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C Sep 2010
Sugar nightmares haunt children
Nancy harlequins cane them

Oh, child of mine
your life you did,
away,
sign.

Force fed familiarity with already branded emotions,
irregular realities and clouded surreal formalities,
so very many humans’ form dichotomies
out of our shared mute gray;
spinning constant self-important prose.
So very many humans share so much,
so little,
not often
doing little to soften
all of their emotional blows
trying hard to strike enigmatic pose.

Oh, child of mine
the heart of utilitarian method
has receded in incredulous fashion
followed by authoritarian apologies;
the majority is not icecream people
spreading simple good thought,
but generations fraught
with trivial conformist ideologies.
We are all hiding our seams
with creative masks
and self created tasks.

Oh, child of mine
your prescription reality is revealing itself as Atlantis,
sinking and shuddering into Quaaludes
with frightening psychotic interludes.
Emotions paint
stained lurid faces,
dancing with
ludes effecting movement,
nudes of swaying and repose.
You arose deeming so much rightfully yours
waltzing through seemingly already opened doors.

Holy curb their anti-Christ
Consider your aging soul

Oh, child of mine
Belief of awareness in action
understand the probability of dissatisfaction,
Stop!
treating the moment as a bleak bridge to the next inaction.
Eventually ponderous thoughts form
resembling an orrery,
an incessantly philippic story
orchestrates your oleaginous personality.

Oh, child of mine
Youth flees and your mind
takes once again to the seas,
a vexing penumbra of perception.
Bathos permeates the fathoms of an obstreperous life
and if you still care,
lament that this meaningless congeries
of moments
inspires only delusion,
no disillusionment.
Eventually a lilting threnody
leading 'tween burning pews of proposed serenity
and the following bumping callithump
will firmly stamp you into black infinity.

Oh, child of mine
You've used the switch
too much
too often
coupled with lofty scoffing
giving the innocent up as offering
to the
mechanical engine
             of organic creation.
(Rough draft#27)
Martin Narrod Aug 2017
Here is the vond vedette,
Here are the congeries scopulous at the alluvion combe - a serow discovers a yawn
Within its palm. Electrical storms redd over this mountain's peaks its verbs, spate it's cwms. Lichen flux ecesis, caught in the current towards veridity.
A verderer hazed by chessile guillotines, naves hain- dwindling grike of corrasion

Indomite lithoids behooving one's obstacle of self, set by sanguine puerile innocent knosps. While the eyes howk that merriment of skin-cleft sensations into the reweaved aureoles, those many colored plumes of split flowers, which open into brightly singing dactyls of these grieving bield and obscene vocations. To the gulch of one thousand bells, and only the passive nestling interstices to anoint them
I'm still alive

Just to fly , above the skies.

Don't wanna trapped in this truth and lies .

This world is chained by chains of hate .

Which can e broken by only hope and faith .

I want to wander under this thunder.

In this world of outlandish.

Cause I'm a solivagant

Trap me in this second.

I wanna live this moment

forever.

This beautiful butterfly

Flying under the sky

Give a hope that i can fly .

This magical angelic rain.

Pures the blood in my veins

I can't live in this world smithereened.

Where memories are congeries.

A bus or a train

Take a tour if this world once again.

Cause I'm a solivagant.

Trap me in this second.

I wanna live this moment .

Forever.
Trying to be free
Angelika Sep 2019
Amidst the dark night under the noble scape of stars
Her perfectly kohled eyes of all the puckered scars
The ineffable mysteries of sadness, pain, and rage
Her deepest thoughts run wild on an endless blank page

She is not a dictionary of adjectives
Nor the amalgam of derivatives
She's a simple girl who locked her fears in poetry
As she puts the language of verse into a plethora of creativity

Writing poems is her way of spending pastime
As the giggling laughter of passing rivulet continue for she doesn't know pantomime
Nobody is perfect, so never mind intrigue and ridicule
She's not an epitome but a congeries of atom and molecule

She let her soul speak through words
From the darkest crevices of her mind
She puts sadness like a garment
Into beautifully written lines

Just like the larkspurs, she'll bloom again
For she's not easy to decipher from her red-ink smearing pen
Like a puzzle that lost its significant piece
Everything she writes, a magnum opus, a masterpiece.

— The End —