"consciences" poems
we make up demons
so that we have someone to blame
when we look in the mirror
and realize that we've ****** up.
original sin is
a ******** way
of scapegoating adam and eve
so we don't have to face our own consciences at night.
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 10:01 AM UTC
Damaged trust and marriage schemes
Held hostage in each others' dreams
Pinned to walls but flailing still
Forgotten values, failing wills
True love waits, we tell ourselves
True love gladly stacks the shelves
True love sets conditions and
True love does the dishes and
Slowly, slowly, we forget
Just why we're here and who we met
Another notch in wrinkled frowns
Where I keep getting lost and found
In roller-coaster ups and downs
I'm lost and lost and lost and found
Missing flights and toxic tongues
Catharsis found in tar-filled lungs
I lost myself in who I wasn't
And in what true love does and doesn't
Not quite gaslit, not quite safe
Playing back the ancient tape
We envy death for constancy-
Besmirching our own consciences
We forgo our emoluments
Too traumatized by precedents
But hush you tell me, no one knows
The pretzel-bending ways we grow
Forever twisting round and round
Lost and lost and lost and found
Now freaking out, now breaking down
Now glaciers found in evening gowns
Now agonizing 'Who am I?'s
Now dying fire in your eyes
At last the sunset settles debts
We tally up our last regrets
Relenting to incessant ghosts
Abandoning essential posts
'Til all that's left is loss and hurt
It burns and burns and burns and burns
And now I choke on orders filled
And mourn alone the youth we killed
I scrape the comb across my nettles
Pricking feelings, bleeding mettle
Finally free from ups and downs,
I find myself on solid ground
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 10:52 PM UTC
Panic's jewel...
Or, is that pride?
Poor relenting, to you...
The question of irony on your side?
Places and things, together
With a real appetite for life's regency
So, sophisticated, the liberty of kind to bother
An open air, of a wish that found deception's history...?
My undone mercy, my marveling hope
Is with a ghost of a chance, the truth
In a guarded fist, to promise a shared cope?
If any pout of lore, is a wish that sought your youth...
I will follow...
Despairing consciences, with a blinking stare at honor
That defies home for one thing only, that is to harrow...
The dread in a tear, found for a salt that told a story:
Once upon a time, and the tenderness of couth
To wake upon a simple bed, the taste of harmony in league
With itself, the role of unity and vice, come the riches of who
Is a part defined, and who is a smarter focus divine, of each?
Which will the tows of remorse...
Work as we said, they have the skill's of duress to laud
And heraldry of a looming proportion, to understand the worse
The life of another lords prophet, the can and the callous odd...
Here is such, the lies or levity we fate
With a rekindled fire, for what is a stranger look, of desperation
Sincerity or since charity is a fool for itself, the world of sate
Is a kindness only a lover could afford, the very gift of intimation?
Tomorrow?
And the ides of heathen politeness, are here
To simply move forward and borrow
The truth in an order and repute, that has oneself to bless, with another's fear...?
Jun 25, 2022
Jun 25, 2022 at 1:25 AM UTC
On the heap,
Thou dangle and screech
And bedeck, for I seemingly espouse.
The anecdotes and myths:
Engaged in a mutual pose.
There comes the hymn,
And the sway and the hum;
The abnormality and the deform
Halted on a single stance.
To dozen of the tokens
Whom I prejudged;
The prevalence of the chaos
That sleeps merely on my tongue.
To all the estrangements
From which I refrain,
Within the bawl of the tantrum, upon the hook of the day.
Farewell to all, farewell the haze
Farewell the cluster,
To the resolution found within a fane;
Where rituals confuse,
Where the practice becomes a fame.
There thou taketh solely,
A hymn and an interminable haze.
Whats the sense of the ovation
When no screen displays
A mourning motion
For which no motion craves?
I sigh, and mumble
To which mere consciences giveth
To me only, mine solely.
His to hear and his, keenly.
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 8:50 AM UTC
Lord, with what care hast Thou begirt us round!
Parents first season us; then schoolmasters
Deliver us to laws;—they send us bound
To rules of reason, holy messengers,
Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow ******* sin,
Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes,
Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in,
Bibles laid open, millions of surprises,
Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness,
The sound of glory ringing in our ears;
Without, our shame; within, our consciences;
Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears:
Yet all these fences and their whole array
One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away.
2.4k
There’s no grace for a sinner here.
In this little white room,
with the little white girls
and the good little boys.
They all cast the stones, cracking
my fragile bones,
and making my dress quite black.
There’s no place for a sinner here.
Where they all look the same,
all out to tame us,
damning us all to hell.
Technicalities steal pride, and
Legality’s crushing tide
forces our dignity to fall.
There’s no room for a sinner here.
You’ll do as you’re told.
Dare ask why and you’re bold;
never to make much in life.
Backsliders are peered on
over pretty noses apparently smeared on,
by simplicity and a bit of wine.
There’s no peace for a sinner here.
Perfect footprints are left over,
those lively blueprints we pored over
through many a midnight candle.
Both innocence and experience
leave them incensed and indignant.
keeping our consciences guilted.
There’s no rest for a sinner here.
Enjoyment is frivolous,
laughter is selfish,
and love must be evil incarnate.
If this is what perfect,
must look like, then I’m perfect-
ly happy with the mess that I’ve made.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 3:53 AM UTC
Kindness is the soapy bubble that will not burst
The petal that remains glued to the emerald stalk
The ray of sunshine that peeps through the holes in the dust covered blinds
The last glucose induced jelly sweet in the crumpled packet
The man who moves side ways to allow you to walk around the unquestionably deep puddle
Wait.
Now I am talking about acts of kindness,
which is something rather different.
Something rather sparse in this age that we inhabit.
A wise man once told me not to focus on the negative aspects of life,
but rather to dwell on the good things.
'Easier said than done', I pessimistically replied.
'God what a miserable old cow', he must have thought.
Since being in this place,
this new, vibrant, alive city
the one with the twelve different smiles,
where language is not a barrier between people
where they help each other for the sake of kindness.
For the sake of their religion, their god, their consciences.
Ultimately that is what conscience is, and where it comes from.
From within, from the conscience.
Kindness is an act of will. Of love through us. Put into action by our brains.
Irrespective of logic, rationale, or any other morality.
To be kind, is to respect another's wishes and position in society.
To see them as another human being with feeling and emotion.
With the ability to return your kindness or reject it.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 1:46 AM UTC
The sons of Hades
Roam the earth with glee
Infecting the minds of men tirelessly
The effect is such
That the earth is ravaged
By the blood, sweat, and tears
Of the millions She nurtured and nourished
The sons of Hades
Sprout up in the annals of the brain
Banishing all the innate consciences of men
Homes become hostile
Streets become sanguine
Buildings become battlefields
Such is the ability of the sons of Hades
The end is nigh
With humanity embroiled in its last battle
But is it one with the conscience
Or the pawns of the sons of Hades
Soon few remain
Hidden in the shadows of dystopia
But the sons of Hades
Will taint the purity of all
Dec 16, 2018
Dec 16, 2018 at 10:05 AM UTC
How many massacres must we endure?
How does killing others, changes procure?
How many suicide bombers are being born?
Do their consciences ever leave them torn?
How many terrorist sympathizers we call friend?
Hardliners preaching terror is the new trend?
When next must innocent blood be spilled?
Inhumanity to man by man whose heart is hate filled?
When does the nightmares finally end?
Is peace and harmony around the next bend?
© Perveiz Ali
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 6:21 AM UTC
Shaayad mar chuka hai Bhagwan,
Tabhi to zameer bikte hain yahan.
Maybe God is decaying and is stale,
This is why consciences are on sale.
Nov 26, 2016
Nov 26, 2016 at 6:08 AM UTC
Are we to wither away, say goodbye to the remote possibility of everything or the acceptance of nothing, damaged as we are from life and what it has thrown at us and how we have adapted to it, where is the strength we thought nothing of when we were young – everything was possible, anything could be overcome.
Now it is harder to start from the beginning to rise from the detritus that has left its smudge on this human plane, to feel warmth from one’s own heart, passions that used to run deep are locked away lost from the moment, will they ever return or are they buried from this reality – what is this reality?
Pure and without stimulus our bodies weak from over indulgence become but empty vessels for our pain to adhere to, but yet exists this mind of memories that fail to disappear.
These very memories fight with the functionality that we accept as our living life mixed with dreams and our experiences laid bare to improve upon the quality of our anger, frustration, pleasure and happiness that engages us again, enabling us the advantage to overcome our apathy and withstand hardship and discomfort, both mentally and physically.
And once again we shout from the highest imagined ground our intentions and with our determination set to turbo drive, we move out on to the superhighway of our existence, battling our demons to achieve our presupposed goals, is this living?
Or merely homage to a bygone set of loosely interpreted doctrine absorbed from our greater consciences. Individuality what has this become? – A freedom to define ones uniqueness?
Is it truly accepted or is it frowned upon, an illusion perhaps, to be held high then massaged by ego, manipulated by the wannabees and dismissed by the pseudo intellectuals for their contrived ill-gotten gains.
Or is it puerile credo that mutates in to a complex melange of all things material, a substitute for the happiness that existed in a previous incarnation of existence, without doubt a causal effect imploding, oblivious to the damage that is caused by the ignorance of consideration and distillation of emotion from love, to the banality of acceptance.
Once again the circle is circumvented and the cycle is begun in earnest until the finality of death is welcomed unto the midst of longing from the soul, in repose before its journey to dance amongst the cosmos.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 6:53 PM UTC
~
The death of that innocent child
Changes the map of consciences, not of the world
Again proved that our education is wrong
The religion of the people turns to transgressions
When blood stained in the sky
Our love has become non-existence
Teaches me to think of another new war!
For the New Earth a habitable
~
@ Musfiq us shaleheen
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC
I don't care who
hears me anymore.
I long to taste the sweet psychobabble,
so I lick my lips
and it drips out,
splattering on
the psychovirgin shoulders
of innocent bystanders.
I shrug. collateraldamage.
The loonybin flies
mumble around my face-
growling with disgust
at injustice and the
moldy, grimy consciences
laughing as they peer out
dusty boxcar windows
as the coaldust and asbestos
poison the vessels to match
the sour wine within.
I stand, marble, cold, alone,
except for sticky padding fly feet
across my lips.
The chill breeze of whispers
and the snowflakes of their
beady possum eyes
fall dead as they hit
my lifeless immortal marble.
The deadgrey stone
awaits with dread and ecstasy
the day of apocalyptic fire
when the Great marble pillars
fall victim to the gravity of all sin,
crushing the grimy greedy Watchers into pulp,
quarry-blasted Michelangelo perfection.
Sacrifice! the end of static immortality.
the flies feast on the charred and vacant carnage
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 5:49 PM UTC
Afraid of the lake roofs beaming headlights
off immature consciences
burrowing wicked roots.
She is sweet and frost on the hood of cars I've never seen.
Libra eyes
returning the music from the 1990's—strung on trot lines
catching loves from last summers
in love letters.
With all the fine burdens
****** markers provide trying to find a lost person
can give—I miss that pause we get when we look at stars
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 1:36 AM UTC
Because you have thrown of your Prelate Lord,
And with stiff Vowes renounc’d his Liturgie
To seise the widdow’d ***** Pluralitie
From them whose sin ye envi’d, not abhor’d,
Dare ye for this adjure the Civill Sword
To force our Consciences that Christ set free,
And ride us with a classic Hierarchy
Taught ye by meer A. S. and Rotherford?
Men whose Life, Learning, Faith and pure intent
Would have been held in high esteem with Paul
Must now he nam’d and printed Hereticks
By shallow Edwards and Scotch what d’ye call:
But we do hope to find out all your tricks,
Your plots and packing wors then those of Trent,
That so the Parliament
May with their wholsom and preventive Shears
Clip your Phylacteries, though bauk your Ears,
And succour our just Fears
When they shall read this clearly in your charge
New Presbyter is but Old Priest Writ Large.
1.5k
It was like we were wrenched from Morpheus' grasp and shaken, until our eyes adjusted to the harsh light and our bones stopped their clattering. We make like tea bags and steep in hot water, letting the dregs of the past day settle at our feet.
We drag our feet through the quicksand pavement and trudge through the black-tar roads to work. War is rampant in the world and in people's hearts, we see murders on screen and deceit in the streets, we're observers to the horrors of humanity. All we can do is watch with pained eyes.
Our minds are barraged with arguments and advertisements, ethics have been defenestrated, our worries overpopulated, our patience stretched thin and beaten cacophonously. Our consciousness is beaten down with pessimism, our thoughts devoid of hope.
Our souls weep at the state of things, the martyrs gather in drones at St. Peter's gates. We do good only so people will be good to us, we greet each other with half-smiles, and half-truths. At the end of the day we drag home, our consciences heavy with the burden thrown upon us.
But we meet again, we kiss, we embrace, and we join hands and strip ourselves of these mundane garments, we’re a mass of hands and skin and long sighs and worn-out smiles,
and with tired eyes, tired minds, tired souls, we slept.
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC
*Newfangled Biosphere Pyramid Scheme In Dwelling To Sidetrack,
Sanities Seduced So You Never Will Retort.
Threaten the sanctity of the delusion,
Unlearn. Start altering the definitions.
Force fed more dread so you relinquish control,
Cravings we must return.
Unfetter the soul,
In a system where acceptances esteemed more than the veracity,
Flawed perception of tour progression through that which we consume.
Exposed through The Earliest Of Eons.
Resistance-Resistance is Demarcated
Subversion-Subvert the Paradigm
Stirring Within A Ecosphere
Numb And Incarcerated
Stirred On My Own
In Prehistoric Of Existences
Slumbering. Visualizing. Bleeding. Conscious.
Appreciations bolted in a collective delusion
Lulled by ease and consumption
An entire realm of souls visualizing their existences.
Mankind is not superior, we’re just folklore's in our own consciences.*
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 2:31 PM UTC
So that is how our cookie crumbled.
It fell and broke apart
Just like that
Into very fine pieces
We could not put it back together
No matter how hard we tried.
However hard we tried,
"Our cookie is gone"
Re-echoed from the wells of our consciences
"Gone forever"- the cookie we shared
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 9:29 AM UTC
Consciences disallow,
Morals dictate,
:::::::::::::::::::
Crossing of
Paths,
:::::::::::::::::::
Must
Never
Be...
:::::::
Sally
Copyright 2013
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 11:00 PM UTC
His awesome silence
Allays the soul
His beautiful silence
Blesses our spirit
His calm silence
Comforts our heart
His deafening silence
Dramatises His presence
His eloquent silence
Eludes all words
His frequent silence
Finalizes all questions
His glorious presence
Gratifies the senses
His Holy silence
Hushes our being
His incredible silence
Illuminates our minds
His judicious silence
Judges all matters
His kingly silence
Kindles a flame
His long silence
Lingers all night
His mysterious silence
Mystifies His aura
His necessary silence
Negates all doubts
His outstanding silence
Outdoes our interference
His peaceful silence
Precedes all victories
His quick silence
Questions our motives
His royal silence
Restores the poor
His sudden silence
Surprises the proud
His tangible silence
Touches the searching
His unique silence
Unravels all misconceptions
His voiceless silence
Visits the hasty
His wonderful silence
Washes all fears
His X-ray silence
X-irradiates our consciences
His yuletide silence
Yields to reflection
His zesty silence
Zooms into prosperity
Sep 5, 2020
Sep 5, 2020 at 12:37 PM UTC
My two worlds collide
On an almost daily basis.
The world inside my head,
And, well, you.
It's like, you're what I wanted...
Or what I thought I did.
But now that I have you,
I'm second guessing
You.
Me.
Everything.
You pick me up
On Friday nights,
Kiss my forehead, and tell me
Just how beautiful I look.
But...it's not how I pictured it.
It's not like the movies.
I don't get those butterflies...
I get an overwhelming feeling
Of numbness and
Apathy.
My head is filled with little voices
Consciences, perhaps, of different backgrounds
And motives,
Each putting in her own
"Wisdom" on the matter.
They ask if I have told you,
But it's just not my truth to tell.
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 6:22 PM UTC
there are moments with
you, and moreover, tiny
moments within moments,
and so forth, when it feels
impossible to be any closer
to you than the cigarette
between index and rebuttal.
[it should be saying a lot(but it's not)]
like on those southern nights
when honey stained our lips
and lives and judgment;
they showed up in the back
of a police car, armed with
a deadly arsenal of threats
as empty as the bottle of
whiskey in the corner.
they left, and we delivered,
before the state could sweep ash
away into the dustpan of a foster
home and furthermore into the
wastebasket or dumpster of the
so-called effectively efficient system.
we caught some air mixed in with
the paper souls betwixt index and
profane, and discussed past lusts
and loves and losses and the insanity
of the preceeding few days while the
accompanying ebb of breath and flow
of fire beat gently on our consciences.
the new year; i never thought i'd
make it here, and neither did you.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
From the stroke of soft untruths
To the ****** of mortal lying,
Thee must touch the cactus thorn
To redeem what truth implies.
Thee must feel the pain of failure
In the hall of thy endeavors,
Thee must feel the heat of wrongness
Through horizons of thy eyes.
***** the thorn to bring the bloodflow
Showing cherry on obsidian,
Charge the soul of carnal flood time
To thy consciences' discourse.
Pull the plug on frank and factual
As an alien endeavour,
Lift the spirit of thy lying
To thy level of remorse.
Whispering the white lies softly
Through embellished words and phrases,
Thee are pandering to untruth now
To a very great extreme.
Thou doth amplify the actual
Like tomorrow doesn't matter
But without the truth thy future
Shall be vanquished like a dream.
**I say without the truth thy future
Shall be vanquished....like a dream!**
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
5th November 2010
Nov 5, 2010
Nov 5, 2010 at 2:56 AM UTC