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And who shall care for that o'er which you weep
Or share the burden of this world's foredoom
Seen starkly? Behold, a haunting specter creeps
Among the binding fates spun on life's loom.
You’ll wake them not to that great misery
Which emptiness of pride has reckless wove
But pluck the web for loss and trembling
Of idols in the soul for which they strove.
Put off your glossy youth and early oaths
Devout nativity; raise up your cup
To ***** Lethe and thunder with the strokes
Of fury, treading out the ripened sup!
They will not bear to flay their sacred cows
But shades of death endure and prostrate bow.

Ages in their veins, more raging, whirl
As titanic potentials’ dreadful might
Turns girl to boy, conversely boy to girl
Unlimbing reason for unreason's fright.
That once gone right, here deftly ventures left
As self-conception staggers to its doom
Bursting the bonds of day and night, distressed
With desperate grasping measures, late and soon.
So set on generation's awesome curve
Of ageless heart and mind, how shall they bear
The die they cast at first when madly swerved
Into contesting congresses of care?
Dividing parts, dissolving in the same
The common wealth, no part the whole maintains.

Boast of the times and gilded privilege
Are these pretended guardians of State
Whose politics of power have sought to bank
Their future 'gainst dissenting arguments.
With rhetoric to foist a brave new age
They come as chaos mages on the brink
Of all disposing will, all ends betrayed
To serve their corporations’ nod and wink.
Auctioning the world, their goods are sold
Commercially with avaricious might
That sanctions lust, in quest of pyrite gold
And pirate earnings, staked upon deceit.
At last, the men of mock integrity
Luring the world to covert slavery!

Hurrah, the master men and lords of time-
From time brought forth, they are the world's latest
Whose overweening strut is in the best
Of culminating age, the mind refined!
Now to and fro they go, their lists increased
With every tally; line for line computes
Their beads of enterprise, the while relieved
Of tribulation, fate of hapless dupes.
Learning is theirs, precepts are theirs to bend;
Lawyers, clerics, politicians rest
Upon this pillar; they can split or mend
The finest lines; no guile their thoughts distress.
Step by step they round the universe
And finite lies to infinite converse!

What pride of theirs that strains for fleeting fame
Seeking to wrest from time the wasting plaque
Of recognition, host to every hack
That postures on the stage of the obscene!
Pretending worth, their practiced scripts dispose
In mocking light an empty dignity
While darkening intents; witless disclosed
On lips and brow their self-important glee.
As if full-wrought by truth's heroic wing
Their pride aspires; on vain conceits they soar
Up through the mist while private songs they sing
In self-made praise for deeds of phantom lore.
From belfries of the schools, in broken flight
They shriek away, hell's banshees of the night!

These timely wise, entranced of mind, decree-
Hear all you simple what we shall disclose
Which craft of our discernment is repose
Of wealth in understanding mastery.
A gift to all, these rich-invested beings
Pretending to resolve profundities
Decoct the world with learned fluency
Of torture ways, all gnostic knots untied.
A flair for comedy, their gelded self
Mounts every snorting bore of certainty
Then armchair resting, pants to yet indulge
Another ******* idol’s reckless scheme.
Some stowaways upon the open seas
And polished sextants of academe!

Here is their derogation, born from creeds
Of judgment in self-righteous confidence
That proves for nothing to the innocent
But swamps life's refugees with cruel conceit.
With ages they have built the edifice
Of dogma; every pit and lion’s maw
Is their contraption, set in consciousness
Of the condemning letter of their laws.
Cunning serpents, masquerading doves
They fashion argument, more vicious wrought
With rationales to blacklist those who strove
To flee their institutions’ heinous plot.
Enamored with a fascist benefit
The systems of the world they implement!

Fanatic men, how bold they tempt the fates
That meet to each the fruits of brutish will
Redoubled, which they’ve spent in kind to date
Upon their brothers, sisters…other self.
They make an estimation, rule the span
Between men; lord over equity
With zero tolerance and brazen hand
To smash upon their consanguinity.
Such is the wicked priesthood’s confidence
In its own judgment, ever owning not
The wrong condemned in others, deep dispensed
To every heart, from roots of life begot.
More wretched they, and haunted with the shame
Of hypocrites, bedeviled by the same!

O law of learning, sum of thinkers' best
Now magnified, ensconced upon the power
Of natal worth and privileged social dower;
Once ruled by you, the Earth pleads for redress.
No scruple sought, no reservation found
To staunch against your certifying will
Which point of iron stylus now furrows
The world at large as object for the ****.
So cart away your pleading victim, mired
In ****** wallows of concupiscence
And grace deny, self-dubbed the doubtless squire-
Errant usurper of the human quest.
How dignified, the rake of your ambition
That promises continual division!
Paul Butters Feb 2015
We friended on Facebook,
Scrolled down our profile pages.
Lived together in a virtual world.
Our images and websites we shared
With Instagram incisiveness.

Meet all my friends.
Block any you do not like.
All busy we are, doing nothing.
Like if you agree.

Laptops were not enough.
Users subscribed to Smartphones,
Iphones, and God knows what.
Google them if you wish.

And if you like my words
Retweet them.
But beware!
I now use words like lol,
And even ***!
Hehe.

Sometimes I multitask,
Flicking TV channels
Like a Subbuteo striker –
Gone virtual by now I guess.
Flicking and flipping while I scroll
My laptop page.

I make new tabs
As I message many friends:
Emoticons exploding
All along the way.

I’m Tivo-boxing clever
All the time,
King of my domain.

So get your VDU lit up
And monitor my words.
Download my thoughts
Into your memory banks.

I hope this all computes.

Paul Butters
Even Shakespeare couldn't use this language!!!
70

“Arcturus” is his other name—
I’d rather call him “Star.”
It’s very mean of Science
To go and interfere!

I slew a worm the other day—
A “Savant” passing by
Murmured “Resurgam”—”Centipede”!
“Oh Lord—how frail are we”!

I pull a flower from the woods—
A monster with a glass
Computes the stamens in a breath—
And has her in a “class”!

Whereas I took the Butterfly
Aforetime in my hat—
He sits ***** in “Cabinets”—
The Clover bells forgot.

What once was “Heaven”
Is “Zenith” now—
Where I proposed to go
When Time’s brief masquerade was done
Is mapped and charted too.

What if the poles should frisk about
And stand upon their heads!
I hope I’m ready for “the worst”—
Whatever prank betides!

Perhaps the “Kingdom of Heaven’s” changed—
I hope the “Children” there Won’t be “new fashioned” when I come—
And laugh at me—and stare—

I hope the Father in the skies
Will lift his little girl—
Old fashioned—naught—everything—
Over the stile of “Pearl.”
Left Foot Poet Jan 2019
"Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Farewell: my blessing season this in thee!"
                                                          ­Polonius (Hamlet)
~~~
read these words in a past, as a punk teenager,
back in the mid-you-wouldn't-believe-it-flintztone-age
returned to them, nowadays
when I am seven by ten decades squared, older not wiser

three people told me
what a lucky man I am today,


Even before the noon hour dare arrive,
a shocking delivered by an electrocardio telegram,
thus instigating a product recall of Shakespeare’s blessing season,
drawn from a stale teenage memory storage fast depleting

"This above all: to thine ownself be true"
which denies the false escape
of being false to any human

ingesting this thrice lucky man observation
into the internal inward-facing telescoping observatory,
where I map the true course of the
star-stories
well held in the constellations of my life,
never forgetting that this holistic ecosystem that is my
mind~body must evaluate the truth of this claim

its veracity will differ when assayed by
the big toe of my left foot from whence the poetry comes,
as well as those other interfering guys,
body, mind, heart and soul,
then re-evaluated by the internecine warring of those whiny parts,
the tongue, the hands, the eyes saying me, me,
that perforce means a dynamic constant changing
of every thing

in other words,
thine own truths are fluidity ever changing,
the mapping of your blessings,
best done in pencil with room
for expansion, reversal, and misdirection

have I lost you dear reader?

My Left Foot squeals,
fools, you just hammered
three more nails in the coffin of his depression,
where woes and toes know the inevitable repetition of the troubles he has already deemed, and now foreseen are yet,
ladies in waiting to take him to the tower

My Mind says
in obvious aspects people, you are 100% correct,
but the Inquistors are not fooled, patient in their queries;
My Body simply asks, err, does that make me look fat?
My Souls defers with a yada yada, not my problem, deal with it...

The facts tranverse and reverse,
Ah, the truths of my blessings
As much confusing and last defusing

The little drummer boy marches me in reverse retreat,
while shouting out in time a marching refrain:

Luck can be stored, used then, never more,
Its algorithm, a lifetime calculation,
Woe is me, thrice, deemed lucky,
But the map of my blessing reveals my positioning,
At the map-edge I stand, the last border be just ahead,
Seasons, maps, blessings must stop to journey,
What others see upon me outward, outdated,
All maps, all blessings are black-line bounded,
So too, am I, bounded, confused and confounded

The algorithm computes my nine lives are now radium depleted,
The shell, the shell no longer can be fired,
Even the half life has evaporated, used,
Though it looks fit, the luck has eroded, the feet now touching
My map edged in black, its legend, of use, never more


November 2017
Yet here, Laertes! aboard, aboard, for shame!
The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail,
And you are stay’d for.
There; my blessing with thee!

And these few precepts in thy memory
See thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportioned thought his act.
Be thou familiar, but by no means ******.
Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatch’d, unfledged comrade.
Beware Of entrance to a quarrel, but being in,
Bear’t that the opposed may beware of thee.
Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice;
Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But not express’d in fancy; rich, not gaudy;
For the apparel oft proclaims the man,
And they in France of the best rank and station
Are of a most select and generous chief in that.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be;
For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.

This above all: to thine ownself be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Farewell: my blessing season this in thee!
ConnectHook Apr 2018
Qui Transtulit Sustinet

There sat CONNECTICUT, a twit
blue nanny-state, and doomed to sit
on welfare-warrens of the ******
her social service on demand.
She withers on NEW ENGLAND‘s vine
a bygone has-been, and a sign
of democratic overkill
where her once-dear and verdant rill
now stagnant flows: polluted stream
a moribund New England dream.
The richest state with poorest heart:
the Northeast’s saddest story. Part
of history’s renowned revival,
now irrelevant. Survival
chains her children in dependence
keeping back the state’s ascendance.
Apostate Puritan, grown old—
for LIBERTY, no longer bold;
a slave to Man, where once God’s WORD
awakened greatness. Souls were stirred
in ENFIELD (of all strange places),
Christ beheld in radiant faces . . .
Edwards held their spellbound souls
like spiders over flaming coals,
in gratitude for Gospel grace
renewing thus both town and race.
But I digress. Connecticut
is what I came to speak about:
forgotten dull colonial matron
yoked in failure, plebe as patron
nostalgic for her Charter Oak
whose deadwood limbs went up in smoke
along with dark tobacco wrap
while the plantation took a nap.
Her social programs overgrowth
pose forest fire-risk. Under oath
her public servants signal virtue;
sign which really should alert you
to the democrat-machine’s
impending failure (ways and means).
Nutmeg-addled Tax-and-spenders,
dollar drunks on welfare benders
widen economic rifts;
force single moms toward double shifts
while Latin Kings hold court in prison
waiting out their royal season:
fiscally unsustainable—
yet totally explainable
(nutmeg is a drug for witches
spendthrift warlocks, bankrupt *******).
Oh HARTFORD, city of the dead
which dies at five, then home to bed,
insurance once assured your rise;
but now your ghosts haunt sadder skies.
Your life displaced, outsourced, out-dated;
so, it seems, your fall was fated.
Meanwhile, close to New York City,
fairer fields are growing pretty
long on corporate commutes.
Data-driven growth computes
as data-drivers flood the roads
and enter by Manhattan-loads
from golden coasts’ Atlantic shores
and posh patrician golden doors
to bite the apple of our time:
a number-cruncher built on crime.
New England’s puritannic granny
(data-driven tyrant ******)
seeks to harbor tropic isles
with blandly bureaucratic smiles.
Your poor dear heart cannot afford
to welcome every island lord
who looks to better his estate
and so decides to emigrate.
Displaced Jamaicans outta yard
compel the soft verse to get hard.
Boricua separatists, dispersed
show nationalities reversed
and dwell between two foreign lands
in Spanglish no one understands.
Such nutmeg gets the covens high
to soar the stormy Liberal sky.
It’s Yankee hubris: condescension
taxing plebes for such dissension.
Though you connect, there I would cut,
excising from New England’s gut
metastasizing social tumors:
clueless and obese consumers,
teenage moms, pajama-clad
whose nenes wait in vain for dad.
QUI TRANSTULIT SUSTINET—truth . . .
but that was was in our nation’s youth.
She’s gotten worse with passing years
confirming citizens’ worst fears;
showing her colors every vote
her monotone, a droning note
on which the blue-bloods hang their hue
when hope and change are overdue.
Her atheist zeal meets Yankee pride:
a most progressive broomstick ride;
oblivious to her Christian past,
an enemy of God at last.
Senryu and Haikai:
Basho-san, can you get me
another beer, please?
Asa D Bruss Apr 2015
Reset pv4 pin ID add host lvl
with my broken concentration,
while the reboot computes and
command prompt prefers
and no I don't have the router,
but yes I'm an administrator.
Who is in charge,
and who is punishing me?
Superstition sends me around back into the
Ground beef while I'm repenting of my sins
to get my hard drive running smoother,
like it's a catholic father
who just gets crotchety in the presence of gigabits
and lil ***** who won't behave
and condemns this piece of crap to an early grave.
Oh, but maybe it's just I need to unscrew and then pull out and blow off and put back in...
doubting it all again and a big circle starts anew.
Just one of those days of realization.
Timothy Brown Jan 2013
Meticulous and loveless, she does her duty
with flawless execution in a calculated fashion.
Every task she has accomplished
is done with a robotic passion

The wires of her brain
are smoldered in place.
Insulated with old errors
she computes a quiet disgrace.

Malicious programs in a trojan horse
sent from a suspicious source with a familiar name.
She brought down her firewall to let him in
which is why she feels such shame.

I watch her as she marches;
no style, no finesse, no grace.
I want to give her a soft touch or an honest whisper.
But I'm prevented by the anti-virus in within my interface.
© January 14th, 2013 by Timothy R Brown. All rights reserved
PJ Poesy Apr 2016
Perceived significance by breaking virginity
Never vouchsafed, not even understood
Complex memories in genitals’ vicinity
Cache, RAM, ROM, hard drive if you would
Nothing really computes, as it should

Clearly confusion in wiring memory bank
Who engineered puzzled aftereffect?
More than likely, a predator to thank
Prey succumbs to hacker’s muddled intersect
Virus from which, nil shall disinfect

Cross-wired, used, high-jacked and fused
A child’s loss of innocence complete
Morality bruised on Internet cruised
Cyber collision crashing ******* to meet
From innocent mind this cannot delete
Venus Rose Vibes Apr 2013
She shudders at the world
reality as a whole
has recoiled into nothing more than walking corpses
confused in their role
to think about a particle and how it correlates to a soul
or how the wind decides a direction to blow
it all computes if you are open
possess the will to try and try again
for you fight your own battle and love from within
and acknowledge what is sin to begin
I would love others perspectives on this piece :)
Davina E Solomon Mar 2021
The clouds fell from their lofty perch onto her belly / wrapped in layers of time this Matryoshka/ flouncy in snowflakes / cold startles the birds / the trains are stillborn / marshes float on ice / and nights look like silence //

She fashions a snowman / they speak in parables of time / is it shaped like a sisal string or a potter’s wheel / does it appear like a falling star / disappear like a glacier / is it syllabic conversations at dusk / or chimneys brewing clouds into sky / while fires roast limbs of arthritic trees //

Her sundial is circular / like the lunacy of seasons / His, fractalizes into uncertain snowflakes / transformed by an arrow flung far to an unknown distance / Gaia awakens in ****** spring / a forced maturity squinting at trains that furrow the land / bleeding in cherry blossoms / wealthy as the emerald leaves she wears to a country gala //

The snowman computes time / stray facts the winter wind whispered into his ear / as he melts into January’s cloak / like tears shed for sparkling fractals lost forever / The Earth believes in the manner of faith , he will resurrect on her sundial / as she kisses time into momentary stillness, turns water into ice //
My niece is besotted with Elsa from Frozen. She wears the dress over or under everything and can’t do without her crown. In the sequel to the film, Olaf the snowman gets lost in the enchanted forest where Gale, the wind spirit makes him so dizzy that he suffers an existential crisis. He concludes through his ordeal that he is yet to grow up and when he does, everything will make sense. It is easy to grow up in real life, we seem to have our paths laid out for us that we imitate in the manner of our forebears and peers. Yet, we still think about the meaning of our existence. Olaf believes it is in the soaking up of facts, to learn more and then add to this by further inquiry and action. I wonder if the measure of a successful existence is connected to how we view time..

The fact that we still think about the meaning of life is the reason they have an Olaf in a Children’s animation film. Are the answers readily available, for all that life throws at us, so we may clarify the turbid, find clarity, see the invisible ? Today’s poem is to ponder the truths held in a snow covered land, trying to make sense of time.
Keyan R Mar 2019
At odd ends it’s crazy, seeing how we used to be
I must be the lazy one, always looking out at sea
You see I never ignore the shore, I love to explore the floor call it a tour
I’m not even full of glee, the magic is never as bright as it seems
You’re supposed to be my best friend, yet you’re gone cause of some salt water in your mouth
I want to stop the doubt but I recognize that someone has been influencing lies; Saying we’ve done worse things at one time, that She’ll be fine, and I should let Her go this is a sign
I sigh constantly stressing, I don’t know if this is a trial, a testing, cause right now I have nothing
This is harder than I ever thought it would be, this is the pain in my train of thought
I think about You in more ways than I ought
This isn’t about You though I am just letting off steam but You’re a main factor in this head full of dreams
Broken and bashed in my spirit is trampled, I’m left confused for this was a harmless joke
Am I just a muse for your little gag, at least I came to talk to you after the fact
But the thing that hurts the most is you lied, and I gave the chance yet you denied said you were gonna apologize together despite you’re suppose to be my ride or die?
I don’t know anymore telling the truth, I’m more alone now seeing the route I’m not being used these are my honest computes
In my mind the only solution is quitting this contribution .. it doesn’t feel like you’re the same like you’re not trying
And this is punishment or maybe you’re showing your true fangs, this is just lame and I don’t know why I feel forced to apologize constantly for that security without a gain
My circle is small, and I’m gonna close it, I’ll see your outside with the same face I froze with
My friends thought it would be better to see me smiling rather than being so depressed and down in the dumps. So they covered my car in chocolate sauce and mini marsh mallows. A little gag...but little did they know...
Cardboard-Jones Oct 2018
How I feel right now doesn’t matter.
‘Cause I’ll say I’m ok.
Yet still I’m wondering why do you love me?
It feels... I feel so out of place.
I know you’re looking for answers lovie
But I don’t know what to say to you.
I’m holding, dearly, my bad emotions.

Last night in the shore we killed that scene.
Whatever I was feeling it.
Now my alarm clock wakes from the dream
And reality’s back, I gotta deal with it.
All of these strangers became new friends.
New stories wrote with old pens.
Same picture seen with a new lens.
But that was only for the weekend.
Drunk nights get remembered more than sober ones.
I just can’t remember how the night begun.
Order up, I don’t know from where these drinks came,
But I know that I remember those strippers by their real names.
Jody? Maxine?
It’s all the same, they were pawns in my fantasy.
****….did I say that?
I’m just lost and I’m tryna find my way back.
But instead I found my way into your bed
Now I’m thinking about everything you whispered in my head like
“I been searching for you my whole life.”
“I think I wanna be your wife.”
And none of that even computes.
I can’t imagine me settling down, laying the roots.
I gotta slip out of here before
You wake up and read the note I left on your drawer.
‘Cause I know you’ll be full of questions
And I’ll have to be real and give you my confession
That I know you’re looking for answers lovie
But I don’t know what to say to you.

I’m holding, dearly, my bad emotions.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2023
A responce, to a TV Preacher, justifying war:
{I had misthought my initial mission, I keep my peace.}
But I thought,
What about you being no man's enemy,
and no man's debtor,
but any man's friend,
when the friend is asking to share my just enough.
I believe, I think,
Just enough, is always plenty to share, some times,
that stranger already missed a meal, and you've missed
not even a snack, in weeks, years, perhaps,

what worth to you your last piece of money,
at that moment, here's the test, tell yourself,

do the right thing, when you have the chance.
Become the base line good, for you, steady,

building piles of settled little ****** beasties
what done give all the life each had, to add a bit
of bubbly possibility, as to what it is to know,
made up your good mastermind, and put it on,
be like, you, when you
were worth dying for, let the bubble
bear the word of peace for the blink of an eye,
we can make Jesus wink at all you never knew.
--- now, ask why you feel so lost, listen
good
we came to do today, say, look ye hear, I done
my gig, I did, and some shall someday swear, I did.

Instant poverty, nearly anywhere,
from the womb, boom,
the weight is maddening.

Instant riches, not so tough,
depending
on the defined worth in values
of the cost to fix the problem, messed up to start with,
Goddammed faulty knowledge acquisition application.

Snakes alive, we were to be so wise.

Run this by me again, said the judge. You
believe that life is given to be used… some duty,
to perform, which means living is free, but happy
costs money, in the form of time spent doing things,

and you personally leave being likely your duty
is to make peace by acting like a snake?

That's right, your honor, due to your perspication o'my
cautious wish to be harmless as the enemy doves,
as well as a little bit literate, for the future

writing or reading, yes, reading pays, testing retention,
what do you know about life and the universe,
if you know **** Feynman said life was worth 64, before
we were told the wrong question computed 42, with
everything included.

Something never computes, Will, Robin's son.
All day, some days, I think about little instants I find poetry, wordlessly
attesting to the worth of way where there is no way stories....
Medusa Oct 2018
How vainly men themselves amaze
To win the palm, the oak, or bays,
And their uncessant labours see
Crown’d from some single herb or tree,
Whose short and narrow verged shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid;
While all flow’rs and all trees do close
To weave the garlands of repose.

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence, thy sister dear!
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men;
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow.
Society is all but rude,
To this delicious solitude.

No white nor red was ever seen
So am’rous as this lovely green.
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
Cut in these trees their mistress’ name;
Little, alas, they know or heed
How far these beauties hers exceed!
Fair trees! wheres’e’er your barks I wound,
No name shall but your own be found.

When we have run our passion’s heat,
Love hither makes his best retreat.
The gods, that mortal beauty chase,
Still in a tree did end their race:
Apollo hunted Daphne so,
Only that she might laurel grow;
And Pan did after Syrinx speed,
Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

What wond’rous life in this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head;
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
The nectarine and curious peach
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melons as I pass,
Ensnar’d with flow’rs, I fall on grass.

Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less,
Withdraws into its happiness;
The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find,
Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds, and other seas;
Annihilating all that’s made
To a green thought in a green shade.

Here at the fountain’s sliding foot,
Or at some fruit tree’s mossy root,
Casting the body’s vest aside,
My soul into the boughs does glide;
There like a bird it sits and sings,
Then whets, and combs its silver wings;
And, till prepar’d for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light.

Such was that happy garden-state,
While man there walk’d without a mate;
After a place so pure and sweet,
What other help could yet be meet!
But ’twas beyond a mortal’s share
To wander solitary there:
Two paradises ’twere in one
To live in paradise alone.

How well the skillful gard’ner drew
Of flow’rs and herbs this dial new,
Where from above the milder sun
Does through a fragrant zodiac run;
And as it works, th’ industrious bee
Computes its time as well as we.
How could such sweet and wholesome hours
Be reckon’d but with herbs and flow’rs!
How doth I love thee Marvell? Like a Childe of sixteen? No. I love thee as growne Man no  matter what thou were. Because in my minde this is what thee always were as this is minde to minde elliptical configurations..
Nhlekeleza Sep 2018
Am I plastered?
Drunk or just hanging?
Taking a dunk or just sagging?
I am given to aphorisms
Morals that build us for a reason
Trying to keep us out of mental prisons
Words have me in a haze and I cannot erase these thoughts  that keep running in an entrancing maze.

Metamorphosis. There are matters that enforce this energy which is engorged within a metaphysical force. I use my fingers to pick up a pen so to expel a thought that lingers in my pineal gland.

Goodness. It is grace amazing that is in this place or just a god or the God who shows off his face. We are presented with a gift perennial that is wrapped with mystery. In mists the fists of fate take a swing and if we believe in the unseen we can trust grit and transcend beyond wit. Train our senses to be lit so they can send us beyond -ism's to the essence of goodness.

Locomotion. In my local state I give up my locale to some divine logic gate. I dial in to wire my mental coiling to follow a calling to inspire. Ever the wiser I should soar to the mystic spheres. But ground there is insulation and my calculation computes a technical movement in my skeletal. I am moving locating my next step, relaying locomotives which are concentric energy.

Soigné. A fine dame I dare meet on a fine day. So Ignorant of her beauty I parlay my chances with a few words of jest and curved zest to interact with her invitational tract. If I have a chance in fact I will make a pact to be with her throughout the days and forget about lustful tact. I resurge and her being is muse and to me it is a purge. I aim to converse with her for days and days so we can find confluence as we psychically converge. And I'll tell her that she is pulchritudinous and I am pale true to nought, waiting for my crafting.

Words or chords to find concordance. Some say say swords to slice and pierce and dictate worlds. I say they are mellifluous like a melody that sends a melancholy sadist out of his maladies. Magnanimously magnificent in moments of poetic artistry and meandering prose fixating methodically. From the mammary of the culinary belly we squeeze out these laid letters formed to mean but not to be mean to the means of our diction or magnify our addiction. Perhaps to quantify our intellect beyond the internet, we archive them in dictionaries and illustrate them in some encyclopaedia. Perhaps grunts and clicking of tongues is some medium... But words change the world where lords fail to write laws to keep us sane, and instead have swords forged to have any man slain.
Jacob Ciciora Dec 2019
Three men sit in a circle
The first is a scribe
he speaks of great science
of alchemy and astronomy,
how he computes large sums and numerals,
and can create new substance.
The man to his left says:
"Yes, all and good,
but when faced with a lion,
your pen and ink will not save you."
The second is a warrior
he tells tales of boast:
of his swords and his spears
his strength and his size.
How he bested 60 men
all at once on a bridge in battle.
the man to his left says:
"All that may be true,
but hurts your spirit too.
It grows weary and sad."
The third is a monk.
He talks of enlightenment
of good and evil.
of balance and peace
and things such as man
of love and grace.
The man to his left says:
"For a good spirit, all that may be,
but when wolves come to your door,
loving them wont do you much good."
Not a poem, more a parable... of sorts
River Jun 2018
I wanted you to love me,
That's all I ever pined for through these years
But I still cry most times
When I think of the fact that you failed to love me
I'll never understand why you didn't love me
You claimed to,
But it didn't show in your actions.
You were selfish.
As was I.

But that's life, right?
It keeps cracking your heart open
Until you can't close it anymore
It gets to the point where there are no plausible explanations your mind can come up with anylonger
It gets to the point where
Only your heart can comprehend the world with all of it's suffering
Only your heart can try it's best to patch up the world
With the bits of love that flow through you from God

Keeping an open heart is baffling, really
It just doesn't make sense
It's hella painful
Exceptionally brutal
And exquisitely breathtaking, beautifully astounding
There are no words in any language
That can properly express
Genuine love

But let's keep it like that
Let love remain a mystery
In it's confounding splendor
Leave it to be one of those few things
That academics can't pin down precisely
Let love be what it is in it's truest form:
Magical
Like when you really see nature for the first time,
You know?
You see how really gorgeous it all is,
And how intelligent it is
And in that passing moment of awe
It's easy to entertain the idea of God
But you eventually have to walk back to your cubicle
Where your mind is like a safe container
That computes certainty
But love is magical,
Love is uncertain,
It's powerful

I guess what I'm trying to say is that love is transformative,
You know?
And it's humbling
I mean, I'm not talking about Romeo and Juliet,
I'm not referring to RomComs where a man and a woman fall in love within the span of three days,
C'mon,
Can we all admit that is BS?
Love is not magical like the way it is portrayed in fairytales
Love is magical because it is the very essence of life,
The driving force of life
It's what sustains us,
It's what connects us
It's what changes us
Into brave children of God
Formerly we were
Scarred, angry little children
Throwing darts at perceived enemies
But no one is the enemy here,
That's what love reveals
We're all just lost children
Hiding under the shielded guise of our egos
Until, well until
We throw up our hands in surrender
And say with all our heart,
"I can't do this without you God.
Help me."
Stephen Leacock Jun 2021
Menu with views
Code of use
Mental break thru
Adjustment of screws
Index page of options
Admin panel of adoptions
Classes and functions
Menus that works with functions
Things that have been created
New changes that are reinstated
The Code that files out of the blues
The App that brings grate news of multidimensional use
JSON and MySQL functions
The Masters of protection
The Girl that views, the dance to reproduce
The View of love of options
The Star of Hope and fulfillment of fortune options
The App that ****** like Dr. Seuss
Cybervitum routes like Zeus that boosts
The Computes and the shoots
The Red bird sign of the fruits
The Application completed
Fruitful produce by the master of the roots
thelonious Sep 2023
The monkey strives for both abode
Japan devout the flame in road
Iran disburse a name it mutes
The donkey runs his mane computes

We fish and sleep believe a sheep
It's further than we see, the neap
Our mother calls the hen unknown
We sign and dream return to home

Sled fast conceive that in whiplash hues
Feel fat step back the stars confuse
Petite croissant exist embrace
Averse baguette awoke efface.

— The End —