to captivate.
To show my thinking cap is on
and take the market by a storm.
I wish for it to comfort you
until As I See It, part 2.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 12:46 AM UTC
India is our country
And we are told
It's a great country
However, I beg to differ
Rather, we are sold
The idea of an utopian nation
A country with a myriad variety of cultures
Races, religions and languages
United by a common feeling of brotherhood
However, look beneath the hood
And the idea implodes spectacularly
Crumbling in a heap
Instead, emergeth a divide so deep
That it can be bested not
Even by the mighty Pacific Ocean
Truth be told, we are but a Hindu nation
In all but name
Instead, we put the blame
For all our evils
On the British, one day
And the Mughals, the very next day
While more and more blood spills
In the name of religion and caste
How long will this last?
India is our country
And as per the Constitution
All Indians are our brothers and sisters
However, if you use your imagination
Understand, you will
That this is just a facade
Designed to protect our international image
As you turn page after page
Of our so-called glorious history
Emergeth the true picture
A land comprising thousands of castes
Fighting each other since the beginning of time
Something that would put to shame
Even the fickle-minded Romans
During the reign of Julius Caesar
We Indians are indeed pathetic humans
Falling like nine pins
At the slightest hint of pressure
While boasting about past wins
That no longer matter
India is our country
And a time there was
When, a proud Indian I was
However, passed have light years, since then
Oppressed, have been our women
More so, those who are underprivileged
Brahmins, were the rapists of Bilkis Bano
And hence, did they go unpunished
Meanwhile, ***** by the Indian Army
Are the women of Kashmir and the North Eastern states
For which, not a single mainstream feminist bothers to show even the slightest sign of empathy
Something that truly makes my blood boil
Even as hundreds of wrongdoers get bail
Because, our justice system is an epic fail
On the other hand, you have innocent people
Languishing in jail for ages
Because nobody bothers to turn the pages
Of the Constitution of India
Yes, India is our country indeed
But patriots we are, no longer
Because, ultimately, humanity is stronger
A field where India can never take the lead
Yes, Indians we are
However, humans we are first
Dec 9, 2023
Dec 9, 2023 at 2:01 AM UTC
Give me the chance
To show you how to paint the wind.
We’ll be streaked in marigold and
Calypso blue, acrylic staining our
Hands and our faces and our legs and
Our lips.
Give me the chance
To teach you constellations at night.
I’ll point them out for you, each
Star comprising Orion, or Cygnus, or
My favorite, the Little Dipper;
We can trace them all with
Our fingertips.
Give me the chance
To dance with you in the rain.
Water droplets glistening in hair,
Lashes, as we twirl silly in
These sopping clothes— still tight,
Our grip.
Give me the chance.
Give me the chance
To whisper something in your ear.
A delicate sensation, like lace or
Light embrace, my words
Fluttering into your mind like
The butterflies we caught when
We were kids.
Give me the chance
To look at you a little longer than I’m supposed to.
I’d forget I was staring and then you’d
Turn towards me and I’d turn
Mad red because I was caught, and so I’d think to myself,
“Look what you did.”
Give me the chance
To get lost in your voice.
Language becomes a different entity when you speak;
The way your words wrap around me is
Mesmerizing, and each cadence strikes some
Chord deep within me that I thought
I hid.
Give me the chance
To ensconce myself in your heart.
I know I am small, and obscure, and odd, but
You are a Divine Truth, and before you
I knew only lies, and deceptions, and a bland and colorless world which now
You have blessed.
Give me the chance
To think about you every hour of every ******* day;
My entire being revolves around your existence and
Your beauty and your overwhelming goodness and
I try to stop but
These thoughts will never cease because you are you and
I am obsessed.
Give me the chance
To love you with every fragment of my heart.
Give me the chance.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 7:01 AM UTC
There’s something interesting to notice
When one shares their poems
Out there
For one and all to see
There are certain patterns
Certain people
That read certain poetry
When I write short, sweet, to the point
Two lines
Or three
Certain people flock
When I write long
With depth, almost like a story
Others stalk
Then when I let out my inner cynic,
Try something new
Rant out my views
I get a whole nother crowd all together
Comprising sometimes, those from the former two as well
Some go for depressing,
Trying to find someone who matches
Their own soulful nature
Others would rather settle
For some lighthearted fun
And still yet more
Would choose something else
And I wonder how do you choose
How do you pick amongst the multitudes?
Do you even care?
Or is it what’s right in front of your eyes?
Perhaps it’s based on what you like to write?
What you’d like to do?
What you’d like to be?
Who you’d like to be?
Is there even an answer key?
Is there ever?
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 6:10 PM UTC
I am liberated,
Though still under ownership of the master class.
I am free to think, to express.
My limbs are bound to the path by regulations and expectations.
But my eye is free to wander as it pleases,
Because I've allowed myself to look beyond the road we walk on.
To the left of it,
to the right.
Tilting my head toward the sun, I see only energy in the form of flames.
A sign to me that the tiny bit of energy comprising myself is capable of being much more than what it is in this moment.
This is something I needed to know,
those walking beside me must be told.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 10:06 AM UTC
769
One and One—are One—
Two—be finished using—
Well enough for Schools—
But for Minor Choosing—
Life—just—or Death—
Or the Everlasting—
More—would be too vast
For the Soul’s Comprising—
900
Benign baleful dreams
pervading sense awaken arousal,
destructive in fruitful essence
of times eternal ocean of silence;
a majestic magnitude of heavens legions
felled as stars blossom like roses
in the night sky.
Amorous passion playing
with shadows; climbing
the stairs of heavens turmoil
like a ladder descending upon
a vast forest of emotions,
the angelic spirit of deception;
swarming like maggots untoward
the sulpherous adamantine
gates of a new order,
dropping like flies unto
the volcanic ash of chaos.
Efficacious mezmerisation
comprising invunerable exaltation,
numinous effacement
corrupting the truth of
unimaginable fear,
torterous pity bore by
innocense; lost denouncing
their creator.
Succumbing, a subdued debauch
ambassador of hope;
proscribed as the moon replaces the sun,
defiant; belief vanquished-
desire unrequited.
ELEETE J MUIR
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 12:41 AM UTC
i exist in the depths of solitude
pondering my true goal
trying to find peace of mind
and still preserve my soul
constantly yearning to be accepted
and from all receive respect
never comprising but sometimes risky
and that is my only regret
a young heart with an old soul
how can there be peace
how can i be in the depths of solitude
when there are two inside of me
this duo within me causes
the perfect oppurtunity
to learn and live twice as fast
as those who accept simplicity
- Tupac Shakur
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 6:22 AM UTC
Earth's mistress moon and glorious master sun,
from whither is it that they both have come?
Hovering around in the sky during night and day,
how is it that they both have been placed that way?
Playing it seems opposite roles to our mind's eye,
yet shedding light and warmth down from up high.
One is the mere reflection and also shade of the other,
relaying light in degrees for the days of month to cover.
Then disappearing briefly at the end of this cycle
only to appear again looking no more than a trifle.
The moon revolves around the earth
which itself revolves around the sun,
But what does the sun revolve around?
All the heavenly bodies indicate movement and rotation,
this is common knowledge and is based on observation.
There is a cycle that resembles the four seasons of the year
made up of four different ages lasting thousands of years.
Each has an effect on the state and evolution of man's mind,
moving from light to darkness and then back again over time.
Modern science will eventually prove all this one day,
as it gradually moves from darkness to light on its way.
If man's mind is stooped in ignorance and cannot discern the light,
modern science itself is at a standstill; progress is groping for sight.
The four ages are those of Light, Thought, Energy and Matter.
Each one preceeds the other and are all contained in one cycle,
which lasts for about twenty-four thousand of our earth years.
As the sun also revolves around on its orbit in space
it comes closer at times to its orbital centre in place.
This movement resembles a giant ascending and descending arc
in which all the four ages mentioned alternate from light to dark.
Each arc has a lifespan of approximately twelve thousand years
and each arc incorporates the four ages comprising this sphere.
At opposite ends of the sphere the first and last ages are twice their length
moving each from minimum to maximum effect and back again in strength.
Those ages in between have each their duration which should be noted too
playing their roles in this cyclic transition affecting everyone including you.
As each cycle is completed, passing through these four ages,
man's consciousness and history undergo dramatic changes;
one has only to reflect on the rise and fall of past civilisations.
We have just come through a short transitional phase from a long dark age of matter
and are now on the ascending arc early in the electrical age also called that of energy.
___________________________________
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 4:50 PM UTC
rest of title...Parkland, Fla.,February 14, 2018
One more senseless mass homicide
twas the sole arbitrary aim
as a former student nonchalantly
sauntered empty hallways
seconds preceding blame
brazenly intent to maximize total killed
matter of factly telling police
(his incomprehensible)
(ill) logic he did explain
when cornered, he willingly,
unflinchingly, reticently admitted guilt
Nikolas Cruz rocketed
to instantaneous infamous fame
pulling a fire alarm
("FAKE") emergency,
then going leisurely ambling
along his killing spree
total of seventeen slain (comprising 3 faculty
and 14 students)
mercilessly gunned down
as if they were wild game
when handcuffed, an innocuous
19 year old did readily admit
emptying one firearm after another
at a fairly rapid clip
then at some predestined
or spurious moment didst dip
and dive out amidst
the chaotic madding crowd
before reality flopped then did flip
as lower teeth he nervously bit upper lip
made feeble getaway
at a nearby eatery casually flirted
with cashier and made no move to flit
upon his seizure as cornered prey
subsequently large tract
massively cordoned off
strong arm of the law
slightly halting in speech
detailed his gambit
deliberately staking
a stance to maximize hit
and once again afflicted parents lit
up with rancor and rage pit
toughly battling sorrow
which will not quit
til death doth bring peaceful rest
sans, those grieving family visit.
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 7:18 PM UTC
Like an old cushion
Whose stuffing you removed
Excepts its me
Just a few ***** of fluff
Clinging to the inside corners
Comprising my soul
Forced up against the stitching
Very Old Stitching
Ready to break and cast
The remainder of me out
But for the moment
For a long moment
The half empty pillow of me
Still offers a cozy worn velour exterior
To those who like that sort of thing.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 12:50 PM UTC
interlocking Complex(cities)
a fortunate mixed complexion
comprising of liberating schemes.
the unnatural routine
followed by beings with hindered genes
i see them upload themselves in a virtual scene.
i look up to them, twice
binocular vision
remix the visuals with binaural beats
to keep me levitating
before breaking into a fragmented
piece.
they’ve preached their nuisance to me
i’ve definitely caught an anomaly
i’ve heard them fabricating speech into something humble and noble
i’ll wait till it’s my turn to be
insidious
i’ll spit radiation like Chernobyl
to obliterate the ever growing regime.
molecular regain
they speak up to my senses
to attain the consent of the
eternal and beyond
with an upright movement
momentum i gain
from forthcoming sonder
while wandering down to the streets
you’re listening to city dreams
lean back, chime in
with psychedelic scenes
peripheral context
sidetracked to prevent hindrance
from the beings that are of obscene nature
i’ve seen a lot of those
nurturing themselves
by ******* onto the future
still stuck up on the yet coming past
trying to get grips on the titular concept
there’s authority with the ones who kept it flowing
rugged strength no guffawing
headed straight to the delirious ends of the rope
always falling but never out of hope
the stream that quenches the guilt of those
showing up with guns just to pinch a loaf
exterior combats
come back to the present
im here to steal the philosopher’s stone
getting ****** just to soar
above the stratosphere
i went straight out of the blue sphere
where i got to see the blues that fill up the majority of the crust
****** back to my grounds
the velocity burned my rust
thats a leap higher than the nukes
you trust
get to my location
ask the Everest where im at
it’ll point up to me and i’ll wave back
but there’s a truth thats yet to be told
i held the meeting of gods that weren’t sold
nobody showed up
neither the young nor the old
except avowed fakes that claim to be woke
Sep 1, 2020
Sep 1, 2020 at 1:19 AM UTC
I exist in the depths of solitude
pondering my true goal
trying to find peace of mind
and still preserve my soul
constantly yearning to be accepted
and from all receive respect
never comprising but sometimes risky
and that is my only regret
a young heart with an old soul
how can there be peace
how can I be in the depths of solitude
when there are two inside of me
this duo within me causes
the perfect opportunity
to learn and live twice as fast
as those who accept simplicity
Dec 17, 2011
Dec 17, 2011 at 6:08 PM UTC